Q. E. D. 

 
 Q. E. D. 
 
 BY LEE THAYER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 "The Unlatched Door," "The Mystery of the 13th Floor" 
 "That Affair at 'The Cedars'" etc. 
 
 A. L. BURT COMPANY 
 
 Publishers New York 
 
 Published by arrangement with Doubleday, Page & Company 
 Printed in U. S. A.
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY 
 DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY 
 
 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION 
 INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN 
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY STREET & SMITH CORPORATION 
 
 PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
 
 AT 
 THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITT, N. T.
 
 To 
 
 E. H. C. 
 
 IN GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENT THIS 
 BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED 
 
 2138594
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. THE MISSING GUEST ...... i 
 
 II. ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS n 
 
 III. PETER CLANCY PUZZLES INSPECTOR WINKLE 20 
 
 IV. INSPECTOR WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE. . 33 
 V. "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET " . . 50 
 
 VI. WHAT PETER HEARD 60 
 
 VII. ENTER BILL 72 
 
 VIII. "CHERCHEZLAFEMME" 87 
 
 IX. "THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 98 
 
 X. "L. H." 119 
 
 XL WHO WAS WALTER BROWN ? . . . . 137 
 
 XII. "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" . . 155 
 
 XIII. INSPECTOR WINKLE PROPOUNDS A NEW 
 
 THEORY 176 
 
 XIV. AN INTERLUDE 188 
 
 V
 
 vi CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XV. A FRAME-UP? ........ 200 
 
 XVI. "TnENAMEls -- " ....... 219 
 
 XVII. THE STORM GATHERS ...... 230 
 
 XVIII. "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" .... 242 
 
 XIX. THE STORM BREAKS ....... 256 
 
 XX. THE CURTAIN FALLS ...... 271
 
 Q. E. D.
 
 0- E. D. 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 THE MISSING GUEST 
 
 WELL, it sure is good to have old Red-top play- 
 ing around with us once more, isn't it, 
 Mother?" 
 
 Harrison Carlisle stood with his back to the broad 
 open fireplace, luxuriously warming his khaki-clad, 
 woollen-stockinged legs. He was a short, rather 
 thick-set young man with a bronzed face to which 
 a pair of twinkling, light blue eyes, a short, broad nose, 
 and a rather long, smooth-shaven upper lip gave an 
 expression of careless, quizzical good humour. 
 
 His relationship to the old lady who stood beside 
 him was apparent to the most casual observer, though 
 she was very much stouter than her son and had 
 none of his negligent looseness of carriage. She was, 
 in fact, so upright and had such an enormous bust 
 and other architectural features that she always gave 
 the effect of preceding herself into a room. 
 
 At her son's words she turned her smiling, wrinkled 
 old face toward another young man who was drawing
 
 2 Q. E. D. 
 
 her comfortable winged armchair nearer the fire and 
 regarded his pleasant, freckled Irish countenance with 
 twinkling approval. 
 
 "Mr. Clancy knows how welcome he always is 
 here, Harry," she said, in a cordial voice, surprisingly 
 youthful in tone. "He doesn't come nearly often 
 enough. You know you have been working too 
 hard, Mr. Clancy. It's about time you were taking 
 a rest." 
 
 "Well, I am going to take a real rest this time, Mrs. 
 Carlisle," replied the young man, leaning on the back 
 of the chair which he had placed to his satisfaction. 
 "I haven't been fishing with Harry for years and I 
 can't imagine a greater rest than that, especially if 
 we let him go down the stream first. We won't any 
 of us have the bother of landing anything. . . . 
 We'll get a lot of experience, and Harry'll get the 
 fish," and he laughed boyishly. 
 
 The old lady seated herself in her chair and drew 
 her knitting out of the side pocket, glancing across 
 the wide, cheerfully lighted room to a tall old clock 
 which stood in the corner. 
 
 "I think you boys ought to get started pretty 
 soon," she said. "It's nearly eight o'clock and it's 
 a long drive up to the Club. The roads won't be 
 any too good, either. I don't quite like your going 
 up at night, Harry." 
 
 "Oh, there'll be a moon, Mother, and with this 
 light snow on the ground we'll be able to see per-
 
 THE MISSING GUEST 3 
 
 fectly. It'll be a good thing for the driving; not too 
 deep, and as smooth and white as a blanket. I hate 
 to see it coming so late, though. Suppose the trout'll 
 know it's April first and come out and be caught? 
 Old Red-top's going to be awfully disappointed if he 
 doesn't get any fish after I've dragged him away out 
 into the wilds of northern New Jersey, and after all 
 I've said of the fishing up around the Club, aren't 
 you, old sport?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know," answered Clancy, laughing. 
 "It'll be such a change for me, messing around in the 
 woods with nothing on my mind." 
 
 "And catching fish instead of the wily crook?" 
 grinned Carlisle. 
 
 "Oh, cut that out, Harry," exclaimed Clancy, feel- 
 ingly. "Let's forget it for a while. I don't want to 
 remember for the next few days that there's a thief or 
 defaulter or any other kind of a criminal in the world. 
 That last case of mine nearly put me on the blink. 
 I worked on it for three days and two nights without 
 a wink of sleep, and hardly a thing to eat." 
 
 "That was the Allison emerald case, Mother," 
 interrupted Carlisle, eagerly. "We read about it in 
 the papers. You remember? Our good old Red-top 
 was the god in the machine, and we never suspected 
 it, did we?" 
 
 "No! You don't mean it!" cried Mrs. Carlisle, 
 dropping her knitting and leaning forward in her 
 chair. "The papers spoke of the clever work of a firm
 
 4 Q. E. D. 
 
 of private detectives, but I didn't realize Oh, I 
 wish you could tell us the whole story, Mr. Clancy. 
 It was such an interesting case." 
 
 "Mother is simply nuts on detective stories, 
 whether real or imaginary," laughed Carlisle, patting 
 the old lady's shoulder, "and so am I. That's one 
 reason she's so keen about you, old Red-top. Ever 
 since Peter Clancy began to make his mark in the 
 annals of crime I think she's been glad we went to 
 school together. I never ask a bunch of men out here 
 that Mother doesn't suggest my inviting you 
 
 "But that isn't the only reason, Harry," said the 
 old lady, with dignity. "Mr. Clancy knows, I'm 
 sure, that I like him for himself." 
 
 "Of course I do, Mrs. Carlisle," said Clancy, 
 heartily. "Don't you let him tease you. You've 
 been just bully to me always, and I'd love to tell you 
 all about the Allison emeralds, but I'm afraid we 
 haven't time this evening." 
 
 "No, we haven't," exclaimed Carlisle. "We ought 
 to be moving now. I wonder what's keeping 
 Kent. Seems to me I could have changed my 
 clothes twice since dinner." He crossed the broad, 
 low room and stepping out into the hospitable-look- 
 ing old hall, called up the stairs: "Rob! Oh, Rob! 
 Aren't you almost ready?" 
 
 "In a minute," a voice answered, and Harrison 
 Carlisle came back into the room. 
 
 "He'll be ready in a minute," he said, with a jerk
 
 THE MISSING GUEST 5 
 
 of his head in the direction of the stairs, and added, 
 in a slightly lowered voice : " Sorry to ring in a perfect 
 stranger to you on this party, Clancy, old chap, but 
 Kent's been after me for a long time to take him 
 trout fishing, and when I met him in town the other 
 day he said he'd heard I was taking some fellows up 
 to the Club for the opening day, and asked if he could 
 go along. You'll find him a pretty good sport, I 
 think, though I don't know just how he'll be in the 
 woods. I've been out for tarpon with him down in 
 Florida, and he's all right at that.. Mother thinks 
 he's too much of a fancy dresser to be a real good 
 sportsman." 
 
 "I never said anything of the kind, Harrison," the 
 old lady interrupted, indignantly. 
 
 "No," grinned Carlisle, "but I saw you looking at 
 him all through dinner. Oh," he broke off as the 
 door bell rang, "that must be Louis Hood at last. 
 I'll let him in," and he started toward the hall. 
 
 Before he had reached the door of the big long 
 room, however, a silent-footed Japanese manservant, 
 in a white jacket, passed it and opened the front door. 
 Followed a softly spoken word or two and the quiet, 
 inscrutable-faced servant returned, bearing a small 
 package on a tray. All of his movements were of a 
 silky smoothness. He presented the package to 
 Harrison Carlisle, who stood nearest, and silently 
 withdrew. 
 
 "Package for you from the drug store in the
 
 6 Q. E. D. 
 
 village, Mother," said Carlisle, glancing at the label. 
 "Shall I put it here? I thought," he added, ad- 
 vancing into the room, "I thought Hoki wasn't 
 here, Mother. Why didn't you have him serve din- 
 ner to-night instead of Louise? He does so much 
 better." 
 
 "I know, Harry, but I have to give Hoki a day off 
 now and then," remonstrated Mrs. Carlisle. "I 
 know you hate to have one of the maids wait on the 
 table. I thought Hoki would be back in time. But 
 he was late and I don't like to say anything. He's 
 very expert and very faithful, and it's hard to get 
 or keep servants, so far from town." 
 
 "Oh, it's all right, old dear. Don't you bother," 
 said Harrison, affectionately. "Here comes Kent at 
 last, and I'll bet he is arrayed like one of these. Come 
 in here, Rob," he called as a step sounded on the 
 stair. "We're in here by the fire, waiting for Louis 
 Hood to show up. I wonder what's keeping him." 
 
 "Hasn't he come yet?" asked Robert Kent, en- 
 tering the room, hurriedly. "I thought you were 
 waiting for me." 
 
 He was a small, thin man of indeterminate age, 
 dressed very carefully in an extremely complete and 
 polite sportsman's outfit. Compared to the rough 
 old clothes worn by Carlisle and Clancy the effect was 
 somewhat amateurish. He advanced toward Mrs. 
 Carlisle with a smile which showed his beautiful, 
 even white teeth, and spoke in a drawling manner
 
 THE MISSING GUEST 7 
 
 with slightly exaggerated courtesy. In appearance 
 he presented a sharp contrast to his friend Carlisle, 
 and Peter Clancy wondered what the two could have 
 in common. Not much besides the love of sport, he 
 decided, and even that attracted them differently, it 
 was plain to be seen. 
 
 "I think we have to thank you for the best dinner 
 that was ever eaten in all the State of New Jersey, 
 Mrs. Carlisle," Kent was saying. "It was a fine 
 preparation for a cold drive." 
 
 "I'm with you there," said Clancy, heartily. "Too 
 bad Mr. Hood had to miss it." 
 
 "You did expect him to dinner, didn't you?" 
 asked Kent, turning to his host. "Are you sure he's 
 coming? It's getting late for starting." 
 
 "Oh, he'll show up all right," said Carlisle, easily. 
 "Trust Louis Hood not to miss opening day if he had 
 to break the ice in the brooks. He's over at his 
 mother's. . . . Funny," he broke off, "I can't 
 get used to calling it anything else even though the 
 dear old lady's been dead since last fall. Anyhow, 
 he had to stop and pick up his tackle and change to 
 fishing clothes. He 'phoned me from town that he 
 couldn't get here for dinner, but he'd be over soon 
 after. He ought to be here now!" 
 
 "I should think, dear, since it's getting so late," 
 said Mrs. Carlisle, glancing again at the clock, 
 "that you'd better drive over for him. You said he 
 was walking over here, didn't you? His shortest
 
 8 Q. E. D. 
 
 way is to come by the road, and you couldn't miss 
 him." 
 
 "Isn't she the bright child!" exclaimed Harrison, 
 wagging his head at his mother and reaching over to 
 pat her cheek. "You might think she wanted to get 
 rid of us, but it isn't that at all. Her mind's just full 
 of those speckled beauties we'll be after to-morrow. 
 Come on, fellows ! Mother's got the right idea. No 
 use fooling around here any longer. We'll pick Hood 
 up on the way." He leaned over and took both of 
 the old lady's hands, drawing her to her feet. "Come 
 out and see us off, Mother, and wish us luck, and 
 we'll bring you back the finest mess of trout you ever 
 laid your eyes on." 
 
 "Yes, wish us luck, Mrs. Carlisle," laughed Clancy. 
 "It'll do us more good, I know, than any number of 
 four-leaved shamrocks!" 
 
 Laughing and talking, they had all reached the hall. 
 The Japanese butler glided out from the shadows, 
 helped the men on with their coats, and threw open 
 the front door. An able-looking closed car stood 
 ready in the drive at the foot of the steps. 
 
 "Wish you were coming with us, old dear," said 
 Harry, stooping to kiss his mother, who laughed with 
 the hearty camaraderie of a girl. 
 
 "I'd look well wading a stream at my time of life, 
 wouldn't I, Mr. Kent?" she said as she shook his 
 hand. "No, Harry, my son, your old mother can 
 still cast from a boat, thank Heaven, but that's the
 
 THE MISSING GUEST 9 
 
 best you can expect of her now. Good luck to all 
 you boys, and good sport! And," she added, in 
 a lower voice, drawing Clancy's red head down so 
 that she could speak in his ear, "you get on the 
 stream first, and keep ahead of Harry. He gets 
 plenty of fishing all the time. It's only fair." 
 
 "What are you plotting with old Red-top, 
 Mother?" called Carlisle from the depths of the car 
 where he was placing his beloved rods so that they 
 would ride without injury. "If you have secrets 
 with Clancy, Rob and I are going to be jealous, 
 aren't we, Rob? Here, you get in at the back, old 
 man. Does that leave room enough for your legs? 
 All right. Get in front with me, Red-top. All set? 
 Ready, on your mark! Good-bye, Mother; take care 
 of yourself. I'll 'phone you from the Club. We 
 ought to make it by ten, or a little after. Good-bye, 
 dear!" 
 
 The car door slammed, the starter buzzed, the 
 engine took hold with a will, and the big car rolled 
 smoothly down the white drive. 
 
 The old lady turned back into the warmed and 
 lighted house with a smile and a little sigh. Her 
 eyes met those of the inscrutable yellow-faced ser- 
 vant. 
 
 "It's hard to have a tired old body," she said, half 
 aloud, "when one's spirit's still young, isn't it, Hoki? 
 Oh well" she drew a long breath and spread out her 
 plump, gentle old hands. "You can lock up now,"
 
 io Q. E. D. 
 
 she continued, "and go to bed. I shan't need you any 
 more. Good-night, Hoki." 
 
 The quiet Japanese bowed low, with a polite and 
 deeply respectful hiss, which was his nearest approach 
 to speech, and silently departed.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS 
 
 IT WAS not a long drive from the hospitable 
 Carlisle home to the old Hood place on Fernwood 
 Road, though the road was steep and winding. It 
 ran mostly through woods and shrubbery, and 
 skirted large estates that comprised the rich, semi- 
 suburban village of Fern Hills. 
 
 The light snow which had fallen earlier in the day 
 had now completely ceased, and the rising moon was 
 slowly and leisurely ascending the heavens through 
 drifting scarfs of cloud. 
 
 The two great eyes of the car shone ahead with a 
 brilliant glare and the three sportsmen looked ea- 
 gerly out on all sides for the fourth man who was to 
 complete the cheerful party. 
 
 "Something must have happened to detain Louis," 
 said Carlisle more than once as they drove swiftly 
 along. "Wish we'd thought to 'phone that we 
 were coming for him. But that's just like me. 
 I always go off half cocked. Never mind; we can't 
 miss him. He's sure to come this way. Oh! 
 here The car slowed down and almost stop- 
 
 ped, as the light fell on the single figure of a
 
 12 Q. E. D. 
 
 man walking swiftly toward them at the side of the 
 road. 
 
 The man threw up his arm to shelter his face from 
 the blinding glare of the lights. 
 
 "Hello, Louis, is that you?" called Carlisle, as 
 they drew alongside. "We thought you were never 
 coming and Oh, I beg your pardon!" he broke 
 
 off, "I mistook you for ' The rest was lost in 
 
 the increased noise of the engine. 
 
 The man in the road said nothing, and went 
 quickly on his way. 
 
 "You chump!" said Peter Clancy, laughing. 
 "That man was a foot shorter than Mr. Hood. 
 Couldn't you see? And he had no rods or anything 
 in his hands." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't notice," said Carlisle, easily. 
 "Doesn't matter, anyway. We're almost there. 
 This is the beginning of his drive," and he swung off 
 the main road into a broad driveway covered with 
 an almost unbroken sheet of pure white snow and 
 bordered with a thicket of rhododendron from which 
 tall pine and hemlock trees rose, whispering softly 
 in the mild southern breeze. 
 
 The shadowy drive ran smoothly westward, curv- 
 ing in and out among the trees and shrubbery, and 
 in a few moments the three men descried the dim 
 bulk of a long, low, old-fashioned house looming 
 dark through the branches. 
 
 "Not a light," murmured Harrison in a slightly
 
 ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS 13 
 
 worried tone. "I do hope we haven't missed old 
 Louis on the road. Don't see how we could, though." 
 And "Honk H O N K!" his horn spoke as they 
 swept up to the foot of a wide, open terrace which 
 ran across the south end of the house. 
 
 They waited a minute, but as there was no response 
 from the dark house, Carlisle remarked impatiently: 
 "We'd better ring the bell and make sure he isn't 
 here before we turn back. Hop out Clancy, old 
 chap, and let me through. We'll soon see." 
 
 Clancy had flung the car door open and was al- 
 ready standing on the shallow step of the terrace. 
 Carlisle leaped out and ran up the steps. Peter 
 followed more slowly. Kent contented himself with 
 merely opening the rear door in readiness for Hood, 
 , in case he should still be there, and waited, listening 
 to Harrison's impatient voice as he proceeded to the 
 main entrance of the house. 
 
 "Must be after eight," he was saying to Clancy. 
 "I can't see how we could have done it, but we've 
 probably missed him on the road, and he'll be flirting 
 with Mother by this time. Never mind, she'll keep 
 him till we get back, and it really isn't so very late." 
 
 They were walking along the slightly trodden snow 
 on the inner edge of the terrace nearest the house. 
 At its outer margin, save for a break in the middle, 
 opposite the entrance, a row of closely planted, 
 pointed cedars cast their pale blue shadows out upon 
 the faintly gleaming snow. Other shadows than
 
 I 4 Q. E. D. 
 
 these there were none, for the terrace was quite open 
 to the sky. 
 
 "We ought to have a good day to-morrow," 
 Harrison went on, hopefully, pressing the button 
 of the front-door bell, which answered with a vibrant 
 buzzing ring, far at the other end of the silent house. 
 "The wind's in the southwest, and it's warming up. 
 The snow'll be gone by noon." He pressed the bell 
 again, impatiently, and turned slightly on the 
 doorstep, looking up at the sky. "Clouds all break- 
 ing away," he added as the moon suddenly rode clear 
 
 in all its shining beauty. "We'll have Good 
 
 heavens ! What is it, Clancy ? " 
 
 Peter Clancy had caught his arm in a vise-like grip 
 and swung him about with his back to the door. He 
 was pointing straight out across the terrace, where 
 some steps led down to a broad, smooth, snow- 
 covered lawn. 
 
 "My God! Look at that!" 
 
 At the wild note of alarm in Clancy's voice Kent 
 leaped from the car, and came running toward them 
 on the inner side of the terrace. 
 
 "What is it? What has happened?" he shouted, 
 breathlessly. "IsHood- 
 
 At the same instant there was the sound of hurry- 
 ing feet inside the house. Lights flashed up in 
 lanterns all along the terrace; the door swung open, 
 and a tall man stood on the threshold. 
 
 "That you, Harrison?"
 
 ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS 15 
 
 "Oh Louis, Louis! Thank God you're Look! 
 
 Look there!" 
 
 "My My God!" groaned Louis Hood in an 
 agonized murmur. "He must have done it, after all!' 
 And he dashed madly straight across the terrace. 
 
 "Stop! Hood! Stop! for God's sake! Keep 
 clear! Keep around to the right!" shouted Clancy, 
 his voice thrilling with intense excitement as he 
 darted after Hood. "You, too, Harry: keep around 
 this way!" he called over his shoulder. 
 
 Obedient to the tone of command, Carlisle and 
 Kent swerved a little to the right, as they followed, 
 breathlessly. 
 
 The moon and the lights along the terrace made it 
 as light as day. In the centre, opposite the house door, 
 where the wall of cedars which sheltered the terrace 
 edge was broken, a few broad shallow steps led down 
 to the smooth, sloping lawn, over whose blank white- 
 ness the moon shed its clear, still radiance. 
 
 Lying almost in the centre of the steps, half upon 
 them, and half upon the smooth snow-carpet of the 
 lawn, lay a sprawling, horrible, inert mass a some- 
 thing which had once been human, sentient, alive 
 in every pulse of pounding heart and throbbing 
 brain, but which now lay still and awful, with head 
 strangely twisted on one shoulder, with stark white 
 face turned upward, a great blot of crimson beside it, 
 staining the shining snow. 
 
 "He is quite dead," groaned Hood, who was al-
 
 16 Q. E. D. 
 
 ready on his knees beside the body when Clancy 
 swiftly reached his side. 
 
 Peter leaned over quickly and touched Hood's 
 shoulder. 
 
 "Don't," he whispered in Hood's ear, and, as the 
 other turned a startled, stricken face toward him, 
 Peter said aloud, a little sharply, "Don't disturb 
 the body, Mr. Hood! I've had a good deal 
 
 of experience. You'd better let me " He 
 
 caught Louis Hood lightly by the arm, and drew him 
 back, swiftly taking his place beside the body. 
 
 After a moment's examination, he turned toward 
 the white, awed faces which were bending above him, 
 and shook his head. 
 
 "Stone dead," he said, gravely: "Been dead 
 nearly an hour, I should think. Who is it?" he 
 added, looking from one to the other, his glance 
 coming to rest on the face of Louis Hood. 
 
 The other two men shook their heads in startled, 
 awed bewilderment and also turned to Hood for an 
 answer. 
 
 "He called himself Walter Brown," Hood said, 
 slowly, after a pause. "I knew him only slightly. 
 
 I Oh, poor boy, poor boy! He must have been 
 
 more desperate than " 
 
 Clancy broke in sharply: "You think he killed 
 himself?" he asked, looking Hood full in the eyes. 
 
 "Why, of course," Hood muttered, confusedly. 
 "There was no one else here, and "
 
 ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS 17 
 
 Again Clancy shook his head, and the gravity of 
 his face deepened. He turned and bent above the 
 prostrate figure, motioning to the others to look. 
 "How could he have killed himself?" he asked. 
 "You see?" He pointed with a hand which, in 
 spite of the many terrible scenes he had witnessed, 
 shook a little. "That wound in the neck might 
 have been self-inflicted but, see this! Look at the 
 strange position of the head. Nothing in a fall of 
 his own height could account for it. Notice the way 
 it lies, bent clear over on the right shoulder. It 
 could only lie like that for one reason. The man's 
 neck is broken!" He said this with a quiet finality. 
 
 "That means " whispered Carlisle, speaking al- 
 most for the first time, and it was odd to see how 
 strangely horror and awe strove for mastery in his 
 humorous, careless face. 
 
 "It means," said Clanc}^ straightening and speak- 
 ing with an air of authority, "it means murder!" 
 
 There was an instant's gasping, horrified silence. 
 Louis Hood put up his hand, covering his eyes for a 
 second. Carlisle stared at Clancy, his expression 
 suddenly gone perfectly blank. Kent glanced side- 
 wise at Hood with a strange look was it suspicion ? 
 in his keen, dark eyes, but he said never a word. 
 
 No one thought of doubting Clancy's statement. 
 The facts, when noted, spoke for themselves. It was 
 impossible for a man to break his own neck, and the 
 strange position of the head, at a complete right
 
 i8 Q. E. D. 
 
 angle from the body, left no doubt that such, un- 
 likely as it might seem, was the case. Peter went on 
 without a pause: 
 
 "You must get the police and the doctor at once. 
 Hurry up! No time should be lost; though there's 
 no hope for him, poor chap!" He looked back at 
 the awful, still figure on the steps. "It's of you I am 
 thinking." He turned to Hood, who had come 
 out without coat or hat, and was shaking violently 
 with cold and excitement. "It's a damned un- 
 pleasant thing to have happen on your own doorstep. 
 But pull yourself together, man, and get the police 
 here as fast as you can. That's your job. You go 
 with him, Harry, and you, too, Mr. Kent. Go in 
 where it's warm. I'll wait here." 
 
 As the door closed behind the three men, Clancy 
 turned on the doorstep and shook his head sadly. 
 
 "Oh, Pete, Pete, old top," he said to himself, 
 "you're out of luck again. There'll be no fishing 
 trip, of course. But you needn't take this case. 
 You need a rest. Let someone else worry." His 
 tone was almost pleading. "Let someone else 
 
 He walked a few paces along the inner edge of the 
 terrace toward the car from which they had alighted 
 in such high spirits only a few moments before. A 
 few paces and stopped, regarding with frowning 
 eyes the broad surface of the terrace pavement 
 covered evenly with smooth white snow. 
 
 "And yet, it's a pretty case, Pete. You won't see
 
 ONE LINE OF FOOTPRINTS 19 
 
 another like it in many a long day. A strange, 
 baffling case." 
 
 He raised his hand to his mouth and caught his 
 thumb between his teeth, considering, with bent 
 head. 
 
 "Exactly what do you mean?" he muttered, 
 softly, looking steadily down at his feet. "One line 
 of footprints leading to the body and none return- 
 ing from it. One line and only one. I can swear 
 it. When the lights flashed up, it was as bright as 
 day, and they were perfectly clear and distinct. 
 There was no mark in the snow anywhere near the 
 body except that one single line of footprints and 
 no sign of a struggle. And yet it was murder. It 
 could be nothing else. It was murder, as I am a 
 living soul!"
 
 CHAPTER III 
 PETER CLANCY PUZZLES INSPECTOR WINKLE 
 
 NO POSSIBLE doubt about it!" 
 Dr. Bernard Moore, a dark, clever-looking 
 man of forty-five or fifty, who had been hastily sum- 
 moned and had arrived almost simultaneously with 
 the two blue-coated policemen from the village, was 
 speaking in a low, decided voice to the police in- 
 spector, who had but that moment reached the scene 
 of the tragedy, having made all possible speed from 
 Morrisville, the county town, lying about five miles 
 to the west of Fern Hills. 
 
 "I have no doubt you are right, Doctor. It 
 looks as if the poor chap had been dead some time, 
 and as if his neck was broken," said the inspector, 
 gravely, bending low over the body, which still 
 lay in its strange position on the terrace steps. 
 "Seems kind of unnecessary, too, with that cut in 
 his throat." His sharp little eyes, in their folds of 
 leathery flesh, glanced rapidly over the prostrate 
 figure, and his bald eyebrows drew together in a 
 puzzled frown. 
 
 He turned quickly to the small group of gentlemen 
 who stood drawn close together, a few paces behind 
 
 20
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR 21 
 
 him, and asked abruptly: "Which is Mr. Hood, if 
 you please?" 
 
 Louis Hood stepped forward, and the inspector 
 eyed him earnestly. What the inspector saw was a 
 tall, slender, well-knit man, in his early prime, his 
 lithe, sinewy figure and broad, square shoulders 
 assorting well with the rough shooting coat, heavy 
 cord riding breeches, and high leather shoe-packs 
 which he wore, since he was ready dressed for the 
 fishing trip which had been so tragically interrupted. 
 His face was rather long, the bones well articulated, 
 the features clearly cut, but somewhat irregular. 
 His mouth was shaded by a small, dark moustache. 
 His thick, straight hair, dark also, save for a slight 
 trace of gray at the temples, was cut short, showing 
 a crisp angle above the well-set ears. Under his arm 
 he carried an old, soft felt hat, around the crown 
 of which was twisted a leader with two or three 
 brightly coloured trout-flies. He returned the in- 
 spector's gaze steadily, though behind his deeply 
 shadowed eyes there lurked an expression which the 
 elderly police officer found it difficult to fathom. 
 
 There had been but an instant's pause. The in- 
 spector spoke again. 
 
 "Tell me all you know of this," he said, crisply, 
 indicating, with a slight gesture of his left hand, the 
 tragic figure at his feet. "Who he was; how he 
 came to be here; how the body was found and all 
 the rest."
 
 22 Q. E. D. 
 
 "He called himself Walter Brown," Hood an- 
 swered, slowly. 
 
 "Called himself?" repeated the inspector with a 
 sharp, sidelong upward glance. "Then he isn't a 
 friend of yours?" 
 
 "I knew him years ago," said Hood, hesitatingly. 
 "He " and stopped. 
 
 The inspector waited a moment for him to go on, 
 but as he remained silent, the inspector only said: 
 "Hm-m," and looked down again at the body, his 
 puzzled frown deepening. 
 
 "Anybody else here know him?" he asked at 
 length, raising his head suddenly and glancing from 
 one to the other. 
 
 A shake of the head was the only reply. He 
 turned back to Louis Hood. "I'll have to ask you 
 for more particulars a little later, Mr. Hood," he 
 said. "Now, who found the body? When and how 
 was it discovered?" 
 
 Hood answered quickly and readily: "My friend 
 Mr. Carlisle," indicating with a motion of his hand, 
 "and Mr. Kent and Mr. Clancy found the poor 
 fellow. I was in the house." 
 
 "Just so," said the inspector, acknowledging the 
 introductions with a curt nod. " My name's Winkle. 
 And now we know each other." He took in the three 
 men with a swift, appraising glance which came to 
 rest on Peter. "It was you," he said, with a queer 
 little stabbing motion of his blunt forefinger, "it
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR 23 
 
 was you that met me at the steps over there, and told 
 me to come along close to the house. Why was 
 that?" and he threw up his head, raised his bald 
 eyebrows, and favoured Clancy with a piercing 
 look. 
 
 "I thought," said Peter, diffidently, "if there was 
 any question raised as to whether it was murder or 
 suicide, that you ought to see for yourself what was 
 implied by the footprints in the snow near the 
 body. We've kept as clear as we could." 
 
 "Very well thought of. Very well thought of," 
 said the inspector, with another sharp glance. 
 "Now : 
 
 "If you'll come a little this way," said Peter, 
 "I'll show you what was here when we came," and 
 he led the inspector back across the terrace to the 
 house door, keeping in the track which had been 
 made by the several passing feet, and which curved 
 toward the west, as has already been stated, and then 
 followed eastward, straight along the house front. 
 
 After they had passed the door, he proceeded a 
 half-dozen paces in the direction of the driveway. 
 Then he stopped and pointed down at his feet. The 
 other men, who had followed Clancy and the in- 
 spector, stopped also, and leaning forward, followed 
 Clancy's statements with breathless interest. 
 
 "When we reached here," said Clancy, impres- 
 sively, "except for a slightly trodden path along the 
 back of the terrace, here where we stand, this one
 
 24 Q. E. D. 
 
 line of footprints, running, as you see, in a diagonal 
 line straight to the body, was absolutely the only 
 mark in the snow." 
 
 "What!" exclaimed the inspector, straightening 
 suddenly, and regarding Peter with surprise not un- 
 mixed with incredulity. "That's impossible! There 
 must have been 
 
 "Why, sir," broke in Doctor Moore, leaning past 
 the others to get a better view of Peter, "this man, 
 Brown, or whatever his name is, was killed. Mur- 
 dered. I'll stake my professional reputation on it! 
 He might have made the wound in his throat him- 
 self, I grant you, and if so the weapon will be close 
 at hand; for, though the cut was not very deep, it 
 was deep enough to open the jugular vein, and he 
 must have died from it very soon, if that were the 
 cause of death. But it wasn't. He died instantly 
 and from a broken neck. Now don't tell me a man 
 could break his own neck in a case like this. It isn't 
 possible. There must have been a terrible struggle 
 with someone who knew all the tricks of wrestling, 
 and- 
 
 "You can see for yourself," interrupted Peter, 
 quietly, "that there are no marks of a struggle 
 near the body. There are only our own footprints, 
 and I've made it a point to keep all those on the far 
 side, you will remember. None of them were there 
 when Mr. Hood switched on the lights as he came 
 out of the house. That was just at the instant that
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR 25 
 
 we discovered the body. The body lay just as it had 
 fallen, in a smooth sheet of unmarked, undisturbed 
 snow. This line of footprints," he pointed again, 
 "led to it, and there was nothing else. Absolutely 
 nothing else. It was the first thing that caught my 
 eye, and I had no doubt, at that time, that it was a 
 case of suicide. It was merely a natural desire to 
 preserve the proof that made me caution every one 
 who approached the body to go wide of it, and keep 
 off to the right." 
 
 "Well," said Inspector Winkle, drawing a deep 
 breath, and still regarding Peter fixedly, "this cer- 
 tainly beats anything I ever heard!" 
 
 The doctor shook his head and muttered something 
 about impossibilities never happening. The rest pre- 
 served a tense silence. 
 
 "You've noticed, of course, Inspector," said Peter, 
 after a slight pause, "that whoever made this line of 
 footprints was running." 
 
 "Uh-h-m-m, yes," replied Winkle, pushing up his 
 cap to wipe his forehead, and bending down again. 
 "I see what you mean. Marks of the two feet 
 here and just the toes from there on. Hum, yes. 
 And the steps are long. Running Yes, of 
 
 course And he came from that direction" 
 
 he pointed toward the end of the terrace nearest the 
 waiting automobile "and ran straight from this 
 point toward the middle steps. Apparently he 
 didn't go to the house. Did you know any one was
 
 26 Q. E. D. 
 
 here, Mr. Hood?" The inspector turned quickly 
 as he said this, and glanced sharply at Louis 
 Hood. 
 
 "Not not then," answered Hood. "Walter- 
 Brown was here earlier in the evening." More than 
 one of the eager listeners noted the slight pause be- 
 tween the two names, and the faint air of constraint 
 with which the reply was given. 
 
 "And came back?" asked the inspector. 
 
 "I didn't know he came back," answered Hood, a 
 trifle more readily. 
 
 "Hum," said Winkle. "Then whose footprints 
 are these ? " 
 
 "I think I can answer that," said Peter. "Of 
 course we can't be sure until after the coroner's been 
 here, but I measured as well as I could, and I should 
 say, without doubt, that they were made by the man 
 who lies dead there." 
 
 The inspector regarded Peter curiously through 
 half-closed eyes. 
 
 "We'll make sure of that after the coroner has been 
 here," he said, slowly. "But if the man went upon 
 his own feet to the place where he lies, unless he was 
 killed somewhere else and the body carried there, I 
 agree with Doctor Moore there must have been 
 other footprints." 
 
 "There weren't," asserted Clancy, firmly. "That 
 I can swear to." Then seeing the continued doubt 
 in the inspector's eyes, he turned to Harrison Car-
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR 27 
 
 lisle. " Didn't you notice, Harry ? " he asked, eagerly ; 
 "didn't it strike you?" 
 
 "Why why, yes," said Carlisle, excitedly. "When 
 you called to us to go wide, I got you right away. 
 Sportsman's instinct followed so many game tracks 
 in the snow, I suppose. I saw why at once, and I'm 
 sure there weren't any tracks but these and our own 
 on that part of the terrace." 
 
 "Were you sharp enough to notice it, too, Mr. 
 Hood ? " asked Inspector Winkle, with a sidelong look. 
 
 Louis Hood shook his head. 
 
 "I was too much excited and concerned," he an- 
 swered. "I thought only 
 
 "And you, Mr. Kent?" asked the inspector. 
 
 "I wasn't thinking about footprints at a time like 
 that," said Kent, nervously. "This kind of thing is 
 well, rather awful, don't you know. I was con- 
 siderably upset," and indeed he did look white and 
 shaken. "The others were ahead of me, and I 
 didn't think- 
 
 The inspector bit his lip, and looked at the doctor. 
 The doctor looked at the inspector and shook his 
 head. 
 
 "Well," said Winkle, doubtfully, "it looks like a 
 puzzling case. By your leave, gentlemen," and he 
 passed them and went on to the house entrance. 
 Here he paused and waited for the others, who were 
 not slow in following. 
 
 He addressed himself again to Clancy.
 
 28 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Here," he said, standing on the doorstep, with 
 his back to the door, "you were sharp enough to 
 bring us all around to the right there but here's 
 one track going straight from this door to the body. 
 Whose is that?" and his glance was never keener 
 than when he put the question. 
 
 "I think it must be mine," said Louis Hood at 
 once. "I know I'd almost reached poor Walter before 
 Mr. Clancy stopped me." 
 
 "Ah," said Inspector Winkle. "Ah, yes, I see. 
 Now would you mind, just as matter of form, step- 
 ping into a couple of those marks to make sure? 
 Just as a matter of form, you understand. Ah 
 thank you. Yes. They would appear to be yours. 
 Yes, of course. You ran straight down. Naturally. 
 Your own house. Such a startling occurrence. 
 Naturally " 
 
 There followed a moment of complete silence. 
 Then the doctor cleared his throat and said: "I 
 still maintain that that man's injuries couldn't have 
 been self-inflicted. There must have been someone 
 with him, and 
 
 "Well, if there was," Clancy interrupted, some- 
 what heatedly, "one of them must have had wings. 
 At least I can swear he didn't set foot on the terrace 
 any nearer than the spot where we now stand, and 
 I'll be glad to take my oath on it at the inquest. I've 
 made a pretty careful diagram, Inspector " 
 
 "What! Already?" broke in Winkle.
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR ^29 
 
 "Yes. The measurements are accurate from 
 here to where the line of footprints starts and from 
 here to the body. I'd like now to make sure of the 
 length of the stride, and all that. Didn't want to 
 do it before you could see it for yourself, but the snow 
 may go off before morning, it's so much warmer, 
 and " 
 
 "Look here," interrupted the inspector, as if 
 struck by a sudden thought, "did I understand your 
 name was Clancy? You seem to know a great deal 
 about this business. It's been puzzling me all the 
 evening. You aren't a man as young as you you 
 can't be Peter Clancy, the detective!" 
 
 "That's my name and business," admitted Peter, 
 quietly, smiling a little at the older man's excitement. 
 
 The inspector held out his hand. 
 
 "Well, I'm silre glad to meet you, Mr. Peter 
 Clancy," he said, heartily. "I've heard enough 
 about you. Knew your partner O'Malley years 
 ago. Are we to have the benefit of your experience 
 in this?" A slight tone of jealousy crept into the 
 inspector's voice. Peter was quick to notice it. 
 
 "It's not my case at all, Inspector," he answered, 
 cordially. "It's all up to you. I just thought I'd 
 put you wise to a few things, and I suppose I'll have 
 to stay for the inquest, since Mr. Carlisle and I found 
 the body. But after that I'm through." 
 
 "I see," said the inspector, his good nature en- 
 tirely restored. "Strange you happened to be here,
 
 30 Q. E. D. 
 
 wasn't it ? How is it that you're in this part of the 
 country? And who'd have expected to see a New 
 York detective in a rig like that ? " He grinned as he 
 looked at Peter's fishing clothes. 
 
 Peter explained in as few words as possible. The 
 two policemen who were stationed not far away 
 listened eagerly. Louis Hood stood a little apart 
 with arms folded across his breast, one hand gripping 
 his narrow chin, his head bent in deep thought. 
 Robert Kent touched Carlisle's arm. 
 
 "Your friend Clancy is the famous Peter Clancy?" 
 he questioned in a low voice, so as not to interrupt 
 the conversation of the two professionals. "You 
 didn't tell me. How very interesting and oppor- 
 tune." 
 
 "Yes," answered Harrison, in the same low 
 tone, "but I don't think Peter'll let himself get 
 mixed up in this. The boy's worn out and needs a 
 rest. Oh! It's a frightful thing altogether. I 
 wonder 
 
 But what Harrison Carlisle wondered was never 
 to be known, for at that moment the coroner drove up 
 in a small car, and the group in the middle of the 
 terrace broke up and straggled out to receive him, 
 Inspector Winkle in the lead. 
 
 The coroner was a round apple-faced man with 
 prematurely white hair and a benignant expression. 
 He had been called away from a small evening party 
 of old cronies and was in a hurry to return to them.
 
 CLANCY PUZZLES THE INSPECTOR 31 
 
 If the dead man had been one of the old county 
 residents he would have been more concerned, for he 
 prided himself on his knowledge of, and recognition 
 by the old families of that section, but since the man 
 was reported a stranger in those parts, he would 
 have been glad if it had been possible to put off the 
 whole affair till the morrow. 
 
 Since that could not be, he contented himself 
 with a quick though careful survey of the body, 
 listened intently to the inspector's explanations of 
 how and when it had been found, and gave permis- 
 sion for its more thorough examination. 
 
 Doctor Moore and the inspector bent again above 
 it. The doctor verified his conclusions in a few 
 minutes, but the inspector took rather longer. 
 He went through the dead man's pockets carefully, 
 quickly and secretly transferring their contents to 
 his own. Peter, try as he might, could not see what 
 the articles were, for the inspector was between him 
 and the body, and his bulk effectually concealed 
 them from view. 
 
 When he had finished Winkle began with carefully 
 groping fingers to search on each side of the body, 
 holding a pocket flashlight close to the ground. His 
 lack of skill nearly drove Clancy distracted, and after 
 a moment's impatient observation, he offered to as- 
 sist the inspector in his search. 
 
 Winkle gave his assent, but without particular 
 enthusiasm, and together they investigated every
 
 32 Q. E. D. 
 
 inch of snow for several yards around. When they 
 had made a complete circuit both men regained their 
 feet, and the inspector turned to the coroner with a 
 shake of his head. 
 
 "No weapon," he said in a grave voice, "no knife 
 nothing. I guess that settles it in spite of 
 
 The coroner nodded. "I guess so, Jim. Looks 
 bad, doesn't it? Death instantaneous, eh, Doctor? 
 And weapon gone. Hm-m. Well, I think you won't 
 need me any longer, Jim," he concluded after ex- 
 changing a few more words with the inspector. "I 
 expect to be able to call the inquest by three o'clock 
 to-morrow, but I'll 'phone you. I'll have to ask you 
 gentlemen to attend as a formality," he added, turn- 
 ing to Hood and his friends. "Just a formality, 
 just a formality. And you, too, Doctor Moore, 
 if you please, unless you'd rather send in a written 
 statement. Good-night, gentlemen. Good-night, In- 
 spector," and the coroner hurried off to resume the 
 game of whist which had been so rudely interrupted.
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 INSPECTOR WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 
 
 WHEN the low, rattling throb of the coroner's 
 little car had died away in the distance, In- 
 spector Winkle turned back to the little group which 
 awaited him on the terrace. 
 
 The moon had ridden high in the still, pale sky. 
 The air was soft and mild. The breeze sighed and 
 whispered in the tops of the tall, dark pine trees which 
 encircled the wide lawn, but the leaves of the rhodo- 
 dendron thicket were so still that they seemed a 
 painted border of black upon the white sheet of 
 faintly glimmering snow. The row of cedars along 
 the terrace face stood like tall sentinels, guarding the 
 secret which lay between them. They were hardly 
 more silent than the little cluster of men who waited 
 before the door of the old gray house. 
 
 The good doctor had with his own hand composed 
 the limbs of the poor wrecked body, and with the 
 help of the two policemen and Peter Clancy had 
 lifted it so that it now lay stiff and straight upon the 
 snow-covered bricks of the terrace. 
 
 Clancy stood beside it looking quietly down. The 
 man had been tall, well above the average height, 
 
 33
 
 34 Q. E. D. 
 
 he saw, and very thin, though his shoulders were 
 broad and well proportioned. Dressed in a loose, 
 short, heavy coat, trousers tucked into high boots, 
 he had the look of a Westerner, perhaps, or at least 
 of a man unused to city life. The face was deadly 
 pale, with an even sickly pallor which consorted 
 strangely with his rough out-of-door garb. The 
 features were spirited and fine, the nose thin and 
 aristocratic, but the mouth and chin indicated a 
 passionate temperament coupled with a weak will. 
 Though the face was comparatively young, the hair, 
 cropped very short, was snowy white. 
 
 One of the policemen had picked up a soft felt hat, 
 which had fallen far over to the right, and now 
 tendered it to the inspector, who received it with a 
 nod. 
 
 "You and Peabody stay out here, Allen," said 
 Inspector Winkle. "They'll be here pretty soon to 
 take him away. Let me know when they come. 
 Now, Mr. Hood, with your permission, we'll go in- 
 side. I'd like to ask a few more questions of you and 
 your friends, and I think we'd all be more comfort- 
 able somewhere else. I won't need you any fur- 
 ther, Doctor Moore, and I'm much obliged to you 
 for coming so promptly," and Winkle held out his 
 hand. 
 
