I saw the swift spasm of hatred which crossed her face, as she recognised me; I even fancied that her finger tightened convulsively upon the trigger, and I braced myself for the shock. But she did not fire. Instead, she lowered her pistol with a grim little laugh.
"So it's you!" she said, and stood looking at me, her lips curving maliciously.
"Yes," I answered. "Who did you think it was?"
"Oh, I don't know. A burglar, perhaps."
"You seem to have been prepared for him."
"I always carry this pistol when I go back and forth through the grounds at night."
"And know how to use it, I dare say."
"I think I'd be able to defend myself."
"I'm sure of it. Do you often go back and forth at night?"
"It's sometimes late when I get through here."
"But this time," I pointed out, "you weren't leaving the house—you were returning to it."
"Is that any of your business?" she asked, her eyes beginning to gleam.
"Perhaps not," I admitted.
"And yet you're capable of making a mystery out of it!" she sneered. "Let me relieve your mind—I'm staying with Mrs. Lawrence. She sleeps badly, and wishes me near her."
"And your exits and entrances are, I suppose, usually by the window?"
"It's the most convenient way."
"Mrs. Lawrence doesn't object, then, to your leaving it open?"
"I don't leave it open."
"You did just now."
She looked at me a moment without replying, then laughed a short, little laugh of mingled amusement and vexation.
"I'll leave you to puzzle that out, I think," she said. "You're so ingenious, you'll surely hit upon the explanation. I scarcely expected to see you here again," she added. "You thought it worth while to return?"
"Yes; there are one or two points which are not quite clear."
"And you expect to make them so?" she asked, with a mocking smile. "How? By lurking around the house like a thief, and following women?"
There was something in her tone, her look, her attitude, which caught my attention—a sort of confident triumph, as of one who plays for a high stake and wins. She was no longer anxious and perturbed, as she had been the day before—nay, that very morning. She thought it safe to flout me openly.
"So you convinced Mrs. Lawrence that you and your sister were not guilty?" I asked. "But of course you'd do that!"
"Guilty of what?" she demanded, flushing darkly.
"Guilty of causing Miss Lawrence's flight," I answered bluntly. "Of wrecking her life."
"Do you believe that?"
"I know it!"
She laughed scornfully.
"You know a great deal, it seems."
"More than you think," I retorted.
She flushed again, and bit her lips to restrain their trembling.
"Though there's one thing I don't know," I went on, determined to strike home, if I could. "I can't imagine why Miss Lawrence should have chosen your house as a place of refuge. She must know that you hate her—that you waited, like a snake in ambush, for the moment when the blow would pierce most deeply; she must see that you are using her to avenge yourself——"
A sharp click interrupted me, and I found myself in darkness. I heard the closing of a door, the turning of a lock. When, after a moment's groping along the wall, I found the electric button and switched on the light again, I saw that the door leading from the library to the hall was closed. I tried it—it was locked.
"Good-night, Mr. Lester," called a low mocking voice from the other side. "Please turn off the light before you go, and close the window after you. Another thing—I'd advise you not to disturb my sister again to-night; it would really not be safe. And I hope you'll let me know when you succeed in clearing up those little points you were speaking of—I'm immensely interested in them."
She laughed again, and I heard her footsteps die away down the hall.
Feeling absurdly foolish, I switched off the light, and left the house. Plainly, Lucy Kingdon had ceased to fear me. She believed that she had won the fight, that her position was impregnable. Either she thought that Marcia Lawrence had escaped, that we had not traced her to theUmbria, or she knew that the telegram was a blind, and that we had been misled by it. Which was right, I wondered. And she must have come off well, too, in that interview with Mrs. Lawrence, which I would have given so much to have overheard—must have convinced her of her innocence, else she would not still be employed as a maid in the Lawrence house, and retained so near her mistress. How had she done it? How had she succeeded in blinding her mistress so completely?
Then a sudden thought stabbed through me. Was it possible, I asked myself, that Mrs. Lawrence had been a party to the deception—that she had knowingly assisted in the farce of the telegram, for my benefit? But, as I reviewed her behaviour at our morning interview, I could not believe it. She was no such consummate actress as that would imply. If I was a dupe, then she was a dupe also.
Busy with this problem, I made my way through the grove along the path back to the Kingdon cottage, and stood for a moment looking over the hedge before opening the gate. There was a light in the room which I took to be the dining-room, but even as I gazed at it, the light moved, a shadow crossed the blind; the light reappeared in the kitchen, faded and disappeared—then, a moment later, my heart leaped suffocatingly as I perceived a glimmer of light at the ventilator in the foundation! What was this woman doing in the cellar? What was the task that was going forward there?
I entered the grounds and started forward along the hedge, when suddenly a hand reached up from the shadow and held me fast. For an instant I struggled fiercely to free myself—but only for an instant.
"Come, Lester, sit down," said a voice carefully repressed, but which I nevertheless recognised as Godfrey's. "I was looking for you," he added, as I dropped to the grass beside him.
"Oh, is it you, Godfrey?" I asked, much relieved. "I rather thought you might be out this way, when I found you weren't at the hotel. What are the developments?"
"Wait a minute. I wonder where that light has gone?"
"It's in the cellar," I said, and pointed out to him the faint glimmer which marked the ventilator. "It was there last night. I sat here for over an hour and watched it," and I told him briefly of my adventures of the night before.
He listened without comment until I had finished.
"It's a pity you didn't tell me that this morning," he said.
"I didn't see that it was connected with the case in any way. Is it?"
"I don't know," he answered slowly. "Perhaps it is. Did Miss Kingdon mention it when she saw you this morning?"
"Yes—she said she'd been in the cellar, putting away some fruit."
"Absurd! There's no fruit this early in the year. Besides, even if it were true, she wouldn't have to repeat the process again to-night. What else haven't you told me?"
I laughed and recounted my adventures from the moment Mrs. Lawrence gave me her daughter's telegram until that other moment when Lucy Kingdon left me alone in the darkened library.
He listened without interruption, his eyes on the glimmer of light at the ventilator.
"Yes," he said, "I saw Lucy Kingdon leave the house a few minutes ago. Her sister's alone there now. What do you suppose she's doing in the cellar?"
"I can't imagine."
"You could see nothing?"
"Not a thing except her shadow moving back and forth."
"Moving back and forth?"
"Yes; it seemed to me that she was alternately rising and stooping, as though she were going through some sort of exercise."
"She'd hardly go into the cellar at midnight to exercise."
"No, of course not. But that's the only explanation I could think of, unless she's bowing up and down before an idol."
Godfrey laughed grimly.
