“Don’t you dare touch me!” Eunice Embury cried, stepping back from the advancing figure of the burly detective. “Go out of my house—Ferdinand, put this person out!”
The butler appeared in the doorway, but Shane waved a dismissing hand at him.
“No use blustering, Mrs. Embury,” he said, gruffly, but not rudely. “You’d better come along quietly, than to make such a fuss.”
“I shall make whatever fuss I choose—and I shall not ‘come along,’ quietly or any other way! I am not intimidated by your absurd accusations, and I command you once more to leave my house, or I will have you thrown out!”
Eunice’s eyes blazed with anger, her voice was not loud, but was tense with concentrated rage, and she stood, one hand clenching a chair-back while with the other she pointed toward the door.
“Be quiet, Eunice,” said Mason Elliott, coming toward her; “you can’t dismiss an officer of the law like that. But you can demand an explanation. I think, Shane, you are going too fast. You haven’t evidence enough against Mrs. Embury to think of arrest! Explain yourself!”
“No explanation necessary. She killed her husband, and she’s my prisoner.”
“Hush up, Shane; let me talk,” interrupted Driscoll, whose calmer tones carried more authority than those of his rough partner.
“It’s this way, Mr. Elliott. I’m a detective, and I saw at once, that if the doctors couldn’t find the cause of Mr. Embury’s death, it must be a most unusual cause. So I hunted for some clue or some bit of evidence pointing to the manner of his death. Well, when I spied that little medicine dropper, half full of something, I didn’t know what, but—” Here he paused impressively. “But there was no bottle or vial of anything in the cupboard, from which it could have been taken. There was no fluid in there that looked a bit like the stuff in the dropper. So I thought that looked suspicious—as if some one had hidden it there. I didn’t see the whole game then, but I went around to a druggist’s and asked him what was in that dropper. And he said henbane. He further explained that henbane is the common name for hyoscyamin, which is a deadly poison. Now, the doctors were pretty sure that Mr. Embury had not been killed by anything taken into the stomach, so I thought a minute, and, like a flash, I remembered the play of ‘Hamlet’ that I saw last week.
“I guess everybody in New York went to see it—the house was crowded. Anyway, I’ve proved by Mrs. Embury’s engagement book that she went—one afternoon, to a matinee—and what closer or more indicative hint do you want? In that play, the murder is fully described, and though many people might think poison could not be introduced through the intact ear in sufficient quantity to be fatal, yet it can be—and I read an article lately in a prominent medical journal saying so. I was interested, because of the Hamlet play. If I hadn’t seen that, I’d never thought of this whole business. But, if I’m wrong, let Mrs. Embury explain the presence of that dropper in her medicine chest.”
“I don’t know anything about the thing! I never saw or heard of it before! I don’t believe you found it where you say you did!” Eunice faced him with an accusing look. “You put it there yourself—it’s what you call a frame-up! I know nothing of your old dropper!”
“There, there, lady,” Shane put in; “don’t get excited—it only counts against you. Mr. Driscoll, here, wouldn’t have no reason to do such a thing as you speak of! Why would he do that, now?”
“But he must have done it,” broke in Miss Ames. “For I use that bathroom of Eunice’s and that thing hasn’t been in it, since I’ve been here.”
“Of course not,” and Shane looked at her as at a foolish child; “why should it be? The lady used it, and then put it away.”
“Hold on, there, Shane,” Hendricks interrupted. “Why would any one do such a positively incriminating thing as that?”
“They always slip up somewhere,” said Driscoll, “after committing a crime, your criminal is bound to do something careless, that gives it all away. Mrs. Embury, how did that dropper get in that medicine chest in your bathroom?”
“I scorn to answer!” The cold tones showed no fear, no trepidation, but Eunice’s white fingers interlaced themselves in a nervous fashion.
“Do you know anything about it, Miss Ames?”
“N—no,” stammered Aunt Abby, trembling, as she looked now at the detectives and then at Eunice.
“Well, it couldn’t have put itself there,” went on Driscoll. “Who else has access to that place?”
Eunice gave no heed to this speech. She gave no heed to the speaker, but stared at him, unseeingly, her gaze seeming to go straight through him.
“Why, the maid,” said Aunt Abby, with a helpless glance toward Elliott and Hendricks, as if beseeching assistance.
“The servants must be considered,” said Hendricks, catching at a straw. “They may know something that will help.”
“Call the maid,” said Shane, briefly, and, as neither of the women obeyed, he turned to Ferdinand, who hovered in the background, and thundered: “Bring her in—you!”
Maggie appeared, shaken and frightened, but when questioned, she answered calmly and positively.
“I put that dropper in the medicine closet,” she said, and every one looked toward her.
“Where did you get it?” asked Shane.
“I found it—on the floor.”
“On the floor? Where?”
“Beside Miss Ames’ bed.” The girl’s eyes were cast down; she looked at nobody, but gave her answers in a dull, sing-song way, almost as if she had rehearsed them before.
“When?”
“This morning—when I made up her room.”
“Had you ever seen it before?”
“No, sir.”
“Why did you think it belonged to Miss Ames?”
“I didn’t think anything about it. I found it there, and I supposed it belonged to Miss Ames, and I put it away.”
“Why did you put it in the medicine chest?”
The girl looked up, surprised.
“That seemed to me the proper place for it. Whenever I find a bottle of camphor or a jar of cold cream—or anything like that—I always put it in the medicine chest. That’s where such things belong. So I thought it was the right place for the little dropper. Did I do wrong?”
“No, Maggie,” Driscoll said, kindly, “that was all right. Now tell us exactly where you found it.”
“I did tell you. On the floor, just beside Miss Ames’ bed. Near the head of the bed.”
“Well, Miss Ames—I guess it’s up to you. What were you doing with this thing?”
“I didn’t have it at all! I never saw it before!”
“Come, come, that won’t do! How could it get there?”
“I don’t know, butIdidn’t put it there.” The old lady trembled pitifully, and looked from one to another for help or guidance.
“Of course, she didn’t!” cried Eunice. “You sha’n’t torment my aunt! Cease questioning her! Talk to me if you choose—andasyou choose—but leave Miss Ames alone!”
She faced her inquisitors defiantly, and even Shane quailed a little before her scornful eyes.
“Well, ma’am, as you see, I ain’t got much choice in the matter. Here’s the case. You and your aunt and Mr. Embury was shut in those three rooms. Nobody else could get in. Come morning, the gentleman is dead—murdered. One of you two done it. It’s for us to find out which—unless the guilty party sees fit to confess.”
