The three strings
Date: 2024-05-11T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Detective and mystery stories; Murder -- Investigation -- Fiction; Washington (D.C.) -- Fiction; Chess -- Fiction

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Title: The three strings

Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Illustrator: Charles L. Wrenn

Release date: May 11, 2024 [eBook #73597]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: D. Appleton and Company

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE THREE STRINGS ***

THE THREE STRINGS

“Hurry, hurry,” she gasped, as a white-robed figure stepped inside her room.

Page 262

THE
THREE STRINGS

BY
NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN
AUTHOR OF “THE MOVING FINGER,” “I SPY,” “THE NAMELESS MAN,” “C. O. D.,”
“THE TREVOR CASE,” “THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY
CHARLES L. WRENN

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1918

Copyright, 1918, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Printed in the United States of America

TO
Mrs. Theodore Vernon Boynton
OF WASHINGTON, D. C.

Whose Loyal Affection Has Been Mine Since Childhood,
I Send This Problem, in Full Assurance
That She Will Pull the Right “String.”

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

To Alain Campbell White, Esq., of Litchfield, Conn., the Author is indebted for kindly assistance in working out a chess problem which his expert knowledge of chess made feasible.

The Author desires also to express her appreciation of the assistance of Dr. Alexander J. Anderson of Waterbury, Conn., whose help in solving a “knotty” problem was but one of many acts of kindness.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | The First Move | 1
II. | Complications | 9
III. | Unidentified | 22
IV. | A Question of Time | 39
V. | The “Ace” | 53
VI. | Developments | 70
VII. | The Fifth Man | 85
VIII. | Further Developments | 100
IX. | The Telegram | 113
X. | “Seditious Utterances” | 126
XI. | Conflicting Clues | 143
XII. | The Call | 162
XIII. | The Blotted Page | 177
XIV. | Burnham Prefers Charges | 188
XV. | “The Best Laid Plans” | 204
XVI. | In the Limelight | 220
XVII. | Camouflage | 236
XVIII. | “The Handwriting on the Wall” | 250
XIX. | Bribery | 264
XX. | Identification | 276
XXI. | Unmasked | 284
XXII. | The Missing Diagrams | 297

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FACING
PAGE

“Hurry, hurry,” she gasped, as a white-robed figure stepped inside her room | Frontispiece |
Step by step she advanced nearer the dead man | | 12
He took out Marian’s package of papers and placed them in Evelyn’s lap | | 80
“René,” she blushed hotly, “René loves me” | | 252

THE THREE STRINGS

CHAPTER I
THE FIRST MOVE

EVELYN PRESTON ran lightly up the steps of her home and inserting her latch-key in the vestibule door, pushed it open just as the taxi-driver, following more slowly with many an upward glance at the blind-closed windows, reached her side.

“Put the suit case down,” she directed. “I’ll have the front door opened by the time you get the trunk here.”

The cool if somewhat stale air of the closed house which met Evelyn as she stepped across the threshold of the open door was refreshing after the glare of the asphalt pavements, for Washington was experiencing one of the hot waves which come in late September and make that month one to be avoided in the Capital City.

Evelyn, intent on calling a servant, paused midway in the large hall as the taxi-driver’s bulky figure blocked the light in the front doorway. Without waiting for directions he lowered her motor trunk from his shoulders and stood it against the wall.

“Shall I leave it here, Miss?” he inquired.

Evelyn, busily engaged in searching for change in her purse, nodded affirmatively, and the man propped himself against the door jamb and waited for his pay.

“Thank you, Miss,” he exclaimed a moment later, his politeness stimulated by the generous tip which accompanied Evelyn’s payment of the taxi fare. “Would you like me to carry your trunk upstairs?”

“No; the butler will take it up, thank you.” Evelyn’s gesture of dismissal was unmistakable, and the man hitched uncomfortably at his cap, glanced furtively up the hall and then back at Evelyn who, totally unconscious of his scrutiny, stood impatiently waiting for him to go. He opened his mouth, but if he intended to address her again he thought better of it, and with a mumbled word banged out of the front door.

Evelyn turned at once and sped to the back stairs, but call as she did, no servant responded and the blind-closed windows made the passageway dark and unfriendly. With an impatient exclamation Evelyn returned to the front hall; the servants had evidently not arrived from the seashore to open the house for her.

She stopped only long enough to push her trunk into the billiard room just off the hall and pick up her suit case, then she went rapidly upstairs to her bedroom which, in its summer covered furnishings, looked very inviting to her tired eyes. Four nights in a sleeper and three extra hours added to the tedium of her journey from the west by a hot-box which had delayed her train’s arrival in Washington, had made her long for home comforts.

Going over to the windows Evelyn drew up the blinds and opening the sashes thrust back the shutters, then, tossing off her hat and coat as she moved about her bedroom, she finally jerked open the suit case and tumbled about its contents until she found the garments she sought. In doing so she unearthed a letter from her mother, and she smiled as her eyes caught the words:

“I am sending the servants to the city on the fifteenth, which gives them a day to open the house and have it aired before you get there. Now be sure and reach Washington on the sixteenth. Your Father will be very angry if——”

The remainder of the sentence was on the opposite sheet, but Evelyn did not trouble to read further; instead her slender fingers made mince-meat of the letter and as the torn pieces fluttered to the floor she sighed involuntarily.

Her mother, with her usual inconsistency, had evidently not troubled to study time-tables in deciding that her daughter could not reach Washington by the 15th, and in her own mind Evelyn wondered if the servants would be dispatched from Chelsea in time to reach there before night. The importance of time figured very little in Mrs. Burnham’s indolent sheltered life; her contention that prompt people wasted a great deal of time was frequently borne out by those who waited in impotent wrath for her to keep her engagements.

Evelyn changed into her dressing gown and then, sometimes colliding against furniture in the darkened house, made her way through her mother’s bedroom and boudoir, her step-father’s suite of rooms and into the library which opened from his bedroom, pulling up window shades and letting in fresh air and sunshine as she went. Back once more in her own room she tested the electric lights and was thankful to find the current turned on; apparently Mrs. Ward, her mother’s housekeeper, had attended to some of the details of moving back into their city house.

Encouraged by her success with the electricity, Evelyn tried the water in the bathroom and finding it running, filled the tub and with the aid of an electric plunger, soon luxuriated in a hot bath. But upon emerging she did not immediately complete her toilet, the comfortable lounge exerted too great an appeal to her weary muscles, and taking a silk quilt from a nearby cedar chest she settled down amid soft pillows and was soon in dreamless slumber.

Some hours later Evelyn awoke. It took her several minutes to recall where she was as she sat up rubbing her sleepy eyes. Her windows faced the west and the afternoon sunshine filled every cranny of the room. Evelyn consulted her watch—fifteen minutes past two. With a bound she was on her feet and a second later was dressing in haste, her actions stimulated by pangs of hunger. She had eaten only a modest breakfast on the train, counting upon a hearty luncheon at home. She paused long enough in her dressing to go to the telephone in the library and call up several friends, only to be told by Central that the telephones she wanted had been disconnected for the summer.

A trifle discouraged Evelyn returned to her bedroom and resumed her dressing more slowly. Whom could she get to go out to tea with her?—Marian Van Ness. Evelyn brightened, but paused on her way to the library; what use to telephone, Marian was probably at the State Department and would not leave there until five o’clock. She could get her to dine with her at the Shoreham, but in the meantime she was exceedingly hungry and to wait until seven o’clock—

Evelyn picked up her hat and then laid it down again as an idea occurred to her. Why not forage about the kitchen for eatables? The idea appealed to her the more she considered it. If the servants did not arrive she could go for Marian, whose apartment house was around the corner, and they could dine together; for the present a cup of tea and a few crackers would stay her appetite.

A few seconds later Evelyn was speeding down the staircase on her way to the kitchen. A visit to the butler’s pantry brought to light a package of crackers concealed in a tin box and a canister of her mother’s favorite Orange-Peko tea. Tucking her treasures under her arm Evelyn sought the kitchen and there to her delight found on investigation that she could light the big gas range. It took her but a moment to fill the water kettle, and humming a song she continued her researches in the orderly kitchen. An unopened jar of peanut butter and another of snappy cheese turned up on one of the shelves, and gathering plates and cooking utensils together she was soon enjoying toasted cheese and crackers and a delicious cup of tea.

She was about to refill her cup when the silence of the sunny kitchen was broken by the imperative ringing of the bell. With a joyful exclamation Evelyn rose to her feet—the servants had come at last. As she started for the hall door she came face to face with the room-bell register—the indicator moved slowly downward and stopped at the printed word: “Library.”

Evelyn stared at the indicator in perplexity. Pshaw! the register was out of order; it was the front door bell which had rung. Stopping long enough to turn off the gas burning in the range she hastened upstairs to the front door, only to find the vestibule empty. She stepped out on the doorstep and glanced up and down, but except for a motor vanishing around the corner, the street was deserted.

Considerably perturbed Evelyn reëntered the house, and it was some seconds before she mounted the staircase to the second floor. Her lagging footsteps were accelerated by the sudden thought that perhaps her step-father had returned and gone straight to his room and, supposing from the opened windows that the servants were downstairs, had rung for the butler. He always carried his latch-key; but her mother had mailed her his latch-key!

Evelyn’s hand fell from the portières to her side and she drew back, then, suppressing her growing nervousness, she parted the portières and stepped into the library. She had advanced half across the room before she became aware that a stranger sat half facing her near the great stone fireplace.

Evelyn retreated precipitously; then, gathering her wits, she demanded a trifle breathlessly:

“Who are you?”

No reply.

“How did you get here?”

Silence.

“What do you want?”

Her question remained unanswered; and anger conquering her fright, Evelyn stepped up to the chair and for the first time obtained a full view of the stranger’s ashen face and wide-staring eyes. Instinctively she bent nearer and her hand sought his pulseless wrist; its icy chill struck her with terror. With one horrified look into the dead eyes she fled from the room.

CHAPTER II
COMPLICATIONS

EVELYN never knew how she reached the front door, but as she dashed out into the vestibule she almost fell into the arms of a tall neatly dressed woman standing on the doorstep. For a breathless second she clung to the newcomer in silence.

“Matilda!” Only in moments of stress did Evelyn ever address her mother’s housekeeper by her first name. “Thank God you are here!”

Mrs. Ward gazed at her in alarm. “What’s wrong, Miss Evelyn?” she asked. “Come inside, Miss,” coaxingly, growing conscious that Evelyn was swaying upon her feet. Supporting the half fainting girl, she led her into the billiard room which opened from the hall to the right of the front door. Once in the room Evelyn collapsed on the nearest chair.

“Oh, don’t go,” she begged as Mrs. Ward stepped toward the hall. “Don’t leave me.”

“Only for a moment, Miss; I left my bag outside the house,” and Mrs. Ward, disentangling her skirt from Evelyn’s clutching fingers, disappeared into the hall to return shortly with a glass of water in one hand and her bag in the other. She dropped the latter on Evelyn’s trunk as she entered the room.

“Take a sip of water, Miss Evelyn,” she said, retaining her hold of the glass as Evelyn’s attempts to take it in her shaking hand proved futile. “Are Jones and the cook here?”

“No.” Evelyn was only equal to monosyllables.

“They haven’t come!” Mrs. Ward looked shocked. “All the servants were to leave Atlantic City this morning on the first train. No wonder you were frightened, Miss Evelyn, all alone in this big house.”

“But I was not alone.” Evelyn pushed aside the empty glass; she felt refreshed by the cold water and the presence of Mrs. Ward restored her to some degree of composure. “There’s a dead man upstairs!”

The glass slipped from Mrs. Ward’s hand and broke on the highly polished floor.

“Are you mad?” Mrs. Ward spoke more roughly than she realized, and Evelyn’s angry flush caused her to modify her tone to its customary civility. “Are you in earnest, Miss Evelyn?” Evelyn nodded vigorously, and Mrs. Ward’s comely face paled. “It’s—It’s not Mr. Burnham?”

“No; I have never seen the man before.”

Mrs. Ward stared blankly at Evelyn, then roused herself. “Hadn’t I better go and investigate?” she asked. “You may be mistaken, Miss; perhaps the man’s only asleep.”

Evelyn shivered. “Men don’t sleep with their eyes open,” she said dully, rising. “I’m coming with you,” and she quickened her pace to keep up with Mrs. Ward as the latter led the way upstairs to the library. Mrs. Ward faltered just inside the room as her eyes fell on the quiet figure near the fireplace; then, repressing all emotion, she strode over to the figure and bent, as Evelyn had done, and placed her hand on the dead man’s wrist. When she turned back to Evelyn, who lingered near the doorway, her face rivaled the young girl’s in whiteness.

“I’d better go for Dr. Hayden.” She mumbled the words so that she was forced to repeat them before Evelyn understood her.

“Try the telephone,” the latter suggested, “that’s quicker.”

Mrs. Ward glanced shrinkingly at the telephone stand which stood almost at the dead man’s elbow and shook her head.

“I’d better go,” she reiterated obstinately.

“Nonsense, use the branch telephone in the pantry.” Evelyn’s customary cool-headedness returned as she saw the housekeeper becoming demoralized. “Hurry, don’t waste any more time,” she added, and obedient to the stronger will, Mrs. Ward hastened from the room.

Evelyn stayed by the doorway in indecision, half inclined to accompany the housekeeper downstairs, but an attraction she could not conquer drew her toward the fireplace, and step by step she advanced nearer the dead man until only a chess table separated them. Sinking into a chair in front of the table she stared at the body for a long moment, then hastily averted her eyes. It was the first time she had seen death and its majesty over-awed even her terror.

A clock chiming the quarter aroused her and she mechanically looked at her wrist watch—a quarter of five. Had only two hours and a half passed since she had entered the library to telephone to Marian Van Ness? The time had seemed interminable, and she waited in ever increasing nervousness for the housekeeper’s return, as the clock ticked off minute after minute with maddening regularity.

Finally a murmur of voices coming nearer roused Evelyn and with a subdued exclamation she moved forward to meet Doctor Lewis Hayden, who a second later appeared in the library, Mrs. Ward at his heels.

Step by step she advanced nearer the dead man....

“Has Mrs. Ward explained?” she demanded as Hayden clasped her outstretched hand.

“Only that——” Hayden stopped speaking as his eyes fell on the dead man. Striding forward he made a brief inspection before turning to the silent women. “Tell my chauffeur to go at once for Doctor Penfield, Mrs. Ward,” he directed and there was that in his manner which caused the housekeeper to move with even more than her customary rapidity. As she disappeared between the portières, Lewis Hayden turned his attention to Evelyn.

“A dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia will make you feel better,” he said kindly, noting the girl’s strained expression, and as he spoke he opened his emergency kit and poured the medicine in a glass. “Just add a little water to this,” he supplemented, “and then go and lie down. I’ll wait and see Coroner Penfield and we will take charge of affairs for you.”

Evelyn sighed with relief as she took the medicine. “Oh, thank you, doctor,” she exclaimed, “if you will just——” She stopped speaking as the portières were pulled back and Mrs. Ward, looking very much agitated, ushered in a tall man whose travel-stained appearance did not detract from his air of distinction. Evelyn stared at him as if unable to believe her eyes.

“Mr. Maynard!” she exclaimed. “Dear Mr. Maynard! Where did you come from?”

Dan Maynard clasped her eagerly extended hand in both of his.

“Just back from France,” he explained, and at the sound of his voice Hayden’s memory quickened; its charm across the footlights had lured him often to the theater to see the man whose fame as an actor was international. “I wired Mr. Burnham——”

“Beg pardon,” Mrs. Ward insinuated herself into the little group by the door. “Your telegram was forwarded to Chelsea, Mr. Maynard, and Mrs. Burnham told me to prepare a bedroom for you, sir. It would have been ready but for this——,” and the housekeeper’s gesture toward the tragic figure by the fireplace completed her sentence.

Maynard stared but before Evelyn could offer any explanation the front door bell rang loudly and Mrs. Ward hastened to answer it.

“I imagine that is the coroner,” began Hayden, but an exclamation from Evelyn checked him; in her excitement she had not grasped the use of the word “Coroner” before Penfield’s name.

“A coroner! Good gracious, doctor, why send for him?”

“Because a sudden death cannot be examined without his presence,” Hayden explained. “Go and take your medicine, Evelyn.”

Evelyn’s hesitation was brief; she knew Hayden of old and that he did not permit disobedience from his patients.

“Very well, doctor,” she said submissively. “But first, Mr. Maynard, this is our family physician, Dr. Hayden,” and as the two men silently shook hands, she added as she moved toward the door leading into her step-father’s bedroom, “I’ll be back shortly.”

Hayden’s surmise that Penfield had arrived proved correct, and the coroner, listening attentively to Mrs. Ward’s jumbled remarks as he mounted the staircase, went at once into the library and greeted Hayden.

“Apoplexy, Hayden?” he inquired, going toward the fireplace. “Ah, your aid here——” and Hayden joined him.

Maynard stood an interested spectator by the door, uncertain whether he was expected to go or stay, but as neither physician paid the slightest attention to him, he decided to remain. A sudden movement of the coroner’s toward the windows caused him to step forward and pull the inside Holland shades up to the top. A grunt of approval from Penfield greeted the additional light and Maynard decided to tuck back with the aid of chairs the heavy brocaded curtains which, like the portières, were covered with cretonne to protect them in the summer months, until the large room was filled with the remaining daylight.

The room, wainscoted in Flemish oak with open beams across the high ceiling, was never very bright as its massive furnishings were somber in shade and absorbed the light. It was a very livable room, however, and had the air of being much occupied even with most of its bric-a-bric put away for the summer. The high-backed carved oak chairs and great leather covered lounges all looked comfortable, and the large center table, smoking stands, and card tables gave an added air of hospitality.

Suddenly Coroner Penfield rose from his knees beside the dead man and laid down several instruments on the chess table. He then glanced narrowly up and down the room, his glance resting finally on Dan Maynard, of whose presence he had been until then apparently unaware.

“I must make some inquiries, Hayden,” he said. “Who is this gentleman?”

“Mr. Maynard—I beg your pardon,” Hayden straightened up and faced about. “Didn’t I introduce you?” he added as the actor approached. “Mr. Maynard only arrived here a few minutes before you, Penfield. I’ll call Mrs. Ward, the housekeeper.”

“She doesn’t know anything,” declared Evelyn who, entering unperceived a few minutes before, had overheard the coroner’s request. “I came back to tell you all about everything.”

“Do you feel equal to it?” asked Hayden, pushing forward a chair. “Hadn’t you better wait, Evelyn? You have been under a fearful strain to have your friend die——” He paused in his rapid speech as if at a loss for words and Maynard, with intuitive quickness, detected the physician’s disquietude under his calm professional manner. “—your friend die so suddenly,” Hayden finished.

Evelyn did not heed the concluding remark; but one word had caught her attention.

“Friend! He was no friend of mine,” she declared. “I never saw the man before.”

Penfield bent forward eagerly. “What’s this—a stranger, you say? Are you quite sure, Miss Preston? People’s appearance sometimes alters after death. Please look at him closely.”

Evelyn hesitated and glanced at Hayden who signed to her to approach. Obediently she stepped forward and studied the motionless figure which had been pushed back by Penfield into much the same position it had occupied when Evelyn first discovered it. She judged the man to have been about thirty-six or forty years of age, and noted particularly the brilliant blue of his eyes against the pallor of his skin. He was clean shaven, and his under jaw was thrust forward at an obstinate angle, but whether that was its natural position or the jaw had dropped forward after death Evelyn was incapable of knowing.

“I never saw the man before,” she stated finally.

“Ah! Then how came it that he was admitted to your library?” asked Penfield before Hayden could speak.

“I really don’t know.” Evelyn looked puzzled. “I presume he got in like any other burglar.”

“Burglar!” Penfield started and turning, stared again at the dead man. “Burglars don’t as a rule dress so well; besides, his hands——” He leaned over and held up the man’s limp right hand, turning it over so that all could see the long tapering fingers and well cared for nails.

Maynard studied the hand intently; he had seen its type when traveling among the silent and secretive peoples of the Orient and occasionally met the same type among the deep thinkers and analytical men and women of Europe who rarely forget an injury but are patient with the patience of power conveyed by knowledge and mysticism.

“His finger-prints may give us some clue to his identity,” added Coroner Penfield, laying down the hand. “In the meantime——”

“Why not examine the man’s pockets?” suggested Maynard practically.

Penfield carried out the suggestion with a deftness which won the actor’s admiration, but all he brought to light was a piece of string.

“Every pocket empty,” he announced. “And apparently not even a coat-label—strange!” He cast a penetrating look at Evelyn. “Why did you not notify us sooner, Miss Preston?”

“Sooner?” echoed Evelyn. “I started to go for Dr. Hayden after finding this—this——” Evelyn choked; she was very near to tears and Penfield’s grave manner was beginning to impress her unfavorably. “I met Mrs. Ward, our housekeeper, on the front steps, brought her up here, and then sent her to telephone to Dr. Hayden. That hasn’t been more than an hour ago,” turning for confirmation to Hayden who nodded his agreement. “I only arrived in Washington this morning, Dr. Penfield, and—and—I was all alone in the house. He—he,”—pointing to the dead man—“he might have murdered me if he hadn’t died of apoplexy.”

Hayden, who had followed Evelyn’s statements with ever increasing interest, looked a trifle nonplussed as he glanced at his colleague who was winding the string, taken from the dead man’s pocket, in and out among his fingers.

“You say you arrived at the house this morning, Miss Preston,” began Penfield slowly, “and you did not enter this library until this afternoon.”

“I did, too,” contradicted Evelyn. “I came in here in the morning and opened the blinds; I did the same thing all over this floor so as to air the house, and——” She added as Hayden started to interrupt her, “I came into this room again about half past two——”

“And you sent for us about five o’clock,” commented Penfield dryly. “Your remarks are inconsistent—you previously stated you sent for us at once on finding the body——”

“The body was not here at half past two,” declared Evelyn.

“It wasn’t!” chorused the two physicians, while Maynard looked eagerly at Evelyn and back at them.

“Come, Miss Preston,” began Penfield. “You must be mistaken.”

“I am not,” Evelyn’s foot came down with a stamp. “I used that telephone there, right by the fireplace; do you suppose I could have done so and not become aware that a dead man was sitting by my elbow? I tell you the man wasn’t dead then.”

The silence which followed was broken by Coroner Penfield.

“Miss Preston,” he stated quietly. “That man has been dead at least twelve hours.”

Evelyn stared at him in growing horror. “Dead—twelve hours!” she gasped. “Then who rang the library bell at four o’clock?”

They gazed at each other, but before any one could speak the sound of a heavy fall caused them to wheel about—Mrs. Ward had fainted just inside the portières of the room.

CHAPTER III
UNIDENTIFIED

THE Maître d’hôtel, returning from an inspection of the main dining room, paused in Peacock Alley to view with an appraising eye the men and women who promenaded up and down or sat about, some waiting with good grace for their chance to find a disengaged table in one of the dining rooms while others, outwardly rebellious, expressed their candid opinion of Washington in war-time. Suddenly the Frenchman’s air of polite indifference changed to one of alertness as a man pushed his way through the throng and stopped near the door of the Palm Room. The Maître d’hôtel was at his elbow instantly.

“Ah, Monsieur Burnham, welcome, most welcome,” he said. “Have you had a nice summaire?”

“Henri!” Peter Burnham surrendered his hat and cane to a waiting attendant. “The summer has been so-so,” he added, turning back to the Frenchman. “I am waiting for Mr. James Palmer; have you seen him this evening?”

“But yes.” The Maître d’hôtel wormed his way into the Palm Room and beckoned to Burnham to follow. “There, in that corner across the room; this way,” and he darted among the tables and the palms, Burnham following closely, until he reached a small table set for two persons, and pulled out the unoccupied chair.

Palmer looked up from the menu he was studying and greeted Burnham with warmth.

“Have a Martini?” he inquired as their waiter hurried up and the Maître d’hôtel went back to his post in the doorway.

“Yes, and make it dry,” cautioned Burnham to the waiter. “And hurry it along. I am worn out,” he added to his host.

Palmer glanced at him in concern. “You don’t look very fit,” he admitted. “Had a bad trip down?”

“Devilish! Our train was sidetracked for hours waiting to let troop trains pass; nothing to eat——” Burnham paused to empty his glass of ice water. “At our rate of progress I was willing to believe we’d gone back to stage-coach days, but Washington is an eye-opener; I had no idea this place swarmed with people.”

“Washington’s ‘sleepy hollow’ has had a rude awakening,” remarked Palmer cynically. “I don’t mind confessing I am weary of seeing consequential looking people dash about Washington with an air of having arrived just in time to save the Nation. Washington was on the map before Uncle Sam started on this war-path.”

Burnham laughed. “I confess I share your outraged feelings; had to wait interminably at the Union Station before I could telephone you.” He stopped to take the cocktail at that instant placed before him. “Here’s how!”

His host raised his glass in acknowledgment and sipped his Martini with due enjoyment.

“Better have another,” he suggested as Burnham set down his empty glass, “against the time Washington goes dry.”

“I’ve stocked up my wine cellar with that in view,” admitted Burnham and stopped to watch some newcomers who had taken possession of the nearest table. “I suppose I can get a room here for the night in case I find the servants haven’t arrived to open our house.”

“My dear Burnham!” Palmer looked actually shocked. “Empty rooms are unheard of in Washington.”

“How about club chambers?”

“Nothing doing; they are even sleeping in the bathtubs there,” laughed Palmer, and stopped speaking as the orchestra in the mezzanine gallery commenced to play and, dinner arriving at that instant, the two men, except for monosyllabic remarks now and then, completed the meal in silence. As Burnham took one of the cigars proffered him he pushed aside his dessert plate, planted his elbows on the table, and leaned forward.

“I can’t understand why people want an orchestra playing while they eat,” he grumbled. “I don’t enjoy having to shout when I talk.”

“Well, I suggested dining at the club——”

“I know, I know; but I forgot about the beastly orchestra,” he paused to puff abstractedly at his cigar.

“What’s the trouble, Burnham?” asked Palmer quickly. “Is your wife ill?”

“No, no; it’s——” He bent nearer his companion, then paused to shoot a glance over his shoulder and his confidences remained unspoken. “Jove! Evelyn!” he ejaculated. “She wasn’t due here until to-morrow.”

Palmer, but half catching his remark, followed his gaze and saw Evelyn Preston and her friend Marian Van Ness just taking their seats at a table some distance away. Palmer pushed back his chair preparatory to rising.

“Bless my soul, Burnham,” he exclaimed impulsively. “Why didn’t you tell me Evelyn was with you? We could have waited dinner for her and Mrs. Van Ness. Here—” beckoning to their waiter—“tell those ladies——”

“Wait,” broke in Burnham. “We’ve finished, Palmer; suppose we go over and sit at their table, but there’s no hurry, man.”

Burnham’s tone was so petulant that Palmer, curbing his impatience to be with Evelyn, subsided in his seat and gazed at him in speculative silence. What had come over easy-going, absent-minded Peter Burnham? Six weeks had passed since his visit to Burnham Lodge at Chelsea, and that the six weeks had not agreed with Burnham was plain to be seen; his cheeks were a bad color and he seemed to Palmer’s appraising eye to have shrunk in his clothes. A certain nervous tremor in the hand holding his cigar also was noticeable, and Palmer wracked his brain to recall some incident of his stay at Burnham Lodge which might give him the key to Burnham’s altered demeanor. But to the best of his recollection all had been harmonious, and he had been rather a captious guest, for his prediction that the marriage would not turn out a happy one had put him on the alert for matrimonial discords.

Palmer had not been alone in predicting a disastrous ending to the marriage, for all Washington had heard first with incredulity and then laughter of the engagement of the wealthy widow, Lillian Preston, to Peter Burnham, a man considerably her junior, who had been uniformly unfortunate in every business venture he had undertaken. Peter had his good points, his friends contended, and as one of them remarked at the wedding which had followed swiftly upon the announcement of the engagement, his wife could keep him in the style he had been accustomed to before his final financial venture had landed him in bankruptcy.

That Mrs. Burnham was honestly devoted to her husband and admired him, Palmer had come to believe. She was not a woman given to concealing her thoughts, her habit of plain speech frequently landing her in hot water. Peter Burnham was well read, polished in manner, a born raconteur, and a devoted chess player; he cared very little for out-door sports and his greatest hardship was being dragged to horseshows of which his wife was inordinately fond, having inherited her love for horses from her Kentucky ancestors.

Society had speculated as to how Mrs. Burnham’s young daughter and only child would take her mother’s second marriage, but as Evelyn was then away at boarding school, society found little to build gossip upon. Evelyn’s début the winter before had revived interest in the subject, and when she left Washington early in the spring for an indefinite visit in the West, tongues had wagged without, however, getting any satisfaction from Mr. and Mrs. Burnham who went placidly on their way, being entertained and entertaining in their hospitable home in the fashionable Northwest.

The situation had decidedly piqued Palmer’s interest, for as intimate as was his footing in the Burnham home he had never been able to decide Evelyn’s status in the family circle; she was frequently and pleasantly alluded to in conversation, but that was all. He had made no secret of his desire to marry Evelyn, and that both husband and wife favored his courtship he had ample reason to believe, though neither to his knowledge had outwardly espoused his cause to Evelyn.

When called on the telephone about six o’clock that afternoon Burnham had given Palmer to understand that he was alone in Washington; and yet his young step-daughter was also in the city. It was of course possible that Evelyn was visiting Marian Van Ness. Palmer frowned; he disliked few people, but he most heartily disliked brilliant Marian Van Ness; their natures were too utterly foreign for them ever to be congenial.

Palmer transferred his attention from Burnham to the latter’s step-daughter and her companion, both of whom were busily engaged in discussing the menu. Marian Van Ness’ dark beauty was an effectual foil for Evelyn’s curly yellow hair and blue eyes. The entrance of both girls, for Marian appeared little more, in their smart summer costumes had attracted admiring low voiced comment from the other diners in their vicinity, and several friends and acquaintances had looked up to bow or wave their hands to them, for Marian was extremely popular in society. When financial reverses had obliged her to find employment upon her return to her native city after her divorce, she had acted as social secretary for several Cabinet officers’ wives and through their influence had received an appointment in the State Department five years before.

Suddenly Palmer stirred in his chair. “I hardly think Mrs. Van Ness is a staid enough chaperon for Evelyn,” he remarked. “Suppose we join them,” and leaving Burnham no option in the matter he pushed back his chair and rose.

Evelyn, whose healthy young appetite had asserted itself, in spite of the tragic happenings of that afternoon, had been chiefly occupied in selecting the most tempting dishes in the menu, and it was not until an exclamation from Marian drew her attention to her step-father coming toward them, Palmer’s big proportions towering behind him, that she knew of his presence in the dining room. At that moment the diners at an intervening table left their seats, thereby impeding Burnham’s progress, and only Marian caught Evelyn’s low exclamation and noticed her change of color.

“Are you going to faint?” she asked. “Drink some water, dear.”

Instead Evelyn laid trembling fingers on her cool palm.

“Don’t forget your promise,” she pleaded. “Remember, you are going to stay with me....”

“I will.” Marian’s firm hand-clasp was reassuring. “Can’t you tell me more of what took place this afternoon?”

“Not now.” Evelyn straightened up and turned to meet her step-father and, with a poise and air of cordiality which Marian secretly applauded, she held out her hand in greeting to Burnham and then to Palmer. “When did you get here?” she inquired as the men took the chairs proffered by attentive waiters, after first speaking to Marian.

“I might ask the same of you,” retorted Burnham. “You were not due here until to-morrow.”

“I found I could take an earlier train,” responded Evelyn. “Why didn’t you and Mother come up to the house when you arrived?”

“Your mother didn’t come down with me,” answered Burnham, waving away the waiter’s offer of a menu. “She is in New York.”

“Oh!” The ejaculation slipped from Evelyn followed by another: “Oh, waiter, don’t remove that place,” as the servant started to clear away the extra silver and glass. “I am expecting another guest,” she added as Palmer, thinking she did not know that he had dined, imagined she referred to him and started to decline.

“Another guest?” questioned Burnham and his manner sharpened. “Whom do you mean?”

Evelyn shot a half resentful glance at him, then curbing her hot temper which his censorious air and manner invariably aroused, she answered cheerily. “None other than your old friend, Dan Maynard.”

“Maynard in town!” exclaimed Burnham in pleased surprise.

“Not only in town but he is stopping at our house,” rattled on Evelyn, noting with some surprise that Marian had permitted her “Honey-dew” melon to be taken away uneaten. “The servants are putting the house in order.”

“Upon my word!” Burnham polished his eye glasses and looked through them at Evelyn. “Where is Mrs. Ward?”

“Ill,” tersely. “Dr. Hayden is looking after her; and Marian is coming back to help me take care of her.”

Burnham stared at his step-daughter. “Mrs. Ward ill—what next? When did you and she arrive in Washington, Evelyn?”

Palmer, stopping his exchange of small talk with Marian, glanced at Evelyn and her expression caused his interest to quicken. Evelyn was not used to subterfuge and the look she had favored her step-father with was indicative of her feelings.

“We didn’t come together,” she explained. “Mrs. Ward only arrived this afternoon, while I reached the house——” She stopped to help herself to beefsteak and several vegetables.

“Yes,” prompted Burnham, and his restless glance passed from one companion to the other. “You reached——” A hand was laid on his shoulder and Maynard cut into the conversation.

“Found at last,” laughed the actor. “Evelyn, you told me to meet you at the Shoreham and I have been waiting there until it dawned on me to try this hotel. How are you, Burnham, and Palmer, too,” shaking hands as the men rose.

“Marian, have you met Mr. Maynard—Mrs. Van Ness?” asked Evelyn, and Maynard turned to encounter a pair of dark brown eyes raised to him in earnest appeal. The next instant Marian’s hand was taken in a warm clasp and slowly released as Palmer made room for Maynard to sit between them.

“My wife will be delighted to know you have arrived in Washington,” said Burnham. “She was overjoyed when your telegram came stating you might get here any moment. What brings you back to this country, Maynard?”

“War work,” began Maynard. “No, no soup,” he broke off to say to the waiter. “Bring me whatever Miss Preston has ordered. Palmer, I hear you have your hands full with government contracts for erecting temporary office buildings here and at cantonments.”

“All architects are busy these days,” replied Palmer, accepting another cigar from Burnham. “In fact every one is busy; I imagine you have your hands full at the State Department, Mrs. Van Ness.”

Marian, directly addressed, looked up from the bread pellets she was arranging in a neat pile before her. “Well rather, we work night and day.”

“It must be a terrific strain,” acknowledged Maynard. “So much responsibility rests in the State Department.” There was a haunting quality in Maynard’s voice which, no matter how trivial his remark, impressed his listeners, and Marian’s heart beat fast as memory of other scenes rose to torment her, but her manner indicated only polite attention and after a fraction of a second Maynard continued his remarks.

“Washington is a changed city,” he stated. “The Shoreham reminded me particularly of Paris in its military appearance, except that the uniforms are not worn and faded. By the way, Burnham, among the French officers I met there was René La Montagne.”

“René!” The startled exclamation escaped Evelyn before she could check it; and her confusion was so great that she failed to observe the lowered looks of two of her companions. Burnham and Palmer exchanged glances, then their eyes dropped to their cigars and they smoked in silence.

As Evelyn set down her goblet of water a page stopped at her elbow.

“A telephone has just come from your butler, Miss Preston,” he explained, “to ask you to return home. He said Mrs. Ward was quite ill.”

Evelyn pushed aside her plate. “I’ll go at once,” she announced. “But the rest of you need not come until later.”

“I have finished.” As she spoke Marian rose and Maynard also tossed aside his napkin and stood up.

“Wait a minute,” remonstrated Burnham. “We’ll all go with you, Evelyn. Here, waiter, bring me the check, and, Maynard, engage a touring car outside, will you?”

Nodding assent, the actor sped on his errand, leaving the others to follow more slowly. He was fortunate in securing a seven-passenger car, and Burnham bundled his party into it with small ceremony.

“We are right in your neighborhood,” he said as Palmer drew back, “the car can leave you after it has taken us home. There’s plenty of room, Palmer, jump in.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Evelyn, “it would expedite matters to stop for Dr. Hayden.”

“If he is not at your house I can go for him and bring him right over,” answered Palmer, and Burnham agreed.

“Good idea,” he said shortly. “I hope I am not crowding you, Evelyn?” as she shrank against Marian in making room for him on the back seat.

“Oh, no,” she replied and sat silent, grateful for the cool night air which fanned her cheeks. She had tried to forget the mysterious tragedy while in the hotel; had even barely mentioned it to Marian when she picked her up at her apartment to take her out to dinner, but the sudden summons home had brought it vividly before her. Suddenly she caught Maynard’s eyes and his cheery smile gave her a sense of comfort. As the car turned into Connecticut Avenue he leaned forward and addressed Marian Van Ness.

“Are you warm enough?” he asked solicitously. “You have no extra wrap and the night air is chilly.”

Marian looked at him then glanced away. “I am very comfortable,” she murmured.

Palmer, who had chosen to take the vacant seat by the chauffeur in preference to trusting his weight on one of the small pivot chairs in the tonneau of the machine, addressed Burnham several times, but apparently his words were drowned in the rush of wind occasioned by the speed of the car, for Burnham made no response. A short time later the car drew up to the curb, and stopped before the Burnham residence.

Maynard was the first out of the machine and turned at once to help Marian. For a brief second her hand rested lightly on his arm, then was removed as she sprang to the sidewalk. Evelyn was no less quick in getting out and, not waiting to see what became of the others, she caught Marian by the elbow and hurried her into the house and upstairs.

Burnham was slower than the others in leaving the car. “Wait a second, Palmer,” he said, “I’ll send word if we need Dr. Hayden,” and, turning, he accompanied Maynard up the steps. His words were overheard by the anxious faced butler who had been on the outlook for the car and opened the front door when it first drew up to the curb.

“The doctor’s here, sir,” and Maynard was quick to detect the faint, very faint trace of accent in the man’s subdued voice.

Burnham faced about and called to Palmer: “Don’t wait, Palmer, thanks; Hayden is here. See you to-morrow,” and he waved his hand in farewell as the car moved off.

“Come in the billiard room, Maynard,” he said turning to his companion. “We might as well have a game until Hayden comes down——”

“Just a moment, sir,” broke in Jones, the butler. “There’s several gentlemen waiting to see you.”

Burnham halted. “Their names——”

A man standing in the shadow of the drawing room door came forward.

“Detective Mitchell, sir, of the Central Office,” he said politely. “I was sent to investigate the case of the man found dead here this afternoon.”

“A man found dead here!” shouted Burnham, stepping backward and colliding against Maynard. “Who is he?”

“We don’t know,” acknowledged Mitchell. “But we are trying to establish his identity. Your step-daughter found him in the library.”

Burnham stared at the detective wide-eyed. Suddenly he took out his handkerchief and mopped his forehead.

“A dead man here!” he ejaculated feebly. “An unknown man?”

“Perhaps if you will step in here you may be able to help us identify him,” suggested Mitchell. “We have brought the body down into the billiard room preparatory to taking it to the morgue.”

It seemed almost as if Burnham did not comprehend what the detective was saying, and but for Maynard’s guiding hand he would not have found his way into the room. The body lay on the billiard table covered by a sheet. Stepping forward, Mitchell pulled down the sheet, signing to Burnham to step nearer, and both he and Maynard watched Burnham as he bent over the body. After what seemed an interminable time to Maynard, he straightened up.

“I have no idea who he is,” Burnham stated.

CHAPTER IV
A QUESTION OF TIME

TWENTY-FOUR hours had passed since Evelyn Preston’s discovery of the dead man, and the Burnham household had returned somewhat to its normal condition, chiefly through Dr. Hayden’s soothing influence and sound advice which had proved an effectual check to the servants’ inclination to hysteria, Burnham’s temper, and Evelyn’s nervousness. Marian Van Ness, in lieu of a trained nurse, had spent the night with the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, who had finally quieted down under the influence of bromides and toward morning slept heavily. In the few remaining hours Marian had thrown herself on the couch in the housekeeper’s sitting room and snatched a short nap before going to her work at the State Department.

