One of the handsomest types of American manhood is that rather frequently seen combination of iron-gray hair and dark, deep-set eyes that look out from under heavy brows with a keen, comprehensive glance.
This type of man is always a thinker, usually a professional man, and almost invariably a man of able brain. He is nearly always well-formed, physically, and of good carriage and demeanor.
At any rate, Fleming Stone was all of these things, and when he came into the Embury living-room his appearance was in such contrast to that of the other two detectives that Eunice greeted him with a pleased smile.
Neither Shane nor Driscoll was present, and Mason Elliott introduced Stone to the two ladies, with a deep and fervent hope that the great detective could free Eunice from the cloud of danger and disgrace that hovered above her head.
His magnetic smile was so attractive that Aunt Abby nodded her head in complete approval of the newcomer.
“And now tell me all about everything,” Stone said, as they seated themselves in a cozy group. “I know the newspaper facts, but that’s all. I must do my work quite apart from the beaten track, and I want any sidelights or bits of information that your local detectives may have overlooked and which may help us.”
“You don’t think Eunice did it, do you, Mr. Stone?” Aunt Abby broke out, impulsively, quite forgetting the man was a comparative stranger.
“I am going to work on the theory that she did not,” he declared. “Then we will see what we can scare up in the way of evidence against some one else. First, give me a good look at those doors that shut off the bedrooms.”
With a grave face, Fleming Stone studied the doors, which, as he saw, when bolted on the inside left no means of access to the three rooms in which the family had slept.
“Except the windows,” Stone mused, and went to look at them. As they all had window boxes, save one in Aunt Abby’s room, and as that was about a hundred feet from the ground, he dismissed the possibility of an intruder.
“Nobody could climb over the plants without breaking them,” said Eunice, with a sigh at the inevitable deduction.
Stone looked closely at the plants, kept in perfect order by Aunt Abby, who loved the work, and who tended them every day. Not a leaf was crushed, not a stem broken, and the scarlet geranium blossoms stood straight up like so many mute witnesses against any burglarious entrance.
Stone returned to Aunt Abby’s side window, and leaning over the sill looked out and down to the street below.
“Couldn’t be reached even by firemen’s ladders,” he said, “and, anyway, the police would have spotted any ladder work.”
“I tried to think some one came in at that window,” said Elliott, “but even so, nobody could go through Miss Ames’ room, and then Mrs. Embury’s room, and so on to Mr. Embury’s room—do his deadly work—and return again, without waking the ladies—”
“Not only that, but how could he get in the window?” said Eunice. “There’s no possible way of climbing across from the next apartment—oh, I’m honest with myself,” she added, as Stone looked at her curiously. “I don’t deceive myself by thinking impossibilities could happen. But somebody killed my husband, and—according to the detectives—I am the only one who had both motive and opportunity!”
“Had you a motive, Mrs. Embury?” Stone asked, quietly.
Eunice stared at him. “They say so,” she replied. “They say I was unhappy with him.”
“And were you?” The very directness of Stone’s pertinent questions seemed to compel Eunice’s truthful answers, and she said:
“Of course I was! But that—”
“Eunice, hush!” broke in Elliott, with a pained look. “Don’t say such things, dear, it can do no good, and may injure your case.”
“Not with me,” Stone declared. “My work has led me rather intimately into people’s lives, and I am willing to go on record as saying that fifty per cent of marriages are unhappy—more or less. Whether that is a motive for murder depends entirely on the temper and temperament of the married ones themselves. But—it is very rarely that a wife kills her husband.”
“Why, there are lots of cases in the papers,” said Miss Ames. “And never are the women convicted, either!”
“Oh, not lots of cases,” objected Stone, “but the few that do occur are usually tragic and dramatic and fill a front page for a few days. Now, let’s sift down this remarkably definite statement of ‘motives and opportunities’ that your eminent detectives have catalogued. I’m told that they’ve two people with motive and no opportunity; two more with opportunity and no motive; and one—Mrs. Embury—who fulfills both requirements! Quite an elaborate schedule, to be sure!”
Eunice looked at him with a glimmer of hope. Surely a man who talked like that didn’t place implicit reliance on the schedule in question.
“And yet,” Stone went on, “it is certainly true. A motive is a queer thing—an elusive, uncertain thing. They say—I have this from the detectives themselves-that Mr. Hendricks and Mr. Elliott both had the motive of deep affection for Mrs. Embury. Please don’t be offended, I am speaking quite impersonally, now. Mr. Hendricks, I am advised, also had a strong motive in a desire to remove a rival candidate for an important election. But—neither of these gentlemen had opportunity, as each has proven a perfect and indubitable alibi. I admit the alibis—I’ve looked into them, and they are unimpeachable—but I don’t admit the motives. Granting a man’s affection for a married woman, it is not at all a likely thing for him to kill her husband.”
“Right, Mr. Stone!” and Mason Elliott’s voice rang out in honest appreciation.
“Again, it is absurd to suspect one election candidate of killing another. It isn’t done—and one very good reason is, that if the criminal should be discovered, he has small chance for the election he coveted. And there is always a chance—and a strong one—that ‘murder will out’! So, personally, I admit I don’t subscribe entirely to the cut-and-dried program of my esteemed colleagues. Now, as to these two people with opportunity but no motive. They are, I’m told, Miss Ames and the butler. Very well, I grant their opportunity—but since they are alleged to have no motive, why consider them at all? This brings us to Mrs. Embury.”
Eunice was watching the speaker, fascinated. She had never met a man like this before. Though Stone’s manner was by no means flippant, he seemed to take a light view of some aspects of the case. But now, he looked at Eunice very earnestly.
“I am informed,” he went on, slowly, “that you have an ungovernable temper, Mrs. Embury.”
“Nothing of the sort!” Eunice cried, tossing her head defiantly and turning angry eyes on the bland detective. “I am supposed to be unable to control myself, but it is not true! As a child I gave way to fits of temper, I acknowledge, but I have overcome that tendency, and I am no more hot-tempered now than other people!”
As always, when roused, Eunice looked strikingly beautiful, her eyes shone and her cheeks showed a crimson flush. She drew herself up haughtily, and clenching her hands on the back of a chair, as she stood facing Stone, she said, “If you have come here to browbeat me—to discuss my personal characteristics, you may go! I’ve no intention of being brought to book by a detective!”
“Why, Eunice, don’t talk that way,” begged Aunt Abby. “I’m sure Mr. Stone is trying to get you freed from the awful thing that is hanging over you!”