"That would be a unique solution," he said. "Fancy our headlines: 'Devil Worship at Elizabeth! Fantastic Midnight Orgies in a Cellar!' Wouldn't that stir the public? But I'm afraid it's a little too fantastic. Could you hear anything?"
"Only the faintest of faint sounds. I couldn't make anything of them."
"Well, there wouldn't be any sounds at all if she were merely bobbing up and down before an idol. Was she alone last night?"
"Yes. Her sister spent the night with Mrs. Lawrence. Godfrey," I added, "you haven't told me yet why you sent that telegram. Has Miss Lawrence returned?"
"Not that I know of. Furthermore, I don't think she will return very soon."
"Then you think she really sailed?"
"I think—I don't know what to think, Lester. Give me a moment more. Isn't there a window to the cellar?"
"Yes, but it's closely curtained."
"Well, I'm going to take a look, myself," he said. "Wait here for me, and be as patient as you can."
I saw him go cautiously forward toward the ventilator, and stoop down before it. He remained there motionless for some moments, then disappeared around a corner of the house. I sat there waiting for him, thinking not without some chagrin, that, as usual, he had pumped me dry, and given nothing in return. It was really unfair of Godfrey to expect every one to play into his hands. And yet, I reflected, if he hadn't wanted to be friendly, he would scarcely have taken the trouble to send me that message.
I looked up to see his tall figure coming toward me through the darkness. He dropped beside me, and sat for a moment silent—only, as I caught a glimpse of his face, I was startled to see how white it was.
"I couldn't see a thing," he said, at last, "except a shadow moving up and down, as you said. And I heard the sounds. The woman is working at something in the cellar—something that requires time—something which must be done secretly. I couldn't make anything out of the shadows, and not much out of the sounds—at least, I fear it's only my imagination which gave them the significance they had for me."
"What significance did they have?" I asked.
"I'm half afraid to tell you, Lester; you'll laugh at me. But as I bent outside that ventilator yonder with my ear against it, I could have sworn that the person inside was engaged in shovelling earth—shovelling it into—a grave!"
A little shudder ran through me at the words; never was laughter farther from my thoughts.
"A grave!" I stammered. "But whose grave?"
"I don't know—Marcia Lawrence's, perhaps."
"Marcia Lawrence sailed on theUmbria."
"You don't know she did. You don't even believe she did."
"Whether she did or not, who would kill her, and why?"
"Ah, if you come to the why and wherefore, I can't answer you—not yet."
"Besides," I went on, "the writing on the message left at the West Street office was her writing."
"Perhaps it was only a good imitation—you can't be absolutely sure that you've ever seen a sample of her writing. There's nothing to prove that she wrote either the note or the message."
"But Curtiss identified them—he was sure the writing was hers."
"Curtiss wasn't in a condition to be sure of anything. But suppose it was hers. She may have wished to blind her mother and Curtiss completely—she may have wished them to think that she had really gone abroad—she must have foreseen that you would trace the telegram. She may have done all that before she came back here——"
"Came back here?" I repeated, suddenly finding a dozen arguments against my own theory of half an hour before. "Walk into the lion's jaws? Nonsense, Godfrey! Place herself in the power of the people who, I suppose you think, killed her!"
"I don't think they killed her," Godfrey said composedly. "My belief is that she killed herself to escape her husband—to get out of the tangle in which she'd involved herself."
"Her husband! You cling to the husband then, do you?"
"More than ever. He's an Italian—a tall, well-built, handsome fellow, with black eyes and a most becoming black moustache. He has a florid complexion and can speak English, though with a strong accent. He smokes cigarettes, which he rolls himself, and he has lost the tip of the little finger of his left hand. He's fond of music; perhaps himself a singer or musician, and it may have been as instructor that he first met Miss Lawrence——"
I had been staring at Godfrey open-mouthed; I could restrain myself no longer.
"But how do you know all this?" I gasped. "Or is it merely a fairy tale?"
"It's not in the least a fairy tale, my dear Lester. I know it because this estimable gentleman was himself in Elizabeth yesterday. The letter which Miss Lawrence received appointed a rendezvous at the Kingdon cottage. It was here she fled to see him—to buy him off, as she had done once before."
It was a moment before I fully understood the meaning of these extraordinary words. When I did understand them, I saw crumbling before me that elaborate structure which I had been at such pains to build—the structure founded upon the assumption of Miss Lawrence's innocence. She was only an adventuress, after all, then; or, more probably, only a weak woman, swayed by an ungovernable passion, risking everything rather than give up the man she loved; deceiving him, lying to him, taking the one desperate chance that lay within her reach; pausing at nothing so she might gain her end.
Or perhaps she had really believed that old mistake of hers buried past resurrection. She may have thought him dead, this fascinating scoundrel who had turned her girlish head. She may have thought herself free. But even then her skirts were not wholly clean. She should have told her lover; she should never have permitted this shadow to lie between them—this skeleton, ready at any moment to burst from its closet. But better far that it should burst out when it did, than wait until the sin was consummated; an hour later, and the shackles had been forged past breaking! If revenge on Marcia Lawrence was the object of the plot, the conspirators had overleaped themselves. They should have waited until the words were uttered which bound her to her second lover—then, had they sprung their trap, how they might have racked her!
One other thing I understood—and marvelled that I had not understood before. I saw what Mrs. Lawrence had meant by saying that the marriage was not impossible—that the obstacle could be cleared away—that it should be for Burr Curtiss to decide. But even he, I felt, would hesitate to take for his wife a woman just emerging from the shadow of the divorce court, however little she had been to blame for the tragedy which drove her there—more especially since he must see that from the very first she had not dealt fairly with him. A fault confessed may be forgiven; a fault discovered is a different thing.
She had not been brave enough to confess; she had not trusted him; she had deceived him. She had been guilty, guilty! Those were the words which sang and sang in my brain and would not be stilled.
Her face was a siren's face—beautiful, innocent, virgin-fresh; and her soul a siren's soul—merciless, selfish, hard. And I had fancied that the soul was like the face! I had not thought that a face like that could lie! Verily, of women I had much to learn!
"It was only by the merest accident I found it out," Godfrey was saying. "It was the policeman who was on duty at the Lawrence place yesterday morning who gave me the first hint. I'd already sounded him, as well as everybody else about the place, as to whether any strangers had been noticed loitering about, and they were all quite positive that no stranger had passed the gate or entered the grounds during the morning. After I left you, yesterday morning, I started back to the hotel to get my things together, and in the hotel office I happened to meet the policeman, whose name, it seems, is Clemley. He was off duty and seemed anxious to talk, so I took him in to the bar, and got him a drink, and pumped him a little on the off-chance of his knowing something he hadn't told me.
"'And you're still sure,' I asked him after a while, 'that no strangers went into the Lawrence house yesterday morning?'
"'Oh, yes, sir,' he answered. 'Perfectly sure. I was on duty there all the time, you know. There were a good many people around, but I knew them all. I've been a policeman here for twenty years, and there's mighty few people I don't know. The only stranger I noticed the whole morning was a fellow who stopped to ask me where Miss Kingdon lived.'
"You can guess, Lester, how my heart jumped when I heard that! Well, he described him about as I described him to you——"
"Even to his being a musician?" I asked.
"Well, no," Godfrey laughed. "That was a long shot of my own. But he told me the fellow was humming a tune all the time he wasn't talking. He came along just about eleven o'clock, and asked where Miss Kingdon lived; asked also what was going on at the Lawrence place, and seemed much interested in what the policeman told him. He rolled a cigarette and lighted it as he talked—rolled it, Clemley says, with one twist of his fingers, so expertly that Clemley marvelled at it. Finally he went on to the gate out yonder, and entered the yard. That was all Clemley saw."
"Did he see him come out again?"
"No—he's certain he didn't come out while he was on duty, which was till three o'clock in the afternoon. Of course, he may have left by some other way. He could have gone out by the alley at the back of the lot, if he'd wished to avoid being seen."
"And you believe Marcia Lawrence met him here?"
"I'm sure of it. There can be only one explanation of that letter—it demanded a price for silence; threatened exposure—at the church itself, perhaps, unless the money was paid. Miss Lawrence flew here with what jewels and money she could lay her hands on at the moment, gave them to him, and he left; or perhaps she only promised to reward him if he'd keep the secret—it's doubtful if she had money enough at hand to buy him off, for his demands wouldn't be modest. At any rate, she got rid of him for the moment. But after he had gone, she reflected that she would always be at his mercy, that she could never be Burr Curtiss's legal wife. Suppose she should return to the house and carry through the farce of a marriage ceremony, she would only be preparing for herself an agony of suffering even more terrible than that which she was then enduring. The time would surely come when she would be unmasked before her lover. She could bear anything but that. She decided to end it—but to end it in such a way that her secret would be safe forever. So she lured him away upon another trail, then returned here and——" He finished with a significant gesture at his throat.
I thought it over; then I shook my head.
"It won't do, Godfrey," I said. "It won't hold together. In the first place, how did this fellow know about the Kingdons? If he met Miss Lawrence here, they must be his accomplices."
"I believe they are."
"Granting that, I don't believe Miss Lawrence killed herself. I certainly don't believe any such fantastic theory as that Miss Kingdon is working away there in the cellar burying the body. Why should she incur such a risk as that?"
"I've asked myself the same question, depend upon it, Lester."
"And found an answer to it?"
"Not yet."
"Miss Lawrence is on board theUmbria," I repeated, trying to convince myself.
"Then what is Miss Kingdon doing in the cellar?"
"I don't know, but it's not what you think."
"Well," said Godfrey, rising suddenly, "I'm not going to theorise about it any longer—I'm going to find out."
"To find out?" I echoed, rising too.
"Yes—I'm going to enter the house."
"But you'll be committing a felony."
"Oh, I don't think I'll have to break in. I believe that door yonder is unlocked, Lester. Lucy Kingdon came out of it, and I'm pretty sure it hasn't been locked since."
"That makes no difference," I pointed out. "If you turn the latch, you are, legally, just as guilty as if you picked the lock."
"Well, I'm going to take the risk," and he stooped over and slipped off his shoes. "Suppose you stay here and give the alarm if any one comes."
"That would make me an accessory just as much as going along," I objected.
He laughed.
"Well, come along, then," he said, and started toward the house; then stopped and turned toward me. "Have you got a revolver?"
"No; I thought of buying one last night, but this morning it seemed ridiculous."
"I think it anything but ridiculous," said Godfrey quietly. "But perhaps it's just as well. A revolver is a dangerous thing for any man who isn't used to it to carry in his pocket. Now, move as silently as you can, and no talking—not even a whisper."
I have never quite understood the uncontrollable impulse which urged me forward. It was, I think, a feverish desire to know the truth, to solve this mystery once and for all; but over that, and stronger than that, was the longing to exonerate Miss Lawrence—to prove Godfrey in the wrong. I did not stop then to reason about it; my brain was in a whirl; but I somehow got my shoes off, and caught up with Godfrey just as he cautiously tried the door. It was unlocked; we slipped inside and closed it softly.
I fancy that I felt at that moment much as a thief feels who, having entered a house, pauses to find if he has been detected, and to determine the direction of his prey. But Godfrey seemed quite self-possessed. He drew from his pocket a small electric torch, and sent a slender beam of light quivering about the room. We were in a sort of entry between kitchen and dining-room; the kitchen door stood ajar; we opened it and passed through. Again I caught a faint gleam of light; Godfrey crossed the room softly, entered what I saw afterwards to be a pantry, and opened another door.
In an instant, a broad stream of yellow light poured through. It was the door to the cellar.
Godfrey lay down cautiously upon the floor, and slowly dropped his head through the opening. I was close behind him, and I caught a sound which sent a sudden chill through me—a sound of shovelling. There was no mistaking it—Godfrey had guessed right. I could hear the shovel scrape against the dirt; I could hear the dirt dropped into a hole——
Godfrey rose to his feet, motioned me to follow, and crept softly down the stair. Not until I was half-way down, did I perceive that the noise came not from the main cellar, but from a sort of recess concealed from us by an angle of the wall. I could see a head bobbing up and down, with the regular rhythm of the shovel, a head which I recognised as belonging to the elder Miss Kingdon.
We crept forward and gained the shelter of the other wall, when there came a sudden sound of footsteps overhead. In an instant the light was extinguished, and I heard the woman cross the cellar and go softly up the stairs. Then a door opened and shut heavily, a voice called her name, and the steps went on into the front part of the house.
My face was damp with perspiration, as Godfrey seized my hand and pulled me forward, shooting a ray of light before us, round the wall into the recess where Miss Kingdon had been labouring—only to pause, shudderingly, at the brink of a—grave?
It was impossible to tell. Certainly it was a hole which roughly resembled a grave, though its outlines were jagged and irregular. It was filled with loose earth to within about a foot of the level of the cellar floor. A pile of dirt was banked in one corner, and upon it lay a pick and shovel.
"Here," whispered Godfrey, and thrust the torch into my hands. "Keep your finger on this button. I'm going to find out what's buried here."
My hand was shaking so that I could scarcely hold the torch. I saw him seize the shovel and step down into the hole. Then with a little shake of his head, he laid it carefully down again, and, stooping, began scooping the loose dirt from one end of the hole with his hands. I scarcely breathed as I watched him. Whatwasburied here? What dreadful thing was about to be revealed?
"Steady, Lester!" whispered Godfrey, and bent again to his task.
But it was foolish to suppose this a grave! It might have been dug for any of a dozen purposes—perhaps the cellar needed draining—perhaps the pipes were out of order—perhaps—but if it had been dug for an innocent purpose why had Miss Kingdon chosen the middle of the night for the work?
Godfrey stopped with a sudden exclamation, and dropped upon his knees. He laboured for a moment with feverish energy.
"Now, Lester, here!" he said.
I bent down and shot a ray of light into the little hole which he had made. Then, in sheer terror, I nearly dropped the torch, for, half hidden by the clinging earth, lay a shoe—a shoe that was not empty!
For an instant I stood so, rigid with horror, scarcely breathing, scarcely daring to believe my eyes. Then Godfrey snatched the torch from my nerveless fingers, and bent down into the grave.
"Good God!" he murmured, after a moment's inspection of what lay there. "I would never have guessed this! This is a thousand times worse than I imagined! Here, Lester, hold the light. I'll uncover the face," and thrusting the torch into my hands, he attacked the loose earth at the other end of the grave.
I, too, moved somehow to the other end, and threw the light down into the shallow hole. Godfrey worked with desperate energy, hurling the dirt right and left. I watched the flying hands in such an agony of horror as I hope never again to experience; stared down into the deepening hole, with the cold sweat starting out across my forehead at the thought of what any instant might reveal.
Again Godfrey dropped to his knees, and I was conscious of a face growing beneath his hands, almost as if he were calling it out of the darkness. Clearer and clearer it grew, as he brushed away the clinging clay; then he stood erect with a little sigh of mingled horror and satisfaction.
Staring up at us was a face—not a woman's face—not Marcia Lawrence's face—but a man's face, florid, heavy-jowled, with a black moustache; dead, yet not calm in death, but contorted by a hideous grimace, as though chuckling with satisfaction.
"Miss Lawrence may, indeed, have sailed on theUmbria," murmured Godfrey, after a moment's silent contemplation of the ghastly countenance. "She had every reason to flee—to the earth's end, if possible. For she left her husband here!"
I could find no word of answer; my throat was dry, contracted; I felt that I was suffocating. So this was the secret! No wonder we had not guessed it!
"One can easily build up the story," went on Godfrey, in a voice carefully lowered. "She came here called by the note, desperate, ready for anything—ready even to kill the devil who'd written it. For he was a devil, Lester—look at his face!"
It was in truth, repellent enough—doubly repellent now with that triumphant leer upon it—cold and hard, with cruel lines about the mouth; a bloated face, too, marked by dissipation and bestiality. I shuddered at the thought that Marcia Lawrence may have once been in his power—that he had tried to drag her down from her sweet girlish innocence——
"He deserved it!" I said hoarsely. "He deserved it—and more!"
"Yes," agreed Godfrey, "no doubt he did. If she was ever in his hands, she must have suffered the torments of hell."
He fell silent a moment, staring down at the face.
"But I don't understand," I burst out, forgetting for a moment to lower my voice; "I can't understand——"
Godfrey laid his hand sternly upon my lips.
"Neither do I," he said; "but don't shout like that."
The words recalled me suddenly to a sense of our danger.
"We'd better get out of this," I whispered.
"Yes—and as soon as we can. We'll have to call in the police. Besides," he added grimly, "I've got to get off the story and it's getting late."
"The story?" I echoed, suddenly sick at heart.
"So far as I know it, Lester. There can be no doubt about this body, I suppose?"
A curious sound behind me, as of a dog panting for breath, sent a sudden chill through me. I raised the torch and sent a beam of light sweeping about the cellar. It rested for an instant on a face peering at us around a corner of the wall—a face so distorted, so demoniac, that it seemed scarcely human. Then there was a flash of flame, a report, and the torch crashed from my hand, while a gust of acrid smoke whirled into my face.
I felt Godfrey clutch me and pull me down beside him into the half-filled grave; I even fancied that I touched the staring face which lay there. In an agony of horror I struggled to free myself, to stand erect, ready to brave any danger rather than that, but he held me fast.
"Steady, Lester, steady," he whispered. "If she fires again, I'll drop her," and I knew that he held his revolver in his hand.
"Don't do that!" I gasped. "Don't do that! You've no right to do that!"
"I have the right to defend myself," retorted Godfrey grimly, and waited, his muscles tense.
But she did not fire again. Instead, there was a long, unbroken silence, during which, it seemed to me, I could feel my hair whitening on my head. I also became conscious of a stinging numbness in my right hand. Minute after minute passed, and still no sound came from the outer cellar. I felt that if the silence endured a moment longer, I should shriek aloud.
"Lie still," whispered Godfrey, at last, "and I'll try to find the torch. Did she hit you?"
"My hand feels numb."
"Let me see," and I felt his fingers touching it softly here and there. "It's just a scratch, I think. But wait till I find the torch."
I heard him groping about for it; then for a time all was still again. Suddenly, from an angle of the wall, a shaft of light shot about the cellar. It was empty.
"All right, Lester," said Godfrey's voice. "Let's have a look at the hand."
I got up unsteadily and went to him. A moment's examination showed that my wound was indeed only a scratch. The bullet had grazed the back of the hand and struck the wrist-bone a glancing blow.
"We'll have it dressed as soon as we can," said Godfrey. "And now the next thing is to get out of this place alive. Our enemy is probably lying in wait for us with a loaded gun at the top of the stairs. By the way, I caught only the merest glimpse of the face. Did you recognise it?"
"Yes," I said; "it was the elder Miss Kingdon."
Godfrey gave a little whistle.
"It looked positively devilish," he said. "It gave me the worst scare I've had for a long time. Did you notice the eyes, how they glared at us?"
"Yes," I said, and shivered a little.
"I confess I don't like the thought of going up those stairs," he went on, "but there's no other way out. This window's too small. So we'll have to chance it. Give me your hand."
I stretched out my uninjured hand. In an instant we were in darkness, and I knew that he had exchanged the torch for his revolver.
"Come on," he whispered, and we started forward.
At the foot of the stair we paused for a moment, listening; but no sound came from above. We mounted a step, two steps, three——
Suddenly I felt a convulsive pressure on my hand. From above came a quick succession of sharp taps, as of some one rapping with his knuckles upon the wall. It rose, fell, rose again——
Involuntarily we retreated to the foot of the stair and took refuge against the farther wall. The light flashed out again, and I saw Godfrey mopping his face with his handkerchief. As for myself, I was fairly bathed in perspiration.
"What was it?" I asked hoarsely.
"I don't know," Godfrey answered, in the same tone. "But I know one thing—if we stay down here much longer, we'll both of us lose our nerve completely. I'm going to make a dash for it," and he started for the cellar steps.
I followed him, clenching my teeth convulsively.
But again a sound from overhead stopped us—a quick step across the floor, the opening of a door, and then a scream so shrill, so agonised, that it made my heart stand still.
"Come on!" cried Godfrey, and dashed up the stair.
In an instant, we reached the top. The kitchen was dark, but a stream of light poured through the open door from the room beyond. We sprang to it. I saw it was the dining-room; a light stood on the table and for a second I thought the room was empty. Then my ear caught a kind of dry sobbing, which seemed to come from one corner.
In an alcove between the chimney and the wall was a closet. Its door was open and, as we peered into it, I saw a woman's figure clothed in white straining at some dark and heavy object.
Godfrey took but one glance at it.
"Good God!" he cried, and sprang into the closet. "Bring the light, Lester."
So shaken by I knew not what new horror that I could scarcely walk, I yet had self-control enough to obey. I tottered to the table, took up the lamp, and returned to the closet door. The rays of the light fell within, revealing the whole terrible scene—Lucy Kingdon and Godfrey holding up a figure clothed in black, a figure which swayed and wabbled, turning at last so that I caught a glimpse of the swollen, distorted face—the same face which had glared at us around a corner of the cellar wall.
How we got her down, I scarcely know. I dimly remembered bringing a chair for Godfrey and holding up the body for a dreadful instant while he severed the cord about the neck; but my first clear recollection is of her form upon a bed in the adjoining room, with Godfrey bending over her and Lucy Kingdon standing by with such a face of anguish and despair that, for the first time since I had known her, I found it in my heart to pity her.
She had snatched up some dark garment and thrown it over her night-dress, and she stood looking down at the limp form on the bed, with its hideous, staring face, as though struck to stone. All but her lips—they opened and shut, drinking the air in gasps, and from moment to moment she muttered to herself, "I should have known! I should have known! I should have known!"
At last Godfrey stood erect and turned to her, and his face was very tender.
"It's no use," he said gently. "Perhaps we'd better summon a physician; but he can do nothing."
For a moment she did not seem to understand; then she suddenly threw her black hair out of her eyes and fell on her knees beside the bed. She caught one dead hand to her and fondled it and kissed it; while a great wave of sobbing swept over her.
"I should have known!" she repeated. "I should have known! It was my fault!"
I shuddered. Was it her fault? Had she been false to Marcia Lawrence, and her sister true, and was this the result of that treachery?
At last she controlled herself and stood erect, still quivering, but fairly calm. And some of her old proud, disdainful spirit returned to her.
"This gentleman I know," she said, with a little gesture in my direction, after looking at us a moment. "You," she added to Godfrey, "I do not know."
"My name is Godfrey," he answered. "I'm a friend of Mr. Lester's."
"And what are you doing here?"
Not until then did I think of our strange appearance, shoeless, covered from head to foot with yellow clay, spotted here and there with the blood which had dripped from my wound—astonishing objects, truly, to burst in upon a woman in the middle of the night! Even Godfrey, ready in invention as was ever the wily Ulysses, found himself unable, for the moment, to explain.
"I suppose you were lurking about the house," she went on, her face darkening with sudden anger, "Mr. Lester, I know, has a fondness for doing that. No doubt you're also an amateur detective."
But Godfrey had got back his self-possession.
"Something of the kind," he admitted good-humouredly. "We heard you scream and rushed to your assistance."
"You were very kind!" she sneered; then her face changed. "The door was locked," she said. "I locked it when I came home. How did you get in?" She glanced through the dining-room and saw that the door was still closed.
"It wasn't locked at the time we entered," explained Godfrey coolly. "But that was nearly an hour ago. We were not lurking about the house, Miss Kingdon, when we heard you scream. We were in the cellar."
He was watching her keenly, but she showed no sign of understanding.
"In the cellar?" she repeated, and scanned our soiled clothes. "What were you doing there?"
"We were making some investigations," answered Godfrey composedly. "Your sister discovered us there and took a shot at my friend here," and he pointed to my bleeding hand. "Luckily her aim was bad. Didn't you hear the shot?"
"No," she said, staring from one to the other of us, her anger and insolence quite gone. "I heard no shot. I was asleep in the bed here—the door was closed. Why did she shoot at you? Did she take you for burglars?"
"No," said Godfrey, "I hardly think she took us for burglars."
"And yet you were burglars—she was justified in shooting."
"No doubt of that," Godfrey agreed. "We took the chance, and are not complaining."
"You had no business in the cellar. You have no business here. You're intruders. I don't wish you here. I insist that you leave."
"In a moment," said Godfrey.
"At once!" she cried, flushing darkly again. "Or I'll compel you to," and she made a motion toward the pillow of the bed.
"Oh, no, you won't, Miss Kingdon," protested Godfrey easily. "We won't consent to be shot at any more to-night. Wehavesome business here, and we're going to stay till it's completed. Since you didn't hear the shot, will you kindly tell us what it was awakened you? Please believe that we shall be glad to be of service to you. I fear you're going to stand in need of us before long."
She hesitated, still looking at him; but there was no resisting the stern kindness of his eyes, nor doubting that his warning was in earnest.
"I came home about half an hour ago," she began, "or perhaps it's longer than that——"
"Was your sister expecting you?"
"No; I had intended to stay with Mrs. Lawrence all night. But I found I wasn't needed, and so came home."
"The side door was unlocked?"
"Yes, and that surprised me for a moment."
"Was your sister here at the time?"
"She was in the yard—she came in a moment later."
Godfrey and I exchanged a glance, which Miss Kingdon intercepted.
"Wasn't she in the yard?" she demanded. "What is this mystery?"
"We'll tell you in a moment," said Godfrey; "but please let us hear your story first. You had been, you say, at the Lawrence house?"
"Yes; Mrs. Lawrence has been very nervous since Marcia disappeared. I had been sitting with her until she went to sleep. I met Mr. Lester there earlier in the evening," she added, and cast me a half-mocking glance.
"Yes, he told me," said Godfrey. "He's been having an exciting time to-night. Were you with Mrs. Lawrence last night?"
"Yes; I spent the entire night with her."
Again we exchanged a glance.
"And you say that you expected to stay there again to-night?"
"Yes; but my sister hasn't been well for the past two days, so, as soon as Mrs. Lawrence fell asleep and I found she wouldn't need me, I hurried home. I found Harriet very nervous and excited, and finally persuaded her to take a soothing draught and go to bed. I was so tired that I fell asleep almost at once, and I knew nothing more until I was awakened by what seemed to be a kind of drumming on the head-board."
She stopped, shuddering. We, too, had heard that drumming!
"Yes," said Godfrey. "Your bed, I see, is backed against the closet partition—tight against it. It no doubt makes a kind of sounding-board."
"I suppose that's it. I felt for Harriet and found she wasn't there. That startled me wide awake. Again I heard that drumming, and sprang out of bed, lighted the lamp, and rushed to the closet to find that she had——"
The words ended in a sob, which she tried in vain to repress. Godfrey bent again over the figure on the bed.
"She used what is evidently a curtain cord," he said. "Don't look at her, Miss Kingdon. The death is an easy one, whatever it may appear."
"But why did she do it?" demanded Lucy Kingdon. "Why should she get up in the middle of the night, like that, and hang herself? What impulse was it——"
She stopped suddenly, regarding us fixedly, her face livid, her eyes agleam.
"It was you!" she cried hoarsely, pointing an accusing finger. "She heard you in the cellar—you frightened her—you drove her to it!"
"That's nonsense, Miss Kingdon," broke in Godfrey sternly, "and you know it! How could we drive her to suicide?"
"What was it, then?" she demanded. "I've had enough of this mystery."
Godfrey looked at her keenly.
"You really don't know?"
She shook her head, staring mutely up at him, fascinated by the purpose in his face.
"She was deeply devoted to Miss Lawrence, wasn't she?"
"Yes."
"More devoted than you?"
A sudden flush overspread Lucy Kingdon's face, giving place in a moment to deadly pallor.
"Perhaps," she admitted hoarsely. "But that had nothing to do with it. That was no reason!"
"No," assented Godfrey; "not in itself. But it was at the bottom of it—for it led to something totally unforeseen."
She shook herself together.
"You're speaking in riddles," she said. "It's scarcely fair."
"Pardon me," said Godfrey instantly. "I don't want to be unfair. Come with me and I'll show you the cause of this act. Bring the lamp, Lester."
Together we crossed the kitchen to the door which gave entrance to the cellar stairs. It seemed to me that Miss Kingdon shrank back a little as she saw where we were taking her. But it may have been only my fancy. Certainly she followed promptly enough when Godfrey started down.
At the foot he paused.
"You've not been down here for some days, I take it, Miss Kingdon?" he asked.
"No," she answered, her eyes glancing from right to left. "I very seldom come down here. Harriet always attended to the household affairs. But I see nothing wrong."
"Come this way," and he passed around the angle of the wall into the recess.
"Some one has been digging," she said, as her eyes fell upon the heap of dirt.
"Yes; what was this recess for, Miss Kingdon?"
"We had intended placing a furnace here," she said, "but after the house was finished, we decided that a furnace wasn't needed. Who has been digging here? You?" and her eyes again examined our earth-stained clothes.
"It was your sister dug the hole, and then filled it again, as you see."
"My sister?"
"Yes—she worked at it last night, and again to-night, when she thought herself secure from interruption."
"But why?" she asked, in bewilderment.
"Because she had something to conceal. This hole is a grave, Miss Kingdon. See there."
He flashed a ray from his electric torch full upon the leering face staring up at us.
Lucy Kingdon gazed down at it for a moment with distended eyes. Then, with a deep sigh, she sank backward to the floor.
We carried her up the stair and placed her on a couch in the room where her sister lay.
"She's only fainted," Godfrey said. "Put some water on her face and chafe her hands. She'll soon come around. I must be off, or I'll miss my scoop, after all."
"All right," I agreed. "I'll wait here. You'd better notify the police."
"I will. But I'll get my shoes first," and he hurried out into the yard, while I got some cold water from the tap in the kitchen. "Here are yours, too," he said, coming back with both pairs. "You'd better put them on."
He had his own laced in a moment.
"I'll send the first officer I see," he promised, "and get back as soon as I can. But don't wait for me. Get to bed as soon as you can."
I heard his steps die away down the street, and turned back into the room where the two women lay. I was nearly dead for lack of sleep, and found myself nodding more than once, as I sat there by the couch bathing Lucy Kingdon's face. How Godfrey kept it up I could not understand, but sleep never seemed to have a place in any of his plans.
But as moment after moment passed, and Lucy Kingdon showed no sign of returning consciousness, growing alarm awakened me thoroughly. I soused her head and face and chafed her wrists, but with no perceptible effect. I could feel no pulse, could detect no respiration; perhaps this was something more serious than a mere fainting spell. I should have told Godfrey to summon a physician.
I was relieved at last to hear a step turn in at the gate, and a moment later a patrolman appeared at the door—a rotund and somnolent German, whose somnolency gave place to snorts of mingled terror and astonishment when he saw the two bodies.
"Mein Gott!" he ejaculated. "Two of t'em!"
"No; only one as yet," I corrected. "But there may be two if something isn't done to save this one pretty quick," and I bent again over Lucy Kingdon and chafed her hands.
"Hass she fainted?" he asked.
"That or just naturally dropped dead," I said. "She's been like this for fifteen or twenty minutes."
He came to the bed, stooped down, and pressed back one of her eyelids.
"She ain't dead," he said. "She's chust fainted. I know a trick," and before I could interfere, he gave her ear a cruel tweak.
"Why, you scoundrel!" I began, but a sigh from the couch interrupted me. I turned to see Lucy Kingdon's dark eyes staring up at me.
"You see," he said triumphantly. "I nefer knowed it to fail."
She stirred slightly, drew one hand across her eyes, then, with a long sigh, turned over on her side.
"Come on out here," I said in a low tone, "and don't disturb her. Sleep's the best thing for her now, if she can get it. Besides, I've something to show you," and picking up the lamp, I led the way to the kitchen and closed the door.
"Somet'ing else to show me?" he repeated, staring about at the walls.
"Yes; come along," and I started down the cellar stairs.
He followed me, breathing heavily. As I glanced over my shoulder I was amused to see that he had drawn his revolver.
"This way," I said, and stepped into the recess. "See there!"
He turned livid as he gazed down into the grave, and his hands and face grew clammy.
"Mein Gott!" he breathed. "Mein Gott!" and he returned his revolver to his pocket, took off his helmet and wiped his forehead with a shaking hand.
He said nothing more until we were back again in the kitchen. Then he looked at me with glassy eyes.
"But who's t'e murderer?" he demanded. "Where's t'e guilty party?"
"I don't know," I answered. "That's for you to find out. As for me, I'm going to bed."
"Wait a minute," he said, detaining me, as I started for the door. "Who was t'at feller who told me to come here?"
"He was a reporter named Godfrey. He had nothing to do with it."
"But somebody must be arrested for t'is," and he looked at me in a way that was most suggestive.
"Well, you're not going to arrest me," I retorted.
"What's t'at on your hand?" he asked, and caught my wrist and held it to the light.
"It's blood," I said; "but it's my own," and then I was again suddenly conscious of my strange appearance, and realised how unaccountable my presence in this house must seem. "Oh, well," I said, "there's no use to waste time arguing about it. I suppose you're right in holding me. Go call your chief. I'll explain things to him."
"I can't leave you here," he protested. "T'e patrol box is at t'e corner."
"All right; I'll go with you," I agreed. "I don't want to escape," and I accompanied him to the box, and waited while he called up headquarters, and sent in a brief but highly-coloured version of the tragedy.
Then we walked back to the house together. As we approached it, I was startled to see a shadow flit across the kitchen blind.
"She mustn't go down there again," I said, and flung open the door.
Lucy Kingdon was standing with her hand on the knob of the door which led to the cellar. She started around at my entrance, and stared at me, but I saw no light of recognition in her eyes.
"Don't go down there," I said gently. "You'd better lie down again."
She permitted me to lead her back to the couch without protest or resistance.
"Try to rest," I said. "There's nothing you can do. You must be strong for to-morrow."
She lay down as obediently as a child, and closed her eyes. Her lips moved for a moment; but at last I was relieved to note by her regular breathing that she had apparently fallen asleep.
I returned to the dining-room and closed the door between, so that the light and noise might not disturb her.
"Here t'ey are!" cried the patrolman, who had stationed himself at the outer door, and I heard a wagon rattle up in front of the house.
Then half a dozen policemen came pouring into the yard, headed by a man with grey hair and heavy black moustache, whom I saw to be the chief. He stopped for a moment to listen to the story the patrolman had to tell, then he turned sharply to me.
"Of course you'll have to explain your presence here," he began.
"My name's Lester; if you doubt it, here's my card," I said, cutting him short. "Mr. Godfrey and I suspected something was wrong here. We looked into it and found much more than we bargained for."
"Who's Mr. Godfrey?"
"The man who sent your patrolman here."
"How did you get so dirty?"
"Uncovering the dead man in the cellar."
"And your hand seems to be wounded."
"Yes; Harriet Kingdon shot me before she hanged herself."
"She discovered you in the cellar?"
"Yes."
He looked at me a moment longer without speaking.
"It's hardly probable," I added, "that if my friend and I had been guilty of any crime, he'd have stopped to warn the police, and I'd have waited here for you to come and take me."
"That's true," he assented; "but I don't quite see what your business was here."
"My friend's a reporter on the New YorkRecord," I explained.
"Oh, a reporter!" he repeated, instantly drawing the inference which I hoped he would. "That explains it. But, of course, Mr. Lester, you, as a lawyer, know that you had no right to enter a house in that way. It was your duty to inform the police."
"There are emergencies," I protested, "in which one must take affairs into one's own hands."
"I admit that; but whether this was one of them——"
"Doesn't it look as if it was?" I asked.
"Well, that's not for me to decide. I understand you're staying at the Sheridan?"
"Yes—at least, I was staying there yesterday. I gave up my room, not knowing that I'd need it again. I'm about dead for sleep."
He pondered for a moment, looking at my card.
"How do I know this is really your name?" he asked.
"You don't know it," I retorted, growing suddenly impatient. "But I'll have a dozen people down from New York to identify me, if you doubt it. Meanwhile, let me go to bed."
"All right," he said, pocketing the card with sudden decision. "But it will have to be under guard. I don't want to place you under arrest, but at the same time I can't run the risk of letting you get away. You've no objection to the company of an officer?"
"None whatever, if he'll only let me sleep."
"All right. But you'd better have that hand dressed before you turn in. We brought a doctor along on the off-chance of needing him. Suppose you let him look at it."
"Thank you," I assented, and the doctor was summoned.
"It's not in the least serious," he assured me, after a moment's examination, and the wound was soon washed and bandaged.
"That feels better," I said, as he pressed the last strip of plaster into place. "Now I'm ready for bed."
"Sherman," said the chief to one of his men, "go with this gentleman. Don't let him out of your sight till you hear from me. Let him go to bed, if he wants to, and don't disturb him; but if he tries to escape, stop him if you have to shoot him."
I did my best to repress a smile, and succeeded in turning it into a yawn. After all, there was no need to offend these fellows unnecessarily, and the chief was undoubtedly right in thinking me not entirely clear of suspicion. So Sherman and I went down the street together, in the grey light of the dawn—the second consecutive one that I had witnessed—and we rather astonished the night clerk at the Sheridan by mounting together to the room which was assigned to me. My guardian sat down against the door, after assuring himself that escape by the window was impossible. As for me, I tumbled into bed as quickly as I could and fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow.
I was awakened by some one roughly shaking me. I protested, fought against it, but in vain. At last I opened my eyes, and saw that my persecutor was Godfrey.
"Come, Lester," he said, "you've been sleeping ten hours. It's time you were turning out."
I sat up in bed and rubbed my eyes. Then suddenly I remembered.
"Where's my jailer?" I asked, looking at the empty chair by the door.
"Oh, I cleared all that up. I didn't realise at first how suspicious our actions might seem, and how hard it would be to explain them."
"It was lucky I didn't have to spend the night in jail," I laughed. "Are those my trousers?"
"Yes; I had them cleaned—and they needed it. I had a hard time getting my special off—the operator took me for a tramp—and no wonder."
"Were you in time?"
"Oh, yes; and a lovely scoop it was. The town's full of special men, now, trying to work up the story."
"And how are they succeeding?"
"They're winding themselves up in the worst tangle you ever saw——"
"But you——"
"I'm tangled, too. That's one reason I woke you, Lester. I want to talk to you."
"But surely," I said, "Lucy Kingdon can tell——"
"Lucy Kingdon is delirious, threatened with brain fever. The whole affair is a deeper mystery than ever."
A cold plunge wiped away the last vestiges of sleepiness, and ten minutes later, I joined Godfrey in the dining-room, where he had ordered lunch for both of us, and where we could talk undisturbed, since we were its only occupants.
"I've been up only a few minutes myself," he began as I sat down. "But I didn't get to bed till nearly noon. There was too much to do, this morning."
"Tell me about it," I said. "I'm anxious to hear the developments."
"There aren't any."
"But you've cleared up the mystery of the murder?"
"Cleared it up! My dear Lester, we haven't been able to take the first step toward clearing it up! We know the unknown was shot, but as to who shot him, and why, we're utterly at sea."
"Once establish his identity——"
"That's just what we can't do. But perhaps I'd better tell you the whole story."
"Yes, do," I said. "That's what I want to hear."
"Well," he began, "after I left you, I hurried downtown toward the telegraph office, and it wasn't until I'd gone quite a way that I met a patrolman. I stopped just long enough to tell him that he was needed at the Kingdon place, for my time was getting short, and I couldn't afford to waste a minute. It wasn't until afterwards that I thought of the equivocal position you'd be in when the police arrived."
"I was certainly under suspicion," I laughed, "but there was no harm done."
"After I got off my message, I stopped here at the hotel, and cleaned up, for I was really a sight. I learned from the clerk that you'd already arrived in custody of a policeman. I peeped in at you, and found you sleeping like a log, not disturbed in the least by the presence of the sentinel."
"The result of a clear conscience," I pointed out.
"So I told the cop, after he'd related your adventure with the chief. Then I hurried back to the Kingdon place, and found that the coroner had just arrived. He's an ambitious young fellow, named Haynes, and is cleverer than the run of coroners. I introduced myself, told him what I knew of the case and of your connection with it, and persuaded him to recall the officer who was guarding you."
"The only thing that bothered me," I said, "was to explain our presence in the house. How did you do it?"
Godfrey laughed.
"Oh, easily enough. We yellow journalists, you know, bear the reputation of pausing at nothing. We're also credited with a sort of second sight when it comes to nosing out news. I encouraged Haynes to believe that I possessed both these characteristics. I dwelt upon the suspicious circumstance of the light in the cellar, and led him to think that we saw from the outside considerably more than we really did see. I didn't tell him the whole truth, because I didn't want him to connect this affair in any way with Miss Lawrence's disappearance. I want to work that out for myself—it's my private property."
I nodded; neither did I desire that Miss Lawrence's name should be connected with this tragedy—not, at least, until there was some positive evidence against her. And I hoped against hope, knowing Godfrey's persistence and cleverness, that no such evidence would be found.
"After I'd convinced the coroner of our disinterested motives," continued Godfrey, "we went down to the cellar together, and, with the help of a couple of policemen, dug up the body. One of the policemen happened to be Clemley, who'd been stationed at the Lawrence place, and he identified the man at once as the one who had asked him the way to the Kingdon house. We got him out—and a good load he was—stripped back his clothes, and found that he'd been shot in the breast. The wound was a very small one, and there had been little external bleeding. There were no burns upon the clothing, so the shot was fired from a distance of at least five feet. The police surgeon ran in his probe, and found that the bullet had passed directly through the heart, so that death was instantaneous. From the expression of the face, I should say that the victim had no suspicion of his danger—you remember that leer of self-satisfaction. The course of the bullet was downward, which would seem to indicate that he was sitting in a chair at the time, while his murderer was standing up. He had been dead more than twenty-four hours. The clay of the cellar was nearly as hard as rock, which accounts for the fact that Harriet Kingdon was so long getting him buried."
"And it was she who fired the shot," I said, with conviction. "Marcia Lawrence had nothing to do with it."
"Do you believe Lucy Kingdon knew anything about it?" he asked, looking at me keenly.
"No—I'm sure she didn't."
"Then you apparently believe that one woman of only ordinary strength could handle a body which taxed two strong men to lift! I tell you, Lester, Harriet Kingdon unaided couldn't have taken that body to the cellar and laid it in that grave. If Lucy Kingdon didn't aid her, who did?"
"I don't know," I answered. "But it wasn't who you think."
"Well, I hope it wasn't—but I don't see any other way out."
"You don't know all the facts, yet," I pointed out. "And I'm not so sure that Harriet Kingdon couldn't have handled the body alone. She didn't have to lift it, but just drag it down the stairs and tumble it into the hole. She could have done that, and removed the traces afterwards."
"But the body wasn't tumbled into the hole—it was laid in. Did you notice its position—the feet were toward the inner wall. Do you suppose she'd have dragged him by his legs?"
"She might have done anything, in her excitement," I persisted doggedly. "You can't reason about what a woman would do under such circumstances."
"Perhaps not," Godfrey admitted; "but Haynes was struck with the idea, too, that Harriet Kingdon must have had an accomplice. He believes, of course, that the accomplice was her sister. I let him keep on believing so—she can clear herself easily enough when the time comes; but just at present I want him to think he knows the whole story."
"Yes," I agreed, "that's the best—keep the bomb from bursting as long as you can."
"I'm not keeping it from bursting; but I can't explode it until I get it properly charged. I see you're hoping I never will."
"Not with that charge!" I said fervently.
"Well, we won't talk about it now," said Godfrey, smiling at my earnestness. "After the coroner had looked over the ground and got his data, we lugged the body upstairs and examined it. It was that of a man of about fifty, well-preserved, but showing marks of dissipation. The tip of the little finger on his left hand was missing, as Clemley had said. From his complexion, hair, and general appearance I should say that he was undoubtedly an Italian. I've already told you how he was killed."
"And you couldn't identify him."
"No."
"Nothing in his clothes—no letter, or anything of that sort?"
"Not a thing. There was some loose money in the trousers pockets, a knife, a small comb, and a few other odds and ends, but no watch nor pocketbook nor papers. However, I believe there had been. I fancied that the inside pocket of the coat had been turned out and then hastily shoved in again. One of the vest buttons was unbuttoned, and the lower left-hand pocket of the vest certainly showed that a watch had been carried in it."
"You mean these things had been removed?"
"I certainly do."
"But what was the motive of it all?" I demanded desperately.
"I don't know; I can't see clearly; but I'm sure of one thing, and that is that it will lead back to Marcia Lawrence."
"I don't believe it!" I retorted. "I don't——"
The door opened and the clerk came in.
"Somebody wants you at the 'phone, Mr. Lester," he said; "long distance," and he led the way to the booth.
It was Mr. Royce, and not until that moment did I remember that my absence from the office was unexplained.
"Iwasa little worried at first," he said, in answer to my question, "but when I saw that special from Elizabeth in theRecordthis morning, I began to understand, especially when I called up your landlady, and found you'd left the house in a hurry last night after getting a telegram."
"Yes, it was from Godfrey."
"What's up? The clerk down there told me this morning that you'd come in about daybreak looking like you'd been digging a sewer, and that a policeman was guarding you in your room."
"Yes, I was suspected of murder for a while, but I'm not under guard any longer. I'll get back to the office as soon as I can."
"Oh, take your time—I'm getting along fairly well. Of course I've read the papers—there's no connection between this affair and that other one, is there, Lester?"
"Godfrey thinks so," I answered, glancing around to make sure that the door of the booth was securely closed. "He thinks the dead man was Miss L.'s husband, and half believes she killed him."