As we drove toward Forty-second Street, I recalled my instinctive distrust of the secretary, his stealthy attitude, and very evident desire to see Ruth convicted. I had suspected him that very first night, and now I envisioned him sneaking through the secret entrance and returning to the house in time to follow me into the study.
"I know what you are thinking, but he couldn't possibly have done it," said McKelvie quietly. "He's the only one I don't suspect. He hasn't the nerve in the first place, and in the second place he hadn't the time. How long do you suppose it takes to lock all those doors—they were locked, remember—and return to the house and lock whatever entrance he used—not the front door, for you would have heard him—and enter the study a second after yourself?"
"He may never have gone out," I cried. "He could easily have stayed in the room all the time in a dark corner and have come forward when he turned on the lights. I swear I never heard him!"
"What about Mrs. Darwin's testimony that he was in the hall?" he asked.
"She may have been mistaken. He gave false evidence concerning her."
"That's what we are going to see him about. But, remember this, Mrs. Darwin would have no reason for saying she saw him if she did not."
To this last statement I had to agree, for Ruth I knew disliked Orton, and would hardly be likely to shield him. So I ceased discussing the point, knowing we would soon have the truth, for McKelvie could extract information from a stone.
In due course we drew up before a second-rate apartment hotel that was sadly in need of a coat of paint. We entered a dingy hall and inquired for Orton.
"Suite Four, third door to your left," droned the switchboard girl.
We walked down the hall, which would have been decidedly improved by an application of a mop and some soap and water, and knocked at Orton's apartment. As we waited we heard the sound of a door closing, and then the shuffle of feet and presently the door opened a crack and Orton's near-sighted eyes peered at us from the aperture.
"What do you want?" he asked impatiently.
"A moment's conversation," replied McKelvie, but at that minute Orton recognized me and, swiftly retreating, began to close the door.
McKelvie, however, was prepared for him and the closing door met an obstruction in the shape of the toe of McKelvie's boot.
"There is no use trying to keep me out," he continued sternly, "unless of course you would like to tell your story to the police."
At mention of the police Orton retreated still farther, and we followed him into the apartment, closing the door behind us. We found ourselves in a stuffy, gloomy little parlor filled with a lot of ugly, old-fashioned furniture. Orton, who was clad in dressing-gown and slippers, ungraciously asked us to be seated, but before we could state our errand a quavering voice from somewhere in the rear reached us.
"What is it, Claude? Who is in there with you?" it said.
"You have frightened my mother," said Orton, plucking at the cord of his wrapper, as if undecided whether to go or stay.
"Tell her it's all right and that you know who we are," commanded McKelvie. "And without leaving this room," as Orton started to move away. "I guess she can hear you from here."
Sullenly, Orton obeyed, and then seating himself on the sofa, demanded what we wanted.
"At the inquest you gave several bits of information which had no foundation in fact," began McKelvie, going straight to the point. "You lied and you know it. For that matter so do I. Now I want to know why?"
"Mr. Davies, of course I know," answered Orton with a sneer. "But what right have you to question me?"
"I am investigating the case for Mr. Davies on the quiet," answered McKelvie suavely.
"And that gives you the right to intrude on my privacy, I suppose?" continued Orton sarcastically (he had abandoned his rôle of "humble still," or rather he was Uriah Heep grown bold through triumph), "and to force yourself into my rooms?"
McKelvie shrugged. "Really if you would rather be put through the third degree at Police Headquarters it's a matter of indifference to me."
Orton's pallid face became livid. "Are you trying to frighten me by pretending that you believe that I killed Philip Darwin?" he cried, but his voice trembled in spite of himself.
"No, I'm not pretending any such thing. I know you didn't kill him. You're too much of a coward," returned McKelvie contemptuously, whereat Orton gave a gasping sigh of relief. "But I do say you know more of this murder than you gave out, and a hint to that effect in the ear of Jones will be quite sufficient to bring the police to this place. No doubt you have a telephone that I can use. I'll give you five minutes to decide."
But Orton didn't need five minutes, no, nor even ten seconds. McKelvie had hardly finished speaking when Orton flung himself forward with clasped hands, his prominent eyes fairly popping with terror.
"I'll tell you everything, anything, though I declare I know nothing. Only don't send the police here," he pleaded in a frightened voice.
I was amazed at his abject fear but McKelvie motioned him back, and said coldly: "Very well, but don't lie to me, for I know why you fear the police." He leaned closer and whispered a word that I did not catch, but which had the effect of making Orton wring his hands helplessly, and whine that he never intended to lie, and would tell us everything we wanted to know.
McKelvie silenced him with a gesture, as he said: "I want an account, a true one, of everything that you did and said and saw on the night of October the seventh between ten-thirty, when you summoned Mrs. Darwin to the study and midnight, when the shot rang out."
"I wanted to tell what Mr. Darwin had said and they wouldn't let me at the inquest," put in Orton, aggrieved.
"You're not dealing with the police now, and I want every word that has any bearing on the case, whatever its purport."
"Very well. At ten-thirty I told Mrs. Darwin that her husband wanted her and then I listened at the door. They were quarreling about the love letter I had put together for him."
"When did you show him this letter?" interrupted McKelvie.
"In the morning after Lee left the study. Mr. Darwin told me to patch it together because he said it would come in handy some day. It did—that night," and he leered at me in a very unpleasant way.
"Go on," said McKelvie peremptorily.
"I couldn't hear what they said——"
"Then how did you know that they were quarreling about the letter?" I asked.
"I was going to say," Orton ignored me completely, "that I couldn't hear the words exchanged until I opened the door a crack. Then I heard very well, indeed. Mr. Darwin was threatening Mr. Davies, and Mrs. Darwin retorted that she would send for him and warn him, but he only laughed in a queer way and then I saw her coming, so I retreated. After that he called me in and told me to watch her. I crept upstairs and heard her orders to the maid, whom I followed to the garage. Then I came back and hung around the hall. Mr. Darwin had told me he was expecting a visitor, so when I came back I applied my ear to the door. I could hear voices, his and a strange one, but not what they said, though they spoke loudly as if in anger."
"Why didn't you open the door a crack?" I inquired sarcastically.
"Because I was too clever. Mr. Darwin had locked the door when I went out and I knew it was still locked. Besides at ten-thirty only the lamp was lighted and the region of the door was in comparative darkness, but at this particular time I could tell by applying my eye to the key-hole that the other lights had been turned on as well. So even if I could have opened the door I should still have been afraid of being seen."
"Never mind that. Go on with what's important," broke in McKelvie, impatiently.
"At eleven-twenty-five Mr. Davies arrived, and at eleven-thirty Mr. Darwin called me."
"How?"
"There's a bell connection between the study and my workroom. When I went in Mr. Darwin had resumed his seat at the table and looked pretty much as he did when we saw him later, except he was alive."
"A good deal of difference, I should judge," I thought to myself, "between a corpse and a well man. However, that's neither here nor there."
"He had just finished writing the name, Cora Manning, on his new will, for the ink was not yet dry when I reached the table. I told him all that had taken place. It was then he laughed and said: 'So we've a broker in the house, eh? He should know how to play fast and loose, eh? I'll make him useful, this broker lover of our stainless Ruth.'"
Orton mouthed the words with devilish delight and I had all I could do to keep my hands off of him. But McKelvie paid no heed to our feelings.
"Go on, man," he said with growing impatience. "Don't repeat what I know already."
"You said that you wanted to hear everything that was spoken," grumbled Orton.
"Yes, so I did. Only hustle along and get it out. Was that all he said?" demanded McKelvie.
"No. He said something else. I remarked that a broker ought to know how to play fast and loose, and he replied: 'Yes, and other things, too, eh? Mr. Davies doesn't know it yet, but he has done me the very greatest service by coming here to-night. See that the windows are properly locked and then go to bed.' As I locked the windows I could hear him laughing to himself, and he was still laughing when I closed the door behind me."
"What did you think he meant to convey by those words of his?" asked McKelvie.
"I thought he might be referring to the fact that now he had good grounds for divorce. I believe he was tired of Mrs. Darwin," replied Orton.
"You are sure that Mr. Darwin was alone at eleven-thirty?" continued McKelvie, after a slight pause.
"Yes, absolutely alone," responded Orton. "There was no place where anyone could hide. I examined the window hangings as I locked up."
"What about the safe?"
"It was partly open and I looked in as I passed. It was empty."
"Humph. Now I'd have sworn—" murmured McKelvie.
"What?" asked Orton inquisitively.
"Nothing. What's the rest of your story?" retorted McKelvie.
"I didn't go to bed. I wanted to see what would happen, for I was sure from the way he spoke that Mr. Darwin meant to call Mr. Davies into the study later on, so I continued to work in the little room until I grew weary and thirsty, and going out in the hall found that it was about ten minutes to twelve. Still nothing had happened, for I could hear the murmur of voices in the drawing-room."
He didn't have to tell us how he knew. We could guess. Ruth was right in saying that he was always spying upon her.
"I knew," he continued, "that Mr. Darwin kept a good brand of whisky, private stock of course, in a cabinet in the dining-room, and I determined to mix myself a drink. But just then I heard the key turned in the study door and thinking Mr. Darwin was coming out, I went back to my room and closed the door. I waited some time, maybe five minutes or more, and then looked out. No one was around and both drawing-room and study doors were closed. I decided I had missed the show, since there was no sound from either room, and I determined to have my drink before I went upstairs. I went in to the dining-room and had my hand on the cabinet key when the shot rang out. I hurried to the study and saw—Mr. Davies in the doorway, Mrs. Darwin holding the pistol, and Mr. Darwin dead."
"You didn't see Mrs. Darwin go into the study?" questioned McKelvie.
"No, but I judged she had gone in when I heard the study door unlock. You see, I did not know what might happen, especially when Mr. Davies said I had no proof that I wasn't in the study also, so I decided to have an alibi for the police. That's why I said I was on the stairs because then they would not know where I had really been. I didn't know that Mrs. Darwin had seen me."
"A good thing for you that she did see you," returned McKelvie grimly, "or you might be occupying that cell in her place."
Orton blanched like the coward that he was. "But—but, I'm innocent," he said, indignantly.
"Well, you wouldn't be the first innocent person to grace a cell, I assure you," retorted McKelvie dryly. "You have told us everything?"
"Yes, everything."
"Very well, then you can answer several questions. You are positive you heard the key turned in the study door when you stood in the hall at ten minutes to twelve?" continued McKelvie. "Remember I want facts, and not impressions."
"I am as positive as that I am sitting here. But it was more toward five minutes to twelve because I paused to ascertain if Mrs. Darwin was still in the drawing-room and I listened for a minute or two before I started for the dining-room," replied Orton with conviction.
"A minute is a good long while, longer than you think, Orton," returned McKelvie. "But that point is, after all, immaterial. We will say that somewhere between ten and five minutes to twelve the study door was unlocked from the inside," and he looked at me significantly.
If he was right in his premise, then the person who unlocked that door could have been none other than the criminal, for at ten minutes before midnight Philip Darwin was past unlocking doors! Yet it seemed a foolhardy thing to do, for any one then could have entered and discovered him. But, no, after all, it was the sensible thing to do from his point of view, since otherwise the prospective suspect would have been unable to enter the room. Then I looked at McKelvie with dawning horror in my eyes. The unlocking of that door could have meant only one thing, that the criminal knew Ruth was across the hall, and deliberately, cold-bloodedly, planned to saddle her with the murder of her husband!
"Why, McKelvie," I began, horrified, but he tread on my toe as if by accident, and I recalled hastily that we were not alone.
"Even if I had not heard Mr. Darwin unlock the door," continued Orton ingratiatingly, "he must have unlocked it at some time, for I heard him turn the key in the lock when I left him at eleven-thirty and the door was open when Mrs. Darwin entered the room. But, I know I'm not mistaken in saying that I heard it unlocked."
"How do you know that it was Mr. Darwin who unlocked it?" I asked injudiciously.
McKelvie frowned, but Orton answered without apparent suspicion, "He was alone in a closed room. Who else could have opened it, Mr. Davies?"
"No one, of course," I lied cheerfully, and subsided into the background, not wishing to give Orton any further inkling of what we knew.
"When you came out into the hall the second time, you said that you heard no sound from either room. Did you open the study door even a crack that time by any chance?" resumed McKelvie.
"No. Again I feared to be seen. You see that all the lights in the room had been turned on," replied Orton.
Even McKelvie was taken aback by this statement, more so than I was, I could see, because he was firmly convinced that the criminal waited for Ruth in a darkened room. I stole a glance at Orton to see whether he was triumphing over us, but he was sitting in the same dejected attitude and did not act at all as though he had made a remarkable declaration. Yet if he spoke the truth, he sent our theories tumbling about our ears like a house of cards from which one of the foundation units had been suddenly removed. If the study was lighted at that time, then Ruth must have seen the criminal, yet she had said she was shielding no one and I believed her. What paradox was this, then? Even McKelvie was puzzled.
"I wish I were sure you are speaking the truth," he muttered, looking at Orton in a reflective way.
"It is the truth. Why should I make it up? I applied my eye to the key-hole to make doubly sure, even when I saw the light shining beneath the doorsill," said Orton, and there was no mistaking his sincerity and genuine surprise that McKelvie should doubt him.
"You did not chance to see anyone when you applied your eye to the key-hole?" went on McKelvie, putting aside his conjectures.
"No, I saw no one."
"You are acquainted with the details of Mr. Darwin's business, are you not?" McKelvie remarked, abruptly changing the subject.
"Yes, I'm conversant with a good deal of it," responded Orton.
"Is it true that he removed his securities from Cunningham's office and used them to speculate with?" continued McKelvie.
"I suppose so since the lawyer says it. I myself never even knew he had those securities. I attended strictly to his business in connection with the bank, answering letters, arranging committee meetings, taking notes of any agreements the directors came to, and so on. He speculated with his own private funds, and advised his brokers himself, so I know nothing beyond the fact that his transactions were large," answered Orton.
"You didn't hear any rumors that he was speculating in M. and R. stock, for instance?"
"Well, yes, he told me himself that he was going to take a chance on it," replied Orton after a slight hesitation.
"He didn't happen to mention that he was ruined, did he, on the afternoon of the seventh?" insisted McKelvie.
"Ruined!" Orton's eyes fairly popped with amazement. "No, I had no idea it was as bad as that."
"What do you mean?" asked McKelvie quickly.
"I was watching that stock go down, and when he came into the office that afternoon I asked him casually if he had invested. He said, 'Yes, heavily,' in a dull kind of voice, but I thought nothing more about it, because he was always pessimistic whenever he speculated and I also knew he was too cautious to put up more than he could afford. I can't believe he could have invested his whole fortune," and Orton shook his head with a shrewd glance at us.
"Rumors are apt to exaggerate," responded McKelvie lightly. "By the way, how much was his whole fortune?"
"I don't really know, but I believe he got quite a bit when he married Mrs. Darwin. At least I gathered as much from something she said to him one day when he had been particularly mean to her," explained Orton.
"Do you recall the exact words?" asked McKelvie, ignoring my frown.
"Not the exact words, but the sense of them," answered Orton with a smile. "She wanted to know if he hadn't humiliated her enough when he forced her to sign over to him her fortune, thus leaving her dependent upon him, and he replied with a sneer, 'That's all I married you for, my dear.'"
At that moment I rejoiced in the murder, and should have thought no ill of her if Ruth herself had done it. It was not murder but the justifiable removal of a venomous snake. I was beginning to regret I had not done it myself six months before when it first occurred to me as the only solution to our trouble.
"I think that is all then. Say nothing about our having been here, and I'll do the same with regard to your affairs. By the way, at the trial you may use the alibi you gave the police. You might find it awkward explaining why you lied to them." McKelvie rose as he spoke, and walked toward the door.
"You're not joking? I can give the same evidence I gave before?" gasped Orton incredulously.
"Yes, only take care not to trip yourself up under cross-examination, though I doubt if there is much danger from Mr. Vaughn. Why on earth did you pick that old fossil to defend her?" he continued, as we re-entered my car. "The prosecution will put it all over him from the start."
"I went to him because he was the only one I could think of at the moment, but he will not defend her himself, McKelvie. He will employ other counsel. Though I can't see that it matters much what kind of counsel we have or if we have any at all, for the prosecution has the facts while we have—mere theories," I returned gloomily.
"You're right. We have only theories and for a moment mine got a mortal blow when Orton said the study was lighted, for as near as I can figure that must have been just before Mrs. Darwin went in. Lord, if Grenville knew that fact he'd laugh in your face when you testify, as I presume you will, that the study was in darkness. Yes, and how much store would the jury set by Mrs. Darwin's account then?"
"Is that the reason you told Orton to repeat his evidence?" I asked.
"Naturally. I'm not giving my opponents any more points in their favor. The game is unequal enough as it is," he replied, drawing his brows together in an effort to reconcile the various facts in the case.
"But, Orton may give us away," I said presently. "He may become frightened when he has to testify under oath."
"He's looking out for A No. 1 and he's an adept liar, to boot. Besides, he'd say nothing to make me reveal what I know about him," retorted McKelvie, coming out of his abstraction.
"What do you know about him?" I asked curiously.
"Only that he's mixed up in some boot-legging scheme. Not much of a hold, you think? Perhaps not, where a fearless man was concerned, but Claude Orton is the greatest coward I have met in many a day. The very word police is enough to scare him out of his wits, but he isn't worth a moment's thought. I wanted to frighten him badly enough to get at the truth and it netted us nothing in the end," he added, shifting impatiently in his seat.
I laughed sardonically. "You forget. It netted us a lighted room," I remarked.
McKelvie turned toward me with a look of deep concern in his eyes. "Tell me," he said, "do you believe it was cleverness or sheer bravado that made the criminal light the study with the door unlocked? Give me your opinion."
"How should I know?" I retorted glumly. "It's my opinion he was liable to do anything."
"He could hardly be cognizant of the fact that Orton was prowling around, and he could easily turn off the lights when he heard footsteps crossing the hall. That's doubtless just what he did, which would imply that he was somewhere near the door. What a pity Orton caught no glimpse of him! He would hardly leave Mrs. Darwin's entrance to chance. He'd want to know when she was coming, for he couldn't be certain of the time she would choose to enter, no, not if he were twice as clever." McKelvie was thinking aloud, his brows knit once more, but I did not hesitate to interrupt him. There was no Jenkins present to preserve the flow of his thoughts undisturbed.
"You seem to believe, or rather I should say, you seem absolutely convinced that the criminal knew that Ruth would come to the study. The same conviction, with all its attendant horror, flashed over me a while ago when you were questioning Orton. But, upon my honor, now I review the thing calmly, I can't figure on what you base your conclusion. Ruth had no more idea of going into that study than I had, until I suggested it to her on the spur of the moment. That's the truth. How are you going to get around it?" I said emphatically.
He pulled a briar pipe from his pocket and lighted it before he answered. "That's easy. The criminal was in the room when Orton came in at eleven-thirty. Probably he was hiding in the safe in the secret room——"
"I thought you deduced that the criminal knew nothing of the secret entrance until he forced the knowledge from Darwin just before he killed him," I pointed out.
"I said he did not enter that way, not that he had no knowledge of it. Orton said that Darwin and his visitor were quarreling. Darwin knew his secretary and divined that he'd be hanging around the door listening. So he called him in and got rid of him, in the meantime hiding his visitor in the safe, from which point of vantage he heard the conversation between Orton and Darwin. Am I correct so far?" he inquired.
"Sounds plausible enough," I replied.
"Knowing human nature (I make this deduction because throughout he has most certainly traded on his knowledge of human beings in general, and the police in particular), he put himself in your place. What would he do if he were in love with Mrs. Darwin and had learned of the existence of the letter. Why, naturally urge Mrs. Darwin to try to secure the incriminating evidence. So you see he was pretty sure she would come, but he did not know when. He couldn't possibly know when, could he?" he asked appealingly.
"No, I don't at this moment see how he could, unless he was a magician, which isn't likely. I think myself we are on the wrong tack altogether. We are trying to complicate a simple affair. The criminal, no doubt, came in at midnight and shot Darwin without knowing that Ruth was there. Then he went off again through the secret entrance, and Ruth was implicated by pure chance, for, after all, there is only one pistol, there was only one shot heard, and only one bullet found," was my contribution.
"All I can say to that, Mr. Davies, is that in that case the murderer must have been a magician after all, for surely you are not implying that Mrs. Darwin lied when she said the study was dark?" he remarked with a smile, blowing wreaths of smoke along Broadway, for we were driving slowly toward town.
I groaned. I had forgotten the problem of the shot in the dark. Assuredly it was a poser, for the feat was well-nigh impossible, unless we explained it by assuming a previous shot, which would have been all to the good if McKelvie could only have found the lost bullet.
"You have reverted to the theory that the crime was one of impulse," continued McKelvie. "Disabuse your mind of any such idea. That murder was premeditated. It was done in cold-blood, and planned down to the smallest detail, days before it occurred. And so very carefully was it planned that the criminal was able to work Mrs. Darwin into the scheme, without in the least disturbing his previous calculations. That is why we are stumped for the present, because I have not yet been able to put my finger on the weak spot in the link. There is bound to be a weak spot, there always is no matter how clever the criminal, but it may take longer than the time at our disposal before the trial. I shall have to pick up a new trail, since Orton had nothing of value to give us," McKelvie ended, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "Speed her up a little, Mr. Davies."
"What new trail?" I asked, obeying mechanically.
"The woman in the case," he said impressively.
"The woman in the case? You mean—Cora Manning?" I inquired.
"Yes. You know the old French saying, 'Cherchez la femme.' I have done my best to keep my promise to Mrs. Darwin to let Miss Manning out of it, but now it is a matter of necessity. I firmly believe she was in Darwin's study that night, somewhere between eleven-thirty and midnight," he answered.
"But, heavens, man, how did she get in?" I cried.
"She lodges, or did, at Gramercy Park. Drive me over there. She should be back by now and if she should prove to be the woman in the case, we'll make her talk. It ought not to take more than an hour at most, and if I am wrong, why we shall be no worse off than we are now."
I gave my car more gas and continued down Broadway, intending to cut across Twenty-first Street to Gramercy Park, remarking as I did so, "You haven't told me how she effected an entrance into that closed room."
"She must have entered by the secret entrance," he replied. "Eliminate the impossible, you know."
"That's all very fine, but it plays ducks and drakes with your previous reasoning, for how did she obtain a knowledge of those three all-important facts about the entrance that you said even the criminal could not divine?" I inquired.
"When we meet the fair Cora you can ask her to explain the facts for you, Mr. Davies. I confess that I cannot," he said a little wearily. "It isn't good to jump at conclusions and I make it a rule not to say anything which cannot be proved to have foundation in fact. Now I do not know how she got there, but I do believe she was present in the study. Until we make that a fact also, we will not discuss it."
Annoyed at his tone I remained silent, but my eyes betrayed me as I turned in his direction for a moment and he read curiosity in their depths. He smiled and clapped me on the shoulder. "I'm an old crank. You shouldn't mind my talk," he said. "I guess you have as good a right as anyone to all the knowledge that can be gleaned in this business. I owe my information to friend Jones. The blood-stained handkerchief is Cora Manning's, I'm pretty sure, though the police are positive it belongs to Mrs. Darwin. Perhaps you recall that I gave you an involuntary but generous whiff of it that day. Did you recognize the perfume?"
"Not at the time. I have since placed it as Rose Jacqueminot," I replied.
"That's right. It was very faint, but unmistakable. Now, I smelled the other handkerchief also. It was scented with violet. You see, I have made quite a study of perfumes and the different scents are as distinct from each other as different brands of cigars or cigarettes. A refined woman who has any taste at all chooses the perfume best suited to her personality, and sticks to it. She doesn't use one kind one week, a different kind the next. We will go over Cora Manning's room. If we find even the faintest trace of Rose Jacqueminot we will know without a doubt that the handkerchief is hers."
By this time we had reached Gramercy Park, and running up the steps of what was once a fashionable residence, we rang the bell. After an appreciable interval we heard a shuffle of feet in the hall, and a thin, emaciated-looking chap opened the door.
"Is Miss Manning in?" inquired McKelvie.
"I don't know," said the man, dubiously. "If you'll take a seat in the parlor I'll call Mrs. Harmon."
We did as he requested and entered a gloomy room in which all the shades had been lowered, and as McKelvie moved restlessly around I seated myself upon a very uncomfortable horsehair sofa.
"No wonder yonder fellow is pale and thin," I thought, then I rose hastily, more in astonishment than true courtesy, if the truth must be told, for coming through the narrow doorway was the very largest woman I had ever seen outside of a freak show, and when I say large, I don't mean that she was tall. She was hardly more than middle height, but so ample of girth that I expected to see her stick midway between the door-posts, and pictured McKelvie and myself frantically endeavoring to extricate her by hauling mightily upon her short, fat arms. But she was evidently accustomed to this particular doorway, for with a sidewise shift she entered composedly enough.
"I'm Mrs. Harmon," she said affably. "What can I do for you?"
"I wish to see Miss Manning," returned McKelvie.
"Miss Manning has been away since the seventh of October," she replied quietly.
A shade of disappointment crossed McKelvie's face. "You know where she has gone?"
"No, sir. I don't. I thought she had gone to see some relatives, perhaps."
"Please be seated, Mrs. Harmon. I should like to ask a few questions." She looked at him in evident astonishment, and he hastened to add, "I'm investigating the Darwin murder and any information you can give me will be appreciated."
"Land sakes, you don't mean to tell me, young man, that you think she did it?" she said indignantly.
"Oh, no, but her name was on the will and I wanted to trace the connection, that is all," he replied suavely.
"There was a young man here not so very many days ago who talked like that. I told him all I knew and he went and printed it in the paper. If that's the kind you are I shan't say one word," she retorted, her fat face flushing at the trick played upon her.
"We are not reporters, if that is what you mean," returned McKelvie soothingly.
Under the spell of his voice she heaved an enormous sigh of relief and lowered herself into a very wide arm-chair.
"You said that on the night of the seventh of October, Miss Manning went away from here?" McKelvie began.
"Yes, she left somewhere around eleven o'clock."
"On foot or in a taxi?"
"She went on foot and I watched her cross Gramercy Park and go toward the Subway," said Mrs. Harmon.
"Didn't you think it peculiar that she should leave suddenly at that time of night without leaving her address behind?" he continued.
The woman rocked back and forth several times before she answered. "Well, no. You see I didn't tell that other young man so, because he didn't ask me, and besides I didn't like his looks. But I guess you're all right. You have an honest face. I know pretty well why she wanted to go away. I would have gone, too, in her place, poor girl.
"It all comes of taking up with these idle rich young men who have more money than brains, say I," she went on with a self-righteous toss of her head. I smiled. I couldn't imagine any young man, rich or poor, taking a fancy to Mrs. Harmon. I wondered what kind of man Mr. Harmon had been, but then she may have been slimmer when he first met and married her. "I told Miss Manning she was doing a foolish thing, but she wouldn't listen and engaged herself to a young chap named Lee Darwin," the good lady continued. "I hadn't anything against the young man, he seemed a nice boy, but after a while another man took to coming around. He was older and wore a beard and eyeglasses. I didn't like him and told her there would be trouble, but she thought she knew best, and so there was trouble." Mrs. Harmon closed her lips on the words complacently.
"The morning of the seventh, Lee Darwin came here looking like a madman, and they had some kind of a quarrel in this very room. I don't know what it was about, but I heard him telling her that he was through with the likes of her, and then he bounced out again. Well, she acted kind of dazed for a while and then she made an appointment on the phone. When she came back from her lessons he just mooned around, and at ten-thirty that night she packed her bag and said she was going on a long journey, and if anyone inquired where she was, to say I didn't know. But she wouldn't tell me where she was going, and I figured she had decided to hide away till she got over her hurt."
"Yes, I guess you're right," said McKelvie. "And now one more request. I should like to see her room."
Mrs. Harmon eyed him suspiciously, but he gave her his best smile, which would have melted a harder heart than hers, and hoisting herself to her feet she led the way up the stairs to Cora Manning's room.
It was a small room but nicely furnished and very dainty, as befitted the bedroom of a refined young woman, but McKelvie hardly looked at it. He opened a handkerchief box on the dresser and when Mrs. Harmon had her back turned he slipped something into his pocket.
"Thank you, Mrs. Harmon, you have been most kind," he said, as we left the room.
"Not at all. I guess you can find your way out. It's kind of hard for me, climbing stairs so much. Give the door a bang and it'll lock itself," she returned, and we followed directions while she watched our departure from the head of the stairs.
"Well?" I said, as we descended the steps.
"It's hers. Look!" He removed from his pocket the article he had taken from Cora Manning's room and held it out on his palm. It was a tiny yellow satin sachet bag embroidered in blue!
"This is getting ridiculous," I said, as we took our places in the car. "How many more of these blooming things are we likely to run across anyway? That's the third one I've seen."
"Third? I have knowledge of only two, this one and Lee's, and it's not difficult to conjecture where he got his," McKelvie said, with raised brows, as he repocketed the bag.
I told him of my discovery that Dick possessed one of these sachets also, adding, "It's identical with this one. Do you suppose she gave it to him?"
"Richard Trenton," he mused, glancing at his watch. "We'll just have time before dinner. Take me up to Riverside Drive, if you will be so kind. I want another look at that secret room."
I turned my car, and drove as swiftly as I dared along Broadway, asking him, "Do you think that Cora Manning is in hiding because of that quarrel?"
He did not answer until we were skimming along the Drive. "No," he said quietly then, "I don't think so."
"Do you believe she killed Darwin?" I persisted.
"No, I don't. It was not a woman's job, but I do believe she can prove for us when he died," he answered. "And through her I hope to locate the criminal."
"If she is the woman in the case, she must be shielding the man or she would have come forward long ago to free Ruth," I pointed out.
"Or he may be holding her a prisoner because she knows too much for his peace of mind and body," he retorted. "That puts a different complexion on it."
"In that case he will murder her, too, before we can reach her," I said in a horrified voice.
"A man kills the woman he loves for only one reason, which does not exist in this case," he replied.
"Good heavens!" I said. "The criminal in love with Cora Manning! Then you mean that Lee killed his uncle?"
McKelvie shrugged. "That I can't presume to say. Perhaps it's Lee—perhaps it's another. Remember this. If Richard Trenton knew her, ten to one he was in love with her, too. I have seen her picture."
Which statement, since I was a man, only increased my eagerness to see the fair Cora.
At McKelvie's request I parked my car a block from the house and we traversed that distance in silence, entering the grounds as though we had come on no good errand. When we reached the house McKelvie piloted me to the back and rang the servants' bell. It was late, after six, and growing dark so that Mason was hardly to be blamed if he failed to recognize us, especially as he did not expect to see us again so soon.
"It's Mr. Davies, Mason," said McKelvie. "Will you let us in to the main wing through the passageway, please?"
"Yes, sir," returned Mason. "This way, sir, if you please."
He led us through the passageway and opened the door into the main wing, going ahead of us to switch on the light in the hall.
"That is all. Leave the door open into the passageway. We shall probably depart the way we entered."
"Very good, sir."
McKelvie waited until the old man had shuffled away before he approached the study door. It was little more than six hours since we had been in that room, yet it seemed more like a week to me, so many things had cropped up in the interval, and I waited impatiently for McKelvie to turn the knob of the door.
"I thought I heard someone in there," he whispered, and flung open the door.
For one swift instant I had the impression of a glaring eye that winked and faded as I looked, then only darkness confronted us, darkness and a brooding stillness in which I could hear my very heart-beats.
McKelvie stepped into the room and found the switch, then as the study was flooded with light, he turned and sped toward the safe with me at his heels.
"The windows," he said tersely, as he spun the dial. "See if anyone is hiding behind those curtains."
I hurried to the windows and swept back the hangings. There was no one there, and I turned back to the safe just as McKelvie stood up and swung open the door.
"Come on," he said, thrusting his skeleton key into the inner door. "Don't forget to stoop and be careful to make no noise."
I followed him as he lighted his flash, and passed quickly through the secret room to the door at the head of the stairs. Unlocking this he motioned me to keep near him, and together we crept down the stone staircase and out into the night. We listened a moment, but the only thing we heard was the wind in the trees, which seemed to mock us shrilly as we peered into the dusk beyond.
"Come on back," said McKelvie quietly. "We have work to do yonder," and he nodded toward the entrance.
Wonderingly I obeyed him but asked no questions as he relocked the door and led the way back to the secret room. Here he paused to turn on the light and then lifting the divan aside with my help, he knelt and felt the wall against which it had been placed.
"What is it?" I whispered. His haste and mysterious actions made me feel somehow that to speak aloud would be to commit an unpardonable offense.
He raised his head as though listening to sounds from without, then he sprang to his feet.
"The divan, quick, and no noise," he whispered.
I stooped to help him and as we lifted the divan to its place the fringe of the cover caught in my cuff-link. I tried to untangle it, but McKelvie had no time for such niceties. He wrenched the fringe free, leaving a strand in my link, and as he did so something fell to the floor and rolled along the carpet. He pounced upon the object, then suddenly turned and switched off the light. By the aid of his flash he crept to the rear door, and I distinctly heard the sound of steps on those stairs as McKelvie unlocked the door.
With a sudden movement he pulled the door open and flashed his light on the stairs. Again there was nothing but darkness and brooding stillness, and I could see that the door at the bottom was tightly closed.
"Well, I'll be hanged," muttered McKelvie. "I must be hearing things. Let's get back to the study."
We returned to the brightly lighted room and McKelvie locked up behind him with scrupulous care. Then he went over to the table and seated himself at its head in the chair in which Darwin had been found, and motioned me to take the place beside him.
"Funny thing," he said presently. "I could have sworn there was someone in this room when we first entered. I'm positive I saw this lamp go out."
"Was that it?" I answered. "It looked like an eye to me, a great glaring eye that faded as I gazed."
"You saw it too, then? I'm glad of that," he returned. "I was beginning to think I was the victim of hallucination. No, it was the lamp, which means someone was in that safe. However, he had the start of us, and there is not much use in trying to catch him at present."
"Who was it?" I asked eagerly. "Do you suspect?"
He made no answer but took from his pocket the object which had fallen from the divan. It was a heavy gold ring, evidently a man's. He looked at it critically and then held it out to me.
"Do you know whose it is?" he asked low.
Before I could take it from him he hastily slipped it back into his pocket and leaning closer, said in my ear, "Don't make a sound, but look at the safe door. Then turn back and listen to me as though nothing were amiss."
I was sitting around the corner from the head of the table with my chair turned slightly in McKelvie's direction so that my back was partly toward the safe. At his words I turned and looked at the safe door, expecting I know not what, and to my amazement I saw that the knob of the dial was turning silently and apparently of itself!
There was only one explanation. Someone was opening the door of the safe from the inside, somebody who knew the combination which McKelvie had used! And yet how could anyone have cognizance of the six letters McKelvie had picked out to close the safe. For this was no attempt such as Jenkins had made, no adept manipulation, since the dial was turning with precision, as though the hand that twirled it knew exactly how to spin it.
McKelvie's foot on mine recalled the remainder of his injunction, and turning back, I held out my hand for the ring. His lips formed the word, "No," and his eyes directed me to what he held in his hand. It was Lee Darwin's stick-pin.
"I thought there was someone in the room when we entered," he said in a clear voice, "but since you say you did not see the light, why I must have been mistaken. The case is getting on my nerves, and nerves are queer things when they begin to jump. I've been working too hard, and it's time I took a vacation."
He paused, and I had an uncomfortable feeling that whoever was in the safe had succeeded in opening it and was gazing at us from behind the shelter of the door. I shuddered as I realized the intensity of those unseen eyes which held me riveted to my chair. I longed to turn around and look and so break the spell, but McKelvie's glance on mine forbade it.
"I'm convinced that Lee killed his uncle," he continued. "The stick-pin proves his presence, and doubtless he had knowledge of the entrance. There is nothing more to be learned from this study. My work from now on must be conducted outside. As I said, I've got a man in the South and until he picks up Lee's trail there is nothing more to be done."
He stood up and put the pin away. "I'm dog tired. We've had a strenuous day. Take me home, Mr. Davies. I've earned a few days' rest."
Disappointedly I looked up at him. He spoke very convincingly and he did look tired, but somehow I had hoped that the ring had opened up a new line of inquiry for the morrow. Inaction was hateful to me while Ruth remained a prisoner. I wanted to be up and doing, even if it was only following a false scent.
"Come on, Mr. Davies. It's long past dinner time," he said impatiently.
"All right," I said reluctantly, rising and glancing casually at the safe as I did so. To my surprise the door was closed and had the appearance of never having been touched. Was I too beginning to have hallucinations?
A warning pressure as McKelvie took my arm made me mask whatever astonishment I felt, and also made me hasten with him from the room without a backward glance. When we were in the hall I opened my mouth to question him, but he shook his head and hurried me along to the door leading into the servants' wing.
"Wait here a moment," he said, indicating the passageway. "I'll be back in a second. Keep the door closed."
He disappeared down a side hall and I stepped into the passageway and closed the door, wondering what it was all about, and particularly who the man was who had evaded us to-night, if it was a man and not a freak of my imagination. Still, McKelvie had heard him, too, and it was hardly likely that both of us were dreaming.
"Come, we'll have to hurry," said McKelvie, returning suddenly.
In silence we let ourselves out the back door and crept through the grounds to the gate. In another minute we had gained the corner and my car.
As I drove toward town I remarked, "Was there really someone in that safe, McKelvie?"
"Certainly. I thought I was mistaken at first, but he came back again, as you observed. I thought you looked uneasy while I was talking," he said laughing.
I reddened. "It wasn't very pleasant to feel his eyes on me and be forbidden to see who it was. You were facing the safe. You saw him?" I questioned.
"No, I didn't see him. He was too clever to risk that. He knew we were there, and he came to find out how much progress we had made toward putting him behind the bars where he belongs," retorted McKelvie grimly.
"You don't mean to tell me that it was the criminal himself who had the nerve to come there to-night?" I said.
"It must have been, for who else has a key to those doors? Remember that he took Darwin's key, and mine is the only other one that will open those locks. Also he would be too clever to take anyone else into his confidence," he replied.
"How did he know the combination that you used?" I continued.
McKelvie laughed. "When I locked the safe the other day I used the word, Darwin, the one you suggested. He has since made himself acquainted with that combination. Just as he was too clever to change it so that I would believe the safe untampered with, so was I too clever to let him know that I suspected his visits."
I nodded. "Why didn't you go over to the safe and capture him then?" I asked. "You missed an opportunity."
"What happened when we chased him before? The moment he saw us making for the safe he would be gone. Besides, I was playing a little game. I had put him on his guard by hunting for him. I decided to trick him into thinking that I no longer had any interest in him."
"Then all that very convincing conversation——"
"Was mere bunk," he answered. "I'm glad it was convincing, though, for I was trying to fool a very clever devil."
He fished around in his pocket and drew out the ring. I could see it gleam in the light of the street lamps as we sped toward the park.
"Strange. I had an idea that there was a secret panel or something of the sort where he could hide such things as he needed, for I could figure no other reason for his coming to that house, and that is what I was hunting for when you so opportunely caught your cuff-link in that Persian cover. This ring must have been tangled in the fringe and when I yanked the cover I dislodged the ring. That was a stroke of pure luck, and it changes the whole course of the inquiry. Word from Chicago would have told me something, but not as much as this band of gold does. Take a good look at it and tell me whose it is."
He took out his flash and played it over the ring while I looked at it. Then I turned away, feeling sick at heart. The ring was a heavy gold signet with a deep-cut monogram, and it was a ring I knew only too well, since I had bought it myself at Ruth's request that she might give it to her brother on his birthday. That was three years ago, and what a very happy time it had been and how pleased Dick had seemed to receive the ring, for he always made a fuss over Ruth. I remember that he swore to wear it always as he slipped it on his finger, and now here it was cropping up to bring more misery to the girl I wanted most to shield from all harm and sorrow.
"Well?" McKelvie's voice broke the thread of my thought.
"It's Dick Trenton's," I said low. "And now shall I drive you home?"
"Home? I should say not!" he almost shouted. "We're going to get some dinner and then we're off to Water Street. The trail's too hot to turn aside now."
I did drive McKelvie home after all, for he quite suddenly insisted that I partake of his hospitality, saying that we should find a better dinner at his house than at any restaurant in Greater New York. From there I phoned Jenkins to look after Mr. Trenton, and then followed McKelvie into a low-ceilinged old room lighted by a mellow glow which made the heavy mahogany furniture seem even more ancient than it really was.
I had not realized how tired I was mentally and physically (it's hard work racing around the city in a car) until I faced my host across the table, and saw how weary he looked. He smiled a little as I unconsciously relaxed after partaking of the soup which the old darky had served to us.
"Mr. Davies," he said, "I shouldn't drag you around with me. It's not fair to you. Go on home after dinner and I'll go to Water Street alone."
"You are tired, too," I returned.
"I'm paid to do this work. It's part of my business to chase after clues," he said. "You are my client, so to speak, and the client is not expected to aid the cause except in furnishing the means to carry it on."
But I shook my head. "I'm too keen on the result to stop now," I replied.
"Even if it should lead you into unforeseen channels?" he queried.
"Even so. Ruth is the first consideration," I responded firmly.
"Very well, and now the best thing we can do is to cease talking about it," and forthwith he launched into an account of a trip he had once taken through Africa.
He was a born narrator, and under the spell of his voice and the influence of that most excellent dinner, cooked as only Southern darkies know how to cook, I forgot the problem that was troubling me, forgot that there were such things as crimes and criminals; aye, even forgot that there was such a place on the globe as New York City, while I followed McKelvie on a lion hunt in the heart of northern Africa.
"And that's where I got that skin," he said, as we rose and sauntered into the living-room.
I gazed at the great rug spread out before the fireplace, and pictured to myself how it had looked the day McKelvie shot it when he spoke again.
"I'm afraid we'll have to smoke our cigars on the way. It's getting late."
With a sigh I returned to the business in hand, and as I drove through the poorer sections of New York on my way to Water Street my mind reverted to the first time I had visited that locality, which brought me around to Dick and the signet ring. So Dick had been in the Darwin home that night, and since his ring was in the secret room, then he must have been behind the safe at some time during the evening. McKelvie claimed that the criminal was hiding in the safe when Orton entered the room at eleven-thirty, but he also maintained that the criminal was the man we had heard when we ourselves had been in the study this very evening. If that were the truth then it could hardly have been Dick, since Dick was dead. Yet what did McKelvie hope to learn by visiting the scene of the suicide?
When we reached Water Street we pulled up before the lodging house where Dick had stayed and rang the bell. Mrs. Blake opened the door and eyed us suspiciously.
"No lodgings," she said uncompromisingly, beginning to close the door.
"Just a moment. We don't want lodgings," said McKelvie crisply, at the same time displaying a bill as he held his hand toward the lighted doorway. "We want you to answer a few questions."
Seeing that we were not of the class to which she was accustomed, and her suspicions allayed by the greenback, she wiped her hands on her apron and asked us in.
We went as far as the hallway, which was more ill-smelling than when I had first made its acquaintance, and paused near the shabby old staircase.
"On the tenth of October a lodger of yours committed suicide by drowning," said McKelvie abruptly. "Is this the man?"
He took a photograph from his pocket and handed it to her. As she grasped it I had a glimpse of the pictured face and was not surprised to note that it was Dick's.
"Well, I won't say for sure. It looks like the same man, only 'tother was more like the men I takes to lodge," said Mrs. Blake after gazing at the photograph.
"And this one looks like a gentleman, is that it?" supplemented McKelvie with a smile.
The woman nodded, and taking a piece of charcoal from his pocket McKelvie reclaimed the photograph and proceeded to blacken the lower part of the face, giving Dick an untidy appearance, as though he had not shaved for a week or more. Then he showed it to her again.
"Yes, sir. It looks more like him now," she added.
McKelvie pocketed the picture. "What's the name of the man who told you about the suicide?"
"Ben Kite."
"Thank you," and he placed the bill in her hands.
"Phew! It's good to get out into the fresh air. How do they stand it!" I exclaimed.
"So used to it they don't even notice it," McKelvie returned with a shrug. "Drive down to the wharves and we'll have a talk with Ben Kite, if we can find him."
"What do you expect to learn by all this questioning?" I inquired anxiously.
He did not answer except to draw my attention to a group of men lounging on the wharf. "Stay in the machine while I find out if Kite is among them."
He alighted and approached the group, but it was too dark for me to be able to distinguish more than a general blur of outlines.
"Can you tell me where I can find Ben Kite to-night?" I heard McKelvie ask.
"Who wants 'im?" growled a coarse voice in answer.
"I do," replied McKelvie.
"What you want, stranger?" remarked the same voice again.
"Are you Ben Kite?"
"That's the name me mither give me," the man returned, detaching himself from the group, which laughed immoderately at his words. "What you want?"
"A moment's conversation and I'll make it worth your while, but I don't care particularly for an audience. Do you see that car? Tell your friends to remain where they are. You'll find me waiting in the machine if you want a ten-spot."
McKelvie returned to my side and entered the machine. Hardly had he settled himself when the man was beside us. He was the same fellow I had questioned. I knew his ugly face in the light cast upon it by the lamp under which I had parked, but he failed to recognize me, since my face was in shadow.
"On October the tenth a man who lodged at Mrs. Blake's jumped into the East River and was drowned. Am I right?" asked McKelvie without preliminary.
"Sure. I told the bulls all I knowed at the time," responded Kite.
"I know. But I want the information first hand. He came to the wharf and jumped in. Was that the way it happened?"
"Sort of like that. When I seed him he was right on the edge. I hallooed and he flung up his arms high and duve in. I ran to the edge, but he never cum up. Current got 'im, I guess," answered Kite indifferently.
"And the body has not been recovered?" continued McKelvie.
The man grinned. "Well, they ain't had time. It's only four days. He might bob up yet."
I shuddered at the callous way in which he spoke of this boy of whom I had been fond.
"Is this the man?" McKelvie turned his flash on the picture.
"Sure, that's 'im, all right."
"Thank you. Here's your money. Drive quickly, Mr. Davies," McKelvie added in my ear as the man moved away. "If they think we have money they may try to get some of it for themselves."
I gave the car more gas and we were speeding round the corner before the man had more than joined his friends.
"Where did you get that picture of Dick? I do not recall having seen it before. It must be a recent one, for he looks older than I remember him."
"What picture of Dick?" he asked.
"The one you just showed Kite," I returned.
"Oh, that. I noticed it this morning when I examined the house, before your arrival, and that is what I went back to get after our adventure in the study to-night."
"Do you think the body will ever be recovered?" I asked as we turned into the Bowery from Catherine Street.
"No. It would be a very strange thing to recover a corpse that never existed," McKelvie responded grimly.
"A corpse that never existed," I repeated slowly and recalled my own doubts when Jones had first given me the news. "I understand. He was hardly likely to drown, since he could swim too well."
"Yes. Kite told us that plainly to-night. His words were: 'He flung his arms high and dove in,' which meant that he could dive; from which I deduced that he was probably a good swimmer. When a man who can swim, strikes the water his instinct is to swim, no matter how much he may want to drown. Besides, a suicide generally goes in feet first, not head first, for it takes a lot of skill to dive, even when you don't contemplate drowning," he replied, giving me his line of reasoning.
"Then he left his things at Mrs. Blake's to create the impression that he had committed suicide," I said heavily.
"Yes, so that the world would believe that Richard Trenton had drowned himself," returned McKelvie.
"But why? In God's name why? Not because he—" I broke off, unable to finish. Yes, I know I had dallied with the thought before, but then it had only been conjecture with the belief that such a thing was impossible to sustain me. Now, however, it was grim reality that stared me in the face. What other reason could Dick have for the deception which he had practised upon us all?
"We're not going to jump at conclusions, Mr. Davies." McKelvie laid a hand on my arm. "He may have had good reasons for his act."
"What reasons could he possibly have?" I said impatiently.
"When I hear from Chicago, which ought to be any day now, I can answer that question more definitely. Until then we will give him the benefit of the doubt, for, after all, he is not the only one who has vanished without a trace, nor, which is more important, is he the only one in love with Cora Manning," he added significantly.
"That's the second time you've mentioned that the criminal is in love with Cora Manning," I said, as we neared his house. "But there seems to me to be a flaw in that assumption."
"Why?"
"It stands to reason, does it not, that if the murderer loves Miss Manning he must know that she uses rose jacqueminot perfume?" I remarked.
"Yes, he knows it," agreed McKelvie. "In fact, it wouldn't surprise me if he owned one of those yellow satin sachet bags himself."
"Then he can't be as clever as you make out, or he would never have made the mistake of putting a handkerchief scented with rose jacqueminot in Mr. Darwin's hands, under the belief that it belonged to Ruth, particularly if he saw Cora Manning in the study."
McKelvie smiled. "Do you remember my saying that Lee's use of rose jacqueminot looked bad for him? It was because of that handkerchief that I made the assertion. The criminal, as I said before, uses rose jacqueminot, and he has become so accustomed to the scent of it that his olfactory nerves have lost the power to respond to it except when it is present in a fairly detectable amount. There was only the merest trace on that handkerchief, indistinguishable to him, and, therefore, deeming it unscented, he decided it belonged to Mrs. Darwin. I have an idea that he found it somewhere near the door leading into the hall. He would have done better to carry away the handkerchief with him, but like all the rest of his kind, he could not resist the chance to strengthen the evidence against Mrs. Darwin and so put himself into our hands," he explained.
"But what applies to Lee, applies to Dick as well," I returned. "He also possesses a yellow satin sachet bag."
"Yes, that is true," he responded as he alighted before his door. "Therefore we have no right to condemn one more than the other until we have a few more facts at our disposal. I'll call you if there are any new developments. By the way, don't tell Mr. Trenton that his son did not commit suicide until we know definitely what happened in the study that night.Au revoir, Mr. Davies."
"I understand. Good-night, McKelvie," I replied.