“Well, Mr. Stannard had told me several times of his affection for me and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a week ago, he told me of Joyce’s caring for Mr. Courtenay, though how he discovered that, I don’t know, for Joyce never showed it. She was good as gold. Well, Mr. Stannard didn’t say so in so many words, but he implied that if he and Joyce—separated—and it could be arranged,—and she—you know,—married Mr. Courtenay,—would I marry him. And I was so mad, I flew into a rage, and——”
“And scratched up your picture?”
“No, that wax plate hadn’t been drawn then. It was afterward that he drew that, and then I was madder than ever.”
“And in the heat of your passionate rage, you——”
“No, I didn’t! I tell you, whoever killed Eric Stannard, I didn’t!”
“Then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’ Tell me that!”
“I will tell you,” and the girl lowered her voice and looked very serious. “I know exactly what he meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He meant,—you’ll think I imagine this, but it’s true; he meant that it was Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon to at that moment.”
It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. The great earnest eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what she said.
“I know it,” she went on. “You see, he had said to me, several times, ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ till it became a sort of by-word with him. And I know that’s what he meant that night, when he was hurt,—he didn’t know he was dying,—and he called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. Also, he could see me more plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. As a matter of fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. He wasn’t entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. But he did not mean that I had stabbed him.”
“Did he know who stabbed him?”
“How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he was saying.”
“You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather than accused you with his last breath?”
“Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that.”
“Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with the affair. Why didn’t you tell this before?”
“Can’t you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection, especially as it didn’t altogether mean that, it was merest chance that he saw me and not her——”
“But he did see her, for he said ‘Natalie,notJoyce.’”
“Yes, I know,” and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,—“but, I mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was in pain, or a sort of stupor, or—oh, I don’t know what his sensations were, I’m sure,—but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it didn’t mean as much as it seems to.”
Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady. Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was making up a preposterous story.
If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so emphasised by the victim’s statement, and if she were innocent, the story she told might well be true.
“Let me follow this up,” said Bobsy, looking at her closely. “Then Mr. Stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate moment, rather than on his wife——”
“But he didn’t know it was a desperate moment. I don’t believe that man was conscious at all. The stab wound was practically fatal at once. What he said and did after it, was involuntary. Don’t you know what I mean? He was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his mind—his brain. Couldn’t that be true?”
“I suppose so. In fact, I think it must have been—and yet, no, it seems to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear consciousness, who his assailant was. Remember Blake asked him outright. ‘Who did this?’ and he said——”
“I know; but you didn’t see him, and I did. He was not looking at Blake, he didn’t even hear him. He was in a dazed state, and, seeing both Joyce and myself,—he must have seen us both,—his sub-consciousness called out for me. I am not vain of this preference, I wish it had all been otherwise, but I insist that explains his words, and—Joyce knows it, too.”
“How do you know she does? Have you talked with her on this subject?”
“Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over. Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce and Barry and I have gone over every bit of it a dozen times.”
“Is it possible? What does each of the four think? Since you deny the deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household.”
“That’s just what I can’t do. You see, we all hesitate to say anything that will seem to accuse either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly, is uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is convinced, of course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it was a burglar.”
“She is fond of you both?”
“Yes, she adores Joyce, and she is most friendly to me. I’ve only known her since I’ve been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She understands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just what I say he did, by those words. She knows how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt about it.”
“Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard?”
“She doesn’t say so. She sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. You can’t blame her. None of us can suspect Joyce. It’s too absurd.”
“And Barry Stannard, what does he think?”
“Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He’s thought up a dozen ways for him to get in and out.”
“All equally impossible?”
“I suppose so. Unless,—I hate to say it,—but mightn’t Blake have let him out?”
“Not unless it was somebody known to the household.”
“Well?” said Natalie Vernon.
“You mean?” prompted Bobsy.
“Oh, nothing. But,—just supposing, you know. I’m sure I don’t want to mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here——”
“Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing Room——”
“Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with Blake, couldn’t he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Blake letting him out the front door?”
“But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?”
“Why would anybody? I’m only showing you that therearetheories that don’t include me or Joyce.”
“But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I’ve been told, was having a—a romantic tête-à-tête with Mrs. Faulkner.”
“Yes, he was asking her, for the ’steenth time, to marry him. But she turned him down again.”
“Well, even if she did, probably he didn’t give up all hope. And a man, just from a session of that sort, isn’t going to commit a crime.”
“Oh, well, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Wadsworth. But why not consider Mr. Truxton? He’s a jewel sharp, too.”
“We have considered him. But he and his wife went home earlier——”
“He could have come back,——”
“But he didn’t. Miss Vernon, we’ve gone into all these matters very thoroughly. What do you suppose the Police have been doing? There isn’t a possible theory we’ve overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple facts of the evidence that incriminate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself. I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you this frankly. If you care to say anything further in your own defence, I’d be glad to hear it. Naturally, you hate to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon.”
Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to startle some information out of this provoking beauty.
And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as she took in the significance of Roberts’ words.
“They won’t arrest me, will they?” she whispered in a scared little voice.
“I don’t see how they can,” and Bobsy looked at the girl, wondering. That child, that little, tender bit of femininity—surely she could never have lifted her hand against a man’s life! Even had she wished to, she seemed physically incapable of striking the blow.
“Arrest you! Not much they won’t!” and Barry Stannard strode into the room.
Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.
“You won’t let them, will you, Barry?” she said, as his arm slipped round her trembling shoulders.
“I should say not! Are you frightening her, Mr. Roberts? You know you’ve no authority for all this.”
“It’s my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Vernon is innocent, then Mrs. Stannard is guilty.”
“As a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be Mrs. Stannard. But I do not accuse her. I only insist on the impossibility of this child’s being a criminal.”
“’Course I couldn’t,” and Natalie smiled at the perplexed Roberts. “And if, to clear myself, I must tell all I know, then I’ll tell you that Mrs. Stannard has those emeralds in her possession now.”
“She has! How do you know?”
“I passed her room this morning. The door was ajar, and I was about to enter, when I saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of emeralds. I recognised it at once. I’ve often seen them. I didn’t like to intrude, then, so I went on. I thought I wouldn’t say anything about it, unless it was necessary.”
“It is necessary. Has she had them all the time?”
“Let’s ask her,” said Barry. “I believe Joyce can explain it.”
They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came, Mrs. Faulkner accompanying her.
“I found these on my dressing-table this morning,” Joyce said, simply, holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all.
“Found them! Where did they come from?” asked Roberts.
“I don’t know,” and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective’s face, Joyce exclaimed, “You tell about it, Beatrice. I—I can’t talk.”
“This is the story,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “About an hour ago, Mrs. Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night. Further than that, she knows nothing about it.”
“You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?”
“Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over, and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has been given to the matter.”
“Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest—or a member of the household,—or—or Mrs. Stannard, herself?”
“I!” exclaimed Joyce. “Why I’ve just found them!”
“Didn’t you have them all the time?”
“Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them.”
“Was the door of your bedroom locked?”
“No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,—any of us. The outer doors and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of the servants.”
“Where were the gems this morning?”
“On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room.”
“Who do you think put them there?”
“Whoever stole them the night my husband was killed.”
“And who do you think that was?”
“Whoever killed him, of course.”
“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully. “Perhaps the thief and the murderer were not the same person.”
“That may be so,” agreed Bobsy. “Have you any theory or suspicion based on the return of the jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?”
“No; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder.”
“Why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?”
“Only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and return them to Mrs. Stannard. I can see no explanation of that act save that a servant did it.”
“Or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants.”
“Yes, that might be,” agreed Mrs. Faulkner. “The mere placing of the case in Mrs. Stannard’s dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could easily slip in and out of the room unheard.”
“You heard no unusual sound in the night, Mrs. Stannard?”
“None,” said Joyce.
“I’m sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident, Mrs. Faulkner,” and Bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman, “but to my mind it strengthens the case against Mrs. Stannard. It seems more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where they were. She kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to Miss Vernon. Then when Miss Vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, Mrs. Stannard thought better to face the music and own up that she had them.”
“Why I didn’t let her know that I saw her!” exclaimed Natalie.
“Perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. Doubtless she knew in some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to tell the story that accounted for them.”
Joyce Stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. With a desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. Roberts kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he made no attempt to recall or to follow her.
“She has practically condemned herself,” he said. “The reappearance of the emeralds seems to settle it.”
“Why?” asked Beatrice Faulkner. “Why do you condemn her because of that?”
“Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume for a moment my theory is right. Then, Mrs. Stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room surreptitiously during the night. She is sure Miss Vernon will be suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them secretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and imply her greater guilt also.”
“Why, what an idea!” exclaimed Natalie. “As if I ever had the emeralds!”
“That letter said you knew where they were.”
“That letter was not written to me.”
“To whom then?”
“I’ve no idea. But not to me. I’m—I’m engaged to Barry.”
“You weren’t engaged to the son while the father was alive,” probed Roberts.
“N—no. But only because his father wouldn’t allow it. I’m going to look after Joyce,” and without a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room, and up the stairs.
“You see,” began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard, “you two are the only ones I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. You are both material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you can of anything bearing on the case. Now, however painful it may be for you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on the model. The direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The wife, let us say, had reason for jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial husband. The little model, while irritated at her employer’s attentions, was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist without resorting to crime.”
“That’s right about Natalie,” exclaimed Barry, “but it’s unthinkable that Joyce should go so far as to kill——”
“You don’t know all the provocation she may have had,” said Roberts. “A jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn’t guilty, Mrs. Stannard is. You can’t find two women hovering over a dying man, and acquit them both. So it’s one or the other, and I incline toward the suspicion of the older woman.”
“But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?” asked Beatrice Faulkner.
“Let’s take them one by one. First, that note found on the man’s desk. Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn’t condemn her. Even if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can’t look on it as evidence against the model.”
“I agree with that,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “That letter may well have been to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to Joyce last night.”
“No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn’t right. I don’t understand the emerald business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the dying man’s exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss Vernon’s assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife.”
“Of course it is,” declared Barry. “I know my father was madly in love with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father’s memory, but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife’s feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him, he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his wife. I do not defend my father’s speech but to me it is explained.”
“It may be so,” said Roberts. “Now here’s another point. Mrs. Stannard declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?”
“Let me see,” said Barry, “what were the words?”
“To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could have the emeralds.”
“Practically what was in the note,” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.
“Almost,” returned Roberts. “Now was Miss Vernon there and were these words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from consideration of her as the criminal.”
“If so, then the letter was to her,” said Beatrice.
“And it wasn’t,” maintained Barry. “My father admired Natalie,—made love to her, we’ll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies.”
“Could this be the way of it?” said Beatrice. “Suppose Mr. Stannard was even then writing that note——”
“But it was found in his desk.”
“Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?”
Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. “It is a possibility,” he conceded. “And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs. Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the etching needle and——”
“It isn’t at all like her,” said Barry, “but I can only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie’s. I don’t want to admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it, before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce had motive, and Natalie had none.”
“I won’t subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the artist toward her——”
“No, I wasn’t,” said Natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. “On the contrary, I had persuaded Mr. Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to pose for him, except as a fully draped model. He had apologised for his previous insistence, and I looked for no more trouble on that score. I was trying to get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged to me, but I hadn’t accomplished that.”
“If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before he was attacked, could you have overheard them?” asked Roberts.
“I don’t think so. Not unless they had spoken very loudly. The door to the Terrace was closed, or almost closed. And I was not thinking about what might be going on in the house. Unless there had been an especial disturbance, I should not have noticed it.”
“Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door.”
“Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry. An attempted scream, I should describe it.”
Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent or was she an infant Machiavelli?
“It is a difficult situation,” he said, with a sigh. “We have but two eye-witnesses. Each naturally accuses the other and denies her own guilt. One speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we distinguish which one tells the truth?”
“Don’t say eye-witnesses,” objected Natalie. “I didn’t see the crime committed. If I think Joyce did it, it’s only because I went in and found her there and nobody else about.”
“Suppose,” and Bobsy Roberts looked her straight in the face, “suppose Eric Stannard held in his hand your picture,—that etching, you know, and suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say, he wasn’t talking to it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. Then she, in a jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and——”
“I didn’t want the emeralds,” said Natalie, coldly, “and I certainly didn’t want Eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on Joyce.”
“It does,” agreed Barry, “and that’s where it belongs, if on either of you two.”
“It must be so,” said Beatrice Faulkner, “for if Natalie had known where the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her the gems,—for it really did give them to the one it was written to,—then she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce.”
“By Jove, that’s so!” exclaimed Roberts. “Whatever woman that letter was meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to Eric Stannard’s wish, and if she had them she would be extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their return?”
“It wasn’t a return,” said Beatrice. “Joyce had them herself all the time.”
“I believe she had,” said Roberts.
Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.
He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.
“Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.”
The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings.
But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller’s box. Bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words “For my Goldenheart. From Eric.”
It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases.
“Bought it for her but never gave it to her,” Bobsy surmised. “Surely I can make something out of this.”
But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can’t be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller’s name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.
Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it.
“It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard,” she said.
“Why?”
“I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a lady, and for some reason or other didn’t present it. It’s of no great value.”
“No,” agreed Bobsy, “except as it proves that his interest in ‘Goldenheart’ has lasted for some time.”
“Then Goldenheart can’t be Miss Vernon,” said Joyce, wearily. “It seems to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little things——”
“Because we can’t get any big piece of evidence. You know yourself, Mrs. Stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon in a situation whichmightmean the guilt of either of you, andmustmean the guilt of one of you.”
“Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly that I wish to be cleared of suspicion. I did not kill my husband. I can’t quite believe Miss Vernon did, but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I don’t know how to set about it myself, and if you don’t either, I want to employ some one else. This is no disparagement of your powers, but if you know of any—more experienced Detective——”
“There are plenty of more experienced detectives, Mrs. Stannard, but I am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. Will you not give me a longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made little or no progress, call on whomever you like.”
“Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am willing to spend a fortune, if need be, but I cannot live under this cloud of suspicion.”
“Let us work together then. Tell me anything I ask, and you may be able to give me some help. First, can you state positively that no person came in through the Billiard Room and went on to the studio while you were in the Billiard Room, just before the tragedy?”
“Why, of course, nobody passed through.”
“The Billiard Room was lighted?”
“Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on.”
“Mr. Courtenay had just left you?”
“A short time before, yes.”
“And,—now think carefully,—could you not have been sitting with your back to the door, or—perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing it?”
Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, “No; positively not. I was sitting on one of the side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room I should have heard footsteps, of course.”
“On the soft, thick rug?”
“Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. Yes, Mr. Roberts, I must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way.”
“I do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have entered the studio.”
“Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and passing Natalie instead of me?”
“The probability is less. The Terrace door was closed, and, too, Miss Vernon sat back on the Terrace, and must have seen any one passing in front of her.”
“But suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?”
Bobsy looked at her. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he said. “You mean Barry Stannard. There is room for thought in that direction. He had reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let Barry marry the girl, and also, because of Eric Stannard’s annoyance of the little model. The father out of the way, the son steps into a fortune and wins his bride beside.”
“But Barry never did it! I confess I’ve thought of it as a theory, but I can’t believe it of Barry,—I simply can’t.”
“Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband. If not a common malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of Mr. Stannard’s intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more above suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself.”
“That’s true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Roberts. Do all you can, but do get somewhere. You reason around in a circle, always coming back to the proposition that it must have been either Miss Vernon or myself.”
“That is where I stand at present,” said Bobsy, very gravely, “but I shall try to get some new light on it all,—and soon.”
Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously.
The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what Joyce had said that the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to Eric. The date was looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed to tell nothing save that it was meant for a gift but never given. Probably, thought Roberts, it was owing to Eric’s marriage that he concluded not to give a keepsake to a woman other than his bride. But, after all, mightn’t Goldenheart be Joyce herself? No, for the letter found in the desk denied that. But that letter might have been written a long time ago. Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would not be unwilling to consider separation from her husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more than all it pointed to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well, it was not inconceivable that Eric Stannard, the gay Lothario, had called more than one woman Goldenheart. Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have said Goldenrod, especially as he had painted her in that guise?
And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in circles and came back to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by any possibility be any one else.
And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deeply into the recent past of the two, and also into Eric’s behaviour of late, and he felt he must get some hint or some clue to go upon.
Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The emeralds had been returned to Joyce,—that is, shesaidthey had been returned. But the rest of the collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn’t think they had been stolen or lost, but merely that Eric had hidden them so securely that they were unfindable. A queer procedure that. It would seem that he would have left some record of their hiding place. But he was a queer man,—careless in every way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. The whole business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. An out and out robbery, now, one might track down. But a jewel disappearance that might be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition.
So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined. He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the finding of them present at the scene of the crime.
Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each.
Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn’t love her husband, and Natalie was angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie’s bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as Joyce’s. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly.
Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,—or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as Blake snapped on the key, and then—discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue. Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted. Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either woman’s action was quite compatible with a criminal’s sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman’s horror at the scene before her.
But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed he’d find out which was which before his week was up.
Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric’s rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.
But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question.
Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake’s experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?
Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment’s hesitation, she spoke to him.
“Mr. Roberts, I’ve had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?”
“In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?”
“Come in the studio. I’ll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him.”
They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down.
“Here is the letter,” said Joyce, handing it to him. “I wish you would read it.”
Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?
It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship.
It ran:
Mrs. Stannard:Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.Very truly yours,Orienta.
Mrs. Stannard:
Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.
Very truly yours,Orienta.
The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant’s circular letter.