“Never! Everybody says her fear of the things would never let her have it put on her willingly.”
“I know they say so, but they may be mistaken. I’m beginning to evolve a theory that will fit the facts, queer as they are. But my theory needs a whole lot of other facts to back it up, and those facts I can’t seem to find.”
“Does your theory implicate Miss Stuart?”
“It does not.”
“I thought not.”
“You thought quite right. It does not implicate Miss Stuart, because she is in no way responsible for her aunt’s death. But she may have knowledge, or she may think she has, that is leading her to shield somebody else.”
“Whom?”
“I don’t know. She is rather a puzzling creature. Is she—is she in love with that cousin of hers?”
“Haviland?”
“No, the one in Egypt.”
“Oh, Loria. I don’t know, I’m sure. You read his letter to her, it wasn’t in any sense a love-letter.”
“No, but it was evidently a letter written with the idea of other people reading it, because of the circumstances. Of course, he wouldn’t put any intimate talk in it. And it was typewritten, so I couldn’t judge anything of the man from his chirography.”
“Does handwriting mean much to you?”
“Yes, indeed. It is a wonderful expression of character. But I don’t suppose it would declare his adoration of a lady, unless he put it in words also.”
“You don’t connect Loria with the crime in any way, do you?”
“I don’t see how I can, unless in collusion or through the assistance of Miss Stuart. And I’m not ready to do that. I’m working now on that conversation overheard by Miss Frayne.”
“You accept that whole, then?”
“Yes, for the simple reason that she would not have invented all that talk. Even if she were in the room herself, and the remarks were addressed to her, she might be trying to lay the blame elsewhere; to create that conversation out of her own brain is too preposterous. You see, Hardy, these things must be weighed in the balance of probability. If Miss Frayne had set out to invent a lot of stuff which she merely pretended to overhear, she would have had two sides to the conversation. It is that unusual effect of one voice only that gives her story the stamp of truth.”
“But there must have been another voice, even though inaudible to her.”
“That’s just the point. There may have been,—probably was. But if the story was her own invention, she never would have thought of representing that second voice as inaudible. Now, either she did hear Miss Carrington say those things, or she didn’t. I believe she did, because if she hadn’t, she must have invented the tale, and if she had invented it, it would have been different. Likewise, Miss Stuart’s snake story. If it were not true that her aunt asked her to buy that snake, Miss Stuart must have made up that yarn. And if she had made it up, it would have been different. That’s always my test for the truth of an amazing statement. If the teller were falsifying, would he tell it that way? If so, then it is probably a lie: if not, then probably it is a true bill. Now they say Miss Carrington had a high, shrill voice. Did you ever hear it, Hardy?”
“No. I never knew the lady. But I’ve heard a record of it on the phonograph, and it is high, and rather thin.”
“On the phonograph? How does that happen?”
“Gray Haviland is a dabster at that sort of thing, and he has people sing for him and make records frequently. And once I heard that they had a record of the dead woman’s singing, and I asked to hear it, merely out of curiosity or a general interest. And it contained some spoken words too, and her speaking voice is high and shrill, just such as would carry through a closed door. You can, of course, hear the record, if you care to.”
“I do care to. I’ll make a note of that. Now, here’s another thing. Miss Stuart has declared that she obliterated a footprint which was noticeable in that powder scattered by the dressing-table.”
“Yes, I know it. And Haviland states that it was he who wiped out that print! What do you make of that?”
“That Haviland did do it, and Miss Stuart fibbed about it to shield Haviland.”
“Oh, so it’s Haviland you think Miss Pauline is shielding?”
“I think it may be; at any rate, she suspects some one dear to her and——”
“You’re ’way off, Mr. Stone! If you’ll excuse my saying so, Miss Stuart has pulled the wool over your eyes until you don’t know where you’re at.”
Fleming Stone gasped. Pulled wool over his eyes! Over the eyes, the gimlet eyes, the all-seeing eyes of Fleming Stone! What could the man mean? And this so-called wool pulled by a woman! What unheard-of absurdity!
“Mr. Hardy,——” he began.
“Yes, yes, I know. Nothing of the sort, and all that. But it’s true, Mr. Stone. Miss Stuart is a siren from Sirenville. She can make any man think black is white if she chooses. And she has been bullied and cowed by that old aunt of hers for years, and for my part, I don’t blame her for getting to the end of her rope. If she——”
“Stop! Mr. Hardy, I know you think you’re right, but you are not! Do you hear, you are not! And I’ll prove it to you, and that soon! I’ll ferret out this thing, and I’ll do it on this new theory of mine whether you believe it or not!”