“I do! I confess!” cried Aunt Abby. “I did it, and I’m willing to go to prison!” She was clearly hysterical, and though her words were positive, they by no means carried conviction.
“Now, that’s all bosh,” declared Shane. “You’re sayin’ that, ma’am, to shield your niece. You know she’s the murderer and—”
Eunice flew at Shane like a wild thing. She grasped his arm and whirled him around toward her as she glared into his face, quivering with indignation.
“Coward!” she flung at him. “To attack two helpless women—to accuse me—me, of crime! Why, I could kill you: where you stand—for such an insinuation!”
“Say, you’re some tiger!” Shane exclaimed, in a sort of grudging admiration. “But better be careful of your words, ma’am! If you could killme—ah, there!”
The last exclamation was brought forth by the sudden attack of Eunice, as she shook the big man so violently that he nearly lost his balance.
“Say, you wildcat! Be careful what you do! Youarea tiger!”
“Yes,” Aunt Abby giggled, nervously. “Mr. Embury always called her ‘Tiger’.”
“I don’t wonder!” and Shane stared at Eunice, who had stepped back but who still stood, like a wild animal at bay, her eyes darting angry fire.
“Now, Mrs. Embury, let’s get down to business. Who’s your lawyer?
“I am,” declared Alvord Hendricks. “I am her counsel. I represent Mrs. Embury. Eunice, say nothing more. Leave it to me. And, first, Shane, you haven’t enough evidence to arrest this lady. That dropper thing is no positive information against her. It might be the work of the servants—or some intruder. The story of that housemaid is not necessarily law and gospel. Remember, you’d get in pretty bad if you were to arrest Mrs. Sanford Embury falsely! And my influence with your superiors is not entirely negligible. You’re doing your duty, all right, but don’t overstep your authority—or, rather, don’t let your desire to make a sensational arrest cloud your judgment.”
“That’s what I think, Mr. Hendricks,” said Driscoll, earnestly; “we’ve found the method, but I’m by no means sure we’ve found the criminal. Leastways, it don’t look sure to me. Eh, Shane?”
“Clear enough to me,” the big man growled; but he was quite evidently influenced by Hendricks’ words. “However, I’m willing to wait—but we must put Mrs. Embury under surveillance—”
“Under what!” demanded Eunice, her beautiful face again contorted by uncontrollable anger. “I willnotbe watched or spied upon!”
“Hush, Eunice,” begged Elliott. “Try to keep yourself calm. It does no good to defy these men—they are not really acting on their own initiative, but they are merely carrying out their duty as they see it.”
“Their duty is to find out who killed my husband!” and Eunice gave Shane another stormy glare. “They cannot do that by accusing two innocent women!”
“If you two women can be proved innocent, nobody will be more glad than me,” Shane announced, in a hearty way, that was really generous after Eunice’s treatment of him. “But it beats me to see how it can be proved. You admit, ma’am, nobody could get into Mr. Embury’s room, except you and Miss Ames, don’t you?”
“I don’t admit that at all, for the murdererdidget in—anddidcommit the murder—therefore, theremustbe some means of access!”
“Oho! And just how can you suggest that an intruder got in, and got out again, and left those doors fastened on the inside?”
“That I don’t know—nor is it my business to find out.”
“Maybe you think a flyin’ machine came at the window, ma’am! For nothin’ else could negotiate a ten-story apartment.”
“Don’t talk nonsense! But I have heard of keys that unlock doors from the outside—skeleton keys, I think they are called.”
“Yes, ma’am, there are such, sure! But they’re keys—and they unlock doors. These doors of yours have strong brass catches that work only on the inside, snap-bolts, they are. And when they’re fastened, nothing from the other side of the door could undo ‘em. But, I say—here you, Ferdinand!”
The butler came forward, his face surprised rather than alarmed, and stood at attention.
“What do you know of events here last night?” Shane asked him.
“Nothing, sir,” and Ferdinand’s face was blankly respectful.
“You’d better tell all you know, or you’ll get into trouble.”
“Could you—could you make your question a little more definite?”
“I will. When Mr. and Mrs. Embury came home last night, were they in good humor?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
“You do know! You know your employers well enough to judge by their manner whether they were at odds or not. Answer me, man!”
“Well, sir, they were, I should judge, a little at odds.”
“Oh, they were! In what way did they show it? By quarreling?”
“No, sir.”
“How, then?”
“By not saying anything. But it’s not uncommon for them to be at odds, sir—”
“Speak when you’re spoken to! After Mr. Embury went to his room, did you attend him?”
“I was in his room, yes.”
“Mrs. Embury was in her own room then?”
“Yes.”
“Her outer door was closed?”
“Yes.”
“And, therefore, fastened by the snap-bolt?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Don’t you know so? Don’t you know that it must have been?”
“Yes.”
“And then—then, when you left Mr. Embury’s room—when you left him for the night—did you close his door?”
“I did.”
“And that, of itself, locked that door?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Stop saying you suppose so. You know it did! You’ve lived in this house two years; you know how those doors work—you know your closing that door locked it? Didn’t it?”
“Yes, it did. I turned the knob afterward to make sure. I always do that.”
Ferdinand now seemed to be as discursive as he was reticent before. “And I know Miss Eunice’s—Mrs. Embury’s door was locked, because she had to unbolt it before I could get in this morning.”
“But look here,” Driscoll broke in, “are these doors on that snap-bolt all day? Isn’t that rather an inconvenience?”
“Not all day,” vouchsafed Ferdinand. “They can be turned so the bolt doesn’t catch, andareturned that way in the daytime, usually.”
“But,” and Driscoll looked at him intently, “you can swear that the bolts were on last night?”
“Yes, sir—”
“You can’t!” Hendricks shot at him. The lawyer had been listening in silence, but he now refuted Ferdinand. “You don’tknowthat Mrs. Embury put on the catch of her door when she closed it.”
“I do, sir; I heard it click.”
“You are very observant,” said Shane; “peculiarly so, it seems to me.”
“No, sir,” and Ferdinand looked thoughtful; “but, you see, it’s this way. Every night I hear the click of those locks, and it sort of seems natural to me to listen for it. If it should be forgotten, I’d think it my duty to call attention to it.”
“A most careful butler, on my word!” Shane’s tone was a little sneering.
“He is, indeed!” Eunice defended; “and I can assert that it is because of his faithfulness and efficiency that we have always felt safe at night from intrusion by marauders.”
“And you did lock your door securely last night, Mrs. Embury?”
“I most assuredly did! I do every night. But that does not prove that I killed my husband. Nor that Miss Ames did.”
“Then your theory—”
“I have no theory. Mr. Embury was killed—it is for you detectives to find out how. But do not dare to say—or imply—that it was by the hand of his wife—or his relative!”
She glanced fondly at Miss Ames, and then again assumed her look of angry defiance toward the two men who were accusing her.
“Itisfor you to find out how,” said Mason Elliott, gravely. “It is incredible that Mrs. Embury is the guilty one, though I admit the incriminating appearance of the henbane. But I’ve been thinking it over, and while Mr. Driscoll’s surmise that the deed can possibly be traced to one who recently saw the play of ‘Hamlet,’ yet he must remember that thousands of people saw that play, and that therefore it cannot point exclusively toward Mrs. Embury.”
“That’s so,” agreed Driscoll. “Who went with you to the play, Mrs. Embury?”
“My aunt, Miss Ames; also a friend, Mrs. Desternay. And, I understand you went yourself, Mr. Driscoll. Why single out me for a suspect?”
The haughty face turned to him was quite severely critical.
“True, Mrs. Embury, why should I? The answer is, motive. You must admit that I had neither motive nor opportunity to kill your husband. Mrs. Desternay, let us say, had neither opportunity nor motive. Miss Ames had opportunity but no motive. And so you, we must all admit, are the only human being who had both opportunity—and motive.”
“I did not have motive!” Eunice flushed back. “You talk nonsense! I have had slight differences of opinion with my husband hundreds of time, but that is not a motive for murder! I have a high temper, and at times I am unable to control it. But that does not mean I am a murderess!”
“Not necessarily, but it gives a reason for suspecting you, since you are the only person who can reasonably be suspected.”
“But hold on, Driscoll, don’t go too fast,” said Mason Elliott; “there may be other people who had motives. Remember Sanford Embury was a man of wide public interests outside of his family affairs. Suppose you turn your attention to that sort of thing.”
“Gladly, Mr. Elliott; but when we’ve proved no outsider could get into Mr. Embury’s room, why look for outside motives?”
“It seems only fair, to my mind, that such motives should be looked into. Now, for instance, Embury was candidate in a hotly contested coming election—”
“That’s so,” cried Hendricks; “look for your murderer in some such connection as that.”
“Election to what?” growled Shane.
“President of the Metropolitan Athletic Club—a big organization—”
“H’m! Who’s the opposing candidate?”
“I am,” replied Hendricks, quietly.
“You! Well, Mr. Hendricks, where were you last night, when this man was killed?”
“In Boston.” Hendricks did not smile, but he looked as if the question annoyed him.
“You can prove that?”
“Yes, of course. I stayed at the Touraine, was with friends till well after midnight, and took the seven o’clock train this morning for New York, in company with the same men. You can look up all that, at your leisure; but there is a point in what Mr. Elliott says. I can’t think that any of the club members would be so keen over the election as to do away with one of the candidates, but there’s the situation. Go to it.”
“It leaves something to be looked into, at any rate,” mused Shane.
“Why didn’t you think of it for yourself?” said Hendricks, rather scathingly. “It seems to me a detective ought to look a little beyond his nose!”
“I can’t think we’ve got to, in this case,” Shane persisted; “but I’m willing to try. Also, Mrs. Embury, I’ll ask you for the address of the lady who went with you to see that play.”
“Certainly,” said Eunice, in a cold voice, and gave the address desired.
“And, now, we’ll move on,” said Shane, rising.
“You ain’t under arrest, Mrs. Embury—not yet—but I advise you not to try to leave this house without permission—”
“Indeed, I shall! Whenever and as often as I choose! The idea of your forbidding me!”
“Hush, Eunice,” said Hendricks. “She will not, Mr. Shane; I’m her guaranty for that. Don’t apprehend any insubordination on the part of Mrs. Embury.”
“Not if she knows what’s good for herself!” was Shane’s parting shot, and the two detectives went away.
“Oh, yes, indeed, Mr. Shane, Mrs. Embury is a dear friend of mine—a very, very dear friend—and I’d so gladly go to see her—and comfort her—console with her—and try to cheer her up—but—well, I asked her last night, over the telephone, to let me go to see her to-day—and—she—she—”
Mrs. Desternay’s pretty blue eyes filled with tears, and her pretty lips quivered, and she dabbed a sheer little handkerchief here and there on her countenance. Then she took up her babbling again.
“Oh, I don’t mean she was unfriendly or—or cross, you know—but she was a little—well, curt, almost—I might say, cool. And I’m one of her dearest friends—and I can’t quite understand it.”
“Perhaps you must make allowances for Mrs. Embury,” Shane suggested. “Remember the sudden and mysterious death of her husband must have been a fearful shock—”
“Oh, terrible! Yes, indeed, I do appreciate all that! And of course when I telephoned last evening, she had just had that long interview with you—and your other detective, Mr. What’s-his-name—and—oh, yes, Mr. Elliott answered my call and he told me just how things were—but I did think dear Eunice would want to see me—but it’s all right—of course, if she doesn’t want my sympathy. I’m the last one to intrude on her grief! But she has no one—no one at all—except that old aunt, who’s half foolish, I think—”
“What do you mean, half foolish?”
“Oh, she’s hipped over those psychic studies of hers, and she’s all wrapped up in Spiritualism and occult thingamajigs—I don’t know what you call ‘em.”
“She seems to me a very sane and practical lady.”
“In most ways—yes; but crazy on the subject of spooks, and mediums and things like that! Oh, Mr. Shane, whodoyou suppose killed Mr. Embury? How awful! To have a real murder right in one’s owns circle of acquaintances—I had almost said friends—but dear Eunice doesn’t seem to look on me as her friend—”
The blue eyes made a bid for sympathy, and Shane, though not always at ease in the presence of society ladies, met her half way.
“Now, that’s a pity, Mrs. Desternay! I’m sure you’d be the greatest help to her in her trouble.”
Fifi Desternay raised her hands and let them fall with a pretty little gesture of helplessness. She was a slip of a thing, and—it was the morning of the day after the Embury tragedy—she was garbed in a scant but becoming negligee, and had received the detective in her morning room, where she sat, tucked into the corner of a great davenport sofa, smoking cigarettes.
Her little face was delicately made up, and her soft, fair hair was in blobs over her ears. For the rest, the effect was mostly a rather low V’d neck and somewhat evident silk stockings and beribboned mules.