 "I'd just as soon stay, Inspector, if you think I 
 could be of service," said the doctor, hesitatingly. 
 He was a man of considerable intelligence, and had
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 35 
 
 his full share of human curiosity, and the present 
 case, in view of the statements of the New York de- 
 tective, presented many points of exceptional inter- 
 est. There were a lot of things about it he would 
 be glad to know, but the inspector said: "No, 
 no. There's no reason for keeping you any longer. 
 You'll have a chance to prove your points at the in- 
 quest," and the doctor was forced, reluctantly, to 
 withdraw. 
 
 When he had done so, the small party of men 
 entered the wide door of the house, Louis Hood lead- 
 ing the way. 
 
 The big square hall presented an appearance of 
 silence and desertion which struck coldly on the eye 
 and ear. The large pictures hanging about the walls 
 were covered with white cloths and made little break, 
 save for their gray shadows, against the whiteness 
 of the panels. The two large rooms which opened 
 out, one on either hand, were likewise swathed 
 and sheeted, and looked ghostly in the light which 
 filtered dimly in from the terrace, through drawn 
 blinds. At the back of the hall a wide staircase 
 rose to a landing from which it turned and vanished 
 in the upper shadows. 
 
 "You'll find it more comfortable out here," said 
 Louis Hood, opening a small door at the left, under 
 the landing. "This part of the house has been 
 closed since my mother's death. There's a fire in 
 the housekeeper's room, however."
 
 36 Q. E. D. 
 
 The others followed in silence. They passed 
 through a short passage guarded by double baize- 
 covered doors, and reached a small, plain, cheery 
 room, well warmed and lighted. There were signs of 
 constant occupancy all about it. A sewing ma- 
 chine stood in one corner with a darning basket on 
 its closed top. On the small table in the centre of 
 the room were the remains of a hasty meal. It 
 had been neatly laid out for one person, though 
 an extra glass, a few crumbs, and a chair half 
 drawn up on the opposite side of the table seemed 
 to indicate that more than one person had partaken 
 of it. 
 
 These, and other details of slight disorder, Peter 
 Clancy noted as soon as he entered the room, but 
 what impression, if any, they made upon the inspec- 
 tor, he could not determine, for the face of Inspec- 
 tor Winkle was perfectly noncommittal as he drew 
 up a chair, and seated himself at one of the cleared 
 sides of the table. 
 
 "Now, if you please, Mr. Hood, we'll get down to 
 brass tacks," he said, drawing out a notebook. "In 
 the first place, is there any one else in the house?" 
 
 Louis Hood was standing before him, leaning on a 
 high mantel shelf. Carlisle had perched himself on 
 the arm of an old horsehair sofa which stood against 
 the wall and was listening eagerly. Peter had seated 
 himself at the end of the room between the windows 
 which opened toward the west. ("The same being
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 37 
 
 the reason why we saw no light," he said to him- 
 self.) Only Robert Kent moved about restlessly, as if 
 wishing that the formalities might soon be over so 
 that they could all return to the comforts and peace 
 of ordinary existence. 
 
 "No, there is no one in the house but ourselves," 
 said Hood, replying to the inspector's question. 
 "The caretakers, a man and his wife, 'phoned in to 
 me in New York this morning asking permission to go 
 into town for the night. I was only stopping to 
 
 change my clothes and to get my fishing tackle which 
 
 
 was here 
 
 "And your supper suggested Inspector 
 
 Winkle. 
 
 "And my supper, as you say," Hood responded. 
 
 Harrison Carlisle looked a little surprised. Kent 
 leaned over his shoulder and whispered: "If he was 
 in Fern Hills at dinner time, why didn't he come over 
 to your house, as he promised?" 
 
 " I don't know," Harrison answered, hastily. " He 
 'phoned from town that he couldn't get there in 
 time, and I supposed But listen." 
 
 The inspector had asked another question and 
 Hood was replying. 
 
 "I reached here at about six. The caretakers had 
 already gone, but it didn't matter, as I always have 
 the key to the front door." 
 
 " You were alone ? " 
 
 "Yes."
 
 38 Q. E. D. 
 
 "I think you said that this man, Walter Brown, 
 was here earlier in the evening. At what time was 
 that?" 
 
 "He came very soon after I did." 
 
 All of Hood's answers were given in a low, firm 
 voice, but there was an air of unrest about him, an 
 indefinable uncertainty which did not escape the 
 sharp eyes of Peter Clancy. 
 
 "Since you aren't living here, I naturally suppose 
 he came by appointment," said Inspector Winkle, 
 watching Hood's face narrowly. 
 
 "You are quite right," Hood responded, as quietly 
 as before. 
 
 "What was his business with you, Mr. Hood? 
 Forgive me if I seem inquisitive, but, as a lawyer, 
 you must understand that it's necessary for me 
 to find out all I can about the man." 
 
 "I quite understand your position, Inspector," 
 said Hood, with every appearance of grave sin- 
 cerity, "and I am glad to help you all I can. The 
 man was poor and needy and I wanted to see him 
 and find out how I could best assist him." 
 
 "Why, then, didn't you have him come to your 
 office in town?" 
 
 "He was already in Fern Hills. He didn't know 
 that the house was closed, and that I was living 
 in town. He 'phoned my office from the village, 
 and as I was coming out in any case, I told him to 
 wait here."
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 39 
 
 "But he evidently didn't wait here, since he 
 came after you did," objected the inspector. 
 
 "I can't quite see that it matters," said Hood 
 with a touch of impatience. "I suppose he must 
 have waited somewhere in the village. At any 
 rate, he was here soon after six. We discussed his 
 affairs, I helped him as much as I could, and " 
 
 Inspector Winkle held up his hand. 
 
 "Just a minute," he said, and feeling in the 
 pocket in which he had placed the articles taken 
 from the pockets of the dead man, he drew out a 
 small, folded oblong of greenish paper, and laid it 
 on the table. He opened it deliberately, adjusted 
 his glasses, nodded slightly as if confirming a previous 
 observation, and remarked in a cordial tone, "I 
 should say you were a very good man to appeal to 
 in case of need, Mr. Hood. Very generous, very 
 generous, indeed, if you'll allow me to say so. It 
 isn't everyone who'd give even a hundred dollars 
 to a man he knew only slightly, or hadn't seen for 
 a long time." Though he spoke pleasantly there 
 was a faint touch of sarcasm in his tone which 
 nettled Harrison Carlisle and roused him to the 
 defence of his friend. 
 
 "A hundred dollars isn't such a hell of a lot of 
 money," he asserted, hotly, for his heart was as 
 warm and generous as his bank account was long. 
 "Anybody'd do that much to help a poor devil 
 out of a mess."
 
 40 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Very true, very true, perhaps, Mr. Carlisle." 
 Winkle glanced around, frowning at the interruption. 
 "But as it happens, this check is for a thousand." 
 
 Harrison Carlisle started a little and looked 
 quickly across at Louis Hood. Kent stopped in 
 his aimless ramble about the room and, after a swift 
 sidelong glance at Hood, remained immovable, his 
 gaze resting on the floor. With brows drawn to- 
 gether, he seemed lost in puzzled contemplation. 
 Only Peter Clancy appeared unaffected by the 
 startling announcement. He sat, as he had sat 
 all along, regarding all the actors in the scene with 
 impartial, silent interest. 
 
 Winkle continued without pause. He spoke 
 slowly, consideringly: "Hm-m. Yes. A thousand 
 dollars is quite a sum of money to give, off hand. 
 It almost seems, to an impartial observer, as if there 
 must have been some claim of relationship, per- 
 haps a secret understanding or something. But 
 that's impossible, of course. You said, I think, Mr. 
 Hood, that Walter Brown had no special claim on 
 you, that you hardly knew him." He leaned back 
 in his chair and twirled his pencil slowly round 
 and round between his fingers, looking at Hood all 
 the time. 
 
 There was a short silence in which the ticking of 
 the clock on the mantel sounded loud and harsh. 
 Then Hood stirred a little and said: "It wouldn't, 
 perhaps, be exact to say that I knew him only
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 41 
 
 slightly, though I've seen nothing of him for for 
 a long time. I knew him well when we were boys. 
 I was very glad to be of assistance to him." 
 
 "After all, a thousand dollars isn't such an awful 
 lot of money to help out an old friend," grunted 
 Harrison Carlisle, though his tone was less sure and 
 open than it had been. 
 
 Winkle frowned again at the repeated interruption, 
 but when he spoke to Hood there was no trace of 
 irritation in his voice. 
 
 "I wish you'd tell me, in your own way, just 
 all you know of this man Brown," he said. "I 
 rather got the idea from something you let drop that 
 possibly that wasn't his right name. 'Called him- 
 self Walter Brown,' you said, rather implying " 
 
 "That was just an expression," interrupted Hood. 
 "His name was Brown, Walter Brown. You'll see 
 that the check was made out to his order." 
 
 Clancy, glancing up at this, caught a speculative 
 look in Harrison Carlisle's eye. Kent also seemed 
 struck by the thought which was in the mind of 
 each. He raised his eyes from their long contem- 
 plation of the floor, gazing at Hood with peculiar 
 interest. Twice, in their hearing, Hood had said 
 that the man "called himself Walter Brown." 
 Why should he have used those ambiguous words 
 at all if Walter Brown was really the man's name? 
 
 The inspector, however, appeared quite satisfied. 
 Hood had continued speaking, still with that vague
 
 42 Q. E. D. 
 
 almost imperceptible note of hesitation in his voice. 
 "I don't think there is much more that I can tell 
 you about him. He went West several years ago 
 and only returned to-day. In fact, he stopped 
 off at Newark from the Chicago train and came 
 back here." 
 
 "Has he any relations living?" asked the in- 
 spector as Hood paused. 
 
 "I think very few and I know he felt they 
 were dead to him," replied Hood, gravely. 
 
 "Did any one besides yourself know that he was 
 here?" 
 
 "I should say emphatically not," said Hood 
 with conviction. 
 
 "Not the caretakers?" 
 
 "I had it on his own statement that he didn't 
 know there was any one in the house. He came in 
 through the front drive, found the house closed and 
 apparently deserted, and didn't even ring the bell." 
 
 "But the caretakers were here then?" 
 
 "Yes, for I 'phoned them just before I called 
 you, Harry, to ask them to leave out something 
 for me to eat since I realized I would be late if 
 I tried to dine with you. They were coming to 
 town on the 5:17 train and must have left soon 
 after." 
 
 "Then they might have seen Brown, perhaps, 
 without his seeing them." 
 
 "I should think it very unlikely. As you see,
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 43 
 
 this wing is quite cut off from the main house and 
 they would have had no particular business there 
 at that time of day. The kitchen has its own 
 drive which comes out quite at the other end of 
 the place in the direction of Melbrook. They 
 usually take the train there, so they wouldn't have 
 gone through the main drive when they left, and 
 I don't believe 
 
 "Probably of no importance, anyway," said 
 Winkle, cutting him short. "Now just what time 
 did Brown leave the house, do you know?" 
 
 "It was nearly seven, I think. In fact, I'm pretty 
 sure, for I looked at my watch a little later, and it 
 was only a few minutes after seven then." 
 
 Carlisle stirred uneasily in his chair. What had 
 Louis been doing all that time? Nearly, if not 
 quite, an hour. Was old Red-top thinking of that, 
 too? And Kent? He glanced from one to the 
 other, but though they were both listening in- 
 tently, their faces betrayed nothing. 
 
 "Where was Brown when you saw him last?" 
 the inspector was asking. "You went to the door 
 with him, of course?" 
 
 "Why, no. As it happened, I didn't," answered 
 Hood, considering thoughtfully. "I went as far 
 as the main hall and put on the light for him. The 
 switch is just inside the door of the little passage 
 we came through just now. We parted there and 
 he went on to the front door. I heard him open it
 
 44 Q. E. D. 
 
 and then I switched off the light and hurried back 
 here and up the back stairway to the room in which 
 I keep my tackle. I was going on a fishing trip 
 with Mr. Carlisle and didn't want to keep them 
 waiting, and I had quite a good deal to do. I was 
 only just ready when they came and found- 
 He raised his hand to his forehead and pushed 
 his fingers upward through his thick dark hair, grip- 
 ping his temples between his thumb and little finger, 
 as if his head ached heavily. 
 
 "Come over here and sit down, Louis," said 
 Harrison Carlisle, whose observant glance had noted 
 the weariness of the gesture. 
 
 He rose from the arm of the sofa, crossed the room, 
 and with brusque tenderness drew Louis Hood over 
 to the couch and seated himself beside him. 
 
 Just then a faint though heavy footfall sounded 
 through the house and someone called the inspec- 
 tor's name. He rose immediately and left the room. 
 "What's the old fellow keeping us all this time 
 for?" asked Kent, irritably, as soon as the door 
 was closed. "We've told him all we know. Mr. 
 Clancy may have a professional interest in all this, 
 but I can't see where you and I come in, Harry. 
 Don't you think we can be getting away pretty 
 soon? Your mother will be anxious, even though 
 you did telephone her. I think we 
 
 "We're going to wait and take Louis home with 
 us, Rob," said Carlisle, decidedly. "Mother'd
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 45 
 
 kill me if I left him here all alone to-night. You 
 will come, won't you, Louis?" 
 
 "Why, I don't know, Harry." Hood seemed 
 moved by the kindness of his friend's tone. He 
 dropped his head upon his hands with a gesture of 
 weariness and anxiety which spoke volumes. The 
 bracing effect of the inspector's presence having 
 been removed the whole man relaxed for the time 
 being. He seemed to shrink together inside his 
 clothes, and his voice was low and troubled as he 
 continued: "I don't know what this horrible 
 business will lead to and there's no use in putting 
 off my worries on any of you. There's no reason 
 why I shouldn't stay here to-night. Eliza always 
 keeps a room ready for me in case I want to spend 
 the night, and 
 
 Harrison thought that there was a note of re- 
 luctance in his friend's voice, a natural disinclination 
 to remain in the lonely, empty house which had been 
 the scene of such a hideous tragedy, and he spoke 
 with cordial, firm insistence: "You're coming with 
 us, old top," he said. "I won't take 'no' for an 
 answer. Neither would Mother, if she were here. 
 We'll wait for you if it takes all night, won't we, 
 Peter?' 
 
 "You bet we will," answered Clancy, heartily. 
 "You couldn't drive me away with a gun, anyhow. 
 I want to see just what sort of local talent you've 
 got out here, and what our friend Winkle is going
 
 46 Q. E. D. 
 
 to make of the case. He's no fool, Winkle isn't, 
 and yet he doesn't seem to be particularly impressed 
 with the facts that seem most important to my 
 mind." 
 
 "You mean ?" queried Hood, flashing a swift 
 
 upward glance at Clancy. 
 
 "I mean," Peter began, and stopped as the sound 
 of footsteps in the passage came faintly to his sharp 
 ears. "Here he is," he said, holding up his hand. 
 "I'll tell you later." 
 
 The inspector, as he came through the softly 
 closing door, glanced quickly from one face to the 
 other as if wondering what the friends had been 
 talking about in his absence. He didn't mention 
 the cause of the summons and neither did any of 
 the four men question him, but all experienced a 
 feeling of relief in the knowledge that the fair, 
 broad terrace was now untenanted, and that the 
 moon with its clear light shone on nothing more 
 awful than the stained and trampled snow. 
 
 As if the inspector's entrance had been a powerful 
 tonic, Louis Hood raised his head alertly and 
 squared his shoulders, bracing himself for the 
 questions which remained to be answered. 
 
 Inspector Winkle seated himself in his old place 
 beside the table, drawing his notebook out of the 
 pocket into which he had hastily thrust it when he 
 left the room. He referred to some notes he had 
 made in it.
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 47 
 
 "So the last you saw of this Walter Brown was 
 at your own front door, Mr. Hood," he continued, 
 as if the long series of questions and answers had 
 been quite uninterrupted. "Am I right?" He 
 shifted his position slightly, turning sidewise from 
 the table so as to face Hood squarely. 
 
 "That was the last I saw him alive," replied 
 Louis Hood, firmly. 
 
 "And you were then at the back of the main hall?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "You heard nothing after that? No sound of a 
 struggle? No cries?" 
 
 "Nothing," Hood replied in the same tone as 
 before. "If there was anything to hear I might 
 very well not have been aware of it for, as you 
 see, the house is very long and I went directly up 
 to the storeroom which is on the third floor at the 
 extreme north end. But I imagine there was 
 nothing. In spite of Doctor Moore's opinion I am 
 still confident that Walter died by his own hand." 
 
 The inspector shook his head slowly. 
 
 "I'm afraid that theory won't hold water, Mr. 
 Hood, though I can understand that for many rea- 
 sons you would prefer to believe it." 
 
 "Whether I would prefer it or not," interjected 
 Hood, somewhat sharply, "is beside the question. 
 The man had no enemies in this part of the country; 
 certainly no one knew he was here, of that I am 
 positive. There could have been no motive for
 
 48 Q. E. D. 
 
 so hideous a crime. He had been terribly unfor- 
 tunate. He was fearfully despondent 
 
 "And so you conclude that he killed himself?" 
 interrupted Inspector Winkle, coolly. "Killed him- 
 self with a check for one thousand dollars in his 
 pocket. It isn't often done according to my ex- 
 perience. What do you think, Mr. Clancy?" 
 
 "I'm with Mr. Hood." Peter, thus appealed to, 
 spoke for the first time, with studied deliberation. 
 "Brown reached the spot where we found him 
 on his own feet. His footmarks in the snow prove 
 that beyond question. No one else had been any- 
 where near him. Therefore he must have made 
 away with himself." 
 
 He spoke with such quiet conviction that both 
 Carlisle and Kent turned toward him with a start. 
 Hood also looked at him with surprised and hopeful 
 eyes. All three had heard Clancy state distinctly, 
 upon his first examination of the body, that it was 
 unquestionably a case of murder. Why, then, this 
 sudden change of front? The answer to the ob- 
 vious query lay hidden behind the young detective's 
 frank, blue, but inscrutable eyes. 
 
 "But death was instantaneous," objected In- 
 spector Winkle. "His neck was broken. And, as 
 for the wound in his throat we found no knife, 
 no sharp-edged weapon of any sort you know that 
 yourself, Mr. Clancy, since you helped me look for it." 
 
 "There's a good deal of snow," Peter suggested,
 
 WINKLE SPRINGS A SURPRISE 49 
 
 "and a small object like a safety razor blade, for 
 instance, might easily have escaped us. That would 
 have been a sufficient weapon for the purpose. The 
 wound was sharply cut and not very deep." 
 
 "That's true," said Winkle, slowly. "That much 
 is certainly true, but"- - he paused as if to give 
 his next words more weight "how do you account, 
 Mr. Clancy, for the broken neck? Eh? And why 
 do you think a man would kill himself with a razor 
 blade (which would be awkward to carry unless 
 it was in a case, and apparently it couldn't have been, 
 since none was found) when he not only had a check 
 for one thousand dollars in his pocket" again 
 he paused "but this, as well." 
 
 The inspector's voice was so full of concealed 
 triumph that the four other occupants of the room 
 watched with strained expectancy while he de- 
 liberately put his hand in the capacious side pocket 
 of his coat. He glanced from one tense face to 
 the other, a slightly superior smile just bending up 
 the corners of his wide mouth, as his eyes met 
 those of Peter Clancy inquiringly fixed upon him. 
 
 Slowly he drew forth his concealed right hand and 
 laid upon the table an able-looking Colt's revolver.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 'WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET- 
 
 I FOUND that on the body," the inspector ex- 
 plained, breaking the sudden silence which 
 ensued upon the unexpected production of the un- 
 looked-for weapon. "Now tell me if you can, Mr. 
 Clancy," he wagged a stubby forefinger, "why, 
 in Heaven's name, a man bent on suicide would cut 
 his throat with a weapon which doesn't exist, and 
 break his own neck, into the bargain and all the 
 while have a revolver handy in his pocket." 
 
 Peter had risen and was bending over the inspec- 
 tor's shoulder. Kent also had stepped forward and 
 kneeling with one knee on the chair at the end of 
 the table, leaned far over, looking at the pistol 
 with fascinated eyes. Harrison Carlisle thought 
 Louis said something under his breath, but he didn't 
 catch the words. 
 
 "Have you examined the gun?" asked Clancy, 
 quietly, touching it with his forefinger. "It may 
 not have been loaded, you see, and that may ac- 
 count " 
 
 Winkle grunted, inarticulately, and his eye- 
 brows shot up. The idea evidently had not occurred 
 
 50
 
 "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET " 51 
 
 to him. With the caution born of long and intimate 
 experience of small arms he immediately proceeded 
 to break the revolver. As he did so the ejector 
 performed its allotted function, the plunger shot 
 up and dropped again, four cartridges lifted them- 
 selves smoothly from the shining cylinder, but 
 from the fifth chamber, like a live thing, an empty 
 shell jumped out and fell with a sharp metallic ring 
 upon the table. 
 
 The inspector, with a muttered oath of surprise, 
 reached out a swift hand and clutched the tell- 
 tale shell as it rolled away from him. Clancy's 
 brows contracted in a sudden frown and he sent 
 a quick sidelong glance in the direction of the sofa, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 "By all that's holy!" exclaimed the inspector, 
 glancing from the empty shell to the pistol and 
 back again. "One shot's been fired! Do you get 
 that? One shot's been fired," he repeated, turning 
 the revolver to look into the muzzle "and re- 
 cently, too! At least it's not been cleaned since! 
 Now what do you make of that, Mr. Peter Clancy?" 
 
 "That one shot's been fired, and the gun hasn't 
 been cleaned since," agreed Peter, quietly. "Well, 
 what of it? What do you make of it, Mr. Inspector?" 
 
 "Why, that the man didn't commit suicide!" 
 cried Winkle in a raised, excited voice. "He cer- 
 tainly didn't shoot himself. Then whom did he 
 shoot, or shoot at ? Why, the man who threatened
 
 5 2 Q. E. D. 
 
 his life and finally got him! No question about it! 
 When we find that bullet 
 
 He stopped suddenly, for Kent, now ashy pale, 
 had reached across the table and touched his arm 
 with a hand that shook with excitement. 
 
 "Hood can explain, no doubt," he said in a voice 
 trembling with emotion, "and I think he should 
 explain at once for his own sake." He swallowed 
 as if his mouth had suddenly become dry. "If 
 you look over there over there in the corner by 
 the window I think I'm almost certain that 
 you'll find the missing bullet." 
 
 With another oath the inspector kicked back 
 his chair and lumbered swiftly over to the corner 
 indicated. Swift as he was, Clancy was before 
 him. There was a small, built-in closet in that 
 corner, an old-fashioned closet with little square 
 glazed panels in the upper doors. In one of these 
 panes was a small, round hole, from which radiated 
 a number of fine cracks. Clancy's quick eyes had 
 already discovered the shattered pane, and his hand 
 had pulled the door open when Winkle reached his 
 side. Upon a shelf, on a level with the eye, was an 
 old copper teakettle, standing well back against the 
 wall. Clancy reached up, drew it forth, and handed 
 it to Winkle without a word. The kettle was drilled 
 through from side to side. 
 
 Winkle glanced quickly at it, handed it un- 
 ceremoniously to Peter, seized a chair, mounted
 
 "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET " 53 
 
 upon it, and thrust his hand into the cupboard, 
 feeling the surface of the rear wall. In an instant 
 he withdrew his hand, took a large knife from his 
 trousers pocket, opened it, and began to dig in the 
 plaster at the back of the closet. After a moment 
 something fell to the shelf and rolled along it with 
 a sharp rattle which sounded loud in the breathless 
 silence. "When we find that bullet," the inspector 
 had said "When we find that bullet," he thought 
 again as he stepped down from the chair and turned 
 toward Louis Hood with the bullet in his hand. 
 
 Hood had risen from his seat. A dull flush stained 
 his pale cheek. His eyes were unnaturally bright 
 and keen. He answered Inspector Winkle's in- 
 quiring look as if the old officer had spoken. 
 
 "I meant to tell you about it, in any case," he 
 said, hurriedly. "It was one of my reasons for 
 deducing suicide. Walter was desperate when he 
 came to me. I argued with him . . . tried 
 to show him that that there was still hope for 
 him. ... A new life". . . The phrases 
 were quick, disjointed, charged with deep and 
 apparently sincere emotion. "I tried to show him 
 where he had fallen short . . . had failed. 
 God knows I didn't mean to be hard on the boy. 
 But he was more hopeless more desperate than 
 I realized. While I was speaking without a 
 word of warning he drew his pistol and levelled 
 it not at me! Oh, no! We had not quarrelled.
 
 54 Q- E. D. 
 
 At himself. ... I struck quickly almost auto- 
 matically, I think, for it seemed as if the flash on 
 the revolver barrel and the flash of the shot were 
 simultaneous, and yet I had been in time. The 
 bullet went over his shoulder and buried itself 
 in the wall. I did not look to see where it had gone. 
 I caught the poor boy in my arms and made him 
 sit down over there. ... I talked to him 
 for a long time, got him quieted down and made 
 him listen to reason. I had means I was willing 
 to share with him I, at last, induced him to accept 
 something the check you found. ... I made 
 him eat ... I thought I had entirely suc- 
 ceeded in quieting him in assuring him as to his 
 future, when he left me. . . . And then 
 
 Hood dropped beside the table, and as though 
 his emotions completely unmanned him, buried his 
 face in his hands. 
 
 "Very affecting very affecting, indeed," remarked 
 Inspector Winkle, coolly, after a short silence. "A 
 very complete explanation, as far as it goes, and 
 I have no doubt true. No, no doubt whatever." 
 He favoured Clancy with a knowing look as who 
 should say: "You don't catch an old bird with 
 chaff." But he did not catch Peter's eye, for that 
 young man was looking in quite another direction. 
 Slightly disappointed in his effort to take the re- 
 nowned Clancy into his confidence and to show 
 his non-gullibility, the inspector continued: "Un-
 
 "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET ' 55 
 
 fortunately it still leaves a few things to be ex- 
 plained. Just a few. Here are two men, alone 
 in a lonely house the caretakers gone. . . . 
 By the way, Mr. Hood, do you know just where 
 they have gone?" His little gray eyes were like 
 gimlets as he asked the question. 
 
 "Yes." Hood roused himself to reply. "John 
 and Eliza have, I believe, a daughter playing at 
 some theatre in New York. Some minor part 
 in the 'Wishing Stile', I understand. She sent 
 them tickets for to-night and they were very anxious 
 to go. It was a great treat for them, naturally, 
 and I was quite willing that they should go." 
 
 "They were to spend the night in New York?" 
 
 "Yes, with their daughter, I believe." 
 
 "Hm yes," said the inspector. "Now, had 
 these people been in your service long, Mr. Hood?" 
 
 "Why, about five or six years," answered Hood. 
 "Eliza was cook and John was butler during the 
 last years of my mother's life, and they served 
 her so well that I kept them on to take care of the 
 place." 
 
 "I see, yes. Five or six years what you'd call old 
 faithful family servants as things go in these days," 
 said Inspector Winkle with a slight grin. "Too 
 bad they happened to be away just to-night. Might 
 have made a lot of difference if any body 'd been 
 here." 
 
 "Just what do you mean by that, Inspector?"
 
 56 Q. E. D. 
 
 Carlisle asked, angrily. He was shrewd enough to 
 view the inspector's questions and remarks with 
 considerable annoyance, and an anxious regard for 
 his friend, Louis Hood, made him more than a little 
 resentful of their tone. 
 
 "Oh," said Winkle, carelessly, "I only mean 
 that if the house had been full of people a great 
 many things mightn't have happened, or if they 
 had to happen, more than one person would have 
 seen what did happen," he concluded, a trifle lamely. 
 
 "I would like to call your attention once more, 
 Inspector," Peter Clancy spoke with quiet in- 
 sistence, "to the fact that it's difficult to imagine 
 how even one person could have seen the most 
 serious part of the events of this evening. I mean 
 the actual means by which Walter Brown met his 
 death. You don't seem to attach as much im- 
 portance, as I must confess I do, to the evidence of 
 the footprints on the terrace. You must admit 
 that that line of footprints coming from the east 
 and terminating at the spot where he was found, 
 were his own footprints." 
 
 "Yes, I do admit that," said the inspector, some- 
 what grudgingly. "The boots he wore exactly 
 fitted them, and there were hobs in the heels both 
 of the tracks and of the boots. They were his, all 
 right, I'm with you that far." 
 
 "Then how in thunder do you explain there 
 being absolutely no other marks in the snow unless
 
 "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET " 57 
 
 you also admit that it was a case of suicide?" asked 
 Peter, and waited for the answer of the slower 
 mind with obvious impatience. 
 
 "I don't explain it," said the inspector at last, 
 deliberately. "I can't explain it yet. But I'm 
 going to find out. I'm going to find out, gentle- 
 men, if it takes a leg. If the marks in the snow 
 were as you say, Mr. Clancy, and of course I don't 
 doubt they were a man of your trained observation 
 and all. But even so just to go back, to Brown's 
 footprints he was running. You called my atten- 
 tion to that yourself, and I had already noticed 
 it. Well, now, can you imagine can you picture 
 to yourself a man suddenly making up his mind 
 to kill himself, and running, actually running to a 
 certain spot to do it? It don't seem natural to me." 
 He wagged his large gray head. "No, it don't 
 seem natural any way you look at it." 
 
 For a long time he remained silent. Then he 
 roused himself from his fit of abstraction and spoke. 
 
 "I won't keep you gentlemen any longer to-night," 
 he said. "You'll all be wanted at the coroner's 
 inquest to-morrow. I'll let you know the time in 
 the morning, though I think it's safe to say now 
 that it won't be before two. Where can I reach 
 you, by the way?" 
 
 "We're all going over to my house for the night," 
 said Carlisle, relieved that the present ordeal was 
 over. "The telephone number is Fern Hills 33."
 
 58 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Mr. Hood going over with you?" asked Winkle; 
 and, upon receiving a reply in the affirmative, he 
 added: "That's right. That's right. More com- 
 fortable than here in the circumstances. No doubt. 
 No doubt. Think I'll stay a little longer, if you've 
 no objection, Mr. Hood. Just like to have a chance 
 to think things over quietly and it's quiet here. 
 Listen. Not a sound. Not a sound, but the wind 
 in the trees. Might seem mournful to a fanciful 
 man. But I'm not fanciful. Lord bless you. I 
 deal in facts cold, hard facts and the colder and 
 harder the better, eh, Mr. Clancy?" 
 
 Clancy nodded his red head in complete and 
 hearty acquiescence. He turned back, however, 
 on the threshold of the room, the other men having 
 preceded him down the short passage toward the 
 front of the house, and added for the inspector's 
 ear alone: "But all the facts, Mr. Inspector. Be 
 sure you take all the facts, be they cold as snow 
 or hot as hate, into account. There's more in this 
 case than meets the casual eye you can take it 
 from me! I wish you luck, Mr. Inspector, but it 
 may be a long, long time before any one writes, 
 'Q. E. D.' at the end of this problem." 
 
 "'Q. E. D.'?" queried the inspector, puzzled, 
 '"Q. E. D.'? What do you mean by that, Mr. 
 Clancy? I don't seem to see 
 
 "Why don't you know what we used to write 
 at the end of our geometry problems in school.
 
 "WHEN WE FIND THAT BULLET " 59 
 
 when we were lucky enough to get 'em right?" 
 Clancy grinned a little, as a light broke over the 
 inspector's ruddy face, for he, too, had been a high- 
 school boy, "You know 'Q.E.D.' 'Which was to 
 be proved.' When you've proved the solution of 
 this problem and can write that at the end, I'll 
 take off my hat to you, Inspector, that I will. Good- 
 night." And shaking the old policeman's hand, 
 Peter Clancy followed his friends through the 
 shrouded house of mystery.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 
 
 IT WAS after eleven o'clock when Harrison 
 Carlisle's car drew up before his own house, 
 but old Mrs. Carlisle was still up and watching 
 for them. She had already opened the front door 
 before they had succeeded in disentangling and 
 lifting out the various bags and rods with which 
 they had equipped themselves for the fishing ex- 
 pedition which was now no longer to be thought 
 of at least for the present. 
 
 "Too bad. I'm so sorry," said the old lady, 
 feelingly, as the men came up the steps and de- 
 posited the traps in the front hall. To Louis Hood 
 she gave her hand with an effect of sincere and 
 quiet sympathy which was as quietly but most 
 gratefully received. She had been his mother's 
 friend for more years than she cared to count, 
 and the trouble which had fallen on his house 
 affected her almost as if it had been her own. 
 She asked few questions, though the information 
 which was voluntarily imparted was received by 
 her with all the vital interest of a young and 
 ardent spirit. She was a woman of few words, 
 
 60
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 61 
 
 but the remarks she did make were keen and to 
 the point. 
 
 "Walter Brown, Walter Brown?" She repeated 
 the name when it was told her with grave con- 
 sideration. "I never knew him, did I, Louis? I 
 don't seem to remember 
 
 "No, Mrs. Carlisle, you never knew him. We 
 were friends long before my family came to Fern Hills 
 to live and he went West many years ago. I don't 
 know that you ever heard me even speak of him." 
 
 Was there still a note of restraint in Hood's voice 
 as he answered this old, old friend? Peter could 
 not be sure and yet 
 
 "Well, there's no use going over all this dreadful 
 occurrence any more to-night, is there?" said Mrs. 
 Carlisle, considerately. "You all must be dread- 
 fully tired completely worn out, I should say, and 
 ought to go straight to bed. Take an old woman's 
 advice, and get some sleep. Things will be clearer 
 and better in the morning. They always are. 
 I've had the northwest chamber made ready for 
 Louis, Harry, and you'd better take him up at 
 once. I don't like to see you looking so pale, 
 my dear," she added, laying her kind old hand 
 affectionately on Hood's shoulder. "You go up 
 with Harry and get to sleep as soon as you can. 
 We can't afford to have our future district attorney 
 upset and made ill, perhaps. We are all very proud 
 of you, Louis, you know."
 
 62 Q. E. D. 
 
 He smiled rather sadly down into her eyes and 
 put his hand over hers, drawing it down and holding 
 it in both of his with great tenderness. 
 
 "You're very good to me, Mrs. Carlisle," he said, 
 gently, "and I'm glad you're proud of me. But 
 don't take that talk of running me for district 
 attorney too seriously. It may never come off, 
 you know. There are better men than I in the 
 field. You mustn't forget that." He pressed her 
 hand a little and with a slight motion of the eye- 
 brows and head indicated Robert Kent who was 
 bending over his bag and rods in the corner of the 
 hall a few paces away. "They're talking of him for 
 it, too," he said in a voice too low to reach Kent's 
 ears. "But it's early days yet and no one knows 
 what will happen." With a slight sigh he released 
 the old lady's hand and turned to Harrison. "I'd 
 like to telephone into town before I go up, if I 
 may," he said. "It's rather important, and I didn't 
 quite like to do it from my own house." 
 
 "Why, certainly, old man," said Harrison, quickly. 
 "You know where the 'phone is right under the 
 stair landing. Help yourself." 
 
 Peter, Robert Kent, Harrison, and his mother 
 were all standing beside the dying embers of the 
 fire in the living room saying "good-night" while 
 Louis Hood was telephoning. None of them ap- 
 peared to be listening, but from where they stood 
 the one-sided conversation was quite audible.
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 63 
 
 "Murray Hill, forty thousand and six," Hood 
 called and then in a louder voice, as the connection 
 was evidently not of the best, he repeated, "Murray 
 Hill, forty thousand and six," and waited. 
 "This was a terrible thing to happen," said Mrs. 
 Carlisle, in a low tone, warming her hands at the 
 fire. "I'm glad you were there, Mr. Clancy." 
 
 "Aren't you ever going to call me Peter, Mrs. 
 Carlisle?" said that young man bending toward 
 her. "I should think Harry and I had been friends 
 almost long enough." 
 
 "Is this Murray Hill forty thousand and six?" 
 asked the voice in the hall. "Is Miss Farquhar 
 there? She is still up? Will you tell her that 
 Mr. Hood would like to speak to her for a moment ? 
 Yes, Louis Hood. Thank you." 
 
 Peter was still talking to Mrs. Carlisle, but he 
 was not so much engaged as to miss the quick 
 glance which Harrison threw in Kent's direction 
 when Hood gave the name of the lady to whom he 
 wished to speak, nor to note the slight, involuntary 
 frown which drew Kent's dark eyebrows together, 
 though he was apparently absorbed in the exam- 
 ination of a small Chinese curio which stood on the 
 mantel. 
 
 "Well, I don't know that it will make any special 
 difference, my being there." Peter was continuing 
 his conversation with Mrs. Carlisle with one eye on 
 the two men in front of him and one ear trained
 
 64 Q. E. D. 
 
 on the voice in the hall. "I'm not going to get 
 mixed up in the case, I promise you. I'm too 
 tired and worn out altogether." He spoke with 
 determination, and in the meantime heard Hood 
 speak in little disjointed sentences, with slight 
 pauses for answers in between. 
 
 "Is that you, Sylvia?" 
 
 "Yes. Why what do you mean?" 
 
 A short silence. 
 
 "No I sent the tickets to you yesterday. Didn't 
 you get them? For the 'Wishing Stile'. Yes." 
 
 "Well! That's queer." 
 
 Another pause. 
 
 "No, Sylvia, really I didn't forget. I bought 
 them in the morning and sent them up by a messen- 
 ger. I don't understand 
 
 "Well, my dear girl, I would apologize, of course. 
 But I did send them. Truly I did." 
 
 "That's lucky. I'm glad you were able to get 
 seats, after all. But, Sylvia, that wasn't why I 
 called you up. No. Something more important. 
 I was afraid you might see it in the morning papers 
 and be worried." 
 
 Peter, watching by the fire, was almost sure that 
 he saw Robert Kent clench his teeth. Hood was 
 still speaking. 
 
 "An accident. Yes. At Mother's at my house 
 out here in Fern Hills. No, no, I'm quite all right. 
 Don't worry about me. But it was rather terrible.
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 65 
 
 A man found dead on the steps of the terrace. . 
 A man I used to know. He had been to see me, 
 and I thought he had gone away. He was found 
 by Harry Carlisle and some other men who had 
 called to take me on that trip I told you about." 
 
 Mrs. Carlisle said something just then and Clancy 
 lost the next few words of the conversation over 
 the telephone, but he thought he caught the man's 
 name, Walter Brown, though the sentences which 
 preceded and followed it were spoken in as low a 
 voice as would carry over the wire and he could 
 make nothing of them. 
 
 With assurances on Hood's part that he would 
 see her as early as possible in the morning and that 
 there was not the least thing to be anxious about, 
 the one-sided conversation closed and Hood re- 
 turned to the living room. 
 
 Kent was still looking at the little Chinese figure 
 on the mantel-piece which had all along engrossed 
 his attention. It was a quaint, grotesque little 
 figure carved in ebony, of a man seated on a box 
 of the same dark wood, having in his hand a tiny 
 silver knife. On the box in front of his crossed 
 and folded knees was a little lacquered plate of 
 fish. By twisting a small button at the side, one 
 could make him raise the knife with a lifelike motion 
 and. apparently plunge it into the fish and lift it 
 again to meet the head which bent forward by the 
 same mechanism. It was a curious little toy and
 
 66 Q. E. D. 
 
 perhaps deserving the close attention which Robert 
 Kent bestowed upon it. At any rate, he did not 
 turn his head when Hood entered the room. 
 
 "Well, Louis, are you ready for bed now?" 
 asked Harrison in his frank, cordial voice. "I'd 
 advise you to sleep late in the morning, if you can. 
 There won't be anything doing till the afternoon, 
 anyway, and " 
 
 "I've got to go into town on the early train, 
 Harry, I'm sorry to say," replied Hood. "But 
 I won't disturb any one. I can get my breakfast 
 at the station." 
 
 "Indeed you can't, Louis," said Mrs. Carlisle, with 
 eager hospitality. "I'll have a tray brought up to 
 your room whenever you want it. I'm always up 
 early, myself, and it won't be the least trouble. 
 There's a train at 8:27 that Harry usually takes 
 when he has to go in will that be early enough? 
 Very well, I'll send you something at eight. That 
 will give you plenty of time. And now, good-night* 
 Louis. I hope you'll sleep well. Good-night, my 
 boy." 
 
 There was something so sweet and motherly in 
 the old lady's voice as she offered her hand that 
 for an instant Louis Hood almost lost his self-con- 
 trol, and it was perhaps to hide something in his 
 eyes, something which he could not bear to have 
 any one see, which made him lean suddenly forward 
 and with old-fashioned courtesy rarely seen in a
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 67 
 
 young man of this day and generation, touch the 
 wrinkled old hand with his lips. 
 
 Peter, with all the self-consciousness of modern 
 ideas and training, knew that he could not have 
 imitated the gesture not if his life had depended 
 on it, and yet, in his heart of hearts, he felt so keen 
 a sympathy with the sentiment that prompted it, 
 so keen a perception of the dark cloud which was 
 even now brooding upon the nearing future, that 
 he could not repress a short, heavy sigh. 
 
 The sigh found its echo a little later, incon- 
 gruously, in the ordinarily cheerful voice of Harry 
 Carlisle, who, having personally disposed, for the 
 night, of his two other guests, returned to where 
 his mother and Peter Clancy still sat by the fire 
 talking in low tones, discussing more in detail the 
 rapid and terrible events of the evening. 
 
 Peter was amazed at the swift and keen deductions 
 which the old lady drew from his statement of facts, 
 and it taxed his ingenuity to present them in such 
 a way as to leave her free from anxiety in Louis 
 Hood's behalf. He was very desirous of doing this, 
 for though he himself had known Hood not at all 
 intimately and had no special or overpowering 
 interest in this friend of Harrison Carlisle's, it 
 was easily seen that he was a great favourite with 
 Harry's mother, and Peter's admiration of, and 
 affection for her, was such that he wished to spare 
 her the least pain. In the circumstances, this was
 
 68 Q. E. D. 
 
 a somewhat perplexing problem, and he welcomed 
 his friend's return with a feeling of distinct relief. 
 
 "Well, Peter, old top," said Carlisle, taking his 
 usual place on the hearthrug with his back to the 
 dying fire, "this has been a hard evening, I'll tell 
 the world. I can't help being glad you were on 
 deck, but I am as sorry as the mischief that I got 
 you out here under false pretenses. The trip up 
 to the Club is off, of course, for the present, but I 
 wish you'd stick around here with Mother and me 
 to cheer us up. You'll have to be here to-morrow 
 anyway, and I think you'd better stay on for a 
 few days. How about it? Eh? If this queer 
 thing of Hood's clears up to-morrow we at least 
 you and I might beat it up to the Club even if 
 Louis doesn't feel like going. I dare say Kent 
 will come, too. There's no use giving it up alto- 
 gether. What think, old Red-top?" 
 
 "Why, I'm with you, Harry, and then some," 
 answered Peter, heartily. "I'm ashamed to say how 
 disappointed I am. Seems sort of childish but 
 ever since you taught me to cast a fly Gee, it was 
 a long time ago, too. How many years? I hate 
 to think! Anyhow, it was when we first graduated 
 from old Remington's and before you went to 
 college. That was a long time ago, Mrs. Car- 
 lisle." 
 
 "I suppose it does seem long to you," smiled 
 the old lady, "but it seems almost like yesterday
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 69 
 
 to me. I can see you and Harry now, going off 
 with your rods like two happy children. I'm so 
 dreadfully sorry to have you miss your sport. I 
 wish there were some way " 
 
 "I say, Mother," interruped Harrison, eagerly, 
 "what would you think of my taking old Red-top out 
 early to-morrow morning for a hack at Mayhew's 
 brook? It's so near, and there are some good 
 fish in it at the beginning of the season. It's well 
 protected. Runs all the way through the Mayhew 
 estate till it gets to the road, and then it goes through 
 a corner of Louis Hood's place, Peter, so you can 
 see it isn't far off. We ought to get some sport and 
 we could be back long before lunch. It would be 
 better than sticking around the house, wouldn't it? 
 What do you say, old sport? Are you game?" 
 
 Peter accepted with alacrity and for more than 
 one reason. He had made up his mind, in coming 
 to Fern Hills, to get a rest. He knew he needed it. 
 He had been occupied almost incessantly for the 
 last year and was beginning to feel the strain. In 
 spite of which fact the events of the night had 
 laid such hold on his imagination that he was in 
 some doubt as to his ability to conquer, tempo- 
 rarily, his ruling passion and leave the strange case 
 severely alone. Unless he was actively interested 
 in something which would fill his mind, he knew 
 he could not keep it from dwelling on the subject. 
 
