FAULKNER’S
FOLLY

BY
CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF “THE BRIDE OF A MOMENT”

NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY

COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY THE FRANK A. MUNSEY COMPANY.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE I. [In the Studio] 9 II. [Where They Stood] 23 III. [What They Said] 37 IV. [Goldenheart] 51 V. [Blake’s Story] 65 VI. [Mrs. Faulkner’s Account] 79 VII. [Natalie Not Joyce] 94 VIII. [The Emeralds] 108 IX. [One or the Other] 123 X. [Orienta] 137 XI. [Sealed Envelopes] 151 XII. [A Vision] 165 XIII. [An Alibi Needed] 180 XIV. [From Seven to Seventy] 192 XV. [Natalie in Danger] 206 XVI. [Confession and Arrest] 220 XVII. [Alan Ford] 234 XVIII. [Questions and Answers] 248 XIX. [Ford’s Day] 262 XX. [On the Staircase] 276

FAULKNER’S FOLLY

I
In the Studio

Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.

A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar.

Faulkner’s Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect’s joy and delight. It showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and Faulkner’s Folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.

James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home.

The man who bought Faulkner’s Folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner’s house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.

A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner’s death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the Stannards’ while the picture was being painted. Partly because of sentiment toward her husband’s favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait.

But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door.

“Blake,” she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As the Stannards’ guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts’ servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house.

Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled face,—it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.

“Blake! What is it?” she said, alarmed at his manner. “What are you doing?”

“I—heard a strange sound, Madame,—from the studio——”

“A strange sound?” and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.

“And the lights in there, just went out——”

“The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?”

“No, Madame—but—there, Madame! Did you not hear that?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry faintly, “Help!” It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire extremity. “What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!”

“Yes, Madame,” and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.

Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.

“I knew it was something dreadful!” Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.

Beatrice gave one gasping “Oh!” and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.

At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.

“Is he—is he——” began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.

Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.

Joyce, only a few feet from her husband’s left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.

Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.

“We must do something,” he muttered, starting toward his master. “There is some accident——”

As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.

“Eric,” she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting.

“Who did this, sir?” Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.

“Natalie,” he said, “not Joyce.” The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.

“No!” Natalie screamed. “No! Eric, don’t say——”

But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.

Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.

“Do something, Blake,” she cried. “Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?”

Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce’s assistance, and gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her husband’s side.

“I don’t—know—” returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. “Did you kill him, Natalie?”

“No!” cried the girl. “You know I didn’t! You killed him yourself!”

Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was Stannard’s own man.

Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable servants took the helm.

“Telephone for Doctor Keith,” Miller told the other, “and then find Mr. Barry.”

Barry Stannard was Eric’s son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his young stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been found strolling about the grounds.

He came in at Halpin’s message, and seeing the still figure in the armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned, and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room.

Without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really extinct, Miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his dead master. He looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no word concerning it.

There was more or less confusion. Several servants, both men and women, came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two instances, Miller ordered them out.

Annette, Mrs. Stannard’s maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and Foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on Barry.

“Where is Mr. Barry?” asked the man.

“I don’t know,” returned Miller, calmly. “He just stepped out—probably he’s on the terrace. Don’t annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he wants you.”

The three women of the household said almost nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which she had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she could think of nothing to say to either. And the two who had stood near the dying man, as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent.

Annette proffered fans and sal volatile impartially to all three, but she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words.

After what seemed an interminable wait, Dr. Keith arrived.

“Stabbed,” he said, briefly, as he examined the body, “and with one of his own etching needles! Who did it?”

“With what?” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking puzzled.

“With an etching point—or needle. An artist’s tool. Who did it?”

There was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. Who could answer this question, even by a surmise.

Blake threw himself into the breach.

“We don’t know, sir,” he said. “It was doubtless done in the dark, and, when I turned up on the lights—the—the murderer had fled.”

A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and Natalie’s lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had marked it at first.

“Where’s Barry?” went on Dr. Keith.

“I am here,” said young Stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace. “Dr. Keith, I want this matter hushed up. I am master here now, and horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into this thing.”

Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed your father?”

“No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never be found.”

“Why not? Why do you say that?”

“I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one who brought about my father’s death. Joyce, you agree with me, don’t you?”

The young fellow had never addressed his father’s wife more formally than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years between their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked almost as young as her stepson. There had always been good comradeship between the two, and during the two years Joyce had been Stannard’s wife she and Barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of any sort.

About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a professional model, had come to pose for Stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a time. Joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her heart, and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy and kindness.

The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like Dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming gold of her wonderful hair were Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an added piquancy and charm.

It is not to be wondered at that Barry promptly fell in love with her, nor is it remarkable that Eric himself was more or less under the spell of his beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stannard could not help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of Nature’s.

A professional model Natalie was, but only for the draped figure. She was but eighteen, had been well brought up and educated, but, obliged to earn her own living, had found she had no resources of work except in her God-given beauty. Posing was a joy to her, and she had posed for but a few artists and those of the better, even best class. But Eric, accustomed to having whatever he desired, was determined Natalie should pose for some allegorical figures in a great picture on which he was engaged. This she refused to do, and the more Stannard insisted the more obdurate she became, until there was continual war between them on the subject. And owing to this state of things, Natalie had decided she must leave “Faulkner’s Folly,” and it was only Barry’s entreaties that had thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions.

Joyce, herself a beautiful woman, of the dark-haired, brown-eyed type, had often been a model for Eric’s pictures, and if she resented being superceded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never confided the fact to those about her. Joyce Stannard was clever by nature, and she knew the quickest way to make her impressionable husband fall desperately in love with Natalie, was for her, his wife, to be openly jealous. So this Joyce would not appear to be. She chaffed him gaily about his doll-faced model and treated Natalie with the patronising generosity one would show to a pretty child.

But if Joyce was clever, Natalie was too, and she took this treatment exactly as it was offered, and returned it in kind. Her manner to her hostess was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative of gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch, the older and more settled state of Joyce, and gave a hint of contrast in the freshness of Natalie’s extreme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the madcap in her ways.

But all these things, on both sides, were so veiled, so delicately suggested, that they were imperceptible to any but the closest observer.

And now, whatever the facts of Eric Stannard’s death might be shown to be, now it must soon be made known that when the lights of the room where he died were turned on, they had revealed these two—his wife and his paid model—near his stricken body, already quivering with its last few heartbeats.

In answer to Barry’s question, Joyce lifted her white face. “I don’t know—” she said, slowly, “I suppose—as Dr. Keith says—these things must be—be attended to in—in the usual way. But I, too, shrink from the awful publicity and the harrowing experience we must go through,—Beatrice, what do you think?”

Mrs. Faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy: “I fear it won’t matter what we think, Joyce, dear. The law will step in, as always, in case of a crime, and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing.”

“I have sent for the Coroner and for the Police,” said Dr. Keith, who had given Halpin many whispered orders. “Now, Barry, don’t be unreasonable. You can no more stop the routine of the law’s procedure than the stars in their courses. If you know any facts you must be prepared to state them truthfully. If not, you must say or do nothing that will put any obstacle in the way of proper inquiry.”

Dr. Keith was treating Barry like a child, and though the boy resented it, he said nothing, but his face showed his hurt pride and his disappointment.

“Tell us all you can of the facts of the attack,” said Beatrice Faulkner to the doctor.

“The simple facts are plainly seen,” was the reply. “Some one standing in front of Mr. Stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed him with the etching needle. The instrument penetrated his flesh, just above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular vein and causing almost instant death.”

“Could it not have been a suicide?”

“Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not have managed that thrust, and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But the Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corroborate my statement. It is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself, no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim.”

“But, if I may ask, sir,” said Miller, respectfully, “how could a murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? While Mr. Stannard could have stabbed himself in the dark.”

“Those points are outside my jurisdiction,” returned the Doctor, looking grave. “The Coroner and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give the answers to your perfectly logical queries.”

And then the men from Police Headquarters arrived.

II
Where They Stood

The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner’s Folly, of all places in the world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard’s position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.

But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always introduced the girl as her friend.

The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs. Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.

Thus the neighbours.

But the Police thought differently. The report of the Post Patrolman who first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force, from the Inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. To them the death of Eric Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they were elated over their connection with it.

In due course, the Coroner’s Inquest took place, and was held in the big studio where Eric Stannard had met his death.

Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this was not the perfunctory proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the indicative facts of the situation.

It was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious strangers. It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures, statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become deeply interested in etching. And it had been one of his own etching needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death.

This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who further detailed his being called to the house the night before. He stated that he had arrived within fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard—as the family had told him—had breathed his last. Examination of the body had disclosed that death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon, which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an Etcher’s needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a Wooden handle, the whole being not unlike a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor identified it as the instrument of death.

Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He was of calm demeanour and impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent.

“Too much so,” thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a Police Detective, who had been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. “That man knows what he’s talking about, if he is a wooden-face.”

Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was himself alert and intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. He listened attentively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.

“You were the first to discover your master’s dead body?”

“Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the room,” replied Blake.

“No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first to enter the room after the man was stabbed?”

“That I can’t say. When I entered——” Blake paused, and glanced uncertainly about. Barry Stannard was looking at the footman with a stern face.

Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed. “Tell the story in your own words, my man. We’ll best get at it that way.”

“I was on duty in the hall,” began Blake, slowly, “and I noticed the lights go out in the studio here——”

“Was the door between the hall and studio open?” asked Lamson.

“No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. I didn’t think much about the light going out, though Mr. Stannard never turned off the lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if it did strike me as a bit queer, I had no time to think the matter over, for just then I heard a slight sound,—a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress. As I had not been called, I didn’t enter, but I did try to peep in at the crack of the door. This was not curiosity, but there was something in that gasp that—that scared me a little.”

“What next?” said the Coroner, as Blake paused.

“Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the stairs. She was surprised to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed, I forgot myself, and—well, and just then, I heard a distinct sound—a terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, ‘Help!’ I turned to Mrs. Faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and turn on the light. So—so, I did, and then I saw——”

“Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what you saw.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying——”

“Have you ever seen a man die?” Lamson snapped out the words as if his own nerves were at a tension.

“No—no, sir.”

“Then how do you know how one would look?”

“I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles. I couldn’t think other than that he was a dying man, sir.”

“That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the spectacle of Mr. Stannard’s plight to see clearly the others who were present?”

“No, sir,” and the man’s calm face quivered now. “It is as if photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon.”

“Directly behind him?”

“Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left, and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right.”

“Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood,” and Coroner Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.

“Oh, sir,” begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members of the household which employed him, “oh, sir—Mrs. Faulkner, sir,—she came in with me,—she can tell better than I——”

“Mrs. Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now.”

With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.

“Mrs. Stannard stood here,” he said, indicating a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of Stannard’s chair, which was still in its place.

“What was she doing?”

“Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped against her breast.”

“And Miss Vernon?”

“She was over here,” and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the outer door.

“How was she standing?”

“Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth, like it would upset in a minute.”

“And her hands?”

“They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table.”

“You have a wonderful memory, Blake,” and the Coroner looked hard at his witness.

“Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture to my mind.”

“Like a moving picture?”

“No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau, sir——”

“And then,” prompted Inspector Bardon.

At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to look at Blake with a glance of deep concentration.

“Important, if true,” Detective Roberts said to himself. “Young Stannard is afraid of the footman’s further disclosures!”

Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost his power of clear and concise narration.

“Why, then——” he stammered, “then, all was confusion. I started toward Mr. Stannard, it—it seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came toward him——”

“And the two ladies behind him?”

“They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard took hold of his hand——”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I couldn’t help it, sir—I blurted out, ‘Who did this?’ And Mr. Stannard—he said——”

“Said! Spoke?”

Attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one save Roberts noticed Barry Stannard’s face. It was drawn in an agonised protest at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, accustomed to obeying orders implicitly, continued to tell his story.

“Yes, sir, he spoke—sort of whispered, in a gasping way——”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stolid Blake. “And he sort of raised his hand, pointing toward the lady.”

“Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. “I won’t have this!” he cried. “I won’t allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It’s all wrong!”

The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake.

“Sit down, for the present, Blake,” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?”

Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said, “Certainly. Will you ask questions?”

The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.

“I am ready,” she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons.

A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: “Do you corroborate the story as just related by Blake, the footman?”

“Yes, I think so,” and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she seemed a middle-aged matron. “I am sure I agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering the room, but I’m not sure he was able to hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not.”

“You were not?”

“No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready to say positively that I clearly understood the words.”

“You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?”

“He wasn’t peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally, thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing ‘Help!’ It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him.”

“And how did you think this intruder had entered?”

“I didn’t think anything about that. One doesn’t have coherent thoughts at such a moment. I realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I assumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss Vernon standing near him, and I had no thought save to assist in any way I might. I cried out to Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stannard’s side, just as she was about to faint.”

“Did she faint?”

“No, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly agitated. And then, soon, the butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard’s valet, came in, and after that Barry came and—and everything seemed to happen at once. Doctor Keith came——”

“One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. What about the words uttered by Mr. Stannard before he died?”

“They were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible.”

“You swear this?”

“I do. If he said ‘Joyce’ or ‘Natalie,’ it is not at all strange, considering that those two women were in his sight. But I repeat that he did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any real statement. It was the unconscious speech of a dying man. In another instant he was gone.”

Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner’s voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her eyes met Barry’s for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding and approval.

“Hum,” commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself, “the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady is his friend, and she’s helping him out. She isn’t telling all she knows, or if she is, she’s colouring it to save the implicated ladies.”

“What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulkner?”

The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. It was almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess.

“I am a guest,” she returned, simply. “I have been staying here a few weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard.”

“You previously owned this house, did you not?”

“My late husband, an architect of note, built it. Later, it was sold to Mr. Stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years.”

“Where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw Blake?”

“In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at the other end of the house. I had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave, I went down stairs to rejoin my hostess.”

“Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard?”

“Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room.”

“You left her there? How long before?”

“An hour or so. There were several guests at dinner, and they had drifted to the various rooms afterward.”

“Who were the guests at dinner?”

“Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Drawing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a neighbour, and Mr. and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby.”

“Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?”

“Yes; that is the one.”

“There was no one else at dinner?”

“Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard, Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss Vernon and myself.”

“Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no significance to the words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ which Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?”

Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, steadily: “I do not. They were the articulation of a brain already clouded by approaching death. He merely named the people he saw nearest to him.”

“That is not true! Eric meant what he said!”

It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.

III
What They Said

With a vague idea of taking advantage of a psychological moment, Coroner Lamson began to question Joyce.

“Why do you make that statement, Mrs. Stannard?” he said; “do you realise that it is a grave implication?”

But Joyce, though not hysterical, was at high tension, and she said, talking rapidly, “My husband’s words were in direct answer to the footman’s question. Blake said, ‘Who did this?’ and Mr. Stannard, even pointing to Miss Vernon, said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ Could anything be plainer?”

“It might seem so, yet we must take into consideration the fast clouding intellect of the dying man, and endeavour thus to get at the truth. Will you tell the circumstances of your entering the room, Mrs. Stannard?”

“Of course I will. I had been in the Billiard Room for some time, ever since dinner, in fact——”

“Alone?”

“Not at first. Several were there with me. Then, later, all had gone—and—I was there alone.”

The speaker paused. She seemed to forget her audience and became lost in recollection or in thought. She looked very beautiful, as she sat, robed in her black gown of soft, thin material, with a bit of white turned in at the throat. Her brown hair waved carelessly back to a loose, low knot and her deep-set brown eyes, full of sorrow, grew suddenly luminous.

“Perhaps it wasn’t Natalie,” she said, speaking breathlessly. “Perhaps it wasn’t Miss Vernon—after all.”

“We are not asking your opinion, Mrs. Stannard,” said the Coroner, stiffly; “kindly confine your recital to the facts as they happened.”

But now, the witness’ poise was shaken. Of a temperamental nature, Joyce Stannard had thought of something or realised something that affected the trend of her testimony.

Bobsy Roberts watched her with intense interest. “Well, Milady,” he said to her, mentally, “you’ve struck a snag in your well-planned defence. Careful now, don’t leap before you look!”

“Yes,” said Joyce, but her quivering lip precluded further speech.

The Coroner was made decidedly uncomfortable by the sight of her beauty and her distress, always a disquieting combination, and to hide his sympathy, he repeated, brusquely, “The facts, please, as they occurred.”

“I was in the Billiard Room,” Joyce began again, “and I heard, in the studio, a slight sound of some sort, and then the light in here went out.”

“Which was first, the sound or the sudden darkness?”

“The sound—no, the darkness. I don’t really know. Perhaps they were simultaneous.”

“One moment; was the Billiard Room lighted?”

“Yes.”

“And the door between open?”

“The sliding doors were open—the curtains pulled together.”

Glancing at the heavy tapestry curtains in question, Mr. Lamson said quickly: “If they were pulled together, and the room where you were was light, how could you notice when this room went dark?”

Joyce looked bewildered. “I don’t know,” she said, blankly, “how could I?”

The question was so naive, and the brown eyes so puzzled and troubled, that Bobsy Roberts whistled to himself. But not for want of thought. His thoughts flocked so fast he could scarcely marshal them into line. “Of course,” his principal thought was, “one of these women is guilty. If the crime had been committed by a burglar they wouldn’t have any of this back and forth kiyi with their eyes. Now, the question is, which one?”

Joyce and Natalie had exchanged many glances. But to a stranger they were unreadable, and Roberts contented himself with storing them up in his memory for future consideration. And now, as Joyce looked confused and nonplussed, Natalie seemed a bit triumphant, but she as quickly drooped her eyes and veiled whatever emotion they showed.

“But you are sure you did know when the studio lights went out?” pursued Lamson.

“Why, yes—I think so. You see—it was all so confused——”

“What was?”

“Why,—the lights,—and that queer sound—and——”

“Go on, Mrs. Stannard. Never mind the lights and the sound. You entered the studio from the Billiard Room, and saw——?”

“I didn’t see anything!” declared Joyce, with a sudden toss of her head. “I c-couldn’t. It was dark, you know. Then somebody, Blake, you know, turned the switch, and I saw Miss Vernon standing by my dying husband’s——”

“How did you know he was dying? Did you see Miss Vernon strike the blow?”

“No. But she was in the room when I entered—and, too, Eric said it was Natalie and not—me.”

“You are prepared to swear that Miss Vernon was in the room before you were?”

“She was there when I went in.”

“But it was dark, how could you see her?”

“I didn’t. I heard her breathing in a quick, frightened way.”

“And when you first saw her?”

“She was cowering back against the little paint stand.”

“Looking terrified?”

“Yes, and——”

“And what?”

“And guilty.” Joyce said the words solemnly, as one unwillingly pronouncing a doom.

“Mrs. Stannard, I must be unpleasantly personal. Can you think of any reason why Miss Vernon would desire your husband’s death?”

Joyce trembled visibly. “I cannot answer a question like that,” she said, in a low tone.

“I’m sorry,—but you must.”

“No, then,” and Joyce looked squarely at Natalie. “I cannot imagine why she should desire his death. I certainly cannot.”

“But any reason why she should dislike him, or wish him ill?”

“N-no.”

“Think again.”

“My husband was a great artist,” Joyce began, as if thinking it out for herself. “He was accustomed to having his models do as he requested. Miss Vernon was not always amenable to his wishes and—and they were not very good friends.”

“But you and Miss Vernon are good friends? You like her?”

Joyce favoured Natalie with a calm stare. “Certainly,” she said, in an even voice, “I like her.”

“Whew!” breathed our friend Roberts, silently. “At last I see what one Mr. Pope meant when he wrote:

“Damn with faint praise, assent with civil leer,

And, without sneering, cause the rest to sneer.”

For, surely, Joyce’s attestation of friendship between herself and the artist’s model convinced nobody. She sat, gracefully erect, her serious face blank of any emotion, yet impressing all with the sense of profound feeling beneath.

“In what ways did Miss Vernon incur Mr. Stannard’s displeasure?” asked Lamson.

“Merely on some technical matters connected with her posing for his pictures,” was the nonchalant reply.

“That, then, could scarcely be construed into a motive for murder?”

“Scarcely.” Joyce seemed to give a mere parrot-like repetition of the Coroner’s word.

“Yet, you are willing to believe that Miss Vernon is the criminal we are seeking?”

“I do not say that,” and Joyce spoke softly. “I can only say I saw her here when I came into this room and found my husband dying.”

“Might she not have come in just as you did, attracted by that strange sound, as of a man in pain?”

“In that case, who could have stabbed my husband? There was no one else near. That has been testified by those who entered at the other end of the room.”

“Could not a burglar have entered by a window, attempted robbery, and, being discovered, stabbed Mr. Stannard in self-preservation?”

“How could he have entered?” said Joyce, dully.

“I can see no way. That is, he might have been in here, but in no way could he have gotten out. That great North window, I am told, opens only in a few high sectional panes. It is shaded by rollers from the bottom, and is inaccessible. The other large window, the West one, is so blocked up with easels, canvases and casts, that it is certain nobody could get in or out of that. The door to the main hall was, of course, in full sight of Blake the footman, and that leaves only the South end of the room to be considered. Now no intruder could have gone out by the door to the Billiard Room or the door to the Terrace without having been seen by you or Miss Vernon, who claims she was on the Terrace all evening.”

Every one present looked around at the Studio. They saw a spacious room, about forty feet long by thirty wide, its lofty ceiling fully twenty feet high. An enormous fireplace was on the side toward the house, and above it ran an ornamental balcony, reached by a light staircase at either end. The fine, big windows were of stained glass, save where ground glass had been put in to meet the artist’s needs. Originally a ballroom, the decorations were ornate but in restrained and harmonious taste. There were priceless rugs on the floor, priceless works of art all about, and furnishings of regal state and luxury. Yet, also, was there the litter and mess of working materials and mediums—seemingly inseparable from any studio, however watched and tended. Here would be a stunning Elizabethan chair, all carved wood and red velvet, heaped high with paintboxes and palettes; there, an antique chest of marvellous workmanship, from whose half-open lid peeped bits of rare drapery stuffs or quaintly-fashioned garments. Tables everywhere, of inlay or marquetry, were piled with sketches, boxes of pastels, or small casts. Jugs and vases, fit only for museum pieces, held sheafs of paint-brushes, while scores of canvases, both blank and painted, stood all round the wall.

The armchair, in which Eric Stannard had sat when he died, was undisturbed, also the tables near it. A new idea seemed to strike Lamson. He said, “When you came in in the darkness, Mrs. Stannard, how did you avoid stumbling over the chairs and stands in your way? I count four of them, practically in the course you must have pursued.”

Joyce looked at the part of the room in question. True, there were four or more small pieces of furniture that would have bothered one coming in without a light.

“That’s so!” she said, as if the idea were illuminating. “I must have come in just after or at the very moment that Blake lighted the electrics!”

“And found Miss Vernon already here?”

“Yes,” said Joyce.

“Miss Vernon, will you tell your story?” said Lamson, abruptly, turning from Joyce to the girl.

“Why—I——” Natalie fluttered like a frightened bird, and gazed piteously at the inquisitor. “I don’t know how.”

“Good work!” commented Bobsy Roberts, mentally. “Smart little girl to know how the baby act fetches ’em!”

But if Natalie Vernon’s air of helplessness was assumed, it was sufficiently well done to convince all who saw it.

“Poor little thing!” was in everybody’s mind as the rosebud face looked pleadingly at the Coroner. At that moment, if she had declared herself the guilty wretch, nobody would have believed her.

Lamson’s abruptness vanished, and he said, gently, “Just a simple description, Miss Vernon, of your presence in this room last night.”

“It was this way,” she began, and her face drew itself into delicious wrinkles, as she chose her words. “I had been, ever since dinner, almost, on the terrace.”

“Alone?”

“Oh, no. Different people were there. Coming and going, you know. Well, at last, I chanced to be there alone——”

“Who had been with you latest?”

“Let me see,” and the palpable effort to remember was too pronounced to be real, “I guess—yes, I’m sure it was Barry,—Mr. Barry Stannard. And he went away——”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. For a stroll with the dogs, probably. I was about to go upstairs to my room, when I heard a sound in the studio that seemed queer.”

“How, queer?”

“As if somebody were calling me—I mean, calling for somebody.”

“Did you hear your name?” and Lamson caught at the straw.

“Oh, no, just a general exclamation, it was. And I went toward the door to listen, if it might be repeated.”

“Was the door open?”

“No, but it has glass in it, with sash curtains, and these were a little way open, and I could see through them that the light went out suddenly——”

“Well?”

“And then I went right in, without making a sound——”

“Didn’t it make a sound as you opened the door?”

“The door was open.”

“You said it was not.”

“Oh, I don’t know whether it was or not! I was so scared to see Eric,—Mr. Stannard, dead or dying, and his wife standing there as if she had just——”

“Just what? Killed him?”

“Yes,” and Natalie’s big blue eyes were violet with horror. “She had! And she stood there, just as Blake said, one hand on the table, and one clutched to her breast. She did do it, Mr. Coroner. She must have been out of her mind, you know, but she did it, for I saw her.”

“Saw her kill him?”

“No, not that. But I saw her just after the deed was done, and she was the picture of guilty fear!”

If Natalie could have been transferred to canvas as she looked then, the picture would have made any painter’s fortune. The girl was in white, soft, crêpy wool stuff, that clung and fell in lovely lines, for the gown had been designed by no less a genius than Stannard himself. It was his whim to have Natalie about the house in the gowns in which he posed her, that he might catch an occasional unexpected effect. But the simple affair was not out of place as a morning house-gown, and more than one woman in the audience took careful note of its cut and pattern. Her golden hair was carelessly tossed up in a mass of curls, held with one hair-pin, a huge amber thing, that threatened every minute to slip out, and one couldn’t help wishing it would. Her wonderful eyes had long dark lashes, and her pink cheeks were rosy now, because of her nervous excitement. So thin was her delicate skin that her hands and throat were flushed a soft pink and her curved lips were scarlet. Yet notwithstanding the marvellous colouring, there was not one iota of doubt that it was Nature’s own. The play of rose and white in her cheeks, the sudden occasional paling of the red lips and the perfection of the tiny shreds of curl that clustered at her throbbing temples all spoke of the real humanity of this girl’s beauty. Small wonder the artist wanted her for his own pictures exclusively! Joyce was a beautiful woman, but this child, this fairy princess, was a dream, a very Titania of charm and wonder.

Not by her testimony, not by words of assertion, but by her ethereal, her incredible beauty, this wonder-girl took captive every heart and, without effort, secured the sympathy and belief of everybody present.

And yet, the Coroner had to do his duty. Had to say, in curt, accusing tones, “Then how do you explain Mr. Stannard’s dying words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’?”

The red lips quivered, the roseleaf cheeks grew pinker and great tears formed in the appealing blue eyes.

“Don’t ask me that!” she cried; “oh, pray, don’t ask me that!”

“But I do, I must ask you. And I must ask you why you stabbed him? Had he asked you to pose in any way to which you were unwilling to consent? Had he insisted, after you refused? Was he tyrannical? Brutal? Cruel? Did you have to defend yourself? Was it on an impulse of sudden anger or indignation?”

“Stop! Stop!” cried Natalie, putting her pink finger tips into her tiny, rosy ears. “Stop! He was none of those things! He was good to me, he—he——”

“Good to you, yet you killed him! Kind to you, yet you took his life——”

“I didn’t! I tell you I didn’t! It was Joyce! She——”

“Miss Vernon, if you came into the room in the dark, how could you effect an entrance without upsetting something? There are even more small racks and stands on that side of the room than the other.”

“No, I didn’t upset anything——” and Natalie stared at him.

“Then you came in before the room was darkened,—long before,—and you darkened it yourself, after you had driven the blow that ended the life of your friend and patron.”

Coroner Lamson paused, as the dawn-pink of Natalie’s face turned to a creamy pallor, and the girl sank, unconscious, into a chair.

“Brutal!” cried Barry Stannard, springing to her side. “Inexcusable, Mr. Lamson. This is no place for a Third Degree procedure!” and asking no one’s permission, he carried the slight form from the studio.

IV
Goldenheart

A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. For “model,” Natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard’s house. And she looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert débutante. She had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent, rather than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though it had given way before the Coroner’s accusation, was always evident in the clear gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. Moreover, she had that precious possession called charm to an infinite degree. It was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and Eric Stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. Of late, he had tried it in his etching. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as Goldenrod. This he had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy for the etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod, her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow autumn leaves. It was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside from the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an etching of the study.

The waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near Eric’s chair, after his death. The wax had been scratched and smudged, quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had caused the artist’s death.

This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? That Natalie, in a fit of anger at Eric, had destroyed his picture of her? Or, that Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait?

The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and shoulder, and one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had drawn it, garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that gave a totally different character to the work.

Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a way she didn’t care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what might not a woman do?

Again, could it not be that the artist’s wife had had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband’s interest in the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood?

“It’s a poor clue that won’t work both ways,” mused Bobsy Roberts, as he heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so.

Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at dinner the night before.

The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower.

After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until perhaps half past eleven——

“Wait,” interposed the Coroner. “Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after your departure, at that hour.”

“Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn’t note the time. I went directly home, and retired without looking at the hour.”

“You went out at the front door?”

“Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn’t look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities.”

There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay.

But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and to him it was a revelation.

“Oh, ho,” was his self-communing, “sits the wind in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are—er—en rapport—it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this.”

Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce’s before she succumbed to Stannard’s Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both.

Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home, but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he think it strange in any way. Why shouldn’t people light and relight their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed.

Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the mystery.

“Where are these jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible robbery.

“I don’t know,” Joyce answered, listlessly. “Mr. Stannard kept some of them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put them away again.”

“Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar intent on securing these gems might have attempted a robbery, and——”

“Come, come, Lamson,” interposed Inspector Bardon, “a burglar would scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house alight, and people sauntering through the grounds.”

“No, of course not,” responded the Coroner, in no wise abashed.

Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole matter.

“It was the work of a burglar,” said young Stannard, confidently; “it simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an entrance easily. He need not have been a rough customer. He may have been of a gentlemanly type,—even in evening clothes. But he gained access to my father, I haven’t the slightest doubt, and brought to bear some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. When my father refused his demands,—this is my theory and belief,—he either feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the nearest weapon he could snatch at.”

“And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this intruder turned off the lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?”

“I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever getaway.”

“And just how did he leave the room? You know, Mrs. Stannard was in the Billiard Room and Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at the main hall door.”

“He made his escape by the large West window,” replied Barry. “If you will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with.”

An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the window in question. It was a long, French window, opening like a double door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks.

Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the West window, and then closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced at Barry, and observed, silently, “Some scheme!” after which, he calmly awaited developments.

“But how can we think that a man entered at that window,” said Lamson, “when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?”

“It might have been managed,” asserted Barry.

And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. “It couldn’t be,” he said, positively. “No one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. No one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. If you will try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean.”

It was true. Even though the window might be opened, it would crash into and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also knock down some casts which leaned against it.

Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the Coroner regarded him with a sort of suspicion.

“Mr. Stannard,” he said, “I don’t want to do you an injustice, but your theory is so suspiciously implausible, that I can’t help thinking you might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose of diverting suspicion.”

“I did,” Barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. “And I am not ashamed of it. My father’s death is a mystery. So much of a one that I feel sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did and do want to turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two ladies who, hearing my father’s dying struggles, rushed to his assistance.”

“That may be the case,” said Lamson, “with one of the ladies you refer to. But the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the crime. It is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible.”

“It is impossible!” protested Barry. “I know of facts and conditions which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a—well, a blackmailer, perhaps,—might have attacked my father. This is outside of discovery or proof, but I request,—I demand that you cease to persecute your present suspects!”

The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual, quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave.

Roberts regarded him with interest. “Some chap!” he thought. “I wonder, now, if he did it himself,—and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I fancy it’s his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar.”

“Do you know where your father kept his jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, and Barry started, as he said, “No, I’ve no idea. That is, the ones in the house. The others are in deposit with the Black Rock Trust Company.”

“Who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?”

But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she did not. Barry disclaimed the knowledge. Inquired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor Halpin, the old Butler, nor any of the other servants.

It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed his treasures in a hiding-place known only to himself. An officer was sent to search his personal rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to a further grilling.

Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and drawn. Wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or tactful.

At last, when Lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she was doing or thinking after Courtenay had left her alone in the Billiard Room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth, impulsively, “I was listening at the Studio door!”

“Ah! And what did you hear?”

“I heard my husband say, ‘No, no, my lady, I will not divorce Joyce for you!’ and then he laughed,—a certain laugh of his that I always called the trouble laugh,—a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate anybody,—anybody, beyond the point of endurance!”

The Coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that promised so much, he said, quietly, “Did you hear anything further?”

“I did. I heard him say, ‘I’ll give you the emeralds, if you like, but I really won’t marry you.’”

“Your husband was not a cruel man, Mrs. Stannard?”

“On the contrary, he was gentleness itself. He was most courteous and gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most annoying.”

“And to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?”

“How can you ask? I was just about to go into the room, as I felt it my right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. I was so surprised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to do. Then hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I pushed the curtain aside and went in. The rest, I have told you.”

Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her face. She looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence or told a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside her, and he was looking at her curiously.

Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard’s writing desk.

Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon.

Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:

Goldenheart:

You have a strange power over me—you can sway me to your will when I am in your presence. But now, alone, I am my own man and my better self protests at our secret. You know where the jewels are hidden. Take the emeralds, if you like, and forgive and forget

Eric.

The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of the artist’s intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very lips, and Barry flushed scarlet.

“Call Miss Vernon,” commanded the Coroner, abruptly.

Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now. Without a word, Lamson handed her the note.

The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and self-possessed.

“Well?” said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce before, “what does that note to you mean?”

Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and quivering chin told of her desperate distress.

“It is not to me,” she whispered.

“That’s right,” Bobsy Roberts thought; “stick to that, now. It’s fine!”

“It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard’s desk. Where are the emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?”

“I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine.”

“Not yours, because you didn’t receive it. But it was written to you, and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him.”

Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said, “Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard’s story and not mine? What I saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime.”

Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed girl?

And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment? And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty?

V
Blake’s Story

The sapient gentlemen of the Coroner’s Jury concluded, after a somewhat protracted discussion, that Eric Stannard met his death at those convenient and ever available hands of a person or persons unknown. They could not bring themselves to accuse either Joyce or Natalie, because for each suspect they had only the evidence of the other’s unsupported story. And Public Opinion, as represented by the citizens of Rensselaer Park, would have risen in a body to protest against a verdict that implicated either or both of these two women. And yet, there were many exceptions. Many of those whose voices were loudest in declaring the innocence of Joyce and Natalie, expressed private views that stultified their statements. And some, wagged their heads wisely, and whispered a thought of Blake. But most stood out strongly for the burglar theory, ignoring all obstacles in the way of the marauder’s entrance, and repeatedly insisting that the non-appearance of the jewels was sufficient proof of robbery.

It may be that Barry’s self-confessed scratching of the paint on the window-frame turned the trend of thought toward a possible burglar or blackmailer, even if he gained entrance some other way; and it may be this was the loophole through which the two suspected people escaped accusation.

But the interest of the police in these two was strengthened rather than lessened, and their life and conduct were under close scrutiny.

Captain Steele, who had been assigned to the case, declared that he was glad of the verdict, for it was better to have the suspects at large, and he was a firm believer in the principle of giving people sufficient rope and allowing them the privilege of hanging themselves.

Captain Steele was at The Folly, as the house was always called,—in spite of the Stannards’ attempts to use the more attractive name of Stanhurst,—on the day after the inquest, and Detective Roberts was also there and one or two other policemen and reporters.

Steele had appropriated the small Reception Room next the studio for his quarters, and was going over with great care the reports of the proceedings and evidence of the day before.

“You see, Bobsy,” he said, “the burglar stunt won’t work. I’ve tried, and Carter, here, he’s tried, and we couldn’t come within a mile of getting in or out among that art junk in the window, without making noise and commotion enough to wake the dead.”

“I know it,” assented Bobsy. “Knew it all the time. Let’s cut out Mr. Burglar. Also, Blake was on the door all the evening, and he would have looked in the studio in case of a racket.”

“Sure. Now, I want to fix the time of the stab act. They all say about half past eleven, but nobody knows exactly.”

“Of course they don’t. People in evening togs never know what time it is. Why should they? They don’t have to punch a clock. I think the footman would just about know, though. Servants have their hours, you know. And anyway, let’s get that man in here.”

Blake was summoned, and, though impassive as usual, seemed ready to answer questions.

He retold his story, with no appreciable deviation from what he had testified at the inquest.

“Are you sure it all occurred at half past eleven?” asked Steele.

“Yes, sir. I heard the chimes in the studio just before the light went out.”

“How long was the light out?” Roberts put in.

“I should say, not more’n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard the sounds, I can’t tell about the length of time properly. But it wasn’t two minutes, I’m sure, between the studio light going off and me turning it on.”

“Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn’t told you to?”

Blake considered. “I can’t say. I think, yes, for I heard that ‘Help!’ distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I’d been on my own, I’d ’a’ gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment, sir.”

“Right you are, Blake,” said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the footman. “Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member of the family—of the household.”

“I don’t know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could only see those who passed through it.”

“Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them.”

“Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that’s over the dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room we’re now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You see,—er——”

“What, Blake?”

“Well, if I may say it, sir, he’s—er—sweet on her, and they two went off by themselves.”

“I see,” and Bobsy smiled. “Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon?”

“Of those I know nothing, for they didn’t come around where I was.”

“Nor any of the men?”

“No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him out. He says, ‘Good night, Blake,’ sort of gay like, and I thought perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir.”

“Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?”

“Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no harm, and no curiosity,—but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then, and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out——”

“Why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you.”

“Oh, yes, that’s right, they were. Well, it’s small wonder I get mixed up. They were, sir, because I told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said it wasn’t my place to comment on that. And she was right, it wasn’t my place, to be sure; but I was worried, that’s what I was, worried, and then we both heard the cry of ‘Help!’ and she told me to turn on the studio lights and I did.”

“Do they all obey one switch?”

“Yes, sir, that is, there’s one main key right at the door jamb that controls all. So when I turned it on, the whole room was ablaze.”

“And of course, you couldn’t help seeing the exact state of things. Well, Blake, which lady do you think did it?”

“Oh, sir,” and Blake’s solemn face grew a shade more so, “I couldn’t say. I’m sure I don’t know. But, it must have been one of them, there’s no getting around that. When I saw the three, as you might say, almost in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and both looking—oh, I can’t describe how they looked! Why if they were both guilty they couldn’t have looked different.”

“They weren’t both guilty!” cried Roberts. “It couldn’t have been collusion, eh, Steele?”

“Nonsense, of course not,” returned Captain Steele; “one stabbed him, and the other came in at the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the same expressions of horror and fright.”

“I believe that,” said Bobsy, after a minute’s thought. “Now, Blake, as to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. Let’s go in there.”

It was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were as yet in their rooms. It was not the intention of the Police to intrude upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of the servants.

Roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now Blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by.

In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined carefully the marks on the West window casing.

“Idiot boy!” exclaimed Bobsy. “To think he could fool us into believing this was professional work!”

“It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so quickly,” said Steele, a bit admiringly.

“That’s what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping mind,” observed Blake, as if pleased with the phrase. “Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision that his father’d take hours to reach.”

“Mr. Stannard was slow, then?”

“Not to say slow, in some things. He was like lightning at his work. But as to a matter, now, that he didn’t want to bother about, he would put it off or dawdle about it, something awful.”

“And you see,” Bobsy went on, “there are only three doors and three windows in the place. Now we have accounted for——”

“What’s the gallery for?” asked Steele, gazing up at the gilded iron scrollwork of the little balcony.

“Just for ornament, sir,” Blake returned. “And I’ve heard Mr. Stannard say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main house.”

“It’s all one house,—there’s no division?”

“No real division, sir, but this end,—the studio and Billiard Room on this floor, and the rooms directly above,—are all Mr. Stannard’s own, and in a way separate from the rest of the house.”

“His sleeping room is above the studio?”

“Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. Mrs. Stannard’s rooms are next, over the Reception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over the dining room end, and in the third story.”

“Listen,” impatiently cut in Bobsy. “There are six ways of getting in and out. Now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were, Blake?”

“Oh, no, sir. I was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as bright as day.”

“All right. That’s one off. Now we’ll go round the room. The North window is out of the question, eh?”

“Yes, sir,” said Blake, as the query was to him. “It only opens in those high, upper sections, by cords, don’t you see?”

Blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that way.

“Next is the West window,” Bobsy went on, “and that’s settled by a glance. Why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. How could any one walk through that and leave no track?”

This was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the Billiard Room.

“This is where Mrs. Stannard came in. No other person could have entered this door unless she had seen him. Now, we come to the East window. This was open, I am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. Also, Mr. Courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went out. Had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have seen him.”

“He couldn’t climb in, sir, ’count of the screen,” said Blake. “It’s not a movable screen. We put them up for the season, and take them down the middle of October. They all come down next week.”

“This door, the last,” and Bobsy paused at the door to the Terrace, “is the one at which Miss Vernon entered. If any one else had come in here she would have seen him. That completes our circuit. No one could have gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. Now we are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder, and it’s up to us to decide which one.”

“There’s the fireplace,” suggested Steele.

“There was a fire there that night,” Blake asserted. “That is, there had been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is fond of an open fire. It was burned out when—when it all happened, but the embers were smouldering when I came into the room. And no one could come down the chimney, anyway. It’s a crooked flue, and it’s full of soot beside.”

“No one ever comes down a chimney,” said Roberts, “but it’s always well to look into it.” He peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of soot showed no scratches or marks.

“Then there’s no ingress other than those we’ve noted,” Steele mused. “There’s no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place,” he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall. “Solid,” he said, as he came down the other little stair. “Now, is there any trap door?”

They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred surface, and no opening was there of any sort.

“I wanted to be sure,” said Roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he pounded on the floorboards around the West window. “Now, I am sure. We have only the two doors to deal with. The door from the Terrace and the one from the studio. Let’s look at them both.”

Stepping out onto the beautiful covered Terrace, the men paused to take in the glories of the scene. The splendid lawns sloping down to even more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a Nature lover both. The October foliage was alight and aglow, and the Autumn flowers were masses of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff or two of the sunlit morning air, they returned to their quest.

“On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stannard sat until after eleven,” Roberts said; “I got that from young Stannard himself.”

“Don’t put too much faith in those people’s ideas of time,” warned Steele. “He may think it was after eleven and it may have been much earlier.”

“You’re right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the dark,—he told me he had turned off the Terrace light,—and then he went off to give the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a trot every night, don’t they, Blake?”

“Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an evening.”

“Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for an indefinite—I mean, an indeterminate time. Now, why doesn’t Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits on that lawn seat yonder?”

“Too dark,” said Steele, laconically.

“That’s right. She was back, we’ll say, under the Terrace roof, and the night was dark. Moreover, the Studio was brightly lighted, also the Billiard Room, which threw the Terrace even more in shadow. Well, then,—I’m sort of reconstructing this,—Miss Vernon sat here, until, as she says, she heard the noise in the studio.”

“Or saw the light go out,” and Steele shook his head. “Nobody seems to know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer sound.”

“No one knows, except the murderer,” said Roberts, seriously. “The murderer knows, because he—or she—turned off the light, but the others, who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a moment of unexpected action.”

“That’s it,” and Steele looked at the detective in admiration. “Mighty few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it’s a cut and dried account.”

“And yet—” Bobsy frowned, “you know both Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard became confused about the lights.”

“That’s because they both tried to copycat the footman’s story. You see, the one who really killed Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and not where she says she was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can’t tell just how things did happen.”

“Sound enough. Now let’s go to the Billiard Room.”

Crossing the studio again, they entered the Billiard Room, a large apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre.

Cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all about. There were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side windows. An outside door was on the South side.

“Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much the same time Barry left the girl,” Roberts said. “So you see, Steele, their chances are equal.”

“Chances of what?”

“I mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came from or to remain in the room until the other entered. It must have been that way, for there’s no other way for it to be.”

“All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard’s story of overhearing the stuff her husband said to the girl?”

“Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard overheard it, she might have run in and found the dead man, or she might have run in and stabbed the living man.”

“In the dark?”

“Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of furniture was. But isn’t it quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?”

“That wax baby?”

“She isn’t the baby she looks! Always distrust a blonde.”

“But such a blonde!”

“Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. But we’ve learned all we can here. Back to think it over, and puzzle it out.”

VI
Mrs. Faulkner’s Account

Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest anybody, even the hypothetical burglar.

Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due. All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was reported.

Captain Steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record for success in murder cases was of the best. His reputation was at stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the present matter. His methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.

“Captain,” Bobsy would say, “do you see that point?”

“I saw it long ago,” would be the exasperating reply.

“Well, what about it?”

“I haven’t thought it out yet.”

“Well, get busy.”

“I am busy,” the stolid Captain would answer, and go on about his business.

But the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities that enabled them to work side by side without friction.

“You see,” said Steele, as they were closeted in the Reception Room, “it’s more or less a psychological problem.”

They liked this room for their confabs. The small size and convenient location suited their purpose admirably. They could shut its two doors, and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea of what was going on about the house.

“Snug little box,” Bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold, did give it the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the family for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the studio or Billiard Room. The Terrace, too, was used as a living place, in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants arranging a small breakfast table out there.

“Psychology is out of my line,” Roberts said, in answer to the Captain’s assertion.

“Oh, I don’t mean anything scientific. But, it’s this way. One of those women is lying and one telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this, we’ll get nothing out of them, for they’re both at the edge of a nervous breakdown.”

“The innocent one, too?”

“Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the little peach was in love with the artist; I’m not sure of this, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures.”

“A murder doesn’t connote a high-calibred nature!”

“It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made, not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an otherwise great and noble nature.”

“I’m not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let’s use it by all means.”

“It is. Now, here’s the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr. Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don’t know how long this interval was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then, till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two moments the crime was led up to and committed.”

“Must it have been led up to?”

“Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after eleven, one or other of the two women we’re considering, was left alone. Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr. Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights, and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did.”

“All right, that goes. Now, which?”

“That’s what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting clues of a material nature.”

“Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of the room to turn off the lights, didn’t she?”

Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room.

“Yes,” he agreed, “but that’s only a few seconds’ work.”

“But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after the light went out, and later, he spoke.”

“Well?”

“Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My opinion leans toward her.”

“What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter to the model?”

“There’s too much evidence instead of not enough! But before we sift it out, which we can do elsewhere, let’s try to learn something more from the people here.”

“Servants or the others?”

“The others, if possible. If not, then some servants beside Blake.”

The breakfast table on the Terrace had been visited only by Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard. The other ladies had not appeared. The two had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace curtained window, and Roberts proposed they request an interview with one or both of them.

Somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. Mrs. Faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what the police had done or were thinking of doing, and Barry seemed anxious to discuss matters also.

But even before they began, Barry was called away on some errand, and Mrs. Faulkner was their only source of information.

Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of the immediate family, but Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something personal of the two women he wished to study.

“You must know, Mrs. Faulkner,” began Steele, “that the two women found in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or indicate the criminal?”

Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. She also glanced at Bobsy Roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: “I think I must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. I have known Mrs. Stannard for years, and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance, is very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable of the crime, even under deepest provocation. Therefore I do not admit, even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them, although they may seem to do so. With this declaration of my attitude in the matter, I will answer any questions that I can, but I will not agree that your theory is the right one.”

“Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard?”

“That I cannot say. But in absence of any real evidence against Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some sort. Though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of those two.”

It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was determined to stand by her friends through thick and thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. “Will you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household? Was Mr. Stannard in love with his pretty model?”

“I think he was,” Beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great import, “but Mr. Stannard was the type of man known as a ‘lady-killer.’ He adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called ‘in love’ with many. His nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love affairs were frequent and ephemeral.”

“Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?”

“I think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but I see, so far, no harm in replying. Mrs. Stannard knew so well her husband’s temperament and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations, knowing that he tired of them very quickly. The Stannards were a model and a modern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies or bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other’s actions.”

“Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?”

“Yes, they were married something more than two years ago.”

“And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her marriage?”

“That is usually true of any beautiful woman.”

“But in her case you know of instances?” Bobsy smiled pleasantly.

“Naturally, as I know her so well.”

“And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?”

“Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard. No breath of reproach may be brought against Joyce Stannard or Eugene Courtenay. Of this I can assure you.”

“And the young lady,—is Barry Stannard a suitor of hers?”

Beatrice’s face clouded a little. “Yes; you cannot help seeing that, so I will tell you that he is madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit Barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. I tell you this, because I prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of garbled gossip.”

“And young Stannard persisted?”

“I think so. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Miss Vernon is a very lovely girl,—of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet face indicates.”

“Might not Mr. Stannard’s objection to his son’s suit have been prompted by his own admiration for the lovely nature?”

“It might have been,” and Beatrice sighed. “Eric Stannard was an exceedingly selfish man, and though his interest in the model was doubtless his usual temporary love affair, it is quite likely that it was the main motive of his displeasure at his son’s interference. I am speaking very frankly, for I know these things must all come out, and I am hoping, if you know just how matters are, you will understand the case better and be more prepared to relieve the two women of suspicion.”

“It may be so,” and Captain Steele nodded his head sagely.

But Mrs. Faulkner was watching him closely. “You are not yet very greatly influenced by my revelations, I can see,” she said, “but I am sure you will come around to my way of thinking, sooner or later. The more you see of your suspects, the more you will realise the absurdity of your suspicions.”

“That’s possibly true. When can we have an interview with either of them?”

“Mrs. Stannard is prostrated. I am sure you cannot see her before the funeral, which will be to-morrow. Won’t you refrain from asking it, until after that?”

“Certainly. But Miss Vernon, may we not have a few words with her? You must realise, Mrs. Faulkner, if the girl is innocent, it will be much better for her to see us and answer a few straightforward questions than to appear unwilling to do so.”

“I agree with you. I will go and ask her, myself, and advise her to see you. Shall I go now?”

“In a moment, please; but first, one more question. We are trying to discover who last saw Mr. Stannard alive, prior to the time of the murder. What can you tell us as to this?”

“Only that I was in the studio, just before the first of the guests went away. At that time we were all there, I think, except Barry and Natalie, who were out on the Terrace. The two Truxtons went home, and at the same time Mr. Wadsworth and I went up to the Drawing Room——”

“To be by yourselves?”

A certain kindliness in Bobsy’s tone robbed the question of impertinence, and Beatrice smiled a little, as she said, “Yes, exactly. We stayed there perhaps a half hour, and then Mr. Wadsworth went home. I did not go downstairs with him, but sat a moment in the Drawing Room,—thinking over some personal matters. Then when I went downstairs, it was to see Blake listening at the door,—and the rest you know.”

“Yes; now whom did you leave in the studio, when you and Mr. Wadsworth and the Truxtons went out of it?”

Beatrice thought a moment. “Only Mr. Stannard, his wife and Mr. Courtenay.”

“Then Mrs. Stannard and Mr. Courtenay went into the Billiard Room?”

“Yes, and Mr. Stannard went, too. But he went back in the studio,—Joyce told me that,—and he must have been there alone when—the person who killed him came in.”

“This would make it, that Mr. Stannard returned to his studio from the Billiard Room at a little after eleven, say, five or ten minutes after. The fact that he cried out for help at about eleven-thirty narrows the time down rather close. We have only about twenty minutes for the intruder to enter and commit the deed. This is long enough if the crime was premeditated, but scarcely giving time for a quarrel or argument to take place.”

“Then you assume premeditation?” and Beatrice looked up quickly.

“It would seem so.”

“Then I am sure you will find, Mr. Roberts, that it could not have been either of the two you think. For even if one of them might have done such a thing in the heat of passion, neither, I am positive, ever deliberately premeditated it.”

“What about the letter found in the desk?”

“That,” and Beatrice shook her head emphatically, “that was never meant for Miss Vernon.”

“Yet Mrs. Stannard overheard him say practically the same thing to somebody in the studio, a moment or two before the crime was committed.”

“Joyce thinks she heard that. But Captain Steele, that poor woman scarcely knew what she was saying at that awful inquest, and she—well, she had reason to think there were women in Mr. Stannard’s life, who would be willing,—in fact, who wished him to be divorced from her. She knew this, she knew of that note he had written,—it was not the first of that nature, and she imagined she heard that speech.”

“You make Mr. Stannard out a very bad man, Mrs. Faulkner.”

“I am sorry to speak ill of the dead, but he was not a good man in the ways we are talking of. In other respects, Eric Stannard had few faults. He was upright, honest and generous. He was kind and he was truthful. And he was extraordinarily brave and honourable. But he was inordinately selfish and of sybaritic instincts. He would not try to curb his admiration for a new and pretty face, and though absolutely loyal to his wife in honour and principle he was a flirt and a gallant, much in the way of a butterfly among the flowers. His genius it is not necessary to speak of. He is known here and abroad as one of the greatest artists of the century. And his wide and varied experiences, his cosmopolitan life and his waywardness of character may well have gained him enemies, who in a secret and clever manner found means to take his life.”

“Who will benefit financially by his death?” Captain Steele asked abruptly.

“I haven’t heard anything about the will yet, but I’m pretty certain, that outside of a few friendly bequests his fortune is divided between his wife and son, about equally.”

“And his jewel collection? Is not that valuable?”

“Very. The emeralds mentioned in that note comprise a fortune in wonderfully matched stones. And there are many more. Yes, it is an exceedingly valuable lot.”

“He showed them to Mr. Truxton, that evening?”

“To all of us. That was right after dinner. He showed only a few cases, but of very beautiful stones.”

“And then he put them away, where?”

“I’ve no idea. They were not in sight, that I remember, when the Truxtons took leave. But I gave them no thought. I’ve often seen them, and after their exhibition, Mr. Stannard always puts them in his safe himself.”

“They have not been found in the safe.”

“Then he put them in some simple hiding-place. They will turn up. Unless, of course, there was a real burglar, whose motive was robbery.”

“But you do not think so?”

“Frankly, I do not see how there could have been an intruder, unless dressed as a gentleman. No other could have gained access to the house.”

“The servants saw no stranger, in any sort of garb?”

“They say so,” returned Beatrice, thoughtfully. “Don’t overlook the possibility of an accomplice among the servants. I’ve no reason to think this, but such things have happened.”

“They have indeed, and I assure you we have not overlooked the chance of it.”

VII
Natalie, Not Joyce

But the desired interview with Natalie was not achieved before the funeral of Eric Stannard. It was two days after before the girl would consent to see Roberts, and then, under protest.

“I’ve nothing to say,” she declared, as she came unwillingly into the Reception Room to meet him. “I’m not under arrest, and there’s no law that can make me talk if I don’t want to.”

The lovely face was troubled and the scarlet lips were pouting as Miss Vernon flounced herself into a chair, one foot tucked under her, and one little slipper tapping the carpet. She looked so like a petulant school-girl, it was well nigh impossible to connect her with a thought of anything really wrong. But Robert Roberts was experienced in guile and was by no means ready to accept her innocence at its face value.

“No law ought to make you do anything you don’t want to,” he said smiling; “but suppose it’s to your own advantage to talk?”

The sympathetic, good-natured face of Bobsy Roberts had a pleasant effect, for Natalie’s pout disappeared and a look of confidence came into her blue eyes.

“I wonder if I can trust you,” she said, meditatively, as she gazed at him, with an alluring intentness.

“You sure can,” returned Bobsy, but he consciously and conscientiously steeled himself against her witcheries.

“No, I don’t think I can,” she said, after a moment, and with a tiny sigh of disappointment, she looked away. “Go on; question me as you like.”

“Why can’t you trust me?”

“Oh, I trust you, as far as that goes. But I see you suspect me of killing Mr. Stannard.”

“And didn’t you?” Bobsy believed in the efficacy of sudden, direct questions.

But Miss Vernon was not taken off guard.

“No,” she said, quietly, “I didn’t. But when I say I didn’t, it implicates Mrs. Stannard, and I don’t want to do that. Can’t you tell me what to do?”

“Well, it’s this way. If Mrs. Stannard is the guilty person, you want it known, don’t you?”

“No, indeed! If Joyce Stannard killed her husband, she had a good reason for it, and I’d rather nobody’d know she did it.”

“What was her good reason?”

“Well, you know, Mr. Stannard was—that is,—he had eyes for other people beside his wife.”

“You, for instance.”

“Yes!” and the flower face took on a look of positive hatred, and of angry reminiscence. “I have no kindly thought of Eric Stannard, if he is dead.”

“He was kind to you.”

“Too kind,—in some ways,—and not enough so in others.”

“And his wife was jealous?”

“Who wouldn’t be! He petted her to death one day and the next he neglected her shamefully. I will trust you, Mr. Roberts. Now, listen; if Joyce killed Eric,—I don’t say she did, but if she did, why can’t we just hush up the matter, and pry into it no more? Barry wants that and so do I. And who else is to be considered?”

“The law, justice, humanity, all things right and fair.”

“Rubbish! Let those things go. Consider the wishes of the people most concerned.”

“Then straighten out a few uncertain points. Where are the emeralds?”

“Goodness! I don’t know! That foolish letter wasn’t written to me.”

“To whom, then?”

“I don’t know that, either. Some one of Eric’s lady friends, I suppose. Fancy my wanting him to divorce his wife and marry me!”

Bobsy looked at her narrowly, distrusting every word. This girl, he felt sure, was far from being as ingenuous as she looked.

“But he was in love with you?”

Natalie blushed, a real, natural girl blush.

“I can’t help that, Mr. Roberts. I am, unfortunately, a type that men admire. It is the cross of my life that every one is attracted by my silly doll-face!”

Bobsy Roberts laughed outright, at this naïve wail of woe.

“You needn’t laugh, I’m in earnest. I get so sick of having men fall in love with me, that I’d like to go and live on a desert island!”

“With whom?” and Bobsy looked at her intently.

“With Barry Stannard,” she returned, simply. “We’re engaged, now. We couldn’t be, while Mr. Stannard lived, for he wouldn’t hear of it. Threatened to disinherit Barry, and all that. But now, it’s all right.”

“Miss Vernon, to my mind, that speech clears you of all suspicion. If you had killed Eric Stannard, because he wouldn’t let his son marry you, you never would have referred to it so frankly.”

“Of course I wouldn’t. Now, don’t you see, since I didn’t kill him, it must have been Joyce. It’s been proved over and over that it could not have been a burglar, or anybody like that. And so, I want to stop investigating, and leave Joyce in peace. And then, after awhile, she can marry Eugene Courtenay, and be happy.”

“Does she want to marry Mr. Courtenay?”

“Of course she does. He was in love with her and she with him, before she knew Mr. Stannard. Then Eric came along and stole her,—yes, stole her,—just like a Cave Man. She was carried away by his whirlwind wooing, and—too—he was celebrated, and—well,—you know,—magerful,—and he just took her by storm. She never really loved him, but she has been good and faithful, though he has treated her badly.”

“And if she killed him, it was——”

“It was because she had reached the end of her rope, and couldn’t stand any more. And, too, she has seen a lot of Mr. Courtenay lately, and—oh, well,—she was mad that Eric took such a fancy to me, and so,——”

“Look here, Miss Vernon, just see if you can reconstruct the scene to fit in with a theory of Mrs. Stannard’s guilt.”

“How do you mean?”

“Can you remember about the light going out and the cry for help,—and all that, exactly?”

“No,—I’ve tried to, but it’s all mixed up in my mind. I think, if Joyce,—I mean, whoever did it,—must have struck the blow, and then turned off the light, and then gone out of the room, and—and come back again.”

“And that could have been you—as well as Mrs. Stannard! You were both discovered in practically the same circumstances!”

“You’re trying to trip me, Mr. Roberts. But you can’t do it. Now, look here, if that note had been written to me, wouldn’t it mean that these emeralds were mine, and wouldn’t I claim them?”

“But it states distinctly that you know where they are, and the presumption is, that you have them in your possession.”

“Indeed, I haven’t! I wish I had! I mean, I wish I had them rightfully in my possession! They’re wonderful stones! Look here, Mr. Roberts, why don’t you suspect Mr. Truxton? He’s gem crazy,—and you know gem enthusiasts often go to any length to get the stones they covet.”

“I hadn’t thought of him. And, supposing he did commit crime to steal Mr. Stannard’s jewels, just how did he get away afterward, without discovery?”

“Well, suppose he stabbed Mr. Stannard, then turned off the light, and then slipped out through the Billiard Room when Joyce’s back was turned?”

“Too unlikely. Besides, Mr. Courtenay, who sat on the bench on the lawn, just then, would have seen him leave the house.”

“I suppose he would.” Natalie drew a deep sigh. “Do give it up, Mr. Roberts. You never can untangle it.”

“Are you going to stay here long?”

“For a time. Mrs. Stannard has asked me to, and Barry wants me.” The simplicity of the girl’s manner almost disarmed Bobsy, but he went on:

“Mrs. Stannard, then, has no hard feelings toward you?”

“I don’t know. Honestly, Mr. Roberts, I don’t know whether she is keeping me here because she suspects me, or because she doesn’t.”

“Did Mr. Stannard leave you anything in his will?”

The rose-pink cheeks flushed deeper, as Natalie replied, “Yes, he did. You probably know that already.”

“No, I didn’t. Was it a worthwhile amount?”

“From my point of view, yes. It was seventy thousand dollars.”

“Whew! Decidedly worthwhile, from almost anybody’s point of view.”

“I know what you’re thinking,” cried Natalie as he paused. “It’s an added reason for suspecting me of killing him.”

“It might be construed so.”

“Well, I didn’t! I was pretty mad, when he made that horrid etching from my Goldenrod picture——”

“And you smudged the wax impression so he couldn’t use it——”

“I did not! I would willingly have done so, if I’d thought of it, but I didn’t do it, all the same.”

“Who did?”

“Whoever killed him, I suppose.”

“Then that lets out Mr. Truxton, or a burglar of any sort. It leaves only Mrs. Stannard. Mightn’t she have done it?”

“A jealous woman might do anything. But Joyce wasn’t especially jealous of me,—no more than of anybody Mr. Stannard might be attracted to.”

“And to whom else was he attracted?”

“Nobody just now,—that I know of. You see, Mr. Roberts, I was just about to leave this house, because Mr. Stannard was too devoted in his attentions to me. I tell you this frankly, because I want you to understand the situation.”

“And I want to understand it. Tell me more of this matter.”

“Well, Mr. Stannard had told me several times of his affection for me and had told me he would remember me in his will, and, not more than a week ago, he told me of Joyce’s caring for Mr. Courtenay, though how he discovered that, I don’t know, for Joyce never showed it. She was good as gold. Well, Mr. Stannard didn’t say so in so many words, but he implied that if he and Joyce—separated—and it could be arranged,—and she—you know,—married Mr. Courtenay,—would I marry him. And I was so mad, I flew into a rage, and——”

“And scratched up your picture?”

“No, that wax plate hadn’t been drawn then. It was afterward that he drew that, and then I was madder than ever.”

“And in the heat of your passionate rage, you——”

“No, I didn’t! I tell you, whoever killed Eric Stannard, I didn’t!”

“Then what did he mean, when, in his dying moment, he said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce!’ Tell me that!”

“I will tell you,” and the girl lowered her voice and looked very serious. “I know exactly what he meant, and Joyce Stannard knows too. He meant,—you’ll think I imagine this, but it’s true; he meant that it was Natalie and not Joyce, whom he loved, and whom he was trying to beckon to at that moment.”

It was impossible to doubt the honesty of the speaker. The great earnest eyes were filled with mingled pain and shame, but the girl meant what she said.

“I know it,” she went on. “You see, he had said to me, several times, ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ by way of a teasing bit of love-making. Eric was not a bad man, it was only that he could not keep from making love to any woman he might chance to be with. And when I would reprimand him and bid him go to his wife, he would laugh and say ‘Natalie, not Joyce,’ till it became a sort of by-word with him. And I know that’s what he meant that night, when he was hurt,—he didn’t know he was dying,—and he called to me in a half-conscious plea to come to his assistance. Also, he could see me more plainly. Joyce was rather behind him, and his clouding brain spoke out as he saw me, and called for me. As a matter of fact, that speech, though made so much of, means nothing at all. He wasn’t entirely conscious and he spoke as one in a dream. But he did not mean that I had stabbed him.”

“Did he know who stabbed him?”

“How can I tell that? But if he had known that I did it, or had thought that I did it, he would never have said so, had he been aware of what he was saying.”

“You mean, if you had been guilty, he would have shielded you, rather than accused you with his last breath?”

“Yes, or Joyce either. Or any woman. Eric Stannard would never accuse a woman of wrongdoing. His speech meant anything rather than that.”

“Miss Vernon, this puts a very different light on your connection with the affair. Why didn’t you tell this before?”

“Can’t you understand, Mr. Roberts? I have no love for Eric Stannard, I never had any. His attentions annoyed me, his insistence on painting me as he wished to, also annoyed me. I would have left him long ago, but for Barry. Also, I am fond of Joyce. She has been most kind to me, and never jealous of me until lately. Now, I hated to announce that those dying words meant that Mr. Stannard put me ahead of his wife in his affection, especially as it didn’t altogether mean that, it was merest chance that he saw me and not her——”

“But he did see her, for he said ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’”

“Yes, I know,” and the little foot tapped the rug, impatiently,—“but, I mean, he saw me, and he was for the moment interested in me, and he was in pain, or a sort of stupor, or—oh, I don’t know what his sensations were, I’m sure,—but I want to show you that he spoke at random, and it didn’t mean as much as it seems to.”

Natalie had grown excited, her lip trembled, and her voice was unsteady. Either she was desperately anxious to make the truth clear, or she was making up a preposterous story.

If she were guilty, this was a great scheme to divert the suspicion so emphasised by the victim’s statement, and if she were innocent, the story she told might well be true.

“Let me follow this up,” said Bobsy, looking at her closely. “Then Mr. Stannard was so in love with you that he called on you in a desperate moment, rather than on his wife——”

“But he didn’t know it was a desperate moment. I don’t believe that man was conscious at all. The stab wound was practically fatal at once. What he said and did after it, was involuntary. Don’t you know what I mean? He was only half alive physically and almost not at all alive in his mind—his brain. Couldn’t that be true?”

“I suppose so. In fact, I think it must have been—and yet, no, it seems to me it would be logical for him to tell, even without a clear consciousness, who his assailant was. Remember Blake asked him outright. ‘Who did this?’ and he said——”

“I know; but you didn’t see him, and I did. He was not looking at Blake, he didn’t even hear him. He was in a dazed state, and, seeing both Joyce and myself,—he must have seen us both,—his sub-consciousness called out for me. I am not vain of this preference, I wish it had all been otherwise, but I insist that explains his words, and—Joyce knows it, too.”

“How do you know she does? Have you talked with her on this subject?”

“Oh, yes. We have discussed it over and over. Mrs. Faulkner and Joyce and Barry and I have gone over every bit of it a dozen times.”

“Is it possible? What does each of the four think? Since you deny the deed, you can tell what is the consensus of opinion in the household.”

“That’s just what I can’t do. You see, we all hesitate to say anything that will seem to accuse either of us. Mrs. Faulkner, I can see plainly, is uncertain whether to suspect Joyce or me. She is convinced, of course, that it must have been one of us, but she pretends to think it was a burglar.”

“She is fond of you both?”

“Yes, she adores Joyce, and she is most friendly to me. I’ve only known her since I’ve been here, but she seems to believe in me, somehow. She understands perfectly, that Mr. Stannard meant just what I say he did, by those words. She knows how he acted toward me, and how Joyce felt about it.”

“Then she suspects Mrs. Stannard?”

“She doesn’t say so. She sticks to the safe theory of an intruder. You can’t blame her. None of us can suspect Joyce. It’s too absurd.”

“And Barry Stannard, what does he think?”

“Oh, he vows it was an intruder. He’s thought up a dozen ways for him to get in and out.”

“All equally impossible?”

“I suppose so. Unless,—I hate to say it,—but mightn’t Blake have let him out?”

“Not unless it was somebody known to the household.”

“Well?” said Natalie Vernon.

VIII
The Emeralds

“You mean?” prompted Bobsy.

“Oh, nothing. But,—just supposing, you know. I’m sure I don’t want to mention Mr. Truxton or Mr. Wadsworth, but they were both here——”

“Absurd! Why, Mr. Wadsworth was with Mrs. Faulkner in the Drawing Room——”

“Yes, I know. But he came down and went out the door alone, leaving her up there. Now, if he had wanted to, and if he had fixed it up with Blake, couldn’t he have gone into the studio, stolen the jewels and killed Eric, and then turned off the light and fled, Blake letting him out the front door?”

“But why would Mr. Wadsworth do that?”

“Why would anybody? I’m only showing you that there are theories that don’t include me or Joyce.”

“But not tenable theories. Mr. Wadsworth, I’ve been told, was having a—a romantic tête-à-tête with Mrs. Faulkner.”

“Yes, he was asking her, for the ’steenth time, to marry him. But she turned him down again.”

“Well, even if she did, probably he didn’t give up all hope. And a man, just from a session of that sort, isn’t going to commit a crime.”

“Oh, well, of course, it wasn’t Mr. Wadsworth. But why not consider Mr. Truxton? He’s a jewel sharp, too.”

“We have considered him. But he and his wife went home earlier——”

“He could have come back,——”

“But he didn’t. Miss Vernon, we’ve gone into all these matters very thoroughly. What do you suppose the Police have been doing? There isn’t a possible theory we’ve overlooked, and it all comes back to the simple facts of the evidence that incriminate either Mrs. Stannard or yourself. I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you this frankly. If you care to say anything further in your own defence, I’d be glad to hear it. Naturally, you hate to accuse Mrs. Stannard, but it rests between you two, and it looks as if an arrest would be made soon.”

Bobsy was drawing on his imagination a little, but he was bound to startle some information out of this provoking beauty.

And Natalie was startled. Her face paled as she took in the significance of Roberts’ words.

“They won’t arrest me, will they?” she whispered in a scared little voice.

“I don’t see how they can,” and Bobsy looked at the girl, wondering. That child, that little, tender bit of femininity—surely she could never have lifted her hand against a man’s life! Even had she wished to, she seemed physically incapable of striking the blow.

“Arrest you! Not much they won’t!” and Barry Stannard strode into the room.

Natalie turned to him with a little sigh of relief.

“You won’t let them, will you, Barry?” she said, as his arm slipped round her trembling shoulders.

“I should say not! Are you frightening her, Mr. Roberts? You know you’ve no authority for all this.”

“It’s my duty to learn all I can. If Miss Vernon is innocent, then Mrs. Stannard is guilty.”

“As a choice between the two, it is far more likely to be Mrs. Stannard. But I do not accuse her. I only insist on the impossibility of this child’s being a criminal.”

“’Course I couldn’t,” and Natalie smiled at the perplexed Roberts. “And if, to clear myself, I must tell all I know, then I’ll tell you that Mrs. Stannard has those emeralds in her possession now.”

“She has! How do you know?”

“I passed her room this morning. The door was ajar, and I was about to enter, when I saw her, at her dressing-table, looking over the case of emeralds. I recognised it at once. I’ve often seen them. I didn’t like to intrude, then, so I went on. I thought I wouldn’t say anything about it, unless it was necessary.”

“It is necessary. Has she had them all the time?”

“Let’s ask her,” said Barry. “I believe Joyce can explain it.”

They sent for Mrs. Stannard, and she came, Mrs. Faulkner accompanying her.

“I found these on my dressing-table this morning,” Joyce said, simply, holding out the case of emeralds to the view of all.

“Found them! Where did they come from?” asked Roberts.

“I don’t know,” and then, seeing the dark looks on the Detective’s face, Joyce exclaimed, “You tell about it, Beatrice. I—I can’t talk.”

“This is the story,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “About an hour ago, Mrs. Stannard sent for me to come to her room. I went, and she showed me the case of gems, saying she had found it on her dressing-table when she awoke this morning. It was not there when she retired last night. Further than that, she knows nothing about it.”

“You mean, the jewels appeared there mysteriously?”

“Yes. She cannot account for it, herself. We have been talking it over, and it seems to me the only explanation is that one of the servants took them, and then decided to return them. Of course it would be practically impossible for a servant to sell or dispose of them after the publicity that has been given to the matter.”

“Of course. But why a servant? Why not a guest—or a member of the household,—or—or Mrs. Stannard, herself?”

“I!” exclaimed Joyce. “Why I’ve just found them!”

“Didn’t you have them all the time?”

“Of course not! How dare you imply such a thing? This morning they were in my room, last night they were not there. They were brought there during the night. It is for you to find out who brought them.”

“Was the door of your bedroom locked?”

“No. It is not our habit to lock our doors,—any of us. The outer doors and windows are securely fastened, and we have no reason to distrust any of the servants.”

“Where were the gems this morning?”

“On my dressing-table, in my dressing-room, adjoining my sleeping room.”

“Who do you think put them there?”

“Whoever stole them the night my husband was killed.”

“And who do you think that was?”

“Whoever killed him, of course.”

“Perhaps not,” said Mrs. Faulkner, thoughtfully. “Perhaps the thief and the murderer were not the same person.”

“That may be so,” agreed Bobsy. “Have you any theory or suspicion based on the return of the jewels, Mrs. Faulkner?”

“No; except a general idea that the emeralds might have been stolen and returned by a servant, and the murder committed by an intruder.”

“Why not assume that the intruder also took the jewels?”

“Only because it would be difficult for him to get into the house and return them to Mrs. Stannard. I can see no explanation of that act save that a servant did it.”

“Or an outsider with the connivance of one of the servants.”

“Yes, that might be,” agreed Mrs. Faulkner. “The mere placing of the case in Mrs. Stannard’s dressing-room would not be difficult. The doors all over the house are open or unlocked at night, and a servant could easily slip in and out of the room unheard.”

“You heard no unusual sound in the night, Mrs. Stannard?”

“None,” said Joyce.

“I’m sorry to disagree with the construction you put upon this incident, Mrs. Faulkner,” and Bobsy turned to her as to the principal spokesman, “but to my mind it strengthens the case against Mrs. Stannard. It seems more than likely that she had the emeralds all the time, or knew where they were. She kept them hidden, because she thought the letter written by her husband, tacitly gave the gems to Miss Vernon. Then when Miss Vernon saw her, looking at the jewels, Mrs. Stannard thought better to face the music and own up that she had them.”

“Why I didn’t let her know that I saw her!” exclaimed Natalie.

“Perhaps she saw you in a mirror, or heard you. Doubtless she knew in some way that you had seen her looking at the jewels, and concluded to tell the story that accounted for them.”

Joyce Stannard looked at the speaker, and her face blanched. With a desperate cry of distress, she turned and swiftly left the room. Roberts kept a wary eye on her retreating figure, and as she went upstairs, he made no attempt to recall or to follow her.

“She has practically condemned herself,” he said. “The reappearance of the emeralds seems to settle it.”

“Why?” asked Beatrice Faulkner. “Why do you condemn her because of that?”

“Look at it squarely, Mrs. Faulkner. Assume for a moment my theory is right. Then, Mrs. Stannard, being guilty, and wishing to throw suspicion on Miss Vernon, claims that the jewels were put in her room surreptitiously during the night. She is sure Miss Vernon will be suspected of having had the jewels, and, frightened, restored them secretly. This will militate against Miss Vernon, and imply her greater guilt also.”

“Why, what an idea!” exclaimed Natalie. “As if I ever had the emeralds!”

“That letter said you knew where they were.”

“That letter was not written to me.”

“To whom then?”

“I’ve no idea. But not to me. I’m—I’m engaged to Barry.”

“You weren’t engaged to the son while the father was alive,” probed Roberts.

“N—no. But only because his father wouldn’t allow it. I’m going to look after Joyce,” and without a backward glance, Natalie ran from the room, and up the stairs.

“You see,” began Roberts, looking at Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard, “you two are the only ones I can talk to frankly. Those two ladies suspected by the police have to be handled carefully. You are both material witnesses, and as such are bound to tell me truthfully all you can of anything bearing on the case. Now, however painful it may be for you, Mr. Stannard, I must tell you that it is rapidly coming to a show-down between the two suspects, and the probability is, it seems to me, that the burden of evidence rests more strongly on the wife than on the model. The direct evidence is perhaps evenly balanced, but it seems to the police that the motive is greater and the opportunity easier for Mrs. Stannard than for Miss Vernon. The wife, let us say, had reason for jealousy, and had reason for wishing to be free of her uncongenial husband. The little model, while irritated at her employer’s attentions, was in love with another man, and could easily get away from the artist without resorting to crime.”

“That’s right about Natalie,” exclaimed Barry, “but it’s unthinkable that Joyce should go so far as to kill——”

“You don’t know all the provocation she may have had,” said Roberts. “A jealous wife, or an unloving wife goes through many hard hours before she reaches the point of desperation, but she sometimes gets there, and then the climax comes. At any rate, if Miss Vernon isn’t guilty, Mrs. Stannard is. You can’t find two women hovering over a dying man, and acquit them both. So it’s one or the other, and I incline toward the suspicion of the older woman.”

“But how do you explain the various clues pointing to Natalie?” asked Beatrice Faulkner.

“Let’s take them one by one. First, that note found on the man’s desk. Even if that were written to Miss Vernon, it needn’t condemn her. Even if she had been in love with the artist, it is no evidence whatever that she killed him. And the whole tone of the note is against its being meant for her. It is unexplained so far, but I can’t look on it as evidence against the model.”

“I agree with that,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “That letter may well have been to some other woman interested in Eric Stannard, and she may have had the emeralds, and, through connivance with a servant, returned them to Joyce last night.”

“No, no, Mrs. Faulkner, that isn’t right. I don’t understand the emerald business altogether, but I thoroughly believe that Mrs. Stannard has had them in her keeping all the time. Now, next, we have the evidence of the dying man’s exclamation. That, I think, is perfectly explained by Miss Vernon’s assertion that he meant he loved her and not his wife.”

“Of course it is,” declared Barry. “I know my father was madly in love with Miss Vernon, and though he was fond of his wife, it was not the first time he had been interested in the pretty face of another woman. I want to say right here, that I revere and respect my father’s memory, but I cannot deny his faults. And he was far too careless of his wife’s feelings in these matters. My mother died many years ago, and for a long time my father led a butterfly existence, outside of his art, yes, and in it, too. Then when he married a second time he did not settle down to the generally accepted model of a married man, but continued to admire pretty women wherever he met them. Now, it is more than likely that in his dying moments his brain half dazed, and seeing the two before him, he protested his love for the model he admired and put her ahead of his wife. I do not defend my father’s speech but to me it is explained.”

“It may be so,” said Roberts. “Now here’s another point. Mrs. Stannard declares she heard her husband talking to another woman or at least to somebody, in his studio, as she herself stood in the Billiard Room, near the connecting door. Shall we say this is an invented story of hers?”

“Let me see,” said Barry, “what were the words?”

“To the effect that he was not willing to leave his wife for her, and that as a consolation she could have the emeralds.”

“Practically what was in the note,” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner.

“Almost,” returned Roberts. “Now was Miss Vernon there and were these words addressed to her? this question being quite apart from consideration of her as the criminal.”

“If so, then the letter was to her,” said Beatrice.

“And it wasn’t,” maintained Barry. “My father admired Natalie,—made love to her, we’ll say, but he never went so far as to offer her jewels, nor did she want him to marry her, as the overheard conversation implies.”

“Could this be the way of it?” said Beatrice. “Suppose Mr. Stannard was even then writing that note——”

“But it was found in his desk.”

“Well, suppose he was thinking it over, and muttered to himself the actual wording of it. Mrs. Stannard says she heard no other voice, so may he not have been alone in the studio at that time?”

Bobsy Roberts turned this over in his mind. “It is a possibility,” he conceded. “And then, let us say, after hearing those words, Mrs. Stannard entered the room, and confronted him, and perhaps there was a quarrel and in a moment of insane rage, Mrs. Stannard caught up the etching needle and——”

“It isn’t at all like her,” said Barry, “but I can only say it is more easily to be conceived of in her case than in Natalie’s. I don’t want to admit the possibility of Joyce being the criminal, but I can believe it, before I can imagine Natalie doing such a thing. And as you say, Joyce had motive, and Natalie had none.”

“I won’t subscribe entirely to that, Mr. Stannard. Miss Vernon inherits a goodly sum, and too, she may have been incensed at the manner of the artist toward her——”

“No, I wasn’t,” said Natalie herself, suddenly reappearing. “On the contrary, I had persuaded Mr. Stannard, that very day, not to ask me to pose for him, except as a fully draped model. He had apologised for his previous insistence, and I looked for no more trouble on that score. I was trying to get up courage to ask him to let Barry be engaged to me, but I hadn’t accomplished that.”

“If Mrs. Stannard had had any angry words with her husband just before he was attacked, could you have overheard them?” asked Roberts.

“I don’t think so. Not unless they had spoken very loudly. The door to the Terrace was closed, or almost closed. And I was not thinking about what might be going on in the house. Unless there had been an especial disturbance, I should not have noticed it.”

“Yet you heard that gasping cry for help through the closed door.”

“Yes. But that was not a faint gasp, it was a penetrating sort of a cry. An attempted scream, I should describe it.”

Roberts looked at her closely. Was she innocent or was she an infant Machiavelli?

“It is a difficult situation,” he said, with a sigh. “We have but two eye-witnesses. Each naturally accuses the other and denies her own guilt. One speaks truth and one falsehood. How can we distinguish which one tells the truth?”

“Don’t say eye-witnesses,” objected Natalie. “I didn’t see the crime committed. If I think Joyce did it, it’s only because I went in and found her there and nobody else about.”

“Suppose,” and Bobsy Roberts looked her straight in the face, “suppose Eric Stannard held in his hand your picture,—that etching, you know, and suppose he was, in a way, talking to it. Or, say, he wasn’t talking to it, but what he did say, and what his wife overheard, was said while he held your picture, and she thought he referred to you. Then she, in a jealous fury, resented the idea of his giving you the emeralds, and——”

“I didn’t want the emeralds,” said Natalie, coldly, “and I certainly didn’t want Eric to marry me, but even granting your premises right, it takes suspicion of the murder from me, and places it on Joyce.”

“It does,” agreed Barry, “and that’s where it belongs, if on either of you two.”

“It must be so,” said Beatrice Faulkner, “for if Natalie had known where the emeralds were, and if that letter was written to her, and gave her the gems,—for it really did give them to the one it was written to,—then she would have kept them and not have given them back to Joyce.”

“By Jove, that’s so!” exclaimed Roberts. “Whatever woman that letter was meant for, is the real owner of the jewels this minute, according to Eric Stannard’s wish, and if she had them she would be extremely unlikely to give them up unnecessarily. But how, then, explain their return?”

“It wasn’t a return,” said Beatrice. “Joyce had them herself all the time.”

“I believe she had,” said Roberts.

IX
One or the Other

Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider.

He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery.

“Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.”

The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings.

But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller’s box. Bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words “For my Goldenheart. From Eric.”

It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases.

“Bought it for her but never gave it to her,” Bobsy surmised. “Surely I can make something out of this.”

But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can’t be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller’s name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none.

Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it.

“It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard,” she said.

“Why?”

“I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a lady, and for some reason or other didn’t present it. It’s of no great value.”

“No,” agreed Bobsy, “except as it proves that his interest in ‘Goldenheart’ has lasted for some time.”

“Then Goldenheart can’t be Miss Vernon,” said Joyce, wearily. “It seems to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little things——”

“Because we can’t get any big piece of evidence. You know yourself, Mrs. Stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon in a situation which might mean the guilt of either of you, and must mean the guilt of one of you.”

“Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly that I wish to be cleared of suspicion. I did not kill my husband. I can’t quite believe Miss Vernon did, but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I don’t know how to set about it myself, and if you don’t either, I want to employ some one else. This is no disparagement of your powers, but if you know of any—more experienced Detective——”

“There are plenty of more experienced detectives, Mrs. Stannard, but I am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. Will you not give me a longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made little or no progress, call on whomever you like.”

“Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am willing to spend a fortune, if need be, but I cannot live under this cloud of suspicion.”

“Let us work together then. Tell me anything I ask, and you may be able to give me some help. First, can you state positively that no person came in through the Billiard Room and went on to the studio while you were in the Billiard Room, just before the tragedy?”

“Why, of course, nobody passed through.”

“The Billiard Room was lighted?”

“Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on.”

“Mr. Courtenay had just left you?”

“A short time before, yes.”

“And,—now think carefully,—could you not have been sitting with your back to the door, or—perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing it?”

Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, “No; positively not. I was sitting on one of the side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room I should have heard footsteps, of course.”

“On the soft, thick rug?”

“Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. Yes, Mr. Roberts, I must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way.”

“I do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have entered the studio.”

“Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and passing Natalie instead of me?”

“The probability is less. The Terrace door was closed, and, too, Miss Vernon sat back on the Terrace, and must have seen any one passing in front of her.”

“But suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?”

Bobsy looked at her. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he said. “You mean Barry Stannard. There is room for thought in that direction. He had reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let Barry marry the girl, and also, because of Eric Stannard’s annoyance of the little model. The father out of the way, the son steps into a fortune and wins his bride beside.”

“But Barry never did it! I confess I’ve thought of it as a theory, but I can’t believe it of Barry,—I simply can’t.”

“Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband. If not a common malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of Mr. Stannard’s intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more above suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself.”

“That’s true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Roberts. Do all you can, but do get somewhere. You reason around in a circle, always coming back to the proposition that it must have been either Miss Vernon or myself.”

“That is where I stand at present,” said Bobsy, very gravely, “but I shall try to get some new light on it all,—and soon.”

Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously.

The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what Joyce had said that the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to Eric. The date was looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed to tell nothing save that it was meant for a gift but never given. Probably, thought Roberts, it was owing to Eric’s marriage that he concluded not to give a keepsake to a woman other than his bride. But, after all, mightn’t Goldenheart be Joyce herself? No, for the letter found in the desk denied that. But that letter might have been written a long time ago. Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would not be unwilling to consider separation from her husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more than all it pointed to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well, it was not inconceivable that Eric Stannard, the gay Lothario, had called more than one woman Goldenheart. Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have said Goldenrod, especially as he had painted her in that guise?

And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in circles and came back to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by any possibility be any one else.

And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deeply into the recent past of the two, and also into Eric’s behaviour of late, and he felt he must get some hint or some clue to go upon.

Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The emeralds had been returned to Joyce,—that is, she said they had been returned. But the rest of the collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn’t think they had been stolen or lost, but merely that Eric had hidden them so securely that they were unfindable. A queer procedure that. It would seem that he would have left some record of their hiding place. But he was a queer man,—careless in every way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. The whole business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. An out and out robbery, now, one might track down. But a jewel disappearance that might be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition.

So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined. He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the finding of them present at the scene of the crime.

Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each.

Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn’t love her husband, and Natalie was angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie’s bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as Joyce’s. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly.

Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,—or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as Blake snapped on the key, and then—discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue. Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted. Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either woman’s action was quite compatible with a criminal’s sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman’s horror at the scene before her.

But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed he’d find out which was which before his week was up.

Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric’s rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same.

But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question.

Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake’s experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which?

Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment’s hesitation, she spoke to him.

“Mr. Roberts, I’ve had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?”

“In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?”

“Come in the studio. I’ll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him.”

They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down.

“Here is the letter,” said Joyce, handing it to him. “I wish you would read it.”

Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn?

It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship.

It ran:

Mrs. Stannard:

Dear Madam: Before writing what I am about to reveal, let me assure you that I am in no sense a professional medium or clairvoyant. I am a woman of quiet life and simple habits, but I am a psychic, and in a trance state I have revelations or visions that are invariably truly prophetic or as truly reminiscent. I cannot be reached by the general public, but when a case appeals to me, I communicate with those interested and if they want to see me, I go to them. If not, there is no harm done. So, if you are anxious to learn who is responsible for the death of your late husband, I shall be glad to give you the benefit of my science and power. If not, simply disregard this letter.

Very truly yours, Orienta.

The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant’s circular letter.

“It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” said Bobsy, handing it back.

“But how do you know? I’ve read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it’s always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I’ve a notion to see what she’ll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good.”

“Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have nothing to say, but you asked me for advice.”

“I know it,” and Joyce shook her head, “but if you don’t advise me the way I want you to, I’ll——”

“Ask somebody else?”

“Yes, I believe I will.”

“Do. I really think if you confer with Barry Stannard or with Mrs. Faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested. They’d probably tell you to let it alone.”

“I’m going to ask them, anyway. I won’t ask Natalie, for I don’t think she knows anything about it. Why, Mr. Roberts, if we could just get a clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help.”

“Yes, but you can’t get a clue from a fraud.”

“I don’t believe she is a fraud, but even so, I might learn something from her.”

“If you do, I hope you will give me the benefit of the information.”

Joyce laid the matter before Barry and Beatrice. Natalie was present also, and Joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in the whole subject of psychics and occult lore.

“I don’t know an awful lot about it, Joyce,” she said, “but I’ve read some of the best authorities, and sometimes I’ve thought I was a little bit psychic myself. I’d like to see this Orienta.”

“It doesn’t seem right,” objected Mrs. Faulkner. “What do you suppose she does? Go into trances?”

“Yes, of course,” said Natalie. “And then she talks and tells things and when she comes to again, she doesn’t know what she has said.”

“Then I don’t believe it’s true.”

“Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Faulkner. I mean, it’s likely to be. Why, if she could tell us who——”

“Do we want her to?” said Barry, very soberly. “Isn’t it better to leave the whole thing a mystery?”

“No,” said Joyce, decidedly. “I want to find out the truth, if there’s any way to do it. I don’t think much of detectives, at least, not Mr. Roberts. Oh, he’s a nice man,—I like him personally. But he doesn’t accomplish anything.”

“Well, let’s have Orienta come here,” suggested Natalie. “And we can see how we like her, and if we don’t want her to, she needn’t try her powers in our cause.”

“The police might object,” said Mrs. Faulkner.

“Oh, no,” rejoined Barry. “This is a private matter. We’re at liberty to do a thing of that sort, if we want to. But I don’t approve of it.”

“I’m going to write to her, anyway,” Joyce declared. “I want to see what she proposes to do.”

“Yes, do,” urged Natalie. “And ask her to come here as soon as she can arrange to.”

X
Orienta

“I wish you’d use your influence with Joyce, and urge her not to have this poppycock business go on.” Barry looked troubled, and his round, good-natured face was unsmiling.

“I have tried,” returned Beatrice Faulkner, “but she is determined. And, really, it can’t do any harm.”

“It might turn suspicion in the wrong direction.”

“Barry, what are you afraid of? Do you fear any revelation she may make?”

“No, oh, no,—not that. But if—well, supposing she should declare positively that it was Natalie or Joyce,—either of them, don’t you see it couldn’t help influencing the police? I want the whole thing hushed up. Father is gone, it can’t do him any good to find out who killed him, and it may make trouble for an innocent person.”

“I’ll talk to Joyce again, but I doubt if I can change her determination to ask this Orienta here. Absurd name!”

“Yes, and an absurd performance all round.”

“I’ll do my best. And, Barry, I’m thinking of leaving here to-morrow; I’ve staid longer than I intended, now.”

“Oh, don’t go away. Why, you’re a kind of a—how shall I express it?”

“A go-between?”

“Well, not in the usually accepted sense of that term, but you are that, in a nice way. You can tell Joyce what I can’t tell her—at least, what I say to her has no effect. By the way, Joyce wants to go away, too.”

“Will they let her?”

“I don’t know. But since she is thinking about this Orienta, she’s planning to stay here longer. I don’t know what she will do, but don’t you see, Beatrice, if she goes away, even for a short time, Natalie couldn’t stay here without a chaperon? So won’t you stay a while longer, until we see how things are going? You’ve been such a trump all through these troubled days,—why, everybody depends on you to—to look after things, don’t you know.”

Beatrice smiled at the boy,—for when bothered, Barry looked very boyish,—and said, kindly, “I will stay another week, then. You see, at first, Joyce was so nervous and upset, she asked me to look after the housekeeping a bit, but now her nerves are better, and I think the routine duties of the house help fill up her time, and are really good for her.”

“Well, you women settle those matters between yourselves. But you stay on a while, and help me and Natalie through. The girl threatens to go away, too; in fact, everybody wants to get out of this house, and I don’t blame them.” They were in the studio and Barry looked with a shudder toward the chair where his father had met his death.

“No, I can’t blame them either,—and yet, it is a wonderful house. Must it go to strangers?”

“I suppose so. It’s Joyce’s, of course, but she doesn’t want to live here. I don’t want to take it off your hands, for Natalie won’t live here either. You don’t want it, do you?”

“I? Oh, no. My own life here was a happy one, but the memories of those old days and the thoughts of this recent tragedy make the place intolerable to me as a home. But strangers could come in, and start a new life for the old place.”

“It isn’t old. And it’s going to be hard to sell it, because of—of the crime story attached to it. If we could only get matters settled up, and the police off the case, we could close the house and go away. Joyce would go back to her mother’s for a time, and eventually, of course, she will marry Courtenay. He’s a good chap, and there’s not a slur to be cast on him. As long as my father lived, Eugene never said a word to Joyce that all the world mightn’t hear.”

“How do you know?”

“I only assert it, because I know the man.”

“Barry, you’re very young, even younger than your years. Try to realise that I’m not saying a word against Joyce or Mr. Courtenay, either, but—well, since your father himself realised how matters stood between them, you ought to see it, too.”

“I know they cared for each other, but I mean, Joyce and Eugene both were too high-minded to let their caring go very far.”

“High-mindedness is apt to break through when people skate on thin ice. But don’t misunderstand me. Keep your faith in all the high ideals you can, both in yourself and others. What did you think of your father leaving such an enormous sum to Natalie?”

“It was more than I supposed, but father was absurdly generous, and often in erratic ways. He probably made that bequest one day when he was especially pleased with her posing, or, more likely, when he himself had worked with special inspiration and had produced a masterpiece.”

“Very likely. Miss Vernon doesn’t seem surprised about it.”

“Oh, she knew it. He told her a short time ago.”

“Do the police know that?”

“I fear so. And those are the things that worry me. If they think Natalie killed my father to get that money, it is a strong point against her. Of course, she didn’t, but all the evidence and clues in this whole business are misleading. I never saw or heard of such a mass of contradictory and really false appearances. That’s why I’d rather hush it all up, and not try to go farther.”

“Here comes Natalie now. I’ll leave you two alone and I’ll go to see what I can do with Joyce about that clairvoyant matter.”

Barry scarcely heard the last words, for the mere sight of Natalie entering the room was enough to drive every other thought from his mind. Her white house gown was of soft crêpe material, with a draped sash of gold silk, a few shades deeper than her wonderful hair. Gold-hued slippers and stockings completed the simple costume, and in it Natalie looked like a princess. With all her dainty grace and delicate lines, the girl had dignity and poise, and as she walked across the room Barry thought he had never seen anything so lovely.

“You angel!” he whispered; “you gold angel from a Fra Angelico picture! Natalie, my little angel girl!”

He held out his arms, and the girl went to him, and laid her tiny snowflake of a hand on his shoulder.

“Why do you stay in this room, Barry? I don’t like it in here.”

“Then we won’t stay. Let us go out on the Terrace in the sunlight.”

The Autumn afternoon sun was yet high enough to take the chill off the crisp air, and on a wicker couch, covered with a fur rug, they sat down.

“Here’s where we sat, the night of——” began Barry, and then stopped, not wanting to stir up awful memories.

“I know it,” returned Natalie. “You left me here,—where did you go, Barry?”

“Off with Thor and Woden for a short tramp. You said you were going upstairs, don’t you remember?”

“Yes. But where did you tramp?”

“Oh, around the grounds.”

“Which way?”

“What a little inquisitor! Well, let me see. We went across this lawn first.”

“Did you see Mr. Courtenay on that stone bench there?”

“No, I don’t think so. No, I’m sure I didn’t. Why?”

“I just wanted to know. Where did you go next? Come, Barry, I’ll go with you. Go over the same path you went that night.”

Barry looked at her curiously, and said, “Come on, then.”

They started across the lawn, and soon Natalie turned and looked back. “Could you see me from here?” she asked.

“Not at night, no. But I didn’t try. I thought you had gone in the house, and I went straight ahead. The dogs were jumping all over me, and I was thinking of them.”

“Oh, Barry! After the conversation we had just had, were you thinking of the dogs instead of me?”

“Well, the dogs were bothering me,—and you weren’t!”

“Where next?”

But Barry hesitated. “By Jove. I don’t know which way I did go next. Let me see.”

Natalie waited. “Down to the Italian gardens?” she said at last.

“No,—that is, I don’t think so. Where did I go?”

“Barry! You must know where you went. How silly.”

“It isn’t silly. I—I can’t remember,—that’s all.”

“Then you refuse to tell me?”

“I don’t refuse,—I just don’t remember.”

“Barry! Do remember. You must!”

After a moment’s silence, he turned and met her gaze squarely, saying, “I have no recollection. Don’t ask me that again.”

Natalie gave him a pained, despairing look and without a word, turned their footsteps toward the Italian gardens, the beautiful landscape planned and laid out by a genius. Down the stone steps they went and paused in the shadow of a clump of carved box. Then Barry took her in his arms. “Dear little girl,” he breathed in her ear, “don’t be afraid. It will all come out right. But we don’t want the truth known. Now, don’t give way,” as a sob shook Natalie’s quivering shoulders. “You mustn’t talk or think another word about it. Obey me, now, take your mind right off the subject! Think of something pleasanter,—think of me!”

“I can’t very well help that,—when you’re so close!” and the lovely deep blue eyes smiled through unshed tears.

“You heavenly thing! Natalie, have you any idea how beautiful you are?”

“If I am, I am glad, for your sake. I needn’t ever pose again, need I, Barry?”

“Well, I guess No! A photograph of you, all bundled up in furs, is the nearest I shall ever let you come to a portrait! Dear, when will you marry me?”

“Oh, I can’t marry you! I can’t—I can’t!”

“Then what are you doing here? This is no place for a girl who isn’t to be my wife!” and Barry caressed with his fingertips the pink cheek which was all of the flower-face that showed from the collar of his tweed jacket.

“I oughtn’t to be here—but—but I love you, Barry, I do—I do!”

“Of course you do, my blessed infant. Now, as we didn’t get along very well with our marriage settlement for a topic, let’s try again. Beatrice wants to go away from here. Do you want her to?”

“Oh, no! Don’t let her go. I’d be lost without her. I want to go, you know, but I can’t, I suppose. Beg her to stay as long as I do,—won’t you, dear?”

The pleading in the blue eyes was so tender and sweet that Barry kissed them both before replying. “I will, darling. I’ll beg anybody in the world for anything you want, if I have to become a professional mendicant. Now, brace up, Sweetheart, for I want to talk to you about lots of things, and how can I, if you burst into tears at every new subject I bring up?”

“I’m upset to-day, Barry mine. Don’t let’s talk. Just wander around the gardens.”

“Wander it is,” and Barry started off obediently, still with his arm round her.

“Unhand me, villain,” she said, trying to speak gaily. But it was impossible, and the scarlet lips trembled into a curve that broke Barry’s heart for its sadness. He gathered her to himself.

“Dear heart, you are all unstrung. Go to your room for a time, don’t you want to? Let Beatrice look after you,—she’s kindness itself.”

“Indeed she is. I’ll do that. And I’ll come back, Barry, a new woman.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t do that! You’d make a fine militant suffragist!”

“No, not that. But a sensible, commonplace girl, who can talk without crying.”

“Commonplace isn’t exactly the word I’d choose to describe you, you wonder-thing! But run away and powder your nose, it needs it. Ha, I thought that would stir you up!” as Natalie pouted. “Run along, and I’ll see you at dinner time. And this evening we’ll have our chat.”

But that evening Orienta came. Joyce had refused to listen to any one’s objections and had made the appointment with the clairvoyant to come for a preliminary conference whether she gave them a séance or not.

Barry and Natalie refused at first to meet the visitor, but Joyce persuaded them to see her, so that they might argue intelligently for or against her. Beatrice consented to be present, for Joyce had begged it as a special favour.

And so, when Blake ushered the stranger into the Reception Room she was greeted pleasantly by all the members of the household.

Nor was this perfunctory, for the charm of the guest was manifest from the first. At her entrance, at the first sound of her low, silvery voice, each hearer was thrilled as by an unexpected bit of music.

“Mrs. Stannard?” she said, as Joyce rose and held out her hand. The long cloak of deep pansy-coloured satin fell back showing its lining of pale violet, and the dark Oriental face lighted with responsive cordiality, while she returned the greetings.

Selecting a stately, tall-backed chair, Orienta sank into it, and crossed her dainty feet on a cushion which Barry offered. Her purple hat was like a turban, but its soft folds were neither conspicuous nor eccentric. She chose to keep her hat on, and also retained her long cloak, which, thrown back, disclosed her robe of voluminous folds of dull white silk. Made in Oriental design, it was yet modishly effective and suited well the type of its wearer.

Though not beautiful, the woman was wonderfully charming. In looking at her each auditor forgot self and others in contemplation of this strange personality. Each of the four observing her had eyes only for her, and didn’t even glance aside to question the others’ approval.

Without seeming to notice this mute tribute, Orienta began to speak. “We will waste no time in commonplaces,” she said, her voice as perfectly modulated as that of a great actress, “they cannot interest us at this time. It is for you to tell me whether or not you wish to command my services in this matter of mystery. If so, well,—if not, I go away, and that is all.”