“Maida! What is the matter with you? Why are you talking like that? I know you’ve something on your mind that you haven’t told me yet. Something pretty serious, for it makes you say the strangest things! Tell me, darling, won’t you?”
“I can’t, Jeff. I mean, there isn’t anything. Wait till those people come back again. You’ll be here, won’t you? They’re coming to-morrow.”
“You bet I will! I’ll see what I can do with old curmudgeon. You know I’m argumentative.”
“That won’t do any good with Appleby. What he wants is help from dad. If he doesn’t get that, he’ll punish us all.”
“And he can’t get that, for your dad won’t give it. So it looks as if we must all take our punishment. Well, we’re prepared.”
“You wouldn’t speak so lightly if you knew everything!”
“That’s why I ask you to tell me everything. Do, Maida, I’m sure I can help you.”
“Wait till they come,” was all Maida would say in response to his repeated requests.
And at last they came.
Smiling and hearty, Samuel Appleby reëntered the Wheeler home, apparently as self-assured and hopeful as when he left it.
Keefe was courteous and polite as always and Genevieve Lane was prettier than ever by reason of some new Boston-bought clothes.
Allen was introduced to the newcomers and sized up by one glance of Samuel Appleby’s keen eyes. Privately he decided that this young man was a very formidable rival of his son. But he greeted Allen with great cordiality, which Jeff thought it best to return, although he felt an instinctive dislike for the man’s personality.
“Come along with me, Maida,” and with daring familiarity, Genevieve put her hand through Maida’s arm and drew her toward the stairs. “I have the same room, I s’pose,” she babbled on; “I’ve lots of new things I want to show you. And,” she added as they entered the room, and she closed the door, “I want a talkfest with you before the others begin.”
“What about?” asked Maida, feeling the subject would be one of importance.
“Well, it’s just this. And don’t be too shocked if I speak right out in meetin’. I’ve determined to marry into this bunch that I’m working for.”
“Have you?” laughed Maida. “Are they equally determined?”
“I’m not joking—I’m in dead earnest. A poor girl has got to do the best she can for herself in this cold world. Well, I’m going to corral one of the three: old man Appleby, young man Appleby, or Curt Keefe.”
“Which one, for choice?” Maida still spoke lightly.
“You don’t think I’m in earnest, but I am. Well, I’d rather have young Sam. Next, I’d choose his father; and, lastly, I’m pretty sure I could nail Curtie Keefe.”
Maida couldn’t help her disapproval showing in her face, but she said: “It isn’t just the way I’d go about selecting a husband, but if it’s your way, all right. Can I help you?”
“Do you mean that?”
“Why, yes, if I can do anything practical.”
“Oh, you can! It’s only to keep off the grass, regarding young Sam.”
“You mean not to try to charm him myself?”
“Just about that. And I’ll tell you why I say this. It seems old Appleby has about made up his mind that you’re the right and proper mate for young Appleby. Oh, you needn’t draw yourself up in that haughty fashion—he’s good enough for you, Miss!”
“I didn’t say he wasn’t,” and Maida laughed in spite of herself at Genevieve’s manner. “But, truly, I don’t want him. You see I’m engaged to Mr. Allen.”
“I know it, but that cuts no ice with Pa Appleby. He plans to oust Mr. Allen and put his son in his place.”
“Oh, he does, does he?” Maida’s heart sank, for she had anticipated something like this. “Am I to be consulted?”
“Now, look here, Maida Wheeler. You needn’t take that attitude, for it won’t get you anywhere. You don’t know Mr. Appleby as I do. What he says goes—goes, understand?”
Maida went white. “But such a thing as you speak of won’t go!” she exclaimed.
“I’m not sure it won’t, if he so ordains it,” Miss Lane said, gravely. “But I just wanted your assurance that you don’t hanker after Sammy-boy, so I can go ahead and annex him myself.”
“In defiance of Mr. Appleby’s intents?”
“I may be able to circumvent him. I’m some little schemer myself. And he may die.”
“What?”
“Yep. He has an unsatisfactory heart, and it may go back on him at any minute.”
“What a thing to bank on!”
“It may happen all the same. But I’ve other irons in the fire. Run along, now; I’ve work to do. You’re a dear girl, Maida, and the time may come when I can help you.”