“There’s no awful thing hanging over me! I don’t know what you mean, Aunt Abby! There can’t be anything worse than to have a stranger come in here and remark on my unfortunate weakness in sometimes giving way to my sense of righteous indignation! I resent it! I won’t have it! Mason, you brought Mr. Stone here—now take him away!”
“There, there, Eunice, you are not quite yourself, and I don’t wonder. This scene is too much for you. I’m sure you will make allowance, Mr. Stone, for Mrs. Embury’s overwrought nerves—”
“Of course,” and Fleming Stone spoke coldly, without sympathy or even apparent interest. “Let Mrs. Embury retire to her room, if she wishes.”
They had all returned to the big living-room, and Stone stood near a front window, now and then glancing out to the trees in Park Avenue below.
“I don’t want to retire to my room!” Eunice cried. “I don’t want to be set aside as if I were a child! I did want Mr. Stone to investigate this whole matter, but I don’t now—I’ve changed my mind! Mason, tell him to go away!”
“No, dear,” and Elliott looked at her kindly, “you can’t change your mind like that. Mr. Stone has the case, and he will go on with it and when you come to yourself again, you will be glad, for he will free you from suspicion by finding the real criminal.”
“I don’t want him to! I don’t want the criminal found! I want it to be an unsolved mystery, always and forever!”
“No;” Elliott spoke more firmly. “No, Eunice, that is not what you want.”
“Stop! I know what I want—without your telling me! You overstep your privileges, Mason! I’m not an imbecile, to be ignored, set aside, overruled! I won’t stand it! Mr. Stone, you are discharged!”
She stood, pointing to the door with a gesture that would have been melodramatic, had she not been so desperately in earnest. The soft black sleeve fell away from her soft white arm, and her out-stretched hand was steady and unwavering as she stood silent, but quivering with suppressed rage.
“Eunice,” and going to her, Elliott took the cold white hand in his own. “Eunice,” he said, and no more, but his eyes looked deeply into hers.
She gazed steadily for a moment, and then her face softened, and she turned aside, and sank wearily into a chair.
“Do as you like,” she said, in a low murmur. “I’ll leave it to you, Mason. Let Mr. Stone go ahead.”
“Yes, go ahead, Mr. Stone,” said Aunt Abby, eagerly. “I’ll show you anywhere you want to go—anything you want to see I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Why, do you know anything I haven’t been told, Miss Ames? I thought we had pretty well sized up the situation.”
“Yes, but I can tell you something that nobody else will listen to, and I think you will.”
Eunice started up again. “Aunt Abby,” she said, “if you begin that pack of fool nonsense about a vision, I’ll leave the room—I vow I will!”
“Leave, then!” retorted Aunt Abby, whose patience was also under a strain.
But Stone said, “Wait, please, I want a few more matters mentioned, and then, Miss Ames, I will listen to your ‘fool nonsense!’ First, what is this talk about money troubles between Mr. and Mrs. Embury?”
“That,” Eunice seemed interested, “is utter folly. My husband objected to giving me a definite allowance, but he gave me twice the sum I would have asked for, and more, too, by letting me have charge accounts everywhere I chose.”
“Then you didn’t kill him for that reason?” and the dark eyes of the detective rested on Eunice kindly.
“No; I did not!” she said, curtly, and Stone returned,
“I believe you, Mrs. Embury; if you were the criminal, that was not the motive. Next,” he went on, “what about this quarrel you and Mr. Embury had the night before his death?”
“That was because I had disobeyed his express orders,” Eunice said, frankly and bravely, “and I went to a bridge game at a house to which he had forbidden me to go. I am sorry—and I wish I could tell him so.”
Fleming Stone looked at her closely. Was she sincere or was she merely a clever actress?
“A game for high stakes, I assume,” he said quietly.
“Very high. Mr. Embury objected strongly to my playing there, but I went, hoping to win some money that I wanted.”
“That you wanted? For some particular purpose?”
“No; only that I might have a few dollars in my purse, as other women do. It all comes back to the same old quarrel, Mr. Stone. You don’t know—I can’t make you understand—how humiliating, how galling it is for a woman to have no money of her own! Nobody understands—but I have been subjected to shame and embarrassment hundreds of times for the want of a bit of ready money!”
“I think I do understand, Mrs. Embury. I know how hard it must have been for a proud woman to have that annoyance. Did Mr. Embury object to the lady who was your hostess that evening?”
“Yes, he did. Mrs. Desternay is an old school friend of mine, but Mr. Embury never liked her, and he objected more strenuously because she had the bridge games.”
“And the lady’s attitude toward you?”
“Fifi? Oh, I don’t know. We’ve always been friends, generally speaking, but we’ve had quarrels now and then—sometimes we’d be really intimate, and then again, we wouldn’t speak for six weeks at a time. Just petty tiffs, you know, but they seemed serious at the time.”
“I see. Hello, here’s McGuire!”
Ferdinand, with a half-apologetic look, ushered in a boy, with red hair, and a very red face. He was a freckled youth, and his bright eyes showed quick perception as they darted round the room, and came to rest on Miss Ames, on whom he smiled broadly. “This is my assistant,” Stone said, casually; “his name is Terence McGuire, and he is an invaluable help. Anything doing, son?”
“Not partickler. Kin I sit and listen?”
Clearly the lad was embarrassed, probably at the unaccustomed luxury of his surroundings and the presence of so many high-bred strangers. For Terence, or Fibsy, as he was nicknamed, was a child of the streets, and though a clever assistant to Fleming Stone in his career, the boy seldom accompanied his employer to the homes of the aristocracy. When he did do so, he was seized with a shyness that was by no means evident when he was in his more congenial surroundings.
He glanced bashfully at Eunice, attracted by her beauty, but afraid to look at her attentively. He gazed at Mason Elliott with a more frank curiosity; and then he cast a furtive look at Aunt Abby, who was herself smiling at him.
It was a genial, whole-souled smile, for the old lady had a soft spot in her heart for boys, and was already longing to give him some fruit and nuts from the sideboard.
Fibsy seemed to divine her attitude, and he grinned affably, and was more at his ease.
But he sat quietly while the others went on discussing the details of the case.
Eunice was amazed at such a strange partner for the great man, but she quickly thought that a street urchin like that could go to places and learn of side issues in ways which the older man could not compass so conveniently.
Presently Fibsy slipped from his seat, and quietly went into the bedrooms.
Eunice raise her eyebrows slightly, but Fleming Stone, observing, said, “Don’t mind, Mrs. Embury. The lad is all right. I’ll vouch for him.”
“A queer helper,” remarked Elliott.
“Yes; but very worth-while. I rely on him in many ways, and he almost never fails to help me. He’s now looking over the bedrooms, just as I did, and he’ll disturb nothing.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Aunt Abby; “maybe he won’t—but I don’t like boys prowling among my things!” and she scurried after him.
She found him in her room, and rather gruffly said, “What are you up to, boy?”
“Snuff, ma’am,” he replied, with a comical wink, which ought to have shocked the old lady, but which, somehow, had a contrary effect.
“Do you like candy?” she asked—unnecessarily, she knew—and offered him a box from a drawer.
Fibsy felt that a verbal answer was not called for, and, helping himself, proceeded to munch the sweets, contentedly and continuously.
“Say,” he burst out, after a thoughtful study of the room, “where was that there dropper thing found, anyhow?”
“In this medicine chest—”
“Naw; I mean where’d the girl find it?—the housework girl.”
“You seem to know a lot about the matter!”
“Sure I do. Where’d you say?”
“Right here,” and Aunt Abby pointed to a place on the rug near the head of her bed. It was a narrow bed, which had been brought there for her during her stay.
“Huh! Now you could’a dropped it there?”
“I know,” and Aunt Abby whispered, “Nobody’ll believe me, but I know!”
“You do! Say, you’re some wiz! Spill it to me, there’s a dear!”
Fibsy was, in his way, a psychologist, and he knew by instinct that this old lady would like him better if he retained his ignorant, untutored ways, than if he used the more polished speech, which he had painstakingly acquired for other kinds of occasions.
“I wonder if you’d understand. For a boy, you’re a bright one—”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I am! They don’t make ‘em no brighter ‘n me! Try me, do, Miss Ames! I’m right there with the goods.”
“Well, child, it’s this: I saw a—a vision—”
“Yes’m, I know—I mean I know what visions are, they’re fine, too!” He fairly smacked his lips in gusto, and it encouraged Aunt Abby to proceed.
“Yes, and it was the ghost of—who do you suppose it was?”
“Your grandmother, ma’am?” The boy’s attitude was eagerly attentive and his freckled little face was drawn in a desperate interest.
“No!” Aunt Abby drew closer and just breathed the words, “Mr. Embury!”
“Oh!” Fibsy was really startled, and his eyes opened wide, as he urged, “Go on, ma’am!”
“Yes. Well, it was just at the moment that Mr. Embury was—that he died—you know.”
“Yes’m, they always comes then, ma’am!”
“I know it, and oh, child, this is a true story!”
“Oh, yes, ma’am—I know it is!”
Indeed one could scarcely doubt it, for Aunt Abby, having found an interested listener at last, poured forth her account of her strange experience, not caring for comment or explanation, since she had found some one whobelieved!
“Yes, it was just at that time—I know, because it was almost daylight—just before dawn—and I was asleep, but not entirely asleep—”
“Sort’a half dozing—”
“Yes; and Sanford—Mr. Embury, you know, came gliding through my room, and he stopped at my bedside to say good-by—”
“Was he alive?” asked Fibsy, awe-struck at her hushed tones and bright, glittering eyes.
“Oh, no, it was his spirit, you see—his disembodied spirit”
“How could you see it, then?”
“When spirits appear like that, they are visible.”
“Oh, ma’am—I didn’t know.”
“Yes, and I not only saw him but he was evident to all my five senses!”
“What, ma’am? What do you mean?”
Fibsy drew back, a little scared, as Aunt Abby clutched his sleeve in her excitement. He felt uneasy, for it was growing dusk, and the old lady was in such a state of nervous exhilaration that he shrank a little from her proximity.
But Fibsy was game. “Go on, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Aunt Abby declared, with an eerie smile of triumph, “I saw him—I heard him—I felt him—I smelled him—and, I tasted him!”
Fibsy nearly shrieked, for at each enumeration of her marvelous experiences, Miss Ames grasped his arm tighter and emphasized her statements by pounding on his shoulder.
She seemed unaware of his personal presence—she talked more as if recounting the matter to herself, but she used him as a general audience and the boy had to make a desperate effort to preserve his poise.
And then it struck him that the old lady was crazy, or else she really had an important story to tell. In either case, it was his duty to let Fleming Stone hear it, at first hand, if possible. But he felt sure that to call in the rest of the household, or to take the narrator out to them would—as he expressed it to himself “upset her applecart and spill the beans!”
However he decided quickly, it must be done, so he said, diplomatically, “This is awful int’restin’, Miss Ames, and I’m just dead sure and certain Mr. Stone’d think so, too. Let’s go out and get it off where he c’n hear it. What say?”
The boy had risen and was edging toward the door. Rather than lose her audience, Aunt Abby followed, and in a moment the pair appeared in the living-room, where Fleming Stone was still talking to Eunice and Mr. Elliott.
“Miss Ames, now, she’s got somethin’ worth tellin’,” Fibsy announced. “This yarn of hers is pure gold and a yard wide, Mr. Stone, and you oughter hear it, sir.”
“Gladly,” and Stone gave Aunt Abby a welcoming smile.
Nothing loath to achieve the center of the stage, the old lady seated herself in her favorite arm-chair, and began:
“It was almost morning,” she said, “a faint dawn began to make objects about the room visible, when I opened my eyes and saw a dim, gliding figure—”
Eunice gave an angry exclamation, and rising quickly from her chair, walked into her own room, and closed the door with a slam that left no doubt as to her state of mind.
“Let her alone,” advised Elliott; “she’s better off in there. What is this story, Aunt Abby? I’ve never heard it in full.”
“No; Eunice never would let me tell it. But it will solve all mystery of Sanford’s death.”
“Then it is indeed important,” and Stone looked at the speaker intently.
“Yes, Mr. Stone, it will prove beyond all doubt that Mr. Embury was a suicide.”
“Go on, then,” said Elliott, briefly.
“I will. In the half light, I saw this figure I just mentioned. It wasn’t discernible clearly—it was merely a moving shadow—a vague shape. It came toward me—”
“From which direction?” asked Stone, with decided interest.
“From Eunice’s room—that is, it had, of course, come from Mr. Embury’s room, through Eunice’s room, and so on into my room. For it was Sanford Embury’s spirit—get that firmly in your minds!”
The old lady spoke with asperity, for she was afraid of contradiction, and resented their quite apparent scepticism.
“Go on, please,” urged Stone.
“Well, the spirit came nearer my bed, and paused and looked down on me where I lay.”
“Did you see his face?” asked Elliott.
“Dimly. I can’t seem to make you understand how vague the whole thing was—and yet it wasthere!As he leaned over me, I saw him—saw the indistinct shape—and I heard the sound of a watch ticking. It was not my watch, it was a very faint ticking one, but all else was so still, that I positively heard it.”