To Evelyn the day had seemed never ending; she had gone out for part of the morning, returned for luncheon, and afterward had attempted to rest, but she was far too restless to remain long in one place, and about four o’clock in the afternoon she found herself in the drawing room gazing moodily out of the window, her knitting needles for once idle in her lap. The entrance of Jones with the tea roused her from her contemplation of the closed house of her opposite neighbor across the street.

“Not many people are back yet, Jones,” she remarked.

“Not in this section, Miss Evelyn,” answered the butler, wheeling forward the tea-wagon and then going for a nest of tables from which he extracted the smallest. “Every house is closed hereabouts; it’s sort of lonesome, Miss, and strange, too, with the business part and the other streets just packed with people. Has Mr. Burnham returned yet, Miss?”

“I don’t think so.” Evelyn rattled the teacups as she rearranged them. “Are you quite positive, Jones, that no one called me on the telephone while I was out this morning?”

“Quite, Miss. I followed your instructions and stayed where I could hear the telephone bell if it rang; no one called, Miss.”

Jones had made the same answer to the same question at least six times during the day, but he was too well trained a servant to betray his curiosity aroused by Evelyn’s absent-minded harping on the subject. Being of a somewhat morbid tendency he, of all the household, had been the only one to get some entertainment out of the tragedy. The presence of the physicians, morgue attendants, and detectives had thrilled him beyond words; he had never hoped to participate in a humble degree in what promised to be a mystifying and unusual case of sudden death.

“Dr. Hayden went upstairs to see Mrs. Ward just now,” he said, finding that Evelyn asked no more questions. She looked up quickly and set down the tea-pot.

“Is the doctor still here?”

“I think so, Miss.”

“Then run upstairs, Jones, and ask him to stop here for a cup of tea on his way out, and—eh, just see if Mr. Burnham is in his room or the library.”

“Very good, Miss Evelyn,” and the butler departed with alacrity. He had just reached the floor above when he encountered the busy surgeon hurrying downstairs. Hayden paused only long enough to hear his message and then continued on his way to the drawing room. Evelyn greeted his entrance with a warm smile of welcome.

“Thanks, no tea,” he said drawing up a chair. “I will have a glass of water and some sandwiches. Did you lie down as I advised?”

“Yes, but I couldn’t sleep.” Evelyn’s hand shook as she offered him the plate of sandwiches and Hayden scanned her with concern.

“Don’t go too long on your nerves, Evelyn,” he cautioned. “Pull up while you can; rest and quiet are what you need.”

Evelyn moved impatiently. “I’m all right,” she announced obstinately. “Tell me, doctor, what is the matter with Mrs. Ward?”

“Oh, she is suffering from shock and hysteria; in a day or so she will be up and about again.” Dr. Hayden took a tea biscuit. “In the meantime bed is the best place for her.”

“What made her go to pieces?” demanded Evelyn, lowering her voice. “She is a strong healthy woman and in the three years she has been with us I have never known her to have a day’s illness.”

“Shock,” replied Hayden tersely.

“But—but she only saw the body just as I did,” objected Evelyn. “I didn’t faint from shock, and I don’t pretend to be as strong as she is.”

Hayden mentally contrasted her slender, delicate appearance and the housekeeper’s tall angular, raw boned frame and silently agreed with her; the contrast was too great to admit of argument.

“Tell me, Evelyn,” and he, too, sunk his voice. “Exactly when did Mrs. Ward join you here yesterday?”

“I found her standing in the vestibule just after I discovered that poor dead man upstairs; in fact when I was on my way to you. Frankly,” Evelyn smiled apologetically, “my first impulse was to get out of the house.”

“A very natural impulse,” said a voice behind them and wheeling about Hayden saw Maynard approaching. “Sorry to startle you, Evelyn,” the latter added as she spilled her tea in her sudden jump. “I am so accustomed to these rubber heels that I forget others are not. Afternoon, Hayden. How’s your patient?”

“She is much better.” The physician moved back to make room for Maynard who paused long enough to drag forward a large arm chair and seated himself next to Evelyn.

“Good,” he exclaimed in response to Hayden’s statement, and at the sympathetic inflection and the hearty ring in his voice Evelyn brightened. Maynard’s robust personality brought a touch of the out-of-doors into the room and dispelled her morbid thoughts. “Burnham asked me to tell you, Evelyn, that he would not be here for tea. He is greatly concerned about Mrs. Ward,” Maynard continued, addressing Hayden. “Seemed to think last night from her rambling talk that she was in for a long illness, brain fever, or something.”

Hayden smiled. “Nothing like that,” he said. “Mrs. Ward will soon be on her feet again, little the worse for her upset.”

“I hope so truly,” exclaimed Evelyn, handing Maynard his cup and a biscuit. “Not only for her sake, but because Mother is so dependent upon her.”

“Has Mrs. Ward been with you long?” inquired Maynard.

“A little over three years.” Evelyn paused to consider. “She came to us about six months before Mother’s marriage to Mr. Burnham; I was at boarding school that winter.”

“What is Mrs. Ward’s nationality?” asked Hayden. “I ask because last night just before going under the influence of the bromides she used several phrases which——”

A heavy step on the hardwood floor interrupted the physician and Jones appeared at Evelyn’s side.

“Detective Mitchell to see you, Miss Evelyn,” he announced and his low voice held suppressed excitement.

“Oh!” Evelyn gazed at him blankly for a minute, then at her companions; their presence would surely check any undue inquisitiveness which the detective might evince. Her step-father had told her that she might possibly have to appear at the inquest or give her deposition, and he had cautioned her against making any statement to either of the detectives who were then in the house. Evelyn, rather startled by his grave manner, had promptly vanished out of the house by way of the back door while the men from the Central Office were interviewing Burnham.

“Show him in,” she directed, and as the butler retreated, she looked at Hayden. “You were saying; oh, yes, now I remember; you asked about Mrs. Ward—she was born in Switzerland, but I believe has lived in the United States since she was fifteen years old. Is this Mr. Mitchell?” raising her voice as a well dressed, pleasant-faced man appeared in the room.

The detective advanced to the little group and his bow included them all.

“It is, Miss Preston,” he answered. “I was sorry not to see you this morning before you left.” Maynard, who had risen on his entrance, pushed forward his chair for the detective and subsided into one somewhat in the shadow of the grand piano. Mitchell acknowledged the courtesy with a word of thanks, then turned to Dr. Hayden.

“The nurse permitted me to see Mrs. Ward for a moment, doctor,” he began, “but she said she knew nothing of the suicide.”

“Suicide!” ejaculated Evelyn, startled.

“I am quoting Mrs. Ward,” explained Mitchell. “She evidently believes the stranger’s death to have been a case of suicide.”

“But how can she? She heard me tell Coroner Penfield that some one rang the library bell about five or six minutes before I found the body, and according to Coroner Penfield the man had been dead about twelve hours. Yet the body was not in the library when I was in it earlier in the afternoon; some one beside myself was in this house,” declared Evelyn and she came to a breathless and bewildered pause.

“Mrs. Ward heard you make these statements?” asked Mitchell, pencil in hand, and his memorandum pad balanced on one knee.

“Why, I take it for granted that she did,” Evelyn looked puzzled. “She fainted just about then and we found her lying inside the library door, didn’t we, doctor?” Hayden nodded. “Mrs. Ward must have been standing behind the portières and couldn’t help overhearing our conversation.”

“Then you conclude that your remark about the ringing of the library bell caused her to faint,” asked Maynard reflectively.

Evelyn wrinkled her brows and rubbed her forehead vigorously. “I don’t know just what to think,” she acknowledged. “What was there in that statement to shock her?”

Hayden leaned forward. “Could it be——” He began, then broke off abruptly, hesitated, and finally addressed Mitchell. “Did you think to ask Mrs. Ward if she saw any one leave this house as she came up the street?”

“No, doctor. The fact is,” Mitchell completed the entry he was making in his note book, “the fact is the nurse would only let me stay a second in the sick room; she said Mrs. Ward was too ill to be interviewed now.”

“Then I see nothing for it but to wait until Mrs. Ward is better,” commented Maynard. “Will there be an inquest, Mitchell?”

“Oh, yes; but not just now.” Mitchell turned his head so as to face Maynard. “However, our investigation cannot wait; we must sift evidence to present at the inquest and secure expert testimony.”

Maynard thrust his hands in his pockets and leaned back. “Go slow, Mitchell,” he cautioned. “Remember the legal warning: ‘All evidence is made up of testimony, but all testimony is not evidence.’”

“True, sir; but in this case the police have reasonable grounds to suspect a crime has been committed,” protested Mitchell. “Take Miss Preston’s testimony for example; she heard the library bell ring, went upstairs, and found a dead man sitting in the library.”

“Well, he could have rung the bell before drinking the poison,” retorted Maynard.

“Be reasonable, Mr. Maynard.” The detective’s irritation at Maynard’s continued questioning showed in his heightened color. “Coroner Penfield’s testimony proved the man had been dead at least twelve hours.”

“There you go again with your testimony,” Maynard laughed shortly. “Come, doctor, at what moment does rigor mortis appear?”

“In a general way, I should say——” Hayden considered before continuing, “rigor mortis appears from the third to the sixth hour, and it affects the muscles of the jaw first.” Evelyn shuddered as sudden unbidden memory of the dead man’s features returned to her.

“And how long does rigidity continue?” demanded Maynard.

“Oh, its duration may average twenty-four to forty-eight hours; it may, however, last for a few hours only, in other cases it persists for five, six, or seven days,” answered Hayden.

“And you physicians are prepared to swear from rigor mortis as to the exact hour the man died?” persisted Maynard.

“We are prepared to swear to nothing of the sort.” Hayden was commencing to share Mitchell’s irritation at Maynard’s slightly contemptuous manner. “We can say if rigidity is complete, that death is recent. Personally, I believe that rigor mortis can teach us nothing of scientific value in cases of poisoning.”

“But there are other tests to establish the time of death,” broke in the detective. “There’s the cooling of the body.”

“Don’t!” Evelyn held up a protesting hand. “I can’t forget the icy chill of his wrist when I touched him.”

“There!” Mitchell looked triumphantly at Hayden. “Doesn’t the body cool in about twelve hours?”

“It might be said to be quite cold in that time,” replied Hayden. “But the average time taken in cooling is from fifteen to twenty hours.”

“Your first statement will do for me,” Mitchell jotted down some figures. “Let me see, Miss Preston, you found the body about half past three?”

“Yes, or perhaps a few minutes later.”

“Humph! Then it is a safe hypothesis that this man was poisoned between the hours of two thirty and three thirty yesterday (Tuesday) morning.”

Evelyn shivered. “It would seem so,” she admitted. “Yet where was the body all that time?”

“And where the murderer?” Maynard’s light tone struck a jarring note and for once Evelyn ignored him, as she waited for the detective’s answer.

“Is that Mr. Burnham speaking?” questioned Mitchell, rising hurriedly as voices reached them from the hall. Evelyn was saved reply by Burnham walking into the room. He was followed by Coroner Penfield and James Palmer.

“Here are the men you want, Penfield,” he exclaimed on catching sight of Hayden and Maynard. “Come and tell us about the inquest.”

Penfield, directly addressed, bowed gravely to Evelyn, who had risen with the others on their entrance, and then regarded his host with no lenient eye. That Burnham had been drinking or was under some powerful drug was evident, and Penfield wished heartily that Evelyn would retire; he disliked scenes—dead people were one thing, hysterical women another.

“There has been no inquest yet,” he said. “We are waiting for the principals in the case to be in condition to attend it before we hold it.”

“Principals?” Burnham moved nearer and placed an unsteady hand on the back of a chair. “Who d’ye mean?”

“Mrs. Ward, primarily,” responded Penfield politely. “I understand, Hayden, she is ill from shock.”

“Yes, she is; nothing very serious, however.”

“Has she a nurse?”

“Yes. Mrs. Duvall.”

“Excellent,” Penfield rubbed his hands together. “I would like to talk to Nurse Duvall if convenient.”

“Certainly, Penfield,” Hayden made a motion to go but Evelyn was before him.

“I’ll run up and take her place with Mrs. Ward so she can come down to see you,” she volunteered and slipped from the room.

Burnham, who had been brooding over the coroner’s remarks, stopped his restless walk about the room, and thereby collided with James Palmer, whose bulky form dwarfed Mrs. Burnham’s Empire furniture.

“Why’d you tell me in the hall that you held an inquest and then deny it in here?” he asked. “Was it because Evelyn was present?”

“No, Mr. Burnham; you have things mixed,” protested Penfield. “I never mentioned an inquest, but said we had held an autopsy.”

“Ah, and with what results?” asked Hayden. “Or is it not permissible to tell now?”

“Oh, no; it will be in the morning papers, so I am breaking no confidence,” Penfield moved nearer the five men who had grouped themselves about the grand piano. “On submitting the gastric contents to tests we found the presence of a solution of hydrocyanic acid.”

Maynard broke the ensuing silence. “Hydrocyanic acid,” he repeated. “Isn’t that a form of prussic acid?”

“Yes; and in a diluted form sometimes given for stomach disorders,” responded Penfield. At his answer Burnham sat down suddenly as if stricken. His action was only observed by Hayden and Palmer, Penfield’s attention being focused upon Maynard who stood gazing at him across the piano with expressionless face.

“Prussic acid,” he murmured. “Ah, Penfield, that bears out my theory.”

“And what is your theory?” demanded Mitchell quickly, bending forward.

“That the man committed suicide.” Seeing the incredulity with which his statement was received, Maynard added: “Had the man been murdered he would instantly have detected the presence of prussic acid—there is no disguising the taste of bitter almonds.”

“Yes, there is,” retorted Coroner Penfield. “The dose in this instance was administered in a cordial which in itself contains the same bitter flavor—cherry brandy.”

CHAPTER V
THE “ACE”

MARIAN VAN NESS detached herself from the stream of people moving slowly up Seventeenth Street and raced to the opposite curb, only arriving in time, however, to see the Mt. Pleasant car sail serenely by. A second, third, and fourth car, their passengers clinging like ants to steps and even fenders, rounded the curve without stopping and continued up Connecticut Avenue. In despair Marian turned about and tucking the papers she carried more securely under her arm, set out for the Burnham house. She had walked but a third of the way when a man fell into step with her and looking around she found René La Montagne by her side.

“Ah! Captain, good afternoon,” she exclaimed. “Did you receive my telephone message?”

“But yes, madame, and I hurried most quickly to the State Department only to find you gone.” The French officer reached over and took her small bundle of papers. “Permit that I carry them,” he said with a quick courtly bow, and taking possession of the papers he slipped them inside the pocket of his blue tunic. “Tell me, madame, you have seen Evelyn,” and Marian read in his eyes the passion even Evelyn’s name kindled in the gallant officer and her heart throbbed with the quick and ready sympathy every woman feels for true romance.

“Yes. I am on my way to join Evelyn now,” she answered. “Frankly, Captain, what has estranged you two?”

La Montagne’s expression grew troubled. “It is not of my making,” he protested. “My letters remain unanswered——”

“Are you quite certain, Captain, that Evelyn received your letters?”

“But yes,” and as she would have spoken he added rapidly: “When I cabled that I would arrive shortly in this country, having been detailed here to instruct in the aviation, and received no reply I questioned in my mind if Evelyn had received it. Getting leave, I went to Chelsea and called upon Mr. and Mrs. Burnham——”

“You did!”

“Of course, madame.” La Montagne emphasized his remarks with gesticulations eminently characteristic of his race. “It was my misfortune that Evelyn was away, and through some inadvertence my cable had not been forwarded to her. I had but a few hours in Chelsea, but upon my return to duty I wrote to Evelyn a letter requiring a reply, and I sent it by what you call ‘registered’ post.”

“And she answered the letter?”

“No.” In spite of his effort to keep his tone expressionless the monosyllable betrayed emotion.

“Then you can take it that Evelyn never received your letter,” exclaimed Marian vehemently.

“You think not!” La Montagne’s face lighted, then fell. “But how is that within the possible? The return card bore her signature of receipt.”

Marian stopped and stared at the Frenchman. “Her signature? Are you quite sure?”

“Oui, madame. I have read her few letters too often to be mistaken,” retorted La Montagne. “She signed the receipt.”

Marian resumed her walk up the street, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “Where did you send the letter?” she asked.

“To Burnham Lodge, Chelsea, New Jersey.”

Marian quickened her pace to avoid being run down by a speeding automobile as they crossed Massachusetts Avenue.

“And where was the return receipt card from?” she inquired, a trifle breathless from her exertions.

“From the same place.” La Montagne fumbled in an inside pocket. “But view,” he said, holding up a much battered return registered mail card. Marian took the card and studied the postmark, its date, and Evelyn’s clear and distinct signature in puzzled silence, then handed back the card.

“I can only tell you,” she stated slowly, “that Evelyn spent the entire summer in a convent out West; she has not been at Burnham Lodge for a year.”

The Frenchman stared at her. “What is it you say?” he exclaimed in deep astonishment, and Marian repeated her statement. “But it is not possible!” he ejaculated. “Not possible!”

“Yes it is,” Marian’s face expressed indomitable determination. “And I can’t have Evelyn’s happiness jeopardized by——” She stopped to wave her hand to Dr. Hayden, Dan Maynard, and James Palmer, who whirled by in an automobile. La Montagne, who had raised his hand in salute as the other men lifted their hats, whirled back to Marian, his face alight.

“Evelyn has not lost her affection; she is still true,” he began incoherently. “Ah, you have brought me news the most good—let us hurry to Evelyn.”

“Wait just a moment,” and Marian laid a detaining hand on the impetuous Frenchman’s arm. “We must sift this out a bit first. How were you received at Burnham Lodge and by whom?”

“Most cordially by both Mr. and Mrs. Burnham.”

“Was that the first time you had met them?”

“No, oh, no; we have met before in Paris, and I saw Mrs. Burnham when in New York visiting my American cousins. It was in my cousin’s house that I met Evelyn.”

“So Evelyn told me.” Marian did not think it necessary to add that Evelyn had awakened her from her brief nap after her all night vigil in Mrs. Ward’s room, and poured out her story of love, misunderstanding and lost letters with such pathos that Marian had promptly championed her cause with every impulse of her loyal nature. Having met Captain La Montagne earlier in the summer she had then and there vowed to see him before the twenty-four hours were over, and if, as she had begun to suspect, she found that peculiar methods were being used to estrange the lovers, she decided to try and aid them.

“Captain,” she commenced, “did you see much of Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”

“No.” The Frenchman tempered the brief answer with an explanation. “Mr. Burnham is some years older and we are not what you might call”—he paused, searching for a word—“in sympathy.”

“I see.” Marian stared thoughtfully at a passing touring car. “It must have been fully five years ago, but was there not some story about Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”

There was a pause, and when he spoke, the Frenchman confined himself to the word: “Yes.”

Marian’s eyes lighted. “My memory sometimes plays me tricks,” she said. “What were the details?”

La Montagne did not answer at once. “It was not so much,” he began. “Count André de Sartiges and Mr. Burnham had a dispute at Longchamps, and the next afternoon André slapped Mr. Burnham’s face in the club.”

“And what happened then?” persisted Marian as he stopped.

“Nothing,” La Montagne shrugged his shoulders. “In France it meant a duel; but as Mr. Burnham was an American who did not believe in dueling, the affair was soon forgotten.”

“All the same Mr. Burnham had to leave Paris,” retorted Marian, “and Mr. Burnham is a man who harbors grievances. I fear, Captain, that he does not favor your engagement to Evelyn.”

La Montagne transferred his regard from Marian to a colored passer-by and the woman happening to catch his eye, started back, alarmed. After he and Marian passed, the woman turned and regarded their backs before continuing on her way.

“I ’spect he looked dat away when he seed a Hun,” she ejaculated. “An’ from de medals he’s awearin’, he musta seen a pile ob Huns, but why fo’ he look at a respectable colored lady like he wanter murder her.”

Totally unaware of the sentiments he had aroused, la Montagne strolled by Marian’s side for some moments in silence.

“Madame Burnham has given me letters of introduction to friends and her husband has invited me to their house,” he said at last. “To question Mr. Burnham’s friendship——”

“Is wise,” supplemented Marian softly. The Frenchman remained silent and she added with vehemence: “Because when Mr. Burnham’s animosity is suppressed it is all the more dangerous. Take a friendly tip from me; do not trust him, and remember, he has great influence over his wife.”

“If Evelyn will but marry me, we need not heed Burnham,” exclaimed La Montagne.

“And what have you to live on if you married without Mrs. Burnham’s consent?” asked Marian dryly. “Ah! forgive me,” as La Montagne colored hotly under his tan. “By the terms of her father’s will Evelyn can only inherit her fortune by marrying to suit her mother. If Mrs. Burnham disapproves, the fortune goes to her instead of to Evelyn.”

“Wills! Bah!” La Montagne’s gestures were expressive. “I adore Evelyn, not her money. If Le Bon Dieu be so good as to spare me through this war Evelyn will not be badly off, as I will eventually inherit my uncle’s estate.” He turned eloquent, appealing eyes to Marian. “Ah, madame, use your kind offices that I may see Evelyn now.”

“Not now, to-morrow.” Marian tempered her refusal with a warm bright smile. “Call it what you will. Captain—a sixth sense, or woman’s intuition—but do not trust Peter Burnham.” She stopped and held out her hand. “I will not let you come further,” she stated positively as he started to remonstrate. “I will telephone you and anything sent in my care will always reach Evelyn. Good by,” and not waiting to hear his hearty thanks she turned down the street and ran up the Burnhams’ steps.

Jones opened the front door for her with gusto.

“Miss Evelyn’s gone to her room,” he confided to her. “And the master’s out. Shall I bring a cup of tea to your room, Mrs. Van Ness?”

“No, thanks, Jones, it is too near dinner time,” and Marian, not glancing inside the drawing room door as she passed down the hall, mounted the staircase to the second floor. She went at once to Evelyn’s room, and to her disappointment found it empty. Pausing undecidedly at the door, she finally crossed the hall to her bedroom and, taking off her hat, wasted no time in dressing for dinner.

It was still lacking fifteen minutes to the dinner hour when she returned to Evelyn’s bedroom; its occupant was still absent, and Marian hesitated whether to go downstairs or into the library. Finally deciding in favor of the latter course she walked down the hall, and parting the portières, stepped into the room. A man bending over an open drawer of the desk straightened up at her approach and she recognized Dan Maynard.

“Good evening,” he exclaimed, and the cordial ring in his voice found its accompaniment in the quick lighting of his eyes as he looked at her. “Don’t go,” as murmuring a polite greeting, she started to leave.

“Am I not disturbing your occupation?” she asked.

Maynard laughed softly. “My occupation consists at the moment in searching for writing paper,” he acknowledged, pushing back a lot of loose papers and some string in the drawer. “Do take this chair,” and he wheeled one forward.

Marian settled down in the depths of the big chair with a sigh of content; she had had no rest the night before, the work at the State Department had been exacting, and while the walk home had for the moment refreshed her, she was more weary than she at first realized.

“I thought I saw you motoring with Dr. Hayden and Jim Palmer,” she remarked, after waiting for Maynard to break the silence.

“He gave me a lift as far as the Connecticut Avenue telegraph office.” Maynard looked down at his business suit and then at her becoming evening dress. “I must apologize for not dressing for dinner,” he said. “The fact is I left England so hurriedly that my luggage is still in London. The clerk in the shipping office, when I went to inquire when the next Cunarder would sail, whispered in my ear that she was leaving that afternoon and I had just time to make the boat but could not go back to collect my belongings.”

“Was your trip across uneventful?” she questioned, noting with inward approval his tall, well-knit form and broad shoulders.

“Yes, except for the search at Quarantine; some report had gotten about that there were suspects aboard and we met with a lot of espionage and were severely cross-examined,” he stepped back to the desk and closed the drawer. “I am glad you like René La Montagne,” he said, and she started at the irrelevant remark. “He’s an ‘ace,’ you know, in the French Flying Corps.”

“Yes.” She looked at him, slightly puzzled. “How do you know I like Captain La Montagne?”

“Because you were walking with him.”

She laughed amusedly. “Is my walking with people a sign that I like them?”

“So I have heard—commented,” he said, and his eyes held hers. “I would very much like to do some sight-seeing; will you not take pity and show me Washington?”

Marian’s fingers were playing with the string of coral which she wore about her neck. “It would be the blind leading the blind,” she said, and her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “Washington is changed in the last few months. Mr. Burnham would prove a better guide than I.”

“Speaking about me?” inquired their host from the doorway of his room and Marian started; she had not heard the door opened. “Why are you two sitting up here?” he demanded querulously, and Maynard, glancing in his direction, noted that Burnham made a detour of the room which prevented his near approach to the chair where the dead man had been found. “The drawing room is much pleasanter,” he remarked, stopping half way across the room. “Suppose we go there.”

Before Marian could rise, the portières were pushed aside and Detective Mitchell stepped inside the library. He looked with quick displeasure from one to the other.

“You were directed, sir,” he said, addressing Burnham, “by the Chief of Police not to use this room until further notice.”

“Tut, tut!” Burnham reddened angrily. “I don’t take instructions in my own house, and I won’t permit my guests to be dictated to. You can go, Mitchell.”

Instead of complying with his dictatorial order the detective stood his ground. Burnham, his face almost apoplectic in color, advanced threateningly and except for Maynard’s hasty step forward his raised fist would have struck Mitchell.

“Keep cool, Burnham,” he advised, and his voice brought the angry man to his senses. “Mitchell, there is no occasion for this excitement; Mrs. Van Ness and I were sitting here chatting and Mr. Burnham had just joined us. We have moved nothing in this room.”

Mitchell glanced searchingly about; apparently Maynard’s statement was correct; every piece of furniture, even the chess table, apparently stood in its accustomed place. He glanced apologetically at Marian, who had risen and stood with one hand on the back of her chair.

“It’s all right,” he admitted. “But as a precautionary measure the room will have to be sealed.”

Maynard, by an imperative gesture, stopped another explosion from Burnham. “What authority have you, Mitchell, for taking such a step?” he inquired.

“The coroner’s orders,” gruffly. “I’ll get him,” and Mitchell disappeared.

Burnham pounded the nearest table in his wrath. “Do you think I am going to take orders in my own house?” he demanded of Maynard. “Do you?” and his hand continued to punctuate the question.

“Take care, you’ll injure your chess table,” cautioned Maynard. “There is no use in bucking up against the police, Burnham; they are within their rights in asking to have this room set aside for further investigation. It was thoughtless of me to come in.”

“I think we had all better leave,” suggested Marian, who had listened to the argument between Burnham and the detective with a strained attention which had not escaped Maynard’s notice. “I stopped in here expecting to find Evelyn.”

“She is with Mrs. Ward,” grumbled Burnham—his temper was still ruffled. “Hello, what’s that commotion?” as the sound of raised voices reached them. “The police again—I’ll tell Mitchell what I think of him, the interfering idiot!” And taking a hasty step forward he swung his arm upward and back.

But it was not the detective who stepped across the threshold and ran full tilt against Burnham’s outstretched, threatening fist.

“Good gracious, Peter, what are you doing?” demanded his wife, dropping her pet dog to tenderly feel her nose. “Are you mad!” as, ignoring the presence of Marian and Maynard, he embraced her with effusion.

“No,” he retorted. “But I think people will soon make me mad. I sent you a telegram, Lillian, not to return. Didn’t you get it?”

“I got it—also the morning newspapers,” dryly. “You might have telegraphed with as much effect to Mont Blanc not to freeze as to wire me not to come home after I read what took place here yesterday. So you are really here, Dan,” shaking hands cordially with the actor before greeting Marian whom she kissed warmly, then she subsided into the nearest chair, and addressed her husband. “Now, Peter, what is it all about?”

Burnham looked vexedly at his wife; there were times when her brusque manner tried his patience, but experience had taught him that she pursued one idea with bulldog tenacity, and if she had made up her mind to hear full particulars of the mysterious tragedy which had brought her hurrying back to Washington, she would sit in that chair until she had the information she desired. Burnham was saved replying to her question by the return of Mitchell and Coroner Penfield, and he welcomed the latter with relief.

“My wife, Coroner Penfield,” he said by way of introduction, “and Mrs. Van Ness; Mr. Maynard you have already met.”

Penfield bowed to all in turn.

“I am sorry, Mr. Burnham,” he began, finding attention centered upon him, “but I really think it is necessary to close this room for a few days.”

“Why?” demanded Mrs. Burnham, and Penfield eyed her uneasily; he had heard much of her, of her social position, her philanthropy, her eccentricities, and her caustic wit. In spite of her disheveled and dusty traveling costume her air of breeding and quiet hauteur showed the characteristics which had gained her leadership among Washington’s most exclusive society.

“Sudden death has to be investigated, madam,” explained Penfield, not relishing the persistent gaze of her penetrating cold blue eyes. “It is unfortunate that your library should have been the scene of this man’s death.”

“It is very unfortunate,” agreed Mrs. Burnham, as Penfield paused, finding himself getting somewhat involved in his statement. “Have you and the police discovered the name of the individual who had the temerity to commit suicide in my house?”

“He did not commit suicide.” Penfield was losing patience and the faint smile on Maynard’s face nettled him. “The man was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Except for the exclamation Mrs. Burnham sat bolt upright silently regarding Penfield who bore her fixed stare as long as he could and then changed his position.

“We haven’t been able to identify the man so far,” he went on to say. “We have searched the Rogues’ Gallery, photographers’ studios, telegraphed his description to other cities, and no clue.”

“And no clue?” Mrs. Burnham’s repetition of the words was parrot-like in its mimicry. “Did the dead man have no papers in his pocket? Were his clothes unmarked?”

“They were,” replied Penfield. “The only article to be found in the man’s pockets was a string.” He turned abruptly to Maynard. “You recall seeing the string?”

“I do.”

Penfield looked relieved. “I am glad you do,” he exclaimed. “This case puzzles me, and I have given it so much thought that I concluded I had imagined the string.”

Burnham, who had seated himself near his wife, looked up.

“Have you the string?” he asked.

“No,” glumly. “I recollect twirling it about my fingers just before Mrs. Ward fell unconscious to the floor. After we carried her to her room I searched for the string but could not find it,” finished Penfield.

The parting of the portières disturbed Mrs. Burnham and looking up she beheld Jones, his eyes twice their usual size, regarding her from the doorway.

“Dinner is served, madam,” he announced.

CHAPTER VI
DEVELOPMENTS

SCURRYING footsteps caused Peter Burnham to stop unwrapping the bundle in his hand and dart to the door of his bedroom. From that vantage point he saw Evelyn cross the hall and disappear down the staircase. He took quick note of her well cut sport suit and the lovely bouquet of orchids pinned thereon. Evelyn, busily engaged in adjusting a stray curl under her smart tri-cornered hat, failed to observe her step-father standing well back in the shadow of his doorway. Burnham waited in indecision until the slam of the front door reached him, then going back to his bureau he closed its drawers and went swiftly to his wife’s boudoir.

Mrs. Burnham looked up at his approach and dropped her knitting in her lap.

“Don’t close the door, Peter,” she remonstrated. “It is very warm in here and the room is stuffy.”

“Then why not open this second window?” asked Burnham. Not waiting for an answer to his question, he threw up the sash and in the sudden current of air admitted by the opening of the window, the papers on his wife’s desk blew about the room.

“There, Peter, see what you have done.” Mrs. Burnham’s vexation was betrayed by her heightened color. “And I have just tidied my desk. Be sure and put every letter back exactly where it was.”

It took Burnham some minutes to comply with her request, and she observed with silent, but growing irritation, that her correspondence was not being piled in neat little packages such as she had arranged with minute attention to detail earlier that morning.

“Don’t trouble to put the bills uppermost,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “That will do nicely, Peter; come and sit down, you look warm,” and her pointed knitting needle indicated the vacant arm chair, the mate to the one she was occupying, which, with her chair and a table, about filled the octagon-shaped wing of her boudoir.

Burnham sat down with a short, discontented sigh. “I can’t conceive why we closed the Lodge and came in town so early,” he grumbled, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief. “Washington is unbearable.”

“The nights are not so bad, and if you would keep cool, Peter, you would not feel the heat so much.” Mrs. Burnham took up her knitting. “If I remember correctly it was you who first suggested our returning this month.”

Burnham moved restlessly and pursed up his lips. “Well, what could we do with Evelyn taking the bit in her teeth?” he demanded. “You cannot detain a girl in a convent by force, and she could not remain in this city unchaperoned.”

“True.” Mrs. Burnham contented herself with the single word and knitted on in silence.

“It is a great pity, Lillian,” complained Burnham, growing restive under the short quick glances with which his wife favored him, “that your discipline was so lax; in consequence, Evelyn has grown up with the idea that her wish is law.”

“She comes of a headstrong race,” acknowledged Mrs. Burnham, with a half sigh. “Do not worry, Peter, Evelyn will consider herself madly in love a dozen times before she actually finds the man she will marry.”

Burnham leaned back in his chair and thrust his hands in his pockets. “René La Montagne is still in town,” he announced.

“Not really?” Mrs. Burnham laid aside her knitting. “I understood he had been detailed to one of the aviation training camps in the South.”

“He hasn’t gone yet for Maynard told me that he saw him at the Shoreham Tuesday night.” Mrs. Burnham made no comment and her husband added with suppressed vehemence, “Tough luck!”

Mrs. Burnham drummed her knitting needles up and down on the arm of her chair in troubled silence.

“I disapprove of international marriages,” she said finally. “I have seen too many unhappy results; take, for instance, Marian Van Ness——” Her needles clicked loudly in the still room, and there was a decided pause before she added: “I don’t really know the rights of the case as Marian was married in Europe and passed her brief matrimonial career away from Washington, but,” again Mrs. Burnham paused, “but I agree with the diplomat who said: ‘Those whom the Atlantic has put asunder, let no man join together.’”

“You will have a difficult task convincing Evelyn of your viewpoint,” retorted Burnham. “If I don’t mistake the signs you may face an elopement, if, as I strongly suspect, Evelyn and René are carrying on a clandestine correspondence.”

Mrs. Burnham stooped to retrieve her ball of yarn which had rolled to the floor before she asked: “Where did you get that idea?”

“From Jones, whose mysterious manner when I met him carrying a box of flowers to Evelyn and delivering a note surreptitiously made me suspicious. I promptly told him to report to you hereafter whenever letters and packages were given him for Evelyn.”

“Quite right.” Mrs. Burnham spoke with decision. “We want no elopements; but upon my word, Peter, I could not help but like René La Montagne. If it were not for the fact that he is a foreigner and that he is personally objectionable to you——” She hesitated and cast a penetrating look at her husband who sat staring moodily at the floor. “He is still objectionable to you?” she asked.

“Yes, but why go into that?” he answered sharply, then yawned. “Upon my word, Lillian, I have had very little sleep lately; I believe I’ll go and take a nap.” As he spoke he rose and stretched himself, then took several indolent steps toward the door, but his wife’s next remark halted him on its threshold.

“Any news from Coroner Penfield?”

“Not a word.” Burnham rubbed his chin reflectively. “The police, according to the morning newspapers, have failed to discover the man’s identity.”

“Strange!” mused Mrs. Burnham. “And haven’t they ascertained why he was killed in this house?”

Burnham shifted his weight first on one foot and then on the other, his hands clenched inside his coat pockets.

“My dear Lillian, you cannot establish a motive for the crime—if crime it was,” he interpolated, “until you establish the man’s identity. See you later,” and smiling affectionately at her he turned and left the room.

Mrs. Burnham knitted on and the khaki sweater gained in size as her industrious fingers plied the needles. Finally she laid the half completed garment in her lap and looked about the boudoir. It was a pleasant room, light and airy, and its home-like atmosphere was borne out in its furniture still covered with summer chintz. The oddly shaped octagon wing added to its size and general appearance.

Mrs. Burnham stared thoughtfully down into the garden which the octagon windows overlooked, then turned her head and glanced through the side window diagonally across into Evelyn’s bedroom. From where she sat she viewed with displeasure the clothes thrown in a disorderly heap on Evelyn’s bed and started to call through the opened windows to the chambermaid whom she glimpsed in another part of the room, not to put away the clothes but to leave that task to Evelyn. Even as she made up her mind, the maid whisked out of the bedroom and Mrs. Burnham turned her attention to the room in which she was sitting.

Laying her knitting on the table she listened a moment. Only the twitter of birds and the distant hum of a motor disturbed the peaceful autumn stillness. Releasing her hold on the sweater, Mrs. Burnham picked up her large knitting bag and when she removed her hand from its capacious interior her fingers grasped a pair of shell spectacles and a book. Laying the latter in her lap she adjusted the spectacles on her nose, then she raised the book and scanned its title: “Taylor’s Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology.” She turned the leaves rapidly until she came to the heading “Detection of Poisons” and her eyes ran down the pages picking out the paragraphs opposite which she discerned faint pencil marks. When she again returned the book to its place in her knitting bag an hour had passed.

Blissfully unconscious that she had formed the chief topic of conversation between her step-father and mother, Evelyn Preston, on leaving the house, hurried to Dupont Circle and seeing a disengaged taxi waiting at the cab-stand she entered the machine and directed the chauffeur to take her to Potomac Park.

As the taxi-cab threaded its way among the vehicles filling Seventeenth Street below Pennsylvania Avenue, Evelyn gazed in wonder at the congested sidewalks. It was the noon hour and clerks from the immense Government buildings in the vicinity were hurrying to lunch rooms and cafeterias which had sprung up like mushrooms to meet the demands of hungry humanity. Evelyn mentally contrasted the scene with that in the same locality six months before and shook her head in bewilderment; the once peaceful old-time residence district had been electrified into life by the iron hand of war.

The taxi-cab, narrowly missing an on-coming touring car which zig-zagged unpleasantly in its effort to make the turn into Seventeenth Street, swung into Potomac Drive and, following Evelyn’s directions, the chauffeur drove his car to the Aviation Field which had been formerly the polo grounds of the National Capital. The taxi-cab’s approach had been observed from the hangar, and one of the officers standing near the building crossed the turf and was at the roadside when the car drew up.

As Evelyn looked down into La Montagne’s happy upturned face all the doubts which had been tormenting her vanished. Without speaking he jerked open the cab door and seated himself by her side.

“My heart’s dearest,” he murmured in rapid French. “At last!” and his hands clasped hers and stooping he kissed her in the shelter of the closed cab. “Mrs. Van Ness explained——” he began a moment later.

“Indeed she did, bless her!” ejaculated Evelyn happily, in his native tongue which she spoke with barely an accent, and she touched her orchids with tender fingers. “These flowers came through her agency, as well as your dear note, René.”

“I followed her advice.” La Montagne’s face darkened. “But I like not to court you in secret, dear heart; surely your mother is one to see reason. I am not,” flushing, “objectionable; nor am I altogether without money.”

“I do not think it was mother who suppressed your letters,” exclaimed Evelyn. “I suspect my step-father——”

An exclamation interrupted her. “I cannot understand a nature so complex,” declared La Montagne. “Mr. Burnham on the surface, perhaps, is the most gracious host——” He paused abruptly. “But do not let us waste the precious hour talking of him; what of yourself?” and he scanned her with adoring eyes.

“I am very well and—” with a shy upward look—“happy, now that your silence is explained.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Ah, René, I was cruelly hurt by your apparent neglect.”

“Never think that of me again,” exclaimed La Montagne, deep feeling in voice and gesture. “You are my ideal, my love. I will marry you with or without your mother’s consent.”

Evelyn shook her head in dissent as she pressed his hand. “We will marry, but it will be with mother’s approval,” she said. “Mr. Burnham is clever, but he cannot hoodwink mother all the time; and”—she nodded wisely—“I have a score to settle for what he made me suffer this summer.”

“Were you ill-treated, heart’s dearest?” demanded La Montagne.

“Oh, no. I chose the convent after a dispute with Mr. Burnham who insisted that I accept Mary Palmer’s invitation to spend the summer with her in the Adirondacks.” She hesitated, then in a sudden burst of confidence, added a trifle incoherently: “I didn’t care to accept because, you see, Mary’s brother, Jim Palmer, has—well, he—that is, he likes me.”

“I can well believe it,” acknowledged La Montagne and they laughed light-heartedly, but a shadow lurked in his handsome eyes as he glanced at her fresh young beauty. “And this Monsieur Jim, does he make love?”

“Well, he tries to,” admitted Evelyn, and a faint roguish dimple appeared in her cheek as a sudden recollection of a scene with Jim Palmer at the Chevy Chase Club brought a covert smile to her lips. “Mr. Palmer is my step-father’s most intimate friend, and so——”

“He favors the match; ah, I begin to see.” La Montagne straightened his slender figure to military erectness. “There is a motive then for Mr. Burnham’s animosity other than that suggested by our good friend, Madame Van Ness. But tell me, Evelyn,” and his tender voice caressed her name, “what is this I read in the newspapers of a dead man in your house?”

“I know no more about it than what you saw in the papers.” Evelyn’s blue eyes clouded. “It was a great shock to find him sitting there in the library—dead. Apparently the police are at as great a loss about the whole affair as I am.”

“I saw they had not decided the man’s identity.” The Frenchman paused and glanced doubtfully at Evelyn; he had been quick to observe her loss of color at mention of the tragedy and concluded with the intuitive sympathy of his nature that the subject distressed her, and the words which he had intended to say remained unspoken. “Let us discuss no more such gloomy matters. Will you not lunch with me at the Willard?”

Evelyn considered the invitation before she answered. “I wish I could accept,” she said, and her disappointment was evident. “But there is no use needlessly antagonizing mother. She is a great stickler for the conventions, and I know she would not permit me to lunch with you unchaperoned.”

He took out Marian’s package of papers and placed them in Evelyn’s lap.

“But where can we meet?” demanded La Montagne; a glance at the hangar had shown him an orderly advancing toward the car and he rightly divined that his presence was required by a brother officer. “Heart’s dearest, do not let it be long before I see you again.”

“I am dining to-night with Marian, why not come to her apartment this evening?”

“Excellent!” La Montagne nodded to the orderly who stood at salute beside the car. “I will be with the colonel at once,” he said addressing him and as the soldier moved away, he turned again to Evelyn and kissed her hand passionately before he sprang from the car. “Ah, I just remember—you will see Mrs. Van Ness before I do, therefore will you hand her these papers which I was so forgetful as to carry away in my pocket when I left her yesterday?” As he spoke he took out Marian’s package of papers and placed them in Evelyn’s lap.

Evelyn’s chauffeur, finding that she and La Montagne were too absorbed in each other to pay attention to him, had wandered over to the hangar, keeping a watchful eye on his car. He had overheard the dispatch of the orderly for La Montagne, and had promptly hurried back to the car, reaching it just as the Frenchman strode away.

“Where to, Miss?” he asked. Evelyn, absorbed in watching La Montagne, actually jumped as his harsh voice recalled her attention. She gazed at him blankly for a moment.

“To Woodward and Lothrop’s,” she directed, and added as he prepared to slip into the driver’s seat, “Haven’t I seen you before?”

“Yes, Miss.” He half turned, his freckles and red hair showing distinctly in the glare of the sunlight. “I took you home from the Union Station on Tuesday morning.”

“Oh, surely, I remember now,” and Evelyn settled back in the car.

She was some time in doing her numerous errands and it was two hours before the taxi-cab swung into her street and stopped with such abruptness in front of her door that her many packages which partly filled the seat by her side were deposited on the floor of the car. With the aid of the apologetic chauffeur she was engaged in picking them up when a voice behind her caused her to turn around.

“Let me help,” exclaimed Dan Maynard, and reaching past her he retrieved a skein of worsted which eluded her grasp. “Your mother was quite worried when you didn’t return for luncheon. In fact,” and his charming smile was contagious, “I believe I stopped her from sending the town crier after you.”

“And who is he?” asked Evelyn laughing.

“Burnham, perhaps.” Maynard laughed also. “Let me pay the man, your hands are full,” as she fumbled for her purse.

“No, no,” she protested, but Maynard, paying no attention, turned back to question the chauffeur and before Evelyn could reach them Maynard handed the man a bank note.

“We can settle it later, Evelyn,” he said. “Now, don’t let us squabble over a trifle.”

“A trifle!” Evelyn laughed gayly. “I don’t call a three hour taxi bill a trifle; however, we’ll let Mother arbitrate the dispute. What is it?” as the chauffeur ran up to her.

“Another package, Miss,” and touching his hat he placed the bundle of papers on top of the packages she carried and retired.

“Take care, you will drop them,” cautioned Maynard, putting a steadying hand on the packages. He had just succeeded in readjusting their balance when his sleeve button caught in a string, and as he drew back his hand several papers from the package entrusted to her care by La Montagne fluttered to the ground.

“Very awkward of me,” exclaimed Maynard, annoyed by his carelessness, and he stooped to pick up the papers and returned them to Evelyn. Then his hand sought the door bell and Evelyn, her eyes following his motion, saw the string still dangling from his sleeve button. The string, of woven red and green strands, stood out in bold relief against the white woodwork of the doorway.

Where had she seen such a string before? Slowly Evelyn’s thoughts returned to the scene in the library on Tuesday afternoon, and again she saw a similar string removed from the dead man’s pocket and twirled about in the coroner’s fingers.

Maynard’s glance had followed hers; his finger pressed the button of the door bell hard, then was removed as he held up his hand.

“From which bundle did I pull off this string?” he asked.

Evelyn looked at the packages in her hand in uncertainty; Marian’s bundle of papers was untied, a box of candy, and some stationery were also minus their strings due to the careless handling they had received while she carried them about with her on her shopping tour.

“I really don’t know,” she replied. “Oh, Jones,” as that worthy opened the front door. “Do get me something to eat, I am famished.”

She turned back inside the hall to address Maynard, but he had stopped just outside the door and was carefully pocketing the red and green string.

CHAPTER VII
THE FIFTH MAN

DR. HAYDEN threw aside the magazine he had been reading and, making himself more comfortable on the big lounge, puffed contentedly at his cigar as he looked over to where Jim Palmer and Peter Burnham sat playing chess.

“Haven’t you people finished the game yet?” he asked, yawning openly.

His question met with no response from the absorbed players, and curling up on the lounge the tired physician burrowed his head among the sofa cushions and dropped off to sleep. An hour later Siki, Palmer’s Japanese servant, looked inside the room which served Hayden and Palmer, who shared the bachelor apartment, as living room and dining room, and seeing the two men still deep in their game, he withdrew as noiselessly as he had come. He had barely reached the butler’s pantry when the gong on the front door went off with a resounding din. Gliding down the hallway Siki opened the door and admitted Dan Maynard.

“Mr. Palmer is expecting me,” he said, handing his hat and cane to the servant, and stepped across the reception hall. But before he reached the living room the Japanese had gained the doorway.

“The Honorable Mr. Maynard,” he announced and withdrew.

Palmer looked up from the chess table and waved his hand.

“Sit down, Maynard, the game will be over in a minute.”

Burnham, who had not glanced up, moved a rook across the board. “It’s over now; mate in three, Jim,” he announced, and threw himself back in his chair and passed his hand across his hot forehead. “Want your revenge now, Maynard? I can play another game.”

“No, my revenge will keep,” laughed Maynard. “You look used up, Burnham; too much concentration is bad for you.”

Burnham yawned in answer and Palmer, rising, lounged over to where Dr. Hayden lay comfortably sleeping, snoring lustily.

“Wake up,” he exclaimed and enforced his remark with a vigorous shake. “Maynard’s come and Siki has some refreshments ready for us.” His words were borne out by the entrance of the Japanese with a tray laden with sandwiches and a cellarette. Siki vanished, to return a minute later with a chafing-dish containing lobster à la Newburg which he placed on a table set for four places.

Dr. Hayden sat up and rubbed his sleepy eyes. Catching sight of Maynard he bowed cordially as he joined the others about the table.

“Good cook, Siki,” he remarked a little later after sampling the hot lobster. “You are lucky to have so excellent a servant, Palmer.”

Palmer made a wry face. “I won’t have him long,” he grumbled. “He gave notice to-day; these rich newcomers are playing hob with the domestic service in Washington.” He paused and glanced significantly at Burnham. “Don’t be so niggardly with the decanter; pass it along,” he suggested.

Burnham was about to comply when Hayden held up a protesting hand.

“Go easy, Palmer, or you will have another attack,” he cautioned.

Palmer grinned sheepishly at Maynard. “Take my advice,” he said. “Don’t invite your physician to share your apartment if you want to enjoy life. Hayden finds fault every time I forget I am on the water-wagon.”

“Some people have peculiar ideas regarding their welfare,” retorted Hayden. “Your heart won’t stand many more attacks; so go easy.” Observing Palmer’s obstinate expression, he added, “Move the decanter out of Palmer’s way, Maynard, there’s a good fellow.”

As Maynard complied with the request his casual glance at Palmer was arrested by the haggard lines in his face and the puffiness under his eyes; he looked what he evidently was, an ill man.

“Pooh!” Palmer exclaimed airily. “Sleep will set me right. I believe the people in the apartment above are to move out; once rid of their infernal parties I’ll be able to work on my plans. An architect needs peace and quiet as well as powerful lights. This house is a sounding board.”

“Is it an old building?” asked Maynard.

“No, not very, built about ten years ago.”

“The rooms are very commodious,” commented Maynard, looking around the room, which was arranged with much artistic taste.

“Glad you like it,” exclaimed Palmer, much gratified. “I was the architect. By the way, Burnham, who do you suppose leased one of the smaller apartments this summer? Marian Van Ness.”

“So she told me,” returned Burnham shortly. Maynard, who had glanced up at mention of Marian’s name, helped himself thoughtfully to some Newburg.

“Any apartments vacant, Palmer?” he inquired. The architect nodded affirmatively. “Then I might rent one, as I plan to remain in Washington until December at least.”

“Surely you will stay with us?” Burnham looked hurt. “We want you to stay with us, Maynard.”

“Are you sure I won’t be imposing on your hospitality?” asked Maynard. “I feel perhaps you and Mrs. Burnham would rather not be bothered with a guest just at this time.”

“Nonsense; we don’t want to be alone.” Burnham spoke with great vehemence and his three companions looked at him in surprise. With an effort he strove to gain control over his emotion. “That—that man’s death is getting on our nerves,” he admitted, and the hand holding his wine glass shook. “Neither my wife nor I feel the same since the tragedy; it’s so—so devilish mysterious.”

“The police will soon clear it up,” said Hayden cheerily. “Give them time, Burnham.”

“I would, if I had any faith in their methods,” Burnham rejoined. “What have they done to date? Nothing.”

“Apparently not a thing,” amended Maynard. “The police don’t tell everything they know, Burnham; they may have unearthed a whole lot which will come out at the inquest.”

“Then I wish they would hold the trial,” Burnham tossed down his napkin. “There is no reason in such secrecy; let them arrest the murderer at once.”

“Before they can do that they must establish the identity of the dead man.” Maynard waited until Siki had removed his plate, then continued, “that is the logical end to work from in solving the riddle.”

Dr. Hayden nodded his agreement. “The police are working along those lines,” he said. “To date they have made but negative progress, and yet——” He paused until Siki departed with the empty chafing dish.

“What were you going to say?” demanded Burnham.

“Only that I stopped to see Coroner Penfield this afternoon and found him working in his laboratory; he was making a test of the dead man’s hair. You noticed perhaps,” he broke off to ask Maynard who was sitting forward in his chair, “that the man’s hair was very closely cropped?”

“Yes,” he responded. “It was so short that it made his head look bullet shaped.”

“The coroner is nettled because this case has baffled him, so he set his wits to work,” continued Hayden. “He pulled out some of the short hair from the man’s head with tweezers and steeped the hair in diluted nitric acid.”

“With what result?” Burnham almost jerked out the question.

“By tests with hydrochloric acid, Penfield found that the hair had been dyed with nitrate of silver,” answered Hayden. “And I found the same result upon microscopic examination of a few hairs.”

“Well, what if you did find nitrate of silver?” Burnham demanded roughly. “How does that advance the inquiry?”

“It established the fact that the man had dyed his hair,” explained the physician. “The inference being he did so for purposes of disguise.”

Palmer, who had been an attentive listener to all that was said, laughed heartily. “Oh, come, Hayden,” he exclaimed. “That’s a broad statement. I know a number of men, respectable citizens of Washington, who dye their hair for no other reason than to look younger.”

“Your friends have not been found dead under mysterious circumstances,” said Hayden dryly. “In the case in point we must consider the ulterior motive; therefore this unidentified dead man can be said to have dyed his hair from a motive of disguise until it is proven otherwise.”

“I’ll admit it’s a nice point,” conceded Palmer, twisting about in his chair. “Could you tell from the examination, the original color of the man’s hair?”

“Oh, bother!” broke in Burnham. “Who cares about the color of his hair—how did his dead body get in my house?”

“Walked there,” answered Maynard, a twinkle in his eyes belying his serious expression. “The man couldn’t have been dead when he entered your house.”

“He couldn’t, eh? Well, will you tell me where he died in my house?” Burnham’s manner waxed truculent. “I have searched every room with Palmer and Detective Mitchell and we found no trace of any one, let alone two persons, having been there drinking—what was it? Oh, yes, cherry brandy.”

“Every room was in order,” added Palmer. “No sign of confusion. Frankly, I agree with Burnham, the man must have been taken to his house, dead.”

Maynard stared at the speaker. “Do you mean to tell me seriously that you two men believe a dead body was carried into Burnham’s house in broad daylight between the hours of three and five in the afternoon without any one seeing it done?”

“I do,” announced Burnham firmly. “As to the hours, don’t place too much reliance on Evelyn’s statement regarding the time she found the body; Evelyn is very heedless and a few hours miscalculation in time wouldn’t disturb her.”

A subtle change in Burnham’s tone as he mentioned Evelyn’s name caught Maynard’s attention and looking up quickly he saw Palmer was watching Burnham, a curious glint in his eye which Maynard found difficult to fathom.

“Evelyn told me that she had her watch examined and that it keeps excellent time,” stated Hayden. “Of course we are all liable to make mistakes in the hour; but in this instance Evelyn is unshaken in her belief that she found the body in the library at about four o’clock, and that it was not there when she was in the room at half past two.”

“There would be no object in Evelyn lying as to the time,” exclaimed Palmer, and his heavy frown indicated his temper was rising. “I hardly think, Burnham, you can impugn her testimony.”

“Don’t be a fool!” retorted Burnham hotly. “The girl is proverbially careless; carelessness is at the bottom of the confusion in time.”

Only Hayden’s strong hand kept Palmer in his seat. “Don’t excite yourself, Burnham,” he advised sternly, “and tell us quietly just what your theory is regarding the murder. As for you, Palmer, shut up!” His half-bantering tone conveyed a deeper meaning and Palmer, observing Burnham’s flushed countenance, held back his angry answer.

“My theory,” repeated Burnham thoughtfully, as he passed a damp handkerchief across his face. “The man was taken to my house dead and the murderer made his escape before Evelyn came up from the kitchen.”

“Just a moment.” Hayden leaned forward. “Why did the murderer ring the library bell to summon Evelyn?”

“How do I know?” Burnham’s excitement was mounting the more he talked. “Probably he did it in a moment of—of mental aberration.”

Hayden chuckled. “Well, putting that point aside for a moment,” he said, “there is the question of getting the body through the streets and up your steps unseen in broad daylight by any passers-by.”

“Confound it!” Burnham banged the table with his clenched fist until the glasses rattled. “Why do you keep harping on daylight? The coroner claims that the man died between two and three Tuesday morning; the murderer had ample time before daylight to take the body to my house——”

“But Evelyn did not find the body until Tuesday afternoon,” interrupted Palmer heatedly.

“She did not find the body in the library until Tuesday afternoon,” retorted Burnham. “But I am willing to bet any amount that had Evelyn looked through the entire house she would have found it concealed somewhere on the premises.”

In the silence that ensued Burnham glanced triumphantly at his companions, but their expression disappointed him; his theory had not created the sensation he had expected.

“Of course the body was in the house,” answered Hayden. “It had to be there that length of time, for the man was dead hours before Evelyn found him. Why the body was moved into the library, why the murderer returned to the scene of his crime, and why he rang the library bell are problems yet to be solved.”

“There is a point you are all overlooking,” broke in Palmer. “Where did the murderer get the keys to your house? There is no evidence to show he broke into the house, therefore he must have used a key.”

Burnham did not reply at once. “There are dishonest locksmiths, I suppose, as well as crooks in other trades,” he said finally. “The lock on the front door is old fashioned, and the same key opens the outer vestibule door also.”

“Not a very secure arrangement,” remarked Maynard. “Then you think keys were made to fit the doors in your absence this summer?”

“Yes. It would be an easy matter for a man to get a wax impression of the lock at night without attracting attention. The few people on our block who are home are at work all day and at the club at night; that is why,” added Burnham obstinately, “the dead man could have been brought at any hour to the house unknown to any one.”

“You mean brought in a cab?” inquired Maynard.

“Of course. A dead man couldn’t be carried through the streets without being seen by some one,” replied Burnham. “Have a little sense!”

Maynard paid no attention to his companion’s irritability.

“So you think the dead man was carried to your house in a cab,” he mused. “If that was the case it simplifies the search.”

“How so?” The question came from Palmer and Maynard turned slightly to face him.

“It should be a comparatively easy matter to trace the cab driver,” he said.

“An excellent idea,” agreed Hayden. “Provided, of course, that Burnham’s theory is correct—that the man was first murdered and then carried into his house. Frankly, as a medical man I don’t agree with Burnham’s reasoning; a dead body is a very unwieldy object to move around and would most certainly attract attention.”

“The man was only of medium height and thin,” protested Burnham, and then added in haste which Maynard was quick to note, “that is, judging from the glimpse I had of the body on the billiard table. Palmer,” as the latter rose, “hand me a cigar from the box on the mantel, thanks,” and he borrowed Maynard’s cigarette to light the fresh cigar.

The silence continued as Palmer, his big form moving quietly down the room, reached one of the front windows and opened it wide. For a short time he stood contemplating the opposite houses, dimly seen in the murky atmosphere, and filled his lungs with the damp air. Hearing his name he faced about.

“Have you disappeared for good, Palmer?” called Burnham. “We must be getting along. I——”

Whatever Burnham intended to say remained unuttered as a stinging sensation caused him to clap his hand to his face. When he removed it his palm showed blood from a graze on his cheek.

“Shot, by God!” he exclaimed, gazing dazedly at his companions.

Palmer moved swiftly from the window and peered over Hayden’s shoulder at a hole in the plaster—the bullet had mushroomed out. Maynard tapped the wall. “Brick,” he said tersely, and his face shone white in the rays of the electric lamp which Palmer held aloft to better inspect the bullet. “I heard no sound.”

“None of us did,” responded Burnham hoarsely. “Whoever fired the shot used a Maxim silencer.”

Hayden moistened his finger and touched the hot metal. “Fortunate you moved your head when you did, Burnham,” he commented dryly. “Where did the shot come from?”

A sudden stronger puff of air rattled the newspapers lying near the open window and the men turned in that direction.

“Jove! the window!” Palmer sped in that direction. “I saw no one on the balcony when I looked out a few minutes ago; then you called, Burnham.”

Maynard, who had hurried with him to the window, leaned far out, and looked up and down the balcony which ran across the front of the apartment.

“Who owns the next apartment?” he demanded, observing that another window opened upon the balcony. “There, where the window is.”

“That’s our hall window,” explained Palmer. Turning on his heel he hurried into the reception hall with such speed that he collided violently with his Japanese servant. “Siki, what are you doing here?” he demanded.

“I come to answer the door, most honorable sir,” responded the servant and glancing ahead Palmer saw the front door to his apartment was ajar and that a shadowy form stood in the corridor just outside the entrance.

“What do you want?” he asked, pushing Siki to one side and switching on an additional light; by its aid he saw that the man in the corridor was a French officer.

“I come to inquire the way to the apartment of Madame Van Ness,” the Frenchman stated, observing with well-bred surprise Palmer’s agitated appearance.

“Right upstairs, next floor,” the latter snapped, and shutting the door he was in time to catch Burnham as he staggered to a seat in nervous collapse.

“It’s that damned Frenchman——” Burnham could hardly articulate, and Hayden hastened to his aid. “He tried to kill me.”

“He—who?” demanded Maynard who had lingered behind at the window to look up and down the street before joining them. “Who tried to kill you?”

“René La Montagne!” gasped Burnham and slipped back insensible.

CHAPTER VIII
FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS

UNDER the full glare of the electric lights which he had turned on, Palmer tramped uneasily up and down his living room while he waited for Hayden to return from the bedroom where the three men had taken Peter Burnham twenty minutes before. Maynard, more self-controlled, sat before the chess board and, utterly lost to his companion’s continued restlessness, he moved the chessmen about intent only on solving some abstruse problem. The minutes dragged along before Palmer’s impatience was finally rewarded by the entrance of the physician.

“Burnham has regained consciousness and is resting more easily,” he announced, as the two men came toward him. “If he continues to improve I see no reason why he should not return home a little later; if not——”

“He can have my bedroom,” interrupted Palmer. “But some one will have to tell Mrs. Burnham;” Palmer did not look happy at the thought. “Guess it’s up to you, Maynard, to break the news; you are their house guest.”

Hayden walked over to the wall and stared at the bullet then, without speaking to his companions, he paced off the distance to the window facing the balcony which still remained open, and reaching there he turned and studied the room.

“The bullet must have come from this direction,” he said. “Burnham was sitting directly in the line of fire. Did you see any one lurking on the balcony, Palmer, when you looked out?”

“No, and yet some one must have been hiding there.” Palmer stepped over to the window. “It’s a dark night”—pointing to the overcast sky and foggy atmosphere, “and the light in this room made the balcony darker by contrast. I don’t see how any one could have gotten on the balcony from the hall in the brief time which elapsed between my turning my back to the window and the firing of the shot; it was like that——” A snap of his fingers illustrated his meaning.

Maynard moved nearer. “An agile man could do it,” he spoke with conviction. “I found the balcony window in the hall standing wide open.”

Palmer walked down the room to the desk telephone. “Then I think we had better call in the police,” he said. “Captain La Montagne can explain his presence in the corridor to them.”

“He did, to you,” retorted Maynard warmly. “He stated he was looking for Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment. La Montagne is absolutely straight; I have known him for years, he would not stoop to assassination.”

“But Burnham’s words implied——” objected Palmer.

“Don’t place too much reliance in Burnham’s statement,” interrupted Hayden. “He made it when half delirious; better wait until he is in a condition to explain more fully the grounds for the animosity which, judging from his remark, exists between him and La Montagne.”

“A wise suggestion,” declared Maynard heartily. “Doctor, you have sense; now, Palmer, put down the telephone and let us investigate this matter ourselves without calling in the police, at any rate not now,” he added, seeing Palmer still kept hold of the telephone. “Suppose I go up to Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment and see if La Montagne is there, then I’ll come back and report what I learn.”

Palmer set the telephone back on the desk. “I’ll go with you,” he announced. “Siki’s here, Hayden; if you need aid in looking after Burnham just ring for him, or send him up for us. Come on, Maynard,” and he started for the door, Maynard keeping step with him. They found the corridor deserted as they walked down its length toward the staircase.

“Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment is on the next floor,” remarked Palmer. “No need of taking the elevator,” and in silence the two men mounted the stairs.

On reaching the top Maynard, who was slightly in advance of his companion, found the corridor blocked by several suit cases and a trunk. A man, standing by the freight elevator shaft, left off ringing the bell and hurried toward Maynard.

“Beg pardon,” he exclaimed, hauling the trunk to one side to permit Maynard and Palmer passing along. “I thought the elevator would be here now. Evening, Mr. Palmer,” and he touched his cap on recognizing the architect.

“Oh, Sam!” Palmer nodded affably to the taxi-driver. “Who’s moving out to-night?”

“The party in ‘41,’ sir; and he’s agoin’ to miss his train if he don’t look sharp;” Sam pushed back his cap to mop the damp red hair which tumbled down on his forehead. “He was to send the janitor up on the freighter for his things, but I bet he’s asittin’ in my car awonderin’ where I’m at; these here foreigners are mighty queer actin’ sometimes.”

Palmer laughed. “I’m glad ‘41’ is leaving; I shan’t be annoyed by his noisy parties over my head. Here’s the elevator now, Sam, good-night,” and not waiting for Sam’s response Palmer hastened after Maynard who had strolled down one of the wings of the building opening front the main corridor.

“Which way?” he inquired, turning about as Palmer reached him.

“That further door, there,” and striding forward Palmer laid an impatient finger on the bell. There was a slight delay, then the door was opened by an old colored Mammy, her black face in striking contrast to her snow white apron, cuffs, and collar.

“Can we see Mrs. Van Ness?” asked Palmer. “Say Mr. Maynard and Mr. Palmer.” As Mammy opened the door still further he entered the small anteroom just as Marian Van Ness appeared in the doorway of her parlor. There was a slight pause of uncertainty in her manner, at least one of the men judged so, before she advanced to greet them.

“Come in,” she said and led the way into the parlor. Evelyn, sitting with René La Montagne on the sofa, looked up with some alarm at Palmer, but a glimpse of Maynard just behind him brought a quick smile of pleasure in its train.

La Montagne, springing to his feet, hailed Maynard with a joyous exclamation.

“Ah, mon ami, well met!” He shook Maynard’s hand with effusion. “How is it with you?”

“Well, René.” Maynard’s eyes twinkled as he caught Evelyn’s embarrassed greeting of Palmer and the older man’s scowl as he acknowledged with scant courtesy Marian’s introduction to the French officer. Palmer had not anticipated seeing Evelyn, but with the assurance which characterized all his actions, he promptly took the seat by her side left vacant by La Montagne and addressed her in so low a tone that the others were left to chatter together.

For the first five minutes La Montagne bore the brunt of making conversation and Maynard improved the opportunity to silently observe the attractive room in which they sat, but even as he studied the few good paintings and pictures on the walls his eyes turned back with ever quickening interest to Marian who, in her simple evening gown, engrossed his attention. Her charm, however, did not lie in the perfect fit of her gown, her dark eyes and their long lashes, or the soft pink of her cheeks which deepened and paled as she talked, but in an indefinite something called, for want of a better name, personality.

“We were just discussing you, Mr. Maynard,” she said, catching his eye as he again looked at her. “I have persuaded Evelyn and Captain La Montagne to take part in a Red Cross benefit tableau and play to be given Saturday at the Belasco, and Evelyn wondered if you would aid us with suggestions.”

“I shall be delighted to,” was Maynard’s quick response. “What are the tableaux to be?”

“Patriotic scenes and representations of our heroic Allies,” explained Marian hurriedly; she had been quick to perceive La Montagne’s restless glances at Evelyn and his evident anger at the prolonged tête-à-tête which Palmer was having with her. She raised her voice as she turned her chair slightly nearer the sofa, “I already have your costume ordered, Evelyn; your tableau will not require much rehearsing.”

“I’ll ask Mother if I may take part,” replied Evelyn, glad of an opportunity to make the conversation general. She recalled her confidences of the morning to La Montagne regarding Palmer, and to flaunt an apparent flirtation in the face of her French lover was repugnant to her frank and loyal nature. “All fashionable Washington is taking part in the benefit, Mr. Maynard; won’t you help us?”

“I certainly will.” Maynard smiled at the enthusiasm with which she put the question. “Why not give me a part?”

“You!” Evelyn’s eyes opened wide. “My goodness, we would be afraid to act with you—the girls would all be stricken dumb.”

“Let me have the mute’s part,” laughed Maynard. “Really, I am not so terrifying, am I?” appealing directly to Marian.

“Not so very,” she responded a trifle absently. “The play is trite, some society hodge-podge and not—not,” she stumbled in her speech and continued quickly, “not worthy your histrionic talent, Mr. Maynard, but there is a tableau which, if you would undertake, would be a great drawing card.”

“Put me down for it,” declared Maynard. “And let me know the hours of rehearsal. How about you, Palmer; are you doing your bit in the benefit?”

“I’m helping with the stage effects.” Palmer shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Not much work there, for the local theaters have loaned all necessary scenery.”

“What part have you planned for me, Madame Van Ness?” asked La Montagne while his eyes eagerly sought Evelyn, who answered his question with a saucy smile.

“I hear you are to sing the ‘Marseillaise,’” she said. “Now, don’t refuse.”

“Refuse? I?” La Montagne would have risen and gone to her, but the pressure of Maynard’s foot on his under the table recalled the excitable Frenchman to the fact that he and Evelyn were not alone. “I will do anything,” he announced. “I but await orders.”

“That is what we all do these days,” broke in Maynard. He glanced at Palmer and at La Montagne; would Palmer make the first move to go, or was he waiting for him to do so? Evelyn’s presence complicated the situation; he did not wish to tell her that her step-father had been shot and narrowly escaped death; nor did he wish La Montagne to leave before he could question him as to his presence in the corridor outside Palmer’s open hall door just after the attempted assassination. He, himself, could not go without offering to see Evelyn home, and courtesy demanded that he wait for her to make the first move to leave. For all his self-control Maynard was conscious of a desire to throttle Palmer who, having captured the conversational ball, was keeping it rolling by talking every instant. Maynard wondered if Palmer had forgotten the errand which had brought them there in his absorption in Evelyn and his endeavor to monopolize her.

Maynard rested his elbow on a mahogany table by which he sat, but his elbow slipped on the polished surface and a shower of papers, dislodged by his sudden movement, slid to the floor. With a quick word of apology he stooped to pick them up, La Montagne lending his assistance.

“It is really my fault,” exclaimed Evelyn who had turned to see what the commotion was about. “I had no business to leave your papers there, Marian.”

“My papers!” echoed Marian. “What papers do you refer to, Evelyn?”

“Why those Captain La Montagne asked me to return to you.” Evelyn bit her lip; she had spoken hastily, forgetting that she had decided to tell no one of meeting La Montagne in Potomac Park that morning. Palmer would be very likely to tell her mother or worse, her step-father. Again Evelyn bit her lip in vexation.

“They are the papers I carried home for you and carelessly left them in my tunic, Madame,” explained La Montagne. “I, fearing I might not meet you so immediately, asked Miss Preston that she take them in charge. I trust my walk-away with the papers did not distress you, Madame Van Ness?”

Marian’s smile was very charming. “You have not inconvenienced me,” she said. “The papers were unimportant. Must you be going?” she added swiftly, seeing Palmer rise. The architect, surprised by the question, stared at her in some confusion; he had simply risen because he was too nervous to sit still longer. Maynard, mistaking Palmer’s confusion for hesitancy, rose also.

“We must be off,” he said. “Just dropped in for a friendly chat. Can’t I see you home, Evelyn?”

“Thanks, Mr. Maynard, but I am spending the night with Marian. Are you going also?” as La Montagne seeing the two men remained standing, rose to his feet. Before the Frenchman could answer her question, Maynard spoke for him.

“We are going to carry off René,” he laughed. “Don’t begrudge us the privilege of a talk about France, Evelyn; I have messages for La Montagne, Mrs. Van Ness.” His direct gaze held hers. “I hope very soon to be a neighbor of yours as Palmer tells me there is a vacant apartment in the building. Will you let me come and see you again?”

Marian held out her hand; it remained but a second in his strong clasp, then was withdrawn. “I shall always be happy to see you and Mr. Palmer,” she announced, and the inclusion of Palmer’s name robbed the message of any special cordiality to Maynard alone.

Palmer’s reply was mingled with his good-byes to Evelyn; he was determined to have the last word with her, but La Montagne out-maneuvered him and, just as the other men stepped into the corridor, he whisked back into the apartment, to return a second later to the corridor smiling happily.

“Pardon!” he exclaimed blandly. “Shall we take the elevator or walk?”

“Walk,” jerked out Palmer, his temper getting the upper hand, and La Montagne’s eyebrows rose as he glanced significantly at Maynard. He said nothing more, however, and accompanied his companions in silence to the next floor where Palmer halted.

“Will you please explain,” he began, “why you stopped at the door of my apartment earlier this evening?”

“To inquire the direction of Madame Van Ness’ apartment.” La Montagne glanced at him in mild surprise. “I told you so when you questioned me before.”

“So you did; but you did not tell me why you walked into my apartment and out on the balcony,” retorted Palmer.

“But I did no such action,” La Montagne looked in bewilderment at Maynard standing silently by them.

“Tell us, La Montagne,” began Maynard hurriedly, and thereby checking Palmer’s next question, “did you find the front door of the apartment ajar?”

“Do you mean opened?” Maynard nodded. “But yes, and hearing voices inside I thought to inquire my way.”

“Inquire your way,” repeated Palmer mechanically. “I have seen you often this autumn going upstairs in this building.”

“True, to visit my friend, Major Jean,” calmly. “He left to-day.” La Montague looked more closely at Maynard and Palmer and their serious manner surprised him. “I fear I unintentionally intruded by stopping at your door,” he said haughtily, as he straightened himself. “I would not have risked disturbing you, but that I saw a man leave your door a second before.”

“A man!” Palmer came closer. “Did you see who he was?”

“I called to him to wait,” went on La Montagne, not answering the question directly. “But he did not evidently hear my hail or my question regarding Madame Van Ness’ apartment, for he did not stop.”

Maynard, listening with eager attention, looked his disappointment.

“Have you no idea who the man was?” he demanded. “It’s important, René; can you not describe the man?”

“Only that he wore the costume of a chauffeur,” responded the French officer. “I took him to be a taxi-driver.”

CHAPTER IX
THE TELEGRAM

JONES, on his way up the stairs to the housekeeper’s suite of rooms on the third floor, was startled by the unexpected appearance of Mrs. Burnham at his elbow. Absorbed in carrying the heavily laden tray without spilling its contents he had failed to hear her footstep on the stair behind him.

“It strikes me, Jones, that you have a hearty meal there for a sick woman,” she remarked, inspecting the hot dishes with a critical eye.

“Mrs. Ward sent down word she particularly wanted a steak and all the rest,” stammered Jones. “Cook and I just carried out her orders, ma’am. Shall I take off any of the dishes?”

“Oh, no; see that Mrs. Ward has every attention, Jones. I was only wondering——” Mrs. Burnham paused thoughtfully; the housekeeper was indulging in a very substantial meal for one who claimed to be a seriously ill woman. “Carry the tray to Mrs. Ward, Jones, but see that you do not mention my comment upon her appetite.”

“Yes, ma’am, certainly, ma’am,” stuttered Jones and hurried on his way. He stood in great awe of Mrs. Burnham, whose caustic comments when she found him careless in his work had made an indelible impression.

Jones’ tap at the housekeeper’s door brought a pretty chambermaid who dimpled into a smile at sight of him. They had no opportunity to exchange a word, for Mrs. Ward called to her to take the tray and shut the door.

“Put the tray here,” she directed, tapping the chair by her bed. “That will do,” she added a moment later as the maid arranged the dishes within easy reach of her hand. “Thank you, don’t wait any longer.”

Waiting until the pretty chambermaid had disappeared into the adjoining room, Mrs. Ward listened until her sharp ears caught the click of the latch of her sitting room door and convinced her that she was alone. Raising herself on her elbow she proceeded to eat with avidity. She had just finished the last morsel of bread when the door of her bedroom opened and Mrs. Burnham walked in.

“Good morning, Matilda,” she said cheerily. “Glad to see you are so much better.”

Mrs. Ward settled back on her pillow and pulled the bedclothes up about her throat.

“Good morning,” she replied. “It’s very good of you to come and see me so early in the morning.” Mrs. Burnham, who was not noted for early rising, flushed at the housekeeper’s insolent air; she was a woman, however, who carried the war into Africa when occasion arose, and discourtesy from a subordinate or servant instantly aroused her resentment.

“I expected to find you up, Matilda,” she said. “Dr. Hayden told me last evening that he had crossed you off his list of sick patients.”

“I know how I feel better than Dr. Hayden,” responded Mrs. Ward sullenly. “I am not able to work; I am as weak as a kitten.”

“Staying in bed won’t strengthen you,” answered Mrs. Burnham practically. “Come, be sensible, follow Dr. Hayden’s orders.”

“I shan’t.”

“But, Matilda, you can’t stay in bed——”

“I can, too; until I am strong enough to get up,” with sullen anger. “I need nourishing food and rest. I’ve worked hard all summer, Mrs. Burnham; surely you don’t begrudge me a few crumbs?”

Mrs. Burnham eyed her wrathfully. “You can hardly call your breakfast a ‘few crumbs,’” she retorted, pointing to the empty dishes. “You have licked the platters clean, Matilda,” a spark of humor lighting her eyes. “What nonsense! Of course, I don’t begrudge you all the good cooking you require, and a nurse if necessary; but I do object to your malingering.”

“I am not malingering.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” with stern emphasis. “And I want to know why?”

Mrs. Ward clutched the bedclothes, but a look at Mrs. Burnham’s face made her change her angry answer to a more wheedling tone than she had intended using.

“After all my years of faithful service you come and accuse me of that,” she began. “I wouldn’t ’a’ thought it of you, Mrs. Burnham.” Her face worked and a few tears brimmed over her eyelids and ran down on the coverlet.

“Stop crying!” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “I have no intention of hurting your feelings, Matilda; I came here to get facts.”

“Facts about what?”

“About what transpired in this house on Monday and Tuesday last.”

Mrs. Ward shook her head. “I can’t help you there,” she replied. “I’m plain puzzled myself.”

“There is always a solution to a puzzle,” responded Mrs. Burnham. “Answer my questions and we will find it. At what hour did you reach this house?”

“Tuesday afternoon, just after Miss Evelyn found the dead man.”

“And where did you spend Monday night?” Mrs. Ward’s eyelids flickered and Mrs. Burnham continued tranquilly: “I am quite aware you left Chelsea Monday afternoon, Matilda.”

Mrs. Ward made no response and after a lengthened pause Mrs. Burnham spoke again. “Why did you come to Washington twenty-four hours before you were told to?”

“I didn’t,” replied Mrs. Ward hotly. “I had to go to Baltimore on business; the wire came for me after you had left for New York. The servants all had their Washington railroad tickets for Tuesday and the house was even then in order; so I didn’t see any harm, ma’am, in leaving Jones to close the house. You’ve always trusted him.”

“I still trust Jones,” dryly. “That is not the point. I wish to know why you displayed so much emotion on the discovery of the dead man in our library.”

For answer Mrs. Ward felt about under the bolster and produced a much thumbed telegram which she handed to Mrs. Burnham who read the brief message it bore:

Mother worse. Come.

Annie.

“Who is Annie?” she inquired, handing back the telegram.

“My niece.” Mrs. Ward wiped her eyes with a corner of the sheet and thereby concealed from view a red and green string which had slipped from under the bolster in her exertions of searching for the telegram. “My sister died just after I got there.” Mrs. Ward was talking volubly as she pushed the string safely beneath the bedclothes. “Her death was a great grief; and on top of it, I found a dead man here—it clean bowled me over, for I’m not as young as I was, Mrs. Burnham.”

Mrs. Burnham considered her housekeeper in silence; she was certainly thinner than she had seen her in some time, and there were heavy lines in her face which had not been in evidence a week before. Another look at the empty breakfast dishes convinced Mrs. Burnham that the two spots of color in Mrs. Ward’s cheeks came from temper and not from temperature, unless so much food had made her ill. Had she really eaten it all herself? From where she sat Mrs. Burnham had a good view under the four-post bed occupied by the housekeeper; certainly no one was concealed there. Bending a little forward, she managed to see inside of the closet, the door of which stood partly open; no one was there. Mrs. Burnham sighed. She did not like mysteries, her forte did not lie in solving them. The bedroom and the sitting room and bath opening from it, all of which were given over to Mrs. Ward, were just above her boudoir, and the room’s shape, like the boudoir, was octagonal.

A discreet knock on the door broke the silence, and in response to Mrs. Burnham’s “Come in,” the pretty chambermaid entered.