The round, rosy-cheeked face looked very serious, and Maida said, gratefully: “I may be very glad of such help, Genevieve.”
Then she went away.
Samuel Appleby was lying in wait for her.
“Here you are, my girl,” he said, as she came downstairs. “Come for a ramble with me, won’t you?”
And, knowing that the encounter was inevitable, Maida went.
Appleby wasted no time in preliminaries.
“I’ve got to go home to-morrow morning,” he said. “I’ve got to have this matter of your father’s help in the campaign settled before I go.”
“I thought it was settled,” returned Maida, calmly. “You know he will never give you the help you ask. And oh, please, Mr. Appleby, won’t you give up the question? You have ruined my father’s life—all our lives; won’t you cease bothering him, and, whether you let him get his full pardon or not, won’t you stop trying to coerce his will?”
“No; I will not. You are very pleading and persuasive, my girl, but I have my own ax to grind. Now, here’s a proposition. If you—I’ll speak plainly—if you will consent to marry my son, I’ll get your father’s full pardon, and I’ll not ask for his campaign support.”
Maida gasped. All her troubles removed at once—but at such a price! She thought of Allen, and a great wave of love surged over her.
“Oh, I can’t—I can’t,” she moaned. “Whatareyou, Mr. Appleby? I love my chosen mate, myfiancé, Jeffrey Allen. Would you ask me to give him up and marry your son, whom I esteem highly, but do not love?”
“Certainly; I ask just that. You are free to say yes or no!”
“Then, I say no. Theremustbe some other way! Give me some other chance, even though it be a harder one!”
“All right, I will.” Mr. Appleby’s face was hard now, his lips set in a straight line; he was about to play his last card. “All right, I will. Here it is. The other heir, of whom I spoke to you the other day, is Curtis Keefe.”
“Mr. Keefe!”
“Yes—but wait—he doesn’t know it. I hit upon a clue in his chance reference to his mother’s family, and unknown to him I investigated genealogies and all that, and it is positive, he is the heir to all this estate, and not your mother.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, absolutely certain. But, remember, he doesn’t know it. He has no idea of such a thing. Now, if you’ll marry Sam, Keefe shallneverknow. I’ll burn all the papers that I have in evidence. You and I will forget the secret, and your father and mother can rest in undisturbed possession here for the rest of their lives.”
“And you wouldn’t insist on father’s campaign work?”
“If you marry my son, I rather think your father will lend his aid—at least in some few matters, without urging. But he shall not be urged beyond his wishes, rest assured of that. In a word, Maida, all that you want or desire shall be yours except your choice of a husband. And I’ll wager that inside of a year, you’ll be wondering what you ever saw in young Allen, and rejoicing that you are the wife of the governor instead!”
“I can’t do it—oh,I can’t!And, then, too, there’s Mr. Keefe—and the heirship!”
“Mr. Keefe and the airship!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe himself, as he came round the corner and met them face to face. “Am I to go up in an airship? And when?”
Appleby flashed a quick glance at Maida, which she rightly interpreted to mean to let Keefe rest unenlightened as to his error.
“You’re not the Mr. Keefe we meant,” said Appleby, smiling at his secretary. “There are others.”
And then Appleby walked away, feeling his best plan was to let Maida think things over.
“What Keefe is going up in an airship?” Curt insisted, his curiosity aroused.
“I don’t know,” said Maida, listlessly. “Mr. Appleby was telling me some airship yarn. I didn’t half listen. I—I can’t bear that man!”
“I can’t blame you for that, Miss Wheeler. But we’re going away to-morrow, and he’ll be out of your way.”
“No; he has me in a trap. He has arranged it so—oh, what am I saying!”
“Don’t go on, if you feel you might regret it. Of course, as Mr. Appleby’s confidential secretary, I know most of his affairs. May I say that I’m very sorry for you, and may I offer my help, if you can use me in any way?”
“How kind you are, Mr. Keefe. But if you know the details of the matter, you know that I am in a fearful dilemma. Oh, if only that man were out of existence!”
“Oh, Miss Wheeler,” and Keefe looked undisguisedly shocked.
“I don’t mean anything wrong,” Maida’s eyes were piteous, “but I don’t know what to do! I’ve no one to confide in—no way to turn for help—for advice——”
“Why, Miss Wheeler, you have parents, friends——”
“No one that I can speak to! Forgive me, Mr. Keefe, but I am nearly out of my mind. Forgive me, if I ask you to leave me—will you?”
“Of course, you poor child! I ought to have sensed that I was intruding!”
With a courteous bow, he walked away, leaving Maida alone on the seat beneath the old sycamore.
She thought long and deeply. She seemed to grow older and more matured of judgment as she dealt with the big questions in her mind.
After a long time she came to her decision. Torn and wracked with emotions, she bravely faced the many-sided situation, and made up her mind. Then she got up and walked into the house.
That afternoon, about five o’clock, Appleby and Wheeler sat in the latter’s den, talking over the same old subject. Maida, hidden in the window-seat, was listening. They did not know she was there, but they would not have cared. They talked of nothing she did not already know.
Appleby grew angry and Wheeler grew angry. The talk was coming to a climax, both men were holding on to their tempers, but it was clear one or the other must give way soon.
Jeffrey Allen, about to go in search of Maida, saw a wisp of smoke curling from the garage, which from his seat on the north veranda was in plain view.
He ran toward the smoke, shouting “Fire!” as he ran, and in a few minutes the garage was ablaze. The servants gathered about, Mrs. Wheeler looked from her bedroom window, and Keefe joined Allen in attempts to subdue the flames.
And with the efficient help of two chauffeurs and other willing workers the fire was soon reduced to a smouldering heap of ashes.
Allen ran, then, to the den, to tell them there that the danger was past.
He entered to see Samuel Appleby dead in his chair, with a bullet through his heart. Daniel Wheeler stood beside him, gazing distractedly at the dead man. Maida, white and trembling, was half hidden as she stood just inside the curtains of the window.
Not realizing that there was no hope of life, Allen shouted for help, and tore open Appleby’s coat to feel his heart.
“He’s quite dead,” he said, in an awe-stricken tone. “But, we must get a doctor at once!”
“I’ll telephone,” spoke up Genevieve’s quiet voice, and with her usual efficiency, she found the number and called the doctor.
“Now the police?” she went on, as if such matters belonged to her province.
“Certainly,” said Curtis Keefe, who stood by his late employer, taking charge, by common consent.
“Who killed him?” said Genevieve, in a hushed tone, as she left the telephone.
All looked from one to another, but nobody replied.
Mrs. Wheeler came to the doorway.
“I knew it!” she cried; “the phantom bugler!”
“But the phantom bugler didn’t kill him,” said Genevieve, “and we must find out who did!”
Late the same evening the Wheeler family and their guests were gathered in the living-room. Much had been done in the past few hours. The family doctor had been there, the medical examiner had been called and had given his report, and the police had come and were still present.
Samuel Appleby, junior—though no longer to be called by that designation—was expected at any moment.
Two detectives were there, but one, Hallen by name, said almost nothing, seeming content to listen, while his colleague conducted the questioning of the household.
Burdon, the talkative one, was a quick-thinking, clear-headed chap, decided of manner and short of speech.
“Now, look here,” he was saying, “this was an inside job, of course. Might have been one of the servants, or might have been any of you folks. How many of you are ready to help me in my investigations by telling all you know?”
“I thought we had to do that, whether we’re ready to or not,” spoke up Genevieve, who was not at all abashed by the presence of the authorities. “Of course, we’ll all tell all we know—we want to find the murderer just as much as you do.”
Keefe looked at her with a slight frown of reproof, but said nothing. The others paid no attention to the girl’s rather forward speech.
In fact, everybody seemed dazed and dumb. The thing was so sudden and so awful—the possibilities so many and so terrible—that each was aghast at the situation.
The three Wheelers said nothing. Now and then they looked at one another, but quickly looked away, and preserved their unbroken silence.
Jeffrey Allen became the spokesman for them. It seemed inevitable—for some one must answer the first leading questions; and though Curtis Keefe and Miss Lane were in Appleby’s employ, the detective seemed more concerned with the Wheeler family.
“Bad blood, wasn’t there, between Mr. Appleby and Mr. Wheeler?” Burdon inquired.
“They had not been friends for years,” Allen replied, straightforwardly, for he felt sure there was nothing to be gained by misrepresentation.
“Huh! What was the trouble, Mr. Wheeler?”
