THE UNSEEN EAR

By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

Author of “I Spy,” “The Moving Finger,” “The Nameless Man,”
“The Red Seal,” “The Three Strings,” etc.

With Frontispiece

A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers      New York

Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company

Printed in U. S. A.

COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

DROPPING ON HER KNEES, SHE TURNED THE DIAL
[page 249]

TO
MY MOTHER
WHOSE UNFLAGGING INTEREST HAS
STIMULATED MY LITERARY WORK, THIS
LATEST BOOK IS LOVINGLY INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS

THE UNSEEN EAR

CHAPTER I
THROUGH THE PORTIÈRES

The bedroom door opened and closed on its oiled hinges without a sound, and a man walked over to the closet. With methodical care he hung his coat on its accustomed peg before moving deliberately over to his bureau. On its highly polished top he laid down a soiled scrap of paper. His quiet, orderly actions gave no indication of the rage consuming him. As he raised his head his eyes traveled upward and he started back involuntarily at the face contemplating him in the mirror. His face—but was that distorted countenance his face? With a shudder he glanced over his shoulder and about the room; then slowly, fearfully he turned to face his other self mirrored in the glass before him.

Judith Richards poked the fire into a brighter blaze, then leaned back in her chair with a little sigh of content and idly turned over the pages of the book she had been reading. The happy ending recorded in the romance reflected her own mood. Two months a bride! Her lips parted in a tender smile as events of her happy married life recurred to her, and dropping the book in her lap, she rested her head against the tufted chair and watched the burning logs in dreamy contemplation. She was not conscious of the lateness of the hour or of the fact that she was no longer alone in the large library.

The newcomer who had entered noiselessly through the portières hanging before the doorway leading from the library into the dining room, moved cautiously forward to obtain a better view of Judith. Satisfied that he had not disturbed her reverie, he sidled stealthily over to a large safe, which stood near a mahogany desk, and dropped on his knees before it.

Without rising from his crouching position, he pushed forward a chair until its broad proportions completely sheltered his movements should Judith turn around and glance in his direction; then, losing no further time, he twirled the dial of the safe around with practiced fingers, and as the massive door finally swung open he went systematically through each compartment of the safe. Fully twenty minutes passed and the man moistened his dry lips. Was his search to go unrewarded?

As he felt about in the last compartment to be examined his fingers encountered a piece of paper caught apparently in a crevice. With infinite care he pulled it loose, and rising, walked over to the electric-light bracket on the wall by the door through which he had entered the library. One of the bulbs was burning, and as he bent his head to examine the piece of paper, his eyes caught the flash of steel as it darted through the portières, and he instinctively recoiled—but too late to avoid the thrust. With a whimpering cry he fell face downward, his blood staining the handsome rugs.

Judith stirred and sat up, then after a comfortable stretch of her stiffened muscles, she replaced her book on the table, and with a glance at the mantel clock, paused to warm her hands at the smoldering embers.

It was much later than she had supposed—one o’clock. With a faint shiver she pulled her dainty warm wrapper more closely about her slender figure before leaning over to switch off the reading lamp. Picking up her large sewing bag she walked across the library intending to press the wall button which controlled the electric side lights. But her intention was forgotten as her sleepy eyes caught sight of the crumpled figure lying in front of the entrance to the dining room.

A cry broke from her and slowly her shocked wits took in the significance of the ever widening red stain creeping across the rugs and floor. For long seconds she stood staring, too terrified to move. Gradually gathering courage, she advanced and, placing one trembling hand on the man’s shoulder, rolled him over until his face was exposed to view. With a bound she regained her feet, her hands raised to her throbbing temples, while the sewing bag tumbled unheeded to the floor.

She was unaware of the passing time as she gazed at the face before her, a face scarcely less gray in death than her own, from which every ray of color had been stricken. Slowly, slowly she took in every detail of the man’s appearance, then with numb, clumsy fingers she jerked a long pair of steel shears from her sewing bag and, kneeling down once more by the dead man, she hacked and tore at his watch chain until she had loosened a small locket.

Slipping the locket inside her belt and clutching the sewing bag, she staggered to her feet and made her way into the large central hall as a key turned in the front door and a man stepped inside the house.

“Joe! Thank God!” Judith’s low cry ended abruptly, and her husband was just in time to catch her as she fell unconscious to the floor.

CHAPTER II
IDENTIFIED

Detective Ferguson laid an impatient finger on the bell of the front door of the Hale residence and, removing his hat, fanned himself vigorously. Coroner Penfield’s message had been imperative and, the Headquarters’ car having been out on an errand, he had commandeered a “bike” which a patrolman had left in the outer hallway, and had pedaled uptown as rapidly as possible. The unwonted exertion, as well as his intense curiosity, had both served to excite him. What untoward circumstances had required his immediate presence at three in the morning at the home of Robert Hale, eminent scientist and respected citizen of the National Capital?

The detective’s wonderment grew as the front door flew back and he stepped over its threshold into the semidarkness of the large central hall of the house. The stillness was broken by a low-voiced direction, and Ferguson, peering around, saw a man, his presence partly concealed behind the open front door, watching him. The man shut the door with such care that it made no sound.

“Come this way,” he repeated, and Ferguson, with an instinctive bow, realized he was addressed by a member of the household and not a servant. Checking his impulse to ask questions, the detective followed his guide across the hall and into a brilliantly lighted room. The sudden transition from semidarkness caused Ferguson to blink owlishly, and he paused abruptly on hearing the faint click of the folding doors, through which they had entered, being closed behind them.

“Coroner Penfield is over there,” stated his guide, and Ferguson, grown more accustomed to the light, looked in the direction indicated just as Penfield rose from his stooping position and turned toward him. The coroner’s expression changed at sight of the detective and he beckoned him to approach. An instant later and Ferguson was staring down at the figure of a man lying partly turned upon his back. Penfield pointed to the small wound over the heart and to the ashen cheeks and staring eyes.

“Dead,” he said, tersely. “Stabbed.”

Ferguson whistled low, shot one questioning look at the coroner, and then turned his attention to the dead man and the room. With minute care he examined the body and then scanned the library. There was no indication of a struggle having taken place, no chairs or tables were overturned. Ferguson paused in perplexity—the orderly appearance of the room surprised him; his eyes ran up and down the book-lined walls, over the handsome curtains drawn across the deep window alcoves, and the drawn portières—the furnishing of the library was a key to the wealth and good taste of its owner, but as the background for the scene of a tragedy it failed lamentably to give any clew to it or answer his yet unasked questions.

“Well, doctor,” he turned to the coroner, “who’s the dead man and who stabbed him?”

Instead of replying, Penfield addressed the third man in the library who, since admitting the detective, had remained a silent witness of their investigations.

“Major Richards,” he began, “kindly repeat just what you told me on my arrival,” and seating himself at a convenient table, he drew out a fountain pen and a memorandum pad. “Major Joseph Richards,” he added by way of explanation, “is Mr. Hale’s son-in-law, Ferguson.”

Richards acknowledged the detective’s jerky bow at mention of his name with a grave inclination of his head.

“The information I can give you is meager,” he stated, and Ferguson, sensitive to first impressions, grew conscious of an undercurrent of agitation admirably controlled by Richards’ deliberation of speech; only a longer acquaintance would tell whether such was characteristic of him. “I returned from the club about twenty minutes past one, found my wife”—his hesitation was almost imperceptible—“indisposed, and on coming in here later to look for a bottle of bromide which she had left on the library table, I discovered”—

He stopped, and an eloquent gesture completed his sentence.

“You found the room occupied,” supplemented the coroner practically. “Was the man dead or alive?” and the look he shot at Richards under his shaggy brows was penetrating.

“The man was dead.” Richards’ eyelids flickered somewhat. “At least I judged so from my superficial knowledge of medical matters. I certainly did not kill him.”

Penfield let pass a certain flippant hardness which had crept into Richards’ manner, and Ferguson, who had worked with the coroner in many criminal cases, followed his cue.

“What was your next action, Major Richards?” Penfield inquired.

“I returned to my wife and gave her the medicine, then slipped downstairs and called you up,” was the concise reply. “You came and instructed me to send for Detective Ferguson, and after doing so, I awaited his arrival and brought him here.”

“Did you inform your wife of your gruesome discovery in the library?” inquired Penfield.

“I did not.”

“Why not?”

“My wife was already in a highly nervous state, and I feared she would become ill if further excited,” Richards explained.

Penfield frowned at his note pad. “What had made her nervous?”

“A motor accident in the early afternoon,” quietly. “Her electric was run into by a taxicab, and while no one was hurt, she suffered from fright and shock.”

“Too bad,” commented Penfield, his manner somewhat sympathetic, and would have added more, but Detective Ferguson, tired of the rôle of listener, broke in brusquely.

“Who is the dead man, Major Richards?” he demanded.

“I do not know.” The low-spoken answer was firm and Richards’ gaze did not waver before their stares. The detective was the first to look away.

“I see, a case of ordinary burglary,” he said, moving to the dead man. “He’s wearing a dark suit, good quality cloth, however, and rubber heeled shoes.” He transferred his gaze to the safe, only partly visible from where he stood owing to the position of a large, tufted lounging chair. “Ah,” striding over to it, he laid his hand on the levers and the door swung open without resistance. “It’s unlocked; evidently the burglar got it open before—” He checked his hasty speech and faced Richards who had watched his rapid movements with interest. “Who owns this safe?”

“Mr. Robert Hale.”

“Is it usually left unlocked?”

“I believe not.”

“You believe not”—the detective caught him up quickly. “Are you not familiar with Mr. Hale’s habits?”

“No,” regarding him steadily. “My wife and I returned from our wedding journey only two weeks ago. We are at present the guests of her parents, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hale. During our visit I have not,” with quiet emphasis, “familiarized myself, as you put it, with Mr. Hale’s habits, but I once overheard him tell his wife that he never left the safe unlocked.”

Ferguson stooped down and examined the safe with careful attention.

“The lock’s not been forced,” he muttered. “It looks like the job of an expert safe cracker, or”—with an upward glance at Richards—“some one familiar with the combination.”

“The Rogues’ Gallery will aid in identifying the dead man if he is a ‘regular,’” broke in Coroner Penfield. “But who killed the burglar?” He looked across at Richards. “Who is in this house besides you and your wife?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Hale have residing with them, besides my wife and myself, Mr. Hale’s younger brother, John Hale,” Richards answered. “There are a number of servants who also sleep in the house.”

Penfield consulted his note pad. “Did you go for Mr. Hale or his brother on finding the dead man?” he questioned.

“Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are at a reception given by the French Ambassador and his wife,” responded Richards. “They have not yet returned.”

“And Mr. Robert Hale—?”

“Is ill in bed,” Richards perched himself on the arm of a chair. “When I rushed upstairs with the medicine for my wife I went first to Mr. Hale’s bedroom and, on finding him asleep, withdrew as quietly as possible.”

“Didn’t you summon the servants?” asked Penfield.

“I did not.” Observing the look of surprise on their faces, he added, “The servants are women. I did not wish to terrify them with this sight,” and he waved his hand in the direction of the dead man.

Penfield reflected a moment, and in the brief interval Ferguson took mental note of Major Richards’ fine physique and strongly molded features. He did not look the man to lose his head in an emergency; on the contrary, his self-possession and poise made a favorable impression on both the men watching him so intently. Richards was about to speak again when Penfield held up his hand.

“Just a moment,” he cautioned. “Let me get this straight. You reached this house about twenty minutes after one this morning; Mrs. Hale and her brother-in-law are still at the French Embassy reception, leaving at home Mr. Hale, ill in bed, your wife, and the female servants. An unidentified man enters the house in your absence and upon your return you find him dead in the library. Did you hear voices or retreating footsteps when you came in the front door?”

“No.”

“Did you meet any one when on your way to your wife’s room?”

“No.” Richards’ eyes did not falter in their direct gaze at the coroner. He confined his replies to monosyllables.

“Strange!” Penfield walked back and stood looking down at the dead man. “Very strange. I have made only a superficial examination, Major Richards, but I’ll stake my reputation that that wound was not self-inflicted. The man was stabbed”—he paused and his voice deepened—“murdered.”

The lines in Richards’ face showed more plainly as he set his square jaw at a determined angle. “The killing of a burglar is generally considered justifiable homicide,” he said sternly. “It is one’s right to protect one’s property from midnight marauders.”

“Who protected Mr. Hale’s home in this instance?” demanded Ferguson.

“I cannot tell you that,” responded Richards. “But, Mr. Coroner, until you know further details of how this man came to his death, you cannot proclaim it a murder committed by an inmate of this household.”

“I proclaim nothing,” denied Penfield. “On the contrary, I am first most anxious to question the servants, Mr. Hale, and your wife—the only people, according to your statement, at home when this man was killed—and find out if possible what transpired here in your absence.”

“You cannot do that now,” interposed Richards hastily. “Mr. Hale and my wife are not in condition to be interviewed at this hour—later in the day, perhaps”—Ferguson gave a gesture of dissent.

“And in the meantime,” he interposed harshly, “the murderer will slip through our fingers, and every clew grow cold.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Richards warmly. “You are at liberty to examine this floor and the basement at the present time, only I must insist that you do not disturb either my wife or Mr. Hale.”

“Very well, sir.” Ferguson turned toward the folding doors leading to the central hall. “Where are the servants’ bedrooms?”

“On the third floor.” At the words the detective vanished.

Richards rose from his perch on the chair arm and paced slowly up and down the library. Penfield, paying no attention to his movements, knelt down by the dead man and with infinite care went through his pockets. His search produced some loose change, a bill-folder containing nearly a hundred dollars, and a bunch of keys.

“Not much help for identification purposes,” he remarked dryly, as Richards halted by his side. “He was a handsome fellow; women rave over that type of beauty in a man. He looks a gentleman—high-bred, and all that.”

“He could not have been in destitute circumstances,” commented Richards, pointing to the Treasury bills.

“Hm—yes,” Penfield looked thoughtful. “It might be that he rifled this money from Mr. Hale’s safe.” He wheeled suddenly on Richards. “What did Mr. Hale keep in his safe?”

“You will have to ask Mr. Hale,” answered Richards composedly. “I am ignorant of his affairs.”

Penfield stroked his chin slowly; Richards as a source of information was a disappointment. Should he not insist upon seeing Mr. Hale, illness or no illness, unconventional hour or not? Valuable time was slipping away and he was no nearer vital information than at the moment of his arrival—over an hour had elapsed since receiving his hasty summons. Penfield stood up.

“By the way, Major,” he began, “as you are a stranger in Washington and did not ask the advice of others”—with a quick side-long scrutiny of which Richards appeared unaware—“how did it happen that you called me on the telephone first and not the police?”

For answer Richards strode over to the table near the fireplace and, picking up the evening newspaper which lay spread across it, pointed to a column of news bearing display type.

“I had been reading earlier in the evening this account of the Fuller inquest,” he explained. “Your name is given, Coroner Penfield, and it also stated that the body of the dead woman could not be moved until you had arrived on the scene; therefore,” calmly, “I judged that you would be of more immediate aid than the police. It was a simple matter to find your number in the telephone directory.”

“True.” Penfield considered a moment, then moved restlessly over to the safe. Without removing the contents of its compartments he took careful note of such papers and objects as came within his view. He was still gazing steadily at them when the portières before the dining room parted and Ferguson stepped again into the room.

“Every window on this floor and the basement is locked on the inside,” he announced. “And I also examined those on the landings of the stairs and the hall of the second floor.”

“You went upstairs?” Richards moved toward him, his jaw set at an angry angle. “After what I told you?”

“Yes.” There was open defiance in the detective’s manner. “I looked only in the rooms where the doors were open,” he turned and addressed Penfield. “So far as I could discover, there is no trace of the burglar’s having gained entrance through forcing a window or door.”

“No trace of any one’s lurking downstairs?” demanded Penfield.

“None.”

“Found any weapon?”

“No.” Ferguson’s tone was glum. His gaze, shifting about the room, happened to light on Richards and he saw him start and stiffen in a listening attitude.

Ferguson’s eyes brightened, and he checked further speech. Suddenly he caught the sound of a soft footfall and, as Richards started forward, he interposed his bulky form between him and the folding doors as they were pushed apart and Judith Richards stepped into the library. With a shove which sent the detective sprawling, Richards gained his wife’s side.

“Why have you come down, dearest?” he asked tenderly, bending his head until his mouth almost touched her ear.

She shook her head, as her hand crept into his and leaned her weight on his protecting arm.

“I came down to find,” she commenced, and her soft voice, though low-pitched, reached the two listening men, then she stopped in fright as, moving slightly forward, she caught a glimpse over Richards’ shoulder of Penfield regarding her. “Joe—who is that?”

“Ah, eh—” Richards stammered, then caught himself up. “It is Mr. Penfield, dearest.” She raised her eyes and regarded him closely, and more slowly he repeated, “Dr. Penfield.”

She shook her head in bewilderment, and drew her silk wrapper more closely about her; the movement brought into view the large sewing bag suspended by its cord from her wrist.

“I came down to find,” she commenced again——

“I know,” broke in Ferguson from his seat on the floor where his encounter with Richards’ muscular figure had landed him. His tumble had disarranged the rug and under its lifted folds he had caught the gleam of light on metal. With impetuous fingers he drew out a pair of long steel shears and held them aloft. “You left a dead man here and came back to find your bloodstained shears.”

An oath ripped from Richards and he made a step forward, but Judith’s clinging hand detained him. She reeled against him as she caught sight of the shears, and he held her closely; his voice, though low, vibrated with passion.

“You—Ferguson!” he gasped.

“Stop!” commanded the detective. “I am not interested in your statements, Major Richards; let your wife answer my last remark.”

“Answer!” Richards choked; then spoke more clearly. “You —— fool! My wife has not heard a word you said—she is stone deaf.”

Ferguson and Coroner Penfield stared dumfounded at husband and wife. The latter was the first to break the strained silence.

“I am sorry, gentlemen,” she said, and her deprecating look, as well as charming voice, conveyed an apology, “I cannot understand what you are saying.” She raised her eyes and gazed perplexedly at her husband. “Joe, I came down to get my ear trumpet.”

Penfield recovered from his surprise. “It is here, madam,” he exclaimed and hurrying to the safe picked up the instrument from one of the compartments and handed it to Judith. With quick deft fingers she adjusted it to her ear and then Ferguson addressed her.

“Now, madam, perhaps you will explain—don’t interfere, Major Richards—I must have an explanation—”

“And so must I.” The interruption came in an unexpected quarter, and both Penfield and the detective wheeled toward the hall door. “What is the meaning of this scene in my house, gentlemen?” Mrs. Hale, tossing her ermine cape on the nearest chair, advanced to the little group, followed by her brother-in-law, John Hale.

Penfield spoke before the others.

“A crime has been committed here to-night, madam, in your absence,” he began.

“A crime?” She interrupted in her turn, her eyes leaving her daughter’s blanched face for the first time. “A crime—?”

“Yes; a burglar forced an entrance and was murdered——”

“A burglar!” John Hale pushed past his sister-in-law to the center of the room. His manner was rough and domineering. “What the devil are you talking about?”

Without answering, Ferguson wheeled about and, walking over to the motionless figure on the floor, signed to Hale to approach.

“Here’s the burglar—and he’s dead,” he announced concisely, then held up the shears, “and here’s the weapon—from a workbag,” casting a significant glance at the bag still suspended from Judith’s icy fingers. Richards’ furious retort was checked by a cry of horror from John Hale.

With staring eyes and ghastly face he gazed down at the dead man.

“A burglar!” he cried. “Austin—my son!” and pitched headlong to the floor.

CHAPTER III
THEORIES

Mrs. Hale rattled her coffee cups and looked over the top of her silver urn at Joe Richards; he had asked for a third cup of coffee and he drank it clear. Mrs. Hale was shocked. But the remonstrance on the tip of her tongue died unspoken as she studied his clear-cut profile and observed the dogged set to his determined jaw. She took silent note of his unusual pallor, the dark circles under his eyes, and his continued silence. Mrs. Hale felt resentful; she was of a talkative disposition and had welcomed an opportunity to discuss the mystery surrounding Austin Hale’s death with her handsome son-in-law, but instead of following her lead he had answered in monosyllables. A less persistent woman would have given up the attempt.

“Did you ask Judith if she saw a light in Austin’s bedroom?” she inquired, for at least the sixth time. “Your suite of rooms is directly under his, poor boy,” and she sought refuge behind her damp handkerchief. She emerged a moment later to add, “Austin must have gone to his room, for his overcoat and suit case were there when I went upstairs after that distressing scene in the library—dear me, was it only this morning?”

“It was.” Richards’ tone was grim and did not invite further remarks. For a moment there was silence.

“You haven’t answered my question, my dear boy,” prompted Mrs. Hale plaintively, “nor have you touched your breakfast!” in shocked surprise as Anna, the waitress, removed his plate.

“I—I cannot eat.” With an effort Richards suppressed a grimace at sight of the untasted eggs and bacon. “I have no appetite. Dear Mrs. Hale, do not distress yourself on my account.”

Mrs. Hale regarded him in suspicious silence; she was not quite certain what prompted his sudden change of manner. Was he poking fun at her? But as she met his unwavering gaze she dismissed the idea as unworthy, and returned valiantly to the task of eliciting information.

“What questions did you ask Judith?” she demanded.

“I have not questioned Judith.” Richards drew out his cigarette case. “May I smoke?” And hardly waiting for her permission, he added, “Judith, as you know, does not feel well and is breakfasting in her boudoir. I do not believe,”—Richards paused and his speech gained added deliberation—“I do not believe Judith can supply any information as to the events of last night, nor any clew to the unfortunate murder of her cousin. Her deafness——”

“I know,” broke in Mrs. Hale hastily—any allusion to Judith’s infirmity cut her mother love. “I cannot think why, when Austin reached home, he did not at once tell Judith that he was in the house—he knew she could not hear him enter. It is most surprising!” and Mrs. Hale shook a puzzled head.

Richards considered her thoughtfully. “Have you found out how and when Austin returned last night?” he asked.

“Of course.” Mrs. Hale brightened; Richards was at last expanding to the extent of asking questions—what had made him so morose? “I interviewed the servants immediately after leaving the library.” She did not add that she had scurried upstairs in dire haste so as to be the first person to go to their rooms and personally question each and every one—thereby upsetting Detective Ferguson’s well-laid plans, and depriving the servants of any sleep during the remainder of the night. “Not one of them,” impressively, “knew of his return.”

“Then how did he get in?” persisted Richards.

“With his latchkey, of course,” somewhat surprised by Richards’ manner. “Oh, I forgot, you did not know Austin, and perhaps we have not mentioned that he has always made his home with us since his adoption.”

“His what?” Richards’ voice rose in astonishment; and Mrs. Hale’s complacent smile reflected her gratification; she had at last aroused Richards’ interest. “Do you mean—was he not John Hale’s son?”

“No, only his stepson,” she explained. “John married a widow, Cora Price, much older than himself, when he was but twenty-four—in fact just out of college. John is only forty-seven now, ten years my husband’s junior. Dear me, where was I?” and Mrs. Hale pulled up short, conscious that she had wandered from the point.

“You were speaking of Austin’s adoption,” Richards reminded her gently.

“Oh, yes. Cora had a boy by her first husband, and when she died within the year of their marriage, she left him, then about five years of age, to John to bring up, and he legally adopted him, giving him our name. John,” she added, “is very kind-hearted, if somewhat hasty in his actions.”

Reminded of his cigarette by his burned fingers, Richards dropped the stub in his coffee cup and started to light another just as Maud, the parlor maid, appeared in the dining room.

“Detective Ferguson has called to see Mr. John,” she announced, addressing Mrs. Hale. “Do you know when he will return, ma’am?”

“I do not,” Mrs. Hale pushed back her chair and rose with alacrity. “Where is the detective?”

“In the library, ma’am.”

“Show him into the drawing-room,” Mrs. Hale directed, and not giving Richards an opportunity to pull back the portières before the entrance to the large room which adjoined the dining room on the west, she swept majestically away.

“Maud!” The parlor maid halted as Richards’ low voice reached her. “Did my wife eat her breakfast?”

“Yes, sir, a little.” Maud’s sympathetic smile blossomed forth as she caught Richards’ pleased expression. She lingered before speeding on her errand to the waiting detective. “Miss Judith has brightened considerable since I gave her Miss Polly’s answer.”

Richards’ strong hand caressed his clean-shaven chin. “And what was the answer?” he questioned. “Verbal?”

“Oh, yes, sir; James brought back word that Miss Polly would be right over, and so I told Miss Judith.”

“Thank you, Maud,” and the parlor maid felt rewarded by Richards’ charming smile.

Richards had become a favorite with the servants, who idolized “Miss Judith,” as they still persisted in calling her. They had awaited with interest the arrival of the bride and groom two weeks before, an interest intensified by the storm which had arisen on receipt of Judith’s cablegram to her father telling of her marriage in far-away Japan to Joseph Richards.

Robert Hale had made no attempt to conceal or modify his fury while Mrs. Hale, deeply hurt by what she termed her “unfilial conduct,” had promptly made the best of the situation and endeavored to persuade her husband to accept the inevitable and cable Judith their forgiveness. Hale, anxious to return to his scientific experiments, finally succumbed to her arguments, backed up by those of his brother John, and, going a step further than his wife had expected, added an invitation to return to the paternal roof.

Richards had borne himself well under the inspection of his wife’s family, and Hale had grudgingly admitted to his wife that perhaps he wasn’t such a bad lot after all, to which Mrs. Hale, who had been won by Richards’ charm of manner and handsome presence, had indignantly responded that Judith had been most fortunate in her selection of a husband. Hale’s only response had been a sardonic grin.

As the parlor maid hurried down the hall, Richards paused in thought; Mrs. Hale had not invited him to go with her to the drawing-room, but—with bent head he meditatively paced up and down, his steps involuntarily carrying him nearer and nearer the portières; as he paused irresolutely before them, Mrs. Hale’s voice came to him clearly.

“Detective Ferguson, I must insist on an answer to my question.”

Richards jerked the portières aside and without ceremony entered the drawing-room. Ferguson turned at sound of his footsteps and bowed to him before answering Mrs. Hale who was regarding him with fixed attention.

“I can’t tell you anything, Mrs. Hale,” he protested. “I came here to get information.”

“What information?” Mrs. Hale had frowned at sight of Richards, then, her momentary displeasure gone, addressed herself to the detective. She enjoyed the rôle of inquisitor.

“I wanted to talk with Mr. John Hale.”

“He is out.”

“So your maid said.” Ferguson fingered the table ornaments with restless fingers; he was getting nowhere and time was slipping away. “Where’s he gone?”

Richards answered the question. “To the cemetery, I understood him to say.” He glanced at his watch. “Mr. Hale should be back in a very short time.”

“Then I’ll wait, Major,” and Ferguson, who had secretly resented Mrs. Hale’s discourtesy in not asking him to be seated, jerked forward a chair and threw himself into it. “Can I see your husband, madam?”

“You cannot.” Mrs. Hale rapped out the reply, and Richards shot a quick look of inquiry in her direction. “My husband is under Dr. McLane’s care, and until the doctor gives permission he cannot be interviewed.”

“Dr. McLane,” repeated Ferguson, and his face brightened. “The doctor came in just before I did. Will you please send him word that I would like to see him before he leaves?”

Mrs. Hale considered for a brief second, then turned to Richards who was standing near the mantel. “Please touch the bell for Maud,” and as he did so, she again spoke to Ferguson.

“Why do you desire to see my husband?” she asked, and her manner had regained its usual suavity.

“To question him regarding the occurrences of last night,” answered Ferguson. “Have you already done so?” and he eyed her keenly.

Mrs. Hale shook her head, but before she could otherwise reply, Maud came into the room.

“Ask Dr. McLane to come here before he leaves,” she directed. “Tell him that Detective Ferguson and I both wish to see him,” and Maud vanished. Mrs. Hale settled herself back in her chair and regarded Ferguson attentively. There was a bull-dog air about the detective that warned her he was not to be trifled with. In spite of her haphazard characteristics and total lack of tact, she recognized determination in the opposite sex, though never giving in to her own.

“What did you ask me, Mr. Ferguson?” she inquired sweetly.

“Have you told your husband of the death of Austin Hale?” Ferguson put the direct question with quiet emphasis, and she answered it in kind.

“I have not,” adding before he could speak, “My husband was asleep when I went to our rooms after my interview with you this morning, and when he awoke two hours ago he complained of feeling feverish, so I forbore breaking the news to him until after Dr. McLane’s visit.”

Ferguson scrutinized her narrowly; he was not prepossessed in her favor and from the little he had seen of her wondered that she should have refrained from telling her husband of the tragedy of the early morning, for he judged her to be the type of woman who must talk at all costs. That she had not told her husband implied—— The detective’s cogitations were interrupted by the entrance of John Hale and a companion whom Ferguson instantly recognized from the frequent publication of his photograph in the local papers.

Francis Latimer, senior member of the firm of Latimer and House, stockbrokers, was one of the popular bachelors of Washington. Inclined to embonpoint, of medium height, a little bald, and wearing round, horn spectacles, he resembled in his fastidiousness of dress and deportment a Pickwick in modern attire. At the moment his face, generally round and rosy with an ever present smile, wore an unusual seriousness of expression as he greeted Mrs. Hale and Richards. He glanced inquiringly at Ferguson and returned that official’s bow with a courteous inclination of his head.

“Detective Ferguson has been waiting to see you, John,” explained Mrs. Hale, as the men stood for a second in silence.

Ferguson stepped forward. “You told me to call at ten o’clock, Mr. Hale,” he reminded him, and John nodded.

“So I did,” he acknowledged. “Sorry to have kept you waiting, but I had to see the superintendent of the cemetery,” he stopped and cleared his voice. “Latimer and I have just returned from making arrangements for the funeral services. Have you,” again a slight huskiness in his usually clear voice slurred his words, “have you heard, Ferguson, the result of the autopsy?”

“No, Mr. Hale, but it was held——” Ferguson looked over his shoulder on hearing footsteps behind him and saw Leonard McLane walk between the portières of the folding doors, held back by the attentive waitress, Anna.

“Dr. McLane,”—the detective gave no one an opportunity to greet the busy surgeon—“you were present with Coroner Penfield at the post-mortem examination of young Hale, were you not?”

“Yes.” McLane took the hand Mrs. Hale extended to him and gave it a reassuring squeeze; he judged from her unaccustomed pallor that she was much upset. “Yes, well?” and he looked inquiringly at the detective.

“Tell us the result, doctor,” urged Ferguson, and added as McLane hesitated, “You will be betraying no confidences, because the coroner telephoned me to stop and see him about it when I leave here.”

“Go ahead, McLane,” broke in John Hale. “I am entitled to know what caused Austin’s death—don’t keep me in suspense any longer,” and McLane, looking at him closely, saw that tiny beads of sweat had gathered on Hale’s forehead.

John Hale, who measured six feet two in his stocking feet, presented a striking contrast to Frank Latimer as they stood side by side, a contrast Washington society had laughed at and grown accustomed to. Their Damon and Pythias friendship had commenced when they were students at Harvard University and, continued through the years of their separation when John Hale was in Mexico, was cemented again upon the latter’s return to make his home permanently in the National Capital. Hale was the elder by two years. His healthy out-of-door life showed in the breadth of his shoulders and deep chest, and he was seldom credited with being forty-seven years of age. For the first time McLane became aware of the crow’s-feet discernible under his eyes as John Hale moved nearer him.

“Coroner Penfield’s examination,” McLane stated, “proved that Austin died as the result of a wound in the chest. The weapon penetrated the right ventricle of the heart, and death was due to internal hemorrhage.”

A heavy sob broke from Mrs. Hale. “Oh, poor Austin!” she lamented. “Oh, why did he do so mad an act?”

“Explain your meaning, madam,” insisted Ferguson quickly, and held up a cautioning hand as John Hale was about to interrupt her.

“Why, kill himself,” asserted Mrs. Hale. “To commit suicide is a mad act,” she added a trifle defiantly and gazed at her silent companions.

“Was the wound self-inflicted, doctor?” questioned Ferguson, and Mrs. Hale grew conscious of the strained attention of her companions as they waited in silence for McLane’s answer.

The surgeon answered with a question.

“Was any weapon found by the body?”

Ferguson took from his pocket a package wrapped in oilskin. Removing the wrapping, he exhibited a pair of long slender shears. One blade was covered with bloodstains.

“These shears were lying near the body,” he announced.

“And under a rug,” Richards broke his long silence. “I distinctly recall seeing you pick them up, Ferguson, and remember the position they were in when you found them.”

“They were not under a rug,” retorted Ferguson. “The edge of the rug was turned back and covered them. Don’t touch the steel, sir,”—as Richards stepped to his side and studied the shears—“I’ve had impressions made for possible finger marks. You haven’t answered my question, doctor; was it suicide?”

“Possibly.”

“But not probably?” quickly.

“Have a care, Ferguson.” Richards spoke with sternness. “Don’t impute a meaning to Dr. McLane’s words; let him put his own construction on them.” Abruptly he turned to the surgeon. “Could the wound have been accidentally inflicted?”

McLane stared at him. “I don’t quite catch your meaning?”

“Could Austin have tripped or stumbled and fallen on the shears?”

“He could have tripped or stumbled, certainly; but if he had fallen on the shears both blades would have penetrated his chest—” McLane pointed to them. “Only one blade is bloodstained.”

“Quite sure they are bloodstains and not rust?” As he put the question, Richards again scrutinized the shears.

Ferguson smiled skeptically. “The stains have already been subjected to chemical tests,” he said. “It is human blood. Another thing, Major, if Austin Hale fell on these shears and, improbable as it may seem, was stabbed by only one blade, that blade would have remained in the wound, would it not, doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Then we can dismiss the theory of accidental death,” argued Ferguson, “and there remain homicide or suicide. Come, doctor, could Austin have pulled out the shears’ blade after stabbing himself?”

McLane shook his head dubiously. “Death resulted almost instantaneously,” he answered.

Richards, who had thrust his hands into his trousers’ pockets, clenched them until the nails dug into the flesh, while Detective Ferguson, with a covert smile, rolled up the shears once again in the piece of oilskin and replaced them in his pocket.

“Suicide is then out of the question,” he commented gravely. “It leaves us face to face with homicide. What motive inspired Austin Hale’s murder, gentlemen?”

A low moan escaped Mrs. Hale. “There could be no motive,” she stammered. “Austin had no enemies, and this was his home; he was surrounded only with relatives——”

“And he was murdered,” Ferguson’s lips parted in a dangerous smile, as he swung on John Hale. “Come, sir, have you no facts to disclose, no aid to offer in tracking down your son’s murder?”

John Hale regarded him for a moment in grim silence.

“I give you a free hand to follow every clew,” he affirmed, “and offer a reward of five thousand dollars for the apprehension and conviction of his murderer.”

Detective Ferguson buttoned his coat and picked up his hat which he had brought with him into the drawing-room; then he turned to McLane.

“Can I see your patient, Mr. Robert Hale?” he asked.

“Not now.” McLane addressed Mrs. Hale. “I have given your husband a sedative,” he said. “Keep all excitement from him when he awakens; I will call later.”

“But see here, doctor,” objected Ferguson, “I must interview Mr. Hale,” and in his earnestness he laid a persuasive hand on the surgeon’s coat sleeve.

“So you can, shortly,” answered McLane. “Come with me, Ferguson, I’ll take you to the coroner’s,” and there was that about McLane which deterred the detective from pressing the point. With a bow to the others McLane hurried away, Ferguson in his wake. Mrs. Hale gazed in dead silence at her three companions, then found relief in tears.

“Hush, Agatha,” exclaimed her brother-in-law, as her sobs grew in volume. “Calm yourself.”

John Hale’s strong voice carried some comfort, and she looked up a few minutes later as the gong over the front door rang loudly. Through her tear-dimmed eyes she had a fleeting glimpse of a familiar, slender figure hurrying past the portières and through the central hall to the circular staircase. Mrs. Hale’s tears burst out afresh.

“Oh!” she gasped. “I just can’t break the news of Austin’s death to Polly Davis—they were engaged——”

“You don’t know what you are talking about!” John Hale spoke with rough vehemence. “Polly and Austin were not engaged,” and turning on his heel he stamped his way out of the drawing-room.

Mrs. Hale gazed in bewilderment at Richards and Latimer; the former answered her unspoken question.

“Weren’t you aware of the situation?” he asked, and there was mockery in his tone. “John Hale and Austin, his stepson, were both madly in love with Polly—your husband’s secretary.”

CHAPTER IV
LOST: A MEMORANDUM

Anna, the waitress, took one more comprehensive look around the prettily furnished boudoir to make sure that she had not overlooked the sugar bowl; it was certainly nowhere in sight. Anna paused on her way to the door leading to Judith’s bedroom, turned back and, picking up the breakfast tray, departed to her domain below stairs.

Judith, totally unaware that she had disturbed her mother’s excellent waitress by walking off in a moment of absent-mindedness with the sugar bowl, saw reflected in her long cheval glass the closing of the boudoir door, and crossing her bedroom, made certain, by a peep inside, that Anna had gone. With a quick turn of her wrist she shut the door and locked it. The suite which she and her husband occupied consisted of three rooms, the boudoir, their bedroom, and beyond that a large dressing room and bath. There was but one entrance to the suite—by way of the boudoir, which rendered their quarters absolutely private.

Judith perched herself on one of the twin beds, and, feeling underneath her pillow, pulled out a gold locket from which dangled the broken link of a gold chain. There was nothing extraordinary in the appearance of the locket, nothing to distinguish it from many other such ornaments, yet it held Judith’s gaze with the power of a snake-charmer. Twice she looked away from it, twice dropped it under the folds of the tossed back bedclothes, only to pick it up each time and tip it this way and that in the pink palm of her hand. Three times she crooked her fingers over the spring, but the pressure needed to open the locket was not forthcoming.

Suddenly Judith raised her eyes and scanned the bedroom—the glass-topped dressing table with its tortoise-shell, gold-initialed toilet set; the tall chiffonnier on which lay her husband’s military hair brushes and a framed photograph of Judith; the chaise longue with its numerous soft pillows, the comfortable chairs—Judith passed them over with scant attention, and gazed at the pictures on the walls, the draperies over the bow window and its broad seat, which added much to the attractiveness of her room, and lastly at a small leather box resembling a Kodak. The box was perched precariously near the edge of the mantel shelf. Judith walked over to it, jerked up the clasps and lifted the lid. She pushed aside the contents of the box and placed the locket underneath several coils of wire, then closing the box, set it behind the mantel clock. An inspection of the dial showed her that the hour hand was about to register ten o’clock.

The next moment Judith was seated before her dressing table and unbraiding her hair. It fell in a shower about her shoulders, the winter sunshine picking out the hidden strains of gold in its rich chestnut. A deep, deep sigh escaped Judith as she stared at her reflection in the mirror. It was a very lovely face that confronted her, not one to call forth a sigh from the observer. The delicately arched eyebrows, the tender, sensitive mouth, the brilliancy of the deep blue eyes—but enhanced by the shadows underneath them,—the long lashes, and the small shapely head all combined to win for Judith the title of “belle” when introduced three years before to Washington society.

Judith’s popularity had been a matter of unbounded gratification to her mother, whose ambition for a titled son-in-law was thereby encouraged and dinned into her husband’s ears, to his intense disgust, but in spite of his gruff reception of her suggestions, Robert Hale had seen to it that only the most eligible bachelors were invited to their home. Judith had signally failed to encourage any one of her many attentive cavaliers, and when taken to task by her mother, had responded that no man should be handicapped by a deaf wife and that she did not intend to marry; a statement which, in its quiet determination, had staggered her mother.

Judith had thrown herself heart and soul into war work, and though not accepted for service overseas on account of her deafness, she had won, through her efficiency and knowledge of languages, a position in the Department of State carrying great responsibilities, and she had retired from it, after the Armistice, with the commendation of the Department’s highest officials.

The hard work, the long hours, and the close confinement indoors to one accustomed, as Judith had been, to a life in the open, had resulted in a nervous collapse, and Doctor McLane, their family physician, had advised a complete change of environment. The medical dictum had come on the heels of a letter from the United States Consul at Tokio and his wife, asking Judith to make them a long promised visit, and within forty-eight hours all details of her trip across the continent with friends returning to their home in San Francisco after two years’ war work in Washington, had been arranged, and a cable was sent to Mr. and Mrs. Noyes in Tokio, notifying them to expect Judith on the next steamer.

And in Tokio, two weeks after her arrival, Judith had met Joseph Richards, major of the —th Regiment, invalided home from arduous service in Siberia with the A. E. F., and bearing on his broad breast ribbons denoting Russian, Japanese, and British decorations awarded for valor.

Richards had received a warm welcome in the Noyes’ home, and his hostess, a born matchmaker, was quick to observe his infatuation for Judith, and did everything within her power to aid his courtship.

Judith strove to steel her heart to his ardent pleading, but all to no purpose—youth called to youth in a language familiar to every age, and in the romantic background of the Land of the Chrysanthemum they pledged their troth. A week later they were married in the American Consulate by a United States Navy chaplain, and Mr. and Mrs. Noyes, looking backward over their own well-ordered wedded life, wished them Godspeed on their road to happiness.

Happy days had followed, happier than any Judith had known, for in spite of her brave attempt to ignore her deafness and to show only a contented front to the world, that very deafness had built a barrier of reserve which even Judith’s parents had never penetrated. But Richards, whose deep love was a guide to a sympathetic understanding of her shy and sensitive nature, gained a devotion almost akin to worship as the days sped on, and then came the summons home.

With a faint shiver Judith straightened herself in her chair, put down her hair brush and took up the slender wire (in shape like those worn by telephone operators, but much lighter and narrower) attached to the earpiece of the “globia-phone,” and slipped it over her head. It took but a second to adjust the earpiece, and with deft fingers she dressed her hair low on her neck and covering her ears. The style was not only extremely becoming, but completely hid the little instrument held so snugly against her ear. It took but a moment to complete her dressing, and slipping the small battery of the “globia-phone” inside her belt, she adjusted the lace jabot so that its soft folds concealed but did not obscure the sound-gathering part of the earphone, and with one final look in the glass to make sure that her becoming costume fitted perfectly, she turned away just as a loud knock sounded on the boudoir door. Judith laid her hand involuntarily on the back of her chair, then, squaring her shoulders, she walked across the room and unlocked the door and faced her father’s secretary.

“Polly!” The ejaculation was low-spoken and Judith cast one searching look about the boudoir before pulling the girl inside her bedroom and closing the door. “Have you just come?”

“Yes, I came right up here.” Polly Davis, conscious that her knees were treacherously weak, sank into the nearest chair, and Judith, in the uncompromising glare of the morning sunlight, saw in the girl’s upturned face the haggard lines which care had brought overnight. Judith dropped on her knees beside Polly and threw her arm protectingly about her. They had been classmates at a fashionable private school until the death of Polly’s father had brought retrenchment and, later, painful economies in its wake, so that she was obliged to forsake her lessons for a clerkship.

The change from affluence to poverty had produced no alteration in the affection the two girls bore each other, an affection on Judith’s part tempered with responsibility, as Polly, her junior by a few months, came frequently to her for advice—which she seldom if ever followed. Polly’s contact with the world had borne fruit in an embittered outlook on life which in some degree alienated her from her former friends, and she had turned to Judith with the heart-hunger of a nature thrown upon itself for woman’s companionship. Polly’s dainty blond beauty and bright vivacity had gained her lasting popularity with men, but with her own sex she was generally classed as “catty.”

Judith was the first to speak. “Polly—what can I say?” she stammered. “How comfort you?”

For answer the yellow head was dropped on Judith’s shoulder and dry, tearless sobs racked her slender body.

“Hush! Hush!” exclaimed Judith, alarmed by her agony. “Polly, Polly, remember——”

“Remember!” Polly sat up as if stabbed. “Oh, if I could only forget!” A violent shudder shook her. Regaining her composure by degrees, she finally straightened up. “There, the storm is over,” and she dashed her hand across her eyes. “Never allude to this again—promise me.” She spoke with vehemence, and Judith laid a quieting hand on hers.

“I give you my word never to speak of the subject,” she pledged.

“Not even to your husband?”

“No, not even to Joe.” Her answer, although prompt, held a note of reluctance.

Polly’s smile was twisted. Opening her vanity box, she inspected her face in its tiny mirror. A faint shriek escaped her.

“I’m a fright!” she ejaculated, and rising, went over to Judith’s dressing table and proceeded to powder her nose. Drawing out a box of rouge, Polly applied some of it to her cheeks. “There, that’s better.” She turned briskly and looked at Judith. “Do you think your father will discover it is not natural bloom?” she asked flippantly.

Judith’s answer was a stare; Polly’s transition from grief to pert nonchalance was startling.

“Father is not very well,” she replied slowly. “Joe went to inquire for him just before breakfast was announced, and Mother said he was asleep and could not be disturbed.”

Polly contemplated herself in the mirror. “I am sorry,” she remarked, but her tone was perfunctory and a brief silence followed. “Gracious, it is nearly eleven o’clock. Judith, I must fly; for your father left a pile of correspondence in the den——”

“Wait, Polly.” Judith, who had followed her across the bedroom, laid her hand against the door. “There is a question you must answer. Were you—did you,” she stumbled in her speech, “did you know that Austin was to return here last night?”

The rouge on Polly’s cheeks showed up plainly against the dead whiteness of her skin.

“I fail to see what business it is of yours if I knew or did not know of Austin’s contemplated return,” she replied, and before Judith guessed her intention she had slipped under her arm and bolted through the boudoir into the hall, leaving Judith staring after her.

The thick carpet deadened Polly’s flying footsteps as she hurried to the den, a room set aside for Robert Hale’s exclusive use. It adjoined his bedroom, and there the scientist spent many hours going carefully over his manuscripts and statistical research work. It was in one sense a labor of love for, thanks to the timely death of a relative, he had inherited a large estate which brought in its train a handsome income; he was, therefore, not dependent upon a salaried position and could indulge his whims and vagaries. And these same whims and vagaries had, mingled with an unbridled temper, made the post of secretary to the eminent scientist no sinecure. Polly Davis had secured the position through Judith’s influence, and she had remained longer than the majority of her predecessors, a fact which had won sarcastic comments from Robert Hale and—nothing more.

Polly paused on reaching the middle of the den and stared at the man seated with his back to her, bending over Robert Hale’s flat-topped desk. With infinite care he went over paper after paper, and as he lifted his hands Polly saw that he was wearing rubber gloves. With the instinct which seems to warn of another’s presence, he partly turned in his chair and gazed at the motionless figure behind him. A constrained silence followed, which John Hale was the first to break.

“Why did you not go to Baltimore?” he asked.

Her reply was slow in coming.

“I have altered my plans,” she stated, and, crossing to her own desk, she dropped into the revolving chair standing before it.

John Hale watched her for an instant, and not a detail of her appearance escaped him. There was an ominous tightening of his lips, and he lowered his gaze that she might not read its telltale message. Without further comment he removed his gloves, rolled them into a ball and stuffed them in his pocket. In the lengthening silence Polly’s eyes strayed to a pile of papers and she swung the typewriter on its iron supporting-frame, which was attached to her desk, toward her.

“Pardon me if I go on with my work.” Her voice was cold and formal. Slowly John Hale rose to his feet, and the bigness of the man filled the small room. Polly looked only at her typewriter.

“I am sorry I detained you.” His voice matched hers in tone and quality.

Polly raised her eyes and contemplated him. “Did you find what you were looking for in your brother’s desk, Mr. Hale?” she inquired.

Hale’s answer was indirect. “Mr. Hale,” he repeated. “Why not—John?”

“No.”

The finality of the monosyllable brought an angry flush to John Hale’s bronzed cheeks, and without another word he swung on his heel, only to pause at the door and again address her.

“Austin’s funeral will take place to-morrow,” he announced, and the next second he was gone.

Many minutes passed before Polly moved, then rising, she walked over to Robert Hale’s desk and went feverishly through his drawers, one question uppermost in her mind—what had John Hale been looking for? She had about completed her self-imposed task when a voice over her shoulder caused her to catch her breath.

“Why are you searching among my husband’s papers?” asked Mrs. Hale.

Polly swung around in Robert Hale’s comfortable chair.

“How you startled me!” she confessed, with a faint tinkling laugh, a laugh which had irritated Mrs. Hale in the past. “Dear Mrs. Hale, how noiselessly you move.”

“Do I?” tartly.

“I never heard you enter the room.” Polly moved back to her own desk. “Your husband must find you a perfect treasure when you are attending him during his illness.”

Mrs. Hale flushed and promptly forgot to utter the sympathetic platitudes she had prepared when on her way to find Polly. Austin Hale ever engaged to such a chit of a girl? The idea was unbelievable. And John, her staid, solemn brother-in-law, in love with her! Mrs. Hale snorted. Joe Richards should be given a piece of her mind for putting such ideas in her head; she would even speak to Judith about it.

“Why were you going through my husband’s papers?” she asked, and her manner in putting the question was anything but agreeable. “I insist upon an answer.”

Polly’s eyes opened innocently. “Surely, Mrs. Hale, the matter is not secret. I was looking for a memorandum which your husband left for me. It was about so square,”—demonstrating with her fingers,—“on yellowish paper.”

Polly, when moving her hands, dislodged a package of papers and they fell to the floor. In stooping to pick them up, she missed seeing Mrs. Hale’s quick start and sudden change of color. When she raised her head, she found Mrs. Hale’s cold blue eyes were regarding her with disconcerting intensity.

“Was John in here a moment ago?” she asked, and Polly was conscious of flushing hotly; the question was unexpected.

“Didn’t you see him leave, Mrs. Hale?” she asked sweetly, and this time it was Mrs. Hale who flushed. There were occasions when she actively disliked her husband’s accomplished secretary.

“I met him in the hall,” she explained coldly. “But I was not sure whether he had just left here or my husband’s bedroom. Please remember, Polly, that Mr. Hale is ill and that the sound of your typewriter carries into the next room.”

“In that case”—Polly drew her chair closer to her desk with a businesslike air and picked up her pen—“I will write answers in long hand to these business communications, unless you wish something further”—and she waited in polite expectancy.

“I want nothing”—Mrs. Hale drew herself up. “Kindly make as little noise as possible, Polly. Above all, don’t let that telephone ring,” pointing to the instrument which stood almost at the girl’s elbow.

“I shall be as quiet as possible,” Polly promised, and Mrs. Hale, satisfied that she had made Polly understand that she was capable of issuing orders in her husband’s absence, walked toward the hall door. Polly’s voice halted her as she was on the point of leaving the room.

“Is Mr. Hale very ill?” she asked.

“No, oh, no,” Mrs. Hale spoke with positiveness. “But Dr. McLane said that he was under the effects of a sedative. I was in our bedroom a moment ago and Robert was sound asleep. Polly,”—she hesitated and fingered her hand bag—“if you come across a memorandum bearing my name, be sure to let me see it,” and with a whisk of her skirts she hastened away.

Polly stared at the highly glazed surface of Robert Hale’s expensive stationery and then at her penholder. Suddenly she pitched the latter from her and, rising, methodically searched the entire room, taking care that her movements made no noise.

In his comfortable four-post bed in the darkened room adjoining his den, Robert Hale smiled to himself as he dragged the eider-down quilt up about his ears and lay still. His daughter Judith had not inherited his acute hearing.

CHAPTER V
MORE THEORIES

Rain and snow followed by sleet had reduced the traffic in the streets of the Capital City to venturesome taxicabs and occasional delivery cars. Few Washingtonians, not required by necessity to venture out of doors, were so unwise as to risk a fall on the slippery pavements, and the generally gay thoroughfares of the fashionable Northwest were deserted. Weather-forecasters had announced in the morning press that a decade had passed since such a combination of ice and sleet had visited the city so late in the winter.

The small procession of automobiles returning from Oak Hill Cemetery coasted its way with care down the steep hills of Georgetown and along the ice-covered asphalt. John Hale, the occupant of the foremost car, pulled out his handkerchief and mopped his face, which, in spite of the biting north wind and the zero weather, was damp with perspiration.

“Thank God!” he muttered rather than spoke. “That is over.” He turned and scowled at his companion. “Well, Frank, haven’t you anything to say?”

Frank Latimer, who had been studying his friend in silence, roused himself.