“Mr. Burnham wishes to see you, ma’am,” she said.

Mrs. Burnham rose instantly. “Don’t go, Cora; I want you to help Mrs. Ward dress.” Meeting the housekeeper’s irate glare, she continued unruffled: “It is too weakening for you to remain in bed, Matilda, Cora will bring your meals to your sitting room to-day. To-morrow—we’ll see how you are to-morrow,” and with a friendly wave of her hand she left the housekeeper glaring indignantly at the smiling Cora.

Mrs. Burnham went at once to her husband’s bedroom; not finding him there, she went to her own room, and from there to her boudoir. Her husband dropped the newspaper he was reading and looked up impatiently as she appeared.

“Upon my word, Peter,” she said. “Dr. Hayden orders you to stay in bed and Matilda to get up; instead of which you get up and she stays in bed—nice obedient patients you are!”

“Hayden’s a fool!” growled Burnham. “I must go down to Palmer’s office this morning, Lillian; now, I don’t wish to discuss the matter with you, just call a taxi—there’s a dear.”

Instead of complying with his request Mrs. Burnham sat down in the nearest chair and contemplated her husband.

“Dan Maynard has gone to see Jim and is bringing him back to lunch,” she said. “You will have to possess your soul in patience until then, Peter. I have no idea of letting you go out with your temperature.”

“Temperature! Fiddle-sticks! I am just a bit feverish.” Burnham stroked his cheek until he became conscious that his wife was regarding the strip of plaster across his face with interest. “I scratched myself in shaving,” he explained hurriedly. “I wish you wouldn’t sit there and look at me.”

Mrs. Burnham laughed as she leaned forward and picked up her knitting bag from her sewing table. “I am afraid, my dear, you will have to learn to control your nerves; especially if you want to shave yourself and preserve your good looks at the same time,” she remarked kindly. “Go on reading your paper, Peter.”

Burnham kicked the paper contemptuously. “Nothing in it but war news,” he said. “I’m sick of the war.”

“So are we all, but we are going to win it just the same.” Mrs. Burnham shook the khaki sweater she was knitting with vigor. “Every stitch helps.”

“Hump! You knitters remind me of the women who sat at the foot of the guillotine in the French Revolution,” grumbled Burnham. “I never saw a woman yet who wasn’t attracted by crime and war is a gigantic crime.”

“Peter!” Mrs. Burnham straightened up and her indignation was plainly manifest. “You must be out of your head; don’t utter any more such remarks in my presence.”

“Well, why don’t you order that taxi-cab?”

“Because Dr. Hayden said you were to—What is it, Jones?” she broke off to ask as the butler came into the room.

“Mr. Palmer, ma’am.”

“Ask him up.” Burnham half rose, then sank back and his wife observed his sudden pallor with concern. “Would you mind leaving us together, Lillian? I want to speak to Palmer confidentially about my—my affairs.”

“Are you strong enough? Better wait, Peter,” she coaxed; an obstinate frown was her only answer, and before she could raise further objections James Palmer was ushered in by Jones.

“You come at an opportune moment, James,” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham, shaking hands cordially. “Peter was determined to go and see you, notwithstanding I told him Dan Maynard would bring you back to lunch with us.”

Burnham, who had darted an impatient look at his wife, pointed to a chair near the one he occupied.

“Sit down,” he suggested. “The police have barred us from the library; most insulting, I call it,” he added bitterly. “So we shall have to smoke here; if you don’t mind, Lillian?”

“Not in the least.” Contrary to her husband’s hopes Mrs. Burnham made no motion to leave the room, but instead went placidly on with her knitting. “Did you meet Evelyn downstairs, James?”

“No. I haven’t seen her since last night, when, calling on Mrs. Van Ness, I found her there.” Palmer paused to pick up the newspaper which lay at his feet, and folded it neatly before laying it on the sewing table.

“Mrs. Van Ness,” repeated Burnham thoughtfully. “Oh, didn’t Captain La Montagne mention last night that he was looking for Marian Van Ness’ apartment, Palmer?”

“Yes.” Palmer looked over at Burnham and their glances met. “The captain was with Mrs. Van Ness and Evelyn when I called there.”

Mrs. Burnham missed a stitch and when she again looked up from her knitting she found her husband gazing out of the window and Palmer just lighting a cigarette.

“With your permission,” he said, holding it up.

“Certainly; I don’t object to tobacco smoke.” She was about to resume her knitting when her glance strayed through the open door by which she sat and she recognized Dr. Hayden coming down the hall. “Excuse me,” she exclaimed, “I’ll be back in a moment,” and she slipped out of the room before her husband looked around.

Hurrying down the hall Mrs. Burnham encountered Hayden near her bedroom and with a bare word of greeting opened the door and led him inside the room.

“You have two rebellious patients, Doctor; my husband and Mrs. Ward,” she began.

“Mrs. Ward shouldn’t give you any concern,” replied Hayden. “She has recovered; but your husband had a touch of fever last night which may make him a bit, eh, fractious,” hesitating for a word as he saw how worried she was.

“Oh, I am not anxious about Peter, I can manage him,” she said confidently. “It’s Mrs. Ward; why is she malingering?”

Hayden looked at her in surprise. “Is she?”

“In my opinion she is,” with emphasis. “Wait; I’ve noticed that whenever the coroner or the detectives wish to interview her, Mrs. Ward always becomes worse or says so, and just to satisfy myself I examined the nurse’s chart and found nothing on it to indicate such changes in her condition. To-day she refused to get up.”

“She did? But I told her last night——”

“I know, I heard you. She ate a large and substantial breakfast and then had the effrontery to tell me that she was too weak to get out of bed. I know a sick woman when I see one,” ended Mrs. Burnham with vigor, “and in my opinion she is no invalid.”

“I shall talk to her,” and Hayden’s square jaw became more pronounced.

“Do, please. Wait just a moment; why is she malingering?”

Hayden pondered the question before answering. “It may be, considering her emotion after the discovery of the dead man and her attempts to avoid interviews with Coroner Penfield and Detective Mitchell, that she hopes to get out of attending the inquest as a witness.”

“I believe you’ve hit it,” ejaculated Mrs. Burnham. “I’ve been questioning Mrs. Ward this morning about her actions on Monday and Tuesday, and to be quite frank her answers did not ring true.”

“Ah, indeed. What did she say?”

“She stated that she left Chelsea a day earlier than she had intended on the receipt of a telegram from her niece saying her mother was ill. Mrs. Ward went on to say that her sister died shortly after her arrival in Baltimore, and the shock of finding a dead man here on top of her grief for her sister upset her.”

Hayden listened with close attention. “Did you see the telegram?”

“I did.”

“Then Mrs. Ward has told a straight story apparently.” Mrs. Burnham’s expression grew peculiar and he asked quickly, “Have you reason to doubt it?”

“Only this,” she hesitated. “Please keep this confidential. When I engaged Mrs. Ward as my housekeeper three years ago she distinctly told me that she had no relatives living in this country.”

CHAPTER X
“SEDITIOUS UTTERANCES”

PALMER, fussing among his blue prints, looked up as his stenographer ushered Dan Maynard into his office.

“Sit down,” he exclaimed heartily. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come back after all; you need not wait, Miss Hall,” and the stenographer walked out, closing the door behind her. Palmer swung his swivel-chair about so as to face his visitor who had selected a seat near the desk. “I stopped at the Burnhams’ particularly to see you, but found you had left to come here.”

“Too bad,” commented Maynard. “I should have telephoned first before going to the rehearsal of the tableaux at the Belasco, to ask you to wait for me; my stupidity.” He leaned a little nearer. “Have you seen the taxi-driver?”

“Not yet.” Maynard’s face fell; he had jumped to the conclusion from Palmer’s manner that he had news of importance. “The Potomac Taxi Company reported Sam was engaged to motor a party out to Camp Meade; they are expected back this evening.” Palmer drummed his fingers on the desk a second, then asked abruptly: “Did you tell Mrs. Burnham about the attempt to shoot her husband last night?”

“No.” Maynard balanced his hat on his knee with nice exactness. “Burnham asked me not to. And to be quite candid, after I had helped Dr. Hayden put him to bed I departed and left the doctor to tell as much as he thought fit to Mrs. Burnham when she returned.”

“Was she out?”

“Yes, gone to some Red Cross meeting, so Jones told us.” Maynard smiled broadly. “I rather imagine from what was said at breakfast this morning that Mrs. Burnham laid her husband’s condition to too convivial a disposition.”

Palmer did not smile. “I am afraid she has frequent occasion to think that and with reason. Frankly, Maynard, Burnham has been going at a pretty lively clip during the past six months and unless he pulls up he will be over the precipice,” he said soberly.

Maynard’s mirth vanished. “I am sorry to hear it,” he declared. “Burnham is a good fellow at bottom, and his wife,” Maynard stooped over to pick up his hat which had finally over-balanced and rolled to the floor. There was a pause before he again spoke. “It must be doubly hard on Mrs. Burnham; aside from her affection for her husband she is a proud woman, and to have her affairs discussed in public must go against the grain.”

It was Palmer’s turn to smile. “You weren’t here when their engagement was announced? Well, my good fellow, Mrs. Burnham was then the storm-center of criticism, not to say amusement. No, I can’t believe the public’s opinion, good or bad, influences her actions. She is a law unto herself.”

Maynard shook his head in unbelief. “What part of the country does she hail from?” he asked.

“New York; she comes of old Knickerbocker stock.” Palmer tilted back in his chair. “Her daughter is like her in looks as well as in disposition; she also has a will of her own,” he sighed, then spoke carefully, choosing his words. “I hope to marry her.”

Maynard looked at him, but his grave manner precluded jesting. After all there was not so much difference in Evelyn’s and Palmer’s ages as to make the match unsuitable. Palmer had money, influence, and came of a family long distinguished in his country’s annals. Undoubtedly society’s verdict would commend such an engagement, and yet—Maynard’s thoughts reverted to René La Montague whose aristocratic carriage and good looks were in vast contrast to the square-jawed bulldog type of manhood lolling before him in a swivel-chair.

“I wish you all success in your courtship,” said Maynard, suddenly conscious that an answer was expected of him. “Do Burnham and his wife approve?”

“Burnham does.” Palmer examined his fingernails critically. “I have never been able to get an opinion out of Mrs. Burnham; she can be very evasive when it suits her.”

“Well, the main thing is to win the girl’s affections,” remarked Maynard. “Don’t worry about the mother, her opinion is of secondary importance these days in selecting a husband.”

“Not in this case; Evelyn loses her fortune if she marries without her mother’s consent.”

“Ah, indeed? And who inherits the fortune in case Mrs. Burnham’s consent is withheld?”

“Mrs. Burnham.”

“Oh!” Maynard stared blankly at the architect. “An unjust will,” he said gravely. “It is unfair to Evelyn, very; she has either to marry to please her mother, or select a wealthy man; or——” He paused.

“Or what?”

“Choose love in a cottage.”

Palmer shrugged his shoulders. “To a girl brought up to expect every luxury and never count the cost, love in a cottage hasn’t a great appeal—except in the movies. I know I shan’t have an easy time winning Evelyn,” he admitted in a sudden burst of candor. “She is very popular, but in the end,” his jaw snapped, “Americans should marry Americans.”

Maynard’s eyebrows rose slightly; so Palmer was aware of René La Montagne’s courtship of Evelyn! Had he gained that information the night before or was the affair common gossip?

“Heard anything further about the mysterious dead man?” he inquired.

Palmer looked glum. “Not a thing,” he admitted. “I called up Coroner Penfield to-day at Burnham’s request to ask when the inquest would take place, and was told that a preliminary examination had been held, the body put in a receiving vault, and upon further developments the inquest will be continued.”

Maynard whistled. “The delay is unusual; they must be waiting for witnesses.”

“Or to identify the dead man.”

“Have they made any progress in solving that problem?”

“The coroner did not say.”

“Strange that a man can drop out of existence and not be missed or inquired about,” mused Maynard. “The dead man must have had some friends or relatives.”

“Perhaps they are not in this country.”

“They can always cable.”

Palmer tilted still farther back in his chair. “Has it occurred to you that the dead man’s friends or relatives may reside in Germany?”

“Do you mean that the dead man was a German spy?”

“Yes.” Palmer sat upright. “That to me is the only explanation for the, as you mention, inexplicable fact that no one has reported such a man as missing to the police or made inquiries for him. Coroner Penfield states his photograph has been circulated with a minute description of his clothes.”

“Has the photograph appeared in the newspapers?”

“I think not. From all accounts he must have looked pretty gruesome, Maynard; the newspapers wouldn’t want to publish a picture of a dead man sitting in a chair. It isn’t done.”

“Pretty good publicity if it were done,” retorted Maynard bluntly. “Have you told Detective Mitchell your theory?”

“Not yet.” Palmer hesitated. “Let the police work out their theories first. There’s another reason,” and he smiled. “Washington is spy-mad; and I don’t want to be classed among the men and women who write anonymously to the Department of Justice or telephone the Secret Service regarding the, to them, suspicious behavior of their neighbors. Hot air, most of it.”

“Better hot air than run the risk of letting a spy escape through not reporting him,” remarked Maynard. “If I were you, Palmer, I wouldn’t lose any time in seeing Mitchell, and suggest to him that the Secret Service take a hand in the game.”

“They may be working from that end already,” answered Palmer doubtfully. “However, if you think it best I’ll step over to the Treasury Department and see Chief Connor. Would you like to come along?”

“Very much.”

“Good.” Palmer swung about and gathered up the blue prints of all sizes which littered his desk. He was in the act of placing them in his drawer when a sharp rap followed instantly by the entrance of his office boy interrupted him.

“General West is awaitin’ in his car to speak to yo’,” announced the darkey. “The General’s in a pow’ful big hurry an’ he wants ter see the plan for the new buildin’ for the Ordnance.”

Palmer selected four blue prints. “I’ll be right back,” he told Maynard and hurried out into the hall.

Left to himself Maynard gazed about the room and then back at the disorderly desk. Moving quietly over to it he scanned several drawings and turned them over. As he did so his eye fell on a small chess problem diagram half buried among the larger prints and he picked it up to examine more closely. With lightning speed his trained eyes studied the diagram and the message beneath it:

White to Play and Mate in Two Moves.

A second more and the diagram was tucked safely in an inner pocket as approaching footsteps heralded the return of Palmer, and when he entered Maynard was indolently reading the evening newspaper.

“There’s no pleasing some people,” fumed the architect, tossing the plans he carried into the open drawer and thrusting the others pell mell on top of them he slammed the drawer shut and locked it securely. “We’ve got to hurry, Maynard, to get to the Treasury Department before closing time. Come on.”

Stopping only long enough to push down the safety lock of the door to his private office and cautioning the boy to take all telephone messages, Palmer hurried the actor into the street.

“Not a car in sight,” he exclaimed looking up the street. “We’ll have to walk; all Washington’s doing it,” he added, laughing, and the two men strode along, unconsciously quickening their pace as they crossed Lafayette Square into Pennsylvania Avenue. Maynard on reaching the north front of the Treasury swerved toward the long row of steps leading to the building but Palmer stopped him.

“Only one entrance used now-a-days,” he explained. “That on Fifteenth Street, this way,” and they hurried along Pennsylvania Avenue and around the corner.

Paying no attention to the sign “No Visitors Allowed” which hung conspicuously near the only open door, Palmer led the way inside the building and was promptly stopped by an attendant, whose peremptory manner thawed somewhat at sight of Palmer’s visiting card.

“I’ll take you to the Captain of the Watch,” he said. “Here, Tom,” and signing to another attendant to take his place, he escorted them into a small room a few steps away. They had to wait until the Captain of the Watch had interviewed the three men and two women who had reached the room ahead of them. At Palmer’s request to see the Chief of the Secret Service the Captain smiled.

“Won’t an assistant do?” he asked. “The Chief’s somewhat busy.”

Palmer, having made up his mind to see Chief Connor, was not to be sidetracked.

“No,” he said decidedly. “I won’t detain the Chief but a minute; it’s important. Here’s my card,” and he laid it on the desk. The Captain pushed over some printed blanks.

“Fill out these forms,” he directed, “both you and your friend,” and he picked up his telephone receiver and held a subdued conversation which he discontinued when Palmer and Maynard handed him the filled-in blanks bearing their signatures and addresses. A touch of the push button and the attendant returned.

“Take these gentlemen upstairs,” the Captain directed and turned to interview some newcomers.

As Maynard accompanied Palmer and their guide up the winding staircase and through the broad corridors he noted the numerous uniformed attendants pacing up and down. In the outer office of the Secret Service Headquarters they were met by a polite secretary who invited them to be seated and confide their business to him, which Palmer, his obstinacy aroused by what his amour propre took to be a slight in shelving him with a subordinate when he desired to see the Chief, declined to do.

The secretary’s patience was wearing thin under Palmer’s irritating manner and he was about to close the interview when the swing door leading to an inner office opened and Detective Mitchell stepped out. He halted at sight of Maynard, who sat with his back toward the door, and disappeared into the room again. An instant later the call bell buzzed and, excusing himself, the secretary stepped inside the inner room.

“Nice business keeping a man of my standing waiting in an anteroom,” fumed Palmer, turning to Maynard, but the latter’s rejoinder was lost by the return of the secretary.

“Will you and your friend step this way, Mr. Palmer?” he said. “Chief Connor will see you.”

Palmer’s walk past the secretary was indicative of his feeling of triumph; he had gained his point. Maynard, following close at his heels, smothered a smile as they reached the large table near the window where sat Chief Connor with Detective Mitchell standing by him.

“Glad to see you, Mr. Palmer,” said Connor cordially, as Palmer introduced himself and then mentioned Maynard’s name. Chief Connor rose and extended his hand to the famous actor. “Won’t you sit here?” indicating chairs to his right. “You already know Mitchell, I believe.”

Palmer nodded curtly; he was somewhat taken aback at the presence of the detective; he would rather have seen the Chief alone. Maynard, who had acknowledged Mitchell’s greeting courteously, waited for Palmer to open the interview, but it was not until Connor remarked pleasantly: “Well, gentlemen,” that Palmer addressed him.

“I am convinced that the man found dead in Burnham’s library on Tuesday afternoon was a German spy,” he stated. “I presume from the presence of Detective Mitchell, who is in charge of the investigation of that mystery, that you are working along the same lines.”

Connor’s reply took the form of a question. “What leads you to think the man was a German spy?”

“The fact that no inquiries have been made for him looks to me as if his relatives and friends are in Germany,” explained Palmer. “If he had been of any nationality at peace with us, or an American citizen, his absence would have been reported and the aid of the police sought.”

Connor nodded slightly. “That is a reasonable argument, Mr. Palmer, but it is not evidence. Any one who dies suddenly these days is a German spy—in the public’s opinion.” The Chief’s stern mouth relaxed into a faint smile. “We must have more to go upon than that.”

Maynard looked across at Detective Mitchell. “Have you identified the man?”

There was a faint pause before Mitchell answered, “No, but our finger-print experts will make a final report soon,” he answered.

“Slow work,” observed Palmer, and Chief Connor saw the color steal up in the detective’s face.

“Slow work—but sure,” he remarked with emphasis. “Don’t give yourself too much concern, Mr. Palmer, the police will solve the riddle. And it is a case presenting some unique features, I’ll admit.”

“It does,” exclaimed Mitchell eagerly. “Here we have a man, without an identifying mark on his person or his clothes, poisoned sometime between two and three Tuesday morning and his body not found until twelve hours later, and then located in a room which an hour previous had not contained his body,” Mitchell rumpled his hair, “and no one in the house but Miss Evelyn Preston who arrived that morning. It’s a very pretty problem.”

“There was some one else in the house beside Miss Preston,” replied Palmer warmly. “The man who carried the dead body into the library. It’s a great pity the house wasn’t searched instantly from top to bottom.”

“True,” agreed Maynard. “But none of us, the coroner and Dr. Hayden included, realized there might be a murderer concealed on the premises until after Penfield’s statement that the man had been dead about twelve hours, and Miss Preston’s immediate declaration that some one had rung the library bell just before she came upstairs from the kitchen and found the dead man sitting there. Our search then, of course, proved fruitless; the man had made good his escape.”

“There wasn’t a trace of any one having been in the house except Miss Preston,” added Mitchell. “We searched the entire place.”

“That bears out Burnham’s theory that the man was murdered elsewhere and carried into his house,” remarked Palmer.

“It is an interesting theory,” commented Chief Connor, and turned to Palmer directly. “I understand, Mr. Palmer, that you are Mr. Burnham’s most intimate friend; can you tell me if he has any enemies?”

Palmer glanced involuntarily at Maynard. “I never heard any one express hatred of Burnham,” he said, speaking slowly. “But he is not particularly popular.”

“That bears out what I have heard, Chief,” broke in Mitchell.

“Yes.” Connor turned again to Palmer. “You have answered very concisely, Mr. Palmer; now please tell me if you have heard Burnham express animosity toward any one.”

Palmer moved restlessly. “That’s a hard question.”

“Why?”

“Because Burnham is very outspoken and frequently exaggerates his feelings.”

“Mr. Palmer, I will be greatly obliged if you will answer directly; does Burnham harbor animosity against any one?”

“Well, to be exact,” Palmer avoided Maynard’s eyes, “I believe he dislikes René La Montagne.”

“René La Montagne?”

“Captain in the French Flying Corps, an ‘Ace,’” explained Maynard, breaking into the conversation. “The dislike is all on Burnham’s side; I have never heard La Montagne say anything disagreeable about Burnham.” He paused, then added, “Burnham’s behavior is peculiar at times, I understand.”

“So it appears,” replied Chief Connor dryly. “Mitchell has just informed me that Burnham’s train reached Washington about one thirty Tuesday morning.”

“It did?” Palmer sat up and stared at the speaker. “Why, Burnham telephoned me Tuesday night from Union Station that he had just arrived.”

Maynard, the fingers of his right hand resting in his vest pocket, thrust a paper deeper down inside the lining as he listened absorbedly to the conversation.

“There is another point where you can help us, Mr. Palmer,” continued Chief Connor. “Has Burnham in your presence ever uttered seditious and disloyal sentiments?”

“Never!” Palmer’s denial was instant.

“Ah!” Chief Connor eyed his visitors sharply. “Your statement contradicts letters received here in which it is charged that Burnham is a pronounced pacifist.”

Palmer pushed back his chair and crossed his legs. “You said seditious utterances,” he began. “Burnham has never made them before me, but I have heard him state his pacifist views; that was before this country went into the war. No one paid any attention to him.”

“One person did,” remarked Connor dryly. “Our correspondent.”

“And who is he?”

Chief Connor opened a drawer and took from a file a paper, evidently a deposition as far as Maynard could make out from where he sat and the angle at which Connor held the sheet.

“The name signed here,” continued the Chief of the Secret Service, “is Adolphus Jones.”

“Adolphus Jones,” repeated Palmer. “Who is he?”

“The Burnhams’ butler—Jones,” answered Detective Mitchell.

CHAPTER XI
CONFLICTING CLUES

FIVE minutes later James Palmer and Dan Maynard stood on the steps of the Treasury Department.

“It’s a rum go,” the former remarked. “Who’d have thought Jones, as old and good a servant as he is, would have tried to get Burnham into trouble by reporting him to the Secret Service? It shows we are all at the mercy of some fool, spy-mad.”

Maynard’s eyes twinkled as he adjusted his tie which was slightly awry. “It was our German spy theory regarding the dead man which took us to see Chief Connor——”

“But we had some ground to go on,” interrupted Palmer. “Whereas, poor Burnham never uttered any seditious sentiments, I am confident. That old fool, Jones, has muddled things nicely.” They had approached the corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fifteenth Street as they talked and Palmer stopped at the curb. “Are you going to speak to Burnham about Jones’ behavior?”

“Certainly not; Chief Connor requested us to mention it to no one.” Maynard shot a questioning look at his companion who stood with one foot in the street and the other on the curb stone.

“But it seems unfair to Burnham not to warn him that Jones is a meddlesome, untrustworthy old fool,” objected Palmer. “After all, Burnham is our friend.”

“And we can prove our friendship by holding our tongues,” replied Maynard warmly. “Burnham seems laboring under a severe nervous strain; it won’t take much more excitement to break him down. The Secret Service will weed out the lies; Jones’ statements about his employer will be taken for what they are worth; so don’t worry.”

Palmer frowned. “I don’t like it,” he said, shaking a puzzled head. “However, while I’ll say nothing about the matter, I’ll keep my eye on Jones. Are you coming over to the club?”

“Not now.” Maynard glanced up at the clock tower of the building diagonally across the street from where they stood. “I have just time to do several errands before the shops close. I’ll stop at the club on the way home.”

“All right, be sure and look me up,” and Palmer dodged an on-coming motor truck and hurried across the street.

Maynard again consulted the clock in the tower and then crossed over to a drug store. Entering a telephone booth he finally succeeded in getting the Burlington apartment; the Central there, however, informed him that Captain René La Montagne had not returned and had not left word when he would be in. A telephone call to the Frenchman’s office elicited no more information. Where in the devil’s name was La Montagne?

Maynard left the drug store in a disgusted frame of mind and with the question unanswered. He had spent the morning trying to find first Palmer and then La Montagne in between attending the rehearsals for the Red Cross benefit at the Belasco Theatre. His offer to take part in the tableaux had been eagerly accepted and a telephone call before he left the Burnhams’ had apprised him that his presence was very much needed at the theater. He had hoped to find Evelyn and Marian rehearsing their rôles, but neither had turned up, although he had waited long after his tableau had been tried out and thereby missed his luncheon at the Burnhams’! The thought of luncheon reminded him that he had been exceedingly rude to Mrs. Burnham, having, in his absent-mindedness, forgotten to telephone her that he would not be there for that meal. Turning on his heel he walked up the street until he came to a florist; after his errand there was completed he walked up H Street intending to go to the club, but on reaching Connecticut Avenue he decided to return home and started briskly off up the Avenue. As he crossed Farragut Square he heard his name called and glancing around saw Evelyn Preston sitting on one of the park benches. He quickened his steps and sat down by her.

“You are just the person I want to see,” he announced. “Tell me where I can find René La Montagne. I have tried both his office and his apartment without success.”

“Then I am afraid I cannot help you,” she said. “René told me last night that he might be called out of town for a short time; he said that he could not be more explicit.”

“Oh!” Maynard drew his cane up and down the gravel path in deep thought. As the silence lengthened Evelyn stole a glance at him; he was certainly one of the handsomest men who had ever been a matinée idol.

“I want to ask you a question,” she began, and Maynard awoke from his abstraction. “Why did you and James Palmer come into Marian’s apartment last night?”

“To call on Mrs. Van Ness.”

“That is the obvious answer.” Evelyn’s color rose. “Now, don’t be angry,” laying an appealing hand on his coat sleeve. “Didn’t James Palmer come up there just to spy on me?”

Maynard smiled. “No. Frankly, we did not know you were there.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Evelyn. “Marian and I thought perhaps Mr. Burnham had suggested your calling, not you personally,” coloring warmly as she remembered her use of the word “spy,”—“but James Palmer.”

“So you think James Palmer wouldn’t be above spying?” Maynard twisted about on the bench and faced her.

Evelyn nodded. “I don’t like him,” she admitted honestly. “I’ll admit I’m prejudiced, but I couldn’t think, no matter what happened, any worse of him than I do. He’s—he’s always under my feet.”

Maynard laughed outright. “And that’s what a man gets for being devoted to a girl,” he said. “I declare, Evelyn, you are a trifle discouraging.”

“Don’t make fun of me.” Evelyn looked downcast. “You don’t know how I have had James Palmer preached at me by my step-father;” she half shuddered. “That’s why I didn’t spend the summer at home. Were you with them all the evening?”

“With them?—with whom?”

“Mr. Burnham and James Palmer.”

“No, I only joined them at Palmer’s apartment about nine o’clock or a little later.”

“Then you can depend upon it that Mr. Burnham asked James to call on Marian last night just to find out if René La Montagne and I were there.” Evelyn nodded her head wisely. “Marian and I were right in our conclusions, I am sure.”

“Sorry, but you are wrong,” stated Maynard. “We called on her on impulse so to speak,” he hesitated; no mention had been made to Evelyn of the occurrences in Palmer’s apartment the night before and he could not be more explicit regarding the reason for their visit to Marian’s apartment. “What harm was done by Palmer seeing René calling on you and Mrs. Van Ness?”

“He told Mother and she has forbidden my visiting Marian,” Evelyn stamped her pretty foot. “It was perfectly horrid of James Palmer to go and make trouble.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I am sitting here now hoping to see Marian on her way from the State Department and tell her of Mother’s edict.”

“It’s a shame!” There was honest indignation in Maynard’s voice. “Suppose I try and persuade your mother to reconsider——”

“Would you—could you?” Evelyn was a trifle incoherent. “Oh, but you can do anything. Do say a good word for René.”

“I will, indeed,” and Maynard, touched by her emotion, took her hand in a firm clasp. “I will aid you in every possible way.”

Evelyn smiled through her tears. “Then will you see that this letter reaches René?”

“I will; to-night if possible.” Maynard placed the envelope in an inside pocket. “Tell me, Evelyn, did René appear agitated when he reached Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment last night?”

“Agitated—no.” Evelyn laughed softly at a sudden recollection. “Only pleasurably excited,” she added demurely, and Maynard chuckled.

“Can you tell me why Burnham dislikes René?” he asked.

“He hasn’t any grounds for disliking him,” retorted Evelyn loyally. “It is just his natural cussedness.”

Again Maynard chuckled. “You don’t show any great fondness for your step-father,” he said, and Evelyn colored, this time with indignation as unhappy memories rose.

“Why should I?” she demanded. “He has tried repeatedly to prejudice Mother against me. Oh, how could she marry him? She must have remembered my dear splendid father.”

“There is no accounting for taste, Evelyn.” Maynard felt himself on delicate ground; widening the breach between the Burnhams and Evelyn would be like applying a match to a keg of gunpowder. “It didn’t strike me that Burnham was such a bad sort when I first knew him.”

“You haven’t got him in the family,” exclaimed Evelyn shrewdly. “It makes all the difference between tolerance and active dislike. I wish Mother wasn’t so under his influence.”

“You think she is?”

“I do. I left her fretting about him because his temperature had gone up and sending frantically all over town for Dr. Hayden.”

Maynard looked serious. “Has it occurred to you, Evelyn, that your step-father is an ill man? Perhaps his irritability and peculiar behavior is due to some chronic disorder.”

“I’ll ask Dr. Hayden to give him a liver pill.” Evelyn declined to take her step-father’s health seriously. “He used to go out a great deal, now he sits around the house hour after hour, doing nothing, or else playing chess; he seems to live for his chess problems alone.”

“It is an absorbing study,” replied Maynard. “Do you know the game?”

“Indeed I don’t,” promptly. “One chess player in the family is quite enough.” Evelyn’s active mind flew off at a tangent. “You missed a nice row by not coming home for luncheon.”

“Row!” Maynard looked at her in astonishment. “I was unpardonably rude not to telephone your mother that I was detained at the theater and not to wait luncheon for me, but surely a row——”

“Oh, bless you, the row wasn’t about you,” Evelyn chuckled. “Dr. Hayden read the riot act to Mrs. Ward and made her get up; she was malingering, you know.”

“No, not really?” Maynard was all attention; he had ceased watching the children playing about the base of the Farragut monument. “Have you had a talk with Mrs. Ward since her illness?”

“I only exchanged a few words with her when I went to inquire how she was,” answered Evelyn. “Matilda has always been a silent, morose woman, a good worker, and for all her peculiarities she gets on well with the servants.”

“Have you had all your servants a long time?”

Evelyn reflected before she answered. “The chambermaid and mother’s maid and the second man are new; only came this summer; but Mrs. Ward has been with us over three years, while Jones came over ten years ago.”

“Is Jones a trustworthy servant?”

“Well, rather,” Evelyn laughed merrily. “He is the oddest character. Hasn’t he confided to you about the Missions and his ‘human derelicts’?”

“His what?”

“Reclaimed souls. A year ago mother got very much wrought up over the ex-gamblers, ex-thieves, ex-swindlers—there may have been a few ex-murderers among his friends, to whom he offered the hospitality of our servants’ hall, so she suggested that the Lord had called him to join a mission, and now he is entirely happy in his new field. He levies contributions on us once and so often to help support it; I shouldn’t be a bit surprised if mother has to adopt the mission in order to keep Jones.”

“You think he is worth keeping?”

Evelyn looked at Maynard in great surprise. “Yes, indeed. Jones really is an excellent butler, and kind and considerate to the other servants. His eccentricities are growing on him, I’ll admit. He infuriated my step-father last winter by using religious mottoes on the icing of cakes and having the floral decorations made in the shape of crosses. I rather enjoyed their rows.”

“Oh, so Mr. Burnham and Jones don’t hit it off?”

“Not very well. But mother really is attached to Jones and declined to discharge him even after the birthday dinner—you heard about that?” she broke off to inquire.

“No.”

Evelyn’s eyes danced. “It was Mr. Burnham’s birthday and mother gave a large party. The cook, a wonderful cake-maker, was told to make the birthday cake instead of getting it from Rauscher’s. Unfortunately she left the icing of the cake to Jones.” Evelyn paused dramatically. “Jones brought in the cake with the candles all lighted, and before it was cut the guests examined the decorations. In the center, done in chocolate, was the date of the day of the dinner, then Mr. Burnham’s initials, and right around the cake Jones had put in large lettering: ‘Prepare to meet thy God.’

“Mr. Burnham hasn’t any sense of humor,” added Evelyn. “And he hates to be made ridiculous; I don’t believe he has ever forgiven Jones and he is always pestering mother to discharge him.”

“Does Jones know it?”

“Oh, yes,” Evelyn laughed mischievously. “There is not much love lost between them.”

Maynard lowered his voice. “Is Mr. Burnham a pacifist, Evelyn?”

“I believe so, but I don’t pay much attention to his arguments,” she answered. “At one time he was a pronounced admirer of the Germans’ efficiency, but that was before we entered the war.”

Maynard thumped the neat pile of gravel he had raked up with his cane back into place before he again addressed Evelyn.

“I am wondering,” he began finally, “if you can recall how Mrs. Ward appeared when you found her on your doorstep after discovering the dead man in the library?”

Evelyn wrinkled her brow in thought. “I am afraid I can’t,” she admitted. “I was in a blue funk and I just clutched her; I think I would have clutched almost any one whom I found there—even the murderer!”

Maynard shot a quick look at her. “There is a point which has been bothering me a good bit,” he said slowly. “It occurred to me that perhaps——” he stopped, to add hastily: “Please treat what I am about to say as confidential——”

Evelyn nodded. “Certainly, I promise.”

“Did Mrs. Ward have keys to the house?”

“I suppose so; no, come to think of it she must have given the keys to Jones.” Evelyn rubbed her forehead. “Mrs. Ward was to close the house at Chelsea after the servants had left and join them here.”

Maynard drew out an envelope and pencil and jotted down several words. “Do you recall, Evelyn, hearing the front door bell ring while you were in the library with the dead man?”

Evelyn’s eyes opened. “I didn’t hear any bell—then,” she stated with positiveness. “But a thousand bells might have rung and I would never have heard them in my condition of mind. Oh, if we only knew who rang the library bell we’d know who killed the man in the room.”

Maynard did not answer at once. “I imagine developments in the case depend upon the identification of the dead man,” he said. “When that mystery is solved the other details will follow in their sequence.”

“Have the police made any headway in establishing the man’s identity?”

“Apparently none.”

Evelyn hesitated and glanced around. The little path, where they sat, an off-shoot from the broad walks encircling Farragut’s statue, was deserted except for themselves.

“There is something I have wanted to speak to you about, and then I feared you would think me silly so I never mentioned it,” Evelyn commenced. “You recall that all the coroner found in the dead man’s pockets was a piece of string.”

“Yes.”

“The string was so odd—like a snake,” she shuddered. “It sort of twined in and out of the coroner’s fingers as he stood there, I mean just before Mrs. Ward fainted, and the string made a deep impression on me, so much so,” she added hesitatingly, “that when I saw that piece of string dangling from your coat sleeve yesterday morning it looked to me identically the same as that found in the dead man’s pocket.”

“It did?” Maynard straightened up.

“Yes. I meant to have spoken to you about it before, but at first it seemed so absurd.” Evelyn colored. “Thinking it over I grew more positive that the strings were alike. You haven’t, by chance, kept it?” eagerly. “You thrust it in your pocket.”

Maynard searched first one pocket and then the other. “My Yankee thrift makes me keep odds and ends,” he said. “Ah, here it is,” pulling it out of his trousers’ pocket.

Evelyn took the gayly colored piece of twine almost with repugnance. As it swayed in the gentle breeze it seemed, as she had said, snaky in appearance.

“Do you think it would help in identifying the dead man?” she asked. “The original piece, I mean.”

“Yes, if we knew where he had gotten it and how it came to be in his pocket,” responded Maynard. “Perhaps I had better give this piece to the coroner. Where did you get it?”

“It came off one of my packages, you remember,” she answered. “You helped me carry the bundles out of the taxi-cab.”

“That’s so.” Maynard again took out his pencil and envelope. “Where did you shop that day?”

“Let me see—Woodward and Lothrop’s, Huyler’s; oh, but what is the use of going on with the list, the only packages which had come untied were some writing paper, a box of candy, and a package of papers belonging to Marian Van Ness.”

A shadow fell across the envelope and Maynard looked up from his writing. Marian Van Ness stood at his elbow.

“I never saw two such absorbed people,” she remarked as he rose. “I saw you from the sidewalk, Evelyn, and called to you, then in desperation walked across the grass. If I am arrested for trespass by the park policeman you will have to bail me out.”

“Take my seat,” and Maynard stepped back from the bench, but Marian shook her head.

“I can’t loiter for I have an appointment at the hair-dresser’s across the street,” she said. “I am late now.”

“Wait, Marian, and I’ll go with you, I have so much to tell you,” Evelyn sprang up and promptly dropped the string; before she could stoop for it Maynard had picked it up.

“Shall I keep it or will you?” he asked. He held the string toward Evelyn but his eyes never left Marian who looked mildly curious as her glance fell on the dangling string.

“I’ll take it.” Evelyn opened her bag and dropped the string inside it. “Was the package of papers which René carried off by mistake tied with that piece of string, Marian?” she inquired.

“No.” Marian walked beside Maynard, who suited his long stride to her shorter step. “When I gave the package to Captain La Montagne to carry for me it was secured by a rubber band. Do look out, Evelyn, or you will be run over,” as the younger girl, not heeding a speeding automobile, stepped off the curb. It was some seconds, owing to the congested traffic, before Maynard guided them safely across the street. Once on the other side Marian gave him no opportunity to resume conversation, but walked rapidly toward an old residence which had been remodeled and given over to physicians’ offices and a hair-dresser’s establishment on the first floor.

“We must hurry,” Marian explained. “Sorry, good-bye,” and slipping her hand inside Evelyn’s she hastened toward the shop. At the door, however, they both drew back to let several people pass and looking over her shoulder, Marian caught Maynard staring at her. A wave of color mantled her cheeks and turning in some confusion she ran into Dr. Hayden.

“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed, drawing back. “I thought you saw me and waited for me to pass.”

“I am very stupid,” she laughed and bit her lip. “Don’t let me detain you.”

“I only wanted to catch Mr. Maynard, pardon me,” and the busy physician ran down the steps to where Maynard, having seen his beckoning hand, stood waiting.

“Have you seen Palmer?” asked Hayden.

“Yes.” Maynard pulled his companion toward the curb where they were out of earshot of passers-by. “Palmer has been unable to locate the taxi-driver, Sam.”

Hayden looked worried. “Too bad,” he muttered. “I saw Burnham this morning and urged him not to press the charge against Captain La Montagne until he had time to investigate the Frenchman’s assertion that Sam, the taxi-driver, had run out of the apartment and up the stairs just before he approached.”

“Well, that is reasonable,” commented Maynard. “I trust Burnham listened to you.”

Hayden waited until several women had passed out of hearing distance before he answered. “Burnham will not see reason,” he said. “He has become obsessed with one idea and he will apparently go to any lengths to see that Captain La Montagne is punished for his attack upon him—he calls it a murderous attack.”

Maynard frowned angrily. “Burnham is a——” he checked his hasty speech. “It looks as if it was up to us, doctor, to locate Sam, the taxi-driver, and wring the truth out of him.”

“That is the size of it,” agreed Hayden. “And we won’t find it easy. Remember, if Sam clears La Montagne of doing the shooting he virtually proves himself guilty.”

“I see your point,” agreed Maynard. “You mean——”

“That, unless Sam saw another person leave the apartment when he was there—and it seems on the face of it highly improbable that three men should have dashed away from our door in the space of a few seconds,” interpolated Hayden, “one of these two men, Sam or La Montagne, shot Burnham.”

“It was Sam,” declared Maynard with conviction. “Never La Montagne.”

“I agree with you,” added Hayden. “Patients are waiting for me in my office, Maynard; after they go I must see Burnham. In the meantime will you interview La Montagne and ask him if he noted anything unusual about the taxi-driver, any undue haste, signs of horror, fear, or indication that he carried a revolver, though the last is not likely.”

“I’ll ask La Montagne,” promised Maynard as the physician moved away with a farewell nod.

Turning about Maynard continued thoughtfully up Connecticut Avenue. He had reached the juncture of M Street and Rhode Island Avenue when his progress was stopped by passing motors. He was just about to step off the curb when a taxi-cab turned out of Connecticut Avenue and shot down M Street, but not before Maynard had a good view of Sam, the taxi-driver, who had half turned to address his passenger, Captain René La Montagne.

CHAPTER XII
THE CALL

MAYNARD’S hail was lost in the exhaust from a nearby automobile and he watched the taxi-cab bearing René La Montagne continue down M Street with mixed feelings, then started at a rapid walk in the direction the cab was going. At Seventeenth Street he saw an empty car, bearing the placard “For hire,” coming toward him and promptly stopped the chauffeur.

“See if you can catch up with that car ahead,” he directed, pointing to La Montagne’s taxi which could just be seen, and sprang into the automobile. But the chauffeur, evidently one of the many inexperienced men who had joined the great army of licensed motorists to supply the public need of vehicles, had stalled his engine and when the car finally started down M Street La Montagne’s taxi was nowhere in sight.

As they whirled around Thomas Circle Maynard, who had vented his feelings by swearing a blue streak under his breath at each second’s delay, called to the chauffeur to go to the Burlington apartment, and the man changed his direction with such precipitancy that Maynard was thrown forward. He had just regained his equilibrium as the car turned into the driveway leading to the apartment-hotel.

“Has Captain La Montagne returned?” he asked the doorman.

“Yes, sir, just arrived,” and the man touched his cap respectfully. “Wish to see him, sir?”

“Yes.” Maynard paused in getting out of his car and scanned the numerous motors parked along the curbing. “Is Captain La Montagne’s taxi waiting for him?”

“No, sir. The chauffeur picked up a party just leaving when the Captain said he shouldn’t want him again to-day, and drove off.”

Maynard stared blankly at the doorman. Should he go in and see La Montagne or try and locate Sam, the taxi-driver, first? His inclination was for the latter course.

“Which way did the taxi go?” he asked.

“’Deed I didn’t notice, sir.” The doorman was too respectful to show the surprise he felt at the continued questioning. “Another car drove up and I went to open the door for the ladies in it. Do you wish to get out, sir?”

“Yes,” and the servant swung back the door of his car. “Wait,” called Maynard over his shoulder to his chauffeur and entered the building. Not troubling to have his name telephoned up he hastened to the elevator and told the boy to take him to La Montagne’s apartment. His ring at the bell of the apartment was answered by La Montagne whose face lighted at sight of his visitor.

“Most welcome,” exclaimed the Frenchman. “Come right in,” and he led the way across the tiny entrance hall in the room which, with a bed in an alcove, did for sitting room and bedroom. La Montagne dragged forward a chair and perched himself on the only other one the room boasted and then addressed Maynard in his own language.

“We are old friends; let us talk at ease,” he began. “Who is James Palmer?”

“A Washington architect,” was Maynard’s concise reply.

“Of independent means?”

“I understand he is quite wealthy, but I really know very little about the man. Why are you inquiring about him, René?” and Maynard looked at his companion with quickened interest.

“Because,” explained La Montagne frankly. “I have puzzled much over the scene before the door of Mr. Palmer’s apartment last night. Why did you and he show such interest in my simple action of stopping to inquire the way to Madame Van Ness’ apartment?”

Maynard studied the Frenchman as he considered the question. It was surely only fair to answer it; La Montagne could not defend himself until informed of the charges against him—after all, what were they? His appearance at the door of Palmer’s apartment immediately following the attempted assassination of Burnham could be a coincidence only; stranger things than that had happened in Maynard’s experience. After all the most serious phase of the affair was Burnham’s half delirious statement that La Montagne had “tried to get him.” A man making a charge had to prove it; therefore, it was up to Burnham to substantiate his statement with evidence, and La Montague’s assertion that he had seen the taxi-driver leave the apartment a second before he himself reached the door was possible of confirmation as soon as he located the chauffeur. As it stood, both Burnham and La Montagne had made unsupported statements—and each man’s word was as good as the other’s until proved a liar.

“Some one took a pot shot at Burnham as we sat in Palmer’s apartment,” stated Maynard slowly. “The shot was evidently fired from the balcony into the room.”

La Montagne straightened up and gazed intently at Maynard. “Yes, continue——” he urged.

“Access to the balcony is from the hall of the apartment; there was time, René, for an active man to have slipped back from the balcony into the corridor after having fired the shot and been standing just where we found you when we rushed into the hall.” Maynard checked off his remarks on his fingers. “The long French window which gives admittance from the hall to the balcony was open as well as the outer door leading from the apartment to the corridor where you stood.”

“Well, well, what then? Just because I stopped before a strange door does not mean I am a criminal!” La Montagne jerked out his sentences. “Even in this mad America!”

Maynard was silent for a second. “Burnham fainted from excitement,” he said. “However, he caught a glimpse of you before Palmer closed the door and called out that you had ‘tried to kill him’.”

La Montagne gazed at Maynard in blank astonishment. “Mon Dieu! Is the man possessed?”

“It would seem so,” agreed Maynard. “But I think another word fits the case better, ‘obsessed’,” and as the Frenchman looked puzzled, he added, “Burnham appears to hate you.”

“Hate me!” La Montagne threw himself back in his chair. “Everywhere I hear of such animosity on his part, and why?” he laughed vexedly. “It is a German trait to ‘strafe’ and not an American characteristic.”

Maynard stopped fingering his wrist watch and stared at his companion. “You mean the animosity is all on his side?”

“Absolutely. Our intercourse has been little but friendly——”

“But—but you know he opposes your engagement to Evelyn——?”

“So I have understood recently.” La Montagne shot a questioning look at Maynard. “Are you trying to establish a motive for my so-called attempt to shoot Burnham?”

“Frankly, yes. Now, keep calm, René; this thing has got to be thrashed out in sober earnest and if Burnham is determined to involve you in the attempted shooting, it is up to us to prove him a liar,” continued Maynard. “We can only do that by discussing the matter at every angle.”

“True,” admitted the Frenchman, but his hot color had not gone down, although his manner was more tranquil. “Aside from all else there is one point which establishes my innocence.”

“What is that? The presence of the taxi-driver?”

“Non, non! If I had shot at Burnham I would have killed him! See——” touching one of his medals which he wore. “It is for marksmanship. If you do not believe——” His hand sought his desk drawer and he whipped out his revolver—the tinkle of the shattered glass of the small incandescent electric light bulb, one of a cluster of imitation candles in the hall, broke the tense silence. “Voilà!”

Maynard sprang to his feet, his eyes glued to the automatic pistol. “Good God! You have a Maxim silencer on your gun!”

“But yes,” responded La Montague composedly.

“But, but——?” Maynard’s words tumbled over themselves. “It is forbidden by law to put a Maxim silencer on any weapon.”

“Laws are broken daily in America, mon ami; why so excited over trifles?”

“Trifles!” Maynard ruffled his hair. “René, the man who shot at Burnham used a revolver or pistol with a Maxim silencer on it.”

“Eh bien! What then?”

“This,” tersely. “You have an automatic equipped with a Maxim silencer; you were standing within a few yards of where the shooting took place—the door and window both open; and your engagement to Evelyn is opposed by her step-father.” Maynard drew a long breath. “There you are; weapon, presence, motive.”

“Bah!” La Montague’s scornful laugh was short. “You forget the presence of the taxi-driver whom I saw depart from the apartment before I reached the door.”

“Who is going to confirm your statement that he was there?”

“Why, the taxi-driver.”

Maynard shrugged his shoulders. “Do you think he is going to convict himself to clear you?”

“You mean——?”

“I mean you are going to have some difficulty in clearing yourself of having taken a pot shot at Burnham when you found the opportunity open to you, because”—Maynard spoke impressively—“if you did not attempt to shoot Burnham, the taxi-driver is the only other person who could have shot at him, and he is hardly likely to incriminate himself.”

La Montagne listened with ever growing impatience and increasing anger.

“You—you——” he stammered. “You call yourself my friend, and yet you tell me to my face that my word is not as good as a common chauffeur’s! I tell you I saw the man leave the apartment just before I got there. Enough—good-bye.”

But Maynard did not rise though the Frenchman stepped menacingly toward him.

“I said in the commencement, René, that we had to discuss this affair from every angle,” he began. “Be reasonable and sit down.”

Instead of complying, the Frenchman tramped excitedly up and down the room.

“What is your next angle?” he demanded. “More insults?”

“No, René; the taxi-driver——”

“To be sure, the taxi-driver. Have you talked with him?”

“Not yet.”

“No? Ah, you would rather come and insult me; you could not go on my simple word and arrest him as the murderer, but you think me guilty!” La Montagne, gesticulating wildly, moved about the room as if on springs.

“For heaven’s sake sit down and keep quiet,” begged Maynard. “I tried to see the taxi-driver, Sam, but he was with you——”

“With me?” La Montagne stepped back, astounded.

“Yes; I saw him driving your car and chased after you, hoping to see you together,” explained Maynard. “Did you question him?”

“I? Mon Dieu, non!” La Montagne’s eyes were twice their usual size. “I did not recognize the man—but now you speak of it”—he checked himself and continued his nervous walk about the apartment. Suddenly he stopped and turned to his silent companion. “Let us go and talk with the chauffeur,” he suggested briskly.

Maynard looked at his watch. “Perhaps we will find him at his garage,” he said. “He should be back by this time, especially as the manager of the garage told Palmer he had taken a party to Camp Meade and back.”

“I was the party.” La Montagne paused to lock his desk and bolt the windows, then he picked up his cap. “En avant, mon ami!” he exclaimed, his anger a thing of the past. “We will prove Burnham a liar, we two, and Evelyn shall be my bride before many days.”

“Evelyn!” Maynard clapped his hand into his pocket as her name recalled her message. “Evelyn gave me a letter for you.”

“Give it here.” In his eagerness La Montagne almost snatched the letter from Maynard and left the closing of the door of his apartment to him as he moved down the corridor reading the letter. Maynard was about to follow when his glance happened to fall on the outer wall of La Montagne’s apartment and he saw a flattened bullet slightly projecting from it. Taking out his penknife he pried the bullet out of the lath and plaster and slipping it inside his pocket, he joined La Montagne at the elevator shaft.

“I know something of firearms,” he said, lowering his voice although they had the corridor to themselves. “Your automatic is loaded with reduced charges.”

“And why not?” La Montagne raised his eyebrows. “It will still kill a man!”

“René,” Maynard’s manner grew stern. “Your conduct bears but one interpretation—you go armed because you fear an attack.”

La Montague’s smile was enigmatic. “Life is held very cheap in war-time,” he remarked, and stepped forward as the crowded elevator stopped at their floor. “Enter.”

It was not until they were inside the closed taxi and the car speeding on its way to the Potomac garage that La Montagne addressed his equally silent companion.

“Evelyn writes that her mother is much incensed that I met her as she states, clandestinely, and forbids that she go again to stay with Madame Van Ness,” he said. “It is unfair—unjust! Next time——” His mouth closed like a steel trap. “I begin to think like Madame Van Ness.”

Maynard looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”

“Madame Van Ness told me Wednesday afternoon that Mr. and Mrs. Burnham both disliked me; for what I know not, but she suggested——”

“Yes, go on!” There was subdued eagerness in Maynard’s tone.

“She suggested that while Mrs. Burnham’s prejudice against me might be prompted by her husband, his dislike was traceable to an event in Paris. But it hardly seems possible,” he broke off to add.

“Oh, go on, man; I can judge better perhaps than you.”

“Burnham had his face slapped by André de Sartiges at the club in Paris; he did not challenge, as is the French custom.” Maynard, drinking in what he said, nodded comprehension. “Later Burnham cut short his visit in Paris, or so I heard afterward; I was but a spectator at the quarrel in the club; in fact the scene was ridiculously funny and I laughed.”

Back to Maynard’s memory came Evelyn’s words: “Mr. Burnham hates to be made ridiculous.”

“Hump! It looks as if your sense of humor had cost you a bride,” he remarked dryly. “Burnham has apparently brooded over your untimely mirth until he has exaggerated it into a capital offense.”

“But then he is of unbalanced mind!” exclaimed La Montagne, astonished. “To think of a laugh seven years old and charge me with an attempt to kill because of it—Mon Dieu!” He shook his head. “Are such things possible? But yet Madame Van Ness believes Burnham’s enmity is of the past, and she is discerning.”

“You have discussed the matter with her?” Something odd in Maynard’s tone caused the Frenchman to glance at him quickly, but his face was expressionless.

“But yes, she is Evelyn’s best friend,” La Montagne answered simply. “She has been most kind in aiding me to set straight certain misunderstandings with Evelyn. She has a most sympathetic nature. You like her, n’est ce pas?”

“Yes, oh, yes.” Maynard drew out his cigarette case and offered it to his companion. “Have one?”

There was silence as the Frenchman busied himself in striking a match which he first held against Maynard’s cigarette before lighting his own.

“She is very beautiful, that Madame Van Ness,” pursued La Montagne. “Is she a divorcée or a widow?”

Maynard, gazing into the street, saw that their chauffeur was passing the Potomac Garage instead of stopping and tapped upon the plate glass partition and signed to the chauffeur to pull up at the curb.

“What did you say, René?” he asked.

“Is Madame Van Ness a divorcée or a widow?”

“There is no Mr. Van Ness—here we are; come on,” and opening the door he sprang to the sidewalk, followed by the Frenchman. A man, evidently the foreman from his manner and dress, sauntered up and Maynard spoke to him.

“Is there a chauffeur named Sam employed here? He drives frequently for Mr. James Palmer,” he added by way of explanation, as he saw the foreman looked dubious.

“Oh, aye.” Ferguson turned and called to a helper lounging near the entrance. “Tell Dutch to come here,” and the man threw down his tools and ran in the building. The foreman turned back to Maynard. “Dropped anything in his car?” he asked.

“No.”

Further conversation was cut short by the appearance of Sam, still carrying the waste he had been busily wiping his hands on when sent for. A streak of black grease showed plainly where he had pushed his red hair off his forehead.

“What’s wanted, Boss?” he asked. Ferguson with a jerk of his thumb indicated Maynard and the chauffeur looked at him and bobbed his head in recognition. Ferguson, mildly curious, propped himself against a lamp-post and prepared to listen to the interview, but the arrival of several taxi-cabs called him away to his duties.

Maynard waited an appreciable moment for La Montagne to speak, but as the Frenchman said nothing, he addressed the waiting taxi-driver.

“You were in the Bellevue apartment house last night between nine and ten o’clock——” It was an assertion, but Sam took it as a question and answered briskly.

“Yes, sir; I went there to take Colonel Jean,” Sam’s pronunciation was somewhat faulty, “to the train. He kept me waiting so long we ’most missed it.”

“Why did you stop at Mr. Palmer’s apartment on your way to the Colonel’s rooms?”

“I didn’t stop, Boss,” quickly. “I went up in the elevator without getting off until I struck the Colonel’s floor. I wasn’t near Mr. Palmer’s apartment.” Sam’s eyes never flickered under Maynard’s level gaze.

There was a brief silence, then La Montagne, who had been studying Sam with eager intentness, shook his head.

“He is of similar build and height, and his clothes the same as the man I saw leave Mr. Palmer’s apartment,” he said. “But I cannot swear to his identity.”

“You cannot!” Maynard stared aghast at him.

“No.” La Montagne looked hard at Sam, who gazed back at him unmoved. “No, I did not see the taxi-driver’s face.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE BLOTTED PAGE

MARIAN Van Ness turned the latch-key and stepped into her apartment with reluctance. After her visit to the hairdresser she had persuaded Evelyn, against the latter’s better judgment, to take a light dinner down town with her and had prolonged the walk home because of her desire for companionship. It was Mammy’s “church night,” and Marian dreaded the long evening by herself before the return of the faithful old servant who had been her mother’s personal maid years before. Mammy was a privileged character, and her shrewd comments and homely maxims frequently wiled away the tedium of evenings at home.

When Marian felt the strain of over-work and long hours at the State Department Mammy, on her return, would put her to bed and nurse her as she had done in infancy. Her large black hand possessed a magic touch healing, in its soothing influence, every tortured nerve and bringing sleep in its train. She would have made her fortune as a masseuse, but loyalty to her “chile” kept her in devoted attendance, sharing Marian’s varying vicissitudes with fortifying courage.

Marian’s light footfall made no sound as she crossed the tiny dining room on her way to the kitchenette opening from it. A peep inside disclosed Mammy dozing in a comfortable arm wicker chair. Marian’s surprised ejaculation awoke her.

“Laws! Honey,” she ejaculated, straightening her white turban. “Yo’ am late to-night; jes’ take yo’ tings off an’ Mammy’ll hab supper in a jiffy.”

“Don’t trouble, Mammy, I had my dinner down town.” Marian looked up at the kitchen clock. “You are late, dear; hurry and get your things on.”

“I isn’t goin’ to church dis evenin’, Honey.”

“You are not!” Marian’s surprise increased; for Mammy to miss her weekly devotional was almost unheard of. “Aren’t you well?”

“Oh, yes, I’se well, but I’se tired,” Mammy sighed as she reached across to a corner and pulled forward an electric vacuum cleaner. “I’se been a wrestlin’ wif dis hyar contraption ’most all day. ’Taint any use ob talkin’, Honey, de store-man cheated yo’, fo’ dis hyar cleanin’ machine ain’t no good, de vaccium’s done gone out ob it.”

Marian concealed her amusement from the tender old eyes watching her. “I’m afraid, Mammy, you are too addicted to dusters and brooms,” she remarked.

“’Deed I ’spects dat’s so, Honey; an’ ole broom knows whar de dust is.” Mammy followed Marian into the parlor. “Yo’se lookin’ kinder peaked, Honey; is dey aworkin’ yo’ as hard as ebber?”

“Every one works hard these days, Mammy.” Marian handed her hat and gloves to the servant and threw herself on the sofa which stood in front of the window. “I’ll just sit here and rest a bit. You go to bed, Mammy, and don’t worry over this apartment; it is the most spotlessly clean place in town.”

“Yes, Honey.” Mammy carried Marian’s belongings into her bedroom and returned with a light weight summer afghan which she spread over Marian, who had curled up in a corner of the sofa and was lying back with closed eyes. She did not stir and Mammy, with a final pat, stole from the room and went back to her quarters, there to doze in comfort.

Marian lay quietly on the sofa for more than an hour, and when she sat up darkness had succeeded the twilight. Too tired to move, she leaned back and propped her elbow on the window ledge and looked out. The view was more attractive than that generally seen from back windows; the rows of neat back yards, however, were devoid of light and the houses they belonged to were also lightless except the Burnham mansion.

From where she sat Marian could see that lights burned in the octagon-shaped wing of the mansion on several of its floors, and her familiarity with the house’s architectural arrangements enabled her to locate the different rooms. Mrs. Burnham had neglected to pull down the shades in her boudoir and Marian saw her knitting by the aid of a movable standing electric lamp, while Peter Burnham, sitting before the desk, was examining some papers. In the room above only a faint light glowed and Marian wondered if the housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, had left her bedroom and resumed her duties.

Marian’s eyes traveled downward to the open windows of Evelyn Preston’s bedroom, but they were dark; evidently Evelyn was either lying down or had gone to another part of the house. Even as she looked a light flashed in Evelyn’s room and in the sudden illumination she had an excellent view of the white walls of her friend’s room. Even as she watched Evelyn crossed before the windows and a second later the light was switched off. For many minutes thereafter Marian sat in darkness.

The front door bell sounded with such sharp suddenness that Marian started up in alarm. Throwing the afghan aside and switching on the electricity she hurried to the door before Mammy, whose doze had developed into heavy slumber, could pull herself out of her chair. A trusted State Department messenger stepped inside the entrance hall and handed Marian a sealed envelope.

“I was instructed to wait,” he explained, and took a chair just inside the parlor.

First stopping to pull down her window shades Marian hurried to her desk, and, taking the pages from the envelope, she proceeded to decode the messages written thereon. She had almost completed the task when, on starting a fresh page, her fountain pen commenced to leak and sent a stream of ink across her writing. With an impatient exclamation she picked up a fresh piece of blotting paper and checked the flow of ink, then continued the decoding. When her work was completed she gathered up the dispatches and the original messages and, placing them in a large envelope, carefully sealed the package with red wax and a ring bearing her crest.

The messenger, who had alternately read the evening paper and several magazines to occupy his time, rose with alacrity at her approach. Taking the envelope he buttoned it securely in an inner pocket of his coat.

“Rush work to-night,” he said. “They sent me here in a taxi-cab so that if I didn’t find you in I could locate you elsewhere.”

“Why didn’t you telephone beforehand?”

“Central reported your ’phone out of order,” he smiled. “Ain’t it fierce? Good-night,” and opening the door he stepped outside and almost on top of Dan Maynard whose hand, outstretched to ring the bell, struck him sharply on the chest. With a muttered word of apology the messenger hastened toward the elevator and left Marian and Maynard facing each other.

“May I come in?” he asked. His voice was very winning and there was a certain wistful appeal in his eyes as they met hers which possibly accounted for the sudden color in her cheeks. She stood in doubt for a brief second, then stepped back to admit him.

“I won’t take up much of your time,” he commenced, laying his hat down on the desk and turning to face her as she stopped in the middle of the parlor. “I have a message from René La Montagne. It is rather long——” He glanced about and then back at her.

“Then suppose we sit down.” Marian was regaining her old poise. Moving over to the sofa she ensconced herself on one end of it as Maynard pulled forward a chair. “You look”—staring at him steadily—“a trifle weary.”

“I am.” Maynard pushed back his short hair from his temples. “These are strenuous days;” his manner grew more earnest as he bent forward. “Now for my message; René desires to know if you will accompany Evelyn to Rockville, Maryland, next Tuesday.” She looked at him inquiringly and he added, “René plans to marry Evelyn there.”

She did not answer immediately. “Can René secure a license?” she asked finally.

“Yes.” His penetrating gaze never wavered as he studied her. “You will help them?”

“I will.”

Maynard lowered his voice. “Do you quite realize what your promise implies?” he asked anxiously. “The Burnhams will bitterly resent your part in Evelyn’s marriage, and they are in a position to make things most unpleasant for you.”

“Are they?” Marian’s back stiffened. “I am not afraid of the Burnhams or—any one.”

Maynard sat back and glanced away from her. “Then you are fully determined to assist Evelyn and René to elope?” he asked.

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Marian eyed him in surprise, “Because of my affection for Evelyn.”

“You think, then, a hasty marriage is wise?”

Marian’s fingers played with the afghan. “Circumstances alter cases,” she said composedly. “Evelyn and René are very much in love and deserve their happiness.”

Maynard again leaned nearer. “You have so much sympathy for another’s romance and for your own you have none. Do you never think of yourself?”

“Too much.” Marian’s smile was strained. “I would rather you left my feelings and my affairs out of the discussion.”

“Certainly; but——” Maynard hesitated a long moment. “Your husband——”

“Died long ago.”

Both her voice and manner precluded further questioning, and biting his lip Maynard sat back and contemplated her in silence. A deeper appreciation of her beauty stirred his pulse to a quicker beat; anxiety and hard work, which embitters some natures, had softened and rounded out Marian’s character. Maynard was unaware of the passing seconds as he sat musing, and Marian, controlling her restless longing to be alone, sat like an image, thankful that she had a back to lean against and the side of the sofa on which to rest her elbow. She felt inexplicably weary. Why would Maynard persist in raising the specter of the past? How could he allude to——

A loud ring of the bell came as a welcome relief to Marian.

Before she could start to answer it old Mammy appeared in the entrance hall from the dining room, having gone there upon awakening to find out whose voice it was she heard talking to Marian. The next instant she had ushered James Palmer into the parlor.

“Don’t get up, Mrs. Van Ness,” he entreated, moving forward with as much speed as his bulk permitted. “I only stopped in for a moment. Don’t think me unneighborly if I confess I came to see Maynard,” laying his hand on the latter’s shoulder.

Marian laughed vexedly. Did every one in the apartment house keep tab on her visitors, or was it only Palmer’s curiosity which had brought him there to find out if by chance Evelyn and her French lover were with her? Palmer’s next remark to Maynard caught her by surprise in its direct answer to her unspoken question.

“The elevator boy, Jim, told me you were looking at the vacant apartment next to this, Maynard, and he had seen you afterward stop at Mrs. Van Ness’ door, so,” added Palmer, “I took the chance of finding you here.”

“Do you wish anything, Palmer?” Maynard rose reluctantly; he had hoped to prolong his tête-à-tête with Marian.

“It is nothing so very important,” replied Palmer. “Peter Burnham has telephoned several times to ask if you were with me; he wants you to play chess with him. I tried to locate you in several places, as I judged from Burnham’s voice that he was getting excited and I thought a game with you might quiet him down.”

“We can try it.” Maynard, picking up his hat, inadvertently knocked several papers from the desk. Picking them up he laid them with the red blotter back on the desk, and then he turned to Marian and held out his hand.

She shook it with perfunctory courtesy. “Do I understand you have taken the next apartment?” she asked and there was a catch in her throat which Palmer was quick to detect.

“I plan to.” Maynard preceded Palmer to the door. “You will find me a quiet neighbor. Good night.”

Palmer, following Maynard closely, was surprised at the speed with which the door was closed behind him, almost upon his back in fact. He was about to comment upon it, but his companion’s preoccupied expression and air induced him to remain silent.

Mammy, who had shut the door with such precipitancy, leaned against its panels and looked with staring eyes at Marian.

“I’se recognized him now, Honey,” she gasped. “At las’ I’se recognized him, I mean his voice——”

“Stop!” Marian laid a warning finger on the old woman’s trembling lips. “We mustn’t tell all we know. Come and help me get to bed. I am tired, oh, so tired,” and to Mammy’s consternation she burst into violent weeping as she ran into her bedroom.

One—two—three—chimed the clock on the mantel in Marian’s parlor and the sound drowned the faint noise made by the turning of the lock of the front door; the next instant the door opened and a figure slipped in, listened a moment, then slipped with incredible swiftness into the parlor. A second later a flashlight played over the furniture, never ceasing in its rapid movement until the rays of light disclosed the scrap-basket. The intruder turned over its contents, then the basket was replaced, and once again the flashlight played about the parlor, to linger longest on the desk.

Underneath a pile of correspondence lay a piece of red blotting paper. The intruder picked it up; a few words were discernible on its almost unused surface. With a soft sigh of thankfulness the intruder pocketed the blotter and silently stole from the apartment.

CHAPTER XIV
BURNHAM PREFERS CHARGES

MRS. WARD, going about her work languidly, distracted Jones from his usual duties; he was not quite certain what was expected of him, to attend to the housekeeper’s whims or to valet Peter Burnham whose continued indisposition had developed a fondness for being waited on. The butler searched in vain for Mrs. Burnham to ask for orders, but the only person he located on the second floor was Evelyn Preston.

“Indeed, Miss Evelyn,” he protested, “what am I to do? Mrs. Burnham says Mr. Burnham is to stay abed, and Mr. Burnham says he wants his clothes, and Mrs. Ward comes along and says I am to pack Mr. Maynard’s bag.”

“Mr. Maynard’s bag!” Evelyn sat down in the hall chair. “What are you talking about, Jones?”

“I don’t rightly know, Miss; I’ve moved Mr. Maynard’s things from the room upstairs to the spare bedroom on this floor ’cause Mrs. Ward said it was too hot for him up there; that was yesterday, and now——” Jones wagged his head despondently. “A body can’t obey everybody,” he grumbled. “I’d best be accepting the Mission’s offer——”

“Now, Jones, don’t talk nonsense,” interrupted Evelyn firmly. “The person to be obeyed in this house is——”

“Who, Miss? That’s just what I want to know,” blurted out Jones as she hesitated.

“Why—why, Mother.” Evelyn regretted the words the moment she had spoken; whatever her private opinion of the extent or limitation of her step-father’s authority it should not have found expression before a servant. “Mother is the proper person for you to go to to settle that question,” she added in haste.

“Where can I find Mrs. Burnham?” asked Jones.

Evelyn paused to reflect; where had she last seen her mother?

“I think she went down into the basement,” she said uncertainly. “Or did she go to the garret?”

Jones concealed a smile behind a discreet cough. “Never mind, Miss Evelyn, I’ll keep going until I find her,” he said as he moved off.

“Wait, Jones,” and the butler halted. “Has Mr. Maynard gone out?”

“Yes, Miss, about an hour ago; anything else, Miss?”

“No, that is all, thank you,” and the servant went down stairs.

Left to herself Evelyn stared reflectively down the hall. Was Dan Maynard really leaving? He had said nothing to her at the breakfast table about going; surely he would keep his word and help—— The sound of an opening door made her look around just as Mrs. Ward stepped out of the library. At Evelyn’s call she turned with reluctance, or so it seemed to Evelyn, and approached her.

“Yes, Miss Evelyn,” she said, and stood waiting respectfully.

“Did Mr. Maynard mention at what hour he would return when he gave directions to have his bag packed?” asked Evelyn.

“No, Miss.” The housekeeper’s voice, monotonous in tone, always grated on Evelyn’s ear. She scanned the woman attentively; Mrs. Ward certainly had more lines in her face, and her hair, already gray, had gained an added whiteness in the past few days, which, contrasted with her sallow skin, made her look for the first time old in Evelyn’s eyes. Mrs. Ward moved restlessly under her continued staring, and her severe mouth tightened as she pressed her lips more firmly together.

“Is there anything else, Miss Evelyn?” she inquired finally.

“No, thank you,” but as the housekeeper turned to leave, Evelyn asked, “Why did you go in the library, Mrs. Ward? The coroner has forbidden any one entering it.”

Not stopping her rapid walk Mrs. Ward looked back over her shoulder and answered none too civilly: “I went in to straighten the room. Your mother told me to; therefore the responsibility is hers.”

Without comment Evelyn watched the housekeeper’s tall spare form disappear toward the back stairs, then she moved thoughtfully over to the library door and turned the knob—only to find the door locked. Evelyn stared at the closed door in a brown study. She recalled distinctly seeing the housekeeper step into the hall and she had most certainly not stopped to lock the door behind her. The lock was like the others in use throughout the house, not a spring catch but one which had to be turned by a key.

On sudden impulse Evelyn stooped over to see if by chance a key was in the lock on the other side of the door. Before she secured a good look at the hole the door was jerked open and Evelyn precipitated into the arms of her step-father.

Peter Burnham regarded her in silent indignation as she recovered her balance and released her hold of his arm which she had instinctively clung to for support.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded and his voice betrayed his excitement.

“I was trying to see if the door was locked on the inside.” Evelyn was a trifle breathless as well as consumed with inward fury at having been caught in so ignominious a position by her step-father. “I had no idea you were in the room.”

“Oh, you hadn’t.” Burnham shoved his hands deep in the pockets of his dressing gown. “Well, if you must know, I came in to find out what you were doing in here. Don’t deny you were here,” as she started to speak. “I heard you from my bedroom and came in to investigate.”

“You did not hear me,” Evelyn retorted. “Mrs. Ward was in here.”

“Mrs. Ward!” Burnham turned and gazed uneasily about the room, and back at Evelyn. “What was she doing here?”

“She said she came in to straighten the room.” Evelyn paused in her contemplation of Burnham and also glanced about the room. Mrs. Ward had evidently arranged the shades and curtains so as to darken the library, and Evelyn, her eyes accustomed to the sun-lit hall, made out the familiar objects with some difficulty. “I hope Mrs. Ward did not dust,” she added as Burnham kept silent. “Detective Mitchell expressly stated we were not to dust in here.”

“And pray where have you seen Mitchell?” asked Burnham quickly.

“Here,” meeting his irate gaze calmly. “The detective spends a great deal of time in and about the house. Don’t you think you had better go back to bed?”

Burnham muttered something she did not catch. “Have you seen that jackass, Jones?” he asked in a louder key.

“Yes, he is looking for Mother.” Evelyn’s eyes were growing more used to the light and she saw that a drawer of the desk table was opened, and an over-turned scrap-basket lay on the floor near at hand. “Why did you lock the library door?”

“To prevent intrusions,” replied Burnham shortly. “The police have ordered this room closed; very well, it shall remain closed. Please notify Mrs. Ward to that effect, and also kindly tell Jones to bring me my clothes. I’ll——” a coughing spell interrupted him. “Tell Jones I’ll discharge him if he doesn’t,” he added as soon as he could speak. “Also ask him if he sent that telephone for Dr. Hayden.”

“I heard him do that,” volunteered Evelyn. “The doctor said he would be in after his morning office hours were over.”

“Oh, all right.” Burnham moved to the desk and picked up a pencil sharpener from among the brass ornaments lying about. “Hurry, Evelyn, and send Jones to my room with my clothes.”

But Evelyn did not start at once on her errand; there was a feverish anxiety about Burnham which puzzled her. His explanation of his presence in the room was plausible; it was a natural impulse to look in the library if he heard any one moving about in the room closed by order of the coroner, and perfectly proper to lock the door to prevent others entering. But why had he not looked into the hall on first entering the library to see who had left the room? Why wait nearly five minutes, for that time at least had elapsed while she, Evelyn, had engaged the housekeeper in conversation, before jerking open the door? And why select the moment when she and not Mrs. Ward was standing before it? Come to think of it, she had rattled the knob in trying to open the door; of course, that would attract Burnham’s attention and cause him to find out who was trying to enter. Satisfied with the sudden solution which had occurred to her, Evelyn woke up to the fact that Burnham was thumping nervously on the door which he held invitingly open.

“Hurry, hurry,” he reiterated, and Evelyn sped out of the room.

Burnham waited a moment after closing the hall door and locking it securely, then taking out his bunch of keys he slipped the key on its silver ring and dropped them back in his pocket. Next he hurried over to the desk and gathered some papers from the drawer, closed it, picked up the scrap-basket and placed it under the desk, and taking a pocket chess board from the table he returned to his bedroom through the communicating door, closing it carefully behind him. After pulling up the shades and pushing back the curtains and flooding the room with light, he clambered back into bed and commenced reading over the papers he still clutched in his hand. He was absorbed in working out a difficult chess problem on the pocket board when a rap on his hall door disturbed him.

“Come in, Jones,” he called, but instead of his butler, Dr. Hayden walked in. Burnham’s worried expression changed to one of relief. “I thought you would never come,” he exclaimed, pushing aside the chess diagrams lying on the counterpane. “Draw up a chair and let’s talk; don’t bother about that thermometer,” frowning. “My temperature is normal, I’ve taken it,” pointing to a silver encased instrument lying on the bed stand.

Hayden smiled as he sat down, having first, however, poured out a glass of water from a carafe on the stand and put his thermometer in the glass of water.

“Amateur diagnosticians make work for the physicians,” he said good naturedly. “What are your symptoms to-day, Burnham?”

But Burnham did not smile. “I know what ails me,” he retorted doggedly, his eyes shifting about the room and then back at Hayden. “Worry has played the devil with my digestive organs. I’ll admit I had a beastly night, but I am all right now. I don’t like the baby’s food my wife insists on sending up to me, gruel and such stuff. I want a square meal.”

“We’ll see.” Hayden laid his fingers on Burnham’s wrist. “Pulse all right,” he said cheerily. “Stop worrying, Burnham, and give your nervous system a rest. I have told you before that you work yourself into these excitements.”

“Work myself up!” exclaimed Burnham bitterly. “Nothing of the sort. Do you think a man of my temperament can keep calm after finding a dead man in one of my rooms and being shot at two nights ago—and the murderer still at large? Why, man, my life’s in danger any hour, any moment until René La Montagne is put under restraint.”

Hayden held up a cautioning hand. “Hold on, Burnham, we do not know for certain that La Montagne shot at you on Thursday night; your charge is unsubstantiated.”

“I am morally certain of it,” declared Burnham, sitting bolt upright. “Not only that he tried to get me then, but that he killed the unknown man here on Monday night in mistake for me.”

“What!” Hayden regarded Burnham’s flushed countenance with keen attention. “Come, come, Burnham, don’t talk nonsense; be sensible.”

“You can think me cracked if you like.” Burnham’s jaw protruded obstinately. “Let me tell you something: La Montagne expected to find me here Monday night because I wrote him to meet me here.”

“You did!” Hayden stared in astonishment at his patient. “Why did you make an appointment with him if you did not like or trust the man?”

“Because I wanted him to understand, once and for all, that neither Mrs. Burnham nor I would permit Evelyn to marry him.” Burnham cleared his throat, his voice having grown husky. “Evelyn was expected in Washington and I wanted the Frenchman told before they met.”

“Well, did you see La Montagne Monday night?” asked Hayden.

“No, business in Philadelphia upset my plans.” Burnham’s eyes again shifted from his physician. “I did not reach Washington until Tuesday.”

“Oh!” Hayden stroked his chin reflectively. Burnham was certainly working himself into a state of nervous agitation, and the astute physician was wondering how much reliance to place upon his statements. It was very obvious, however, that Burnham was bent on talking to some one, and Hayden decided it was better to thresh the subject out with him, rather than have him bottle up his spleen and nurse his wrongs, fancied or otherwise.

“Let us look at the situation sensibly and without excitement,” he said. “You believe La Montagne killed this unknown man in mistake for you?”

“Yes.”

Hayden’s next question was checked by the entrance of Evelyn whose over-bright eyes indicated suppressed excitement.

“Jones has gone,” she announced, hardly greeting Hayden as she walked over to the bed.

“Gone! Gone where?” Burnham half rose.

“I don’t know—no one knows.” Evelyn waved her hands. “He just left.”

“Walked out?”

“I suppose so,” glancing in surprise at Burnham who had almost shouted the question. He noted her expression and modified his tone. “What have you in your hand, Evelyn?”

For answer she laid a small package on the bed and Burnham half extended his hand and then drew it back.

“It’s been opened,” he exclaimed. “Who opened it?”

“I don’t know. I found the package on the hall table downstairs when I went to answer the front door.”

Burnham pulled off the outer covering of the package with such vigor that its contents fell in a shower over the bed.

“It’s only your chess problem diagrams from Europe,” exclaimed Evelyn, picking up one which fell at her feet. “Why make such a fuss about them?” observing Burnham’s growing wrath.

He changed the subject with abruptness. “Your mother has repeatedly told you not to go to the door, Evelyn, but to wait for one of the servants. It is not dignified for you to answer the door bell.”

“I only went because I did not wish to keep Detective Mitchell standing on the steps any longer,” she protested, coloring under his rebuke. “Mr. Mitchell said you had telephoned for him.”

“So I did. Why didn’t you say at once that he was here?” glaring at her. “Ask him to come in,” and as Evelyn made for the door he added in an aside to Hayden: “When I send important messages I telephone from the library.” He leaned over and spoke in a confidential whisper. “I know I’m watched; they can’t fool me. Come in, Mitchell,” he called more loudly and frowned as Evelyn, her curiosity piqued by the situation, walked determinedly in behind the detective; then his frown changed to a smile and he dropped his eyes so that the others might not see the sudden crafty malice which lit them.

“Draw up a chair, Evelyn,” he suggested politely, but disregarding his remark she walked over to the bed and leaned against the footboard. Detective Mitchell likewise remained standing by Hayden and waited for Burnham to address him.

“Found the murderer yet?” asked Burnham.

“No, sir.”

“Identified the dead man?”

“Not yet, sir.” Mitchell shifted his weight somewhat and rested one hand on the bed. “It is only a matter of hours now.”

“Ah, indeed. Well, I’ll assist in pushing the clock hands forward.” Burnham paused to sip some water from a glass on the bedstand; his throat was getting dry. When he addressed his companions he spoke with deliberate impressiveness. “The dead man was murdered in mistake for me,” he began. “And by the same man who on Thursday night again tried to kill me, that time by shooting.”

Mitchell bent eagerly forward. “Who is this man?”

“René La Montagne of France.”

“You lie!” Evelyn, her eyes blazing with wrath, shook the bed to emphasize her words. “You lie!”

“I don’t!” Burnham glared back at her and smiled triumphantly. “I can prove my statement. Take down the charge, Mitchell.”

“One moment.” Hayden rose. “Let us talk this over a bit, Burnham. You say that the unidentified dead man was murdered in mistake for you by Captain La Montagne. Did Captain La Montagne know you by sight then?”

“Of course he did,” testily. “We met years ago in Paris.”

Hayden shook his head in bewilderment. “Then your theory that La Montagne mistook this unidentified dead man for you, Burnham, hardly is borne out by the medical evidence.”

“What d’ye mean?” The question shot from Burnham, down whose hot face perspiration was trickling.

“Why, simply that the man was killed by a dose of hydrocyanic acid.” Hayden spoke deliberately to make sure the excited man understood him. “If these two men were drinking together, as seems a natural supposition, La Montagne would have known his companion was not you and would not have administered the poison. He wasn’t shooting at you in the dark.”

“Not then, perhaps——” Evelyn, who had shot a grateful look at Hayden, whitened as she caught the venom in Burnham’s tone. “Listen to me, Mitchell; I want your full attention. La Montagne has great reason to dislike me, to even fear me. Be quiet,” as Evelyn endeavored to speak. “I had an appointment to meet La Montagne here on Monday night.”

“You did!” Evelyn stared astounded at her step-father.

“But I was detained and could not keep the appointment,” went on Burnham. He moistened his dry lips before continuing. “I take back what I said about La Montagne mistaking the dead man for me. He undoubtedly brought the man here to assist in assassinating me and, finding I did not arrive, killed the man from a double motive—to get rid of a witness who might possibly betray him and to convict me of the crime.”

Evelyn stared at Burnham and then at her companions, her eyes half out of her head.

“You are mad! Utterly mad!” she gasped.

“So that is your cue, is it?” Burnham laughed heartily, immoderately, and Hayden edged nearer the bed, ready for any emergency. Mitchell was the first to speak.

“That’s a very neat theory,” he said, and his calm manner had a quieting effect upon Burnham. “You say you had an engagement to meet Captain La Montagne here, sir, but that you did not keep it. Then how did Captain La Montagne and this unidentified man—you claim, his companion—get inside your house?”

Burnham slipped his hand under the pillow and dragged out a sheet of note paper. “Here is a copy of my letter to Captain La Montagne making the appointment for Monday night. In it you will see that I said that my train might be late, and not wishing to keep him standing on the doorstep in what might be inclement weather, I enclosed my latch key.”

Evelyn gazed aghast at Burnham and then vaguely about the room; its familiar objects wavered and danced before her vision and with a pitiful cry she sank fainting into Detective Mitchell’s arms.

CHAPTER XV
THE BEST LAID PLANS....

MAYNARD, pacing with nervous strides back and forth in Palmer’s apartment, paused in front of Dr. Hayden.

“Things look black,” he admitted. “Devilish black for René La Montagne.”

Hayden made a last entry in his day book and slipped it inside his pocket before answering.

“I am afraid they do,” he agreed. “Any news from Police Headquarters?”

“Only to say that Detective Mitchell is still out; I left word for him to call here.” Maynard flung himself down on the lounge by Hayden. “I wish I had been with you when Burnham preferred charges against René; rotten luck being detained down town and missing all the excitement.”

Any comment Hayden might have made was checked by the noisy entrance of Palmer from his work-shop, a small room at the back of his apartment which he had fitted up with office appliances and draughtsman’s tools.

“Have you seen Siki?” he asked.

“I have,” replied Maynard, “I sent him on an errand, Palmer. Siki told me it was his time off so——”

“That’s all right; glad you got some work out of the beggar.” Palmer wheeled an arm chair forward and dropped wearily into it. “Night work is playing the devil with me. What is the latest bulletin from the Burnhams’, Hayden?”

“Burnham ill and Evelyn better,” answered the physician tersely.

Maynard laid down his cigarette case unopened. “Had Jones reported back when you were there, Hayden?” At the butler’s name Palmer looked up inquisitively.

“Come to think of it, I didn’t inquire,” exclaimed Hayden. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Ward, opened the door for me and I went right upstairs to see my two patients.”

Palmer stared abstractedly at his highly polished shoes then looked over at Maynard. “Have you notified Chief Connor that Jones has decamped?” he inquired.

Maynard waited until his cigarette was lighted before replying.

“I have not,” he said. “Chiefly because I am not altogether certain Jones has decamped. On inquiry I found that Jones has taken ‘French’ leave in the past, always to return some days later with some very pat explanation for his absence.”

Hayden laughed. “The Burnham household is a singular one,” he said, “whichever way you take it. There are Mr. and Mrs. Burnham, two totally opposite characters; there is Evelyn, young, impulsive, and charming; there is Mrs. Ward——” He hesitated. “A curious sort of woman, morose, secretive; then there is Jones;” he laughed again. “Jones is an oddity.”

“So odd that I have spent nearly twenty-four hours looking up his past career,” said Palmer dryly. “And I’ve dug up some interesting facts; for instance, Jones has never taken out his naturalization papers.”

“His naturalization papers?” Hayden sat bolt upright. “Isn’t Jones an American?”

“He is not,” replied Palmer. “Some day, Hayden, if this District is ever declared a barred zone for enemy aliens, many Washington hostesses will find themselves left servantless and the Kaiser will get just so much less first hand information about American war preparations.”

“Do you mean Jones is a German?” demanded Maynard, and into his mind flashed the recollection of his first impression when Jones admitted him on Tuesday night at the Burnhams’; he had then detected the faint trace of a foreign accent in his speech, but the butler’s knowledge of English had made him forget his first impression.

“He is a German.” Palmer was enjoying the surprise his information was creating. “Not liking his full name of Johannes, the butler, then about twenty-two years of age, shortened it to Jones and lengthened his given name, ‘Adolph,’ to Adolphus. Now, Maynard,” Palmer’s manner grew serious, “we must tell Burnham of his servant’s double dealing.”

“Just a moment, sir, if you please,” put in a voice behind Palmer, and he jumped at the nearness of Detective Mitchell who had walked in a second before, unperceived by the three men. “Kindly make no mention of Jones to Mr. Burnham; Chief Connor is handling the matter now, and it’s not for us to interfere.”

Palmer colored warmly at the detective’s peremptory tone, but controlled his anger as he remarked: “So Chief Connor has come around to my theory that the dead man was a German spy, has he?”

“I can’t say, sir, what Chief Connor thinks; he does not confide in me,” replied Mitchell. “But I do know that when he requests a person not to interfere in the handling of a case, it is healthier for the person to do what he says.”

Seeing the gathering wrath in Palmer’s still flushed countenance, Maynard hastily broke into the conversation.

“Your spy theory doesn’t seem tenable, Palmer,” he remarked. “If the man was caught spying, why doesn’t the man who killed him come forward and state the case? No one is going to be condemned these days for exposing, aye, even killing, a German spy in line of duty.”

“That’s a specious argument,” scoffed Palmer. “It is just as convincing to say that if the dead man had been a member of the Secret Service killed by a German, his identity would be known to American officials.”

“Well, so it would,” declared Hayden, glancing in surprise at Maynard and Palmer. Maynard’s usually tranquil manner had deserted him, while Palmer’s expression was a clear indication of his feelings. “It may be that the dead man was a member of the Secret Service, but that does not necessarily mean that the Secret Service is going to announce that fact to the public, eh, Mitchell?”

“Quite true, doctor,” answered the detective. “And it may also be that the dead man was just an ordinary American citizen, a law abiding gentleman who placed too much confidence in——” Mitchell paused, then added, “in Captain La Montagne.”

“Nonsense!” protested Maynard vigorously. “You surely don’t place any credence in Burnham’s charges, Mitchell; the man’s out of his head.”

Mitchell looked dubious. “That remains to be proved, sir; and until the charges are refuted by Captain La Montagne they will stand against him.”

“Well, why not hurry up and give him a chance to clear himself?” demanded Maynard. “It strikes me, Mitchell, you are not giving the captain a square deal.”

Instead of replying, the detective shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve done my best,” he insisted a moment later. “I’ve tried to find the captain ever since the scene this morning; but he is not at his quarters or at the hangar, nor could I find him at the office of the French High Commission.”

“Did you try the French Embassy?”

“I did, but he had not been there to-day.”

Palmer rose and offered the detective a cigar and match. “Sit down,” he suggested as Hayden made room for Mitchell on the lounge, then asked, “Can you arrest a French officer detailed here for murder?”

“If I can prove he’s guilty, yes, Mr. Palmer.” Mitchell puffed contentedly at his cigar. “I’ve an operative waiting for Captain La Montagne at his apartment and at his official headquarters. They will notify me instantly upon his return.” Mitchell turned and gazed about the room and then at his companions. “I hadn’t an opportunity, doctor, when helping you carry Miss Preston to her room, to ask what Mr. Burnham meant when he said Captain La Montagne shot him on Thursday evening. Can any of you tell me where the shooting took place?”

“Here,” replied Hayden and Maynard in concert. Palmer, whose pipe had gone out, was having difficulty in making it draw again, and for the moment listened in silence to his companions.

Mitchell viewed the room with increased interest, and then inspected the three men. “Why have you never reported the affair to Headquarters?” he asked.

Maynard answered for the others. “I suggested that we investigate the affair ourselves first,” he said. “Burnham’s statement that La Montagne had shot at him appeared to have so little foundation to go on that——” Recollection of the scene in La Montagne’s apartment, the Maxim silencer, and the automatic brought him to a halt, confused; but he recovered himself almost instantly and, making no allusion to what had disconcerted him, he talked on—“that we decided to keep the affair quiet until more had developed.”

Mitchell listened with fixed attention and then turned abruptly to Hayden. “Suppose you tell me exactly what occurred here on Thursday night,” he suggested.

“Palmer can answer that better than I,” replied Hayden, but as Palmer remained silent he added, “I found Palmer and Burnham playing chess when I got back after dinner, and being fagged out I took a nap on the lounge and only woke up when Maynard arrived.”

“Then we had supper,” concluded Palmer, breaking his long silence. “That’s our dining table. We had just about finished when a bullet whistled by Burnham and struck the wall there.”

Springing to his feet, Mitchell went over and inspected the hole.

“Where’s the bullet?” he asked.

“Palmer pried it out,” remarked Hayden, rising. “Where did you put it?”

Palmer leaned forward and tipped up a small bronze vase which stood on the table and out rolled the bullet. “It’s chipped and mushroomed out of shape,” he said as Mitchell pounced on it. “But a gunsmith told me that it was undoubtedly of thirty-two caliber.”

Maynard kept his face expressionless but his heart sank; the bullet, safely tucked in his pocket, which he had dug out of the outer wall of La Montage’s apartment, was also of thirty-two caliber. Could it be that that also was merely a coincidence? Shaking off his depression with an effort, he joined the others about the dining table just as Mitchell asked:

“Exactly where were you sitting on Thursday night?”

Hayden and Maynard indicated their seats, and the former added:

“Burnham sat there, almost with his back to the window.”

“And Mr. Palmer sat facing Mr. Burnham.” Mitchell laid his hand on a chair and looked from where he stood across the room. “Surely, Mr. Palmer, you had a good view of the window; you must have caught a glimpse of any one standing in the window.”

“But I wasn’t facing the window,” protested Palmer. “I left the table a little before the shooting.”

“Where did you go?” asked Mitchell.

“Over to the window.” Palmer joined the group about the table. “It was an overcast foggy night and I did not see any one on the balcony. I had just turned my back to the window when the shot was fired at Burnham.”

Mitchell thought for a moment, then walked over to the window and looked out. The balcony in effect was an Italian loggia, shaded with Venetian blinds from the glare of the sun, and ran the length of the living room and on past the French window opening into the hall of Palmer’s apartment. The balcony was fairly wide and Palmer had fitted it up with wicker lounging chairs, a canvas couch, a number of pretty mats, and a table. Several artistic wicker bird-cage swinging electric lamps added to the attractiveness of the cool little retreat.

“And none of you heard a sound?” asked Mitchell.

“We heard no sound.” Palmer had suddenly become the spokesman. “The man evidently used a Maxim silencer. Thugs do, you know,” he commented as Mitchell raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, thugs do,” admitted Mitchell. “But how about Captain La Montagne? Where does he come in?”

“He didn’t come in.” Palmer, as he spoke, strolled over to the door and into the reception hall. “When Burnham and I rushed out here we found La Montagne standing in the corridor just outside my door. The door was open as well as the hall window opening on the balcony.”

“I see.” Mitchell jotted down several notes in his memorandum book and then dropped it in his pocket as he turned to Maynard. “Were you the last person to come into the apartment before the shooting?”

“To the best of my knowledge I was.” Maynard looked at his companions. “That is right, Palmer, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

Mitchell opened the hall door and examined the lock. “Did you happen to notice, Mr. Maynard, if the door was closed firmly behind you?”

“I never noticed,” admitted Maynard. “Siki closed the door; I didn’t.”

The detective addressed Palmer. “Is it your custom to leave the night latch down?”

“Sometimes; not often.”

Before closing the outer door Mitchell stepped into the corridor and surveyed it, after which he reëntered the apartment. “Have any of you taken up this matter with Captain La Montagne?” he asked.

“We did.” Palmer laid his hand on Maynard’s shoulder. “La Montagne told us he stopped only to inquire the way to Mrs. Van Ness’ apartment, and that he saw a chauffeur leave here a second before he arrived, and that he found the door partly open.”

“Ah, indeed.” Mitchell frowned in indecision before he again spoke. “Have you taken any steps to prove the truth of his statement?”

There was a faint pause before Maynard spoke. “I’ve tried to locate the taxi-driver but without success.”

“Too bad.” Mitchell’s frown deepened. “Did Captain La Montagne describe the man’s appearance?”

“Only to state that he wore a chauffeur’s outfit.” Maynard hesitated before adding, “Captain La Montagne said he did not obtain a good look at the man’s face as he ran away from him and up the staircase.”

“But I can describe his looks,” broke in Palmer. “He’s the man we saw on the next floor—medium height, red hair, and freckles, Mitchell,” and the detective took down the description. “His first name is Sam,” added Palmer. “He drives for me quite often and works for the Potomac Garage.”

“Hold on,” Maynard interrupted in his turn. “I’ve seen Sam and he declares he did not stop here Thursday night.”

“Oh!” Mitchell stared at Maynard. “That puts a crimp in La Montagne’s story.”

“Not necessarily,” objected Hayden. “More than one taxi-driver comes to this apartment house. Have you asked the janitor or the elevator boys, Maynard, if they saw other chauffeurs than Sam here on Thursday night?”

“Suppose you leave that investigation to me,” suggested Mitchell good naturedly. “Now I’m in this chase I must handle it; not that your idea isn’t a good one, doctor, but I can think of a better now. Can I see your Jap servant, Mr. Palmer?”

“Certainly.” Palmer rang the bell impatiently. “I am not sure he has returned; yes, here he is,” as the Japanese appeared in the hall. Palmer raised his voice. “Siki, this gentleman,” indicating Mitchell, “wants to talk to you.”

The servant moved rapidly toward them and bowed profoundly, then stood silently waiting.

“Siki,” began Mitchell. “Did a taxi-driver stop here about—” he wheeled back to Palmer. “What was the time?”

“Between nine and ten o’clock, on Thursday night last,” answered Palmer. “Did he come here, Siki?”

“No, honorable sir,” Siki again bowed, finger-tips together and elbows aslant.

“No taxi-driver came?” Maynard looked eagerly at the Jap. “Think, Siki; don’t make a mistake.”

“My memory is of the most good.” Siki spoke with positiveness. “No such man called. You, honorable Mr. Maynard, were the last that night.”

“See here, Siki.” The Jap turned to face Hayden as the latter addressed him. “If the taxi-driver didn’t come to this apartment at that hour on Thursday, what were you doing in the hall just at that moment?”

“I came to answer the bell, honorable doctor,” responded Siki. “It rang.”

“We did not hear it,” declared Maynard.

“It rang in the pantry.” Siki’s oblique black eyes stared unwinkingly at his questioners.

“How long a time elapsed between the ringing of the bell and your answering it?” asked Mitchell.

“Just so long as it take me slip on white jacket and come from pantry here,” and Siki sped lightly down the hall and back again. “Just so long, honorable sirs,” he said, and there was no quickening of his breath, although he had moved with unusual rapidity.

“Obviously La Montagne rang the bell,” commented Palmer, as Mitchell picked up his hat from the hall stand.

“Obviously, but not proven,” retorted Maynard, and he also took up his hat. “Wait, Mitchell, I’ll walk along with you. See you later, Palmer. Will you be at the tableaux to-night, doctor?”

“Yes. Mrs. Burnham has very kindly asked Palmer and me to go with them in their box.”

“Then we’ll meet at the theater.” Maynard nodded good-bye and stepped into the corridor; he had taken but a few steps when Siki hurried to his side.

“Here is the answer, honorable sir,” he said, handing him an envelope.

“Oh, thanks, Siki, I had forgotten.” Maynard slipped some loose change into the servant’s hand and then hastened down the corridor to where Mitchell waited for him.

“That’s an odd coincidence,” remarked the detective, keeping step with him. “Did you notice it?”

“No, what?”

“Why the ringing of a bell preceded the discovery of the dead man in Burnham’s library, and the ringing of another bell preceded the attempt to kill Burnham in Palmer’s apartment.”

“It did not precede, it followed in this case,” corrected Maynard. His attention was caught by the elevator, which shot upward past their floor, and he paused to wave his hand to Mrs. Burnham, its one passenger.

Outside the apartment Maynard turned again to Mitchell. “Do me a favor, will you; lend me a photograph of the dead man?”

“Sure.” Mitchell accompanied him around the corner and stopped in front of the Burnham house. “Shall I send it here?”

“Y-yes.” Maynard hesitated. “Yes. I have rented permanent quarters;” he glanced at the unopened letter in his hand. “But I’ll be at the Burnhams’ a day longer. Don’t forget, Mitchell.”

“I’ll send the photograph by special messenger this afternoon; good-bye, sir,” and Mitchell swung on down the street.

Maynard, while waiting for the Burnhams’ front door to be opened, took out the enclosure in the envelope handed him by Siki. The letterhead bore the firm name of a well known real estate dealer.

“September 19, 1917.

“My dear Mr. Maynard:

“Pursuant to your telephone call this morning, advising us that you would rent Apartment 25 in the Bellevue, we took up the matter with the owner. We regret to inform you that the owner had early this morning leased the apartment to Mrs. Marian Van Ness.

“We understand Mrs. Van Ness plans to furnish and sublet the apartment, therefore we advise that you get in touch with her——”

Maynard read no further. Thrusting the letter into his pocket he walked mechanically into the house, totally ignoring Mrs. Ward, who stood holding the door open with every intention of addressing him if opportunity offered.

CHAPTER XVI
IN THE LIMELIGHT

THE impatient crowd, regardless of the early hour, clamored for admittance before the closed doors of the Belasco Theatre. From his vantage point behind the ticket seller’s window, James Palmer smiled at friends and acquaintances as they pressed forward to buy tickets for the “Tableaux of the Allies,” or secure those already engaged. Not only would the Red Cross reap a rich harvest from the tableaux, but the amateur performance would be viewed by a representative Washington audience, judging from the presence of high Government officials, members of the Foreign Missions detailed to Washington, diplomats; and army and navy officers among the men and women who thronged the lobby of the theater.

Palmer watched the ticket seller’s deft manipulation of blue, red, and white pasteboards and his swift counting of change for a while longer, then hearing his name called he discovered Dr. Hayden waiting for him, and he promptly hurried through the private office into the lobby. Stopping to exchange a word of greeting with several friends just back from their summer outing, Palmer and Hayden entered the theater and made their way to Mrs. Burnham’s box. Mrs. Burnham, well gowned as always, and wearing the jewels for which she was famous, turned on their entrance and shook hands cordially, while Burnham offered his seat to Hayden with an ingratiating smile.

“Don’t talk shop, old man,” he said. “My wife has already expressed her opinion of my leaving my bed to come here, but——” His expression grew hard. “Evelyn persisted in taking part in the tableaux to-night, so we thought it, eh——” The playing of the “Star Spangled Banner” heralding the approach of the President and his wife, drowned his words, and rising, he and his guests and the whole house stood until the last bars of the anthem were played.

After reseating herself Mrs. Burnham unfolded her lorgnette and inspected first the audience and then her program.

“Upon my word, I had no idea so many of my friends were back,” she remarked, exchanging bows with the hostess in the next box. “It is a regular winter audience, and not such as you usually see in September. What’s the first tableau on the program?”

“The Navy,” answered Hayden, to whom the question was addressed. There was no further time for conversation as the lights went out and the curtains parted on the tableau, which elicited rounds of applause, and the Marine Band played the famous navy song: “Anchors Aweigh!”

There was some delay in the showing of the next tableau and Hayden, idly glancing over the program which Mrs. Burnham held so that both could read it, grew conscious that her eyes traveled more often to her husband, who was talking in fits and starts to Palmer, than to the printed words before her.

“What’s the idea of so many women in the tableaux and no men?” she questioned abruptly, breaking the silence, and Hayden marveled inwardly at the shrillness of her usually well modulated tone.

“I believe each girl personifies the spirit of our Allies in the tableau picked out for her,” explained Palmer, who had caught Mrs. Burnham’s question. “Some are most artistic; I was called in to advise about the scenery and saw some of the rehearsals.”

“Hadn’t any idea we had so many Allies,” announced Burnham, glancing over the program. “Here’s Siam and—— Hello, what’s this to be?”

“‘Somewhere in France.’” Hayden laid the program which had slipped out of Mrs. Burnham’s hand, back in her lap.

With lights extinguished the audience sat in expectation. Suddenly before them appeared a faint pink glow which, growing brighter, disclosed a trench outpost overlooking No Man’s Land—the scene of utter desolation and destruction confronting the solitary watchful sentry, crouching gun aslant, was finely done, and Mrs. Burnham winked away a tear as she whispered to Hayden:

“One of our boys——”

“Yes.” Hayden borrowed her opera-glasses. “Why, it’s Maynard!”

“It’s an excellent tableau!” exclaimed Burnham, taken out of himself, and he applauded vigorously. “No mistake about it, Lillian, Maynard makes a magnificent soldier. Strange, as handsome and fascinating as he is, that he has never married!”

Mrs. Burnham nodded absent agreement as her foot kept time to the tune, “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” Repeated calls for an encore of the tableau brought other views of trench life, so excellently portrayed that Maynard was far over the time set aside for him to be the center of the stage. He was hurrying to the wings, dodging scene shifters, when he almost stumbled over Evelyn standing a woe-begone figure in one corner away from a group of her merry companions who were eagerly or nervously, as the case might be, awaiting their turn to appear in the tableaux.

“Have you seen Marian anywhere?” she asked, and her disappointment was evident at his negative answer. “Where in the world can she be?”

“In one of the dressing rooms perhaps,” suggested Maynard.

“No; the stage manager said she had not come, and he is wild because her tableau follows mine.” Evelyn came a little nearer and lowered her voice, a needless precaution as the noise about them, added to the playing of the Marine Band, made it almost impossible to hear even a shout. Maynard would not have understood her but for his ability to read lips.

“Have you seen René La Montagne?”

“Not yet,” he shouted and she whitened under her make-up.

There was no opportunity to question him further as the stage manager demanded her presence. Maynard lent his aid in arranging her tableau which represented Belgium, and assisted in lashing her to the wheel of the gun carriage. It was a very effective tableau. Evelyn half knelt, half crouched against the wheel, and raised her eyes at the stage manager’s husky command and gazed in despair ahead of her, the hushed audience nowhere in sight as her mental vision conjured up her gallant French lover in the toils of circumstantial evidence.

Maynard halted near one of the wings out of sight of the audience to watch the tableau. A sudden draught of cold air caused him to look around and he saw Marian Van Ness just emerging from the circular staircase, which gave access not only to the dressing rooms under the stage, but to the stage door opening upon the alley. Marian did not pause until she reached the wing where he was standing, and he forbore to address her, noting her absorption in the tableau.

“And what does Jeanne d’Arc think of modern Belgium?” he inquired a few minutes later.

Marian started violently at sound of his voice.

“Jeanne’s mantle has fallen on the women and men of Belgium,” she answered readily, but her hand tightened its grasp on the sword she carried. “How lovely Evelyn is to-night.”

“Yes.” Maynard, who had drawn nearer to let a stage hand pass, made her a courtly bow. “Congratulations on your costume. You have carried out every detail of the celebrated picture of the Maid of Orleans.”

“Thanks.” Under the armor she wore, Marian’s heart beat faster as she caught the fascination of his eyes, and the soft cadence of his alluring voice. “Evelyn is having great applause. Ah! the tableau is over.”

“Mrs. Van Ness!” The agitated stage manager pounced upon her. “I feared you hadn’t come.”

“We worked late at the State Department——” but what else she said was lost to Maynard, who had gone to Evelyn’s assistance.

“Mrs. Van Ness will be in the next tableau,” he said, as Marian, stopping but a second to congratulate Evelyn, followed the stage manager to the center of the stage. “We can’t see it very well from the wings, suppose we slip out in the audience; we can come back again,” he added, as Evelyn made no move to accompany him.

“Won’t we be seen?” she asked.

“No, we can stand in the aisle. Come this way,” and his familiarity with the playhouse enabled him to guide her to the door opening into the auditorium. They stopped just beyond the entrance in the aisle and from there had an excellent view of the tableau. Marian’s pose was striking and something of the fire and mysticism of the heroic Frenchwoman whom she impersonated lighted her beautiful face.

“She is wonderful!” whispered Evelyn, enthralled, as spontaneous applause filled the theater. In the semi-darkness a man, hurrying to the stage door, bumped into Maynard and at his muttered apology the latter recognized Detective Mitchell. His expression caught his attention and he checked him.

“What’s up, Mitchell?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper so that his words would not reach Evelyn who, absorbed in the tableau being shown again, had slipped into a vacant aisle seat.

“Mr. Maynard!” Mitchell halted. “Beg pardon, I didn’t recognize you. Can you slip out here just a minute?” observing Maynard’s backward glance at Evelyn.

Maynard tiptoed to Evelyn’s side and whispered in her ear. “Come out through that door when you are ready; I’ll wait for you on the stage.” She nodded her comprehension and Maynard stole out after Mitchell. He found the detective impatiently waiting at the foot of the circular iron steps leading to the stage.

“Headquarters has just been notified that Captain La Montagne is to sing here to-night,” he said, taking care to keep his voice low. “I’ve got to see him.”

“But not here,” protested Maynard sharply. “Tut! you don’t want a scandal.”

“It’s bound to come,” retorted Mitchell philosophically. “We can’t postpone making an arrest any longer over this Burnham business; why, the whole town is holding us up to ridicule.”

“Better be ridiculed for masterly inactivity than be excoriated for committing a blunder,” cautioned Maynard. “Let me talk to La Montagne first.”

“No, sir.”

“Well, wait and get him alone at his apartment.”

“I’ve been trying for twelve hours to reach him at his apartment,” replied Mitchell. “He is too elusive to let out of my sight. Coming up with me?” as Maynard lagged back. Before the latter could step forward, the door opening upon the alley swung in and René La Montagne appeared. He started past Maynard with but a courteous salute at sight of the latter’s uniform, but his voice halted him.

“Ah, mon ami, is your tableau over then?” he exclaimed. “I have tried many times to speak with you on the telephone, but alas, the Central would not listen to my directions.” He paused in his rapid French to glance upward at Mitchell, who loitered on the step above them, and addressed the detective in English. “Pardon, monsieur, will you permit that we pass?”

“In just a minute.” Mitchell looked significantly at Maynard. “Please explain to Captain La Montagne who I am,” he requested. His manner was not to be denied and Maynard accepted the situation.

“René,” he began, “this is Detective Mitchell of the Central Office. He is in charge of the investigation of the Burnham mystery.”

“The Burnham mystery?” The Frenchman wrinkled his forehead. “You refer to——”

“The dead man found in the Burnham library,” volunteered Mitchell. “This morning, Captain La Montagne, Mr. Burnham made the statement that you were responsible for the man’s death.”

“I responsible!” La Montagne in his astonishment stepped backward on the narrow platform and but for Maynard would have lost his balance and fallen off the step and down the circular staircase to the floor below. “Mon Dieu! you are not sane!”

“Yes, I am,” responded Mitchell, nettled by La Montagne’s contemptuous smile. “Mr. Burnham preferred the charges against you.”

At Burnham’s name La Montagne’s surprise changed to indignation. “And does he dare to go to such lengths in his hatred as to accuse me, a cadet of a noble house, of a crime so base!” With a violent effort La Montagne controlled his temper. “Upon what grounds does he make such a charge?” he inquired more calmly.

“That he had an appointment to meet you Monday night in his house and that he sent you his latch-key to get in with, so that you would not have to wait outside the house for him,” explained Mitchell, watching carefully to see the effect of his words. But his long statement had given the Frenchman time to pull himself together, and he was master of his feelings as he answered.

“I had the appointment,” he stated. “But I did not keep it.”

“Why not?” demanded Mitchell.

“Because I lost my way in the storm—you recall the storm of Monday——” Mitchell mumbled a reluctant “yes,” and La Montagne continued rapidly. “I am not familiarly acquainted with your circles and streets, and I lost my way in the blinding rain and hail. I wandered about for many weary hours, and returned to my hotel drenched to the skin.”

Mitchell stared at him. “Have you any witnesses to prove your statement?” he asked, and the Frenchman flushed hotly.

“My word, monsieur, is good——”

“Yes, yes—but you may have to face a court of law,” warned Mitchell.

“Go slow!” commanded Maynard, breaking into the conversation. “Recollect, Mitchell, in your zeal you may overstep your authority.”

Mitchell contented himself with a glare at Maynard as he again addressed the Frenchman.

“Witnesses are very good things, sir,” he said wisely. “Just a word more; do you admit that Mr. Burnham sent you his latch-key?”

La Montagne disregarded Maynard’s indignant ejaculation and answered promptly. “I received the key, Monsieur; what then?”

“Well, I guess that’s enough——” Mitchell stepped nearer the Frenchman who faced him calmly.

“I will add,” said La Montagne and his voice was very quiet, “the latch-key was not in my possession on Monday night.”

“It wasn’t?” Mitchell almost shouted the question, while Maynard stared in wonder at the Frenchman.

“Non, monsieur,” continued La Montagne tranquilly. “The latch-key had been stolen from my apartment on Monday afternoon.”

Mitchell gazed open-mouthed at his two companions, but before he could think of anything to say the stage manager ran down a few steps and stopped at sight of La Montagne.

“Hurry up!” he exclaimed much relieved. “You are to sing the Marseillaise now; the audience is waiting,” and he almost dragged the Frenchman up the few steps, Mitchell standing back to let him pass. But he was hard on his heels a moment later and only stopped in the wings as La Montagne walked out toward the center of the brilliantly lighted stage.

Maynard, who had followed his companions more slowly, came face to face with Marian Van Ness at the head of the stairs.

“Have you seen Evelyn?” she asked anxiously. “I want her to go home with me.”

“I’ll tell her,” he promised and she smiled gratefully at him.

“Do, please; I’ll run and get my cloak, which one of the maids put in our dressing room,” and she disappeared as Maynard hastened down the steps. He had been gone but a second when Mrs. Burnham, assisted by Dr. Hayden, clambered up the staircase and looked helplessly at the busy scene.

“Dear me, where will we find Evelyn?” She turned to address a scene-shifter, but the man passed without paying the slightest attention to her hail.

“Just sit here, Mrs. Burnham,” Hayden guided her to a chair standing against the wall. “I’ll look up the stage manager; he will know where Evelyn is to be found,” and he darted behind some scenery.

Mrs. Burnham listened with interest to the echoing chorus of the Marseillaise, which was being played by the Marine Band and sung by the audience. Suddenly spying a bevy of girls toward the back of the stage she rose and walked in their direction.

Mitchell, observing that La Montagne was singing an encore, turned away just as Hayden appeared at the entrance to the wing and promptly accosted him.

“Have you seen Miss Preston?” he asked as the detective paused by him.

“Haven’t laid eyes on her.” Mitchell looked over toward the staircase. “Isn’t that she?” and he and Hayden stared at a heavily cloaked woman standing with her back toward them. She was peering intently at the floor when Hayden’s approaching footsteps caused her to look around and he recognized Marian Van Ness.

“Good evening,” he exclaimed, raising his hat. “Have you lost anything?”

“Yes—I, that is, no——” Marian laughed to hide her embarrassment. “Have you seen Evelyn?”

“No. I am searching myself for that elusive damsel,” laughed Hayden. “Her mother is waiting to take her home.”

“Oh!” Marian looked blank. “Then in that case I’ll run along. Good-night; don’t trouble to come with me,” and she hurried down the circular staircase.

Mitchell, who had listened unobtrusively in the background, stepped up to Hayden. “She’s a beauty and no mistake!” he remarked admiringly. “Gee, don’t fall!” Seeing her stumble on the last step he sprang forward, tripped over one of the iron uprights of the stair railing, and went sprawling. His out-flung hand closed over a small object to which he clung instinctively as Hayden helped him somewhat shakily to his feet.

“Thanks,” he muttered, as the physician brushed off some of the dust, accumulated in his fall. Unclosing his fingers he looked at the object in his hand; his breath entirely left him, and he pointed with his right hand to the decoration.

“Look, doctor!” he gasped and Hayden bent nearer, then his glance traveled upward and he and Mitchell contemplated each other in silence. A hand on Mitchell’s shoulder caused him to start violently.

“What have you there?” asked Maynard.

For answer the detective raised his hand until the nearest electric light fell full upon it.

“The Iron Cross!” he exclaimed and his voice was shaky.

“So it is,” answered Maynard, looking more closely at it and the string attached to the cross. “Stage property or genuine article, Mitchell?”

An irate voice from the foot of the staircase hailed Hayden.

“Heh! Hayden, do you think I want to stay here all night?” demanded Burnham. “Here’s Evelyn,” as the stage door opened and his step-daughter joined him on the platform of the staircase. “Where’s my wife?”

Hayden looked around. What had become of Mrs. Burnham? His unspoken question was answered by finding her almost at his elbow.

“I am coming, Peter,” she called. “Don’t excite yourself,” and bowing to Maynard, she accepted the physician’s assistance, but Hayden as he helped her carefully down the staircase and into the waiting carriage wondered at the hotness of her hand.

CHAPTER XVII
CAMOUFLAGE

CORONER PENFIELD paused in his microscopic examination of the polished surface of Burnham’s desk and laying down his instrument, listened attentively. He could have sworn he had heard a faint rustle of skirts. Moving with noiseless speed over to the doorway he peered into the hall, himself screened from view by the portières, but the hall was empty. After remaining behind the portières for fully five minutes, he again crossed the library and sat down before the desk and renewed his occupation of ransacking the drawers. With the aid of a skeleton key he unlocked first one and then another, but only neat rows of filed bills and canceled checks rewarded his search and he sat back finally, gnawing his underlip. His eyes strayed about the room and he frowned meditatively at the clock as it chimed the hour; ten o’clock was early for an amateur performance to be over, but——

Penfield closed and locked each drawer and replaced every ornament on the desk where it had originally stood, its place clearly indicated by the accumulation of dust which, by his order, the servants had been forbidden to remove. Rising, he took a thorough survey of the library. Mrs. Burnham had evidently seen that his instructions about keeping the room intact had been carried out; every piece of furniture was where he recalled seeing it after the discovery of the dead man sitting in the chair by the fireplace five or was it six—Penfield stopped to count—had five days elapsed since then? No arrests, no identification of the dead man in that time! Memory of a stinging editorial in a local newspaper on the subject of police inefficiency in handling the case made him wince. The editorial had hardened his resolve to make another examination of the Burnham residence, and upon hearing of the family’s contemplated absence at the theater that night he had decided to take the opportunity to once again go over the premises.

Crossing the room Penfield again examined the huge arm chair in which the dead body had been found. He shook his head despondently over the same blank results which had met his former investigation of the upholstery of the chair; there was no clue to be found in its spotless and unbroken surface, no niche where a paper might have been secreted, or spot where tell-tale finger marks had been left to aid in identifying the criminal.

With something very like an oath Penfield straightened up from his fruitless search and again transferred his attention to the library. Four questions confronted him: the identification of the dead man, how he had been carried into the library, from where, and by whom.

The coroner stared at each piece of furniture, at every section and corner of the large room, but no solution of the problem met his eager gaze in his orderly surroundings. His idea of being of aid to Detective Mitchell by a quiet examination of the room was a failure; no new viewpoint of the crime had presented itself.

Penfield turned restlessly about and faced the massive carved mantel which added much to the attractiveness of the library. The high brass andirons, their globe-shaped tops reaching almost to his chest, were badly in need of polishing, and the fire irons and screen were equally dingy. They were the only furnishings of the room which showed the result of closing the house during the summer months.

Penfield’s eyes traveled upward and along the high shelf of the mantel, which stood some distance above his head. The small bronze figures on either end of the shelf were handsome, but his eyes did not linger on them and passed on to the next objects, candlesticks, and then were focused on the center ornament—the mantel clock.

The clock was evidently of French make, and the coroner admired the handsome gilt work which encased the glass globe inside of which were exposed the works of the clock, its dial, and the pendulum, which in that instance was obviously the loose base of the clock, and revolved slowly half around and back again as the seconds and minutes were ticked off. But it was the dial of the clock which had claimed the coroner’s wandering attention. Taking out his note book, he turned its pages hurriedly until he came to an entry under the date of Tuesday of that week: “Clock in library going at time of discovery of dead man, and time registered accurate to the minute with my watch.”

Penfield frowned at the clock. How had he come to overlook questioning Evelyn regarding the clock? Had she set it going on entering the library Tuesday morning? If she had not, it would effectually prove his theory that some one had occupied the house in the absence of the Burnhams. Penfield brightened; he had found something tangible to work on after all by refreshing his memory in his re-examination of the room.

Standing on tip-toe, for his medium height did not permit his reaching behind the clock, Penfield felt along the shelf for a key to the clock. Meeting with no success, he pulled forward a chair and mounting it, looked behind the clock, then under the bronze figures, and lastly under the candlesticks, but he could find no trace of a key. He next essayed to open the glass door of the clock, but the catch stuck and pull as he might he could not open it. A discreet cough behind him interrupted his efforts and he swung about with such speed that he almost lost his balance. Jones, the butler, laid a steadying hand on his chair.

“Beg pardon, sir,” he said contritely. “I thought you heard me come in, sir.”

The coroner sprang down from the chair. “What is it you wish?” he demanded.

“The housekeeper said I was to report to you that I had returned, sir.”

“Returned? Returned from where?”

“From my day off, sir.” Jones, with careful exactness, replaced the chair from where the coroner had taken it. “Can I get you anything, sir; sandwiches——?”

