The
TREVOR CASE

“De Morny’s eyes sparkled with anger as he watched”

THE
TREVOR CASE

By Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Author of
“C. O. D.,” “The Man Outside,” Etc.

With Frontispiece by
EDMUND FREDERICK

A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS - - NEW YORK

Published by Arrangement with D. Appleton & Company

Copyright, 1912, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published February, 1912

Printed in the United States of America

TO THE MEMORY OF
MY DEAR FATHER
AND
TO MY KINDEST CRITIC
MY MOTHER

CONTENTS

THE TREVOR CASE

CHAPTER I
FACE TO FACE

A faint, very faint scratching noise broke the stillness. Then a hand was thrust through the hole in the window pane; deftly the burglar alarm was disconnected, and the fingers fumbled with the catch of the window. The sash was pushed gently up, and a man’s figure was outlined for a second against the star-lit sky as he dropped noiselessly through the window to the stair landing.

For a few moments he crouched behind the heavy curtains, but his entry had been too noiseless to awaken the sleeping household. Gathering courage from the stillness around him, the intruder stole down the steps, through the broad hall, and stopped before a door on his left. Cautiously he turned the knob and entered the room.

He could hear his own breathing in the heavy silence, as he pushed to the door, and then flashed the light of his electric torch on his surroundings. The room, save for the massive office furniture, was empty. Satisfied on that point, the intruder wasted no time, but with noiseless tread and cat-like quickness, he darted across the room to the door of what was apparently a closet. It was not locked, and as it swung back at his touch the front of a large safe was revealed.

Placing his light where it would do the most good, the intruder tried the lock of the safe. Backwards and forwards the wards fell under the skillful fingers of the cracksman. His keen ear, attuned to the work, at last solved the combination. With a sigh of relief he stopped to mop his perspiring face and readjust his mask.

“Lucky for me,” he muttered, “the safe’s an old-fashioned one. As it is, it’s taken three quarters of an hour, and time’s precious.”

The big door moved noiselessly back on its oiled hinges, and the intruder, catching up his electric torch, turned its rays full on the interior of the safe. For one second it burned brilliantly; then went dark in his nerveless hand.

God in Heaven! He was mad! It was some fantasy conjured up by his excited brain. With desperate effort his strong will conquered his shrinking senses. Slowly, slowly the light was raised to that fearful thing which crouched just inside the entrance.

Eye to eye they gazed at each other—the quick and the dead! The intruder’s breath came in panting gasps behind his mask. Again the light went out. In his abject state of terror, instinct did for him what reason could not. His hand groped blindly for the safe door; but not until it closed did he regain his benumbed wits.

Silently, mysteriously as he had come, so he vanished.

CHAPTER II
THE SECRET OF THE SAFE

“Help! Murder! Murder!”

The sinister cry rang through the house.

Seated at the breakfast table, his daughter opposite him, the daily papers at his elbow, the Attorney General, hardly realizing the tragical interruption, sprang from his chair as the cry came nearer and the door burst open admitting his confidential secretary.

“In God’s name, Clark, what is the matter?” he demanded, seizing the distraught man.

“Father, Father, give him time, he is dreadfully upset,” begged Beatrice, coming around the breakfast table and laying a restraining hand on his arm.

Wilkins, the impassive butler, for once shaken out of his calm, hastened to assist his master in helping Alfred Clark to a chair, and then he gave the half-fainting man a stiff drink of whisky.

“It’s the safe, sir,” gasped Clark, struggling to regain his self-control.

“The safe?” questioned the Attorney General.

“Yes; she’s there—dead!”

“She—who?”

“Mrs. Trevor.”

“My wife! Nonsense, man; she is breakfasting in her own room!”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Wilkins interrupted. “Mary has just brought the tray downstairs again. She says she knocked and knocked, and couldn’t get an answer.”

The Attorney General and his daughter exchanged glances. It was impossible to tell which was the paler. Without a word he turned and hastened out of the room. He hardly noticed the excited servants who, attracted by the cry, had already gathered in the spacious hall outside the door of his private office. With swift, decisive step he crossed the room and stood in front of the two opened doors. A cry of unutterable horror escaped him. For one dreadful moment the room swam around him, and there was a roaring in his ears of a thousand Niagaras.

“Father?”

With a violent effort he pulled himself together. “Do not enter,” he said, sternly, to the shrinking girl who had remained by the hall door. “This is no sight for you. Wilkins, send at once for Doctor Davis. Clark, close that door, and see that no one comes in except the doctor. Then telephone the Department that I shall not be there to-day.” His orders were obeyed instantly.

The Attorney General turned back to the safe; to that still figure which was keeping vigil over his belongings. The pitiless light of a sunny morning shone full on the beautiful face. The wonderful Titian hair, her greatest glory, was coiled around the shapely head, and her low-cut evening dress was scarcely disarranged as she crouched on one knee leaning her weight on her left arm, which was pressed against the door-jamb of the safe. Her lips were slightly parted, and her blue eyes were wide open, the pupils much dilated. No need to feel pulse or heart; to the most casual observer it was apparent that she was dead.

His beautiful young wife! Edmund Trevor groaned aloud and buried his face in his hands. Clark watched him for a moment in unhappy silence; then moved quietly over to the window and looked out with unseeing eyes into the garden.

The large mottled brick- and stone-trimmed house was situated on one of Washington’s most fashionable corners, Massachusetts Avenue and Dupont Circle. On being appointed Attorney General, Trevor had taken it on a long lease. He had selected it from the many offered because it was very deep on the 20th Street side, thus allowing the drawing-room, library, and dining-room to open out of each other.

On the right of the large entrance hall was a small reception room, and back of it the big octagonal-shaped room, with its long French windows opening into the enclosed garden, that had appealed to him for his own private use, as a den, or office. And he was particularly pleased with the huge safe, more like a vault, which had been built in one of the large old-fashioned closets by the owner. It had been useful to the Attorney General on many occasions.

The silence was broken by a tap at the door.

“Doctor Davis, sir,” announced Wilkins.

“I came at once,” said the doctor, advancing quickly to the Attorney General’s side. A horrified exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell on the tragic figure, and he recoiled a few steps. Then his professional instincts returned to him, and he made a cursory examination of Mrs. Trevor. As he rose from his knees, the eyes of the two men met. He silently shook his head.

“Life has been extinct for hours,” he said. “Rigor mortis has set in.”

The Attorney General gulped back a sob. Reason had told him the same thing when he first found her; but he had hoped blindly against hope.

“Can she be removed to her room?” he asked, as soon as he could control his voice.

The doctor nodded his acquiescence, and with the assistance of Clark, Wilkins, and the chauffeur, they carried all that was mortal of the beautiful young wife to her chamber.

Shortly afterwards, the Attorney General returned to his office, and together he and Clark went over the contents of the safe. They had just finished their task when Beatrice came into the room.

Beatrice Trevor was a well-known figure in the society life of New York, Paris, and Washington. Taller than most women, with a superb figure, she carried herself with regal grace. She was not, strictly speaking, a beauty; her features were not regular enough. But there were men, and women, too, who were her adoring slaves.

Her mother had died when she was five years old, and up to the time of her eighteenth year she had lived alone with her father. Then he met, wooed, and won the beautiful foreigner, whose butterfly career had come to so untimely an end.

“Father, I must know just what has happened.”

“Why, my dearest—” there was deep tenderness in the Attorney General’s usually impassive voice—“I thought you had been told. Hélène evidently went into the safe to put away her jewelry; and in some mysterious way she must have pulled the heavy door to behind her. Thus locked in, she was smothered. It is terrible—terrible—” His voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. “But—well, Wilkins, what is it?”

“A detective, sir, from headquarters.”

“A detective! What on earth—did you telephone them, Clark?” The secretary shook his head. “No? Well, show him in, Wilkins.”

There was nothing about the man who entered to suggest a detective; he was quietly dressed, middle aged, and carried himself with military erectness. He had spent five years as a member of the Canadian Northwest mounted police, and that service had left its mark in his appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Attorney General.” His bow included all in the room. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but my errand won’t take long.”

“Be seated, Mr. ——”

“Hardy—James Hardy, sir. Just before dawn this morning, O’Grady, who patrols this beat, noticed a man sneak out of your back yard. O’Grady promptly gave chase and caught his man just as he was boarding a train for New York. He took him to the station and had him locked up on suspicion. As the fellow had a full kit of burglar’s tools with him, including mask and sneakers, the Chief sent me round here to ask if you’d been robbed?”

“Oh, no,” replied the Attorney General. “I have just been through my safe and everything is intact. There’s nothing missing in your quarters, Wilkins?” he added, turning to the white-faced butler.

“No, sir; nothing, sir.” Wilkins’ voice trembled, and he looked at the detective with frightened eyes.

“Perhaps he tried, and finding all the windows barred gave it up as a bad job. I am—” continued the Attorney General, but his speech was cut short by the entrance of Doctor Davis.

“I am told there is a detective here.” The Attorney General bowed and motioned to Hardy. “You are properly accredited?” went on the physician. Hardy threw back his coat and displayed his badge. “Have you told him of Mrs. Trevor’s death?”

“No. Why speak of that terrible accident—”

“It was no accident.” The physician’s voice, though low pitched, vibrated with feeling.

The Attorney General half rose from his chair; then sank back again.

“Davis,” he said, almost fiercely, “you know that by some fearful mischance Hélène locked herself in the air-tight safe and was suffocated.”

The detective glanced with quickened interest at the two men.

“On closer examination upstairs,” said the doctor, slowly, “I found a small wound under the left breast. The wound was concealed by the lace bertha of her evening dress. The weapon penetrated to the heart, and she bled internally. Mrs. Trevor was dead before she was put in that safe.”

The detective broke the appalling silence with an exclamation:

“Murdered!”

Without one word Beatrice Trevor fell fainting at her father’s feet.

CHAPTER III
AT THE MACALLISTERS’

Many called, but few were invited to attend Mrs. Van Zandt Macallister’s stately entertainments. Possibly for that reason alone her invitations were eagerly sought and highly prized by social aspirants.

For more years than she cared to remember, official, residential, and diplomatic Washington had gathered on an equal footing in her hospitable mansion on F Street. So strictly did she draw social distinctions that one disgruntled climber spoke of her evening receptions as “Resurrection Parties,” and the name clung. But all Washingtonians took a deep interest in “Madam” Macallister, as they affectionately called her. She was grande dame to her fingertips.

On the occasion of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Middlesex she gave a beautiful wedding breakfast. The wedding was of international importance. The President, his Cabinet, and the Diplomatic Corps were among the guests.

Mrs. Macallister was standing in the drawing-room with her back to the dining-room door talking to the President. As the butler drew apart the folding doors, the long table, covered with massive silver, china, and glass, gave way under the weight. The crash was resounding. The terrified guests glanced at each other. Mrs. Macallister never even turned her head, but went on conversing placidly with the President.

The doors were instantly closed; the guests, taking their cue from their hostess, resumed their light chatter and laughter; and in a remarkably short time the table was cleared and reset, and the breakfast announced. As the President, with a look of deep admiration, offered his arm to Mrs. Macallister, he murmured in her ear:

“‘And mistress of herself though china fall.’”

Washington society had never forgotten the incident.

Mrs. Macallister had rather a caustic tongue, but a warm, generous heart beat under her somewhat frosty exterior. Her charities were never aired in public. Only the clergymen knew how many families she kept supplied with coal in winter and ice in summer. And many an erring sister had cause to bless her name.

Mrs. Macallister glanced impatiently at the clock—twenty minutes past five. She leaned forward and touched the electric bell beside the large open fireplace. There were two things she abominated—to be kept waiting—and midday dinners; the former upset her nerves; the latter her digestion.

“Has Miss Margaret returned?” she asked, as Hurley entered with the tea tray.

Before the butler could answer there was the sound of a quick, light footstep in the hall, and then the portières were pushed aside.

Mrs. Macallister looked approvingly at her granddaughter. Peggy was more like her father’s people, and her grandmother’s heart had warmed to her from the moment the motherless little baby had been placed in her tender care. The young father, never very strong, had not long outlived his girl-wife. Since then Peggy and her grandmother had lived alone in the old-fashioned residence, which her grandfather Macallister had bought years before when coming to live in Washington on the expiration of his third term as Governor of Pennsylvania.

“Well, Granny, am I very late?” giving Mrs. Macallister a warm hug. She had never stood in awe of her formidable grandmother, but with all the passionate feeling of her loving nature, she looked up to and adored her.

“My dear, five o’clock is five o’clock, not twenty minutes past,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, smoothing her silvery hair, which had been decidedly ruffled by Peggy’s precipitancy.

“I declare, Granny, you are as bad as Nana; if it is three minutes past five she says its ‘hard on six o’clock.’ I had an awfully good time at the luncheon, and stayed to talk things over with Maud. She has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, you know.”

“Did you hear the news there?”

“News? What news?”

“Mrs. Trevor has been murdered!”

“Mrs. Trevor—murdered!” Peggy nearly dropped her teacup on the floor.

“I really wish, Peggy, you would stop your habit of repeating my words. It’s very uncomfortable living with an echo under one’s nose.”

“Oh, Granny, please tell me all about it right away.”

“Well, according to the Evening Star— What is it, Hurley?” as that solemn individual entered the room.

“Mr. Tillinghast, to see you and Miss Margaret, ma’am.”

“Show him in. Now, Peggy, we will probably get the news at first hand. Good evening, Dick.”

The young fellow bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her beautifully shaped, blue-veined hand. Clean living and plenty of outdoor sports could be read in his clear skin and splendid physique. He was a particular favorite of Mrs. Macallister’s.

“I suppose you are discussing the all-absorbing topic,” he said after greeting Peggy.

“I have been reading this.” Mrs. Macallister held up the paper with its flaring headlines:

MURDER MOST FOUL
MRS. TREVOR KILLED
BY BURGLAR
CRIMINAL IN THE TOILS

“The police acted very promptly, and deserve a lot of praise,” said Dick.

“Well,” remarked Mrs. Macallister, slowly, “they have caught the burglar, but whether he is also the murderer is yet to be proved.”

“That’s true; but there is hardly any doubt. Nothing was stolen, therefore it is a fairly easy deduction that Mrs. Trevor, disturbed by some noise, went down into the office to investigate and was killed. He had the safe already open, stabbed her, then locked her in. Probably his nerve forsook him, and he fled without stopping to steal what he came for.”

“My dear Dick! Your theory might answer if any other woman was in question; but Mrs. Trevor—she wouldn’t have troubled herself if there had been a cloud-burst in the office. She was simply a human mollusk. And as for—” Mrs. Macallister’s feelings were beyond expression.

“I say, aren’t you a little hard on her? I don’t know when I’ve seen a more beautiful woman, and one so popular—”

“With men,” supplemented Mrs. Macallister, dryly.

Dick laughed outright. “Anyway,” he said, “the police have found that the burglar entered the house by the window on the stair landing, which looks out on the roof of the butler’s pantry. It is an easy climb for an active man. All the windows on the first floor are heavily barred. They found one of the small panes of glass had been cut out, and the window unfastened, although closed. I’m afraid our friend, the burglar, will have a hard time proving his innocence.”

“It is terrible, terrible,” groaned Peggy, who had been reading the paper’s account of the tragedy. “I must go at once and leave a note for Beatrice,” and she started to rise.

“Sit still, child; I have just returned from the Trevors, and left your card and mine with messages.”

“Did you see Beatrice, Granny?”

“No, only that odious Alfred Clark. I cannot bear the man, he is so—so specious—” hunting about for a word. “He told me that Beatrice and the Attorney General would see no one.”

“Beatrice must be terribly upset, poor darling.”

“I didn’t know there was much love lost between them?”

“There wasn’t,” confessed Peggy. “Mrs. Trevor was perfectly horrid to her.”

“That’s news to me,” said Dick, helping himself to another sandwich.

“Beatrice is not the kind to air her troubles in public,” answered Peggy, “and she never talked much to me, either; but I couldn’t help noticing lots of things. I’ve got eyes in my head.”

“That you have,” thought Dick, who had long since fallen a victim.

“Why, last night Beatrice and I went to the Bachelors’ together. I stopped for her, and she just broke down and cried right there in the carriage. She had had an awful scene with her stepmother just before I got there. We had to drive around for half an hour before she was composed enough to enter the ballroom.”

“What did they quarrel about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, deeply interested.

“She didn’t tell me.”

“By Jove! what actresses women are,” ejaculated Dick. “I danced with her several times, and I thought she was enjoying herself immensely.”

Peggy sniffed; she had not a high opinion of a mere man’s perceptions; then she qualified her disapproval by a smile which showed each pretty dimple, and sent Dick into the seventh heaven of bliss.

“Of what nationality was Mrs. Trevor?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming out of a brown study.

“She was an Italian,” answered Dick.

“No, Dick, I think you are mistaken. I am sure she was a Spaniard,” declared Peggy. “She spoke Spanish faultlessly.”

Mrs. Macallister shook her head. “That doesn’t prove anything. She spoke French like a Parisian, and also Italian fluently. The only language in which her accent was pronounced was English.”

“Beatrice told me her maiden name was de Beaupré, so perhaps she was of French descent,” continued Peggy. “Mr. Trevor met her in London. They were married six weeks later very quietly, and Beatrice was not told of the affair until after the ceremony.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Macallister smiled grimly. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

“But being a lawyer perhaps he just naturally pressed his suit quickly,” interrupted Dick, man-like, standing up for his sex. “I’d do the same, if you gave me half a chance,” he added in an ardent aside to Peggy, whose only answer was a vivid blush.

“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, who had unpleasant recollections of a bitter lawsuit with one of her relatives. “Their ways are past finding out. But I really must discover who Mrs. Trevor was before her marriage.”

“Why, Granny, I have just told you she was Mademoiselle de Beaupré.”

“The only de Beaupré I have ever heard of, Peggy, is Anne de Beaupré. And I imagine it is a far cry from Sainte Anne to Hélène whose very name suggests sulphur. Must you go?” she asked, as Dick rose.

“Yes. I have a special story to send on to the Philadelphia papers. If I hear any further details of the murder, I’ll drop in and tell you.”

“Thanks; but I have decided to attend the inquest, which the papers say will be held at the Trevors’.”

“Granny!” cried Peggy, in a tone of horror.

“Tut, child, of course I am going. I dearly love a mystery; besides, the world and his wife will be there.”

“And so will I,” added Dick, as he bowed himself out.

CHAPTER IV
THE INQUEST

The dastardly murder created a tremendous sensation not only in Washington, but in every State of the Union as well. The Trevors were bombarded with telegrams and special delivery letters, and their house besieged by reporters.

Mrs. Macallister was right; all fashionable society turned out to attend the inquest, and fought and struggled for admittance, rubbing shoulders with the denizens of Southeast Washington and Anacostia as they pushed their way into the Trevor mansion.

The inquest was to be held in the library, the suite of rooms, comprising parlor, library and dining-room, having been thrown open to accommodate the public. A rope had been stretched in front of the office door and across the square staircase to keep the crowd within bounds. Uniformed policemen stationed in the wide hall warned those whose curiosity caused them to linger about the room where the tragedy occurred, to “move on.”

Mrs. Macallister, true to her word, had arrived early, and she and Peggy had been given seats in the library. As she glanced about her, she caught the eye of Senator Phillips, who instantly rose and joined her.

“This is a terrible affair,” said the Senator, after they had exchanged greetings. “Beautiful Mrs. Trevor—so young—so fascinating!”

“It is indeed dreadful,” agreed Mrs. Macallister, with a slight shiver. “The idea of any woman coming to such an end makes my blood run cold. I cannot sleep at night thinking of it. Have you seen the Attorney General?”

“Yes. He sent for me; we were college chums, you know. I never saw such self-control. He is bearing up most bravely under the fearful shock.”

In the meantime, Peggy, sick at heart, was looking about her and thinking of the many handsome dinners, luncheons, and receptions she had attended in the Trevors’ beautiful home. When all was said and done, Mrs. Trevor had been an ideal hostess; for besides beauty, she had tact and social perception, and, therefore, had always steered clear of the social pitfalls which lie in wait for the feet of the unwary in Washington’s complex society. Only the night before the murder, Mrs. Trevor had given a large theater and supper party, and Peggy remembered that she had never seen her hostess appear more animated or more beautiful; and now—“In the midst of life we are in death”; the solemn words recurred to Peggy as she watched the coroner and the jury file into the room and seat themselves around the large table which had been brought in for their use.

To one side, representatives of the Associated Press and the local papers were busy with pad and pencil. Among the latter Peggy recognized Dick Tillinghast. Some telepathy seemed to tell him of her presence, for he turned and his eyes lighted with pleasure as he bowed gravely to her and Mrs. Macallister.

Senator Phillips and Mrs. Macallister were intently scanning the jury. They realized how much might depend upon their intelligence and good judgment. In this case the jurymen had apparently been selected from a higher stratum of life than usual, and Senator Phillips sighed with relief as he pointed to the men sitting at the end of the long table.

“Why did the Lord ever make four such ugly men?” he asked Mrs. Macallister, in a whisper.

“To show His power,” she answered, quickly.

All further remarks were cut short by Coroner Wilson swearing in the jury. Their foreman was then elected. All the witnesses were waiting in the small reception room to the right of the front door. Policemen guarded each entrance.

“Have you viewed the scene of the tragedy, and the body of the victim?” asked the coroner.

“We have, sir,” answered the foreman.

Then the coroner in a few words briefly stated the occasion for the hearing. The first witness summoned was Doctor Davis. After being duly sworn, he seated himself in the witness chair facing the jury. In a few clear words he stated that he had been telephoned for by Wilkins, and had come at once. On his arrival he had been shown into the private office.

“Please state to the jury the exact position in which you found Mrs. Trevor.”

“Mrs. Trevor was crouching on one knee directly inside the safe, with her left hand pressing against the door-jamb, so—” and he illustrated his statement. “From the condition of her body I judged she had been dead about eight or nine hours. The pupils of her open eyes were very much dilated.”

One of the jurymen leaned forward and opened his lips as if to speak, then drew back. The coroner noticed his hesitancy.

“Do you wish to question the witness?” he asked.

“I—I,” he was obviously confused by the attention drawn to him. “Doctor, I always thought that when people died their eyes shut up.”

“On the contrary,” answered Doctor Davis, dryly. “Their eyes usually have to be closed by the undertaker.”

“Did you order the body removed, Doctor?” asked the coroner, resuming the examination.

“Yes. I thought that Mrs. Trevor had been asphyxiated in the air-tight safe. It was not until her clothes had been removed that I discovered the small wound a little to one side under her left breast. At the post-mortem we found no other cause for death, Mrs. Trevor having been perfectly sound physically and mentally.”

“Were there no blood stains?”

“None. The weapon, which pierced the heart, was broken off in the wound preventing any outward flow of blood. She bled internally. Death was probably instantaneous.”

“Have you the weapon?”

“Yes. I probed the wound in the presence of the deputy-coroner and Doctor Wells. Here it is.”

There was instant craning of necks to see the small object which Doctor Davis took out of his pocket. It was a piece of sharp-pointed steel about four inches long. The coroner passed it over to the jury, then continued his questions.

“Could the wound have been self-inflicted?”

“Impossible, unless the victim was left-handed.”

“Now, Doctor, what kind of a weapon do you think this point belongs to?”

“Well—” the doctor hesitated a moment—“I don’t think it could be called a weapon in the usual sense of the word. To me it looks like the end of a hat-pin.”

His words caused a genuine sensation. A hat-pin! Men and women looked at each other. What a weapon for a burglar to use!

“Could so frail an article as a hat-pin penetrate through dress, corset and underclothes?” asked the coroner, incredulously.

“Mrs. Trevor wore no corsets. In place of them she had on an elastic girdle which fitted perfectly her slender, supple figure.”

The coroner asked a few more questions, then the doctor was dismissed. The next to take the stand was the deputy-coroner. His testimony simply corroborated that of Doctor Davis in every particular. As he left the witness chair, the clerk summoned Alfred Clark.

“Your name?” asked the coroner, after the usual preliminaries had been gone through with.

“Alfred Lindsay Clark.”

“Occupation?”

“Confidential secretary to the Attorney General.”

“How long have you been in his employ?”

“Eleven months.”

“And before that time?”

“I was a clerk in the Department of Justice for over two years, in fact, ever since I have resided in this city.”

“Then you are not a native of Washington?”

“No. My father was in the Consular Service. At the time of my birth, he was vice consul at Naples, and I was born in that city. I lived abroad until two years and a half ago.”

“You were the first to find Mrs. Trevor, were you not?”

“Yes. I always reach here at eight o’clock to sort and arrange the mail for the Attorney General. He breakfasts at that time, and usually joins me in the private office twenty minutes later. At five minutes of nine we leave for the Department. This is the everyday routine—” he hesitated.

“And yesterday, Mr. Clark?”

“I arrived a few minutes earlier than usual, as there were some notes which I had to transcribe before the Attorney General left for the Department. I went immediately to the office.”

“Did you notice any signs of confusion, or unusual disturbance in the room?”

“No. Everything was apparently just as I had left it the night before. I started to typewrite my notes but had not proceeded very far when I found I needed to refer to some papers which were in the safe. So I went....”

“One moment. You know the combination?”

“Certainly. It is one of my duties to open the safe every morning, and lock it the last thing at night.”

“Did you find the safe just the same as when you left the night before?”

“Exactly the same. Apparently the lock had not been tampered with.”

“Proceed.”

Clark spoke with a visible effort. “I unlocked the safe and pulled open the door and found—” his voice broke. “At first I could not believe the evidences of my senses. I put out my hand and touched Mrs. Trevor. Then, and then only, did I appreciate that she was dead. In unspeakable horror I ran out of the room to summon aid.”

“What led you to think she was murdered? Doctor Davis did not know it until much later.”

“I beg your pardon. I had no idea Mrs. Trevor was murdered.”

“Then, why did you cry ‘Murder’ as you ran along?”

“I have no recollection of raising such a cry. But I was half out of my senses with the shock, and did not know what I was doing.”

Clark’s handsome face had turned a shade paler, and he moistened his lips nervously. Mrs. Macallister noticed his agitation, and gave vent to her feelings by pinching Peggy’s arm.

“Was Mrs. Trevor facing you?”

“Yes. She was crouching on one knee, her left hand extended.”

“Could two people stand in the safe at the same time.”

“Side by side, yes; but not one in front of the other. The safe, which really resembles a small vault, is shallow but wide. The back of it is filled with filing cases. In fact, Mrs. Trevor’s body was wedged in between the cases and the narrow door-jamb. It was probably owing to this that she remained in such a peculiar position.”

“Was her head sunk forward on her breast?”

“No; on the contrary, it was thrown back and she was looking up, so that I, standing, looked directly down into her eyes.”

“Did you touch or move anything in the vault before summoning aid?”

There was a barely perceptible pause before the secretary answered.

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Did you see much of Mrs. Trevor?”

“No. She came but seldom to the office during the day.”

“Do you mean that it was her habit to go there often at night?”

“As to that, I cannot say, because I am not with the Attorney General at night unless some special work has to be done.”

At that moment a note was handed to the coroner. He read it twice; then addressed the secretary, saying:

“I think that is all just now.”

Clark bowed and retired. Coroner Wilson turned and addressed the jury.

“I have just received a note from the Chief of Police. He says that his prisoner, the burglar who was captured after leaving these premises, has asked to be allowed to make a statement before this jury. Therefore he has been sent here under guard. Up to the present time he has stubbornly refused to answer any questions, although every influence has been brought to hear to make him speak. I expected to call him later, anyway.”

The coroner’s remarks were interrupted by the entrance of the guard with their prisoner. He was of medium height, and insignificant enough in appearance save for his small, piercing blue eyes. His abundant red hair was plastered down on his round, bullet-shaped head, and his numerous freckles showed up plainly against the pallor of his face.

“Swear the prisoner,” ordered the coroner.

The clerk rose and stepped up to the man. “Place your hand on this book and say after me: ‘I, John Smith—’”

“Hold on; my name’s William Nelson. T’other one I just used to blind the cops, see?”

“I, William Nelson, do solemnly swear—” The singsong voice of the clerk, and the heavier bass of the prisoner seemed interminable to Peggy, whose nerves were getting beyond her control. She wished he would get through his confession quickly. It was awful sitting in callous judgment on a human being, no matter how guilty he might be.

“Now, William Nelson, alias John Smith,” said the coroner, sternly, “I am told you have volunteered to confess—”

“Nix, no confession,” interrupted Nelson. “Just an account of how I came to get mixed up in this deal.”

“Well, remember you are on oath, and that every word will be used against you.”

The prisoner nodded, cleared his throat, then spoke clearly and with deliberation.

“I came to Washington just to get certain papers. We knew those papers were kept in the Attorney General’s private safe. I used to be a messenger at the Department of Justice, and knew this house well, as I often brought papers to the Attorney General in his private office here. I had my kit with me, and broke in by way of the window over the pantry. The safe is an old one, and I found the combination easy. But, though I crack safes—by God! I am no murderer! When I opened that door I found the lady there—dead!” The man rose. “I know no more than you who killed her, so help me God!”

Nelson’s deep voice, vibrating with intense feeling, carried conviction. There was no doubting the effect his words had upon the jury and the spectators.

“I ain’t no coward, but the sight of that figure crouching there, and I looking down into her dead eyes, struck cold to my marrow bones. I ain’t been able to sleep since,” and the prisoner’s hand shook as he wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.

“Quite a dramatic story,” said the coroner, dryly. “And the proof?”

The prisoner struck the table fiercely with his clenched hand.

“Go ask the men who hired me to come here and steal the papers showing the attitude the Attorney General and the Department of Justice would take against the Fairbanks railroad combine. Ask those who wanted to get the news first, before it was given out to the public.”

“Do you think they would incriminate themselves by admitting such a rascally piece of business?”

“Perhaps not,” sullenly, “but I’ll make them.”

“Secondly, the motive of your presence here does not clear you of the suspicion of being the murderer. Did you get the papers?”

“No. When I saw that dead body I stopped for nothing. You don’t believe me, but I’ve told you God’s truth. I don’t mind doing time for house-breaking; but I ain’t hankering for the electric chair.”

The coroner rose abruptly and signaled to the guards.

“You will be summoned again, Nelson,” he said, and as the guards closed about the prisoner, he announced that the hearing was adjourned until one o’clock that afternoon.

CHAPTER V
THE SIGNET RING

Excitement ran high among the spectators as they crowded into the rooms a few minutes before one o’clock. The burglar’s story had impressed them by its sincerity. But, if he was innocent, who could be the criminal?

“Nelson knew how to play on people’s emotions and made up a plausible tale; but as the coroner says, he has given no proof to back his statement that Mrs. Trevor was killed before he entered the house,” said Philip White, in answer to one of Peggy’s questions. She and her grandmother were occupying their old seats in the library, and Dick Tillinghast and White had just joined them. Philip White, who stood at the head of the district bar, was not one to form opinions hastily. Therefore, he was usually listened to. He was a warm friend of the Attorney General’s, and had been a frequent visitor at his house.

“No, Miss Peggy,” he went on, “the fellow’s just a clever criminal.”

“I rather believe in him,” said Peggy, stoutly. “He didn’t have to tell what he knew.”

“That’s just it—it was a neat play to the galleries. He would have been summoned before the jury anyway, and his story dragged from him piece by piece. He hoped it would tell in his favor if he volunteered and gave a dramatic account of what occurred that night.”

“Where did he get his information about the papers being in the safe?” queried Mrs. Macallister, who had been an interested listener.

“Probably there is some leak in the Department of Justice.”

The low hum of voices ceased as the coroner’s clerk rose and called the Attorney General to the stand.

Many a sympathetic eye followed his tall, erect figure, as he passed quietly through the room. Edmund Trevor had won distinction early in life by his unremitting labor and ability. A New Yorker born and bred, he had given up a large law practice to accept the President’s tender of the portfolio of Attorney General. His devotion to his beautiful wife, some twenty years his junior, had been often commented upon by their friends. While not, strictly speaking, a handsome man, his dark hair, silvering at the temples, his fine eyes and firm mouth gave him an air of distinction. He was very popular with both men and women, as his courtly manner and kind heart gained him a warm place in their regard. To-day sorrow and fatigue were visible on his face. He looked careworn and troubled.

After he had answered the usual questions as to his age, full name, and length of residence in Washington, the coroner turned directly to him.

“How old was Mrs. Trevor, and where was she born?” he asked.

“Thirty years old. She was born in Paris, France.”

“Where did you first meet her?”

“In London at a ball given by the American Ambassador three years ago.”

“When and where were you married?”

“We were married on the eleventh of June of the same year, at St. George’s, Hanover Square.”

The coroner’s manner was very sympathetic, as he said:

“Now, Mr. Attorney General, will you kindly tell the jury of your movements on Wednesday night, last.”

“Certainly. I did not dine at home, as I had to attend the annual banquet given by the Yale alumni, at which I was to be one of the speakers. Just before leaving the house, I joined my wife and daughter in the dining-room. Mrs. Trevor told me that, as she had a bad nervous headache, she had decided not to go to the Bachelors’ Cotillion, but instead she was going to retire early. My daughter Beatrice had, therefore, arranged to go to the ball with her friend, Miss Macallister, who was to call for her at ten o’clock.

“My motor was announced, and as I kissed my wife, she asked me not to disturb her on my return, as she wanted to get a good night’s sleep. That was the last time I saw her alive—” His voice quivered with emotion, but in a few seconds he resumed: “On my return, about midnight, I went directly upstairs. Seeing no light in my wife’s room, which is separated from mine by a large dressing room, I retired.”

“Did you hear no noises during the night; no cries; no person moving about?”

“No. I am always a heavy sleeper, besides which I had had a very fatiguing day; a Cabinet meeting in the morning; and I had also been detained at the Department by pressure of business until six o’clock that evening.”

“Were your doors and windows securely fastened?”

“Wilkins attends to that. I did not put up the night-latch on the front door because I knew Beatrice had to come in with her latch key.”

“How did you find the house lighted on your return?”

“Why, as is usual at that time of night when we are not entertaining. All the rooms were in darkness; the only lights being in the front and upper halls—they were turned down low.”

“In regard to Wilkins—”

“I would trust him as I would myself,” interrupted the Attorney General. “He has lived first with my father and then with me for over twenty years.”

“And your other servants?”

“I have every confidence in them. The cook, second man, and chambermaids have been in my employ for at least five years.”

“And Mrs. Trevor’s personal maid?”

“Came with her from England three years ago.”

“Were you not surprised when Mrs. Trevor did not breakfast with you the next morning?”

“No. My wife was not an early riser. She always had a French breakfast served in her room. Unless she called to me to enter, as I went downstairs, I often did not see her until luncheon.”

“Was Mrs. Trevor left-handed?”

The Attorney General looked at the coroner in surprise.

“She was, sir,” he answered.

“Have you formed any theory as to who perpetrated this foul murder?”

“I think the burglar, Nelson, guilty.”

“Was Mrs. Trevor on good terms with everyone of your household?”

The witness’ face changed, ever so slightly.

“To the best of my knowledge, she was,” was the quiet reply.

“Then that is all. Stay just a moment,” as the Attorney General rose. “Will you kindly describe what took place on the discovery of Mrs. Trevor’s body?”

In a concise manner the Attorney General gave the details of that trying scene. He was then excused.

His place was taken by Wilkins, who in a few words confirmed the Attorney General’s statement that he had served the Trevor family, as butler, for nearly twenty-one years.

“Did you securely close the house for the night on Wednesday, Wilkins?”

“Yes, sir; I did, sir. I bolted every door and window, sir.”

“Are you positive, Wilkins?”

“Absolutely positive, sir.”

“Did anyone call at the house after dinner that night to see either of the ladies?”

“No, sir, no one; except Miss Macallister came in her carriage to take Miss Beatrice to the ball.”