Hardy looked at the man in amazement. He had expected a different mode of procedure from this talented sleuth. He had looked for a quiet, even icy, demeanor, and magical and instantaneous solution of all mystery. And here was the great man, clearly baffled at the queerly tangled web of evidence, and, moreover, caught in the toils of a woman whom Hardy fully believed to be the criminal herself.
But he only said quietly, “What way does your theory point, Mr. Stone? I may be able to help you.”
“You can’t, Hardy, because you’re so determined to find Miss Stuart guilty that you couldn’t see it as I do. You consider the strange features of this case—and Lord knows theyarestrange!—separately, whereas they must be looked at as a whole. The gown, the quantity of jewelry, the smiling face, the glove, the overheard conversation,—all these points are to be considered as of one import,—as leading to one conclusion. And you think of them as implicating—separately, mind you—Miss Stuart, Miss Frayne, and the noble Count. Now, all those queer points are not only connected, but identical in their significance. But never mind that. Here’s the place to begin. Miss Carrington was poisoned. She didn’t poison herself. Who did?”
“Mr. Stone, you have put it tersely. I entirely agree that all we are seeking is the answer to that last question of yours.”
“I will yet give it to you,” and Fleming Stone spoke solemnly rather than boastingly. “The poison, the aconitine, was taken by Miss Carrington as she sat there at her own dressing-table. She took it willingly, smilingly,——”
“Yes, because she didn’t know she was taking it. When she ate the sandwich——”
“The poison wasn’t in the sandwich. She took that poison in water. The tumbler and spoon that were used are even now on the glass shelf in her bath-room.”
“You know this?”
“I know that in the glass that now stands there a chemist has found a slight trace of aconite. I took the glass myself to be tested, with that result. This is not a great discovery, it merely proves that the poison was administered in water, not in a sandwich.”
“But it also means that it was given to her by some one who could persuade her to take the solution, unquestioningly,—not under compulsion.”
“It would seem so.”
“And that points to Miss Stuart.”
“Not necessarily. Hardy, I refuse to discuss these things with you if you avow everything to condemn her. Why does what I have just told you point to Miss Stuart any more than any one else in the house? Why not Miss Frayne? Or Haviland?”
“Pshaw! Nobody suspects Gray Haviland.”
“But why not? If you’re merely suspecting here and there without definite reason, why not include him on your list? And here’s another thing. Whoever mixed that poison in the glass of water, afterward rinsed the glass and returned it to its place in the bath-room? This was either done at the time, that is, before the lady died, or later on, after death had ensued. In either case, it opens up a field of conjecture.”
“It doesn’t with me,” said Hardy, bluntly. “There’s no room for conjecture. It simply piles up the proof against Miss Stuart, and all your skill and even your will can’t get her off.”
A low moan was heard and a sound as of a falling body. Stone sprang to the door, and flinging it open, disclosed Pauline lying on the floor where she had just fallen. With a low exclamation, Stone picked her up and carried her to a couch. In a moment she sat up and cried, “What do you mean, Mr. Hardy? Do you think I killed Aunt Lucy?”
“There, there, Miss Stuart, don’t ask foolish questions,” and Hardy, deeply embarrassed, stood at bay. It was one thing to assert his suspicions to Fleming Stone, and quite another to have them overheard by this beautiful and indignant girl.
“How dare you!” Pauline went on. “I was at the door and I heard all you said. No, I am not ashamed of listening, I’m glad I did. Now I know what I have to fight against! And you, Mr. Stone, do you think me a murderer?”
Pauline cringed not at all. She looked more like an avenging goddess, as she confronted the two men, and her blazing eyes and frowning face challenged their replies.
“I do not, Miss Stuart,” said Stone, quietly, but Pauline responded, “How do I know? If you did, you’d say you didn’t! I have no friend, no one to stand up for me. I shall send for Carr. He will defend me.”
With a disdainful glance round, she left the room. The two men looked at one another.
“Guilty,” said Hardy.
“Never!” said Stone, and then the two went their different ways.
Hardy’s way led to the Police Headquarters, and his report there, which included Stone’s story of the tested glass, was heard with interest.
He demanded Miss Stuart’s immediate arrest, claiming that only she could have persuaded her aunt to swallow the poisoned draught.
Inspector Brunt was not quite willing to order arrest, but he set machinery at work which he hoped would bring decisive results of some sort.
It did.
That same evening, Pauline went to Fleming Stone. The two were alone. Standing before him, in all her somewhat tragic beauty, Pauline asked: “You don’t think me guilty, Mr. Stone?”
He looked deep in the great, dark eyes that seemed to challenge his very soul, and after a moment’s steady glance, he replied, “I know you are not, Miss Stuart.”
“Can you prove it?”
“I hope to.”
“That means nothing. Are you sure you can?”
Fleming Stone looked troubled. Never before in his career had he been unable to declare his surety of success; but with those compelling eyes upon him he couldn’t deny a present doubt.
Shaking himself, as if to be freed from a spell, he said, at last, “Miss Stuart, I amnotsure. I am convinced of your innocence, but the only theory of guilt that I can conceive of is so difficult, so almost impossible of proof, and so lacking in plausibility, that it seems hopeless. If determination and desperate effort can do it, you shall be exonerated. But there are many circumstances not in your favor. These I shall overcome, eventually. But, to be honest, until I can get a clue or a link of some sort to join my purely imaginative theory to some tangible fact, I can do little. I am working day and night in my efforts to find this connection I seek, but it may take a long time. Meanwhile——”
“Meanwhile, I may be arrested?” Pauline’s voice was a mere whisper; her face was drawn and white with fear. To Stone she did not look like a guilty woman, but like an innocent girl, frightened at thought of unjust suspicion and terrorized by imagination of the unknown horrors that might come to her.
“Oh, help me!” she moaned, “Mr. Stone, can’t you help me?”
“Pauline!” he exclaimed, taking her hands in his; “Pauline! Go!” he cried, tensely: “I will save you, but until I do, keep away from me! You unnerve me! I cannot think!”
“I understand!” and Pauline slowly drew her hands from his. “I will keep away from you.”
Stone let her go. He closed the door after her, locked it, and threw himself into a chair. What had he done? Full well he knew what he had done. Hardy was right. He had fallen in love with Pauline Stuart! He realized it, quietly, honestly, as he would have realized any incontrovertible fact. His subconsciousness was that of a deep, still gladness; but, strangely enough, his surface thought was that since he had fallen in love with her, so undeniably, so irrevocably, shemustbe innocent.
Then on the heels of this thought, came another, equally logical: if he deemed her innocent, was it not only because he loved her?
It was only after an hour of deep thought that Fleming Stone pulled himself together and realized with a conquering assurance, that he could go on with the case, and do his duty. If, as he was confident, he could prove his vague theory to be fact, then his love for Pauline would help him to good work and triumphant conclusions. If, instead, his further investigations showed his theory to be false, then he must push on, and if—it couldn’t be, but if—well,—he could always drop the case. But,—and of this he was certain,—his heart should not only be kept from interfering with the work of his head but it should help and encourage such desperately clever work that success must come.
Pauline did not appear at dinner that night, and on inquiry, Stone was told she had gone over to New York for a day or two.
This, then, was what she had meant when she said, “I will keep away from you.”
The next day came District Attorney Matthews to interview Miss Stuart. Her absence from home annoyed him and he asked for her New York address. This no one knew, as she had not informed any of them where she was staying in the city, and Mr. Matthews went off in a state of angry excitement. But the household at Garden Steps was even more excited.
For this was the first sign of a definite action against Pauline. What it meant or how far it would go, no one could say.
And then, that afternoon, came a letter from Pauline herself. It had been mailed in New York that morning and contained the surprising news that Pauline had sailed at noon that day for Alexandria.
“Get her back!” roared Haviland, as he read the letter. “Wireless the steamer and make her get picked up by some incoming ship! Don’t think of expense! She musn’t run off like that! It’s equivalent to confession of the crime!”
“Hush!” demanded Fleming Stone. “How dare you say that?”
“It’s true!” cried Anita. “Why else would Pauline run away? She knew she was on the verge of arrest and she fled to Carr Loria. He will hide her from her pursuers.”
“He can,” said Haviland, thoughtfully: “maybe it’s as well she’s gone there. Of course, she did it.”
“Of course, she didn’t!” and Fleming Stone’s voice trembled in its very intensity. “And I shall prove to a lot of dunder-headed police that she didn’t, but it will make my work much harder if you two insist on Miss Stuart’s guilt. Why do you want to railroad her into conviction of a crime she never dreamed of?”
“Then who did it?” demanded Anita. “To whomwasMiss Lucy speaking when she said those things I heard?”
“If you harp on that string much longer,” said Stone, looking at her, “one might almost be justified in thinking she said them to you.”
“No,” said Anita, in a low, awed voice, and looking straight at Fleming Stone, “no, she did not say them to me.”
And Stone knew she spoke the solemn truth.
But she had not spoken the truth when she said she saw Pauline Stuart coming from the boudoir of her aunt.
Pauline’s flight was deemed by many a confession of guilt. The District Attorney declared his intention of cabling a command to hold her for examination at Alexandria. Or, he said, perhaps it would be better to intercept her course at Gibraltar or Naples.
The people at Garden Steps paid little attention to these suggestions, so absorbed were they in planning for themselves.
“Poor child,” said Haviland, “she ran away in sheer panic. You don’t know Pauline as we do, Mr. Stone; she is brave in the face of a present or material danger. When a gardener’s cottage burned, she was a real heroine, and saved a tiny baby at risk of her own life. But always a vague fear or an intangible dread throws her into a wild, irresponsible state, and she loses her head utterly. Now, I may as well own up that I do think Polly committed this deed. I think that she had stood Aunt Lucy as long as she possibly could, and you’ve no idea what the poor child had to put up with. I think that when Lady Lucy threatened to send Pauline away, homeless and penniless, this panic of fear overcame her and she gave that poison, on an impulse,——”
“But,” interrupted Stone, “that would imply her having the poison in readiness. She couldn’t procure it at a moment’s notice.”
“That’s so,” agreed Haviland, thoughtfully; “but, even so, it’s my belief that that’s the way it all happened. How Pauline got the stuff I’ve no idea, but there’s no other explanation that fits the facts. Aunt Lucy’s aversion to drugs or medicines could have been overcome by few people, but Pauline could have wheedled her into taking it by some misrepresentation of its healing qualities or something like that.”
“It must have been under some such misapprehension that she took it,” said Stone. “For I’m convinced she took it dissolved in a glass of water, and therefore, was conscious of the act, though not of the nature of the dose. But couldn’t Miss Stuart have given it innocently by mistake, as a headache powder, or——”
“Miss Carrington never had headaches,” returned Anita, “and, any way, Pauline couldn’t make such a mistake. It isn’t as if Miss Carrington had a medicine cabinet like other people, where drugs might get mixed up. No, Mr. Stone, there was no mistake.”
“You think Miss Stuart administered the poison purposely, to kill her aunt?”
It would have been a brazen soul indeed, that could have spoken falsely under the piercing gleam in Fleming Stone’s eyes then.
“I am forced to think that,” replied Anita, quietly. “And you know I was present when Miss Carrington denounced Pauline and told her to leave this house the next day. And I also heard Miss Carrington when she said, later, that half her fortune should not go to a niece who treated her as Pauline did——”
“Would she have used those words in speaking to Miss Stuart?” asked Stone, pointedly.
“Surely she would. Why not?”
“Never mind all that, ’Nita,” said Haviland. “Polly’s gone,—run away,—and it’s up to us to do all we can to help her. If her flight means she’s guilty, never mind, we must stand up for her, and deny anything that incriminates her. If she did poison Aunt Lucy, we don’t want her convicted of it. She’ll go straight to Loria, and he’ll look out for her all right. But if we find anybody’s going to head her off at Naples, or anywhere, we must warn her and help her to thwart their plans.”
“Accessory after the fact—” began Stone.
“Sure!” said Haviland. “You bet we’ll be accessories after the fact, to help Polly out! Why, Mr. Stone, if she did this thing, the best possible plan for her was to vamoose, just as she did do. Carr Loria can hide her in Egypt, so nobody can find her, and after a while——”
“Mr. Haviland,” and Stone’s eyes gleamed, “I am surprised at your attitude. How can you so easily take Miss Stuart’s guilt for granted?”
“No other way out. Now, look here, Mr. Stone, neither Miss Frayne nor I did this thing. We weren’t tied to Miss Carrington’s apron strings. We could walk off and leave her if we chose. But Miss Stuart couldn’t. Her life was a perfectly good hell on earth. I know all about it, a lot more, even, than Miss Frayne does. I don’t quite say I don’t blame Polly, but I do say I quite understand it. She is an impulsive creature. She’ll stand an awful lot and then fly all to pieces at some little thing that sets her nerves on edge. She’s clever as the Devil, and if she procured that aconite, long ago, say, it was in anticipation of some time when she—well, when she just reached the limit. And it happened to come that night. That’s all.”
“Wrong, Mr. Haviland, all wrong!” and Stone’s face was positively triumphant. “I’ve found an additional hint, in what you’ve just said, and I’m convinced I’m on the right track! One more question, Miss Frayne, about that conversation you so luckily overheard.”
“Luckily?” said Anita, her great blue eyes showing alarm in their startled gaze.
“Surely! Most fortunate, to my mind. Indeed, it may well be that that carefully exact memorandum of yours may be the means of clearing Miss Stuart of all suspicion. Now, tell me this. You heard only Miss Carrington’s voice, as if speaking to somebody. Did it sound as if she spoke always to the same person, or to more than one at the different times?”
“Well, it did sound as if she spoke to different persons, but it couldn’t have been so. Surely, if there had been more than one I must have heard some other words than her own.”
“Never mind your own surmises. You say, it seemed as if she addressed more than one person. Why?”
“Because she used a different intonation. At times angry, at times loving. But this is only an impression, as I now look back in memory. I haven’t thought about this point before.”
“Nor need you think of it again. You have told me all I want to know, and I assure you it will be of no use for you to mull this over or give it another thought.”
“But I don’t want you to think, Mr. Stone,” and Anita began to cry, “that I want to suspect Pauline——”
“I am not considering your wishes in the matter,” said Stone, coldly. “If you do not want to think Miss Stuart implicated in this matter, your words and actions are unintelligible to me, but they are equally unimportant, and I have neither time nor thoughts to waste on them.”
With this somewhat scathing speech, Stone went away, leaving the angry Anita to be comforted by Haviland.
“What did he mean?” she cried, her cheeks pink with anger, and her blue eyes shining through tears. “Gray, does he suspect me?”
“No, Anita, of course not. But he’s on a trail. Perhaps it wasn’t Polly after all.”
“But it had to be! It was somebody in the house, and it wasn’t you or me or any of the servants.”
“Well, you listen to me, girl. If they quiz you any more about that talkfest you butted into, don’t you color the yarn to make it seem against Polly. I won’t have it!”
“How cross you are! But I never did, Gray. I never made it seem to be evidence against Pauline.”
“You never did anything else!”
“Don’t you love me any more?” and the soft lips quivered as an appealing glance was raised to his face. Her eyes, like forget-me-nots in the rain, were so beautiful, Haviland clasped the lovely face in both his hands, and said as he held it: “I won’t love you, ’Nita, if you go back on our Polly. I’m surprised at your attitude toward her just now, and I warn you I won’t stand any more of it. I’m forced to think she did this thing, but I intend to admit that to nobody but you and Stone. If he can find the real criminal, and it isn’t Polly, I’ll bless him forever. But you know, as well as I do, why he is clinging to that forlorn hope. It’s because he’s——”
“Of course, I know! Because he’s in love with her.”
“Yes; and it’s a remarkable thing for him to fall head over heels in love at first sight, like that.”
“Well, of course, she is handsome,” and Anita’s grudging admission was real praise.
“You bet she is! And old Stone fell for her in a minute! Now there’s the old adage of ‘Love will find a way,’ and if Fleming Stone has any magic ability, or whatever these wizard detectives claim, he’s going to work it to the limit to prove Polly innocent. And I hope to goodness he succeeds. Great Scott! I wouldn’t suspect the girl if there was a glimpse of a gleam of any other way to look. But, you hear me, Anita! Don’t you say a word, true or false, that will help on the case against Pauline Stuart! I won’t stand for it! And don’t you say you saw her coming from that room, when youknowyou didn’t!”
The postman came just then, and brought with him two letters addressed in Pauline’s dashing hand.
“Well, what do you know about that!” exclaimed Gray, half glad and half scared at the sight. “One for me, and one for F. S. Here, Anita, take Mr. Stone’s to him, while I eat up mine.”
“I won’t do it! I want to see what’s in yours, first,” and Anita stood by Gray’s side to look over his shoulder.
“All right, then,” and they read together:
Dear Gray:I couldn’t help it. You see, I was so frightened at what you all said, that I didn’t know what to do. I came over to New York, with a vague idea of asking Mr. Price to help me. I stayed with Ethel all night, and somehow things seemed to look so black, I couldn’t think of anything but to go to Carr. I went down to the steamer office to see about changing my tickets for an earlier date, or something, and I found theCataloniasailed to-day. I’m scratching this off to go back by the pilot. I had about two hours to get ready, so I bought a trunk and some clothes, went to the bank and got a letter of credit, and here I am. I don’t know yet whether I’m glad or sorry to be here. But I know I could not stand it at Garden Steps another minute, with you and Anita both against me! Mr. Stone doesn’t believe I did it, but he is doubtful of being able to prove my innocence, so I’m going to Carr, and you can address me in his care. He’s my nearest relative, and it’s right for me to go there. I cabled him from New York to expect me, and to meet me at Alexandria. I’d write more, but it’s most time for the pilot to go, and I want to send a word to Mr. Stone. Of course, you will look after all my bills and affairs till further notice.Pauline.
Dear Gray:
I couldn’t help it. You see, I was so frightened at what you all said, that I didn’t know what to do. I came over to New York, with a vague idea of asking Mr. Price to help me. I stayed with Ethel all night, and somehow things seemed to look so black, I couldn’t think of anything but to go to Carr. I went down to the steamer office to see about changing my tickets for an earlier date, or something, and I found theCataloniasailed to-day. I’m scratching this off to go back by the pilot. I had about two hours to get ready, so I bought a trunk and some clothes, went to the bank and got a letter of credit, and here I am. I don’t know yet whether I’m glad or sorry to be here. But I know I could not stand it at Garden Steps another minute, with you and Anita both against me! Mr. Stone doesn’t believe I did it, but he is doubtful of being able to prove my innocence, so I’m going to Carr, and you can address me in his care. He’s my nearest relative, and it’s right for me to go there. I cabled him from New York to expect me, and to meet me at Alexandria. I’d write more, but it’s most time for the pilot to go, and I want to send a word to Mr. Stone. Of course, you will look after all my bills and affairs till further notice.
Pauline.
“Good Lord!” said Gray, “Think of that poor child going off like that, because she thought you and I were against her!”
“Well, aren’t you?” asked Anita, an angry gleam in her eyes.
“No! never!” shouted Gray. “If Pauline is guilty a thousand times, I’m not against her! I’mforher, Anita, for her, first, last and all the time! Come on, now, let’s take Mr. Stone his letter.”
They found Stone in the boudoir, the room where the ghastly crime had been committed. He spent many hours here of late; it seemed necessary for the furthering of his theory, and yet, whenever any one was admitted to his presence there, he was found sitting staring at the room and its furnishings, as if waiting for the inanimate objects to speak.
“A letter? From Miss Stuart?” he said, eagerly. “I hoped for one, by the pilot.”
He opened it, and after a glance handed it over to Haviland.
It said, only:
My dear Mr. Stone:Thank you for your belief in me, and forgive me for running away. And, please,—oh, I beg of you,pleasedrop the case entirely. Your further investigation and discovery can only bring sorrow and anguish to my already distracted soul. I have no time to write more, but assume that I have put forth any or every argument that could persuade you, and at once cease all effort to learn who is responsible for the death of my aunt.Sincerely yours,Pauline Stuart.
My dear Mr. Stone:
Thank you for your belief in me, and forgive me for running away. And, please,—oh, I beg of you,pleasedrop the case entirely. Your further investigation and discovery can only bring sorrow and anguish to my already distracted soul. I have no time to write more, but assume that I have put forth any or every argument that could persuade you, and at once cease all effort to learn who is responsible for the death of my aunt.
Sincerely yours,
Pauline Stuart.
Apparently, Fleming Stone paid little attention to this letter from Pauline. Really, every word engraved itself on his heart, as he read the lines, and when he gave the paper to Gray Haviland, it was only because he knew he would never need to refresh his memory as to the message Pauline had sent him.
Stone also read the letter she had written to Gray, and his deep eyes clouded with pain at some of the lines. But he returned it to Haviland without comment, and then courteously dismissed the pair.
“He’s bothered to death,” said Gray, as they went downstairs.
“So’m I,” responded Anita. “But nobody cares about me, it’s all Pauline,—whether she’s a——”
“Let up on that, ’Nita!” and Gray spoke warningly. “Don’t you call Pauline names in my hearing!”
Anita, pouting, flounced away to her own room.
Fleming Stone remained in Miss Lucy Carrington’s boudoir. He sat on a window-seat, and looked out across the wide gardens and the innumerable steps. There was not much snow now. Merely great wind-swept stretches, dotted with evergreen trees, and the carved stone of the terrace railings and balustrades.
Long, Stone mused over Pauline’s letter. For a time, he gave himself up to thoughts of her in which consideration of crime had no part. He knew he loved her, loved her with all the strength and power of his great nature; with all the affection and devotion of his big heart; and with all the passion and adoration of his deep soul. He knew she was not averse to him. Knew almost, with his marvelous power of knowledge, that she cared for him, but he knew, too, that if he let his mind dwell on such alluring thoughts or visions, he could not work. And work, he must. Ay, work as he had never before, with an incentive he had never had before. And Fleming Stone’s mind was troubled to know whether this love for Pauline would help or hinder this work he must do. And he resolved, with all his mighty will-power, that it should help, that he would control this surging emotion, so new to him, and would force it to aid and assist his efforts, and to triumph over all doubts or obstacles.
Again he concentrated his whole mentality on the room and its contents. He swore to wrest from the silent witnesses the story of the crime. This was not his usual method of procedure. On the contrary, he almost invariably learned his points from questioning people, from observing suspects, or quizzing witnesses. But, he realized the difference in essence between this case and any other in which he had ever engaged. He had no more questions to ask. He knew all any one could or would tell him. He knew all the facts, all the theories, all the evidence, all the testimony. And none of it was worth a picayune to him, except negatively. This case must be, and should be, solved by the application of his highest mental powers, by the most intense thought and, doubtless, by most brilliant and clever deduction from hints not facts, from ideas, not visible clues. To work, then! To the work thatmustbring success!
Leaving the window-seat, Stone walked round the room, and finally drew up in front of the mirror the easy chair in which Miss Carrington had sat when she received the blow given by Bates. Whether she had sat here while taking the poison, no one knew. If Stone’s theory was right, she had not.
By referring to the photographs taken of Miss Carrington after her death, Stone was able to reconstruct the scene correctly.
He placed the easy chair just as it had been when she sat in it. He assumed the position she showed in the photographs, and gazed at himself in the mirror, as she must necessarily have done.
Slowly, he went over that conversation reported by Anita Frayne. Never, for a moment, had he doubted the truth of that report. He was sure Miss Carrington had really said all the things Anita repeated, and the clear and indubitable explanation of those remarks would mean, he was sure, the solution of the mystery.
By way of interviewing his silent witnesses, he endeavored to reconstruct, in thought, Miss Carrington’s movements that night. Pauline and Anita had left her, all three of them angry, at a little after twelve. Later, Estelle had left her,—that was about quarter to one. Then she had on her embroidered robe and some jewels. She was not then sitting at the dressing-table. Nor had she then, presumably, taken the poison. For the doctors insisted that she had swallowed the poison very near the hour of one, but after it rather than before, and had placed the hour of her death at two. So, Stone reasoned, Miss Carrington must have taken that aconite at pretty nearly the very time Anita heard her talking. It seemed to Stone incredible that there could have been a person present to whom Miss Carrington could have addressed those remarks, and who could have given or allowed her to take the deadly draught.
The idea that Pauline could have been this person was not among Fleming Stone’s catalogue of possibilities.
Moreover, the fact of the one voice strongly impressed him. Another voice, however low, must have at some point of the conversation risen to an audible sound to a listener with normal hearing. Also, Anita had asserted that the speeches of Miss Carrington did sound as if addressed to different persons. It was not likely there were two or more intruders or visitors there at once, and slowly but surely Fleming Stone decided, once for all, that Miss Carrington was alone in that room at that time. This meant, not exactly soliloquy, the mode of address contradicted that, but it meant, to him, at least, that she was addressing some inanimate object or objects as if they were sentient.
His task was to discover those objects. His first thought was, as he sat in the easy chair before the mirror, that the lady had spoken to her own reflection. But the speeches, of which he had a memorandum, precluded this hypothesis. She would not say to herself “You are so fond of pearls,” or “You have a beautiful face.”
Abandoning that supposition, Stone methodically searched for something that might have been addressed.
Clearly,—that is, if he were on the right track,—the words “Henri, you are the mark I aim at!” could have been spoken to the Count’s glove, which she held in her hand. In the same vein, assuming that the glove, to her, represented the Count himself, might have been said the speech about the ten thousand dollars, and the remark that he loved pearls.
Accepting these possibilities as facts, Stone went on to discover more. His method was to repeat to himself her very words and strive to see or sense something to which they might have been addressed.
“You have the most beautiful face I ever saw,” he quoted softly and then, scanning the room, went on: “I only wish mine were as beautiful.”
His eyes lighted on the picture of Cleopatra, which hung above the mirror of the dressing-table.
“That’s it!” he cried, with instant conviction. “She looked at that beautiful face and then in the mirror, at her plain features, and she involuntarily cried out for the beauty denied her! Poor woman, to live all her lonely, hungry life, surfeited with wealth yet unable to buy the fairness she craved!”
Not doubting for an instant the truth of his conclusion, Stone checked off that speech and passed on to the next on his list. If he could account for them all, he would be sure Lucy Carrington met her death alone, and therefore by her own hand. Of course, she did not knowingly poison herself, but if persuaded that the prepared draught was some innocent remedy—oh, well, that was aside the point for the moment.
But, quoting the phrase, “To-morrow I shall be forever free from this curse of a plain face,—to-morrow these jewels may all be yours,”—even his ingenuity could suggest no meaning but a foreknowledge of approaching death. What else could free her from her hated lack of beauty? What but death could transfer her fortune of jewels to another? Of course it might be that marriage with her would give the jewels to Count Charlier, but the two speeches were consecutive, and the implication was all toward the fate that was even then almost upon her.
The remark about ten thousand dollars was unimportant, as she had recently willed that sum to five different people, and the reference to a change in her will that should cut out Pauline might have been merely a burst of temper. At any rate, Stone ascribed little importance to it then. He felt that he had learned enough to assume positively that Miss Carrington was not talking to a human being when Anita Frayne heard her voice. Then, he conjectured, as the maid was free of all suspicion on the poisoning matter, and as the two girls had left the room at a little after twelve, the weight of evidence was in favor of the poison being self-administered, no matter for what reason or intent. Granting this, there must be some trace of the container of the aconite, before it was placed in the glass. This must be found. If not, it proved its removal by some one, either before or after the poisoning actually occurred.
Eagerly, almost feverishly, Stone searched. Exhaustive search had long ago been made, but again he went over all the possible places. The ornate waste-basket beneath the dressing-table still held its store of dainty rubbish. This had been ordered to remain undestroyed. Stone knew the contents by heart, but in hope of an overlooked clue, he again turned the contents out on a towel. Some clippings of ribbon, a discarded satin flower, two or three used “powder-leaves,” a couple of hairpins and a torn letter were the principal items of the familiar lot. Nothing that gave the least enlightenment.
Stone got up and wandered around. What had that poison been in before it was put in that glass?
The ever-recurring thought that some one might have brought it to the boudoir after preparing it elsewhere, he would not recognize. A sort of sixth sense convinced him that if he kept on looking he must find that clue.
He went into the bedroom. The beautiful appointments, replicas of Marie Antoinette’s, seemed to mock at his quest. “We know,” they seemed to laugh at him, “we know all about it, but we will never tell!”
Untouched since Estelle’s deft hand had turned back its silken coverlets, the bed seemed waiting for some fair occupant. With a sigh at the pathos of it, Stone suppressed an involuntary thought of the incongruity of that gilded, lace-draped nest, and its pitifully unbeautiful owner. There was a profusion of embroidered pillows, and across the satin puff lay a fairy-like night-robe of gossamer texture, and coquettish ribbons. A peignoir of pink crêpe lay beside it, and on the floor a pair of brocademuleswaited in vain for feet that would never again slip into their furred linings.
There was nothing helpful here, and with a sigh Stone went on to the bath-room. Fit for a princess, the shining white and gleaming silver showed careful readiness. Embroidered towels, delicate soaps and perfumes were in place—all showed preparation, not use.
“If I were searching traces of Estelle, now,” groaned Stone, despairingly, to himself, “I could find thousands. But Miss Carrington didn’t come in here at all. But, whoever rinsed that glass did!” The thought caused Stone to start with eagerness. It was the fact of the glass being out of line with the other appointments of the wash-stand that had first attracted his attention to it. After the test, the glass had been returned to its place, now in strict position between a silver cup and a flask of violet water.
“Spoon in it,” mused Stone. “Shows carelessness on the part of whoever put it there. Don’t believe a spoon was in a glass, generally, in this celestial bath-room. If——”
His ruminations were cut short by a shock of surprise. Under the wash-stand was a small waste-basket. Had this been overlooked by the searchers? Not surprising, for thorough search had not been made in bedroom or bath-room, as in the room where death had taken place.