“Gee!” said Fibsy, in an explosive whisper.
“Then he seemed about to move away. Impulsively, I made a movement to detain him. Almost without volition—acting on instinct—I put out my hand and clutched his arm. I felt his sleeve—it wasn’t a coat sleeve—nor a pajama sleeve—it seemed to have on his gymnasium suit—the sleeve was like woolen jersey—”
“And you felt this?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone, I felt it distinctly—and not only with my hand as I grasped at his arm but” Aunt Abby hesitated an instant, then went on, “But I bit at him! Yes, I did! I don’t know why, only I was possessed with an impulse to hold him—and he was slipping away. I didn’t realize at the time—who—whatit was, and I sort of thought it was a burglar. But, anyway, I bit at him, and so I bit at the woolen sleeve—it was unmistakable—and on it I tasted raspberry jam.”
“What!” cried her hearers almost in concert.
“Yes—you needn’t laugh—I guess I know the taste of raspberry jam, and it was on that sleeve, as sure as I’m sitting here!”
“Gee!” repeated Fibsy, his fists clenched on his knees and his bright eyes fairly boring into the old lady’s countenance. “Gee whiz!”
“Go on,” said Stone, quietly.
“And—I smelt gasoline,” concluded Miss Ames defiantly. “Now, sir, there’s the story. Make what you will out of it, it’s every word true. I’ve thought it over and over, since I realized what it all meant, and had I known at the time it was Sanford’s spirit, I should have spoken to him. But as it was, I was too stunned to speak, and when I tried to hold him, he slipped away, and disappeared. But it was positively a materialization of Sanford Embury’s flitting spirit—and nothing else.”
“The vision may argue a passing soul,” Stone said kindly, as if humoring her, “but the effect on your other senses, seems to me to indicate a living person.”
“No,” and Aunt Abby spoke with deep solemnity, “a materialized spirit is evident to our senses—one or another of them. In this case I discerned it by all five senses, which is unusual—possibly unique; but I am very psychic—very sensitive to spiritual manifestations.”
“You have seen ghosts before, then?”
“Oh, yes. I have visions often. But never such a strange one.”
“And where did this spirit disappear to?”
“It just faded. It seemed to waft on across the room. I closed my eyes involuntarily, and when I opened them again it was gone.”
“Leaving no trace behind?”
“The faint odor of gasoline—and the taste of raspberry jam on my tongue.”
Fibsy snickered, but suppressed it at once, and said, “And he left the little dropper-thing beside your bed?”
“Yes, boy! You seem clairvoyant yourself! He did. It was Sanford, of course; he had killed himself with the poison, and he tried to tell me so—but he couldn’t make any communication—they rarely can—so he left the tiny implement, that we might know and understand.”
“H’m, yes;” and Stone sat thinking. “Now, Miss Ames, you must not be offended at what I’m about to say. I don’t disbelieve your story at all. You tell it too honestly for that. I fully believe you saw what you call a ‘vision.’ But you have thought over it and brooded over it, until you think you saw more than you did—or less! But, leaving that aside for the moment, I want you to realize that your theory of suicide, based on the ‘vision’ is not logical. Supposing your niece were guilty—as the detectives think—might not Mr. Embury’s spirit have pursued the same course?”
Aunt Abby pondered. Then, her eyes flashing, she cried, “Do you mean he put the dropper in my room to throw suspicion on me, instead of on his wife?”
“There is a chance for such a theory.”
“Sanford wouldn’t do such a thing! He was truly fond of me!”
“But to save his wife?”
“I never thought of all that. Maybe he did—or, maybe he dropped the thing accidentally—”
“Maybe.” Stone spoke preoccupiedly.
Mason Elliott, too, sat in deep thought. At last he said:
“Aunt Abby, if I were you, I wouldn’t tell that yarn to anybody else. Let’s all forget it, and call it merely a dream.”
“What do you mean, Mason?” The old lady bridled, having no wish to hear her marvelous experience belittled. “It wasn’t a dream—not an ordinary dream—it was a true appearance of Sanford, after his death. You know such things do happen—look at that son of Sir Oliver Lodge. You don’t doubt that, do you?”
“Never mind those things. But I earnestly beg of you, Aunt Abby, to forget the episode—or, at least, to promise me you’ll not repeat it to any one else.”
“Why?”
“I think it wiser for all concerned—for all concerned—that the tale shall not become public property.”
“But why?”
“Oh, my land!” burst out Fibsy; “don’t you see? The ghost was Mrs. Embury!”
The boy had put into words what was in the thoughts of both Stone and Elliott. They realized that, while Aunt Abby’s experiencemighthave been entirely a dream, it was so circumstantial as to indicate a real occurrence, and in that case, what solution so plausible as that Eunice, after committing the crime, wandered into her aunt’s room, and whether purposely or accidentally, dropped the implement of death?
Stone, bent on investigation, plied Miss Ames with questions.
Elliott, sorely afraid for Eunice, begged the old lady not to answer.
“You are inventing!” he cried. “You are drawing on your imagination! Don’t believe all that, Mr. Stone. It isn’t fair to—to Mrs. Embury!”
“Then you see it as I do, Mr. Elliott?” and Stone turned to him quickly. “But, even so, we must look into this story. Suppose, as an experiment, we build up a case against Mrs. Embury, for the purpose of knocking it down again. A man of straw—you know.”
“Don’t,” pleaded Elliott. “Just forget the rigmarole of the nocturnal vision—and devote your energies to finding the real murderer. I have a theory—”
“Wait, Mr. Elliott, I fear you are an interested investigator. Don’t forget that you have been mentioned as one of those with ‘motive but no opportunity.’“
“Since you have raised that issue, Mr. Stone, let me say right here that my regard for Mrs. Embury is very great. It is also honorable and lifelong. I make no secret of it, but I declare to you that its very purity and intensity puts it far above and beyond any suspicion of being ‘motive’ for the murder of Mrs. Embury’s huband.”
Mason Elliott looked Fleming Stone straight in the eye and the speaker’s tone and expression carried a strong conviction of sincerity.
Fibsy, too, scrutinized Elliott.
“Good egg!” he observed to himself; “trouble is—he’d give us that same song and dance if he’d croaked the guy his own self!”
“Furthermore,” Stone went on, “Mrs. Embury shows a peculiarly strong repugnance to hearing this story of Miss Ames’ experience. That looks—”
“Oh, fiddlesticks!” cried Miss Ames, who had been listening in amazement; “it wasn’t Eunice! Why would she rig up in Sanford’s gym jersey?”
“Why wouldn’t she?” countered Stone. “As I said, we’re building up a supposititious case. Assume that itwasMrs. Embury, not at all enacting a ghost, but merely wandering around after her impulsive deed—for if she is the guilty party itmusthave been an impulsive deed. You know her uncontrollable temper—her sudden spasms of rage—”
“Mr. Stone, a ‘man of straw,’ as you call it, is much more easily built up than knocked down.” Elliott spoke sternly. “I hold you have no right to assume Mrs. Embury’s identity in this story Miss Ames tells.”
“Is there anything that points to her in your discernment by your five senses, Miss Ames?” Stone asked, very gravely. “Has Mrs. Embury a faintly ticking watch?”
“Yes, her wrist-watch,” Aunt Abby answered, though speaking evidently against her will.
“And it ispossiblethat she slipped on her husband’s jersey; and it ispossiblethere was raspberry jam on the sleeve of it. You see, I am not doubting the evidence of your senses. Now, as to the gasoline. Had Mrs. Embury, or her maid, by any chance, been cleaning any laces or finery with gasoline?”
“I won’t tell you!” and Aunt Abby shook her head so obstinately that it was quite equivalent to an affirmative answer!
“Now, you see, Aunt Abby,” protested Elliott, in an agonized voice, “why I want you to shut up about that confounded ‘vision’!Youare responsible for this case Mr. Stone is so ingeniously building up against Eunice! You are getting her into a desperate coil, from which it will be difficult to extricate her! If Shane got hold of this absurd yarn—”
“It’s not entirely absurd,” broke in Stone, “but I agree with you, Mr. Elliott; if Shane learns of it—he won’t investigate any further!”
“He shan’t know of it,” was the angry retort. “I got you here, Mr. Stone—”
“To discover the truth, or to free Mrs. Embury?”
There was a pause, and the two men looked at each other. Then Mason Elliott said, in a low voice, “To free Mrs. Embury.”
“I can’t take the case that way,” Stone replied. “I will abandon the whole affair, or—I will find out the truth.”
“Abandon it!” cried a ringing voice, and the door of her bedroom was flung open as Eunice again appeared.
She was in a towering fury, her face was white and her lips compressed to a straight scarlet line.
“Give up the case! I will take my chances with any judge or jury rather than with you!” She faced Stone like the “Tiger” her husband had nicknamed her. “I have heard every word—Aunt Abby’s story—and your conclusions! Your despicable ‘deductions,’ as I suppose you call them! I’ve had enough of the ‘celebrated detective’! Quite enough of Fleming Stone—and his work!”
She stepped back and gazed at him with utter scorn beautiful as a sculptured Medea, haughty as a tragedy queen.
“Independent as a pig on ice!” Fibsy communicated with himself, and he stared at her with undisguised admiration.
“Eunice,” and the pain in Mason Elliott’s voice was noticeable; “Eunice, dear,don’tdo yourself such injustice.”
“Why not? When everybody is unjust to me! You, Mason, you and this—this infallible detective sit here and deliberately build up what you call a ‘case’ against me—me, Eunice Embury! Oh—I hate you all!”
A veritable figure of hate incarnate, she stood, her white hands clasping each other tightly, as they hung against her black gown. Her head held high, her whole attitude fiercely defiant, she flung out her words with a bitterness that betokened the end of her endurance—the limit of her patience.
Then her hands fell apart, her whole body drooped, and sinking down on the wide sofa, she sat, hopelessly facing them, but with head erect and the air of one vanquished but very much unsubdued.
“Take that back, Eunice,” Elliott spoke passionately, and quite as if there were no others present; “you do not hateme—I am here to help you!”
“You can’t, Mason; no one can help me. No one can protect me from Fleming Stone!”
The name was uttered with such scorn as to seem an invective of itself!
Stone betrayed no annoyance at her attitude toward him, but rather seemed impressed with her personality. He gave her a glance that was not untinged with admiration, but he made no defence.
“I can,” cried Fibsy, who was utterly routed by Eunice’s imperious beauty. “You go ahead with Mr. F. Stone, ma’am, and I’ll see to it that they ain’t no injustice done to you!”
Stone looked at his excited young assistant with surprise, and then good-naturedly contented himself with a shake of his head, and a
“Careful, Terence.”
“Yes, sir—but, oh, Mr. Stone—” and then, at a gesture from the great detective the boy paused, abashed, and remained silent.
“Now, Miss Ames,” Stone began, “in Mrs. Embury’s presence, I’ll ask you—”
“You won’t ask me anything, sir,” she returned crisply. “I’m going out. I’ve a very important errand to do.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Elliott said; “it’s almost six o’clock, Aunt Abby. Where are you going?”
“I’ve got an errand—a very important errand—an appointment, in fact. I must go—don’t you dare oppose me, Mason. You’ll be sorry if you do!”
Even as she spoke, the old lady was scurrying to her room, from which she returned shortly, garbed for the street.
“All right,” Stone said, in reply to a whisper from Fibsy, and the boy offered, respectfully:
“Let me go with you, Miss Ames. It ain’t fittin’ you should go alone. It’s ‘most dark.”
“Come on, boy,” Aunt Abby regarded him kindly; “I’d be glad of your company.”
At the street door, the old lady asked for a taxicab, and the strangely assorted pair were soon on their way.
“You’re a bright lad, Fibsy,” she said; “by the way, what’s your real name—I forget.”
“Terence, ma’am; Terence McGuire. I wish’t I was old enough to be called McGuire! I’d like that.”
“I’ll call you that, if you wish. You’re old for your age, I’m sure. How old are you?”
“Goin’ on about fifteen or sixteen—I think. I sort’a forget.”
“Nonsense! You can’t forget your age! Why do they call you Fibsy?”
“‘Cause I’m a born liar—’scuse me—a congenital prevaricator, I meant to say. You see, ma’am, it’s necessary in my business not always to employ the plain unvarnished. But don’t be alarmed, ma’am; when I take a fancy to anybuddy, as I have to you, ma’am, I don’t never lie to ‘em. Not that I s’pose you’d care, eh, ma’am?”
Aunt Abby laughed. “Youarea queer lad! Why, I’m not sure I’d care, if it didn’t affect me in any way.I’mnot responsible for your truthfulness—though I don’t mind advising you that yououghtto be a truthful boy.”
“Land, ma’am! Don’t you s’pose I know that? But, honest now, are you always just exactly, abserlutely truthful, yourself?”
“Certainly I am! What do you mean by speaking to me like that?”
“Well, don’t you ever touch up a yarn a little jest sort’a to make it more interestin’ like? Most ladies do—that is, most ladies of intelligence and brains—which you sure have got in plenty!”
“There, there, boy; I’m afraid I’ve humored you too much you’re presuming.”
“I presume I am. But one question more, while we’re on this absorbin’ subject. Didn’t you, now, just add a jot or a tittle to that ghost story you put over? Was it every bit on the dead level?”
“Yes, child,” Aunt Abby took his question seriously; “it was every word true. I didn’t make up the least word of it!”
“I believe you, ma’am, and I congratulate you on your clarviant powers. Now, about that raspberry jam, ma’am. That’s a mighty unmistakable taste—ain’t it, now.”
“It is, McGuire. It certainly is. And I tasted it, just as surely as I’m here telling you about it.”
“Have you had it for supper lately, ma’am?”
“No; Eunice hasn’t had it on her table since I’ve been visiting her.”
“Is that so, ma’am?”
The journey ended at the rooms of Marigny, the psychic recommended by Willy Hanlon.
As Fibsy, his bright eyes wide with wonder, found himself in the unmistakable surroundings of dingy draperies, a curtained cabinet and an odor of burning incense, he exclaimed to himself, “Gee! a clairviant! Now for some fun!”
Aunt Abby, apparently aware of the proprieties of the occasion, seated herself, and waited patiently.
At a gesture from her, Fibsy obediently took a seat near her, and waited quietly, too.
Soon the psychic entered. He was robed in a long, black garment, and wore a heavy, white turban, swathed in folds. His face was olive-colored—what was visible of it for his beard was white and flowing, and a heavy drooping moustache fell over his lips. Locks of white hair showed from the turban’s edge, and a pair of big, rubber-rimmed glasses of an amber tint partially hid his eyes.
The whole make-up was false, it was clear to be seen, but a psychic has a right to disguise himself, if he choose.
Fibsy gave Marigny one quick glance and then the boy assumed an expression of face quite different from his usual one. He managed to look positively vacant-minded. His eyes became lack-luster, his mouth, slightly open, looked almost imbecile, and his roving glance betokened no interest whatever in the proceedings.
“Mr. Marigny?” said Miss Ames, eagerly anxious for theséanceto begin.
“Yes, madam. You are three minutes late!”
“I couldn’t help it—the traffic is very heavy at this hour.”
“And you should have come alone. I cannot concentrate with an alien influence in the room.”
“Oh, the boy isn’t an alien influence. He’s a little friend of mine—he’ll do no harm.”
“I’ll go out, if you say, mister,” Fibsy turned his indifferent gaze on the clairvoyant.
“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” spoke up Miss Ames. “I’m accustomed toséances, Mr. Marigny, and if you’re all right—as I was told you were—a child’s presence won’t interfere.”
Evidently the psychic saw he had no novice to deal with, and he accepted the situation.
“What do you want to know?” he asked his client.
“Who killed Sanford Embury—or, did he kill himself. I want you to get into communication with his spirit and find out from him. But I don’t want any make-believe. If you can’t succeed, that’s all right—I’ll pay your fee just the same. But no poppycock.”
“That’s the way to look at it, madam. I will go into the silence, and I will give you only such information as I get myself.”
The man leaned back in his chair, and gradually seemed to enter a hypnotic state. His muscles relaxed, his face became still and set, and his breathing was slow and a little labored.
Fibsy retained his vacuous look he even fidgeted a little, in a bored way—and rarely glanced toward the man of “clear sight.”
Miss Ames, though anxious for results, was alert and quite on her guard against fraud. Experienced in fake mediums, she believed Willy Hanlon’s assertion that this man was one of the few genuine mystics, but she proposed to judge for herself.
At last Marigny spoke. His voice was low, his tones monotonous and uninflected.
“Aunt Abby—Aunt Westminster Abbey” the words came slowly.
Miss Ames gave a startled jump. Her face blanched and she trembled as she clutched Fibsy’s arm.
“That’s what Sanford used to call me!” she whispered. “Can it really be his spirit talking to me through the medium!”
“Don’t worry,” the voice went on, “don’t grieve for me—it’s all right—let it go that I took my own life—”
“But did you, Sanford—did you?” Miss Ames implored.
“It would be better you should never know.”
“I must know. I’ve got to know! Tell me, Sanford. It wasn’t Eunice?
“No—it wasn’t Eunice.”
“Was it—oh, San—was it—I?”
“Yes, Aunt Abby—it was. But you were entirely irresponsible—you were asleep—hypnotized, perhaps—perhaps merely asleep.”
“Where did I get the stuff?”
“I think somebody hypnotized you and gave it to you—”
“When? Where?”
“I don’t know—it is vague—uncertain—But you put it in my ear—remember, Aunt Abby, I don’t blame you at all. And you must not tell this. You must let it go as suicide. That is the only way to save yourself—”
“But they suspect Eunice—”
“They’ll never convict her—nor would they convict you. Tell them you got into communication with my spirit and I said it was suicide.”
“Ask him about the raspberry jam,” put in Fibsy, in a stage whisper.
“What!” the medium came out of his trance suddenly and glared at the boy.
“I told you I could do nothing if the child stayed here,” Marigny cried, evidently in a towering passion. “Put him out. Who is he? What is he talking about?”
“Nothing of importance. Keep still, McGuire. Can you get Mr. Embury’s spirit back, sir?”
“No, the communion is too greatly disturbed. Boy, what do you mean by raspberry jam?”
“Oh, nothin’,” and Fibsy wriggled bashfully. “You tell him, Miss Ames.”
It needed little encouragement to launch Aunt Abby on the story of her “vision” and she told it in full detail.
Marigny seemed interested, though a little impatient, and tried to hurry the recital.
“It was, without doubt, Embury’s spirit,” he said, as Aunt Abby finished; “but your imagination has exaggerated and elaborated the facts. For instance, I think the jam and the gasoline are added by your fancy, in order to fill out the full tale of your five senses.”
“That’s what I thought,” and Fibsy nodded his head. “Raspberry jam! Oh, gee!” he exploded in a burst of silly laughter.
Marigny looked at him with a new interest. The amber-colored glasses, turned toward the boy seemed to frighten him, and he began to whimper.
“I didn’t mean any harm,” he said, “but raspberry jam was so funny for a ghost to have on him!”
“It would have been,” assented Marigny, “but that, I feel sure, existed only in Miss Ames’ fancy. Her mind, upset by the vision, had strange hallucinations, and the jam was one—you know we often have grotesque dreams.”
“So we do,” agreed Fibsy; “why once I drempt that—”
“Excuse me, young sir, but I’ve no time to listen to your dreams. Theséanceis at an end, madam. Your companion probably cut it off prematurely—but perhaps not. Perhaps the communication was about over, anyway. Are you satisfied, Miss Ames?”
“Yes, Mr. Marigny. I know the appearance of Mr. Embury was a genuine visitation, for he called me by a peculiar name which no one else ever used, and which you could not possibly know about.”
“That is indeed a positive test. I am glad you received what you wished for. The fee is ten dollars, madam.”
Aunt Abby paid it willingly enough, and with Fibsy, took her departure.
On reaching home they found Alvord Hendricks there. Mason Elliott had tarried and Fleming Stone, too, was still there. Eunice was awaiting Aunt Abby’s return to have dinner served.
“I thought you’d never come, Auntie,” said Eunice, greeting her warmly. Eunice was in a most pleasant mood, and seemed to have become entirely reconciled to the presence of Stone.
“You will dine here, too, Terence,” she said kindly to the boy, who replied, “Yes, ma’am,” very respectfully.
“Well, Eunice,” Aunt Abby announced, after they were seated at the table, “I’m the criminal, after all.”
“You seem pretty cheerful about it,” said Hendricks, looking at her in astonishment.
“Well, I wasn’t responsible. I did it under compulsory hypnotism.”
“You owned up to it before, Aunt Abby,” said Eunice, humoring her; “you said—”
“I know, Eunice, but that time it was to shieldyou. Now, I know for certain that Ididdo it, and how it came about.”
“Dear Aunt Abby,” and Elliott spoke very gently, “don’t you talk about it any more. Your vagaries are tolerated by us, who love you, but Mr. Stone is bored by them—”
“Not at all,” said Fleming Stone; “on the contrary, I’m deeply interested. Tell me all about it, Miss Ames. Where have you been?”
Thus encouraged, Aunt Abby told all.
She described theséancetruthfully, Fibsy’s bright eyes—not lack-luster now—darting glances at her and at Stone as the tale proceeded.
“He was the real thing—wasn’t he, McGuire?” Miss Ames appealed to him, at last.
“You bet! Why, if the side wire of his beard hadn’t fetched loose and if his walnut juice complexion hadn’t stopped a mite short of his collar, I’d a took him for a sure-fire Oriental!”
“Don’t be so impertinent, Terence,” reproved Stone; “Miss Ames knows better than you do.”
“It doesn’t matter that he was made up that way,” Aunt Abby said, serenely; “they often do that. But he was genuine, I know, because—why, Eunice, what did Sanford use to call me—for fun—Aunt what?”
“Aunt Westminter Abbey,” said Eunice, smiling at the recollection.
“Yes!” triumphantly; “and that’s what Sanford called me to-day when speaking to me through the medium. Isn’t that a proof? How could that man know that?”
“I can’t explain that,” declared Elliott, a little shortly, “but it’s all rubbish, and I don’t think you ought to be allowed to go to such places! It’s disgraceful—”
“You hush up, Mason,” Miss Ames cried; “I’ll go where I like! I’m not a child. And, too, I wasn’t alone—I had an escort—a very nice one.” She looked kindly at Fibsy.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he returned, bobbing his funny red head. “I sure enjoyed myself.”
“You didn’t look so; you looked half asleep.”
“I always enjoy myself when I’m asleep—and half a loaf is better’n no bed,” the boy grinned at her.
“Well, it may all be rubbish,” Alvord Hendricks said, musingly; “and it probably is—but there are people, Mason, who don’t think so. Anyway, here’s my idea. If Aunt Abby thinks she poisoned Sanford, under hypnotism—or any other way—for the love of heaven, let it go at that! If you don’t—suspicion will turn back to Eunice again—and that’s what we want to prevent. Now, no jury would ever convict an old lady—”
“Nor any woman,” said Elliott. “But that isn’t the whole thing. I say, Alvord, since Mr. Stone is on the job, suppose we give him full swing—and let him find the real murderer. It wasn’t Eunice!”
His words rang out so vibrantly that Stone gave him a quick glance. “You’re sure?” he asked, as it seemed, involuntarily.
“I am,” responded Elliott, with a satisfied nod of his handsome head.
“But your being sure doesn’t help much, Mason,” Eunice said, a despondent look coming into her eyes. “Areyousure, Mr. Stone?”
“I can’t quite answer that question yet, Mrs. Embury,” the courteous voice replied. “Remember, I’ve only just begun to look into the matter.”
“But you know all about it—from Mr. Shane and Mr. Driscoll.”
“I know what they think about it—but that’s a different story.”
“You don’t agree with their deductions, then?” asked Hendricks.
“I don’t agree with their premises—therefore—” Stone smiled cryptically, and left the sentence unfinished and ambiguous, which was his deliberate intention.
“We will have coffee in the living-room,” said Eunice, as she rose from the table. Always a charming hostess, she was at her best to-night. Her thin black gown was becoming and made her fair throat and arms seem even whiter by contrast.
She stood back, as the others left the room, and Hendricks, tarrying, too, came close to her.
“Brace up, dear,” he said; “it will all come out right. I’m sorry Elliott dragged in this Stone, but—it will be all right, somehow.”
“But it’s all so mysterious, Alvord. I don’t know what to do—or say—”
“Don’t lose your temper, Eunice. Let me advise you strongly as to that. It never does any good—it militates against you. And here’s another thing—Are you afraid of the little Desternay?”
“Afraid—how?” but Eunice paled.
“Afraid—she knows something—oh, something injurious to—”
“To me? She knows heaps!” The haughty head tossed, and Eunice looked defiant.
“You beauty!” and Hendricks took a step nearer. “Oh, you splendid thing! How I adore you. Eunice—you are a goddess to-night! And you are for me! Some day—oh, I’m not going to say it now—-don’t look so alarmed—but, you know—oh, Sweet, youknow!And you yes, you, too, my splendid Tiger—”‘
“Hush, Alvord! Never call me that!”
“No, I beg pardon. And I don’t want to. That was San’s own name for you. I shall call you my Queen! My glorious Queen-woman!”
“Oh, stop! Don’t you dare make love to me!
“And don’t you dare say ‘dare’ to me! I dare all—”
Ferdinand’s entrance cut short this dialogue, and Eunice and Hendricks went into the other room.
Almost immediately a visitor was announced, and Hanlon came in.
“Why, Mr. Hanlon,” Eunice said, greeting him cordially, “I’m glad to see you again.”
“So am I,” cried Aunt Abby, hastening to welcome the newcomer. “Oh, Mr. Hanlon, I went to see your man—Mr. Marigny, you know—”
“Yes? I called to see if you had found him all right.”
The necessary introductions were made, and Hanlon took his place in the group.
He was a little ill at ease, for he was by no means a member of “society,” and though he had been at the Embury house before, he seemed a trifle in awe of his surroundings.
“And I called, too,” Hanlon said, “to offer you my respectful sympathy, Mrs. Embury, and ask if there’s anything I can do for you.”
“Why, you’re very kind,” said Eunice, touched by his thoughtfulness, “but I’m afraid there’s nothing you—anybody can do for me.”
“F. Stone can,” declared Fibsy; “he can do a lot for you, Mrs. Embury.” The red head nodded vigorously, as was the boy’s habit, when much in earnest.
Hanlon regarded him closely, and Fibsy returned the scrutiny.
“Say,” the boy broke out, suddenly. “I’ve seen you before. You’re the man who found the hidden jackknife, in Newark!”
“The same,” and Hanlon smiled at him. “Were you present?”
“I sure was! Gee! You’re a wonder!”
“Iwasa wonder, but I don’t do wonderful things any more.”
“What do you do now?”
“Yes,” chimed in Eunice, “what are you doing, Mr. Hanlon? You told me you were going to take up a different line of work.”
“I did, Mrs. Embury; I’m a prosaic and uninteresting painter man nowadays.”
“An artist?”
“In a way,” and Hanlon smiled; “I paint signs—and I try to do them artistically.”
“Signs! How dull for you—after your exciting performances!”
“Not so very dull,” interrupted Aunt Abby. “I know about the signs Mr. Hanlon paints! They’re bigger’n a house! They’re—why, they’re scenery—don’t you know?—like you see along the railroad—I mean along the meadows when you’re riding in the cars.”
“Oh, scenic advertising,” observed Fleming Stone. “And signs on the Palisades—”
“Not on the natural scenery,” laughed Hanlon. “Though I’ve been tempted by high rocks or smooth-sided crags.”
“Are you a steeple-jack?” asked Fibsy, his eyes sparkling; “can you paint spires and things?”
“No;” and Hanlon looked at the boy, regretfully. “I can’t do that. I’m no climber. I make the signs and then they’re put where they belong by other workmen.”
“Oh,” and Fibsy looked disappointed at not finding the daring hero he sought for.
“I must not presume further on your kindness, Mrs. Embury,” Hanlon said, with an attempt at society jargon, “I merely called in for a minute. Mr. Hendricks, are you going my way? I want to see you about that sign-”
“No, Hanlon—sorry, but I’m not going now,” and Hendricks shook his head. “I’m here for the evening.”
“All right see you later, then. Where can I find you? I’m something of an owl, myself.”
“I’ll call you up after I get home—if it isn’t too late,” Hendricks suggested.
“Never too late for me. See that you remember.”
Hanlon looked at Hendricks with more seriousness than the subject appeared to call for, then he went away.
“You got the earache?” asked Fibsy suddenly, of Hendricks, as that gentleman half absently rubbed his ear.
“Bless my soul, no! What do you mean by such a question? Mr. Stone, this boy of yours is too fresh!”
“Be quiet, Terence,” said Stone, paying but slight attention to the matter.
“Oh, all right, no offense meant,” and the boy grinned at Hendricks. “But didn’t you ever have an earache? If not, you don’t know what real sufferin’ is!”
“No, I never had it, that I remember. Perhaps as a child—”
“Why, Alvord,” said Aunt Abby, “you had it fearfully about a month ago. Don’t you recollect? You were afraid of mastoiditis.”
“Oh, that. Well, that was a serious illness. I was thinking of an ordinary earache, when I said I never had one. But I beg of you drop the subject of my ailments! What a thing to discuss!”
“True enough,” agreed Stone, “I propose we keep to the theme under consideration. I’ve been engaged to look into this murder mystery. I’m here for that purpose. I must insist that I conduct my investigation in my own way.”
“That’s the right talk,” approved Elliott. “Now, Mr. Stone, let’s get right down to it.”
“Very well, the case stands thus: Shane says—and it’s perfectly true—there are five possible suspects. But only one of these had both motive and opportunity. Now, the whole five are here present, and, absurd though it my seem, I’m going to ask each one of you the definite question. Ferdinand,” he raised his voice and the butler came in from the dining-room, “did you kill your master?”
“No, God hearing me—I didn’t, sir.” The man was quiet and composed, though his face was agonized.
“That will do, you may go,” said Stone. “Mr. Elliott, did you kill your friend—your partner in business?”
“I did not,” said Elliott, curtly. He was evidently ill-pleased at the question.
“Mr. Hendricks, did you?”
“As I have repeatedly proved, I was in Boston that night. It would be impossible for me to be the criminal—but I will answer your ridiculous query—I did not.”
“Mrs. Embury, did you?”
“N—no—but I would rather be suspected, than to have—”
“You said no, I believe,” Stone interrupted her. “Miss Ames, do you really think you killed your niece’s husband?”
“Oh, sir—I don’t know! I can’t think I did—”
“Of course, you didn’t, Aunt Abby!” Mason Elliott rose from his seat and paced up and down the room. “I must say, Mr. Stone, this is a childish performance! What makes you think any of us would say so, if wehadkilled Embury? It is utterly absurd!”
“You’re absurd, Elliott,” cut in Hendricks. “Mr. Stone is a psychologist. He learns what he wants to know not from what we say—but the way we say it. Right, Mr. Stone?”
“Right, Mr. Hendricks.” Stone looked grave. “Anything more to say, Mr. Elliott?”
“Yes, I have! And it’s this: I asked you to come here. I asked you to take this case—as you’ve already surmised—to free Mrs. Embury from wrongful suspicion. Wrongful, mind you! I do not want you to clear her if she is guilty. But she isn’t. Therefore, I want you to find the real criminal. That’s what I want!”
“And that’s what I’m doing.”
“Of course he is,” Eunice defended him. “I wish you’d keep still, Mason! You talk too much—and you interfere with Mr. Stone’s methods.”
“Perhaps I’d better go home, Eunice.” Elliott was clearly offended. “If you don’t want me here, I’ll go.”
“Oh, no—” Eunice began, but Hendricks said, “Go on, Elliott, do. There are too many of us here, and as Eunice’s counsel, I can look after her interests.”
Mason Elliott rose, and turned to Eunice.
“Shall I go?” he said, and he gave her a look of entreaty—a look of yearning, pleading love.
“Go,” she said, coldly. “Alvord will take care of me.”
And Elliott went.