 And there was another consideration. If he re-
 
 70 Q. E. D. 
 
 frained from proceeding as if nothing of very serious 
 import had happened, he would only add to the anx- 
 iety of Mrs. Carlisle and her son. It was best to 
 go on as if no danger threatened any friend of theirs. 
 
 "No danger," he repeated to himself, a little 
 later, as he slowly undressed. "I wish I were 
 sure.'* He shook his head. "A man a strange 
 man a man armed with a pistol has his throat 
 cut and his neck broken with no one anywhere 
 near him. . . . Oh, Pete, cut it out. Cut 
 it out! It's no business of yours. You're going 
 fishing in the morning, early. Just remember that, 
 old top, and forget the rest. Come, now, forget 
 it. ... Wonder what flies we ought to use. 
 Gray-hackle, maybe or a Blue Dun. Harry's 
 sure to have all of 'em and he'll know the most 
 likely kind to use here at this season." 
 
 He switched off the light and opened the window 
 wide. A faint soft breeze stole in, stirring the 
 muslin curtains. The moon, descending slowly in 
 the west still threw a soft light over the quiet 
 landscape, faintly defining the dark trees and roofs 
 of distant houses. The sky was cloudless now, 
 clear and darkly blue, pricked through with tiny 
 stars. 
 
 "It'll be a fine day to-morrow," Peter thought. 
 "We ought to have good sport if Mayhew's brook 
 amounts to anything. The snow will be gone 
 almost as soon as the sun gets up." Then with a
 
 WHAT PETER HEARD 71 
 
 quick shifting of ideas, "I'm glad I made that dia- 
 gram and the measurements of the footprints in 
 the snow so carefully. It'll be all gone before 
 noon to-morrow and nothing on the terrace to show 
 nothing to show. . . ." 
 
 With a great effort of his will, Peter put the 
 thought away from him and resolutely tried to sleep.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 ENTER BILL 
 
 / T S HE day, when it came, was all Peter had hoped 
 * for it. The sun was shining brightly when Harry 
 Carlisle knocked softly on his door, arousing him in- 
 stantly from a deep and troubled slumber. 
 
 Mrs. Carlisle was already up when they descended 
 the stairs and presided with apparently unforced 
 cheerfulness at their early breakfast. In that 
 house, the usual routine was that which was most 
 conducive to the pleasure of the day's sport for 
 its young master, whatever that sport might happen to 
 be, and Peter felt that he had done wisely in, so 
 far as possible, making this day like all the rest. 
 
 The breakfast, though hastily prepared, was good 
 and hearty, and beautifully served by the inval- 
 uable Hoki. Peter was aware of the charm of the 
 established, leisurely, quiet household, even while 
 he could not keep his mind from wandering to 
 other matters. 
 
 "Your clever young Jap doesn't look quite well 
 this morning," he said, casually, when the butler had 
 taken away the fruit. "Must have had too good 
 a time on his day off, I should think." 
 
 72
 
 ENTER BILL 73 
 
 "Oh, nonsense, Red-top," laughed Harry, "don't 
 tell me that even a detective could detect any 
 symptoms of illness or notice any particular kind 
 of a change in a face as much like a yellow mask as 
 Hoki's is, and all other Japs, for that matter 
 'All coons look alike to me,'" he hummed, cheer- 
 fully, as the butler returned bearing the coffee urn. 
 
 Peter did not press the point and ate heartily, 
 speaking to no particular purpose until the soft- 
 footed Japanese had finished serving and left the 
 room. Then, returning to his former speculation, 
 he said: "Your butler isn't well, Mrs. Carlisle, you 
 can take my word for it. I've had quite a lot of 
 experience with Japs and Chinese, too, and I'd watch 
 him a bit if I were you or he may quit without 
 notice." 
 
 Harry laughed again. 
 
 "Why, Clancy, old top, Hoki's as strong as an 
 ox and he's devoted to Mother. Isn't he, dear? 
 He wouldn't think of leaving her in the lurch, I'm 
 sure." 
 
 "He does look muscular, all right," said Peter, 
 reflectively, "but he might be ill, just the same, 
 you know. Athletes often are very subject to cer- 
 tain diseases and other things." 
 
 "How did you know he was an athlete?" asked 
 Carlisle, admiringly. "You're a wiz, Peter, you 
 really are." 
 
 "Oh, I didn't know," said Clancy, modestly,
 
 74 Q. E. D. 
 
 "it was only a guess from the way he's built. 
 What is he? A wrestler?" 
 
 "Yes," answered Harry, "and a peach, at that. 
 He knows more tricks 
 
 "Jiu-jitsu?" asked Peter, quietly. 
 
 "Yes. He's taught me quite a lot of them. 
 I thought I was pretty good to start with, but little 
 as he is, he could throw me with one hand at first. 
 I can do a lot better now." 
 
 Harry ran on in a half-boasting spirit, but Peter 
 was not listening for the moment. He was think- 
 ing, instead, of a well-known jiu-jitsu trick a 
 murderous trick one in which the victim's neck 
 was broken by the horrible, resistless pressure of a 
 forearm held edgewise against the throat just under 
 the ear. So deadly was the trick that the victim was 
 held, helpless. . . . There would be no strug- 
 gle. . . . 
 
 "I'm pretty good now, if I do say it as shouldn't, 
 but Louis Hood's much better, I must admit." 
 
 At these light words of Harry Carlisle's Peter's 
 mind came back with a jerk. 
 
 "Oh," he remarked as casually as he could, 
 "you and Mr. Hood have both been taking lessons, 
 have you? That must have been interesting and 
 your butler must be the sort of man you'd hate 
 to lose. Does he have a regular class? Maybe 
 I'd like to join." 
 
 "No," Harry answered the question. "He just
 
 ENTER BILL 75 
 
 taught Louis and myself a little last summer. Louis 
 was out here then. It was before his mother's death 
 and Hoki used to go over there once a week in the 
 mornings when he hadn't much to do. I never 
 saw them at work together but I tried to take a fall 
 out of old Louis late in the summer, and believe 
 me, he could put it all over me." 
 
 Peter suddenly pushed back his plate. 
 
 "Come on, let's get out, Harry," he said, hurriedly, 
 with a little forced laugh. "Aren't you ready 
 yet? He eats too much, Mrs. Carlisle, doesn't 
 he? He's losing his figure already." 
 
 "Nothing of the kind," retorted Harry, indig- 
 nantly. "I'll bet I can walk you off your feet, 
 skinny as you are. Come on, old top. Good- 
 bye, Mother. We'll be back in time to have the 
 trout for lunch if we get any." 
 
 "Remember what I said last night, Peter," 
 cautioned Mrs. Carlisle as Clancy drew back the 
 chair for her to rise. "Get on the stream first 
 and keep ahead. Don't forget." 
 
 "Now, Mother," said Harry, laughing, "don't 
 you play favourites. I'm letting Peter take my best 
 rod and I'll give him first chance but if he doesn't 
 get anything in the first mile 
 
 True to his promise, when, after a half hour's 
 walk the two young men reached the brook at the 
 upper limits of the Mayhew estate, Harry set up
 
 76 Q. E. D. 
 
 the rods and let Peter precede him down the stream. 
 
 It was a very engaging, promising-looking little 
 brook. Swift water, increased by the melting snow, 
 sang and bubbled over rocks and spread into 
 gleaming pools where the early slanting rays of 
 light struck through the budding branches of tall 
 trees and gleamed on the brilliant green of moss, 
 soft as velvet, carpeting the steep slant of the 
 little gorge. 
 
 There was something infinitely beautiful in the 
 promise of the tender fringe of green along the 
 banks, seen against the whiteness of the snow which 
 still lay in the shadowed portions of the wood, 
 winter's last challenge flung into the lap of the 
 waiting spring. 
 
 The upper reaches of the stream were rather 
 heavily overgrown, and Peter lost all sense of other 
 cares in the absorbing one of watching his flies 
 as they slid lightly through from riffle to riffle and 
 into the pools beyond. What thrill in the world 
 could equal that with which he saw the first trout 
 of the season flash upward with a gleam of silver 
 and take the fly, felt the quick tug at the line, 
 heard the sharp buzz of the reel as the fish, a good 
 one, judged by its spirit and speed, made swiftly 
 down the stream. 
 
 "Fve got one on," whispered Peter, excitedly, 
 playing from the reel with wily caution. "Feels 
 like a pippin, too. See there!"
 
 ENTER BILL 77 
 
 The fish broke, flinging a spray of diamond drops 
 into the clear, mild air, his rainbow sides flashing 
 like jewels. 
 
 "Drop your tip," called Harry, who had come 
 quite cfose. "Don't let him break again, its too 
 dangerous in such a stream as 
 
 The line fell slack. 
 
 "Oh, Lord, Red-top, he's off. Too bad! He 
 was a beauty. If you'd only " 
 
 "Can the post-mortems, Harry, please," laughed 
 Peter, ruefully, reeling in his line. "I know I'm 
 
 not such an old Izaak Walton as you are, but 
 
 Oh, hang it all! I've lost the cast! Now isn't 
 that a darn shame?" He spoke with sincere regret, 
 for the tackle belonged to Harry and a friend's 
 tackle is always sacred. 
 
 "Never mind, old man. Got plenty more," said 
 Carlisle, cheerfully. "Just let me have your line. 
 Humph! Leader's busted. Let's try another." 
 
 He took from his pocket a small circular metal box 
 in which a number of leaders were smoothly coiled 
 upon a damp piece of felt, and selecting one, bent 
 it to the end of Peter's line. He attached two more 
 flies to this and they proceeded down the stream. 
 
 But luck was against Peter. Again a fish took 
 his fly and again, with the perversity of unpro- 
 .pitious fate, the leader broke. 
 
 "Go ahead, Harry," said Peter, disgustedly, "I'm 
 a dub. No use wasting time on me. Leave me
 
 78 Q. E. D. 
 
 another leader and a couple of flies and beat it. 
 I'll follow you as soon as I can get rigged up again." 
 
 "All right, old top," said Carlisle with unabated 
 cheeriness, flinging the leader box and fly book at 
 Peter's feet. "I'll go on slowly, and if you don't 
 catch up with me, I'll wait for you down at the road. 
 Not at the first road, you understand. The brook 
 runs under a bridge there and into the back edge 
 of Louis's grounds. He and Mayhew have both 
 given me permission to fish, and everybody around 
 here knows me, so if you meet anybody, just tell 
 'em that you are a friend of mine, that I'm on 
 ahead, and they won't make you any trouble. 
 You'll find a lot of likely pools on Louis's place and 
 there are a good number of fish, too, though of 
 course they're mostly small. However, we'll prob- 
 ably be able to pick up quite a bunch, over-size. 
 I'll fish along through there and wait for you at the 
 second bridge. Stream runs back into the Mayhew 
 place again, but it isn't worth trying it any farther. 
 It spreads out there and is pretty shallow, and thick 
 with alders. Second bridge, you understand. All 
 right. So long, old chap. Good luck." 
 
 And Harrison went on down stream, working 
 his flies through narrow channels between rocks, 
 around partially submerged, many-clawed branches, 
 over shallows and into pools with an expert's con- 
 summate skill. 
 
 Peter watched him with almost envious ad-
 
 ENTER BILL 79 
 
 miration until he was lost to sight around a turn 
 of the winding brook. 
 
 "Small chance for me," he thought as he se- 
 lected a new leader and another cast, "Harry goes 
 over a stream with a fine-tooth comb. But, thank 
 heaven, most of the joy of fishing is fishing mess- 
 ing around in the water hearing the birds and 
 the quietness and watching the scenery go by." 
 
 He followed along down, happily, through the 
 gorge, not getting many rises but having, as he 
 would have expressed it, a bully time. When he 
 reached the more open wood at the foot of the 
 gorge, he caught the flash of Harrison's rod now 
 and then, and knowing that his more expert friend 
 considered it open enough for casting, he was be- 
 trayed into following his example, with the result 
 that he was soon hung up in the branch of a tree. 
 It took him so long to disentangle his flies that 
 Carlisle had passed completely out of sight before 
 his tackle was free again. 
 
 Undisturbed by the absolute silence and soli- 
 tude of the place, warmed to the heart by the 
 spring sunshine which shone brightly now through 
 the silver trunks of graceful beeches, reducing 
 the snow to little patches in the shadows of their 
 boles, and flickering on the glittering leaves of 
 evergreen, laurel, and rhododendron which sturdily 
 climbed the side of the hill, Peter absorbed in the 
 one sport for which he really cared, his mind for
 
 8o Q. E. D. 
 
 the moment unfettered from the chains of the 
 outside world, in a glow with the healthful ex- 
 ercise, reached the first bridge without having seen 
 any further signs of his friend. 
 
 He paused here for a moment, gazing into the 
 smooth water where the shadow of the bridge fell 
 upon it, descrying after a time a number of darting, 
 slightly darker shadows, a small school of fish, 
 feeding with heads up stream. He tried a number 
 of casts, but, getting no rises, he concluded, for 
 his own credit, that they must be suckers, and 
 plunging through a thicket of young trees and under- 
 growth, got on the stream again. 
 
 He resolutely put out of his mind the fact that 
 he was now on Louis Hood's place. He determined 
 not to spoil the brief respite from his ordinary habit 
 of thought by harking back to the events of the 
 preceding night. The pools were many and deep, 
 as Carlisle had described them, and looked most 
 promising, but try as he would to concentrate on 
 the pleasure of the moment, he found that the tall, 
 dark, weeping hemlocks which abounded in this 
 part of the wood cast a disproportionate amount 
 of shadowy gloom upon his mind; he felt a chill 
 which was hardly to be accounted for by the thin 
 carpet of snow which in this sheltered spot, dim 
 with the ancient trees, was as smooth and untouched 
 by the ardent spring sun as if it had but now fallen 
 from the lowering sky of yesterday.
 
 ENTER BILL 81 
 
 In an effort to dispel the vague feeling of trouble 
 and oppression which was gradually falling upon 
 him, he began to whistle softly under his breath- 
 Eve cost Adam just one bone. 
 
 He got no further the whistle died upon his 
 lips. Close in front of him, as he turned a bend of 
 the stream where a small, steep shoulder of hill 
 slanted upward on his right, he was aware of a 
 crouching figure stealing stealthily down through 
 the thick undergrowth from the direction of the 
 narrow road he had crossed a little while before. 
 
 With a caution which was an integral part of 
 his nature he stepped behind the close, drooping 
 branches of a hemlock, and waited. 
 
 The figure, noiseless as a shadow, came on down 
 the slope. When it reached the level of the stream, 
 it stood erect at last and discovered itself to be 
 that of a huge old man. He was roughly dressed 
 in old, faded trousers and a gray woollen shirt 
 open at the neck. He wore no hat, and the breeze, 
 which sighed through the evergreen copse, stirred 
 the thick, coarse gray hair upon his head and the 
 wild, heavy gray beard which fell on his broad, 
 brown breast. Peter noted the tremendous height 
 and breadth and the rugged carriage of the man 
 with a grudging admiration, and then suddenly 
 smiled to himself. The man's object in coming 
 there so stealthily had unexpectedly revealed it-
 
 82 Q. E. D. 
 
 self, for he carried in his hand an old bamboo 
 pole. 
 
 "I sure am obsessed with one idea," thought 
 Peter with a sharp sense of relief. "He's only 
 just an ordinary poacher taking advantage of the 
 family not being here and the ,place practically 
 closed up. Wonder what he'd say if I jumped him." 
 
 The man, after a cautious glance all about, seated 
 himself on a fallen log and drawing a tobacco tin 
 from his pocket, took from it a wriggling angle- 
 worm and proceeded to affix it to his hook. 
 
 "Barnyard hackle," said Peter to himself, still 
 watching from his post of vantage. "He's no 
 sportsman, that's plain, but I'll bet 
 
 The man had thrown in his line with a careless 
 sweep of his hand. The unpleasant, succulent 
 bait had scarcely danced down into the pool below 
 when there was a flash of silver, a quick twitch of 
 the bamboo pole, and a fine rainbow trout lay flop- 
 ping on the bank. 
 
 "Good work!" cried Peter, forgetting everything 
 else in the excitement of the moment. "He's 
 a beauty. I'd no idea they'd run that large in 
 this little stream." 
 
 He had left the hemlock covert and unmindful 
 of the possible effect of his sudden appearance 
 had advanced into the open. 
 
 With a rough oath the old man sprang to his feet 
 and, huge hands clenched, stood at bay.
 
 ENTER BILL 83 
 
 "Who are you? "he cried, angrily, his eyes swiftly 
 travelling over Clancy from head to foot, "I don't 
 know you," he added with a look of contempt for 
 Peter's slender proportions. 
 
 "No, you don't," said Peter, cheerfully, "but I 
 know a good fish when I see one. My, but he's a 
 peach, all right. Are there many more at home 
 like him?" 
 
 The man's hands slowly unclenched. This was 
 no new keeper, no game warden, no narrow-minded 
 stickler for the rights of the fish to no other diet 
 than fuzzy, indigestible flies, that was plain. His 
 heavy bronzed features relaxed and he favoured 
 Peter with a slow grin. 
 
 "Plenty of good fish in all the brooks around 
 here," he asserted, gruffly, "but you can't expect 
 to get 'em with that nonsense." He pointed to 
 Harrison's favourite rod and the flies which dangled 
 from it and which were caught in by Peter's hand. 
 "How many you got?" asked the old man, pointedly. 
 
 Peter had to admit that his creel was empty. 
 
 "You see," said the old man, picking up the gasping 
 trout and exhibiting it before he stuffed it simply and 
 briefly into his enormous pocket. "Let every man 
 fish his own way, I say. If you want to look nice 
 and fish for exercise, all right, but if you fish for 
 
 fish " He left the rest of the sentence to be taken 
 
 for granted. 
 
 Peter laughed aloud, and almost instantly a voice
 
 84 Q. E. D. 
 
 hailed from behind a close group of evergreens a little 
 farther down the brook. 
 
 "Hey! Red-top," it called, "come along with 
 those leaders. I've lost another cast and a corker 
 of a fish to boot, dammit!" and Harry Carlisle 
 followed his voice around the bend in the stream. 
 
 "Why, hello," he exclaimed when he saw that 
 Peter was not alone. "Hello! Up to your old 
 tricks again, Bill? Now you'd better look out." 
 
 He shook his head laughingly at the old man, 
 but there was an under-current of gravity in his 
 voice when he went on. "Don't let Mr. Hood 
 catch you on his place. He isn't as open-minded 
 toward local talent as I am, you know." 
 
 "I know," said the old fellow, darkly, "but he 
 won't catch me, so don't you worry." 
 
 "He did once," hinted Carlisle, warningly. 
 
 "He did once," admitted old Bill, frowning 
 heavily, "but he won't again. And I'm going to 
 fish here when I like. I fished this crick before he 
 was born or thought of and I wouldn't be surprised 
 if I was fishin' it a long time after he was dead." 
 
 His voice was so bitter that the tolerant smile 
 left Carlisle's face. 
 
 "Now, look here, Bill," he said, "you and I 
 fished together when I was a kid and all the streams 
 about here were free. But times have changed. 
 All this property is posted now and it's no use your 
 getting into trouble, and you will if you keep this
 
 ENTER BILL 85 
 
 up. I'll tell you what I'll do. Hood lives in town 
 now, and I don't believe he'll mind so much. I'll 
 see if I can't get you a permit from him as a favour 
 to me and don't you fish here any more till I see what 
 I can do." 
 
 "I don't want no favours from newcomers," 
 growled the old man. 
 
 "But you'd take a little thing like that from me, 
 wouldn't you, Bill? And it's ridiculous calling 
 Hood a newcomer. Why, they've had this place 
 almost ten years." 
 
 "Ten years? Humph!" grunted Bill. "What's 
 ten years, unless you have to spend it in jail, mebbe." 
 But he seemed a trifle mollified, and evidently felt 
 very friendly toward Carlisle, for the heavy frown 
 left his face after a moment and he listened with a 
 dawning smile to Harry's angry remarks about 
 the leaders he had brought out with him that morn- 
 ing. 
 
 "A rotten bunch, the whole lot of 'em," he ex- 
 claimed, after testing several which he took from 
 the box. "I have to apologize, Peter. I thought 
 yours broke because you hadn't got your hand in 
 yet." 
 
 "But when you found yours went bad, too, you 
 knew it was the fault of the leaders," laughed Peter. 
 
 "Well, anyway," Carlisle grinned, "this whole 
 lot's N.G. and we might as well give up for the 
 morning." He turned to the old man with a per-
 
 86 Q. E. D. 
 
 suaslve smile. "You don't want to fish any more 
 just now, and you might as well come along with 
 us, Bill." 
 
 He only wanted to extend his protection to the 
 old fellow. He had no idea that he was doing 
 something which would have a far-reaching effect 
 on the lives of many people, on some he counted as 
 his friends, on some whose faces he had never seen. 
 He waited for the old man's answer. 
 
 "All right, I'll come with ye," said old Bill. 
 
 And what was written was written.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 
 
 A FEW moments later the strangely assorted 
 * ^- trio reached the narrow road which they had 
 crossed before higher up and which formed the 
 western boundary of the Hood estate. As they 
 walked along the rough, uneven way, Clancy caught 
 glimpses on his left between the trees of the long 
 gray fa9ade of the house. Only small portions of 
 it were visible, some of the dormers in the high, 
 hipped roof and the thick, squat chimneys from 
 which, as yet, no smoke was rising. He only 
 glanced at it in passing, realized it was quite near 
 this rough untravelled road, and hurried on after 
 his companions. 
 
 In a minute or two he caught up with them as 
 they reached another road, slightly wider, but 
 scarcely better paved than the one they had just 
 left and running east and west at right angles to it. 
 
 "Listen to this, Red-top," said Harry, stopping 
 short and turning toward Peter. Obviously, to that 
 young man's keen eye, Carlisle was with difficulty 
 keeping down a rising excitement. "Hear what a 
 funny thing happened to Bill when he was coming 
 
 87
 
 88 Q. E. D. 
 
 up from the village about seven o'clock last night. 
 Tell him about it, Bill." 
 
 "Why, I was just tellin' Mr. Carlisle," said the 
 old man, with an embarrassment which was, per- 
 haps, accounted for by the necessity of making a 
 long speech to a stranger. "It was a kinda queer 
 thing happened right along here last night." He 
 coughed a little and spat into the bushes. "I 
 was comin' up from the village over there," he 
 pointed toward the east along the road they had 
 just entered, "an* was a little below the brow o' 
 the hill, ye see, when I heard a woman screechin' to 
 beat the cars. I stopped dead at the first yell an* 
 listened. Then she screeched again, an' I hustled 
 up the hill's fast as I could go. 'Twan't no common 
 screech. Sounded like she was in trouble, all right, 
 an' I made the best time I could, but mebbe I ain't's 
 good at runnin' as I am at fishin', fer when I 
 got to the top of the hill I couldn't see nuthin' 
 movin' on the road. It got dark right after sunset 
 last night, you remember, and I couldn't see s' very 
 fur, so I pasted along towards this way down the 
 level road, hard's I could pelt, and I didn't see nuthin' 
 at all till I got almost here. Then I seen a man come 
 out o' the road back of us, goin' fer all he was worth." 
 
 "The road we've just come down?" asked Clancy. 
 
 "Yes, sir. He come out o' that there road an' 
 shot around the corner of this one, away from me, 
 y'understand, like a rabbit. An' I'd no sooner
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 89 
 
 lost sight of him than I heard an auto start up. 
 An' that's all there was to it. Sounds like a likely 
 story, don't it?" he concluded, the uncertainty 
 deepening in his strongly marked face. 
 
 "You're sure it was a woman you heard?" asked 
 Clancy with a puzzled frown. 
 
 "Sure ez shootin'. She had a strong voice but 
 'twas high pitched an' I think it would 'a' been 
 oh, you know, kinda pretty if she hadn't been so 
 skeered." 
 
 "Cherchez la femme" said Carlisle in a low 
 voice to Peter. Clancy nodded and spoke again 
 to the old man. 
 
 "You heard a woman, but saw a man," he said, 
 slowly. "How do you account for that?" 
 
 "I don't account fer it," answered Bill, diffidently. 
 "I'm just tellin' you the facts." 
 
 "It was pretty dark last night at seven o'clock," 
 persisted Peter, "how can you be sure it was a man 
 you saw? Were you very close to him?" 
 
 "Well," said Bill, as if the idea struck him for 
 the first time, "I dunno exactly how I know. It 
 was dark, as you say, and I wasn't s' very clost. 
 He had on some kind of a long coat that might 'a* 
 been a skirt, mebbe, but he run like a man an' he 
 looked like a man an' dogged if I don't think he 
 was a man." 
 
 "Sounds like good reasoning to me," said Carlisle, 
 smiling, "only you say he didn't scream like a man."
 
 90 Q. E. D. 
 
 "No, he couldn't 'a' done the screamin'. I figgered 
 there was a woman summers about that I didn't 
 see." Bill, though somewhat abashed, could scarcely 
 fail to feel flattered by the interest exhibited both 
 by Mr. Carlisle and his friend in the tale of his 
 adventure. 
 
 "Was the person you did see too tall to be a wo- 
 man?" Clancy still persisted. 
 
 "N-no. S'fur's I could tell he wasn't very tall," 
 answered the old man, scratching his head, "an' 
 anyhow, there must have been two of 'em, fer the 
 screechin' was much nearer to me than the man 
 could have been." 
 
 "Well, what did you do, Bill?" asked Harry with 
 lively curiosity. "When you saw the man and 
 heard the car go off, did you lose all interest in 
 the damsel in distress?" 
 
 "No, I didn't, Mr. Carlisle. Them screams 
 sounded too too awful scared, y'know. I went 
 back there a piece," Bill pointed toward the east, 
 "an' listened. I didn't hear nuthin' but I kinda 
 scratched 'round in the bushes a little, about where 
 I thought the noise came from." 
 
 "Did you find anything?" asked Carlisle, eagerly. 
 
 "Not a durned thing. Wasn't no woman there, 
 I was sure. I searched all through the bushes, 
 right up to the fence, but there wasn't nobody 
 there so I kinda figgered that whatever the trouble 
 was, it went off in the automobile an' I give the
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 91 
 
 thing up an' went on home. But it was a funny 
 thing to happen in a place like this, now wasn't 
 it? I been thinkin' about it a lot. What d'ye 
 suppose 'twas all about now?" If the old man 
 was as ingenuous as he appeared, the incident, 
 for some reason, had obviously made a deep im- 
 pression on his mind. 
 
 "What do you think, old top?" asked Harry, 
 looking sidewise at Peter. 
 
 "Why, I don't know. Sounds awfully queer to 
 Aie," answered Peter, readily. "Suppose you show 
 us where you think the woman was," he suggested. 
 
 "Yes, do, Bill. The whole thing's as thrilling 
 .as a dime novel," said Carlisle, quick to catch the 
 under-current of seriousness in Peter's tone. 
 
 The old man needed no persuasion, apparently. 
 He led the way at once along the road which formed 
 the southern boundary of the Hood place. 
 
 Clancy touched Harrison's arm, holding him back 
 a pace or two. 
 
 "Does he know about what happened in there 
 last night?" he asked below his breath, nodding in 
 the direction of the house. 
 
 Carlisle shook his head. "Not that I know of," 
 he answered in the same guarded tone. 
 
 Peter again nodded his head and caught up with 
 the old man. 
 
 "Was it as far along as this?" he said. 
 
 "Just a bit futher. About here, fer's I could
 
 92 Q. E. D. 
 
 judge." Bill stopped when they had advanced a 
 few hundred feet and pointed to the shrubs which 
 grew along a brick wall on the left side of the road. 
 
 Peter looked on beyond the wall and could see, 
 through a plantation of young firs inside it, the 
 upper stories of the Hood house some little distance 
 away. Glancing up at the sun, he realized that it 
 was the south end of the house at which he looked, 
 the end where was the main entrance and the terrace 
 on which . . . 
 
 "The screams come from along in here summers," 
 Bill was saying. "Course I can't be sure, to a 
 
 few dozen yards or so " He stepped in among 
 
 the bushes as he spoke. 
 
 "Talk to him," whispered Peter, hurriedly, to 
 Carlisle. "Keep him from walking around as 
 much as you can. I want to have a look 
 
 Peter went on a few paces more along the road 
 and then plunged into the bushes. They were not 
 so tall as to hide him completely from observation, 
 but many of them were young evergreens and they 
 formed a fairly effective screen for his movements. 
 He worked his way through between the shrubs, 
 scanning eagerly the surface of the ground. 
 
 The snow, wherever it was sheltered from the sun, 
 still lay in moist, white patches upon the greening 
 grass, and everywhere he found huge footprints 
 breaking into it, mute evidence of the thorough- 
 ness of old Bill's search. The cries must have
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 93 
 
 made a deep impression on the old man's mind 
 unless he had some other reason for being there. 
 This thought did not cross Peter's mind at the 
 time. It was only afterward that it occurred to 
 him to wonder. . . . 
 
 Searching every tell-tale spot of snow, he made 
 his way along the wall farther and farther from 
 his companions, and still he found Bill's heavy foot- 
 prints. He judged that he had arrived nearly op- 
 posite the main entrance of the house when suddenly 
 he came upon something which, in spite of the old 
 man's story, perhaps because of its incongruity 
 in that place, filled him with a feeling of surprise. 
 
 There, quite clear upon the snow, was the print 
 of a woman's shoe. It was small and delicately 
 pointed, with a tiny, almost semi-circular heel mark 
 driven deep into the yielding surface of evanescent 
 white carpet, which had preserved it until now. 
 In a few hours at the most it would be gone for ever. 
 
 Almost instinctively, Peter drew a notebook from 
 his pocket and made a careful diagram of the print, 
 supplementing it with a series of measurements, 
 minute in their accuracy. Then, since the toe was 
 pointed toward the wall, he searched again in that 
 direction. 
 
 Immediately before him was a young fir, taller 
 and broader than any of its fellows, with thick- 
 growing branches sweeping the ground. It threw 
 so strong a shade that the patch of snow beyond
 
 94 Q. E. D.. 
 
 it was of considerable area. Peter noticed this at 
 once. Here, if anywhere 
 
 Ah, there they were. Not one but several, 
 lapping and overlapping and pointing several ways. 
 They were not scraped and broken as if there had 
 been a struggle. Rather, it looked as if the woman 
 had hidden herself from the road behind this lusty 
 young fir, had stood there some moments and then 
 gone back the way she came. 
 
 Was she fleeing, hiding from someone? And 
 why had she screamed? Was there any connection 
 between the alarming circumstance which had so 
 intrigued the huge, rough old man, and the tragedy 
 which had occurred nearly at the same hour, per- 
 haps, at the great house over there behind the 
 trees? Or was it only a coincidence? Two un- 
 related events which bewildered and puzzled. 
 
 Mechanically, Peter went on with his search. 
 He was close to the wall now, an old wall of warm 
 red brick, not more than breast high and built more 
 for ornament than for protection, Peter thought, for 
 he had noted that it ended at the southwest corner 
 of the estate. From there, along the western edge, 
 there had been nothing except a heavy planting 
 of shrubs and trees. 
 
 Peter leaned upon the wall and looked over, con- 
 sidering deeply within himself. In the shadow of 
 the wall was a long, unbroken line of white, but 
 beyond it the ground slanted upward and for a
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 95 
 
 space was free of bushes and, lying as it did in the 
 full face of the southern sun, the snow had melted 
 completely away and the thick turf showed green 
 with spring. From this point the house could be 
 seen more clearly across the wide, slanting lawn. 
 The entrance was easily discernible between the 
 trees though the bottom part of the door and the 
 terrace were still hidden by the lower shrubs. 
 
 "Well," said Peter to himself after scanning the 
 prospect for a long moment, "if the woman had 
 any connection with that job (and for the life of 
 me I can't see how she had), one thing is plain: 
 She didn't get over the wall. It's pretty high for 
 a woman to climb and if she did, she must have 
 landed where the snow would show her up. It would 
 take a pretty tall man to jump from the top of the 
 wall and land clear over where his footprints wouldn't 
 show. And there isn't a mark in sight anywhere 
 inside the wall. This seems to be the end of this 
 trail no use spending any more time 
 
 Peter's investigation had been conducted so 
 swiftly that only a few moments had elapsed before 
 he again joined Harrison Carlisle and the old man. 
 He had found no other traces of the woman any- 
 where. There was a good deal of open space and 
 the turf was far too thick to retain impressions. 
 Whatever other record of the story there had been 
 had vanished with the morning's sun. 
 
 As soon as Carlisle caught sight of Peter, he raised
 
 96 Q. E. D. 
 
 his eyebrows, questioning. Peter nodded slightly 
 with a gesture of caution and the two understood 
 each other. 
 
 "We haven't found a single trace of any femi- 
 nine thing," said Carlisle at once, "and I think 
 Bill's been dreaming. Get any home-brew down 
 in Fern Hills last night, Bill?" he added, laughing. 
 
 The old man shook his head. 
 
 "You can laugh all you like, Mr. Carlisle," he 
 said. "I was cold sober. I callate to get drunk 
 at home these days on my own private stock. I 
 don't take no chance of gettin* poisoned with wood 
 alcohol like y' read about in the papers. Well, 
 gentlemen," he went on after a moment's hesitation, 
 "I guess I'll be gettin' along home." 
 
 "All right, Bill," said Carlisle, "we go the other 
 way. Now remember what I say, wait till I get 
 you a permit before you go on Mr. Hood's land 
 again." 
 
 "I'll do it for you, Mr. Carlisle," said the old 
 man with a return of his grudging surliness, "but I 
 ain't afraid o' any of these here newcomers, and 
 Mr. Louis Hood's never got no change out of me, 
 so fur." 
 
 He was still muttering angrily to himself as he 
 left them and went westward along the road. 
 
 "He's a queer customer," said Peter as he and 
 Carlisle turned in the other direction. "Seems 
 to have a grudge against Mr. Hood."
 
 "CHERCHEZ LA FEMME" 971 
 
 "Yes," Harry replied to the upward inflection of 
 the last sentence, though it was hardly a question. 
 "Bill has an old tumble-down blacksmith shop 
 on the back edge of Louis's property and Louis has 
 done everything in the world to get him to sell 
 it, but he won't, just out of his feeling of spite against 
 all newcomers, as he calls them. They've had 
 some pretty hard words about it, and then Louis 
 did come down on the old man with a rather heavy 
 hand about his poaching. He's fished every stream 
 around here all his life, has old Bill Brown." 
 
 "Bill who?" asked Peter, sharply. 
 
 "Brown," answered Carlisle, quickly, and then 
 repeated more slowly, "Bill Bill Brown."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 
 
 T>ETER stopped in his tracks and the two men 
 looked at each other in silence for a moment. 
 Then Carlisle repeated the name again. 
 
 "Brown," he said, confusedly. "It didn't occur 
 
 to me . . . the name of the mur of the 
 
 man who died last night." 
 
 Clancy looked at him, sharply. 
 
 "You think the man was murdered, Harry?" 
 
 Carlisle hesitated, and then 
 
 "Yes," he said, firmly. "In spite of what you 
 said about there being no one anywhere near him; 
 in spite of the evidence of my own eyes that the 
 snow about the body was undisturbed, except by 
 the man's own footprints, I can't believe that the 
 injuries he sustained were self-inflicted." He paused 
 an instant, looking at his friend questioningly, 
 searchingly. "What do you think, yourself, Peter? 
 Tell me honestly." 
 
 "There's no use in leaving you unprepared for 
 what the inquest is sure to prove, with that doctor 
 and Inspector Winkle on the job," said Peter, after 
 a little thought. "There's no possible doubt about 
 
 98
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 99 
 
 the facts. The man was murdered." He spoke 
 the words with a solemnity which left no room 
 for uncertainty as to the sincerity of his convic- 
 tion. 
 
 Carlisle nodded slowly, gravely. 
 
 "Just my opinion," he said, with an anxious frown. 
 "It's a damned unpleasant thing to be mixed up 
 even as little as we are a terrible thing for Louis 
 on his own doorstep awful. . . ." He was 
 silent for a little then he went on: "Tell me, 
 Peter, have you any idea, any conception as to how 
 th B thing Svas done ? It seems inconceivable 
 
 "It's puzzling, puzzling as the devil, I admit," 
 answered Peter, slowly. "I don't see, yet, just 
 how the thing was pulled or why. I had a sort 
 of hunch this morning given a tall, very strong 
 man . . . and another idea. But don't let's 
 speculate now and waste time, old chap. The 
 snow's melting more every minute." 
 
 Harrison's eyebrows shot up at the apparent 
 irrelevance of the remark. "Why the snow?" he 
 asked. "What has that 
 
 But Peter interrupted impatiently: 
 
 "It's our only chance of proving your friend 
 Brown's story, don't you see? I want to find out 
 if there really was a man in the Hood place last 
 night a small man, in a long coat you get me, 
 don't you? I want to find out if the man Brown 
 says he saw coming out of that road over there
 
 ioo Q. E. D. 
 
 had been on Hood's property I want to know 
 more about the car Brown said he heard: where it 
 went and why it was on this bad road when there 
 are so many good ones around here and I want 
 to know more about Brown himself. You can 
 tell me as we go. There's a lot to do, and we must 
 beat it, Harry. Come on, hurry up, old top." 
 
 Catching Peter's excitement, Carlisle hastened 
 on at his friend's side answering his rapid fire of 
 questions with wondering admiration, although 
 he could not see, for the life of him, to what end 
 the questions tended. 
 
 "You've lived in Fern Hills all your life, Harry?" 
 Peter began. 
 
 "Ever since I was four years old," Carlisle re- 
 plied, his breath coming quickly, owing to the speed 
 they were making. 
 
 " Known Bill Brown since you were a kid ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Has he any children? Any sons?" 
 
 "I'm not sure now. He had a son " 
 
 "Lost track of him?" 
 
 "I have yes. He left here years ago. I don't 
 know 
 
 "What was his name?" interrupted Peter. 
 
 The pace did not seem to have any effect on him. 
 He was breathing as easilv as if he were standing 
 still. 
 
 "His name was Let me - Why William, I
 
 THE 'TARNS WORTH LINK" 101 
 
 suppose after his father, though he was always called 
 'Wully/ His mother was Scotch, and 
 
 "Not Wallie?" Peter asked, eagerly. 
 
 For the first time Harry hesitated. 
 
 "Wallie Wully He tried the two names 
 
 over. "I think it was 'Wully' can't be perfectly 
 sure so long ago, you know." 
 
 "A kid named Walter might be called Wallie, 
 you see," Peter elucidated, "if his mother was 
 Scotch . . . Walter Walter Brown." 
 
 "I see but, Peter, what do you think?" 
 
 "I can't tell you now, Harry. I'm not clear 
 myself - May not mean a thing. Brown's almost 
 as common a name as Smith, and besides, are you 
 sure in your own mind that the dead man's name 
 was really Brown?" He glanced searchingly at 
 Harrison as he put the question. 
 
 "Louis said that was his name." Carlisle's tone 
 was firm and a little indignant though his eyes 
 betrayed the doubt which he strove, loyally, to 
 conceal. 
 
 Peter nodded comprehendingly but pursued the 
 subject no further. 
 
 They had reached the corner of Louis Hood's 
 property a moment before and turned up the narrow 
 road. As has already been stated, there was no 
 boundary wall along this side, but the steep and 
 rugged slant of the ground as it fell away from the 
 road and the close planting of bushes formed a sort
 
 102 Q. E. D. 
 
 of natural protection. Peter's eyes sought warily 
 for indications that someone had left the road 
 at any given point since the snow of yesterday. 
 Carlisle looked, too, with all a hunter's trained 
 observation, but his mind was distracted by the 
 many thoughts with which Peter's questions had 
 filled it. 
 
 "Do you doubt old Bill's story, Peter?" he 
 asked after an interval of unproductive search. 
 
 "Part of it I know is true," said Peter with con- 
 viction. "He was all through the bushes outside 
 the wall south of Hood's house at some time after 
 the snow stopped falling yesterday and it was true 
 about the woman I found her footprints." 
 
 "You did?" exclaimed Carlisle, stopping an 
 instant and looking up at Peter. "You didn't 
 say anything 
 
 "Not on your life, I didn't," said Peter, without 
 pausing in his search. "But they were there all 
 the same." 
 
 "What sort of a woman was it, Peter, could you 
 guess?" Harrison was as excited as Peter was calm. 
 
 "She was five feet three and one eighth inches 
 tall, had blue eyes and pink hair," said Clancy, 
 with a hint of a smile at the look of bewilderment 
 on his friend's face, which look changed at once 
 to a grin when he saw that Peter was not in earnest. 
 "Got a rise that time, didn't I, Harry? How the 
 devil do I know what sort of a woman she was?
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 103 
 
 Except that she had very small feet, if her shoes 
 didn't pinch, that the shoes were not designed for 
 walking because they had very high French heels, 
 I know nothing at all about her. As a master- 
 mind detective I'm afraid I'm pretty punk, eh, 
 Harry?" 
 
 "Well, part of old Bill's story is true, anyway," 
 said Carlisle, passing the question with another 
 grin and a wave of his hand, "and if part, why 
 not all?" 
 
 "That's what I'm trying to find out," said Peter, 
 "but we're not having much luck, are we? These 
 bushes with the big green leaves have kept most 
 of the snow off the ground and they're so thick 
 I'll tell you what we'd better do, Harry. Let's 
 break in any old place and try farther over, in the 
 hollow along this side of the brook. There'll be 
 more snow there, and if anywhere, we'll be likely 
 to pick up 
 
 " Red-top," said Carlisle, looking quizzically side- 
 wise, "I thought you said you weren't, on any 
 account, going to get mixed up in this case." 
 
 "I'm not," said Peter, defensively, "I'm much 
 too tired." 
 
 "You haven't acted very tired so far," persisted 
 Hany, following Clancy as he crashed through the 
 bushes and slid down the damp slope into the 
 Hood grounds. 
 
 "Well, I am tired," Peter reiterated, "and I
 
 104 Q- E - D- 
 
 won't have anything to do with the damned thing 
 after the inquest this afternoon. I deserve a rest, 
 and I am going fishing with you, savvy? But this 
 snow's melting so fast that somebody's got to act 
 quick, and since this story came my way, it's up 
 to me to investigate it and be darned sudden about 
 it. That's plain duty. The rest is up to our 
 friend Inspector Winkle." 
 
 "All right, old top, I see your point. And I'll 
 be tickled to death to take you fishing. Only 
 
 "Only?" asked Peter as Carlisle paused. 
 
 "Nothing." 
 
 "I thought you were going to say something, 
 old man." 
 
 "No nothing, Peter. Come on." 
 
 Clancy needed no encouragement to proceed with 
 his quest. Separating, they went carefully back 
 and forth among the wet, fallen leaves, through 
 the budding undergrowth, under the arching bran- 
 ches of the trees, around the small and ever smaller 
 patches of the fast melting snow. Peter was be- 
 ginning to wonder if his sense that the story of 
 old Bill Brown was, in some way, of importance, had 
 played him false, when he heard Carlisle's whistle. 
 It sounded softly from some little distance, and 
 Carlisle himself came into view around a hemlock 
 farther up in the direction of the house. He beck- 
 oned excitedly. 
 
 "I've found it," he said, exultantly, as soon as
 
 THE "FARNS WORTH LINK" 105 
 
 Peter was near enough to hear his lowered voice. 
 "The spoor of the game, eh, Red-top? Look here.'* 
 He pointed down at his feet. 
 
 Sure enough, there was a footprint. A man's 
 footprint probably, though it was difficult to esti- 
 mate the size, for even in the shade the warm sun 
 was doing its appointed work and the snow was 
 receding from every broken edge. The outline 
 was vague and indeterminate, but was, undoubtedly, 
 that of a human foot, the toe of which pointed up the 
 hill. 
 
 "Come on," said Peter, with a short nod of satis- 
 faction, "up the hill we go." 
 
 Suiting the action to the word, he advanced 
 quickly up the slope, head bent, body well for- 
 ward, with eyes which darted hither and thither, 
 seeking, searching eyes; eyes from which nothing 
 escaped. 
 
 Presently he stopped and pointed at the ground, 
 silently calling Harry's attention to two more fast- 
 disappearing footprints, and then went on again 
 faster than before. 
 
 Carlisle, being of heavier build, was soon winded 
 by the steepness of the grade and dropped a little 
 behind. When he came up with Peter again, the 
 latter was standing just beyond the top of the rise, 
 beside a tall, well-grown young pine tree. Peter 
 motioned swiftly with his hand a gesture plainly 
 enjoining silence and caution.
 
 io6 Q. E. D. 
 