Daniel Wheeler gave a start. Then, pulling himself together, he answered slowly: “The trouble was that Mr. Appleby and myself belonged to different political parties, and when I opposed his election as governor, he resented it, and a mutual enmity followed which lasted ever since.”
“Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”
Wheeler looked at his questioner steadily, and replied: “I have nothing to say.”
“That’s all right, you don’t have to incriminate yourself.”
“He didn’t kill him!” cried Maida, unable to keep still. “I was there, in the room—I could see that he didn’t kill him!”
“Who did then?” and the detective turned to her.
“I—I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.”
“Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.”
“I tell you I didn’t see—I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of fire, and I was wondering where it was.”
“You didn’t get up and go to find out?”
“No—no, I stayed where I was.”
“Where were you?”
“In the window-seat—in the den.”
“Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?”
“Yes. My father’s study.”
“And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?”
“I might have—if I had looked—but I didn’t. I was reading.”
“Thought you were wondering about the fire?”
“Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when I heard the fire excitement.”
“What sort of excitement?”
“I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I—— I can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept.
“You must tell your story—maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you go on, Miss Wheeler?”
“There’s little to tell. I saw Mr. Appleby fall over sideways——”
“Didn’t you hear the shot?”
“No—yes—I don’t know.” Maida looked at her father, as if to gain help from his expression, but his face showed only agonized concern for her.
“Dear child,” he said, “tell the truth. Tell just what you saw—or heard.”
“I didn’t hear anything—I mean the noise from the people running to the fire so distracted my attention, I heard no shot or any sound in the room. I just saw Mr. Appleby fall over——”
“You’re not giving us a straight story, Miss Wheeler,” said the detective, bluntly. “Seems to me you’d better begin all over.”
“Seems to me you’d better cease questioning Miss Wheeler,” said Curtis Keefe, looking sympathetically at Maida; “she’s just about all in, and I think she’s entitled to some consideration.”
“H’m. Pretty hard to find the right one to question. Mrs. Wheeler, now—I’d rather not trouble her too much.”
“Talk to me,” said Allen. “I can tell you the facts, and you can draw your deductions afterward.”
“Me, too,” said Keefe. “Ask us the hard questions, and then when you need to, inquire of the Wheelers. Remember, they’re under great nervous strain.”
“Well, then,” Burdon seemed willing to take the advice, “you start in, Mr. Keefe. You’re Mr. Appleby’s secretary, I believe?”
“Yes; we were on our way back to his home in Stockfield—we expected to go there to-morrow.”
“You got any theory of the shooting?”
“I’ve nothing to found a theory on. I was out at the garage helping to put out a small fire that had started there.”
“How’d it start?”
“I don’t know. In the excitement that followed, I never thought to inquire.”
“Tell your story of the excitement.”
“I was at the garage with Mr. Allen, and two chauffeurs—the Wheelers’ man and Mr. Appleby’s man. Together, and with the help of a gardener or two, we put the fire out. Then Mr. Allen said: ‘Let’s go to the house and tell them there’s no danger. They may be worried.’ Mr. Allen started off and I followed. He preceded me into the den——”
“Then you tell what you saw there, Mr. Allen.”
“I saw, first of all,” began Jeffrey, “the figure of Mr. Appleby sitting in a chair, near the middle of the room. His head hung forward limply, and his whole attitude was unnatural. The thought flashed through my mind that he had had a stroke of some sort, and I went to him—and I saw he was dead.”
“You knew that at once?”
“I judged so, from the look on his face and the helpless attitude. Then I felt for his heart and found it was still.”
“You a doctor?”
“No; but I’ve had enough experience to know when a man is dead.”
“All right. What was Mr. Wheeler doing?”
“Nothing. He stood on the other side of the room, gazing at his old friend.”
“And Miss Wheeler?”
“She, too, was looking at the scene. She stood in the bay window.”
“I see. Now, Mr. Keefe, I believe you followed close on Mr. Allen’s heels. Did you see the place—much as he has described it?”
“Yes;” Keefe looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think I can corroborate every word of his description.”
“All right. Now, Miss Lane, where were you?”
“I was at the fire. I followed the two men in, and I saw the same situation they have told you of.”
Genevieve’s quiet, composed air was a relief after the somewhat excited utterances of the others.
“What did you do?”
“I am accustomed to wait on Mr. Appleby, and it seemed quite within my province that I should telephone for help for him. I called the doctor—and then I called the police station.”
“You don’t think you took a great deal on yourself?”
Genevieve stared at him. “I do not think so. I only think that I did my duty as I saw it, and in similar circumstances I should do the same again.”
At this point the other detective was heard from.
“I would like to ask,” Hallen said, “what Mrs. Wheeler meant by crying out that it was the work of a ‘phantom burglar’?”
“Not burglar—bugler,” said Mrs. Wheeler, suddenly alert.
“Bugler!” Hallen stared. “Please explain, ma’am.”
“There is a tradition in my family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, in a slow, sad voice, “that when a member of the family is about to die, a phantom bugler makes an appearance and sounds ‘taps’ on his bugle. This phenomenon occurred last night.”
“Oh, no! Spooks! But Mr. Appleby is not a member of your family.”
“No; but he was under our roof. And so I know the warning was meant for him.”
“Well, well, we can’t waste time on such rubbish,” interposed Burdon, “the bugle call had nothing to do with the case.”
“How do you explain it, then?” asked Mrs. Wheeler. “We all heard it, and there’s no bugler about here.”
“Cut it out,” ordered Burdon. “Take up the bugler business some other time, if you like—but we must get down to brass tacks now.”
His proceedings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of young Samuel Appleby.
The big man came in and a sudden hush fell upon the group.
Daniel Wheeler rose—and put out a tentative hand, then half withdrew it as if he feared it would not be accepted.
Hallen watched this closely. He strongly suspected Wheeler was the murderer, but he had no intention of getting himself in bad by jumping at the conclusion.
However, Appleby grasped the hand of his host as if he had no reason for not doing so.
“I’m sorry, sir, you should have had this tragedy beneath your roof,” he said.
Hallen listened curiously. It was strange he should adopt an apologetic tone, as if Wheeler had been imposed upon.
“Our sorrow is all for you, Sam,” Dan Wheeler returned, and then as Appleby passed on to greet Maida and her mother, Wheeler sank back in his chair and was again lost in thought.
The whole scene was one of constraint. Appleby merely nodded to Genevieve, and spoke a few words to Keefe, and then asked to see his father.
On his return to the living-room, he had a slightly different air. He was a little more dictatorial, more ready to advise what to do.
“The circumstances are distressing,” he said, “and I know, Mr. Wheeler, you will agree with me that we should take my father back to his home as soon as possible.
“That will be done to-morrow morning—as soon as the necessary formalities can be attended to. Now, anything I can do for you people, must be done to-night.”
“You can do a lot,” said Burdon. “You can help us pick out the murderer—for, I take it, you want justice done?”
“Yes—yes, of course.” Appleby looked surprised. “Of course I want this deed avenged. But I can’t help in the matter. I understand you suspect some one of the—the household. Now, I shall never be willing to accuse any one of this deed. If it can be proved the work of an outsider—a burglar or highwayman—or intruder of any sort, I am ready to prosecute—but if suspicion rests on—on anyone I know—I shall keep out of it.”
“You can’t do that, Mr. Appleby,” said Hallen; “you’ve got to tell all you know.”
“But I don’t know anything! I wasn’t here!”
“You know about motives,” Hallen said, doggedly. “Tell us now, who bore your father any ill-will, and also had opportunity to do the shooting?”
“I shan’t pretend I don’t know what you’re driving at,” and Appleby spoke sternly, “but I’ve no idea that Mr. Daniel Wheeler did this deed. I know he and my father were not on friendly terms, but you need more evidence than that to accuse a man of murder.”
“We’ll look after the evidence,” Hallen assured him. “All you need tell about is the enmity between the two men.”
“An enmity of fifteen years’ standing,” Appleby said, slowly, “is not apt to break out in sudden flame of crime. I am not a judge nor am I a detective, but until Mr. Wheeler himself confesses to the deed, I shall never believe he shot my father.”
Wheeler looked at the speaker in a sort of dumb wonder.
Maida gazed at him with eyes full of thankfulness, and the others were deeply impressed by the just, even noble, attitude of the son of the victim of the tragedy.
But Hallen mused over this thing. He wondered why Appleby took such an unusual stand, and decided there was something back of it about which he knew nothing as yet. And he determined to find out.
“We can get in touch with you at any time, Mr. Appleby?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, of course. After a few days—after my father’s funeral, I will be at your disposal. But as I’ve said, I know nothing that would be of any use as evidence. Do you need to keep Mr. Keefe and Miss Lane for any reason?”
“Why, I don’t think so,” the detective said. “Not longer than to-morrow, anyhow. I’ll take their depositions, but they have little testimony to give. However, you’re none of you very far away.”
“No; you can always get us at Stockfield. Mr. Keefe will probably be willing to stay on and settle up my father’s affairs, and I know we shall be glad of Miss Lane’s services for a time.” Appleby glanced at the two as he spoke, and they nodded.
“Well, we’re going to stay right here,” and Burdon spoke decidedly. “Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it’s clear to be seen that suspicion must naturally point toward the Wheeler family, or some intruder. Though how an intruder could get in the room, unseen by either Mr. Wheeler or his daughter, is pretty inexplicable. But those things we’re here to find out. And we’ll do it, Mr. Appleby. I’m taking it for granted you want the criminal found?”
“Oh—I say, Mr.—er—Burdon, have a little common decency! Don’t come at me with questions of that sort, when I’m just about knocked out with this whole fearful occurrence! Have a heart, man, give me time to realize my loss, before you talk to me of avenging it!”
“That’s right,” said Curt Keefe. “I think Mr. Appleby deserves more consideration. Suppose we excuse him for the night.”
Somewhat reluctantly the detective was brought to consent, and then Daniel Wheeler asked that he and his wife and daughter also be excused from further grilling that night.
“We’re not going to run away,” he said, pathetically. “We’ll meet you in the morning, Mr. Burdon, but please realize our stunned condition at present.”
“My mother must be excused,” Maida put in. “I am sure she can stand no more,” and with a solicitous care, she assisted Mrs. Wheeler to rise from her chair.
“Yes, I am ill,” the elder woman said, and so white and weak did she look that no one could doubt her word.
The three Wheelers went to their room, and Genevieve Lane went off with them, leaving Allen and Keefe, with Sam Appleby, to face the two detectives’ fire of questions.
“You vamoose, too, Sam,” Keefe advised. “There’s no use in your staying here and listening to harrowing details. Mr. Allen and I will have a talk with the detectives, and you can talk to-morrow morning, if you wish.”
“All right,” and Appleby rose. “But, look here, Keefe. I loved and respected my father, and I revere his memory—and, yes, I want justice done—of course, but, all the same, if Wheeler shot dad, I don’t want that poor old chap prosecuted. You know, I never fully sympathized with father’s treatment of him, and I’d like to make amends to Wheeler by giving him the benefit of the doubt—if it can be done.”
“It can’t be done!” declared Burdon, unwilling to agree to this heresy. “The law can’t be set aside by personal sympathy, Mr. Appleby!”
“Well, I only said, if it can be,” and the man wearily turned and left the room.
“Now, then,” said Keefe, “let’s talk this thing out. I know your position, Allen, and I’m sorry for you. And I want to say, right now, if I can help in any way, I will. I like the Wheelers, and I must say I subscribe to the ideas of Sam Appleby. But all that’s up to the detectives. I’ve got to go away to-morrow, so I’m going to ask you, Mr. Burdon, to get through with me to-night. I’ve lots to do at the other end of the route, and I must get busy. But I do want to help here, too. So, at any rate, fire your questions at me—that is, if you know what you want to ask.”
“I’ll ask one, right off, Mr. Keefe,” and Hallen spoke mildly but straightforwardly. “Can you give me any fact or suggest to me any theory that points toward any one but Mr. Daniel Wheeler as the murderer of Samuel Appleby?”
Curtis Keefe was dismayed. What could he reply to this very definite question? A negative answer implicated Wheeler at once—while a “yes,” would necessitate the disclosure of another suspect. And Keefe was not blind to the fact that Hallen’s eyes had strayed more than once toward Maida Wheeler with a curious glance.
Quickly making up his mind, Keefe returned: “No fact, but a theory based on my disbelief in Mr. Wheeler’s guilt, and implying the intrusion of some murderous-minded person.”
“Meaning some marauder?” Hallen looked disdainful.
“Some intruder,” Keefe said. “I don’t know who, or for what reason, but I don’t think it fair to accuse Mr. Wheeler without investigating every possible alternative.”
“There are several alternatives,” Burdon declared; “I may as well say right out, that I’ve no more definite suspicion of Mr. Wheeler than I have of Mrs. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler.”
“What!” and Jeffrey Allen looked almost murderous himself.
“Don’t get excited, sir. It’s my business to suspect. Suspicion is not accusation. You must admit all three of the Wheeler family had a motive. That is, they would, one and all, have been glad to be released from the thrall in which Mr. Appleby held them. And no one else present had a motive! I might suspect you, Mr. Allen, but that you were at the fire at the time, according to the direct testimony of Mr. Keefe.”
“Oh, yes, we were at the fire, all right,” Allen agreed, “and I’d knock you down for saying to me what you did, only you are justified. I would far rather be suspected of the murder of Mr. Appleby than to have any of the Wheelers suspected. But owing to Keefe’s being an eye-witness of me at the time, I can’t falsify about it. However, you may set it right down that none of the three Wheelers did do it, and I’ll prove it!”
“Go to it, Allen,” Keefe cried. “I’ll help.”
“You’re two loyal friends of the Wheeler family,” said Hallen in his quiet way, “but you can’t put anything over. There’s no way out. I know all about the governor’s pardon and all that. I know the feud between the two men was beyond all hope of patching up. And I know that to-night had brought about a climax that had to result in tragedy. If Wheeler hadn’t killed Appleby—Appleby would have killed Wheeler.”
“Self-defence?” asked Allen.
“No, sir, not that. But one or the other had to be out of the running. I know the whole story, and I know what men will do in a political crisis that they wouldn’t dream of at any other time. Wheeler’s the guilty party—unless—well, unless that daughter of his——”
“Hush!” cried Allen. “I won’t stand for it!”
“I only meant that the girl’s great love and loyalty to her father might have made her lose her head——”
“No; she didn’t do it,” said Allen, more quietly. “Oh, I say, man, let’s try to find this intruder that Mr. Keefe has——”
“Has invented!” put in Burdon. “No, gentlemen, they ain’t no such animile! Now, you tell me over again, while I take it down, just what you two saw when you came to the door of that den, as they call it.”
And so Allen and Keefe reluctantly, but truthfully, again detailed the scene that met their eyes as they returned from the fire they had put out.
“The case is only too plain,” declared Burdon, as he snapped a rubber band over his notebook. “Sorry, gentlemen, but your story leaves no loophole for any other suspect than one of the three Wheelers. Good-night.”
Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that he had little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two men investigating the case.
“When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and—I may not. I want to think this thing over first—and, though I may be a queer Dick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.”
“I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly.
But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you think one of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I know them so well——”
“Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know all the points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, at least.”
“The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey.
“The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffed Appleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind telling you now that there will be no election campaign for me.”
“What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?”
“Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaign will not include my name.”
“My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about current politics. “Who’ll take your place?”
“A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed, preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy.
“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to the inefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing all they can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.”
“All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truth of this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those two bunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a good heart, my girl.”
The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned back as he stepped into the car to say:
“I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be careful what you say—all of you.”
He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den where Mr. Wheeler sat in solitude.
“I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detective came around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me and Hallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that——”
“Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will have a little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no call for their participation in our talk.”
“That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’ll go to the den for a chat.”
“No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the big sycamore.”
And so, beneath the historic tree, the three men sat down for a serious talk. Hallen soon joined them, but he said little.
“I’m leaving myself, soon after noon,” said Keefe. “I’ll be back in a day or two, but there are matters of importance connected with Mr. Appleby’s estate that must be looked after.”
“I should think there must be!” exclaimed Burdon. “I don’t see how you can leave to come back very soon.”
Keefe reddened slightly, for the real reason for his intended return was centred in Maida Wheeler’s charm, to which he had incontinently succumbed. He knew Allen was her suitor, but his nature was such that he believed in his own powers of persuasion to induce the girl to transfer her affections to his more desirable self.
But he only looked thoughtfully at Burdon and said: “There are matters here, also, that require attention in Mr. Appleby’s interests.”
“Well,” Burdon went on, “as to the murder, there’s no doubt that it was the work of one of the three Wheelers. Nobody else had any reason to wish old Appleby out of the world.”
“You forget me,” said Allen, in a tense voice. “My interests are one with the Wheelers. If they had such a motive as you ascribe to them—I had the same.”