The unseen ear
Date: 2022-08-04T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Washington (D.C.) -- Fiction; Husband and wife -- Fiction; Families -- Fiction; Deaf -- Fiction

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Title: The unseen ear

Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Release date: August 4, 2022 [eBook #68679]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. L. Burt Company, 1921

Credits: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE UNSEEN EAR ***

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

CHAPTER | | PAGE
I | Through the Portières | 1
II | Identified | 6
III | Theories | 23
IV | Lost: A Memorandum | 41
V | More Theories | 57
VI | Speculation | 77
VII | The Knave of Hearts | 94
VIII | Pro and Con | 113
IX | Half a Sheet | 123
X | Below Stairs | 140
XI | The Threat | 153
XII | The Theft | 169
XIII | “Mizpah” | 182
XIV | Suspicion | 193
XV | The Push Button | 209
XVI | Links in the Chain | 225
XVII | The Dancing Silhouettes | 242
XVIII | Edged Tools | 252
XIX | The Unseen Ear | 270
XX | Run to Cover | 279

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.

“It was a trying ordeal,” he remarked gravely, “and like you, I am relieved that the funeral is over. Poor Austin!”

John Hale winced. “Don’t!” he exclaimed. “Suppose we leave the—the laments to my sister-in-law, Agatha.”

Latimer nodded sympathetically. “She made an exhibition of herself in the chapel,” he acknowledged. “I had no idea that she was so attached to Austin. In fact,”—Latimer lowered his voice to confidential tones—“I’ve always understood that she opposed a marriage between Judith and Austin.”

“And quite rightly,” Hale’s voice rang out sharply. “Judith is a splendid type of young womanhood, while——” He checked his impetuous speech. “I opposed the match, also.”

“So I recall.” Latimer offered his cigarette case to his friend. His chubby face wore a troubled expression. “Agatha Hale is a bit of a trial, old man; let’s forget her.”

“I wish I could,” with gloomy fervor. “Why Robert ever picked out such a piece of contrariness I never could understand; one moment your friend, the next against you—and emotional!” His tone spoke volumes. “While Robert——” He smiled wryly and Latimer finished the sentence.

“Is the most unemotional of men,” he agreed. “Judith is more like you, John, than like either of her parents.”

Hale moved uneasily and changed the conversation with some abruptness as the car drove up to the curb and stopped before his brother’s residence.

“I’m much obliged to you, Frank, for bringing me home,” he said, preparing to spring out as the chauffeur opened the door. “I don’t think I could have stood driving back in the same car with Agatha and Judith. Won’t you come in with me?”

“I can’t, thanks; I have an appointment,” Latimer responded. “I’ll see you later perhaps at the club. Eh, what the——”

The ejaculation was wrung from him by John Hale’s sudden clutch on his arm and before he quite realized what was happening he found himself propelled out of the car. Once on the sidewalk the little stockbroker turned to his big companion in wrathful bewilderment. The explanation John Hale offered for his precipitous action was given under his breath, and Jackson, the chauffeur, failed to hear it as he climbed back in his seat and, obedient to a signal from his employer, shut off his engine.

“That damn bounder from Police Headquarters is waiting for an interview, Frank.” John Hale indicated one of the library windows overlooking the street where Latimer saw a man peering out from behind the curtains. “I had entirely forgotten that Detective Ferguson telephoned and asked me to see him this afternoon. I want you to be present.”

The urgency of his tone silenced Latimer’s objections, and without a word he accompanied him into the house, Anna, the waitress, holding the front door hospitably open for them. Almost tossing his fur-lined overcoat and hat into the servant’s arms, John Hale strode at once into the library, and Latimer, pausing only long enough to put down his hat and cane on the hall table, followed him, forgetting in his interest that he had not removed his overcoat.

At the sound of their footsteps Detective Ferguson stepped away from the window-alcove where he had been a witness of their arrival. John Hale’s curt greeting and Latimer’s short nod caused him to redden; he was not accustomed to such outward display of contempt, for so he interpreted their manner.

“What can I do for you, Ferguson?” asked John Hale, signing to the detective to draw up a chair as he threw himself down on a lounge. “Sit down, Frank,” and he turned again to the detective, as the latter remained silent, with an impatient “Well?”

“You can answer a few questions, sir,” replied Ferguson.

John Hale lifted his broad shoulders in a contemptuous shrug.

“I have already shown great patience in that line,” he remarked dryly.

“Pardon me; you have answered a few questions most impatiently,” retorted Ferguson. His temper was rising and rapidly overcoming discretion. Instead of an angry rejoinder, John Hale gave a short laugh.

“Well, go on, what are your questions?” he asked. “Remember that we have just come from my stepson’s funeral, and,”—he cleared his throat before continuing—“I—have been under a severe strain.”

“True, sir; I promise not to be long.” Ferguson hitched his chair nearer the two men. “It is in regard to the funeral that I desire to speak. I was told by Coroner Penfield that you had requested that Austin Hale’s body be cremated.”

“Well?” questioned John Hale as Ferguson paused.

“Why did you make that request, Mr. Hale?”

“Because I believe in cremation,” promptly.

“Were you not aware that Austin’s body could not be cremated until after the mystery of his murder had been solved?”

“No, I am not a lawyer.”

“One does not have to be a lawyer to know that such a request would be refused,” replied Ferguson.

Again John Hale shrugged his shoulders. “The request was perfectly reasonable,” he declared.

“Under normal conditions, yes,” dryly. “Why did you make it?”

John Hale’s raised eyebrows indicated annoyance at the detective’s persistence. “I have already told you,” he stated. “It is hardly necessary to repeat that I believe in cremation.”

“And the absolute destruction of the body, so that no further medical examination could be made if the need arose?” Ferguson smiled skeptically. “Now, honestly, did you really think such a request would get by?”

John Hale controlled his temper with an effort. “An autopsy had already been held and the cause of Austin’s death determined,” he pointed out, and then, addressing his silent companion, “What was McLane’s exact definition, Frank?”

Latimer took out his notebook and turned its pages until he came to an entry.

“Dr. McLane stated that Austin died as the result of a chest wound, and that death was instantaneous, as the weapon penetrated to the heart, or words to that effect,” he added and replaced the notebook in his pocket, as John Hale again addressed the detective.

“You see, Ferguson, the autopsy told the cause of death; therefore my request was not only natural, believing, as I do, in cremation, but reasonable.” He leaned back and regarded the detective with candid eyes. “That it was not granted was the unreasonable feature of the case.”

Ferguson was slow in replying. “That you were advised to have the body placed in the receiving vault at the cemetery shows how your request was regarded by the authorities, Mr. Hale,” he remarked, and Latimer broke into the discussion.

“Come, come,” he remonstrated. “You go too far in your zeal, Ferguson. The ground is hard frozen and no graves can be dug; therefore all bodies are being placed in the receiving vaults until the weather moderates.”

“Maybe so,” Ferguson’s smile was non-committal. “But—your request came very pat, Mr. Hale, and—it didn’t make a hit with Headquarters.”

John Hale straightened his powerful figure. “I don’t care a damn how it hit Headquarters!” he declared, and his voice rose in angry accents. “If this is all you wish with me, we may as well cut short our interview; my time is valuable.”

“And so is mine, sir,” retorted Ferguson with equal heat. “How much longer am I going to be prevented from seeing your brother, Mr. Robert Hale?”

“Depends on how long it takes you to turn your head,” remarked a voice back of the three men, and with one accord they spun around. Robert Hale was occupying his favorite chair and he met their stares with one of mild surprise.

“How long have you been in the room?” demanded John Hale.

His brother looked at the clock on the mantel. “A bare thirty seconds,” he answered. “You were so absorbed in conversation that I hesitated to interrupt you. When this gentleman”—with a motion of his hand toward Ferguson—“asked in such impassioned tones for a sight of me, I could not refrain from announcing my presence.”

“But”—John Hale bent forward and stared earnestly at his brother—“Dr. McLane said that you were to remain in bed, that you were too weak——”

Hale interrupted him with a snap of his fingers. “That for McLane’s diagnosis,” he said. “I am a bit weak, but staying in bed won’t cure that complaint, so I dressed myself and came downstairs. Where is Agatha?”

“She’s out,” tersely.

“So Anna informed me when I met her in the hall.” Hale swung his chair around to the left so as to face them more directly. “Anna also said that Judith was out and that Polly Davis was not in the house? Why is every one out? Why”—with a quick impatient gesture—“is there such a funereal air about the house?”

John Hale groaned inwardly and wasted a bitter ejaculation on his sister-in-law. Why had Agatha postponed telling her husband of Austin’s death? What if McLane had advised keeping the tragic news from him—if he was strong enough to dress himself unassisted and walk about the house, he had been strong enough to be told of the events of the past forty-eight hours. But it had now fallen to his lot to do so—it was generally his lot to be the harbinger of bad news in the family. John Hale’s mouth set in grim lines.

“There has been a funeral in the house,” he announced with characteristic bluntness. “Austin died Tuesday night.”

“Austin!” Hale sat bolt upright and regarded his brother; suddenly he sank back in his chair and his head sagged forward on his chest.

“Good Lord!” John Hale leaped to his feet but Latimer was before him in reaching his brother’s side.

“Some water—wine!” he called, and Ferguson bolted from the room in search of Anna, the waitress. He found her polishing silver in the dining room and at his breathless request she filled a glass with ice water and thrust it in his hand. Ferguson reached the library just as Latimer forced some cognac between Hale’s bloodless lips.

“He will revive in a minute,” he said, laying down the flask which John Hale, recovering his dazed wits, had taken from a cabinet in one corner of the library where his brother kept some wine secreted. “His pulse is better now—there,” as the powerful stimulant took effect. “He is coming to. Here, take a sip of this,” and Latimer snatched the glass of water out of Ferguson’s hand. Hale, his eyelids fluttering, drank slowly as Latimer tilted the glass gently against his lips.

With an effort Hale jerked himself erect and then leaned back, pushing aside, as he did so, Latimer’s supporting hand.

“I’m all right,” he protested weakly. “Just over-estimated my strength—wait.”

In the ensuing silence Detective Ferguson studied Robert Hale attentively; it was the first time he had seen the scientist at close quarters. There was something effeminate in Hale’s good looks and, in spite of his gray hair, Ferguson put him down in his estimation as belonging to the “pretty boy type.” The impression was enhanced by the stalwart appearance of John Hale; the brothers were in striking contrast, both in physical build and in mental equipment—one had achieved fame in his chosen profession, while the other had made a bare living as the result of hard work. Ferguson’s lips curled in contempt; the small, slight, middle-aged man was hardly an impressive figure.

Suddenly Robert Hale reached for the flask and Latimer gave it to him. Tilting his head backward, Hale took a long swallow, then laid the flask carefully on the table within easy reach.

“Now, John,” he began, “tell me of Austin.”

“I should have broken the news more gently,” John Hale spoke with contrition. “I should have remembered that you and Austin were great pals.”

His brother passed his hand across his lips. “We were—” He paused abruptly and did not complete his sentence. “Come, don’t be afraid, I have myself in hand; tell me the details.”

John Hale looked dubiously at Latimer and the latter nodded his encouragement. “Go ahead, tell him the whole story,” he advised. “It’s worse to keep him in suspense.”

“Austin died on Tuesday night,” John Hale stated, choosing his words with care, “to be exact, some time on Wednesday morning. He was stabbed to death.”

“Stabbed!” Hale’s hand stole toward the flask, then was withdrawn. “Stabbed by whom?”

“We don’t know.”

“Oh!” Robert Hale’s color was returning slowly. “Where was Austin murdered?”

“Here.”

“Here?” The repetition was parrotlike.

“Yes, here.” Ferguson took a step forward and for the first time joined in the conversation.

Hale turned and regarded him in silence, then looked inquiringly at Latimer.

“This is Detective Ferguson of the Central Office,” he explained. “He is detailed to investigate the mystery surrounding Austin’s death.”

Hale placed his elbow on the table and leaned his head on his hand.

“And what have you discovered, Inspector?” he asked.

“Nothing.” Ferguson, flattered by the title, spoke with courteous promptness. “I have been waiting to interview you, Mr. Hale, as to what transpired here on Tuesday night.”

“Tuesday?” Hale reflected a moment. “Let me see, I was taken ill with the ‘flu’ last Friday, and I have not been up and about until this morning. You will have to ask others in my household for information.”

“I have,” Ferguson made no effort to conceal his disappointment over his failure to elicit news. “And every one declares nothing out of the ordinary was either heard or seen.”

“Tuesday night,” repeated Robert Hale thoughtfully. “Tuesday night—why, John, you went in my stead with Agatha to the French Embassy reception; did Judith accompany you?”

“No, she stayed at home,” John Hale explained. “She said she had a headache.”

“And her husband?” inquired his brother.

“Major Richards? Oh, he had a business engagement at the club.” John Hale pulled forward a chair and sat down, the interview threatened to grow protracted. “It was Joe who found Austin on his return.”

“Joe found him!” Robert Hale glanced upward and Latimer started at the sudden flash in his dark eyes—eyes which until that moment had seemed dull, almost dead, in their lusterless expression. “Well, what then?”

“Joe called in the police,” John Hale continued. “And to-day we are no nearer detecting the criminal or discovering the motive for the crime than we were at that hour.”

“Give us a chance, Mr. Hale,” protested Ferguson. “This is the first time I’ve seen you,” turning to the elder brother. “There’s some information you must give, if Mr. John Hale won’t.”

“Play fair, Ferguson,” objected John Hale. “I have never refused——”

“Be quiet, John.” Robert Hale spoke with authority. “As the head of the house I will attend to this investigation.”

He was interrupted by a slight scream from the hall. The next instant the portières were pulled aside and Mrs. Hale hurried toward him.

“Robert, you are really downstairs—and Anna did not lie,” she commenced incoherently. “Do you not know that you are jeopardizing——”

“Quiet, Agatha”—Robert Hale let his wife clasp his hand in both of hers, and Detective Ferguson, watching the scene with interest, was again impressed with the quality of his voice. Rich in tone, softly modulated, it almost caressed the ear, and Hale’s faultless pronunciation added to the soothing effect. “Where is Judith?”

“Taking off her wraps. She will be here shortly.” Mrs. Hale seldom completed her sentences when excited. “We have just returned from—”

“I can guess”—Hale eyed her mourning and her reddened eyelids. “John has told me of Austin’s death.” He patted her hand gently, sympathetically; then before she could speak, addressed the detective. “You said you wished to question me; kindly do so.”

Ferguson pushed forward a chair for Mrs. Hale near her husband and, drawing out his notebook, chose a seat near the table.

“When did you last see Austin Hale?” he asked.

“Before he left for New York six weeks ago.”

“Did you expect him to return on Tuesday night?”

“No.”

“Was Austin in financial difficulties?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Robert Hale addressed his brother. “How about it, John?”

“I never heard of his having financial difficulties,” the latter replied, his attention partly diverted by Mrs. Hale; she had an annoying habit of biting her nails whenever perturbed in mind, and the gnawing sound, slight as it was, was getting on her brother-in-law’s nerves. She met his glare with a fixed stare, totally unconscious of the cause of his wrath.

“Was Austin in love?” inquired Ferguson, his fountain pen flying over the paper, jotting down questions and answers.

Robert Hale laughed faintly. “Does a kitten play?” he asked. “John, you are better qualified to answer that question than I; Austin was your”—he paused—“stepson.”

“And my adopted son, as well,” John Hale amplified his brother’s statement. “If Austin intended to marry, I was not his confidant, and, therefore, am unable”—his manner grew stiff and formal—“to give you any information on the subject.”

Ferguson frowned in perplexity. The antagonism between the brothers was plainly discernible and Frank Latimer, instinctively aware of which way the detective’s thoughts were turning, grew uncomfortably warm and conscious that he was still wearing his heavy overcoat.

Had Ferguson learned of the frequent disputes between the brothers, which had at different times kept their Washington friends in constant dread of their quarrels developing into actual conflict?

“Is it your custom to keep your safe unlocked, Mr. Hale?” asked Ferguson, breaking the short silence.

“No.”

“Are you aware that it was open on Tuesday night?”

Hale picked up the flask of cognac, eyed it a moment, then laid it down again before answering.

“No.”

“Has any one besides you the combination?”

“No.”

The detective watched Hale closely. Was his use of monosyllables due to physical weakness, to a naturally taciturn disposition, or to a desire to conceal information? Ferguson sighed impatiently and resumed his examination with the point still undecided in his mind.

“Mr. Hale,”—he spoke with growing impressiveness—“I found Austin Hale lying dead in this room on Wednesday morning—he was lying within a few feet of your open safe. The door had not been forced; therefore it must have been opened by some one having the combination.” He paused and the silence lengthened; abruptly he broke it. “Please examine your safe, Mr. Hale, and see if any money or documents are missing.”

“Wait, Robert.” The caution came from Mrs. Hale, and her husband looked at her with marked displeasure. For the moment he had forgotten her presence. “You must not overexert yourself,” she continued. “Let me look in the safe?”

Robert Hale was on his feet before she had finished speaking.

“Don’t worry about me,” he exclaimed tartly. “I know what I am about, Agatha,” and he walked somewhat unsteadily over to the safe, the others following until they grouped themselves about him as he knelt down. There was a distinct pause as he fumbled with the dial.

Mrs. Hale’s anxiety grew—would her husband never get the door open? She was again about to intercede as she noted the paleness of his face and his heavy breathing, but the door suddenly swung open and the remonstrance remained unspoken.

Pushing his heavy gray hair off his forehead, Hale moved closer to the safe, and without haste examined every compartment, then, supported by his attentive wife, he rose painfully to his feet and dropped into a chair.

“My papers and my wife’s jewelry are intact,” he stated.

Ferguson replaced his fountain pen and memorandum pad in his pocket.

“That settles it,” he declared. “Robbery was not the motive. The murder of Austin Hale was an inside job——”

“You are wrong,” John Hale’s voice rang out loudly and echoed through the large room. “Robbery was the motive.”

“Indeed!” Ferguson’s eyes snapped with excitement. Was he to learn something tangible at last. “What was stolen?”

“Austin owned a valuable antique watch.” John Hale spoke slowly, impressively, checking off each word on his finger. “He always carried it—it was almost a fetish with him. The watch is missing.”

Concealed by the portières, Judith Richards leaned limply against the door-jamb of the library and only Anna, the waitress, passing through the hall, heard her astounded gasp, followed by a low moan.

CHAPTER VI
SPECULATION

It was lacking twenty minutes of noon and Polly Davis frowned discontentedly as she consulted her wrist-watch. She was under positive instructions from Robert Hale to complete the compilation of data given to her the week before. Hale’s cramped and peculiar style of penmanship was difficult to read at any time, and with her thoughts wandering far afield, Polly found her task more irksome than usual.

Swiftly her fingers moved over the familiar typewriter keys and with mechanical exactness she copied—copied, pausing now and then to decipher a nearly unintelligible paragraph, until she came to the end of the manuscript notes. But her sigh of relief changed to a swift, disgusted ejaculation as, dragging the last sheet out of the typewriter she discovered that she had carelessly reversed the carbon and that the second copy, intended for Hale’s files, was blank. The impression, which should have been on it, was stamped, instead, on the back of the top sheet.

With a gesture of rage she crumpled the sheet in her hand and hurled it into the scrap basket. In its flight the paper ball just missed striking Anna, the waitress, whose noiseless entry a second before had escaped her attention. At sight of the servant Polly lowered her hand, still raised after flinging the paper ball, and her features relaxed to their wonted expression.

“I did not mean to bombard you, Anna,” she apologized. “Would you mind moving the scrap basket over here where it will be more handy? Thanks,” as the servant complied with her request. “Any letters for Mr. Hale?”

“The postman hasn’t brought the second mail yet, Miss Polly.” Anna unfolded a small card table and stood it in front of Polly. “I hope you don’t mind having your luncheon a little earlier to-day, miss. The Madam gave me this afternoon off to go to the movies.”

“Mind? Well, hardly, I’m ravenous,” and Polly brightened as Anna put a well-laden tray before her. “You are quite a movie fan, Anna; what are you going to see to-day?”

“‘The Official Chaperon.’” Anna poured out a steaming cup of tea and deftly supplied the proper amount of cream and sugar. “They say it is a thriller.”

“The title is a little more sedate than ‘Without Sin,’” acknowledged Polly laughing. “I believe that was the last movie you told me of seeing; perhaps the new one won’t give you a nightmare.”

Anna colored. She was sensitive about the scene she had created ten days before when her screams had awakened the household from sound slumber and brought forth a severe scolding from Mrs. Hale on the subject of attending trashy plays. Robert Hale had interfered in time to prevent Anna, whose red hair was indicative of her hasty temper, from giving notice, to the relief of the other members of the family who liked the silent, well-trained servant.

“‘The Official Chaperon’ is a dandy,” she declared stoutly. “’Least so the papers say. It’s about a society girl who is under the hypnotic influence of a rascal, miss, a regular rascal—he even makes her commit murder.”

Anna brought out the last word with such intensity that Polly actually jumped.

“I see you are in for another nightmare,” she said, but the smile accompanying her banter was fleeting. “Isn’t Mr. Austin’s murder terrible enough without harrowing your soul with further tragedies?”

Before replying Anna removed the cover of the toast dish and placed its tempting contents almost directly under Polly’s nose.

“It’s terrible, miss; so terrible that I want to forget it.”

Polly’s laugh did not ring quite true. “You take an odd way to do so,” she remarked. “However, Anna, go and see the hypnotic movie murder, and my blessings go with you.”

Anna regarded the tray critically for an instant without moving. “You are not eating, miss,” she remonstrated. “I don’t know what I’ll do with you and Miss Judith.”

Polly laid down her fork. She had been merely toying with the salad on the plate before her.

“Has Miss Judith lost her appetite?” she asked.

“Yes, miss.” Anna stepped nearer and spoke more rapidly. “Miss Judith appears sort of—of in a trance, like.”

“Trance!” Anna had no occasion to complain of inattention. Polly was regarding the girl’s comely face with deep interest. For the first time she observed the dark lines under the large eyes and saw that the soft cream-tint of Anna’s perfect complexion, which she had frequently envied in the past, was an unhealthy white. “Trance,” she repeated. “What do you mean, Anna?”

“Exactly that, miss.” Anna spoke with positiveness. “She moves as if she was in a dream. She don’t eat, don’t talk, and I don’t believe she sleeps.”

“Dear me!” Polly bit viciously into a piece of chocolate cake. “Well, it is not surprising, Anna, that Miss Judith is upset. She and Mr. Austin were very fond of each other.”

“Until he wished to marry her,” was Anna’s shrewd retort. “Oh, we servants aren’t blind, miss.”

“No, worse luck!” The low-spoken ejaculation escaped Polly unawares, and she bit her lip. Apparently it was not overheard, for Anna made no comment, and Polly asked in haste, “How did you know that Mr. Austin desired to marry Miss Judith? You were not here at that time.”

“No, miss; but when the cablegram came telling of Miss Judith’s unexpected marriage to Major Richards, cook told me all about Mr. Austin’s courtship, and how Mr. Hale encouraged him. It was common gossip, miss, not only below stairs but in society as well.” Seeing that Polly had about completed her hastily eaten meal, Anna rearranged the tray, preparatory to carrying it away. “You weren’t here then either, miss, were you?”

“N—no.” Polly folded her napkin in its exact creases with due regard to detail. “Don’t worry about Miss Judith, she will be all right as soon as the shock of Mr. Austin’s death wears off.”

“Will she, miss?” Anna’s tone expressed doubt. She lifted the tray, thought a moment, replaced it, and walked to Polly’s side. “Do you think Miss Judith’s quite happy in her marriage?”

“What!” Polly stared at her questioner in blank astonishment “She and her husband are ideally happy.”

“Are they, miss?” Anna shook a puzzled head, then bent until her lips almost touched Polly’s ear. “Major Richards came home from Mr. Austin’s funeral just in time for dinner, and went out immediately after—and—he didn’t return until about six this morning.”

“How do you know?” demanded Polly. Her voice was sharp.

“I let him in, miss.” Anna picked up the tray and poised for flight. “The Major said he had mislaid his latchkey.”

Polly regarded the waitress as she crossed the room, with critical eyes. In spite of the heavy glass-topped tray, Anna walked with ease, her fine upright carriage had frequently been commented upon admiringly by Mrs. Hale’s dinner guests.

Polly turned back to her typewriter with renewed distaste. A glance at her watch showed that it was after one o’clock. For some minutes she sat in indecision. Then, tossing her papers into the drawer, she covered her machine and went home.

She had been gone a bare ten minutes when the door opened and Robert Hale stepped into the den. On catching sight of the empty chair in front of the typewriter, he frowned, and, going over to the machine, lifted its leather cover. A glance at its empty roll brought a shrug of the shoulders, which was repeated when he looked at his watch. Without sitting down he scanned the furniture and the scrap basket finally caught his eye.

Dropping into Polly’s chair, he picked up the basket and examined the pieces of torn envelopes, then the ball of paper claimed his attention and he smoothed it out. He read the typewritten words listlessly at first, then with slowly increasing interest, and finally folded the sheet with care and slipped it inside his pocket. Five minutes later he was smoking placidly in his favorite chair in the library.

Judith’s lack of appetite which had so distressed Anna, the waitress, persisted, and during luncheon she partook of only one hot roll and sipped a cup of tea. Mrs. Hale, loquacious as ever, paid no attention to the curt responses of both her husband and daughter, and carried on a lengthy conversation, much to her own satisfaction and the secret enjoyment of Maud, the parlor maid, who, in Anna’s absence, was serving luncheon unaided.

Mrs. Hale’s volatile nature had thrown off the depression of the past two days and, after the funeral services in the mortuary chapel of Oak Hill Cemetery, she had recovered from her inclination to hysteria and was, to all intents and purposes, her normal self again. At least, so the servants had concluded from her excessive interest in housekeeping affairs.

Not waiting for the dessert to be passed, Judith pushed back her chair and rose.

“If you will excuse me, Mother,” she said, “I will try to get a nap; I did not sleep very well last night.”

Her father regarded her with concern. “My dear child!” he exclaimed, startled by her pallor, “you look completely used up. Agatha, what do you mean by permitting Judith to get up this morning? She needs entire rest.”

“Well, really, Robert,”—Mrs. Hale flushed; her husband seldom addressed her in that tone—“Judith has a husband to look after her; I,” primly, “don’t interfere.”

The carmine rose in Judith’s white cheeks, then receded, leaving them whiter than before. There was a perceptible pause before she spoke.

“There is no cause for interference, Mother,” she protested. “Joe insisted upon my remaining in bed to-day, but I disobeyed him.”

Robert Hale laid down the cigar he was about to light and again regarded her.

“Where was Joe last night?” he inquired, and at the question Judith stiffened.

“He had to motor to Baltimore on business,” she explained. “In returning, his chauffeur drove recklessly and they met with an accident, so that Joe never reached home until about six o’clock this morning.”

“So Anna told me.” Hale was looking at his cigar and not at his daughter. “Hard on Joe to be sleepless for three nights running. When he comes in ask him to look me up.”

“Yes, Father.” Judith had taken a few steps toward the entrance to the central hall, when her mother’s shrill voice reached her.

“Why isn’t Joe here for luncheon?” she asked.

“He is lunching with friends at the Alibi Club.” Judith laid one hand on the portière nearest her and, turning, faced her parents. “Why are you so interested in Joe’s whereabouts?”

“What a question?” Hale laughed lightly. “We are interested in everything which concerns you, Judith; and surely your husband is of paramount importance. Run along, dearest, and get that needed sleep,” and, rising, Hale crossed the room and kissed her. The lips which Judith barely touched to his were cold, and without another word she hastened to her room.

Hale stood in the doorway gazing thoughtfully into space; and his expression gained in seriousness. “The Alibi,” he muttered. “Bah! an alibi.”

Once in her bedroom, Judith locked the communicating door between it and her boudoir; thus secured from interruption, she paced up and down her room, her footfall on the heavy carpet making no sound. Back and forth, back and forth—utter physical fatigue finally caused her to drop into a chair.

But while soft upholstery brought rest to her tired body, it gave no mental relief. What had come over her to lie—lie—lie—she, who had been brought up by her New England grandmother to abominate even the “delicate” white lie of society. And she had lied, not to an outsider, but to her father and mother, and lied about her husband.

Judith drew a long breath. She had “explained” Richards’ absence by drawing on her imagination. In reality she had no knowledge where he had gone after dinner the night before. She had pretended to be asleep when he came in at nearly seven in the morning and thrown himself on the outside of the bed. He had slept the sleep of utter exhaustion, and she had forborne to wake him, had forborne to question him when he finally awoke—and he had volunteered no explanation. He had not returned for luncheon, having left her with the remark that a stroll down town would freshen him up—and that was all.

A few bitter tears forced themselves under Judith’s closed eyelids; it was the first rift in their happy married life. His manner had been affectionate, tender, but——

Judith dashed her hand across her eyes and rose. It took her but a short time to change her house gown for a becoming suit. She was about to leave the room when a thought struck her. Going over to the mantel, she opened the small leather box and took from under its coiled wires the locket which had so engrossed her attention on Wednesday morning. She balanced the locket in her hand in indecision, then, closing the box, she went to her bureau and from its upper drawer took out a jewel box, opened it, and dropped the locket among the other pieces of jewelry the box contained, locked it, and put the box back in place inside the drawer.

On her way to the front door Judith encountered her mother and was promptly stopped.

“Judith!” Mrs. Hale’s accents indicated a crescendo of astonishment. “My dear, didn’t you hear your father say that you were to go to bed?”

“Now, Mother, please”—Judith placed her finger lightly against Mrs. Hale’s rouged lips. “Not another word. As you said at luncheon, I am a married woman now, and—I know best.” Before Mrs. Hale could frame another remonstrance, she had run out of the front door and sprung into her electric car and driven off.

Traffic regulations prevented Judith from parking her car in front of the tall office building where “Latimer and House,” had their stock-brokerage office, and she was obliged to walk almost a block, a distance which she covered in record time and arrived, somewhat breathless, in the anteroom of that firm. At her request to see the senior partner, she was at once taken to Frank Latimer’s private office. With characteristic directness she plunged at once into her errand.

“I have come to see you on business, Frank,” she began, taking the chair his clerk placed for her. “Confidential business.”

Latimer signed to his clerk to withdraw and then turned to her.

“Anything I can do?” he asked. “I am entirely at your service, Judith.”

“Thanks.” Judith’s quick smile enhanced her beauty, and Latimer regarded her with admiration. He and her Uncle John had been her pals since the days when she wore short frocks. “I want your advice about some bonds, Frank.”

“Surely.” Latimer drew a pad and pencil toward him. “Have you decided on your investment?”

“I am not going to buy—I wish to sell.”

“Oh!” Latimer showed his surprise, but she gave him no opportunity to say anything further.

“How much would ten one hundred dollar bonds of the Troy Valve Company bring?” she asked.

Latimer again glanced at her in surprise. “They are selling above par,” he said. “Wait”—and he consulted a printed table of figures—“to be exact, 125-1/2—they fell off a point in yesterday’s market.”

“Let me see”—Judith did a sum in mental arithmetic—“that would net me about $1250.”

“A little more than that,” Latimer completed his memorandum. “If you hold the bonds for forty-eight hours they will recover—industrials are in great demand now.”

“But I want the money.”

“But Judith,” he remonstrated, “don’t sacrifice your bonds. Why not ask your father for a loan?”

“No,”—Judith tempered the refusal—“Father wouldn’t understand. I need the money for—for an emergency.”

“Well, see here, Judith,”—Latimer pulled out his check book—“won’t you let me help out?”

Judith flashed him a look of gratitude. “Don’t think I am unappreciative of your generous offer,” she exclaimed, “if I decline it.”

“All right, Judith,” and Latimer returned his check book to the desk drawer. “But don’t sell your bonds. You can raise a thousand at any bank by giving them as collateral with your note.”

Judith’s expression altered. “I hadn’t thought of that,” she exclaimed. “Perhaps that would be better.”

“Then if it will be of assistance to you I’ll arrange it at the bank.” Judith nodded a vigorous assent. “Will one thousand be enough?”

Judith considered a second. “Yes, I believe so.”

“Have you the bonds with you?”

“No, they are in our safe at home.” Judith glanced at her wrist-watch and saw that it was half-past two. “I’ll bring the bonds to-morrow morning; that will be time enough. I have the numbers here, however,” and drawing out her bank book from her bag, she turned to its back pages. “They run from 37982 to 37991.” She was on her feet before Latimer had laid down his pencil. “I must hurry, Frank.” Impulsively she clasped his hand in both of hers. “I can’t begin to thank you.”

“Nonsense!” Latimer patted her gently on the shoulder. “I am only too glad, Judith, to be of service. How is your father?”

“Oh, he is all right again.” Judith could not restrain her impatience to be off. “Mother’s rather fidgety; so are we all”—and an involuntary sigh accompanied the words. “Austin’s death was a shock we have not recovered from. It’s—it’s numbed us”—hunting about for a word.

“I understand,” and Latimer looked sympathetically at her as he escorted her through his private entrance into the corridor and to the elevator shaft. “The newspapers said there were no new developments in the case. Are you still annoyed by the police?”

“Not to-day,” Judith stopped at the stairs. “I can’t wait for the elevator; it’s only a few flights, so good-by.” And waving her hand, she almost ran down the steps.

As Latimer reëntered his private office he found his head clerk standing by his desk with a number of papers in his hand.

“These bonds have just been offered,” he explained, extending the papers and Latimer glanced at them. The next second he snatched up his memorandum pad and compared the figures noted thereon with the numbers engraved on the Troy Valve bonds—37982. With quickened interest Latimer turned over the bonds—each of the ten numbers tallied with those on the memorandum pad.

“Where did you get these Valve bonds?” he demanded.

“One of our new customers—I forget his name—has just sold them to cover his margins.”

Latimer stared at his clerk. “Is the customer still here?”

“Yes, sir; at least he was a few minutes ago.”

Latimer strode to the outer office door and opened it slightly; over a dozen men and women were grouped about the ticker at the other end of the room.

“Which is the customer?” he demanded, keeping his voice low.

The clerk peered over his shoulder.

“There—that’s him,” he exclaimed; Latimer’s excitement, though subdued, had communicated itself to him and his grammar went astray. “There, he’s going out of the front door.”

And Latimer, looking eagerly across the office, was just in time to recognize the clear-cut features and the straight soldierly figure. Joseph Richards had disposed of the ten bonds owned by his wife—which Judith desired to sell—to cover his margins in stock speculations.

Latimer sat down in the nearest chair conscious of a feeling of faintness for the first time in his life.

CHAPTER VII
THE KNAVE OF HEARTS

The death of Austin Hale under mysterious circumstances had created a veritable sensation in Washington, and the residents of the National Capital read with avidity every newspaper account. To the indignation of the city editors and the staffs of newspaper men few details were forthcoming from either Police Headquarters or the Hale residence. Thus thrown upon their own resources, imagination played a large part in their “write-ups” of the tragedy which, headed by display type of the most sensational character, had but served to whet the appetite of the reading public.

Robert Hale and his family occupied a prominent position, both in the scientific world and in society, and young Austin Hale, who had been petted and indulged by his hosts of friends, was genuinely mourned, and Anna, the waitress, detailed Maud, the parlor maid, to remain at the front door and receive the visiting cards bearing the message, “With sincere sympathy,” or perfumed notes of condolence addressed to Mrs. Hale, Judith, and John Hale.

Mrs. Hale looked with dismay at the formidable pile of notes which Maud had handed to her with a flourish at the close of dinner.

“I shall have to borrow Polly Davis to acknowledge these messages of sympathy for me, Robert,” she remarked, laying aside her lorgnette and addressing her husband who, occupied with a game of solitaire, sat at a near-by table in the library.

Robert Hale considered the Knave of Hearts before discarding it.

“Very well, if you need Polly’s services you can have her,” he said, drawing another card from the pack. “But it is for a limited time only, recollect Polly is behind in my work.”

Judith, knitting industriously in her corner of the big divan, stopped her busy needles for a moment.

“Polly isn’t looking very well, Father,” she stated slowly. “Don’t give her additional work; she is not very strong.”

Hale looked displeased. “I am not giving her additional work,” he protested. “Polly is behindhand, and it is entirely her own fault. She has been giving too much attention to society and too little to her duties as my secretary.”

“Tut, Judith,” Mrs. Hale promptly took exception to the implied criticism of her husband. “Your father is quite right, he has been most lenient with Polly and her flirtations.”

“I hardly think it is our place to judge Polly.” Judith spoke with increasing earnestness. “The girl tries hard to keep up with her work, and your manuscript is not always easy, Father. You ought to recollect, also, Mother, that she has led a colorless life until this winter. She has a mother entirely dependent upon her, and they are cruelly poor.”

“All the more reason for attending strictly to her work,” grunted Hale, but his voice had softened, as it always did when Judith was a special pleader and that his daughter was much in earnest was plainly evident. “Can’t you manage those notes yourself, Agatha?”

“Let me answer them for you,” broke in Joe Richards, and, rising from his seat under a standing lamp where he had been reading an evening newspaper, he walked over to the divan. “My penmanship used to be pretty fair, and if Judith will dictate what to say—”

“Of course I will,” Judith’s blue eyes flashed him a grateful message. “Now, Father, if you will consent, I wish to give Polly a—a vacation.”

Hale raised his head and contemplated her in surprise. “A vacation?” he echoed. “Come, Judith, that is a different matter; I am willing not to give Polly additional work, but she must complete her regular secretarial duties.”

Richards looked from father to daughter. “Can’t I help out there, also, Mr. Hale?” he asked.

“You cannot,” was the prompt response, and under his tan Richards felt his color rise. Hale’s manner to him could never be termed ingratiating. If Judith caught the undercurrent of dislike in her father’s abrupt refusal she gave no sign of it, as she went placidly on with her knitting.

“I will see that you are supplied with a secretary in Polly’s place,” she explained. “And if you consent, Father, I plan to give her and her mother a trip to Atlantic City.”

“Bless my soul, Judith!” Mrs. Hale dropped the note she was reading and stared at her. “I think such generosity is quite unnecessary.”

“Please”—Judith laid aside her knitting and her voice was soft and winning. “Please, dear, let me have my way in this. You, Father, will benefit.”

Hale, in gathering up his playing cards, dropped half of them on the floor, and he was some seconds in collecting them, with the assistance of Richards.

“How shall I benefit?” he asked, acknowledging Richards’ courtesy with a nod of his head.

“By getting more efficient work,” Judith explained. “Polly is on the point of a nervous breakdown. Rest and sea breezes will put her on her feet again; whereas if she is forced to leave you on account of illness, you will still be obliged to fill her place—perhaps for an indefinite time.”

Hale stacked the cards neatly before him and rising, put the small table back against the wall in its customary place. “I’ll think over your plan, Judith,” he agreed. “But mind you, I can’t promise. Well, Agatha,”—as his wife, seeing he was about to leave the library, rose also, a bundle of papers in her hand—“what is it? Do you wish to go on a vacation, also?”

“No, indeed!” Mrs. Hale took her courage in both hands. “Here are some bills—they have just come in,” hastening to forestall objections. But, contrary to her expectations, Hale did not indulge in his usual sarcastic comments regarding her efforts to keep household accounts systematically—the word “system” was not in Mrs. Hale’s vocabulary.

“Bring the bills to my den,” he suggested, “and I will go over them. Don’t stay up too late, Judith,” he cautioned, turning back from the door as Mrs. Hale, much relieved, hastily gathered together her cherished account books, which never balanced, and scurried out of the library ahead of him in some trepidation lest he might change his mind. Hale looked first at Judith and then at her husband. “Don’t let Judith overtire herself, Joe; we cannot have that.” Wheeling around, he followed his wife upstairs.

Judith looked up from her knitting as Richards paused by the side of the divan and regarded her.

“Do you feel ill, dearest?” he asked, and the concern in his tone brought a touch of color to her wan cheeks.

“No, only—” Judith hesitated. “Father is right, I am very tired—I couldn’t sleep last night.” Her usually clear voice quivered; another second and Richards’ arms were around her and her head was pillowed on his broad shoulder.

“My dear, dear love,” he murmured. “Judith, don’t cry, my darling, don’t”—in distress, as her self-control gave way. The storm of tears ceased almost as abruptly as it started, and Judith met her husband’s tender glance with a brave little smile.

“I am not often inclined to hysterics,” she whispered. “Forgive me, dear.”

“Forgive you!” Richards laughed softly. “Always, dear heart. Judith”—and his clasp tightened—“you have no idea how precious you are to me; how I worship you”—his strong voice grew rough with emotion. “I am not half worthy of you.”

“Hush!” Judith placed a tender finger across his lips. “Don’t say that, Joe. The world never held such happiness for me until I met you, and there has been no shadow until”—she faltered a minute—“until yesterday.”

“Until yesterday?” Richards’ astonishment was plain. “You mean Austin’s funeral?”

“No.” Judith colored warmly. “I mean your leaving after dinner last night without saying anything to me and—and—your getting back so late, or rather, so early this morning.”

“Good gracious, Judith!” Richards chuckled, then grew grave. “John asked me to go to the club, and I left word with your father—didn’t he give you the message?”

“No; Father felt badly early in the evening and went to bed without my seeing him. Did you stay at the club all night?” again she colored. “I was awake when you came in this morning.”

“You were!” Richards smiled wryly. “And I thought you asleep and did my best not to awaken you. At the club I met Sandy Nichols, and he asked me to run over to Baltimore and try out his new Pierce Arrow—he was my pal in the A. E. F., you know,” he interpolated. “We expected to be back before midnight, but we first lost our way owing to a detour, and then the car broke down on the return trip. I tried to telephone, but Central declared the house would not answer.”

“Mother had the phone disconnected; she insisted it disturbed Father.” Judith’s spirits were returning, and the glance she gave him was full of mischief. “You have no idea how worried I was.”

“Judith!” Richards held her face between his hands and gazed straight into her eyes. “Judith, you weren’t jealous?”

Slowly, slowly her eyes fell before his ardent look and the rich color mantled almost to her brow. “Yes, I was,” she confessed, and holding her in close embrace, he kissed her tenderly.

“Judith,” he said, “never doubt my loyalty to you—my devotion.” He stopped, hesitated, and his voice grew even lower. “You are my life—my religion.”

“Joe!” Startled by the intensity of his manner, Judith stood up. “You must not exalt me. I am an ordinary mortal, subject to error.”

“No.” Richards rose and faced her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders. “In my eyes you can do no wrong.”

Richards stood tall and straight before her, his six feet two of sturdy manhood matched by her slender willowy figure, for Judith was above the usual height for women. Maud, the parlor maid, who had come in search of Mrs. Hale, felt a sympathetic thrill as she noted the rapt expression of the lovers and stole away without disturbing them.

“Joe,”—Judith slipped her hand inside his and gave it a gentle squeeze—“this is the first really happy moment I have known since I regained my senses in my boudoir on Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday morning. I do not understand how I came to faint.”

Richards glanced at her for an instant. Then his gaze traveled across the room and rested on the spot where Austin Hale’s body had lain that fateful Wednesday morning.

“You had reached the limit of endurance, dearest,” he declared. “Tell me,”—and again his eyes sought hers—“you heard nothing—no sound of a struggle, no scream?”

Judith shook her head and the pathetic look which Richards had grown to know crept into her eyes. “I am deaf.”

“But with this, dear,” and he touched the earpiece of the “globia-phone” which she was wearing. “Surely you could hear something.”

“I did not have it on Tuesday night,” she explained. “My head ached and when I braided my hair I took it off, for even the slight weight of the instrument intensified the pain. And you must remember that the walls of this house are sound-proof; I could not hear, even when I was wearing this earphone, anything transpiring downstairs while I was in our boudoir.”

“In our boudoir!” The words slipped mechanically from Richards. “Don’t you recollect, dearest, that I found you unconscious in the front hall downstairs?”

“In the front hall?” Judith faltered and dropped her eyes. “Why—I—I thought you found me in our boudoir. I revived there.”

“I carried you upstairs.” Richards bit his lip as a faint “Oh!” broke from Judith. She made no other comment, and he continued, “How did it happen that your earphone was in your father’s safe?”

“I suppose he picked it up and absent-mindedly put it there.”

“But, Judith,”—Richards glanced away from her—“your father stated that he was taken ill with the ‘flu’ on Friday a week ago, and that he did not come downstairs until yesterday. How then could he have put the earphone in the safe on Tuesday night?”

“I did not say he put it there Tuesday night,” Judith spoke a bit sharply. “It may have been there for days and I never would have missed it, for I have about every ear instrument ever invented. Father is always buying some new invention, and you will find them scattered all over the house, much to Mother’s annoyance.” Judith had spoken with unusual rapidity and she came to a breathless pause.

“Judith,”—Richards hesitated a brief second—“what brought you downstairs on Tuesday night?”

“I was looking for you,” she confessed. “You said that you would return early”—with faint reproach.

“Did you see Austin?” The question came with marked reluctance, and in the deepening silence Richards caught the tick-tock of the clock over the fireplace. His hands tightened their clasp and he grew conscious that hers had grown cold.

“I had no knowledge of Austin’s presence in the house,” she stated and winced. “Don’t, Joe, you are hurting me”—and Richards awakened to the fact that he had pressed her hands with such force that her wedding ring had cut into the delicate flesh.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, and, raising her hands, pressed them to his lips.

“Joe,”—Judith had grown singularly pale and the hand she disengaged from his and laid on his arm was not quite steady—“believe me, dear, when I say that I heard nothing on that Tuesday night preceding or following Austin’s death.”

“You heard nothing,” Richards repeated; neither looked at the other. “I believe you, sweetheart.” He kissed her gently. “You must not worry so, Judith; you will make yourself ill, and I fear I have kept you up talking much too long,”—in deep contrition as the dock chimed ten. “Come, dear.” And with his arm thrown protectingly about her shoulders, he strolled with her to the door.

As they passed the card table Judith caught sight of a playing card lying on the rug and her orderly instinct caused her to stoop and pick it up just as the portières parted and Mrs. Hale dashed breathlessly into the library.

“You haven’t gone upstairs!” she exclaimed, much relieved. “The most dreadful thing has happened.”

“What?” demanded Judith and her husband in unison.

“Anna has fallen and sprained her ankle.”

“Is that all?” Judith’s relief took the form of a short laugh.

“All? Good gracious, to have a waitress laid up is serious enough, without having that waitress, Anna,” Mrs. Hale spoke in scandalized disapproval. “Anna is the most useful person in the house.”

“I know she is,” agreed Judith. “I spoke in haste, Mother, but you frightened me; I thought something had happened to—to Father.”

“Let me call a doctor,” suggested Richards practically and walked toward the desk phone. But Mrs. Hale stopped him.

“I have already telephoned,” she explained. “McLane is detained at the hospital with a serious case and can’t come, but he gave me explicit directions over the phone, and I shall carry them out.” Mrs. Hale had unbounded confidence in her medical knowledge, a confidence, however, not shared by the members of her family. “But I find that we have no arnica in the medicine chest.”

“Let me go for it,” volunteered Richards and, not waiting for Mrs. Hale’s voluble thanks, he started for the door, pausing only to call to Judith. “Run upstairs, Judith, don’t wait for me.” Snatching up his hat and overcoat, he disappeared out of the house, in his haste never hearing Mrs. Hale’s parting injunction. She turned with a worried air to her daughter.

“I declare, Judith, I forgot to ask him to get bandages.”

“I have some.” Judith slipped her arm inside her mother’s. “Come up to my boudoir and then I will go with you to see Anna.”

Three quarters of an hour later, the arnica applied and the swollen ankle neatly bandaged, Judith came downstairs in quest of a decanter of whiskey which her father kept carefully secreted in the dining room. Anna had expressed a desire for a “nightcap” and Mrs. Hale had begged Judith to prepare it for her.

Judith poured out a liberal portion of Scotch, replaced the decanter in its recess behind the sideboard, and then hastened toward the door, intending to add the hot water when she reached Anna’s bedroom. As she passed the drawn portières across the entrance to the library, her eyes caught a ray of light showing between its folds. Judith halted in surprise and, parting the portières, looked inside the library. Seated in her father’s favorite chair was her uncle, John Hale. By his side stood Frank Latimer, both with their backs partly turned toward her. Her uncle’s raised voice reached her in the stillness and she caught the mention of her husband’s name.

“I know very little about Joe Richards’ antecedents,” John Hale stated. “He seems a good fellow, whole-souled, well-set-up—educated. We knew nothing of Judith’s marriage until her cable came.”

“How about Richards’ financial standing?”

“Why do you ask, Frank?” John Hale regarded his friend in surprise.

Latimer moved nearer. “The question is prompted by our long friendship, John, by my affection for Judith.” The gravity of his manner startled the listening girl. “I had to see you to-night; I could not rest until I did.” Latimer polished his round spectacles and adjusted them with care. “What we say is in confidence. It is imperative that I get some information about Richards, particularly as to his financial standing. Has he money?”

“He appears to have plenty of ready cash,” admitted John Hale slowly. “I heard to-day that he has applied for a position with the Ludlow Locomotive Works.” He paused. “Tuesday Richards went to our bank and asked for a loan, offered to supply bonds as collateral, and gave us as references—that is how I learned of the transaction.”

“Did the bank make the loan?”

“Not yet; the treasurer consulted me, and has the matter under advisement.” Again he paused. “It greatly depends upon the bonds he offers.”

Latimer stared at his companion. “Good Lord!” he groaned, and again wiped his glasses. “Listen, John, and don’t breathe a word of what I say, d’ye hear?”

“I won’t,” and the pledge rang out clearly.

“Judith came to my office this afternoon and asked me to sell ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company. I advised her to borrow from her bank, offering them as collateral, and before she left she gave me the bond numbers, 37982 to 37991. She hadn’t been gone five minutes when my clerk brought me in ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company bearing those identical numbers. See for yourself,” and he laid a bundle of papers in John Hale’s hand. “The bonds had been sold to us not ten minutes before to cover margins in stock speculations when the market fell to-day.”

“Well, go on,” urged John Hale.

“The speculator and the man who sold the bonds are one and the same person—Joseph Richards. Now, how did Richards get hold of Judith’s bonds which, mind you, she expected to bring to me to-morrow?”

John Hale, who had followed Latimer’s slow speech with absorbed attention, answered almost automatically.

“Robert confided to me this evening that on careful examination of the contents of his safe to-day, he found that Judith’s bonds were missing.” He stopped, then added, “We have not told Judith.”

As the full meaning of her uncle’s words dawned on Judith she swayed upon her feet and in desperation clutched the glass and prevented it from slipping through her shaking fingers. Very softly she tiptoed through the dining room and out into the central hall. At the stairs she paused and, raising the glass, swallowed some of Anna’s “nightcap.” She was hardly conscious of the fiery undiluted liquor which burned her tongue and throat, but under the false strength it engendered she hurried up the staircase and came face to face with her husband on the top landing.

His face cleared at sight of her. “I was hurrying to find you,” he explained, and took the glass from her. “Your mother told me that she had sent you for this. I’ll take it to Anna. Go to bed, dearest.” And he sped away as Judith turned into their boudoir.

With slow, uncertain steps Judith made her way to her dressing table and fell rather than sat in the chair standing before it.

Her bonds had been stolen—Joe had sold them to Latimer to cover losses in speculation. The words rang their changes—but their distinct meaning beat itself against her brain and, with a low moan of anguish, she bowed her head upon her arms, thereby displacing the playing card which she had picked up earlier that evening in the library and flung unheeded on her dressing table. The red of it caught and held her eye, and suddenly she laughed loudly—unrestrainedly.

“The Knave of Hearts!” she gasped between her bursts of merriment.

As Judith’s hysterical laughter echoed through the open door into the boudoir, a figure just entering it, paused, listened a moment, then with bent head, retreated cautiously into the hall and stole silently away.

CHAPTER VIII
PRO AND CON

At sight of John Hale towering head and shoulders above the others in the outer office of Latimer and House, Stockbrokers, the senior partner hastily excused himself from several persistent clients and sent his messenger to bring John Hale into his private office.

“Well?” he demanded without further greeting. “Well, has the night brought counsel?”

John Hale tipped the revolving chair he was occupying back to its limit before replying.

“The night brought nothing but sleeplessness,” he groaned. “Whichever way you look at it, Frank, it’s a damnable situation. Judith’s bonds missing from her father’s safe and discovered in her husband’s possession, and Austin found stabbed to death within a few feet of the opened safe in which her bonds were kept. My God! Frank,”—he bent nearer and Latimer saw the beads of perspiration standing on his brow,—“do you realize all that that implies?”

“You mean that Joe Richards opened the safe, stole the bonds and, caught in the act by Austin, killed him?” asked Latimer.

“Yes, that’s about it.” John Hale twirled his walking stick about. “Well, it tallies, doesn’t it?” and only by an effort of will did he hide a touch of eagerness.

Latimer pondered a moment before replying. “Yes, it tallies,” he agreed, “but you have no evidence to substantiate it. For instance, to open the safe Richards had to know the combination.”

“Well, he might have picked it up.”

“True, he might have, but you will have to prove that he did.”

“I prove it?” John Hale’s heavy brows met in a scowl. “That’s the detective’s job, not mine.”

“I used the pronoun to imply the prosecution, and not in its personal application,” Latimer explained. “Where was Richards on Tuesday night?”

“Playing billiards at the club.”

“Have you proof of the exact time he left there?”

“No, but I’ll get it,” and John Hale’s tone implied grim determination.

“Then suppose you make inquiries at the club,” suggested Latimer; “but be guarded, John. Every one’s attention is focused on Austin’s murder and you might start an ugly scandal.”

John Hale reddened. “Well, what if I do?” he grumbled. “The situation couldn’t be much worse than it is to-day,”—shooting a defiant look at his friend. “Austin murdered under mysterious circumstances, and the police haunting our house, not to mention the morbid sight-seers who gather about it. I cannot stir out of the place without encountering curious glances. Even at the club there’s excitement whenever I appear—and the newspaper men!” He struck the desk a resounding blow with his clenched fist. “Damn it! If Richards murdered Austin he’ll swing for it—I don’t care if he’s married Judith a dozen times over.”

“Easy, easy,” cautioned Latimer. “Cool down, John, and let us discuss this matter rationally. What have we discovered against Richards?”

“That he was playing the market, that he was in need of funds, and that he had in his possession bonds belonging to Judith which had been stolen on Tuesday night from my brother’s safe, near which we found Austin’s body in the small hours of Wednesday morning.” John Hale moderated his excited manner. “Pretty damning evidence.”

“As far as it goes,” agreed Latimer. “Now, to make it conclusive you must prove: first, that Richards was at your house between Tuesday midnight and one A. M. Wednesday; and secondly, that he knew the combination of your brother’s safe. Recollect, it was not forced open.”

“I’ll make it my business to find out.” John Hale reached for his hat and his gloves which he had tossed on the desk. “I am also going to have inquiries made regarding Richards’ career.”

“An excellent idea,” exclaimed Latimer. “But you had better employ a private detective agency, John, rather than the local police. Try the Burroughs Company, they handled some work for our firm when Johnston, the bank cashier, hypothecated stock belonging to us.”

“Where’s their office?” asked John Hale, jotting down the name on the back of an envelope.

“In the Fendall Building, corner of John Marshall Place.”

John Hale completed the address and replaced the envelope in his breast pocket.

“Listen, Frank,” he began. “Austin’s murder was unpremeditated—the weapon used proves that. No man would deliberately kill another with a pair of shears.”

Latimer shook his head in doubt. “You are taking a great deal for granted,” he protested.

“Not a bit of it,” vigorously. “Austin caught Richards going through the safe and Richards grabbed the first thing handy—Judith’s shears.” Latimer said nothing, and after a brief pause John Hale continued. “The crime was committed by some one familiar with the habits of our household—the police claim that. No better time could have been selected for rifling Robert’s safe. He was ill in bed, and Agatha and I were attending the French Embassy reception and, by the way, we decided to go only at the last moment—that’s an important point.”

“You mean——”

“Richards was present when I told Agatha that I would take her to the reception, and he left the house immediately afterward.” John Hale was becoming excited again. “Thus, Richards knew that the coast would be clear.”

“Hold on, he was aware that Judith was at home, and the servants, also,” objected Latimer.

“Sure, and he knew that our servants retire early. Anna sees to the closing of the house, and she is very strict with the other servants.” John Hale rose abruptly and emphasized his words by striking his cane against the floor. “And Richards knew that Judith would not be likely to hear him, and if she did—”

“Well, what then?” as John Hale paused.

“He probably had a plausible excuse handy. Oh, he could have manufactured some story which Judith would have swallowed,” retorted John Hale. “Remember, they haven’t been married long.”

Latimer frowned. “Who is going to tell Judith about the theft of her bonds?” he asked, rising also.

“It’s up to you.” John Hale moved uneasily and glanced away from his companion. “Judith came to you about her bonds.”

“Dash it all, John!” Latimer spoke with temper. “I’m damned if I will. Don’t you realize that Judith worships her husband?”

“Well, it’s not the first time a woman has been deceived in a man,” replied Hale cynically. “What did she marry for in such an all-fired hurry? I am sorry for Judith, but she must ‘dree her weird.’”

Whatever reply Latimer intended making was interrupted by the entrance of a clerk.

“This special delivery letter has just come for you, sir,” he explained handing it to Latimer. Then, with a polite bow to John Hale, of which the latter took not the slightest notice, the clerk departed.

Latimer tore open the envelope and ran his eyes down the written page to the signature. An exclamation escaped him.

“It is from Judith,” he said. “Listen:”

Dear Frank:

I gave my Valve bonds to Joe to use as he saw fit, and he tells me that he took the shares to you and you were kind enough to arrange the business for him, so I shall not need the $1,000 after all.

Please don’t tell the family that I’ve become a bit of a gambler; Joe doesn’t quite approve of a woman speculating, but—he’s dear about it.

Thanks for all your kindness.

Faithfully,

Judith Richards.

Latimer and John Hale stared at each other.

“Let me see that letter,” the latter demanded, and he read it twice before handing it back to Latimer. “What do you make of it?”

Latimer laughed heartily. “Thank God I shan’t have to break any unpleasant news to her,” he exclaimed. “But the inconsistency of women! To come to me for advice and then get her husband to do exactly what I advised her not to.”

“What was your advice?”

“To use the bonds as collateral at a bank and not sell them.”

John Hale studied him in thoughtful silence for a minute.

“When did Richards bring the bonds here, Frank?” he asked. “Was it some time after Judith left?”

“No; come to think of it, he must have been in the outer office when Judith was talking to me,” responded Latimer, and his face grew grave once again.

“And Judith states”—John Hale picked up his niece’s letter—“‘I gave my Valve bonds to Joe to use as he saw fit and he tells me that he took the bonds to you—’ Did Judith mention to you where she had the bonds?”

“Now that you speak of it, she did say that they were in her father’s safe.” Latimer eyed John Hale sharply. “What are you driving at?”

“Simply this, that if Richards was in your front office with the bonds in his possession, they could not have been where Judith thought them—in her father’s safe. Secondly,”—and John Hale’s voice deepened—“there was no time for Judith to return home, get the bonds and give them to Richards before he sold them to your clerk here in your outer office. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes.” Latimer’s worried look returned. “By Jove, you think—?”

“That Judith has discovered that her bonds are missing.”

“Do you suppose your brother told her?”

“I hardly think so, for he swore me to secrecy,” replied John Hale. “No, Judith must have gone to get the bonds and found them missing from the safe.”

“But, good Lord! How did she know that her husband had brought the bonds to me?” demanded Latimer.

“Ask me something easy.” Hale swung his cane around and stepped briskly to the door. “But depend on it, Frank, I’ll find an answer to that question before I’m many hours older.” And he banged out of the door.

Latimer strode thoughtfully up and down his office, then reseated himself at his desk.

“What’s come over John?” he muttered. “He seemed anxious,”—he paused—“no, more than anxious,—determined,—to fix the guilt on Joe Richards.”

He leaned forward and eyed Judith’s letter, reading it slowly, conning over the words, and when he straightened up there was a gleam of frank admiration in his eyes.

“You are a loyal woman, Judith,” he exclaimed, unconscious that he spoke aloud. “As well as ‘a bit of a gambler.’”

CHAPTER IX
HALF A SHEET

Polly Davis closed the vestibule door of her home in C Street with a veritable slam and proceeded up the street oblivious of greetings from several of her neighbors. The street, celebrated in its day for having among the occupants of its stately old-fashioned brick houses such personages as John C. Fremont, John C. Calhoun, and General Winfield Scott, was chiefly given over to modern business enterprises, and only a few “Cave-dwellers” (the name bestowed upon Washingtonians by an earnest “climber” to its exclusive resident circles) still occupied the homes of their ancestors.

Polly slackened her swift walk into a saunter as she turned the corner from C Street into John Marshall Place. On reaching D Street she accelerated her speed somewhat on catching sight of an approaching street car, but it did not stop to take on passengers, and Polly walked back to the curb with an uncomplimentary opinion of the service of one of Washington’s public utilities. She waited in indecision on the corner, then opening her hand bag, took from it a scrap of paper and consulted the name written thereon. After studying the paper for a minute, she turned and eyed the large, red brick and stone trimmed office building standing on the southeast corner facing the District Court House. She had seen the Fendall Building innumerable times since her childhood days, but never before had it held her interest.

There was a certain set air to Polly’s shoulders, which, to one acquainted with her characteristics, indicated obstinacy, as she crossed the street and entered the Fendall Building. She paused in the lobby in front of the floor directory and then continued to the second story. At the far end of the corridor she stopped before a closed door bearing on its ground glass the title, in gold lettering:

Burroughs Detective Agency
Alfred Burroughs, Prop.

Polly returned to her hand bag the scrap of paper which she still held tightly between the fingers of her left hand, took out a visiting card, and stepped inside the office. There was no one in the room, and, with a surprised glance about her, Polly crossed to a door evidently leading to an inner office. The door was only partly closed, and through the opening a familiar voice floated out to her:

“I depend upon your discretion, Mr. Burroughs. Remember, my name must not be mentioned in connection with your employment in the case—” The grating sound of chairs being pushed back followed, and any answer was drowned thereby.

The hand which Polly had extended to knock against the panel of the door fell nerveless to her side. With eyes distended to twice their normal size, she retraced her footsteps out of the office and the building.

When Polly reached the Hale residence she was admitted by the parlor maid instead of the ever smiling Anna.

“Mr. Hale left word, Miss Polly, that you were to go to Mrs. Hale,” Maud announced, helping Polly off with her coat and hat.

“Oh,” Polly paused. “Where is Mrs. Hale?”

“I don’t rightly know, miss.” Maud emerged from the depths of the hall closet where she had hung Polly’s wraps. “Mrs. Hale came in not three minutes ago. I think she has gone to her bedroom. Will you have some lunch now, miss, or a little later?”

“A little later, thanks”—Polly regarded the hall clock. “I had no idea it was nearly noon. You will find me with Mrs. Hale, Maud.”

“Very good, miss,” and they separated, the maid going to her pantry, and Polly in search of Mrs. Hale. She found that energetic matron just crossing the hall toward Judith’s boudoir. At the sound of Polly’s hail she faced around.

“Is it you, Polly!” Mrs. Hale frequently asked the obvious. “My dear, aren’t you very late to-day?”

Polly blushed at the emphasis on the adjective. “A little later than ordinary,” she answered good-naturedly. “I will make up the time, Mrs. Hale, and your husband’s manuscript will be completed without delay. Maud said that your husband left word that I was to report to you.”

“Did he?” Mrs. Hale regarded her in some perplexity. “Why, last night he decided that you were not strong enough to aid me in answering my letters; he must have changed his mind, for he wouldn’t have sent you to me for anything else.”

Polly’s attention had been caught by one phrase and the rest of Mrs. Hale’s speech went unheeded.

“Your husband said I was not strong?” she questioned. “I am quite well. What made him think otherwise?”

“Judith put the idea in his head.” Mrs. Hale led the way into the boudoir as she spoke and selected a chair near her daughter’s desk, on which were piled the notes of condolence, in anticipation of Richards’ answering them under Judith’s supervision. “Judith is very much worried about your health, my dear.”

“That is very kind of Judith.” Polly slipped into the seat before Judith’s desk at a sign from Mrs. Hale. “But your daughter is mistaken. I am not in the least ill.”

“I am delighted to hear it.” Mrs. Hale looked at her husband’s pretty secretary with approval. “Judith is always so positive in her statements. I could not see that you looked run down, but she insisted that you needed a change, and arranged with Mr. Hale to give you a vacation.”

“Indeed!” The frigid exclamation escaped Polly unwittingly, but Mrs. Hale apparently was oblivious of the girl’s chilly reception of Judith’s plans.

“I am glad you don’t require a vacation,” she went on. “Mr. Hale is particularly in need of your services, and it would be most unkind to leave him in the lurch.”

“I have no intention of doing so, Mrs. Hale,” declared Polly with some warmth. “Aside from the question of my not being able to afford a vacation, gratitude to Mr. Hale, alone, would prevent me from going away just now.” She passed one restless hand over the other. “What possessed Judith to wish to get rid of me?”

“Now, my dear,”—Mrs. Hale held up a protesting hand—“don’t get such a notion in your head. Judith is devoted to you; we all are, but she imagined—you know Judith greatly depends upon her imagination—she is so, so,”—hunting about for a word—“so shut in with her deafness, and she is forever imagining things about people.”

“And what does she imagine about me?” asked Polly, as Mrs. Hale came to a somewhat incoherent pause.

“That you were on the point of nervous prostration—”

Polly laughed a bit unsteadily. “Only the wealthy can afford nervous ‘prosperity,’ and I am not in that class,” she said. “I must work—work!” She spoke with nervous vehemence; Mrs. Hale’s surprised expression checked her; and with an effort she regained her self-control. “What can I do for you?”

“Answer these notes,” and Mrs. Hale laid her hand on them. “Take this black-edged note paper,” holding out a box she had brought with her.

Mrs. Hale’s powers of observation were wool-gathering as she dictated her answers, first reading each letter in a monotone—in itself enough to try the steadiest nerves—before composing its answer; then losing her place and having to be prompted, which added to her already confused state of mind. Every expression of sympathy in the notes brought tears in its train, and if the steady application of Mrs. Hale’s handkerchief proved an additional barrier to the speedy completion of her task, it also prevented her perceiving the wavering writing of Polly’s swiftly moving pen.

“Austin was very much beloved,” she remarked. “I cannot understand, as I told my husband over and over, I cannot understand who would have a motive for killing him. It is beyond me.”

“Yes,” murmured Polly. She laid down her pen and rubbed her stiff fingers. There still remained numerous notes to answer. “Dear Mrs. Hale, let me finish answering these later on. You must be exhausted.”

“No, they must be completed now,” Mrs. Hale spoke with firmness, and Polly, hiding her unsteady fingers under pretense of searching for another pen among Judith’s papers, resigned herself to the situation. “Judith suggested that I order an engraved card of acknowledgment, but I desire an individual letter sent to each of our friends. It will not take much more of your time,” observing Polly’s eyes stray to her wrist-watch.

“Will you let me complete the letters this afternoon?” Polly asked. “I have not touched my regular work for your husband, and it is nearly your luncheon hour.”

“Luncheon will be half an hour later to-day,” responded Mrs. Hale. “Anna is laid up and Maud asked for more time. She is not very quick at her work, you know.”

“Anna ill! That is too bad,” exclaimed Polly. “I hope it is nothing serious.”

“A sprained ankle.” Mrs. Hale leaned back in her chair and relaxed; she felt the need of a little gossip, for in spite of her insistence on completing her letters, the steady application was commencing to wear upon her. “When anything goes wrong with Anna the whole house is upset.”

“She is certainly a domestic treasure,” agreed Polly. “How many years has she been with you?”

Mrs. Hale considered before answering. “She came to us at the time Austin had typhoid fever; the trained nurse wanted a helper—what did she call Anna?”

“Nurse’s aide?” suggested Polly.

“That was it,” and Mrs. Hale smiled. “We persuaded her to stay on as waitress.”

“How did you manage it, Mrs. Hale?” asked Polly. Another glance at her watch showed her that the announcement of luncheon must shortly occur, and she wished above all not to resume answering letters of condolence. “It has always struck me that Anna was very much above the regular servant class.”

“So she is, my dear,” Mrs. Hale was launched on her favorite topic. “But Mr. Hale offered her such high wages, really ridiculous wages at the time, that it wouldn’t have been in human nature to resist his offer. I must say for Anna that she has earned every cent we pay her. Lately”—Mrs. Hale hesitated and surveyed the boudoir to make sure that the hall door was closed—“lately, Anna has appeared so—so absent-minded. Do you suppose it can be a love affair?”

“The most natural supposition in the world,” smiled Polly. “Anna is a remarkably pretty girl.”

“So she is,” Mrs. Hale nodded her head in agreement. “I suspect it is that new clerk in the drug store. I meet them quite often walking together, and I called Austin’s attention to them when he was last in Washington, just six weeks ago to-day.” Mrs. Hale looked at the calendar hanging near Judith’s desk to be sure of her facts. “Polly, if I tell you something will you promise to hold your tongue about it?”

Polly stared at Mrs. Hale—the latter’s tone had completely changed and her customary irresponsible manner had become one of suppressed anxiety.

“Certainly, Mrs. Hale,” she replied, and her manner reflected the other’s seriousness. “I will consider whatever you say as confidential.”

“First, answer this, on your word of honor,”—and Polly’s wonderment grew as Mrs. Hale hitched her chair nearer, and her voice gained in seriousness. “Have you come across a small piece of yellow paper; it is folded and has the word ‘Copy’ as a watermark?” Seeing Polly’s uncomprehending stare, she added impatiently, “The kind reporters use in newspaper offices. Have you seen such a paper among my husband’s correspondence?”

“No, Mrs. Hale; not as you describe it,” Polly shook a puzzled head. “I may not have noticed the word ‘Copy,’ though. Was there anything else to identify it?”

Mrs. Hale thought a minute, then came to a decision. “It is no matter,” she said brusquely. “Forget I mentioned it; there is a more pressing matter”—from her silver mesh purse she drew out a much creased letter. “Read that,” she directed, and held it almost under Polly’s nose, “but not aloud, read it to yourself.”

Obediently Polly took the paper and, holding it at the proper focus, read:

Dear Aunt Agatha:

I started for San Francisco on the midnight train, so forgive this hasty scrawl in answer to your long letter. I will see the happy bride and groom on my return. Sorry Uncle Robert doesn’t like Richards. I found on inquiry that Richards——

Polly turned the letter over—the second sheet was missing. The young girl looked in bewilderment at Mrs. Hale.

“Have you the end of the letter?” she asked.

“No, that is all there is to it.”

“This”—Polly turned it over again. “Why, it is not even signed.”

“But it is in Austin Hale’s handwriting,” asserted Mrs. Hale. “You know it is, Polly.”

Polly again inspected the clear, distinctive writing. She had seen it too often to be mistaken in identifying the chirography.

“It looks like Austin’s writing,” she qualified. “When did you receive the letter and what does it mean?”

“Mean? We’ll come to that later,” Mrs. Hale lowered her voice to a confidential pitch. “You see the date there,” indicating it, and Polly nodded. “The letter was begun on Tuesday in New York, and Austin was murdered between Tuesday midnight and one A. M. Wednesday here in Washington.”

“He was——”

“Of course he was.” Patience was never Mrs. Hale’s strong point. “Now, Polly, let us dissect this letter. On Tuesday in New York Austin states that he is to take the midnight train for San Francisco; instead of that he comes to Washington. Why?” And having propounded the conundrum, Mrs. Hale sat back and contemplated Polly. There was a distinct pause before the girl replied.

“I cannot answer your question, Mrs. Hale.” Polly avoided raising her eyes as she turned the letter over once again and looked at the blank side. It was a small-sized sheet of note paper of good quality, and Austin’s large writing completely filled the first page. Polly held the letter nearer Mrs. Hale.

“The back sheet has been torn off,” she pointed out. “See, the edges are rough and uneven.”

“So I observed.” Mrs. Hale was a trifle nonplussed. She had anticipated more excitement on Polly’s part, and the girl’s composure was a surprise. That Polly was maintaining her composure through sheer will power, Mrs. Hale was too obtuse to detect. She was convinced, however, that Polly had been more than ordinarily attracted by Austin Hale’s good looks and his marked attention to her charming self. It was not in human nature, Mrs. Hale argued, that a young and penniless girl would refuse a wealthy young man, especially not in favor of a man of John Hale’s age. It was absurd of Joe Richards to insinuate that her brother-in-law might have supplanted Austin in Polly’s affections. Having once gotten an idea in her head no power on earth could dislodge it, and Mrs. Hale, to prove her viewpoint, had decided to investigate the mystery of Austin’s death to her own satisfaction. Mrs. Hale thought over Polly’s conduct for several minutes, then changed her tactics.

“Had you heard recently from Austin?” she asked, and at the direct question Polly changed color.

“Not since this letter to you,” she replied calmly and Mrs. Hale, intent on framing her next question, failed to analyze her answer.

“Did he make any reference to coming to Washington?”

“Only in a general way,” and before Mrs. Hale could question her further, she added, “His letter of ten days ago said that he might be here in April.”

“Ah!” Mrs. Hale felt that she had scored a point. “That goes to prove that Austin’s trip here Tuesday was unexpected.”

“So unexpected that he never even wired you,” supplemented Polly, and Mrs. Hale eyed her sharply.

“True,” she replied. “It must have been something frightfully urgent that brought him here—to his death.”

Polly shivered slightly and laid down the letter.

“When did Austin mail this letter to you?”

“I don’t know.”

Polly glanced at her in surprise. “Was there no postmark on the envelope?”

“There was no envelope.”

“What!” Polly half rose then dropped back in her seat. “No envelope? Then how did you get the letter?”

Mrs. Hale looked carefully around to make sure that no one had entered the boudoir or was within earshot. Her next remark ignored Polly’s question.

“I have not shown Austin’s letter to my husband,” she began. “Mr. Hale does not always view matters from my standpoint, and he might be displeased at my having mentioned to Austin that he was disappointed in Judith’s choice of a husband. Therefore, Polly, you will say nothing to him.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Polly. “But about the letter—”

“Nor mention the letter to Judith,” pursued Mrs. Hale, paying no attention to Polly’s attempt to question her. “I shall not discuss it with Judith, for she might readily resent my writing Austin to find out something about her husband’s career before he entered the army in 1917. This letter”—Mrs. Hale picked it up, refolded it, and replaced it in her purse—“must remain a secret between you and me.”

“But, Mrs. Hale,”—Polly stopped her as she was about to rise—“where did you get the letter and who tore off the last sheet?”

“It is for us to find out who tore it off and what became of it,” declared Mrs. Hale. At last Polly was roused out of herself, and the older woman observed with interest the two hectic spots of color in her cheeks. “And why the sheet was torn off.”

The opening of the boudoir door caused Polly to start nervously, a start which, in Mrs. Hale’s case became a jump, as Richards addressed them from the doorway.

“Maud is looking for you, Mrs. Hale,” he announced. “Luncheon is waiting for you.”

“Thanks, yes; we will come at once.” Mrs. Hale was conscious of her flurried manner and her ingratiating smile was a trifle strained as she faced her handsome son-in-law. “Where is Judith?”

“She telephoned that she was lunching at the Army and Navy Club.” Richards gave no sign that he was aware of Mrs. Hale’s agitation. “Your husband is waiting for you.”

“Run down, Joe, and tell him not to wait for me.” Mrs. Hale laid her hand on Polly’s shoulder and gave her a slight push. “Go also, my dear.”

But Polly hung back. “Wait, Mrs. Hale,” she whispered feverishly. “There, Major Richards is downstairs by now. Tell me quickly who gave you Austin’s letter?”

“No one.”

“Then where did you get it?”

Mrs. Hale paused and looked carefully around—they had the boudoir to themselves, but before she spoke Mrs. Hale took the precaution to close the boudoir door.

“I found the letter this morning,” she stated, “in the leather pocket of Judith’s electric car.”

CHAPTER X
BELOW STAIRS

Anna, the waitress, found the time lagging in spite of the game of solitaire she was playing to wile away the tedium of her enforced idleness. She cast a resentful glance at her swollen ankle before shuffling the cards for the thirtieth time since she had eaten her midday meal. She had discarded the morning newspaper, and refused to find entertainment in the cheap paper novel which the cook had brought to her early in the morning, so her last and only solace was the pack of playing cards.

Mrs. Hale, a New Yorker by birth, until her marriage had spent her life in the North, and while she had quickly succumbed to the spell which the Capital City casts over those who come to its hospitable doors, she had never taken kindly to employing negro servants. She did not understand the African character, and her one attempt to adjust herself to the conditions then prevailing in domestic service in the District of Columbia had proved a dismal failure. With her husband’s hasty approval she had sent to New York and engaged French and English servants.

Aside from her eccentricities, Mrs. Hale was a kind and thoughtful mistress, and the servants remained long in her employ. Even during the chaotic war-time conditions in Washington, with the influx of war-workers and deserters from the domestic field, her servants had loyally remained with her in preference to seeking Government “positions” as elevator women and messengers.

It required a person in Anna’s state of mind to find fault with the large, cozily furnished bedroom in which she sat. A coal fire on the hearth added its cheerful glow, and at her elbow was an electric reading lamp ready for instant service when the winter afternoon drew to a close.

Anna scowled at her reflection in the mirrored paneling of the door leading to the bathroom which she and “cook,” a Swede, shared with Maud, the parlor maid. For nearly twenty-four hours she had been kept captive inside the four walls of her bedroom, and her restless spirit rebelled. Fate, in the guise of a treacherous high-heeled slipper, had given her an ugly tumble down the kitchen stairs on her way to bed the night before, and Dr. McLane’s assurance that she had had a lucky escape did not assuage Anna’s sense of personal grievance nor deaden the pain of her physical injury.

Footsteps and the clatter of dishes, as a tray was brought in slight contact with the stair turning, came distinctly through the open door leading to the hall. Anna’s downcast look vanished. Seizing the cards, she was intent on laying out her favorite solitaire when Maud entered, bearing a tray loaded with appetizing dishes.

“I’m a bit late,” she explained apologetically, as Anna swept the playing cards into her lap to make a place on the table for the tray. “But there’s been a pile of coming and going in and out of the house, and it keeps a body moving.”

“Sit down and have a cup of tea with me,” suggested Anna, on whom the extra cup and saucer on the tray had not been lost. Maud had evidently anticipated the invitation, judging also from the amount of cinnamon toast and thin slices of bread and butter. “I am sorry, Maud, to have more work thrown on you just now; perhaps I can hobble downstairs to-morrow. Dr. McLane seemed to think I might.”

“Now, you rest easy,” advised Maud earnestly. “I can handle the work all right, and Mr. Hale said he would come down handsome for it.”

“He did!” Anna’s eyes had narrowed to thin slits, but Maud, intent on consuming as much tea and toast as was humanly possible in a given time, was oblivious of her facial contortions. “Mr. Hale is a generous gentleman; you stick by him, Maud.”

“You bet. What he says goes,” Maud nodded enthusiastically. “Funny household, ain’t it? A dead easy one if you are in the ‘know,’” and she chuckled. “Let me pour you out another cup, Miss Anna,” and, not waiting for permission, she replenished Anna’s tea, at the same time refilling her own cup. “My, don’t cook make good toast! No wonder Major Richards is so partial to it.”

“Is he?” Anna’s tone was dry.

“Yes, ma’am, and he’s partial to a good deal more besides.” Maud relished an opportunity of airing her views to so superior a person as Anna, for it was not often that she had her undivided attention. “Major Richards knows a good-looking woman when he sees one.”

“Is that so?” indifferently, helping herself to more sugar.

“Yes, ma’am,” with emphasis. “Didn’t I see the look and smile he gave you yesterday?”

“Tut, tut! None of that.” Anna spoke with severity. “Major Richards is Miss Judith’s husband, a nicely spoken gentleman.”

“Sure he is.” Maud smiled broadly, nothing daunted by Anna’s frown. “And say, ain’t Miss Judith mashed on him? That cold kind always flops the worst when they fall in love.”

“Miss Judith isn’t the cold kind,” retorted Anna warmly. “She has plenty of temper about her, but I will say it’s tempered with proper pride.”

“I wonder if it was proper pride which made her quarrel so with Mr. Austin?” Maud’s snicker always grated on Anna, and again the waitress frowned. “Say, wasn’t his death awful?”

“Yes.” Anna sat back with a shiver. “Terrible!”

“And they dunno who done it,” pursued Maud with relish, her somewhat nasal voice slightly raised. “Leastways that is what Detective Ferguson told me this afternoon.”

“Was he at the house again?”

“Yes, three times.” Maud looked regretfully at the empty toast dish. “I asked him if he wanted a bed made up for his convenience, and he was real peevish. My, but he asks a lot of questions!”

“What about?” inquired Anna.

“Oh, where we were on Tuesday night, and if we heard anything unusual,” answered Maud with careless candor. “Didn’t seem to believe that we had all gone to bed the same as usual. I told him if we’d a known Mr. Austin was to have been murdered, o’ course we’d have waited up for it, so as to supply the police with details. That settled him for a time and then he wanted to know when I last saw Miss Judith Tuesday night.”

“So?” Anna leaned out of her chair and took up a box of candy from the bureau. “Help yourself, Maud. What did you say to Ferguson?”

Maud received the candy with eyes which sparkled as Anna put the box conveniently in front of her. Her craving for sweets had frequently earned her a reprimand from Mrs. Hale when that dame caught her in the act of purloining candy from the stock kept in the dining room.

“I told Ferguson that Miss Judith was undressing in her bedroom when I went upstairs.” Maud’s speech was somewhat impeded by a large caramel. “Then he wanted to know when we first heard o’ the murder—silly question, wasn’t it?”

“Very,” agreed Anna. “Considering he came upstairs and joined us just after Mrs. Hale had broken the news of Mr. Austin’s death. Men are silly creatures.”

“Some of ’em are,” amended Maud. “I never would call Mr. Robert Hale silly. Say, Miss Anna,”—and Maud hitched her chair close to the waitress—“do you s’pose he knows anything about the courting that went on between Miss Polly and his brother?”

“There isn’t anything that escapes Mr. Hale’s notice,” Anna responded dryly.

“But Miss Polly was mighty sly about it,” argued Maud. “Mr. Austin caught her once, though, and my, didn’t he flare up!” Her eyes grew bigger at the recollection. “I wonder if he was smart enough to know Miss Polly, for all her appearing frankness, was playing father and son off against each other.”

“Men never know anything where a pretty woman’s concerned,” replied Anna scornfully. “Miss Judith knew what was going on though, and”—she lowered her voice to confidential tones—“it’s my belief that her Uncle John used his influence with the family to get her sent on that visit to Japan.”

“And there she met Major Richards.” Maud selected another piece of candy. “My, ain’t Fate funny sometimes!” Her companion agreed, and Maud munched the milk chocolates with silent enjoyment. Then her active mind went off on a tangent as she caught sight of the playing cards still reposing in a disorderly heap in Anna’s lap. “Mr. Hale got in one of his tantrums this morning.”

“He did?” Anna put down her cup from which she had been slowly sipping her strong black tea. “What about?”

“He said one of his playing cards was missing from the pack he keeps in the library, and he just as much as asked me if I had stolen it.” Maud sniffed. “If he hadn’t been so nice about my wages and my room wasn’t so comfortable, and you and cook being so agreeable, I’d a given notice.”

“Oh, pshaw! Mr. Hale doesn’t mean half he says,” Anna hastened to smooth down Maud’s ruffled feelings. “He forgets the cause of his tantrums ten minutes afterward. What’s the use of paying attention to them? His wife never does.”

“I ain’t his wife,” objected Maud. “And he didn’t forget this tantrum, though it was about such a measly little thing, but came right back after lunch and asked me had I found the card in any one’s room. He was put out when I told him no.”

“It is too bad, Maud,” exclaimed Anna, who had followed her story with gratifying attention. “Mr. Hale shouldn’t worry you when you have extra work with me laid up here. Why not speak to Mrs. Hale?”

“Not me!” broke in Maud hastily. “I ain’t hankering to start a family ruction. Don’t you worry, Miss Anna, I fixed it,” Maud smiled slyly. “I went up to Miss Judith’s boudoir with the C. & P. man to mend her branch telephone this afternoon, and I just happened to see a pack o’ playing cards lying on Major Richards’ dresser; their backs were just the same as Mr. Hale’s pack in the library, so I sneaked out the Knave o’ Hearts. After the telephone man left, I gave the card to Mr. Hale. And say, what do you s’pose he did?”

Anna shook her head. “I can’t guess. Do go on.”

“Well, first he gave that funny giggle o’ his, then he slips the card in his pocket, and asks me where I got it.” Maud paused dramatically. “When I said I found it on Major Richards’ dresser he looked at me kinda funny and”—a violent sneeze interrupted the recital—“then he gave me a raise in wages.”

“Bless me!” Anna ejaculated admiringly. “That was smart work, Maud.”

Her companion smiled deprecatingly. “’Tain’t nothing to what I can do when I set my mind to it,” she replied. “I just happened on Major Richards’ cards. How’s your ankle?”

The waitress started at the abruptness of the question.

“It is not so painful,” she said, and glanced significantly at the clock on the mantel. “Isn’t it ’most time for you to see about setting the table for dinner?”

“No; the family’s dining out to-night,” rejoined Maud, “so that me and cook can rest up. Mrs. Hale is pretty much of a fool, but she is considerate of us. There are times,” added Maud in a burst of confidence, “when I feel darn sorry for her.”

“Don’t let your sympathies get the better of your judgment,” warned Anna. “Mr. and Mrs. Hale are—well, you might say ‘discordantly’ happy.”

Maud wrinkled her brows. “If you are hinting they like to fuss, you are dead right,” she acknowledged. “There’s one thing odd I’ve noticed to-day”—She paused to contemplate herself in the mirrored door with inward satisfaction; the simple black dress on her slight, trim figure and neat white collar and cuffs, which Mrs. Hale insisted should be worn by her servants, was becoming.

“What were you noticing to-day?” asked Anna, growing impatient as the pause became prolonged.

“That Mrs. Hale and Miss Polly Davis were getting as thick as thieves,” explained Maud. “I ain’t never seen them so loving.”

“Is that so?” Anna stroked her cheek reflectively. “Mrs. Hale feels Miss Judith’s marriage more than she is willing to allow, I believe, and she’s just looking ’round to find somebody to ‘mother.’”

“It’s a funny deal her picking on Miss Polly for that,” laughed Maud as she arranged the tea dishes on the tray preparatory to departure. “D’ye know, as poor as I am, I’d give a month’s wages to know who had a hand in killing Mr. Austin.” She paused and placed her lips against Anna’s right ear. “Them bloody shears Mr. Ferguson is forever exhibiting never belonged to Miss Judith,” she whispered, “but Miss Polly’s are missing from her desk.”

Down in Robert Hale’s den Polly Davis stopped transcribing his manuscript notes to stare at three letters which she spread before her. She read them in rotation for at least the seventh time, then settled back in her chair and, resting her weight on its arms, contemplated the notes.

The first was but a scrawl:

Dearest:

You must dine with me to-night. I will not take a refusal and will call at the usual hour.

Your devoted lover,

John.

The second letter was from Judith:

Do not hesitate to use the enclosed check for your contemplated trip. Return the loan at your convenience, and let me know if you should need more.

Ever, dear Polly, faithfully yours,

Judith.

“My contemplated trip,” quoted Polly softly. The haggard lines in her face were accentuated by the merciless electric light which beat down from a lamp but a few feet above her typewriter desk. “Judith, are you mad!”

Slowly her eyes turned to the third note. It had no commencement other than the words:

In recognition of your valuable services I am increasing your salary fifty dollars per month. Please arrange to give me additional hours daily.

Yours, etc.,

Robert Hale.

CHAPTER XI
THE THREAT

From their corner table Judith watched, with total lack of interest, the gay throng which filled the public dining room at Rauscher’s, although the scene was one to arrest attention. The smartly gowned women, the foreign attachés in their gay uniforms in contrast to the khaki-clad army officers and the somber evening dress of numerous civilians, formed an attractive center for the mirrored walls and shaded lights. Judith’s inattention was a source of displeasure to her mother whose efforts to sustain the conversation had failed.

“Really, Judith,” she remonstrated, “it is very annoying of you to make me repeat my remarks.”

“I beg your pardon, Mother.” Judith awoke from dreary thoughts. “I did not mean to be rude, but our—our mourning”—glancing down at her black dress—“seems so incongruous here. We should have found a less conspicuous place to dine.”

“Tut! you are supersensitive; we must eat and why not here? We are not giving a dinner.” Mrs. Hale paused to bow to an acquaintance. “Robert and your husband went to the club so that we would not have even an appearance of a party. Why, there is Frank Latimer. Wave to him, Judith.”

Not waiting for her suggestion to be followed, Mrs. Hale signaled vigorously with her fan and succeeded in catching the eye of the attentive major-domo who, guessing her meaning, directed Latimer’s attention to her table. Mrs. Hale greeted the stockbroker with a cordial smile.

“Join us, Frank,” she exclaimed, as their waitress placed a chair for him. Latimer cast a doubtful eye at an adjoining table.

“That is my habitual place,” he explained. “I dine here every night.”

“Fortunate man, with no domestic problems,” sighed Mrs. Hale. “Really, Anna could not have selected a more unfortunate time to fall downstairs—or was it upstairs, Judith?”

“I don’t know, Mother.” Judith had changed color at Latimer’s approach as memory of her interview in his office, the conversation she had overheard the night before, and her letter explaining the bond transaction recurred to her. “Anna is so seldom ill that we can forgive her this once.” She raised grave eyes to Latimer. “Do dine with us, Frank.”

Latimer had only opportunity to murmur his thanks as Mrs. Hale took possession of the situation and claimed his undivided attention. As the meal progressed he stole a look now and then at Judith. Her preoccupation was evident and the furtive glances she cast about the big dining room were indicative of her nervous condition. Latimer’s anxiety grew. Would Mrs. Hale never give him a chance for a private word with Judith? After the receipt of her note that morning he had tried to write an answer, but, after a vain attempt to crystallize his thoughts into black ink, he had thrown down his pen and applied to that mixed blessing, the telephone, only to be told that Judith was not at home.

If Judith divined his desire to talk with her she gave no sign of it. Latimer’s anxiety was tinged with vexation. Was Judith deliberately avoiding every effort he made to drag her into the conversation? His hot temper was gaining the upper hand when Mrs. Hale unconsciously gave him the opening he had been hoping for.

“How is the stock market?” she asked, and not waiting for an answer, added, “Did you purchase those Liberty Bonds Robert spoke of last week?”

“Yes.” Latimer turned determinedly to Judith. “Your husband sold your Troy Valve bonds at somewhat of a sacrifice.”

Mrs. Hale caught the words and looked at her daughter in open consternation.

“Judith! You haven’t parted with the bonds your grandfather left you?” she exclaimed.

“Yes.” Judith tossed down her napkin and pushed back her chair. “Joe and I decided that this was the time to invest in Liberty Bonds.” Her charming smile disarmed criticism. “Besides, industrials are dangerous investments.”

“Fiddlesticks!” ejaculated Mrs. Hale with indignant emphasis. “You know what General Hale thought of his Valve bonds and how carefully he portioned them out among us in his will. Your father will be seriously displeased, Judith.”

“Not when I tell him that the bonds are already depreciating in value,” responded Judith quietly. “They are depreciating, Frank, are they not?” Her emphasis on the verb arrested Latimer’s attention and quickly he caught his cue.

“Liberty Bonds are a better investment,” he stated, “especially just now. You”—he smiled at Mrs. Hale—“are putting your money in Liberty Bonds.”

But Mrs. Hale was not appeased. “I am not selling valuable bonds,” she retorted. “The money I invest in Liberty Bonds is the income from other sources. What did you realize on your bonds, Judith?”

Judith’s brow wrinkled in thought, then she turned to Frank. “I have a poor head for figures,” she admitted softly. “What did Joe get for the bonds, Frank?”

Latimer eyed her thoughtfully. “We paid Joe $1,275, less commission. The bonds bring $125 each.”

“Is that all!” And Mrs. Hale’s eyebrows rose in displeasure. “What a wretched time to sell. I shall remonstrate with your husband for permitting you to part with the bonds.”

“You will do nothing of the sort.” The girl’s tone brought a hot flush to her mother’s cheeks, but there was that in Judith’s expression which checked her angry rejoinder. “Please, Mother, remember that I am independent as far as my fortune is concerned, and am my own mistress.”

Mrs. Hale considered her for a minute, then to Latimer’s horror, for he had a shy man’s distaste of scenes, her lower lip quivered suggestively, while her pale blue eyes grew moist.

“What a way to address your mother, Judith,” she said reproachfully. “I, who have your best interests at heart. It is most unkind.”

“I had no intention of being unkind.” Judith laid her hand for a second gently on her mother’s shoulder. “Only, please do not discuss my affairs with my husband; he also”—she looked squarely at Latimer—“has my best interests at heart and I can rely upon his honest judgment.”

Latimer bowed. “Joe is no fool,” he remarked dryly. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Hale, I guarantee that Judith is quite right in the stand she is taking, and”—again he bowed—“I admire her for it.”

“You have always approved of woman suffrage,” grumbled Mrs. Hale, as she rose and led the way down the aisle to the entrance to the dining room. “But take a word of advice from an older woman, Judith; it is not the wife who asserts her independence who gains her wishes, it is she who concedes the little things of life who controls the big issues. To rule, a woman must never show she rules.”

She paused to speak a complimentary word to the major-domo, and Judith, striding ahead down the short staircase, discovered that Latimer was keeping step with her. Before he could voice his thoughts, she had formulated her line of action.

“If you have any stock deals,” she said in an undertone, “do tip me off. Hush, not a word; I don’t wish Mother to know I am playing the market, here she comes.”

His ideas in a whirl, Latimer assisted them into their limousine just as a touring car drove up to the curb and stopped with a grinding of brakes which echoed down the street. A second more and John Hale had flung himself out of the car and dashed over to the limousine. A rapid survey showed him that the only occupants of the car were Mrs. Hale and Judith.

“Where have you left Polly?” he demanded.

“Left her?” Mrs. Hale’s voice showed her astonishment. “Nowhere; Polly has not been with us.”

“Not with you?” Her brother-in-law stared at her. “Didn’t she dine with you?”

“She did not,” tartly. “What gave you that impression?”

“Mrs. Davis told me that Polly telephoned she was with you.” Hale turned almost savagely toward Judith. “Where is she?”

“I do not know.” Judith eyed him in wonderment. It was not often that she saw him discomposed in manner. He moved slightly and the light from the limousine’s lamps showed his features more clearly. “Surely, Uncle John, you are not worried about her whereabouts?”

John Hale passed a nervous hand over his chin. “Polly was to dine with me,” he explained. “I waited at her home, and finally her mother returned from dining with a neighbor and gave me Polly’s message. I remembered you were to dine here, so chased you up. You are sure you don’t know where she is?”

“Of course we don’t,” chimed in Mrs. Hale. “Bless me, John, why worry? Polly is quite old enough to take care of herself, and she is not likely to get lost in Washington.”

“Lost? Of course not,” with rough emphasis. “I have a message for Polly which must be delivered. Have you any idea where she is dining, Judith?”

Judith thought a moment before replying. “Possibly she is with the Wards in Chevy Chase,” she suggested. “I recall Polly had a telephone talk with Kate this afternoon.”

“Thanks.” John Hale swung around and caught Latimer by the shoulder. Until that moment he had ignored the presence of the little stockbroker.

“Drive out to Chevy Chase, Frank,” he urged. “Come, man, don’t keep me waiting,” and, not heeding Latimer’s remonstrances, he hurried him toward his car. Then, as the latter hung back with the reiterated statement that he had an important business engagement, he interrupted him with an oath.

“Cut it out, Frank,” John Hale spoke between clenched teeth. “I’ll explain later; jump in.” Scarcely waiting for Latimer to do so, he climbed in behind the wheel and, turning the car up Connecticut Avenue, he speeded up that thoroughfare.

Latimer rode in perturbed silence, occasionally stealing a glance at his companion’s set, stern features. He had followed John Hale in his college days with doglike fidelity, and the habit had clung through their years of faithful friendship. As the car left the city limits behind and tore along the road leading to the fashionable suburb of Chevy Chase, Latimer broke the protracted silence.

“What’s to pay, John?” he asked.

John Hale waited until they had overtaken a trolley, then slowed down the car’s speed almost to a crawl.

“God knows!” he responded, and his voice was not quite steady. “Frank, I—I’m miserable—miserable,” and Frank, after one glance at his face, forebore to question further.

Mrs. Hale, from the window of her limousine, watched John Hale’s abrupt departure with astonishment not unmixed with resentment.

“Upon my word, Judith, your uncle grows more impossible every day,” she remarked, and, meeting with no comment from her daughter, she picked up the speaking tube and called to her chauffeur, “Home.”

On reaching there, Mrs. Hale changed her mind with characteristic suddenness.

“I’ll run down to the club and pick up your father,” she said as she hopped back into the limousine. “I remember now that he left word we were to call for him. Won’t you come, Judith?”

Judith, halfway up the steps leading to the front door, shook her head.

“No thanks, Mother, I have several letters to write,” and with a wave of her hand she hurried inside the house. Maud, who had waited in some uncertainty until she saw the limousine drive off with Mrs. Hale seated in it, closed the front door.

“Can I do anything for you, Mrs. Richards?” she asked, as Judith paused to look at several notes lying on the hall table. None was addressed to her and she laid them back again.

“No, Maud, not a thing,” she replied. “Has Major Richards returned?”

“Not yet, ma’am.” Maud, catching a furtive look at herself in the long mirror on the wall, rearranged her cap to a more becoming angle. “Is it too early to take your pitcher of ice water to your boudoir, ma’am? Anna said you had one generally.”

“It is not too early.” Judith turned toward the circular staircase. “How is Anna?”

“Much better, ma’am; she practiced walking around after dinner and got on first rate,”—Maud lingered a moment—“not but what I warned her to be careful; ’tain’t any use of taking chances with a banged-up ankle.”

“True,” agreed Judith absently, and, unloosening her coat, she went upstairs. Instead of going at once to her boudoir she hurried down the hall to her father’s den, and as she entered it Polly Davis looked up from the manuscript she was copying and stopped her machine.

“You—here!” Judith halted abruptly.

“Yes.” Polly pushed her chair away from the typewriter. “Why not?” The question was put with studied insolence and Judith’s eyes widened. “I am working on your father’s manuscript.”

“But at this hour—”

“I am working overtime.” Polly flipped a note in her direction. “Your father here asks me to give him ‘additional service.’” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “Any objections?”

“Objections? No.” Judith’s manner retained its old friendliness, and she ignored the girl’s manifest hostility.

“Then why question my presence here?”

“I do not question your right to be here.” Judith chose a chair near Polly. “I have just seen Uncle John—”

“Well?” as Judith stopped.

“Uncle John was told by your mother that you were dining with us.”

“Pardon me,”—Polly’s interruption was curtly spoken, although the words chosen were politeness itself—“Mr. Hale was informed that I was with you.”

“But you were not.”

“In one sense, yes; in another I am with you while working in this household.” Again Polly shrugged her shoulders. “Of course I am not responsible for whatever interpretation you and he put on my message to my mother.”

Judith regarded her for a moment in silence.

“What is your object in splitting straws?” she inquired. “Wait—Uncle John understood you were to dine with him, then thought you were with us, and he now believes you are with the Wards in Chevy Chase and is motoring there, and—on returning home, I find you here.”

“Your uncle asked me to dine with him, but I never accepted his invitation,” replied Polly. “Frankly, I preferred to wait here and see you.”

“Why didn’t you tell me, Polly, and I would have remained at home,” exclaimed Judith. “Have you had any dinner?” with a hasty glance about in quest of a tray.

“I dined at the Pastry Shop.” Polly leaned back in her chair and watched Judith. “I asked for you before I left this afternoon, but you had not returned from your drive, and so I came back an hour ago. What was your object in writing this note?” and leaning forward Polly placed Judith’s note and check in her lap.

Judith did not touch the papers.

“The note is self-explanatory,” she stated. “I hope the vacation will restore your health.”

“My health is quite robust, thank you,” dryly. “Let us have done with camouflage, Judith, and be honest with each other. What is your object in wishing to get rid of me?”

“I have no such desire.”

Polly’s lip curled in scorn. “You wish to get me away from Washington, away from this house,” she charged. “Why?”

The two girls contemplated each other, but while Judith was pale, a feverish color heightened the sparkle in Polly’s over-bright eyes. When Judith spoke it was with deliberation.

“I suggested that you go on a vacation,” she said, “for your own good.”

“Indeed!” Polly’s laugh ended in a sneer. “Are you quite sure your consideration is not misdirected?”

“Quite sure.” Judith’s temper was gaining the upper hand in spite of her endeavor to keep it under control. “Once before you ignored my advice; you know with what results.” She paused. “Austin’s death—”

“Well?” Polly leaned forward, both hands on the arms of her chair.

Instead of completing her sentence Judith placed the note and her check on Polly’s typewriter.

“You had better arrange to leave to-morrow,” she said softly.

“I won’t.” Polly’s voice rang out clearly. “I don’t know whom you are trying to shield, but you shan’t drive me away—you shan’t—you shan’t!”

“Polly,”—Judith’s manner compelled the hysterical girl to gain some hold on the remnant of her self-control—“you have forced this scene; I have tried to avoid it by supplying you with a way out.” She pointed to the check. “I was the first person to find Austin’s body—”

“Ah! You admit it.” Polly’s voice rose almost to a scream. “Why haven’t you told that to the police?”

“Because of my desire to shield you,” Judith stated calmly.

“To shield me!” Polly half rose, resting her weight on the arms of her chair.

“Exactly.” Judith stood up and pulled her coat about her shoulders. “In addition to my silence, I took from Austin’s body a trinket—”

“Yes, go on”—Polly watched her fascinated, as she took a step toward the door.

“Your conduct to-night forces me to use a threat.” Judith spoke in a monotone and slowly the color ebbed from Polly’s cheeks. “Unless you leave Washington within twenty-four hours, I shall give the trinket to the police.”

“What—” Polly moistened her parched lips. “What is the trinket?”

“A Mizpah locket. Good-night,” and without a backward glance Judith hurried away.

CHAPTER XII
THE THEFT

Judith had not inherited her mother’s fondness for being waited upon and therefore she had never employed a personal maid. After her interview with Polly she went immediately to her bedroom and it required but a brief time to put away her coat and scarf. In removing the latter from around her neck, its delicate mesh caught in the diamond horseshoe pin, her only ornament, which she wore in the front of her evening dress. In striving to free the scarf she discovered to her dismay that one of the diamonds was missing from the horseshoe.

The pin had been her husband’s wedding gift. Throwing down the scarf, Judith bent anxiously and peered at the carpet, but it was difficult to see so small an object against its soft coloring. Dropping to her knees, she felt about until her fingers touched a hard substance. A look at it disclosed the missing diamond, and with an exclamation of pleasure and relief Judith rose, folded the stone in a piece of tissue paper and placed it with the diamond pin in her jewelry box. In doing so she caught sight of a gold locket safely ensconced in the bottom of the box under several bracelets and chains. Judith considered the locket gravely, then closed and locked the jewelry box just as her name was called in the boudoir. With heightened color, she hastened across the bedroom and joined her husband.

“I did not hear you enter, Joe,” she exclaimed as he held out both hands to her. “How does it happen that you returned so early? I thought you planned to run in and see Dr. McLane about that troublesome cough of yours?”

“Oh, that can wait until morning,” lightly. “I came back to be with you.” He placed a morris chair for her before the hearth, where a coal fire burned fitfully, and perched himself on the chair’s broad mahogany arm. “I haven’t seen you alone to-day.” His voice was tinged with reproach.

Judith slipped a hand inside his. “I did not mean to neglect you,” she said. “But Mother and certain business matters claimed a lot of attention. Why,”—turning her head as it rested against the cushion of the high-backed chair—“why did you volunteer to dine with Father at the club and not come with us to Rauscher’s?”

“It was your mother’s plan, not mine.” Richard laughed softly. “My first impressions of your mother have radically changed.”

“In what way?”

“I thought her all fuss and feathers, but underneath it she has a will of iron.” Richards’ smile grew rueful. “Does your father ever oppose her wishes?”

It was Judith’s turn to smile. “Not if he can help it,” she admitted. “Father is something of a diplomat as far as Mother is concerned. Perhaps you have noticed it.”

“Yes.” Richards stared into the fire; he had become grave. “Somehow, dearest, I do not believe your father likes me. Oh, he’s been polite enough,”—as she was about to speak—“but there is something in his manner,—well,”—with another rueful smile—“it couldn’t by any stretch of the imagination be termed cordial at any time, and lately”—he hesitated—“the dislike is more apparent.”

Judith’s pretty color, which had come when she found him waiting for her in the boudoir, had waned. “Lately?” she queried. “Do you mean within the last few days?”

“Yes; to be exact, since Austin’s Hale’s mur—death,” he caught himself up. “Don’t mind, darling,” observing the shadows which had gathered in her eyes. “I am sorry I mentioned the subject. Your father, like the rest of us, is upset by the tragedy—we will all return to normal when the mystery is solved.”

“When?” Judith contemplated her well-fitting suède slipper and the embroidered silk stockings just peeping beneath her skirt. “Have the police advanced any new theories?”

“Only that the crime was premeditated.”

Judith looked up. “Premeditated? Then some one must have known of Austin’s plans to come here Tuesday night.” She drew in her breath sharply. “Some bitter enemy.” She again looked directly up at Richards and found him gazing in the fire. “What is your theory?”

“My theory? I hardly knew—know anything of Austin, therefore it is difficult for me to form a theory.” Judith took silent note of his quickly covered confusion, and her hand, still resting in his, moved uneasily. “Was Austin the type of man to have an implacable enemy?”

“N—no,” Judith drawled out the word. “He sometimes had a nasty way of speaking, which used to annoy Uncle John; but he was generally very agreeable, and some people found him fascinating.”

“Meaning women?” Judith did not reply at once, and Richards’ eyes narrowed. “You think that Austin was killed on impulse?”

“So it appears to me,” she confessed and suppressed a shudder.

There was a brief silence, then Richards roused himself. “I agree with you,” he said. “The nature of the weapon used proves that.”

“The shears?” Judith glanced up and then looked quickly away. “You think Austin was stabbed with the shears?”

“Evidently, for there was no other weapon.”

“No other weapon has been found,” Judith corrected him softly. “The murderer may have carried it off with him.”

“True,” acknowledged Richards, “but then how came the shears to have blood on them? For what purpose were they used?”

Judith’s breathing seemed suspended for an infinitesimal second, and several minutes elapsed before she spoke.

“I am not good at solving problems.” She twirled his seal ring, which she had given him, about on his finger. “Have you heard Uncle John’s theory that Austin was killed by a burglar?”

Richards regarded her fixedly for a minute. “Is that so!” he exclaimed. “And what leads him to suspect a burglar?”

“Austin’s gold watch is missing.” Judith felt his arm slip down about her shoulders, and his weight rested against the cushioned back of her chair. “Also, Father found some papers missing from his safe.”

“He did—when?” The question shot from Richards.

“Sometime Thursday. I don’t know exactly when.” Judith caught his intent gaze, and while her heart beat a bit more rapidly, she continued to look directly at him.

“Has he notified the police?”

“I presume so. He was talking to Detective Ferguson yesterday just before dinner.” Judith’s voice sounded a trifle strained in her own ears, but apparently Richards took no notice. His gaze had shifted again to the fireplace.

“When Mr. Hale first examined the safe he declared that its contents were intact,” he remarked. “Your news is surprising, Judith. It may be that poor Austin found a burglar rifling the safe and was killed by him—it is a reasonable hypothesis in the light of your father’s discovery. You said something else was missing—”

“Yes, Austin’s watch. It was a valuable heirloom inherited from his grandfather, and he always carried it with him. The watch has not been found either on his body or in his room.”

“But, Judith, it may be among his effects in New York,” Richards suggested. “Your mother told me that he had quarters at the Yale Club and kept a trunk there.”

Judith shook her head. “Uncle John talked to the steward of the club on the long distance telephone, and a search was made, but the watch could not be found.” Abruptly she changed the subject. “Will you please hand me a glass of water, Joe?”

Richards had started for the door when she called him back. “Don’t go downstairs, the ice water is here,” she looked about the boudoir. “There, Maud put it over by the bedroom door.”

Richards filled a glass for her and replacing it a moment later on the table, he poured out a glass for himself and almost gulped it down. Crossing the room, he again seated himself on the arm of Judith’s chair.

“Judith,” he began, “a strange thing happened to-day and I want to tell you about it.”

“Yes, dear,” she prompted gently, as he paused. “Go on.”

But Richards evidently found some difficulty in continuing, for several seconds elapsed before he spoke again.

“The treasurer of the Metropolis Bank called me up this afternoon and asked me to stop in and see him,” he went on. “And when I reached the bank I was informed that ten thousand dollars had been placed to my credit.”

“Good gracious!” Judith clapped her hands. “Why, Joe!”

“Exactly—why?” dryly. “Why should any one do such a thing? I have no near relatives, no one under obligation to me, and so I told the bank treasurer, but he refused to disclose the donor’s name or by whose authority the bank had acted. He did assure me that it was perfectly proper for me to use the money, stating that it was a gift without a string tied to it and that the money is legally mine.”

“But that is splendid!” exclaimed Judith. “Are you not elated?”

“No, only puzzled,” Richards admitted slowly. “I have racked my brain, Judith, to find out where that money could have come from, and”—he held her close to him, his eyes scanning her face. “Did you give it to me?”

Slowly her eyes fell before his ardent look and a telltale blush mantled her cheeks.

“Yes,” she murmured, and for a second clung to him, then pushed him gently from her. Suddenly he raised her hands and kissed them passionately.

“Judith,”—he steadied his voice before continuing—“I can never thank you, never. Therefore it is all the harder to tell you that I cannot take your money.”

“But you must!” she exclaimed in alarm. “Dear, I am wealthy in my own right and this money is some I had lying idle in a savings bank. It is no sacrifice for me to give it to you.”

“I would like to think that it is,” he murmured wistfully. “Tell me, dearest, what put it into your head to make me so generous a present?”

“I—eh—” Judith’s native honesty would not permit an evasion. “I heard that you had met with reverses in business, Joe.”

Richards looked at her long and intently. “You heard?” he repeated. “Where?”

Judith raised a protesting finger. “‘Ask me no questions—’” she quoted, “you know the old saw, Joe”; and before he had time to frame another question, she asked reproachfully. “Why did you not come to me at once, Joe? I would gladly have helped.”

A dull red flush mounted almost to Richards’ forehead and he averted his eyes from her steady gaze.

“I can’t borrow from a woman, Judith—even the very best and dearest woman in the world,” he confessed. “Keep your money, sweetheart. My financial embarrassment was only temporary, but”—his voice deepened with emotion—“I prize your loyalty above all earthly things. Judith, I shall strive to be worthy of you,” and dropping on one knee he kissed her hand with fervor.

Judith saw his shapely head and fine features through a mist of tears. Her faith in him should stand all tests. In spite of what she had learned of the stolen bonds, he must be innocent—he was worthy of her trust, her love. Impulsively she leaned nearer and he caught her in passionate embrace.

The clock had ticked away fully an hour when Judith awoke to the time.

“It is almost midnight,” she exclaimed reproachfully and rose in haste. As she walked across the boudoir her attention was attracted by a package of addressed and stamped envelopes. “Oh, I forgot to give these to Maud to mail first thing in the morning, and they are important.”

“Let me have them.” Richards snatched them up. “There is a post box in front of the house; I’ll be right back.” And he hastened down the hall to the circular staircase.

Not waiting to lower any of the lights, Judith went into her bedroom and started to undress. It took but a moment to slip on her wrapper, and she was about to comb her hair when the disorderly appearance of her dressing table startled her. Her toilet articles were tossed hither and yon.

Judith’s hand sought her jewelry box; the key was already turned in the lock. Tossing back the lid, she gazed inside—the box was empty.

A half-strangled cry escaped from her white lips and Richards heard it as he entered the boudoir; a second more and he was by her side.

“See—my jewels—they are gone,” she gasped. “Your horseshoe, even, Joe.”

“Hush, my darling, I’ll find it or get you another.” Alarmed by her pallor, he picked up a bottle of smelling salts which stood on the dressing table and held it open before her. “I will replace the jewelry.”

“You can’t replace the locket.”

“The locket!” Richards changed color. “Have you lost the locket?”

In her agitation she failed to catch his question.

“My jewelry was here, every piece, and the locket, when I went in to speak to you, Joe,” she declared. “I added the horseshoe just before you called me.”

Richards gazed at her in dumfounded silence. “What is that?” he asked. “You left your jewelry in that box when you came in to talk to me in the boudoir a little while ago?”

“Yes; I can swear to it.”

Richards sped to the closet door and flung it open. Only wearing apparel rewarded his search. A glance at the windows showed that they were closed and locked on the inside, the bathroom and dressing room beyond were empty! Convinced of that, he turned back to Judith who had sunk into the chair before the dressing table.

“Was any one with you in this room?” he asked.

“No, I was alone.” Judith passed her hand dazedly before her eyes, then again inspected the empty box. “Every piece of jewelry is gone,” she stated, “and the box was full two hours ago.”

“Are you sure, Judith?”

“Absolutely certain—the jewelry was stolen within the last two hours.”

Richards looked first at her and then at the empty box.

“How can that be?” he asked. “There is no entrance to this bedroom except through the boudoir—and you and I, Judith, have been in the boudoir for the past two hours.”

CHAPTER XIII
“MIZPAH”

Detective Ferguson completed his tour of the suite of three rooms and bath which Judith and her husband occupied and took up his station in the boudoir. At Richards’ earnest solicitation she had notified Police Headquarters of the robbery and Ferguson had been detailed to investigate it. He was followed into the room an instant later by Judith who watched him inspect her empty jewelry box with the aid of a magnifying glass. Quickly he made his test for finger prints, but she judged from the negative shake of his head and his puzzled frown that the results were barren.

“About what hour did the robbery occur last night?”

Judith started at the abrupt question, for Ferguson, recalling her deafness and forgetful of the cleverly concealed earphone which she wore continually, raised his voice almost to a bellow.

“It must have been between half-past nine and half-past eleven last night,” she answered. “You need not speak so loudly, Mr. Ferguson; I can hear quite well if you use your ordinary tone.”

“Beg pardon, I’m sure,” and Ferguson sunk his voice to its normal pitch. “When did you last see your jewelry?”

“Just after taking off my wraps upon my return from dining at Rauscher’s,” Judith explained, “I opened the box to put away the diamond horseshoe pin which I had been wearing.”

“And your other jewelry was then in the box?”

“Yes.”

“Where were you between half-past nine and half-past eleven?”

“Here, in this boudoir.”

“Any one with you?”

“My husband, Major Richards.”

“Any one else?”

“No.”

Ferguson blinked at her solemnly for a minute, then rising, stepped to the bedroom door and glanced inside.

“This is the only entrance to your bedroom,” he remarked, turning to the silent girl. “How could a thief enter your room while you and your husband were here, and you remain unaware of it?”

“I am sure I don’t know.” Judith shook her head in bewilderment. “I lay awake nearly all night puzzling over the enigma.”

Ferguson surveyed the boudoir from every angle before again addressing her.

“Where were you sitting?” he inquired.

Judith crossed the boudoir toward the fireplace and wheeled the morris chair forward until it stood in the exact spot of the night before.

“I sat here,” she explained, “and my husband was perched on the chair arm.”

Ferguson walked over and sat down in the chair.

“I presume you and Major Richards were absorbed in conversation,” he grumbled, and not giving her an opportunity to answer, continued, “But you both had a good view of the boudoir door leading into the hall, through which every one has to enter. Any one entering last night would have had to come directly in your line of vision. Was the door open or closed?”

“Open.”

“All the way open?” he persisted.

“The door stood just as it is now,” declared Judith, after studying it a moment. A look outside convinced Ferguson that a person in the hall would be unable to see what was transpiring in the boudoir at the angle at which the door stood ajar.

“A person could enter without having to push it farther open,” he announced. “Does the door squeak?” Springing to his feet he answered his own question by moving the door to and fro. “Nary a squeak,” he commented, and drawing out his memorandum book sat down near Judith. “Now, madam, was it your custom to keep the jewelry box on your dressing table?”

“When I was in my bedroom or in here, yes,” replied Judith. “At other times I kept it in the drawer of my bureau.”

“Was the key in the lock of the box?”

“Yes.” Observing his smile, Judith frowned. “I do not usually leave the key in the lock, but my husband called to me and I joined him here, leaving the box standing on my dressing table.”

“I see.” Ferguson stared reflectively at her for a few seconds. “Ever had anything stolen before?”

“Never any jewelry,” Judith spoke with unusual rapidity. “Nor any money,” she added.

Ferguson pursed his lips and tapped them with his pencil.

“Odd!” he exclaimed. “Were the servants aware that you had this jewelry box?”

“They may have been, for while I do not have a personal maid, Anna, the waitress, and Maud sometimes assist me in dressing for evening entertainments.” Judith wondered when Ferguson would go. She desired most heartily to be alone and thresh out her problems by herself. “It is probable that both the girls have seen the jewelry box on my dressing table,” she added after a brief pause.

“Where were the servants last night?” asked the detective.

“Anna was in her bedroom suffering from a sprained ankle”—Judith’s foot was keeping up an incessant tattoo. “Maud let me in; after that I did not see her again. They have both been here for years and are excellent servants—they are English.”

Ferguson made a slight grimace. “That Maud is a nice she-devil,” he exclaimed below his breath; Maud’s scathing remarks about the inefficiency of the detective force in general and Ferguson in particular still rankled. “I’d like to”—he checked himself and again addressed Judith.

“How much approximately was your jewelry worth, Mrs. Richards?”

Judith took a paper from her mesh bag.

“Here is a list of the articles in the jewelry box,” she explained. “Major Richards suggested that I prepare it for you.”

“That’s fine.” Ferguson reached eagerly for the paper and scanned the items with increasing interest. “I see you estimate the jewelry at four thousand five hundred dollars,” he remarked. “A pretty haul for any thief. Fortunately your initials are on every piece,” running his eye down the list in which Judith had inserted a minute description of the jewelry. “Hold on, here’s one item, a locket—with nothing checked against it—has the locket any distinguishing mark?”

Footsteps behind Judith caused her to whirl around, and she saw Richards stop behind her chair.

“I couldn’t get away any sooner,” he explained. “Your mother detained me in the dining room. Good-morning, Ferguson; has my wife told you of the disappearance of her jewelry?”

“Yes, Major, and I was just asking her for details to aid in identifying it at the pawn shops,” Ferguson again referred to the list he was holding. “What about that locket, Mrs. Richards?”

Judith closed her mesh bag with a snap and the quick tilt upward of her chin indicated to Richards, who had grown to know each mood and tense, that she had reached a sudden decision.

“The locket bore the word ‘Mizpah,’ in raised lettering,” she stated. “Otherwise it is insignificant in appearance.”

“Do you attach any particular value to it?” questioned Ferguson.

“No money value,” she responded quietly, and the detective looked sharply at her.

“I see; you mean it is a trinket of importance from sentiment only,” he commented.

It was Major Richards who answered and not his wife. “You’ve hit it,” he laughed. “I presume Mrs. Richards values the locket more highly than rubies.”

Judith looked at him oddly before turning to the detective. “I have a request to make of you, Mr. Ferguson,” she began, without preface. “It is that you make no mention of the loss of my jewelry to any one. I am convinced that if we conduct the search in secrecy, the thief will betray himself.”

Ferguson stroked his cheek thoughtfully. “I don’t like the idea,” he objected. “I am a believer in publicity myself.”

“You have had plenty of publicity in the Austin Hale case,” Richards pointed out dryly. “I cannot see that it has advanced you very far.”

Ferguson reddened. “We haven’t told the public all we know,” he admitted. “There are a few cards up our sleeve.”

“For instance?” and Richards’ smile was tantalizing.

“As to the nature of Hale’s wound”—the detective paused abruptly—“but that will come out in the medical evidence at the inquest.”

“And when will the inquest be held?” demanded Richards.

“When we lay our hands on a material witness necessary before we can present the case,” Ferguson spoke with provoking slowness. “You will learn all the facts in good time, Major; at present certain clews cannot be divulged.”

“I thought you were an advocate of publicity,” Richards remarked, and again Ferguson flushed.

“You’ve got me,” he acknowledged with a show of good nature. “All right, Mrs. Richards, I’ll conduct this investigation as quietly as possible. But how are you going to prevent your family’s knowing that you have lost your jewelry? Won’t they comment when you don’t wear it?”

“If they do I shall say that I have put it in my safe deposit box,” was Judith’s ready response. “My father has frequently urged me to do so in the past and with Austin’s death and the theft of his watch, what’s more likely than that I should place my jewelry in a safe place?”

Ferguson nodded his approval. “That is a wise argument,” he said. “No one can dispute it. Now, about Mr. Hale’s watch,”—he turned back the pages of his memorandum book until he came to a certain entry—“can you describe it?”

“In a general way,” Judith spoke with some hesitation. “I have seen the watch often, but I am not very observant.”

Ferguson considered her for some seconds in silence. He disagreed with her statement—Judith, in his opinion, was not the heedless type; her detailed description of her jewelry, safely tucked away in his pocket, proved that.

“What was the watch like, Mrs. Richards?” he asked for the second time.

“It was an antique, made before the Revolution, so family tradition has it,” she stated, “an open-faced watch, wound with a key and the dial has an American eagle beautifully etched upon it.”

Ferguson took down her words, closed his notebook and rose.

“I am greatly obliged,” he said. “It should not be difficult to trace young Hale’s watch and also your jewelry if the thief tries to dispose of it. But that,” he stared at her, “presupposes it was the work of an ordinary thief.”

“And what leads you to think otherwise?” asked Judith swiftly.

Ferguson took several steps toward the door and hesitated in some uncertainty. “Your jewelry was stolen by some one familiar with your habits and familiar with the arrangement of these rooms,” he stated gravely. “There is no possible way of entering your bedroom save through this boudoir, as all your windows were found locked on the inside. How the thief stole by you and your husband unobserved while you sat here, we have yet to discover. But, take it from me, the thief was a member of this household. Good-morning.” Not pausing for reply, the detective vanished.

“A member of this household,” repeated Richards thoughtfully. “Judith, have you no suspicion—no clew?” and his eyes searched her face anxiously.

Judith leaned back in her chair and gradually her tense muscles relaxed.

“I have no clew,” she replied. “But—tell me, when you got that glass of water for me, did you glance at all into our bedroom?”

Richards pressed down the tobacco in his pipe and hunted through his pockets for a match.

“Did I look into our bedroom?” he asked. “I may have looked, but I can’t swear to it.”

CHAPTER XIV
SUSPICION

A door slammed and hasty footsteps sounded down the corridor, then a figure blocked the doorway to the sitting room of Latimer’s bachelor apartment.

“She’s gone!”

Latimer dropped the Sunday newspaper he had been reading and stared at John Hale. For a moment he had not recognized his friend’s voice—it was hoarse, discordant.

“She—who?” he exclaimed, springing to his feet.

“Polly.” John Hale swayed slightly, then lunged for the nearest chair and dropped into it. Latimer wasted no words, but poured out a liberal pony of brandy and placed it in his hand.

“Feel better?” he asked, watching the color steal back into John Hale’s white cheeks as he put the empty brandy glass on the mantel. Not receiving an answer to his query, he busied himself about the room which served as library and office. A colored factotum who “went with the apartment” served his breakfasts; the other meals Latimer took at his club or at Rauscher’s. His two rooms, bath, and kitchenette were unusually large, owing to the building having been, before the World War, a private residence. The architect, in remodeling it, had been generous in his allotment of space.

At the end of ten minutes John Hale pulled himself together and signed to Latimer to draw up a chair.

“Sorry I made such a fool of myself,” he began, “but I’m hard hit.”

Latimer looked at him in distress. “What is wrong?” he asked.

“Polly’s gone.”

“So you stated before. Where has she gone?”

“I can’t find out.” John Hale drummed his fingers nervously up and down his walking stick to which he still clung. “You know I called up Mrs. Davis after our fruitless trip to Chevy Chase. She said Polly had come in and gone to bed.”

“Well, it was pretty late when we got back,” Latimer pointed out.

“Yes, thanks to that traffic cop.” John Hale frowned angrily. “I’d have seen Polly if he hadn’t insisted on taking us to the police station.”

“Your previous record for speeding was against you, John,” remarked Latimer mildly. “But what about Polly?”

“This morning I ran over to see her; found her mother in tears, and a trained nurse looking after her and—” John Hale stopped and pulled out a crumpled note—“here, read for yourself,” and tossed it to him.

Latimer scanned the few lines:

Dear Mother:

Nurse Phelps will spend a few days with you in my absence. Have run off for that promised change. Don’t worry, darling.

Polly.

“Well?” he asked as he returned the note.

“Mrs. Davis told me that she had wished Polly to take a vacation for some time and visit their cousin, Mrs. Paul Davis, at Markham, Virginia. She believed Polly had gone there.” John Hale paused. “I’ve just talked with Mrs. Paul Davis on the long distance telephone. Polly is not with her, and not expected.”

Latimer regarded John Hale in bewilderment. “Then where has she gone?” he questioned.

“I have no idea.” Again John Hale played with his walking stick.

Latimer considered him gravely. “What am I to infer?” he asked. “That Polly has disappeared?”

“Yes.”

“But, my heavens, man! Why?”

John Hale shifted his walking stick from one hand to the other. “Overwork,” he said briefly; “unbalanced.”

“Good Lord!” Again Latimer considered him. “Polly did not look ill.”

“But she was,” fiercely. “Any fool could have seen it.”

“Possibly so,” agreed Latimer quietly. “I haven’t seen Polly as frequently as you or Austin.”

John Hale’s strong white teeth snapped viciously at his under lip.

“Leave Austin’s name out of it”—his manner was dictatorial in the extreme and Latimer flushed.

“I will, with pleasure, but”—he hesitated, then disregarding John Hale’s glare, continued steadily—“are you quite sure that Austin’s tragic death has not had something to do with Polly’s—as you claim—mental condition?”

John Hale compressed his lips ominously. “No,” he declared. “Get such an idea out of your head at once.”

“I can’t,” Latimer confessed frankly. “Austin and Polly were engaged.”

“Were? Quite so.” John Hale’s laugh was mirthless. “The engagement was broken by Polly before his death.”

“How soon before his death?”

“Damn! What business is it of yours?” John Hale turned on him savagely.

Latimer rose. “None of my business—now,” he said. “You were the first to bring up the discussion. You are of course at liberty to express your views; I reserve the right to hold my own opinion. Good-morning.”

“Here, wait—” John Hale pushed Latimer back in his chair. “I spoke hastily—without thought—and I apologize. I’m a bit unhinged.”

Latimer regarded him with concern.

“Have you had any breakfast?” he asked.

“No—yes—coffee and rolls; all I wanted,” John Hale moved restlessly. “I must find Polly.”

“Have you reported her disappearance to the police?”

“No, certainly not; we must have no scandal,” John Hale frowned. “You and I must find Polly.”

“Willingly—but how are we to go about it?”

“For one thing, you can call on Mrs. Davis under pretense of wishing to engage Polly as your stenographer, and she will probably give you her present address. You may get more out of her than I did. Frankly,”—John Hale gave an embarrassed laugh—“Mrs. Davis’ manner to me has been very peculiar lately. To-day she appeared almost to resent my questions regarding Polly’s whereabouts.”

Latimer whistled. “So!” he exclaimed. “She may be aiding Polly to avoid you.”

“That hadn’t occurred to me,” John Hale admitted. “But why? She knows I am Polly’s best friend.”

Latimer took out his cigarette case and offered it to his companion. With his left hand he indicated the box of matches on the smoking stand at Hale’s elbow.

“Have you and Polly quarreled?” he asked.

It took a few seconds for John Hale to light his cigarette. “No,” he said between puffs. Then, removing his cigarette, he looked straight at Latimer. “Polly is everything to me,” he stated solemnly. “I will never give her up. She shall be my wife,” and his clenched fist struck the arm of his chair a resounding blow. “Austin, dead or alive, shall not come between us.”

Latimer looked at him and then away. In the glance he had detected a glimpse of the man he had never seen before—he had never suspected. In that instant a naked soul had been bared in all its human frailties.

“Austin has always been a disappointment to me,” John Hale continued—he spoke almost as if communing with himself and forgetful of Latimer’s presence. “For his mother’s sake I condoned his wild habits while at college, his affairs with women,”—his voice rasped through the room—“then he dared to play fast and loose with Polly.”

“He did?” Latimer looked up, startled. “Good Lord, you don’t suppose—?” he winced under John Hale’s iron grip and stopped speaking.

“I suppose nothing,” John Hale spoke with fierce intentness. “Austin had enemies, but Polly was not one of them—she had taken his measure and ceased to care.”

Latimer broke the ensuing silence.

“Then why has Polly bolted?” he asked.

John Hale winced and tapped his cane against his shoe.

“Polly is ill from overwork,” he insisted doggedly. “Come, we are wasting time. Suppose I run you down to Polly’s house and you can question Mrs. Davis. You are not busy, are you?” with a quick look about the room.

“No; I’ll be with you in a minute,” and Latimer, true to his word, kept him waiting only long enough to get his overcoat and hat.

Fifteen minutes later Latimer was mounting the high steps of the old-fashioned mansion on C Street where Polly and her mother eked out a small and steadily shrinking income by taking “paying guests,” a profitable business during the World War, but one that had grown less so with the departure of the army of war-workers who had transformed Washington from a city of leisure into one of volcanic activity and unpleasant congestion. It was not until Latimer’s patience had grown threadbare with repeated rapping and long intervals of waiting that a small, neatly dressed colored girl, seemingly not over fifteen years of age, opened the door and invited him to walk inside.

“Magnolia,” called a voice from the direction of the back stairs. “Show the gentleman into the parlor.”

“Yassam,” Magnolia’s expansive smile disclosed a row of perfect teeth. “Dis hyar way, suh; de madam will be long d’reckly. Who did you say, suh?” evidently impressed with his stylish frock coat and neatly creased trousers. “Miss Polly done gone away.”

“I wish to see Mrs. Davis,” and Latimer handed her a visiting card.

“Yas, suh, sutenly, suh.” Magnolia, meeting his friendly smile, grinned from ear to ear, then bolted with astonishing rapidity out of the room. She was totally oblivious of the fact that her youthful, penetrating voice, raised to a pitch to reach Mrs. Davis standing on the top stair landing, carried her words to Latimer’s ears.

“Dar’s a splendiferous lookin’ gentle’um in his Sunday clothes waitin’ ter see yo’; no, ma’am, he didn’t arsk fo’ Miss Polly, jes’ fo’ you’—he’s got on great big spectacles and a top hat. What dat—you wish de gentle’um’s cyard? Laws, ’scuse me, I done forgot”—and with a loud snicker, Magnolia raced up the steps and pushed the pasteboard into Mrs. Davis’s outstretched hand.

Latimer had met Mrs. Davis a number of times at Mrs. Hale’s and she had chaperoned a number of parties given in Polly’s honor by John Hale. She looked extremely pretty, with her soft gray hair becomingly dressed, her cheeks, unwrinkled in spite of multiplied cares, held a deeper touch of color as she entered the parlor and greeted Latimer. He admired her gentle manner and her air of breeding which no contact with the rough workaday world had the power to efface.

“I trust I have not disturbed you by selecting this unconventional hour to call,” he began, seating himself somewhat gingerly on the edge of a rickety antique chair which had been the pride of Polly’s great grandfather. “Your maid said that Miss Polly was out, and as my errand is somewhat urgent, I asked to see you.”

Mrs. Davis’s brilliant color receded somewhat and her left hand played nervously with her chain of coral from which was suspended a gold locket.

“You are always welcome,” she said, “no matter what your errand.”

“Thanks,” and Latimer, much touched, smiled with equal cordiality. “I am in immediate need of a first class stenographer, and I wondered if I could persuade Miss Polly to forsake Robert Hale and come to me. I will double her present salary.”

Mrs. Davis drew in her breath. “That is a handsome offer,” she exclaimed. “Of course I cannot answer for Polly, but, as she has already resigned her position with Robert Hale—”

“She has resigned, then?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Davis looked her surprise at the abruptness of the question. “I—I did not approve of her working so late at night. Mr. Hale is kind in his way, but he is most exacting. The idea of keeping her out until long after midnight on Tuesday, and night before last, and then letting her come home in the street cars! He might at least, have sent her home in his limousine.” Mrs. Davis came to an indignant pause and Latimer looked his sympathy.

“Miss Polly will have no night work to do for me,” he said. “And the office hours are not long—the Stock Exchange closes early, you know, and not much business is transacted after that.”

Mrs. Davis nodded her head wisely. “I realize that,” she agreed. “The stock market appears a bit more lively just now, Mr. Latimer. Tell me,”—and she lowered her voice to a confidential pitch—“how are the Troy Valve bonds rated now?”

“They have picked up five points.” Latimer regarded her in some surprise. “I did not know you took an interest in the stock market, Mrs. Davis.”

She colored painfully. “In former years we were large stockholders,” she said; “now, alas, our securities have shrunk to these of Valve bonds. I must tell Polly what you say. It is always well to sell on a rising market, isn’t it?”

“If you wish to sell, yes,” dryly. Latimer, conscious of the passing time, was having difficulty concealing his uneasiness as he thought of John Hale waiting a block away in his car. In his impatience he might forget the rôle he had cast for Latimer and, instead of awaiting the latter’s return, walk in at any moment and, by incautious questions, betray his own plot to discover Polly’s whereabouts. “How soon will Miss Polly be in?”

“Oh, she is at Markham, Virginia, with my cousin, Mrs. Paul Davis,” she responded easily. “You had best write to her there or, if you prefer, I will write and tell her of your offer.”

“That is kind of you.” Latimer had some difficulty schooling his voice to the proper pitch of enthusiasm for his rôle. “But I must have Miss Polly’s answer to-day. Can we not call her up on the long distance? I see your telephone is in that corner”—and he stepped toward it.

Mrs. Davis stopped him with a gesture. “No use, Mrs. Paul Davis has no telephone,” she stated calmly. “I can send my letter special delivery and she will get it to-day and wire to-morrow morning when the telegraph office is open.”

“That would perhaps be best.” Latimer made no effort, however, to conceal his disappointment. “Is there any chance of Miss Polly’s returning this afternoon?”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Davis smiled in open amusement. “She left for Markham only this morning.”

“In that case it looks as if I shall have to wait until to-morrow,” Latimer’s voice was rueful. “I wish that I had asked John Hale to tell Miss Polly last night that I wished to engage her as my secretary.”

“John did not see Polly last night.” A faint hardness crept into Mrs. Davis’s softly modulated tone. “She worked very late at the Hales’”—she hesitated, looked up, and caught his sympathetic expression. “Oh, Mr. Latimer, I cannot help feeling that Polly sees too much of the Hales—thinks too much of them and their interests—they are so cold-blooded—so calculating. I wish”—and her voice choked with feeling—“I wish that she had been dead before she ever saw John Hale.”

Latimer regarded Mrs. Davis steadily. “John is a good fellow,” he protested, “a loyal friend and a devoted admirer of your daughter.” He studied her covertly. “Much more so than Austin—”

“Ah, there you are wrong”—Mrs. Davis stopped and cast a frightened look about the room. “Poor Austin, I cannot realize that he has gone from us. He was so full of life, so anxious to succeed—his death is a tragedy.”

“And a mystery,” supplemented Latimer dryly.

“A mystery indeed.” Mrs. Davis raised a small perfumed handkerchief to her dry eyes. “My heart goes out to the Hales, they have much to endure.” Latimer stared—she was expressing somewhat contradictory views about the Hale family almost in one breath. She moved closer to him. “Have the police discovered any fresh clews?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Latimer edged toward the hall door. He dared not linger, every extra moment might bring John Hale in search of him. “Suppose you write to your daughter, Mrs. Davis, and I will also send her a note within the hour. If you have word from her will you promise to let me know at once?”

“Certainly.” Mrs. Davis accompanied him to the front door. “I feel sure Polly will gladly accept your offer. How soon would you wish her to commence work?”

“Immediately.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Davis looked taken aback. “She really needs rest and recreation, Mr. Latimer. Remember, she has just started on her vacation.”

Latimer thought a moment. “She might come to me for a few weeks, just over this month, then go on another vacation, or rather, continue this one, with pay.”

“I will write that to Polly.” She shook his hand warmly. “I appreciate your kindness and I am confident that Polly will come to you if she is physically able.”

“Then I am fortunate,” laughed Latimer. Mrs. Davis’s smile was infectious.

“Just a moment.” Mrs. Davis detained him as he was about to run down the steps. Her pretty coaxing manner reminded him of Polly—mother and daughter were much alike in appearance; only to Latimer’s fastidious taste, Mrs. Davis was the more attractive. There was a certain aggressiveness about Polly, in spite of her good looks, which always repelled him. “Please treat what I said just now about John Hale as strictly confidential.”

“Certainly, madam,” and Latimer returned the pressure of her hand, then he continued down the steps, her parting hail ringing in his ears:

“Remember, not a word!”

When Latimer rounded the corner into Pennsylvania Avenue where John Hale had agreed to wait for him, his face was grave. He said nothing as he climbed into the car and dropped down beside his friend, but as the car continued up the avenue, he broke his silence.

“I failed,” he admitted honestly, and a groan of disappointment broke from John Hale. “Don’t worry, I’ll get Polly’s address to-morrow. Mrs. Davis thinks I called to engage Polly as my secretary.”

Had either Latimer or John Hale turned his head and looked backward he could not have failed to see a woman standing under a tree at the corner of John Marshall Place. Their car was lost in the traffic before Mrs. Davis, recovering from a feeling of breathlessness produced by the unusual exertion of running, turned slowly homeward.

CHAPTER XV
THE PUSH BUTTON

Mrs. Hale contemplated Anna, the waitress, with marked disapproval.

“You should not attempt to exert yourself until Dr. McLane gives you permission,” she announced, with severity.

“Dr. McLane told me to walk about as much as possible, madam.” Anna’s manner was respectful almost to the point of servility. “He promised to be here this afternoon. Indeed, Mrs. Hale, I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, madam.”

“I suppose the doctor knows what he is about”—Mrs. Hale, however, looked extremely doubtful as she spoke. Her own attacks of illness were distinct trials to every member of her family, as her chronic objection to following the doctor’s orders or taking his medicines generally retarded her recovery and produced a wish that “the Old Scratch” would get her, that opinion having been voiced by a long-suffering trained nurse, whose training had not included a course in insults.

“Dr. McLane is sometimes inclined to error,” Mrs. Hale continued after a slight pause. “Don’t take his directions too literally, Anna. Modify them. If he said walk about for an hour, cut it to one half. And never take a full dose of anything prescribed, reduce it by one half.”

“Yes, madam; thank you,” and Anna executed a bob of a courtesy in spite of her injured ankle. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, I think not. Now, mind what I say, don’t overexert yourself.”

“Yes, madam,” and Anna started for the door only to be called back by Mrs. Hale.

“As you go downstairs please tell Maud that Mr. Latimer will lunch with us—that is, I think he will, but he hasn’t answered my telephone message.” Mrs. Hale thought a minute. “Maud can put a place for him.”

“Very well, madam.”

“Wait, there’s one thing more.” Mrs. Hale laid aside her knitting bag, preparatory to rising. “See that the table is properly set, Anna, please. Maud is—eh—not particular, and I am.”

“I will set the table myself, madam.”

“No, no, that is too much exertion for you, Anna.”

“But, madam, I am strong again, see”—and Anna stepped across the room. Her limp was slight. Mrs. Hale heaved a sigh of relief.

“You have had a remarkable recovery,” she exclaimed. “My remedies can be relied on to effect a quick cure. By the way,”—the thought of luncheon uppermost for the moment—“if there is time enough, please make an apple salad.”

“Certainly, madam. Is there anything else?”

“No, I can think of nothing.” Mrs. Hale wrinkled her brow, but no new ideas came to her active brain. “Where is Miss Judith?”

“In her boudoir, madam.” Anna, who had taken several steps toward the door, paused. “Maud told me just now that Miss Judith and Detective Ferguson have been holding a long”—Anna hesitated—“conference.”

“Conference!” Mrs. Hale’s tone expressed astonishment. “Oh!” and she stared at the waiting servant. “That is all, Anna,” and the waitress made her escape.

Mrs. Hale crossed the drawing-room and stood before the large gilt-framed wall mirror which gave her a full length view of her figure. It took several minutes to rearrange a bow of ribbon and several pieces of jewelry, after which Mrs. Hale proceeded leisurely to the third floor. She did not often climb to that height, and, on reaching the head of the stairs, she paused to take breath, then, passing down the broad hall, she turned the knob of a closed door and entered a semidarkened room.

It took her several seconds to pull up the Holland shades of the dormer windows and flood the bedroom with sunlight. When she turned around she saw a man sitting on the edge of the bed watching her. A slight scream broke from her and she swayed dizzily. With a bound the man gained her side.

“Don’t be frightened, Mrs. Hale. It is only I, Detective Ferguson,” he explained. “I thought you saw me when you first entered the room.”

Mrs. Hale shook her head as she sank into the chair he placed for her.

“Dear me,” she exclaimed, “I declare you gave me quite a turn. I had no idea I should find any one in Austin’s bedroom.” Resentment against its cause conquered her fright in some measure and she whirled on him. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask the question of you,” he retorted coolly seating himself opposite her.

“Upon my word!” Mrs. Hale continued to stare at him. Then, as he evinced no desire to address her, her manner changed. “I heard you were in the house,” she began, ignoring his question as he had hers; “and I intended to ask you not to leave until I had seen you.”

“Indeed?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hale’s manner was graciousness itself. “And I am glad to have this opportunity for a private interview.”

“Yes?” Ferguson resorted to brevity while striving to divine a reason for her sudden change of manner.

“I have wanted so much to question you,” she announced. “Have you made any progress in solving the mystery of Austin’s death?”

“It depends on what you term ‘progress,’” he responded dryly.

“Have you discovered any clew to his—his murderer?” she hesitated over the last word. “Now, don’t put me off with stupid evasions,” she added. “How do you know, if we talk over details together,” with marked emphasis, “that I may not be able to detect some point of vital importance which you may have overlooked?”

Ferguson gazed at her reflectively. There was something in what she said. Was she really the fool he had taken her for all along? If she was, and she held some knowledge which would aid him in elucidating the Hale mystery, it would be to his advantage to win her confidence—if necessary, with a show of confidence on his part.

“That is not a bad idea,” he acknowledged. “I’ve handled many puzzling cases, but this one,”—he paused—“this one has taken the lead”; then, as she started to interrupt him, he added, “Here are the facts so far known,”—he smiled—“publicly. Young Austin Hale—by the way, what was his exact relationship to you?”

“A nephew by adoption, at which time Austin assumed the name of Hale,” was her concise reply, so unlike her usual flowery style of conversation that it drew a smile from the detective. “His proper name was Payne—Austin Payne.”

“I see.” Ferguson was watching her as a cat watches a mouse. He had maneuvered his chair so that his back was to the light while she faced the sun’s merciless rays. “Austin returns to this house unexpectedly on Tuesday night, is found by your son-in-law, Major Richards, stabbed to death, and not a soul in your house knows anything about the tragedy.” Ferguson’s gesture was expressive. “No weapon to be found but a pair of shears, no motive for the crime but the theft of a more or less valuable antique watch—a watch whose very ownership would lead to an arrest on suspicion. There was no trace of a burglar’s having broken into the house. Therefore the crime must have been committed by an inmate of your house, Mrs. Hale.”

“No, no!” she protested vehemently, and he detected the whitening of her cheeks under the delicately applied rouge.

“And every member of your household has an excellent alibi,” he went on, not heeding her interruption. “There must be a flaw somewhere; there has to be one.” And he lent emphasis to his words by striking his clenched fist in the palm of his left hand. “Now, where is the flaw?”

Mrs. Hale looked away from him, then back again. “I wish I knew,” she wailed, and two large tears rolled down her cheeks. “I’ve racked my brain trying to find a solution to the mystery, and at last I came up here—”

“For what?”

“To see if Austin dropped any paper—any note paper, so big”—and she demonstrated an approximate size while Ferguson listened eagerly. “Austin must have had some reason for returning so unexpectedly.”

“Of course he did,” agreed Ferguson. “And you think there may be a clew tucked away in this bedroom. Well, we think alike in that. It is the same line of reasoning which brought me up here.” Mrs. Hale winked away her tears and brightened visibly; she was easily influenced by flattery and Ferguson’s tone of comradeship tinged with admiration completely won her. “This room has been thoroughly searched.”

“But something may have been overlooked,” she interrupted eagerly.

“Exactly—suppose we look,” and, rising, Ferguson aided her in her rapid investigation of the bureau drawers. They were rewarded by finding only a few articles of wearing apparel. Her ardor somewhat dampened, Mrs. Hale accompanied the detective to the closet and stepped inside its commodious depths.

“This is evidently the overcoat and hat Austin was wearing on Tuesday night,” Ferguson pointed out, holding them up for her inspection. “And here is the coat of his suit,” removing it from the hook as he spoke.

Mrs. Hale shrank back, then shaking off her slight feeling of repugnance she deliberately searched every pocket—to find a silk handkerchief and a gold card case in which were Austin’s visiting cards.

“Austin must have come direct to his bedroom on reaching here Tuesday night,” Ferguson remarked as he replaced the coat. “Why he went downstairs in his vest and shirt sleeves, I cannot imagine.”

“Perhaps he was in the midst of dressing and was called downstairs,” suggested Mrs. Hale and her voice indicated pleased surprise at her own astuteness.

“Who called him?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea”—she did not lower her eyes before Ferguson’s penetrating gaze.

“If it had been a woman,” mused Ferguson, “he surely would have stopped to put on his coat.”

“Not if he was urgently needed downstairs.”

“But who could have ‘urgently needed him’?” questioned Ferguson swiftly. “Your daughter—”

“Was unaware of his presence in the house,” haughtily. “She stood in no need of Austin’s assistance—put that idea out of your head instantly.”

“You misunderstood me,” he protested. “I was only going to say that your daughter was the only woman on the next floor.”

“So we suppose.”

Ferguson caught her up. “Do you suspect another woman was here?” he demanded. “If so who was it—one of your servants?”

“No, they were asleep in their rooms.” Mrs. Hale resumed her seat. She was commencing to feel fatigued. “You have assured yourself of that.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Ferguson. “We can eliminate them. I am, however, considering all the women who might have been here. You—”

“I?” Although Mrs. Hale laughed heartily in amusement, there was a false note in her somewhat high-pitched voice. “You surely do not suspect me? Why, my dear man, I was at the French Embassy reception; there are plenty of friends to testify to that besides my brother-in-law, John Hale, who took me to the reception and brought me home. You were here when we both arrived.”

Ferguson laughed with her. “I was just running over the people who belong in this house,” he explained. “Your husband was ill—”

“And in bed,” she interpolated.

“The servants in their quarters; Mrs. Richards in her room—at least”—with a sharp look at her. “She was in her room, was she not?”

“Certainly. She has a suite of rooms on the floor below.”

“I was just in there.” Ferguson paused, then went back to what he had been saying. “Major Richards was at the Metropolitan Club on Tuesday night.”

“So he told us.” Mrs. Hale raised her hands and dropped them with a hopeless gesture. “Every person is accounted for—we are just where we started.”

“Not quite.” Ferguson hesitated and glanced about the room. Mrs. Hale, upon entering, had closed the door behind her, and there seemed no likelihood of their conversation’s being overheard. “I found on further inquiry at the Metropolitan Club that Major Richards was last seen there about midnight. The doorman on duty Tuesday night declares he did not see him leave the club, and does not know the hour of his departure for home.”

“Well, what of that?” questioned Mrs. Hale, as he stopped.

“This: according to Major Richards, he reached this house about twenty minutes past one o’clock in the morning and he was last seen in the club a little before midnight. It leaves an hour of his time unaccounted for, and it was during that hour that Austin Hale was murdered.”

Mrs. Hale sat speechless for a minute. “Preposterous!” she exclaimed hotly, recovering from her surprise “Why should Major Richards kill a man he does not know?”

Ferguson glanced uneasily at her and came to a quick decision.

“Suppose Major Richards came home and found Austin talking to his wife and became jealous—”

Mrs. Hale bounced out of her chair. “How dare you insinuate that Judith was having an affair with Austin?” she demanded. “You are most insulting—I shall inform Major Richards—”

“My dear madam, pray, calm yourself,” Ferguson begged, appalled by the storm he had provoked. “I thought we agreed to talk over all aspects of the Hale murder—it was your own suggestion.”

“Certainly it was, but I did not expect—” Mrs. Hale sniffed. “If you ask Major Richards to account for all his time Tuesday night he will do so, I am convinced. A man of his temperament and record—”

“Where is his record?” broke in Ferguson. “What is his record? I cannot learn anything about him.”

“His record is on file in the War Department.”

“His army record, yes.” Ferguson pulled out his watch and jumped to his feet “Pardon me, Mrs. Hale, but I have a consultation at my office and must leave at once.”

“Tell me before you go,”—Mrs. Hale detained him with a gesture—“did you find anywhere among Austin’s belongings either here or in New York a railroad ticket?”

“A ticket? No.” Ferguson eyed her sharply. “Why?”

“I was wondering if he had just stopped over a train on his way south,” she explained glibly. “It was just an idea—don’t let me detain you longer.”

Ferguson halted in indecision; however, his engagement brooked no further delay if he was to be on time for it. He could question Mrs. Hale later in the day.

“I will return,” he said. “But if you desire me at any time, please telephone, Mrs. Hale. Good-morning.”

Left to her own resources, Mrs. Hale diligently searched the room. She had about decided to stop, disgusted with her lack of results when on feeling about in the depths of the top drawer of Austin’s bureau she touched a small book, and pulled it out. On its leather cover she saw stamped in gold the insignia of a Senior secret society at Yale.

Mrs. Hale turned over several of the leaves and glanced down the pages, hesitated a moment then, placing the book in her convenient knitting bag, she proceeded to the dining room to make certain that Maud had properly set the luncheon table. She was particular about small household details. As she passed the door of Judith’s boudoir she failed to see Richards standing somewhat in its shadow regarding her. Richards was still gazing after her retreating figure when Judith, who was in their bedroom dressing for luncheon, called to him.

“Please ring for Maud,” she asked as he appeared, and obediently he returned to the boudoir and reached for the push button. The act was mechanical, and it was not until he had made three attempts to ring the bell that he realized that the small object he was fingering was not the push button.

Richards stepped back and surveyed the boudoir walls. The bell he sought was on the other side of the door leading into their bedroom. After pressing the button he walked back and examined the little object on the opposite wall. To all intents and purposes it resembled an electric push button, hanging just below an enlarged photograph of Mrs. Hale.

Richards’ strong sensitive fingers felt behind the framed photograph until they encountered a tiny wire. It wound in and out along the picture wire until it encountered the wires of the branch telephone. He stood in deep thought for some minutes, then walked into the bedroom.

“Can I be of service, dear?” he asked his wife. “Maud hasn’t answered the bell.”

Judith, wrestling with a refractory hook, shook her head. “Thanks, but Maud’s clever fingers are needed to disentangle this mess,” she said. “Do you mind running downstairs and telling her to come to me? The bell must be out of order.”

“I’ll have her here in a jiffy,” Richards answered, but, once in the hall, his footsteps lagged.

No one was in sight, and getting down on his knees he felt along the telephone wire which ran on top of the wall board. The same fine wire was fastened in place alongside it. Step by step Richards traced the two wires running side by side until they crossed the door-jamb of Mr. and Mrs. Robert Hale’s bedroom. They were old-fashioned in their ideas and occupied the same room.

Richards tapped, first gently, then more loudly, on the partly opened door and getting no response, he walked inside. It was a large room filled with handsome mahogany furniture, the carved four-post bedstead taking up the greater space. But Richards had eyes for but one object standing on a table in an obscure corner of the room, with a soft typewriter cover partly concealing the receivers and earpieces from view. Walking over to it, Richards lifted the cover and examined the instrument. When he laid the cover down his expression indicated incredulity and a dawning horror.

With what object had Robert Hale or his wife, or both, placed a dictograph in Judith’s boudoir?

CHAPTER XVI
LINKS IN THE CHAIN

Anna, the waitress, answered Robert Hale’s persistent ring of the front bell with all the speed her strained ankle would permit. At sight of her, Hale restrained an outburst of temper and with a mumbled, “Thanks,” stamped past her into the central hall of his home.

“Is my brother in the house, Anna?” he inquired, tossing down his overcoat and hat on the first chair he came to.

“Yes, sir, I believe so.” Anna closed the front door as an icy current of air blew her becoming cap at right angles. “His hat and cane are here on the coat stand, and I heard him ask Mr. Latimer to go to his room with him as they left the dining room after luncheon.”

Hale paused on his way to the library. “Who lunched here?”

“Mrs. Hale, Miss Judith, Major Richards, Mr. Latimer, and Mr. John, sir,” Anna explained in detail. “Mrs. Hale complained of a headache and the Major volunteered to take her for a run in Miss Judith’s electric.”

“Did Miss Judith accompany them?”

“Yes, sir.”

Hale looked at the pretty waitress. It was the first time that he had seen her since her injury to her ankle. Contrary to expectations, he had not returned for luncheon but had remained at the club.

“How are you feeling, Anna?” he asked kindly. “Not overdoing it by being about too soon, are you?”

“No, sir.” Anna flushed with pleasure. Hale seldom addressed her, much less took an interest in her welfare, and she had some ado to conceal her surprise. “I’m feeling fine, sir. Is there anything I can do for you, sir, before I go upstairs?”

“You are going upstairs?” Hale halted. “Then please stop at Mr. John’s room and tell him that I would like to see him alone in the den.”

“Very good, sir,” and Anna sought the back stairs and limped her way to the third floor.

John Hale’s bedroom was almost directly opposite that occupied by his stepson Austin. As Anna came down the hall she was greeted by tobacco smoke which drifted through the open transom over John Hale’s door. In response to her knock he came into the hall.

“If you please, Mr. John, your brother wishes to see you alone in the den,” she said.

“Now?”

“Yes, sir, I suppose so. Mr. Hale just said that he would like to see you,” and having delivered her message, Anna executed her bob of a courtesy and went her way.

John Hale walked back into his bedroom with a scowling face, and over to the divan where Frank Latimer lounged, smoking his inevitable cigarette.

“Robert’s sent for me,” he stated. “What do you suppose he is up to?”

Latimer dropped his cigarette in the smoking stand and stood up.

“Mrs. Davis told me, you recollect, that Polly had resigned her position as his secretary,” he reminded him. “Probably your brother has just received a note from her.”

“By Jove!” John Hale’s scowl vanished. “The note may give Polly’s address. Come on, Frank,” and he made for the door, followed in a more leisurely fashion by his companion.

“Didn’t your brother send word that he wished to see you alone?” he asked. “I thought I heard Anna tell you so.”

“She did, that’s true”—John Hale paused at the head of the staircase. “Wait for me, will you? I won’t be long. And then, if there is no address on Polly’s note, we’ll motor to Markham and see for ourselves if Polly is there or not.”

“But, look here—”

“No ‘buts,’” John Hale slapped him on the back. The prospect of action had brought back his spirits. “You’ve got to see me through this, Frank, for the sake of ‘auld lang syne.’ You’ve kept me out of trouble before, remember that”—and he gripped Latimer’s hand and wrung it.

“It looks as if I had contracted for a big job,” groaned Latimer, expanding his fingers which tingled from John Hale’s pressure. “I’ll gladly turn you over to Polly with my blessings. I’ll wait for you in the library, but don’t be long.”

“All right,” and the two friends parted on the second floor.

John Hale did not go at once to his brother’s den. Instead, he watched Latimer disappear down the circular staircase, then very slowly crossed the hall and looked inside Judith’s boudoir. It was empty. With indecision written plainly on his face, he turned about and sought the den. Robert Hale looked up from his desk, where he was writing with feverish speed, as his brother entered.

“Close the door, John,” he directed, and waited in silence until his brother had crossed the room and stood by the fireplace, in which a gas log burned. “Sit down.”

John Hale regarded his brother with no friendly eyes. He had always resented what he termed “Robert’s elder brother act,” and his dictatorial manner generally grated, besides which their natures were too diametrically opposed ever to agree on any subject. John’s height and commanding figure had always been a source of envy to his delicate brother, while the latter’s scientific achievements and financial prosperity had served to widen the breach between them.

“I can stay only a minute,” John announced, lounging against the mantel. “What do you wish to see me about?”

Hale’s thin lips tightened into a straight line. “Sit down first,”—his manner was a bit more courteous—“and I will explain. No, take that chair where you can face me,” and John, against his wishes, dropped into a seat facing not only his brother but the full glare of light from the window.

“Well, what is it?” he asked, as his brother volunteered no remark.

“Can you tell me the present whereabouts of my secretary, Polly Davis?” asked Hale.

“Why do you ask?”

“Because she has sent me her resignation, and I desire to find out where she has gone and why she has skipped.”

“Skipped?” There was instant anger in John’s loud tone. “What d’ye mean, ‘skipped’?”

“Run away, if you like it better.” It was impossible to mistake Hale’s sneering manner. With a curse, John started from his chair.

“You—” he began.

“Quiet, John,” cautioned Hale suavely. “Hear what I have to say before you lose your temper.”

John dropped back in his chair. “Go on,” he shouted, “but don’t try me too far; keep a civil tongue when you speak of Polly—she is pure and sweet and I’ll not have her character defiled.”

“And she met Austin here on Tuesday night,” Hale commented dryly. “You know Austin’s reputation—sit down!” as John again started to his feet. “Either hear me to the end or leave now,” and Hale threw himself back in his seat. “I will not be interrupted every second.”

With difficulty the younger brother mastered his rage. At all cost he felt that he must get information about Polly, and he could do so only by maintaining self-control. He knew his brother too well to doubt that if Hale awoke to the fact that John desired such information he would withhold it from sheer deviltry.

“I am listening,” he said sullenly. “Only remember, my time is valuable.”

Hale smiled with his lips only. “Let us face the situation,” he remarked. “Polly met Austin here on Tuesday night—”

“How do you know she did?” John demanded hotly.

“I saw her,” calmly.

“You—” John stared at him. “You were ill in bed.”

“I was ill—but not in bed,” corrected Hale. “Anna had forgotten to put a glass of ice water on my bed table and, becoming thirsty, I got up, walked down the hall and helped myself from the pitcher and glasses which always stand there at night.” He paused. “I started to return when I thought I heard a woman crying and I took several steps down the circular staircase—”

“Well?” prompted John, as his brother stopped to take breath. “Continue.”

“You are interested?” A mocking gleam shone for an instant in Hale’s deep-set eyes. “I glanced over the bannister into the central hall and saw Polly Davis come out of the library.”

The silence in the den grew oppressive. Suddenly John Hale raised both hands and tugged at his collar as if for air. Then, just as suddenly, his hands fell to his sides.

“What followed?” he asked, and Hale wondered at the moderation of his tone. He had expected a tongue-lashing at the least, if not a physical encounter—his taut muscles relaxed and he assumed an easier position.

“Polly stood clinging to the portières for an instant, then before I could call to her, she ran to the front door and dashed outside,” Hale continued.

“Did you go downstairs?” questioned John.

“No, I did not feel equal to the exertion,” Hale explained. “I returned to bed.”

“What? Without going to see what Polly was doing here and why she should be crying?” asked John incredulously.

Hale smiled cynically. “I have been brought up on woman’s tears,” he remarked. “Agatha has let loose the floodgates so often that I am schooled to indifference. I supposed Polly had been with Judith in the library, and it was not until I was told of Austin’s death that I ascribed another reason for her presence here after midnight.”

John looked at him with bloodshot eyes. “Don’t try me too far,” he warned. “It wouldn’t take much to kill you,” and he extended his powerful hands, fingers distended as if to grip their prey.

His brother watched him unmoved.

“It is easy to kill a man—witness Austin’s murder,” he commented. “But it is unpleasant to swing for the crime. I am glad Polly has bolted.”

“You jump to conclusions,” retorted John. “Because you saw Polly coming out of the library it does not prove that she killed Austin, nor does it prove that she knew he was here, nor that she talked with him.”

“That is true,” agreed Hale; “but in addition to seeing her leave the library I know that she had borrowed Agatha’s latchkey. I know she expected to see Austin—”

“Prove it,” John shouted. “I demand proof.”

Hale unlocked his desk drawer, took out a crumpled sheet of typewriting, and, still retaining a firm hold on the sheet, extended it so that his brother could read the words. “This is a page copied from my manuscript,” he explained. “Polly spoiled the sheet by reversing the carbon,”—he turned it over and showed the impression on the other side—“but before she did so she indicated where her thoughts were straying by this”—and his finger pointed to the typed lines, repeated several times at the bottom of the sheet:

“Saw Austin 10-t-b-53-76c.”

“What gibberish is that?” asked John scornfully.

“Not gibberish,” calmly, “but the combination of my safe.”

The striking of the clock as the hands registered three sounded like a knell in John Hale’s ears. His brother was the first to speak.

“These links in the chain of evidence considered separately are weak,” he admitted candidly, “but taken together, they are strong.”

“I don’t believe it,” protested John. “It is all circumstantial evidence—”

“To which Polly has lent substance by her disappearance,” retorted Hale: “Had she stayed here and continued as my secretary, attention would not have been attracted to her.”

John did not reply at once and Hale, watching him, noted his changed expression with bated interest.

“To sum up,”—Hale’s voice cut the silence and scraped afresh John’s raw nerves—“Polly was engaged to Austin—can you deny it?” Receiving no reply, he went on, “Polly knew he would be here Tuesday night, witness her presence in the house at midnight; she supplied him with the combination of my safe; she was seen leaving the library at the very time he must have been murdered, and his body was found lying near the open safe—”

“Hold on, she may have been here and all that,” John broke in with rough vehemence, “but some one else may have killed Austin even in her presence—”

“Then why has she not told the police?” John remained silent, and his brother continued speaking. “I hoped Polly would brave it out here, and to reduce her anxieties—for I know how pushed she is for money—I increased her salary and held my tongue.”

John stared at him long and intently before again addressing him.

“Why have you kept silent and not informed the police of your suspicions?” he asked, curiously. “Charity is not usually one of your virtues.”

“Austin deserved what he got,” Hale answered slowly. “And—I was always fond of a sporting chance. Therefore, John, find Polly and I will aid you to finance a trip to a country where extradition is not enforced.”

John’s face flamed scarlet. Slowly his color ebbed and his hands unclenched, and when he spoke his voice was low and measured.

“Where am I to find Polly?”

Hale took a letter from his desk. “Polly writes that she is called out of town and, not knowing the date of her return, fears that she will be unable to continue as my secretary, and with every good wish, begs to remain faithfully mine.” Hale shrugged his shoulders by way of comment, and added: “The letter is dated this morning, has no street address on it, and was sent to my club. See for yourself,” and he tossed the letter to him.

John read the familiar writing several times, then folding the sheet, tucked it in his pocket and rose.

“Is there anything else you wish to see me about?” he asked.

“No.” Hale turned carelessly back to his desk. “Take a fool’s advice and do not procrastinate in your search for Polly.”

John walked in silence to the door. Once there, he looked back and addressed his brother.

“Some day I’ll wring your damn neck!” he exclaimed, and his brother’s mocking laughter was still ringing in his ears as he went down the circular staircase.

The sound of voices at the front door aroused him from his thoughts, and, looking in that direction, he saw Maud, the parlor maid, conversing with a District messenger boy. She was in the act of signing a receipt when an oblong package on which she was trying to write, slipped from her awkward fingers and struck with a resounding thud on the marble floor of the vestibule. There was a tinkle of broken glass as the tissue paper covering burst. The messenger, scenting trouble, snatched the receipt out of her hand and bolted down the steps, while Maud, with a loud exclamation, stooped and picked up the package.

“Look at that, now!” she gasped in tragic tones, as John Hale stopped beside her. “What’ll I do? I’ve broken the crystal of Major Richards’ watch.” And tearing off the remains of the tissue paper, she held the piece of jewelry before him.

John Hale scarcely heard her words, his attention was entirely centered on the open-faced watch. Small bits of crystal still clung to its face, but the dial had not been injured and the hands were intact.

“Where did the watch come from?” he asked, and at the eagerness in his voice Maud looked up.

“It’s Major Richards’!” she explained. “Jennings, the watchmaker on Fourteenth Street, sent word by the boy that he couldn’t get it over last night as promised, so he sent it this afternoon. What will the Major say to me?” and Maud’s distress found vent in a subdued sniff presaging a burst of tears.

“Don’t worry, Maud; I’ll explain to Major Richards that the accident was unavoidable. Let me have the watch,” and as Maud expressed voluble thanks, he sped into the library, the watch dangling from its chain.

“Frank,” he cried. “Hurry, man, I’ve found”—he checked himself at sight of Judith sitting on the lounge talking to Latimer.

Judith turned her head at his abrupt entrance and looked at him, then her eyes wandered from his excited face to the watch which he held at arm’s length as he advanced toward them.

“See!” he exclaimed, and rested the watch on the tufted side of the lounge, where both Judith and Latimer had a close view of its antique beauty. Judith bent closer and when she straightened up her face was flushed.

“It is Austin’s watch!” she declared. “I can swear to it.”

“You need not swear—it is Austin’s watch,” John Hale’s tone was cold and cutting. “But you can explain how the watch came in the possession of your husband, Major Richards.”

Judith’s bright color faded. “It is in your possession, and not in the possession of my husband,” she retorted. “Had you not better do the explaining?”

“Willingly—the watch has been in my hands just about four minutes.” John lifted the paper tag attached to the chain. “Listen, Judith—‘Major J. C. Richards—repair broken link in chain and return immediately.’ Your husband left the watch and chain with Jennings and he has returned it.” John Hale moderated his rapid speech and spoke with impressiveness. “Austin was murdered and his watch stolen—that watch has turned up ticketed with your husband’s name. Kindly explain it.”

Judith was conscious of the intent watchfulness of her uncle and Frank Latimer as they waited for her reply, and with all her will power she strove to steady her voice.

“My husband is out just now,” she stated clearly. “When he returns he will explain everything to our satisfaction.”

“Will he?” John Hale’s high temper had slipped control. “I see it all now. Your father knows your husband killed Austin, and to save family scandal has plotted evidence against Polly Davis, even buying her silence and providing funds to have her disappear.”

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” demanded Judith, breaking into his torrent of words.

“No, on the contrary, every faculty is on the alert,” retorted John Hale. “By God, to think of Robert’s trying to shield Richards by making an innocent girl appear guilty. It’s an outrage and I’ll expose every rotten one of you—”

“Steady, John!” Latimer stepped in front of him. “Go easy! You shan’t insult Judith in my presence.”

“Don’t you interfere. Judith shall learn the truth about her rascally husband”—he waved the watch in front of the white-faced girl. “Richards took this watch from Austin as he took your Valve bonds from your father’s safe. I’ve got the goods on him, and he’ll swing for Austin’s murder.”

“He will not!” Judith’s voice rose, clear and strong, and silenced even her overwrought uncle. Her eyes glowed with passionate anger as she faced him. “You dare to threaten me, Uncle John?”

“I dare to protect Polly Davis from underhand, blackguardly treatment,” he replied. “It is a frame-up.”

“Is it?” Judith’s smile was dangerous. “Go back to Polly and take her that watch. Tell her there is a link missing in the chain you are trying to forge and I have it, although she may have the Mizpah locket. Go, both of you!”

John Hale started as if stung. Then, without a word he pocketed the watch and, seizing Latimer’s arm, dragged him out of the room.

CHAPTER XVII
THE DANCING SILHOUETTES

On hearing the slam of the front door behind her uncle and Frank Latimer, Judith went to the windowed alcove of the library overlooking the street on which their house faced and, concealed from the view of passers-by, she watched John Hale and his companion enter the former’s touring car and drive off. Not until the car had turned the corner did she relax her vigilant attitude, then, turning, she paced up and down the floor. She could not keep still. Her nerves were aquiver, her brain on fire.

How had Austin’s antique watch come into her husband’s possession? Again and again her lips framed the same question—with but the one answer. Richards must have taken it from Austin’s dead body. But why—why? Austin was wearing the watch when murdered; that she could swear to. Had she not taken the Mizpah locket from its chain in that awful moment when she had first discovered his body and left the watch with its dangling broken chain in his pocket?

What was it her husband had told her? She pressed her fingers against her throbbing temples in an effort to remember. He had returned just as she reached the hall, had carried her unconscious to their boudoir, revived her, gone downstairs for a bottle of bromides and discovered Austin lying murdered in the library. She whitened to the lips. Had he seized the opportunity to rifle her father’s safe, the door of which was open, before sending for the coroner and police?

He had sold Valve bonds belonging to her which had disappeared that night from the safe, and now—Judith raised her hands in silent, passionate protest—if Joe, in dire need of money, had yielded to sudden overwhelming temptation and taken her bonds, why—why had he stolen Austin’s watch? It could bring him no money return, for the first attempt to sell it would focus suspicion upon him.

If he had been so mad as to steal the watch as well as the bonds, why had he been so foolhardy as to send it to a watchmaker to have the chain repaired, trusting to any messenger to return it to him unknown to others?

Judith stopped short in her restless walk as a sudden idea occurred to her. Was her husband a kleptomaniac? Had he yielded to an insane impulse to steal? Judith racked her brain to remember what she had heard of kleptomania—that it was a recognized mental derangement, an irresponsible and irresistible propensity to steal, and that the kleptomaniac cared nothing for the objects stolen as soon as the craze to steal was gratified. But Joe had cared enough to sell her Valve bonds. That might have been a sane act, Judith acknowledged to herself bitterly, but to take a useless watch which would surely involve him in another and greater crime was the act of insanity.

Would involve him—it had already involved him. Judith’s breath came faster and perspiration appeared in beads on her forehead. She knew John Hale’s stubborn will, his passionate affection for Polly Davis—he would move heaven and earth to convict her husband. What more likely than that he was already at Police Headquarters swearing out a warrant for his arrest?

Judith’s loyalty to her husband was instantly in arms. He might be a kleptomaniac,—if so, he was to be pitied and protected,—but he was not a murderer—Judith’s faith remained unshaken. With all her woman’s wit she would prove him worthy of her trust and devotion, and clear him of any suspicion of complicity in Austin’s murder.

But how to go about it? The locket had disappeared while she and her husband were sitting in the boudoir through which the thief had to pass to enter the bedroom. There was but one person to her knowledge to whom the locket was of vital importance—Polly Davis. And she, Judith, had informed Polly that it was in her possession only a short time before its disappearance. But the only living persons who had had an opportunity to steal her jewelry were—herself or her husband.

Judith shuddered—had Joe’s thieving propensities caused him to take her jewelry? Her back had been toward him when he went to get her glass of water, but even if there had been time for him to slip into their bedroom and get the jewelry, where had he hidden it without her seeing him? Judith stared dully at the opposite wall, despair tugging at her heartstrings.

“Hello, Judith,” called a cheery voice from the doorway, and Judith, whirling around with a violent start, saw Dr. McLane, black bag in hand, looking at her. “I have just been upstairs treating Anna’s ankle and I stopped in here on my way out to see if any one was at home.”

“Come in, doctor,” she exclaimed. “You have arrived in answer to my thoughts.”

As he took her extended hand in greeting he glanced quickly at her—her palm was dry and hot to the touch. Instantly his fingers sought her pulse.

“Come, Judith, this won’t do,” he remonstrated gravely. “Your pulse is pounding like a millrace. I have cautioned you before—”

“Please, doctor, don’t scold,” she pleaded. “It is only caused by momentary excitement. I’ll calm down after a talk with you.”

“Will you?” doubtfully. “Well, fire away.”

Judith wheeled a chair around. “Do sit down,” she coaxed, “I can’t think of a thing to say while you stand with that air of bolting away.”

McLane laughed as he followed her wishes, placing the black bag within reach. “I am all attention,” he declared. “Go ahead.”

“Can kleptomania be cured?”

McLane stared at her; the question was unexpected.

“Not permanently,” he replied, and Judith, who was toying with a fan which was attached to a silk cord about her neck, raised it to her lips to hide their trembling.

“What are its symptoms?” she asked.

“Symptoms?” The surgeon was distinctly puzzled by her questions. “It is a mental derangement usually found among the wealthy class, for the craze lies in the act of stealing, and the article stolen is of indifference to the genuine kleptomaniac and is often of no value whatever. A thief steals for gain for himself or another.”

“I see.” Judith paused, and a moment later Dr. McLane, who had been openly studying her—though she was unconscious of it—roused her from her bitter thoughts.

“Where are your mother and Major Richards?” he inquired.

“They have gone to Walter Reed Hospital to see Major LeFevre,” she explained. “I did not feel equal to the long trip and had them leave me here after a short turn on the speedway.”

“It would have been better had you stayed out in the fresh air,” commented McLane frankly. “You are brooding too much, Judith. I fear”—with a keen glance at her—“Austin’s death has upset you more than you realize.”

“We are all upset,” she admitted. “And the suspense—not knowing who is guilty of the crime is terrible.” She paused a moment. “Could it have been suicide?”

McLane shook his head. “Impossible, judging from the nature of the wound,” he insisted. “The autopsy proved that.”

Judith straightened up. “You were present at the autopsy, were you not?”

“Yes.”

“Doctor,”—Judith’s hesitation was perceptible as she toyed with her fan—“do you believe that Austin was stabbed with a pair of shears?”

“That is a difficult question to answer offhand, Judith,” he replied gravely. “Austin’s death was caused by a punctured wound. These wounds, Judith, are generally smaller in circumference than the weapon used, for the skin is stretched and yields to a certain extent. Therefore the wound might have been inflicted with long, slender shears.”

Judith considered his answer in silence, a silence which seemed endless to the busy surgeon. Finally, with a glance at her and another at the dial of the clock, he rose and picked up his bag.

“I must go, Judith,” he said. “Take my advice, child, and lie down for a while. If you don’t you will be added to my list of patients. Please do as I ask you.”

Few could resist McLane’s charming smile, and Judith’s “I will” was prompt. She experienced a strange reluctance to have him go, and only an exertion of her self-control prevented her from calling him back as she closed the front door on his retreating figure. In her room Judith did her best to comply with McLane’s request, but she could not lie still on the bed. Finally, unable longer to control her desire for motion, she got up and wandered into the boudoir. From there she went to her father’s den. He was not there, and Judith with a glance into his bedroom, closed the door, and, going over to his desk, she sat down before it and went carefully through his papers.

It was dusk, the early dusk of a winter afternoon when Judith again entered the library. Anna, the waitress, had not performed her usual duties of turning on the electric lights, and Judith contented herself with switching on the lamp nearest her father’s safe. Dropping on her knees before it, she propped a playing card on a stool beside her, and, placing her hand on the knob of the steel door, turned the dial. It was slow, laborious work and perspiration trickled into Judith’s eyes. She saw but dimly the Knave of Hearts—the red of the playing card alone showed up plainly. A last twist of her wrist and the heavy steel door swung backward, and Judith sank down in a crouching position to rest her cramped muscles.

She was still looking directly inside the safe when a handkerchief was drawn across her eyes and a hand detached the wire connecting her earphone and the little electric battery which she wore tucked inside her belt. Completely taken by surprise and too paralyzed to move, Judith sat motionless as the hand, having completed its mission, slid around and covered her mouth. Then, before she could scramble to her feet, hands dragged her backward until she felt herself resting against a table leg. It took but a moment to tie her to it; the next instant a handkerchief gag replaced the hand across her mouth.

For what seemed an eternity Judith sat without motion, cut off from sound, from sight—

Surely the distorted silhouettes dancing before her vision were creatures of her imagination! Or could it be the shadows of real people seen through the folds of the handkerchief?

Bound, blindfolded, gagged, deprived of her earphone, and her hearing deadened by nature, Judith’s heart was beating with suffocating rapidity. She must get aid—aid before she fainted. Instinctively she bit and worried her gag, and the handkerchief, insecurely tied, parted finally. Judith filled her lungs with air, moistened her parched lips, and tried to call for help.

The whispered cry reached only to the confines of the room. To Judith’s ears no sound penetrated, and she waited in agony. Had her shout carried beyond the library? Surely the maids, her father—some one must hear her?

She opened her mouth for another attempt, and an oblong object was thrust between her teeth and lashed around her head. Once again she was left to herself. The excruciating pain produced by the new gag caused Judith to clench her teeth against it so as to relieve the pressure on the strained flesh.

Judith had lost all track of time when suddenly she felt the cords, binding her to the table leg, loosened, and, as consciousness left her, she was lifted upward, a dead weight.

CHAPTER XVIII
EDGED TOOLS

Robert Hale crossed the central hall and entered the library with characteristic haste. On finding only a solitary light burning, he stopped and switched on the other lamps until the library was flooded with light.

“Hello!” he exclaimed, catching sight of Major Richards standing in front of the fireplace. “Glad you are ready for dinner. It never fails, Joe, if I am hungry, Mrs. Hale is always late. She never has a well regulated appetite.”

Richards laughed. “Your wife told me not to change into a dinner coat,” he explained, glancing apologetically at his sack suit. “She said we were so late in getting back from Walter Reed Hospital that there was not time.”

“Beastly bore changing for dinner.” Hale wandered aimlessly about the library. “Agatha insists upon it, so”—a shrug completed the sentence. “See that you imbue Judith with the idea that you are master, and you will enjoy future peace of mind.”

“I cannot conceive of Judith’s ever requiring a master,” retorted Richards, a trifle heatedly, and Hale laughed.

“You are young and you haven’t been married long,” he remarked indulgently. “Where’s Judith?”

“She hasn’t come down yet.” Richards removed his foot from the brass fire iron and stood with his back to the mantel. “I plan to take Judith to Palm Beach on Thursday.”

“You do, eh?” and Hale looked taken aback.

“Yes,” steadily. “Judith is not strong.”

Hale did not reply. Instead, he scrutinized his son-in-law from his well shod foot to the top of his short cropped hair. There was an air of distinction, of courage, in Richards’ carriage and in his firm chin and clear eyes, eyes which did not waver before Hale’s piercing glance.

“That is not a bad plan of yours,” Hale remarked finally. “Perhaps Agatha and I will follow you in a week or two. The fact is”—he selected a chair near Richards—“Austin’s death and the mystery surrounding it are getting on every one’s nerves. It is demoralizing the household. The police—bah! they are incompetents. They never see the obvious.”

“And what is the obvious, Mr. Hale?”

Hale hesitated and cast a doubtful look at his son-in-law.

“The curious behavior of a certain female—”

Richards bent forward and stared at him, waiting for the sentence to be completed.

“What female do you allude to?” he demanded impatiently, breaking the pause.

The portières were pulled aside, and Anna, the waitress, appeared, silver salver in hand.

“Beg pardon, Mr. Hale, but here is a telegram for Miss Davis,” and she extended it to him. “The messenger refused to take it to her house address.”

“Very well, I will see that it is forwarded.” Hale put on his glasses, inspected the Western Union envelope and its address, then laid the telegram on the table. “Has Mr. John returned, Anna?”

“No, sir,” and Anna limped away to the pantry by way of the dining room as Mrs. Hale stepped between the portières in front of the doorway leading to the central hall.

“Now, don’t say I am late, Robert,” she began. “I have lost no time, and I do believe I am down before Judith,” with a quick glance about the library. “What did you do with yourself this afternoon?”

“Took a walk,” laconically. Hale drummed his fingers on the chair, and Richards wondered for the second time what made him so restless. He had always an alertness of manner, but to Richards it now appeared almost furtive. Hale pointed to the clock. “Why do we have to wait for Judith and John?” he demanded. “Suppose we go in to dinner.”

Richards left his place by the mantel. “I’ll go for Judith,” he volunteered. “I would have done so before, Mrs. Hale; I but stopped in here on our return, thinking she would come in every minute.”

As he crossed the library, a door slammed in the distance and heavy footsteps approached just as Richards reached the portières. They were dragged aside and he came face to face with John Hale whose labored breathing indicated haste or excitement, or both combined.

“So you are here!” John Hale exclaimed in high satisfaction, and called over his shoulder, “Come in, Ferguson. No, you don’t,” as Richards, who had stepped back courteously to permit him to advance into the library, started for the hall. “You’ll stay here and face the music,” and he thrust out his hand to push him back.

“Take your hands off my shoulder,” commanded Richards, his anger rising both at his words and action. “What do you wish with me?”

“I wish you to explain in the presence of witnesses”—John Hale cast a triumphant look at his brother and sister-in-law before continuing—“how you obtained this watch,” and, drawing it out of his pocket, he swung it before Richards.

Richards looked first at the watch and then at his questioner.

“It would be just as well if you first explained how it came into your possession,” he remarked quietly, and John Hale crimsoned.

“Don’t take that tone with me,” he exclaimed. “I have the law behind me.”

“If the law is represented in the person of Detective Ferguson, it is loitering directly back of you,” broke in his brother who, with Mrs. Hale, had drawn closer to the two angry men. “Come in, Ferguson, don’t stand on the outskirts. My brother is not really so formidable as he appears.”

Ferguson, who had purposely remained in the background, an interested spectator of the scene, flushed at Hale’s mocking tone and entered the library with some precipitancy. Hale watched him in open amusement, then he turned to his brother.

“Continue your remarks, John,” he directed. “We are waiting.”

“I am addressing Major Richards and not you,” retorted his brother. “Well, sir, what about the watch?”

“I am waiting for an answer to my question, Mr. Hale,” responded Richards.

“How I got the watch doesn’t concern you.” John Hale spoke with more deliberation. “How you obtained possession of Austin’s watch does concern—the police.”

“Austin’s watch!” gasped Mrs. Hale. “Good heavens!” She leaned nearer and inspected it, taking care not to touch the watch. “Where did it come from?”

“That is what I am asking Major Richards. Perhaps he will be more courteous and answer your question, as it is addressed by a woman”—and John Hale looked scornfully at Richards.

“The gibe is unnecessary,” retorted the latter. “As the watch is in your possession and not in mine, it is up to you to explain how you got it.”

Hale laughed outright. “He has you there, John,” he chuckled. “Have you an answer ready?”

Ignoring his brother, John Hale addressed himself exclusively to Richards.

“Austin’s watch was sent to this house by Jennings, the watchmaker, with whom you left it to have the chain repaired. See, it bears your name,” and he displayed the label still attached to the watch. Richards read the words on it with interest.

“Well, what have you to say?” demanded John Hale, as he made no remark.

“That the watch bears my name does not prove that I left the watch with this man, Jennings,” Richards stated, and John Hale turned triumphantly to the detective.

“There, didn’t I tell you he would take that attitude?” he cried. “It won’t do, Richards. Ferguson and I have just seen Jennings and he described you accurately in giving an account of the man who left the watch with him on Wednesday—mind you, later in the same morning on which Austin was found murdered. How did you get possession of Austin’s watch?”

Richards looked steadily at the excited man before him, at the others—noting instantly the serious expression of Mrs. Hale’s countenance, her husband’s intent interest, and Ferguson’s keen attention. Then, slowly, he glanced around the library—Judith was not present. He drew a long breath.

“I decline to answer your question, Mr. Hale,” he said.

Ferguson stepped forward. “It would be best, Major, if you did,” he suggested. “That is a bit of friendly advice.”

“Thanks,” dryly. “Had you not better warn me that anything I say will be used against me?”

Hale chuckled, then grew serious. “Come, John, what does this scene mean?” he demanded of his brother. “What are you trying to prove?”

“That Major Richards has a guilty knowledge of, or is guilty of, Austin’s murder,” he replied, and at his words a cry broke from Mrs. Hale and she collapsed in the nearest chair.

Richards looked at John Hale in silence for a brief second.

“So that is it,” he exclaimed. “I congratulate you on your acumen. Now, perhaps you will tell me why I murdered a man whom I had never seen?”

“Oh, don’t say that, don’t,” wailed Mrs. Hale. “I found your name in Austin’s membership book of his Senior secret society at Yale.”

Richards regarded her in surprise. “Certainly my name is in the book; but I graduated at Yale before Austin’s freshman year.”

John Hale smothered an oath. “Whether you knew Austin or not is immaterial. When a man is caught in the act of burglarizing a safe he doesn’t need an introduction to the man who detects him—he kills him—as you murdered Austin.”

Richards shrugged his shoulder. “You will have it that way,” he spoke with studied indifference, as he again stole a look about the room—where was Judith? “Has it ever occurred to you that Austin might have been rifling Mr. Hale’s safe and was killed in the act—”

“By whom?” gasped Mrs. Hale; her face was ashen in color.

“I leave that conundrum to the police,” replied Richards. “It was but a suggestion.”

“Which carries no weight,” retorted John Hale. “This watch isn’t the only thing we have on you, Richards.” He turned to his brother. “What was stolen from your safe on Tuesday night?”

Mrs. Hale’s sudden start was lost on her husband. Hale looked at Richards queerly, thought a minute, then answered with brevity.

“Ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company belonging to Judith.”

“And those bonds, Richards, you sold to cover your losses in speculation,” declared John Hale.

Richards contemplated the two brothers in thunderstruck silence.

“You say that Judith had Valve bonds in your safe which were stolen on Tuesday night, Mr. Hale?” he demanded of the elder brother.

“Yes.”

“So it was your wife’s bonds which you first stole and then sold”—John Hale was enjoying himself. He had caught the hunted look in Richards’ eyes. Turning, he winked at Ferguson, and when he again faced Richards, the latter had himself well in hand.

“You have stated twice now that I sold Valve bonds,” Richards began. “It is up to you to prove it.”

“And I can”—wheeling around, John Hale seized the desk telephone and repeated a number. A second more and he called into the instrument:

“John Hale speaking, Frank. Come over to the house as quickly as you can. Polly—what about Polly?—I don’t catch that—tell me when you get here,” and he banged up the receiver, then turned to the others in the library. “It won’t take Latimer five minutes to reach here.”

“And why is his presence required?” questioned Richards. “It strikes me that this scene has been prolonged unnecessarily.”

“Possibly, from your viewpoint.” John Hale’s smile was not pleasant. “Don’t get nervous at this stage of the game.”

Richards’ eyes blazed and he made a quick step in his direction—to find the way blocked by Detective Ferguson.

“None o’ that,” he exclaimed hastily. “Remember, Mrs. Hale is present.”

Richards pulled himself together and his right arm dropped to his side.

“I quite understand that Mr. John Hale is aware that he has the protection of a woman’s presence,” he remarked. Again Robert Hale chuckled faintly, while his brother, coloring hotly, had difficulty in curbing his unruly tongue. The latter turned abruptly to his sister-in-law.

“Agatha, suppose you leave us,” he suggested.

“I will not,” and Mrs. Hale, whose eyes were twice their usual size, squared herself in her seat. “I gather, John, I am needed here to keep you in order.”

“Quite right, my dear,” and her husband patted her approvingly on the back, before turning to his brother. “Now, John, if you have any more remarks to address to Major Richards, omit all personalities or”—his voice deepened—“I shall have to request you to leave the room.”

Ferguson caught the look that John Hale shot at his brother and stepped gamely into the breach. He had divined earlier in the investigation that it took little to arouse the smoldering animosity between the brothers.

“Major Richards,” he commenced, “you told Coroner Penfield that you spent Tuesday evening at the Metropolitan Club. At what hour did you leave the club for home?”

Richards considered the question. “It was just midnight,” he stated. “I am positive as to the time for the clocks were chiming when I left the building, and I waited and counted the strokes—twelve of them.”

The detective consulted a page in his notebook. “You also told the coroner that you reached here about twenty minutes past one on Wednesday morning. Where did you stop between here and the club?”

“Nowhere.”

Ferguson eyed him intently. “The club is about fifteen minutes walk from here, at the outside,” he declared. “Do you contend that it took you over an hour to reach this house?”

“Yes,” quietly. “Your circles and avenues are confusing and I lost my way.”

John Hale laughed aloud. “A great alibi,” he sneered. “Austin was murdered between Tuesday midnight and one A. M. Wednesday—thus you had ample time to reach here, kill him, leave the house and return a few minutes after one o’clock.”

“You think so?” Richards shrugged his shoulders disdainfully. “Well, prove it.”

“I will.” John Hale waved his walking stick which he had brought with him into the library in his haste to encounter Richards. “And here’s one link in the chain now,” as Frank Latimer was ushered in by Anna, the waitress, whose curious glance at the excited group escaped notice. “Frank, did Major Richards sell ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company in your office on Friday afternoon?”

“He did.” The little stockbroker stared at each in turn, and the gravity of their expression was reflected in his manner.

“Did Judith call there that same afternoon?” Richards’ violent start was seen by all, and John Hale’s eyes gleamed viciously as he continued his questions. “Did she tell you that she owned ten bonds of the Troy Valve Company, numbering from 37982 to 37991?”

“Yes.”

“And did those numbers correspond with the numbers on the bonds sold you by Major Richards?”

“They did.”

John Hale turned to his brother. “You have a memorandum of Judith’s bonds which were stolen from your safe on Tuesday night,” he stated. “Repeat the numbers.”

There was a slight hesitation in Hale’s manner before he complied with his brother’s abrupt request. Opening his leather wallet, he found a memorandum and ran his eye down it.

“The numbers are the same,” he said, and replaced his wallet.

“Well, Richards, have you anything to say?” demanded John Hale, and edged nearer him.

“Nothing—to you,” and John Hale flushed at his cutting tone.

“Perhaps you’ll have something to say to me, Major,” broke in Detective Ferguson. “Will you tell us how you got those bonds?”

Richards eyed the little group; his gaze rested longest on Robert Hale, then he turned to Ferguson, as the detective repeated his question.

“No,” he responded. “I will not tell you.”

Mrs. Hale leaned forward and placed a trembling hand on his arm.

“Did Judith give you the bonds?” she asked timidly.

“No, Mrs. Hale, she did not,” and Richards, catching her pitying look, felt a sudden tightening of his heartstrings. It was the first expression of sympathy vouchsafed him. Where—where was Judith?

Ferguson broke the brief pause.

“Major Richards,” he began, and Mrs. Hale clutched her chair in her excitement. Her head felt heavy, her breathing stifled—Dr. McLane had warned her about a weak heart. “You have heard Mr. Latimer, a reputable witness, testify that you sold bonds belonging to your wife, and Mr. Hale, your father-in-law, has stated that those bonds were stolen from his safe on Tuesday night. You declare that you left the Metropolitan Club on Tuesday at midnight, and that you lost your way and spent an hour walking about the streets before reaching this house at twenty minutes past one o’clock on Wednesday morning. Can you substantiate that statement with witnesses?”

“I cannot.” Richards’ gaze was unwavering and his voice firm, but his face was white and strained. “I met no one while walking home. That was the chief reason for my delay, because I had no opportunity to ask the right direction to take. I have no sense of locality.”

“Humph, very pretty!” commented John Hale, and Detective Ferguson scowled at him.

“I’m handling this case, Mr. Hale.” He spoke harshly, and John Hale showed instant resentment by returning the scowl as the detective again addressed Richards. “You left the watch belonging to the murdered man, Austin Hale, with Jennings to repair. That is conclusive evidence that the watch had been in your possession.”

“So you claim”—and Richards smiled politely. “Don’t let me interrupt your little romance, Ferguson. Go on.”

Ferguson swallowed his wrath. “I am stating facts, Major, facts which have been proved. Once more I’ll give you a chance to state your version of how Austin’s watch came into your possession, and the Valve bonds as well.”

“Thanks.” Richards’ brows were knit in a deep frown. “Do I understand that I am your prisoner?”

Ferguson drew out a legal document. “I have this warrant for your arrest,” he admitted.

“Then I will reserve what I have to say until I see a lawyer.”

“But, Major—”

“No, Ferguson,” firmly. “A prisoner’s right to consult a lawyer is a constitutional right.”

“Prisoner!” Mrs. Hale started from her chair. “Robert—”

Robert Hale stepped forward. “Sit down, Agatha.” He pushed her gently back in her chair before turning to Ferguson. “Who swore out that warrant?”

“Your brother, Mr. John Hale.”

“So”—Hale faced his brother. “Have you forgotten our conversation early this afternoon?”

“I have not.” John Hale shouldered Latimer to one side as he stepped nearer the center of the room. “You tried to fasten Austin’s murder on an innocent girl to shield your daughter’s husband.”

“An innocent girl!” Hale’s mocking smile brought his brother’s rage to fever heat. “So innocent that when she quarreled with her lover at their midnight meeting she killed him with her shears—shears which I had bought for her the week before.” Swiftly he turned to Ferguson. “Release Major Richards and arrest the real criminal, Polly Davis.”

An oath broke from John Hale, and in blind fury he twirled his walking stick. His brother, by a dexterous twist only, avoided the thrust. As the steel point of the sword cane came to rest directly under the powerful light from a standing reading lamp, a scream escaped Mrs. Hale.

“Look, look!” she cried. “It’s covered with blood.”

CHAPTER XIX
THE UNSEEN EAR

As if hypnotized, John Hale stared at his sword cane, raising it slowly, very slowly, then as slowly dropped the point and gazed at his brother.

“It is blood,” he gasped. “But you are unhurt?”

“Yes.” Robert Hale’s voice was not quite steady. “You did not reach me.”

“Then where did this blood come from?” demanded John Hale. “It’s—it’s not fresh,” and there was a growing horror in the look he cast at his companions.

Ferguson, who had followed every act and word with rapt attention, picked up the bamboo cane casing which John Hale had tossed to the floor when he drew the concealed weapon and lunged at his brother. Stepping up to the dazed man, the detective took the sword from his unresisting hand and examined it with interest.

“Austin Hale was killed by a rapier-like thrust,” he stated slowly. “The autopsy proved that the wound was greater in depth than in length. Is this your cane, Mr. Hale?”

John Hale wet his dry lips. “It is,” he muttered, and looked dumbly at his silent, motionless companions.

“You carry it always?” asked Ferguson with dogged persistence.

“When I go out, yes.”

“Who knows that this ordinary-appearing bamboo cane conceals a rapier?”

“My brother.” John Hale avoided looking at them, his eyes were still on the sword cane.

“Any one else?”

“N—no.”

“Quite sure?” and Ferguson tried to meet his eye.

“No—yes.” With an effort John Hale recovered some semblance of his usual manner. “I may have spoken of the cane but I don’t recall doing so. I bought it from an antique dealer and it’s been a fad of mine to carry it.”

“I see.” Ferguson considered him steadily for a moment. “Where were you on Tuesday night?”

“At the French Embassy reception.”

“Mrs. Hale,”—the detective spoke her name with such sharpness that she jumped involuntarily—“was your brother-in-law with you at the Embassy between midnight Tuesday and one o’clock Wednesday morning?”

Mrs. Hale looked at no one in particular and wrung her hands.

“Must I answer?” she begged, turning imploringly to her husband and, as she caught his expression, exclaimed: “No, I refuse to.”

“Don’t put yourself out for me, Agatha.” There was a sudden utter weariness in John Hale’s tone, and Richards started and looked at him intently. What did it portend? “I will answer your question, Ferguson. I was not at the French Embassy during that time.”

“Where were you?”

There was a tense silence. When John Hale answered he spoke hardly above a whisper.

“I had returned to this house to meet my stepson, Austin.”

Mrs. Hale collapsed. “Oh, dear! oh, dear, I’ve feared it all along,” she wailed, and burst into tears. “Oh, Polly, Polly, you have a lot to answer for!”

“Have I?” asked a strained voice, and Polly Davis, who had been a stunned witness of the scene, advanced a few steps further into the room, Anna, the waitress, peering over her shoulder with wide, curious eyes. “Well, I am here to face the consequences.”

John Hale, who had not taken his eyes from her ghastly face, sprang to her side.

“No!” he exclaimed vehemently. “No. Go home.”

“Presently,” she silenced him with an imperative gesture, before turning to the detective.

“Whom do you accuse of the murder of Austin Hale?” she asked.

Ferguson scratched a bewildered head. “I did believe Major Richards guilty,” he admitted slowly. “But seeing that Mr. Hale states he came back here to meet his stepson, that Austin was killed at that time with a rapier thrust, and that Mr. Hale’s sword cane has bloodstains on it—” He paused. “Well, taking all that into consideration and with the knowledge that he and Austin were not on good terms—I guess—it looks as if Mr. Hale killed him.”

Polly drew a long, painful breath. “Wait,” she cautioned. “I was here on Tuesday night.”

“Hush!” commanded John, a look of agony on his strong face.

“No, I must speak.” Polly partly turned from him and addressed the others. “I wrote Austin on Saturday breaking our engagement, but as Monday was Washington’s Birthday he never received the letter until Tuesday morning. In answer I had a wire from Austin stating that he would get here Tuesday about midnight. I”—her voice quivered a bit, then steadied—“it was imperative that I see him without delay, so I came, admitting myself with Mrs. Hale’s latchkey which I had borrowed one day last week. I walked into the library”—she caught her breath.

“Stop, Polly,” pleaded John Hale. “Stop. You don’t know what you are saying.” Seeing that she paid no attention to his words, he appealed to the detective. “For God’s sake tell her to stop—it’s not fair—it’s cruel—she shall not convict herself.”

“What are you insinuating?” cried Polly. “Convict myself? Are you mad? Austin was stabbed before I entered this house.”

The five men eyed each other in silence, then concentrated their attention upon her, forgetful of Mrs. Hale, of Anna—waiting for her to continue.

“I saw Austin lying on the floor,” she went on, her voice husky with emotion. “The shock made me cry out, then my whole impulse was to run, to hide. I reached the central hall and paused to gather strength; a faint noise on the staircase caused me to look in that direction and I made out dimly a man peering at me over the bannisters”— She paused. “Mr. Robert Hale, why are you using a dictograph in this house?”

Hale looked at her in dumb surprise—twice he opened his lips to speak and twice closed them with the words unspoken. Richards, standing somewhat in the background, bent forward in a listening attitude.

“What’s that noise?” he demanded. “Listen!”

Through the silence came a faint drumming, it grew louder, then died away, to break out again a little louder, more insistently.

“By heavens, it comes from the alcove!” exclaimed Richards, and racing across the room, he dashed aside the heavy red satin curtains pulled across it. A horrified exclamation escaped him, and he recoiled at sight of Judith, bound and gagged, lying on the window seat. Her body had slipped down the piled up sofa cushions and her right foot just touched the paneled wall and with it she was beating the devil’s tattoo.

“Good God!” gasped Richards, then recovering himself, tore at her fastenings. Ferguson, more clear-headed than the other, slashed at the clothes’ line which bound her with John Hale’s sword cane, and aided him in carrying her to a chair by the table.

“Chafe her arms and ankles so that the blood will circulate,” he advised, while his nimble fingers untied the cord holding the fan, which had been thrust into her mouth as a gag.

Judith, who had watched their efforts in silent agony, raised her cramped arms and massaged the stiffened muscles of her mouth and jaw; then she replaced the wires connecting her earphone and its battery.

“In God’s name who has treated you so, Judith?” demanded Richards, his eyes were blazing with rage. “Who has dared to—” and he choked.

“Fetch my smelling salts,” Judith spoke with some difficulty and paused eagerly to drink the water offered her by Frank Latimer. “No, don’t go, Anna,” placing her hand on the waitress’ shoulder as she knelt at her side chafing her ankles. “Ring for Maud.”

Her father complied with her request, then returned to Judith. For the first time he looked old and haggard.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” he demanded, with a return of his domineering manner.

Judith looked at her husband for a fleeting second, then addressed Detective Ferguson whose attention was focused on her.

“I have a confession to make to you,” she began. “You recall finding the bloodstained shears near Austin’s body?”

“Yes,” he said, as she paused.

“I used them.”

“Judith!” Richards sprang forward with an imploring gesture, but for once his wife ignored him.

“I used them,” she reiterated, “to remove a locket from Austin’s watch chain when I found him lying dead in this library. That locket,” she paused to take the smelling salts which Maud who had hurriedly entered a second before handed to her,—“that locket Polly Davis stole from my bedroom last night with other jewelry.”

No one spoke, and Judith, resting one hand on Anna’s shoulder and the other on Maud’s arm, rose stiffly to her feet.

“Late this afternoon,” Judith continued, “I was examining Father’s safe,”—Hale started violently—“when some one stole behind me, blindfolded me, disconnected my earphone, and gagged me.”

“Well, well, go on,” urged Detective Ferguson, forgetting, in his interest, his usual respectful manner.

“I was gagged,” repeated Judith, “with my fan. The thief did not know that this fan”—she raised it as she spoke—“is an ear trumpet which when pressed against my teeth enables me to hear distinctly.”

Her right hand moved upward with a sweeping motion, and Maud, the parlor maid, was shorn of her cap and wig.

Ferguson recovered from his stupefaction in time to trip and catch the flying figure.

“Jim Turner,” he gasped, as the handcuffs slipped over the wrists of the erstwhile maid. “I’ve been looking for you for five years.”

“And you have found the murderer of Austin Hale,” ended Judith.

CHAPTER XX
RUN TO COVER

In stunned silence the little group eyed Detective Ferguson and his prisoner. Slowly the latter rose from his hands and knees, the handcuffs clinking musically as he knocked against Ferguson’s left wrist to which he was secured.

“Easy,” cautioned Ferguson, and the revolver in his right hand menaced the murderer. “You’ll get no chance to escape now, Jim,” with emphasis, then with reluctant admiration as he scanned Turner’s good-looking effeminate features and his slight trim figure in its woman’s costume. “Say, but you are a pretty girl. I never once suspected you, never.”

“And I’d have kept you fooled,” retorted Turner, “except for you,” addressing Judith. “You were one too many for me with those cursed unseen ears,” and he cast a look of baffled fury at her fan. “I thought you were practically dead to the world when I disconnected that blamed earphone and blindfolded you.”

“You put too much confidence in your own cleverness,” Judith responded. “It would have been wiser if you and your confederate had ransacked Father’s safe in silence, instead of discussing your desperate need, on account of Austin’s murder, of getting away—and thus giving me a clew to your identity.”

“Who is your confederate?” demanded Ferguson. A scowl was his only answer. “Oh, well, you’ll talk more later,” with significant emphasis, “in the Death House.”

Turner’s face was distorted with rage. “To think I’ll have to swing for that hound, Austin Hale!” he stormed. “He welshed on every one, the yellow dog.”

“What was your motive for killing him?” asked Robert Hale, recovering from his stupefied surprise at the course of events.

Turner looked at him in silence for a minute, then at the others in the library. Their concentrated regard fanned his inordinate vanity and—in spite of Ferguson’s words, the Death House seemed remote.

“Why did I kill Austin Hale? Because he penetrated my disguise.” He paused, then continued more rapidly. “It must have been shortly before midnight when I was going to bed—every one else had retired and I could hear Anna and the cook snoring in their rooms,”—Anna’s face was a study as she glared at the man she had known as “Maud”—“and I supposed I had locked my bedroom door. I was shaving—had to do it at dead of night,” he interpolated, “when in the glass I saw the hall door open a little way and Austin Hale peered into the room. I was too paralyzed to turn round and he stared at my reflection in the glass, then, collecting himself, he softly closed the door and silently stole away.”

No one cared to break the silence as Turner ceased speaking, a second more and he had resumed his statement.

“I wiped the shaving lather off my face, straightened my wig and crept down the hall. I heard Austin moving about in his room and I went back, but I could not stay there. I don’t know now what brought Austin to my door at that hour, unless he wanted me to aid him in seeing Miss Polly Davis, but he had raised the devil in me. It wouldn’t take him long to establish my identity and then would follow exposure, and that meant, with my record, doing fully fifteen years in the penitentiary.”

“Better that than swinging for murder,” commented Ferguson dryly.

“Not as I felt then,” retorted Turner. “My brain was on fire as I stole downstairs and trailed him to the library. On the way I saw Mr. John Hale’s sword cane in the umbrella stand. I’d seen him open it once or twice to show to Miss Polly.” Ferguson shot a look at Polly and John Hale. They had drawn close to each other and stood listening breathlessly to Turner’s story.

“So some one beside your brother knew about your sword cane, Mr. Hale,” Ferguson remarked with a quizzical smile, and John Hale nodded.

“Go ahead, Turner,” he said, and the prisoner, with a resentful glare at Detective Ferguson, again addressed them, confining his remarks almost exclusively to Judith.

“I knew how to work the spring of the sword cane, for I had played with it several times when Mr. John left it behind, and so I picked up the cane on Tuesday night and stole into the dining room.” In spite of himself, Turner’s voice was not quite steady. It quivered and deepened as he lived over again the events of that fateful night.

“I intended to peek through the portières into the library, for not hearing a sound in there puzzled me. The portières were parted a wee bit and I made out Miss Judith sitting at the far end before the fireplace with her back partly turned toward me. Then”—his voice changed, holding a note of horror—“Austin Hale loomed up before me, right under the sidelight. I could have touched his shirt-bosom, instead—My God! I lunged and the sword cane struck home.”

“I heard Austin fall,” Turner resumed after a tense pause, “and instinctively tiptoed to the pantry and crouched there in the dark. I heard you come in, Major, and Miss Judith call to you. Then after what seemed an interminable time I crept out into the central hall, found it deserted, and replaced the cane in the umbrella stand.”

“Didn’t you go at all into the library?” demanded Robert Hale harshly.

“Yes, after Miss Polly had been there.” He cast a vicious look in the girl’s direction. “I heard some one sobbing in the library as I started to leave the pantry and peeked in again in time to see you wringing your hands over Austin’s body—you are a weak sister to sob over the man who threatened you with exposure.”

“You—” John Hale started forward, but Major Richards’ tall figure blocked him. “Get out of my way, I’ll throttle that fellow.”

“Not here, you won’t,” interposed Ferguson. “Keep quiet, Mr. Hale, until Turner completes his confession.”

“Tell him to speak more respectfully of Miss Davis—or not mention her at all,” thundered John Hale.

“What happened next?” demanded his brother. “Shut up, John,” and he waved him back. “What did Miss Davis do next, Turner?”

“Cleared out,” succinctly, “first taking a look at the sword cane standing so innocently in the umbrella stand.” Turner’s chuckle was unpleasant. “That left the coast clear for me and I slipped into the library. There the open safe attracted me,” with a side-long glance at Hale. “I had picked up my rubber gloves, used in my house work, when in the pantry and I put ’em on. The open safe was too good a chance to overlook, but I only had time to grab a few bonds and a memorandum which Austin had been looking at”—a gasp escaped Mrs. Hale—“then I beat it up the back stairs to my room, for I heard some one coming down. I guess it was you, Major.”

“It was,” acknowledged Richards. He cast a hesitating look at Judith before continuing. “I did lose my way, as I have already stated, when walking home, and I entered the front door just in time to catch Judith as she fainted. I immediately carried her upstairs and laid her on the couch in our boudoir. I had some cognac there and quickly revived her.” He paused for a second. “The reading lamp was burning in the boudoir and I concluded that Judith had come downstairs feeling faint and in search of some medicine which, I recalled, had been left in the library. When she revived, she said nothing to me about having gone downstairs, and when I asked her if she needed her medicine, she replied that she did.”

“Please wait, Joe,” Judith interrupted him quickly. “I was dazed—completely unnerved. In fact I had at the time no recollection of fainting in the hall. I thought, until you questioned me the other night, that you had found me unconscious in the boudoir, so I never mentioned that after Mother and Uncle John left for the French Embassy I went down into the library to read and wait for you, Joe.”

“Your silence confused me, puzzled me,” Richards confessed. “In fact—well, you will understand when I tell you that a gold locket fell out of your belt when I unloosened it. As I picked up the locket and placed it by your side on the couch I saw that a gold link fastened to its ring had been forced apart. A few minutes later I went into the library and discovered Austin lying dead on the floor.” He turned to Mrs. Hale. “In stating that I did not know Austin, I told the truth, but I had seen a photograph of him that morning on Judith’s dressing table and the photograph bore his autograph. I was horrified at finding his dead body, and that horror was intensified when, on bending closer, I discovered that a link in his watch chain was bent and twisted—and the link attached to the locket tucked in Judith’s belt had come unmistakably from that chain.”

“Merciful heavens!” Judith gazed at him in horror. “Then you thought—”

“The obvious,” responded Richards. “Your mother had told me that there had been a boy and girl affair between you, that they confidently expected an engagement on your return from Japan—”

“Mother!” Mrs. Hale quailed under Judith’s anger.

“Upon my soul, Judith, you need not take that tone with me,” she objected. “The first intimation we had of your marriage to Joe was a cable announcing it. A nice way to treat parents who had indulged every whim.”

“Need we go into that again, Mother?” protested Judith.

“No; but I was hurt, deeply hurt, and I did not take kindly to having a son-in-law thrust on us.”

“And so you took it out on him by repeating a lot of nonsense,” exclaimed her husband indignantly. “Well, Richards, I suppose you concluded that Judith and Austin quarreled and she had stabbed him, and reached the hall in a fainting condition just as you entered the house?”

“Exactly, sir; Judith’s silence about Austin—for that she had seen him either dead or alive was proved by her possession of the locket, led me to fear a frightful tragedy,” admitted Richards. “In my agony of mind I did the only thing that occurred to me, I took the watch and chain out of Austin’s vest pocket before sending for the coroner, for I knew it was a clew the police would trace to the bitter end.”

“But why did you send the watch to Jennings?” asked Hale. “It was courting discovery.”

“As it turned out, yes; but my idea was that if the chain was repaired no one would suspect a locket had been wrenched from it,” explained Richards. “Then it would not have mattered where the watch was found.”

Hale shook his head. “You laid yourself open to grave suspicion,” he said. “I now understand your actions and your constrained manner, but—” He stopped. “I missed a playing card out of my solitaire pack several days ago, a Knave of Hearts, to be exact, on which I had scratched the combination of my safe.”

“Robert!” The ejaculation came from Mrs. Hale and her husband turned to her testily.

“I am troubled with amnesia,” he said. “It is just a touch, but I am sensitive about having it known or suspected, and so occasionally I jot down figures and numbers. I play solitaire so continuously that I am never without the safe-combination; but on Friday I missed the card and the next day asked Maud, or shall we say Jim Turner,”—and he indicated the pseudo-maid—“if she had seen the card. She brought it to me later, stating that she had found it on your dresser, Richards, and it led me to believe that you had a hand in Austin’s murder.”

“Is that why you put a dictograph in our boudoir?” asked Richards.

“Yes,” Hale admitted. “I went to the Burroughs Agency, explained my suspicions, and they installed it.”

Polly Davis broke her long silence. “I heard you talking to Mr. Burroughs,” she explained. “I went to the detective agency to ask them to undertake an investigation for me, but your presence, Mr. Hale, frightened me away.” She paused and looked at Judith and her father. “From having seen you on the stairs Tuesday night, Mr. Hale, I began to suspect that you might have killed Austin. I knew that you and he had often quarreled in the past—”

“How about John’s scenes with his stepson?” inquired Hale dryly, and Polly changed color, but she ignored his question as she went bravely on.

“Your offer to increase my salary and your unsolicited loan, Judith, increased my suspicion,” she stated. “I thought that you were trying to bribe me. Then your threat about the locket—”

“What was in the locket?” asked Richards and his father-in-law simultaneously.

Polly looked swiftly at John Hale and then away. She was deadly white.

“Last week,” she began, “I had a letter from Austin in which he said that rumors had reached him of my infatuation for”—she stammered, then went bravely on—“for his stepfather, that if I permitted John to make love to me he would show him a letter I had written. It was a piece of sheer folly, but”—her voice trembled—“the letter was compromising. Austin stated that he kept the letter in a locket I had given him and would bring them both to Washington.”

“What followed?” asked Mrs. Hale, more absorbed in Polly’s tale than in all else.

“I wrote Austin that I did not fear his threat and broke our engagement.” The girl paused. “I have already told you that Austin wired he would be here Tuesday night. I heard that Mrs. Hale and John were going to the French Embassy, I knew that Mr. Hale was ill in bed, and so I came here that night on impulse, trusting to chance to see Austin alone and persuade him to destroy the letter. The murderer,” she shuddered, “has testified that I entered the house after he had killed Austin.” She turned abruptly to Judith. “What was your object in taking the locket?”

“My desire to shield you,” Judith answered. “Austin wrote me at the same time he did you, telling of the existence of such a letter, and that he carried it in a locket to have it in instant readiness. I had no idea that he would be here Tuesday night, and when I found his body as I started to leave the library, I jumped to the conclusion, Polly, that you had killed him and in terror had run away without securing the locket.”

“Would it not have been easier for you to have taken the watch and chain as well?” asked Richards.

“I feared that if the watch were missing search would be made for it,” she explained. “Whereas, if only Polly and I knew about the locket it would not be missed. I had Polly’s shears in my sewing bag, having picked them up when in Father’s den early Tuesday afternoon. I dropped them after securing the locket, and afterwards came down into the library to get them and found Joe talking to Coroner Penfield and Mr. Ferguson.”

“Polly,”—Robert Hale’s sudden pronouncement of her name made the girl start nervously—“why did you supply Austin with the combination of my safe?”

“I did not give it to him,” she denied indignantly.

“Indeed? Then why did you write this cryptic message, ‘Saw Austin-10-t-b-53-76c,’ over and over on a page of copied manuscript?” and Hale held out the sheet he had shown his brother earlier that day.

Polly stared at it. “My mind was far from my work,” she stammered. “I wrote mechanically on the typewriter any silly sentences that came into my head. I did know your safe-combination, for you had me write it down for you once and the figures dwelt in my memory; but indeed I did not repeat them to Austin.”

“You did not need to,” broke in Mrs. Hale. “I had Austin once open the safe for me, Robert, in your absence. I needed my jewelry, and I supposed he remembered the combination or—”

“Or jotted it down for future use,” Turner interrupted her brusquely. “I found a soiled bit of paper with several numbers torn off on Austin’s bureau when I slipped in his bedroom on my way to bed. He must have refreshed his memory before going down to the library by studying the paper.”

“What was he searching for in the safe?” asked Hale.

“I know,” volunteered Mrs. Hale. She stared anywhere but at her husband. “Austin had very wheedling ways, and sometimes when he was hard pressed for money, he persuaded me to lend it to him.”

“Agatha!”

“I know, Robert, it was foolish.” Mrs. Hale’s voice trembled with a suspicion of tears. “The sum finally totaled four thousand seven hundred and eighty-two dollars.”

“Good Lord!” and Hale eyed her in dismay.

“I had his memorandum of his indebtedness,” she went on, paying no attention to her husband. “I wrote reminding him of it, and that I had placed it in your safe intending to show it to you, Robert—” Hale groaned dismally and his wife burst into tears. “I dared not ask outright about the memorandum as I feared it might be suspected that Austin and I had quarreled over it.”

Judith broke in upon any reproaches her father might have made.

“It was to solve Austin’s reason for opening your safe, Father, that caused me to search it this afternoon in hopes of finding a clew,” she said.

“Where did you get the combination?”

“From your playing card,” she explained. “I knew your absent-minded habits and recalled seeing some pin scratches on the Knave of Hearts which, by the way, I picked up in this library Friday night and later placed on top of my husband’s pack, thinking, as the back of the cards were similar, it belonged to him. So this afternoon after Dr. McLane left I could not rest, the card recurred to me, and I searched my husband’s pack. Not finding it, I went to your den and discovered it among your papers. I had just opened the safe when Maud”—catching herself up—“that man, blindfolded me.”

“And what induced you to tempt providence again, Turner?” demanded Ferguson turning to his prisoner. “You might have escaped detection but for that.”

“Perhaps,” was the sullen answer. “I knew Mr. Hale had deposited negotiable bonds and a large sum of money there over Sunday—”

Judith interrupted him with an exclamation. “Did you steal my Valve bonds on Tuesday night?”

Turner nodded. “It was all I did get.” His bitter chuckle was brief. “I was well scared after the murder but I dared not bolt for fear of centering suspicion upon me, and then I had no money. I nosed around everywhere looking for something I could steal to raise ready cash. I was afraid to dispose of Miss Judith’s bonds because it might have been traced to me. In my search I found Miss Polly had brought some bonds in an envelope and when she was with Mrs. Hale I sneaked it out.”

“You did?” Polly looked at him in round-eyed surprise. “But I found the bonds there.”

“Sure you did,” again Turner chuckled, “but they weren’t your Valve bonds, but Miss Judith’s. I noticed they were the same, so I substituted hers in your envelope, knowing that I could sell yours without danger of the numbers’ being traced to Austin’s murder.”

“But—but,” Polly turned in perplexity to Richards. “Then the Valve bonds I asked you to sell for me Friday afternoon were Judith’s?”

“Yes, evidently,” Richards addressed Frank Latimer. “I gave Miss Polly my check for her bonds before going to your brokerage office where I sold the bonds to you and put up the cash to cover my margins with you.” Before the stockbroker could answer him, Richards looked at Polly searchingly. “Tell us, Miss Polly, how you contrived to steal the jewelry out of Judith’s bedroom last night when she and I were sitting in the boudoir—the only entrance to the inner room?”

The girl was slow in answering. “After Judith left me last night, I was desperate,” she admitted finally. “I feared the locket would be used to entangle me in the murder, if not convict me of the crime, and I decided to steal it at all costs. I took all your jewelry—which, by the way, has been mailed back to you registered post, Judith—thinking that the theft would then be attributed to an ordinary sneak thief. As to how I passed you unobserved in entering your bedroom”—for the first time Polly smiled—“some scientific detectives would describe it as a case of psychological invisibility, where the physical eye sees, but the brain fails to record the eye’s message, but”—again she smiled—“you and Major Richards were so absorbed in each other that you never noticed me when I slipped through the boudoir and out again.”

A rich color suffused Judith’s cheeks. “Did the locket contain your letter, Polly?” she asked. “Or was Austin’s threat an idle one? I”—with a quick proud lift of her head—“never examined the locket.”

Polly opened her hand bag to which she had clung ever since entering the library, and took out the locket. She held it up that all might see the slightly raised lettering of the word “Mizpah,” then without a word she pressed a spring and from the locket took a many folded thin sheet of note paper. She spread it open and laid it in John Hale’s hand.

“This is a letter of a foolish, indiscreet girl, longing for a little attention, a little of this world’s fun,” she said soberly. “I was caught by the dross, and it was not until I grew to know you, John, that I found pure gold.”

John Hale looked at her and then at the letter.

“Austin telephoned me from New York to meet him here on Tuesday at midnight and to say nothing to any one of his expected arrival,” he stated. “He intimated that he had an important disclosure to make about you. I left Agatha at the French Embassy, and I had just reached the corner when I saw you, Polly, dash down the steps and go up the street. I started to overtake you, then turned back. I could not make up my mind to face Austin then, for I knew I would kill him,” John’s hands clenched and unclenched spasmodically. “Finally, I returned to the Embassy for Agatha and when we walked in here I was confronted with Austin’s dead body. I imagined you had seen him, Polly, and goaded by threats had stabbed him, for I recognized the shears as ones I had seen on your desk in Robert’s den.”

John stopped speaking and looked down at the letter still clutched in his extended hand, then striding swiftly to the fireplace he threw the unread letter on the blazing wood. As it ignited and flared into a blaze, he turned with outstretched hands to Polly who had watched him in an agony of suspense.

“Polly,” he began, and his voice quivered with emotion, “will you take me, for better, for worse?”

Polly’s eyes were blinded with tears, but winking them away, she looked bravely up at him.

“Will you take a repentant, adoring fool?” she asked, and John Hale’s low cry of happiness found echo in her heart as, regardless of the others, he slipped his arm about her and led her from the library.

Mrs. Hale watched the lovers disappear, and with mixed feelings, searched hastily for a dry handkerchief. But all she dragged to light out of her bag was a half sheet of note paper.

“Bless me!” she exclaimed. “Here’s that note from Austin to me saying he was going to San Francisco—what did you do with the last page, my dear?” turning to Judith.

“The last page?” echoed Judith; she looked as puzzled as she felt, and Jim Turner answered the question for her.

“I found that paper in Austin’s bedroom, also,” he volunteered. “It was just the half-sheet. Why he brought it with him I don’t know, but anyway I thought it a good plant and slipped the page in the pocket of Miss Judith’s electric, knowing some one would find it.” He turned to Mrs. Hale who had moved a trifle nearer. “I have your memorandum of Austin’s indebtedness to you; I kept it for blackmailing purposes, but”—he stopped abruptly, conscious that his voice was a bit shaky.

“How’d you happen to disguise yourself as a woman?” asked Ferguson.

“I used to play in amateur theatricals, and on account of my small size, effeminate appearance and voice was generally cast for a girl’s part,” Turner explained. “I had to lay low after that Shield’s affair—it meant fifteen years in the ‘pen’ if caught. Well,”—with his free hand he dashed away the moisture which had gathered on his forehead and felt his closely shaven head—“I’d rather be hung than endure a living death. Come on, Ferguson,” and without a backward glance he departed in charge of the detective.

Mrs. Hale dropped down on the divan and her expression caused her husband to hurry to her side.

“Are you going to faint, Agatha?” he asked anxiously.

She looked at him vacantly before answering.

“I don’t know,” she said, “how I shall ever get over having my confidential maid turn out to be a man,” and a burst of tears relieved her overcharged feelings.

Richards left husband and wife together and turned to speak to Judith, only to find her gone. A look in the dining room showed that she was not there, and racing upstairs two steps at a time, he dashed into their boudoir. Judith turned from the fireplace and looked at him inquiringly.

“Judith,” his pent-up worship of her spoke in eye and voice, “what can I say to you, my darling, my best beloved? Your faith, your loyalty—”

“Are surpassed by yours,” she answered softly, “dear heart of mine.”

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Girl in the Mirror, The. By Elizabeth Jordan.
Girl of O. K. Valley, The. By Robert Watson.
Girl of the Blue Ridge, A. By Payne Erskine.
Girl from Keller’s, The. By Harold Bindloss.
Girl Philippa, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Girls at His Billet, The. By Berta Ruck.
Glory Rides the Range. By Ethel and James Dorrance.
Gloved Hand, The. By Burton E. Stevenson.
God’s Country and the Woman. By James Oliver Curwood.
God’s Good Man. By Marie Corelli.
Going Some. By Rex Beach.
Gold Girl, The. By James B. Hendryx.
Golden Scorpion, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Golden Slipper, The. By Anna Katharine Green.
Golden Woman, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Good References. By E. J. Rath.
Gorgeous Girl, The. By Nalbro Bartley.
Gray Angels, The. By Nalbro Bartley.
Great Impersonation, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Greater Love Hath No Man. By Frank L. Packard.
Green Eyes of Bast, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Greyfriars Bobby. By Eleanor Atkinson.
Gun Brand, The. By James B. Hendryx.

Hand of Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Happy House. By Baroness Von Hutten.
Harbor Road, The. By Sara Ware Bassett.
Havoc. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Heart of the Desert, The. By Honoré Willsie.
Heart of the Hills, The. By John Fox, Jr.
Heart of the Sunset. By Rex Beach.
Heart of Thunder Mountain, The. By Edfrid A. Bingham.
Heart of Unaga, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Hidden Children, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Hidden Trails. By William Patterson White.
Highflyers, The. By Clarence B. Kelland.
Hillman, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Hills of Refuge, The. By Will N. Harben.
His Last Bow. By A. Conan Doyle.
His Official Fiancee. By Berta Ruck.
Honor of the Big Snows. By James Oliver Curwood.
Hopalong Cassidy. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Hound from the North, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
House of the Whispering Pines, The. By Anna Katharine Green.
Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker. By S. Weir Mitchell, M.D.
Humoresque. By Fannie Hurst.

I Conquered. By Harold Titus.
Illustrious Prince, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
In Another Girl’s Shoes. By Berta Ruck.
Indifference of Juliet, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Inez. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
Infelice. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Initials Only. By Anna Katharine Green.
Inner Law, The. By Will N. Harben.
Innocent. By Marie Corelli.
In Red and Gold. By Samuel Merwin.
Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.
In the Brooding Wild. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Intriguers, The. By William Le Queux.
Iron Furrow, The. By George C. Shedd.
Iron Trail, The. By Rex Beach.
Iron Woman, The. By Margaret Deland.
Ishmael. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.
Island of Surprise. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
I Spy. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
It Pays to Smile. By Nina Wilcox Putnam.
I’ve Married Marjorie. By Margaret Widdemer.

Jean of the Lazy A. By B. M. Bower.
Jeanne of the Marshes. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Jennie Gerhardt. By Theodore Dreiser.
Johnny Nelson. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Judgment House, The. By Gilbert Parker.

Keeper of the Door, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
Keith of the Border. By Randall Parrish.
Kent Knowles: Quahaug. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Kingdom of the Blind, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
King Spruce. By Holman Day.
Knave of Diamonds, The. By Ethel M. Dell.

La Chance Mine Mystery, The. By S. Carleton.
Lady Doc, The. By Caroline Lockhart.
Land-Girl’s Love Story, A. By Berta Ruck.
Land of Strong Men, The. By A. M. Chisholm.
Last Straw, The. By Harold Titus.
Last Trail, The. By Zane Grey.
Laughing Bill Hyde. By Rex Beach.
Laughing Girl, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Law Breakers, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Law of the Gun, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
League of the Scarlet Pimpernel. By Baroness Orczy.
Lifted Veil, The. By Basil King.
Lighted Way, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Lin McLean. By Owen Wister.
Little Moment of Happiness, The. By Clarence Budington Kelland.
Lion’s Mouse, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
Lonesome Land. By B. M. Bower.
Lone Wolf, The. By Louis Joseph Vance.
Lonely Stronghold, The. By Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
Long Live the King. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Lost Ambassador. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Lost Prince, The. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Lydia of the Pines. By Honorè Willsie.
Lynch Lawyers. By William Patterson White.

Macaria. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
Maid of the Forest, The. By Randall Parrish.
Maid of Mirabelle, The. By Eliot H. Robinson.
Maid of the Whispering Hills, The. By Vingie E. Roe.
Major, The. By Ralph Connor.
Maker of History, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Malefactor, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Man from Bar 20, The. By Clarence E. Mulford.
Man from Bitter Roots, The. By Caroline Lockhart.
Man from Tall Timber, The. By Thomas K. Holmes.
Man in the Jury Box, The. By Robert Orr Chipperfield.
Man-Killers, The. By Dane Coolidge.
Man Proposes. By Eliot H. Robinson, author of “Smiles.”
Man Trail, The. By Henry Oyen.
Man Who Couldn’t Sleep, The. By Arthur Stringer.
Marqueray’s Duel. By Anthony Pryde.
Mary ’Gusta. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mary Wollaston. By Henry Kitchell Webster.
Mason of Bar X Ranch. By E. Bennett.
Master Christian, The. By Marie Corelli.
Master Mummer, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Men Who Wrought, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Midnight of the Ranges. By George Gilbert.
Mischief Maker, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Missioner, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Miss Million’s Maid. By Berta Ruck.
Money Master, The. By Gilbert Parker.
Money Moon, The. By Jeffery Farnol.
Moonlit Way, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
More Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Mountain Girl, The. By Payne Erskine.
Mr. Bingle. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Mr. Pratt. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mr. Pratt’s Patients. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mr. Wu. By Louise Jordan Miln.
Mrs. Balfame. By Gertrude Atherton.
Mrs. Red Pepper. By Grace S. Richmond.
My Lady of the North. By Randall Parrish.
My Lady of the South. By Randall Parrish.
Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The. By Anna K. Green.
Mystery of the Silver Dagger, The. By Randall Parrish.
Mystery of the 13th Floor, The. By Lee Thayer.

Nameless Man, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Ne’er-Do-Well, The. By Rex Beach.
Net, The. By Rex Beach.
New Clarion. By Will N. Harben.
Night Horseman, The. By Max Brand.
Night Operator, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Night Riders, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
North of the Law. By Samuel Alexander White.

One Way Trail, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Outlaw, The. By Jackson Gregory.
Owner of the Lazy D. By William Patterson White.

Painted Meadows. By Sophie Kerr.
Palmetto. By Stella G. S. Perry.
Paradise Bend. By William Patterson White.
Pardners. By Rex Beach.
Parrot & Co. By Harold MacGrath.
Partners of the Night. By Leroy Scott.
Partners of the Tide. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Passionate Pilgrim, The. By Samuel Merwin.
Patricia Brent, Spinster. By Anonymous.
Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. By Ralph Connor.
Paul Anthony, Christian. By Hiram W. Hayes.
Pawns Count, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Peacemakers, The. By Hiram W. Hayes.
Peddler, The. By Henry C. Rowland.
People’s Man, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Peter Ruff and the Double Four. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Poor Man’s Rock. By Bertrand Sinclair.
Poor Wise Man, A. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Portygee, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Possession. By Olive Wadsley.
Postmaster, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Prairie Flowers. By James B. Hendryx.
Prairie Mother, The. By Arthur Stringer.
Prairie Wife, The. By Arthur Stringer.
Pretender, The. By Robert W. Service.
Price of the Prairie, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Prince of Sinners, A. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Promise, The. By J. B. Hendryx.

Quest of the Sacred Slipper, The. By Sax Rohmer.

Rainbow’s End, The. By Rex Beach.
Rainbow Valley. By L. M. Montgomery.
Ranch at the Wolverine, The. By B. M. Bower.
Ranching for Sylvia. By Harold Bindloss.
Ransom. By Arthur Somers Roche.
Real Life. By Henry Kitchell Webster.
Reclaimers, The. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Re-Creation of Brian Kent, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Red and Black. By Grace S. Richmond.
Red Mist, The. By Randall Parrish.
Red Pepper Burns. By Grace S. Richmond.
Red Pepper’s Patients. By Grace S. Richmond.
Red Seal, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Rejuvenation of Aunt Mary, The. By Anne Warner.
Restless Sex, The. By Robert W. Chambers.
Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The. By Sax Rohmer.
Return of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Riddle of the Frozen Flame, The. By M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.
Riddle of Night, The. By Thomas W. Hanshew.
Riddle of the Purple Emperor, The. By T. W. and M. E. Hanshew.
Rider of the King Log, The. By Holman Day.
Rim of the Desert, The. By Ada Woodruff Anderson.
Rise of Roscoe Paine, The. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Rising Tide, The. By Margaret Deland.
Rocks of Valpré, The. By Ethel M. Dell.
Room Number 3. By Anna Katharine Green.
Rose in the Ring, The. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Round the Corner in Gay Street. By Grace S. Richmond.

St. Elmo. (Ill. Ed.) By Augusta J. Evans.
Second Choice. By Will N. Harben.
Second Latchkey, The. By C. N. & A. M. Williamson.
Second Violin, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Secret of the Reef, The. By Harold Bindloss.
Secret of Sarek, The. By Maurice Leblanc.
See-Saw, The. By Sophie Kerr.
Self-Raised. (Ill.) By Mrs. Southworth.
Shavings. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
Sheik, The. By E. M. Hull.
Shepherd of the Hills, The. By Harold Bell Wright.
Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Sheriff of Silver Bow, The. By Berton Braley.
Sherry. By George Barr McCutcheon.
Side of the Angels, The. By Basil King.
Sight Unseen and The Confession. By Mary Robert Rinehart.
Silver Horde, The. By Rex Beach.
Sin That Was His, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Sixty-first Second, The. By Owen Johnson.
Slayer of Souls, The. By Robert W. Chambers
Son of His Father, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Son of Tarzan, The. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Speckled Bird, A. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Spirit of the Border, The. (New Edition.) By Zane Grey.
Spoilers, The. By Rex Beach.
Steele of the Royal Mounted. By James Oliver Curwood.
Still Jim. By Honoré Willsie.
Story of Foss River Ranch, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Story of Marco, The. By Eleanor H. Porter.
Strange Case of Cavendish, The. By Randall Parrish.
Strawberry Acres. By Grace S. Richmond.
Sudden Jim. By Clarence B. Kelland.
Sweethearts Unmet. By Berta Ruck.

Tales of Secret Egypt. By Sax Rohmer.
Tales of Sherlock Holmes. By A. Conan Doyle.
Talitha Cumi. By Annie J. Holland.
Taming of Zenas Henry, The. By Sara Ware Bassett.
Tarzan of the Apes. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar. By Edgar Rice Burroughs.
Tempting of Tavemake, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Tess of the D’Urbervilles. By Thomas Hardy.
Texan, The. By James B. Hendryx.
Thankful’s Inheritance. By Joseph C. Lincoln.
That Affair Next Door. By Anna Katharine Green.
That Printer of Udell’s. By Harold Bell Wright.
Their Yesterdays. By Harold Bell Wright.
Thieves’ Wit. By Hulbert Footner.
Thirteenth Commandment, The. By Rupert Hughes.
Three Eyes, The. By Maurice Leblanc.
Three of Hearts, The. By Berta Ruck.
Three Strings, The. By Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Tiger’s Coat, The. By Elizabeth Dejeans.
Tish. By Mary Roberts Rinehart.
Tobias O’ the Light. By James A. Cooper.
Trail of the Axe, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Trail to Yesterday, The. By Charles A. Seltzer.
Trailin’. By Max Brand.
Trap, The. By Maximilian Foster.
Treasure of Heaven, The. By Marie Corelli.
Triple Mystery, The. By Adele Luehrmann.
Triumph, The. By Will N. Harben.
Triumph of John Kars, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
T. Tembarom. By Frances Hodgson Burnett.
Turn of the Tide. By Author of “Pollyanna.”
Turnstile of Night, The. By William Allison.
Twenty-fourth of June, The. By Grace S. Richmond.
Twins of Suffering Creek, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Two-Gun Man, The. By Charles A. Seltzer.

Under Handicap. By Jackson Gregory.
Under the Country Sky. By Grace S. Richmond.
Underwood Mystery, The. By Charles J. Dutton.
Uneasy Street. By Arthur Somers Roche.
Unpardonable Sin, The. By Major Rupert Hughes.
Untamed, The. By Max Brand.
Up from Slavery. By Booker T. Washington.

Valiants of Virginia, The. By Hallie Ermine Rives.
Valley of Fear, The. By Sir A. Conan Doyle.
Valley of the Sun, The. By William M. McCoy.
Vanguards of the Plains. By Margaret Hill McCarter.
Vanished Messenger, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Vashti. By Augusta Evans Wilson.
Virtuous Wives. By Owen Johnson.
Voice of the Pack, The. By Edson Marshall.

Waif-o’-the-Sea. By Cyrus Townsend Brady.
Wall Between, The. By Sara Ware Bassett.
Wall of Men, A. By Margaret H. McCarter.
Watchers of the Plains, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Way Home, The. By Basil King.
Way of an Eagle, The. By E. M. Dell.
Way of the Strong, The. By Ridgwell Cullum.
Way of These Women, The. By E. Phillips Oppenheim.
We Can’t Have Everything. By Major Rupert Hughes.
Weavers, The. By Gilbert Parker.
West Wind Drift. By George Barr McCutcheon.
When a Man’s a Man. By Harold Bell Wright.
Where the Trail Divides. By Will Lillibridge.
Where There’s a Will. By Mary R. Rinehart.
White Moll, The. By Frank L. Packard.
Who Goes There? By Robert W. Chambers.
Why Not. By Margaret Widdemer.

Transcriber’s Notes:

On page 11, dectective has been changed to detective.

On page 115, con’t has been changed to don’t.

On page 224, dictagraph has been changed to dictograph.

In the list of the publisher’s catalog, the following changes have been made:
“Cabbage and Kings” became “Cabbages and Kings”;
“Erskine Dale Pioneer” became “Erskine Dale, Pioneer”;
“Honorè Willsie” became “Honoré Willsie”.

All other spelling and hyphenation has been left as typeset.

Minor silent changes have been make conform to standard punctuation usage.

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Table of Contents

- THE UNSEEN EAR
- CHAPTER I THROUGH THE PORTIÈRES
- CHAPTER II IDENTIFIED
- CHAPTER III THEORIES
- CHAPTER IV LOST: A MEMORANDUM
- CHAPTER V MORE THEORIES
- CHAPTER VI SPECULATION
- CHAPTER VII THE KNAVE OF HEARTS
- CHAPTER VIII PRO AND CON
- CHAPTER IX HALF A SHEET
- CHAPTER X BELOW STAIRS
- CHAPTER XI THE THREAT
- CHAPTER XII THE THEFT
- CHAPTER XIII “MIZPAH”
- CHAPTER XIV SUSPICION
- CHAPTER XV THE PUSH BUTTON
- CHAPTER XVI LINKS IN THE CHAIN
- CHAPTER XVII THE DANCING SILHOUETTES
- CHAPTER XVIII EDGED TOOLS
- CHAPTER XIX THE UNSEEN EAR
- CHAPTER XX RUN TO COVER
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE