With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner Lamson began to question Joyce.
“Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?” he said; “do you realise that it is a grave implication?”
But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said, talking rapidly, “My husband’s words were in direct answer to the footman’s question. Blake said, ‘Who did this?’ and Mr. Stannard, even pointing to Miss Vernon, said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ Could anything be plainer?”
“It might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, Mrs. Stannard?”
“Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard Room for some time, ever since dinner, in fact——”
“Alone?”
“Not at first. Several were there with me. Then, later, all had gone—and—I was there alone.”
The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her audience and became lost in recollection or in thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in at the throat. Her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous.
“Perhaps it wasn’t Natalie,” she said, speaking breathlessly. “Perhaps it wasn’t Miss Vernon—after all.”
“We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stannard,” said the Coroner, stiffly; “kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened.”
But now, the witness’ poise was shaken. Of a temperamental nature, Joyce Stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected the trend of her testimony.
Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest. “Well, Milady,” he said to her, mentally, “you’ve struck a snag in your well-planned defence. Careful now, don’t leap before you look!”
“Yes,” said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech.
The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, “The facts, please, as they occurred.”
“I was in the Billiard Room,” Joyce began again, “and I heard, in the studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went out.”
“Which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?”
“The sound—no, the darkness. I don’t really know. Perhaps they were simultaneous.”
“One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted?”
“Yes.”
“And the door between open?”
“The sliding doors were open—the curtains pulled together.”
Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said quickly: “If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was light, how could you notice when this room went dark?”
Joyce looked bewildered. “I don’t know,” she said, blankly, “how could I?”
The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled, that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. “Of course,” his principal thought was, “one of these women is guilty. If the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn’t have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is,whichone?”
Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.
“But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?” pursued Lamson.
“Why, yes—I think so. You see—it was all so confused——”
“What was?”
“Why,—the lights,—and that queer sound—and——”
“Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw——?”
“I didn’t see anything!” declared Joyce, with a sudden toss of her head. “I c-couldn’t. It was dark, you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know, turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon standing by my dying husband’s——”
“How did you know he was dying? Did you see Miss Vernon strike the blow?”
“No. But she was in the room when I entered—and, too, Eric said it was Natalie and not—me.”
“You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon was in the room before you were?”
“She was there when I went in.”
“But it was dark, how could you see her?”
“I didn’t. I heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way.”
“And when you first saw her?”
“She was cowering back against the little paint stand.”
“Looking terrified?”
“Yes, and——”
“And what?”
“And guilty.” Joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly pronouncing a doom.
“Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal. Can you think of any reason why Miss Vernon would desire your husband’s death?”
Joyce trembled visibly. “I cannot answer a question like that,” she said, in a low tone.
“I’m sorry,—but you must.”
“No, then,” and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie. “I cannot imagine why she should desire his death. I certainly cannot.”
“But any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?”
“N-no.”
“Think again.”
“My husband was a great artist,” Joyce began, as if thinking it out for herself. “He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested. Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and—and they were not very good friends.”
“But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?”
Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. “Certainly,” she said, in an even voice, “I like her.”
“Whew!” breathed our friend Roberts, silently. “At last I see what one Mr. Pope meant when he wrote:
“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.”
“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,
And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.”
For, surely, Joyce’s attestation of friendship between herself and the artist’s model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound feeling beneath.
“In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard’s displeasure?” asked Lamson.
“Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his pictures,” was the nonchalant reply.
“That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?”
“Scarcely.” Joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the Coroner’s word.
“Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Vernon is the criminal we are seeking?”
“I do not say that,” and Joyce spoke softly. “I can only say I saw her here when I came into this room and found my husband dying.”
“Might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange sound, as of a man in pain?”
“In that case, who could have stabbed my husband? There was no one else near. That has been testified by those who entered at the other end of the room.”
“Could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and, being discovered, stabbed Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?”
“How could he have entered?” said Joyce, dully.
“I can see no way. That is, he might have been in here, but in no way could he have gotten out. That great North window, I am told, opens only in a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers from the bottom, and is inaccessible. The other large window, the West one, is so blocked up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get in or out of that. The door to the main hall was, of course, in full sight of Blake the footman, and that leaves only the South end of the room to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone out by the door to the Billiard Room or the door to the Terrace without having been seen by you or Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace all evening.”
Every one present looked around at the Studio. They saw a spacious room, about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty feet high. An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at either end. The fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where ground glass had been put in to meet the artist’s needs. Originally a ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious taste. There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. Yet, also, was there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums—seemingly inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. Here would be a stunning Elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs or quaintly-fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay or marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts. Jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood all round the wall.
The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat when he died, was undisturbed, also the tables near it. A new idea seemed to strike Lamson. He said, “When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stannard, how did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? I count four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued.”
Joyce looked at the part of the room in question. True, there were four or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in without a light.
“That’s so!” she said, as if the idea were illuminating. “I must have come in just after or at the very moment that Blake lighted the electrics!”
“And found Miss Vernon already here?”
“Yes,” said Joyce.
“Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?” said Lamson, abruptly, turning from Joyce to the girl.
“Why—I——” Natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously at the inquisitor. “I don’t know how.”
“Good work!” commented Bobsy Roberts, mentally. “Smart little girl to know how the baby act fetches ’em!”
But if Natalie Vernon’s air of helplessness was assumed, it was sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it.
“Poor little thing!” was in everybody’s mind as the rosebud face looked pleadingly at the Coroner. At that moment, if she had declared herself the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her.
Lamson’s abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, “Just a simple description, Miss Vernon, of your presence in this room last night.”
“It was this way,” she began, and her face drew itself into delicious wrinkles, as she chose her words. “I had been, ever since dinner, almost, on the terrace.”
“Alone?”
“Oh, no. Different people were there. Coming and going, you know. Well, at last, I chanced to be there alone——”
“Who had been with you latest?”
“Let me see,” and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to be real, “I guess—yes, I’m sure it was Barry,—Mr. Barry Stannard. And he went away——”
“Where?”
“I don’t know. For a stroll with the dogs, probably. I was about to go upstairs to my room, when I heard a sound in the studio that seemed queer.”
“How, queer?”
“As if somebody were calling me—I mean, calling for somebody.”
“Did you hear your name?” and Lamson caught at the straw.
“Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And I went toward the door to listen, if it might be repeated.”
“Was the door open?”
“No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little way open, and I could see through them that the light went out suddenly——”
“Well?”
“And then I went right in, without making a sound——”
“Didn’t it make a sound as you opened the door?”
“The door was open.”
“You said it was not.”
“Oh, I don’t know whether it was or not! I was so scared to see Eric,—Mr. Stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she had just——”
“Just what? Killed him?”
“Yes,” and Natalie’s big blue eyes were violet with horror. “She had! And she stood there, just as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner. She must have been out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for I saw her.”
“Saw her kill him?”
“No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed was done, and she was the picture of guilty fear!”
If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the picture would have made any painter’s fortune. The girl was in white, soft, crêpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the gown had been designed by no less a genius than Stannard himself. It was his whim to have Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. But the simple affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. Her golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out, and one couldn’t help wishing it would. Her wonderful eyes had long dark lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous excitement. So thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. Yet notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of doubt that it was Nature’s own. The play of rose and white in her cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all spoke of the real humanity of this girl’s beauty. Small wonder the artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a very Titania of charm and wonder.
Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal, her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and, without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present.
And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had to say, in curt, accusing tones, “Then how do you explain Mr. Stannard’s dying words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’?”
The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears formed in the appealing blue eyes.
“Don’t ask me that!” she cried; “oh, pray, don’t ask methat!”
“But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you why you stabbed him? Had he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent? Had he insisted, after you refused? Was he tyrannical? Brutal? Cruel? Did you have to defend yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger or indignation?”
“Stop! Stop!” cried Natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny, rosy ears. “Stop! He was none of those things! He was good to me, he—he——”
“Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you, yet you took his life——”
“I didn’t! I tell you I didn’t! It was Joyce! She——”
“Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you effect an entrance without upsetting something? There are even more small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other.”
“No, I didn’t upset anything——” and Natalie stared at him.
“Then you came in before the room was darkened,—long before,—and you darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life of your friend and patron.”
Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of Natalie’s face turned to a creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair.
“Brutal!” cried Barry Stannard, springing to her side. “Inexcusable, Mr. Lamson. This is no place for a Third Degree procedure!” and asking no one’s permission, he carried the slight form from the studio.
A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. For “model,” Natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard’s house. And she looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent, rather than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though it had given way before the Coroner’s accusation, was always evident in the clear gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. Moreover, she had that precious possession calledcharmto an infinite degree. It was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and Eric Stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. Of late, he had tried it in his etching. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as Goldenrod. This he had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy for the etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod, her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow autumn leaves. It was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside from the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an etching of the study.
The waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near Eric’s chair, after his death. The wax had been scratched and smudged, quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had caused the artist’s death.
This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? That Natalie, in a fit of anger at Eric, had destroyed his picture of her? Or, that Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait?
The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and shoulder, and one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had drawn it, garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that gave a totally different character to the work.
Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a way she didn’t care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what might not a woman do?
Again, could it not be that the artist’s wife had had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband’s interest in the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood?
“It’s a poor clue that won’t work both ways,” mused Bobsy Roberts, as he heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so.
Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at dinner the night before.
The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower.
After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until perhaps half past eleven——
“Wait,” interposed the Coroner. “Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after your departure, at that hour.”
“Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn’t note the time. I went directly home, and retired without looking at the hour.”
“You went out at the front door?”
“Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn’t look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities.”
There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay.
But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and to him it was a revelation.
“Oh, ho,” was his self-communing, “sits the wind in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are—er—en rapport—it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this.”
Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce’s before she succumbed to Stannard’s Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.
Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home, but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he think it strange in any way. Why shouldn’t people light and relight their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.
Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the mystery.
“Where are these jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible robbery.
“I don’t know,” Joyce answered, listlessly. “Mr. Stannard kept some of them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put them away again.”
“Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar intent on securing these gems might have attempted a robbery, and——”
“Come, come, Lamson,” interposed Inspector Bardon, “a burglar would scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house alight, and people sauntering through the grounds.”
“No, of course not,” responded the Coroner, in no wise abashed.
Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole matter.
“It was the work of a burglar,” said young Stannard, confidently; “it simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an entrance easily. He need not have been a rough customer. He may have been of a gentlemanly type,—even in evening clothes. But he gained access to my father, I haven’t the slightest doubt, and brought to bear some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. When my father refused his demands,—this is my theory and belief,—he either feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the nearest weapon he could snatch at.”
“And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this intruder turned off the lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?”
“I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever getaway.”
“And just how did he leave the room? You know, Mrs. Stannard was in the Billiard Room and Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at the main hall door.”
“He made his escape by the large West window,” replied Barry. “If you will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with.”
An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the window in question. It was a long, French window, opening like a double door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks.
Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the West window, and then closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced at Barry, and observed, silently, “Some scheme!” after which, he calmly awaited developments.
“But how can we think that a man entered at that window,” said Lamson, “when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?”
“It might have been managed,” asserted Barry.
And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. “It couldn’t be,” he said, positively. “No one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. No one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. If you will try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean.”
It was true. Even though the window might be opened, it would crash into and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also knock down some casts which leaned against it.
Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the Coroner regarded him with a sort of suspicion.
“Mr. Stannard,” he said, “I don’t want to do you an injustice, but your theory is so suspiciously implausible, that I can’t help thinking you might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose of diverting suspicion.”
“I did,” Barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. “And I am not ashamed of it. My father’s death is a mystery. So much of a one that I feel sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did and do want to turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two ladies who, hearing my father’s dying struggles, rushed to his assistance.”
“That may be the case,” said Lamson, “with one of the ladies you refer to. But the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the crime. It is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible.”
“It is impossible!” protested Barry. “I know of facts and conditions which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a—well, a blackmailer, perhaps,—might have attacked my father. This is outside of discovery or proof, but I request,—I demand that you cease to persecute your present suspects!”
The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual, quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave.
Roberts regarded him with interest. “Some chap!” he thought. “I wonder, now, if he did it himself,—and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I fancy it’s his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar.”
“Do you know where your father kept his jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, and Barry started, as he said, “No, I’ve no idea. That is, the ones in the house. The others are in deposit with the Black Rock Trust Company.”
“Who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?”
But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she did not. Barry disclaimed the knowledge. Inquired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor Halpin, the old Butler, nor any of the other servants.
It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed his treasures in a hiding-place known only to himself. An officer was sent to search his personal rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to a further grilling.
Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and drawn. Wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or tactful.
At last, when Lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she was doing or thinking after Courtenay had left her alone in the Billiard Room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth, impulsively, “I was listening at the Studio door!”
“Ah! And what did you hear?”
“I heard my husband say, ‘No, no, my lady, I will not divorce Joyce for you!’ and then he laughed,—a certain laugh of his that I always called the trouble laugh,—a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate anybody,—anybody, beyond the point of endurance!”
The Coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that promised so much, he said, quietly, “Did you hear anything further?”
“I did. I heard him say, ‘I’ll give you the emeralds, if you like, but I really won’t marry you.’”
“Your husband was not a cruel man, Mrs. Stannard?”
“On the contrary, he was gentleness itself. He was most courteous and gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most annoying.”
“And to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?”
“How can you ask? I was just about to go into the room, as I felt it my right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. I was so surprised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to do. Then hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I pushed the curtain aside and went in. The rest, I have told you.”
Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her face. She looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence or told a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside her, and he was looking at her curiously.
Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard’s writing desk.
Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon.
Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:
Goldenheart:You have a strange power over me—you can sway me to your will when I am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden. Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forgetEric.
Goldenheart:
You have a strange power over me—you can sway me to your will when I am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden. Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget
Eric.
The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of the artist’s intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very lips, and Barry flushed scarlet.
“Call Miss Vernon,” commanded the Coroner, abruptly.
Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now. Without a word, Lamson handed her the note.
The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and self-possessed.
“Well?” said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce before, “what does that note to you mean?”
Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and quivering chin told of her desperate distress.
“It is not to me,” she whispered.
“That’s right,” Bobsy Roberts thought; “stick to that, now. It’s fine!”
“It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard’s desk. Where are the emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?”
“I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine.”
“Not yours, because you didn’t receive it. But it was written to you, and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him.”
Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said, “Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard’s story and not mine? WhatIsaw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime.”
Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed girl?
And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment? And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty?
The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner’s Jury concluded, after a somewhat protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other’s unsupported story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that implicated either or both of these two women. And yet, there were many exceptions. Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder’s entrance, and repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was sufficient proof of robbery.
It may be that Barry’s self-confessed scratching of the paint on the window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped accusation.
But the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny.
Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large, and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves.
Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,—in spite of the Stannards’ attempts to use the more attractive name of Stanhurst,—on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also there and one or two other policemen and reporters.
Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the proceedings and evidence of the day before.
“You see, Bobsy,” he said, “the burglar stunt won’t work. I’ve tried, and Carter, here, he’s tried, and we couldn’t come within a mile of getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making noise and commotion enough to wake the dead.”
“I know it,” assented Bobsy. “Knew it all the time. Let’s cut out Mr. Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have looked in the studio in case of a racket.”
“Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly.”
“Of course they don’t. People in evening togs never know what time it is. Why should they? They don’t have to punch a clock. I think the footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you know. And anyway, let’s get that man in here.”
Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to answer questions.
He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had testified at the inquest.
“Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?” asked Steele.
“Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went out.”
“How long was the light out?” Roberts put in.
“I should say, not more’n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard the sounds, I can’t tell about the length of time properly. But it wasn’t two minutes, I’m sure, between the studio light going off and me turning it on.”
“Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn’t told you to?”
Blake considered. “I can’t say. I think, yes, for I heard that ‘Help!’ distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I’d been on my own, I’d ’a’ gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment, sir.”
“Right you are, Blake,” said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the footman. “Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member of the family—of the household.”
“I don’t know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could only see those who passed through it.”
“Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them.”
“Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that’s over the dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room we’re now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You see,—er——”
“What, Blake?”
“Well, if I may say it, sir, he’s—er—sweet on her, and they two went off by themselves.”
“I see,” and Bobsy smiled. “Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon?”
“Of those I know nothing, for they didn’t come around where I was.”
“Nor any of the men?”
“No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him out. He says, ‘Good night, Blake,’ sort of gay like, and I thought perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir.”
“Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?”
“Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no harm, and no curiosity,—but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then, and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out——”