“Not a thing, thanks.” The coroner’s brusque manner cut short the butler’s loquaciousness. “Where’s the key to this clock?” A jerk of his finger indicated the mantel shelf.

“I don’t know, sir.” Jones stepped forward and peered along the shelf, his height giving him that advantage over the coroner’s stocky figure. “Isn’t it alongside the clock?”

“It is not.”

“Then you’ll have to ask the master,” replied Jones, and his manner had lost some of its servility. “Or Mrs. Burnham,” he added as an after-thought. “The key is generally kept on the shelf. Mr. Burnham’s very fussy about all the clocks in the house and we have strict orders not to meddle with any of them.”

“I see.” Penfield thought a moment, then walked over and, closing the hall door, locked it. He balanced the key in his fingers before pocketing it. “Tell Mr. Burnham I will return the key to-morrow,” he said by way of explanation as he stopped long enough to pick up his hat from the chess table where he had placed it on first entering the library, and then walked over to the door opening into Burnham’s bedroom. He waited until Jones had followed him into the latter room, then turned and locked that door, pocketing its key without hesitancy.

Before again addressing the waiting servant Penfield took a careful survey of Burnham’s bedroom. Its simple furniture appealed to him, as well as the neat array of long tables which, with built-up sides, resembled open card index drawers.

“What’s all this?” he asked, approaching the tables.

“Mr. Burnham keeps his chess problems and records filed there,” explained Jones. “He receives problems, he calls them, from all over the world; and the time he spends fussing over them!” Jones rolled his eyes. “It’s enough to make him daffy. Here, don’t touch ’em, sir,” as the coroner removed several chess problem diagrams. “Mr. Burnham will raise——” He stopped as Penfield, after a cursory glance at the red and black markings in the small squares, dropped the diagrams back into place. “Mr. Burnham’s terrible passionate when he’s roused, sir,” he added apologetically. “I only thought to caution you, and no offense was meant.”

“And none taken, Jones,” answered Penfield. “So Mr. Burnham is of a passionate nature, is he?” Not waiting for the butler’s fervid “Yes,” he walked out of the bedroom, Jones just behind him. In the hall he stopped. “Which way is Mr. Maynard’s bedroom?”

“Right down the hall, sir, to your right,” and Jones led the way past the open door of Mrs. Burnham’s bedroom, which adjoined that of her husband, to the room he had indicated. Stepping inside he switched on the electric light and Coroner Penfield looked into the room for a moment only.

“Cozy quarters,” he remarked. “And who has the room across the way?”

“Miss Evelyn.” Jones stepped to one side to permit Penfield to return to the hall.

“And that room?” Penfield indicated a doorway at the back of the hall, a little to one side.

“That leads to Mrs. Burnham’s boudoir, sir, in the octagon wing of the house; leastways, that is what they call it,” explained Jones. His voice gained in impressiveness; he would have made his mark as a lecturer and the house was his hobby. “There’s a lot of surprises about this house, sir; it’s bigger than most folks think.”

“I have been over the house.” Coroner Penfield paused by the staircase. “I thought Mr. Maynard had a room on the third floor.”

“So he did, sir.” Jones led the way down the stairs. “But Mrs. Ward had his things moved into the spare bedroom downstairs, as Mrs. Burnham feared it was too hot for him on the third floor; not but what he might have been more comfortable with a suite of rooms all to himself upstairs,” added Jones, stopping respectfully by the entrance to the drawing room. “Will you go in and wait for Mr. Burnham? I heard he would be back early.”

Penfield considered a moment, then moved toward the front door.

“I will be around in the morning,” he said. “Please tell Miss Preston I desire to see her.”

“Certainly, sir.” Jones held wide the door and watched the coroner down the steps and saw him turn the corner before he again entered the house, closed the door and returned to his pantry. He was some minutes putting away plates, and then gathering the soiled dishcloths which the second man had left in an untidy heap on the floor, he turned off the light and went downstairs. The light in the lower hall had been left burning but dimly and in the almost complete darkness Jones stumbled against a heavy object and with difficulty kept his balance.

“Look out for my bag,” exclaimed a cold voice back of him.

“Schwein-hund!” The word slipped between the butler’s clenched teeth as he tenderly nursed his bruised shin, and with difficulty suppressed his desire to kick the bag down the hall as a small vent to his feelings. Suddenly he straightened up and, turning up the gas jet under which he stood, glared at Mrs. Ward, but her wooden expression gave no indication of having heard his ejaculation or observed his sudden badly concealed fury. Controlling himself by a supreme effort, he hid his feelings under his familiar suave manner.

“Why do you leave your bag in the way?” he asked, at the same time stooping to stand the suit case upright against the wall. “Shall I carry it upstairs for you?”

“No, put it down.” Mrs. Ward’s acerbity was unmistakable and Jones released his hold of the bag with alacrity, while silently marveling at its weight. “Go answer the bell, imbecile; do you not hear it ringing?”

Casting down the soiled dishcloths on top of the bag, Jones dashed by the housekeeper and ran upstairs, the front bell keeping up a ceaseless din as he hurried along; but in spite of his haste he paused long enough to scratch his bald head before opening the door.

“The bag had an ‘M’ on it,” he muttered. “It was no ‘W.’ I have a mind——” Another imperative summons on the bell sounded and he jerked open the door.

“Is Mr. Maynard in?” asked Marian Van Ness as she stepped across the threshold.

“Mr. M-M-Maynard,” stuttered Jones, his surprise at sight of Marian plainly evident. “No, miss, no ma’am.” Catching sight of her expression, his own changed to one of concern. “Are you ill, ma’am?”

“No.” Marian rubbed her cheeks, forgetting they were rouged, and unaware that it was the expression of her eyes which had alarmed the butler. “I have lost—I would like——” she pulled herself up short. “Has Miss Evelyn returned from the theater?”

“Not yet, ma’am.”

Marian moved over to the hall seat and sat down wearily. “Get a sheet of paper and a pencil, Jones,” she directed. “I want to leave a note for—for Mr. Maynard.”

“Surely, ma’am.” Jones fumbled about on the hall table and produced a much chewed pencil and a small piece of folded paper. “Just write your message here, ma’am, and I’ll give it to Mr. Maynard.”

Marian threw back her cloak and the butler inspected her striking costume of Jeanne d’Arc with admiring eyes. Forgetful of Jones’ presence, Marian stared at the blank paper, then wrote a few lines, and folded it into a cocked hat, added “Dan Maynard, Esq.,” in her distinctive writing and handed the note to Jones.

“I will be greatly obliged, Jones,” she said, stepping to the door, “if you will not mention my presence here to-night to any one, but give my note to Mr. Maynard.”

“Certainly, ma’am, I understand.” But the butler’s face was blank as he closed the door behind Marian and went slowly down stairs. He quickened his footsteps on hearing subdued voices in the hall leading to the basement front door, and reached there just in time to see the housekeeper hand her suit case to a taxi-cab driver.

“Here, wait!” he called, but instead of complying the taxi-driver slipped outside and Mrs. Ward shot the bolt into place before turning to face the irate butler.

“Hold your fuss!” she exclaimed authoritatively. “And mind your own business.”

“It is my business to know who comes here at night,” stormed Jones, giving vent to his bottled up anger at last. “Think you Mrs. Burnham likes to have hangers-on at her kitchen door?”

“And think you she likes to have such companions as you bring here?” Mrs. Ward’s blood was up. “The man whom the police want—the man you have kept here.”

Jones looked involuntarily over his shoulder. “Not so loud,” he cautioned. “Heinrich has joined the Mission; he seeks Divine guidance.”

“Then let him seek it elsewhere than in this house.” Mrs. Ward turned contemptuously away. “Pick up your clothes and be off.”

Jones gathered up the soiled dish towels in silent fury. As he tucked them under his arm some dark stains on one cloth caught his eye.

“Ah! Paint is it or ink?” He sniffed at the cloth, holding it close under his nose. “And why did you put fresh paint on your suit case?”

Instead of replying Mrs. Ward walked into the servants’ dining room and, sitting down, composedly picked up her knitting. Jones hesitated uncertainly in the hall, then, thrusting the note which Marian had given him inside a pocket, he followed Mrs. Ward into the room and stationed himself opposite her.

“Why did you alter the initial on the suit case?” he demanded, and waited in growing wrath for an answer. Receiving none, he again addressed the housekeeper. “Silence will not help you,” he announced. “I know—all.”

“Then why ask me questions?” inquired Mrs. Ward practically.

“Because I desire to know why that taxi-driver is here so often; in the back way; in the window, yonder,” pointing to the one opening on the walk which separated the Burnham residence from its next door neighbor, and which gave light and air to the rooms on that side of the house. “What does he here of so secretive a nature?”

Mrs. Ward laid down her knitting and met his angry gaze with one equally furious.

“What concern is it of yours?”

“That is my affair.”

“That is no answer.” Mrs. Ward shrugged her shoulders disdainfully.

“Then shall I say,” the butler leaned closer, “shall I say that that man’s jack-in-the-box presence in this house is for you a menace?”

Mrs. Ward’s laugh did not ring quite true.

“Since you must know——” She commenced, and paused to glance over her shoulder.

“Yes.” Jones came nearer. “What?”

“That man you call ‘jack-in-the-box’——”

“The taxi-driver,” prompted Jones. “Go on, woman!”

“That man——” the loud buzzing of the front door bell interrupted her. “Answer the bell.”

“Yes, yes, in a moment.” Jones came yet nearer. “The taxi-driver—who is he?”

“A detective—now go,” and Mrs. Ward resumed her knitting.

CHAPTER XVIII
“THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL”

BY the time Jones reached the front hall he found the door open and Mrs. Burnham awaiting his arrival with an angry sparkle in her eyes.

“Late again, Jones,” she remarked, and her tone caused the butler to flush uncomfortably. “Help Mr. Burnham off with his coat and then assist him to bed.”

Burnham rejected the butler’s aid with the same petulance he had shown to Maynard when the latter offered his assistance.

“I’m not a baby,” he remarked through chattering teeth. “What if I did catch a chill coming home, Lillian; it’s nothing serious. Here, take my keys, Jones, and bring me some whiskey from the sideboard.” Jerking the bunch of keys from the front door lock where he had left it dangling in his haste to enter the house, he tossed it to the waiting servant, and laying his hand on Maynard’s arm started with him up the staircase. Mrs. Burnham turned to follow when Evelyn, who had remained in the vestibule, stepped inside the house, closed the door, and called her softly by name.

“Come in the dining room, Mother, dear,” she said. “I must have a word with you, alone,” and the quiet emphasis on the last word belied her unnaturally high color and brilliant eyes. “Please, Mother.” Seeing Mrs. Burnham hesitate, she moved forward and gently encircled her waist with her arm. “Spare just a moment to me.”

Mrs. Burnham bent forward and kissed her with warmth. “Of course, Evelyn,” she said cheerily. “Say as many words to me as you want,” and she led the way into the drawing room, pausing only long enough to turn on the lights.

“Sit by me here,” she suggested, making herself comfortable on the sofa, but Evelyn, too nervous to remain quiet, only paused in her restless moving about to stand in front of her.

“Mother,” she began, and in spite of her determination to keep her voice steady it shook. “I love René La Montagne.”

Mrs. Burnham’s expression altered. “You think you do, Evelyn,” she corrected gently.

“No, Mother.” Evelyn’s gaze never shifted. “I love René and I intend to marry him.”

“Need we go into that?” Mrs. Burnham smiled, not unkindly. “Suppose for to-night we just admit the first premise—you love him.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Evelyn rested her hands against the table at her back and steadied herself. “René,” she blushed hotly. “René loves me.”

Mrs. Burnham gazed steadily at her daughter and a sudden wave of tenderness swept over her, and for a second the charming picture—Evelyn in her straight young beauty and her tattered Belgian costume—was blurred from sight by blinding tears. Unconscious of her mother’s emotion, Evelyn waited a moment before speaking.

“René loves me and I love René,” she reiterated. “Therefore; Mother, will you announce our engagement to-morrow morning?”

Mrs. Burnham sat bolt upright. “Will I do what?” she demanded.

“Announce my engagement to René La Montagne.”

“My dear child,” Mrs. Burnham raised her hands in horror. “Utterly unthought of!”

“But why? René and I have thought of it, and we are the most concerned.”

“Preposterous!” fumed Mrs. Burnham. “Why, the man’s under a cloud!”

“Exactly, mother; that is why I wish our engagement announced.” Evelyn stood proudly erect. “Shall you make the announcement or I, Mother?”

“René,” she blushed hotly, “René loves me.”

Mrs. Burnham stared at her in blank astonishment. “Have you taken leave of your senses?” she demanded. “Sit down here, Evelyn, and let us discuss this matter rationally.”

“Thanks, Mother, but I prefer to stand. I—I will not keep you long; in fact,” her smile was very winning, “I but wait your answer.”

Mrs. Burnham sighed. “The perversity of life!” she exclaimed. “Why do you pick out the one man I could not welcome as a son-in-law?”

“But why can’t you welcome him?” asked Evelyn impetuously. “René is all that a man should be—tender, true, and brave. Look at the record he had made in that gallant army of France. You have every reason to be proud of René, mother. Why, then, are you so absurdly prejudiced against him? He has never done anything to you.”

“Not to me perhaps——” began Mrs. Burnham, but Evelyn gave her no time to finish.

“Is it fair to take Mr. Burnham’s opinion about René instead of mine?” she demanded hotly. “My word is just as good as his, if not——”

“Stop, Evelyn.” Mrs. Burnham held up her hand imperatively. “It is not a question of word but of judgment; you are immature, impulsive, impressionable——”

“Good gracious, Mother,” Evelyn laughed vexedly. “Any more ‘ims’ you can think of? Mr. Burnham is determined to get René into trouble, and it is plain to be seen that he has influenced you against me.”

Mrs. Burnham flushed. “You are unjust, Evelyn,” she remonstrated. “You carry your dislike of your step-father too far——”

“You mean he has carried his dislike of René too far,” retorted Evelyn, bitter resentment against Burnham getting the better of her determination to curb her anger. “He has, even to preferring false charges against René.”

“Gently, Evelyn, gently.” Mrs. Burnham rose. “Do not say things in anger which you may bitterly regret later.”

“I shall never regret one word I say in defense of René,” responded Evelyn with undaunted spirit “And when Mr. Burnham charges René killed that unknown man in our library, he lies.”

Mrs. Burnham laid a firm hand on Evelyn’s shoulder. “Hush!” she commanded. “René will have an opportunity to prove his innocence shortly. I understand——” She faltered for a second, then continued sternly: “I understand he has been arrested for the crime.”

Evelyn shrank back from her mother and covered her face with her hands. When she looked up her expression had altered.

“Either you or I will announce in to-morrow’s papers my engagement to René—which shall it be?” she asked.

“Evelyn.” Mrs. Burnham seldom used that tone in addressing her daughter and the girl looked at her dumbly. “Have you considered what such a step means in the face of my disapproval?”

“You mean—giving up my fortune?”

“Yes. By the terms of your father’s will you forfeit your inheritance if you marry against my wishes.”

“Well, what of it?” Evelyn shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Thank God, money isn’t everything!”

“You are very young.” Mrs. Burnham smiled faintly. “In this case there is more than money involved; a crime and public scandal. Child!” For a second Mrs. Burnham’s composure deserted her. “You must be mad to desire to announce your engagement to a man whom your step-father charges with a heinous crime.”

“Charges can be disproved,” retorted Evelyn. “Mother,” she laid an imploring hand on her arm. “Mother, I assure you René is not guilty, no matter how much circumstantial evidence points to him; he no more killed that man than did Peter Burnham.”

Rapidly approaching footsteps caused Mrs. Burnham to turn abruptly and she welcomed Maynard’s entrance almost with eagerness.

“I have persuaded your husband to go to bed,” he said. “I think he will rest very comfortably. He has given me a prescription to fill for him; can you tell me where to find the nearest drug store which stays open all night?”

“I am afraid it is fully six blocks away, on Connecticut Avenue,” exclaimed Mrs. Burnham. “It is a shame to take you out at this hour of the night.”

“Not a bit of it.” Maynard nodded gayly at Evelyn. “Too bad you can’t stroll down town with me, Evelyn, the walk might do you good; not in that thin dress,” hastily. “Fortunately, to-night I was cast for an appropriate costume; uniforms are not conspicuous these days.”

“Our uniforms are always conspicuous,” rebuked Evelyn. “Just think of the gallant men wearing them.”

“All honor to them!” Maynard raised his hand in quick salute. “Some day, God willing, I’ll go up the line with the boys in khaki and over the top; until then——” A quick sigh completed the sentence. “I’ve taken your latch-key, Mrs. Burnham, so don’t have any one wait up for me,” and he hurried out of the house.

“Go to bed and get some rest, Evelyn,” suggested Mrs. Burnham, pausing with her hand on the electric light button. “We can talk more reasonably after a good night’s sleep. Come and see me after breakfast, and remember——”

“Yes, Mother.” Evelyn waited for her mother to lead the way up the staircase. But Mrs. Burnham did not complete her sentence until she had reached the second floor. In front of her door she turned and patted Evelyn gently on her shoulder. “Remember,” she said, “do nothing rash.”

It was not until Evelyn was in her own bedroom arranging her hair that she recollected her mother had omitted her customary good-night kiss. Evelyn’s lip quivered; her sensitive high-strung nature made her a prey to every slight, however unintentional or imaginary they were. She felt cruelly the barrier which she had been quick to see was slowly but surely separating her from her mother, a mother she had idolized up to the time of her marriage to Peter Burnham.

She had never been able to conquer her distaste for Peter Burnham and her growing fear that he might some day supplant her in her mother’s affections. She had little hope that she could win her mother’s consent to her engagement to René La Montagne, and still less that her mother would announce the engagement. But Evelyn came of a loyal courageous race and her fighting blood was up. Her lover, alone in a strange country, faced, in her opinion, unjust imprisonment for a crime he had not committed, and she was determined to offset her step-father’s charges against him by the announcement of their engagement. Let tongues wag in society and scandal be whispered; if she showed her faith in René La Montagne others would rally to his aid. There was Marian Van Ness and Dan Maynard— A tap on her door awoke her from her abstraction.

“What is it?” she called.

“It is I, Miss Evelyn,” announced Mrs. Ward, pushing the door farther open. “Your mother thought you might need my help in getting out of that dress. Let me do that for you,” and she deftly extracted a pin Evelyn had been vainly trying to reach for some moments.

“Thanks.” Evelyn submitted to being undressed with alacrity; she was utterly weary. “Aren’t you up pretty late for a woman who has been as ill as you have?”

“I am well again,” replied the housekeeper, arranging Evelyn’s clothes neatly on a chair and picking up brush and comb. “Just slip into bed, Miss Evelyn, and I’ll brush and braid your hair for you.”

With a murmur of thanks Evelyn followed her advice and partly sat and lay at ease while the experienced woman (she had graduated from lady’s maid to her position of housekeeper) deftly arranged her long silky hair, badly tangled from having worn it loose down her back in the tableau.

“There, Miss Evelyn, that is done,” Mrs. Ward announced twenty minutes later. “Is there anything else you would like?”

Evelyn looked about the room. “If you will open all my windows and raise the shades, I shall be greatly obliged,” she said. “The room is horribly hot.”

Mrs. Ward hesitated perceptibly. “I’m afraid you are a bit feverish,” she exclaimed. “Do you think it’s wise to open all the windows, Miss Evelyn? This room really isn’t any too warm.”

“I can’t sleep in it as it is,” exclaimed Evelyn. “I must have air; my head is swimming. Don’t worry about my catching cold, Mrs. Ward; I always sleep with the wind blowing on me.”

“Very well, Miss Evelyn.” The housekeeper went to first one window and then the other and pulled up the Holland shades, then flung the windows wide open. On her way to the door she stopped by the bed and looked thoughtfully down at Evelyn, then without speaking glided from the room to return a moment later with a silver whistle.

“If the room gets too cold, Miss Evelyn, and you don’t want to get up, just blow on this and I’ll come downstairs and help you,” she said, laying the whistle in Evelyn’s hand.

Genuinely touched, Evelyn raised herself on her elbow. “That’s very thoughtful and kind of you,” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it, Miss Evelyn, good-night,” and Mrs. Ward hurried away.

Sleep was far from Evelyn’s eyes and for long hours she tossed and turned on her pillow; the cool night air gradually lowered the temperature of the room and she felt relief. She had a touch of fever, she admitted to herself, touching her hot forehead, and half determined to get up and rummage around in her mother’s medicine cabinet for a bottle of “sweet spirits of niter,” but the thought of waking her mother deterred her.

As the night passed Evelyn slept by fits and starts. She was lying drowsily awake listening to a distant clock chiming three when she grew conscious of a light streaming directly in her eyes. Her lids flew open and she blinked for a few seconds before realization came to her. Jerking herself up on her elbow she gazed at a thin wave of light shining steadily through one of the windows full on her pillow. Too weary to do more than stare, she finally pulled her pillow around and settled herself in another position. She was just dozing off when the light again aroused her. Three times she changed her position and each time the light shone directly in her eyes. There was something uncanny in its power and its silent search only for her eyes. Evelyn felt a chill creep down her spine; then, conquering her nervousness, she reached over to a chair near the bed where lay her wrapper and proceeded to put it on. There was nothing for her to do but get up and pull down her window shades.

Suddenly just as she was about to spring out of bed a flash of light on the blank wall opposite her bed caught her attention and glancing up she was horrified to see vividly outlined there the scene of Tuesday morning—the large library chair with the dead man sitting with head thrown back, and once again she gazed in breathless suspense straight into the man’s wide open staring eyes.

Evelyn sat spell-bound; then shuddering she covered her eyes with her hands and cowered back. When she looked up again the wall opposite was blank. Closing her eyes she pressed the lids down with her finger-tips and kept them so for at least ten minutes. The next time she looked at the wall the space was still blank, and steadying her shaken nerves with the thought that her imagination was running away with her, she started to rise when before her eyes appeared a cord, exaggerated in size against the blank wall; suspended apparently by unknown, unseen means in mid-air, it twined about like some uncanny snake, but even as it twisted to and fro, Evelyn recognized the peculiar style of the cord—she had seen it three times before: taken from the dead man’s pocket, hanging from the open parcel in her hand two days later, and given to her the next afternoon by Dan Maynard.

With desperate fingers Evelyn groped under her pillow for the silver whistle—she would not stay another minute alone; she must tell some one of her hallucination before she went entirely out of her head. With eyes averted from the opposite wall, she twisted about in bed until the missing whistle turned up under her left elbow.

Blowing the whistle was not as simple a business as she had anticipated; her mouth was dry and parched and such breath as she had in her body only raised a feeble pipe; but in desperation she persevered. She was bathed in perspiration before a sound of footsteps brought unspeakable relief.

“Hurry, hurry,” she gasped, as a white-robed figure stepped just inside her room. “Come nearer. Look!” and with eyes averted she pointed to the opposite wall.

She was conscious of the figure’s approach at her hoarse whisper, but the continued silence snapped her last remnant of self-control.

“Tell me you see it,” she begged piteously. “The string, Mrs. Ward; you see the string!” and she caught the woman and swung her about, imploring eyes upraised—the woman who faced her was not the housekeeper, but her mother.

“Be calm, Evelyn,” she said, stroking the girl’s hot head. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Can’t you see the string on the wall?” asked Evelyn clinging to her.

Mrs. Burnham looked in the direction Evelyn pointed.

“No, dear,” she whispered soothingly. “Look for yourself.”

Slowly, reluctantly Evelyn turned and looked full at the wall—her mother was right, it was blank. But even as she stared at it, the wall lightened and once again she gazed into the eyes of the dead man seated in the chair facing her.

“See, Mother!” she cried.

Like one carved from stone Mrs. Burnham stared at the opposite wall; motionless, almost with breathing suspended, she continued to look ahead of her. Suddenly she spoke, and it was a voice Evelyn had never heard before and would never have recognized as hers.

“I see nothing, Evelyn,” she said. “The wall is blank.”

CHAPTER XIX
BRIBERY

JAMES PALMER felt his clean shaven chin with nervous fingers and turned away from contemplating himself in the mirror with a dissatisfied scowl. Kicking aside his tumbled clothes, which lay half on, half off the bed, he hurried into the living room of his apartment in time to catch Dr. Hayden as the latter was leaving on his round of professional visits.

“Give me a bracer, Hayden,” he demanded. “My nerves have gone to pot.”

Hayden scanned him closely and noted with professional interest his bloodshot eyes and shifting, ever moving restless fingers.

“Go back to bed,” he directed. “You are not in shape to be about this morning.”

“Shape or not, I’ve got to be in my office Sunday or no Sunday; Government contracts don’t wait on nerves, time, or day. Those cantonment plans must be shipped to——” Observing Hayden’s obdurate manner, Palmer’s peremptory tone changed to one almost of pleading. “Don’t send me to bed; I tell you I can’t sleep and I’ll go crazy if I remain inactive. I had to work last night; God knows if I can’t sleep at night, I can’t sleep in daylight.”

Hayden considered him a moment, then drawing out his prescription pad he wrote down directions, and tearing off the slip handed it to Palmer who, impatient to be off, stood twirling his hat from one hand to another.

“This mild bracer will give you relief, Palmer, but only temporarily.” Hayden’s serious manner impressed Palmer in spite of his open disinclination to follow his advice. “It is trite but true that no man can burn the candle at both ends; working under pressure day and night creates the necessity for sanitariums.”

Palmer frowned then smiled as he tucked the prescription safely away in his vest pocket.

“The work will lighten up shortly,” he declared. “Come along; oh, d——mn! there’s the ’phone.”

“Don’t wait, I’ll answer it,” and Hayden turned back into the apartment as Palmer hurried down the corridor. Just as he reached the head of the staircase a sound of voices drifted to him, and glancing over his shoulder he saw Mrs. Burnham leave the elevator and walk toward his apartment. Palmer stood for several seconds where he was; then, as Mrs. Burnham was admitted by his Japanese servant, Siki, he slowly retraced his footsteps to his apartment.

Inside the living room Hayden listened to a long winded statement from one of his patients, and making his replies as brief as politeness permitted he finally hung up the receiver and, swinging about, found Mrs. Burnham seated near at hand.

“I telephoned to your office and the boy told me you were not expected there this morning, so I chanced finding you here,” she explained as they shook hands. “I want your professional advice.”

“Surely, Mrs. Burnham.” Hayden drew a chair forward and sat down by her. “What is it?”

Mrs. Burnham did not reply at once. “Are we likely to be interrupted?” she finally inquired.

“No,” replied Hayden. “Palmer left before you came, and Siki is busy in his pantry.”

Mrs. Burnham’s tense manner relaxed somewhat. “I want to speak to you on confidential matters,” she said. “You will kindly mention my visit to no one.”

“Certainly not.” Hayden bowed. “Proceed, madam.”

It was some minutes before Mrs. Burnham again addressed him; she seemed at first uncertain how to commence.

“I sent for you this summer to come to Chelsea,” she began, “so that you might have Mr. Burnham under observation; I told you that at the time.” Hayden bowed again. “You said then that you observed a tendency on his part to brood and to withdraw himself from the society of his friends.”

“True,” responded Hayden gravely. “His chief relaxation, aside from long solitary walks, seemed to be to lock himself in some room and work over chess problems. I advised you to use your influence to induce him to be more with people.”

“I have tried to do so.” Mrs. Burnham was exerting her superb self-control to keep her voice tranquil. “Without, however, satisfactory results; now he even dislikes my society.”

Hayden glanced at her keenly. “A morbid tendency very often makes people turn against those they love the most,” he said gently. “As Burnham’s physical condition improves he will shake off his mental depression. In my opinion, Mrs. Burnham,” he added more lightly, “half the murders and suicides to-day are the result of a torpid liver.”

Mrs. Burnham’s answering smile was wan. “Then you think his, shall we say, distorted views of people and events are the result of physical illness reacting on his mental condition?”

“It is possible,” conceded Hayden; again he eyed her keenly. “You have mentioned no specific case——”

“I am coming to that.” Mrs. Burnham bent forward in her earnestness. “How much reliance can I place on my husband’s active dislike for Captain René La Montagne and the charges he has brought against him?”

Hayden considered the question. “It is difficult to answer,” he admitted, “I do not know the grounds, if any, your husband has for hating—frankly, on the surface it amounts to that—” he added hastily—“for hating the Frenchman.”

Mrs. Burnham colored painfully. “As I understand it, Captain La Montagne was a passive witness of an unfortunate scene in a club in Paris in which my husband did not—did not”—she faltered——“did not cover himself with glory; but I must say, in justice to him, that he was brought up in the tenets of the Quakers and dueling or fighting of any kind is——”

“I know,” broke in Hayden kindly. “It is highly probable that Burnham has become possessed of this notion, this dislike of La Montagne, contradictory alike to common-sense and his own experience, until it has developed into almost a monomania with him.”

Mrs. Burnham drew a long, long breath. “Then do you think he has brooded over a long past incident and centered his resentment on La Montagne until it has become an obsession?” she asked.

“Yes; so it seems to me.”

“Then you think he has taken the—the—shall we call it chance——” Mrs. Burnham whitened—“the chance of that unidentified man having been killed in our empty house, to involve Captain La Montagne in the crime so as to punish him for an imaginary grievance,—in his mental condition,—exaggerated out of all proportion to its real significance?”

“It may be,” Hayden hesitated, “but you must recollect that circumstantial evidence also points to Captain La Montagne.”

“I do not place much confidence in circumstantial evidence,” declared Mrs. Burnham. “Captain La Montagne if innocent, should have little difficulty in proving it, but——” Mrs. Burnham cleared her voice of a slight huskiness—“but I am willing to swear in any court that my husband’s attitude toward him is due to mental irresponsibility.”

A spark of admiration kindled Hayden’s eyes as he gazed at the composed woman seated before him; in his creed loyalty ranked high.

“Your claim seems justified by facts,” he said. “I would suggest——”

“What?”

“That you set the machinery in motion to have Mr. Burnham placed under mental observation,” he added reluctantly.

Mrs. Burnham averted her gaze. “Only as a last resource,” she said. “At present I wanted your views to assist me in deciding upon a course of action.” She paused and he waited with silent attention. It was some moments before she spoke again. “My daughter, Evelyn, wishes to announce her engagement to Captain La Montagne to-day.”

“Oh!” Hayden sat back and contemplated her in surprise.

“Quite so.” Mrs. Burnham’s smile was wintry. “Evelyn’s behavior complicates the situation,” she admitted with candor. “I have had quite enough gossip about my private affairs;” her tone grew bitter. “People perhaps do not think I know the things which were said at the time my engagement to Mr. Burnham was announced, but there are always kind friends;” she laughed mirthlessly. “Women do not spare their own sex, doctor; even my daughter’s intimate friend, Marian Van Ness, stated I only married Peter to get rid of him.”

The frantic ringing of the telephone bell interrupted her, and with a hasty apology Hayden crossed the room to the instrument. Mrs. Burnham seized the opportunity to relax in her chair; the interview had taxed her strength. Happening to glance in the direction of the door she saw the Japanese servant pass down the hall, long wall brush and dust pan in hand; another instant and Dr. Hayden was back at her side.

“Evelyn is in a state of mind to do anything,” she stated, as he resumed his seat. “She is quite as possessed in favor of Captain La Montagne as my husband is opposed to him.”

“A pleasant situation for you,” acknowledged Hayden, and his sympathetic manner was a tonic to her frayed nerves. “Do you anticipate an elopement?”

“No, oh, no.” Mrs. Burnham spoke more rapidly than ordinarily. “Evelyn simply desires the immediate public announcement of her engagement under, in my opinion, a mistaken sense of loyalty to Captain La Montagne. I have begged her to tell only her intimate friends and relatives——”

“Ah! then you have agreed to the engagement?” asked Hayden quickly.

“Yes,” reluctantly. “Frankly, doctor, Evelyn’s condition this morning worried me, and I thought the best thing to do was to accede as far as possible to her wishes. It quieted her and she spent the remainder of the night without seeing visions.”

“Visions!” exclaimed the astonished physician.

“Yes,” tartly. “I was awakened by a whistling noise which seemed to come from Evelyn’s room, and on going in I found her sitting up in bed, apparently frightened half out of her senses and declaring that she saw against the opposite wall the unidentified dead man, sitting in the chair as she had found him in the library on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Upon my word!” Hayden stared at Mrs. Burnham; she was certainly serious in her statement. Was the entire Burnham household going mad, or was his hearing defective?

“Evelyn seldom speaks of the scene in the library,” went on Mrs. Burnham. “But finding the body must have made a greater impression upon her than any of us realized. She was very much wrought up to a feverish degree. Mrs. Ward told me this morning, by an interview she had with me about René La Montagne just before going to bed, and I am afraid her mind must have reverted back to the dead man and her mental distress projected her vision of him on the wall,” ended Mrs. Burnham. “Isn’t that what you physicians call it?”

Hayden looked puzzled. “An illusion—counterfeit appearances,” he explained, “is an incorrect impression of the senses. Has Evelyn ever had other illusions?”

“Never to my knowledge.” Mrs. Burnham rose. “I have left her in bed in Mrs. Ward’s care. I wish you would come in sometime during the day doctor, and see her. In the meantime, I can’t thank you enough——” Mrs. Burnham’s fine eyes filled with tears and she stopped unable to control her voice.

“My dear Mrs. Burnham,” Hayden shook her hand warmly. “Say no more; I am only too delighted to be of service to you; you forget, but I do not, your long years of kindness and hospitality to me.”

Taking her knitting bag from the sofa where she had dropped it, Mrs. Burnham started for the door, and Hayden, snatching up his surgical bag and hat, accompanied her out of the apartment and down in the elevator.

They had been gone fully five minutes before James Palmer rose from his chair in the corner of the balcony and looked through the open window into the empty living room.

“A clever woman, a very clever woman,” he commented aloud. Turning abruptly he stepped through the French window opening into the hall of his apartment and went in search of the Japanese, Siki.

“Go out on the balcony and put new electric bulbs in the bird-cage lanterns,” he directed. “We want to sit out there to-night after dinner.”

Not waiting for a reply he left the apartment and was just in time to catch a descending elevator. The boy had shut the elevator door when Palmer caught sight of Peter Burnham walking down the corridor, and he had but time to call out: “Sorry to miss you; Hayden’s gone,” when the elevator shot downward.

“I’ll wait for Hayden,” shouted Burnham, and a moment later was explaining his presence and desires to the attentive Japanese.

Siki ushered him into the living room with a grand flourish, then went off to execute his master’s orders with sublime disregard of Burnham’s presence.

The morning papers first engaged Burnham’s attention; the chess table added its fascination, but finally, tiring of both occupations, he wandered over to the window opening upon the balcony, a tinkle of glass having attracted his notice. He stood for some seconds looking out at the Jap sweeping up pieces of a broken electric bulb and watched him screw another in place in one of the silk-lined bird-cage lanterns.

“Siki,” he called. “Come here,” and as the Jap approached the window he drew out a twenty dollar bill.

“See here, Siki,” he began insinuatingly. “You know Captain La Montagne was in this apartment Thursday night just before the attempt was made to shoot me.”

The Jap looked first at the bill and then at Burnham, his expression inscrutable.

“Me understand, honorable sir,” he admitted and pocketed the money.

CHAPTER XX
IDENTIFICATION

MARIAN VAN NESS turned restlessly away from the window as her old servant came into the sitting room.

“Are you quite sure no telephone call has come for me, Mammy?” she asked with gentle insistence. Mammy’s antipathy to the telephone was known to her; on occasions she had not answered it in Marian’s absence, having confided to the cook in the next apartment that it was little short of uncanny and she wanted nothing to do with the “devil’s works.”

“Aint been no call at all,” Mammy assured her with conviction. “I jes’ sat in my kitchen wif de do’ open alistenin’ fo’ dat and de do’ bell, as yo’ said yo’ was ’spectin’ company; aint eben been in hyar to tidy up.”

As she spoke Mammy proceeded to “set to rights,” as she termed it, the mass of books, electric light paraphernalia and torches which littered the window ledge and to put each chair in orderly array. Marian, who had kept a luncheon engagement of some days’ standing and returned afterward as promptly as possible to her apartment, moved away so that her old servant would not see the keen disappointment her statement of no callers and no telephone calls had given her.

Marian bitterly regretted the almost insane impulse which had prompted her to seek out Dan Maynard the night before, to even leave a note—a note he had ignored and left unanswered. Her cheeks burned at the thought.

The bang of a heavy book which Mammy inadvertently let fall startled her so that she dropped her ball of worsted which she was winding with the aid of a chair back. Mammy’s rheumatic joints cracked as she stooped over, but Marian was before her.

“Don’t bother, I’ll pick it up,” she said, and retrieving her ball, which had rolled under a table, she sat back somewhat flushed from her exertions, the book balanced open in her lap.

Looking more closely she saw it was an edition of “Who’s Who,” and in sheer idleness turned over its leaves as she continued winding the ball. Suddenly her eyes, traveling listlessly down one page, stopped, arrested by Dan Maynard’s name. Putting aside the worsted, she lifted up the book and read the long paragraph devoted to his accomplishments, his stage career, and his place of birth—Berlin.

Mammy finished her work and seeing Marian sitting staring in absorbed attention at an open book, concluded not to interrupt her reading, and hobbled from the room. In the kitchen she paused to ruminate before putting on her spotlessly clean white apron, her “Sunday best.”

“’Pears like Miss Marian aint herself no mo’,” she muttered, sorrowfully. “Why dat man got ter com’ back an’ torment her mo’? I s’pose de good Lord knows His business, but thar’s times when us mortals could give Him p’ints. Laws! who dat?” The sudden clang of the front door gong startling her into dropping her apron. Mammy’s heart sank, when on opening the door a moment later, she gazed up into Dan Maynard’s handsome face; and it was only with much self-restraint that she managed to answer with any civility his inquiry for her beloved “Miss Marian.”

Marian made no motion to rise as he entered and her frigid bow was far from cordial. An awkward pause followed.

“Won’t you sit down?” she asked, finally, and Maynard with suppressed indignation quietly took the chair next to hers; in doing so he dislodged the worsted which she had carefully stretched across the chair back.

“I beg your pardon,” he exclaimed contritely. “I never noticed the worsted; very stupid of me.”

“Don’t bother, please.” Marian turned about and rested one hand on her desk. “Have you brought back my blotter?”

Maynard sat upright, the neglected worsted at his feet.

“Your blotter?” he echoed. “What blotter is that?”

“The one you took from here Friday night.”

Maynard stared at her. “I am an absent-minded beggar,” he said, and his smile was whimsical. “If I accidentally walked off with your blotter that night I apologize and will bring you another one to-morrow.”

Marian stiffened. “I allude to the blotter I unfortunately used when decoding a message from the State Department; the message on it was very clear;” her voice stumbled as she met his astonished gaze. “The blotter was missing the morning after your call.”

Slowly her meaning dawned on Maynard.

“Good God! Marian, do I understand you accuse me of stealing a blotter with the imprint of a decoded message from the State Department on it?” he demanded.

“Yes.” The monosyllable cost her an effort which Maynard’s indignation blinded him to.

“You think me a spy, a traitor—you?” he stammered, his face gone white.

“What else am I to think?” she retorted drearily. “Your unexpected and unexplained return—oh, I know ‘war work’; war work, these days, like charity sometimes covers a multitude of sins.”

“My war work——” began Maynard hotly, and stopped short.

“Your war work,” she repeated. “Well, is it for Uncle Sam or for the Kaiser?”

Maynard held up a protesting hand. “Let us talk reasonably,” he said. “There is no occasion for excitement. What induces you to think I am working for the Kaiser?”

“Your fondness of the German people;” she stopped and spoke more slowly. “Were you not born in Germany?”

“Surely.” Maynard’s smile showed his strong white teeth. “Accidents do happen, Marian, even in the selection of a birth-place. My parents were Americans, and my ancestors were Norman-French and Anglo-Saxon. You cannot question my loyalty to Uncle Sam on those grounds.”

“Were you not decorated by the Kaiser?” demanded Marian, her blood tingling at his faintly humorous manner of taking her serious accusation.

“I was, several years ago.” Maynard’s smile disappeared. “Suppose I answer what must come next in your ‘questionnaire’,” he suggested and a certain sternness crept into voice and manner. “I can give you no account of my whereabouts during the past twelve months, or——” He paused—“my occupation. Come, Marian, old comrade, take me on faith?” and he flung out both hands, his voice soft and winning.

“If I only could!” He caught the look that flamed her eyes and the next instant she was in his arms, his voice dangerously sweet as he murmured loving, adoring words in her ear, and then holding her close he kissed her passionately. Suddenly she broke from his embrace.

“No, no,” she cried. “I sent you away once and I must do so again. It was madness on your part to break down the barrier——”

“The barrier, Marian, no longer exists,” he stated softly, and she sprang up.

“What do you mean?” she demanded breathlessly.

He answered her question with another: “Did you see the unidentified dead man whom Evelyn found Tuesday afternoon in the Burnham library?”

“I? See him?” His eyes never left her white strained face, but she was unconscious of his scrutiny. “No, I did not see the man. Why?”

For reply Maynard unbuttoned his coat and took from an inner pocket a photograph and handed it to her. In silence she stared at the dead man sitting in the library chair; in silence she looked up at Maynard.

“He’s dead,” she stammered. “Really dead?”

“Yes—thank God!” answered Maynard, and at the look which crept into his eyes she turned and with a low cry pillowed her head on her arms across the desk and lay as one dead.

Maynard waited in silence for fully five minutes, then he called her softly.

“Can I be of service?” he asked. A shake of her head was the only sign that he heard.

“Do you wish me to stay?” he asked, and had to stoop to catch her muffled: “No.”

Picking up his hat in the hall he paused in uncertainty; then recollection of Mammy’s presence in the apartment convinced him that he was not leaving Marian alone, and opening the door he went slowly down the corridor to the elevator shaft.

He had been gone a scant three minutes when Mammy’s black face peered out from Marian’s bedroom; a second later she was by Marian’s side. At her loving touch Marian sat up and Mammy’s glance strayed from her blanched face to the photograph lying face up on the desk.

“I heerd all,” she said in a husky whisper. “An’ he’s daid,” touching the photograph. “’Peers like de Lord do know His business, but de debble musta sent Marse Dan to de Burnham house on Monday night.”

“H—h—ush!” And Marian clasped her in an agonizing grip as her terrified eyes swept the pretty room. “Hush!”

CHAPTER XXI
UNMASKED

MAYNARD, swinging his cane jauntily as he strode along, paused a few steps from the Bellevue Apartment House and swore softly; he had entirely forgotten the errand which had, ostensibly, taken him to see Marian. Retracing his footsteps he persuaded the telephone operator to give him a small envelope and writing on his visiting card: “Evelyn wishes to see you at your earliest convenience,” he enclosed it in the envelope, and insured its immediate delivery by a liberal tip to the grinning elevator boy.

His conscience once again clear he hastened around to the Burnhams’ and reached that hospitable home just as Jones appeared on the doorstep intent on summoning a newsboy whose shrill shout of “Sunday Times” could be heard a block away.

Maynard paused by the butler’s side. “Get a paper for me also,” he directed, producing some pennies.

“Don’t bother, sir,” protested Jones. “I always gets four for the house, sir; I have the money right here.” In hunting for his change the butler resurrected a folded paper. His face fell at sight of it. “Heavens, sir; I forgot to give you this,” he gasped in consternation. “Mrs. Van Ness—that is——” Suddenly recollecting that Marian had requested him not to mention her presence at the house the night before, he pulled himself up short and under pretence of saving the newsboy steps he went forward to meet him.

White to Play and Mate in Two Moves.

But the maneuver was unnecessary. Maynard had forgotten the butler’s existence. His entire attention was concentrated on the small piece of paper which upon unfolding, proved to be a chess problem diagram. Underneath it was written: “White to play and mate in two moves.”

For several seconds Maynard studied the position of the men, then wheeling about he raced up the staircase and disappeared in his bedroom, in his haste utterly ignoring Mrs. Burnham’s friendly greeting as he passed her in the hall.

Mrs. Burnham frowned at his closed door in surprised indignation; discourtesy in any form was like a red rag to a bull to her, and making up her mind that she would exact full apology from Maynard later on, she continued on her way to Evelyn’s bedroom. There she found Evelyn, fully dressed, sitting on the edge of her bed, one hand pressed to her side and her face the color of the bed sheets.

“Mother, please get me some aromatic spirits of ammonia,” she begged. “I thought I was stronger——”

“I told you to remain in bed,” retorted Mrs. Burnham in marked displeasure. “Remember, your promise——”

“Oh, mother, don’t argue,” gasped Evelyn. “I really think I am going to faint.”

“Tut, nonsense!” responded Mrs. Burnham; she had small sympathy with hysterics, and Evelyn seemed on the verge of indulging in them. She raised her voice as footsteps stopped outside the door: “Who’s there?”

“Me, ma’am, Jones,” replied the butler, holding the door ajar. “Coroner Penfield to see Miss Evelyn.”

A faint “Oh!” from the bed reached Mrs. Burnham and her hesitation vanished.

“Tell the coroner we will see him shortly, Jones; show him into the library; he has the key, I believe,” and as the butler closed the door she approached the bed and handed Evelyn a glass of water. “Drink some of that, dear,” she said more sympathetically. “I will bring you some ammonia; lie down until I return.”

Not waiting to see her directions carried out, Mrs. Burnham went at once to her dressing room and unlocked her medicine cabinet. The bottle she sought was not in front, and in moving some of the phials to see the better she was confronted with a small blue bottle bearing the ominous red sign “POISON”, and the label:

Acid Hydrocynan dil
Dose 1-3 minims

The bottle drew her hand as the North Pole attracts the magnet. Holding it up to the light she tipped the bottle and the small amount of hydrocyanic acid remaining in it showed plainly. She hesitated a long moment, then secreted the bottle in her hand-bag. Spotting the ammonia after a second search she hastened back to Evelyn and gave her a small dose.

“Do you feel equal to seeing the coroner?” she asked.

Evelyn nodded. “It was foolish of me to make a scene,” she admitted. “But I am weaker than I realized. Will you come with me, Mother?”

“Yes, my dear,” and slipping her hand within Evelyn’s she gently helped her across the hall and into the library.

There was distinct rumbling of thunder and the darkness preceding the heavy electrical storms, almost tropical in their violence, which visit Washington occasionally, was creeping up; even the air was oppressive and Mrs. Burnham shivered involuntarily as she entered the library with Evelyn and greeted the coroner.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” she said graciously. “My daughter is not very well, so you must excuse us.”

“I’ll not detain you long, Miss Preston.” Penfield noted Evelyn’s haggard appearance with concern. “There are just one or two questions I must ask you; for instance, did you on your arrival here Tuesday morning wind that clock?” pointing to the mantel.

“No, but it was going,” replied Evelyn positively.

“Ah, then some one besides yourself wound it.” The coroner’s air of triumph at having established his theory of the house being occupied in the absence of the Burnhams was quickly dashed by Mrs. Burnham.

“The clock runs for a year,” she stated. “We wound it last June.”

“Oh!” The coroner stared at her in acute disappointment, then continued more briskly: “Can you tell me, Mrs. Burnham, if you have any cherry brandy in your wine cellar?”

“We had last year some cherry cordial—we call it ‘Cherry Bounce’,” explained Mrs. Burnham; she winced slightly as a peal of thunder echoed through the house. “Would you mind pulling down the curtains? I am deathly afraid of lightning—one of my idiosyncrasies,” she added, and the coroner hastened to pull the long curtains across the windows.

“Do you know whether any of this Cherry Bounce was left in your cellar when you closed the house for the summer, Mrs. Burnham?” inquired Penfield, returning to them.

Mrs. Burnham shook her head. “I really cannot inform you; Mrs. Ward, my housekeeper, may be able to tell you.” Mrs. Burnham changed her seat to one facing the doorway and with her back to the windows. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because the dose of prussic acid, or to be exact, hydrocyanic acid, which was used to poison the unknown man, was administered in cherry brandy—or cordial; it is practically the same thing,” explained Penfield. “I am trying to find out if it was possible for the murderer to have gotten those ingredients in this house.”

Mrs. Burnham looked her astonishment. “By ingredients do you mean the cordial or the poison?” she questioned suavely, laying one hand on her bag as it threatened to slip off her lap.

“The cordial.” Coroner Penfield took out his memorandum book. “Not a thing apparently was found out of place by you or any of your servants; not even a chair misplaced; no soiled glasses, plates, or cups; and yet the dead man and his companion or companions must have been carousing together—it is most extraordinary.”

“It is very evident they were not carousing here,” replied Mrs. Burnham tartly. “You will have to travel abroad to find the motive, the criminal, and the scene of the crime.”

Evelyn looked up in quick rebuke. What did her mother mean by her cryptic remark—to involve René?

“Travel abroad,” repeated the coroner thoughtfully. “To some extent we have done that; a warrant has been issued for the arrest of that young French ‘Ace’, Captain La Montagne, and we hope to have news of his whereabouts before night.”

“You can have news of his whereabouts now,” declared Evelyn before her mother could intervene. “My fiancé, Captain La Montagne, is dining with us to-night.”

“Your fiancé!” Penfield stared, astounded. “Do you mean you are engaged to the man your step-father accuses of the murder of this unknown man?”

“I am,” proudly, “Captain La Montagne is entirely innocent of any crime; on that I will stake my reputation and if need be, my life.”

“Mon coeur, mon coeur!” exclaimed a passionate voice from the hall and René La Montagne sped to Evelyn’s side regardless of their presence and kissed her again and again. With one arm encircling her waist he faced the staggered coroner and Mrs. Burnham, and addressed them in English. “What Miss Preston states is true. I knew not of the crime until I read of it in the newspapers; I knew not the victim; I knew not this house until my arrival a few minutes ago.”

Another figure hovering in the hall just outside the door joined the group in the library.

“What you say is true in every particular save one, Captain,” stated Marian Van Ness clearly; she paused and stepped to one side to let Detective Mitchell and James Palmer enter. “You knew the dead man.”

“I, madame?” La Montagne gazed at her incredulously.

“Yes.” Marian drew in her breath sharply; she was keeping herself well in hand except for the nervous twitching of her fingers. Her eyes roved around the group—Dan Maynard was not there. She passed her handkerchief across her lips. “Yes, you knew him, Captain La Montagne,” she continued. “He had often threatened your life.”

“Marian!” Evelyn’s anguish almost broke down the other’s composure, but she continued to regard the Frenchman steadily. None of the group about her were aware of the butler’s approach until he announced from the doorway:

“Dr. Hayden to see Miss Evelyn,” and Jones stepped back to allow the physician to enter, but curiosity kept him loitering near the door within earshot. In his absorption in what was transpiring in the library he never noticed the stealthy approach of Mrs. Ward. The housekeeper, choosing her opportunity with care, slipped unseen behind one of the portières of the library door.

Hayden stopped on the threshold of the library and gazed in amazement at the tense attitude of Mrs. Burnham and her guests.

“Come in, doctor,” she said. “Mrs. Van Ness is about to tell us——” her face was like paper—“the name of the dead man.”

La Montagne, paying no attention to the others, gazed intently at Marian.

“The man’s name, madame,” he demanded impetuously. “Give us his name.”

“Count Fritz von Eltz,” responded Marian. An oath escaped La Montagne while Mrs. Burnham collapsed on a chair.

“Marian—you don’t mean—your husband?” she gasped.

Marian’s face was like marble. “I do,” she said. “He was my divorced husband; the courts permitted me to resume my maiden name. I never knew he was in this country until this morning.”

“I was not sure he was in Washington,” volunteered La Montagne. “But I had heard, no matter how, that he had come to America. Ours was a quarrel of long standing, gentlemen; frankly, had I met him I would have killed him at sight.”

“Hush, René!” and impulsively Evelyn clapped her hand to his lips.

“Non, non, mon coeur; it is best I tell these gentlemen of my animosity to Von Eltz. He was a reptile; no crime was too revolting for his infernal cunning to undertake. The world is better without him.”

“Was he a German spy?” asked Mitchell.

“But of course, monsieur.” La Montagne laughed at the question. “Pouf! why waste time discussing his death? Let us congratulate ourselves and this fortunate lady in being free of him,” and he bowed low to Marian.

“That’s all very heroic,” remarked Mitchell ironically. “But we have laws in this country, Captain; and we’ve got to abide by them. Somebody’s got to be punished for murdering Von Eltz.”

A sudden shout from the next room startled Evelyn and she swung about just as Mrs. Burnham, her face ashen, started for the door leading into her husband’s bedroom. A premonition of impending evil made Evelyn follow her. The coroner, speeding ahead, unlocked the door.

“Come,” Evelyn called over her shoulder to the others and they flocked after her; Jones, bringing up the rear of the little procession, almost collided with James Palmer who lagged behind the others.

Peter Burnham, sitting up in bed, his hands clutching numerous papers while others were scattered loose over the counterpane, glared at his wife and those back of her until he saw James Palmer; then his expression changed to one of impotent fury.

“You, Palmer——” his voice choked with rage—“it was you who shot at me from the window in your apartment, you treacherous hound!”

Palmer stared over the heads of his companions and his expression caused Marian to shrink back.

“What’s that you say?” he demanded. “Here, let me by,” and he pushed Hayden to one side as he made his way to the foot of the bed. “Are you out of your head, Burnham?”

“No. I’ve just found out to what use you have put my chess correspondence. I have all the evidence,” shouted Burnham, his excitement almost uncontrollable. “I have discovered the key——” A sudden sensation of suffocation overcame him and he fell back on his pillow speechless, the papers fluttering from his palsied fingers.

“Quick, doctor,” pleaded Mrs. Burnham, while Detective Mitchell, his mind in a whirl, edged nearer Palmer, at the same time keeping an alert eye on René La Montagne who had drawn Evelyn to one side and shielded her from the sight of the pitiful figure on the bed.

Marian Van Ness started forward to aid Hayden, but the sight of Mrs. Ward, her eyes agleam with excitement, perspiration streaming down her face, as she crept into the room, diverted her attention. Back of Mrs. Ward came Jones, intent only on watching the housekeeper.

Hayden, his quiet professional manner in striking contrast to the excitement about him, prepared some stimulant and then bent over Burnham. Slipping his arm deftly under the unconscious man’s head he lifted him up and placed the small glass to his lips and tipped it slowly upward.

The next instant the glass was plucked from his grasp and an iron hand hurled him to the floor.

“Quick, Mitchell, there’s your prisoner!” shouted the man in the bed, and with leaping pulses and reeling senses Marian recognized Dan Maynard’s voice.

Tossing aside his make-up, Maynard set down the glass he still held and collared the physician as he struggled to his knees. “Your prisoner,” he said tersely, as Mitchell sprang forward. “Lewis Hayden, German spy and would-be murderer.”

CHAPTER XXII
THE MISSING DIAGRAMS

MRS. BURNHAM was the first to arouse from the stupor which had held her and her companions equally silent.

“My husband!” she gasped. “Where is Peter?” Maynard, relaxing his hold on his prisoner as Mitchell slipped handcuffs on his wrists, swung himself out of bed.

“There’s Burnham coming in the door now with Chief Connor,” he stated, and all turned in that direction. Burnham, his eyes half starting out of his head, looked first at Hayden, then at La Montagne, and last at James Palmer.

“Good God! Wasn’t it either La Montagne or Palmer?” he demanded.

“La Montagne and Palmer are innocent,” announced Maynard. “When I impersonated you, Burnham, and not for the first time—” he smiled at Hayden’s furious look—“I used Palmer as a stalking horse. The announcement that I had the key to the German’s cipher code did the trick. You were quick, Hayden,” addressing the physician whose ghastly face and horror-filled eyes testified to his feelings. “It was infernally clever of you to seize the opportunity to administer poison under pretext of reviving a supposedly dying man, and thus prevent his ever exposing you and the key to the cipher.”

Coroner Penfield pressed forward. “Can you prove it, Maynard?”

“Yes; examine that glass,” directed Maynard, pointing to the one he had taken from the physician. “Ah, Hayden, you slipped up in your cleverness—though had I been the man you took me for, you would have succeeded in poisoning me, and right under the eyes of Coroner Penfield and Detective Mitchell. God! man, why couldn’t you remain straight, instead of resorting to trickery, treachery, and murder!”

Hayden’s eyes fell before Maynard’s piercing gaze and he stood in sullen silence. Coroner Penfield, moving the medicine glass gently to and fro, sniffed at its contents, and when he set the glass down his face was white.

“Prussic acid!” he announced. “Enough to kill you in three seconds if you had swallowed it, Maynard.”

“Yes. It was the unmistakable odor of the poison which warned me as Hayden held it under my nose.” Maynard took off Burnham’s dressing gown which he wore over his own clothes. “The game is up, Hayden; you might as well confess.”

For the first time Hayden broke his silence. “Confess to what?” he asked insolently. “I did not murder you and I did not murder Count Fritz von Eltz. You—” and his accusing voice rang through the room—“you, Maynard, did that.”

Marian raised her hand to her lips to check the cry of terror which almost escaped her as Mitchell moved slightly toward Maynard.

“Your guess is wrong, Hayden,” answered Maynard composedly. “I did not murder Von Eltz—he killed himself.”

“A likely tale!” scoffed Hayden, with a return of his habitual dictatorial manner.

“A true tale,” responded Maynard sternly. “I admit Von Eltz did not intentionally commit suicide, but he innocently drank the poison he had prepared for me.”

“What!” chorused his listeners, and Hayden’s stare of unbelief became one of baffled fury.

“I will make my explanations as brief as possible,” began Maynard. “While in Europe I have been of some assistance working for the Intelligence Service of our Allies, my ability to disguise myself and my experience as an actor being valuable aids in my work.” He glanced at Marian, but her eyes were downcast. “While in Switzerland my suspicions were aroused by the great frequency with which chess problems were going and coming from Germany—they have been allowed through the mails from every country since the outbreak of the world war.”

“Of course,” broke in Burnham impatiently. “Chess problems are always interesting and help the study of tactical problems by officers in war time.”

“And chess has proved a valuable aid to Germany in more ways than one,” remarked Maynard dryly. “Realizing the use that might be made of problem diagrams to a nation which excels in cipher codes, I decided to look into the matter—and from this end.”

“When was that?” asked Palmer, leaving his place at the foot of the bed. “Can’t we have the light switched on?” he added. “The storm is making the room fearfully dark.”

Marian stepped back and pressed the wall button and the room was flooded with light.

“Go on, Mr. Maynard,” directed Chief Connor.

“My suspicions were aroused a month ago and I came to this country ostensibly to take part in training camp activities. I remembered your interest in chess, Burnham, and decided to ask your aid; in fact sent a wireless when off New York telling you I was coming to Washington.” Maynard paused to sip a glass of water, carefully avoiding the medicine glass standing next it on the bed stand. “I reached Washington Monday afternoon.”

Chief Connor nodded. “So I was informed by the taxi-driver, Sam,” he said. “Sam had called to lay information against you, Maynard, just before your telephone came asking me to come here. Sam is now under arrest.”

A piercing scream from Mrs. Ward drew all eyes to the housekeeper, and Chief Connor addressed her sternly.

“Sam finally confessed that he was your son,” he stated. “And he implicated you in this far reaching German plot which Mr. Maynard has unearthed so cleverly. Sam confessed you had given him duplicate keys of this house and that he had passed them over for a consideration to a ‘party’ whose name he would not divulge, even under pressure.” Chief Connor turned to Hayden. “He meant you.”

“Did he?” Hayden smiled contemptuously. “Prove it; there is no law which forces a suspected party to incriminate himself.”

“We don’t need further proof,” interrupted Maynard with significant emphasis. “Sam——”

“Had nothing to do with Count von Eltz’ death,” declared Mrs. Ward vehemently, her bloodshot eyes turning pleadingly to first one and then another. “Sam is a good boy, but led astray by——” She stopped and bit her lip.

“I know he had nothing to do with the tragic happenings on Monday night,” responded Maynard quickly, taking pity on the woman’s evident agony. “Let me complete my story. Upon my arrival, I telephoned this house and a voice I did not recognize told me that Mr. Burnham was out of town but would be back in two days. I had seen in the newspapers that La Montagne was in Washington and hunted him up. At the Burlington I found the desk clerk so busy that I got the number of your room, René, from an elevator boy and went, unattended, directly to it. I found the door open and a charwoman just leaving. On explaining that I was a friend of yours, she let me in and went away.”

“She never told me that any one had called,” exclaimed La Montagne.

“Forgot all about it probably,” went on Maynard. “I got rather restless sitting still waiting for you, and looked about for something to read. A letter lying open with a key holding it down attracted my attention.” Maynard flushed. “I don’t usually read private correspondence, René, and you must forgive the breach of manners, but on seeing Burnham’s signature at the bottom of the page, I took the liberty to glance down it, and his statement that he would be at his house that night, and that he sent you the key to enter because the house was unoccupied, instantly piqued my curiosity. The statement was directly contrary to what I had learned over the telephone half an hour before. Acting on impulse I pocketed Burnham’s key and left the apartment.”

“Mon Dieu!” ejaculated La Montagne in open-eyed astonishment.

“In one of my disguises I went to Burnham’s house that night,” went on Maynard. “It is some years since I have been in Washington and in the driving rainstorm I got confused and had to ask how to find the house.”

“I was the person you asked,” stated Marian, interrupting him. “Your voice—” she stopped and continued softly—“your voice was familiar, but I did not recognize you in your make-up. My servant, Mammy, who was with me, answered your question.”

“And I failed to recognize you in the storm for you were so bundled up,” replied Maynard. “On reaching this house I was admitted by a man I had not seen for years, Count Fritz von Eltz. He had attempted to conceal his identity by dying his hair and shaving his beard and mustache, but his disguise was badly done.” Maynard paused. “I gave an assumed name and showed a faked telegram from Burnham. I could see Von Eltz was doubtful how to act; he dared not turn me away for fear I might investigate his right to be in the house, and he did the only thing he could—invited me in and took me up to his quarters, saying Burnham had permitted him to occupy the house in his absence.”

“He did!” Mrs. Burnham’s indignant interruption caused Maynard to look at her. “Where was he living in this house?”

“In the housekeeper’s suite of rooms on the third floor,” explained Maynard, and Mrs. Ward cowered back under their glances. “One thing and then another led Shipman—that was the name Von Eltz gave me—to suggest a game of chess and I jumped at the opportunity. We played most of the night, but during his many frequent absences, I heard him at the telephone downstairs, presumably trying to reach you, Hayden,” and the physician clenched his fists in wrath.

“Pity you didn’t get the ’phone numbers he was calling,” remarked Chief Connor.

“I didn’t try to get the numbers; another and more imperative matter engaged my attention, in his absence,” answered Maynard. “Among Von Eltz’ papers I found a set of problem diagrams, and on examining them the preponderance of pieces to pawns struck my eyes, but this was explained momentarily by the reflection that the composer had probably assigned himself a definite task which involved a certain specified number of men. When Von Eltz next absented himself from the room, I went over the problem diagrams again.” Maynard paused, and Burnham edged nearer, his eyes shining with excitement.

White to Play and Mate in Three Moves.

“One position had a white pawn on rook’s eighth, another a white pawn on the king’s square,” continued Maynard.

“One I would have passed as a misprint, a hasty setting down of the wrong man, but hardly two such errors in six diagrams, and I concluded, weighing the presence of Von Eltz under an assumed name in the house, that I had stumbled on a very serious message coded in the innocent disguise of chess problems.”

White to Play and Mate in Four Moves.

“What did you do then?” demanded Burnham.

“Continued to play the game,” answered Maynard. “But before Von Eltz returned I insured his sleeping soundly that night by pouring a small amount of diluted hyoscine, which I carry with me for insomnia, in one of the liqueur glasses containing cherry cordial which Von Eltz had brought upstairs earlier in the evening.”

“Quite sure it was not hydrocyanic acid?” asked Hayden, and both tone and manner were as insulting as he could make them.

“Quite,” answered Maynard. “My idea was to insure Von Eltz sleeping soundly while I ransacked the house in search of other evidence of German espionage and intrigue.”

“Just a moment,” Chief Connor broke in. “Did Von Eltz bring up only two glasses of cordial?”

“Only two glasses, but a decanter of the cordial,” responded Maynard. “He sipped his at intervals, possibly as a bracer, but I drank sparingly. Frankly, my mind was so engaged with the problem of securing the chess diagrams without his suspecting it, that I paid little attention to what he did. I do remember, however, that previous to a vivid flash of lightning, followed by terrific thunder, which put out our lights temporarily, Von Eltz had refilled both glasses, and at his urging I tossed off mine just before I went to bed.”

“Well, what then?” demanded Hayden. The strain was telling on him and he sought to hurry Maynard’s leisurely speech.

“Then, contrary to my expectations, I slept heavily all night,” answered Maynard, unruffled by his questioner’s manner. “On rising I went into the sitting room, Von Eltz having insisted that I should occupy his bed and he take the sofa there, and I found him lying on the floor—dead.”

Coroner Penfield broke the silence that followed. “When did you make this discovery?”

“About eight in the morning.”

“Good gracious! Were you hiding in the house when I arrived at ten o’clock?” gasped Evelyn.

“No. I was stunned by my discovery, but half awake, and my first thought was that I had inadvertently given Von Eltz an overdose of hyoscine and killed him,” explained Maynard. “In my confused state of mind, I dressed immediately and left the house, taking my suit case, which I had brought with me, as well as the six chess problem diagrams; first, however, I searched Von Eltz’ body and found nothing—not even a pocket handkerchief. I overlooked the string which you discovered later, Penfield.”

“And which I promptly lost,” and the coroner made a wry face.

“I took it unseen from your pocket when coming out of my faint,” volunteered Mrs. Ward from the background. “I was in mortal terror Sam was mixed up in the man’s death and so I also stole the ball of cord out of Mr. Burnham’s library; I knew he used it to send his parcels abroad, and I gave the cord to Sam. He told me, Miss Evelyn, that he accidentally handed you a piece from the ball when helping you gather up your bundles.”

“So that was it!” and Evelyn sighed with relief; the tangled skein was rapidly unwinding and brighter hours seemed ahead with the clearing of the mystery. “Where did you go after leaving here, Mr. Maynard?”

“To the home of an old ‘dresser’ of mine who is still employed in a local theater,” replied Maynard. “He took me in without requiring explanations, and after a bath and something to eat I was again in condition to reason things out. I concluded to return here that afternoon, await developments, and if possible find out if Burnham was in any way aiding the Germans by the loan of his house, and by using his established reputation as a chess expert to cloak their method of passing valuable information in and out of Germany.”

“Heavens! I knew nothing of it!” gasped Burnham, appalled. “I assure you, Maynard, I had no idea——”

“I know that now,” acknowledged Maynard quickly. “After my bath I went over the chess problem diagrams again, and this time my examination became more technical and its results increased my suspicions of a code.” Maynard paused, and took from his pocket small squares of paper and laid them systematically in front of him on the bed.

White to Play and Mate in Three Moves.

White to Play and Mate in Four Moves.

White to Play and Mate in Three Moves.

White to Play and Mate in Three Moves.

“Examining the top rank of each diagram from left to right,” continued Maynard, “I noticed that the first and fifth squares were the most frequently occupied. This suggested that the squares represented the first and fifth letters of the alphabet, the important vowels a and e. Taking a blank diagram I wrote out the twenty-six letters of the alphabet on the squares in sequence, filling somewhat less than the top half of the board. Then I chose the letters indicated on the first diagram by the white pieces, in the usually accepted order of their powers, King, Queen, Castle, Bishop, Knight, and Pawn. I was rewarded by the two startling words: ‘New gas’.”

“Well, well, go on,” pleaded Burnham, his excitement outrunning Maynard’s deliberation of speech.

“The black pieces were not yet accounted for,” went on Maynard. “So I repeated the alphabet a second time, beginning with ‘a’ on the third square from the left on the fourth rank from the top of the board. This yielded the phrase: ‘New gas to be us——’, and there I stuck,” he admitted. “I floundered about hopelessly making little sense of the remainder of the diagrams, and then I concluded that I had failed to secure all the diagrams of the set. That clinched my determination to return here and search for other diagrams. I arrived, as you know, just after Evelyn discovered Von Eltz’ body. With the pressing need of finding the missing diagrams without betraying my knowledge of their existence, I decided to keep my own counsel and play a lone hand.”

“Did you get the missing diagrams?” demanded Burnham.

“I found one among Palmer’s blue prints in his office Friday afternoon——”

“You did!” Palmer shouted the interruption, reddening hotly. “This is the first I have ever heard of these diagrams——”

“I know it,” acknowledged Maynard. “You accidentally carried the diagram off among your papers from Hayden’s desk in your apartment, eh, Hayden?” but the physician made no answer and Maynard continued his explanation. “Frankly, Palmer, on finding the diagram I thought you guilty until—I’m sorry,” and Maynard glanced contritely at Palmer, observing his hurt expression.

“It’s all right,” he mumbled ungraciously. “What about the diagram you found in my office?”

“It made seven diagrams in my possession,” responded Maynard, “and applying the same key, I then had half the message, but it was not until Jones gave me a note from Mrs. Van Ness this afternoon that I got the last diagram; here,” and taking a folded paper from his pocket he laid it alongside the other diagrams and Burnham and Palmer bent eagerly over them. “This is the message coded there in its entirety: ‘New gas to be used selenium fluoride. Ordinary absorbents useless. Start Reichanstalt on search for antidote.’”

Marian turned impulsively to Maynard. “Well done!” she exclaimed. “But I never sent you any diagram.”

“Your message—” Maynard picked up the paper and reversed it—“is written here. Where did you get the paper?”

“I gave it to her,” spoke up Jones, edging slightly forward. “It was on the hall table.”

“That was where I found the bundle of diagrams which I gave Mr. Burnham yesterday,” volunteered Evelyn. “Perhaps I dropped one there; the package was not tied.”

“Perhaps, but—” Maynard eyed Hayden attentively—“investigation proved pretty conclusively, Burnham, that your innocent chess correspondence was being tampered with and used to forward and receive coded problem diagrams. It was clever work, Hayden, but you blundered badly when you attempted to shoot Burnham on Thursday night.”

“I did not,” declared Hayden vehemently. “Even you, Maynard, must admit I sat by his side at the table. The shot came from the balcony.”

“It did—when you pressed the electric button,” stated Maynard, and his words created a sensation. “A very neat contrivance you rigged up in the wicker bird-cage lantern; its small open door attracted no attention on that pitch dark night, and the revolver in it was completely hidden.”

Hayden moved restlessly. “A pleasant fairy-tale,” he muttered.

“No, gospel truth,” retorted Maynard. “In yours and Palmer’s absence this morning I made a thorough examination of your apartment, your Jap, Siki, taking me for Burnham in my disguise. I aided him in removing the electric wires which had been used to hold the revolver in the lantern and connected with the trigger; also, I took full note of the fact that the lantern, by aid of a pulley on which it swings, can be raised or lowered at will. The electric current which pressed the trigger was supplied and controlled by the electric wires running from the bell attached to the dining table and the pantry. That was the bell the Jap heard when you fired the revolver at Burnham.”

“Was it?” snarled Hayden. “Your statement is not borne out by facts. Fully five minutes elapsed before Palmer and Burnham rushed into the hall after the shooting and they found Siki answering the bell then, which had just rung.”

“Siki distorted the truth to shield his negligence,” replied Maynard. “On investigation I found he was out on the fire-escape talking to your neighbor’s pretty cook, and he was late in answering the bell in consequence.”

“I am glad Siki’s leaving,” declared Palmer. “If he had been prompt that night La Montagne might have been spared some uneasy moments.” He shrugged his shoulders and looked away from Evelyn; he could not bear with equanimity just then her happy face as she stood by her lover. “I noticed the lantern hung pretty low that night but never gave it another thought. It swings directly in front of the balcony window.”

“And right in line with where Burnham sat,” added Maynard. “I made another interesting discovery, Hayden, in your apartment, the significance of which I did not recognize until later, and that was magic lantern slides on which was drawn in colors a picture of this string,” taking the familiar red and green cord from his pocket, “and a very excellent likeness of Von Eltz sitting dead in his chair. I also saw that Palmer’s window was at such an angle that the slides could be thrown directly in Evelyn’s bedroom. It was a bit of deviltry which, frankly, infuriated me.”

“Thank God it was no illusion on my part!” exclaimed Evelyn fervently. “But, Mother, you must have seen the dead man as well as I?”

Mrs. Burnham blushed hotly. “I did,” she confessed. “But I recognized the man as one who had traveled to Chelsea to blackmail my husband; and, God forgive me, I feared Mr. Burnham had met him here and, in a moment of desperation, poisoned him with some of the hydrocyanic acid which had been prescribed for stomach disorders for him when we were in Florida last winter. I knew the bottle was in the house somewhere, that we had plenty of cherry cordial, and that Mr. Burnham had left for Washington on Monday.”

Burnham, who had listened with increasing anxiety, exclaimed hurriedly: “My train did not reach here until early Tuesday morning and I went to a Turkish bath and later got my breakfast and lunch down town; then came up to this house, saw the windows opened, and on entering went directly to the library and rang for Jones, supposing he was downstairs. Glancing about the library I saw the dead man, Von Eltz, or Shipman, as I knew him; realized I had promised to meet him that afternoon; that I had threatened to make trouble if he blackmailed me again, and not stopping to think bolted out of the house and into the taxi which was still standing at the curb.”

“But I don’t understand how the dead man got in the library,” exclaimed Evelyn.

Hayden raised his head and addressed them sullenly. “I carried him there,” he admitted. “There’s a side entrance to our apartment house which opens directly on your court, Burnham, and with the pass-keys which Sam gave me, I could enter this house at any hour unobserved. I came in about two o’clock Tuesday and stole upstairs to Von Eltz’ usual quarters and found him lying there dead. It was a fearful shock.” Hayden passed his hand across his mouth. “I was uncertain whether Von Eltz had committed suicide or been murdered, or who had murdered him. I decided to destroy all evidence of his having occupied the rooms, and did so; no very difficult job, as Von Eltz had planned to go on Tuesday anyway, and we had sent away practically everything.”

“Why did you carry the body into the library?” asked Maynard.

“I was carrying it into the basement intending to destroy it with quick-lime,” explained Hayden. “Hearing some one, Evelyn, I found out later, moving about downstairs, I gave up my original plan, propped the body in the chair in the library and disappeared. Mitchell,” turning to the detective, “I have committed no crime. Take off these handcuffs.”

“Wait,” directed Chief Connor, as Mitchell stared uncertainly at his prisoner and at Maynard. “Turn Dr. Hayden over to the Department of Justice officials, Mitchell. You have been guilty of high treason, sir, and must pay the penalty. Sam, the taxi-driver, states Von Eltz brought you the Iron Cross for your work.” Mitchell took out from his pocket the decoration which he had found at the theater and Hayden winced. “Sam,” continued Connor, “has sworn to still more revolting crimes on your part. Take, for instance, the suit case——”

“It was only filled with quick-lime,” broke in Hayden. “I asked Mrs. Ward to give it to her son——”

“And to mark the suit case with Mr. Maynard’s initials,” completed Connor dryly. “Your machinations involved every one you came in contact with; a scientifically educated criminal is a double menace to public welfare. Go with Mitchell.”

Hayden stood motionless for one long minute, then with eyes averted he walked out of the room, his former companions falling back to let him pass. Mrs. Ward, back in her corner, was startled by Mitchell’s hand on her shoulder.

“You are to come with us,” he said, and without a backward glance the housekeeper followed the detective and Hayden from the house.

For a moment after their departure the silence was absolute; then Maynard, drawing a long breath, faced the Chief of the Secret Service.

“The strain is over,” he said thankfully. “I really thought I had killed Von Eltz with an accidental overdose of hyoscine until you announced, Coroner Penfield, that he had died from hydrocyanic acid; then for the first time I realized he must have penetrated my disguise, attempted to poison me and inadvertently mixed the glasses and drank the dose he prepared for me.”

Marian’s low “Thank God!” reached only Mrs. Burnham, and that astute dame, catching her expression, acted with promptness.

“It’s been a horrible six days,” she confessed, “with every one suspecting every one else. Evelyn, if you hurry, you can catch the Society Editors at their office. Tell them to put in the morning newspapers that Mr. and Mrs. Peter Burnham announce your engagement to Captain René La Montagne and that the marriage will take place next month.”

“Mother!” Evelyn’s arms flew about her and she gave her a most undignified hug. “Bless you,” and La Montagne gratefully kissed her hand; then the two young lovers hurried from the room.

Burnham went up to his wife. “Lillian,” his voice broke. “I haven’t deserved your faith and your splendid loyalty; but Hayden led me to believe that I was developing a tendency to homicidal mania; there is a taint in our family, my uncle died insane. Hayden loaned me books on poisons, suggested that La Montagne would do me physical injury, and so worked upon me that I even took underhand methods, such as forging Evelyn’s name on receipts of La Montagne’s letters and suppressing the letters from her. I cannot forgive myself for the harm I might have done.”

“Hush! don’t blame yourself too much, Peter.” Mrs. Burnham colored. “Dr. Hayden made quite as big a fool of me,” as the memory of her interview that morning occurred to her. “Must you go, Dr. Penfield?”

“Yes.” The coroner picked up the medicine glass containing prussic acid. “With your permission, Maynard, I’ll take this for laboratory examination.”

“Wait for me downstairs, Penfield,” called Chief Connor as the others started for the door. “Mr. Maynard, you have done fine work; rest assured no more coded chess problems will go to or come from Germany. Thanks and congratulations,” and he wrung his hand, bowed to Marian Van Ness and left the room.

Marian turned to accompany him when Maynard rose from his chair and detained her.

“Marian.” His always charming voice took its most tender tone. “All is not said between you and me. Did you mean your brief message on the back of the chess diagram? It went straight to my heart to have you say: ‘I need you.’ Do you need me, dear?”

“I—I—” Marian hesitated and her color rose—“I was greatly troubled; I lost my identification card admitting me to the State Department, and—and the missing blotter frightened me——”

“Do not fear.” Maynard smiled brightly down at her averted face. “Dr. Hayden was the thief probably; Siki showed me this morning skeleton keys of every apartment in the building. However, they were concealed in Palmer’s room, which led me to believe that Palmer was the traitor. Let us forget it all.” He caught her hand in his. “Dearest, when I asked you after your divorce to marry me——”

“Dan—Dan—” she cried, brokenly—“I couldn’t do it—then——”

“And you never answered my letters——”

“I didn’t dare; I was afraid I’d say too much.”

“Say it now,” he pleaded and his whisper, “Sweetheart,” found its echo on her lips.

THE END

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- THE THREE STRINGS
- ACKNOWLEDGMENT
- CONTENTS
- LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
- CHAPTER I THE FIRST MOVE
- CHAPTER II COMPLICATIONS
- CHAPTER III UNIDENTIFIED
- CHAPTER IV A QUESTION OF TIME
- CHAPTER V THE “ACE”
- CHAPTER VI DEVELOPMENTS
- CHAPTER VII THE FIFTH MAN
- CHAPTER VIII FURTHER DEVELOPMENTS
- CHAPTER IX THE TELEGRAM
- CHAPTER X “SEDITIOUS UTTERANCES”
- CHAPTER XI CONFLICTING CLUES
- CHAPTER XII THE CALL
- CHAPTER XIII THE BLOTTED PAGE
- CHAPTER XIV BURNHAM PREFERS CHARGES
- CHAPTER XV THE BEST LAID PLANS....
- CHAPTER XVI IN THE LIMELIGHT
- CHAPTER XVII CAMOUFLAGE
- CHAPTER XVIII “THE HANDWRITING ON THE WALL”
- CHAPTER XIX BRIBERY
- CHAPTER XX IDENTIFICATION
- CHAPTER XXI UNMASKED
- CHAPTER XXII THE MISSING DIAGRAMS
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE