“And what would Mr Granniss be doing at the safe?” asked Dunn.
“Well, I happen to know that there was considerable of value in that safe last night.”
Rodney started. How did the sheriff know that?
But he said, “This is aside the mark, Mr Potter. For Mrs Varian has trusted me with the combination of the safe. I can open it at any time without let or hindrance. Why, then, should I sneak down in the middle of the night to do so?”
“For the very good reason that you wanted to take the money that was there and make off with it.”
“And did I get it?”
“I should say not,” declared Potter, “since you are still here!” He looked proud of this triumph of deduction, and went on:
“You had some valuables in that safe last night, Mrs Varian, did you not?”
“Yes,” replied Minna, almost smiling at the trend of the questions.
“Are they there now?”
“No, they are not.”
“Aha! What did I tell you?”
“But they are not there, because when I visited the library late last night, I took them away to my room for better protection of them.”
“Oh!” Potter looked deeply chagrined.
“You have them safe, then?”
“Oh, yes, quite safe, thank you.”
“Well, all the same,” went on the sheriff, doggedly, “Mr Granniss thought they were there, and went down to steal them.”
“Maybe Martha was there on the same errand,” said Dunn, thoughtfully.
“Don’t you dare say a word against that pore dead child,” cried Hannah, resenting at once any aspersion of her friend. “She would never dream of such a thing.”
“What did she come down for, then?” asked Potter. “She had been down and had spoken to Mrs Varian. Then she returned to her room, you say, and went back to bed. Now, why did she go down again?”
“That I do not know,” Hannah said, belligerently, “but it was for no wrong purpose. Maybe she thought again she heard burglars, and maybe,—this time she was not mistaken.”
“That would be a fine theory,” Potter observed, “but for the fact that a burglar couldn’t get in or out. So if she heard any one prowling about it must have been some member of the household. Isn’t she a very daring young person?”
“She was afraid of nothing,” Hannah stated. “She was great for detective stories, and she was crazy to investigate and inquire into all the goin’s on of this terrible house! Martha was a dabster at puzzles. She was terrible quick-witted, and sensed out everything—like a ferret! I never saw her beat at findin’ out things!”
“That would explain why an evil-doer, if there was one, would put her out of the way rather than have her live to tell of his depredations.”
“All right, sir,” Hannah conceded, “if so be’s you put it that way. But don’t you accuse that innocent girl of any wrongdoings herself, for she never did! Never.”
“It does look that way,” Rodney said, thoughtfully. “If Martha had that investigating proclivity, that would explain her reappearance down stairs,—that is, if there was a burglar,—yet, how could there be one? As usual, we’re reasoning round in a circle. Now, Mr Potter, I think your conclusions are logical and probable, except in so far as they drag me into this thing. I didn’t leave my room last night at all. But I shall be at your disposal any time you want to question me further on the subject. Now, I want to go to the library and attend to my daily routine of business matters. Also, Mr Wise will arrive before noon, and perhaps his skill may be helpful to your inquest.”
Shortly before noon Pennington Wise did arrive.
He brought with him a strange, almost weird little girl creature, who ran up the steps and into the house before him.
Granniss had opened the door to them, and after greeting Wise, he turned to the girl.
“My assistant,” Wise said, carelessly. “Name, Zizi. Give her over to the housekeeper, she’ll take care of herself. Where’s the library—or living room?”
Quite apparently tired from the steep walk up the cliff, Wise sank into a chair that Rodney placed for him. They stayed in the hall, which was large and square, and was often used as a sitting room.
Zizi, however, dropping her bag in the hall, darted toward the dining room and thence to the kitchen.
“Oh,” she cried, to Hannah, “are you the cook? Do give me some tea and toast or something,—I’m famished! My heavens! Who’s that?”
Zizi bent over the dead girl, whose body still lay on the kitchen floor.
Martha was clad only in a kimono, over her nightdress, and wore bedroom slippers but no stockings.
“Hopped out of bed and ran down suddenly, didn’t she?” commented the strange girl. “Didn’t even stop to pin up her hair. Must have heard somebody that she was pretty sure was burglaring, or she wouldn’t have run down again on the chance of its being Mrs Varian the second time.”
“How do you know all about it?” asked Hannah, aghast, at the remarkable person that had invaded her kitchen. “But you’re right! Martha was too cute to be caught in a mistake twice,—she must have been sure it was not Mrs Varian again!”
“Your chauffeur, who met us at the train, told us about this poor girl.” Zizi’s black eyes snapped as she delicately touched the awful bruises on Martha’s throat. “Small doubt what did for her! Brute!”
Kneeling down, she ran her tiny fingers lightly over the body, and finally scrutinized the hands.
“Look, Hannah,” she said, quietly, and held open the left hand.
It showed a dark green streak, of some sort, that spread entirely across the palm.
“Paint?” asked Hannah, not specially interested. “Our porch chairs have been painted lately,—but I don’t see how she got out on the porch. Though o’ course, she could ’a’ done so. That Martha.”
Just then Potter and Bill Dunn returned, and said they were ready to take the body of the girl down to the village, where her parents lived.
“And a good job to get it out of this house,” said Dunn. “I tell you, Potter, poor Martha’s death has nothin’ to do with those other horrors up here; and Mrs Varian has all she can stagger under without the extra sorrow and trouble of a servant girl.”
“Wait!” commanded Zizi, for her ringing tone was nothing less than commanding, “wait, till Mr Wise sees this girl.”
She ran for the detective, who came at once.
The sheriff gazed with eager curiosity at the great city detective, and sniffed to see that he was a mere human being after all. He saw only a good-looking, well set up man, with chestnut hair, brushed back from a broad forehead, and sharp blue eyes that were kindly of expression but keen of observation.
But the astute Bill Dunn saw more than this. He recognized the air of efficiency, the subtle hint of power, the whole effect of generalship which fairly emanated from this quiet-mannered man.
There was no bustle about Pennington Wise, no self-assertion, but to those blessed with perceptions he gave an instant impression of sure reasoning and inerrant judgment.
He glanced quickly at Zizi, caught the almost imperceptible motion of her own little bird claw of a hand, and then, without seeming to notice her at all, he spoke genially to the two men, and nodded sympathetically at the cook.
And they all liked him. If asked why, they could not have told, but his manner and attitude were so friendly, his mien so inoffensive and his cordial acceptance of each of them was so pleasant that he was instantly in their good graces.
Even the sheriff, who had been fully prepared to dislike and distrust this city wizard, capitulated gladly, and was ready to subscribe to all his theories, deductions and decisions.
“Too bad,” Wise said, with real feeling, as he knelt by Martha’s side. And few could have seen, unmoved, the bright young face of the strong healthy girl who had been so brutally done to death.
Gently, he lifted her chin and examined the black bruises on her throat.
“Finger-prints?” suggested Potter, eager to show the city man his familiarity with modern methods.
“Hardly,” Wise said. “I doubt much could be learned that way,—the bruise is so deep. Perhaps there may be prints of the ruffian’s hands on her clothing. You might try it out, Mr Potter.”
Then, while the two men were speaking to each other about the matter, Wise unobtrusively looked at the inside of the girl’s hands.
On the left palm he saw the long smear of dark green, and after quick but careful scrutiny, he bent lower and smelled of it. Then he closed the dead hand and rose to his feet.
“You may take away the body, Sheriff,” he said, “so far as I am concerned. She has people?”
“Yes, sir. Parents and sisters. Oh, it’s a sorry thing for them.”
“It is so,” and then Wise let his perceiving eyes roam over the kitchen.
“Have you searched the floor well for anything that may have been dropped?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” the sheriff answered. “That’s all been done, Mr Wise. We’re plain country folks here, but we know a thing or two.”
“I’m sure of that,” Wise assented. “Did you look under the dresser and beneath that corner cupboard?”
“Well, no; we didn’t think it necessary to go so far as that.”
“Probably not; most likely not. Yet, I wish, Hannah, you’d get a broom and just run it under there.”
“I’ll do it,” volunteered Kelly, who had come to the kitchen.
He brought a broom, and brushing under the two dressers, brought out some dust, some threads and shreds and two yellow beads.
“Martha’s?” asked Wise, quietly, picking up the beads.
“No!” exclaimed Hannah, staring at them. “Miss Betty’s!”