She continually pulled her narrow satin gown about her, and it as continually slipped away from her lace petticoat, as she crossed and recrossed her silken legs.
She was entirely unself-conscious and yet, the detective felt instinctively that she carefully measured every one of the words she so carelessly uttered.
“Well, Mr. Shane,” she said, suddenly, “we’re not getting anywhere. Just exactly what did you come here for? What do you want of me?”
The detective was grateful for this assistance.
“I came,” he stated, without hesitation, “to ask you about the circumstances of the party which Mrs. Embury attended here night before last, the night her husband—died.”
“Oh, yes; let me see—there isn’t much to tell. Eunice Embury spent the evening here—we had a game of cards—and, before supper was served, Mr. Embury called for her and took her home—in their car. That’s allIknow about it.”
“What was the card game?”
“Bridge.”
“For high stakes?”
“Oh, mercy, no! We never really gamble!” The fluttering little hands deprecated the very idea. “We have just a tiny stake—to—why, only to make us play a better game. It does, you know.”
“Yes’m. And what do you call a tiny stake? Opinions differ, you know.”
“And so do stakes!” The blue eyes flashed a warning. “Of course, we don’t always play for the same. Indeed, the sum may differ at the various tables. Are you prying into my private affairs?”
“Only so far as I’m obliged to, ma’am. Never mind the bridge for the moment. Was Mr. Embury annoyed with his wife—for any reason—when he called to take her home?”
“Now, how should I know that?” a pretty look of perplexity came into the blue eyes. “I’m not a mind reader!”
“You’re a woman! Was Mr. Embury put out?”
Fifi laughed a ringing peal. “Was he?” she cried, as if suddenly deciding to tell the truth. “I should say he was! Why, he was so mad I was positively afraid of him!”
“What did he say?”
“That’s just it! He didn’t say anything! Oh, he spoke to me pleasantly—he was polite, and all that, but I could see that he was simply boiling underneath!”
“You are a mind reader, then!”
“I didn’t have to be, to see that!” The little figure rocked back and forth on the sofa, as, with arms clasped round one knee, Fifi gave way to a dramatic reconstruction of the scene.
“‘Come, Eunice,’ he said, just like that! And you bet Eunice went!”
“Was she angry, too?”
“Rather! Oh, you know her temper is something fierce! When she’s roused, she’s like a roaring lion and a raging bear—as it says in the Bible—or Shakespeare, or somewhere.”‘
“Speaking of Shakespeare, you and Mrs. Embury went to see ‘Hamlet’ recently, I believe.”
“Oh, yes; when the Avon Players put it on. Everybody went. Didn’t you? You missed it, if you didn’t! Most marvelous performance. ‘Macbeth,’ too.Thatwas perfectly darling! I went to that with—”
“Excuse me. As to ‘Hamlet,’ now. Did you notice particularly the speech about the poisoning of—”
“Of Hamlet’s father! I should say I did! Why, that speech by Mr. Postlewaite—he was ‘The Ghost,’ you know—was stunning, as much applauded as the ‘Soliloquy’ itself! He fairly made youseethat poisoning scene!”
“Was Mrs. Embury interested?”
“Oh, we both were! We were at school together, and we both loved Shakespeare—we took it ‘Special.’ And we were terribly interested in the Avon Players’ ‘Hamlet’—it was unlike any representation we had ever seen.”
“Ah—yes; and did you—you and Mrs. Embury—discuss the poison used by the wicked uncle?”
“Not lately. But in class we discussed that—years ago—oh, that’s one of the regulation Shakespearean puzzles. You can’t trip us up on our Shakespeare—either of us! I doubt if you can find two frivolous society women who know it better than we do!”
“Did you know that Mr. Embury was killed in a manner identical with the Hamlet murder?”
“No! What do you mean? I’ve really not heard the details. As soon as I heard of his death, I called up Eunice, but, as I said, she wasn’t cordial at all. Then I was busy with my own guests after that—last night and this morning—well, I’m really hardly awake yet!”
Fifi rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand—a childish gesture, and daintily smothered a slight yawn.
“But I’m awfully interested,” she went on, “only—only I can’t bear to hear about—a—murder! The details, I mean. I should think Eunice would go crazy! I should think she’d be glad to come here—I was going to ask her, when she called me down! But, what do you mean—killed like Hamlet’s father?”
“Yes; there was poison introduced into his ear as Mr. Embury slept—”
“Really! How tragic; How terrible! Who did it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to discover. Could—do you think Mrs. Embury could have had sufficient motive—”
“Eunice!” Fifi screamed. “What an idea! Eunice Embury to kill her own husband! Oh, no!”
“But only she and that aunt of hers had opportunity. You know how their bedrooms are?”
“Oh, yes, I know. Miss Ames is using Eunice’s dressing-room—and a nuisance it is, too.”
“Then you know that at night those three bedrooms are shut off from the rest of the house by strong bolts on the inside of the doors.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Then, don’t you see, as Mr. Embury was killed—the doctors say about daybreak, or earlier—nobody could have done it except somebody who was behind those locked doors.”
“The windows?”
“Tenth story, and no balconies. And, too, they all have flower-boxes, except one, and the flowers were undisturbed. The one that hasn’t a flower-box is on the side street, in Miss Ames’ room. And that—I looked out myself—has no balcony, nor even a broad ledge. It couldn’t be reached from the next apartment—if that’s what you’re thinking of.”
“I’m not thinking of anything,” returned Fifi. “I’m too dazed to think! Eunice Embury! Do you mean she is really suspected?”
“I mean that, very decidedly, ma’am. And I am here to ask you if you can give any additional evidence, any—”
“Any evidence! Evidence against my dear friend! Why, man, if I knew anything, I wouldn’t tell it, if it would go against Eunice!”
“Oh, yes, you would; the law would force you to. Butdoyou know anything definite?”
“No, of course, I don’t! I know that Mr. and Mrs. Embury were not always cooing like turtle-doves! She had the devil’s own temper—and he wasn’t much better! I know he drove her frantic because he wouldn’t give her some privileges she wanted—wouldn’t allow her certain latitudes, and was generally pretty dictatorial. I know Eunice resented this, and I know that lots of times she was pretty nearly at the end of her rope, and she said all sorts of things—that, of course, she didn’t mean—but she wouldn’tkillhim! Oh, I don’t think she would do that!”
“H’m! So they lived like cats and dogs, did they?”
