For Mr. Royce,Attorney for the Defense.
For Mr. Royce,Attorney for the Defense.
He tore it open, and ran his eyes rapidly over the inclosure. He read it through a second time, then held out the paper to me with an expression of the blankest amazement. The note read:
The man Rogers is lying. The woman who was with Holladay wore a gown of dark green.
The man Rogers is lying. The woman who was with Holladay wore a gown of dark green.
I stared at the lines in dumb bewilderment. "The man Rogers is lying." But what conceivable motive could he have for lying? Besides, as I looked at him on the stand, I would have sworn that he was telling the truth, and very much against his will. I had always rather prided myself upon my judgment of human nature—had I erred so egregiously in this instance? "The woman who was with Holladay wore a gown of dark green." Who was the writer of the note? How did he know the color of her gown? There was only one possible way he could know—he knew the woman. Plainly, too, he must have been present at the morning hearing. But if he knew so much, why did he not himself come forward? To this, too, there was but one answer—he must be an accomplice. Butthen, again, if he were an accomplice, why should he imperil himself by writing this note, for it could very probably be traced? I found myself deeper in the mire, farther from the light, at every step.
"Do you wish to summon any witnesses, Mr. Royce?" asked the coroner again. "I shall be glad to adjourn the hearing until to-morrow if you do."
Mr. Royce roused himself with an effort.
"Thank you, sir," he said. "I may ask you to do that later on. Just at present, I wish to recall Mr. Rogers."
"Very well," said the coroner, and Rogers was summoned from the witness room.
I looked at him attentively, trying to fathom his thoughts, to read behind his eyes; but look as I might, I could see nothing in his face save concern and grief. He had grown gray in Holladay's office; he had proved himself, a hundred times, a man to be relied on; he had every reason to feel affection and gratitude toward his employer, andI was certain that he felt both; he received a liberal salary, I knew, and was comfortably well-to-do.
That he himself could have committed the crime or been concerned in it in any way was absolutely unthinkable. Yet why should he lie? Above all, why should he seek to implicate his employer's daughter? Even if he wished to implicate her, how could he have known the color of her gown? What dark, intricate problem was this that confronted us?
In the moment that followed, I saw that Mr. Royce was studying him, too, was straining to find a ray of light for guidance. If we failed now——
I read the note through again—"a gown of dark green"—and suddenly, by a kind of clairvoyance, the solution of the mystery leaped forth from it. I leaned over to my chief, trembling with eagerness.
"Mr. Royce," I whispered hoarsely, "I believe I've solved the puzzle. Hold Rogerson the stand a few moments until I get back."
He looked up at me astonished; then nodded, as I seized my hat, and pushed my way through the crowd. Once outside the building, I ran to the nearest dry-goods house—three blocks away it was, and what fearfully long blocks they seemed!—then back again to the courtroom. Rogers was still on the stand, but a glance at Mr. Royce told me that he had elicited nothing new.
"You take him, Lester," he said, as I sat down beside him. "I'm worn out."
Quivering with apprehension, I arose. It was the first time I had been given the center of the stage in so important a case. Here was my opportunity! Suppose my theory should break down, after all!
"Mr. Rogers," I began, "you've been having some trouble with your eyes, haven't you?"
He looked at me in surprise.
"Why, yes, a little," he said. "Nothingto amount to anything. How did you know?"
My confidence had come back again. I was on the right track, then!
"I did not know," I said, smiling for the first time since I had entered the room. "But I suspected. I have here a number of pieces of cloth of different colors. I should like you to pick out the one that most nearly approximates the color of the gown your visitor wore yesterday afternoon."
I handed him the bundle of samples, and as I did so, I saw the district attorney lean forward over his desk with attentive face. The witness looked through the samples slowly, while I watched him with feverish eagerness. Mr. Royce had caught an inkling of my meaning and was watching him, too.
"There's nothing here," said Rogers, at last, "which seems quite the shade. But this is very near it."
He held up one of the pieces. With leapingheart, I heard the gasp of astonishment which ran around the room. The jurymen were leaning forward in their chairs.
"And what is the color of that piece?" I asked.
"Why, dark red. I've stated that already."
I glanced triumphantly at the coroner.
"Your honor," I said, as calmly as I could, "I think we've found the flaw in the chain. Mr. Rogers is evidently color-blind. As you see, the piece he has selected is a dark green."
The whole audience seemed to draw a deep breath, and a little clatter of applause ran around the room. I could hear the scratch, scratch of the reporters' pencils—here was a situation after their hearts' desire! Mr. Royce had me by the hand, and was whispering brokenly in my ear.
"My dear fellow; you're the best of us all; I'll never forget it!"
But Rogers was staring in amazementfrom me to the cloth in his hand, and back again.
"Green!" he stammered. "Color-blind! Why, that's nonsense! I've never suspected it!"
"That's probable enough," I assented. "The failing is no doubt a recent one. Most color-blind persons don't know it until their sight is tested. Of course, we shall have an oculist examine you; but I think this evidence is pretty conclusive."
Coroner Goldberg nodded, and the district attorney settled back in his chair.
"We've no further questions to ask this witness at present," I continued. "Only I'd like you to preserve this piece of cloth, sir," and I handed it to Goldberg. He placed it with the other exhibits on his desk, and I sat down again beside my chief. He had regained all his old-time energy and keenness—he seemed another man.
"I should like to recall Miss Holladay's maid, if you please," he said; and the girlwas summoned, while Rogers stumbled dazedly off to the witness room.
"You're quite sure your mistress wore a dark red gown yesterday afternoon?" he asked, when the girl was on the stand again.
"Oh, yes, sir; quite sure."
"It was not dark green? Think carefully, now!"
"I don't have to think!" she retorted sharply, with a toss of her head. "Miss Holladay hasn't any dark green gown—nor light one, either. She never wears green—she doesn't like it—it doesn't suit her."
"That will do," said Mr. Royce, and the girl went back to the witness room without understanding in the least the meaning of the questions. "Now, let us have the office-boy again," he said, and that young worthy was called out.
"You say you didn't see the face of that woman who left your office yesterday afternoon?"
"No, sir."
"But you saw her gown?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"And what color was it?"
"Dark green, sir."
"That will do," said our junior, and sank back in his chair with a sigh of relief. The solution had been under our hands in the morning, and we had missed it! Well, we had found it now. "Gentlemen," he added, his voice a-ring, his face alight, as he sprang to his feet and faced the jury, "I'm ready for your verdict. I wish only to point out that with this one point, the whole case against my client falls to the ground! It was preposterous from the very first!"
He sat down again, and glanced at the coroner.
"Gentlemen of the jury," began Goldberg, "I have merely to remind you that your verdict, whatever it may be, will not finally affect this case. The police authorities will continue their investigations in order that the guilty person may not escape. I conceivethat it is not within our province to probe this case further—that may be left to abler and more experienced hands; nor do I think we should inculpate anyone so long as there is a reasonable doubt of his guilt. We await your verdict."
The jury filed slowly out, and I watched them anxiously. In face of the coroner's instructions, they could bring in but one verdict; yet I knew from experience that a jury is ever an unknown quantity, often producing the most unexpected results.
The district attorney came down from his seat and shook hands with both of us.
"That was a great stroke!" he said, with frank admiration. "Whatever made you suspect?"
Mr. Royce handed him the note for answer. He read it through, and stared back at us in astonishment.
"Why," he began, "who wrote this?"
"That's the note that was delivered to us a while ago," answered Mr. Royce. "Youknow as much about it as we do. But it seems to me a pretty important piece of evidence. I turn it over to you."
"Important!" cried Singleton. "I should say so! Why, gentlemen," and his eyes were gleaming, "this was written either by an accomplice or by the woman herself!"
My chief nodded.
"Precisely," he said. "I'd get on the track of the writer without delay."
Singleton turned and whispered a few words to a clerk, who hurried from the room. Then he motioned to two smooth-faced, well-built men who sat near by, spoke a word to the coroner, and retired with them into the latter's private office. The reporters crowded about us with congratulations and questions. They scented a mystery. What was the matter with Singleton? What was the new piece of evidence? Was it the note? What was in the note?
Mr. Royce smiled.
"Gentlemen," he said, "I trust that myconnection with this affair will end in a very few minutes. For any further information, I must refer you to the district attorney—the case is in his hands."
But those men he had summoned into his office were Karle and Johnston, the cleverest detectives on the force. What did he want with them? Mr. Royce merely shrugged his shoulders. Whereat the reporters deserted him and massed themselves before the door into the coroner's room. It opened in a moment, and the two detectives came hurrying out. They looked neither to the right nor left, but shouldered their way cruelly through the crowd, paying not the slightest attention to the questions showered upon them. Then the district attorney came out, and took in the situation at a glance.