 At the same instant Harrison caught the faint 
 sound of voices not far off, beyond a thick screen 
 of rhododendron. With the hunter's silent step, 
 he swiftly advanced to Clancy's side. 
 
 "What is it?" he whispered in Peter's ear. 
 
 "Somebody on the terrace of the house," Peter 
 whispered back. "It doesn't matter, only I'd 
 rather not be seen here. Keep still and wait. 
 And look there-," he added, again pointing to the 
 ground. 
 
 From the foot of the pine tree the slope was 
 toward the north. This, and the fact that the shadows 
 cast by the full-leaved bushes was very dense, 
 had served to protect the light snow more here 
 than elsewhere. In it, fairly distinct, were three 
 footprints descending the hill. They lay beyond 
 the shelter of the pine, under whose branches what- 
 ever snow had sifted through had vanished in the 
 thick carpet of brown needles. 
 
 Peter put his hand up on the trunk of the tree and 
 leaned around it, his face toward the house, listen- 
 ing. They had approached so near that the voices 
 were easily distinguishable, though the words did not 
 reach them. After a short time the voices ceased, 
 the front door of the house closed, and an instant 
 later a car started at the east end of the terrace 
 and sped swiftly away down the drive. 
 
 "Now," said Peter, "I guess we're free to investi- 
 gate. Ugh!" as he straightened up, "I'm not free
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 107 
 
 exactly. Look at my hand, it's stuck fast to the 
 tree. Gee, aren't these pines sticky things! I've 
 got it all over my coat. This tree's all barked up 
 with little cuts and the sap's running out in big 
 fat drops. I certainly am a mess." 
 
 But Carlisle was not listening to Peter's dis- 
 gusted comments on the gumminess of pine trees 
 in general and of this one in particular. Instead, 
 he was still looking through the tall bushes toward 
 the house, which was quite near at hand, though it 
 was only possible to catch small glimpses of the 
 southern facade, and the terrace was completely 
 hidden by its row of pointed cedars. 
 
 "Peter," he said, hesitatingly, his face full of 
 concern and an anxiety which he had been fighting 
 ever since the previous night. "Peter, old top, 
 I hate to say it, but I wish you'd let yourself go and 
 take up this damned thing seriously. I've been 
 thinking and thinking till my head aches and 
 I can't help being worried about. . . . It's 
 all so fearfully peculiar all the circumstances. This 
 perfectly unknown man and Louis entirely alone 
 in the house. . . . He and I have always been 
 friends and my mother was devoted to old Mrs. 
 Hood. ... I can't help being afraid. . . ." 
 
 He paused a moment and then turned to Clancy 
 with a pleading seriousness which sat strangely on 
 his whimsical, careless face. 
 
 "I'm almost sure that one of those voices we just
 
 io8 Q. E. D. 
 
 heard was Louis's. It's time for him to be back and 
 I think he's in the house now. Wouldn't it be 
 possible for you to go in and offer 
 
 "Don't see how it could be done, old man," 
 
 he said, slowly. " It would look Oh, you must see 
 
 how it would look. I can't butt in now, anyway. 
 Perhaps later, if there seems to be any occasion. 
 And I think you're worrying needlessly. They 
 haven't got anything definite on Mr. Hood. The 
 whole thing's too queer, and our friend Inspector 
 Winkle will find it a hard matter to prove anything 
 further than the bare fact of murder. I'm all at 
 sea myself though I have an idea or two rattling 
 around in my old bean. ... I don't see now just 
 where they'll lead and it's a puzzle to get a theory 
 that'll fit all the facts. All the facts," he repeated, 
 slowly, thoughtfully, his keen mind losing, momen- 
 tarily, all consciousness of his immediate surroundings 
 and concentrating itself on the problem which more 
 and more, against his inclination and will, insidiously 
 piqued his interest and professional curiosity. 
 
 "Well, of course, Peter, I don't want to try to 
 force you," said Harry, disappointedly, "but I 
 can't help wishing - Oh, well, never mind, I'm sure 
 you know best, old top. Come on, let's be moving. 
 Where do we go from here?" 
 
 "We'll have a better look at those tracks,'* 
 answered Peter, rousing himself from a brown 
 study, " and then I guess we might as well be getting
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 109 
 
 along home. Look out for this tree. It's full of 
 juice," he added. "The bark is cut in several 
 places. Queer cuts, too. What do you suppose 
 could have made J em? There's one down here on 
 one side of the tree and another, higher up, on the 
 other, just above that second branch, do you see?" 
 He pointed to a long, clean, fresh cut which looked 
 as if it had been made with a sharp knife, on the 
 south side of the trunk, about ten inches above 
 his head. 
 
 "I don't know what did it, Peter," said Harry, 
 absently. "No animal that I know of would try 
 to girdle a tree like that. I can't be sure. I'm 
 not a nature-fakir, you know. But let's get on, old 
 chap, if we aren't going in to see Louis. I must 
 confess I'm not keen to run the risk of being seen 
 prowling around the place." 
 
 "Right-o," said Clancy at once, stepping care- 
 fully around the patch of snow which had previously 
 engaged his attention, until he was close enough 
 to the footprints for his purpose. "Hm pretty 
 long feet, I should say, if I didn't know that the 
 snow had melted away around the edges. Darn 
 it all, I wish we had come upon 'em sooner. It's 
 impossible to tell much about 'em now. Well, 
 old man, I guess we can't do much here. You lead 
 along back the shortest way to the road." 
 
 Harry complied with a sense of relief, and he led 
 the way down the steep incline at a rapid though
 
 i io Q. E. D. 
 
 silent pace. Taking the pine tree as a starting 
 point, a rough, little-used path was faintly discern- 
 ible. Peter, following, glanced carefully about 
 him for signs that someone had passed that way be- 
 fore and recently, but aside from the footprints 
 already noted, which they passed farther on, he 
 found nothing except a long sliding scrape in the 
 soft earth at the steepest pitch of the descent. It 
 seemed to indicate that someone, someone in a 
 hurry probably, had almost lost his footing upon 
 the slippery, clayey ground and rotting leaves. 
 
 The rough little trail crossed the comparatively 
 open and level space at the foot of the slope and 
 again led up through a slight opening in the thick 
 shrubbery which bounded the Hood estate. Ad- 
 vancing quickly along it, they found themselves in 
 the road just above the point where they had entered. 
 
 "If we'd known this little path, we'd have made 
 better time," said Peter, as he stepped into the 
 road. "Somebody did know about it, evidently. 
 I suppose Bill Brown knows every inch of this 
 
 countryside I wonder. . . . But never mind 
 
 that now. I want to see just where that car was 
 that he spoke about, if there are any signs of it 
 left. Hurry up, old top." 
 
 Almost at a run they descended the steep, narrow 
 road and did not slacken speed until they reached 
 the corner. Here Peter paused and looked about 
 him. He could see only a short distance along the
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" in 
 
 road to the right, for it curved sharply from west 
 to south and the view was obstructed by the under- 
 growth and a number of small trees. 
 
 Clancy had stopped only a second. 
 
 r 'This way, Harry," he said, motioning with his 
 right hand. "Must have been around that bend, 
 or Brown would have seen it before he got this 
 far." He looked at the rutted road bed as they 
 went swiftly on. "Not much traffic through here, 
 is there?" he remarked. "We haven't seen a soul, 
 except Brown, on the road and there are only one 
 or two fresh wheel marks." 
 
 "Hardly any one comes through here," said 
 Harry, "and I should think no one would willingly 
 come this way in a car. There's a good macadam 
 road, the one we came up this morning, just beyond 
 Wallingford's place here," he motioned toward the 
 left, "and this runs into it a little farther up the 
 hill. There are only the three places on this little 
 cut-off: Wallingford's, here; Hood's, farther back; 
 and the Mayhew place you remember is here on our 
 right. None of them has an entrance on this bad 
 road and unless someone had lost the way 
 
 "Perhaps someone did lose the way," said Peter, 
 stopping short just beyond the turn. "At any rate, 
 there has been a car this far. Look," and he pointed 
 down to the unmistakable track of tires in the damp 
 earth. 
 
 The snow here was completely melted away, but
 
 ii2 Q. E. D. 
 
 the ground beneath it had not been frozen hard when 
 the snow fell. The road bed was now quite soft, 
 and if Brown's story could be trusted, evidently had 
 been on the previous evening, for the tire marks 
 were plain to be seen. 
 
 Peter motioned Carlisle aside while he carefully 
 and quickly examined them. 
 
 "Farnsworth Link Non-skids," he muttered half 
 to himself. "Most popular expensive tire on the 
 market. Must have been a good car . . . and 
 the tires pretty nearly new. See how sharp the 
 pattern is here and over there." He moved 
 restlessly up and down and from side to side of the 
 road. "I have it all clear," he said after a mo- 
 ment. "A child could tell what happened. He 
 came down this far"- - again he pointed "backed 
 in over those dead leaves, probably; turned, and 
 ran the car off here to the side behind these bushes. 
 Must have been a heavy car and must have stayed 
 here some little time. See how she sunk in here 
 in the ditch where the ground was wet? Then he 
 went back up the hill, of course, since there weren't 
 any tracks beyond this point. So far Bill Brown's 
 story is Q-K. There was a woman and there was 
 a man, and also there was a car. But where does 
 that take us?" 
 
 "If you mean the road," said Carlisle, eager to 
 be of service, "it takes us into the main road from 
 Fern Hills to Lounsberry, where the good road
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 113 
 
 ends. We might as well go home that way. It's 
 just as short from here as to go back by Louis's 
 and the walking is better after we pass this first 
 stretch." 
 
 "All to the good," said Peter, and without more 
 words he went rapidly forward, keeping his eyes 
 fixed on the surface of the road bed. 
 
 He said nothing more until they reached the 
 spot where the narrow road debouched at a slant 
 upon the stone-paved highway. He had found the 
 characteristic "Farnsworth Link" more or less con- 
 tinuously all along the way, two tracks often over- 
 lapping each other, but at the intersection of the 
 road the two tracks became distinct, one turning 
 to the right and the other to the left at the point 
 where they were lost upon the macadam pavement. 
 
 "He came one way and went back another," 
 said Peter, half aloud. "Now, which way did he 
 come and which way did he go?" He cast back a 
 few paces, Carlisle following every movement with 
 intense interest. He could not see, in his own mind, 
 how Peter could attach any special importance to 
 the movements of the mysterious car, but this 
 glimpse which he was having into the methods of 
 a competent detective filled him with almost pleas- 
 urable thrills. 
 
 "I've got it," said Peter in a moment. "You 
 see this place where the marks lie one on top of the 
 other? Now follow the line from here on. It's
 
 n 4 Q- E - D - 
 
 nearly continuous, and the top track leads to the 
 right." 
 
 "But that's toward Lounsberry," cried Harry, 
 "and it's there the good road stops. What could 
 any one want to go to Lounsberry for?" 
 
 "What kind of a place is it?" asked Peter, quickly. 
 
 "Why, just a little village on a branch line of the 
 D. L. and W. There's nothing there but a mill 
 and a few cottages." 
 
 "Is it far off?" 
 
 "Not more than a mile or so." 
 
 "What is there between here and there? Any 
 large places?" 
 
 "No, nothing but farms as I remember," said 
 Carlisle. "Look here, Peter, what do you think 
 
 "Don't ask me what I think while I'm doing it, 
 old chap," answered Peter, with a twinkle in his 
 keen blue eyes. "I've got a sort of hunch, but 
 I don't just know what it is. Only, for my own 
 satisfaction I'd like to see for myself what's along 
 this road. D'you mind beating it over to Louns- 
 berry with me? It may not amount to a hill of 
 beans, but I'd just like to know what chances there 
 were for someone to have seen this car, and per- 
 haps what sort of person or persons were in it." 
 
 Harry agreed readily. He was glad of each new 
 indication that Clancy was becoming more and 
 more interested in the case. He knew enough of 
 his friend's ruling passion to hope, in spite of his
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 115 
 
 protests to the contrary, that he would become so 
 involved in the clues of his own finding that he would 
 not be able to give it up. So far he had no suspicion 
 that Peter might turn up anything inimical to Hood's 
 interests. He had no real doubt as to Louis's 
 innocence, but he could not reason himself out 
 of the feeling that there was a mystery here which 
 might prove menacing to his friend's peace of mind, 
 and no one would be so likely to unravel the tangle 
 as Peter Clancy. 
 
 "And this is the end of the road," said Peter, 
 glancing about him when they reached the small 
 railroad station at Lounsberry. "Well, we haven't 
 made much on this bet, I'll tell the world. Nothing 
 but those small farms along the road, and the 
 houses well back. Everyone about ready for bed 
 probably at seven o'clock last night. Very little 
 passing at that time, I should judge by the few 
 flivvers and teams we have met. Well, it was on an 
 off chance, anyway. Sorry I've taken you Oh, 
 my eye, Harry!" he broke off, excitedly. "Here's 
 something, anyway." 
 
 Peter stooped down and indicated with extended 
 forefinger. In the unpaved turning space along- 
 side the tiny station, partly obliterated by passing 
 wheels, was the tell-tale Farnsworth Link. 
 
 "I don't make much of that," objected Car- 
 lisle, as he followed Peter toward the station en- 
 trance. "Whoever drove the car didn't know
 
 n6 Q. E. D. 
 
 the country very well, got into the bad road down 
 there and went the wrong way when he came back 
 to the good one. This was the first real easy place 
 to turn and he may not have realized before 
 
 "You wouldn't need to run right up to the station 
 platform to get room to turn," interrupted Peter. 
 "See that mark just at the edge of the planks? 
 He may have come in to ask the way. I'm going 
 to see/* 
 
 He opened the door as he spoke and entered the 
 little waiting room, Harry following close at his 
 heels. 
 
 "Good morning," said Peter, pleasantly, leaning 
 down a little to look through the brass grille of 
 the ticket window. 
 
 "Tap-tap click-click," came from the telegraph 
 instrument. The agent did not even turn his head. 
 
 "I beg your pardon," Peter remarked to the 
 broad back which remained persistently turned 
 (as is the manner of country station agents all the 
 world over) in his direction. 
 
 Peter waited in exasperated silence till the man 
 had finished leisurely transcribing a message, made 
 several entries in various small books and on vari- 
 coloured slips of paper, and at last turned to the 
 window. 
 
 "Where to?" asked the agent, yawning. 
 
 "To nowhere," said Peter, impatiently. "I just 
 want to know how late you're on duty here."
 
 THE "FARNSWORTH LINK" 117 
 
 "Six o'clock," said the man, indifferently. 
 
 "Does the night agent live near here?" asked 
 Peter, quickly. 
 
 "Ain't any night agent," drawled the man. 
 "Station closes at six. Have to get your ticket on 
 the train," and he turned away from the window 
 with the slow, bovine movement of the intellectually 
 inert. 
 
 "Just a minute," said Peter. "Let me have a 
 time-table if you please." 
 
 The agent slowly selected one from a pile on the 
 shelf and wearily thrust it under the brass lattice. 
 Peter caught it up swiftly but he did not open it 
 until he and Carlisle were outside the station. 
 
 "There's a train to New York at 6:59," he re- 
 marked, pausing on the platform to run his eye 
 over the time-table. 
 
 "But if you want to go to town, Peter," said 
 Harrison in surprise, "the Fern Hills station is 
 much nearer than this. And you aren't going to 
 leave us to-night surely. You said 
 
 "I say a lot of things, Harry," said Clancy, re- 
 garding his friend with a look in which a quizzical 
 humour and an underlying seriousness were strangely 
 blended. "I'd have taken my oath yesterday that 
 nothing in heaven or earth would keep me from 
 spending the next four days fishing with you 
 
 "And now?" questioned Carlisle, eagerly. 
 
 "And now, I don't know, old top," said Peter,
 
 ii8 Q. E. D. 
 
 thoughtfully. "I don't know. Hang it all! I 
 wonder I wonder. . . ." 
 
 He looked down at the print of the Farnsworth 
 Link so close to the platform edge. 
 
 "The station was closed at six o'clock last night, 
 and there wouldn't have been any lights. No 
 one would have gone there to ask the way. . . . 
 There was a train to New York at 6:59. ... I 
 wonder."
 
 CHAPTER X 
 "L. H." 
 
 FT WAS nearly lunch time when the two young 
 men ascended the shallow steps of the comfor- 
 table old Carlisle home. They had spoken but 
 little after they left the station at Lounsberry. 
 Peter had fallen into a fit of deep abstraction which 
 Carlisle considerately forebore to disturb, though 
 he would have given worlds to know what was pass- 
 ing in his friend's mind. 
 
 Clancy roused himself when the door was opened 
 by the versatile and invaluable Hoki, and it was with 
 a face cleared of every anxiety that he met Mrs. 
 Carlisle in the living room. 
 
 The old lady rallied them about their empty creels 
 and pretended to think that the "rotten" leaders 
 were only an excuse, though if any one else had cast 
 an aspersion on Harry's skill, she would have been 
 up in arms at once. 
 
 "Where's Kent?" asked Harrison when they had 
 finished explaining their morning's lack of success 
 in the sporting line. "He didn't mind our going 
 out without him, did he, Mother? I looked in his 
 room when I first got up to see if he'd like to go along, 
 
 119
 
 120 Q. E. D. 
 
 and he was sleeping so peacefully I didn't have the 
 heart to wake him. Somehow, I can't quite see 
 him in the role of the man who gets the fish out of 
 bed in the morning to catch 'em. Wouldn't think 
 it polite to disturb 'em, I imagine," he laughed. 
 "Doesn't he strike you that way, Peter? He's so 
 elegant and correct. Gives plain chaps like us a 
 lot to live up to, eh, what ? I hope you explained 
 to him, Mother 
 
 "Oh, I did, Harry, and he didn't mind at all. It 
 was just as well, anyway, for he had a telephone call 
 from his office, and had to go back for the morning 
 to attend to some business matter that had come up 
 unexpectedly." 
 
 "Is he going to duck this affair this afternoon? 
 Gee, I wish I could." Harrison spoke feelingly. 
 
 "I wish you wouldn't use such expressions, Harry. 
 They sound so very common, dear. No, Mr. Kent 
 will be back in time for the the inquest, which, by 
 the way, is for three o'clock. Louis telephoned 
 somebody in Morris ville before he left for town. 
 They want you all over there at three. Louis said he'd 
 be back this morning, and I tried to get him to come 
 here for lunch, but he said that John and Eliza 
 would be out in plenty of time to give him something 
 to eat at his own house, and he thought he'd bet- 
 ter- 
 
 "Too bad for him to be lunching all alone in that 
 spooky, shut-up house," broke in Harry, regret-
 
 "L. H." 121 
 
 fully. "It's enough to give any one the creeps 
 after what has happened. We'll drive over and 
 pick him up when we go to Morrisville. I'll 'phone 
 him right away and then we'd better change, old 
 Red-top. We'll have time before lunch, won't 
 we, Mother? By the way, is Rob coming back here 
 or are we to meet him in Morrisville?" 
 
 "He said he'd meet you over there," said Mrs. 
 Carlisle, "but I think he'll come back with you, 
 and go up to the Club to-morrow if you decide to 
 go. He left his tackle here, and his car, and went 
 in by train since it's so much quicker. He hadn't 
 a great deal of time." 
 
 "That's a good idea. I hope we can go up to the 
 Club. Rob was almost as keen for it as old Red-top. 
 I hope I haven't said too much about the sport 
 up there. After our rotten luck this morning 
 
 Harrison talked on in his usual voluble, rambling, 
 cheery way all the while that his mother was pres- 
 ent. The tragedy which over-shadowed the house 
 of their friend was scarcely mentioned at luncheon 
 and even on the drive over to Morrisville Carlisle 
 chatted pleasantly on indifferent topics, principally 
 connected with sport, getting small response from 
 Louis Hood whom they picked up according to 
 arrangement, but, apparently, quite oblivious to his 
 old friend's pre-occupation and anxiety. In his 
 efforts to take Louis's mind off the puzzling and 
 serious question in hand he was aided and abetted
 
 122 Q. E. D. 
 
 by Peter, but their united efforts met with poor 
 success. Hood spoke very little. Once he broke 
 into some remark of Harrison's with an abruptness 
 which showed that he was unconscious of there 
 being any other subject under discussion. 
 
 "Did you see the paper this morning, Harry?" 
 he asked, nervously snapping open and closing the 
 Oxford glasses which he wore on a narrow black 
 guard around his neck. "There was a short ac- 
 count 
 
 "Yes, we saw it when we came in to lunch, Louis, 
 just a brief statement " 
 
 "You didn't see the Planet? No. You wouldn't 
 be likely to. One of the boys in the office showed it 
 to Hill and Hill called my attention to it, when I 
 stopped in there for a minute on my way out. I 
 hope they aren't going to try to make political 
 capital out of this unfortunate accident." 
 
 Hood spoke as if thinking aloud. He relapsed 
 into silence after that and remained deep in troub- 
 led thought for the remainder of the way. 
 
 They reached the County Court House a few min- 
 utes before three, and found the coroner and his 
 jury already assembled. The two policemen who 
 had guarded the terrace on the previous night were 
 there. Also Inspector Winkle, looking dark, heavy, 
 and portentous. He glanced at them gravely from 
 under his thick, bulging brows and favoured Peter 
 with the ghost of a grim smile.
 
 "L. H." 123 
 
 Several reporters, lured from New York more 
 by the prominence of the man on whose property 
 the tragedy had occurred than by any interest in the 
 crime itself, sat at a table on one side of the bare 
 room. One was chewing gum vigorously; another 
 was working over a balky fountain pen, while a 
 third was tilted back in his chair viewing the scene 
 through sleepy, half-closed lids. 
 
 Doctor Moore and Robert Kent appeared almost 
 immediately and the coroner proceeded at once to 
 business. 
 
 After eliciting for the benefit of the jury the 
 various facts of the finding of the body, he called 
 on Dr. Bernard Moore for his testimony as to its 
 condition and the inferences to be drawn there- 
 from. 
 
 The doctor made his affirmations with a clear- 
 ness and conviction which left little room for doubt 
 in the minds of the jurors. 
 
 The man had been dead not more than an hour, 
 Doctor Moore believed. The wound in his throat 
 might have been self-inflicted, but he had died 
 of a broken neck, which latter fact could only be 
 accounted for by a fall from a height or some such 
 accident (which there was no reason to deduce), 
 or he had been killed in a struggle with an over- 
 powering adversary. The two injuries, taken to- 
 gether, would leave absolutely no room for doubt 
 in the mind of an intelligent jury that the man had
 
 124 Q- E. D. 
 
 been murdered. Thus, Dr. Bernard Moore, and 
 thus ended his testimony. 
 
 The jury looked at each other and nodded, their 
 minds evidently entirely made up and at rest. 
 They were all local men and they knew Doctor Moore's 
 ability and professional standing. The man, Wal- 
 ter Brown, a stranger to all of them, had been mur- 
 dered, and that was the only fact in which they were 
 especially concerned. Imperceptibly their attitude 
 of attention relaxed, and it was only after Peter 
 Clancy took the stand that their slow minds began 
 to take in the fact that they were not dealing with 
 an ordinary case, interesting on account of its being 
 an unusual occurrence in that community, but other- 
 wise unimportant. 
 
 Almost as soon as Peter began to speak, a change 
 was noticeable among the gentlemen of the press. 
 The man who had been tilted back in his chair 
 brought his own two legs and the two front legs of 
 the chair to the ground simultaneously, and from that 
 moment the swift scratching of pens was audible in 
 every pause of the proceedings. 
 
 Clancy brought out with all the force of his 
 trained intellect the curious circumstance that, 
 though the man had died instantly according to 
 Doctor Moore and the evidence of himself and others, 
 still, and in spite of that fact, there had been no 
 sign of a struggle and there had been no footprints 
 other than Brown's own within several yards of
 
 "L. H." 125 
 
 the body. He made it plain that the lights on the 
 terrace had turned the night into day; that every 
 mark on the newly fallen snow had been clear and 
 distinct; that both he and Mr. Carlisle were, for 
 different reasons, trained observers and that there 
 could be absolutely no question of this strange 
 and peculiar fact. Peter then requested that the 
 carefully measured diagram which he had made for 
 Inspector Winkle be passed among the jury, that 
 his statement might be perfectly clear to their 
 minds, and asked them, in these circumstances, to 
 consider whether or not a theory of suicide was not 
 quite as probable as a theory of murder. 
 
 The paper torn from Clancy's notebook made 
 its round. Each juryman looked at it with inter- 
 est and as much intelligence as Nature had vouch- 
 safed him. At length it was returned to Inspector 
 Winkle, who then took up the tale. 
 
 He cross-questioned Peter first, but could not 
 shake any of his assertions. He then repeated his 
 queries to Harrison Carlisle, with the same result. 
 After that he examined Robert Kent, who reluc- 
 tantly admitted that the matter of the footprints had 
 escaped his attention but that he had absolutely 
 no doubt that the facts were as stated. 
 
 "You have heard what these gentlemen have 
 said," Inspector Winkle turned to the jury at 
 last, and with a gesture which was habitual to the 
 man he wagged a blunt forefinger back and forth
 
 126 Q. E. D. 
 
 on an otherwise immovable fist. "Now mark 
 what I am going to say." His voice was fraught 
 with heavy intent. "When I first saw the body and 
 the tracks in the snow about it, they were all con- 
 fused except this one line of footprints of the de- 
 ceased, which Mr. Clancy has been telling you 
 about " He paused, and looked slowly along the 
 line of faces of the jury as though he would make 
 sure that every eye was fixed upon him "and one 
 other line of footprints leading straight to the 
 body which I ascertained to be those of the owner 
 of the house, Mr. Louis Hood. You will take 
 notice that all three of the gentlemen who have 
 given their testimony in this matter are old friends 
 of Mr. Hood's and one of them isn't perfectly sure 
 that the conditions were as stated. He only thinks 
 so." 
 
 The inspector paused to give the innuendo time 
 to sink in. Then he went on: 
 
 "The man Brown was armed with a short Colt's 
 from which one shot had been fired. I know where 
 that was done. I found the bullet in the house- 
 keeper's room in Mr. Hood's house. He says that 
 Brown tried to kill himself there and that he, Mr. 
 Hood, I mean, was so fortunate as to be able to 
 prevent it. This might seem to indicate that 
 Brown, being desperate, did commit suicide later. 
 You will observe that I wish you to draw your own 
 conclusions. I don't want to force my own opinion
 
 "L. H." 127 
 
 on anybody. But just bear in mind that a shot 
 was fired in the housekeeper's room, obviously 
 from the pistol Brown carried and probably by his 
 own hand; that some time during the interview 
 Mr. Hood gave this man whom he scarcely knew, or 
 hadn't seen for a long time, according to his own 
 statement, a check for one thousand dollars." 
 
 Inspector Winkle glanced over to the table occu- 
 pied by the representatives of the press to see how 
 this shot told. The reporter from the Planet 
 stopped his ruminative jaws for an instant, bit the 
 top of his fountain pen, cast a keen look at Louis 
 Hood and began writing again, faster than ever. 
 
 "That was a large sum, gentlemen of the jury, to 
 give to a mere acquaintance, out of pure philan- 
 thropy, and it's enough to make us think better of 
 our fellow men." The inspector made little attempt 
 to conceal the covert sarcasm of this remark. "If 
 there had been an attempt at blackmail, it might, 
 perhaps, bear a different explanation, but at present 
 we have no other indication of any such attempt. It 
 seems a pity, however, that the poor fellow, Brown, 
 didn't live to enjoy the benefit of so handsome a gift. 
 This, in itself, might be considered a reason for his 
 not having committed suicide, if there were no 
 others; but, aside from the plain inference to be 
 drawn from the testimony of Doctor Moore, the man 
 did not shoot himself, though he was armed with a 
 revolver, and though he died instantaneously, there
 
 128 Q. E. D. 
 
 was no weapon capable of inflicting the wound in his 
 neck found anywhere near the body. Against this 
 you have the statement of Mr. Hood's friends about 
 the evidence in the snow on the terrace, and you are 
 bound to give that its proper weight. But 
 Again the inspector made one of his heavy dramatic 
 pauses. "But I beg you to remember that the 
 snow is now entirely gone and with it all record which 
 it might have contained. The house faces the south, 
 the lawn and terrace are open to the sun, and the snow 
 had almost entirely melted away before I got back 
 there this morning. It was an advantage, in a way, 
 for it enabled me to make perfectly sure that there 
 was no knife or other sharp weapon anywhere near 
 the place where the body was found; no safety razor 
 blade, as has been suggested." Here he glanced 
 aside at Peter Clancy, and met and held the younger 
 man's keen blue eye with the ominous portent of his 
 own. "Nothing, in fact, except"- he spoke very 
 slowly, giving each word it s full weight of signifi- 
 cance "at a short stone's throw from the body- 
 below on the lawn I found this." 
 
 From his ample side pocket he drew forth a rather 
 long paper packet. He pulled off the rubber band 
 which held it, opened it slowly, and displayed a large 
 clasp knife with a rough horn handle and an open 
 blade of some three inches in length, with a keen, 
 slightly curved cutting edge ending in a sharp point. 
 He balanced it in his hand, and went on, looking at
 
 "L. H." 129 
 
 it meditatively, and addressing himself to the ex- 
 cited jurymen. 
 
 "You will see that there are very slight almost 
 no traces of rust, plainly indicating that it hadn't 
 been lying there long. You will also note that it is 
 very sharp; and further that there are the initials 
 L. H. on the little plate in the centre of the handle. 
 There's some trick about closing it that I don't under- 
 stand. Perhaps you'd show us how it's done, Mr. 
 Hood." 
 
 "I'll show you," broke in Harrison Carlisle, im- 
 petuously. " It's an ordinary fishing knife, such as 
 we all carry. You don't have to use both hands to 
 open it, and there's no danger of its closing on your 
 fingers; you just press that button in the side." 
 
 "I'd rather let Mr. Hood show the jury how the 
 trick is done, Mr. Carlisle," said the inspector, im- 
 patiently, as he put the knife into Hood's hand. "It 
 is your property, isn't it, Mr. Hood?" 
 
 Louis Hood had been sitting forward, his elbow 
 resting on the arm of his chair, his chin on his left 
 hand, the fingers of which lay across and covered his 
 mouth. His face was still, almost stony in its rigid 
 immobility. Mechanically he took the knife, looked 
 at it an instant, touched the spring, closed it by 
 pressing the back of the blade against the chair arm, 
 and with a slight nod returned it to Inspector Winkle. 
 
 "Will you please acknowledge that it is your 
 knife?" said the old officer, severely.
 
 i 3 o Q. E. D. 
 
 Hood shifted a little in his chair and answered, 
 "Yes, it is, or was mine." 
 
 "Why do you say 'or was', Mr. Hood?" asked the 
 inspector, sharply. " Do you mean to imply 
 
 "Only that I lost it a long while ago," answered 
 Hood, coldly. "I haven't seen it for several years. 5 * 
 
 "Can you imagine who might have had it?" 
 Winkle's voice was as keen as his glance. "This 
 man Brown, for instance, could he?" 
 
 Hood shook his head with every appearance of 
 being genuinely in the dark. 
 
 "No," he said. "Walter Brown hadn't been East 
 for nearly ten years, and it wasn't more than two 
 or three years ago at most that I lost it." 
 
 The inspector put his thick thumb between his 
 teeth and bit it softly and thoughtfully. The knife 
 was opened again and passed around to the jury. 
 Even the reporters asked for and obtained a nearer 
 view. 
 
 When the knife came back into Winkle's posses- 
 sion again, he rose and signified to the coroner that he 
 had nothing more to say. The jury filed out of the 
 room and were gone some time. 
 
 Those most interested in the outcome awaited 
 their return in tense silence. The faint buzz of 
 voices from the other occupants of the room showed 
 what an intense excitement the unexpectedly sensa- 
 tional disclosures had awakened. 
 
 Peter, in spite of his contention to the contrary,
 
 "L. H." 131 
 
 had little doubt as to the conclusion which the jury 
 would reach, since it seemed to be composed of men 
 rather above the grade of ordinary intelligence. 
 
 He was not surprised, therefore, when they filed 
 slowly back and returned their verdict "Murder at 
 the hand of person or persons unknown. " 
 
 There was a loud stir in the room as soon as the 
 verdict was announced. The reporters rushed pell- 
 mell for the nearest 'phone, jostling each other in 
 their efforts to be the first to spread the story, "a 
 ripper," as one of them characterized it, in the pages 
 of their several journals. 
 
 The room emptied itself quickly, and Carlisle 
 found himself upon the pavement with his three 
 friends without having any distinct idea as to how he 
 reached there, so concerned was he in behalf of one of 
 them. 
 
 "You'll come home with me, Louis, won't you?" 
 he asked, pleadingly, clasping Hood's arm with a 
 boy's impatient loyalty. "Come on, now, old man. 
 We'll be in time for a cup of tea with Mother, only 
 we don't have to take tea. I've got some of the old 
 hooch left, thank God. Come on, all you fellows. 
 Jump into the car and let's be off. Hop in, Rob, 
 Mother's expecting you back." 
 
 "I'm sorry," said Kent, with a slightly constrained 
 glance at Louis Hood. "I've got to get back to town 
 to-night, and I'll probably have to stay there most 
 of to-morrow. Some trouble about the contracts
 
 I 3 2 Q. E. D. 
 
 for my silly moving-picture venture that you're 
 always ridiculing, Harry. But I'll be out again to- 
 morrow evening, if you don't mind, and if you should 
 decide to go up to the Club " 
 
 "Don't know about that," said Harrison, un- 
 certainly. "We'll have to see. I'll 'phone you 
 later, but come out, anyway. Sure you can't come 
 over now?" 
 
 "No, old chap. So sorry. Please present my 
 compliments and regrets to your mother. I'll have 
 just time to get the 4:38, which is the next train from 
 here. How about you, Mr. Clancy ? Do you go back 
 with Harrison or are you going in to town ? If so, 
 I'll be very glad of your company." Robert Kent 
 habitually spoke with a certain elaboration of manner 
 which rarely failed to tickle Carlisle's unconventional 
 humour. He was too much concerned with the ugly 
 turn affairs had taken to notice it now. 
 
 "You aren't going to desert us, are you, Peter?" 
 he asked, swiftly, noting Clancy's hesitation. 
 "Surely " 
 
 "I'm afraid I must go back to New York, Harry," 
 Peter said, reluctantly. "I'll explain to you as we 
 go. We mustn't keep Mr. Kent or he'll miss his 
 train, and I want to catch the earliest one I can make 
 from Fern Hills. I'll just grab a few things and say 
 good-bye to Mrs. Carlisle, and 
 
 "If you're not going with me, Mr. Clancy," said 
 Robert Kent with polite regret, glancing at his watch,
 
 "L. H." 133 
 
 "I'll be getting on. Good-bye. I'll come out and 
 pick up my traps to-morrow in any case, Harry, but 
 you'll 'phone me. I'm afraid I must hasten a bit. 
 Good-bye." 
 
 He raised his hat at arm's length and hurried off 
 without offering his hand to any of them, the omission 
 of which ceremony caused Harrison Carlisle some 
 surprise. 
 
 "What's got into Kent?" he exclaimed as they 
 took their places in the car. "He seemed awfully 
 queer, somehow. Did you notice it, Louis?" 
 
 "Yes," replied Hood with more than a touch of 
 bitterness in his low, deep voice. " He believes what 
 Inspector Winkle was at such pains to suggest 
 that Walter Brown came to the house to blackmail 
 me and that I was somehow concerned in his death. 
 He didn't want to shake hands with me, Harrison 
 and he is naturally too courteous to wish to make it 
 unmistakably apparent. God!" Louis Hood shut 
 his teeth upon the word and clenched his hands in a 
 stern effort to maintain his self-control. His thin 
 face was very white. 
 
 "Oh, damn it all!" said Harrison, miserably, under 
 his breath. 
 
 "Take me to my own house, if you'll be so good, 
 Harry," said Louis Hood, quietly, after a short 
 interval in which they had been travelling swiftly 
 toward Fern Hills. "It's awfully good of you to 
 want to take me to your mother's, but I'll be better
 
 134 Q- E. D- 
 
 by myself, and I'm not going to have you troubled 
 further by this wretched business. It's bad enough 
 as it is." 
 
 "Oh, don't think of me, Louis," cried Carlisle, all 
 the carelessness gone from his round, honest face. 
 "Think of yourself, man. Get all the comfort you 
 can out of your friends. It's a rotten business 
 altogether, but take it easy take it easy. It isn't so 
 serious, after all. They can't prove anything against 
 you, and " 
 
 "Supposing they can't," said Hood, bitterly. 
 "Think of the scandal in the papers the blot on my 
 name. Unless I can clear it, I'll be a marked man 
 all my life. I can never 
 
 "Look here, Louis." Carlisle slowed down on the 
 straight, smooth road and controlling the car with 
 one practised hand, turned to face his friend who was 
 on the rear seat. "You're thinking of Sylvia. 
 No" at a gesture of Hood's "I'm not forgetting 
 old Red-top. You mustn't mind him. He can be 
 trusted to understand, and say nothing. But you're 
 all wrong, Louis, if you think your friends won't 
 stand by you especially Sylvia Farquhar. She's a 
 girl in a thousand " 
 
 Hood held up his hand. 
 
 "I can't talk about it now, Harry. Please! 
 You're a brick, old chap, and I'm awfully grateful, 
 but I must go alone for the present. I must have 
 time to think."
 
 "L. H." 135 
 
 "Do you mean that you aren't going to have any 
 professional help?" asked Harrison with a glance 
 aside at Peter, who sat beside him, lost in thought. 
 "You ought- 
 Clancy roused himself and with a sudden move- 
 ment twisted round on the seat, leaned both arms 
 on the cushioned back, and faced Louis Hood 
 squarely. 
 
 "Mr. Hood," he said, gravely, "you may know, and 
 Harry will tell you, that I've had some little ex- 
 perience in unravelling affairs of this kind. If you 
 will accept my services, such as they are 
 
 "Bravo, old Red-top!" shouted Harry, exultantly. 
 "I knew you wouldn't stay out of it! Good old 
 scout! I say, Louis, he'll fix you right as rain in no 
 time." 
 
 Unheeding his old schoolfellow's enthusiasm, 
 Clancy's attention did not shift from the dark, pale, 
 shadowed face of Louis Hood. He saw doubt and 
 serious trouble, even a touch of fear, perhaps, in the 
 deep-set eyes. 
 
 "I have found out a good deal already, Mr. Hood," 
 he said, his gravity still more apparent. "Hadn't 
 you better let me try to find out the rest ? " 
 
 They had reached Fern Hills. The car sped 
 swiftly through the village and began to ascend the 
 hill toward the heights on which lay the great estates 
 of its wealthy and envied inhabitants. Still Louis 
 Hood remained silent.
 
 136 Q. E. D. 
 
 "I don't want to force my services upon you," 
 said Peter at last, "but it's a strange and complicated 
 case, and in the interests of science, my own peculiar 
 science 
 
 The car turned into the long, shadowy, winding 
 drive of the Hood place and drew up slowly at the 
 east end of the fatal terrace. Louis Hood looked up 
 at the gray walls which had sheltered him and his for 
 many happy years, but which now seemed grim and 
 austere in the slanting rays of the westering sun. A 
 slight shiver shook his whole frame. He gazed ear- 
 nestly into Peter's keen blue eyes, and then sud- 
 denly the extreme gravity of his face lightened by a 
 perceptible shade. 
 
 "I'll put the case unreservedly into your hands, 
 Mr. Clancy," he said, decisively. "There isn't any 
 one that I'd trust it to with more confidence." He 
 lifted his head, folded his arms, and added, crisplv: 
 "Go to it!"
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 
 
 shrouded empty rooms were very still. 
 The footsteps of the two men echoed on the bare 
 parquetry of the hall as Louis Hood led Clancy 
 through it to a large library which was situated on 
 the right at the back of the main house. Some effort 
 had been made to render this room more habitable. 
 The covers had been removed from the furniture and 
 pictures, and a fire was laid ready on the broad hearth. 
 The two men were alone, Carlisle having taken 
 himself off at once as soon as he was satisfied that 
 Louis's affairs were in the best of hands. Any 
 intrusion in his friend's difficulties was farthest from 
 his chivalrous mind, but he said "good-bye "a little 
 wistfully, nevertheless, for his interest and natural 
 curiosity were strained almost to the breaking point. 
 It was, however, with a comparatively light heart 
 that he left them, so convinced was he of Peter 
 Clancy's unerring skill. 
 
 "May I offer you anything, Mr. Clancy?" 
 Louis Hood had lighted the fire and now turned 
 from it to attend, with instinctive hospitality, to 
 other possible wants of this unexpected guest. 
 
 137
 
 i 3 8 Q. E. D. 
 
 "No, thank you," said Peter, quickly. "I'll smoke 
 if I may. And now let's get down to business, Mr. 
 Hood." He spoke rapidly, but with an innate 
 courtesy which robbed his words of any hint of 
 brusqueness. 
 
 " First of all," he went on, " I want to know all you 
 can tell me about Walter Brown. His real name 
 Hood looked up swiftly, and Peter held up his hand 
 with an arresting gesture. "I'm perfectly sure 
 Walter Brown wasn't the man's real name, Mr. 
 Hood. It's no use to deny it. I thought for a little 
 while this morning that I might have been mistaken 
 in believing that 'Walter Brown* was an alias, but 
 now I'm convinced that it was. If I'm to be of any 
 service to the cause of justice" (he spoke earnestly 
 and Louis Hood failed to note that he did not say 
 "of service to you" but "to the cause of justice") 
 "you must be perfectly frank with me. I assure you 
 that I am discreet, and it is absolutely necessary that 
 I should know who Walter Brown was what con- 
 nection you had with him why you didn't want 
 any one to know who he really was why you gave him 
 
 a check for so large an amount " Peter paused an 
 
 instant and added, a trifle sternly "And why you 
 were trying to take that check from the body when I 
 stopped you." 
 
 Hood's tall figure straightened suddenly. He had 
 remained standing in front of the fire warming his 
 long, slender, supple hands. Now he clenched them
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 139 
 
 tightly, looked earnestly at Peter for a long moment, 
 and then began walking back and forth across the 
 room. There was a lithe strength in the man, a 
 feeling of tremendous forces held relentlessly in leash 
 which gave a curious effect of incongruity to his quiet 
 voice. 
 
 "So you knew," he said, slowly. "Well, Mr. 
 Clancy, I'll tell you what I can. For the present 
 I am going to ask you to allow me to withhold my 
 poor friend's name. I cannot see that the knowledge 
 of that could be of the slightest service to you. If 
 you feel that it is absolutely necessary at any future 
 time, and can convince me of it, I'll engage to tell 
 you. It's sufficient now, I think, that you should 
 know that we'll call him Walter Brown was the 
 brother of a very dear friend of mine. Walter and I 
 were pals when we were boys, and saw a great deal of 
 each other. He was a favourite with my mother, 
 and visited us here the first summer after we bought 
 this place. The Carlisles were abroad that year, so 
 that Harrison did not recognize him, perhaps had 
 never seen him at all I don't know." 
 
 He paced the length of the room and back before 
 he spoke again. His words were so deliberate as to 
 suggest to Peter's mind the possibility that the story 
 he was telling might not be perfectly true; that he 
 might be making it up as he went along, or suppress- 
 ing facts, perhaps. He did not know Louis Hood 
 intimately, and so far had been prepossessed in his
 
 i 4 o Q. E. D. 
 
 favour, but Clancy was too wary to be immediately 
 convinced by appearances. He merely made a 
 mental note of this possibility and awaited develop- 
 ments. 
 
 "Walter was a jolly, adventurous sort of kid," 
 Hood went on, still pacing restlessly back and forth, 
 "but he grew wilder as he grew older, and after he 
 came of age and received his inheritance he began 
 to go the pace pretty thoroughly. He ran through 
 most of his money, though it was a large fortune, in 
 an astonishingly short time and then suddenly he dis- 
 appeared. I heard from him several times afterward, 
 from California, from Hawaii, from Japan. . . 
 I think he stayed in Japan for some little time, but he 
 got into some kind of a scrape with the natives, I 
 don't know exactly what. I only know he left sud- 
 denly and came back to the Pacific coast." 
 
 Again Hood paused, though Peter didn't interrupt 
 him by so much as a word. In a moment he re- 
 sumed : 
 
 "It was in San Francisco that he got into serious 
 trouble. I don't know the details some shooting 
 affair and the man died. Walter was tried, under 
 the assumed name of Brown, and was sentenced to 
 ten years. . . . He wrote a despairing letter to 
 me and asked me to keep it from his his family. 
 I did so and his I mean the family came to believe 
 that he was dead. . . . The poor fellow's 
 sentence was commuted for good conduct and he was
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN ? 141 
 
 released last week. He came straight to me for 
 help came here, not knowing that I was not living 
 here at present. Fortunately or unfortunately" 
 he corrected himself bitterly "I was coming here 
 last night, and proposed that he should wait for 
 me. . . . You heard me tell the police inspector 
 what happened after he came, so I needn't go over 
 that again, unless " 
 
 "No," said Peter, quietly, " I remember all that you 
 told Winkle last night about the attempted suicide 
 in the housekeeper's room and your thinking that a 
 reason for believing that he did finally kill himself. 
 That's all clear. And I understand, if the man had 
 been in the pen and his family weren't wise to the 
 fact, that you'd do a lot to keep them from learning 
 who he was, especially if you were very close friends. 
 But why did you try to get your check back? It 
 was a crazy thing to do with three men standing so 
 near." 
 
 Hood pushed his long fingers through his thick 
 dark hair. 
 
 "I suppose it was insane," he said, wearily, "but it 
 was all so sudden and I could only think I only felt 
 how necessary it was, for for the sake of his family 
 that no one should guess who he was, and for an 
 instant I had a wild idea of denying that I knew 
 anything about him. It wasn't feasible, and I'm 
 glad, now, that you stopped me, Mr. Clancy. But 
 I still intend to conceal his identity if it's a possible
 
 142 Q. E. D. 
 
 thing." He lifted his head and spoke with a sudden 
 fervour. 
 
 "I sincerely hope it will be possible, Mr. Hood," 
 said Peter, "for your sake and for the sake of all your 
 friends." After a moment he added: "The suggestion 
 at the inquest that it might have been a case of 
 blackmail took you quite by surprise then ? " 
 
 "No," Hood hesitated, "I can't quite say that it 
 did. Something in the inspector's manner last night 
 brought the possibility to my notice." 
 
 "Well," said Peter after a slightly longer pause, 
 "let's leave that for the present. I'd like you to tell 
 
 me " He broke off suddenly and started from his 
 
 chair. "There's someone moving in the bushes down 
 there," he said, softly, pointing through the win- 
 dow. "Just stand a little this way, out of sight, and 
 see if you can tell who it is. He'll come out into 
 the open in a minute. There! Did you get him? 
 Right beyond the trunk of that big tree." 
 
 "It's no one I know," said Hood in a low, tense 
 voice, "why should " 
 
 "Inspector Winkle on the job," said Peter, tersely. 
 "That man sneaking up through the bushes is what 
 we call a fly-cop, a police detective. It sticks out all 
 over him. Winkle's going to earn his pay, and get 
 lots of glory, is he? Well, well, we'll see. Don't 
 let it annoy you if you can help it, Mr. Hood. It's 
 part of his game. He'll play it in his way, and I'll 
 play it in mine, and we'll see who goes to the mat
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 143 
 
 first. Only I don't like the idea of any one getting 
 wise to my being in it just now." In his excitement 
 Peter relapsed into the vernacular which he had 
 studied long, and with varying success, to conquer. 
 "Just pull down the shades, if you don't mind. I 
 don't want to be seen here for the present." 
 
 Hood complied at once. When he came back from 
 the windows his face showed set and angry in the 
 light which Clancy, with his usual quickness, had 
 switched on. 
 
 "Go on, ask me any questions you like, Mr. 
 Clancy," said Hood, flinging himself into a chair. 
 "You were about to say " 
 
 "I was going to ask you," Peter went on as if there 
 had been no interruption, "to tell me exactly what 
 you did after you parted with Brown. I think you 
 said you didn't go to the door with him." 
 
 "No. He knew the house well, and I was in a 
 hurry. I had lost track of the time and didn't realize 
 till then how late it was." 
 
 "That was about seven, wasn't it?" said Peter. 
 "And Harry didn't expect you till nearly eight. At 
 least he didn't give you up till then." 
 
 "That's true," rejoined Hood with no apparent 
 annoyance. "But I realized all I had to do in that 
 time. I knew where my tackle was, but my heavy 
 fishing things, woollen stockings and so forth, had all 
 been packed away before my mother before my 
 mother died, and I didn't know, except in a general
 
 144 Q- E. D. 
 
 way, where they were. You know how helpless a 
 man is at finding things, and I'm afraid I'm worse 
 than the rest for I ransacked a lot of trunks before I 
 found what I needed, and was only just ready when 
 you came." 
 
 "Certainly," said Peter, with the air of being en- 
 tirely satisfied with the explanation. "I remember 
 very well. You didn't even have on your outside 
 coat. . . . Now I want to get this perfectly 
 clear. Suppose you show me exactly where you 
 stood when Brown left, and where you went, and all 
 the rest. I just want to make sure how much noise 
 there might have been out on the terrace without 
 your having heard it." 
 
 "You think there was a noise, then?" Hood 
 paused on the way to the hall to ask the question. 
 
 "May have been. May not have been," said 
 Peter, succinctly. "If it was a jiu jitsu trick. . . .' 
 Did it occur to you that it might have been, Mr. 
 Hood?" Peter's glance was as sharp as a sword, but 
 it was withdrawn so swiftly that Louis Hood did not 
 perceive it. "Harry's man Hoki is an expert at 
 jiu jitsu, I understand. It put it into my mind. 
 You know the trick, the chap who pulls it gets the 
 edge of his forearm against the other fellow's neck 
 with a clinch that can't be broken. Then he presses 
 and presses till the victim's neck snaps. The 
 wound in Brown's throat might have been simply a 
 blind. Pretty ugly business. Probably no one but
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 145 
 
 a native Jap could do it. Brown had some trouble 
 in Japan, I think you said. If it was serious 
 
 "But nobody knew he was here," said Hood, 
 quickly. "He had told no one that he was coming. 
 I don't fancy any one followed him all the way from 
 the prison in California." 
 
 "No," said Peter, thoughtfully, "I don't fancy any 
 one did." And then more slowly: "No one knew he 
 was here, and yet someone murdered him and left 
 no footprints in the snow. . . . Well, all facts '11 
 fit when we get the right start, you can bet on that. 
 Now let's see. You were standing about here?" 
 
 They had passed into the rear end of the main hall, 
 and Peter stepped over to the baize-covered door 
 which shut off the servants' wing. 
 
 "Yes," said Hood. "Just there. Walter seemed 
 quite cheered up when he left me, and he looked back 
 and smiled at me as he opened the door. As soon as 
 he closed it I switched off the lights from this button 
 here," he indicated a switch plate beside the door, 
 "and went up to the store-room by the back stairs. 
 If you'll follow me, I'll show you." 
 
 He led the way through the short passage, which 
 they had traversed on the previous night, and up 
 some stairs which started by the door of the house- 
 keeper's room. They went down a long hall on the 
 second floor and up another flight of stairs, and at 
 length found themselves in a big trunk room at the 
 extreme end of the house.
 
 146 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Well, there sure could have been one devil of a 
 row out in front without your having heard anything 
 from here," said Peter, swiftly noting the disorder 
 of the room. Several trunks stood open, and their 
 contents had been tossed about in a manner plainly 
 indicating that they had been hurriedly searched 
 through by their owner. No servant would have 
 dared to leave them in that condition, Peter decided. 
 He expressed himself quite satisfied by what he had 
 seen and they returned at once to the library. 
 
 The fire had died down to glowing embers, and 
 Hood shivered as he rang for more wood. 
 
 The bell was answered at once by an elderly man 
 in the semi-dress livery of a servant whose duties were 
 still in a transitional state. He wore dark trousers 
 and a striped waistcoat, but the black tail-coat of the 
 conventional butler was replaced by a loose alpaca 
 house coat. 
 
 "Will you bring in some more wood, John?" said 
 Louis Hood in a kindly voice. "The house seems 
 very chilly," and he shivered again, stooping low over 
 the embers. 
 
 "Yes, sir," said the man, promptly, glancing aside 
 at Peter with a quick look of inquiry. Evidently, 
 he had supposed his master to be alone. 
 
 Peter's eye took in swiftly the peculiarities of the 
 man's appearance, his short stature, loose-jointed 
 limbs, the long gorilla-like arms hanging well forward, 
 the bald head rimmed with smooth gray hair, carried
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 147 
 
 low on the slightly stooping shoulders; the heavy 
 face with its long upper lip and chin like a spade, its 
 short jutting nose and its little, quick eyes, which, 
 somehow, gave an expression of unrest to an other- 
 wise stolid countenance. 
 
 The minute Peter laid eyes on him he received a 
 strong though undefined impression that there was 
 something wrong with the man, but he forebore to 
 question him until he returned from the back of the 
 house with his arms full of wood. 
 
 As the man stooped over to replenish the fire, 
 Peter remarked in a friendly, conversational tone, 
 "Pretty cold weather we're having for this time of 
 the year, isn't it? You must have had a hard winter 
 out here in the country?" 
 
 The servant acquiesced politely as he laid the 
 sticks upon the dying embers. 
 
 "You must have been glad of a holiday yesterday," 
 Peter went on. "Your daughter's acting in the 
 'Wishing Stile' they tell me. That's quite a show, 
 I'll tell the world. I saw it last week. Was that the 
 first time you'd seen it?" 
 
 If John thought that this stranger's interest in him 
 was unusual, he made no sign. 
 
 "Yes, sor. It was," he answered, in the restrained 
 manner of a well-trained servant. 
 
 Clancy's intention of drawing the old man out was 
 plain to Louis Hood, though the reason for it was not 
 quite so obvious.
 
 148 Q. E. D. 
 
 Peter continued: 
 
 "I suppose your daughter sent you passes." He 
 merely made the remark with no ulterior purpose, 
 and was surprised at the puzzled look which crossed 
 the old man's face. 
 
 "Why, no, sor," he said, slowly placing the last 
 stick on the fire. "It's a funny thing, but I don't 
 know who sent the tickets. They come by registered 
 mail first thing yesterday morning. Just the tickets 
 by themselves in an envelope an' no worrud of writ- 
 ing. Eliza and me, we supposed of course Phoebe'd 
 sent 'em, but she didn't. We saw her before the 
 show, and afterward. She was all excited because 
 she had to play Miss Vaughn's part in the first of the 
 piece. Miss Vaughn is understudy I think they call 
 it, for Miss Viola Gale, her that plays the principal 
 part, and Miss Gale wasn't well enough to come to 
 the theatre for the first act. Phoebe told us, but 
 I don't think the audience knew the difference, 
 Miss Vaughn done so well. My girl done well in 
 Miss Vaughn's part, too, if I do say it, an' I wish she 
 
 could play it all the time " He paused abruptly, 
 
 realizing suddenly that he was overstepping the 
 bounds of decorum. "I beg your pardon, sor," he 
 addressed himself to Louis Hood. "I " 
 
 "It's all right," Peter put in, quickly. "I'm 
 interested in your daughter. She must be clever to 
 play Miss Vaughn's part. And you say she didn't 
 send you the tickets?" He harked back to the one
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 149 
 
 point in the old man's conversation which really did 
 interest him. Someone, it was plain, someone sent 
 the caretakers tickets for the play which would be 
 sure to interest them more than any other. They 
 were almost certain not to miss the opportunity thus 
 afforded to see their daughter act. "Who would 
 know?" Peter thought, his eyes fixed meditatively 
 on the master of the house. And immediately the 
 telephone conversation of the night before jumped 
 into his head. He could almost hear Hood's voice 
 saying, "I sent you the tickets yesterday. For the 
 'Wishing Stile'. Yes." 
 
 And the lady to whom he was talking had evidently 
 not received them. Could that mean? . . . 
 
 Peter brought his mind back to the present with a 
 jerk. Louis Hood was speaking. 
 
 "That's queer, John," he was saying, with a look of 
 interest but no apparent discomposure. "I under- 
 stood you to say, over the 'phone, that Phcebe'd sent 
 them. If she didn't, then who do you think did?" 
 
 "I couldn't imagine, sor, unless you as a surprise 
 like for Eliza and me unless you moight have sint 
 'em, sor?" 
 
 The upward inflection made it a definite question. 
 Peter, every sense on the alert, waited for the reply. 
 It came at once. 
 
 "Why, no, John," Hood said, readily. "It never 
 even occurred to me. It was very thoughtful of 
 someone."
 
 i S o Q. E. D. 
 
 "Very," said Clancy, with so much emphasis as to 
 cause Louis Hood to glance at him sharply. For a 
 moment the two men looked into each other's eyes 
 a long, steady look. Then Peter glanced back to the 
 old servant. 
 
 "Well, you had a good time in town, I suppose," 
 he said, "but it was too bad you couldn't have been 
 here, too, John. You missed a lot of excitement." 
 
 The old man, who had been blowing up the fire 
 with a quaint, antique bellows, straightened suddenly 
 and shot a swift glance in Peter's direction. 
 
 "It's the kind of excitement I can be doin' without, 
 sor," he said. Turning again to the fire and bending 
 down over it so that his face .was concealed, he 
 muttered, "Trouble, black trouble comin' to the 
 
 house An' I was warned, too, but I failed to 
 
 heed." . . . 
 
 "What do you mean you were 'warned'?" 
 broke in Peter, quickly. "How warned, John? Did 
 you see " 
 
 "I didn't see nothin', sor," replied the man, un- 
 easily, still busy over the fire. 
 
 "John fancies he heard something night before 
 last," said Hood, glancing from the servant's stoop- 
 ing figure to Clancy and back again. "He im- 
 agines he has a special family connection with the 
 unseen." 
 
 "It's no subject for jest, Mr. Hood," said the man 
 in an awed voice, turning to face his master. "Me
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 151 
 
 father heard it the night before he was killed on 
 the railroad, and me mother heard it, wailin' round 
 the house the very night me brother Jim died 'way 
 off in Australia. The twenty-second of March 
 it was, and the twenty-second of March was the 
 night Jim died. Ye that don't know can laugh and 
 joke about it, but if ye've once heard that banshee 
 wail " 
 
 "And you heard it night before last, John?" 
 Peter questioned, eagerly. "Tell me about it, will 
 you? I'm Irish, too, you see, and I'm not as skepti- 
 cal as most. What did it sound like? A woman's 
 voice?" 
 
 The eyes which the old man turned to Peter wore a 
 haunted expression. 
 
 "Yes," he said, fearfully. "High an' shrill like a 
 woman's, but not like any woman's on this earth. 
 It rose and fell on the wind, long drawn out, till you'd 
 think no breath could last, an' then low and moanin'. 
 God, sors, 'twas a fearsome sound." With trembling 
 hand he wiped the cold sweat from his brow. "Eliza 
 heard it, too," he went on. "Ye can ask her. An' 
 I says to her then, 'trouble, black trouble will come 
 to this house, Eliza, you mark my words'." He 
 paused a moment and then added, fatefully, "An' 
 the trouble come, just as I said." 
 
 "It was only the wind in the trees, John." Hood 
 spoke calmly though no one could have heard the 
 awesome tones of the old voice without a slight
 
 152 Q. E. D. 
 
 sensation, as of a cold finger along the spine. " There 
 was a high wind night before last, and 
 
 "There's been high winds many nights sence I been 
 in this house," persisted the old man, "but niver such 
 a wan as that. The wind had a voice that night, a 
 voice, though it said no worruds, or none that I could 
 make out." 
 
 "Did it sound all around the house?" asked Peter, 
 eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, all round, as ye might say, sor. But stronger 
 out there," he pointed toward the front of the house. 
 "Eliza thought it was in the front rooms, and we 
 come as far as the big hall an* listened. But the 
 house was all as quiet as death. The wailin' still 
 wint on, but 'twas outside beyond the terrace, just 
 
 where " He stopped and spread his great bony 
 
 hand over his mouth. His body seemed to shrink 
 inside his clothes, and his eyes were wild. 
 
 "Did it sound near the terrace or far away?" 
 asked Peter. "And could you be sure it wasn't a 
 human voice? Someone down on the road, perhaps, 
 in trouble ? " 
 
 Hood, who had no clue to what was in Clancy's 
 mind, thought the question an odd one. 
 
 "It was near the terrace," asserted the old servant, 
 definitely, "an' no human voice could make that 
 sound. There'd not be breath enough in any human 
 lungs to carry a wail like that for minutes together. 
 It kep' up all night, too. I couldn't sleep fer the
 
 WHO WAS WALTER BROWN? 153 
 
 sound of it. Whiles it was loud, and whiles it was 
 low, but there it was all through the dark. 'Twas 
 not till the wind died, toward dawn, that it died, too, 
 arid I fell asleep." 
 
 ''It lasted all night," repeated Peter, softly, as if 
 communing with his own thoughts, "and it died with 
 the wind. It Suddenly he stopped. He 
 
 caught his lower lip between his thumb and fore- 
 ringer and gazed into the fire with eyes that saw noth- 
 ing eyes that saw nothing but the glimmering ghost 
 of an idea, startling in its bizarre improbability, and 
 yet- 
 With a swift movement he was on his feet. 
 "I'll be back in a minute; stay where you are, if 
 you please, Mr. Hood," he cried, and dashed out of 
 the room, down the wide hall, and the front door 
 closed upon him swiftly and noiselessly. 
 
 "Well, what's the meaning of that?" said Louis 
 Hood, blankly. "Has the man taken leave of his 
 senses?" 
 
 "Looks like it, sor," said John in amazement. 
 "He was sittin' here quietly an'" he shook his 
 bald head, as if the stranger's actions were too much 
 for him, and at a nod of dismissal from the master- 
 left the room muttering to himself. 
 
 Hood paced restlessly back and forth across the 
 room. So unaccountable did Clancy's actions seem 
 to him that he was about to disregard the injunction 
 to stay where he was and had already crossed to the
 
 i 54 Q- E. D. 
 
 hall door, when Peter returned, out of breath, but 
 with a light in his eyes which it was beyond his pow- 
 ers to conceal. 
 
 When he spoke, it was in a tone which Louis Hood 
 had never heard him use before. The words came 
 crisply, and with decision: "I'm going into town at 
 once, Mr. Hood," he said. "I haven't a minute to 
 lose and I can't stop to explain. Will you please 
 'phone Harry to bring his car over? You haven't a 
 car here? No. I thought not. Ask him to drive 
 over and meet me on the road to Lounsberry in ten 
 minutes Yes, yes I know"- - as Hood tried to 
 put in a word "Fern Hills is nearer, but I 
 happen to know there's a train on the branch line 
 that will be quicker for me. Tell him to pick me up 
 at the end of the short cut where we were fishing this 
 morning. He'll understand. If I'm not at the 
 junction of the roads tell him to drive on, hell bent for 
 election. I'll be ahead of him, understand ? Got it 
 straight? Don't make any mistake. There's no 
 time to be lost. At the junction of the roads where 
 we were this morning, or he's to follow on through on 
 the straight road to Lounsberry." 
 
 And without waiting for a reply from his astonished 
 client, Peter darted from the house.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 
 
 TI^HAT in hell is up, old Red-top?" cried Harri- 
 * * son Carlisle, as his swiftly moving car slowed 
 down alongside the only less swiftly moving figure 
 of Peter Clancy on the Lounsberry road. 
 
 "Don't stop," cried Peter, breathlessly, jumping to 
 the running board. "Drive on as if the devil was 
 chasing you. I've got to catch the 6:59 train, and 
 it's due in just about one minute. Step on the gas, 
 man, and let's see what she can do. Gee!"as the car 
 leaped forward, "that's something like! Knew I 
 could depend on you, Harry. Let her out! Let her 
 out! There's the whistle now! Good boy! We'll 
 make it yet. I told you so! So long, old man! See 
 you to-morrow. . . ." 
 
 The rest of the sentence was lost as Clancy leaped 
 from the car and, dashing across the station platform, 
 swung himself on the steps of the train which was 
 already in motion. He paused outside the door and 
 waved a good-bye to his mystified friend. Then, 
 as the train swept around a curve, he entered the 
 coach, and still breathing heavily from haste and 
 excitement, sat down in the rear seat. 
 
 155
 
 156 Q. E. D. 
 
 There were not many passengers, and although he 
 could not be sure, since the train was already in when 
 he reached the little station, Peter thought that no 
 one had boarded it at Lounsberry. 
 
 Presently the conductor came through, looking 
 to right and left, and clicking his ticket-punch. 
 
 "Tickets. Tickets, please," he said, monotonously, 
 and came on without pause. 
 
 "No one on this coach got on here, anyway," 
 thought Peter. "To New York," he added, aloud, 
 meeting the conductor's eye. " How much ? " 
 
 The conductor stated the amo'unt of the fare, and 
 punching a folded slip in several places, deftly slit it 
 down the fold, and prying up the velvet binding on 
 the back of the seat in front slipped one half under 
 the edge. He was about to turn away when Peter 
 touched his arm. 
 
 "I'd like to have a word with you when you're at 
 liberty," Peter said, quietly. "It's pretty important. 
 Could you- 
 
 "I'll come back as soon as I go through the next 
 car," said the conductor, with a friendly nod. Peter's 
 open, freckled face and pleasant smile rarely failed 
 in making the sort of appeal he desired, and the 
 conductor, whose life was a very monotonous one, 
 welcomed the opportunity of a chat with so pre- 
 possessing a young man. 
 
 He returned in a moment and seated himself on the 
 arm of Peter's seat.
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 157 
 
 "Well, what is it?" he asked in a hoarse but good- 
 humoured voice. "What can I do for you, young 
 man?" 
 
 "Sit in here," said Peter, motioning to the place 
 beside him. "I've quite a lot of questions I want to 
 ask you, and you'll be more comfortable." 
 
 The conductor slid down on to the seat and re- 
 garded Peter curiously. 
 
 "All right, boy. Fire ahead. It's fifteen minutes 
 to the next station stop and 
 
 "Is this your regular run?" Peter interrupted, 
 eagerly. "And were you on this train last night?" 
 
 "I sure was," answered the conductor, leaning side- 
 wise to catch the low tones of Peter's voice. 
 
 " Did you notice any one that got on at Lounsberry 
 last night? A lady, alone, and well-dressed?" 
 Peter was guessing. He had little to guide him in 
 the last description save for the fact that the mysteri- 
 ous woman of old Bill Brown's story, the woman 
 whom he now, for his own reasons, so ardently 
 sought, had undoubtedly worn shoes of elegant and 
 sophisticated cut. That his guess was near the 
 mark was immediately shown by the expression of 
 the conductor's face. 
 
 "You mean the lady in the funny veil?" he asked 
 with interest. 
 
 Peter nodded. W T hat sort of veil a "funny veil" 
 was, he was to learn later. 
 
 "That's the one," he said, quickly. "Can you
 
 158 Q. E. D. 
 
 describe her? Tell me all about her. I have reason 
 to believe it's someone I'm looking for. Tell me just 
 how she looked, how she was dressed, and everything 
 you can remember." 
 
 "I didn't see her get on," said the conductor, 
 thoughtfully. " I was up forward and I was looking 
 at a swell automobile that drove away from the 
 station just as we run in. Aren't many swells come 
 over this way and I was wondering 
 
 "Did you see the car plainly?" asked Peter, im- 
 petuously. "Or the person who drove it? Was 
 there more than one 
 
 "Now listen, kid. The lights are dim to that 
 station, and you can see for yourself it was dark this 
 time last night. Besides, the car was gone before you 
 could say 'Jack Robinson'. I just made out that it 
 was a big, long, handsome-looking car with a coupe or 
 sedan body or something like that and that was 
 all." 
 
 Peter with difficulty hid his disappointment. 
 The driver of that mysterious car interested him 
 more than anything else in the world at that moment; 
 but the lady, the proverbial "woman in the case, " 
 was of scarcely less consequence as he saw it at that 
 time. His hunch that old Bill Brown's story would 
 prove of importance amounted now to almost a 
 certainty. What relation these two unknown people 
 bore to Louis Hood what part each had played in 
 the plot which had resulted in the tragic death
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL " 1 59 
 
 of "Walter Brown" he had yet to learn, but he swore 
 to himself by all that he held most sacred that he 
 would learn it before many days were over. 
 
 To this end he would thread the intricate maze 
 cautiously, warily. Just now there was only one dim 
 figure in evidence in the twisted vista, a woman's 
 figure, dark, enigmatical. To shed more light upon 
 its unexpected presence was the purpose before him 
 now which sent him whirling through the night; 
 besides perhaps the one person available who could 
 give him information. 
 
 "All right," said Peter, quickly, in response to the 
 conductor's last statement. "Let's forget the car. 
 Now tell me about the lady." 
 
 The conductor tilted back his hard blue cap to 
 scratch his head. 
 
 "Well, now, you're asking something," he said, 
 slowly. "I ain't much of a hand at noticing ladies 
 as a general rule, and this one well, I think she was 
 what you might call a peach, far's one could see 
 But there wasn't much to see but her eyes and her 
 hair. They was sure all to the good. She had to 
 pay her fare in, like you did, on account of the station 
 being closed, and I had a good look at her. Her hair 
 was something to look at, shiny gold and curling all 
 out from under a little cute-looking hat, and her eyes 
 were blue oh, bluer than any I ever seen as blue 
 as the blue signal lights at the switches. She looked 
 'em up at me when she asked how much the fare was
 
 160 Q. E. D. 
 
 to New York and for a minute I was so kinda dazzled 
 by 'em, old as I am, that I couldn't remember 
 whether it was sixty cents or a hundred dollars," 
 and the conductor laughed heartily at his own 
 susceptibility. 
 
 "But what was the rest of her face like? And 
 how was she dressed?" asked Peter, making mental 
 note of the two items already furnished. 
 
 "I can't tell you about the rest of her face," 
 answered the conductor, readily, "on account of the 
 veil she had on her. I never seen one like it before. 
 It was quite thick and was strung across from under 
 her little hat so it just left her eyes out. It came 
 right across here," he drew a line with his thick fore- 
 finger from the top of one ear along his cheek bones 
 and across the bridge of his prominent nose to the top 
 of the other ear. "It was some queer-looking con- 
 traption, but sorta cute, too." 
 
 Peter nodded. 
 
 "I know the kind of veil you mean," he said, 
 quickly. "You see 'em on the Avenue quite a lot 
 these days, especially in motor cars. It's a fad a 
 certain type of woman affects to make her look as if 
 she came out of a harem. So she was wearing that. 
 
 sort of veil, was she? Hm Yes. Well, how 
 
 else was she dressed ? Plain or fancy ? Light clothes 
 or dark?" 
 
 "Dark and plain, I think," answered the conductor, 
 somewhat uncertainly. "But Lord, how do I know?
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 161 
 
 I ain't much up on women's clothes and I hardly 
 noticed Say," as if struck by a sudden thought, 
 " maybe Frank could tell you more." 
 
 "Frank?" 
 
 "Yes, Frank Carey, the brakeman. He's young 
 and likes the girls a whole lot and he usually sits in 
 the rear car. That was where she was last night. 
 He's there now, if 
 
 Peter was on his feet in an instant. 
 
 "Come on," he said, eagerly, "Lead me to him." 
 
 Frank Carey proved to be a good-looking young 
 American boy with a cheerful bronzed face not 
 meticulously clean and a pair of wide-awake gray 
 eyes. They found him at the very end of the train, 
 lounging in the seat which runs lengthwise of the car, 
 surrounded by several lanterns and signal flags, 
 reading absorbedly from a highly coloured magazine. 
 
 He looked up rather disgustedly when the con- 
 ductor spoke his name, and kept his place in the 
 magazine with a grimy forefinger, but he was on the 
 alert in an instant when the object of Peter's quest 
 was explained to him. 
 
 "Did I see her?" he cried. "Have I got eyes in 
 my head? Good lord! I should say I did see her! 
 Whew! I took notice of her when she hopped on the 
 back platform at Lounsberry. Like a bird she was 
 so light and quick. 'Beg pardon,' she says. 'I can 
 get in this way?' 'Sure,' I says, nearly dropping me 
 lantern. 'Surest thing you know!' And I opened
 
 1 62 Q. E. D. 
 
 the door for her myself. Gee! She was a hummer 
 to look at even before she took off that crazy veil 
 thing that covered most of her face." 
 . "She did take it off, then?" asked Peter, im- 
 petuously. 
 
 "Gosh, yes!" exclaimed the brakeman, his eyes 
 dancing at the recollection. "It was awful hot in 
 the train last night and she hadn't been sitting in that 
 seat over there," he indicated the rear seat on the 
 opposite side of the car, "for very long before that 
 wuzzy stuff she had all over her nose and mouth was 
 more'n she could stand. She looked down the car a 
 couple of times, and then she ups and fiddles around 
 the edge of her hat and off comes the veil and, gee!" 
 Words failed him. 
 
 "Tell me! What was she like?" cried Peter, 
 excitedly. 
 
 "Oh, boy! What was she like? Like herself and 
 nobody else in God's world! Her pictures ain't in it 
 with " 
 
 "Her pictures!" Peter caught the young brake- 
 man roughly by the arm and shook it in his excite- 
 ment. "Then it's someone who's well known 
 who has her pictures in the paper? Speak up, man! 
 Who " 
 
 Frank Carey was delighted with the sensation he 
 was making. He grinned at Peter with one eye half 
 closed. Then slowly he ruffled the pages of the 
 lurid magazine be had been holding all the while in
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 163 
 
 his hand. He ran part way through them, turned 
 back, and with moistened finger separated the pages 
 one by one. At last he rolled back the front part of 
 the magazine, and handed it to Peter with the right 
 page exposed to view. 
 
 Peter gasped. 
 
 Looking up at him was one of the best-known 
 faces on the " Great White Way ". A face which had 
 burst upon the New York public with all the sudden- 
 ness and glory of a meteor. A face of such tran- 
 scendent beauty that, once seen, it could never be 
 forgotten. Peter did not need to read the lines 
 under the portrait, but he read them mechanically, 
 nevertheless. 
 
 Miss Viola Gale, who has captivated all eyes and ears and 
 hearts as "Magnolia Grandiflora" in the "Wishing Stile." 
 
 Peter stood as one dazed. Like a floating thread 
 of gossamer there was wafted back into his mind the 
 words of old John, the caretaker at the house of 
 Louis Hood, "Miss Gale wasn't well enough to come 
 to the theatre for the first act." There was some- 
 thing, too, about the understudy playing so well that 
 the audience was unaware of the change. But John 
 knew because his daughter was in the cast. 
 Strange. . . . 
 
 "Are you sure," asked Peter, imperatively, glanc- 
 ing up at the brakeman, "are you perfectly certain 
 that it was Viola Gale?" 
 
 "D'you think there are two girls in this sufferin'
 
 164 Q- E. D. 
 
 world with faces like that?" the boy counter-ques- 
 tioned, hotly. "I set here lookin' at her all the way 
 in to Newark, and you can bet your sweet life I ain't 
 made any mistake. Besides, I'd just got this here 
 very magazine off the news boy and was looking at 
 the pictures, and there she was. I set here and 
 studied them both and they were as much alike as two 
 peas or more so. No, sir, you can't fool me. It was 
 Viola Gale and don't let that worry you none." 
 
 "Why'n't you tell me, and let me have a peek at 
 her, Frank?" The conductor's voice was full of 
 disappointment. 
 
 "Oh, you was talkin' to an old lady in one of the 
 forward coaches all the way in to Hoboken last 
 night, you remember, Bert, and I didn't like to ask 
 you to come back and risk an eye on a nactress. 
 Didn't know how t'would set. Besides, she put her 
 veil back on as we pulled into Newark, and there 
 wasn't so much to see then. Oh, gosh, we're almost 
 there now. Excuse me. See you later." And the 
 brakeman and conductor went hurriedly off to their 
 respective duties. 
 
 Peter had much to think of during the remainder of 
 the short journey. He thanked his friendly in- 
 formants, and bade them a cheerful though rather 
 absent-minded "good-night" as he left the train in 
 Hoboken. All the way through the tube he was 
 plunged in thought, planning, weighing, and consider- 
 ing the unexpected information he had been so
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 165 
 
 fortunate as to secure. That there could be any 
 mistake as to the identity of the strange woman 
 seemed improbable. In his own mind he quite 
 agreed with Frank Carey, there could not be two 
 faces in the world like that of Viola Gale. But what 
 had induced her to become an accomplice in so hide- 
 ous a crime? 
 
 Peter knew little of her save that she was from the 
 West and had only appeared in New York this 
 present season. She had made an immediate and 
 brilliant success of the musical comedy in which she 
 was starring. A pleasing voice, added to a face and 
 figure of phenomenal attraction, had taken beauty- 
 worshipping Broadway by storm. In one short 
 season she had won her way to ephemeral fame, and 
 there was a rumour that she was rehearsing a most 
 expensive and spectacular motion-picture production 
 which would be the hit of the coming year in that 
 popular form of entertainment. 
 
 So far as Peter could judge she had fame and 
 wealth before her. Why, then, should she risk it all? 
 It was a question to be approached warily, by every 
 subtle art at his command. Either the plot had 
 been so well laid that she had no fear of detection 
 (else why run the risk of removing her veil in the 
 train) or what? 
 
 Peter racked his brain for a possible solution. Had 
 it been of transcendent importance to her that "Wal- 
 ter Brown" should be put out of the way? And, if
 
 166 Q. E. D. 
 
 so, how had she known where he would be on that 
 fatal night? Had Louis Hood sent her word? But 
 
 he hadn't known himself Stay. There was only 
 
 Hood's word for that. 
 
 "Go slow, old top, go slow," muttered Peter to 
 himself, "don't let your reel over-run. Play your 
 fish before you try to land him or her, as the case 
 may be. Gad, I wish I had a photograph of Walter 
 Brown to confront her with. I must look up Inspec- 
 tor Winkle in the morning and see. ... In the 
 meantime, I'll just look the ground over nothing 
 more. I'll take no chances, you can bet your life." 
 
 Communing thus with himself, Peter ran up the 
 long stairs at Thirty-third Street. The "Great 
 White Way" glittered and flashed before him as he 
 bent his steps northward. Newsboys were crying the 
 late edition of the papers, and Peter paused to buy 
 several, casting a hurried eye over each in turn. 
 The news of the sensational revelations at the inquest 
 in Morrisville had reached the papers in time to be 
 set forth in staring headlines across the front pages. 
 Louis Hood's prominence in both social and political 
 circles made the tragic event of the preceding night 
 a matter of public interest, and the accounts, es- 
 pecially in the papers whose political interests were 
 opposed to his, fairly bristling with innuendo, were 
 scarcely short of libellous. Peter remembered grate- 
 fully that the paper habitually read in the Carlisle 
 home was old-fashioned and conservative, and he
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 167 
 
 noted the gist of the restrained article in that journal 
 with a feeling of relief. There was little there to 
 alarm his friends on behalf of Louis Hood. The 
 thought of them, and of the virulent attacks in a 
 number of the papers, stirred him to fresh endeavour. 
 
 He threw all the papers, except the Planet, which 
 had the biggest headlines of all, into a rubbish can 
 at the corner (for, like Kipling's Elephant's Child, 
 Peter was very tidy) and proceeded swiftly up 
 Broadway. He turned westward on a cross street 
 where, in front of a brightly lighted theatre, "The 
 Wishing Stile" wrote itself in huge, blinding-white 
 electric light, word by word across the blue-black 
 sky. 
 
 The play had been on some time when Peter made 
 his way into the back of the darkened house. The 
 stage shone like a jewel, brilliant with light and 
 colour. Soft music played seductively, and a silly 
 pair of lovers (or so they seemed to Peter's troubled 
 mind) sang a passionate love song to each other, via 
 the appreciative audience. Peter waited anxiously 
 for Miss Gale to make her appearance. He had seen 
 her before, when her soul was probably free of crime. 
 He wished to see her again, to note whether the 
 events of last night had cast any shadow upon her 
 lovely, alluring face. 
 
 She came at last. There was a pause in the 
 action, a sense of suspense. The stage was empty, 
 and she came in alone, so graceful and delicate, so full
 
 i68 Q. E. D. 
 
 of laughter and the gaiety of life, so astoundingly 
 beautiful, that the audience burst again into the ap- 
 plause which greeted her every entrance. 
 
 She acknowledged it with a little quirking glance 
 and a laughing nod, danced to the centre of the 
 stage, and began to sing. 
 
 Her voice was not at all extraordinary, but it had a 
 happy, care-free ring which carried the jaded audi- 
 ence along with her, and at the end the applause was 
 as eager and enthusiastic as even a gifted prima 
 donna could wish. 
 
 Peter had hurriedly secured a pair of opera glasses 
 on his entrance, and for the remainder of the act he 
 gazed at her through them with an amazed and 
 grudging admiration. If this woman, or girl, as she 
 seemed, had a heavy guilt upon her soul, thought 
 Peter, she was a most marvellous actress, or else she 
 was callous beyond words to express. Not a flutter 
 of the long eyelashes betrayed her. There was not a 
 hint of guile or guilt in her merry, happy face. 
 
 Her apparently light-hearted enjoyment of a world 
 in which everything had been ordered to her liking 
 was most infectious, and at the close of the act the 
 curtain calls were many and extravagantly prolonged. 
 
 Peter shook his head as he watched her. It was up 
 to him to be careful in his dealings with this woman, 
 he considered, and as soon as the lights flashed up all 
 over the house, and the audience began to stir, he 
 sought an usher and passing him a small card and a
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 169 
 
 large coin whispered a few words in his ear, upon 
 which the usher, after a glance at the card, dis- 
 appeared with satisfying alacrity. 
 
 The card had been in Peter's hand for some time. 
 He had carefully selected it from a number, in the 
 light of the lobby, and had smiled a little to himself 
 as he looked at it. 
 
 "Mr. James Flynn" it read and below in smaller 
 letters "The New York Meteor." 
 
 A number of scoops had been provided by Mr. 
 James Flynn, otherwise Mr. Peter Clancy, to the 
 regular reporters on the staff of the Meteor, and 
 the little oblong of pasteboard was the only tribute 
 he had exacted. It had proved of service to him 
 before and was likely to prove so again. 
 
 "Miss Gale will see you in her dressing room as 
 soon as she's had time to change, sir," whispered the 
 usher, breathless from the haste he had made. 
 "She'll be ready in about ten minutes, and she 
 doesn't go on again in the first part of the act. 
 There's quite a long wait between this and the next, 
 so you'll have some little time. This way, sir." 
 
 Peter followed the usher behind the scenes, where 
 the elaborate change of setting was going forward, in 
 almost monastic silence, which contrasted strangely 
 with the stir and hum of voices beyond the curtain. 
 
 It was some moments before they could find 
 space in the crowded elevator which finally shot them 
 up to the dressing rooms, and when they had passed
 
 170 Q. E. D. 
 
 along a narrow hall, redolent with the smell of grease 
 paint and perfumed powder, a broad gleam of light 
 from the open door of the star's dressing room indi- 
 cated that Miss Gale no longer desired strict privacy. 
 
 His accommodating conductor having indicated 
 this open door, Peter slipped another coin into his 
 welcoming palm and, dismissing him, went quietly 
 forward, alone. 
 
 The hall was comparatively dark, but the dressing 
 room of Miss Viola Gale was rilled with a dazzling 
 brightness in which, apparently, no shadow lurked. 
 Peter paused an instant in the doorway and surveyed 
 the little scene before him. His feet had made almost 
 no noise on the stone floor of the passage, and the 
 woman within was, or so it seemed, unaware of his 
 presence. 
 
 She was seated on a low stool before a long dressing 
 table. At her feet knelt the dresser, a lean black 
 woman, busy with the fastenings of a pair of high- 
 heeled gold slippers. The slender figure of the 
 actress was apparently sheathed in molten gold. A 
 wave of the precious metal lay low across her breast, 
 flowed beneath her supple arms, and the two sides 
 melted together at the waist, leaving the white neck 
 and shoulders bare. How the costume could have 
 been kept in its appointed place, unless it was pasted 
 on like wall paper, was one part of the mystery which 
 Peter never did unravel. He gave the dazzling 
 figure, however, but a passing glance. His whole
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 171 
 
 attention was riveted on the face in the triptych 
 mirror of the dressing table. 
 
 Seen at close quarters it was more than ever 
 charmingly beautiful. The features were almost too 
 perfect, the colouring, even allowing for the stage 
 make-up, was enough to take one's breath. The 
 masses of waving hair rivalled the gold of her gown 
 (if gown it could be called) and as Peter looked, she 
 slowly raised her eyes. Blue eyes they were, blue 
 as the gentian flower, and as they met his in the glass 
 the pupils dilated suddenly, and the colour deepened 
 to violet, but there was no trace of trouble or fear in 
 their steady gaze. What need was there for fear? 
 What beautiful, successful actress needs to fear the 
 eyes of an admiring, pleasant, red-headed reporter 
 from the New York Meteor? 
 
 Those of Viola Gale dropped for a second to a card 
 lying on the dressing table and with a smile she 
 turned toward the door. 
 
 "Come in, Mr. Flynn," she laughed. "My war 
 paint's all on and I'm ready for the fray. What's 
 the Meteor after now? The story of my life? It 
 wouldn't be very interesting reading if I told the 
 truth, I'm afraid." 
 
 Peter looked down into her eyes with a glance as 
 merry as her own. 
 
 "I'm not so sure of that," he said, smiling, as he 
 took a seat quite close beside her. "Anything 
 about you is good copy these days. Tell me some-
 
 172 Q. E. D. 
 
 thing about yourself and you'll just see what a good 
 story I can make of it." 
 
 There followed a quick fire of light question and 
 light answer. Mindful of his part, Peter worded his 
 queries carefully so as to gain the maximum of in- 
 formation while reducing to the minimum the risk of 
 her suspecting his ulterior motive. 
 
 He found out little that he did not already know. 
 It was true that she was rehearsing a large motion 
 picture and to that end had taken a quaint old house 
 in Fulham so as to be near the celebrated motion- 
 picture studio in New Rochambeau. She was work- 
 ing very hard, she said, rehearsing there every day 
 except matinee days, and would be worn out if it were 
 not for the quiet and comfort of her country house. 
 She seemed genuinely pleased with that, as with 
 everything else, Mr. James Flynn included, and if 
 Peter had really been what he appeared, he might 
 have been enjoying himself immensely. As it was, 
 he was on pins and needles, while the minutes sped 
 away. At last he saw an opening and plunged in. 
 
 "All this is very well in its way, Miss Gale," he 
 said, gaily, "but I wish we could get up something 
 new for you. Stage a fake jewel robbery at your 
 country house, or something. You haven't worked 
 that yet, I know." His laughter was most infectious. 
 "Your house at Fulham sounds like just the right 
 sort of place to pull off some stunt of the kind." 
 
 "It would be," responded Miss Gale, echoing
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 173 
 
 Peter's laugh. " But don't you think jewel robberies 
 are a little stale?" 
 
 "Yes, they are," replied Peter, lightly. "If it was 
 only possible to fake up some sort of gory murder 
 without injuring the corpse, we'd have something 
 that would make 'em sit up and take notice. There's 
 a peach of a murder case going on somewhere in 
 Jersey now, with all the thrills in it you could possibly 
 wish. Have you seen it in the papers?" 
 
 As he spoke he swiftly unfolded the copy of the 
 Planet which had been in his hand all the while, and 
 laid it, staring headlines upward, across her golden 
 knees. 
 
 Peter did not look at the paper. Instead, his eyes 
 were fixed upon her face. There was not a tremor 
 that he could discover. The "war paint" of which 
 she had spoken so lightly might, perhaps, have proved 
 a friend in need, for not the slightest change of colour 
 betrayed her. 
 
 "Oh, that?" she said, easily, slightly shifting her 
 position so that the paper fell to the floor. "I don't 
 read the horrors much. They aren't in my line." 
 And indeed she did not look as if they were. A gay, 
 pleasure-loving woman, still young, though not in 
 her first youth, with the incense of popularity in her 
 nostrils, was all that Viola Gale appeared at that 
 period of her career. 
 
 "Turn over to the sporting page," she continued 
 with an eagerness which Peter felt might have been
 
 i 74 Q- E. D. 
 
 used to cloak a different feeling. "I've a good fat 
 bet up on Rainbow for to-morrow's race. I want to 
 see what he's done to-day. I do hope 
 
 The sound of many daintily shod feet passing along 
 the hall outside interrupted her. Bells buzzed in 
 several near-by dressing rooms. A new light came 
 into the dazzling blue eyes of Viola Gale. 
 
 "Never mind it now, Mr. Flynn,"she cried, hastily. 
 "The curtain's going up, and v I haven't much time 
 left. Make up any pretty story you like about me, 
 and I won't kick if it isn't true, if you make it pretty 
 enough." 
 
 "Shall I tell 'em you were too ill to play last night, 
 and that Miss Vaughn was Magnolia for the first 
 act, and that she did so well nobody got wise?" 
 asked Peter, smiling at her with mischief (serious 
 mischief, though this was not apparent) in his eyes. 
 
 Miss Gale glanced at him sharply. For the first 
 time her beautiful face showed traces of emotion. 
 
 "No," she said, quickly and with emphasis. 
 "Cecelia Vaughn can wait for her advertising till 
 she earns it. I've worked for years out in Frisco and 
 never got my chance till this season. I didn't have 
 any rich backers to push me along like she has. 
 Don't say anything about last night, Mr. Flynn. I 
 was a fool to " 
 
 Peter was sure she caught back the rest of the 
 sentence, though apparently she interrupted herself 
 to give some direction to the dresser who had been
 
 "THE LADY WITH THE FUNNY VEIL" 175 
 
 going quietly about the little gay room, putting it in 
 order. 
 
 Peter would have given much to hear the end of 
 that sentence; would have given still more to fathom 
 the depths which he felt must lurk behind those 
 wonderful eyes, shallow though they seemed. He 
 longed to question her sharply, imperatively, but the 
 time was not yet ripe. He must run no risk of 
 putting her on her guard. And there was no oppor- 
 tunity left, for Miss Gale received her summons to 
 the stage almost immediately thereafter, and when 
 the elevator had dropped them to the wings she bade 
 "Mr. Flynn" a hurried but friendly good-night. 
 
 "Don't say anything about my being ill yester- 
 day," she whispered, with finger upraised. "Re- 
 member, I won't see you again if you do!" She 
 was laughing but there was a note of serious intent 
 in her voice. " I trust you Mr. Flynn, " and she gave 
 him the full benefit of her glorious eyes. 
 
 A moment later a wild burst of applause announced 
 the fact that Viola Gale was still playing her part 
 before an enthusiastic audience.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 INSPECTOR WINKLE PROPOUNDS A NEW THEORY 
 
 AND I think that's about all, O'Malley," said 
 Peter Clancy, in proper person. 
 
 It was the morning of Saturday, April second, and 
 the murder of "Walter Brown" was not yet two 
 days old. It occupied its place of prominence in the 
 pages of the press and there w T ere many significant 
 hints as to what the police had found out and were, 
 for the present, keeping to themselves. 
 
 "All bunk," said Peter, tapping the open paper 
 which lay on the desk before his partner, Captain 
 O'Malley, late of the New York police but now 
 pursuing the career of private detective in collabo- 
 ration with his young and talented friend. "Don't 
 believe they know anything we aren't wise to, nor a 
 lot that we are. I'll see Winkle this morning and 
 find out what they've got. Have to make up to him 
 and get a photo of the body if I can. You get the 
 dope on every person on that list, and keep tabs on 
 the ones I've marked, old man. I'll call you up as 
 usual." 
 
 In pursuance of his plan Peter Clancy found him- 
 self some little time later at the police station in 
 
 176
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 177 
 
 Morrisville, sitting comfortably in a chair in In- 
 spector Winkle's private office. The chair was 
 tilted back and the feet of Mr. Clancy rested on 
 Inspector Winkle's desk. Apparently all the leisure 
 in the world was his, and all his idle thoughts were 
 centred on the fishing trip which, he informed the 
 inspector, had been postponed but not abandoned. 
 He had just dropped in to find out what was doing in 
 the case of Walter Brown, while Mr. Carlisle was 
 running about making some purchases. The fact of 
 the matter was that Peter had telephoned Harrison 
 Carlisle to drive over to the police station for him 
 at one o'clock, not earlier, and he knew that he had 
 plenty of time for the task which he had set himself. 
 
 He had spent nearly half an hour ingratiating him- 
 self with Inspector Winkle and had achieved such 
 success that the worthy police officer was so im- 
 pressed by Peter's admiration of his attainments and 
 his way of conducting the case that he was in a posi- 
 tion to be turned inside out like an old glove. This 
 Peter did, figuratively speaking, finger by finger, and 
 found, to his surprise, for he had thought Inspector 
 Winkle a man of more intelligence, that the old offi- 
 cer had evolved a new theory, entirely out of his own 
 head, to the astounding effect that Walter Brown had 
 been dropped to the terrace from an aeroplane. 
 
 It was in vain that Peter pointed out the in- 
 controvertible fact that Walter Brown had been 
 inside the Hood house, and had only left it a few
 
 178 Q. E. D. 
 
 minutes before he was killed; that Walter Brown's 
 own footsteps gave incontestable evidence that he 
 himself ran to the spot where he met his death; that 
 there was only a slight contusion on the head proving 
 that it was impossible for him to have fallen from any 
 great height. So in love was the inspector with the 
 up-to-dateness of his theory that his faith in it re- 
 mained unshaken. 
 
 Finding this, Peter cheerfully refrained from 
 pressing the point. He hoped that Winkle's change 
 of front would keep the police and the newspapers 
 off the subject of Louis Hood for the present, and 
 give him a chance to prove his own, quite different 
 theory. 
 
 After agreeing with the inspector that strange 
 things did happen, and that in the present age very 
 little was impossible, he gently led the conversation 
 to the question of Walter Brown's identity. On this 
 the inspector had no further inspiration to offer. 
 He now rejected Louis Hood's story in toto, hinting 
 darkly that Hood had his own secrets, perhaps, but 
 that they had nothing to do with the death of Walter 
 Brown, the presence of whose dead body on his door- 
 step had aided Hood in covering a succession of 
 circumstances which, for some occult purpose, un- 
 explained, the inspector thought Hood wished to 
 conceal. 
 
 Peter could but marvel at the proneness of human 
 nature to twist facts to meet a preconceived pet idea,
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 179 
 
 and was grateful in his heart to the training of his old 
 friend O'Malley, who had insisted, at the outset of 
 his career, that Peter should always keep an open 
 mind, subject to change without notice, until every 
 known fact fell into place and made a perfect whole. 
 He would do it now, he insisted firmly to himself. He 
 would not pretend to write Q. E. D. at the end of 
 the problem until every proposition in the whole in- 
 tricate sum was axiomatic in its clarity. 
 
 It took no effort on Peter's part to refrain from 
 sarcastic comments upon the pampered child of 
 Inspector Winkle's brain. The more lusty the child 
 grew, the better for his purpose. He contented 
 himself with the suggestion that the newspapers 
 would give ample space to Winkle's new theory and 
 returned to his immediate purpose. 
 
 "They've asked for a picture of the murdered man 
 to run in the papers, I suppose," he said, casually. 
 "I haven't seen one yet. Have you had any photos 
 taken?" 
 
 "Sure," said Winkle. "They'll be out this eve- 
 ning. No objection to that. In fact, it should have 
 been done before, only I didn't want to be in too 
 much of a hurry giving things out." He winked, 
 knowingly. "Keep the public on the jump and 
 you'll get more space and notoriety, my boy. Just 
 remember that. If you shoot all of your rockets up 
 at one clip, the show's soon over. Just you watch 
 the papers to-night and you'll see some story,
 
 i8o Q. E. D. 
 
 believe me," and the inspector rubbed his fat hands 
 with satisfaction. 
 
 "To-night," thought Peter. Would that be early 
 enough for his purpose? He wanted to catch Miss 
 Viola Gale before she left the theatre after the 
 matinee that afternoon. The papers might be out 
 in time, but a newspaper cut leaves much to the 
 imagination at times. It would be better. . . . 
 
 "Let's see the photograph. Did you get a good 
 one?" said Peter, in an off-hand manner. 
 
 "Say, boy, we got a corker. Face not disfigured, 
 you know, and well see for yourself; and the 
 inspector took several unmounted prints from the 
 drawer of his desk and tossed them to Peter. 
 
 "Good-looking chap, enough, wasn't he?" said 
 Peter, studying the face. "Mind if I take one of 
 these for a souvenir? It's a little fad of mine. I've 
 got a sort of what you'd call a memory book, I guess. 
 Kind of kiddish, I suppose," apologetically. "But 
 then- 
 
 "You aren't much more than a kid, are you, Mr. 
 Peter Clancy?" Inspector Winkle laughed from the 
 heights of his superior years and experience. "Sure- 
 Take one along if you like. Memory book, eh?" he 
 chuckled to himself. "Some kid," shaking his head 
 and a considerable portion of his rotund body, "I'll 
 tell the world." 
 
 His purpose accomplished, Peter waited somewhat 
 impatiently for Harrison Carlisle's appearance.
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 181 
 
 Punctual to the minute he came, and a few seconds 
 later they were speeding along the smooth road to 
 Fern Hills. 
 
 "Well, old top, tell us the news," cried Carlisle as 
 soon as he had greeted Peter. "How are things 
 going? I talked to Louis over the 'phone, but his 
 replies were sort of unsatisfactory, though he said 
 he'd heard from you." 
 
 "Yes," said Peter. "I got him on the wire early 
 this morning, though there really isn't much to re- 
 port yet. The best news I've had I got here," and 
 he laughed as he disclosed the wonderful new theory 
 of Inspector Winkle. 
 
 "I thought he had some brains last night," Peter 
 continued. "It only goes to show, as O'Malley says, 
 that you never can tell. Would you think any 
 man could be such a fool, in the face of all the 
 facts?" 
 
 "But, Peter," hazarded Carlisle, "it does seem 
 to me that Winkle's theory is as good as any I can 
 imagine, crazy as it is. When an impossible thing 
 happens 
 
 "An impossible thing never happens, Harry," said 
 Peter, seriously, "you can bet your last buck on 
 that." 
 
 "You have a theory of your own then, Peter," said 
 Carlisle, eagerly looking into his friend's face. "A 
 theory that 
 
 "I have no theory, Harry." The gravity of
 
 182 Q. E. D. 
 
 Clancy's face deepened. "I'm carefully keeping my 
 mind clear of all theories. What I'm dealing in 
 is facts. I don't know yet who committed the 
 crime, but I know" he paused and repeated slowly, 
 emphatically "I know how the murder was done." 
 
 "Good God!" gasped Carlisle. "You don't mean 
 that you've solved " 
 
 "Only part of it, old man, so keep your shirt on. 
 I know how it was done, but I don't know by whom, 
 or why. And of course the two hang together. 
 Hood says no one but himself knew Walter Brown 
 was in Fern Hills. Then how could it have hap- 
 pened? Someone must have known, or else 
 
 He paused again and seemed plunged so deep in 
 thought that Carlisle forebore, with his usual con- 
 sideration, to speak. 
 
 After a while Peter roused himself and spoke again, 
 changing the subject abruptly. 
 
 "How's your mother?" he asked. "She isn't 
 worried at all, is she?" 
 
 "Well, there you are," answered Carlisle, with 
 angry impatience. "She wouldn't have been a bit 
 
 if You know our old stand-by, the New York 
 
 Stick, I call it, had a very good, quiet account of 
 what happened Thursday night, and if she'd read 
 only that, everything would have been all right; but, 
 as luck would have it, they take the Planet in the 
 kitchen, and that fool Hoki (I suppose he can't read 
 English) brought it in by mistake last night. Mother
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 183 
 
 was awfully upset over what it hinted about poor 
 Louis hinted like a steam-siren, you might say. 
 Anyhow, nobody could miss it, and Mother's no 
 fool. She took it standing, like the old brick she 
 is, but, oh, Peter, I wish you'd hurry up and set all 
 our minds at rest." 
 
 "Too damn bad," said Peter, feelingly, "but 
 Winkle's theory's going to be aired in all its airiness 
 in to-night's papers, and Hood wasn't up in an 
 aeroplane that night. Everybody knows that, so 
 that lets him out, you see." He laughed and went on 
 rather hastily: "Speaking of Hood, who was that he 
 'phoned to Thursday night, after we got over to your 
 house, do you know? A lady, wasn't it? I thought 
 I heard ' 
 
 "Yes, so did I. It was Sylvia Farquhar. He's 
 been in love with her like most of the rest of us," 
 Carlisle smiled a trifle sadly, "ever since she was a 
 kid. He and Robert Kent and 
 
 "Robert Kent?" interjected Peter with a slight lift 
 of the brows. "I rather thought 
 
 "Oh, yes," said Harrison, musingly, "Robert, too. 
 We're all crazy about Sylvia, and you wouldn't won- 
 der if you could see her. She's so beautiful, so 
 gracious, so kind to everybody, that it's impossible 
 
 to guess But I think, myself, that Louis will be 
 
 the winner in the long run. He has the start of us all. 
 He's known her ever since she was a little girl. They 
 both lived in Philadelphia then. I didn't know her
 
 184 Q. E. D. 
 
 till they moved to New York, and I don't think Kent 
 did, either. He's a distant cousin of Louis's, you 
 know, and they've been sort of rivals in this as in 
 most things. But I'm putting all my money on 
 Louis. He beat us all at college, and he's made some- 
 thing of himself since, which is more than I can say. 
 I can't, somehow, get really interested in anything 
 but sport," regretfully; "even Robert works harder 
 than I ever thought of doing. He has a lot of things 
 he's interested in, though I don't think he sticks to 
 anything much more seriously than I do. He got 
 me interested in a real-estate scheme the summer he 
 spent out here. It was one of the years Louis and 
 his mother were abroad, and Rob had Louis's house 
 for the season or rather his sister, Mrs. Fayle, took 
 it, and Rob was with her most of the summer. The 
 thing looked promising, the real-estate scheme, I 
 mean, but it fell through and we both lost a lot of 
 money though I don't regret it, for it gave me some- 
 thing to think of besides Sylvia." He spoke the 
 girl's name with a tenderness and regret that was 
 infinitely touching. 
 
 "Tell me something more about her," said Peter, 
 after a short silence in which his friend's face had 
 remained sadly thoughtful. "Is it Miss or Mrs. 
 Farquhar?" 
 
 "Why, 'Miss,' of course," answered Harrison, in 
 surprise. "Why do you ask?" 
 
 "Oh, I don't know exactly," said Peter, medita-
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 185 
 
 tively, "I had a sort of idea I don't know where I 
 got it that she might have been married, and that 
 it hadn't turned out well. You're sure she couldn't 
 have been secretly, perhaps?" 
 
 Harry Carlisle shook his head in complete denial. 
 
 "Where you ever got such a crazy idea I can't 
 imagine, Peter. But there's nothing in it. I've 
 known her very well for years and there's never been 
 the slightest suggestion " 
 
 "You're sure?" persisted Peter, with his eyebrows 
 drawn together in concentrated thought. "You're 
 certain there was no such thing as an unfortunate 
 marriage a husband who disappeared and was sup- 
 posed to be dead " 
 
 "Heavens, no, Peter! What on earth put such a 
 thing into your head ? Why, her whole life has been 
 as open as the day," said Carlisle, warmly. "No hint 
 of scandal has ever touched Sylvia Farquhar. You 
 can be sure of that." 
 
 Peter's mind had been intensely active, reviewing 
 a quite possible, though somewhat romantic con- 
 junction of circumstances, involving a possible mo- 
 tive for the crime in which his every faculty was 
 absorbed. The unexpected return of a lover or 
 husband, supposed to be dead, just at the moment 
 when Louis Hood's success with the object of his 
 affections was almost in sight, would, if found to be 
 true, present an adequate motive. ... In the 
 face of Harry's better knowledge, however, this
 
 i86 Q. E. D. 
 
 seemed untenable. Peter abandoned it for the 
 moment though it still lurked in the background of 
 his mind. 
 
 "All right, Harry, I'm a nut," said Peter, easily. 
 "I'll admit I get crazy ideas once in a while. But 
 I'm interested in Miss Farquhar. Tell me something 
 more about her. Who is she? Has she any family? 
 I just sort of thought well, put it down to curi- 
 osity." 
 
 "I don't quite see what you're after, Peter," said 
 Carlisle, puzzled. "But of course I'd just as soon 
 tell you about her. She's an orphan, and lives all 
 alone. Her father and mother died years ago and 
 left her and her brother very well off." 
 
 "She had a brother, then," said Peter, carelessly, 
 though he felt his ears pricking up. "Is he dead, 
 too?" 
 
 "I don't know, Peter. I think so. I don't know 
 much about him, except that I understand he ran 
 rather wild after he came into his property. I didn't 
 know Sylvia then, myself, but Louis did. He could 
 tell you anything you want to know. But I don't 
 see " 
 
 Peter had been leaning forward, one arm resting 
 on the side of the seat, his gaze fixed on his friend. 
 Now he sank back on the cushions and regarded the 
 road ahead with unseeing eyes. 
 
 "No, no, I don't suppose you do, old man," he 
 murmured, thoughtfully, "and I can't tell you just
 
 WINKLE PROPOUNDS A THEORY 187 
 
 yet. You'll have to trust me if you can, and don't 
 worry," he added, in a different tone. "Things are 
 dark, but by gad, they're clearing clearing." He 
 relapsed into a silence which remained unbroken 
 until they reached Carlisle's home.
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 AN INTERLUDE 
 
 CO YOU can set your mind at rest about the 
 ^ papers making any more trouble for Mr. Hood 
 for the present, Mrs. Carlisle," said Peter Clancy, 
 leaning toward his hostess, and patting the plump 
 old hand which lay near him upon the polished 
 mahogany of the table. "As I told Mr. Hood over 
 the 'phone just now, the papers will be so occupied 
 with Inspector Winkle's new theory, not realizing, 
 perhaps, how absurd it is, that they'll leave him 
 alone. It will make a corking story, and, after all, 
 that's what the press cares most about." And 
 he smiled confidently into the now hopeful face of the 
 old lady. 
 
 Peter had been doing justice to a hearty and de- 
 licious luncheon while he outlined to Mrs. Carlisle 
 the new and novel theory of Inspector Winkle to 
 which he had just referred. The old lady's bitterness 
 at the unjust attack on Louis Hood was by this time 
 somewhat alleviated by Peter's words, and she ex- 
 pressed her approval of him and them by a cordial, 
 friendly smile. 
 
 "You certainly are a comfort to us all, Mr. no, 
 
 188
 
 AN INTERLUDE 189 
 
 no, Peter," she said, quickly, as that engaging young 
 man shook his red head at her. "I don't know 
 what we'd do without him, do you, Harry?" 
 
 "Old Red-top is on the job, Mother. You can 
 depend on him," grinned Carlisle, serving himself 
 to some more of the exquisitely dressed salad, which 
 the inimitable Hoki tendered at his elbow. "Have 
 some more, Peter," he recommended, earnestly. 
 "You won't get a salad like this every day." 
 
 Peter helped himself lavishly and watched the 
 clever Japanese as he left the room. When the door 
 was closed he returned to the subject which occupied 
 all their thoughts, and it was not until luncheon was 
 over that he drew Harrison aside and spoke to him 
 earnestly. 
 
 "Your mother's awfully pleased with that butler 
 of yours, Harry," he said, "and I hate to make any 
 trouble. But he's hitting the pipe on the quiet. I 
 know the signs. It's a pet vice of the race, and, take 
 it from me, you'd better watch him." 
 
 He said no more, but he said this so seriously that 
 his words had the desired effect. Harrison promised 
 that he would keep his eyes open, and the young men 
 sauntered together into the living room where Mrs. 
 Carlisle awaited them. 
 
 The day had turned unexpectedly warm, and all 
 the windows had been thrown open. The belated 
 spring had decided at last to bring itself up to date 
 in a leap, and the temperature had risen in less than
 
 190 Q. E. D. 
 
 twenty-four hours to summer heat, as is the custom 
 of our versatile climate. It seemed scarcely possible 
 that two days before snow had been lying thick where 
 now the green grass glistened in the hot sun. Buds 
 were swelling on the boughs where birds basked 
 and sang their song of newly awakened life and 
 joy. 
 
 "It's very warm, isn't it?" said Mrs. Carlisle, 
 fanning herself as she sat in her big winged chair. 
 "I always feel these sudden changes very much. I 
 suppose it's because I'm growing fat and old." 
 
 "You old, Mother!" exclaimed Harry, laughing. 
 "You'll never be old, dear. Will she, Peter? You 
 should see her after black bass up in Maine. She 
 can cast sitting in a boat as well as any man I know, 
 and she lands her fish every time, no matter what sort 
 of fight he puts up." 
 
 "If she doesn't strike a lot of bad leaders, as we did 
 yesterday, eh, Harry?" laughed Peter. "I don't 
 think she really believed that story, do you?" 
 
 "Well, it did sound a trifle fishy, I admit," said 
 Harry, "but it was true, just the same, Mother. 
 I tested the whole lot, even the ones I had at home, 
 and they're all rotten, every one. It's an infernal 
 shame, too, for I've just received a permit this noon 
 to fish at the Plympton Reservoir and I'd beat it 
 over there this afternoon if I had any decent tackle." 
 
 "Oh, my dear boy," said Mrs. Carlisle, with a 
 serious air of concern which was very attractive in a
 
 AN INTERLUDE 191 
 
 woman of her years, "isn't that too bad! The 
 reservoir is alive with trout, I know. I saw them 
 jumping when I drove over there with the Ainslees a 
 week ago. Isn't there some way you could get good 
 leaders ? How about Conger's in Morrisville ? They 
 have tackle." 
 
 "Yes, they have, confound 'em! That's where I 
 got this last lot of leaders, and I'll be damned ex- 
 cuse me, Mother I'll be whatever you like if I'll 
 ever buy another cent's worth from Conger as long 
 as I live. Why, Peter had a fish on yesterday morn- 
 ing " 
 
 "Couldn't you get some from Louis?" interrupted 
 Mrs. Carlisle, whose sporting instincts were thor- 
 oughly aroused. "He must have tackle out here." 
 
 "Oh, I don't like to bother Louis," said Harry, giv- 
 ing his head a quick jerk. "He's got trouble enough, 
 and it would seem sort of heartless." 
 
 "I can't see what good you'd be doing him, staying 
 at home a beautiful day like this," objected Mrs. 
 Carlisle. The happiness and pleasure of her dear 
 boy took, after all, the first place in her heart. "If 
 there were anything you could do for Louis " 
 
 "There isn't a thing he could do, Mrs. Carlisle," 
 said Peter, earnestly, "and he'd be lots better off do- 
 ing something amusing. Wish I could go along, but 
 I can't worse luck. I'll have to be in town bv 
 four o'clock." 
 
 "Well, there's no use talking about it, anyway,"
 
 192 Q. E. D. 
 
 said Harry, disconsolately. "I haven't any decent 
 tackle, so that settles it." 
 
 "Harry!" cried Mrs. Carlisle, brightening sud- 
 denly, "I have it! Robert Kent's tackle is all here. 
 He's so perfect he'll be sure to have the best of 
 everything, and he couldn't possibly mind your 
 taking a few leaders." 
 
 "By George, Mother, you certainly are a wonder!" 
 exclaimed Harry, laughing aloud. "I never thought 
 of Rob's stuff. Of course ! That's the very ticket ! 
 He must have every kind of tackle known to man in 
 that outfit of his. Come on, Pete, and see it. It's 
 something to make your mouth water. Even beats 
 his clothes for being the real thing." 
 
 " Is it so wonderful, Harry ? " said Mrs . Carlisle, 
 her eyes dancing with the amusement of her ever- 
 youthful spirit. "If it's any better than his clothes, 
 I'd like to see it." 
 
 "Come along then, old dear. You have a treat 
 before you," and Harry led the way up the broad 
 staircase, his mother following with a step surpris- 
 ingly light and quick for one of her age and build, and 
 Peter, scarcely less entertained, bringing up the rear. 
 
 The room which was still considered Robert Kent's, 
 for he was expected back that evening, was charming 
 in its exquisite neatness and comfort, and had been 
 prepared for his return even to a vase of fresh flowers, 
 which Hoki, who delighted in the opportunity for 
 displaying his taste, always arranged, and which he
 
 AN INTERLUDE 193 
 
 had but now placed upon the dressing table. He 
 was leaving the room as they entered it and lingered 
 a moment in the hall, listening, perhaps, for their 
 comments upon the effect of the artistically arranged 
 feathery sprays of forsythia against the dully gleam- 
 ing mahogany. 
 
 If this was his purpose, he was doomed to dis- 
 appointment, for the minds of his employers and 
 their guest were centred on one object only. 
 
 "There are his rods," said Harry, pointing to a 
 large bundle of them standing in the corner of the 
 spacious closet the door of which he had thrown 
 open. "That's his suitcase, and this must be his 
 tackle outfit. Now, boy, you'll see something worth 
 while," and he lifted the smaller one of the two 
 leather bags, carried it out into the room, and placed 
 it on a low stool, made for the purpose, which stood 
 beside the empty fireplace. He knelt beside, it. 
 
 Mrs. Carlisle was about to seat herself, preparatory 
 to enjoying in full the examination of trout flies, 
 artificial bait, reels, and all the paraphernalia of what 
 was still her favourite sport, when an ejaculation of 
 disappointment from her son checked her. 
 
 "Oh, dammit all!" cried Harry, sitting back on 
 his heels, "the bag is locked, of course! Might 
 have known it would be. My own tackle bag is the 
 one thing in the house I do lock up. Well, I'm 
 dished for this afternoon, confound it ! I think I'll go 
 into town with you, Peter, and get some good leaders
 
 i 94 Q- E. D. 
 
 at Abersvail and Finche's. They have a new kind of 
 Japanese silk-worm gut that I want to try, and 
 
 "Harry, my dear," interrupted Mrs. Carlisle, 
 folding her hands across her ample front, and looking 
 down at him with superior resourcefulness, "you just 
 wait a minute before you give up. Trust your old 
 mother not to be stopped by a mere trifle." And 
 without explaining further, she left the room, chuck- 
 ling to herself. 
 
 She returned in a moment jingling an enormous 
 bunch of keys, the collection of a lifetime, in her hand. 
 
 "If you don't find one here that will fit," she 
 beamed, "my name's not Mary Carlisle." 
 
 "But, Mother," objected Harry, though it must 
 be admitted that his remonstrance was only half- 
 hearted, "wouldn't you be at all ashamed of burglar- 
 izing a man's locked tackle box?" 
 
 "No, my dear, I wouldn't," said Mrs. Carlisle, 
 stoutly. " If it were anything else, I wouldn't con- 
 sider it for an instant. But this is a case of necessity. 
 You can't go fishing for trout without good leaders. 
 That's all there is about it. I'll explain to Rob, 
 myself, when he comes back to-night," she added, 
 with dignity, "and he'll be sure to understand. Any 
 sportsman would." 
 
 Harrison looked at his mother with amused ap- 
 preciation, and casting a quizzical glance at Peter, 
 whose enjoyment of the situation was only less ap- 
 parent, he bent to his task.
 
 AN INTERLUDE 195 
 
 He tried a great number of the more promising- 
 looking keys before his labours were rewarded. 
 
 "What did I tell you?" cried Mrs. Carlisle, with 
 delighted triumph, as the lock at last turned smoothly 
 over. "That bunch of keys never fails, except with 
 some of these new-fangled Yale locks, of course. I've 
 opened more trunks for people who'd forgotten their 
 
 keys, and Oh!" as Harry raised the lid of the 
 
 leathern case, "oh, my! oh, my! what a beautiful 
 arrangement! How complete! There's a place for 
 
 Oh, my dear, just let me look!" and the sporting 
 
 old lady drew up her chair and gazed upon the 
 interior of the box with all the ardour of a young 
 mother over her first bassinette. 
 
 Peter was so entertained with watching the old 
 lady that it was several minutes before he could turn 
 his attention to the object of her enthusiasm. When 
 he did so, at length, he found it equal to Harry's 
 prediction. There was everything there that a 
 fisherman's heart could desire, it would seem. 
 There were fly books, with flies of every conceivable 
 size and colour, from the gay Parmacheeni Belle down 
 to the modest but effective Gray Hackle. There was 
 a japanned box of English dry flies, so small and deli- 
 cate that they had to be lifted out of their little 
 glazed nests with a pair of small pincers provided for 
 the purpose. There were hooks, ranging in size from 
 the tiny ones in which the English dry flies were tied 
 to the large ones used for tarpon fishing, a sport in
 
 196 Q. E. D. 
 
 which even Harry admitted Rob could give him 
 cards and spades. There were reels, large and small, 
 each in its elegant little leather case. The beauty 
 of workmanship and the effectiveness of the mechan- 
 ism of these latter especially interested Peter, who 
 had not had Harry's opportunities of testing them. 
 He played with them, fascinated, all the while Harry 
 and his mother were looking over the rest of the outfit 
 and selecting the leaders of which Harry stood in need. 
 
 "Well," said Mrs. Carlisle at last with a little 
 sigh, "that has done me good! Next to fishing 
 itself, I do love to play with the tackle, don't you, 
 Harry? I suppose Peter thinks we're what do you 
 boys say? Nuts? Yes, nuts! But is there any- 
 thing prettier than a trout fly, really ? " She caressed 
 a gaudy Royal Coachman with the tip of her finger 
 before she closed the fly book and put it carefully 
 back in its place. 
 
 Peter had gone over to the window the better 
 to examine a fine tarpon reel, which was one of the 
 collection. He returned as Mrs. Carlisle spoke, and 
 answered her remark with a little smile as he fitted 
 the reel case into its appointed place. 
 
 "We're all nuts together, Mrs. Carlisle," he said. 
 "I suppose other people would find it hard to under- 
 stand the fascination of catching even a very little 
 trout, and tarpon fishing must be great. What sort 
 of line do you use for tarpon, Harry? Are there any 
 here?"
 
 AN INTERLUDE 197 
 
 "Don't see any," said Carlisle, running a leader 
 through his fingers and testing it thoroughly. "But 
 it's just an ordinary heavy linen line." 
 
 "You wouldn't think linen would hold a big fish 
 like that, even if it were made into a cable," said 
 Peter, glancing at a picture on the wall which showed 
 one of the great fish leaping in the air. "I should 
 think you'd need a steel line." 
 
 Carlisle laughed. 
 
 "That shows how much old Red-top really knows, 
 doesn't it, Mother," he jeered. "Imagine a steel 
 line! Why, one of those big fellows, Peter, would put 
 a kink in it and snap it off like a like a pipe stem. 
 Never mind your ignorance, old chap. We'll take 
 you down to Florida next winter, if you'll come, and 
 show you some real sport, won't we, Mother?" 
 
 "We'd love to have you come, Peter," said Mrs. 
 Carlisle, enthusiastically. "Couldn't you manage 
 it somehow? We'd have a delightful time, and we 
 could go into the lake country after bass and 
 there's wonderful shooting. Do say you'll try to do 
 it!" 
 
 "Fd love to, Mrs. Carlisle," said Peter with a 
 warm feeling at his heart. He had made a good 
 many friends, had this homely, pleasant young man, 
 but not many had made him feel so much at home, so 
 contented and cared for, as had these two kindly 
 people. There is a camaraderie among those who 
 love the same sport, fishing especially perhaps, which
 
 198 Q. E. D. 
 
 is a thing by itself and quite apart from the ordinary 
 relationships of our semi-social humanity. 
 
 Peter, looking at his watch, sighed a little. Possibly 
 because it was time to bring this pleasant interlude 
 to an end. Possibly because of the grave and serious 
 business to which he must now return. He made his 
 warm and grateful adieux to Mrs. Carlisle, promising 
 to return at the earliest possible moment, again ex- 
 pressed his regret that he could not accompany 
 Harry upon this afternoon's fishing expedition, and 
 as Harry was now ready to start in quest of the 
 speckled beauties, Peter availed himself of the oppor- 
 tunity, and went with him in his car as far as the 
 station in Fern Hills, which Harry insisted was 
 directly on his way. 
 
 Peter, who had still a few minutes left before train 
 time, watched his friend drive away. As the swift 
 car vanished in the distance the smile which he had 
 worn in bidding Harry good-bye vanished from his 
 face, and was superseded by a look which was grave 
 and serious, almost threatening in its solemnity. 
 
 " Fishers " he muttered to himself, following the 
 
 thought suggested by the incidents of the afternoon, 
 
 "fishers Where have I ^heard it? 'Fishers of 
 
 men' ... of men and women. . . . Well," 
 with a shrug, "all fishing is sport, after a fashion. 
 But Harry's sort has no ugliness in it none. While 
 
 3" 
 
 mine . . . r 
 
 He pulled himself together as the train whistled
 
 AN INTERLUDE 199 
 
 beyond the curve of shining rails, and threw back his 
 head. 
 
 "It's your job, Peter," he said to himself, firmly, 
 "wherever it leads, remember that. No flinching. 
 Forward March ! " 
 
 And with mind, from this moment, solely con- 
 centrated on the serious problem which he had 
 undertaken to solve, Peter was whirled away toward 
 the great city in whose maze he now expected, confi- 
 dently, to pick up a thread which would lead him to 
 ultimate success.
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 A FRAME-UP? 
 
 ]V,iTSS VIOLA GALE had triumphantly completed 
 *** that afternoon the one hundredth performance 
 of "The Wishing Stile." It was an event heralded 
 in the press, and fittingly commemorated by the 
 presentation to the crowded audience of alluring 
 photographs of the star in all her beauty, signed by 
 her own fair hand. 
 
 As the shadows of the tall buildings began to 
 lengthen across Times Square the enthusiastic crowd 
 poured out of the theatre, and in many a matinee- 
 girlish heart was raised the longing to look and be 
 exactly like the heroine of "The Wishing Stile", the 
 photograph of whom was clutched tightly between 
 white-gloved fingers. 
 
 In the meantime, the subject of all this admiration 
 was rapidly changing to street clothes in her gay little 
 dressing room. Her cheeks from which the rouge had 
 been removed were flushed with triumph. The air 
 was heavy with the scent of a multitude of flowers, 
 and the heat, owing to the unseasonable sultriness of 
 the day, was almost intolerable. But Viola Gale gave 
 no heed to the oppressiveness of the atmosphere. 
 
 200
 
 A FRAME-UP? 201 
 
 She sang and laughed as, with the deft aid of the 
 dresser, she rapidly donned her outer garments, and, 
 flinging open the door, let in her congratulatory 
 manager and a crowd of eager young reporters. 
 
 If she had looked for the cheerful, freckled face 
 and red head of Mr. James Flynn, representing the 
 New York Meteor, she would not have seen them, but 
 that young man bore no place in her thoughts. 
 
 It was not until she had shaken off the last of the 
 regular representatives of the press by laughingly 
 closing the door of her handsome little car in their 
 eager faces; it was not until the car was actually 
 in motion, that she was reminded of him in rather a 
 startling and forcible manner. 
 
 A red head suddenly appeared at the car door 
 opposite the pavement, as, lightly and quietly as a 
 cat, a young man leaped to the running board, 
 opened the door, closed it softly and, without a word, 
 seated himself beside her. 
 
 "Well, of all the nerve!" exclaimed Viola Gale, 
 indignantly, reaching for the tube which communi- 
 cated with the chauffeur upon the seat outside, "I 
 never 
 
 Peter Clancy touched her arm. 
 
 "Drop it!" he said, quietly, but with so much of 
 menace in his steel-blue eyes that she gazed at him 
 in real or pretended amazement. 
 
 "I have a lot to say to you, Miss Gale, and it's 
 very important both to you and to others that you
 
 202 Q. E. D. 
 
 should hear me out." Peter's voice was keen and 
 cold and his eyes never left her face. 
 
 "But I have given an interview to the Meteor 
 already," she said, frowning and biting her red lip. 
 "It was the Meteor, wasn't it?" 
 
 "It's not the Meteor now, whatever it may have 
 been," said Peter, throwing off the last remnant of 
 disguise. "The story I'm getting from you now 
 isn't necessarily for publication." 
 
 "The story you're getting from me?" she repeated, 
 angrily. "You seem very sure of yourself Mr. - 
 Mr.Flynn!" 
 
 "Nothing to it," said Peter, crisply. "My name is 
 Clancy. It's just possible you may have heard of 
 me, though horrors aren't in your line, I remember 
 you said. I'm a private detective." 
 
 She started at this and looked at Peter curiously. 
 He watched her face intently asjhe added, slowly, 
 seriously, with pauses between the short, curt 
 sentences, "I'm working on a murder case the case 
 of Walter Brown. . . . He was killed Thursday 
 night in Fern Hills at the residence of Mr. Louis 
 Hood." 
 
 If he expected that she would betray herself at this 
 startling announcement Peter was doomed to dis- 
 appointment. The woman gazed at him blankly, 
 but he could not see even a trace of fear in her eyes. 
 
 " Perhaps you don't know anything about it," said 
 Peter, with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice.
 
 A FRAME-UP? 203 
 
 "I think you must be crazy," cried Viola Gale, 
 swiftly reaching again for the speaking tube. 
 
 Peter caught her wrist this time firmly in his 
 hand, unheeding the possibility of being observed 
 by any one in the crowd through which they were 
 passing. 
 
 "Why did you scream outside the wall of Louis 
 Hood's place on Thursday night?" he whispered in 
 her ear. "Did something frighten you?" 
 
 She dropped the tube as if it had burned through 
 her spotless white glove. 
 
 "My God!" she breathed. "What what do you 
 mean?" 
 
 "I'm curious to know what explanation you have 
 to offer for your presence there," said Peter, eyeing 
 her watchfully, "exactly at the time of the mur- 
 der." 
 
 A strange look came over the beautiful face, but 
 Viola Gale made no reply. 
 
 The car slowed down and stopped before a rather 
 flamboyant apartment house in Fifty-seventh Street. 
 
 "You live here?" Peter questioned. 
 
 The woman nodded. 
 
 "I have an apartment to rest between per- 
 formances," she said in a stifled voice. 
 
 "You must see that we have a lot to say to each 
 other, Miss Gale," said Peter. "You will let me 
 come in with you so that we can talk quietly." 
 There was authority in every word.
 
 204 Q. E. D. 
 
 He stepped out of the car and turned to give her 
 his hand in alighting. She ignored it and spoke to 
 the chauffeur. 
 
 "At seven-thirty, John," she said, mechanically, 
 and as one in a daze, crossed the sidewalk. 
 
 Peter did not speak as he opened the doors for her 
 to pass. In the elevator he regarded her averted 
 face in silence. It was not until the trim maid, who 
 opened the door of the apartment, had left them 
 alone that Peter spoke. 
 
 "You'd better sit down," he said, noting the pallor 
 of her face, "and let me take your wrap. It's 
 stifling in here." 
 
 She did not reply, but sank upon a couch, letting 
 her fur-trimmed coat drop from her shoulders. For 
 a moment Peter thought she was going to faint. 
 Hastily, he crossed to the windows and threw them 
 wide. The air that came in was heavy and ener- 
 vating. The sky was darkened in the west by 
 lowering clouds, though the sun still shone redly. 
 There was a strange light in the frivolous, perfumed 
 room a lurid red light, casting greenish shadows. 
 In its rays, the woman, in all the gay trappings of 
 her success, sat as if turned to ice. 
 
 Peter drew up a chair and seated himself deliber- 
 ately. 
 
 "Come, now, Miss Gale, let's get down to cases." 
 
 His voice was cold and hard, without a trace of 
 pity or compunction. At the sound of it she stirred
 
 A FRAME-UP? 205 
 
 and shivered, but her eyes remained fixed, with an 
 expression as if she saw nothing. 
 
 "You carried things off very well last night, when 
 I called your attention to the murder at Fern Hills," 
 Peter went on, "but it won't do, Miss Gale. You 
 can't fool me. I know too much." 
 
 Still she said nothing. 
 
 "Come, come," said Peter, impatiently, insistently, 
 "you can't get away with it like this. You'd better 
 make a clean breast of it. I know you were only an 
 accomplice that you had nothing to do with the 
 actual murder of Walter Brown." 
 
 At the name she roused herself and the faintest 
 tinge of colour crept into her set face. 
 
 "I don't know what you're talking about," she 
 said, with a visible effort. "I never even heard of 
 Walter Brown, and as far as I know, I've never been 
 in Fern Hills in my life." 
 
 Peter gazed at her steadily for a moment and then 
 shook his head. 
 
 "Not good enough, Miss Gale. Pretty fair try, 
 but you can't put it across." He leaned forward and 
 his steely glance was unwavering. "You went with 
 the murderer to Fern Hills Thursday afternoon in 
 a good, closed car that had an almost new Farns- 
 worth t ink tire on the right rear wheel. You reached 
 Mr. Hood's place a little before seven. You left 
 the car just west of the boundary of the estate and 
 walked on, by yourself, along the road, until you were
 
 206 Q. E. D. 
 
 opposite the house. Then you hid in the bushes 
 outside the wall and did what you were sent there 
 to do." 
 
 The woman drew a sharp, hissing breath and her 
 hands clutched and clung together in her lap. Her 
 nostrils quivered and her eyes dilated but remained 
 fixed on vacancy. . Not once had she looked at 
 Peter. 
 
 "When it was over," Peter went on, sternly, "you 
 hurried back to the car, where your companion joined 
 you at once. You drove to Lounsberry, reaching 
 the station just as the 6:59 train came in. You 
 separated there. He went off in the car and you took 
 the train to New York. You wore a yashmak veil, 
 I think they call 'em, but the train was hot, and as 
 you were in the rear seat, you felt safe in taking it 
 off. It was a foolish thing to do, Miss Gale. You're 
 much too well known." 
 
 She had been listening intently, though her face, 
 pale and rigid, had not changed in its awful, still 
 expression. Now she slipped down sidewise among 
 the cushions and covered her face with her hands. 
 
 "You see how much I know already," said Peter, 
 following up his advantage. "It'll be easy to find 
 out the rest, but I can do it quicker with your help. 
 You spill what you know and I'll see you're taken 
 care of, understand. If you tell me the whole story 
 without holding anything back, if you confess who 
 it was who killed Walter Brown "
 
 A FRAME-UP? 207 
 
 She roused herself at that, and raising her head, 
 for the first time looked Peter straight in the eyes. 
 
 "Impossible!" she cried in a controlled voice, "I 
 don't know anything about any any murder. I 
 never heard of this Walter Brown." 
 
 Peter swiftly drew out the photograph he had 
 obtained from the police and placed it before her. 
 
 "Perhaps you'll tell me you never saw this face 
 before," he said, thrusting his head forward and 
 regarding her intently. 
 
 She started convulsively and drew back. 
 
 "Wallace," she breathed, "Wallace Farnham!" 
 
 Then she leaned forward, drooping her head above 
 the portrait. Her aureole of bright gold hair hid her 
 face. 
 
 "Wallie," she whispered, softly, after a moment. 
 "Poor old Wallie." She looked up at Peter sud- 
 denly. "Why are his eyes closed?" she asked, fear- 
 fully. "Was he asleep or 
 
 "Dead," answered Peter, sternly. "He was mur- 
 dered at Louis Hood's the night before last and by 
 vour means, if not by your hand." 
 
 "My God !" she cried, brokenly, "not Wallie 
 
 Not poor Wallie ! Oh, you can't mean 
 
 Her surprise and sorrow were apparently so 
 genuine that Peter had to remind himself that she 
 was a clever actress, trained to dissimulation. 
 
 "This is the photograph, taken by the police, of 
 the man who was murdered at Louis Hood's house
 
 208 Q. E. D. 
 
 on Thursday night," said Peter, coldly. "The man 
 who was called Walter Brown." 
 
 For a long moment she gazed at the photograph. 
 Then she raised her head and again met Peter's 
 eyes. 
 
 "I knew him years ago, in Frisco, when I was a 
 young girl," she said, slowly, in an awed, hushed 
 voice. "You probably won't believe me, but I 
 haven't seen him for almost ten years." 
 
 "But you knew where he was most of that time," 
 said Peter, quick to take advantage of her admission. 
 
 She shook her head. 
 
 "I lost track of him a long time ago and haven't 
 heard from him since," she said. "He went to 
 Japan, I think I'm not sure." 
 
 "How well did you know him, this long time ago 
 that you speak of?" asked Peter. His eyes were 
 narrowed. Every faculty was on the alert to fathom 
 the depths of her mind, to separate the true from the 
 false. 
 
 "I knew him very well, poor Wallie," she said, a 
 little note of tenderness and regret creeping into her 
 troubled voice. "I was only eighteen, and he was 
 oh, something, I had never known at that time. He 
 was gay and sporty but different from the kind of 
 
 men I had run up against. He We It 
 
 was only boy and girl stuff No harm And 
 
 then I I went on the stage and things hap- 
 pened. . . . He went away and I never saw
 
 A FRAME-UP? 209 
 
 him again." She added the last words in a convinc- 
 ing tone and met Peter's eyes squarely. 
 
 Peter was puzzled. 
 
 "Then why why should you have helped do him 
 in?" he asked, studying her intently. 
 
 "I didn't! Oh, I didn't!" she cried, confusedly. 
 "I wouldn't have hurt him for the world. For the 
 sake of old times ! For " 
 
 "But," exclaimed Peter, "you did help in the plot! 
 Didn't you know " 
 
 "No, no!" she almost screamed, "I didn't know! 
 I never guessed! I Oh, my God! I can't 
 understand even now. . . . It's it's unthink- 
 able ! I can't believe what you tell me ! There must 
 be some mistake some 
 
 "But you did go to Fern Hills," insisted Peter. 
 "You did stand outside the wall at the Hood place 
 and scream, as it was planned you should. You 
 can't deny it, I've got the goods on you. You can't 
 play off innocent to me!" 
 
 "I am innocent, just the same!" cried Viola Gale. 
 "I am! I am! I wouldn't have anything to do 
 with Oh, I can't understand I can't think 
 
 All the carefree almost reckless gaiety which 
 characterized her, had vanished utterly, from the 
 moment Peter had whispered to her in the car. 
 That, he could comprehend. What puzzled him was 
 a something in her manner, since he had made his 
 knowledge of her movements on that fatal night clear
 
 210 Q. E. D. 
 
 to her; a strange bewilderment, a confused un- 
 certainty, difficult to reconcile with complicity in a 
 criminal plot. 
 
 "Let's hear your story of what happened Thurs- 
 day night," he said, after giving her a moment to re- 
 gain some portion of her self-control. " If, by some 
 strange fluke, you really are innocent, you can't 
 have any reason for protecting the guilty parties. 
 I'll hear what you have to say and try to believe it. 
 Honest, I will." His tone was perceptibly altered. 
 It was necessary to gain her confidence by any 
 means, so Peter smiled at her reassuringly. 
 
 "I I don't know what to say," she hesitated; 
 "I don't want to give away I don't want to make 
 trouble for any one when Oh, I can't be- 
 lieve that there was any harm that he would de- 
 ceive me into with such a thing on his mind. . . . 
 I- 
 
 "Who would deceive you?" prompted Peter. 
 "And how?" 
 
 "I won't tell you who," said Viola Gale, closing 
 her lovely lips firmly, "at least, not till I see my 
 way better and not even then, unless 
 
 She paused a second, considering deeply. Peter 
 was struck with a momentary sense that the woman 
 had much more character than he had at first sup- 
 posed. She went on almost at once: 
 
 " But I will tell you my part of it and maybe you 
 can see. . . . There must be an explanation,
 
 A FRAME-UP? 211 
 
 and you, with your experience, may be able to 
 guess. . . . Well, anyway, here's what happened. 
 I I don't know exactly where to start. I I 
 
 know a man He's a a sort of friend of mine. 
 
 ." Peter gathered from her manner that 
 the man in question was rather more of a friend 
 than she cared to admit. "We've had some busi- 
 ness dealings and we've played the races together 
 and had a great run of luck. . . . Well he 
 told me he had a bet up about a man he knew a 
 man named Russell Stowe. He said Stowe was a 
 coward and he wanted to show him up 
 
 "Yes," said Peter, looking at her watchfully. 
 "Go on." 
 
 "It was a big bet, and he said he'd give me half if 
 I'd help him." 
 
 "Who said?" asked Peter, quickly. But she was 
 not to be caught so easily. 
 
 "My friend," she answered, sharply. "The man 
 I am speaking about. I'm not going to give him 
 away, Mr. 
 
 "Clancy," supplied Peter. 
 
 "Mr. Clancy," she repeated, firmly, "So don't 
 think it. I never double-crossed a pal in my life and 
 it's too late to begin now." 
 
 "Not even if I prove to you that he's a rotten 
 criminal? That he killed your old lover, Wallace 
 Farnham; that he entangled you 
 
 "No, no. Impossible! He never knew Wallie.
 
 212 Q. E. D. 
 
 It couldn't have been! You'll have to prove it 
 before we can talk," she countered, swiftly, "and I 
 don't believe it, not for a minute! But I'm going to 
 clear my own skirts in any case. I owe that to 
 myself." 
 
 "All right," agreed Peter, "shoot! You were to 
 go fifty-fifty on the bet. And what was your part?" 
 
 "He had it all thought out," Miss Gale continued, 
 "and it wasn't anything but a lark. He knew Rus- 
 sell Stowe was to be alone in his house in the country 
 last Thursday night. He'd made sure by sending 
 theatre tickets to the two servants, so they'd be out of 
 the way." 
 
 Peter drew in his breath quickly and followed her 
 words with ever-increasing attention, though he did 
 not interrupt her by so much as a motion of his hand. 
 
 "Mr. Stowe was going to dinner with some friends 
 and was to leave his house at about seven. My part 
 was to wait in the bushes in front of the house until 
 I saw him at the door. Then I was to scream hard, 
 you know, as if I were being murdered, or something. 
 If he came to my rescue, then it was all off", see? 
 But if he didn't come, why, it would be because he 
 was scared. Didn't want to get mixed up in a row, 
 and all that sort of thing. Do you get the idea?" 
 
 "Good lord," said Peter under his breath, "can this 
 be true?" Aloud he only said, "I get vou. Go 
 on." 
 
 "Well there's nothing more except that's what
 
 A FRAME-UP? 213 
 
 I did, all right. And Mr. Stowe didn't come, though 
 I screamed enough to wake the dead." 
 
 "To wake the dead," repeated Peter. "No, not 
 quite enough to wake the dead. If you had, Walter 
 Brown, or Wallace Farnham, as you call him, would 
 have kept on running. But you want me to think 
 you didn't know it was Wallace Farnham?" 
 
 "So help me God, I didn't," her words had the 
 solemnity of an oath. "I thought the man I saw 
 for just the shortest second was the owner of the 
 house. I was told that he was tall and thin, and 
 would be dressed in some kind of camping clothes. 
 Well, that's what I saw. It was getting pretty dark, 
 but there was a light in the hall behind him when he 
 opened the door and I saw him pretty plain not his 
 face. He was too far off for that, and the light was 
 behind him. But he answered the description, and I 
 had no reason to think " 
 
 "That it wasn't Walter Farnham?" said Peter, 
 watching her keenly. 
 
 "That it wasn't the owner of the house," she in- 
 sisted, tensely, "I was told that his name was Russell 
 Stowe. I can't believe even now " 
 
 "And you didn't know the name of the town you 
 were in?" interrupted Peter, incredulously. 
 
 "No. I had no idea. I was interested in putting 
 the game across, and didn't think to ask. I knew 
 that it was Jersey, and that we went through Newark. 
 But it was getting dark and I didn't notice much
 
 214 Q. E. D. 
 
 about the towns we passed. It was mostly country 
 roads after that, anyway." 
 
 "You mean you took back roads?" 
 
 "I don't know." She spoke as if the idea had not 
 occurred to her until Peter suggested it. "They 
 were kind of lonely, I think, but I don't know the 
 country much." 
 
 "So you didn't connect your sporting adventure 
 with the crime at Fern Hills when I showed you the 
 paper last night?" probed Peter. "You had no 
 idea that it concerned you in any way or that Walter 
 Brown was any one you knew? Is that what you 
 want me to think?" 
 
 "Whether you believe it or not, it's the truth! 
 I had no idea the man you call Walter Brown was 
 even in this country." 
 
 Peter pondered a moment. Then he asked 
 abruptly: "Is this man, the one who took you out 
 to Jersey, I mean, in love with you, Miss Gale?'* 
 
 She flushed darkly but replied at once: 
 
 "No." 
 
 "You're sure?" 
 
 "Yes," she answered, shortly. "I'm sure. I 
 happen to know that he's that he's in love with 
 another woman." 
 
 " Do you know who it is ? " 
 
 "Yes, but I won't tell you. Certainly not till I see 
 my way clearer. It would be a means of tracking 
 him. I'm not such a fool as not to be wise to that."
 
 A FRAME-UP? 215 
 
 "And you'd protect this man who's in love with 
 another woman?" urged Peter, eyeing her curiously. 
 
 "That hasn't anything to do with it, Mr. Clancy/ 
 she said, coldly. "He's been a pal of mine, and he's 
 backing me up and helping me to make a lot of 
 money, and whatever else they may say of me, no 
 one has ever had reason to say that Vi Gale wasn't a 
 good sport, or wouldn't stand by her friends." 
 
 "Very creditable to you, no doubt, Miss Gale, but 
 rough on me," said Peter, with a dour grin. "Now 
 let me see. You don't think, then, that this friend of 
 yours could have been jealous of Walter Brown, or 
 Wallace Farnham, or whatever his name was?" 
 
 "Jealous? No. Certainly not. How could he 
 have been, even supposing why, I never mentioned 
 Wallie's name to him." 
 
 "Hmm," said Peter, slowly, thoughtfully, "let me 
 get this straight. You saw a man come to the door 
 and then you screamed and nothing happened. . . . 
 So you thought you and your friend had won the bet. 
 Is that right?" 
 
 "Yes, and the other man agreed that he had lost." 
 
 "The other man?" questioned Peter, quickly. 
 "The other party to the bet? Was he there?" 
 
 "Why, yes yes. Of course he would have had 
 to be there to see for himself." 
 
 "Did you see him?" insisted Peter. "Who was 
 he? Would you know him again?" 
 
 "Why why, no," answered Viola Gale, a trace of
 
 216 Q. E. D. 
 
 uncertainty in her voice. "It was someone who 
 lives in the neighbourhood and he was hidden up 
 near the house. I," she dropped on a lower note, "I 
 didn't see him at all." 
 
 "Oh h h," said Peter, slowly. "Then what 
 makes you think he was there?" 
 
 "I was told that he was, and I naturally supposed 
 that he was, because the bet was settled on the 
 spot." 
 
 "You mean you got your share on the nail?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Much?" asked Peter, and as she hesitated: 
 "Come, Miss Gale, it must have been a pretty tidy 
 sum to make you willing to be late at that night's 
 performance. How much was it ? " 
 
 "Seven hundred and fifty," she said, slowly. 
 
 "Whew!" whistled Peter, "and that didn't make 
 you suspicious? If that was half, the whole bet must 
 have amounted to fifteen hundred !" 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders slightly. 
 
 "That wasn't so much to him. I've seen him 
 lose more than that at roulette in a night and never 
 turn a hair. He's a dead game sport, whatever else 
 he is." 
 
 "Well, I can't think he treated you very well, Miss 
 Gale, letting you run the risk you did. He didn't 
 even warn you to be careful on the train] not to let 
 anybody know who you were, did he?" 
 
 "Yes, he did," she answered, defensively. "He
 
 A FRAME-UP? 217 
 
 'x 
 
 advised me to keep out of sight since I'd sent word 
 to the theatre that I was too ill to be there for the 
 first act. But I didn't think it was very important, 
 and the train was suffocating." 
 
 "Well," said Peter, weighing her story carefully in 
 his mind, "your explanation accounts for a lot of 
 things and you've framed it up cleverly." 
 
 "I haven't framed it up at all," retorted Viola 
 Gale, furiously. "If there's any frame up, it's 
 yours ! I don't believe you can connect either me or 
 my friend with with this thing you say, you this 
 crime that's . . . Oh, I'm not going to say 
 anything more. I was on the train and I was some- 
 where in Jersey Thursday night, but it was just a 
 lark a bet. I won't believe it was anything else! 
 Neither my friend nor I. knew that Wallie Farnham 
 was in this country! What I've told you is the 
 truth. But I won't tell you anything more. I'm 
 sorry I've said as much as I have, only Oh, go 
 away, for God's sake, and let me think ! I have to go 
 on at eight forty to-night, and how can I ever 
 
 The strain was telling heavily upon her. She was 
 almost hysterical. Peter was sure he had learned all 
 he could hope for at the present. There was much 
 that he wanted to consider. He must have time to 
 think to put this and that together. 
 
 With a few hurried words he left Viola Gale in the 
 care of her maid and descended to the street. Night 
 was coming swiftly on. The heavy clouds in the
 
 218 Q. E. D. 
 
 west were rolling in, darkening the greenish sky. 
 Peter glanced about and saw a wiry young man 
 lounging along on the opposite side of the pavement. 
 He crossed quickly over, and went forward until 
 they were abreast. 
 
 "On your toes, Rawhns!" said Peter, without 
 looking to right or left. "Keep on 'em!" and passed 
 rapidly out of sight his thoughts keeping pace with 
 his hurrying feet. 
 
 "If Viola Gale's story turns out to be true," he 
 considered within himself, "if she didn't know that 
 Walter Brown was in the country at all if her 
 friend, the man of the phony bet, didn't know Walter 
 Brown from a hole in the ground which would seem 
 likely in that case; if she thought that 'Russell 
 Stowe', as she called him, was alone in the house 
 her sporting friend may have thought so, too, 
 and then why, then by gad, of course! Why, 
 then " he stopped suddenly. " By all that's holy, 
 Pete it was the wrong man that came out of the 
 house! The wrong man! And if O'Malley's got 
 the results I'm looking for. . . . By the living 
 Jehoshaphat, I see it all! I 
 
 Dashing madly into the street, he hailed a passing 
 taxi and with thoughts still rushing wildly through 
 his brain was whirled rapidly away.
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 THE NAME Is 
 
 TT WAS blood?" 
 
 -* Peter's words were half question, half state- 
 ment, and he leaned across the desk looking earnestly 
 into the quiet, wise old eyes of his partner, Captain 
 O'Malley. 
 
 "You've said it," said the old man, tersely. "There 
 was mighty little of it, but Van Dorn & Sawyer 
 say there's no doubt. It was human blood. Here's 
 their report." 
 
 Peter looked eagerly at the letter which Captain 
 O'Malley placed before him and then leaped to his feet. 
 
 "I've got him, O'Malley!" he cried, exultantly. 
 "I see it all clear now! By gad, it was some plot, 
 I'll tell the world. Neat! Neat! It ought to have 
 worked ! And if it hadn't been that But there's 
 no time to waste. He may be on, even now, damn 
 
 him for a cold-blooded He caught up the 
 
 telephone instrument from the desk. 
 
 "Get me Fern Hills 33," he said, quickly, with his 
 ear to the receiver, and seating himself again, he 
 turned back to speak long and earnestly to his 
 partner. 
 
 219
 
 220 Q. E. D. 
 
 Several times he interrupted his instructions and 
 explanations to put in calls to different persons. At 
 last he rose hurriedly. 
 
 " Don't leave a stone unturned, old man," he said, 
 rapidly. "You know just what to do, and no one in 
 God's world could do it better. I've got to beat it 
 now, but I'll leave this end of the job in your hands. 
 Better keep Rawlins where he is, and you take up the 
 trail of that infernal scoundrel yourself." 
 
 "All right, Pete," said O'Malley, alertly, getting 
 lightly to his feet and reaching for his hat. There 
 was a deep gleam in his wary little eyes and he laid 
 his hand on Peter's shoulder with a gesture of af- 
 fectionate admiration. "You're all to the good, lad," 
 he said, quietly. "I don't believe one man in ten 
 thousand would have 
 
 "Cut it out, old man," said Peter, with a little 
 smile. "I played in all kinds of luck, and 
 
 "Knew how to take advantage of it," finished 
 O'Malley. "Lots of 'em don't. So long, and good 
 luck." 
 
 The two men parted at the sidewalk, and Peter 
 went rapidly over to Sixth Avenue where he hailed 
 a taxi and was driven down to the Thirty-third 
 Street terminal of the Hudson Tubes. 
 
 The slowness of the train which took him to Fern 
 Hills was almost more than he could bear, but it gave 
 him time to go over and over the evidence in the case, 
 sorting and arranging the events in his mind, in their
 
 "THE NAME IS " 221 
 
 logical sequence, fitting motives to acts, in view of 
 facts which O'Malley had obtained for him with a 
 celerity and precision bearing eloquent witness to the 
 old man's undiminished powers. Little by little, 
 every obscure circumstance came clear and took its 
 place. By the time he reached Fern Hills, he could 
 have told the story of that fatal night of the thirty- 
 first of March as if he, himself, had been an eye 
 witness. Not an event, not a motive remained 
 unexplained to his keen, analytical mind. Every 
 fact dropped into line and fitted to a hair's breadth. 
 
 "Good God, Peter, I can't believe it!" 
 
 Harrison caught Clancy by the arm as he de- 
 scended from the train and pulled him out of ear- 
 shot of the few other passengers who had alighted at 
 the same time. 
 
 "Tell me about it, for Heaven's sake. I'm com- 
 pletely stunned and don't know whether I'm on my 
 head or my feet," and indeed Carlisle looked as if 
 this were the literal truth. "I got what you were 
 driving at over the 'phone, though you mentioned 
 no names, but it doesn't seem possible." 
 
 "It's a fact, just the same, Harry," said Peter, 
 grimly. "He's the blackest kind of criminal. The 
 cold, planning, long-headed sort. I've got the 
 goods on him, and I can prove every proposition in the 
 case, even without the help I expect to get from 
 But I'll tell you all about that later. Is Louis Hood
 
 222 Q. E. D. 
 
 here with" you?" He asked the question in an al- 
 tered tone, and Carlisle glanced at him swiftly, 
 
 "Yes, I brought him over as you told me to. He's 
 as much up in the air as I am. He's waiting in the 
 car. Other side of the station. This way." 
 
 In the faint light reflected from the station lamps 
 Louis Hood's face showed white and troubled, tense 
 with a mixture of horror and relief. Peter grasped 
 the silently extended hand with a heartfelt, firm 
 pressure. 
 
 "Get over to Morrisville as fast as God '11 let you, 
 Harry," Peter said, swiftly. "There's room for me 
 on the front seat, too, isn't there? I've got a lot that 
 I want you both to hear, and we can talk best this 
 way. Am I crowding you? No? All right, Harry, 
 shoot!" 
 
 The car, the engine of which had been kept 
 running, leaped forward like a live thing, and the 
 lights of the village flashed past in a long luminous 
 blur. 
 
 "Did you get old Winkle all right?" Peter had 
 asked, as they shot around the curve of the station 
 driveway. 
 
 "Yes," said Harry, keeping his eyes on the road. 
 " He'll be waiting for us, though he wouldn't believe 
 what I told him." 
 
 "That I had all the dope? No, he wouldn't," 
 said Peter, grimly. "I suppose he's looking for a new 
 brand of sky-pilot who chucks bodies out of aero-
 
 "THE NAME IS- 223 
 
 planes. He'll take a lot of convincing, but it doesn't 
 matter. I know what I know. " 
 
 "But are you sure, Clancy?" Louis Hood spoke for 
 the first time and his voice was tense with emotion. 
 
 "Yes, Hood, I am certain," said Peter, gravely, 
 "and I'll give you the whole story as soon as we get 
 hold of Inspector Winkle. It's a long one, and a 
 damned unpleasant one, and I don't want to go over 
 it twice, for your sake as much as my own. If you'll 
 just be content with the facts, as I have stated them, 
 for a little while, I'll prove to you every proposition 
 I've made. In the meantime ' he hesitated, 
 and then went on with frank sincerity: "In the 
 meantime, I have to make my apologies to you. 
 For one little while I didn't believe you were telling 
 me the entire truth. It seemed ' he hesitated. 
 "I hope you'll forgive me. I run up against all kinds 
 of queer things in my life, and I have to put every 
 person in any way connected with a crime on trial 
 in my own mind. I can't afford to overlook any 
 bet, no matter what the odds are. You see that, 
 don't you?" he asked, a trifle wistfully. 
 
 "I'm a lawyer, you know," said Hood, quietly, 
 "and I can fully appreciate your position. So you 
 thought 
 
 "I didn't go quite so far as to think it," said Peter, 
 quickly, "but I did admit to myself the possibility 
 that You see, apparently you were the only 
 person who knew that Shall I call him by his
 
 224 Q. E. D. 
 
 right name? Harry can be trusted, you know, and I 
 don't think there is any possible necessity for its 
 going further." 
 
 "You know, then ? " Hood's voice was low and deep. 
 
 "Yes. I made inquiries and figured out that the 
 man you were so willing to befriend the man who 
 sometimes called himself 'Walter Brown' and 
 sometimes 'Wallace Farnham' could be no other 
 than You don't mind ?" 
 
 "No. Harry has a right to the whole story, if 
 anybody has." Hood spoke with feeling and glanced 
 aside at his friend with affection and gratitude. 
 
 "Who was it, Peter?" asked Carlisle, eagerly. 
 
 "It was Walter Farquhar." 
 
 The car swerved violently, but Carlisle brought 
 it back to the road instantly. 
 
 "Walter Farquhar?" he repeated, dazedly. "Walter 
 Farquhar? You don't mean ' 
 
 "It was Sylvia's brother," Hood replied, sadly. 
 "He'd been in all sorts of trouble and I did not want 
 it to get out to get into the papers for her sake." 
 
 "I see," said Harry, slowly, "I see. So that 
 was why you pumped me about Sylvia," he added, 
 leaning over to look in Peter's face. "You sus- 
 pected " 
 
 "A man needs a strong motive to keep silence, as 
 Mr. Hood did," explained Peter, "and I started at 
 what looked to me the most promising place." 
 
 "Peter's got a great old head, Louis," said Carlisle,
 
 "THE NAME IS " 225 
 
 admiringly, "and you'd be surprised at the questions, 
 possible and impossible, that he asks. He wanted 
 to know, among other crazy things, if Sylvia had 
 ever been married. What d'you think of that?" 
 
 Hood looked hard at Peter, who said, quickly: 
 " It was only an idea that came into my head, don't 
 you see? I know now that it was a crazy one. But 
 a husband, supposed to be dead, and turning up 
 unexpectedly, at the wrong time " He hesi- 
 tated, and Louis Hood finished for him. 
 
 "Would have been a strong motive for me to have 
 put him out of the way," he said, calmly. 
 
 "Yes." Peter's tone was one of deep regret of his 
 momentary suspicion. "And there was the jiu- 
 jitsu business. At first, I couldn't think of anything 
 but that, to account for the man's injuries. You see 
 he might have been killed and, given a tall and very 
 strong man, it was just inside the limit of possibility 
 that the body could have been thrown that far out on 
 the terrace. It seemed so much the only possibility, 
 at first, that I even suspected your butler, Harry. 
 He's unusually tall for a Jap, and you told me your- 
 self that he was up to all the jiu-jitsu tricks. Walter 
 Brown, according to Mr. Hood, had been in some sort 
 of trouble with the natives in Japan. You see how 
 long the cast was. And then, you told me that both 
 you and Hood had taken lessons from Hoki, and 
 
 "You didn't suspect me, did you, Peter?" asked 
 Carlisle, with a slight grin.
 
 226 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Might have, if you hadn't been with me all that 
 afternoon and evening," replied Peter, smiling 
 grimly. "Such is my confounded nature. I'd give 
 George Washington and Abraham Lincoln the once 
 over, if they could be shown to have been near the 
 spot, or could have had a possible motive. Not that 
 it really amounts to a suspicion, you understand. 
 It's just a matter of not passing any possibility up till 
 you get the right dope." 
 
 "So Walter Brown was Sylvia's brother," mused 
 Carlisle. "The black sheep who disappeared before 
 I knew her. ... It was like you, Louis, to 
 think of her and for her and protect her in every 
 way." His pleasant voice was a trifle husky, as he 
 glanced up at the black sky. "If she ever 
 knows " 
 
 "There's no reason why she should ever know," 
 interrupted Hood, hastily. "It would do no good. 
 He died, to her, a long time ago, and there's no point 
 in opening old wounds. I went in Friday morning 
 to see her to assure her that there was no danger 
 for me, and I've talked with her, over the 'phone, 
 several times since. I told her that it was only a 
 tragic and unfortunate accident that the newspapers 
 were making political capital of, and I'm sure she's 
 quite satisfied with my explanation." 
 
 "Have you seen to-night's papers?" asked Peter, 
 quickly. "There's a picture of Walter Brown in 
 most of them, and a good likeness, too, considering."
 
 "THE NAME IS ' 227 
 
 "Oh, good God!" said Hood, bitterly, "Couldn't 
 they let the poor boy rest in peace, at last ? He was 
 through with the world when he came to me, and I 
 have no doubt that he would have been glad of his 
 release. Why is it necessary He broke off, 
 
 and covered his face with his hand. 
 
 "If Sylvia recognizes the portrait," said Carlisle, 
 
 softly, "she'll know why you she'll appreciate " 
 
 He looked across at Clancy. "I told you, Peter, that 
 Louis was the best man that he deserved to win 
 her." He touched Hood on the shoulder. "Brace 
 up, old man," he continued, gently. "She'll take it 
 standing, and it's best she should know the truth." 
 
 The lights of Morrisville shone, close at hand, 
 upon the dark bosom of the night. There was a 
 short silence as they rolled swiftly through the 
 almost empty streets. It remained unbroken until 
 they drew up before the green light of Police Head- 
 quarters. 
 
 Together the three young men sought and found 
 Inspector Winkle. He was pacing up and down 
 the bare room impatiently, his hard blue cap on his 
 head and his fat, thick hands clasped behind his 
 back. 
 
 "What's this I hear, young feller?" 
 
 The inspector stopped short at sight of Peter 
 Clancy. 
 
 "What's this I hear?" he repeated, with curt in- 
 credulity. "They say you've got the whole case
 
 228 Q. E. D. 
 
 piped. Of course, it's damned nonsense! How 
 could you " 
 
 "Well, anyway, I have, Inspector," interrupted 
 Peter, crisply, and with such an air of conviction 
 that the old man's glance took on an extra degree 
 of sharpness. "I know why the murder was com- 
 mitted, how it was committed, and whom it was 
 committed by. All I want of you is to come and 
 help me get the guilty party, and some little bunch 
 of glory for yourself, by the same token." 
 
 The inspector's glance softened just perceptibly. 
 "You seem mighty cock-sure, young man," he said, 
 grudgingly. "If you lead me off on a wild-goose 
 chase- 
 
 " There's no wild goose in it, though it may be a 
 helluf a chase, at that," said Peter, quickly. "And 
 there's no time to be lost. I have reason to believe 
 that our bird (who's anything but a goose, you can 
 bet your life) will get wise to something any minute, 
 and the sooner we sprinkle salt on his tail the better. 
 As it is, we have lost him completely, for the time 
 being, though we know where he started from, and 
 we think we know where he'll show up next. Have 
 you got the warrant ready?" 
 
 "Yes," said Inspector Winkle, slowly taking fire 
 from Peter's hurried words. "It's all ready, except 
 for the man's name. Mr. Hood said he couldn't 
 give it to me over the 'phone; that you'd told him not 
 to."
 
 "THE NAME IS " 229 
 
 "No," said Peter, briefly. He did not wish to let 
 the inspector know that he was afraid Winkle might, 
 to use his own words, "ball things up" without him; 
 that he might, perhaps, proceed by himself. "It's 
 not good medicine to say too much over the 'phone," 
 he explained. "You never can tell who might be 
 listening in." 
 
 "I understand all that," said the inspector, im- 
 patiently tapping his desk. " But come across with 
 it now. If you really know," he added, tauntingly.* 
 
 Without a glance at Inspector Winkle, Peter picked 
 up a folded paper from the desk, and opening it, ran 
 his eye over the contents. 
 
 He nodded his head slowly and laid the open 
 paper again upon the desk. He pointed with his 
 finger to a blank space. 
 
 "Write it yourself, Inspector, for the greater 
 glory " he said. 
 
 The inspector seated himself at the desk, dipped a 
 pen in the ink, and looked up at Clancy's cheerfully 
 freckled young face with a curiosity which he could 
 not dissemble. 
 
 "The name," said Peter, quietly, after a short 
 pause, "the name is Robert Kent."
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 
 
 T~*\ARK night, hot and black, with a breathless 
 *-^ suspense in the still air, as of some terrific 
 force imminent and menacing, yet held in check 
 by a restrained and quiet fury greater than its 
 own. 
 
 Unheeding the threat of storm, a long, low car 
 sped swiftly eastward with a resistless rush that never 
 wavered nor slackened, save when the lights of a 
 town ran by in smooth and companionable sequence, 
 when its pace slowed, for a space, until the open 
 country was gained once more, and on it went, look- 
 ing far ahead with its great burning eyes, into the 
 blackness of the night. 
 
 Inside the car four men sat, drawn close together 
 by the tense interest of the problem which was being 
 expounded to them by one of their number. Carlisle, 
 who was driving, never took his eyes from the road, 
 but he listened as intently as the rest. Louis Hood 
 sat beside him, half turned upon the cushions, while 
 Inspector Winkle and Clancy leaned forward from 
 the rear seat, so that Clancy's words were distinctly 
 audible to all above the sound of the motor. 
 
 230
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 231 
 
 "That's what she says," said Clancy, finishing an 
 account of his two interviews with Viola Gale, " and 
 in view of the circumstances, I believe she's telling 
 the exact truth. Whether or not we can bring her to 
 confess in court that it was Robert Kent who took her 
 to Fern Hills that night remains to be seen. It 
 would be the simplest way for us, but we can get a 
 conviction without her, I'm sure. However, we'll 
 hope for the best. It'll depend largely on how much 
 she really cares for him. I couldn't quite make 
 
 out She's a real sporting little proposition, 
 
 and I find Kent has been backing her in this big 
 movie they're staging at New Rochambeau. She 
 may stand pat and then the evidence will be mostly 
 circumstantial. In which case, we will at least be 
 able to clear the public mind of all suspicion of you, 
 Hood, even if we can't send the damned scoundrel 
 to the chair." 
 
 "Then I hope it will come out that way," said 
 Hood, gravely. 
 
 "Good God!" exclaimed Peter, hotly. "Do you 
 realize that Kent planned your death in cold blood ? 
 He had no idea that Walter Brown was in existence. 
 He'd taken precious good care, by getting your 
 servants out of the way, to leave you alone in the 
 house, so there'd be no possibility of getting the 
 wrong man. He had planned it to the last detail. 
 He'd lived in your house, hadn't he? and knew 
 every inch of the grounds. I'll bet your present
 
 232 Q. E. D. 
 
 caretakers were left in the house when you rented it 
 to Kent's sister. Am I right?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hood, "John and Eliza stayed with 
 them while we were abroad." 
 
 "So he probably knew enough about them to be 
 aware of the fact that their daughter was playing in 
 The Wishing Stile'?" 
 
 "Yes," said Hood at once. "Yes. I happen to 
 know that there can be no doubt about that." 
 
 "He would have been sure, then, of just what 
 they'd do when they got the tickets." 
 
 "Unquestionably." 
 
 "All right, then. The coast was clear, as far as he 
 knew. He'd found out, some days ago, about our 
 proposed fishing trip, and that you were to have 
 dinner with Harry." 
 ""\Hood nodded, and said: 
 
 "Yes. I saw him Monday and he suggested that 
 he'd like to go along." 
 
 "Right again. Then he fixed it so Harry would 
 invite him to his house. Dinner was at seven. 
 Therefore, he knew that you'd leave your house a few 
 minutes before. You told him what your plan was 
 to stop at your house, change to your fishing clothes, 
 get your tackle, and walk over to Hood's to dinner. 
 You told Kent all that, didn't you?" 
 
 "Yes," Hood admitted. "In fact, he asked me 
 quite a lot of questions : about where he should meet 
 me, and so forth. Thought we might go out on the
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 233 
 
 train together. Afterwards, he 'phoned me he'd de- 
 cided to drive out in his own car." 
 
 "You see how it all fits in," said Peter. "How 
 exactly he knew what your movements were ex- 
 pected to be. What train you would take. Where 
 you'd be almost any given minute. And then, 
 Walter Brown steps in and all his calculations went 
 to the winds. Though he didn't know it till after- 
 ward." 
 
 "But, Peter," objected Carlisle, "he was at my 
 house at seven, or a very little after." 
 
 "A very little after is right, son," said Peter, 
 definitely. "It wasn't but a few minutes after, I 
 admit, but a fast car can hit it up, and as a matter 
 of fact, he did go over to Lounsberry, after he'd 
 pulled the trick, and turned up at your house early 
 enough so that no one noticed, particularly, that he 
 was late. He had to change after dinner, you re- 
 member, but we naturally thought that he was too 
 conventional to want to dine, as we did, in our old 
 clothes. In reality, he couldn't have gotten to your 
 house in time. He had other fish to fry." 
 
 "God!" groaned Carlisle. "To think that we 
 should have sat at the table with and Mother 
 Damn him, I think I hate him worse for that, almost, 
 than anything else !" 
 
 "But, say," broke in Inspector Winkle, whose 
 heavy body was bouncing about uncomfortably, 
 owing to his position of strained attention, "I don't
 
 234 Q. E. D. 
 
 see that you're making out such a hell of a case 
 against Kent, so far, young feller. Maybe he did 
 know all you say, but what of it? What would be 
 his motive?" 
 
 "He's terribly in debt, for one thing," replied 
 Peter, calmly. "O'Malley found that out and a lot 
 of other things for me. Kent's a born gambler and 
 has lost heavily lately thousands and thousands 
 enough to make you and me nervous just to think 
 about it. He went with a pretty swift and expensive 
 bunch and was a game loser, but I guess, even at 
 that, they got his goat finally. . . . And then 
 there's that movie venture on top of all. That's 
 run into money, and then some ! He's already in for 
 fifty thousand, and not a chance to get a sou marque 
 out of it for months. He's strained his credit to the 
 limit in the hope that it would go big, as it probably 
 will, with Viola Gale as the star. . . . If he 
 could only have held out, don't you see? That's 
 the point. He had to have money, and damned 
 quick at that! He's borrowed from everybody in 
 sight. How about it, Harry? Didn't he get some- 
 thing out of you?" 
 
 "Well, yes," admitted! Carlisle, with a shrug. 
 "I suppose it may have been for this motion-picture 
 thing, though he didn't say so. He put up a long 
 story about well, it was a long story and a good one, 
 he got the money he was after." 
 To save a big block of stock he'd bought on
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 235 
 
 margin?" asked Hood. "That was the story he told 
 me." 
 
 Peter glanced up quickly. 
 
 "Oh, he touched you, too, Hood, did he? I 
 thought as much. Gave you notes, perhaps?" 
 
 Hood nodded. 
 
 "And they were due- ?" 
 
 "Next week." 
 
 "You see," said Peter. "God knows how many 
 more were falling due about the same time. O'Mal- 
 ley traced up some, and probably would have located 
 more if he'd had the time. Kent owes all his credit 
 would stand at the bank, and they're beginning to get 
 very nervous. Oh, there's no doubt about it. He 
 had to have money." 
 
 " But, I don't see " began the inspector. . . . 
 
 "Why he picked on Hood when Hood was only 
 one of a lot of creditors?" Peter interpreted Winkle's 
 thought. "Well, there were a bunch of reasons. 
 In the first place, and going pretty strong, was the 
 fact that he didn't love Mr. Hood not any! 
 They've followed, to a certain extent, the same lines, 
 and Mr. Hood has beaten him, hands down, at every 
 turn. That's right, Harry, isn't it? I got it from 
 you." 
 
 "Sure thing," answered Carlisle, briefly. 
 
 "Kent's being talked of as a possible candidate for 
 district attorney in the fall," Peter proceeded, "but 
 so is Mr. Hood, and what chance did Kent have
 
 236 Q. E. D. 
 
 against him, do you think? And that isn't the only 
 way they're rivals, as you might say. I don't know 
 when it began 
 
 "Oh, long ago," said Louis Hood, wearily, bitterly. 
 "I don't know how it came about, exactly. . . . 
 
 We were classmates in college, and somehow 
 
 Well, everything seemed to come my way. I was 
 much stronger, physically, than he, and always made 
 the college teams when I wanted to. . . . He 
 tried hard, but the only time he ever came anywhere 
 near, he was ruled out on a foul. It was unlucky for 
 me that I happened not to be playing that day and 
 was acting as umpire. I remember it only too well. 
 It was only a practice game . . . but he came 
 to me afterward, and there was a scene that I'd be 
 glad to forget." He paused, and added heavily: 
 "He told me then that he'd get me some day 
 
 "Yes," objected Winkle, "but that was so long 
 
 
 ago 
 
 "Humph," grunted Peter. "Well, the fight to be 
 district attorney isn't so long ago. That's present 
 and future. . . . And then . . . more than 
 that, if you must know, they're both in love with the 
 same young lady. (You'll excuse my mentioning 
 it, Mr. Hood. It's necessary to make the situation 
 complete.) I said," he turned back to the in- 
 spector, "that they're both in love with her, but 
 I'm not so sure of Kent. There was another reason 
 for his wanting to marry her. You must remember
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 237 
 
 his desperate need of money and the young lady, as 
 it happens, has oodles of it in her own right. There 
 was no one else in the running but Mr. Hood, and 
 with him out of the way Peter shrugged his 
 
 shoulders and spread out his hands, leaving the 
 conclusion to Inspector Winkle's keen powers of 
 deduction. 
 
 The old man nodded grudgingly. 
 
 "All right, so far," he said, "but- 
 
 "You want more?" asked Peter, grinning. "Well, 
 there's another little item to add to the list, and 
 when you've done that, I think you'll admit that the 
 total is pretty nearly sufficient, with a man like Kent, 
 even for such a beastly crime. Just make a note 
 of the items on your cuff. They were rivals, bitter 
 rivals from boyhood, though I guess most of 
 the bitterness was on Kent's side. Kent hated Mr. 
 Hood because Hood beat him every way from the 
 beginning. Kent knew that he was likely to beat 
 him in his political ambitions, and almost sure to in 
 his er matrimonial if Hood wasn't, somehow, 
 put out of the race. . . . Then there was the 
 pressing need for money He might, after all, 
 fail to win the young lady and her fortune, but 
 Peter paused. "But there was a big trump up his 
 sleeve and you add this to the rest, Inspector, and 
 see what you get." 
 
 Another pause. Winkle leaned forward expec- 
 tantly.
 
 238 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Richard Kent and Louis Hood are cousins," 
 Peter went, on impressively. "Only distant cousins, 
 at that, but, now mark this down at the present 
 moment, Kent happens to be next of kin. That 
 information is correct, isn't it, Hood?" 
 
 Louis Hood nodded, and the inspector drew a deep 
 breath. 
 
 "Now I suspect, in the circumstances," Peter 
 addressed himself to Louis Hood, "that you were 
 waiting to make a will until well, until the matter 
 of your marriage was settled one way or the other 
 that if you had previously made a will, your mother 
 was the chief beneficiary that your mother, having 
 died, made the will of no effect and that Robert 
 Kent was on to all these facts." He peered closely 
 into the face before him. 
 
 Hood hesitated slightly. 
 
 "It is a natural inference, and happens to be true 
 as far as my own part is concerned. As to Kent 
 I've been wondering. . . . He knows my per- 
 sonal stenographer, my secretary, you might call her. 
 
 . . How well, I can't be quite sure, but I rather 
 thought, lately, perhaps very well indeed. 
 
 "Then you have thought of Kent," interjected 
 Peter. "I wondered if you might not have suspected 
 him- 
 
 "The thought crossed my mind," admitted Hood, 
 "but I put it away from me. You see I knew the 
 facts you've just brought out could imagine a
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 239 
 
 motive, possibly if the circumstances had been 
 different. It's been a terrible puzzle. If I had been 
 killed instead of poor Walter. . . ." 
 
 "But, unquestionably, you were to have been the 
 victim," insisted Peter. 
 
 "You certainly make it appear so," said Louis 
 Hood, slowly. "Yes, in view of all the facts, I think 
 there can be no shadow of doubt." 
 
 "And you think, with me, that Kent's prime 
 motive was that he wanted your money, which, in the 
 present circumstances, he was bound to inherit," per- 
 sisted Peter. 
 
 "Yes," answered Hood, reluctantly. "I think it 
 could hardly fail to be the case. Mrs. Fayle, being 
 only his half sister, is no blood connection of mine. 
 He's the nearest relative I have in the world. That's 
 the reason why I can't help hoping, in spite of every- 
 thing We're of the same blood, after all." 
 
 "Good Lord, I don't see that it matters!" ex- 
 claimed Harry, furiously. "We're all of the same 
 blood, if you go back to Adam. But when I think 
 of his sitting at the table with my mother 
 Words failed him. 
 
 "Well, that's a good layout of motives, as far as 
 that goes," persisted the inspector, "but how in hell 
 was the job pulled off? That's what I want to know. 
 If the body wasn't dropped from an aeroplane 
 
 Peter grinned to himself in the darkness, but 
 answered seriously, "That was a clever theory of
 
 240 Q. E. D. 
 
 yours, Inspector, but it doesn't happen to fit this 
 case." 
 
 "How can you be so cock-sure, Clancy?" objected 
 Winkle, irritably. The road over which they were 
 passing was under repair and this fact did not add to 
 the inspector's comfort. 
 
 "Because," replied Peter, quietly, "the evidence 
 doesn't point that way. And besides, I know, as I 
 told you, just how the murder was committed, and I 
 can produce the weapon." 
 
 "The weapon!" ejaculated the inspector. "Why, 
 aside from Brown's pistol, the only weapon there 
 was, I found myself." 
 
 "Hm-m, yes," said Peter, "Mr. Hood's knife, you 
 mean. Well, that was thrown there by the murderer, 
 to make it look like suicide. You see he supposed 
 that the body was that of Mr. Hood. Kent knew 
 damned well that there would be no trace of a 
 struggle, no other weapon nothing. He didn't 
 expect that the victim's neck would be broken. All 
 he counted on was a deep cut enough, probably, to 
 kill him, since he knew Mr. Hood would be wearing 
 a low, soft collar which would afford little or no 
 protection. If Hood had been found dead on his 
 own doorstep, with a deep wound in his throat, and a 
 long, sharp, open knife marked with his own initials 
 had been found within any reasonable distance of the 
 body who would have had any other suspicion than 
 that he had taken his own life?"
 
 THE STORM GATHERS 241 
 
 Harrison Carlisle shuddered as he bent low over 
 the wheel watching the road ahead, as it dropped 
 away in long, steep curves toward the lamp-spangled 
 blackness of the North River. 
 
 "Horrible! horrible!" he muttered to himself, 
 his foot mechanically increasing the pressure of the 
 brakes. "Good old Louis " 
 
 Peter could see the dim outline of Hood's face 
 against the reflected light from the great lamps of 
 the car. It was stern and quiet, and he said no word. 
 
 Winkle spoke again, in the heavy darkness of the 
 car. His voice was as unmusical and persistent as a 
 buzzing gnat. 
 
 "Very good, then," he said, "if the knife don't 
 mean any more than that, suppose you tell us about 
 this weapon you say you can produce, though where 
 in hell you found it is more than I can imagine." 
 
 "I guess that's the truth," said Peter. "I don't 
 believe many people could imagine where I found it." 
 
 "Well, for Heaven's sake where was it?" asked the 
 inspector, impatiently. 
 
 "In Robert Kent's tackle bag," replied Peter, 
 quietly.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 
 
 T)Y ALL that's holy, you can't mean that, 
 -*^ Peter!" exclaimed Carlisle. 
 
 They were within sight of the ferry, and taking 
 his place in the intermittently moving line of waiting 
 cars and trucks, he swung half round on the seat to 
 look Clancy in the face. 
 
 "In Rob's tackle box!" he repeated, wonderingly. 
 "Why, there was nothing in the box but the regular 
 stuff hooks, flies, spoons, reels, leaders, and such 
 things. I don't remember seeing a knife of any 
 kind." 
 
 "No, there wasn't any knife," said Peter, "and yet, 
 the weapon with which the murder was committed 
 was there and I took it away with me, in my 
 pocket." 
 
 The line of trucks moved slowly forward and 
 Carlisle kept his place, moving slowly forward with 
 them. 
 
 "It was your mother's bunch of keys that did the 
 trick," continued Peter, in a low voice. " If it hadn't 
 been for her it's probable that I never would have 
 suspected Kent, though I knew, last night, just how 
 
 242
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 243 
 
 the trick was pulled. The evidence of what means 
 had been used was so carefully concealed that Kent 
 could have had no fear of leaving it in a locked box in 
 your house, especially as he had reason to think that 
 I had no connection with the case and was following 
 him into town by the next train. It was about the 
 safest place he could leave it until he had a chance to 
 destroy it." 
 
 Peter craned his head through the open window 
 of the car and looked longingly toward the rapidly 
 filling ferry boat. 
 
 "Afraid we're not going to make this trip," he said, 
 anxiously, "and Kent's almost sure to have dis- 
 covered already. He got to Fern Hills at six, 
 to-night, you said, Harry, and left there around half- 
 past? It's nearly nine now. He's had a lot of time. 
 It wouldn't take him more than an hour and a half 
 to drive in. That would get him to his apartment 
 around eight." 
 