“What an awful way to put it! But, well, Sanford didn’t make Eunice’s life a bed of roses—nor did she go out of her way to please him!”
“Mr. Embury was often a guest here?”
“He was not! Eunice came here, against his will—against his expressed commands.”
“Oho! She did! And her visit here night before last—that was an act of insubordination?”
“It was! I wouldn’t tell this—but it’s sure to come out. Yes, he had especially and positively forbidden her to come to that party here, and after he went to his club—Eunice ran away from home and came. Naughty girl! She told us she had played hookey, when she first came in! But, good gracious, Mr. Shane, that was no crime! In this day and generation a wife may disobey her husband—and get away with it!”
The arch little face smiled saucily, and Fifi cuddled into her corner, and again fell a-thinking.
“I can’t believe you really mean you think Eunice did it!” she broke out. “Why, what are you going to do? Arrest her?”
“Not quite. Although she is under strict surveillance at present.”
“What! Can’t she go out, if she likes?”
“No.”
“How perfectly absurd! Oh, I’ve a notion to telephone and ask her to go for a drive. What fun!”
Shane looked at the mischievous face in astonishment. He was experienced in human nature, but this shallow, frivolous attitude toward a tragedy was new to him.
“I thought you and Mrs. Embury were friends,” he said, reprovingly.
“Oh, we are—Or rather, we were. I’m not sure I can know her—after this! But, you see, I can’t take it seriously. I can’t really believe you mean that you think Eunice—guilty! Why, I’d a thousand times rather suspect the old aunt person!”
“You would!” Shane spoke eagerly. “Could that be possible?”
“It could be possible this way,” Fifi was serious now. “You see, Miss Ames adores Eunice. She found it hard to forgive Sanford for his tyrannical ways—and they were tyrannical. And Miss Ames might have, by way of ridding Eunice from a cruel husband—might have—oh, I can’t say it—it sounds too absurd! But, after all, it’s no more absurd than to suspect Eunice. Why don’t you look for somebody else?”
“How could anybody get in?”
“I know,” impatiently; “but I’ve read detective stories, and ‘most always, the murder is committed in what they call ‘a hermetically sealed room,’ and yet somebody did get in!”
“There’s no such thing as a hermetically sealed room! Don’t you know what hermetically sealed means?”
“Yes, of course I do, literally. But that phrase is used—in detective stories, to mean an inaccessible room. Or a seemingly inaccessible one. But always it comes out that it could be entered.”
“That’s all very well in fiction, ma’am; but it won’t work in this case. Why, I looked over those door locks myself. Nobody could get in.”
“Well, leaving aside thewaythey got in, let’s see whom we can suspect. There’s two men that I know of who are dead in love with Mrs. Embury—and I daresay there are a lot more, who can see a silver lining in this cloud!”
“What—what do you mean?”
Shane was fascinated by the lovely personality of Mrs. Desternay, and he began to think that she might be of some real help to him. Though a skilled detective, he was of the plodding sort, and never had brilliant or even original ideas. He had had a notion it would have been better to send Driscoll on this errand he was himself attempting, but a touch of jealousy of the younger and more quick-witted man made him determine to attend to Mrs. Desternay himself.
“Well, Mr. Stupid, if you were in the presence of Mrs. Embury and Mr. Elliott and Mr. Hendricks,—as you said you were—and didn’t size up how matters stand with those two men, you are a queer sort of detective!”
Her light laughter rippled pleasantly, and Shane forgave her reproof by reason of her charm.
“Both of them?” he said, helplessly.
“Yes, sir, both of them!” She mimicked his tone. “You see, Mr. Shane, it’s an old romance, all ‘round. When Eunice Ames was a girl, three men fought for her hand, the two we’ve just mentioned, and Mr. Embury, who was the successful suitor. And he succeeded only by sheer force of will. He practically stole her from the other two and married her out of hand.”
“I suppose the lady agreed?”
“Of course, but it was a marriage in haste, and—I imagine that it was followed by the proverbial consequences.”
“What do you mean?” asked the dull-witted Shane.
“That they repented at leisure. At least, Eunice did—I don’t believe Sanford ever regretted.”
“But those two men are Embury’s friends.”
“Sure they are! Oh, friend Shane, were you born yesterday? I thought detectives were a little more up-to-date than that! Of course, they’re all friends, always have been, since they made mud-pies together in their Boston backyards.”
“Did you belong to that childish group?
“Me? Lord, no! I’m Simon Pure Middle West! And I glory in it! I’d hate to be of New England descent—you have to live up to traditions and things! I’m a law unto myself, when it comes to life and living!”
“And you met Mrs. Embury?”
“At boarding-school. We spent four years together—chums, and all that. Then after we were both married, we drifted together again, here in New York—and somehow Eunice’s husband didn’t take to poor little Fifi one bit! I wonder why!”
Her look of injured innocence was charming, and Shane had to make an effort to keep to the subject in hand.
“So those two men admire Mrs. Embury?”
“Admire is a silly word! They adore her—they worship the ground she walks on! They are, no doubt, decently decorous at the passing of their old friend, but as soon as the funeral baked meats are cold enough, look out for a marriage table on which to serve them!”
“Did—did Mr. Embury realize that his friends so admired his wife?”
“Probably. Yes, of course, he did. But he didn’t care. She was his—she gave them no encouragement—such things aren’t done—” Fifi’s eyes rolled upward—“and, I only tell you, to show you that there are, at least, other directions in which to look!”
“But—let me see—Mr. Hendricks was in Boston at the time of Mr. Embury’s death.”
“Then that lets him out. And Mr. Elliott? Where was he?”
“I haven’t made definite inquiry. Probably he—”
“Probably he has an alibi! Oh, yes, of course he has! And if he killed Sanford Embury, he’s more likely than ever to have a fine alibi! Look here, Mr. Shane, I believe I could give you cards and spades and beat you at your little detective games!”
“You mix me all up, with your ridiculous suggestions!” Shane tried to speak sternly, but was forced to smile at the roguish, laughing face that mocked him.
“All right, play your own game. I tried to help, by suggesting more suspects—in a multitude of suspects there is safety—for our dear Eunice! And she never did it! If you can’t contrive a way for either of those two men to get through those bolted doors, then turn your eagle eyes toward Aunt Abby! She’s a queer Dick—if you ask me, and Eunice Embury—well, I admit I resent her coolness last night, but I freely own up that I think her incapable of such a crime.”
“But you two discussed the poisoning business in the play—”
“We did. But we discussed lots of other points about that play and compared it with other presentations we have seen, and, oh, you’re too absurd to hang a murder on that woman, just because she saw a murder on the stage—or rather heard the description of one!”
“But that’s the coincidence! She did hear that murder described fully. She did talk it over with you. She did show a special interest in it. Then, a week or so later, her husband is killed by identically the same method. She, and she alone—except for a mild old lady—has opportunity to do the deed; the instrument of death is found in her cupboard; and she flies into a rage at the first hint of accusation, of the crime! By the way, if as you hint, one of those men did it, would they leave the medicine dropper that conveyed the poison, in Mrs. Embury’s rooms. Would they want to bring suspicion against the woman they love? Answer me that?”
“There might be another solution,” Fifi nodded her wise little head thoughtfully. “Perhaps whoever did it, tried to throw suspicion on Miss Ames.”
“That makes him a still more despicable villain. To implicate falsely a harmless old lady—no, I can’t think that.”
“Yet you think Mrs. Embury did!”
“I don’t know. Perhaps the two women worked in collusion. Or Miss Ames might have wakened and learned the truth, and agreed to keep the secret. In fact, Miss Ames confessed that she did the murder, but we know she was not telling the truth then. However, she knows who did do it—I’ve no doubt of that. Well, Mrs. Desternay, I can’t subscribe to your original, if rather impossible, suggestions, but I thank you for this interview, and I may say you have helped me.”
“I have? How? Not against Eunice?”
“Never mind, ma’am, I must get off by myself, and straighten out my notes, and see where I stand. Are you going to telephone to Mrs. Embury again?”
“No!” and the little head was tossed proudly. “If she wants me, let her callmeup. I did my part, now I’ll subside. And, too—if she is—is—oh, I can’t say it! But I’ll wait further developments before I decide just where I stand in regard to Eunice Embury!”
In an office building, away downtown, a little old lady stood in the lobby studying the great bulletin board of room numbers.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the elevator starter, seeing her perplexity.
“I want Sykes and Barton, Scenic Sign Painters,” she said, positively enough; “but there are so many S’s, I can’t seem to find them!”
“All right, ma’am; here they are. Sixth floor, Room 614.”
“Thank you,” the old lady said, and entered the elevator he indicated.
She seemed preoccupied, and made no move to leave the car, until the elevator man spoke to her twice.
“This is the floor you want, lady,” he said. “Room 614. That way, just round that first corner.”
Miss Ames started off in the way he pointed, and stood for a moment in front of the door numbered 614.
Then, with a determined shake of her thin shoulders, she opened the door and walked in.
“I want to see Mr. Hanlon,” she said to the girl at the first desk.
“By appointment?”
“No; but say it is Miss Ames—he’ll see me.”
“Why, Miss Ames, how do you do?” and the man who had so interested the beholders of his feat in Newark came forward to greet her. “Come right into my office,” and he led her to an inner room. “Now, what’s it all about?”
The cheery reception set his visitor at ease, and she drew a long breath of relief as she settled herself in the chair he offered.
“Oh, Mr. Hanlon, I’m so frightened—or, at least, I was. It’s all so noisy and confusing down here! Why, I haven’t been downtown in New York for twenty years!”
“That so? Then I must take you up on our roof and show you a few of the skyscrapers—”
“No, no, I’ve not time for anything like that. Oh, Mr. Hanlon—you—have you read in the papers of our—our trouble?”
“Yes,” and the young man spoke gravely, “I have, Miss Ames. Just a week ago to-day, wasn’t it?”
“Yes; and they’re no nearer a solution of the mystery than ever. And, oh, Mr. Hanlon, they’re still suspecting Eunice—Mrs. Embury—and I must save her! She didn’t do it—truly she didn’t, and—I think I did.”
“What!”
“Yes, I truly think so. But I wasn’t myself, you know—I was—hypnotized—”
“Hypnotized! By whom?”
“I don’t know—by some awful person who wanted Sanford dead, I suppose.”
“But that’s ridiculous, Miss Ames—”
“No, it isn’t. I’m a very easy subject—”
“Have you ever been hypnotized?”
“Not very successfully. But no real hypnotizer ever tried it. I’m sure, though, I’d be a perfect subject—I’m so—so psychic, you know—”
“Bosh and nonsense! You know, Miss Ames, what I think of that sort of thing! You know how I played on people’s gullibility when I used to do that fake ‘thought-transference’—”
“I know, Mr. Hanlon,” and Miss Ames was very earnest, “but, and this is why I’m here—you told me that in all the foolery and hocus-pocus there was, you believed, two per cent of genuine telepathy—two per cent of genuine communication with spirits of the dead.”
“But I said that merely in a general way, Miss Ames. I didn’t mean to say it was a proven proposition—”
“That isn’t the point—you told me there were a few—a very few real, sincere mediums—now I’m here to get the address of the best one you know of. I want to go to him—or her—and have aséance, and I want to get into communication with Sanford—with Mr. Embury’s spirit, and learn from him who killed him. It’s the only way we can ever find out.”
Miss Ames’ gray eyes took on a strange look; she seemed half hypnotized at the moment, as she looked at Hanlon. He moved uncomfortably under her gaze.
“Well,” he said, at length, “I can give you the address of the best—the only real medium I know. That I will do with pleasure, but I cannot guarantee his bringing about a materialization of—of Mr. Embury.”
“Never mind about materialization, if he can get in touch and get a message for me. You see—I haven’t said much about this—but Mr. Embury’s spirit appeared to me as—as he died.”
“What?”
“Yes; just at the moment his soul passed from earth, his astral body passed by me and paused at my bedside for a farewell.”
“You amaze me! You are indeed psychic. Tell me about it.”
“No; I won’t tell you the story—I’ll tell the medium. But I know I saw him—why, he was discernible to all my five senses—”
“To your senses! Then it was no spirit!”
“Oh, yes, it was. Sanford’s body still lay on his own bed, but his passing spirit materialized sufficiently for me to see it—to hear it—to feel it.”
“Miss Ames, youmustn’tgo to a medium! You are too imaginative—too easily swayed—don’t go, dear lady, it can do no good.”
Young Hanlon looked, as he felt, very solicitous for the aged spinster, and he cast an anxious glance at her disturbed face.
“I must,” she insisted; “it is the only way. I had great trouble to find you, Mr. Hanlon. I had to communicate with Mr. Mortimer, in Newark—and at last we traced you here. Are you all through with your fake tricks?”
“Yes,” Hanlon laughed. “I wore them out. I’ve gone into a legitimate business.”
“Sign painting?”
“Yes, as you see.”
“But such big signs!” and the old lady’s eyes wandered to photographs and sketches of enormous scenic signs, such as are painted on high buildings or built on housetops.
“That’s the specialty of this firm. I’m only learning, but it strongly appeals to me. It’s really more of an art than a trade. Now, as to this man you want to see, Miss Ames, I’ll give you his address, but I beg of you to think it over before you visit him. Consult with some one—not Mrs. Embury—some man, of good judgment and clear mind. Who is advising you?”
“Mr. Hendricks and Mr. Elliott—you saw them both the day you were at our house—they advise my niece and myself in all matters. Shall I ask them?”
Miss Abby was pathetic in her simple inquiry, and Hanlon spoke gently as he replied.
“Yes, if you are determined to try the experiment. But I do not advise you to see Mr. Marigny, the medium I spoke of. Here is the address, but you talk it over with those two men you mentioned. I know they are both practical, logical business men, and their advice on the subject will be all right. I thank you, Miss Ames, for honoring me with a call. I hope if you do go to see Marigny, it will prove a satisfactoryséance, but I also hope you will decide not to go. You are, as I said, too emotional, too easily swayed by the supernatural to go very deeply into those mysteries. Shall I take you to the elevator?”
“If you please, Mr. Hanlon,” and still in that half oblivious mood, Miss Ames allowed herself to be led through the halls.
Hanlon went down with her, for he feared to leave her to her own devices. He was relieved to find she had a taxicab in waiting, and as he put her into it, he cautioned the driver to take his fare straight home.
“But I want to go to Marigny’s now,” objected Miss Ames, as she heard what Hanlon said.
“Oh, you can’t. You must make an appointment with him—by mail or by telephone. And, too, you promised me you’d put it up to Mr. Hendricks or Mr. Elliott first.”
“So I did,” and the old head nodded submissively, as the taxi drove away.
When Ferdinand admitted Aunt Abby to the Embury home, she heard voices in the living-room that were unmistakably raised in anger.
“You know perfectly well, Fifi,” Eunice was saying, “that your little bridge games are quite big enough to be called a violation of the law—you know that such stakes as you people play for—”
“It isn’t the size of the stake that makes gambling!” Fifi Desternay cried, shrilly; “I’ve had the advice of a lawyer, and he says that as long as it’s my own home and the players are invited guests, there’s no possibility of being—”
“Raided!” said Eunice, scathingly. “Might as well call things by their real name!”
“Hush up! Some of the servants might hear you! How unkind you are to me, Eunice. You used to love your little Fifi!”
“Well, she doesn’t now!” said Miss Ames, tartly, as she came in. “You see, Mrs. Desternay, you have been instrumental in bringing our dear Eunice under a dreadful, and absolutely unfounded suspicion—”
“Dreadful, but far from unfounded!” declared Mrs. Desternay, her little hands uplifted, and her pretty face showing a scornful smile. “You and I, Aunt Abby, know what our dear Eunice’s temper is—”
“Don’t you ‘Aunt Abby’ me, you good-for-nothing little piece! I am surprised Eunice allows you in this house!”
“Now, now—if Eunice doesn’t want me, I’ll get out—and jolly well glad to do so! How about it, Eunice? I came here to help, but if I’m not wanted—out goes little Fifi!”
She rose, shaking her fur stole into place about her dainty person, and, whipping out a tiny mirror from her vanity case, she applied a rouge stick to her already scarlet lips.
“No—no—” and Eunice wailed despairingly. “Don’t go, Fifi, I—oh, I don’t know how I feel toward you! You see—I will speak plainly—you see, it was my acquaintance with you that caused the trouble—mostly—between me and San.”
“Thought it was money matters—his stinginess, you know.”
“He wasn’t stingy! He wouldn’t give me an allowance, but he was generous in every other way. And that’s why—”
“Why you came to my ‘gambling house’ to try to pick up a little ready cash! I know. But now looky here, Eunice, you’ve got to decide—either you’re with me or agin me! I won’t have any blow hot, blow cold! You’re friends with Fifi Desternay—or—she’s your enemy!”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I say! You like me, you’ve always liked me. Now, stand by me, and I’ll stand by you.”
“How?”
“You think I can’t! Well, madame, you’re greatly mistaken! That big blundering fool of a detective person has been to see me—”
“Shane?”
“The same. And—he grilled me pretty thoroughly as to our going to see ‘Hamlet’ and whether we talked the poison scene over—and so forth and so on. In a word, Eunice Embury, I hold your life in my hands!”
Fifi held out her pretty little hands, dramatically. She still stood, her white fur scarf hanging from one shoulder, her small turban of red breast feathers cocked at a jaunty angle above her straight brows, and one tiny slippered foot tapping decidedly on the floor.
“Yes, ma’am, in my two hands,—me—Fifi! If I tell all we said about that poisoning of the old ‘Hamlet’ gentleman, through his ear—you know what we said, Eunice Embury—you know how we discussed the impossibility of such a murder ever being discovered—you know if I should give Shane a full account of that talk of ours—the life of Madame Embury wouldn’t be worth that!”
A snap of a dainty thumb and finger gave a sharp click that went straight through Eunice’s brain, and made her gasp out a frightened “Oh!”
“Yes, ma’am,oh!all you like to—you can’t deny it! Shane came to see me three times. I almost told him all the last time, for you steadily refused to see me—until to-day. And now, to-day, I put it to you, Eunice Embury, do you want me for friend—or foe?”
Fifi’s blue eyes glittered, her red lips closed in a tight line, and her little pointed face was as the face of a wicked sprite. Eunice stood, surveying her. Tall, stately, beautiful, she towered above her guest, and looked down on her with a fine disdain.
Eunice’s eyes were stormy, not glittering—desperate rather than defiant—she seemed almost like a fierce, powerful tiger appraising a small but very wily ferret.
“Is this a bargain?” she cried scathingly. “Are you offering tobuymy friendship? I know you, Fifi Desternay! You are—a snake in the grass!”
Fifi clenched her little fists, drew her lips between her teeth, and fairly hissed, “Serpent, yourself! Murderess! I know all—and I shall tell all! You’ll regret the day you scorned the friendship—the help of Fifi Desternay!”
“I don’t want your help, at the price of friendship with you! I know you for what you are! My husband told me—others have told me! I did go to your house for the sake of winning money—yes, and I am ashamed of it! And I am ready to face any accusation, brave any suspicion, rather than be shielded from it, or helped out of it by you!”