"Gentlemen," he said, raising his voice, "I can answer no questions. I must request you to resume your seats, or I shall ask the coroner to clear the room."
They knew that he meant what he said,so they went back to their chairs chagrined, disgusted, biting their nails, striving vainly to work out a solution to the puzzle. It was the coroner's clerk who created a diversion.
"The jury is ready to report, sir," he announced.
"Very well; bring them out," and the jurymen filed slowly back to their seats. I gazed at each face, and cursed the inexpressiveness of the human countenance.
"Have you arrived at a verdict, gentlemen?" asked the coroner.
"We have, sir," answered one of them, and handed a paper to the clerk.
"Is this your verdict, gentlemen?" asked the coroner. "Do you all concur in it?"
They answered in the affirmative as their names were called.
"The clerk will read the verdict," said Goldberg.
Julius stood up and cleared his throat.
"We, the jury," he read, "impaneled in the case of Hiram W. Holladay, deceased, do find that he came to his death from a stab wound in the neck, inflicted by a pen-knife in the hands of a person or persons unknown."
The coroner dismissed the jury, and came down and shook hands with us.
"I'm going to reward you for your clever work, Mr. Royce," he said. "Will you take the good news to Miss Holladay?"
My chief could not repress the swift flush of pleasure which reddened his cheeks, but he managed to speak unconcernedly.
"Why, yes; certainly. I'll be glad to, if you wish it," he said.
"I do wish it," Goldberg assured him, with a tact and penetration I though admirable. "You may dismiss the policeman who is with her."
Our junior looked inquiringly at the district attorney.
"Before I go," he said, "may I ask what you intend doing, sir?"
"I intend finding the writer of that note," answered Singleton, smiling.
"But, about Miss Holladay?"
Singleton tapped his lips thoughtfully with his pencil.
"Before I answer," he said at last, "I should like to go with you and ask her one question."
"Very well," assented Mr. Royce instantly, and led the way to the room where Miss Holladay awaited us.
She rose with flushing face as we entered, and stood looking at us without speaking; but, despite her admirable composure, I could guess how she was racked with anxiety.
"Miss Holladay," began my chief, "this is Mr. Singleton, the district attorney, who wishes to ask you a few questions."
"One question only," corrected Singleton, bowing. "Were you at your father's office yesterday afternoon, Miss Holladay?"
"No, sir," she answered, instantly andemphatically. "I have not been near my father's office for more than a week."
I saw him studying her for a moment, then he bowed again.
"That is all," he said. "I don't think the evidence justifies me in holding her, Mr. Royce," and he left the room. I followed him, for I knew that I had no further part in our junior's errand. I went back to our table and busied myself gathering together our belongings. The room had gradually cleared, and at the end of ten minutes only the coroner and his clerk remained. They had another case, it seemed, to open in the morning—another case which, perhaps, involved just as great heartache and anguish as ours had. Five minutes later my chief came hurrying back to me, and a glance at his beaming eyes told me how he had been welcomed.
"Miss Holladay has started home with her maid," he said. "She asked me to thank you for her for the great work you did thisafternoon, Lester. I told her it was really you who had done everything. Yes, it was!" he added, answering my gesture of denial. "While I was groping helplessly around in the dark, you found the way to the light. But come; we must get back to the office."
We found a cab at the curb, and in a moment were rolling back over the route we had traversed that morning—ages ago, as it seemed to me! It was only a few minutes after three o'clock, and I reflected that I should yet have time to complete the papers in the Hurd case before leaving for the night.
Mr. Graham was still at his desk, and he at once demanded an account of the hearing. I went back to my work, and so caught only a word here and there—enough, however, to show me that our senior was deeply interested in this extraordinary affair. As for me, I put all thought of it resolutely from me, and devoted myself to the work in hand.It was done at last, and I locked my desk with a sigh of relief. Mr. Graham nodded to me kindly as I passed out, and I left the office with the comfortable feeling that I had done a good day's work for myself, as well as for my employers.
A man who had apparently been loitering in the hall followed me into the elevator.
"This is Mr. Lester, isn't it?" he asked, as the car started to descend.
"Yes," I said, looking at him in surprise. He was well dressed, with alert eyes and strong, pleasing face. I had never seen him before.
"And you're going to dinner, aren't you, Mr. Lester?" he continued.
"Yes—to dinner," I assented, more and more surprised.
"Now, don't think me impertinent," he said, smiling at my look of amazement, "but I want you to dine with me this evening. I can promise you as good a meal as you will get at most places in New York."
"But I'm not dressed," I protested.
"That doesn't matter in the least—neither am I, you see. We will dine in asolitude à deux."
"Where?" I questioned.
"Well, how would the Studio suit?"
The car had reached the ground floor, and we left it together. I was completely in the dark as to my companion's purpose, and yet it could have but one explanation—it must be connected in some way with the Holladay case. Unless—and I glanced at him again. No, certainly, he was not a confidence man—even if he was, I would rather welcome the adventure. My curiosity won the battle.
"Very well," I said. "I'll be glad to accept your invitation, Mr.——"
He nodded approvingly.
"There spoke the man of sense. Well, you shall not go unrewarded. Godfrey is my name—no, you don't know me, but I'll soon explain myself. Here's my cab."
I mounted into it, he after me. It seemedto me that there was an unusual number of loiterers about the door of the building, but we were off in a moment, and I did not give them a second thought. We rattled out into Broadway, and turned northward for the three-mile straightaway run to Union Square. I noticed in a moment that we were going at a rate of speed rather exceptional for a cab, and it steadily increased, as the driver found a clear road before him. My companion threw up the trap in the roof of the cab as we swung around into Thirteenth Street.
"All right, Sam?" he called.
The driver grinned down at us through the hole.
"All right, sir," he answered. "They couldn't stand the pace a little bit. They're distanced."
The trap snapped down again, we turned into Sixth Avenue, and stopped in a moment before the Studio—gray and forbidding without, but a dream within. My companionled the way upstairs to a private room, where a table stood ready set for us. The oysters appeared before we were fairly seated.
"You see," he smiled, "I made bold to believe that you'd come with me, and so had the dinner already ordered."
I looked at him without replying. I was completely in the dark. Could this be the writer of the mysterious note? But what could his object be? Above all, why should he so expose himself? He smiled again, as he caught my glance.
"Of course you're puzzled," he said. "Well, I'll make a clean breast of the matter at once. I wanted to talk with you about this Holladay case, and I decided that a dinner at the Studio would be just the ticket."
I nodded. The soup was a thing to marvel at.
"You were right," I assented. "The idea was a stroke of genius."
"I knew you'd think so. You see, since this morning, I've been making rather a study of you. That coup of yours at the coroner's court this afternoon was admirable—one of the best things I ever saw."
I bowed my acknowledgments.
"You were there, then?" I asked.
"Oh, yes; I couldn't afford to miss it."
"The color-blind theory was a simple one."
"So simple that it never occurred to anyone else. I think we're too apt to overlook the simple explanations, which are, after all, nearly always the true ones. It's only in books that we meet the reverse. You remember it's Gaboriau who advises one always to distrust the probable?"
"Yes. I don't agree with him."
"Nor I. Now take this case, for instance. I think it's safe to state that murder, where it's not the result of sudden passion, is always committed for one of two objects—revenge or gain. But Mr. Holladay's past lifehas been pretty thoroughly probed by the reporters, and nothing has been found to indicate that he had ever made a deadly enemy, at least among the class of people who resort to murder—so that does away with revenge. On the other hand, no one will gain by his death—many will lose by it—in fact, the whole circle of his associates will lose by it. It might seem, at first glance, that his daughter would gain; but I think she loses most of all. She already had all the money she could possibly need; and she's lost her father, whom, it's quite certain, she loved dearly. So what remains?"
"Only one thing," I said, deeply interested in this exposition. "Sudden passion."
He nodded exultantly.
"That's it. Now, who was the woman? From the first I was certain it could not be his daughter—the very thought was preposterous. It seems almost equally absurd, however, to suppose that Holladay could be mixed up with any other woman. He certainlyhas not been for the last quarter of a century—but before that—well, it's not so certain. And there's one striking point which seems to indicate his guilt."
"Yes—you mean, of course, her resemblance to his daughter."
"Precisely. Such a resemblance must exist—a resemblance unusual, even striking—or it would not for a moment have deceived Rogers. We must remember, however, that Rogers's office was not brilliantly lighted, and that he merely glanced at her. Still, whatever minor differences there may have been, she had the air, the general appearance, the look of Miss Holladay. Mere facial resemblance may happen in a hundred ways, by chance; but the air, the look, the 'altogether' is very different—it indicates a blood relationship. My theory is that she is an illegitimate child, perhaps four or five years older than Miss Holladay."
I paused to consider. The theory was reasonable, and yet it had its faults.
"Now, let's see where this leads us," he continued. "Let us assume that Holladay has been providing for this illegitimate daughter for years. At last, for some reason, he is induced to withdraw this support; or, perhaps, the girl thinks her allowance insufficient. At any rate, after, let us suppose, ineffectual appeals by letter, she does the desperate thing of calling at his office to protest in person. She finds him inexorable—we know his reputation for obstinacy when he had once made up his mind. She reproaches him—she is already desperate, remember—and he answers with that stinging sarcasm for which he was noted. In an ecstacy of anger, she snatches up the knife and stabs him; then, in an agony of remorse, endeavors to check the blood. She sees at last that it is useless, that she cannot save him, and leaves the office. All this is plausible, isn't it?"
"Very plausible," I assented, looking at him in some astonishment. "You forgetone thing, however. Rogers testified that he was intimately acquainted with the affairs of his employer, and that he would inevitably have known of any intrigue such as you suggest."
My companion paused for a moment's thought.
"I don't believe that Rogers would so inevitably have known of it," he said, at last. "But, admit that—then there is another theory. Holladay hasnotbeen supporting his illegitimate child, who learns of her parentage, and goes to him to demand her rights. That fits the case, doesn't it?"
"Yes," I admitted. "It, also, is plausible."
"It is more than plausible," he said quietly. "Whatever the details may be, the body of the theory itself is unimpeachable—it's the only one which fits the facts. I believe it capable of proof. Don't you see how the note helps to prove it?"
"The note?"
I started at the word, and my suspicions sprang into life again. I looked at him quickly, but his eyes were on the cloth, and he was rolling up innumerable little pellets of bread.
"That note," he added, "proved two things. One was that the writer was deeply interested in Miss Holladay's welfare; the other was that he or she knew Rogers, the clerk, intimately—more than intimately—almost as well as a physician knows an old patient."
"I admit the first," I said. "You'll have to explain the second."
"The second is self-evident. How did the writer of the note know of Rogers's infirmity?"
"His infirmity?"
"Certainly—his color-blindness. I confess, I'm puzzled. Howcouldanyone else know it when Rogers himself didn't know it? That's what I should like to have explained. Perhaps there's only one man orwoman in the world who could know—well, that's the one who wrote the note. Now, who is it?"
"But," I began, quickly, then stopped; should I set him right? Or was this a trap he had prepared for me?
His eyes were not on the cloth now, but on me. There was a light in them I did not quite understand. I felt that I must be sure of my ground before I went forward.
"It should be very easy to trace the writer of the note," I said.
"The police have not found it so."
"No?"
"No. It was given to the door-keeper by a boy—just an ordinary boy of from twelve to fourteen years—the man didn't notice him especially. He said there was no answer and went away. How are the police to find that boy? Suppose they do find him? Probably all he could tell them would be that a man stopped him at the corner andgave him a quarter to take the note to the coroner's office."
"He might give a description of the man," I ventured.
"What would a boy's description be worth? It would be, at the best, vague and indefinite. Besides, they've not even found the boy. Now, to return to the note."
We had come to the coffee and cigars, and I felt it time to protest.
"Before we return to the note, Mr. Godfrey," I said, "I'd like to ask you two direct questions. What interest have you in the matter?"
"The interest of every investigator of crime," he answered, smiling.
"You belong to the detective force, then?"
"I have belonged to it. At present, I'm in other employ."
"And what was your object in bringing me here this evening?"
"One portion of my object has been accomplished. The other was to ask you to write out for me a copy of the note."
"But who was it pursued us up Broadway?"
"Oh, I have rivals!" he chuckled. "I flatter myself that was rather neatly done. Will you give me a copy of the note, Mr. Lester?"
"No," I answered squarely. "You'll have to go to the police for that. I'm out of the case."
He bowed across the table to me with a little laugh. As I looked at him, his imperturbable good humor touched me.
"I'll tell you one thing, though," I added. "The writer of the note knew nothing of Rogers's color-blindness—you're off the scent there."
"I am?" he asked amazedly. "Then how didyouknow it, Mr. Lester?"
"I suppose you detectives would call it deduction—I deduced it."
He took a contemplative puff or two, as he looked at me.
"Well," he exclaimed, at last, "I must say that beats me! Deduced it! That was mighty clever."
Again I bowed my acknowledgments.
"And that's all you can tell me?" he added.
"I'm afraid that's all."
"Very well; thank you for that much," and he flicked the ashes from his cigar. "Now, I fear that I must leave you. I've a good deal of work to do, and you've opened up a very interesting line of speculation. I assure you that I've passed a very pleasant evening. I hope you've not found it tiresome?"
"Quite the contrary," I said heartily. "I've enjoyed myself immensely."
"Then I'll ask one last favor. My cab is at the door. I've no further use for it, and I beg you'll drive home in it."
I saw that he really wished it.
"Why, yes, certainly," I assented.
"Thank you," he said.
He took me down to the door, called the cab, and shook hands with me warmly.
"Good-by, Mr. Lester," he said. "I'm glad of the chance to have met you. I'm not really such a mysterious individual—it's merely a trick of the trade. I hope we'll meet again some time."
"So do I," I said, and meant it.
I saw him stand for a moment on the curb looking after us as we drove away, then he turned and ran rapidly up the steps of the Elevated.
The driver seemed in no hurry to get me home, and I had plenty of time to think over the events of the evening, but I could make nothing of them. What result he had achieved I could not imagine. And yet he had seemed satisfied. As to his theory, I could not but admit that it was an adroit one; even a masterly one—a better one,certainly, than I should have evolved unaided.
The cab drew up at my lodging and I sprang out, tipped the driver, and ran up the steps to the door. My landlady met me on the threshold.
"Oh, Mr. Lester!" she cried. "Such a time as I've had this night! Every five minutes there's been somebody here looking for you, and there's a crowd of them up in your room now. I tried to put them out, but they wouldn't go!"
I was quite dazed for the moment.
"A crowd of them in my room!" I repeated. "A crowd of whom, Mrs. Fitch?"
"A crowd of reporters! They've been worrying my life out. They seemed to think I had you hid somewhere. I hope you're not in trouble, Mr. Lester?"
"Not the least in the world, my dear madam," I laughed, and I breathed a long sigh of relief, for I had feared I know not what disaster. "I'll soon finish with the reporters," and I went on up the stair.
Long before I reached my rooms, I heard the clatter of voices and caught the odor of various qualities of tobacco. They were lolling about over the furniture, telling stories, I suppose, and they greeted me with a cheer when I entered. They were suchjovial fellows that it was quite impossible to feel angry with them—and besides, I knew that they were gentlemen, that they labored early and late at meager salaries, for the pure love of the work; that they were quick to scent fraud or trickery or unworthiness, and inexorable in exposing them; that they loved to do good anonymously, remaining utterly unknown save to the appreciative few behind the scenes. So I returned their greeting smilingly, and sat me down in a chair which one of them obligingly vacated for me.
"Well?" I began, looking about at them.
"My dear Mr. Lester," said the one who had given me the chair, "permit me to introduce myself as Rankin, of thePlanet. These gentlemen," and he included them in a wide gesture, "are my colleagues of the press. We've been anxiously awaiting you here in order that we may propound to you certain questions."
"All right; fire away," I said.
"First, we'd like to have your theory of the crime. Your work this afternoon convinced us that you know how to put two and two together, which is more than can be said for the ordinary mortal. The public will want to know your theory—the great public."
"Oh, but I haven't any theory," I protested. "Besides, I don't think the great public is especially interested in me. You see, gentlemen, I'm quite out of the case. When we cleared Miss Holladay, our connection with it ended."
"But is Miss Holladay cleared?" he persisted. "Is it not quite conceivable that in those two hours she was absent from her carriage, she may have changed her gown, gone to her father's office, and then changed back again? In that case, would she not naturally have chosen a green gown, since she never wore green?"
"Oh, nonsense!" I cried. "That's puerile. Either she would disguise herself effectuallyor not at all. I suppose if you were going to commit a capital crime, you would merely put on a high hat, because you never wear one! I'll tell you this much: I'm morally certain that Miss Holladay is quite innocent. So, I believe, is the district attorney."
"But how about the note, Mr. Lester? What did it contain?"
"Oh, I can't tell you that, you know. It's none of my business."
"But you ought to treat us all alike," he protested.
"I do treat you all alike."
"But didn't Godfrey get it out of you?"
"Godfrey?" I repeated. "Get it out of me?"
He stared at me in astonishment.
"Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Lester," he questioned, "that you haven't been spending the evening with Jim Godfrey, of theRecord?"
Then, in a flash, I understood, and as Ilooked at the rueful faces of the men gathered about me, I laughed until the tears came.
"So it was you," I gasped, "who chased us up Broadway?"
He nodded.
"Yes; but our horses weren't good enough. Where did he take you?"
"To the Studio—Sixth Avenue."
"Of course!" he cried, slapping his leg. "We might have known. Boys, we'd better go back to Podunk."
"Well, at least, Mr. Lester," spoke up another, "you oughtn't to give Godfrey a scoop."
"But I didn't give him a scoop. I didn't even know who he was."
"Didn't you tell him what was in the note?"
"Not a word of it—I told him only one thing."
"And what was that?"
"That the person who wrote the notedidn't know that Rogers was color-blind. You are welcome to that statement, too. You see, I'm treating you all alike."
They stood about me, staring down at me, silent with astonishment.
"But," I added, "I think Godfrey suspects what was in the note."
"Why?"
"Well, his theory fits it pretty closely."
"His theory! What is his theory, Mr. Lester?"
"Oh, come," I laughed. "That's telling. It's a good theory, too."
They looked at each other, and, I fancied, gnashed their teeth.
"He seems a pretty clever fellow," I added, just to pile up the agony. "I fancy you'll say so, too, when you see his theory in to-morrow's paper."
"Clever!" cried Rankin. "Why, he's a very fiend of cleverness when it comes to a case of this kind. We're not in the same class with him. He's a fancy fellow—justtheRecordkind. You're sure you didn't tell him anything else, Mr. Lester?" he added anxiously. "Godfrey's capable of getting a story out of a fence-post."
"No, I'm quite sure I didn't tell him anything else. I only listened to his theory with great interest."
"And assented to it?"
"I said I thought it plausible."
An electric shock seemed to run around the room.
"That's it!" cried Rankin. "That's what he wanted. Now, it isn't his theory any more. It's yours. Oh, I can see his headlines! Won't you tell us what it was?"
I looked up at him.
"Now, frankly, Mr. Rankin," I asked, "if you were in my place, would you tell?"
He hesitated for a moment, and then held out his hand.
"No," he said, as I took it. "I shouldn't.Shake hands, sir; you're all right. Come on, boys, we might as well be going."
They filed out after him, and I heard them go singing up the street. Then I sank back into my chair and thought again of Godfrey's theory; it seemed to fit the case precisely, point by point—even—and I started at the thought—to Miss Holladay's reticence as to her whereabouts the afternoon before. The whole mystery lay plain before me. In some way, she had discovered the existence of her half-sister, had secured her address; she had gone to visit her and had found her away from home—it was probable, even, that the half-sister had written her, asking her to come—though, in that case, why had she not remained at home to receive her? At any rate, Miss Holladay had awaited her return, had noticed her agitation; had, perhaps, even seen certain marks of blood upon her. The news of her father's death had pointed all too clearly to what that agitation and thoseblood-spots meant. She had remained silent that she might not besmirch her father's name, and also, perhaps, that she might protect the other woman. I felt that I held in my hand the key to the whole problem.
Point by point—but what a snarl it was! That there would be a vigorous search for the other woman I could not doubt, but she had a long start and should easily escape. Yet, perhaps, she had not started—she must have remained in town, else how could that note have been sent to us? She had remained, then—but why? That she should feel any affection for Frances Holladay seemed absurd, and yet, how else explain the note?
I felt that I was getting tangled up in the snarl again—there seemed no limit to its intricacies; so, in very despair, I put the matter from me as completely as I could and went to bed.
The morning'sRecordattested the truthof Rankin's prophecy. I had grown famous in a night: for Godfrey had, in a measure, made me responsible for his theory, describing me with a wealth of adjectives which I blush to remember, and which I have, even yet, not quite forgiven him. I smiled as I read the first lines: