"So," continued Vandervent, "inasmuch as there was no one around, we took the horse and sleigh. I turned in at this drive, intending to leave Randall. We saw a man run across the snow, stop—we heard the shot. We ran to him. We couldn't help him. It—it was too late. We came into the house and sent Ragan out to watch the—to watch him. You and Mrs. Carey had fainted. I ought to telephone the coroner," he said abruptly. Yet he made no move toward the telephone. "You see," he went on, "what you've told me about Garland—if we could find him——"
He stopped short; there were steps upon the veranda outside; and then the bell rang. Vandervent moved swiftly from the room. Clancy heard him exclaim in amazement. A moment later, she understood, for Spofford entered the room, and by the wrist he dragged after him Garland.
"Got one of 'em," he announced triumphantly. "Now—the other guy. Where's Carey?" he demanded.
"Dead," said Vandervent crisply.
Spofford's mouth opened. He dropped into a chair, loosing his grasp on Garland.
"Beat me to it!" he said bitterly. "Had him dead to rights—came up here all alone." He looked up surlily. "Listen here, Mr. Vandervent; I ran this case down all by myself. You're here, and I suppose you'll grab all the glory; but I wanta tell you that I'm entitled to my share." His gaze was truculent now.
"You may have it," said Vandervent quietly.
"Eh? I don't get you," said Spofford. "Where's the string tied to it?"
"Perhaps not any—perhaps just one," was Vandervent's reply.
"Huh!" Spofford grunted noncommittally. "Where is Carey?"
Vandervent pointed out the window.
"Sent for the coroner?" demanded the plain-clothesman.
"Not—yet," admitted Vandervent.
"Why not?"
Vandervent stared at Garland.
"What's this man to do with it?" he asked.
"Material witness," said Spofford.
"But, if Carey left a written confession, you wouldn't need a witness," said Vandervent.
"H'm—no," conceded Spofford. "Only—an accessory after the fact—that's what this guy is——"
Vandervent turned to Randall.
"Take this man outside—and watch him," he ordered.
Garland's mouth opened in a whine.
"I didn't have a thing to do with it," he said. "It's a frame-up."
"Take him out, Randall," ordered Vandervent. Randall obeyed. Of course, Vandervent was an assistant district-attorney of New York and his position, though outside his jurisdiction now, was an important one. Nevertheless, Clancy knew that it was the man whom Randall obeyed, not the official. It gave her added proof that her judgment of the two men had been correct. Clancy loved with her head, too, though not so much as with her heart.
"Spofford," said Vandervent. "I've promised you all the glory—on one condition. Now tell me how you discovered that Carey was the murderer."
Spofford hesitated for a moment.
"Well, first I got the idea that Miss Deane was the one. When I found that you and Judge Walbrough was interested in protectin' her, I began to wonder. I rounded up all the tenants in the Heberworth Building. And one of them said he had a vague recollection of having seen a man enter Beiner's office sometime after five o'clock, last Tuesday. He described the man pretty well. I looked over the tenants. I found that Carey looked like the man. I got the other tenant to look at Carey. He couldn't swear to him, but thought he was the one.
"Now Carey'd been skirting the edges of the law for some time. There was a pretty little scandal brewing about the fake theatrical agency Carey was running. One or two of the girls that had been in that office had been talking. Find the woman! That's my motto when a man's been killed. I looked up those girls! One of them told me of another girl. I went to see her. She was an old sweetie of Beiner's. Carey had taken her away. It looked like something, eh? She admitted Carey had quarreled with Beiner over her. Name of Henty. Promised to keep her out of it if I could." He drew a long breath.
"That didn't make the man a murderer, but it might tie him up with Beiner. Somehow, I ain't entirely satisfied with the way that Garland talks. He's pretty ready to identify Miss Deane, but still— I keep my eye on Garland. I watch him pretty closely. Monday, I think I'll have another talk with Miss Deane. I find out from the place she works that she's down at Carey's house." He glanced at Clancy. "You'll excuse me, Miss Deane, if I didn't tip all my mitt to you the other day." He resumed his story. "I go down to Carey's. Just as I get there, Garland comes out. He don't see me, but I see him all right. A few minutes later out comes Carey and a lady that I take to be his wife. Well, I don't worry about them then. They're too well known to get very far away.
"But Garland was in the house with them. Naturally, I began to do a whole lot of thinkin'. I ring the bell, on the chance that Miss Deane is inside. I have a talk with her, and tell her that I'm convinced she don't have anything to do with the murder. I am, all right. I have a hunch that maybeshe can tell me something if she wants, but I figure I can wait.
"I leave her and go up to the Heberworth Building. Garland ain't reported for work. I go up-stairs. I do some quick thinkin'. If I let any one else in on this, I lose my chance." He glared defiantly at Vandervent. "It's a big chance," he exclaimed. "I'm gettin' on. I'll never be a day younger than I am to-day. I don't look forward to existin' on a measly pension. I want some jack. And the only way I can get it is by startin' a detective agency. And before I can do that, with any chance of makin' a clean-up, I got to pull somethin' spectacular.
"Well, you never win a bet without riskin' some money. I'm standin' in the hall outside Carey's office. Nobody's lookin'. I ain't been pinchin' guys all my life without pickin' up a trick or two. It takes me ten seconds to open that door and close it behind me.
"It may put me in the pen, burglarizin' Carey's office, but—it may put him in the chair. So I don't delay. He sure was flooey in the dome—this guy Carey. Booze has certainly wrecked his common sense. For I find papers around that show that him and Beiner been tied up in several little deals. I even find letters from Beiner threatenin' Carey unless he comes through with some coin. Motive, eh? I'll say so." He chuckled complacently. "But I find more than that. I find a bunch of keys. And one of them unlocks the door to Beiner's office. I've got opportunity now—motive and opportunity. Also a witness whothinkshe saw Carey at the door of Beiner's office.
"It ain't everything, but—I got to Garland'shouse. I learn from his landlady that Garland's packed a bag, paid his rent and skipped. That was yesterday. To-day I did a bit of scoutin' around and find out that the Careys own a country place up here. Of course, that don't prove they've gone there in the middle of a winter like this, but I telephone their house. A servant answers. I ask for Mr. Carey. The servant says that he's out. I hang up the 'phone. I knew that Carey's up there. And I just decide to come up and get him. In the road outside I meet Garland—and grab him."
"Have you a warrant?" asked Vandervent.
"I'll say I have," grinned Spofford. "But it ain't no use. He beat me to it." He looked ghoulishly regretful that he didn't have a live prisoner instead of a dead man. And not regretful that death had occurred, but that it had interfered with his plans. "And now—that little condition?" he asked.
"Carey has confessed," said Vandervent. "A written confession. Suppose that I hand you that confession?"
"Well?" Spofford didn't understand.
"Garland, I take it, has committed blackmail."
"Andbeen accessory after the fact, Mr. Vandervent," said Spofford.
Vandervent nodded.
"Of course. Only, if Garland testifies, he may mention Miss Deane. In which case I shall feel compelled to maintain that it was I who traced the murderer, who won from him his confession."
"You can't prove it," blustered Spofford.
"Think not?" Vandervent smiled.
Spofford's forehead wrinkled in thought. "Theidea, of course, is that you want Miss Deane's name left completely out of this affair," he said.
"You grasp it completely," smiled Vandervent.
"Well, worse guys than Garland are takin' the air when they feel like it," said Spofford.
"He's a scoundrel," said Vandervent, "but if punishing him means smirching Miss Deane's name, he'd better go free."
Spofford rose to his feet.
"You'd better 'phone the coroner," he said.
Vandervent shook his head.
"You're the genius who discovered the murderer. You do the telephoning, Spofford."
Spofford grinned.
"Much obliged, Mr. Vandervent. There won't be a yip outa me." He bowed toward Clancy. "It ain't hard for me to agree to something that saves a lady like you from bein' annoyed, Miss Deane. I may have sounded nasty, but it means something to me—this advertisin' I'll get."
He left the room before Clancy could answer. But she spoke to Vandervent.
"Have you the right to let a man like Garland go free?" she asked.
"Certainly not," he replied. "But there are occasions when one considers the greater good."
It was no time for Clancy to be hypersensitive about Vandervent's honor. He'd have been something less than a man if he had not made his bargain with Spofford. Yet, to Clancy, it seemed that he had done the most wonderful thing in the world.
There are women who would place a meticulous point of honor above love, but Clancy Deane had never been one of those bloodless persons intended forthe cloister. Perhaps her eyes showed her gratitude. For Vandervent stepped nearer.
But the speech that Clancy believed trembled on the tip of his tongue was not uttered then. For Spofford reëntered the room.
"I've got the coroner, Mr. Vandervent. He'll be over in five minutes."
"What about Garland?" demanded Vandervent.
"There's a train for New York at midnight. I took the cuffs off him, and he'll be on that train. He'll keep his mouth shut. Leastwise, if he does talk, no one'll believe him. He's a hop-head, that guy. But not so far gone but that he may not come back. The fear of God is in him to-night, sir. Maybe he'll straighten up." He shuffled his feet. "Please, sir, I think Miss Deane ought to be gettin' out of sight. The coroner'll ask questions, and the fewer lies need be told him——"
"Mrs. Carey? May she talk?" asked Vandervent.
Spofford shook his head.
"We'll keep him away from her until to-morrow. By that time, I'll have her coached—Miss Deane won't be in it, sir."
"Fair enough," said Vandervent.
Spofford moved toward the door. But, suddenly, Clancy didn't wish to be alone with Vandervent. She wanted time, as a woman always does. And so, because Vandervent must remain and see the coroner, Clancy drove home to the anxious Mrs. Walbrough alone. Physically alone, but in spirit accompanied by the roseate dreams of youth.
Mrs. Walbrough was one of those women who are happiest when trouble impends or is at hand. She had fallen in love with Clancy almost at sight; but her affection had been rendered durable and lasting as soon as she had discovered that Clancy was in danger. Wives who are not mothers but who have always craved children furnish the majority of this kind of woman.
And now, when Clancy's story had been told to her, and she had exclaimed, and colored in rage and grown white with apprehension, and after she had tucked Clancy securely in bed, so that there was no more to be done for her protégée, the thoughts of the motherly woman turned to Sophie Carey.
"Would you be afraid," she asked, "if I went over to the Carey place? Poor thing! I never forgave her for marrying Don Carey; I don't think I've been kind enough to her."
The remark caused Clancy to remember that not, during the entire day, had Mrs. Walbrough mentioned the fact that the Careys were such near neighbors. Of course, that might be accounted for by the fact that Mrs. Walbrough had no idea that Sophie and her husband were at their country place. But she realized that Mrs. Walbrough imagined that her attitude toward Sophie had not been as generous as she now wished. So, even if she had feared being left alone in the house, she would have denied it. Mrs. Walbrough, Clancy readily understood, was like allwhose natural affections have not sufficient outlet. They wonder if "So-and-So" will misinterpret their remarks, if "Such-and-Such" has been offended.
"I don't believe," she said, "that you've ever been anything but sweet and good to every one. But, of course, I don't mind your going. 'Afraid?'" She laughed heartily at the idea.
And so, with many motherly injunctions about the hot-water bottle at her feet and the heavy woolen blankets drawn up about her shoulders, Mrs. Walbrough departed.
Clancy reached for the electric button at the head of her bed. She turned off the lights. She was not sleepy, yet she felt that she could think better in the dark. But it was a long time before her mental processes were coherent. She was more tired than she knew. To-day's exertions upon the snow-covered hill would ordinarily have been no tax at all upon her youthful strength. But excitement saps vitality. And when one combines too much exercise with too much mental strain, one becomes bewildered.
So, as she lay there, her thoughts were chaotic, nightmarish. Like one in an audience, she seemed to detach herself, not merely from her body but from her brain. She found amusement in her own mental wanderings. For from some incident of childhood her mind leaped to the studio-dance at Mrs. Carey's city house. From there it went to her motion-picture ambitions, thence to Vandervent's flowers with their somewhat illegible card. She thought of Randall's conveyance of her to the Napoli on that night, so shortly ago, when she had mistaken him for a taxi-man. She thought of her entrance into Vandervent's office, with confession trembling on her lips.
Always, her mind came back to Vandervent. And finally, her mental gyrations ceased. Steadily she thought of him. She wondered at the thing we call "attraction." For she was sure that neither his great name nor his wealth had anything to do with this irresistible something that drew her to him.
Not that she would ever delude herself with the idea that wealth and position meant nothing to her. They did. They meant a great deal, as is right and proper. But had Philip Vandervent been poor, had his prospects been inconsiderable, she would still have been ready, aye, anxious to yield herself to him.
She wondered why. Of course, she knew that he was decent, kindly, possessor of all those virtues which are considered ordinary, but are really uncommon. But it is none of these things, unhappily, that make for love. Combined with love, they make for happiness, but alone they never won the fickle heart of woman.
He was intelligent; she knew that. He was, perhaps, brilliant. She had no proof of that. Their conversations could hardly afford evidence either way, they had been interchanges of almost monosyllabic utterances. So, at any rate, reviewing them, it seemed to Clancy.
What was it, then, that drew her to him? Not his looks; she had known many handsomer men. She smiled whimsically. Highly as she appraised her own beauty, she supposed that somewhere was a more lovely woman. And Vandervent might have seen her. Why did he reserve his love for Clancy?
Then, for the first time, doubt came to her. She sat bolt-upright in bed. Suppose that she'd been deluding herself? She smiled, shaking her head. Sheknew. She didn't know why she knew, but—she knew. Women almost always do. And slowly she took less interest in the problem. Sleep descended lightly upon her. So lightly that whisperings outside her door woke her.
"Who is it?" she called.
"Sophie Carey. May I come in?"
Clancy switched on the light.
"Of course," she said.
Sophie entered. She sat immediately down upon the edge of the bed. Her face was deathly pale and wore no rouge. Her cheeks were sunken. She looked forty. Rather, she would have looked forty but for her eyes. For they were softened, somehow; yet through their softness shone a brilliance that spoke of youth. It was as though some heavy burden had been lifted from her. Clancy could not censure her. Sophie would have been less than human if she had not responded, in some expression, to the hidden relief that must have come to her, even though through tragedy and scandal.
She put her arms quickly round Clancy.
"I think," she said, "that you are the sweetest, bravest person I have ever met."
"Why—why—" stammered Clancy.
"You had every reason to suspect that Don had—done what he did. Mr. Vandervent has told me all that you told him. And yet—you didn't say anything."
"I would have," said Clancy, honestly, "had I been sure."
Sophie nodded gravely.
"But most persons, on the faintest of suspicions, to clear themselves— Oh, I can't talk about it."Suddenly she kissed Clancy. "Miss Deane, I hope—I know—that you are going to be very happy."
She was gone at once. Clancy didn't ponder long over her last remark. She went to sleep, this time in earnest.
It was bright day when she awoke. Mrs. Walbrough entered a moment after Clancy had thrown the coverlets from her and was on her way to the windows, to shut them.
"I wondered if you could still be sleeping," said her hostess. "Do you know the time, young lady?"
Clancy shivered and yawned. "Eight o'clock?"
"Eleven-thirty," said Mrs. Walbrough. "And in the country we have luncheon early, as you know. Would you like your coffee here, or will you wait?"
"I want to eat with you," said Clancy.
"And with Tom and Philip Vandervent, too, I suppose."
"Are they here?"
Mrs. Walbrough nodded gravely.
"I got Tom on the 'phone after you went to bed last night. He came on the first train this morning. He wanted, of course, to do anything for Mrs. Carey that he could. But Mr. Randall is attending to everything. He and Mrs. Carey left on an early train for New York."
"And Mr. Vandervent?" Timidly, Clancy asked the question.
Mrs. Walbrough smiled.
"There were certain matters that had to be gone over with the Dutchess County authorities. He stayed. That's why hesaidhe stayed."
Clancy's expression was innocence personified.
"What other reason could there be?"
Mrs. Walbrough hugged her.
"Don't you dare attempt to deceive me, young lady." She slapped her gently.
In something less than half an hour Clancy was down-stairs, in the dining-room, attacking healthily a meal that Mrs. Walbrough described, because it was really neither breakfast nor lunch, as "brunch."
During the meal, in response to Walbrough's questions, Vandervent told the gist of the written confession that Don Carey had left behind him. It was a sordid tale. Carey, in that pursuit of pleasure which kills, had started an alleged office where young women applied for theatrical positions. Beiner, more legitimately engaged in the same business, had become acquainted with Carey. Spofford's discoveries were verified in Carey's own handwriting. Beiner had introduced Carey to a young woman. Carey, retaining some decency, did not mention the girl's name. He said, however, that Beiner had become jealous of his attentions to the young woman, and friendship between the two men had ceased. Learning what Carey was doing, Beiner had attempted blackmail. Carey, intending to have it out with Beiner, had knocked on Beiner's door. During the intimacy that had existed previous to Beiner's blackmailing attempts, Beiner had given Carey a key to his office.
Carey had heard a groan coming from behind the locked door. He had entered, with Beiner's key, and found the man lying, half-conscious, upon the floor. The scene, to Carey's drink-inflamed mind, spelled opportunity. He had snatched the paper-knife from Beiner's desk and stabbed the man to death. Then he had quietly left the office, locking it after him.
And that was all. Although the newspapers, naturally enough, "played it up" to the extent of columns, it was a crime in what is known as "high life," and they do not come too often for the public. Judge Walbrough had brought the early editions of the afternoon papers with him and permitted Clancy to look at them.
Spofford had not missed his chance. He was hailed as the greatest detective genius of the day.
"Poor Mrs. Carey!" said Clancy.
The others nodded gravely. "Not another woman in New York could live it down," said the judge.
"Why not?" demanded Clancy. "She did nothing wrong."
The judge shrugged.
"Scandal has touched her intimately. That is enough—for any other woman, but not for Sophie Carey. She has too many friends, is too great an artist—let's hope she finds happiness now."
The judge pushed back his chair and left the room, ostensibly in search of a pipe. The others drifted into the living-room. Clancy, staring out at the snow, was suddenly conscious that Vandervent stood at her elbow. She turned, to find that Mrs. Walbrough was no longer with them.
"Nice—nice view—" stammered Vandervent.
Clancy colored. She felt her heart beating.
"Isn't it?" she agreed.
Vandervent's trembling nervousness communicated itself to her. She half turned toward him, ready to yield herself. But his eyes, that, a moment ago, she had known were fixed upon the back of her head now stared out the window, over her shoulder. She turned again.
Up the Walbrough drive was coming a sleigh, an open affair. Besides the driver there was only one man. She looked up at Vandervent; His brows were knitted; behind his glasses his eyes gleamed angrily. Involuntarily she drew near to him.
"I—I'll have to see him," he exclaimed. "Reporter from theEra. Thought that I was all through with him. I wonder——"
The man descended from the sleigh. They saw him advance up the veranda steps, and then they heard his ring. A moment later, Mrs. Hebron entered the room.
"A gentleman to see Miss Deane," she announced.
And now Clancy understood why Vandervent had withheld the speech that she knew he wanted to utter, why he had seemed alarmed. She gasped. Then she grew reassured as she felt Vandervent's fingers on her own.
"Show him in here," said Vandervent.
Mrs. Hebron left the room.
"Just—say nothing," whispered Vandervent. "Leave him to me."
Clancy knew. The scandal that she had thought forever averted was about to break again. Her fingers were limp in Vandervent's clasp. She released them as Mrs. Hebron returned, followed by the young man who had descended from the sleigh.
"Miss Deane? Ah, how do, Mr. Vandervent?" he said.
"How do, Penwell? Miss Deane, let me present my good friend Roscoe Penwell, theEra's greatest reporter."
Penwell laughed.
"Why limit yourself when you're paying compliments?Why not theworld'sgreatest reporter?" he asked.
"I amend my statement," smiled Vandervent.
Clancy held out her hand. Penwell bowed over it. He was a good-looking youngster, not so very many years older than herself, Clancy judged.
"Penwell," said Vandervent, "will publish his memoirs some day. Be nice to him, Miss Deane, and you'll receive a gift-copy."
Penwell colored.
"Quit it!" he grumbled. The mirth went out of his voice. "Miss Deane, theErawants a statement from you."
Before she could reply, Vandervent spoke. "Then weweren'tmistaken. The maid said you asked for Miss Deane, but——"
Penwell shook his head.
"Naughty, naughty, Mr. Vandervent! You can't fool me."
"Then I won't try," said Vandervent crisply. "What is it that you want?" His tone was business-like.
Penwell's reply was equally so.
"TheErahas learned, from an authoritative source, that Miss Deane was in the office of Morris Beiner shortly before he was murdered; that, in short, she was sought by the police on suspicion of having committed the crime."
"Carey's dead, and left a confession," said Vandervent.
Penwell shrugged. "Even so."
"Authoritative source, you said?" questioned Vandervent. "I suppose that means a drug fiend named Garland."
Penwell nodded.
"You should have locked that bird up, Mr. Vandervent, until he lost his love for talk."
"And money," amended Vandervent.
"Not much. Fifty dollars."
"Cheap at the price. Still," said Vandervent, "rather expensive when you can't use what he told you."
"No?" Penwell was politely interested. For all his youth, one would have judged him a good poker player.
"Miss Deane was unfortunate; a victim of circumstances. TheErawouldn't drag her into a nasty scandal, would it?" demanded Vandervent.
"News is news," stated Penwell.
"Listen to a trade?" asked Vandervent.
"Always willing to," smiled Penwell.
Vandervent blushed.
"Unfortunately, sometimes, a Vandervent is always a Vandervent."
"Thou speakest truth, O Sage!" laughed the young man.
"And what a Vandervent eats for breakfast makes snappy reading, I think you'd call it, forhoi polloi, eh?"
"Continue. You interest me strangely," said Penwell.
"My engagement—its announcement rather—would be a 'beat' of some value?"
Penwell bowed to Clancy.
"Miss Deane, gaze upon a man so sinful that he takes a bribe." He turned to Vandervent. "TheErawon't print a word about Miss Deane. Who's the lady?"
"Miss Deane," said Vandervent.
For a moment Penwell stared at the young girl. Then, slowly, he spoke.
"Miss Deane, I didn't want this assignment. But a reporter does what he's told. I can't tell you how glad I am that I can turn in something bigger for the paper. Why, Mr. Vandervent, the paper wouldn't dare take a chance on printing something that Garland said about yourfiancée!"
"It might prove rather expensive for theEra," said Vandervent.
But Penwell didn't hear him. He was staring at Clancy. And smiling.
"Miss Deane, I don't know anything about you. I hope you'll tell me something for the paper. But whoever you may be, you've done well in your engagement. You're going to marry one of the whitest—tell me, when was the engagement contracted?"
Clancy colored to the roots of her hair. Vandervent gently pushed the reporter toward the door.
"Come back," he said, "in five minutes and we'll answer that question."
Penwell looked from one to the other. Then he grinned. Then he backed out of the room. For a moment, there was silence between the girl and the man. Vandervent spoke first.
"Was I—impertinent? Do I—assume too much?"
Slowly Clancy turned until she faced him. The heart of her stood in her eyes. Yet, because she was a woman, she must ask.
"Did you—is it because you want to save me—or do you really——"
He didn't answer. He crushed her in his arms. She had not known that he was so strong. Andwithin his arms she found the answer to her question. She owned the "Open, Sesame"—youth. Her challenging gray eyes might some day grow dim; the satiny luster of her black hair might give way to silver, but the heart of her would ever be young, and so the world would be hers. For it is only the young in spirit who win life's battles; youth cannot comprehend defeat, and so it knows only victory.
And she had come to New York, which jibes at age, but bends a supple knee to youth. And because she was young, would always be young, Clancy Deane would be bound by no rules, no mental timetables would fetter her. For the old, on learning that the train has gone, surrender to despair. The young take another train. Neither road nor the destination matters to youth, and so—it always arrives.
She had come to work, to win a career. She would, instead, be a wife. For the present, happily, willingly, she surrendered ambition. But it would come back to her. Whether it would speak to her in terms of her husband's career, or of her own—that was on the knees of the gods.
For the moment, she was beaten—beaten by love. But the Clancy Deanes are never beaten by circumstances. If they bow to love, it is because from love they build a greater triumph than from ambition. Youth always is triumphant when it surrenders to youth.
She found the answer in his arms. And nestled there, she vowed that she would keep the answer there. And because age would never touch her, she could fulfil her vow if she chose. Clairvoyantly, she looked ahead; suddenly she knew that she would always choose. Her lips went up to his.