“Fine words! but they mean nothing! You know you’re justly accused! You know you’re rightly suspected! But you are clever—you also know that no jury, in this enlightened age, will ever convict a woman! Especially a beautiful woman! You know you are safe from even the lightest sentence—and that though you are guilty—yes, guilty of the murder of your husband, you will get off scot free, because”—Fifi paused to give her last shot telling effect—”because your counsel, Alvord Hendricks, is in love with you! He will manage it, and what he can’t accomplish, Mason Elliott can! With those two influential men, both in love with you, you can’t be convicted—and probably you won’t even be arrested!”
“Go!” said Eunice, and she folded her arms as she gazed at her angry antagonist. “Go! I scorn to refute or even answer your words.”
“Because they’re true! Because there is no answer!” Fifi fairly screamed. “You think you’re a power! Because you’re tall and statuesque and stunning! You know if those men can’t keep you out of the court-room at least you are safe in the hands of any judge or jury, because they are men! You know if you smile at them—pathetically—if you cast those wonderful eyes of yours at them, they’ll grovel at your feet! I know you, Eunice Embury! You’re banking on your femininity to save you from your just fate.”
“You judge me by yourself, Fifi. You are a power among men, most women are, but I do not bank on that—”
“Not alone! You bank on the fact that either Hendricks or Elliott would go through hell for you, and count it an easy journey. You rest easy in the knowledge that those two men can do just about anything they set their minds to—”
“Will you go?”
“Yes, I will go. And when Mr. Shane comes to see me again, I will tell him the truth—all the truth about the’ Hamlet’ play—and—it will be enough!”
“Tell him!” Eunice’s eyes blazed now. “Tell him the truth—and add to it whatever lies your clever brain can invent! Do your worst Fifi Desternay; I am not afraid of you!”
“I am going, Eunice.” Fifi moved slowly toward the door. “I shall tell the truth, but I shall add no lies—that will not be necessary!”
She disappeared, and Eunice stood, panting with excitement and indignation.
Aunt Abby came toward her. The old lady had been a witness of the whole scene—had, indeed, tried several times to utter a word of pacification, but neither of the women had so much as noticed her.
“Go away, Auntie, please,” said Eunice. “I can’t talk to you. I’m expecting Mason at any time now, and I want to get calmed down a little.”
Miss Ames went to her room, and Eunice sat down on the davenport.
She sat upright, tensely quiet, and thought over all Fifi had said—all she had threatened.
“It would have been far better,” Eunice told herself, “for my cause if I had held her friendship. And I could have done it, easily—but—Fifi’s friendship would be worse than her enmity!”
When Mason Elliott came, Detective Driscoll was with him.
The net of the detectives was closing in around Eunice, and though both Elliott and Hendricks—as Fifi had truly surmised—were doing all in their power, thedénouementwas not far off—Eunice was in imminent danger of arrest at any moment.
“We’ve been talking about the will—Sanford’s will,” Elliott said, in a dreary tone, after the callers were seated, “and, Eunice, Mr. Driscoll chooses to think that the fact that San left practically everything to you, without any restraint in the way of trustees, or restriction of any sort, is another count against you.”
Eunice smiled bravely. “But that isn’t news,” she said; “we all knew that my husband made me his sole—or rather principal—beneficiary. I know the consensus of opinion is that I murdered my husband that I might have his money—and full control of it. This is no new element.”
“No;” said Driscoll, moved by the sight of the now patient, gentle face; “no; but we’ve added a few more facts—and look here, Mrs. Embury, it’s this way. I’ve doped it out that there are five persons who couldpossiblyhave committed this—this crime. I’ll speak plainly, for you have continually permitted me—even urged me to do so. Well, let us say Sanford Embury could have been killed by anyone of a certain five. And they size up like this: Mr. Elliott, here, and Mr. Alvord Hendricks may be said to have had motive but no opportunity.”
“Motive?” said Eunice, in a tone of deepest possible scorn.
“Yes, ma’am. Mr. Elliott, now, is an admirer of yours—don’t look offended, please; I’m speaking very seriously. It is among the possibilities that he wanted your husband out of his way.”
Mason Elliott listened to this without any expression of annoyance. Indeed, he had heard this argument of Driscoll’s before, and it affected him not at all.
“But, Mrs. Embury, Mr. Elliott had no opportunity. We have learned beyond all doubt that he was at his club or at his home all that night. Next, Mr. Hendricks had a motive. The rival candidates were both eager for election, and we must call that a motive for Mr. Hendricks to be willing to remove his opponent. But again, Mr. Hendricks had no opportunity. He was in Boston from the afternoon of the day before Mr. Embury’s death until noon of the next day. That lets him out positively. Therefore, there are two with motives but no opportunity. Next, we must admit there were two who had opportunity, but no motive. I refer to Ferdinand, your butler, and Miss Ames, your aunt. These two could have managed to commit the deed, had they chosen, but we can find no motive to attribute to either of them. It has been suggested that Miss Ames might have had such a desire to rid you, Mrs. Embury, of a tyrannical husband, that she was guilty. But it is so highly improbable as to be almost unbelievable.
“Therefore, as I sum it up, the two who had motive without opportunity, and the two who had opportunity without motive, must all be disregarded, because of the one who had motive and opportunity both. Yourself, Mrs. Embury.”
The arraignment was complete. Driscoll’s quiet, even tones carried a sort of calm conviction.
“And so, Eunice,” Mason Elliott spoke up, “I’m going to try one more chance. I’ve persuaded Mr. Driscoll to wait a day or two before progressing any further, and let me get Fleming Stone on this case.”
“Very well,” said Eunice, listlessly. “Who is he?”
“A celebrated detective. Mr. Driscoll makes no objection—which goes to prove what a good detective he is himself. His partner, Mr. Shane, is not so willing, but has grudgingly consented. In fact, they couldn’t help themselves, for they are not quite sure that they have enough evidence to arrest you. Shane thinks that Stone will find out more, and so strengthen the case against you but Driscoll, bless him! thinks maybe Stone can find another suspect.”
“I didn’t exactly say I thought that, Mr. Elliott,” said Driscoll. “I said I hoped it.”
“We all hope it,” returned Elliott.
“Hope while you may,” and Driscoll sighed. “Fleming Stone has never failed to find the criminal yet. And if his findings verify mine, I shall be glad to put the responsibility on his shoulders.”