“Miss Varian’s!” Wise was himself surprised.
“Yes, sir; the very ones she wore the day—the day she—was lost.”
“I’ll take charge of them,” he said, simply, and put them in his pocket.
Kelly and his broom failed to find anything further, and suddenly realizing the side light it gave on her housekeeping habits, Hannah began to explain how everything was going at sixes and sevens of late.
“Of course it would,” Zizi soothed her, as Wise returned to the hall. “Now, Hannah, tell me, did you find anywhere, any more of Miss Betty’s beads?”
“I found two, when I was sweepin’ here one day. But I slipped ’em in this drawer an’ never remembered them again. Here they be.”
She retrieved the two beads, and Zizi took them.
“Did she wear a long string of them?”
“No, miss, a fairly short string. About like that you’ve on yourself.”
Zizi’s modest little string of black beads hung perhaps four inches below her throat. She examined the yellow beads, saw they were of amber, and put them away in her little handbag.
“Now, Hannah,” she went on, “you and I are friends——”
“An’ that I’m proud to be, miss!”
“And you must help me all you can——”
“Help you what?”
“Find out the truth about Miss Betty,—and perhaps,—find her.”
“Are you,—are you——”
“Yes, I’m a detective,—that is, I’m the assistant of Mr Wise, and he’s the greatest detective in the world.”
“Is he that, now?” and Kelly, unable to resist the fascination of this queer visitor, joined the group.
“Yes, he is. And he is going to solve the whole mystery,—if we all help. And, maybe we’ll help best by doing nothing. And especially by saying nothing. So, you two keep quite still about finding these beads, won’t you, and about matters in general. You talk over things with the villagers, I suppose, but don’t say anything about what happens up here now. Discuss the past, all you like, but not the present. See?”
They didn’t see clearly, but they were more than ready to promise whatever this girl asked, and then between the two, Zizi was served with such a luncheon as might have befitted a royal guest.
“Goodness, gracious, sakes alive!” she exclaimed, “don’t bring me anything more, I beg of you. I shall go to sleep like an anaconda and not wake up for six months!”
Then, while the detective ate his luncheon at the table with Minna Varian and her secretary, Zizi went in search of the nurse.
She found Mrs Fletcher eating her meal from a tray in her sitting room. It hurt her pride to do this, but Minna Varian declared that she saw quite enough of Fletcher between meals and must have some respite.
“Nice to eat alone, I think,” was Zizi’s observation as she entered, uninvited, and perched herself on the arm of a nearby chair.
“You’re Fletcher, aren’t you? Now, won’t you please tell me some things confidentially? I see, you’re a woman of deep perceptions, and are not to be caught napping. Tell me, do you think Mrs Varian went down stairs a second time last night?”
“That she did not,” asserted the nurse. She was flattered at Zizi’s attitude and would have told her anything she asked.
“How do you know?”
“I can’t go to sleep myself, you see, till Mrs Varian is asleep. So I always wait until I hear her steady breathing before I let myself drop off.”
The statement was too surely true to be disbelieved and Zizi went on.
“Then who was it that Martha heard downstairs, that she went down a second time?”
“Maybe she didn’t hear anybody. Maybe she went down to see what she could pick up herself——”
“Steal, do you mean? Oh, for shame! To accuse a poor, dead girl!”
Mrs Fletcher looked ashamed.
“I oughtn’t to,—I s’pose. But, Miss, what else is there to think? I well know how this house is locked up of nights; nobody from outside could get in. The other servants are as honest as the day, and though I’ve no real reason to suspect Martha, yet there doesn’t seem to be any other way to look,—does there, now?”
“Some way may turn up,” said Zizi. “Tell me more about Betty,—Miss Varian.”
“I can’t tell you from having known her, for I never saw the girl, but since I’ve been taking care of Mrs Varian there’s little I don’t know about the whole family. She’s nervous, you know, and so she talks incessantly, when we’re alone.”
“Nothing, though, to cast any light on Miss Varian’s disappearance?”
“Oh, no; nothing but sort of reminiscences about her husband and how good he was to her, and how she grieves for him,—and for her child. Poor woman,—it’s fearful to hear her.”
“It must be,” said Zizi, sympathetically; “my heart bleeds for that poor tortured soul.”
It was after luncheon, in the library, that Pennington Wise began his real business of the investigation of the Varian mysteries.
First of all, he desired to look over the papers in Mr Varian’s desk, and with the assistance of Granniss, he was soon in possession of the principal facts to be learned that way.
Moreover, he discovered some things not yet taken into consideration by the local detectives, and he read with interest a number of letters that were carefully filed, apparently for preservation.
Rapidly he scanned them and tossed them aside, retaining a few for further consideration.
“I think, Mrs Varian,” he said, at last, “that a most important fact in the case is the strange bequest of the Varian pearls to your husband’s niece instead of to his daughter. Can you explain this?”
“I cannot,” said Minna, “it seems to me absolutely unexplainable. For generations those pearls have descended from parent to child,—sometimes a mother owned them, sometimes a father, but they were always given to the oldest daughter, or, if there were no daughter, then to a son. Only in case of a childless inheritor did they go to a niece or nephew. Why my husband should so definitely bequeath them to his niece,—I cannot imagine. I’ve thought over that for hours, but I can’t understand it I will say frankly, that Betty and her father frequently had differences of opinion, but nothing more than many families have. They were really devoted to one another, but both were of decided, even obstinate nature, and when they disagreed they were apt to argue the matter out, and as a result of it, they did sometimes lose their temper and really quarreled. But it always blew over quickly and they were good friends again. I never paid any attention to their little squabbles, for I knew them both too well to think they were really at enmity. But this matter of the pearls looks as if my husband had a positive dislike for the child, and as a mark of spite or punishment left the pearls away from her. It makes little difference, if—if——”
“Don’t think about that, Mrs Varian,” said Wise, kindly; “I’m considering this strange clause of Mr Varian’s will from the viewpoint of the whole mystery. It may prove a clue, you see. I want to say, right now, that the whole affair is the greatest and most baffling puzzle I have ever known of. The disappearance of your daughter and the death of your husband offer no solution that seems to me possible,—let alone probable. I can set up no theory that does not include a secret passage of some sort. And though I am emphatically informed there is none, yet, as you may imagine, I must investigate that for myself.”
“I’ve found the house plans,” said a low, thin little voice, and the strange girl, Zizi, appeared in the room. That slender little wisp of humanity had an uncanny way of being present and absent, suddenly, and without explanation. She was there, and then she wasn’t there,—but her goings and comings were so noiseless and unobtrusive that they were never noticed.
Pennington Wise held out his hand without a word. Zizi gave over a bulky roll of papers and subsided.
Unrolling the time-yellowed sheets, they saw that they really were the old contractor’s plans of the house.
With a sigh of satisfaction Wise commenced to study them,—Granniss looking over his shoulder.
Minna sat quietly, her nervousness lost in her eager anticipation of the new detective’s successful quest.
The two men studied the plans carefully.
“I wish North could see these,” Rodney said; “he’s of an architectural bent, Mr Wise, and he measured the house all over, trying to find an unexplained bit of space. According to these plans, North is right, and there isn’t any.”
“I’m of an architectural bent myself,” Wise smiled, “and I agree, there’s no foot of room left unaccounted for on these papers. Of course a secret passage could have been built in, in contradiction of the plans, but I can’t think there is any such, after your own search. It might be out-of-doors?”
“But we would have seen anyone going in or out of the house,” Minna explained. “We were all watching.”
“The back doors?”
“There’s only one,” Rodney told him. “And that was locked on the inside. Locked and bolted. No, whatever happened, nobody came in through the kitchen.”
“Do you assume an intruder, then, Mr Wise?” Minna asked.
“I am obliged to, Mrs Varian. To begin with the only fact we can positively affirm, Mr Varian was shot,—and not by his own hand. This we assume because of the absence of the weapon. Now, either Miss Betty shot him or someone else did. I can’t think the daughter did it, for it’s against the probabilities in every way,—though, of course, it’s a possibility. But the difficulties in the way of explaining what the girl did with herself afterward, seem to me greater than the objections to assuming an intruder from outside. I mean from outside the family,—not from outside the house. The explanation of his entrance and exit is no more of a puzzle than the explanation of Miss Varian’s exit. And I think we must dismiss the idea that the girl concealed herself in this house,—whether alive or—a suicide.”
“The girl didn’t do it,” came Zizi’s low murmur. She was sitting on an ottoman, near Minna, and now and then she caressed the hand of her hostess. “There’s a big mind at the back of all this. And you’re overlooking the death of the maid last night Why, Penny, it’s all of a piece.”
“Yes”; and Wise roused himself from a brown study. “It is all of a piece, and it hinges on that bequest of the Varian pearls.”
“Hinges on that?” said Zizi.
“I mean that’s a key to the situation. When we learnwhyMr Varian made that strange arrangement, we’ll be on our way to a solution of the mystery. But the first thing is to find Miss Varian.”
“Oh, Mr Wise,” Minna cried out, “you think she is alive——”
“I very much hope so, and though I don’t want to give you false encouragement, I can’t help feeling that she may be,”
“Yes, she is,” came Zizi’s quiet assurance, and Minna impulsively kissed her.
“What a comfort you are!” she exclaimed; “elf, pixie,—I don’t know what to call you,—but you bring me courage and hope.”
Zizi’s great dark eyes gave appreciation, but she only said, “You’re up against it, Penny.”
“I am, indeed,” Wise said, very gravely; “and my first work must be a deep investigation of all Mr Varian’s affairs. You were entirely in his confidence, Mrs Varian?”
“Oh, yes; we had no secrets from one another. He told me all his financial ventures or business worries. There were none of those of late, but years ago, there were some. Yes, I may say I know everything that ever happened to my husband.”
“Then who has been blackmailing him of late, and what for?”
“Blackmail!” Minna looked blank. “Never such a thing as that has happened to my husband!” She spoke proudly and positively.
“You know of no one who had a hold over Mr Varian,—or thought he had,—and who wrote him threatening letters?”
“Most assuredly not! And I know that nothing of the sort ever did occur, for he would most certainly have told me. We were more confidential than most married people, and we never had secrets from one another.”
“Well, perhaps I am over-imaginative.”
“What made you think it?” asked Minna, curiously; “if you have found any letters you can’t explain, show them to me,—I can doubtless tell you about them.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Wise handed her a letter.
It bore neither date nor address, but it read,
“Unless you accede to my demands, I shall expose you, and the woman you robbed will claim redress or return of her property.”
“Unless you accede to my demands, I shall expose you, and the woman you robbed will claim redress or return of her property.”
This brief message was signed “Step.” and Minna read it with a look of utter perplexity.
“I don’t know what it means,” she said, handing it back, “but I’m sure it’s of no importance. Mr Varian never robbed a woman in his life! The very idea is too absurd to consider. You are at liberty to hunt it down, Mr Wise, but you will never find it has a meaning that will reflect on my husband’s stainless honor! You may refer to any of his friends, his relatives or his business associates. All will tell you that Frederick Varian and dishonesty are contradictory terms!”
“That may all be true, Mrs Varian, and doubtless is true, but you know blackmailers are not so scrupulous, and they sometimes find a peg to hang their demands on even in the case of the most upright. This note is undated, but the envelope shows it was mailed less than six months ago. Therefore the matter may be still unsettled, and may have a bearing on the whole case. Could there have been any family reason that would influence him to leave the pearls away from his daughter?”
“Oh, no! His brother and sister-in-law were quite as much surprised as I was to learn of that. But, Mr Wise, what do you think about this matter of the kidnappers asking for ransom? Do you think it is all a fraud?”
“I’m going to look into that as soon as I can. At first glance, it seems fraudulent, but the wonder is that you haven’t had similar letters from other fakers. However, I am going to work backward. I want, first of all to look about a bit, for evidences or clues regarding last night’s tragedy. I am sure the whole string of horrors is a connected one, and to find out who killed poor Martha, will in my opinion be a stepping-stone to the solution of the other mysteries.”
“There’s a clue for you, then,” Zizi said, not moving from her seat, but pointing to a spot on the rug near the safe.
Wise’s eyes followed her finger’s direction and saw a slight mark, as of a dusty footprint.
In a moment, he was on his knees near it, and scrutinized it carefully.
“I’ve heard of footprint clues,” said Granniss, interested, “but that is so vague and imperfect, I don’t think you can deduce who made it,—can you?”
“Not from the print,——” Wise said,—thoughtfully, and then added nothing to his unsatisfactory statement.
He then took a paper-cutter from the desk, and scraped onto a bit of smooth paper what dust he could get from the footprint, and carefully folded it up and put it in his pocketbook.
“What shoes were you wearing when you visited the safe last night, Mrs Varian?” he asked.
“Bedroom slippers,” she replied.
“Had you walked anywhere except to traverse the halls and stairs, from your bedroom down here?”
“No, nowhere else.”
“And you took that package of money up to your room with you?”
“Yes.”
“Had you not done so, it would have been stolen,” Wise said, calmly. “A thief visited this safe after you were here,—he thought the money was here. He was surprised by the maid, Martha, coming down to spy on him,—and in order to get rid of her,—and save himself, he strangled her.”
All present stared at him, and Rodney Granniss flushed a deep red.
“To a disinterested observer, Mr Wise,” he said, “it might easily appear that I was that thief. I knew the money had been put in the safe. I did not know Mrs Varian had removed it. I——”
“Look here,” interrupted Zizi, “you talk too much! If you’re going to be suspected, for the love of cheese, let somebody else do it! Don’t meet trouble half way, and sing out, ‘Pleased to meetcha!’ Be careful, Mr Granniss.”
“Hush up, Zizi,” Wise counseled her. “Children should be seen and not heard.”
“All right, Penny, I’ll be good. Now, here’s a present for you.”
She gave him the yellow beads given her by the cook.
“Divulge,” he said, briefly, as he stared at the tiny objects in his palm.
But Minna Varian had caught sight of them and had recognized them. “Oh!” she cried, “Betty!Betty!Those are the beads she had on that day! Where did you get them? Where did they come from?”
And then, before they could answer her, her over-wrought nerves gave way, her calm broke through the constraint she had put upon it, and she became hysterical.
Granniss went at once for Mrs Fletcher, and the nurse took her patiently away.
“She’ll be all right with Fletcher,” Rodney said, returning after he had assisted Minna to her room; “it won’t be a very bad attack, nurse thinks. Really, I’ve been surprised that Mrs Varian has kept up as well as she has. Now, Mr Wise, tell me what you suspect regarding Mr Varian? And also, tell me if you suspect me—in any way. I plead not guilty,—and I want to add that Miss Varian and I are sweethearts. We couldn’t call it an engagement for her father wouldn’t hear of such a thing. But we hoped to persuade him in time,—and truly, I thought he would finally consent. I’m telling you this, so you can see what a deep interest I have in the recovery of Betty,—for I am not willing to believe she is dead. In fact, I believe she has been kidnapped, and though I’m not sure those letters Mrs Varian has received are in good faith,—yet I believe she is being held for ransom.”
“By whom?” asked Wise.
“By the kidnapper——”
“Who also is the——”
“Blackmailer!” said Zizi, in an awestruck voice. “Oh, Penny Wise, how you do jump at a solution! You just clear all intervening obstacles, and land on the truth!”
“I’m far from having landed,” said Wise, ruefully; “that’s all theory,—with very little fact to back it up.”
“Well, these beads are facts,” Zizi said. “They’re two more, Penny, from the same string that you already have a few from. You see, Mr Granniss,” she said, turning to Rod, “Mr Wise discovered a few of these beads in the kitchen this morning, and a little later, I found that the cook had picked up two in the kitchen the day after Miss Betty’s disappearance. The string of them that she wore was not a long one, but still there were at least a dozen or so more than we have found. Where are they?” She had turned again to Wise as she put this question.
“I know the beads well,” Granniss said, “but how did they get in the kitchen?”
“It may be a simple matter,” Wise responded. “Perhaps the string broke when she was out there getting the lemonade. I understand all the servants were away.”
“But, Penny,” Zizi reminded him, “in that case the other beads would be about, somewhere. She would have picked them up and put them in a box or something.”
“Yes, she would,” Rodney agreed, “for Betty loved that necklace. She loved anything yellow. You’ve heard about the yellow pillow?”
“No,” said Wise. “Do try, Mr Granniss, to tell me everything. I was called to this case altogether too late. Much could have been done had I been here sooner. But, now tell me every little thing you can think of.”
So Granniss told them of the finding of the yellow satin sofa-pillow in the middle of the kitchen floor. He obtained the pillow from the hall and showed it to them.
Zizi scrutinized it with her eager black eyes, and carefully extracted from its embroidered design a small fine hairpin.
“An invisible,” she said, holding it up to the light. “Betty’s,—I daresay?”
“Yes,” and Granniss looked at it. “She wore dinky little ones like that in her front hair. All girls do, I guess.”
“It may mean something or nothing,” Wise said, musingly. “If Miss Varian was in the habit of lying on the hall sofa, the hairpin may have been caught in the cushion some time ago.”
“I don’t know,” Granniss said; “I never was here while—when Betty was here.”
“Well, aside from the hairpin, what about the yellow pillow, on the kitchen floor, Penny?” Zizi asked, looking up into the detective’s face as at an oracle.
“It’s a clue, all right,” Wise said; “oh, if I’d only been here that very day! A most astounding case, and every possible evidence wiped out!”
“Oh, no, not that,” Zizi spoke cheerfully. “And now, as you say, you must get busy in the matter of poor Martha. What about the green streak?” “Yes,” the detective spoke to Rodney. “There was a dull green smear across the palm of that girl’s left hand. I see no freshly painted furniture in this room.”
“No, there wouldn’t be,” Zizi ruminated. “And it wasn’t paint,—you know it wasn’t.”
“It looked like paint, and what else would remain there so indelibly?”
“What could it be anyway?” queried Granniss. “What do you suggest?”
“I can’t think, myself,” and Wise looked nonplussed. “I smelled it, but there was no odor of paint. Nobody around the house uses water colors, I suppose?”
“No,” said Granniss.
“It was such a smear as might have been made by a paint brush filled with a dull green watercolor pigment,—but I don’t say it was that.”
“It was more like a vegetable stain,” Zizi suggested. “A mark like that could have been made, by grasping a dish or saucepan that had held spinach.”
“Oh, come now, Zizi, that’s a little far-fetched.”
“Not if we find cold spinach in the refrigerator,” Zizi persisted. “Martha might have been getting something to eat.”
“In that case the green smear doesn’t count for much,” Wise said. “But we have accumulated some clues. We have the yellow beads, the yellow pillow, the green streak, and last, but by no means least, the dust I scraped from the floor in this room.”
“Explain the significance of that, won’t you?” asked Granniss. “Or are you one of those secretive detectives?”
“Not at all. That dust is, to my mind, from the shoe of the man who tried to rob this safe last night, thinking that money was in it. Now, I admit, Mr Granniss, that you knew, or thought you did, that the money was there; you knew the combination; you are quite strong enough to have strangled a woman who surprised you at your job; yet I know you didn’t have anything to do with the attempted robbery, because——”
“Because you love Betty!” Zizi said, softly, her eyes shining with sympathy and understanding. “Right you are, Wise, go on.”
“Also, because,” Wise went on, “because, I’m sure that is the footprint of the would-be burglar, and while the footprint as a print is too indistinct to be a clue to the man who made it, yet the dust that forms the print is indicative. It is a fine dust made up of particles of cement. I mean such dust as would adhere to a shoe that had traversed a cement floor, and, more likely an imperfect cement floor.”
“That means the cellar!” Rodney cried; “I’ve been down there a lot of late, poking around for that everlasting secret passage, and there’s a lot of loose cement.”
Wise gave him a quick glance, but his enthusiasm was so genuine, that the detective dismissed a sudden qualm of suspicion.
“Slip down and get me a sample, will you?” he said, and Granniss went at once.
“Big case, Zizi,” Wise said, as the two were left alone.
But he spoke heavily, almost despairingly, and with no show of his usual exultant interest in a big case.
“Yes, but,” the black eyes turned hopefully to his own, “there are tangible clues. And those of Betty’s can wait. Do you chase those that have to do with Martha first.”
“I certainly shall. Martha was killed by the burglar. Did he kidnap Betty?”
“And kill Mr Varian?” Zizi added, and then Granniss returned.
He brought a little cellar floor dust in a paper, and, as Wise had expected, that and the particles he had scraped from the library rug, were indubitably the same.
“Well, then,” Wise remarked, “the burglar came up from the cellar.”
“Where he had been hiding, goodness knows how long!” Rodney exclaimed. “For we locked the house securely before we went upstairs.”
“I think it’s time I took a look at the cellar,” said Wise, and all three started down.
Pennington Wise himself assisted in the locking up of the house that night, for he was determined if any more burglars came, he would know how they got in. The money that Minna had in her possession he took charge of, saying he would be responsible for its safety.
Long the detective lay awake in his pleasant bedroom that overlooked the sea. He could hear the great waves tossing and breaking at the foot of the cliff and he couldn’t free his mind from a queer obsession to the effect that those waves held the secret of the mysteries of Headland House.
“It’s too absurd,” he thought to himself in the darkness, “but I do feel that the whole matter is dependent in some way or other on the cliff and the sea.”
Had he been asked to elucidate this more definitely he could not have done so. It was only a hunch,—but Wise’s hunches were often worthy of consideration, and he determined to go out on the sea in somebody’s boat when the morning came, and see if he could find any inspiration.
When the morning came it brought a fresh surprise.
The household assembled promptly for an eight o’clock breakfast. Minna Varian, pale and fragile looking, clad in a simple black house dress, was a strong contrast to the young and glowing vitality of Zizi, whose slim little black frock was touched here and there with henna, and whose vivid and expressive face needed no aid of cosmetics to be a bright, colorful picture in itself.
Wise was very grave and silent,—he was in a mood which Zizi knew was that of utter bafflement. It was not often the detective felt this conviction of helplessness, but it had occurred before, and Zizi noted it with some alarm. It meant desperate and wearing effort on Wise’s part, deep thinking and dogged persistence in forming and proving theories, that more likely than not would prove false. It meant a strain of brain and nerves that might result in a physical breakdown,—for the detective had been working hard of late, and this impenetrable mystery seemed the last straw.
Granniss was the most serene of the quartette. He was young and hopeful. He was innocent of any crime or knowledge of it, and he cared naught for the half-voiced suspicions of the local police. In fact, they had practically given up the case as far beyond their ken, and now that Wise was in charge, the sheriff wanted nothing to say in the matter, except when Wise desired to consult him.
And Granniss was confident that Wise would find Betty. He had no real reason for his belief in the detective’s magic, but he had unbounded faith, and he was a born optimist. He felt sure that, if Betty had been killed, the fact would have become known by this time,—and if she were still alive, surely she would be found. He had come to believe in the kidnappers, and though he couldn’t understand how the deed had been done, he cared more to get Betty back than to learn what had happened to her. Also, he was kept busy in attending to the daily influx of business letters and financial matters connected with the Varian estate. Doctor Varian had promised to come up to Headland House again as soon as he could, but he was a busy man and hadn’t yet made time for the visit.
As breakfast was about to be served, Kelly brought a letter to Minna saying simply, “This was on the hall table when I came downstairs this morning, madam.”
A glance showed Minna that it was from the same source as the other “ransom” letter, and she handed it unopened to Wise.
Staring hard at the envelope, he slit it open, and read the contents aloud.
“We know all that is going on. We have your daughter. You have the required sum of money. If you will bring about an exchange, we will do our part. Your fancy detective must work with you, or at least refrain from working against you, or there can be no deal. You may drop the package over the cliff, exactly as directed before, at midnight on Friday. Unless you accomplish this, in strict accordance with our orders, you will lose both the money and your child. One divergence from our directions and your daughter will be done away with. You can see we have no other way out. This is our last letter, and our final offer. Take it or leave it. Enclosed is a note from your daughter to prove that we are telling you the truth.”
“We know all that is going on. We have your daughter. You have the required sum of money. If you will bring about an exchange, we will do our part. Your fancy detective must work with you, or at least refrain from working against you, or there can be no deal. You may drop the package over the cliff, exactly as directed before, at midnight on Friday. Unless you accomplish this, in strict accordance with our orders, you will lose both the money and your child. One divergence from our directions and your daughter will be done away with. You can see we have no other way out. This is our last letter, and our final offer. Take it or leave it. Enclosed is a note from your daughter to prove that we are telling you the truth.”