At dinner and during Saturday evening, Janet seemed so sad and depressed in spirits, that I seconded Laura's efforts to divert her mind from all thoughts of the tragedy.
It was not so difficult as it might seem, for the girl's strange temperament was volatile, and her thoughts were easily led to any subject we suggested. We talked of books and music, and finally of personal acquaintances, discovering that we had a few in common. Although I did not know the Warings personally they were acquaintances of some friends of mine, and I gathered from Janet's remarks that Millicent Waring was one of her intimates.
The evening passed pleasantly enough, but after Laura had carried Janet away to rest for the night, I sat and pondered deeply over my case.
Try as I would, I could not feel that Mr. Gresham had any guilty knowledge of the affair; and if he had, I could think of no way to turn suspicion in his direction. Except, of course, through the handkerchief, which now seemed to me an insoluble mystery.
And except for the slender hope resting upon that handkerchief, I had nothing to offer in the way of evidence against any person or persons other than the girl I loved. It was then that I bethought me of Fleming Stone. I had recently heard of the marvellous work this great detective had done in the Maxwell case, and I wondered that I had not thought of him before. Beside his powers the efforts of minor detectives paled into insignificance. His services were expensive, I knew, but George Lawrence had authorized the employment of a detective, and I did not believe he would object to the outlay. Then, too, my client was now a rich woman, or would be, as soon as the estate was settled.
I admitted my own inability to read the mystery in the clues I had at my disposal, but I felt sure that Stone could do so.
Then the horrible thought struck me, what if Stone's inexorable finger should point toward Janet! But this I would not allow myself to consider, for I could not believe it possible; and, moreover, without Stone's intervention, the law was determined to accuse Janet, anyway, therefore Stone's help was the only possible chance I could see for help.
And so I went to bed with a hopeful heart, thatsince truth must triumph, and since Fleming Stone could discover the truth if any one could, that Janet's exoneration was practically assured.
I was uncertain whether or not to tell Janet of my decision to consult Fleming Stone. And all Sunday morning I hesitated about the matter.
It was late Sunday afternoon before I concluded that it would be better to inform her of my plan, and this conclusion was really brought about more by opportunity than by decision.
Laura had gone out, and Janet and I sat alone in our pleasant library. The girl looked so sweet and dear, in her pathetic black robes, that my heart yearned to comfort her. Her face was sad and very gentle of expression; her dark eyes showing that wistful look that I had learned to watch for. The corners of her red mouth drooped a little, and she looked like a tired child who ought to be protected and cared for against all misfortune.
"I thought George would come up this afternoon," she said, as she stood looking idly out of the window, where her slight black-robed figure made a lovely picture against the background of the gold-colored silk curtain.
"I'm glad he didn't," I said involuntarily; "I'm glad to have you to myself."
She looked up startled, for I never before expresseda hint of my personal feeling toward her. What she read in my eyes must have been intelligible to her, for her own lids dropped, and a soft pink blush showed faintly on her pale cheeks.
"Do you mind that I want you to myself?" I said, going to her side.
"No," she replied and again she gave me a fleeting glance that proved her not entirely unconscious of my meaning, and not offended by it.
"Janet," I went on, taking both her hands in mine, "it may seem dreadful to tell you now, when I've known you but a few days, but I must tell you that I love you. You know it, of course, and believe me, dear, I'm not asking you to respond,—yet. Just let me love you now, until this wretched business is finished, and then, after that, let me teach you to love me."
"It's too late for you to do that," she whispered, and then, overcome with this sudden knowledge, I clasped her in my arms and realized the meaning of the tenderness in her eyes and the wistful droop of her scarlet lips.
"You darling," I murmured, as I held her close; "you precious, contradictory bit of feminine humanity! This is the most blessed of all your contradictions, for I never dreamed that you already loved me."
"But you can't doubt it now, can you?" she returned, as she rested, contentedly, in my embrace.
"No, dearest, you are not easy to understand, there is much about your nature that puzzles me, but when that true, sincere look comes into your eyes, Iknowyou are in earnest. Oh, Janet, my darling, how happy we shall be after all this troublesome mystery is cleared up, and you and I can devote our whole life to caring for each other."
"I shall be so glad to be happy," she said, with a wistful little sigh, and I remembered that her life, so far, had given her little or no joy.
"Sweetheart," I said, "my life purpose henceforth shall be to give you happiness enough to make up for the sad years you have spent.
"You can easily do that, my dear," and the tenderness in her eyes fairly transfigured her. And then, with a pretty impetuous gesture, she hid her face on my shoulder.
"But it doesn't seem possible," I said, after a time, "that you can really love me when you've known me but a few days."
"That doesn't count in a love like ours," said Janet, speaking almost solemnly. "It is not the kind that requires time to grow."
"No," I agreed, "it was born full grown. Ialways told Laura that when I fell in love it would be at first sight, and it was. The marvellous part, dear, is that you care, too."
"Care!" she exclaimed, and the depths of love in her eyes gave me a hint of her emotional nature; "but," she went on, "this is all wrong. You must not talk to me like this, and I must not listen to it. I am under suspicion of having committed a crime. Surely you cannot love me until I am freed from that."
"But you are not guilty?"
I asked the question not because of any doubt in my own mind, but because I wanted for once to hear her own statement of her innocence.
"That I shall not tell you," she said, and her eyes took on a faraway, inscrutable look, as of a sphinx; "that you must find out for yourself. Or rather, no, I don't want you to find out. I want it always to remain a mystery."
"What, Janet! you don't want me to find out who killed your uncle!"
"Oh, no, no!" and her voice rang out in agonized entreaty; "please don't, Otis;pleasedon't try to find out who did it!"
"But then, dear, how can you be freed from suspicion? and I want to tell you, Janet, I want to tell you now, while I hold you in my arms,—I wantto tell you in the same breath that I tell you of my love,—that you will be accused of this crime, unless the real criminal is discovered."
"How do you know I'm not the real criminal?"
"I know it for two reasons. First, because I love you, and I'm telling you so; and second, because you love me, and——"
"I'm not telling you so," she interrupted, and a look of pain came into her dear eyes as she tried to resist my embrace.
"You don't have to tell me, dear," I said, quietly, "I know it. But you must tell me who it is that you are trying to shield by your strange ways and words. Is it Leroy? It can't be Charlotte."
"I'm not shielding anybody," she cried out; "the jury people proved that I must have killed Uncle Robert myself, and so, you see, I must have done so."
"Now you're talking childishly," I said, as I soothed her, gently; "of course you didn't kill him, darling; but you do know more about it than you have yet told, and you must tell me, because I'm going to save you from any further unpleasantness. I wish I could understand you, you bewitching mystery! You are surely shielding some one. It can't be that absurd J. S. I hardly think it canbe the man of the handkerchief; oh, but I haven't told you about that yet. It can't be George,—because he has a perfect alibi."
"I suppose if it were not for that alibi, George might be suspected," said Janet slowly.
"Indeed he might, but as there are people to swear to his presence in another part of town at the time of the crime, he is beyond suspicion. I wish you had such an alibi, dearest."
"Oh, I wish I did! Otis, what doyouthink? You know I was locked in that house and nobody could get in. You know I didn't kill Uncle Robert. Now who did?"
"Janet," I said, very seriously, "I don't know. And I have nearly lost hope of finding out. So I will tell you what I have decided to do; I'm going to consult Fleming Stone."
"Fleming Stone? Who is he?"
"He is probably the cleverest detective in the city. I feel sure that he can solve our mystery, if he will undertake it."
"Oh, don't have a detective!" she cried; "at least, not that Mr. Stone. He can find out everything!"
"And don't you want everything found out?" I asked, looking at her intently.
"No!" she cried vehemently. "I don't! Iwant Uncle Robert's death always to remain a mystery!"
"It can't be a greater mystery than you are!" I exclaimed, for the words were wrung from me as I looked at the girl's face, which had again taken on that white, impassive look.
It was at that moment that Laura returned, and as she entered the library, Janet fled away to her own room.
Laura looked at me questioningly, and I told her quite frankly all that had passed between Janet and myself.
She kissed me tenderly, like the dear sister that she is, and said; "Don't worry, Otis; it will come out all right. I know Janet much better than you do. She is innocent, of course, but she is so unnerved and distraught with these dreadful days, that I'm only surprised she bears up as well as she does. Leave her to me, and you go and get your Fleming Stone, and use every effort to persuade him to take the case."
As it had been my life-long habit to take Laura's advice, especially when it coincided with my own inclination I started off at once to hunt up Fleming Stone.
I knew the man slightly, having run across hima few times in a business way, and I knew that not only were his services exceedingly high-priced, but also that he never took any case unless of great difficulty and peculiar interest. I hoped, however, that the circumstances of the Pembroke affair would appeal to him, and I determined to use every effort to interest him in it.
By good fortune, I found him at home, and willing to listen to a statement of my business.
FLEMING STONE
Fleming Stone's personality was not at all of the taciturn, inscrutable variety. He was a large man, of genial and charming manner, and possessed of a personal magnetism that seemed to invite confidence and confidences. I knew him well enough to know that if I could win his interest at all it would be by a brief statement of the mystery as a puzzle, and a request that he help me solve it.
"Mr. Stone," I began, "if three persons spent the night in an apartment so securely locked on the inside that there was no possible means of ingress, and if in the morning it was found that one of those three persons had been murdered at midnight, would you say that the guilt must rest upon either one or both of the other two persons?"
At any rate, I had succeeded in catching the man's attention.
As there was no question of personal feeling in my statement, he seemed to look at it as an abstract problem, and replied at once:
"According to the facts as you have stated them, the guilt must necessarily rest upon one or both of the other two persons. But this is assuming that it really was a murder, that there really was no mode of ingress, and that there really were no other persons in the apartment."
Having secured Fleming Stone's interest in the abstract statement, I proceeded to lay before him the concrete story of the Pembroke affair.
He listened gravely, asking only one or two questions, and when I had told him all I knew about it he sat thinking for a few moments.
At last, unable to control my impatience, I said: "Do you now think the guilt rests upon either one or both of those women?"
As I have said, Mr. Stone was not of the secretive and close-mouthed style of detective, and he said in his frank and pleasant way: "Notnecessarily, by any means. Indeed, from what you have told me, I should say that the two women knew nothing about the crime until the morning. But this, of course, is a mere surmise, based onyouraccount of the case."
As I had told him the facts as I knew them,with all their horrible incrimination of Janet, I was greatly relieved at his words.
"Then," said I, "will you take up the case, and find the criminal as soon as may be? Money is no object, but time is precious, as I strongly desire to avoid any possibility of a trial of Miss Pembroke."
"Have you any other clues other than those you have told me?"
"I haven't told you any," I said, in some surprise; "but we certainly have several."
He listened with the greatest attention, while I told him in rapid succession of the key, the time-table, the ticket stubs, the torn telegram, the handkerchief, and finally, the missing money.
"Have you traced these to their sources?" he inquired.
"We have, and each one led to a different man."
I then told him of Jonathan Scudder, of Graham Leroy, of James Decker, and of William Sydney Gresham, and he listened with a half-smile on his pleasant, responsive face.
"Of course you can see all these clues for yourself," I went on, "and I feel sure, Mr. Stone, that by an examination of them, you can deduce much of the personality of the criminal."
"I don't care to see them," was his astonishinganswer; "I have already deduced from them the evidence that they clearly show."
"Your statement would amaze me," I said, "except that I had resolved not to be surprised at anything you might say or do, for I know your methods are mysterious and your powers little short of miraculous."
"Don't credit me with supernatural ability, Mr. Landon," said Stone, smiling genially. "Let me compliment you on the graphic way in which you have described that collection of clues. I can fairly see them, in my mind's eye lying before me. Were not the ticket stubs bent and broken and a good deal soiled?"
"They were," I said, staring at him.
"And was the time-table smudged with dirt, and perhaps bearing an impress of tiny dots in regular rows?"
"Now I know you're a wizard!" I exclaimed, "for that's exactly what I did see! such a mark on the first page of that time-table!"
"It might easily not have been there," said Stone, musingly; "I confess I chanced that. It was merely a hazard, but it helps. Yes, Mr. Landon, your collection of clues is indeed valuable and of decided assistance in discovering the identity of the person or persons unknown."
It struck a chill to my heart that Fleming Stone seemed to avoid the use of a masculine pronoun. Could he, too, think that a woman was implicated, and if not, why didn't he say the man who committed the crime, instead of dodging behind the vague term he had used. With a desperate idea of forcing this point, I said; "The Coroner believes that since the weapon used was a hat-pin, the criminal was a woman."
"Why did you say it was a hat-pin?" said Fleming Stone, and I realized that his brain was already busy with the subtleties of the case.
"The doctors stated that it was part of a hat-pin, the other end of which had been broken off."
"Did you see the pin that was extracted from the wound?"
"I did."
"How long was it?"
"Almost exactly four inches."
"And are you prepared to affirm that it is part of a hat-pin, and not a complete pin of a shorter length?"
"I am not. The thought did not before occur to me. But as it had no head on it, we assumed that it was probably the half of a broken hat-pin. It is by no means the first instance on record of using a hat-pin as a murderous weapon."
"No," said Fleming Stone; "and yet that does not prove it a hat-pin. May it not have been a shawl-pin, or some shorter pin that women use in their costumes?"
"It may have been," said I; "but women do not wear shawls nowadays. At any rate, any pin of that length would seem to indicate a woman's crime."
"Well, as a rule," said Fleming Stone, smiling, "we men do not pin our garments together; but I dare say almost any man, if he wanted one, could gain possession of such a pin."
How true this was, and how foolish we had been to assume that a woman's pinmusthave meant a woman's crime! A picture passed through my mind of Laura's dressing-table, where I could have procured any kind of a pin, with no trouble whatever.
"Moreover," went on Fleming Stone, "the great majority of hat-pins used in America will not break. They will bend, as they are usually made of iron, though occasionally of steel."
I looked at the man with growing admiration. How widespread was his knowledge, and how logical his deduction!
"I should have to see the pin," said Stone, "beforedrawing any conclusion from it. You did not examine it closely, you say?"
I had not said so, but I suppose he deduced it from my slight knowledge of its characteristics.
"I did not examine it through a microscope," I replied.
"You should have done so. If it were really a broken hat-pin, it would show a clean, bright break at the end; whereas, were it a shorter pin which had lost its head, it would show at the end a fraction of an inch of duller steel, and perhaps an irregular surface where the head had been attached."
"I can see that you are right, but I cannot see why it should make much difference which it was."
"My dear sir, according to your statement, the only clue we have to work upon is the weapon which was used. The weapon is always an important item, if not the most important, and it cannot be scrutinized too closely or examined too minutely, for, sooner or later, it is almost always certain to expose the criminal."
"I had thought," I said humbly, "that I possessed a degree of detective instinct, but I now see I was mistaken. I assumed the pin to be a hat-pin, and thought no more about it."
"It may be one," said Stone, "and the only way to find out is to see it. Of course I must also examine the apartment, and then, if necessary, question some of the parties concerned. But at this moment I have little doubt in my mind as to who killed Robert Pembroke. I will take the case, because, though unusual, it promises to be a short one. I think I may safely say that by to-morrow night at this hour we will not only have discovered the criminal, but obtained a confession. But I will say the criminal has been very, very clever. In fact, I think I should never have conceived of such various kinds of cleverness combined in one crime. But, as is often the case, he has outwitted himself. His very cleverness is his undoing."
Surely the man was a wizard! I looked at him without a word after he had made his astounding announcement. I had no idea whom he suspected, but I knew he would not tell me if I asked, so I thought best to express no curiosity, but to leave the matter in his hands, and await his further pleasure.
"You can go at once to see the apartment," I said; "but to look at the pin we shall have to wait until morning, as I think it is in charge of the coroner."
"It must all wait till morning," said FlemingStone, "as I have other work that I must attend to this evening."
I accepted my dismissal, and, making an appointment to call for him the next day, I turned my steps homeward.
I had purposely said nothing to Fleming Stone of my suspicion of George Lawrence. Indeed, it was scarcely strong enough to be called a suspicion, and, too, the mere idea of his going into the apartment implied the idea of his being let in by Janet. Therefore, I had contended myself with telling Stone the facts as I knew them, and suppressing my own opinion. Also, it seemed a dreadful thing to cast suspicion on Lawrence, when I had no evidence of any sort.
When I arose next morning I assured myself that I was in all probability the happiest man in the city. With Fleming Stone's assurance that that very night should see the Pembroke mystery cleared up, and with the knowledge in my heart that Janet loved me, I felt that my future outlook was little less than glorious.
I had given up all ambition to be a detective; I even had little care as to the outcome of Fleming Stone's investigation—granting, of course, that Janet and George were in no way implicated. I could have given myself up to the happy dreams which are usually said to be indulged in by men of fewer years than my own, but I remembered my appointment and hastened away to meet Fleming Stone.
Though I had a vague feeling of fear as to the result of this day's work, yet I knew it must be gone through with, and I prepared to face whatever might be before me.
Together we went to the District Attorney's office.
Mr. Buckner was much impressed by the factof Fleming Stone's connection with the case, for it was well known that the great detective accepted only puzzling problems. It was quite evident, however, that the District Attorney could see no reason for more than one opinion as to the Pembroke tragedy.
"Here are the clues," said Mr. Buckner, as he arranged the collection on his desk.
The torn telegram was not among them, and I realized that Buckner had excluded that, because the letter from Jonathan Scudder practically denied it.
Fleming Stone glanced at the key and the handkerchief with the briefest attention. He picked up the ticket stubs and the time-table, but after a moment's scrutiny he laid them down again, murmuring, as if to himself, "Clever, very clever!"
"Mr. Buckner," he said at last, "these clues seem to me all to point to the same criminal, and a most ingenious person as well."
"You speak in riddles, Mr. Stone," said the District Attorney, "I confess I thought these articles of but slight importance, as they have been traced each to a different owner."
"Even so," said Stone, "they are distinctly indicative, and form a large share of the evidence piling up against the criminal. But a far more importantclue is the weapon with which Mr. Pembroke was killed. Will you show me that?"
Buckner took the pin from a drawer and offered it to Mr. Stone, saying, "There is the weapon. If the head of the hat-pin had been left on, it might be traced to the woman who used it. But as she broke it off, this small portion cannot be traced. She doubtless broke the head off purposely, thus proving herself, as you have already remarked, Mr. Stone, a very clever criminal."
Mr. Stone took the pin, glanced at it a moment, and then, taking a magnifying-glass from his pocket, examined it carefully.
"It is not a hat-pin," he said, "nor is it part of a hat-pin. The pin as you see it there is its full length. The head has been removed, not accidentally, but purposely. It had been removed, and carefully, before the pin was used as a weapon."
"May I ask how you know this, sir?" asked the coroner respectfully.
"Certainly," said Stone, in his affable way. "If you will look at the end of the pin through this glass, you will see unmistakable signs that the head has been removed. For about an eighth of an inch you note a slight discoloration, caused by the attaching of the glass head. You also see onone side a minute portion of glass still adhering to the steel. Had the head been accidentally or carelessly broken off, it is probable that more glass would have adhered to the pin. The head was therefore purposely and carefully removed, perhaps by smashing it with something heavy or by stepping on it. The fragment of glass that is attached to the pin is, as you may see if you will hold it up to the light, of a violet color. The pin, therefore, I'm prepared to assert, is one of the pins which first-class florists give away with bunches of violets bought at their shops. I have never seen these pins with violet-colored heads used for any other purpose, though it is not impossible that they may be. I say a first-class florist, because it is only they who use this style of pin; the smaller shops give black-headed ones. But the larger flower dealers make a specialty of using purple tin-foil for their violet bunches, tying them with purple cord or ribbon, and placing them in a purple pasteboard box. To harmonize with this color scheme, they have of late years provided these violet-headed flower pins. All this is of importance in our quest, for it ought to be easier to trace a violet pin than the more universally used hat-pin."
How different Fleming Stone's manner from the bumptious and know-it-all air of the average detective! He was quite willing to share any information which he gained, and seemed to treat his fellow-workers as his equals in perspicacity and cleverness.
We had learned something, to be sure. But as the coroner had no other objects of evidence to show us, and there seemed nothing more to be learned from the pin, Fleming Stone turned into the street, and I followed him.
"Could not the head have been broken off after the pin was used to commit the murder?" I inquired.
"No," said Stone; "it would be impossible to break off a glass head with one's fingers under such conditions. It could have been done by some instrument, but that is not likely. And then, too, there would probably have been bits of glass on the pillow."
"Bits of glass!" I exclaimed. "Bits of violet-colored glass! Why, man alive, I have them in my pocket now!"
"Let me see them," said Stone. "It may save us quite a search."
It took more to excite Fleming Stone's enthusiasmthan it did mine, and he seemed almost unaware of the importance of my statement; but when I took a white paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and showed him the specks of glass I had found in Lawrence's apartment the night before, his flashing eyes showed that he thought it indeed a clue. But he only said quietly: "You should have mentioned this in your statement of the case. Why did you not?"
"The real reason is that I forgot it," I admitted, frankly. "But I had no idea it was important evidence, for I never dreamed these bits could be the head of a pin. I thought them a portion of a broken bottle. You know druggists use small phials of that color for certain prescriptions."
"Some druggists use bottles of this color for poison," said Fleming Stone, "but that doesn't affect our case, for Mr. Pembroke was not poisoned. But it may easily be the head of the pin we were talking about. Where did you find this glass?"
"In George Lawrence's studio," I replied, looking a little shamefaced at my own obvious stupidity.
"Well, youarea clever detective!" said Fleming Stone; but so genial was the smile of mild amusement he turned upon me, that I could not feel hurt at his sarcasm.
"You didn't even tell me that you examined young Lawrence's studio, and you haven't yet told me why you did so. I assume you have no intent to conceal anything from me."
"I have not," I said. "I'm mortified—first that I did not realize the importance of this broken glass, and next because I didn't mention the incident to you. It was a stupid blunder of mine, but I assure you it was not intentional."
"It may mean much, and it may mean nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but it must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"
"On the marble hearthstone," said I.
"Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, or other means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearly indicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as a ladies' man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to his feminine friends?"
"I know the man very slightly," I answered, "but I should judge him to be rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day before yesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinée, and that night he dined and spent the evening at the home of the same girl."
"Do you know this young lady?" he asked.
"I know her name," I replied. "It is Miss Waring, and she lives in Sixtieth Street."
"And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?"
"Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask Miss Pembroke for Miss Waring's address."
"Do so," said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of his expression that he was rapidly constructing a serious case against somebody.
I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, with Fleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though still pleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, so the journey was made almost in silence.
When we reached Miss Waring's, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her to grant him an interview as soon as possible.
In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty little blonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked by foolish affectation.
Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasant way, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the most punctilious of critics.
"Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring," he began, "at the legal aspect of your callers."
"Not at all," said the girl, smiling prettily. "I am pleased to meet one of whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance, at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring."
Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, or whether it was Fleming Stone's magnetic manner that made her appear so, I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. My part, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well content that it should be so.
"You know Mr. Lawrence?" Mr. Stone was saying. "Mr. George Lawrence?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "and I have read in the paper of a dreadful tragedy in his family."
"Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, Miss Waring?"
"Last Wednesday I went with him to a matinée. After the theatre he brought me back here. Then he went home, but he came back here to dinner and spent the evening."
"At what time did he leave?"
"At eleven o'clock precisely."
"How do you know the time so accurately?"
"Because as he came to say good-night I was standing near the mantel, where there is a small French clock. It struck the hour, and I remember his remarking on the sweet tone of the chime, and he counted the strokes to eleven. He then went away at once."
"You mean he left the drawing-room?"
"Yes; and a moment later I saw him pass through the hall, and he nodded in at me as he passed the drawing-room door on his way out. Why are you asking me all this? But I suppose it is part of the red tape in connection with the dreadful affair."
"Is Mr. Lawrence a particular friend of yours? You must pardon the question, Miss Waring, but you also must answer it." Fleming Stone's smile robbed the words of any hint of rudeness.
"Oh, dear, no!" said Miss Waring, laughing gaily; "that is, I like him, you know, and he's awfully kind and polite to me, but he's merely an acquaintance."
"Did you go anywhere on your way to and from the theatre?"
"No, I think not—oh, yes, we did, too; just before we went into the theatre Mr. Lawrence insisted on stopping at the florist's for some violets.He said no matinée girl was complete without a bunch of violets."
"And did you pin them on your gown?" asked Stone, as if in a most casual way.
"No, indeed," said Miss Waring; "I never do that. It spoils a nice gown to pin flowers on it."
"And what did you do with the pin?"
"What pin?"
"The pin that a florist always gives you with violets."
"Oh, yes, those purple-headed pins. Why, I don't know what I did do with it." The girl's pretty brow wrinkled in her endeavor to remember, and then cleared as she said: "Oh, yes, it comes back to me now! When I said I wouldn't use it, lest the flowers should spoil my gown, I handed it to Mr. Lawrence, and he stuck it in his coat lapel—underneath, you know—for, he said, perhaps I might change my mind. But, of course, I didn't, and I'm sure I don't know what became of the pin. Do you want one? I have dozens of them up-stairs."
"No," said Fleming Stone; "and I don't think we need encroach further on your time, Miss Waring. I thank you for your goodness in seeing us,and I would like to ask you to say nothing about this interview for twenty-four hours. After that you need not consider it confidential."
I believe Fleming Stone's manner would have wheedled a promise out of the Egyptian Sphinx, and I was not in the least surprised to hear Miss Waring agree to his stipulations.
When we again reached the street Fleming Stone observed: "Without going so far as to designate our attitude toward George Lawrence by the word 'suspicion,' we must admit that the young man had a motive, and, that there is evidence whether true or not, to indicate his having had in his possession a weapon at least similar to the one used."
The doubt I had felt all along of Lawrence was, of course, strengthened by Miss Waring's disclosures; but to have George accused was only one degree less awful than to have suspicion cast on Janet. And, too, notwithstanding the strange and somewhat complicated evidence of the violet pin, Lawrence had told me he had a perfect alibi. And then, besides this, how could he have gained entrance to the apartment at the dead of night, unless Janet had let him in? I could not bring up this last point, lest Fleming Stone should immediatelydeduce Janet's complicity; but I would learn how he proposed to prove George's guilt when George was able to prove his presence at another place at the time of the fatal deed.
"But," I said, "evidence is of little use so far as Mr. Lawrence is concerned, for he has a perfect alibi."
To my surprise, instead of seeming baffled by my statement, Fleming Stone gave me a quizzical glance.
"A perfect alibi?" he repeated. "How do you know?"
"He told me so," I said confidently.
"Why did he tell you that? Did he expect to be accused?"
"No," I replied; "I do not think he did. You know, Mr. Stone, I never met young Lawrence till since this affair; but, unless I am no judge of human nature, he is a frank, honest sort of chap, with a whole lot of common sense, and he said to his cousin, in my presence, that in the course of legal proceedings he might easily be called upon to give an account of his own movements the night of the murder, but that he was prepared to prove a perfect alibi. Therefore, you see, we cannot suspect him, notwithstanding the coincidence of the violet-colored glass."
"He can prove a perfect alibi," again repeated Fleming Stone, and again that strange little gleam of satisfaction crept into his eyes. It irritated whileit fascinated me, and I wondered in what direction his suspicions would next turn.
"Did he tell you," he asked, "the nature of this alibi?"
I was struck with a sudden thought. For some reason, the detective even yet suspected George, and all I said seemed to strengthen rather than allay his suspicion. I would, therefore, give the suspected man a chance to speak for himself.
"He did," I answered; "but instead of repeating to you at secondhand what he told me, would it not be better to go down to his place and let him tell it for himself?"
"Very much better," said Stone heartily; and again we started downtown. It was well on toward noon, and it seemed to me we had made no definite progress. After Fleming Stone had told me he would discover the criminal that day, I couldn't help imagining a sudden bringing to book of some burly ruffian whose face was well known in the rogues' gallery, but unfamiliar to those in my walk of life. But Stone's sudden interest in George Lawrence filled me with a vague fear that the trail he was evidently following might somehow implicate Janet before he had finished. However, as I was feeling convinced that George's own testimony would affect Fleming Stone more favorably thanmy own version of it, I felt glad indeed that we were bound on our present errand.
And so we came again to the house in Washington Square where Lawrence lived.
The young man was at home, and received us in his studio. He seemed no whit embarrassed at the detective's visit, greeted me pleasantly, and expressed himself as quite willing to tell us anything we wanted to know.
"Of course you understand," began Fleming Stone, "that with so few possible witnesses, it is necessary to make a somewhat thorough examination of each one."
"Certainly," said George, whose own affability of manner quite equalled that of the celebrated detective.
"Then," went on Stone, "I will ask you, if you please, to detail your own occupations on last Wednesday."
"Beginning in the morning?" asked George.
"If you please."
"Well, let me see. I didn't get up very early, and after I did rise I stayed around here in my studio until luncheon time. During the morning I worked on several sketches for a book I am doing. About twelve o'clock I went uptown and lunched with a friend, a fellow-artist, at a little Germanrestaurant. After that I went and called for Miss Millicent Waring, whom I had invited to go with me to a matinée. I had expected Mrs. Waring to accompany us, but as she was ill she allowed Miss Waring to go with me alone, although it is not Miss Waring's habit to go about unchaperoned."
I couldn't help feeling a certain satisfaction in listening to young Lawrence's story. I was glad that his habits and his friends were all so correct and so entirely free from the unconventionality which is sometimes noticed in the social doings of young artists.
"We went to the matinée," continued George, "in Mrs. Waring's carriage, which also came for us, after the performance."
"One moment," said Fleming Stone. "You stopped nowhere, going or coming?"
"No," said Lawrence; "nowhere."
"Except at the florist's," observed Stone quietly.
It may have been my imagination, but I thought that George started at these words. However, he said in a cool, steady voice:
"Ah, yes, I had forgotten that. We stopped a moment to get some violets for Miss Waring."
"And after the matinée you drove home with Miss Waring?"
"Yes," said Lawrence; "and left her at herown door. She invited me to come back to dinner, and I said I would. As the Warings' house is only two blocks away from the Pembroke's, I thought I would run in for a few moments to see Janet. I did this, and Janet seemed glad to see me, but Uncle Robert was so crusty and irritable that I did not care to stay very long. I left there about six, came back here to my room, and dressed for dinner. From here I went directly back to the Warings', reaching there at 7.30, which was the dinner hour. There were other guests, and after dinner there was music in the drawing-room. I stayed until eleven o'clock. As I said good-night to Miss Waring, the clock chanced to be striking eleven, so I'm sure of the time. From the Warings' I came right back here on a Broadway car. I reached this house at 11.25, it having taken me about twenty-five minutes to come down from Sixtieth Street and to walk over here from Broadway."
"How do you know you reached this house at exactly 11.25?" Fleming Stone asked this with such an air of cordial interest that there was no trace of cross-questioning about it.
"Because," said George easily, "my watch had stopped—it had run down during the evening—and so as I came into this house I asked the hall boy what time it was, that I might set my watch.He looked at the office clock, and told me. Of course you can verify this by the boy."
"I've no desire to verify your statement, Mr. Lawrence," said Stone, with his winning smile. "It's a bad habit, this letting a watch run down. Do you often do it?"
"No," said Lawrence; "almost never. Indeed, I don't know when it has happened before."
"And then what next, Mr. Lawrence?"
"Then the hall boy brought me up in the elevator, I let myself into my rooms, and went at once to bed."
"Then the first intimation of your uncle's death you received the next morning?"
"Yes, when Janet telephoned to me. But she didn't say Uncle Robert was dead. She merely asked me to come up there at once, and I went."
"What did you think she wanted you for?"
"I thought that either uncle was ill or she was herself, for she had never telephoned for me before in the morning."
"I thank you, Mr. Lawrence," said Fleming Stone, "for your frank and straightforward account of this affair, and for your courteous answers to my questions. You know, of course, that it is the unpleasant duty of a detective to ask questions unmercifully, in the hope of being set upon the right track at last."
"I quite appreciate your position, my dear sir, and I trust I have given you all the information you desire. As I have told Mr. Landon, I have no taste for detective work myself, but I suppose it has to be done by somebody."
After polite good-byes on both sides, we left Lawrence in his studio, and went down-stairs. Mr. Stone insisted on walking down, though it was four flights, and I, of course, raised no objection.
When we reached the ground floor he stepped into the office, which was a small room just at the right of the entrance, and not far from the elevator.
After a glance at the office clock which stood on the desk, Mr. Stone addressed himself to the office boy.
"Do you remember," he said, "that Mr. Lawrence came in here last Wednesday night?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy; "I do."
"At what time was it?"
"Just twenty-five minutes after eleven, sir."
"How can you fix the time so exactly, my boy?"
"Because when Mr. Lawrence came in, his watch had stopped, and he asked me what time it was by the office clock."
"Couldn't he see for himself?"
"I suppose he could, sir, but, any way, he askedme, and I told him; and then I took him up in the elevator, and he was setting his watch on the way up. Just before he got out he said: 'Did you say 11.25?' and I said, 'Yes.'"
"The office clock is always about right, I suppose?" said Mr. Stone, and, taking his watch from his pocket, he compared the two. There was but a minute's difference.
"Yes, sir, just about right; but that night I thought it was later when Mr. Lawrence come in. I was surprised myself when I see it wasn't half past eleven yet. But, of course, I must have made a mistake, for this clock is never more than a couple of minutes out of the way."
"What time does your elevator stop running?"
"Not at all, sir, we run it all night."
"And other men came in after Mr. Lawrence did that night?"
"Oh, yes, sir; lots of them. These is bachelor apartments, you know, and the men come in quite late—sometimes up till two or three o'clock."
Apparently Fleming Stone had learned all he wanted to know from the boy, and after he had thanked him and had also slipped into his hand a bit of more material reward, the interview was at an end.
We went out into the street again, and FlemingStone said: "Now I should like to examine the Pembrokes' apartment."
"And shall you want to interview Miss Pembroke?" I inquired.
"Yes, I think so," he replied; "but we will look over the apartment first."
"We'll have something to eat first," I declared; "and if you'll come home with me, I'll guarantee that my sister will give you quite as satisfactory a luncheon as you could obtain in the best hotel in the city."
"I've no doubt of it," said Stone pleasantly; "and I accept your invitation with pleasure. Will you wait for me a minute, while I telephone?"
Before I had time to reply he had slipped in through a doorway at which hung the familiar blue sign.
In a minute or two he rejoined me, and said: "Now let's dismiss the whole affair from our minds until after luncheon. It is never wise to let business interfere with digestion."
As we rode up home in the car, Mr. Stone was most agreeable and entertaining. Not a word was said of the Pembroke case—he seemed really to have laid aside all thought of it—and yet I couldn't help a sinister conviction that when he telephoned it had been a message to headquarters, authorizing thesurveillance, if not the arrest, of somebody. It couldn't be Lawrence, in the face of that alibi; it couldn't be Janet, for he knew next to nothing about her connection with the matter; it couldn't be Charlotte, of course; and so it must have been "some person or persons unknown" to me.
I felt no hesitancy, so far as Laura was concerned, in taking home an unexpected guest, for it was my habit to do that whenever I chose, and I had never found Laura otherwise than pleased to see my friends, and amply able to provide hospitality for them. But, as we neared the house, I remembered Janet's strange disinclination to employ a detective, and her apparent horror at the mention of Fleming Stone's name.
Feeling that honesty demanded it, I told Fleming Stone exactly what Janet had said on this subject when I had left the house that morning. Though apparently not disturbed personally by Miss Pembroke's attitude toward him, he seemed to consider it as of definite importance for some other reason.
"Why should Miss Pembroke object to a detective's services," he said, "when, as you have told me, Mr. Lawrence said at your dinner table last night that he wanted to engage the best possible detective skill?"
"I don't know," I replied. "I'm puzzled myself.But I admit, Mr. Stone, that Miss Pembroke has been an enigma to me from the first. Not only do I believe her innocent, but I have a warmer regard for her than I am perhaps justified in mentioning to a stranger; and yet she is so contradictory in her speech and action from time to time that I simply do not know what to think."
Fleming Stone turned a very kind glance on me. "The hardest puzzle in this world," he said, "is a woman. Of course I do not know Miss Pembroke, but I hope she will consent to meet me, notwithstanding her aversion to detectives."
"I think she will," I said; "and, besides, she is so changeable that at this moment she may be more anxious to see a detective than anybody else."
"Let us hope so," he said somewhat gravely. "It may be much to her advantage."
Laura greeted us cordially; and Miss Pembroke, with a politeness which, though slightly constrained, was quiet and non-committal. But, as I had hoped, Fleming Stone's winning manner and charming conversational ability seemed to make Janet forget her aversion to detectives. At the luncheon table various subjects were touched upon, but it was not long before we drifted into a discussion of the theme uppermost in all our minds. I could see that although Fleming Stone was apparently talking in a casual way, he was closely studying Janet's face as he talked.
I noticed that when any reference was made to George Lawrence, Janet seemed perturbed, and, although Mr. Stone said flatly that George could not have entered when the door was chained, this did not seem to lessen Janet's concern. But when Stone referred to George's perfect alibi, Janet looked relieved, as if freed from a great fear.
It was entirely due to Fleming Stone's tact that the conversation was kept at a light and airy level. I was intensely conscious of a growing portent of evil. A cloak of gloom seemed to be settling aroundme, and it was only with the utmost effort that I could control my nervous apprehensions. What was going to happen, I did not know, but I felt intuitively that a climax was fast approaching, and at last I found myself sacrificing all other sympathies to the hope that Janet might be spared.
I could see that Laura was equally agitated, although she too was outwardly calm. Janet, as always, was a puzzle. She seemed alternately depressed or gladdened in proportion as the drift of suspicion seemed directed toward or away from her cousin George.
In a word, Fleming Stone's personality dominated us all. We were but as strings of an instrument upon which he played, and we responded involuntarily to his impulses or at his will.
Into this surcharged atmosphere came another element with the entrance of George Lawrence. He looked handsome and debonair as usual, and informally begged of Mrs. Mulford permission to share our after-dinner coffee.
"We're glad to have you," said Laura, in her affable way, "and, as we have finished luncheon, we will have our coffee in the library, where we can be more comfortable."
Although Lawrence seemed perfectly at ease, and unconscious of any reason to fear FlemingStone's investigations, I couldn't help feeling that his air of ease was assumed. It was not so much any signs of nervousness or sensitiveness about him, as it was the pronounced absence of these. It seemed to me that he was playing a part of straightforward fearlessness, but was slightly overdoing it.
Fleming Stone talked to Lawrence casually, referring once to his perfect alibi. George remarked that though he had no fear of suspicion falling in his direction, it gave him a feeling of satisfaction to know that he could satisfactorily account for his whereabouts at the time the murder was committed.
"And now," said Mr. Stone, after the coffee service had been removed, "I think I will make my examination of the apartment opposite. It is not probable that I will discover anything in the nature of a clue, but as a detective I certainly must examine the scene of the crime. I would prefer to go alone, if you will give a key. I will rejoin you here after my search."
Janet gave Mr. Stone her key, and without further word he crossed the hall alone to what had been the Pembrokes' apartment.
After Fleming Stone's departure a strange chill fell on the mental atmosphere of our little party. George Lawrence seemed to lose his careless air, and a grayish pallor settled on his face, notwithstandinghis apparent effort to appear as usual. Janet watched her cousin closely, and she herself seemed on the verge of nervous collapse. Laura, like the blessed woman she is, strove bravely to keep up, but I saw that she too felt that the end was near. As for myself, remembering Fleming Stone's promise, I seemed to be possessed, to the exclusion of all else, of a great fear for Janet.
It could not have been more than ten minutes, if as much as that, before Fleming Stone returned.
As he entered our library he seemed to have lost his professional aspect, and I thought I had never seen a sadder or more sympathetic expression than I read in his eyes.
"Mr. Lawrence," he said, without preamble, "it is my duty to arrest you for the murder of your uncle, Robert Pembroke."
For a moment there was no sound, and then, with a pathetic, heart-breaking little cry, Janet said: "Oh, I hoped so that it wasn'tyou!"
To my surprise, Lawrence tried to deny it. Guilt seemed to me to be written in every line of his face, yet, with a palpable effort, he assumed an air of bravado and said: "I told you I might be accused, but I can prove a perfect alibi."
"Mr. Lawrence," said Fleming Stone, more sternly than he had yet spoken, "you have over-reachedyourself. That very phrase, 'I can prove a perfect alibi,' gave me the first hint that your alibi was a manufactured one. An innocent man can rarely prove a perfect alibi. Not one man in a hundred can give accurate account to the minute of his goings and comings. Your alibi istoo perfect; its very perfection is its flaw. Again, the idea ofproving an alibi, or, rather, the idea of using that phrase, would not occur to an honest man. He would know that circumstances must prove his alibi. It was that which proved to me that Mr. Leroy and Mr. Gresham were innocent. I am informed that Mr. Leroy refused to tell exactly where he was at the time this crime was committed. Had he been guilty he would have had a previously prepared and perfectly plausible alibi. Then Mr. Gresham said frankly that he didn't know where he was at the particular hour about which Mr. Landon questioned him. Had he been the criminal, and left his handkerchief behind him by way of evidence, he, too, would have prearranged a story to tell glibly of his whereabouts. No, a perfect alibi should ordinarily lead to grave suspicion of the man making it, for it is ordinarily a concocted fiction. Again, it would have been a strange coincidence had your watch happened to run down, which you admit is a most unusual circumstance, at the onlytime in your whole life when you had a reason for its doing so. Your watch didnotrun down; you pretended that it did so as to get an opportunity to fix the time—theapparenttime—in the mind of the hall boy at your apartment. This is what you did: You returned to your apartment much later than 11.25. In the absence of the boy, probably while he was up with the elevator, you stepped in and changed the time on the office clock. You went out again, and after a moment came in as if just reaching home. You then asked the boy the time, and he told you, although he had supposed it to be much later. Again you overdid your work when, while going up in the elevator, you asked the boy again, as if to make sure of the time, but really to fix it firmly in his mind, that he might witness for you. Some time later, during the night, you probably slipped down-stairs, eluding the elevator, and corrected the clock. All this is corroborated by the fact of your calling Miss Waring's attention to the time when you left her house. You carefully brought to her notice that it was then exactly eleven o'clock, which it was."
George Lawrence sat as if petrified; for the moment I think he was really more amazed at Fleming Stone's marvellous discoveries than alarmed at his own danger. He did not attempt to deny whatStone had said; indeed, he could not, for under the peculiar magnetism of the speaker's gaze Lawrence seemed hypnotized, and his silence had tacitly affirmed each point as it was brought out against him.
Suddenly he drew himself together with a bold shrug, as if preparing for a last desperate effort.
"Your deductions are true in part," he said. "I did change the clock, as you so diabolically discovered, and I suppose I did overdo matters when I accounted for every minute too carefully. But, though it was a manufactured alibi, and though I had reasons of my own for wanting to account for my movements that night, it has nothing to do with Robert Pembroke's death, and couldn't have had; for, as you all know, though I have a latch-key, the door was chained all night."
"Leaving that question, for a moment," said Fleming Stone, "let us consider these clues, which though apparently leading in various directions, point, Mr. Lawrence, directly and indubitably to yourself. When I was told by Mr. Landon of the several clues picked up in Mr. Pembroke's bedroom, the morning after his murder, I was impressed at once by their number and variety. It was extraordinary to find so many objects, unrecognized by any member of the household, in the murderedman's bedroom. Then, when I learned that some of these had been traced, and each so-called clue led to a different suspect, I saw at once that the situation was prearranged. The various clues were placed where they were found, exactly as a mine is 'salted' in expectation of prospectors. You, Mr. Lawrence, deliberately and with intent to throw suspicion in various directions, and thus baffle detectives,—you placed this key, this handkerchief, this time-table, and these torn tickets in the room where they were found. All this shows not only cleverness and ingenuity, but carefully prearranged plans. Where you obtained those precious 'clues,' I do not know, but at a guess I should venture to say that you picked up the ticket stubs in the street, as they show evidences of pavement dirt. The time-table has a distinct imprint of the roughened surface of the steel stair-binding. I think that as you came up the stairs, intent upon your deadly errand, you chanced to find that time-table, and left it behind you as one more distracting piece of evidence. But these details are of no importance. You salted the mine successfully, and by the diversity of your clues you led the honest efforts of the detectives in devious paths. But, after all, the missing money and the pin, used as a weapon, are the real clues. We have traced the pin,—toyou. We have traced the money,—to you. We have eliminated all possible suspicion of anyone else, and if you have anything to say by way of defense, or in any way concerning the matter, you may speak now."
"I have only to say," said Lawrence, "that you have exhibited a marvelous ingenuity in building up this fabrication of falsehoods, but your whole structure falls to the ground in face of the positive evidence of the chain on the door. For though I have a latch key to the apartment, entrance is impossible when the chain bolt is on."
"Oh," cried Janet, with a wail as of utter despair. "If your alibi is broken, George, thenIknow how you got in that door!"
It was my turn to feel despair. Since the alibi was broken, Janet was practically confessing her complicity in the matter.
"What do you mean, Janet?" said George sharply. "I couldn't get in unless you had let me in, and youdidn't."
"No," said Janet quietly; "I didn't. Nor did Charlotte. But I know how you got in—at least, how you could have got in."
"I, too, know how you got into the apartment," said Fleming Stone; "and it was without the assistance,and without the knowledge, of either Miss Pembroke or her servant."
Again that wonderful gaze of Fleming Stone's sad, serious eyes seemed to compel Lawrence to speak against his will.
"How did I get in?" he said hoarsely, bending forward as with the breathless suspense of a man taking his last chance.
"It is not an easy matter to explain," said Fleming Stone, "nor can I show the method in this apartment; but if you will all come with me across the hall, I will demonstrate to you the possibility of entering a chained door."
Without a word, we all crossed the hall and entered the Pembroke apartment. It was a cheerful, sunny suite of rooms, and its beautiful furniture and appointments seemed meant for a happy home life rather than grim tragedy. Fleming Stone went first, followed by Laura and George Lawrence. I followed with Janet, and, emboldened by her look of pathetic appeal, I clasped her hand in mine. When we were all inside Fleming Stone closed the door, the night-latch of which, of course, snapped itself.
Lawrence still acted as one hypnotized. Seemingly with no volition of his own, he followed FlemingStone's movements, keeping his eyes fixed upon the detective as if literally unable to look elsewhere.
After closing the door, Fleming Stone put on the night-chain. For the first time I looked at the chain carefully. It was a heavy brass chain, long enough, when the door was closed, for the end, on which was a sort of knob or button, to reach back to the opening provided for it, and then slide along the brass slot until it stopped at the other end and hung in a loop. It seemed to me no different from dozens of chains I had seen of the same sort.
When it hung finally in position, Fleming Stone turned the knob and opened the door with a jerk, precisely as Charlotte had done on that memorable morning.
"Is it not true," asked Mr. Stone, "that this door, with the chain on thus, has often been violently jerked open?"
"Yes," said Janet; "Charlotte is very strong, and always pulls the door open sharply, forgetting the chain is there. And, too, Uncle Robert has often done the same thing, and his motions were always so vigorous that I thought sometimes he would break the chain."
"There was no danger of breaking the chain,"said Mr. Stone; "but the repeated jerks at it have so forced the end of the slot nearest the edge of the door, that the brass is sprung outward, and the knob on the end of the chain may be removed—not as easily as it can be at the other end, it is true, but with some ingenious handling."
As he spoke, Fleming Stone, by some clever exertion, so twisted the knob on the end of the chain that it came out of the near end of the slot, with no necessity of pushing it back to the other end. I saw at once that this could be done also from the outside of the door, there being ample room when the door was ajar to slip one's hand in and free the chain in this manner.
At this demonstration of an actual fact, Fleming Stone did not look at George Lawrence, but at Miss Pembroke.
"You knew of this?" he said.
"I feared it," replied Janet, and I think she would not have spoken but for those impelling eyes upon her. "I remember George was out one evening when he was living here, and I thoughtlessly put the chain on the door and went to bed. The next morning, when I found that he had let himself in in some way, I wondered at it, but concluded that I must have been mistaken, and hadnotput thechain on. But I had noticed myself that the slot was sprung at this end, and I had been thinking that I would get a new and heavier chain bolt."
My first thought was that Janet's puzzling demeanor was now explained, and I understood why she had so readily accepted my services. She had suspected George from the first, because she knew that with his latch-key and the defective chain-lock he could make his entrance. But his perfect alibi had deceived her, and relieved her fear, so that she was glad or sad according as his alibi was sustained or doubted. Janet's evidence, of course, left no doubt as to George's guilt.