 "Yes," said Carlisle. "He told Mother that he 
 would get home in time for dinner, and would rather 
 drive in before it got too dark. He apologized all 
 over the place for leaving his things there, and for not 
 stopping, and took his traps and his car, and left. 
 I didn't come in till just after he'd gone." 
 
 "Did Mrs. Carlisle tell him that we'd opened his 
 tackle box?" asked Peter, quickly. 
 
 "Yes, she would, of course," replied Carlisle, 
 uneasily. "She explained about my lot of rotten lead-
 
 244 Q- E D. 
 
 ers. She had no idea Does it matter much, 
 Peter ? Will he know " 
 
 "The minute he got a chance to open his tackle 
 box, he must have guessed." Peter bit his lip and 
 again glanced toward the ferry entrance. "We're 
 not going to make this trip, that's sure. Damn it!" 
 he said. "But never mind, Harry, O'Malley's on 
 the job and he'll take care of it as well as I could, or 
 better." He turned to include Hood and the 
 inspector. "My partner, O'Malley, is watching 
 Kent's apartment himself," he explained, "and he 
 sent a man around to all the garages in the neighbour- 
 hood to find out where Kent keeps his car. The man 
 will watch there, and let us know. By George, I 
 think we're going to make this boat, after all ! Hey, 
 you, there!" Peter called, and leaping from the 
 car dashed over to the man who was directing the 
 position of the vans and trucks on the deck of the 
 ferry boat. 
 
 "How many more can you get on, old scout?" 
 he called, cheerfully. 
 
 "Three more, and that's the limit," was the laconic 
 reply. 
 
 Peter turned and counted back. "One two 
 three." The fourth vehicle in line was the car of 
 Harrison Carlisle. 
 
 Without an instant's hesitation Peter approached 
 the driver of the third, which was a large truck, laden 
 with barrels. He spoke to the man at the wheel, and
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 245 
 
 after a few quick sentences put his hand in his 
 pocket, drew out a roll of bills, peeled off several, 
 slipped them into the man's hand, and ran back to his 
 friends. 
 
 "Shoot ahead of this next truck, Harrison," he 
 said, breathlessly, jumping to the running board. 
 "It'sO. K." 
 
 "Hey! Get back on the line, there, you!" 
 shouted the man on the deck, angrily, as the car 
 swung forward. 
 
 "It's all right, Bo," called the truck driver, "I 
 give him my place. Get ahead, you blokes, and 
 don't take none o' his lip," he added, cordially, to 
 Peter. 
 
 Carlisle's car rolled gently over the planks which 
 joined the ferry boat to the slip, the clashing chain 
 was drawn across the deck, the planks were hauled 
 away, and slowly the great lumbering boat steamed 
 out into the darkness of the gently heaving river. 
 
 "Thank God for that," said Peter, as he slipped 
 back into his place and closed the car door. "Saves 
 us twenty minutes, and that may mean all the 
 difference." 
 
 The inspector's brows were wrinkled in puzzled 
 thought. 
 
 "Look here, Clancy," he said, grasping Peter's arm 
 and shaking it a little in his impatience, "I've been 
 racking my brain, and I can't think What the 
 devil kind of a weapon was it ? And how
 
 246 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Yes, Peter, what was it?" echoed Harrison, turn- 
 ing on the front seat. And his mind, delivered from 
 the exigencies of the road, bent its whole force on the 
 question in hand. 
 
 "I'm entirely in the dark, still," said Louis Hood, 
 shaking his head. "Are you ready to tell us, Clancy ? 
 If you are, it would be a great relief." He took off his 
 soft felt hat, and with a characteristic gesture passed 
 his hand over his forehead, and ran his fingers through 
 his thick, dark hair. 
 
 "I'm ready to tell you the whole story, Hood," 
 said Peter, quietly. "The case is complete, in my 
 mind. The inspector will have to hear it, anyway, 
 
 and Harry has been in it from the beginning so " 
 
 He paused and looked out over the river. 
 
 They were at the very rear of the boat, and the 
 swish and swirl of the churning waters in its wake 
 formed a liquid accompaniment to the drum-like 
 throb of the engines. All the motors of the trucks 
 and vans had been shut off, and there was silence on 
 the decks broken only by an occasional rough word 
 from one truckman to another. There were few 
 passengers crossing at this time of night, and the 
 rear passenger decks, faintly lit, were empty. 
 
 Beyond the slowly, resistlessly moving boat, the 
 broad, black waters of the noble river rose and fell 
 with an almost imperceptible motion. Along the 
 western shore the receding points of light which 
 marked the ferry landing grew smaller and smaller in
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 247 
 
 the distance, while the necklace of pale lamps at the 
 top of the Palisades seemed suspended in mid air. 
 Above, black, sullen clouds rolled in, unseen. 
 
 "So," continued Peter, after a breath, "I'll tell 
 you the whole story of what happened Thursday 
 night, and you can see for yourselves if there are any 
 holes in the case. This is a hell of a long ferry and 
 I'll have plenty of time." 
 
 He shifted his position to bring his head closer to 
 those in the front seat, and spoke in a low, guarded 
 voice. 
 
 "It was your caretaker, John, who put the match 
 to the fuse, Hood," he began. "I think some 
 possibility of such an explanation had been beating 
 around in my old bean, but it didn't come through 
 until old John told us about his banshee. Do you 
 remember?" 
 
 "Yes." Hood leaned still farther forward, looking 
 at Peter in bewilderment. 
 
 "Old John told us," explained Peter, to the in- 
 spector, "that he'd heard a banshee wailing around 
 Mr. Hood's house all night, the night before the 
 murder; that it didn't stop until the wind died, at 
 dawn. His wife heard it, too. They couldn't sleep. 
 They'd never heard anything like it before, though 
 they'd listened to many high winds in the trees 
 around the house on many a windier night. He 
 described it as a voice without words. Does that 
 suggest anything to you?'*
 
 248 Q. E. D. 
 
 The inspector, who had a good deal of Irish blood 
 in his veins, shivered a little, and cast a quick look, 
 sidewise, into the darkness. 
 
 "I I can't say that it does," he said, hesitatingly. 
 "Of course, warnings like that are all nonsense. But 
 it was queer, wasn't it? What do you make of it, 
 Clancy? Was it imagination, or 
 
 "Did you ever hear of an^Eolian harp, Inspector?" 
 Peter asked, quietly. 
 
 "I've heard of the .ZEolian Company. They're on 
 Forty-second Street," said the 1 inspector, surprised 
 at the irrelevance of Clancy's question, but willing to 
 show his urban knowledge. "I know they make 
 pipe-organs and pianolas and such things, but I 
 never heard they made harps." 
 
 "Well, they don't make the kind I'm speaking of," 
 said Peter, suppressing a grin. " It's something alto- 
 gether different." 
 
 "Made of wires and hung up in trees, as a rule," 
 interjected Hood, swiftly, "but, Clancy, why 
 should- 
 
 " Another thing, Inspector," said Peter, with a 
 slight motion of his hand toward Louis Hood, "did 
 you ever run into a clothes line in the dark?" 
 
 Winkle gazed at Peter as if he thought the young 
 detective had suddenly taken leave of his senses, but 
 Carlisle whirled clean around in his seat and grabbed 
 Peter's shoulder. 
 
 "Why, I did once, Peter!" he cried, excitedly.
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 249 
 
 "Don't you remember? It was at school, and we 
 were sneaking in after hours. I ran into it, full tilt, 
 and cut a big piece out of the bridge of my nose. 
 I've got the scar yet. Good God! Do you 
 mean 
 
 "I mean," said Peter, slowly, "that the banshee 
 John heard was a sort of ^Eolian harp, that it played 
 only when the wind was high, and that it was made of 
 two fine wires stretched tight from one tree to another 
 across the front of the terrace at Hood's house. The 
 marks on the trees are plain, showing just where the 
 wire was attached, and where it cut the bark as it 
 ran across it. It was so fine that it could scarcely 
 have been seen in the daytime, and it would have 
 been fairly impossible to have seen it at dusk. The 
 whole beastly plan was perfected, in every detail, 
 beforehand. Kent went out Wednesday, probably 
 early in the evening, and strung the wires. He 
 knew that the caretakers were unlikely to come 
 around that part of the house, when the whole main 
 house was closed up and empty. He set his trap and 
 went back to town." 
 
 Peter paused and for an instant there was no sound 
 but the throb .of the steadily heaving engine and the 
 swirl of the black water. 
 
 "He knew all of Hood's plans," Peter went on, 
 "days before, and could make his calculations 
 exactly. It was necessary, you see, for him to have 
 an accomplice. He must insure, not only that his
 
 250 Q. E. D. 
 
 victim would come down off the terrace by the 
 middle steps leading to the lawn, where the trap was 
 set, but that he should come in a hurry. If he had 
 been walking, and struck the wire, it probably 
 wouldn't do much damage. He must come at top 
 speed. You see that, don't you?" 
 
 There was a stir of acquiescence in the tense 
 figures about him, but no one spoke. 
 
 "That's where Viola Gale came in," said Peter, 
 still in the same low tone. "Kent knew Hood's 
 character knew that he was brave and chivalrous 
 knew that if he heard a woman screaming in terror 
 that he'd beat it to the place as if all hell was after 
 him. What he didn't know, and what saved Hood's 
 life, as sure as we're sitting here, was that there was 
 another man in the house, a man of about Hood's 
 height and figure, a man to whom, by a strange 
 coincidence, the voice of Viola Gale was a voice from 
 the past perhaps not fully recognized who can 
 tell? But a voice which made an irresistible appeal 
 as we know." 
 
 Again Peter stopped. The inspector's deep rough 
 breathing sounded heavily in the silence as he 
 mentally laboured in the wake of the quicker mind. 
 
 "I'm certain," continued Peter, "that it will be 
 proved that Viola Gale was completely taken in by 
 Kent's hoax and was entirely innocent of any real 
 complicity. It was just a sporting proposition to 
 her. She was under obligations to Kent, on account
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 251 
 
 of the movie venture they were in together and was 
 probably glad to do something to please him. She 
 thought it was all a lark. She's that kind, as I 
 size her up. He probably explained his leaving her 
 at the station to go back to town alone, by saying 
 that he had a dinner engagement with the sup- 
 positional person who had just settled the bet, and 
 who, she understood, lived in the neighbourhood. 
 He did keep his engagement, almost on time, as we 
 know, but it was with you, Harry, net with the 
 sporting gentleman, who never existed." 
 
 Carlisle nodded. 
 
 " But I can't quite see," said Louis Hood, keeping 
 his intent gaze fixed on Peter's face, "the exact 
 sequence of events. Walter had said good-bye," 
 he spoke slowly, thinking back, "and was opening 
 the door, when I switched off the light and went into 
 the north wing. Exactly what happened then, do 
 you think?" 
 
 "I don't think," replied Peter, confidently. "I 
 am certain of what happened. You will bear in 
 mind that Kent had his wires stretched the night 
 before. You were expected to leave the house a 
 little before seven. All right. He and Viola Gale 
 drove out to your place by back roads as far as 
 possible. They got there in plenty of time. They 
 both left the car at the southwest corner of your 
 ptace, and he pointed out where she was to go, along- 
 side the south boundary, until she came opposite the
 
 252 Q. E. D. 
 
 house and could see the entrance. Kent had de- 
 scribed you to her, though he'd given you a fictitious 
 name. She was to wait until she saw you at the 
 door, and then was to scream in as scared a way as 
 possible, to attract your attention. She was an 
 actress and could be depended on to do the business 
 in a convincing manner. That she did so there is 
 one man living who can testify old Bill Brown." 
 
 "Bill Brown?" asked Hood, in surprise. "What 
 has he to do with it?" 
 
 Then Peter and Harrison Carlisle explained their 
 meeting with the old poacher which had proved so 
 momentous in its consequences. 
 
 "I see," said Hood, "but to go back I want to 
 
 have it quite clear in my own mind The 
 
 woman stood beyond the wall, at the foot of the 
 lawn, and then 
 
 "And then," continued, Peter, "Walter Brown 
 came to the door. It was quite dark outside, but 
 there was a bright light in your hall and the top half 
 of the door is glass. Viola Gale had a good look at 
 Walter Brown before you switched off the light. 
 She was too far off to distinguish features, but he 
 answered well enough to Kent's description. He 
 was about your build, unusually tall, and dressed 
 much as you would have been in your fishing clothes. 
 Kent didn't see him at all, though he was much 
 nearer the house than she. He was stationed in the 
 shrubbery, over by the west end of the terrace, and
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 253 
 
 those tall, pointed evergreens, that grow along the 
 front, cut off his view completely. But, he didn't 
 have to see, you understand? He waited there, in 
 the dark, for her signal waited, with who knows 
 what jealousy and hatred, what thwarted ambition, 
 what greed of your wealth in his heart. He heard 
 the signal a frightful scream of terror from the 
 woman, down by the road. Running feet, almost 
 soundless on the snow the thrill and quiver of the 
 taut wire a heavy fall and silence." 
 
 Peter drew a long breath. 
 
 "The plan had worked. But, unknown to Kent, 
 it was Walter Brown who came through the door and 
 started toward the drive, when he was stopped by 
 that awful scream. Without an instant's hesitation, 
 he turned and ran back across the terrace toward the 
 spot where the noise had come from. In midcareer, 
 as he sprang down the steps, that cruel wire, taut as 
 a bow-string, caught him in the throat. Caught him 
 as he jumped, and with such force that the bones of 
 his neck snapped like a dead branch." 
 
 "My God!" groaned Carlisle under his breath, 
 "and it might have been Louis, with all his big clean 
 life ended lost! And Sylvia 
 
 "After that," Peter was saying, "Kent had noth- 
 ing to do but reel in his line." 
 
 Harrison's ear caught the familiar words. 
 
 "Reel in his line, Peter? Reel in 
 
 "Yes," Clancy said, quietly. "He wanted to get
 
 2 S4 Q. E. D. 
 
 in the wires in the quickest way possible. There 
 was, in fact, only one, continuous wire, as I can show 
 you. It was hooked around a low branch of that 
 pine tree, where we stood yesterday morning, Harry, 
 near the west end of the terrace. It was passed up 
 over a limb high enough to clear any man's head, 
 carried across to the east end, thrown over another 
 high limb on the tree opposite, brought under a 
 lower branch of the same tree, carried back across the 
 terrace, at the exact height to catch a six-foot man, 
 either in the face or neck, and fastened securely to the 
 pine tree from which it started. Is that clear?" 
 
 Even the inspector was able to follow the expla- 
 nation. 
 
 "That wire," Peter went on, "was fastened to a 
 big, multiple-action tarpon reel. When the end, 
 ready to his hand, was freed, Kent had only to reel 
 the entire wire in. It took not more than a few 
 seconds at the most, though the springy wire 
 wouldn't run in as well as an ordinary line. And 
 when he had done that, practically every trace of the 
 means he had used had disappeared. It was damned 
 clever! He'd even tied a length of ordinary line on 
 the end of the wire, enough to cover it when the whole 
 thing was reeled in. It was only chance, perhaps," 
 Peter spoke, slowly, "that gave Mrs. Carlisle the 
 means to, and reason for, opening that tackle 
 box. . . . Chance or luck, that I was so much 
 interested in a kind of reel I had never seen; that in
 
 "FIRST CATCH YOUR HARE" 255 
 
 handling that particular one I spun the handle, as 
 one naturally does, and the spring of the wire under- 
 neath helped in unwinding the line that covered it; 
 that I should have found the wire sticky, with a 
 queer kind of gum, when I was already certain that 
 a wire had been used and knew that one end of it had 
 been fastened to a pine tree. It didn't take long to 
 put two and two together, and when I had the whole 
 wire examined by the best analytic chemists in town, 
 and they reported traces of human blood very 
 little, but enough for them to be sure no further 
 evidence was needed to my mind, and I think it's 
 enough to convince any jury, with what we'll be able 
 to get out of Viola Gale." 
 
 The heavy bump of the ferry boat as it slid into the 
 slip startled them all, so rilled had they been with 
 the excitement of the moment. 
 
 "That's all very well very clever and ingenious, 
 Mr. Peter Clancy," growled the inspector in Peter's 
 ear, as all the motors aboard the ferry boat started at 
 once. "Your theory seems to be sound as far as any 
 one can see, but you haven't got your man yet, Mr. 
 Peter Clancy, and he's sure to be wise by now. 
 First catch your hare, my lad," and then with empha- 
 sis, "first catch your hare."
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 
 
 A^ SOON as they were clear of the press around 
 the ferry slip, Peter, accompanied by the now 
 alert and eager inspector, sought the nearest telephone 
 booth, and called the night clerk in his own office. 
 
 He found that O'Malley had sent in several re- 
 ports through Lannegan, the man who had been 
 detailed to locate the garage where Kent kept his 
 car. This had easily been done, and Lannegan had 
 telephoned from the Empire Garage while waiting 
 for said car to put in an appearance. It was only a 
 short block from Kent's apartment, and it had been 
 an easy matter for Lannegan to slip over at intervals 
 without losing sight of the brightly lit garage en- 
 trance, and have a word with his chief, who was 
 stationed in front of the apartment. O'Malley had 
 instructed him to send in word to the office that Kent 
 had not yet come home, according to the elevator- 
 boy and Kent's own servants, and O'Malley felt cer- 
 tain they were telling the truth. The last report was 
 sent in at 8:45. At that time Kent was still missing. 
 
 "There's still a chance that he may have come in 
 by this time, at that," said Peter to Winkle, glancing 
 
 256
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 257 
 
 at his watch as he hurried back to the waiting motor. 
 "It's now 9:23, and a lot can happen in a half hour 
 in this old burg. Why, where's Hood ?" he broke off 
 as he opened the car door and saw no one but Car- 
 lisle sitting at the wheel. 
 
 "Hope you and the inspector won't mind," replied 
 Harrison at once, "but old Louis has ducked. Said 
 he couldn't be of any assistance to you, and didn't 
 care to be in at the death. Gad ! I don't feel that 
 way, damn him! The cold-blooded coward. When 
 I think that he sat at Mother's table the night 
 he Oh, hop in, Peter, and let's be off. We're 
 wasting time." 
 
 "You don't mind Louis beating it, do you, Peter?" 
 Carlisle added in a lower voice as Clancy took his 
 place beside him on the front seat. "He wanted to 
 get to Sylvia as soon as he could in case she recognized 
 the picture of her brother in the paper to-night. He 
 wanted to explain it all, and set her mind at rest, 
 poor girl. Between you and me, Peter, I can't be 
 sorry that a poor unlucky devil like Walter Farquhar 
 got out of this hole of a mortal world by a quick and 
 painless road. But that doesn't help Kent out any. 
 He was aiming at the decentest, whitest chap I know, 
 and the sooner you catch up to him and let him have 
 what's coming, the better." 
 
 Talking half to himself, half to Peter, Harrison 
 guided the car swiftly in the direction indicated by 
 his companion, and in a very short time they drew
 
 258 Q. E. D. 
 
 up in a shadowy spot alongside the railings of 
 Gramercy Park. 
 
 Peter leapt lightly out before the car came to a 
 standstill, and went quietly and swiftly along the 
 pavement until he came to the corner of the railing, 
 and saw across the roadway the lighted front of a 
 handsome apartment house. Here he stopped and 
 whistled softly, a low note, one higher in the scale, 
 and then two low notes together. 
 
 At the signal, a bulky figure detached itself from 
 the railings and came quietly toward him. 
 
 "Nothing doing yet, Peter," said O'Malley's gruff 
 voice in his ear. "No sign of our clever friend, and 
 there's no back way in or out of the apartments. 
 Saw Lannegan not two minutes ago. Kent's car 
 hasn't shown up at the garage. I'm getting kind of 
 restless, Peter. This is a devil of a long time for him 
 to have taken driving in from Jersey. What do you 
 say we go up and talk to the servants, and see if we 
 can't start something. I haven't seen anybody but 
 his man so far. Just went up as a friend to see if 
 Mr. Kent was home, you understand. Didn't want 
 to start anything till you came." 
 
 "All right," said Peter, crisply. "The cat's out 
 of the bag as far as Kent's concerned by this time, 
 I'm certain, and we may as well find out what we 
 can, here. I'll get Winkle, and we'll put the servants 
 through the third degree. We may get a lead that 
 will help."
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 259 
 
 A few minutes later Clancy and O'Malley, backed 
 by the inspector's imposing blue bulk, were putting 
 questions to Kent's frightened valet. 
 
 They ascertained without much difficulty that 
 Kent had been expected home to dinner at eight; 
 that shortly before that hour the valet was too 
 much upset by Winkle's portentous stare to re- 
 member the exact time Kent had 'phoned that his 
 car had broken down on the road, and that he 
 wouldn't be in till late. The friend who had been 
 engaged to dine with him was much annoyed at the 
 excuse, it appeared, and had gone off, fuming. 
 
 The valet told of the circumstances with so much 
 detail, and he was so obviously frightened, that there 
 was little reason to doubt his word. 
 
 The three were just about to take themselves off, 
 much to the servant's relief, when the young, red- 
 headed one turned back, and asked suddenly: 
 
 "Have any 'phone calls come in for Mr. Kent 
 during the evening?" 
 
 "Why, yes, sir," said the valet, rubbing his long, 
 thin hands nervously together. "There've been sev- 
 eral calls during the evening." 
 
 "Who from, do you know?" asked Peter, pleas- 
 antly. 
 
 His manner was so mild in comparison with that 
 of the uniformed officer, that the valet plucked up a 
 little heart of grace. 
 
 "One was from Mr. Rosenbaum," he answered,
 
 26o Q. E. D. 
 
 readily, "he's managing the big movie production 
 at New Rochambeau. He wanted to know 
 
 "Never mind him, who were the other calls from?'* 
 * Peter interposed, quickly. 
 
 "The rest were all from a lady the same lady, I 
 think," replied the man. "I don't know who it was, 
 but she seemed a bit anxious to get in touch with 
 Mr. Kent. She asked that he should call her as 
 soon as he came in." 
 
 "You have her 'phone number, then?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, here it is," and he took a folded slip 
 from his pocket: "Bryant 6543." 
 
 "Got a 'phone directory handy?" asked Peter, mak- 
 ing a mental note of the number. 
 
 "Yes, sir, here you are, sir." 
 
 Peter ran through the pages rapidly and handed 
 the book back to the waiting servant. 
 
 "Thank you," he said, cheerfully. "Now tell 
 me something else. When Mr. Kent 'phoned, did 
 you remember to give him the lady's message?" 
 
 "Certainly, sir, of course," said the man with a 
 touch of dignity. 
 
 "Good," said Peter, clapping him on the shoulder. 
 "You're on the job, I see. Right-o. 'Night !" 
 
 And without more words Peter hurried his two 
 companions out into the hall, and down into the 
 street, breaking into a run when he reached the 
 pavement, leaving the two older men considerably in 
 the rear.
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 261 
 
 "To the Wayside Theatre, Harry!" panted Peter, 
 "pick up O'Malley and the inspector at the corner 
 as you go. They're just behind me see 'em? No 
 time to lose!" 
 
 Quick as thought, Carlisle let in the clutch and the 
 car jumped eagerly forward, as if it, too, longed to 
 run down the prey. 
 
 "Stage door just beyond the main entrance," said 
 
 Peter as they swung into Forty Street, and saw 
 
 the flashing, triumphant lights of "The Wishing 
 Stile" pulsating against the black and empty sky. 
 "Drive on slowly. Rawlins'll be waiting somewhere 
 along here." 
 
 Obediently, the car slowed down to a crawl, and 
 as soon as they were out of the glare of lights, Peter 
 leaned from the open window and whistled his clear, 
 low call. 
 
 He waited a minute, while the car slid silently 
 along, then whistled again and yet again. But no 
 shadow detached itself from the shadows of the 
 house fronts. 
 
 "Damn funny," growled O'Malley, from the back 
 seat. " Rawlins's instructions were plain. He wasn't 
 to take any chances. I wonder 
 
 At Peter's direction the car had turned and, 
 drifting slowly back, had nearly reached the main 
 entrance of the theatre, when a man dashed out of 
 the stage door, and looked wildly to the right and left. 
 
 "There he is!" cried Peter, eagerly.
 
 262 Q. E. D. 
 
 At the same instant Harry jammed on the brakes, 
 and Peter whistled again. 
 
 With a look of alarm and anxiety slightly tinged 
 with relief, the man rushed to the car and leaped in at 
 the door, which O'Malley had already opened for him. 
 
 "What's the trouble, Rawlins?" O'Malley's voice 
 was gruff and uneasy. "Where's Miss Gale, and 
 why " 
 
 "She's gone!" cried Rawlins, apprehensively. 
 "Made clean off, while I- 
 
 "Gone!" echoed Peter. "In the middle of the 
 show! Good lord! How did it happen that you 
 let her give you the slip ? Confound it, man ! You 
 should have " 
 
 "Easy, Peter," cautioned O'Malley. "Let's hear 
 what the lad has to say. Post mortems later. Now 
 Rawlins- 
 
 "I found out where she's gone, though," cried 
 Rawlins, eager to extenuate a fault which he knew 
 would be considered vital. "She's gone home in her 
 own car." 
 
 "To her apartment, or out in the country?" asked 
 Peter, quickly. 
 
 "Her country house," answered Rawlins, confi- 
 dently. "Got it out of the doorman with the help 
 of a fat tip. Chauffeur was grumbling about the long 
 drive with the storm coming up. That's how he 
 knew it wasn't her apartment. Apartment's near 
 by, you know."
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 263 
 
 "She didn't give the direction in the hearing 
 of the doorman, then?" 
 
 "No, but I don't think there's any mistake. The 
 place is somewhere up in Westchester, not very far 
 out." 
 
 "Fulham?" 
 
 "The doorman didn't know the name of the place." 
 Rawlins's tone was regretfully apologetic. "But I 
 thought, perhaps, you or Captain O'Malley 
 
 "Know the road to Fulham, Harry?" Peter cut 
 in, turning quickly to Carlisle. 
 
 "Like my own driveway," answered Harrison, 
 with satisfying assurance. "Used to be in love 
 with a girl up there." 
 
 "Then beat it!" cried Peter. "On your way! 
 And forget the speed laws only, for God's sake, don't 
 get pinched." 
 
 Instantly the great whir of the engine drowned 
 his voice. Smoothly the gears shifted from first, 
 to second, to third. The voice of the car sank to a 
 deep steady note, and the swiftest run of Peter's 
 life, which had never been characterized by slowness, 
 began. 
 
 "What's the idea, Clancy?" growled Inspector 
 Winkle, as they swung into Fifth Avenue. "I 
 thought it was the man we were after. What's this 
 actress got to do with 
 
 "She's been 'phoning Kent ever since I left her. 
 Bryant 6543*5 number of the Wayside Theatre.
 
 264 Q. E. D. 
 
 They got in touch soon after Kent's valet delivered 
 her message. She cuts out in the middle of the show. 
 Inference plain. They're meeting somewhere. Find 
 her find him see ? " explained Peter, tersely. " She 
 may not go to Fulham at all, of course, but it is 
 the best bet for the time being. I've been to her 
 apartment. They wouldn't go there. May be a 
 million places where they might meet, but I'm 
 putting my money on Fulham, for the time being, 
 see? And the sooner we get there, the sooner we'll 
 know." 
 
 "How in hell did she give you the slip like that, 
 Rawlins?" broke in O'Malley, angrily. "I thought 
 you'd been long enough in the business not to be 
 fooled by a woman." 
 
 "Well, Captain, you see," began Rawlins, defen- 
 sively, "I kept her in my eye, as you might say, till 
 I saw her landed at the theatre. And then, some- 
 how, confound it all, it didn't come into my thick old 
 bean that she wasn't safe till the show was over. 
 So I just thought I'd take a peek at her from the 
 front. Seemed just as good a way of watching her as 
 any. And they say 'The Wishing Stile' is a peach of 
 a show. Anyway, I took a stand-up seat and saw 
 her in the first act, all right. I didn't suspicion 
 anything, and I was close by the door," still more 
 defensively. " I went out into the street and watched 
 till the second act was called, and she didn't come 
 out then."
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 265 
 
 "Of course not, you fool," grunted O'Malley. 
 "Take's some time to change into street clothes. 
 Well, go on." 
 
 "I had a pair of opera glasses," Rawlins contin- 
 ued, obediently, "and I had 'em trained on her when 
 she came on in the second act, which was some time 
 after the act started, see ? And at first I was almost 
 fooled myself, the other girl done so well, and looked 
 so much like her, but in a minute or two I got wise and 
 then you couldn't have seen me for the dust, beating 
 it around to the stage door." ' 
 
 "And you were too late, of course." 
 
 "Yes," sadly, "she'd just gone. The doorman 
 told me she'd been taken ill during the performance 
 and had to go home. I'd just wormed the rest out of 
 him and was on my way to 'phone the office when I 
 seen you." 
 
 "Well, I guess that'll be about all from you, 
 Rawlins. I think we can manage to dispense with 
 your services about now," said O'Malley, with 
 pointed sarcasm. "If you'll slow up a bit, Mr. Car- 
 lisle, we'll let Rawlins go home and go to bed where 
 he can continue his sleep." 
 
 Harrison slowed down at once, and before the 
 car came to a stop Rawlins, glad to escape, sprang 
 out. 
 
 "Miss Gale can't have such a devil of a long start," 
 said Peter with relief as the car sped on. "We may 
 pick her up on the road and trail her home. Her
 
 266 Q. E. D. 
 
 car's one you can hardly miss. I've seen it, ridden in 
 it, in fact." He grinned slightly. "It's a kind of 
 bright violet colour all over, even the inside cushions 
 and things. We may see it any minute. If we're 
 on the right road," he added, uneasily. 
 
 The road, right or wrong, was smooth as a billiard- 
 table, shining dark blue in the lights of the park 
 through which they were at that moment passing 
 at hair-raising speed. At this mid-theatre time of 
 night the way was practically clear, and the "traffic 
 cops" mindful of the intelligent law that a man may 
 drive as fast as he likes so long as he does not jeop- 
 ardize others, let them pass without interference. 
 
 The storm which had been brewing in hot and 
 angry silence all through the evening now gave hints 
 of its coming fury. The sky, which had appeared 
 low-hung, empty, and black, was now riven by sharp 
 swords of blinding light. The wind was rising in deep, 
 sighing exhalations. In the lightning flash, with the 
 speed of a camera-shutter, were revealed high-flung 
 masses of cloud, lurid and awful, tow r ering into the 
 zenith, the tense stillness of the lower air making 
 their swift progress across the sky a thing of mystery 
 and menace. 
 
 Then the rain began to fall. It came on the first 
 downward sweep of wind and struck the slender, 
 flying car with the force of an intentional and well- 
 aimed blow. 
 
 It was the work of a second to close the wind shield
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 267 
 
 and the windows, and the car sped on without an 
 instant's slackening of its whirling pace. 
 
 "Some night! I'll tell the world," said Peter, 
 leaning forward. 
 
 Harrison Carlisle nodded quietly, keeping his cool 
 glance fixed on the road ahead. With marvellous skill 
 he carried on, slowing for curves to prevent skidding, 
 and picking up again with a celerity which did equal 
 justice to his skill and the flexibility of his engine. 
 
 At the Harlem Bridge he stopped for an instant at 
 Peter's direction while Peter dashed out in the rain to 
 speak to the policeman, who, in streaming poncho, 
 guarded the approach. 
 
 "All right, so far," said Peter, slamming the door, 
 and shaking big drops of water all about him as he 
 dropped into his seat. "The violet car passed here 
 just before the rain commenced." 
 
 The car was already in motion. The lights of the 
 little river flashed by and were gone. More lights, 
 then dark and silent country, which seemed desolate 
 and uninhabited except when the sharp, sudden 
 flashes showed great houses of large estates sheltering 
 themselves among the distant trees. 
 
 On again and ever on. Villages flew by with a 
 dazzling, swimming blur of lights. The roar of the 
 wind and the heaving boom of the thunder drowned 
 the voice of the motor, silenced the splashing whirr of 
 the wheels. All other sound was swept away in the 
 terrific onslaught of the storm.
 
 268 Q. E. D. 
 
 "Coming into Fulham here," said Carlisle at last. 
 His voice was as calm and unruffled as if the black 
 night were broad day. Only a slight deepening of 
 its pitch showed that he had any emotion to con- 
 ceal. "Where do we go first?" 
 
 "To the police station," said Peter, promptly. 
 "We've got to pick up a cop to make the actual 
 arrest, in case we find our man where I think he is. 
 Got to be prepared. Jersey warrant not enough, 
 you understand. Know where it is?" 
 
 Carlisle nodded, and a moment later drew up before 
 a neat, white-trimmed brick building where a green 
 light winked in a blur through the rain. 
 
 Peter and the inspector went in together, reap- 
 pearing in an incredibly short time with a man in 
 uniform. 
 
 "Get in in front, will you, Officer," said Peter, 
 "and direct the way." 
 
 "Gad, I'm glad we had sense enough to let Car- 
 lisle bring us in from Fern Hills instead of taking 
 the train," he muttered to O'Malley as he slipped 
 in beside his partner. "I don't believe another 
 man in the world would have brought us along at the 
 pace we came." 
 
 "He's some little driver," admitted O'Malley, 
 "but I'll bet my hair, what there is of it, won't lie 
 down for a week." 
 
 "Me, too," growled the inspector. "Talk about 
 being snatched from the jaws of death, I've been in
 
 THE STORM BREAKS 269 
 
 and out of 'em so many times in the last hour that I 
 know the shape of all its front teeth." 
 
 Peter was not listening. He had slid forward on 
 the middle of the seat and, leaning on the back of the 
 one in front, peered anxiously ahead. 
 
 "Great storm we've had out here to-night," the 
 Fulham officer was saying to Carlisle, "done lots of 
 damage. Think it's letting up a bit now, though. 
 Turn right here, and right again at the next corner 
 but one. Miss Gale's house is at the top of the hill, 
 facing the end of the road. Backs up on the old For- 
 est estate. Fine place. Empty now." 
 
 "Forest estate?" said Carlisle, quickly. "Why, 
 I know that place. Some friends of mine lived just 
 below there on the Boston Post Road where the New 
 Rochambeau trolley runs. Used to visit them a lot." 
 
 "That's the place," said the officer. "Miss Gale's 
 house is just to the west, this side. Turn here. 
 There it is." 
 
 " Slow down, Harry," said Peter, sharply, " and let's 
 see. Oh, here drive in through this gate and keep 
 your lights on. Nobody likely to run into you. And 
 we can't afford to leave the car in the road. You can 
 stay here where it's dry and look out that nobody 
 steals it. It's no good your 
 
 "Oh, to hell with the car '."said Carlisle, feelingly. 
 "Do you think I'm going to miss 
 
 "Come on, then," said Peter, smiling grimly. "It's 
 not going to be any picnic."
 
 270 Q. E. D. 
 
 The car had stopped in a private drive where it 
 was hidden from the road. Silently its occupants 
 descended and, unmindful of the heavy rain which 
 beat into their faces, filed quietly out into the 
 road.
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 
 
 'VJO USE the whole bunch coming any nearer 
 * ^ till I've had a peek," said Peter, stopping his 
 companions just inside the gate of the house at 
 the top of the hill. "Get in there in the bushes, 
 and wait till I come back." 
 
 So sure was Peter Clancy of himself that no one, 
 not even Inspector Winkle, questioned his right 
 of leadership. Noiselessly the four men slipped in 
 among the wet shrubbery, and Peter disappeared. 
 In a moment he returned, breathless but elated. 
 
 "He's there! God! I was right, O'Malley!" he 
 panted. "He's there with her. In the living room. 
 Right off the main hall. Saw them through a crack 
 in the shutters. She's no more sick than I am and 
 
 furious mad He's. . . . But come on, and 
 
 for God's sake keep quiet." 
 
 "Spread out now," Peter whispered, "and you, 
 Winkle, go round to the back. It's just possible 
 he may make a break that way. The rest of you 
 get out of sight. I'm going to the door alone. 
 Don't get too far away, and run in if you hear me 
 whistle." 
 
 271
 
 272 Q. E. D. 
 
 A nod of understanding and the four figures 
 melted into the rain. 
 
 With a long breath, Peter went up the walk alone 
 and softly ascended the steps. He paused an in- 
 stant with his clenched hand uplifted and then 
 quietly touched the bell. 
 
 Absolute silence ensued. Had it not been for 
 the light which filtered through the soft silk curtains 
 of the side lights of the door it would have seemed 
 that the house was empty. 
 
 But Peter knew better. Again he pressed the 
 bell. 
 
 After a moment he heard a door open at the back 
 of the house, and a heavy footstep approaching. 
 It stopped, however, and Peter, straining his ears, 
 thought he detected the sound of low voices. He 
 would have given worlds to see what was going on 
 inside the house, but there was here no loophole 
 for observation. The curtains at the side covered 
 the small panes closely and the key was in the 
 lock. 
 
 It seemed a year to his impatience before the 
 heavy footsteps sounded again and the door was 
 opened a very little way. A tall darky in a white 
 coat stood in the lighted crack, his bulk completely 
 filling it. 
 
 "Evenin', suh," said the man, with the courtesy 
 of his race, but with a trace of trepidation in his eyes. 
 
 "I want to see Miss Gale on some very important
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 273 
 
 business," said Peter, smiling blandly. "Will you 
 give her my card?" 
 
 "Miss Gale's in New York," said the darky, 
 readily. "She's playin' to-night and won't be home 
 twell late. Ahm sorry, suh. Hit sho' is one wet 
 night t'be out in." And he made as though to close 
 the door. 
 
 Peter's manner changed instantly, and before the 
 man could realize what had happened he was looking 
 into the round steel blue eye of a business-like auto- 
 matic. 
 
 "Stand out of the way," said Peter, in a fierce 
 whisper, "stand back, or . . ." 
 
 But he got no further. There came a bull-like 
 roar from the darkness behind the house: 
 
 "Damn you! I. ... God!" 
 It was Winkle's voice. Peter recognized it, 
 guessed like a flash what had happened, and with 
 a shout, dashed madly around the house, beating 
 through the bushes, driving deep into flower beds, 
 soft and muddy with the rain, panting, straining 
 to reach the voice which was leading him into the 
 blinding, splashing blackness. 
 
 Behind him, all attempt at concealment scattered 
 to the wild winds, came the others. For a second a 
 white flash of lightning showed as in a picture a 
 broad garden with grass walks, and beyond it a low 
 stone wall. A small, slender man, bare headed, 
 his clothes streaming with wet, was upon the top of it
 
 274 Q- E. D. 
 
 and behind was Inspector Winkle running forward 
 with all his might. 
 
 The man leaped down and darkness closed in again, 
 blacker than ever after the glare. 
 
 Peter was conscious that Winkle was scrambling 
 over the wall as he leaped it, that Harry was calling, 
 close behind even made out the words: "Making 
 for the trolley! Look out!" And all the while 
 his senses were straining through the wild darkness 
 for the sound of feet ahead. 
 
 Suddenly he was aware of the great bulk of a dark 
 and silent house on his right. Then he heard the 
 footsteps of his quarry crashing and stumbling on the 
 uneven gravel of an unkempt drive. So clear was 
 Peter's mind, in spite of his mad pace through the 
 blinding storm, that he was distinctly conscious 
 of the thought that Kent must be utterly panic- 
 stricken to stick to the road instead of hiding 
 somewhere, since it was obvious that he knew the 
 surroundings, and letting the chase go by. 
 
 The drive dropped down the hill and Peter ran 
 on the rough grass beside it the better to hear the 
 feet ahead. He was gaining. They sounded per- 
 ceptibly nearer now, still fleeing for life itself. There 
 was confession of guilt, abject and incontrovertible 
 in every crashing footfall. 
 
 Far outdistancing the others, Peter came on, 
 nearer and still nearer. His prey was close ahead, 
 but Peter could see nothing.
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 275 
 
 "Stop, Kent!" he shouted, and his voice sounded 
 distinct and awful above the roar of the storm. 
 "I'll get you dead or alive! Stop, or I'll fire!" 
 
 Still the pounding crash on the gravel showed that 
 Kent's pace had not slackened. 
 
 It was useless to fire at an unseen target and Peter, 
 redoubling his speed, closed up the distance between 
 them. In passing, he grazed his arm on a great 
 stone gatepost and suddenly the crashing footsteps 
 ceased. Peter stopped at once, holding his breath. 
 
 There was not a sound, not the faintest move- 
 ment in the storm-swept blackness ahead. 
 
 Peter crept noiselessly forward and felt the firm 
 smooth stones of a street pavement under his feet. 
 
 Again he listened. Not a sound except the quick 
 and cautious breathing of someone who followed 
 close behind. 
 
 Peter, crouching and listening, felt a fumbling 
 touch on his shoulder and Carlisle's voice whispered 
 in his ear: 
 
 "Where ?" 
 
 Reaching gropingly back, Peter put his hand over 
 Harrison's mouth. 
 
 "He'll move in a minute," thought Peter, "and 
 he must be close by." And clutching his friend's 
 arm they crouched silently beside the walk, and 
 waited. A moment two. Then came a slitting 
 crash of lightning which lit the world, down to the 
 tiny blades of grass.
 
 276 Q. E. D. 
 
 Carlisle, with a cry of exultation and an oath, 
 sprang forward, but Peter caught him bodily in his 
 arms and hurled him back. 
 
 "Don't touch him! My God, don't touch him!" 
 yelled Peter, wildly. "It's death! It's death! 
 Don't you see?" 
 
 A great roar as of the thundering voice of God 
 drowned his words. And upon its passing another 
 flash followed close, lighting the storm-lashed coun- 
 tryside. 
 
 Across the road, a broad, thick wood appeared 
 stretching away into the distance. Near at hand 
 the heavy limb of a great tree, torn and rent by the 
 storm, had fallen outward and, half caught in midair 
 by overhead trolley wires, lay across a line of gleaming 
 rails, which slid smoothly off to right and left. 
 Directly upon the track crouched or drooped the 
 figure of a man. One foot was on the rail, the other 
 on the grass. He was leaning slightly forward, 
 his whole body tensely contracted as though for 
 a spring but still horribly, frightfully still. 
 
 The whole picture was clear for an instant to their 
 wild, startled gaze. Then it flashed out and van- 
 ished in the roaring darkness. 
 
 "Sagging overhead wire, brought down by the 
 falling tree," breathed Peter, awesomely. "Sagging 
 electric wire fully charged. If you'd touched him, 
 Harry, it would have gotten you, too. Made a con- 
 tact and gone through you like a stroke of lightning.
 
 THE CURTAIN FALLS 277 
 
 God!" It was almost a sob. "The sagging wire 
 caught him in full flight as he was making for 
 the woods. . . . Hanging there . . . and 
 dead . . . Dead . . . 'Vengeance is mine. 
 I will. . . . .' It was taken out of our hands." 
 Peter turned and caught his friend's arm in a grip 
 that bit to the bone. "It was the wire that caught 
 him, do you see?" said he, in a slow, odd voice. 
 "A wire! And that was his end. . . . As though 
 it had been thought out planned . . . from 
 the beginning. Somewhere it says and it's true, 
 God, it's true!" his voice dropped and gravely, 
 fatefully, he repeated the words "they that take 
 the sword shall perish with the sword'." 
 
 The dawn was breaking as Peter Clancy, white 
 and tired, looked up from a sheaf of pages, filled with 
 his neat, clear writing, and across the desk at Har- 
 rison Carlisle, who had shared his vigil and had 
 assisted him somewhat in his labours. "That's the 
 whole story, and I think it's clear," said Peter, 
 wearily. "I'll send it to the Meteor by messenger, 
 and it'll be in the morning edition. Ought to make 
 me more solid there than ever. It's some scoop, 
 I'll tell the world!" 
 
 He ran his hand through his shock of red hair, 
 which was already sticking up almost to its fullest 
 extent, and sighed wearily.
 
 278 Q. E. D. 
 
 "I think nobody can have any lingering doubts 
 about Hood after this," he said, meditatively. "I've 
 gone as easy with Miss Gale as possible, and it sure 
 will give her publicity, and then some; so she ought 
 to be satisfied. I've given most of the honour to 
 our friend Inspector Winkle; so he ought to be 
 happy. . . . But it's myself, old chap, myself," 
 said Peter, with a flash of his old smile, "who's 
 able to write at the end of this problem *Q. E. D'." 
 
 THE END
 
 3 1158 00717 1977 
 
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