The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Trevor case, by Natalie Sumner
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Title: The Trevor case

Author: Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Illustrator: Edmund Frederick

Release Date: September 17, 2022 [eBook #69004]

Language: English

Produced by: D A Alexander and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
             at https://www.pgdp.net (Scans were generously made
             available by The New York Public Library's Digital
             Collections)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TREVOR CASE ***





  _The_
  TREVOR CASE




[Illustration: “De Morny’s eyes sparkled with anger as he watched”]




  THE
  TREVOR CASE

  By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

  AUTHOR OF

  “C. O. D.,” “The Man Outside,” Etc.

  With Frontispiece by
  EDMUND FREDERICK

  A. L. BURT COMPANY
  PUBLISHERS - - NEW YORK

  PUBLISHED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH D. APPLETON & COMPANY




  COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  _Published February, 1912_

  Printed in the United States of America




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




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                   PAGE

      I. FACE TO FACE                          1
     II. THE SECRET OF THE SAFE                4
    III. AT THE MACALLISTERS’                 14
     IV. THE INQUEST                          26
      V. THE SIGNET RING                      42
     VI. THE VERDICT                          59
    VII. WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS                 68
   VIII. THE CHALLENGE                        81
     IX. “MAIN 6”                             91
      X. CAUGHT ON THE WIRES                 109
     XI. BEHIND CLOSED DOORS                 127
    XII. BLIND CLEWS                         148
   XIII. THE THREAT                          168
    XIV. HAND AND PIN                        183
     XV. MAN PROPOSES                        196
    XVI. PLAYING WITH FIRE                   204
   XVII. ACROSS THE POTOMAC                  212
  XVIII. NIP AND TUCK                        222
    XIX. THE CONFERENCE                      228
     XX. CASTING OF NETS                     240
    XXI. FORGING THE FETTERS                 263
   XXII. AT THE TIME APPOINTED               280
  XXIII. THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD            306
   XXIV. JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS’ MEETING     322




THE TREVOR CASE




CHAPTER I

FACE TO FACE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER II

THE SECRET OF THE SAFE


“HELP! Murder! Murder!”

The sinister cry rang through the house.

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

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

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

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

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

“The safe?” questioned the Attorney General.

“Yes; she’s there--dead!”

“She--who?”

“Mrs. Trevor.”

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

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

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

“Father?”

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

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

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

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

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

The silence was broken by a tap at the door.

“Doctor Davis, sir,” announced Wilkins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“A detective, sir, from headquarters.”

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

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

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

“Be seated, Mr. ----”

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

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

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

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

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

“No. Why speak of that terrible accident--”

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

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

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

The detective glanced with quickened interest at the two men.

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

The detective broke the appalling silence with an exclamation:

“Murdered!”

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




CHAPTER III

AT THE MACALLISTERS’


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

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

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

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

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

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

Washington society had never forgotten the incident.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you hear the news there?”

“News? What news?”

“Mrs. Trevor has been murdered!”

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

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

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

“Well, according to the _Evening Star_--_What_ is it, Hurley?” as that
solemn individual entered the room.

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

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

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

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

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

  MURDER MOST FOUL

  MRS. TREVOR KILLED
  BY BURGLAR
  CRIMINAL IN THE TOILS

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you see Beatrice, Granny?”

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

“Beatrice must be terribly upset, poor darling.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“She didn’t tell me.”

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

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

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

“She was an Italian,” answered Dick.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




CHAPTER IV

THE INQUEST


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We have, sir,” answered the foreman.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were there no blood stains?”

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

“Have you the weapon?”

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

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

“Could the wound have been self-inflicted?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alfred Lindsay Clark.”

“Occupation?”

“Confidential secretary to the Attorney General.”

“How long have you been in his employ?”

“Eleven months.”

“And before that time?”

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

“Then you are not a native of Washington?”

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

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

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

“And yesterday, Mr. Clark?”

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

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

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

“One moment. You know the combination?”

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

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

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

“Proceed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Was Mrs. Trevor facing you?”

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

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

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

“Was her head sunk forward on her breast?”

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

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

There was a barely perceptible pause before the secretary answered.

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Did you see much of Mrs. Trevor?”

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

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

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

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

“I think that is all just now.”

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

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

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

“Swear the prisoner,” ordered the coroner.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The prisoner struck the table fiercely with his clenched hand.

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

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

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

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

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

The coroner rose abruptly and signaled to the guards.

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




CHAPTER V

THE SIGNET RING


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where did you first meet her?”

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

“When and where were you married?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Were your doors and windows securely fastened?”

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

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

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

“In regard to Wilkins--”

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

“And your other servants?”

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

“And Mrs. Trevor’s personal maid?”

“Came with her from England three years ago.”

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

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

“Was Mrs. Trevor left-handed?”

The Attorney General looked at the coroner in surprise.

“She was, sir,” he answered.

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

“I think the burglar, Nelson, guilty.”

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

The witness’ face changed, ever so slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you positive, Wilkins?”

“Absolutely positive, sir.”

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

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

“At what time did they finish dinner?”

“About twenty minutes past eight, sir. The hall clock was striking the
half hour as I carried the coffee into the library. Mrs. Trevor was
there, and she told me that Miss Beatrice had gone upstairs to dress,
so I left her cup on the table, sir.”

“At what time did you go to bed?”

“I went up a few minutes after ten o’clock, sir. All the other servants
had gone upstairs before me.”

“Was that their usual hour for retiring?”

“No, sir. You see, sir, Mrs. Trevor gave a very large supper party
for Madame Bernhardt on Tuesday night. The guests didn’t leave until
nearly four o’clock Wednesday morning. We were all dead tired from the
extra work and no sleep, so Mrs. Trevor told me in the library that
night, sir, that I was to tell the others to go to bed as soon as their
work was done, and that I needn’t wait up, nor her maid either, as she
would undress herself.”

“Was that the last time you saw Mrs. Trevor alive?”

“Yes, sir; the last time I saw her.”

There was a peculiar inflection in Wilkins’ usually quiet monotone that
caught the coroner’s attention.

“What do you mean, Wilkins?”

“I didn’t _see_ her again, sir.”

“Well, I’ll change my question. Did you hear her afterwards?”

“Yes, sir,” reluctantly.

“When?”

“Why, sir, the door bell rang about a quarter to ten. It was a
messenger boy with a telegram for the Attorney General. I signed for
it, and walked over towards the library intending to hand it to Mrs.
Trevor. The door was partly open, sir, and I heard the ladies--”

“Ladies! What ladies?”

“Mrs. Trevor and Miss Beatrice, sir. I recognized their voices.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Perfectly, sir; but indeed I didn’t listen intentionally, sir. The
carpet deadened my footsteps; besides, they were too excited to hear
me.”

“Were they quarreling?”

“I--I--”

“Remember, Wilkins, you are on oath to tell the truth, the _whole_
truth.”

“Yes, sir.” The unhappy man glanced appealingly at the jury, but found
no help there. They were all waiting expectantly for what was to
follow. “I only caught a few words, sir. Miss Beatrice said: ‘And your
price?’ ‘You know it,’ answered Mrs. Trevor. She said it in a voice
that seemed to infuriate Miss Beatrice, who cried out: ‘You devil, get
out of my way, or I may forget myself and strike you.’”

Everyone in the over-crowded rooms felt the shock of the testimony.

“What happened next?”

“Just then the front door bell rang loudly. Putting the telegram on the
hall table, I went to answer it, and found Mrs. Macallister’s footman
waiting in the vestibule. I started to tell Miss Beatrice, but at that
moment she walked out of the library, with her cloak over her arm. When
I helped her on with it she was trembling from head to foot.”

“What became of Mrs. Trevor?”

“I don’t know, sir. After the carriage drove off, I went first into the
private office to fasten the windows, and from there into the other
rooms. I think Mrs. Trevor must have gone upstairs when I was in the
parlor. I went to bed very soon after.”

“Were you disturbed in the night?”

“No, sir. The servants’ quarters are all on the fourth floor. The
house is well built and the walls are very thick. We couldn’t hear any
sound up there, except the bells in the corridor, and they did not ring
at all.”

“How did you find everything when you came down the next morning?”

“Every window was locked on the ground floor, and the night-latch was
up on the front door, sir. The window on the stairway by which the
burglar entered is covered by heavy curtains; and as it was closed, I
never noticed it was unfastened until after the detective’s arrival.”

“Did you enter the private office?”

“Yes, sir; nothing had been disturbed.”

“No sign of a struggle?”

“No, sir. Every chair and rug was in its place.”

“That’s all; you can go now,” said the coroner, after a moment’s
silence. Wilkins heaved a sigh of relief, as he hastened out of the
room.

Interest was at fever heat among the spectators. For once Mrs.
Macallister was too shocked by the trend of suspicion to voice her
feelings to Peggy.

Apparently the least concerned person in the room was Beatrice Trevor,
who had entered in answer to the clerk’s summons. Lack of sleep and
anxiety had left their mark on the girl’s finely cut features, but
there was no trace of fear in her large, candid eyes, which were turned
inquiringly on the coroner.

Peggy’s heart was hot within her. How dare these people insinuate that
Beatrice, her dear, dear friend, was guilty of murder. The idea was too
preposterous!

Even the coroner was struck by the young girl’s poise and dignity, and
his manner was very gentle as he said:

“Miss Trevor, I have just a few questions to ask you. At what hour did
you return from the ball?”

“We left the New Willard at a quarter to three, and reached here about
fifteen minutes later.”

“Did you encounter anyone as you entered?”

“No.”

“Was the house dark?”

“Yes; except for the light in the hall.”

“Did you go directly to your room?”

“Yes. I put up the night-latch, turned out the light, and went to my
room at once.”

“When did you last see your stepmother?”

“In the library, before the carriage came for me.”

“Miss Trevor”--the coroner fumbled with his watch chain--“what did you
and Mrs. Trevor quarrel about that night?”

The question struck home. Beatrice reeled in her seat.

“What did you say?” she stammered.

The coroner repeated his question. With a visible effort, Beatrice
regained her self-control.

“That is a matter between my stepmother and myself. I decline to
discuss it with anyone.”

“But you must, Miss Trevor.”

“I will not. Our quarrel had nothing whatever to do with Mrs. Trevor’s
death.”

“I am the best judge of that,” retorted Coroner Wilson, but Beatrice
remained obstinately silent.

“Come, Miss Trevor, can you not see that you are injuring yourself by
this refusal. People will jump to but one conclusion. For your own
sake, I beg you to tell us what your quarrel was about.”

“I decline to answer.”

The coroner shrugged his shoulders. He had warned her; he could do no
more.

“Very well, Miss Trevor. You may retire.”

With pale, set lips and flashing eyes, Beatrice swept from the room.

For a few minutes the coroner looked over his papers, then he beckoned
to his clerk. The next instant, Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon
had been called to the stand. There was a gasp of amazement from the
fashionable spectators. How came Donald Gordon to be mixed up in this
affair?

But none was more surprised than Donald Gordon himself. He had been
subpœnaed as a witness that morning, to his great disgust, as he had
orders to accompany the President to New York on the afternoon train.
He reported the subpœna to his superiors, and another aide had been
detailed to attend the President in his place.

Gordon had an enviable record as an officer in the United States navy.
He had served bravely under Admiral Dewey at Manila, and had on several
occasions received special commendation from Congress. Good-looking, in
a big, fine way, he was immensely popular in the service, and also with
his many civilian friends.

“Mr. Gordon,” said the coroner, after he had been duly sworn, “I wish
to ask if this is your property.” As he spoke, he held up a heavy gold
signet ring.

Absolute incredulity was plainly written on Gordon’s face, as he leaned
over and took the ring.

“Yes,” he said, turning it over, “yes. It is my class ring. My initials
and the date of my graduation from the Naval Academy are engraved on
the inside.” Then his voice deepened. “How came you to have this ring
in your possession?”

“It was found”--the coroner paused impressively--“it was found tightly
clasped in Mrs. Trevor’s right hand.”

In stupefied silence, Gordon gazed at the coroner, while the meaning of
his words slowly took form in his brain. Then he leaped to his feet.

“You lie--damn you--you lie!” he cried, fiercely.




CHAPTER VI

THE VERDICT


SO totally unexpected had been the dénouement that for a few seconds
the spectators sat stunned; then pandemonium broke loose. It was only
after the coroner threatened to clear the rooms that quiet was restored.

“Such violence is unnecessary,” said he, addressing Gordon.

“I--I--beg pardon,” the young officer spoke with an effort. “Your
statement was so utterly unbelievable, so astounding that I forgot
myself.”

“It is absolutely true, and can be proved by Doctor Davis and Detective
Hardy, who was present when the doctor found the ring. Mrs. Trevor’s
hand was so tightly clenched that he had to exert his strength to force
it open. Can you explain its presence there?”

He gazed intently at Gordon, but the latter had his emotions under
control, and his face was expressionless, as he answered with perfect
composure:

“I cannot, sir.”

“Where were you on Wednesday night, last?”

“I dined at the Metropolitan Club with Lieutenant James Raymond. We
went later to the Bachelors’ Cotillion.”

The coroner held a whispered conversation with his clerk, then turned
to the witness.

“Will you kindly withdraw to the waiting room, Mr. Gordon; but don’t
leave the house, as I wish to call you again to the stand.”

Gordon nodded silently to Dick Tillinghast and several other friends as
he left the room.

The next witness was Lieutenant Raymond. His testimony was very brief.
Yes, he and Lieutenant-Commander Gordon had dined together on Wednesday
night. They had left the Club about half past nine as he, Raymond, was
a member of the Committee and had to go early to the New Willard. No,
Mr. Gordon did not accompany him to the hotel; but had left him at the
corner of 17th and H Streets, saying he had to return to his rooms at
the Benedict, but would go to the dance later on. Gordon did not enter
the ballroom until just after supper, which was served at midnight.

“Are you positive of that?” asked the coroner.

“Absolutely positive, because I had to get a temporary partner for Miss
Underhill, who was to have danced the cotillion with Mr. Gordon.”

“How long a time would it take for Mr. Gordon to go from 17th and H
Streets to his apartment?”

“About five minutes.”

“And how long would it take him to get from his apartment at the
Benedict to the New Willard?”

“Seven minutes if he went in the cars, and fifteen minutes if he
walked.”

Lieutenant Raymond was then excused, and after his departure Detective
Hardy was called to the witness chair. He gave a brief résumé of all
that took place after the murder was discovered.

“Did you find any trace of the end of the weapon?” asked the coroner.

“No, sir. I turned the whole place inside out, but could find nothing.
The only clue I had to go upon was the ring which we found in Mrs.
Trevor’s hand. I saw at a glance that it was a naval class ring, so
I at once went to the Navy Department. There I looked through the
register of Annapolis graduates, and found that two men in that class
had the two initials ‘D. G.’--Donald Gordon and Daniel Green. The
latter is stationed at Mare Island, California. That eliminated him, so
I went to Mr. Gordon’s quarters at the Benedict Apartment House.” He
paused.

“Go on,” ordered the coroner. “Tell your story in your own way.”

The jury to a man were leaning across the table, regarding the
detective with deep interest.

“The janitor there is a friend of mine, so he let me into Mr. Gordon’s
apartment, which is on the second floor, with his pass key. I searched
his rooms thoroughly, but could find nothing. Then I went through his
personal belongings. In the inner pocket of his overcoat, I found a few
pieces of a torn note.

“It didn’t take me long to fit the words together. I then pasted them
all on a sheet of note paper. Here, you can see for yourselves.”

He drew out his pocketbook as he spoke, and removed from it a sheet of
paper on which were pasted scraps torn in different shapes, and handed
it to the coroner. After one startled glance, the coroner read the
contents aloud.

  “Come--Wedn--half--elev--must--you--for--leav--New Yor--

                                             “HÉLÈNE DE--T--”

Without a word of comment, the coroner handed the paper to the jurymen,
who eagerly scanned it.

“Have you any further evidence to give to the jury?”

“No, sir.”

“That is all, then, Hardy. You are excused. Bayne,” to his clerk,
“recall Mr. Gordon.”

Gordon was walking impatiently up and down the smaller room, eager to
be gone, and he answered the summons with alacrity.

“Mr. Gordon, where were you between the hours of nine thirty P.M. and
midnight on Wednesday last?”

“I decline to state.”

“Tut! We know you called to see Mrs. Trevor at eleven thirty that
night.”

“Indeed, and may I ask who your informant is?”

The coroner paid no attention to the interruption, but went steadily on
with his examination.

“Did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”

Silence.

The coroner repeated his question.

Still no reply.

“Come, sir; you must answer. Yes, or no?”

Gordon stirred uneasily in his chair. “I was in my rooms at the
Benedict until I left to go to the ball,” he said.

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Did anyone see you leave the Benedict?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Then he added quickly, “At least, there may have
been some of the other tenants around, or perhaps the janitor; I never
noticed in my hurry.”

“Mr. Gordon--” the coroner’s manner was abrupt and stern--“do you
see these pieces?” He took up the sheet from the table. “They are
apparently torn from a letter of Mrs. Trevor’s to you, making an
appointment to see you here on Wednesday night at eleven thirty. These
scraps were found in your overcoat pocket. Again I ask, did Mrs. Trevor
admit you?”

Gordon glanced at the sheet and recognized the handwriting. His mouth
closed in a hard line, and he grew perceptibly paler. He straightened
his broad shoulders, and faced the jury squarely, saying:

“I refuse to incriminate myself.”

In the dead silence the scratching of the stenographer’s pen could be
heard plainly.

“You may retire,” said the coroner.

With perfect self-possession, Gordon left the room.

The coroner’s summing up of the case was short and to the point. As
soon as he finished, the jury left the room to deliberate.

The hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had gone five times around
its dial, but there was no thinning out of the crowd. The majority
of the spectators had attended the inquest out of friendship for the
Trevors, others had been brought there by morbid curiosity; but none
had expected such an outcome to the investigation. Now, in silence
and nervous apprehension they waited for the return of the jury.
The tension was snapped by their reappearance. The coroner rose and
addressed them.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Mrs. Hélène de Beaupré
Trevor came to her death on the night of Wednesday, February 3rd,
19--, in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, from a wound
inflicted by Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon.”




CHAPTER VII

WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS


TRAMP, tramp, back and forth, back and forth, went the restless
footsteps. Would she never tire? Would she never stop? Alfred Clark
bent lower until his eye was on a level with the keyhole of the closed
library door. Suddenly the gong over the front door rang loudly. With
a smothered exclamation, Clark glided quickly across the wide hall and
entered the private office just as Wilkins came out of the dining-room.

“Good afternoon, Wilkins. Can I see Miss Beatrice?” Peggy’s fresh young
voice sounded cheerily in Wilkins’ ears. During the last week he had
had a surfeit of horrors and unmitigated gloom.

“Yes, Miss Margaret, she is expecting you. Will you please walk into
the drawing-room, and I will tell her you have come.”

Peggy had only time to straighten one refractory curl which would trail
down on her forehead. It had been the cause of much mental anguish
in childish days because everyone dinned into her ears, “There was a
little girl, and she had a little curl.” Consequently she always took
care to tuck that particular lock carefully out of sight. As she turned
from the mirror, Beatrice came in through the communicating doors
leading to the library.

“My dearest, how good it is to see you again,” exclaimed Peggy, giving
her a warm kiss and hug.

“It is, indeed,” and Beatrice’s sad face brightened, as she
affectionately returned the embrace.

“I have been here several times since the funeral, Beatrice.”

“I know, dear, and it did my heart good to know you were thinking of
me. I feel so alone, so utterly alone.” Beatrice stopped to control
her voice, and Peggy, with loving sympathy, threw her arm about her
shoulders.

They made a charming foil sitting side by side on the divan, one so
dark in her stately beauty, the other so fair and winsome, their faces
seen first in shadow then in light as the fickle wood fire flickered to
and fro on the wide hearth.

“There, I did not intend to allude to the terrible happenings. Since
the funeral, which was private, I have tried not to let my mind dwell
on the tragedy. Otherwise I think I should go mad. I cannot, cannot
speak of it even to you, dearest.” Her hands twitched spasmodically,
and she bit her lips to hide their trembling. Regaining her composure
by a desperate effort, she signed to Wilkins to move the tea table
nearer the fire. “Two lumps and lemon, Peggy?”

“Yes, please, and very weak.”

“It was dear of you to come out in this snow storm.”

“Puf! I don’t care that for a storm.” Peggy snapped her fingers
derisively. “I had been in all day and was longing for fresh air when
you telephoned me. And the walk up here did me no end of good. I
always eat too much at Granny’s lunches.”

“Tell me who were there?”

“Oh! just the Topic Club. One of the members gave out at the eleventh
hour, and Granny asked me to take her place.”

“It must have been interesting,” ejaculated Beatrice.

The Topic Club, composed of eleven witty women, was a time-honored
institution in the Capital. It met once a month at the different
members’ houses. Each hostess was always allowed to ask one of her
friends to make the twelfth guest, an invitation eagerly sought for.
The topic to be discussed was written on the back of the place cards.

“What was the topic this time, Peggy?”

“‘What does a woman remember longest?’ May I have some more hot water,
my tea is a little too strong?”

“And what answer did they find for it?” asked Beatrice, taking up the
hot water kettle as Peggy held out her cup.

“Why, they decided that no woman ever forgets ‘the man who has once
loved her.’ My gracious, Beatrice, look out!” as a few drops of boiling
water went splashing over her fingers.

“Oh, Peggy, did I scald you?”

“Not very much,” groaned Peggy, putting her injured finger in her
mouth, that human receptacle for all things--good and bad.

“I am so sorry, dear. Tell me, did you hear anything exciting at
luncheon?”

“Nothing in particular.” Peggy could not tell her that the chief topic
at the table had been the Trevor murder, so she rattled on: “People say
that divorce proceedings are pending in the Van Auken family. You know
their home is called ‘the house of a thousand scandals.’ But the latest
news is that Martha Underhill’s engagement to Bobby Crane has been
broken off.”

“Why?” asked Beatrice, her curiosity excited.

“Well, they quarreled about Donald Gordon--” Beatrice’s convulsive
start brought Peggy up short. As usual her thoughtless tongue had
gotten her into hot water. To hesitate would be but to make a bad
matter worse, so she went bravely on: “Bobby is desperately jealous,
and simply hates to have Martha even look at any other man. So he
was simply raging when she told him she intended dancing the last
Bachelors’ with Mr. Gordon, who is an old friend of hers. Bobby was
very nasty about it. Yesterday when we were all walking up Connecticut
Avenue from St. John’s, Martha remarked how mortified she had been at
being left without a partner during the first part of the cotillion.

“‘Serves you jolly well right,’ snapped Bobby. ‘That’s what comes of
dancing with a murderer!’”

“Oh, the coward!” exclaimed Beatrice. “The coward!”

“That’s what we all thought, and I left Martha telling Bobby what she
thought of him. Result--the broken engagement. As to Mr. Gordon, we all
believe in his innocence,” declared Peggy, stoutly.

“It is not the first time a Court of Justice has blundered,” agreed
Beatrice, wearily, and she brushed her soft hair off her hot forehead.

“The idea of suspecting Mr. Gordon,” went on Peggy, heatedly. “He is so
chivalrous; so tender in his manner to all women! What matter if he is
a bit of a flirt--”

Beatrice moved uneasily in her chair.

“How is Mrs. Macallister?” she asked abruptly.

“Very well, and enjoying herself immensely at present. She is having
an out and out row with the Commissioners of the District. Major Stone
applied to them for permission to cut an entrance to the alley through
Granny’s rose garden. My, she was mad!” and Peggy smiled broadly at the
recollection.

“I don’t wonder,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Why, Peggy, it would be a
perfect shame. Mrs. Macallister’s garden is one of the beauties of
Washington.”

“It would be beastly. You see, Granny owns nearly half the square
between 19th and 20th on F Street. To prevent apartment houses going
up, she wanted to buy the whole block. But the owners, finding she
wanted the real estate, asked her an exorbitant price, which Granny
naturally refused to pay. Now, I suppose to get back at her, old Major
Stone insists that the alley, which already has two entrances, must
have a third.

“So yesterday, Granny and I went to call on Major Cochrane, the new
Engineer Commissioner, in the District Building. He didn’t know us from
Adam, and didn’t seem able to get a clear idea of our errand. Finally,
he asked Granny:

“‘Do I understand you came here to get an alley put through?’

“‘No,’ replied Granny, with her blandest smile, ‘I came to get an
ally.’ And she did, too,” laughed Peggy. “Before we left she had won
him, body and soul, over to her cause.”

“I prophesy Mrs. Macallister wins. Must you go, dear,” as Peggy started
gathering her wraps together.

“It’s getting late, and I am far, far from home; besides which, I am
dining with the Van Winkles, and afterwards going to the Charity Ball.
So I have a busy night ahead of me. But I hate to leave you, dearie,
all by yourself. Won’t you come down and visit us? We’d love to have
you. Indeed, it is not good for you to stay shut up here by yourself--”
Peggy came to a breathless pause.

There were tears in Beatrice’s eyes as she bent and kissed the soft,
rosy cheek. What it cost her to stay in that house, none would ever
know. She shook her head.

“It is like you to ask me, Peggy darling, but I cannot leave Father. He
needs me _now_.”

The slight emphasis was lost on Peggy, who was busy adjusting her furs.
With a searching glance around the dimly lighted room, Beatrice drew
a small, flat box from her dainty work bag, and going close to Peggy
whispered:

“I am surrounded by prying eyes. You, and you only, can I trust. In the
name of our long friendship, and for the sake of the old school days I
beg, I entreat you, Peggy, to take this box and keep it for me!”

“Indeed I will!” Peggy’s whisper was reassuring in its vehemence. “No
one shall ever see or know of it.” As she spoke, she thrust it in her
large muff. “Remember, Beatrice, Granny and I are always your devoted,
loyal friends. Do not hesitate to let us help you.”

Beatrice’s only answer was to fold Peggy in a passionate embrace.
Then, as the latter left the room, she threw herself on the divan, her
slender form racked with sobs.

As Peggy crossed the square hall on her way to the front door, she came
face to face with the Attorney General’s secretary. Alfred Clark, who
was putting on his overcoat, greeted her effusively.

“Oh, good afternoon,” she replied, a trifle coldly; for his obsequious
manner always grated on her.

“Can I see you home?” asked Clark, eagerly, opening the front door as
he spoke.

“You are very kind, but I am going to catch the car at the corner, and
I wouldn’t think of taking you so far out of your way.”

“On the contrary, it is right in the direction I am going,” rejoined
Clark, helping Peggy down the slippery steps. “I was so sorry not to
see you when I called last Sunday,” he continued, as they turned to
walk in the direction of Connecticut Avenue. “I thought you always
stayed at home that day?”

“I usually do; but last Sunday I went down to the station to see a
friend off, so missed all my callers. Gracious! there’s our car. Do
stop it.”

Obediently Clark ran ahead and signalled the motorman to wait until
Peggy could get there. But once inside the car they had no further
chance for conversation, for Clark, jostled by the crowd, was obliged
to stand some distance from Peggy, who had been given a seat further
up. On transferring to the G Street herdic they found they had that
antiquated vehicle entirely to themselves.

“How do you think Miss Trevor is looking?” inquired Clark, after he had
stuffed the transfers into the change box by the driver’s seat.

“She seems utterly used up, poor dear,” answered Peggy, soberly. “I am
afraid the strain is telling on her more than she will admit.”

“You are right, Miss Macallister; and something should be done about
it.” Clark spoke with so much feeling that she glanced at him with
deepened interest. “Her father is so absorbed in his grief that he
never notices his daughter’s condition.”

“It is a shame,” agreed Peggy, “and yet, not surprising. He was
perfectly devoted to Mrs. Trevor, and Senator Phillips says he is
heartbroken by her tragic death.”

“That is no excuse for neglecting the living. Mr. Trevor owes much to
his daughter’s affection.” Peggy did not see the quickly suppressed
sneer that distorted Clark’s handsome features. “Miss Trevor acts as if
she had something preying on her mind, don’t you think so?”

Peggy clutched the box secreted so carefully inside her muff in sudden
panic. What did the man’s insinuation mean?

“No,” she answered tartly. “I think her nervous, over-wrought
condition is simply due to the tragedy, and its attending mystery.”

“Mystery?” echoed Clark. “Why, all that has been cleared up by Gordon’s
arrest.”

“Indeed it has not,” indignantly declared Peggy. “I don’t for a
moment believe him guilty. I think he is the victim of circumstantial
evidence.” Her rapid speech was interrupted by their arrival at her
street corner, and she did not finish her sentence until they stood
in the vestibule of the Macallister mansion. “In the first place, Mr.
Clark,” she continued, “where would you find a motive for such a crime?”

“In Gordon’s past, Miss Macallister.” And, as Hurley opened the front
door, “Good night; thanks so much for allowing me to escort you home.”

He ran down the steps and walked rapidly up the street before the
astonished girl could frame another sentence.




CHAPTER VIII

THE CHALLENGE


JUST before midnight the Charity Ball, given annually for the benefit
of the Children’s Hospital, was at its height. The long ballroom at the
New Willard was almost too crowded for comfort, at least so thought the
dancing contingent.

“Come on over here out of the crowd, Peggy,” and Dick Tillinghast
pointed to one of the deep window recesses. It looked cool and
comfortable after the heat of the room, and with a sigh of relief Peggy
sank back in its kindly shelter. She was beginning to feel weary,
having danced every encore and extra.

“Now, I call this jolly,” went on Dick, fanning her vigorously.
“Peggy--you wretch--you have been flirting outrageously with little de
Morny all the evening.”

“The Count is very agreeable,” answered Peggy, demurely. “Besides, I
was giving him lessons in English.”

Dick snorted. “_You_ may call it what you like; but the Count is in
dead earnest.”

“Really, Mr. Tillinghast--” Peggy’s head went up. Dick, seeing the
light of combat in her eyes, hastened to interrupt her.

“Now, Peggy--please. You’ve been perfectly beastly to me all the
evening; never even saved me a dance, and I had to steal this one.”

“It is customary to ask for them,” frigidly.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was detained at the office, as you know
perfectly well. It wasn’t kind, Peggy, indeed it wasn’t.”

Dick’s voice expressed more bitterness than the occasion warranted.
Swiftly Peggy’s kind heart relented.

“I didn’t keep a dance, Dick, because,” she lowered her voice,
“I--I--thought you would prefer to take me out to supper.”

“You darling!” Dick leaned impulsively nearer; then cursed inwardly as
Tom Blake’s stout form stopped before them.

“Well, you two look very ‘comfy’; may I join you?” The chair, which
Peggy pushed toward him creaked under his weight. “This is a bully
alcove; you are in the crowd and yet not of it. Hello, de Morny, come
and sit with us. Miss Macallister was just asking for you,” and he
winked at Dick.

De Morny was walking past, vainly searching for Peggy, and he accepted
the invitation with alacrity. He had met her early in the season. Her
sunny disposition and fascinating personality had made instant appeal
to the Frenchman’s volatile nature. Wherever Peggy went, de Morny was
sure to follow, much to Dick’s silent fury.

Their mutual friends had not been slow to grasp the situation, and many
were the conjectures as to which man would win the little flirt, and,
incidentally, the Macallister millions. The money consideration did
not enter altogether into de Morny’s calculations, for contrary to the
usual order of things, he was wealthy. Belonging to the old nobility
of France, he was a most desirable _parti_, and had often been
relentlessly pursued by mothers with marriageable daughters on their
hands.

But many times Dick cursed Peggy’s prospective inheritance. Without a
penny except his salary, it was bitter indeed to the proud fellow to
feel that he was looked upon as a fortune hunter. They had been boy and
girl sweethearts when their parents had lived next door to each other
until the crash came. His father gave up home and personal belongings
to meet his creditors, dying shortly after, and Dick had been thrown
on his own resources during his freshman year at Harvard. It was
simply another case of from shirt sleeves to shirt sleeves in three
generations, no uncommon occurrence in America.

“Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman, bowing before Peggy, “have I zer
permission to present to you _mon ami_, Count de Smirnoff.” He beckoned
to a tall stranger who had stopped just outside the alcove when de
Morny joined the little group. “And to you, also, Monsieur Blake, and
Monsieur Tillinghast.”

Count de Smirnoff acknowledged the introductions most courteously,
and then, to Dick’s secret annoyance, promptly appropriated the chair
nearest Peggy and devoted himself to her.

“Will you look at Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Tom Blake to his companions.
“Solomon in all his glory couldn’t touch her.”

Mrs. Wheeler was dazzling to behold. Dressed in scarlet and gold,
with diamonds in front of her, diamonds on top of her, she easily
out-diamonded every woman present. The crowd parted to make way for
her as she moved slowly, very slowly up the long room. With the
Vice-President on one side of her and the British Ambassador on the
other, the apotheosis of the house of Wheeler was reached.

Dick drew a long breath after they had passed. “My eyes actually hurt
from such illumination. Why, oh, why does Washington accept such
people?”

“Because she possesses the Golden Key which unlocks most doors in
democratic America,” answered Tom, dryly. “She wined and dined herself
into our midst, and now--” he paused dramatically--“she draws the line
on the Army and Navy people here, because her calling list is already
so large!”

“How’s poor Gordon?” he asked, suddenly, a few minutes later.

“He refuses to see anyone, or talk,” answered Dick.

“Poor devil! What made him do such a mad action?”

“I don’t believe he is guilty,” said Dick, slowly. “He isn’t that sort.
He wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood, let alone strike a woman.”

“I agree with you, Dick. There has been some dreadful mistake,” chimed
in Peggy.

“Is it the Trevor murder of which you speak?” asked de Smirnoff. He
spoke English perfectly, but for a slight accent.

“Yes, Monsieur. Even the District Attorney thinks someone has
blundered; he is furious because the coroner’s jury brought in that
verdict against Gordon.”

“Oh, well, he’ll have a chance to clear himself before the Grand Jury
two weeks from now. After all, Dick, he virtually admitted he was
guilty.”

“I don’t see it that way,” answered Dick, obstinately.

“Well, I hope he can prove an alibi. But if he does it will go hard
with Beatrice Trevor. Suspicion already points to her.”

“Oh! no, no!” cried Peggy, in horror, and she looked appealingly at
Dick.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, sorrowfully, answering her unspoken thought.
“You see, it’s very obvious that she has some secret to conceal.”

Peggy actually jumped as her mind flew to the box which was at that
moment safely hidden in the secret drawer of her bureau. Beatrice
guilty--never--never--she put the thought from her, but it would return.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she said, angry with herself for her
disloyal thoughts, and her face paled perceptibly.

“I am sorry I spoke in that way,” replied Dick. “I had forgotten for
the moment that she is your greatest friend. Indeed, Peggy, I meant no
offense. You know I would do anything for you, anything.”

“So would we all, Miss Peggy,” exclaimed Tom, and de Morny, but half
understanding the rapidly spoken English, nodded his head back and
forth like a china mandarin.

“Then,” said Peggy, “find the real murderer of Mrs. Trevor. That,”
loyally, “would clear my friends from suspicion. And I will give
you”--unconsciously her eyes sought Dick’s and the look in them made
his heart throb with hope; then she glanced quickly at Count de Morny,
and his heart sank with sickening dread--“unto the half of my kingdom.”

“I accept the challenge,” he said, gravely, and he raised her hand to
his lips; while Tom, in a few sentences, explained the wager to the two
foreigners.

“To find ze murderer? But ze police have done zat, Mademoiselle,” de
Morny ejaculated.

“No, no; they have only arrested a man on suspicion. Miss Peggy thinks
the murderer is still at large.”

“As Mademoiselle sinks, so sinks I,” answered the Count gallantly.

“It appears to me that the police acted with great discretion,” said de
Smirnoff, who had been an interested listener. “But they do not make
the most of their opportunities.”

“In what way, Count?” asked Dick.

“In regard to the burglar, Monsieur. Since my arrival here I have read
with deep interest all the newspaper accounts of the tragedy. Frankly,
I had not expected to find such a _cause celebre_ in the Capital of
this great country. It occurs to me that the burglar has not told all
he knows.”

“Since telling his story at the inquest he refuses to talk.”

De Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “In my country he would be made to
talk. The secret police of Russia, Monsieur, can extract information
from the most unwilling of witnesses.”

“You really think Nelson is keeping something back?” asked Tom,
incredulously. “Why, the poor devil is only too anxious to clear
himself. Surely, if he knew he would not hesitate to tell the whole
truth?”

“It is difficult to say, Monsieur. He may have been bribed to hold his
tongue; money can do much these days. Again, fear of the murderer may
force him to silence.”

“That’s true, too; yet fear of the gallows would make most people talk.”

“Ah, but he does not stand in very much danger there, for has not
another man already been arrested, charged with the crime? No, no,
depend upon it, he is holding something back.”

“What, for instance?” inquired Dick, eagerly.

“The weapon,” suggested de Smirnoff. “It is quite within the possible
that he found it. According to his testimony, he was the first to find
the body. Now, he may be keeping back this information so as to be able
to blackmail the murderer when his sentence for house-breaking is over.
Apparently, he is a clever crook, and undoubtedly knows how best to
look after his own interests.”




CHAPTER IX

“MAIN 6”


BUZZ--buzz--sounded the alarm. Dick stirred, shivered slightly, and sat
up.

“May the devil fly away with you!” he muttered, addressing the
clock. “I wish to thunder I could go to bed as sleepy as I wake up,”
stretching himself, and vividly recollecting how many hours he had lain
awake thinking of Peggy. His thoughts turned quickly to her challenge;
with a bound he was out of bed; no time for loitering now--too much was
at stake.

Some hours later Dick was staring moodily at the snow and slush in
front of the District building on Pennsylvania Avenue. So far, he had
been unsuccessful. Gordon had refused to be interviewed by him, now he
was in search of Detective Hardy. Muttering uncomplimentary remarks
about the offenders who allowed the streets in Washington to get in
such a fearful condition, he waded ankle deep through the melting
snow to the sidewalk, and almost into the arms of the very man he was
looking for.

“Hello, Mr. Tillinghast, how are you?” exclaimed Hardy, recovering his
balance as he slipped on the icy pavement. “What brings you down to
these diggings?”

“You,” answered Dick, briefly. “I’m assigned to cover the Trevor
murder, as you know, and I’m looking for more material.”

“Gwan,” chuckled Hardy. “Your paper has already spread itself some on
that line. In fact, it’s said just a leetle too much,” remembering the
furore Gordon’s arrest had made, and the attendant abuse heaped on the
detective force for not making more headway with the case.

“Pshaw! Hardy, you know the paper has to cater to the public, and
Washington has gone wild over the murder. I’ve had to write columns and
give ’em all sorts of theories, but none hold water.”

“’Course not. We’ve got the guilty man under lock and key.”

“Hum! Found the weapon yet?”

A look of chagrin crossed Hardy’s face. “Naw, damn it!” he growled.
“Mr. Gordon sure hid it safely; threw it down an open street sewer most
likely.”

“How about Nelson?”

“Nelson? Oh! he’s doing time for house-breaking; so we’ve got him dead
to rights if we find he’s wanted for the murder. Sorry, sir,” glancing
as he spoke at the clock over the City Post Office, “but I’ve got to
beat it quick.” Then, lowering his voice, “I’ve a bit of news which may
surprise some folks. Come round in a day or two and I’ll let you in on
it.”

“Here, wait,” shouted Dick, making a futile dive for Hardy’s coat as he
swung himself aboard a south-bound car.

“What are you wasting so much energy for, Dick?” asked a hearty voice
at his elbow. Dick swung around with a jump.

“Why, where in ---- did you drop from?” he gasped, hardly able to
credit his senses as the newcomer seized his hand and wrung it
vigorously.

“Just arrived via Panama,” explained General Long. “Let’s get on the
sidewalk, Dick. I didn’t come to Washington to be knocked down by a
dray horse,” and he dragged his still bewildered friend to the curb.
“Come into the Willard and lunch with me. I’m half dead with hunger.”

“Now,” said Dick, after they had done justice to the Martinis, “give an
account of yourself, past, present and future.”

“Past--Philippines; present--here; future--God knows!” General Long
sighed as he helped Dick and himself to the tempting dish in front of
him. “It’s good to taste Christian cooking once again. Don’t insult
good food by hurrying too much, Dick; take your time. At present I’ve
come here on waiting orders.”

Dick inwardly wondered what necessity had induced the War Department
to send for Chester Long. A man of exceptional executive ability and
personal bravery, he had been rapidly advanced over the heads of
older officers, to their unspeakable rage, until finally he had been
appointed second in command in the Philippines. He had made a record
for himself out there, and Dick was astounded that his recall should
have been kept so profound a secret.

“How did you slip away without the papers getting on?” he asked.

“Orders from the Department hushed things up pretty well, and then I
traveled incog. The why and the wherefore, I may--guess--” he smiled
quietly. “Now, Dick, give an account of yourself.”

It did not take long in the telling, as the two friends had never
completely lost sight of each other, and mutual friends had kept them
in touch with their doings. General Long was Dick’s senior by some
fifteen years, but since the days of the Spanish war in Cuba, where
Dick was sent as war correspondent, they had been sworn allies.

“I’m dreadfully shocked about the Trevor murder,” said Long, after
Dick had finished speaking of himself. “The papers are filled with it.
Gordon is the last person I’d think capable of so dastardly a crime.
While at Annapolis, where he was a three-striper, he was voted the
most popular man, and the one most likely to succeed. He never lied,
and he never went back on a friend. Since his graduation his record in
the Service has been fine, fine. And now, to have such a charge against
him! How have the mighty fallen! Poor Gordon--poor devil!”

“Things look pretty black for him,” admitted Dick. “But still the
evidence is not absolutely conclusive, simply circumstantial.”

“In what way?”

“In the first place no weapon has been found in his possession.
Secondly, the absolute lack of motive.”

Long twirled his wine glass about in his fingers.

“Is there none?” he asked, finally.

“Apparently none. After years of absence Gordon came to Washington on
receiving his appointment as aide to the President one month ago. He
never went to the Trevors much. In fact, he and Mrs. Trevor were total
strangers. They met first at a theater party I gave, which Mrs. Trevor
chaperoned, on the night of Gordon’s arrival in town. You know he and
I went to Lawrenceville together.”

Long glanced around the half empty café; their table was in the farther
corner, and their waiter had departed after removing the dessert and
putting the liqueur and coffee before them. There was no chance of
their conversation being overheard, but Long motioned to Dick to pull
his chair closer, as he said in a low voice:

“I’ve always had great respect for your discretion, Dick; therefore,
I’m going to confide in you. You can use your judgment about speaking
of what I tell you now.

“Some four years ago or more, I was military attaché at the Court of
St. James. One day I ran across Don Gordon in Hyde Park. He told me he
was there on leave visiting his sister, Lady Dorchester. I didn’t see
much of him because his entire time was taken up with paying desperate
attention to--Hélène de Beaupré.”

“What!” shouted Dick, starting up in his intense surprise.

“Hush, man,” said Long, sternly. “You are attracting attention.” Dick,
much abashed, subsided into his chair. “I can swear to what I am
saying, because at that time Hélène de Beaupré was the rage in London.
Men and women raved about her, and she was received everywhere. Gordon
lost his head over her, he was madly infatuated with her beauty;
whether his affection was returned, I know not.” Long shrugged his
shoulders.

“Just about that time I was relieved from duty in London, and in the
rush of departure forgot all about Gordon and his affairs. But one day
on shipboard Alfred Clark told me that he had seen Gordon and Hélène de
Beaupré applying at the Home Office for a special license to marry at
once.”

Dick looked at his friend too dazed to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
he muttered.

For a few minutes they sat regarding each other in puzzled silence.
Then Dick roused himself to ask: “Is the Alfred Clark of whom you speak
the man who is now secretary to the Attorney General?”

“Is he tall, well-built, handsome, with a peculiar scar on his temple?”

“You have described the man to a dot. Looks like a Gypsy?” Long nodded
in acquiescence. “He goes out here a great deal; sort of insinuates
himself into people’s good graces. I never liked him--too much of a
beauty man to suit me. What was he doing in England?”

“He stopped there from Italy on his way to the States. At that time his
father had plenty of money, and Alfred did nothing but travel about at
his own sweet will. The crash came just afterwards, and then he had to
get to work.”

“It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, poor devil.
I’ve gone through a somewhat similar experience,” and Dick sighed
sympathetically. “Strange that Mrs. Trevor, Gordon and Clark should all
be here at the same time!”

“Fate plays strange tricks,” agreed Long. “I heard nothing further
about these three people until I read of the Trevor tragedy. How did
Gordon and Mrs. Trevor look, Dick, when you introduced them?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Dick. “Gordon didn’t appear until about the
middle of the first act; the box was in semi-darkness. I introduced him
to all my friends as he was the stranger, and I remember hearing Mrs.
Trevor say she was ‘delighted to meet him.’ I took it for granted she
didn’t know him.”

Long shook his head. “It’s a black business, Dick, whichever way you
look at it. If she jilted Gordon and married Trevor, it might be a
reason for the crime; or if Gordon really married her first, then there
is a still greater motive for the murder.”

“Bigamy?” ejaculated Dick.

“Perhaps. Gordon is poor--Trevor rich; apparently the balance dipped in
the latter’s favor. It is not the first time souls have been bought and
honor lost by the desire for filthy lucre. Mind you, Dick, this last
is all surmise. I may be entirely wrong. You can use the information
I have given you if you think best; and I’ll be here if you want to
consult me about it.”

“Which way are you going?” asked Dick.

“To the War Department, and you--?”

“To the office. I’ll drop in and see you sometime to-morrow. It’s bully
having you back again, old man. So long,” and with a parting hand shake
the two friends parted.

Dick was very tired when he reached his home in Georgetown that night.
His landlady heard his key turn in the lock and came out in the hall to
meet him.

Mrs. Brisbane, “befo’ de wah,” had not known what it was to put on
her own silk stockings; now, she took “paying guests.” Her husband
and brothers had died for “The Cause”; her property near Charleston,
South Carolina, had been totally destroyed during the horrors of the
Reconstruction period. She had come to Washington, that Mecca for
unemployed gentlewomen, in hopes of adding to her slender income.
For years she had been employed in the Post Office Department, as a
handwriting expert. Then suddenly her eyesight failed her; and broken
in health and hopes, she and her young granddaughter kept the wolf from
the door and a roof over their heads as best they could.

Dick was devoted to Mrs. Brisbane. Her gentle dignity and indomitable
pluck in the face of every misfortune had won his admiration and
respect. He had lived with them for over three years, and was looked
upon as one of the family.

“You are late, Dick,” she said. “Have you had a busy day?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brisbane,” he answered, “and I’m dog tired, having been on
the dead jump ever since I left here this morning.”

“Not too tired to come into the dining-room and help us celebrate my
seventieth birthday, I hope?”

Dick looked reproachfully at her. “And you never told me! I don’t
think that’s fair. Am I not one of the family? Yes-- Then I claim a
relative’s privilege.”

Mrs. Brisbane beamed upon him. “You extravagant boy! That’s just why I
did not tell you. I hope you are not too exhausted to enjoy a glass of
eggnog?”

“What a question! You know I would walk miles to get a taste of your
eggnog. There’s nothing like it, this side of Heaven.”

“Heaven is not usually associated with eggnog,” laughed Nancy Pelham, a
pretty young girl of sixteen. “And Granny’s brew is apt to lead one in
the opposite direction.”

“Tut! Child. As Pa once said, eggnog was invented especially for God’s
po’ creatures in their moments of tribulation. It puts new heart in
most everyone, even a po’ Yankee.”

Dick laughed. “You are a pretty good hater, Mrs. Brisbane,” he said,
helping himself to the frothy beverage.

“I reckon I’ve got cause.” Mrs. Brisbane’s drawl was delicious. “An’
I’m from Charleston, Dick, don’t forget that. Why, one of my nieces
never knew until she got to New York that ‘damn Yankee’ was two words.”

“Granny, Granny,” remonstrated Nancy. “Dick’s a good Northerner by
birth, and we mustn’t wave the bloody shirt.”

“Nonsense,” said Dick, hastily. “I love to fight our battles over
with Mrs. Brisbane. What a beautiful punch bowl that is?” he added,
enthusiastically.

“Isn’t it? It was given to Granny’s father, General Pinckney, by Mr.
Calhoun.”

“It is the only piece of silver saved from the wreck,” said Mrs.
Brisbane, sadly. “I could not part with it for old associations’ sake.
Everything else of value, silver and jewelry, was sold long ago.
How many distinguished men have drunk out of that bowl!” she sighed
involuntarily. “Heigh oh! It is not good to reminisce. But I’ll never
forget, Dick, one dinner I attended here.

“It was before I secured my place in the Post Office, and I was
visiting some Washington friends. They took me to a dinner given by Mr.
and Mrs. John Thompson, who were new-comers. They had struck ‘ile’ and
were entertaining lavishly that winter. Imagine my feelings when I saw
them using my entire silver service, even to the small silver!

“I recognized our coat-of-arms, as well as the pattern of the silver.
They passed it off as family heirlooms! I found out later that they had
spent months collecting the pieces from different second-hand dealers
in antiques. I would not have minded so much if they had not been so
palpably nouveaux riches. It seemed a sacrilege! Why, they hardly knew
the uses of some of the pieces.”

Dick leaned over and patted her hand sympathetically.

“‘Heaven sends almonds to those who have no teeth,’” he quoted. “Now, I
wonder if you can tell me anything about Texas?” he added, suddenly.

“Texas!” exclaimed Mrs. Brisbane. “Not much; I’ve never been there
myself, but I have been told that only men and mules can live in that
State. The climate usually kills all the women.”

“It isn’t Texas in general I am interested in,” chuckled Dick, “but the
Gordons.”

“The Gordons are Georgians, Dick.”

“Not Donald Gordon, he was born in Texas.”

“Now, I do recollect that Major Gordon moved to Texas just after
the wah. I believe he married a Galveston woman; and then went into
politics.”

“Whatever the cause,” said Dick, his eyes twinkling, “he represented
Texas in the Senate for years; finally died in Washington, and is
interred in the Congressional Burying Ground here. Now, Mrs. Brisbane,
can you tell me anything about them?”

“Not a thing, Dick, except that Senator Gordon was a man of very high
temper; he nearly killed a soldier once for disobeying orders. Why do
you ask?”

“I know,” broke in Nancy. She had been an interested listener, and had
also seen that Dick’s glass was never empty. “It has something to do
with the Trevor murder.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Dick, gravely. “I am doing my best to prove
Gordon’s innocence; and, hang it all! every shred of evidence I turn
up, is against him.”

“It was a shocking murder of a defenseless woman. I do not believe a
Gordon could have done it,” declared Mrs. Brisbane.

“And yet--”

“Listen to me a moment, Dick,” Nancy tapped the table in her
earnestness. “Perhaps I can help you. That Wednesday was my night shift
at the North Exchange.” Nancy was temporarily working as a central
in the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company until she had taken
her Civil Service examination for a Government position. “Well, about
fifteen minutes after two that morning a call came for the Trevors’
house.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes. I don’t mean the regular house telephone, but for the Attorney
General’s private wire in his private office.”

“What!” Dick’s voice grew in volume as his astonishment increased. “Are
you sure, Nancy?”

“Absolutely positive. You know the number of the telephone in the
Attorney General’s private office at his home is not listed in
the regular book, as is his house wire. His private telephone is
‘North--123’; I remember it because it is so easy; and the other is
‘North--6795.’”

“But as to the time, Nancy?”

“I am certain about that, too. It was very quiet in the Exchange, and
when the call came I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked at the big
wall clock directly opposite, and I saw it was fifteen minutes past
two.”

“Nancy, you are a wonder--a brick. But why didn’t you come forward and
give your evidence at the inquest?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Dick,” the young girl colored painfully. “I went to
work at the Exchange because we are so frightfully poor; but I--I--just
couldn’t face the notoriety which I feared I would be dragged into.
Then again, it might not have anything to do with the terrible affair.”

“Do?” echoed Dick; his tone was eloquent. “Was the telephone answered?”

“Yes, at once.”

“Now, do you happen to know where the call came from?”

“Yes. It was--‘Main 6.’”

Dick gazed at her too spellbound for words.

_Main 6--The White House!_




CHAPTER X

CAUGHT ON THE WIRES


DICK was up betimes the next morning, stopping only long enough to
swallow a cup of coffee and a plate of oatmeal. Then calling a cheery
good-by to Mrs. Brisbane, he banged out of the front door and down
the steps in such haste that he collided violently with “Uncle” Andy
Jackson, the Brisbane factotum, who was busy shoveling the snow off the
steps.

“Laws, Marse Dick,” groaned Uncle Andy, picking himself up carefully.
“’Pears like yo’ am in a hurry.”

“Awfully sorry, Uncle,” said Dick, helping the old man to his feet.
“Here,” thrusting some loose change into the ready palm, “buy some
liniment for the bruises. Whew! I didn’t realize it snowed so much last
night.”

As far as the eye could see the large, old-fashioned gardens, which
surround the old houses in Georgetown, were covered with banks of snow,
an unusual sight in the Capital City. In some places the drifts were
waist high.

“Plenty mo’ snow fo’ ole Andy to shovel,” grumbled the old man, who
dearly loved the sound of his own voice, and seized every opportunity
to talk to Dick, whom he especially admired because he belonged to “de
quality.” “’Pears like de sky am a-tryin’ ter whitewash dis hyer wicked
city. Las’ night, sah, I went to hear de Reverend Jedediah Hamilton. He
sho’ am a powerful preacher. He says Satan am a-knocking at de gates ob
Washington; dat it am a whitened sepulcher; an’ dat we all am a-gwine
ter perdition. Hadn’t yo’ better git religion, Marse Dick?”

“Oh, I’m not worrying just now, Uncle. You see, my brother John is a
minister of the Gospel, and I guess he’ll intercede for me.”

“’Twon’t do, Marse Dick; de Good Book it say: ‘Every man shall bear his
own burden and every tongue shall stand on its own bottom.’”

Dick waved his hand in farewell as he plunged through the drifts to
cross the street. Uncle Andy watched the tall, athletic figure out of
sight; then shook his head solemnly.

“’Pears like Marse Dick am pas’ prayin’ fo’,” he muttered. Then,
hearing Mrs. Brisbane’s frantic calls for him, he shouted: “Comin’, ole
Miss, comin’.”

The street cars were blocked by the heavy fall of snow, so Dick had to
walk from Georgetown to the _Star_ Building, a distance of nearly two
miles, consequently he was late. But after the first rush of work was
over, he stole a moment to call up the White House, and asked the names
of the night watchmen who were on duty in the Executive Offices on that
fatal Wednesday.

“Wait a moment,” answered the White House central, “and I’ll find out.
Hello--the men were Charlie Flynn and Tom Murray.”

“Much obliged,” called Dick, as he rang off. Luck was certainly
with him at last. He had greatly feared that he would not get any
information in regard to the mysterious telephone call without a great
deal of difficulty and delay, for “mum” was the word with all the White
House employés.

But Tom Murray had been General Long’s orderly during the campaign
in Cuba, and, in fact, owed his present position to the General’s
influence. Dick knew where he lived, as Tom had married Peggy
Macallister’s maid, Betty; and once when Betty was ill with typhoid
fever, Peggy had asked Dick to go with her to Tom’s modest home on
Capitol Hill.

Dick hurriedly covered his first assignment, rushed back to the office
in time to get his story in the afternoon paper, then tore out again
and jumped aboard a Navy Yard car. Twenty minutes later he was beating
a hasty tattoo on the Murrays’ front door. Tom himself admitted him.

“Why, Mr. Tillinghast, sir! I’m mighty glad to see you. Won’t you come
in?”

Dick stepped into the tiny parlor. “I’ve just stopped by for a moment,
Tom. Thought you’d like to know that General Long is in town.”

Tom fell back a step in his astonishment.

“Glory be,” he shouted. “Where is he stopping, sir. That is, if he
cares to see me?”

“At the New Willard. He wants to see you to-night.”

Tom’s face fell. “I can’t go, at least not to-night, sir. You see,
I’m on night duty at the White House now, sir. I get off at six every
morning and sleep until noon. I’m just up now, sir. Do you think the
General could see me in the afternoon?”

“Sure; I’ll ask him. By the way, Tom, who answers the White House
telephones at night?”

“I do, sir; leastways, I attend to the switch-board in the Executive
Offices.”

“Do you happen to recollect what person in the White House called up
‘North--123’ on February third, or rather February fourth, at two
fifteen in the morning?”

Tom looked searchingly at his questioner.

“Ought I to answer that question, sir?”

“I think you should. General Long sent me here to ask you.”

“May the good Lord forgive me,” thought Dick, “I know Cheater will back
me up.”

Tom’s face cleared. “Then it’s all right, sir. I hesitated to answer
you, sir, because--the call came from the President himself.”

For a moment Dick was too aghast to speak. The President! Truly, his
investigations were leading him into deep water.

“Are you quite sure, Tom?” he asked, soberly.

“Quite, sir,” with military precision. “I remember the night perfectly,
sir. While the White House is often called up at all hours, it ain’t
usual for inmates of the household to ring up outside calls after
midnight.”

“Had you any trouble getting your party?”

“No, sir. Central was rather slow about answering, but that was the
only delay.”

“Thanks, Tom, you’ve helped General Long a lot by telling me all this.
Go and see him about six to-night on your way to the White House. You
will probably catch him then. Is your wife well?”

“Yes, sir, thank you. Please tell the General I will be at the hotel
without fail. Good-by, sir.”

When Dick had departed, Tom walked into his kitchen with a grave face.

“I’m afraid, Betty, I talked too freely with Mr. Tillinghast.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Betty, whose temper was apt to get peppery when
she worked over a hot fire. “Master Dick isn’t the sort to get us into
trouble.” And that ended the discussion.

Dick plodded along the streets too absorbed in thought to notice the
snow and ice. Should he, or should he not? Well, he would try anyway,
so quickening his steps he hastened over to the Congressional Library
and entered one of the pay-station telephone booths in the building.

“What number, please?” asked Central.

“Main 6.” A few minutes’ wait.

“Drop in your nickel, there’s your party.”

“Hello, White House, I want to speak to Secretary Burton--Hello,
Burton, that you? This is Dick Tillinghast talking.”

“Well, Dick, how are you?”

“Oh, so-so. Say, Burton, do you think the President would see me alone
for a few minutes?” Dick heard Burton whistle. “I know he is fearfully
busy with the arrival of the Grand Duke Sergius, but I swear it’s
important--a matter of life and death.”

Burton detected the earnest note in Dick’s voice, and was convinced.

“Hold the wire, old man.”

Dick waited impatiently. So much depended on the answer.

“Hello, Central, don’t cut me off--Burton, that you?”

“Yes. The President says he will see you at ten minutes of five,
_sharp_.”

“Burton, you are a trump. By-by.”

Prompt to the minute, Dick appeared in the waiting room of the
Executive Offices. Burton came to the door and beckoned to him.

“In with you,” he whispered. “I sincerely hope your news is of
sufficient importance to excuse my sending you in ahead of two irate
senators,” and he gave Dick’s broad shoulders an encouraging pat, as
the door swung open to admit him to the private office.

Dick had been frequently thrown with the President, having been one
of the reporters detailed to accompany him when he toured the country
before his election, but he never entered his presence without feeling
the force and personality of the great American, who, with unerring
hand, was steering the Ship of State through such turbulent waters.

The President straightened his tall, wiry form as Dick advanced to
greet him. His large dark eyes, set deep under shaggy eyebrows, gazed
rather blankly at Dick for a moment, then lighted with recognition as
they shook hands.

“How are you, Mr. Tillinghast? Sit down here.” The President pointed to
a large arm chair close beside his desk, then he glanced at the clock.
“Burton said you wished to see me alone about a matter of life and
death.”

“Well, yes, Mr. President; I put it that way to attract Burton’s
attention.” Then, seeing a frown gathering on the rugged, heavily lined
face, he hastened to add: “I came to see you about the Trevor murder.”

There was no mistaking the President’s genuine start of surprise.

“To see me! Why?”

“I wanted to ask you, sir, who it was answered the telephone when you
called up the Attorney General’s private office on Thursday morning at
two fifteen o’clock?”

The President leaned thoughtfully back in his chair and regarded Dick
intently. Apparently what he saw in his appearance pleased him, for
after a prolonged scrutiny, which Dick bore with what equanimity he
could, he reached over and touched his desk bell.

“Is Secretary Bowers still in the White House?” he asked the attendant
who answered his summons.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“My compliments, and ask him to step here.”

Dick waited in silence, a good deal perturbed in spirit. What was to
pay? The President had but time to gather up some loose papers and put
them in his desk when the door opened and admitted his Secretary of
State, James Bowers, a man known throughout the length and breadth of
the land as representing all that was best in America and Americans.

“Your attendant caught me just as I was leaving, Mr. President,” he
said. “I am entirely at your service,” and he bowed gravely to Dick,
who had risen on his entrance.

“I won’t detain you long. You know Mr. Tillinghast?”

“Yes,” smiled the Secretary. “He has interviewed me on many occasions.”

“Then sit here by me.” The President pushed a chair toward him. “Mr.
Tillinghast has come to me about the Trevor murder.” The Secretary
raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I leave this matter entirely in your
hands, Bowers. Use your judgment in the affair. Now, Mr. Tillinghast,
tell us how you found out a telephone call came from this office at
that particular hour for the Trevor house.”

Quickly Dick told them; and the two men followed each word with deep
attention. After Dick ceased speaking, the Secretary sprang from his
chair and paced the room rapidly in deep thought.

“Tillinghast,” he said, stopping abruptly, “what I tell you now is
strictly confidential. I am not speaking for publication.”

“Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick, quietly, “I give you my word of honor
that I shall never make use of what you tell me.”

“Good! On the whole, I am glad you came, because I was just debating
whether or not to send for the Chief of Police about this very affair.
Have I your permission to speak freely to Tillinghast, Mr. President.”

“You have.”

Secretary Bowers settled himself more comfortably in his chair, cleared
his throat, and began:

“On that Wednesday night I came here to have a secret conference about
a matter of national importance. The President and I talked until long
after midnight. During our discussion we found it necessary to get the
Attorney General’s advice on a vital law point. Knowing that Trevor
often stays until daylight in his private office, as I do--” a ghost
of a smile lighted his lips--“I took the chance of finding him and
rang him up there first, intending, if that failed, to call his house
’phone. The President’s voice and mine are much alike, and it is not
surprising that Murray thought it was he calling up Mr. Trevor at that
hour.”

“And did he answer you?” asked Dick, breathlessly.

“No--a woman did.”

Dick sat back in his chair and gazed hopelessly at the President, and
then at the Secretary. Instantly his thoughts flew to Beatrice. Great
Heavens! He was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“Did--did you by chance recognize her voice?”

The Secretary hesitated a moment before answering.

“She spoke with a decided foreign accent”--again he hesitated. “I
called her ‘Mrs. Trevor.’”

“Mrs. Trevor!” gasped Dick. For once words failed him.

“Let me describe the scene to you exactly,” went on the Secretary.
“I waited only a few minutes for the connection, and then I heard
the faint click of the receiver being removed from the hook, then a
woman’s cultivated voice asked: ‘Who is eet?’ I promptly replied: ‘Can
I speak to your husband, Mrs. Trevor?’ She made no answer, but in a
second the Attorney General came to the telephone, gave me the desired
information, and I rang off.”

In absolute silence the three men faced each other, with bewilderment
and doubt written on their countenances. The long pause was broken by
the Secretary.

“When I first heard of the tragedy I, like the rest of the world,
thought poor Mrs. Trevor had been murdered by the burglar, Nelson. On
the day the inquest was held, I received a telegram saying that my wife
was dangerously ill with typhoid fever in Cambridge. She had gone there
two weeks before to be with our son, who is at Harvard. I dropped
everything and hastened at once to her bedside. Until the crisis was
over I never left her. And so deep was my anxiety, for the doctors held
out little hope that she would recover, that I neglected everything
outside the sick room. I left all my business to my private secretary.

“My wife rallied wonderfully after the crisis was passed, and I
returned to Washington on last night’s Federal. On the trip down my
secretary told me all the developments in the Trevor case. I was simply
thunderstruck!”

“In his direct testimony Mr. Trevor denied being in his private office
after his return from the banquet; denied having seen his wife again.
He undoubtedly perjured himself,” said the President, thoughtfully.
“Still, even in the face of such evidence, he may be innocent of the
crime. For the time being I shall give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You are right, and very just, Mr. President,” exclaimed the Secretary.
“This phase of the case must be sifted to the bottom in absolute
secrecy. It would be ruinous to let the outside world know you even
suspect your Attorney General guilty of murder. The effect would be
appalling. Now, Tillinghast--” he spoke with greater emphasis--“I
know you to be a man of integrity. You have already shown great skill
in this affair; therefore, I am going to ask you to go and see the
Attorney General as my representative, and ask him for an explanation.
Then come and report to me. I could send one of the Secret Service men,
but the fewer people involved in this scandal the better.”

“I’ll do my very best, Mr. Secretary, to merit your trust,” said Dick,
warmly. “But how am I to reach the Attorney General? He refuses to see
any newspaper men.”

“That is easily arranged,” said the Secretary. “May I borrow pen and
ink, Mr. President?” drawing some note paper toward him as he spoke.
“I’ll write a few lines asking him to see you; that will be all that is
necessary.”

Quickly Secretary Bowers’ hand traveled over the paper; then, folding
it neatly, he handed the note to Dick, saying:

“Don’t fail us, Tillinghast; remember we depend on your tact and
discretion. I would see Trevor myself, but my time is entirely taken up
with the Grand Duke Sergius’ presence in the city. He dines with the
President to-night, as you doubtless know....”

“Come in,” called the President, as a discreet knock interrupted the
Secretary. Burton entered and handed him a note.

“This is marked ‘Immediate and Personal,’ Mr. President. Recognizing
the handwriting, I brought it right in.”

As the President tore open the envelope and rapidly read its contents,
Secretary Bowers turned to Dick, who was standing by the desk awaiting
an opportunity to depart, and said quickly:

“Come and see me at the State Department to-morrow morning at nine
o’clock.”

The President signaled to Burton to withdraw; then he looked directly
at the Secretary of State and Dick.

“This,” he said, tapping the letter in his hand, “is from Mr. Trevor,
tendering me his resignation as my Attorney General on the ground of
ill health.”




CHAPTER XI

BEHIND CLOSED DOORS


A LOUD rat-a-tat-tat startled Dick as he dressed in his room that
night. On opening the door, he was much surprised to find General Long
standing on the threshold.

“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” asked Long, smiling at Dick’s
amazement. “Your very charming landlady told me I might come right up.
By Jove! she has fixed you up in comfort,” and he looked enviously
around Dick’s pleasant, home-like room. “This is something like,”
sinking luxuriously into a huge lounging chair.

“It’s mighty good of you to look me up so soon, Chester. Sorry I can’t
spend the evening with you, but I must hurry along as soon as I am
fully dressed,” struggling to tie his cravat as he spoke.

“Don’t mind me. I only dropped in to ask what you did to Tom Murray;
he’s in the devil of a flutter for fear he betrayed official secrets.”

“Tom need not worry; he won’t get into trouble. Say, old man, I simply
must consult you; but first promise by all that you hold sacred you
won’t breathe a word of what I’m telling you.”

“I swear.” Long’s mouth closed like a steel trap. When he spoke in that
tone Dick knew he meant what he said.

“The Secretary of State asked me to keep these facts from becoming
public; but I know you can be relied on to be ‘mum.’” Dick spoke
slowly, weighing each word. “I must have your advice, Chester. Since
I saw you last I have received incontestable proof that Trevor _did_
see his wife on his return from the banquet that night, although he
testified to the contrary.”

Long whistled. “You think then that he had a hand in the murder?” he
asked doubtfully.

“I cannot reach any other conclusion.” Dick stopped a moment to check
off his deductions on his fingers. “First, there is the possibility
of Gordon’s being Mrs. Trevor’s first husband--anyway, an old lover.
Secondly, he certainly was there that night. Probably Trevor returned
in time to catch them together.”

“Or perhaps he overheard their conversation, waited until Gordon left,
then had it out with his wife,” interjected Long, quickly. “He may have
lost his temper--biff! Poor devil!” remorsefully. “We must not judge
too hastily, Dick; we don’t know what provocation he had--he may have
been insanely jealous, like Othello, for instance.”

“Think of having to go and ask a man why he murdered his wife--oh,
Lord!--oh, damn!” Dick’s lamentations changed to maledictions. To
emphasize his remarks he had inadvertently used too much strength in
forcing his sleeve button through his cuff, and one of the links had
broken in his hand. “Here, help yourself to a cigarette,” pushing a box
towards Long, “while I mend this confounded button. Why aren’t you
dining at the White House to-night?”

“Not sufficiently urged. Nothing under a Major-General was invited to
meet his Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke. The Russians are a mighty
fine looking race of men, Dick, and the Grand Duke’s staff is no
exception to the rule.”

“Is that so? I met a very distinguished looking Russian last night,
a Count de Smirnoff. He spoke our language much better than most
foreigners.”

“Oh, his nation are all good linguists. Is the Count a member of the
Grand Duke’s staff?”

“De Morny didn’t tell me. By the way, we discussed the Trevor murder
last night, and Count de Smirnoff suggested that the burglar may have
picked up the broken end of the weapon used to kill Mrs. Trevor, and
being in no immediate fear of the hangman, is holding it back to use as
blackmail when he gets out of jail.”

“That’s not a bad theory,” said Long. “Look into it, Dick. The deeper
we get in this affair the more involved it becomes. At present,” rising
as he saw Dick pick up his overcoat and hat, “it looks as if the
Attorney General were indeed the guilty man. And yet, Dick, if those
three people had a scene that night, Gordon, if innocent, must suspect
Trevor. Then why doesn’t he speak out and clear himself?”

Dick shook his head despondently. “It’s beyond me,” he groaned. “Come
down and see me at the office to-morrow afternoon, Chester.”

“I am sorry, but I can’t; for I have to escort the Grand Duke to
Fort Myer. The troops stationed there are to give a special drill in
his honor. But you come and dine with me at the Willard, about seven
thirty; for I am most anxious to hear the outcome of your interview
with Trevor.”

“All right, I’ll be there. Come, hurry up, Chester, I’m behind time.”
So saying he hustled Long into his overcoat and out of the house.

Twenty minutes later Dick ran lightly up the Trevor steps in much
tribulation of spirit. He heartily wished the night was over.

“Can I see the Attorney General, Wilkins?” he asked, as that
functionary opened the door.

“No, sir. He is not at home, sir.”

“Sorry, Wilkins, but I must insist on being admitted. I come from the
Secretary of State. Take this note and my card up to the Attorney
General and ask if he can see me.”

On entering the drawing-room Dick was surprised to see Alfred Clark
lounging comfortably back on the big divan near the fireplace. He
glanced up with annoyance at the sound of footsteps; but, recognizing
Dick, he came forward with outstretched hand.

“Good evening, Tillinghast,” he said cordially. “I didn’t hear the
front bell ring; I must have been dozing.”

“Indeed,” answered Dick. What was it about the fellow he didn’t
like? Ah, it came to him as Clark moved forward a chair--it was the
Secretary’s air of proprietorship--as if he were host and Dick a
tolerated intruder!

“Can I do anything for you to-night, Tillinghast?”

“No, thanks. I called to see the Attorney General.”

“Ah!” Clark’s exclamation and shrug were foreign in their
expressiveness. “That is impossible. Mr. Trevor sees no one.”

“I think he will see me,” said Dick, patiently.

“I fear you are mistaken, Tillinghast. The Attorney General denies
himself to all callers,” Clark replied suavely. “You will really have
to confide your business to me.”

“That is impossible,” replied Dick, shortly.

Clark flushed at his tone, and his eyes flashed.

“You forget, sir, that I am the Attorney General’s confidential
secretary, in fact, his representative. I would be perfectly within my
rights if I denied you admittance to this house.”

The hot retort on Dick’s lips was checked by Wilkins’ entrance.

“The Attorney General will see you, sir. Please walk into his private
office.”

Try as he would, Clark could not prevent a look of deep chagrin
crossing his face, and Dick chuckled inwardly as he followed the butler
out of the room and across the broad hall. Just before he reached the
door leading into the office, he felt his nose twitching, premonitory
symptoms of a sneeze, and with hasty fingers he pulled his handkerchief
out of his cuff.

The mended cuff link broke and made a tinkling noise as it struck on
the hearth of the open fireplace; and then, with the evil ingenuity
which sometimes possesses inanimate objects, it rolled far out of sight
under a suit of chain armor which hung to the left of the chimney.
Dick sprang in pursuit; Mrs. Macallister had given the set to him that
Christmas, and he was determined not to lose the button. So getting
down on hands and knees he groped about until his fingers closed over
it again; then rose hurriedly to his feet at the same time thrusting
the recovered link into his waistcoat pocket, to find himself face to
face with the Attorney General.

“G--good e--evening, Mr. Attorney General,” he stammered, much
flustered. “I smashed my cuff link, and was hunting for the thing.” And
he exhibited his unfastened cuff to the Attorney General’s amused gaze.

“I am sorry, Tillinghast,” said he. “Wilkins, see if you can help--”

“Oh, I have the link,” broke in Dick, tapping his pocket reassuringly.

“Then let us go into the office. I believe you wish to see me alone.
Ah! Clark,” as his secretary came out of the drawing-room, “you need
not wait any longer. Stay,” as Clark hastily put on his overcoat with
Wilkins’ assistance, “please stop on your way down Connecticut Avenue
and send this night letter for me. Good night, my boy.”

“Good night, sir; good night, Tillinghast,” and the door banged to
behind his retreating form.

After they were seated in the closed room Dick gazed in shocked
surprise at the Attorney General. Never had he seen a man alter so much
in so short a time. His hair and mustache were white, deep lines had
formed about his mouth and eyes, and the latter had a feverish light in
them which worried Dick extremely. For a moment he was at a loss how to
explain his errand, but the Attorney General solved the difficulty for
him.

“Secretary Bowers in his note tells me that I can trust you absolutely,
and that you have confidential news of importance for my ear alone. Is
it in regard to my resignation?”

“Well, partly, sir. I was with the President and the Secretary when
your letter was delivered. They both wish you to reconsider your
decision.”

A shade of annoyance crossed Trevor’s face. “I am afraid that is
impossible, Tillinghast. I am an ill man, as you can see. It is
physically impossible for me to carry on my work at the Department of
Justice.”

“Very true, sir. But could you not take a vacation only? That would set
you up wonderfully.”

“My mind is made up,” said Trevor, stubbornly. “I intend to resign.”

“The President told me, Mr. Attorney General, that he could not accept
your resignation until--until--”

“Until what?” questioned Trevor, in growing surprise.

Dick, taking his courage in both hands, continued: “Until you explain
your presence here with your wife shortly before she was killed.”

“Are you mad?” shouted Trevor. “As I said on the witness stand, I never
saw my wife after my return that night--I--”

“One moment, sir. You forget the Secretary himself talked on the
telephone to both you and your wife in this room at fifteen minutes
past two on Thursday morning.”

The Attorney General grew so ghastly that Dick feared he would collapse
in his chair.

“The telephone,” he croaked. “My God! the telephone--I forgot that--”
then, in uncontrollable agitation, he sprang to his feet and walked up
and down, head bent, eyes on the floor.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed; but the silence between the two men
remained unbroken. Dick simply could not speak, he felt as if he were
torturing some dumb animal, for the look of agony on Trevor’s face
unnerved him. Finally the Attorney General dropped exhausted into his
revolving chair.

“Tillinghast,” he said, slowly, “I am miserable--miserable--” His
shaking hand played for a second with his watch chain. “I thought that
by taking a certain course of action I could prevent knowledge of other
matters from becoming known broadcast.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Dick, gently. “What you tell
me to-night will, as far as I am concerned, be repeated to only one
person--the Secretary.”

“Thanks; that assurance makes it easier for me. If I had recollected
about the telephone call I would have gone to the President myself;
but--” a shrug completed his sentence. “Now, as I understand it,
Tillinghast,” he continued, “you three men think I came down here, met
my wife, quarreled with her, and killed her.”

“Yes, that’s about it,” admitted Dick, reluctantly.

“It is, I suppose, a natural inference. But the woman whom I was
talking to in this room--was not my wife.”

Dick started so violently that he overturned a pile of magazines lying
on the desk by his elbow. He was too confused to pick them up, but sat
gazing blankly at Trevor. A vulgar intrigue! He had never supposed he
was that sort of man.

The Attorney General colored painfully as he read Dick’s thought.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said, harshly. “To explain matters
fully I shall have to go back to my marriage to Hélène de Beaupré. We
met in London, and I, like many others, fell madly in love with her.
She returned my affection, and I persuaded her to marry me at once.

“She has always been a good and loving wife to me. But I found she had
one fault; in fact, it became an overwhelming passion--she gambled. It
seemed to be some taint in her blood. Again and again I remonstrated
with her, but to no purpose. She gambled so persistently, so
recklessly, and her losses were so large that, finally, I told her my
income was crippled by her extravagance, and that hereafter she would
have to live within a certain allowance. She realized at last that I
was in earnest, and did her best to comply with my request. Would God I
had never made it!” Trevor spoke with passionate feeling. “I might have
known that a born gambler can never be cured or kept within bounds.

“Well, to go on with my story, I thought that she had stopped gambling,
knowing that she had not overdrawn her allowance, or appealed to me for
extra money. But on Monday, February 1st, I went to the Barclays’ about
midnight to fetch my wife home from their card party. They play bridge
for high stakes in that house, and I had asked my wife to decline the
invitation. She refused to do so, however, saying if I would go there
for supper she would leave with me immediately afterwards. Knowing that
most of the high play took place after midnight, I agreed to do as she
requested.

“When I entered the Barclays’ drawing-room the guests were still
playing, and I went and stood silently behind my wife’s chair. She was
absorbed in the play and did not notice my presence. To my unspeakable
horror, I saw her deliberately cheat.

“For a moment the room swam around me, then gathering my wits I looked
to see if the other players had also detected her. As my eye traveled
around the table, Madame de Berriot raised her head, and I saw by her
expression that she also had caught my wife in the act of cheating. For
one sickening second I feared she would call everyone’s attention to
their table, but to my surprise, she said nothing.

“I got my wife away as quickly as possible, but I was too sick at heart
to tell her of my discovery. I walked the floor for the rest of the
night wondering what was the best thing for me to do.

“On my arrival at the Department Tuesday morning, I found Madame de
Berriot awaiting me in my office. It was not a pleasant interview.”
The Attorney General smiled bitterly. “We went over the whole dirty
business. She had come there to bleed me, and she did--$10,000 was her
price of silence.

“I am a proud man, Tillinghast, and I could not bear to have my wife
and my name coupled with dishonor. I--I could not face the scandal that
would follow the exposé; therefore, I bought the woman off.

“It was a large sum, and I could not give it to her at a moment’s
notice. She was then on her way to Baltimore, but intended to return to
Washington late on Wednesday afternoon to get her traps together, as
she was leaving here for good Thursday morning on the Colonial Express.
She did not wish me to call at the Embassy where she was stopping as
it might cause comment; she would not accept a certified check for the
same reason.

“My engagements on Wednesday were such that I had no time free.
Therefore, in desperation, I suggested she should stop here for the
money. I knew my wife and Beatrice intended to go to the Bachelors’,
and that they never left a dance until the very end. So it was arranged
that she should come here on her way from the ball about two o’clock.

“It was sheer madness to yield to a blackmailer, I know, but,
Tillinghast, I was half wild by that time, and lost my head; and
bitterly have I rued it since.” Trevor sighed drearily. “I came home
that night, as I testified at the inquest, and went directly to my
room, tiptoeing past my wife’s door, for I was desperately afraid of
awakening her. I threw myself down on the lounge and, overcome by
weariness, fell into a troubled sleep.

“Some time later I awoke with a start, struck a match and glanced at
the clock; it was just five minutes of two. I raised the shade and
looked out of the window. The Embassy was not far away. Suddenly I
saw a woman’s figure coming slowly down 20th Street. I watched her
cross the street, and then hurried downstairs as noiselessly as I
could and admitted her. We went at once to the private office, and
there I discovered that I had left my wallet containing the money in
my bedroom, and I hastened back upstairs to get it. Just as I was
returning the telephone rang. Madame de Berriot, thinking the noise
might be overheard, removed the receiver, but instead of putting it
on the table answered the call; then beckoned to me. I talked to the
Secretary; then rang off. Immediately afterwards I gave Madame de
Berriot her money in gold certificates, and escorted her to the door.
That is the last I ever saw of her,” he added, leaning wearily back in
his chair.

For some minutes Dick sat regarding Trevor in silence. Then he roused
himself.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“No; go ahead.”

“Do you think anyone could have been in hiding in this room while you
were here?”

“I think not. Madame de Berriot was as nervous as a cat, she kept
glancing in every direction.”

“Was the safe open or closed?”

“The outside closet door was closed, so the one to the safe had to be
shut.”

“Why did you not keep the $10,000 in the safe?”

“I had forgotten the combination.” Then, as he saw Dick’s look of
incredulity, he added: “I never can remember the complicated numbers;
so for convenience I wrote the word ‘safe’ and the numbers of the
combination down in a small memorandum book when I first took this
house. I seldom open the safe as Clark attends to it for me.”

“Why didn’t you ask your secretary for the combination, or look it up
in your book?”

“I forgot to ask Clark until after he had gone,” explained the Attorney
General patiently, “and when I looked for the book it was not in its
place.”

“Indeed. Where do you usually keep it?”

The Attorney General put his hand on the beveled front of his massive,
flat-topped desk.

“This looks like a solid piece of mahogany,” he said, “but in fact it
is a secret drawer. To unlock it you open this upper left hand drawer
as far as it will go. There is a round hole in its back partition,
and by putting your hand through it you can touch the spring.” He
illustrated his words as he spoke, and the small secret drawer slid
noiselessly open. Dick examined the mechanism with care.

“How many people can open this drawer besides yourself?” he asked.

The Attorney General considered a moment before replying.

“I am positive only Mrs. Trevor, my daughter, and myself can do so,” he
declared, finally. “My daughter bought the desk at an auction in New
York, and gave it to me shortly after we moved here.”

“Did you go immediately upstairs after Madame de Berriot’s departure?”
asked Dick, continuing his inquiries.

“I did; going straight to my room. Everything upstairs was perfectly
quiet. I went to bed at once, and fell sound asleep shortly after my
head touched the pillow.” Then, as Dick rose, he added quickly: “Tell
the Secretary everything. Now that I know I may be suspected of
murder, I withdraw my resignation. I will stay here and fight it out.
Tell him, also--” his voice rang out clearly, impressively--“that, as
God is my witness, I know nothing of my wife’s murder!”




CHAPTER XII

BLIND CLEWS


“AND what is your opinion, Tillinghast?” asked the Secretary. They were
sitting alone the next morning in his private office. He had listened
attentively to Dick’s detailed account of his interview with the
Attorney General.

“I believe Mr. Trevor’s statement,” he answered, looking squarely at
Secretary Bowers.

“And so do I,” heartily agreed the other. “Trevor had to buy Madame de
Berriot’s silence. If the scandal had gotten out it would have meant
social ostracism, not only for the guilty woman, but for Beatrice
Trevor and her father as well. It is another case of the innocent
suffering with the guilty. Now, Tillinghast, do you know any facts
about Mr. Gordon’s connection with this affair which have not been
made public?” Seeing Dick’s hesitancy, he added, “Murders are usually
outside my province, I know, but this one touches the President
closely; first one of his aides is suspected, then his Attorney General
is dragged into the affair. If innocent, they must be cleared as
quickly as possible. Come, sir, I must have an answer.”

“You are right, Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick. “I only hesitated fearing
I might get Gordon into further trouble.” Then, in a few words, he
repeated what General Long had told him.

“Whew!” whistled the Secretary. “That certainly complicates matters. Do
you think Trevor knew of Gordon’s former infatuation for his wife?”

“Indeed, sir, I was afraid to speak of Gordon,” confessed Dick. “I
didn’t know what effect it might have. Mr. Trevor looked so desperately
ill and worn.”

The Secretary nodded comprehendingly. “I am going to send for him to
lunch with me to-day to tell him that he must on no account resign
just now, and I will try and find out how much he does know of Mrs.
Trevor’s old love-affair.” He paused a moment, then resumed: “There are
two things which I think have a bearing on this case.”

“What are they, Mr. Secretary?” asked Dick, eagerly.

“First--find out who removed the Attorney General’s memorandum book.
Secondly--while everyone has tried to prove who entered the Trevor
house, no one has sought to find out when a certain member of the
household left there.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Why, what time did the private secretary leave the house, and where
did he spend the evening?”

“By Jove! I never thought of him.”

“Look up those two things. I feel sure they will repay you.” Then, as
Dick picked up his hat and cane, “Tillinghast, you have acted with
great discretion in this affair, and I feel convinced you will carry
your investigations to a successful issue. If I can be of service to
you at any time, come and see me.”

Thanking the Secretary warmly for his encouraging words, Dick hastened
out of the room. At the _Star_ Office, he found a note awaiting him
from Peggy. She asked him to come and see her that afternoon and
“report progress.”

“‘Report progress,’” groaned poor Dick. “I’m damned if I can. Your
Uncle Dudley’s up a tree for sure, Peggy darling, but he’ll do some
tall climbing before he gives up, you bet.”

“Say, son, the City Editor wants you P. D. Q.,” called Dan Conner.
“Stop mooning and hump yourself.”

Taking the hint, Dick fled upstairs to the city room on the double
quick.

“Morning, Dick,” said Colonel Byrd. “Gibson has just sent word that he
is sick, so you will have to take his place at the Capitol. Get down
there early, as there are some important committee meetings to cover.
By the way, any further news about the Trevor murder?”

“Not now, sir. There may be some new developments shortly, though. Can
I get off if I hear of anything turning up in that quarter?”

“Sure; drop everything and run. Get your stuff in as quick as you can.”
And the busy editor turned back to his desk.

       *       *       *       *       *

The clock was just striking half past five when Dick, after an eventful
day at the Capitol, reached Mrs. Macallister’s hospitable mansion on
F Street. The old house with its Colonial architecture looked like a
relic of antebellum days, for standing as it did well back from the
sidewalk, with two fine old elms on either side of the brick walk,
it had an individuality of its own. A central hall ran through it,
the drawing-room and dining-room being to the left of the front door,
while the large library and billiard room were on the other side. The
ceilings were very high, which made the house most comfortable in hot
weather. That fact, combined with her beautiful rose garden, induced
Mrs. Macallister to stay in the city until July.

True to the traditions of old Washington, Mrs. Macallister kept her
“Fridays at Home” from November until June. The fashion of having
only four days in a month did not suit her hospitable mind, and those
who put first and third Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, as the case might
be, on their visiting cards, drove her nearly frantic. “I was always
a poor mathematician,” she informed one of her friends. “I know two
and two make four, but this dot and carry one business is beyond me.”
Therefore, she usually flung the offending pasteboards into the scrap
basket and went serenely on her way, returning calls when it suited her
pleasure and convenience.

Another innovation to which she seriously objected was having tea
served in her drawing-room. Five o’clock tea at home in the bosom of
her family was one thing; but having a small tea table, littered with
cups and saucers and plates, stuck in one corner with an unhappy matron
presiding over it was quite a different matter. Therefore, every Friday
the dining-room table was regularly set and covered with tempting
dishes of all descriptions; and Peggy poured tea at one end, and
one of her numerous friends was always asked to take care of the hot
chocolate at the other.

The callers had thinned out by the time Dick arrived, only about a
dozen people, mostly men, were sitting comfortably around the table.
His heart sank when he saw de Morny in close attendance upon Peggy. To
his jealous eyes they appeared to be on very confidential terms indeed,
which completed his misery. Mrs. Macallister beckoned to him to sit by
her, so, casting a lingering glance at Peggy, he obediently carried his
cup and saucer to her side of the table.

“Any further developments in the Trevor murder, Dick?” Mrs. Macallister
asked him, after a few minutes’ chat about other matters.

Her words were overheard by a tall, showily dressed woman sitting
across the table from them, and she leaned over and joined in the
conversation.

“Yes, do tell us, Mr. Tillinghast,” she begged, with an ingratiating
smile. Matilda Gleason was one of four sisters who lived in a
handsome palace on Columbia Road. It was rumored to have cost in the
neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars; as to the architecture,
the Gleasons _said_ it was Early English, but having employed three
architects before the house was completed, the effect was more or less
startling. It had been nicknamed “Gilded Misery.”

Where the Gleasons had come from was a mooted question, but they had
taken a good many staid Washingtonians into camp by the splendor of
their entertainments. Mrs. Macallister had never called upon them, but
in an unwary moment the chairman of the Board of Lady Managers of the
Children’s Hospital had put Miss Gleason on the same committee with
Mrs. Macallister, and the former had seized the opportunity to call
that afternoon on the pretext of discussing business pertaining to the
Hospital.

“Why, no news at all,” answered Dick, cautiously. He knew Miss
Gleason’s love of scandal, and that the sisters had been nicknamed
“Envy, Hatred, Malice, and All Uncharitableness” by one long-suffering
matron, who had been their victim on several occasions.

“When does the case go to the Grand Jury, Dick,” called Peggy, from her
end of the table.

“In about ten days, I think.”

“I hope Mr. Gordon’s sentence will be all that the law allows,” said
Miss Gleason. It was apparent to everyone where the shoe pinched. All
Washington, which in some ways is like an overgrown village, knew of
her relentless and unsuccessful pursuit of Gordon during the month
that he had been stationed at the White House, and several of the men
present, who had suffered from the same cause, smiled to themselves.

“It is not at all certain he committed the crime,” said Mrs.
Macallister, freezingly.

“He virtually admitted it,” retorted Miss Gleason.

“We look on a man as innocent until proven guilty, you know, Miss
Gleason,” answered Dick, quietly.

“Well, if he isn’t guilty, who is?” asked Miss Gleason.

“The burglar,” promptly chimed in Peggy.

“Nonsense, my dear; why should such a person use a hat-pin when he had
his revolver, and where would he get such a thing?”

For a moment Peggy was at a loss for a reply. She had the same doubt
herself, but she was determined not to give in to Miss Gleason, “horrid
old cat.” Count de Morny, all unconsciously, came to her rescue. The
other guests were silently listening to the discussion.

“I sink Madame Trevor haf stick herself wiz ze pin,” he volunteered,
struggling with the _langue terrible_, which he had never been able to
master. “But yes, Monsieur,” catching Dick’s incredulous stare, “did
not ze doctaire say it was possible for one who was left handed to
strike herself the blow?”

“How do you know Mrs. Trevor was left handed?” demanded Miss Gleason
loudly.

“I haf played ze cards wiz her most often,” answered de Morny, simply.

“But why should Mrs. Trevor commit suicide?” asked Dick, unbelievingly.

De Morny shrugged his shoulders, and answered his question with
another: “Why should Monsieur Gordon kill her?”

“That’s right,” declared Captain McLane, of the U.S. Marine Corps.
“Why should he? I served three years on board the same cruiser with
Donald Gordon, and there isn’t a more honorable, lovable fellow in the
Service. It is absolutely unbelievable that he could perpetrate so
ghastly a crime.”

As Dick looked across at Peggy he caught Count de Smirnoff’s eye. The
Russian was sitting between his hostess and Miss Gleason. For the first
time he joined in the conversation.

“Your theory is weak, Henri,” he said, mildly. “Why should a young and
beautiful woman, who enjoys health, wealth, and a happy home, kill
herself?”

“You nevaire can tell about ze ladies,” retorted de Morny, obstinately.
“Zey are--what you say--‘a law unto themselves, and easily wrought-over
and deviled up. Zey make trifles into mountains.”

“Granting that Mrs. Trevor might have had a motive for suicide,” said
Dick, smiling at the excited Frenchman, “it was utterly impossible for
a dead woman to lock herself in the safe.”

“Could she not have killed herself in the safe after shutting the
door?” inquired de Smirnoff.

Dick shook his head. “Possibly you do not recollect that witnesses
testified at the inquest that her left arm was pressed tightly against
the door-jamb, supporting her weight.”

“She might have fallen forward into that position.”

“I hardly think it likely. Mr. Clark, who was the first inmate of the
household to find Mrs. Trevor, testified that her body was literally
wedged into the safe.”

“You have but his word for it.”

A peculiar tone in the speaker’s voice caused Dick to glance sharply
at him, but he learned nothing from the Russian’s face. It was
expressionless. Before Dick could pursue his questions, Miss Gleason
threw herself into the conversation.

“How is that dear Mr. Clark bearing up under this terrible tragedy?”
she asked, addressing Peggy directly.

“He looked very well the last time I saw him,” said the latter, a
twinkle of mischief in her deep blue eyes.

“I am so glad to hear it. You know, dear Mrs. Macallister, he is
such a delightful man to have around. He always looks after one so
attentively. I never want for anything when he is in the room; and then
he is so handsome, so cultivated! It is a dreadful blow having him in
mourning.”

“I wasn’t aware he is in mourning,” said Peggy, surprised. “Has he lost
a relative?”

“Oh, no. But of course he will accept no invitations now, on account of
his engagement to Beatrice Trevor.”

“What!” Peggy nearly overturned the urn in her excitement. “Miss
Gleason, you are entirely mistaken. Beatrice never was engaged to Mr.
Clark.”

“Indeed? Mrs. Trevor led me to suppose otherwise. From what she said
I gathered the engagement was to be announced shortly. It is not
surprising I thought it a love match,” she continued, catching a
glimpse of Peggy’s indignant expression. “He is desperately attentive
to her, and I see them together all the time.”

“Speaking of seeing people,” broke in Captain McLane, “have you seen
Bertie Lee since he and his wife returned from their honeymoon? He came
into the club the other night looking absolutely woe-begone.”

“He did, indeed,” laughed Dick. “I couldn’t help thinking of the lines:

  ‘“When I think on what I are
    And what I uster was
  I feel I threw myself away
    Without sufficient cos!”’”

“They suit him to a ‘T,’” agreed McLane, helping himself to a glass of
cherry bounce.

“You know the Courtland Browns, do you not, Mrs. Macallister,” asked
Miss Gleason, pulling on her gloves preparatory to departing. “I hear
they are going to air their marital troubles in court, but it’s a
long story, and I must go. Good-by, dear Mrs. Macallister, such a
delightful afternoon. Good-by, everybody, don’t get up?” She waved her
hand to them all and tripped out of the room.

“‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” quoted Mrs. Macallister, a
naughty twinkle in her eye.

“Have you heard of the dinner the Gleasons gave at which they separated
the goats from the sheep?” asked Captain McLane. “They served Veuve
Cliquot at one table, and American champagne at the other.”

“Oh, why do we put up with such ill-bred behavior?” cried Peggy,
impulsively.

“My dear, you are wrong,” said Mrs. Macallister. “The Gleasons belong
to a large class who show ‘the unconscious insolence of conscious
wealth,’ as one of our statesmen aptly puts it.”

“Miss Gleason is very highly colored for a woman of her years,” said de
Smirnoff, gravely.

“Highly colored!” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister. “It’s a wonder she
doesn’t die of painter’s colic. Must you go?” as her guests rose from
the table, and she walked with them into the drawing-room.

It was some few minutes before the other callers started on their
way, and Dick listened with what patience he could muster to their
interminable good-bys. But Peggy soon joined him in the drawing-room.

“Now, sir, give an account of yourself,” she said, with mock severity.
“You haven’t been near me since the ball--” a sudden recollection
caused her to blush hotly, and Dick thought what a lovely, dainty bit
of femininity she was. Her shimmering crêpe de chine Princess dress of
sapphire blue showed up her blonde beauty in a way to tantalize any
man, let alone poor Dick, who was already hopelessly in the toils.

Dick promptly lost his head. “Peggy,” he stammered. “Dearest--be--”

“What are you two talking about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming
suddenly back into the room.

“Er--nothing,” gasped Dick, who had a wholesome dread of incurring her
displeasure. Having a very modest opinion of himself, he feared she
would bitterly oppose his suit. “I was just going to ask Peggy about
Alfred Clark and Beatrice Trevor. Was there ever anything between them,
Peggy?”

“Well, really, Dick!--”

“I know, Peggy, I know you won’t break a confidence; but indeed it is
important that I know.”

Peggy debated for a moment while Mrs Macallister looked thoughtfully at
them. What were those two young people up to? It behooved her to find
out.

“Then, I think I’d better tell you, Dick; particularly as I’m not
breaking any confidence. Alfred Clark _is_ devoted to Beatrice, and I
overheard him making desperate love to her at their house on Tuesday
night, or rather Wednesday morning. I was searching for Beatrice to
say good-by and walked in upon them in the private office. You know
it was a very large party, and the entire first floor was thrown open
to accommodate the guests. Beatrice seemed glad of the interruption,
but Mr. Clark looked as black as a thunder cloud. I rather enjoyed
his discomfiture,” and Peggy laughed at the recollection. “One gets so
tired of his perpetual smile.”

“Do you think Miss Trevor returns his affection?”

Peggy looked troubled. “Beatrice is very reserved,” she said. “She
seldom speaks of men’s attentions to her, even to me, her best friend.
If you had asked me that question a month ago I would have said
positively, ‘No’--but lately, Beatrice, without actually encouraging
Mr. Clark, has allowed him to be with her more than formally.”

“Then you think--?”

“I don’t know what I think,” pettishly.

“Was this supper given the night before the murder?”

“Yes. Madame Bernhardt was the guest of honor.”

“Was Gordon there by chance?”

“Oh, yes. He took me out to supper and was just as jolly and nice as he
could be.”

“I am sorry to interrupt you young people,” called Mrs. Macallister
from the doorway. She had strolled out into the hall to speak to her
maid. “But I must remind Peggy that she has to dress for a dinner at
the Pattersons’.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Dick, in dismay, glancing at his watch. “I had no
idea it was so late. Do forgive me, Mrs. Macallister, for staying so
long.”

“I will, provided you promise to come and dine with us on Wednesday
next, at eight o’clock.”

Peggy’s eyes seconded the invitation, and Dick accepted so joyfully
that Mrs. Macallister’s eyes danced wickedly. “Count de Smirnoff is
very agreeable,” she said, as Peggy left the room, “and I am indebted
to Count de Morny for bringing him to see me. They had been to the
drill at Fort Myer, and the Russian gave a most entertaining account
of it. It is a relief to talk to him after struggling with Count de
Morny’s broken English.”

“It is indeed,” agreed Dick, heartily. “Poor de Morny certainly murders
the King’s English.”

“I asked Count de Smirnoff to call again,” pursued Mrs. Macallister. “I
like him, and we have many mutual friends.”

“How long is he going to be here?”

“Until the Grand Duke returns to New York. Good night, Dick; come and
see us soon again.”




CHAPTER XIII

THE THREAT


ON that same afternoon Beatrice sat in the library gazing with troubled
eyes at a letter lying open in her lap. Suddenly she tore it into
shreds and flung the pieces into the open fire.

“How dare he?” she exclaimed aloud.

“Beg pardon, Miss Beatrice,” said Wilkins, patiently. He had already
addressed her three times.

“What is it?” asked Beatrice, for the first time aware of his presence.

“Detective Hardy is at the telephone, miss. He wishes to know if you
can see him this afternoon.”

“No, I cannot.” She shivered slightly. “Tell him, Wilkins, that I am
lying down, but that I will see him to-morrow about this time. I am not
at home to anyone to-day.”

“Very good, miss.”

Just as Wilkins hung up the telephone receiver, the front bell rang so
loudly that in the library Beatrice paused in her rapid pacing back and
forth to listen. She heard voices raised in a heated altercation. “Some
more reporters,” she thought, shrugging her shoulders nervously. She
threw herself on the lounge and took up her embroidery.

“Well, here I am,” said a heavy bass voice from the doorway. Beatrice
glanced up in surprise, and saw Mrs. Curtis, wife of the Secretary
of War, standing on the threshold. Wilkins’ flushed and unhappy
countenance could be seen over her shoulder. It was not often that he
was out-maneuvered as a watch-dog. “Your servant said you were out, but
I knew he was _lying_, so just walked right by him. I simply had to see
you, Beatrice,” kissing her affectionately.

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,” answered Beatrice, warmly,
as she helped her off with her wraps.

“Joe said you wouldn’t want to see me,” went on Mrs. Curtis, picking
out a comfortable chair and seating her two hundred odd pounds in it
very gingerly. “Joe also said I must not allude to your troubles--Mercy
on us!”--greatly embarrassed--“well, the murder’s out--good gracious!”

Her consternation was so ludicrous that Beatrice smiled as she pulled a
chair forward. Mrs. Curtis’ faculty for making “breaks” was well known
among her friends.

Short of stature, her weight made her waddle when she walked, and no
art of any dressmaker could give her a waist line. Boasting as she did
of a long line of ancestors, whose names were illustrious in American
history, she considered she could do as she pleased, live where she
pleased, and associate with whom she pleased. Her manners could not
always be relied on; they were apt to vary with the state of her
digestion. Abrupt and often overbearing at times, she had, however,
two traits of character shared by few--loyalty and the courage of her
convictions.

She had always been fond of Beatrice, and some recent gossip about the
Trevors coming to her ears that afternoon had made her very angry. She
championed their cause at once, to the consternation of the two worthy
women who, having repeated the gossip, wilted under her indignant
glance. Hence the determined assault on the Trevors’ front door.

“Tea!” she exclaimed, overhearing Beatrice’s order to Wilkins. “My
dear, don’t have it on my account. I detest the stuff. A glass of
sherry and a biscuit will do me more good than anything else you can
offer.”

“How is the Secretary?” asked Beatrice, placing the decanter and
biscuits which had been quickly forthcoming, before her guest.

“Very well, barring an attack of gout. I told him it was a case of
suppressed kicking against the powers that be on Capitol Hill. I met
your father on the street this morning. He looks dreadfully, poor man.
Is there any truth in this rumor of his resigning?” casting a keen
glance at the unconscious girl.

“No truth at all,” Beatrice answered emphatically. “We may both go to
Atlantic City for a week, but that is the only time father will be
away from his office until June. I can’t imagine how such a report
started.”

“Washington is a hotbed of rumors always,” retorted Mrs. Curtis. “What
people don’t know, they make up. But I did not come here to talk about
my neighbors’ shortcomings, but to ask if you won’t go motoring with
me as soon as the condition of the streets permits. You need to be out
in the fresh air,” and she patted Beatrice’s thin cheeks. The somber
black garb enhanced her pallor, but for all that Mrs. Curtis decided in
her own mind that she had seldom seen her look more lovely. “If that
man has been playing fast and loose with her affections,” she thought,
“I’ll--I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” It was no idle threat. Those
who had experienced a piece of her gray matter would rather have faced
a Gatling gun; at least, the end came swiftly.

“I’d love to go with you, Mrs. Curtis.”

“Good. And you’ll come back and dine with us?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to, just yet, because of our deep--” for the life
of her she could not say grief--“mourning,” she supplemented.

“Tut! No one stops to think of that, nowadays.” Suddenly realizing
that she might be treading on rather painful ground for Beatrice, Mrs.
Curtis pulled herself up short. “I’ll take another glass of sherry
after all, for I am simply exhausted. Ever since three o’clock I’ve
done nothing but peddle cards from house to house.”

“Done what?” asked Beatrice, in blank amazement.

“Peddle cards--visiting cards. I have a calling list as long as the
Washington Monument. It’s perfectly fearful. First they call; you call;
they call, and so it goes, back and forth, battledore and shuttlecock.”

“It is a treadmill,” agreed Beatrice, laughing. “It is a pity someone
doesn’t open a clearing house for callers, it would simplify matters,
particularly for the official set.”

“The habit is just as bad among the Cave Dwellers (old Washingtonians),
” she explained in parenthesis. “_They_ even make tea calls! I work
like a slavey, and yet it’s all I can do to make my bread and butter
ones. By the way, did you go to the Constables’ dinner dance two weeks
ago?”

“No,” answered Beatrice, interested. “I heard it was a feast.”

“A feast? It was a feed! One hundred and fifty dinner guests, and fifty
extra couples for the cotillion afterwards. The favors were beautiful,
so beautiful that there was great rivalry to get them, and later in
the evening it was noised around that the souvenir favors were twenty
dollar gold pieces. Anyway, that particular favor was given out in
cardboard boxes, and none of the men would give them away to a girl
until they investigated them first for fear they wouldn’t get one in
return.”

“What were they?” asked Beatrice, greatly diverted.

“Oh, pieces of handsome jewelry. By the way, I saw Margaret Macallister
there flirting outrageously. That nice Mr. Tillinghast is very
attentive to her.”

“He has been in love with her for years. But Peggy flouts him, as she
does all the rest.”

“To take up with a broken stick in the end, I suppose. Well, it’s a
pity young Tillinghast is wasting his time. Mrs. Macallister would
never consent to her marrying a poor man when a title is in sight.”

“You are wrong, Mrs. Curtis,” said Beatrice, politely but positively.
“Mrs. Macallister is a woman of the world, not a worldly woman. She is
devoted to her granddaughter, and would not let money considerations
interfere with Peggy’s future happiness.”

“Still, my dear, Count de Morny is a matrimonial prize. Perhaps he
will win her after all, the diplomats have such charming, delightful
manners--a great contrast to our men.”

“Quite true, Mrs. Curtis; but personally give me an American every
time. Our men may not know parlor tricks, but they are tender, loyal
and brave.” Beatrice spoke with unwonted feeling.

“Hoity-toity, child, don’t get so excited. I meant no particular
criticism of our men. Haven’t I a dear old bear at home, whom I’d
positively _hate_ if he wasn’t an American. Mercy on us, it’s nearly
six o’clock, I must run along. Good-by, my dear,” kissing Beatrice with
unusual tenderness. “Keep a good heart.” And she bustled out of the
house.

Beatrice walked rather slowly back to the library. She was deeply
touched as well as surprised by Mrs. Curtis’ blunt kindness. “From
those we expect the least, we get the most,” she thought bitterly,
while gathering up her workbag preparatory to going to her room.

“May I come in for a moment?” asked a voice from the doorway. Beatrice
glanced with some astonishment at the speaker, and answered quietly:

“Why, certainly, Mr. Clark.”

“Your father has just telephoned that he is detained at the White
House, and will not be back until late.” He stopped speaking, and
fingered the table ornaments; then burst out: “Miss Beatrice, why do
you not take better care of yourself?”

Beatrice flushed. “I am stronger than I look. You must not always judge
by appearances.”

Clark shook his head. “It does not require much intelligence to see
that you are nearly worn out. Why,” leaning a little closer, “your eyes
are actually red from crying.”

“You are not very complimentary,” said Beatrice, vexedly, biting her
lip, “and,” drawing herself up, “just a trifle personal.”

“You mean familiar?”

Beatrice made no answer.

“Well, I plead guilty. Do not be angry with me. I am only personal
because I cannot bear to see you ill--suffering.”

“Indeed, Mr. Clark, you are mistaken,” she answered lightly. “There is
nothing whatever the matter with me, except the physical exhaustion
which naturally follows such a tragedy. A good sleep would be my best
tonic. I am going upstairs now to rest before dinner. Ring for Wilkins
if you wish anything.”

As she moved towards the door Clark put out his hands beseechingly.

“Don’t go; stay just a moment. I so seldom see you now. Why do you
avoid me?”

“_You_ ask me that?”

“Yes,” steadily.

“Your own conscience can answer better than I.”

“It tells me only of my love for you.”

“You must have it well under control then.”

Clark’s dark eyes flamed. “You doubt my love, my devotion, after all
these months?”

Beatrice faced him squarely, her face showing white and drawn in the
cold electric light.

“Do you call it ‘love’ to torment me day after day with unwelcome
attentions; to use my stepmother as a lever against me; to poison my
father’s affection for me with lying tales? Do you think _that_ a way
to win a woman?”

Clark’s handsome face paled under Beatrice’s accusing eyes.

“I deny your charges,” he said, keeping his self-control with
difficulty.

“What is the use?” Beatrice sighed wearily. “It was owing entirely
to your influence that my home became unendurable. Mrs. Trevor did
everything in her power to force me to accept you.”

Under his breath, Clark muttered a remark that was not complimentary to
the dead woman.

“Beatrice,” he said, gently, “in your sheltered life you know little
of the temptations, of the evil of this world. Before I came to your
father, I had knocked about from pillar to post and been thrown with
all sorts and conditions of men and women. The least said about the
latter the better.” He smiled unpleasantly. “Then I met you, so kind,
so courteous to the poor secretary. Is it any wonder that I lost my
head, and built castles in the air? As week followed week my admiration
for you changed to passionate love. God knows, you never gave me any
encouragement. But I have hoped on, my starved heart feeding on every
stray crumb of attention that you showed me.

“Beatrice, Beatrice, look at me.” He flung back his head, shaking
his black hair off his broad forehead, his handsome face alight with
feeling; and he drew his well-knit, slender figure to his full height.
“Am I deformed? Am I hateful to look upon? My darling, my dear, dear
one, give me but a chance.”

Beatrice’s face softened. He was making it very hard for her. As she
hesitated, he caught the look of pity in her beautiful eyes, mistook
it, and springing forward clasped her in his arms, showering frantic
kisses on her brow, face and lips.

Desperately Beatrice struggled to free herself. With superhuman
strength she thrust him from her.

“You coward--you coward!” she cried.

Clark stood a short distance from her, panting a little from his
emotions.

“You coward,” reiterated Beatrice, “to take advantage of a defenseless
woman!”

Slowly the hot blood ebbed from Clark’s face, and his eyes gleamed
wickedly.

“Take care,” he said. “I admit I forgot myself; but God! you don’t know
how I’ve longed to hold you in my arms; to feel your heart beating
against mine. It was sheer madness; but the look in your dear eyes went
to my head like wine. I thought I had won.”

“Do you think that such a cur as you can win an honest woman’s love?”

“Stop! Don’t go too far. I come of a race that never forgets an insult.
My mother was a Neapolitan.” He drew a long breath. “That one moment
was worth your hate.”

“My hate!” echoed Beatrice. “Say rather my loathing!” And she drew her
handkerchief across her lips as if to wipe out the burning kisses he
had showered upon her.

Clark saw the gesture and read its meaning. The fierce anger in his
eyes almost made her quail.

“So,” he said, as soon as he could speak; “so I am not good enough to
touch you--” He laughed insultingly. “Bah! you are not worth my love.”

Shaken and outraged as she was, Beatrice faced him proudly.

“This scene has gone far enough,” she said. “Go!”

“Go? Yes, I’ll go.” Clark fairly shook with rage as he bent towards
her. “But be sure of one thing: I’ll get even, although it ruins me.
Oh, I can do it, too--” seeing her look of disdain--“for--I know your
secret!”

With ashen face and fast beating heart, Beatrice stood transfixed
gazing at Clark’s retreating figure. As the library door slammed to
behind him, she staggered rather than walked to the lounge and threw
herself face down upon it.




CHAPTER XIV

HAND AND PIN


“AND so you are no nearer clearing poor Gordon than you were
twenty-four hours ago?” said Long, thoughtfully.

“Exactly,” answered Dick, glumly. The two friends were sitting in
Long’s room at the New Willard, and Dick had been giving an account
of his efforts to straighten out the tangled threads of the Trevor
mystery. He was tired in body, and discouraged in mind. Even the
fragrant Havana he was smoking gave him no comfort. Then his teeth came
together with a snap, and he threw back his head defiantly. “I refuse
to give up. I’ll find out the truth if it takes me years!”

“Bully for you, old man. I wish I could help you.”

“After all, the evidence against Gordon is simply circumstantial,”
argued Dick.

“Many men have been convicted on that alone; and these against Gordon
are pretty damning,” commented Long. “We have already established a
motive for the crime.”

“Hold on. Clark’s statement of Mrs. Trevor’s marriage to Gordon has
never been substantiated. He simply saw them--”

“Applying for a license. Quite true; but there is one fact you cannot
overlook. Gordon was infatuated with the murdered woman; for that I can
vouch. He knew her intimately in London; and yet, you say they greeted
each other as strangers when they met here three years later.”

“A lot can happen in that time.”

“Very true. But why were they not consistent in their behavior?
Outwardly posing as mere acquaintances, Mrs. Trevor made an appointment
with Gordon at a most unconventional hour when she _knew_ her
husband would be absent. Do you think she would have run the risk of
compromising herself if some vital interest had not been at stake?”

“No.”

“Obviously they quarreled--what about we have yet to find out--and the
murder followed.”

Dick shook his head in dissent. “I cannot reconcile the perpetrator of
so frightful a deed with the Gordon I have known and admired.”

“Mrs. Trevor probably goaded him past human endurance, and he struck
her in a moment of ungovernable rage.”

“Where did he get the weapon?”

“Very likely Mrs. Trevor left her hat-pin in her husband’s office some
time during the day, and forgot about it. Gordon may have picked it up,
and toyed with it, all unconscious of the use he could put it to until
the blind moment came.”

“It may have been no murder at all,” exclaimed Dick. “Perhaps Mrs.
Trevor tripped, and Gordon, forgetful of the pin in his hand, tried to
catch her and accidentally pierced her side in a vital spot.”

“Then how did her dead body get into the safe?”

“Ask me something easy,” groaned Dick. “Perhaps Gordon, fearing his
story of an accident would not be believed, thrust her in there and
fled, thinking he would not then be connected with the affair.”

“How did Gordon get the safe open?”

“Possibly Mrs. Trevor opened the safe before he got there.”

“Did she know the combination?”

“The Attorney General declares that only he and Clark knew it.”

The room telephone rang loudly, and Long hastened to answer it.
“Hello! Yes, at the ’phone. Yes; he’s here--all right.” He hung up the
receiver. “It’s a note for you, Dick, so I told the clerk to send it
right up.”

“Thanks. Secretary Bowers advised me to find out the whereabouts of
Clark on the night of the third,” pursued Dick, tossing his cigar stub
into the ash receiver, “but up to now I’ve been so busy I have not had
a chance.”

“That’s not a bad idea-- Come in,” called Long, as a knock sounded on
his door. A district messenger boy entered.

“Mr. Tillinghast?” he asked. Long motioned to Dick. “Sign here, sir,”
and he extended his book and the letter at the same time.

“How did you know Mr. Tillinghast was here?” asked Long, idly, as Dick
hurriedly scrawled his name in the place designated.

“The lady at his house told me he was dining here with you, sir; and as
the Attorney General said it must be delivered at once, I came right
here. I’ve already been paid, sir, thankee, sir, good night,” and,
taking back his book, the messenger departed.

“I have so many hurry calls that I always tell Mrs. Brisbane where
I am to be found when I dine out,” explained Dick, tearing open his
note. “Hello! the Attorney General wants to see me on ‘most important
business’ to-night, if possible. I wonder what has turned up? Will you
excuse me, Chester, if I hurry along?”

“Sure. It looks as if things might be getting exciting. I wonder if
Trevor hasn’t some clew; some person in mind whom he suspects?”

“He swears he hasn’t.”

“Could it be that Mrs. Trevor overheard his interview with the
Frenchwoman, became alarmed at the prospect of discovery as a card
cheat and committed suicide?”

“That’s what de Morny suggested yesterday. By gracious! I wonder if he
knew she cheated at cards?”

“If he played much with her, he may have discovered it,” answered Long,
dryly. “Who is this Count?”

“One of the attachés of the French Embassy,” explained Dick, struggling
into his overcoat. “He and Mrs. Trevor did play often together, for I
have seen them. Can’t afford to play auction myself, but I drop in for
supper at many of the card parties.”

“There is the same objection to the theory of suicide as to that of
accidental death--how did her body get into the safe?”

“Trevor might have placed her there, if he knew she killed herself, to
conceal the fact and make people think it a murder. Otherwise she could
not have been buried in consecrated ground. They are Roman Catholics,
you know.”

“He told you that he had forgotten the combination, and couldn’t open
the safe.”

“Somebody must be lying,” answered Dick, with conviction. “Coming?” as
Long started for the open door.

“Yes; I am going down to the lobby.” The two men left the room together.

Wilkins was expecting Dick, and showed him at once into the private
office where the Attorney General was sitting.

“Good evening, Tillinghast. It is good of you to come,” said he,
warmly. “I want to see you particularly. Sit down and I will explain.”

Dick took the chair pushed toward him, and waited for the Attorney
General to begin.

“My nerve is not what it was,” said Trevor. “It has been badly shaken
by the tragic event through which I have just passed. Ordinarily I
would not pay any attention to an anonymous letter. But I confess this
one has upset me.”

He opened the secret drawer and took from it a soiled sheet of paper.
“Read this, and tell me what you think of it.”

Dick’s eyes opened wide with astonishment as he perused the badly
written scrawl.

  If you prosecute the Fabriani Merger as being in violation of the
  Sherman Act, you seal your own Death warrant. You have tasted of our
  Power. Take heed to this Warning lest worse should befall you.

                                             Remember--February third!

Dick examined the letter closely. It was written on a soiled sheet
of cheap, ruled paper, and the handwriting was evidently disguised.
Towards the bottom of the page were crude drawings of a black hand, a
coffin, and a hat-pin!

“When did you receive this, Mr. Attorney General?” he asked.

“By the four o’clock post. Wait a moment,” as Dick started to speak.
“The mail was delivered just as I was leaving the Department to go
to the White House, and I hastily gathered up what I thought were my
personal letters, leaving the rest of my correspondence for Clark to
look over. I opened this while driving home.”

“Can I see the envelope?”

“Certainly; but I am afraid you will find no clew there. It is
postmarked ‘Times Square Station, N. Y.,’ and was mailed early this
morning. It is next to impossible to trace anonymous letters through
the post office, for they are usually mailed at an hour when no one is
about.”

Dick tossed the envelope on the table. There was nothing to be learned
from its ordinary exterior. It was addressed in the same disguised
writing as the letter.

“Who is Fabriani?”

“An Italian importer. He and two other Italian merchants have merged
their business, and have crowded out the smaller importers. Fabriani
has resorted to illegal measures to force his rivals out of business.
They have appealed to the courts to protect them against the merger.”

“I see.” Dick balanced the letter in his hand. “Do you think that it is
Fabriani who is trying to intimidate you by making use of a Black Hand
threat?”

“It has that appearance. Come,” glancing keenly at Dick, “what is your
opinion?”

“Why, that this rascal Fabriani has concocted this scheme in his own
head and is using your wife’s tragic death in hopes to check your
actions against his merger. Of course, he may be a member of the Black
Hand. But in the numerous accounts of murders attributed to that
society some token of the Black Hand has always been found by the body
of the victim. Besides, I really do not think they would perpetrate so
wanton a crime on so slight a provocation.”

“That would not stop them,” declared Trevor. “They are a bloodthirsty
crew, and when lust and hate lure them on will commit any crime.”

“But in this instance they had neither of those motives,” said Dick,
obstinately.

Trevor moved restlessly in his chair. “I would give much to believe in
your theory.”

“What makes you doubt its truth?” asked Dick, quickly, and he looked
searchingly at his companion.

Trevor’s face flushed darkly, and he considered a moment before
replying.

“I have had a long talk with my friend, Secretary Bowers,” he said
finally. “He advised me to do all in my power to have the real
murderer apprehended; and to that end thought I should offer a large
reward for his detection. I cannot believe that Mr. Gordon murdered
my wife--cannot, cannot believe there was a--a--” he stumbled in
his speech--“an affair between them. Whatever her faults, my wife,”
proudly, “was faithful to me. Nothing will make me believe otherwise.
I am convinced there is an innocent explanation of their meeting that
night.”

“I am sure there is,” exclaimed Dick, heartily. “And, Mr. Attorney
General, I honor you for the stand you are taking.”

“Thanks, Tillinghast, thanks,” said Trevor, huskily. “I have been
searching vainly for a clew. This letter,” taking it from Dick,
“puzzles me greatly. On thinking the matter over I decided to send for
you and ask your advice. Publicity is hateful to me, and I find it
easier to discuss these details with you, as you already know so much
about my family affairs.”

“I shall be delighted to be of any service, sir.”

“I think I told you in our last interview,” began Trevor, “that my wife
and I were married after a six weeks’ acquaintance. We met through
mutual friends. I know nothing of her past. I loved her devotedly, and
was satisfied when she told me that my affection was returned and that
she was free to become my wife. During our happy married life I never
questioned her, being content to live in the present and let the dead
past bury its dead. But about eight months ago I discovered that my
wife was in deadly fear of one man--” he hesitated.

“Do go on,” urged Dick, bending forward in his eagerness. “Did you find
out who he was?”

“He was an Italian.”

“And his name?”

“Giovanni Savelli.”

Dick sat back in his chair and stared at the Attorney General.

“Giovanni Savelli,” he repeated, thoughtfully; “Giovanni Savelli. Why,
he is said to be one of the heads of the Camorra.”

“Exactly,” replied Trevor, dryly.




CHAPTER XV

MAN PROPOSES


PEGGY went to her room that night very cross and very sleepy. The
Patterson dinner had been a very long and, to her, a very tedious
affair of many courses and numerous pauses.

“I never before worked so hard to make conversation,” she confided
to her grandmother in the privacy of her pretty bedroom. No matter
how late Peggy stayed out, she always found her grandmother awake and
waiting for her when she returned.

When no social engagements took her from home, Mrs. Macallister, who
required very little sleep, always retired to her own sitting room
about ten o’clock. She dressed in a warm wrapper and made herself
comfortable by her reading lamp and perused magazines and the latest
novels at her leisure.

“You see, Granny, it was a mixed affair,” explained Peggy, sitting on
the edge of her bed while she took down and shook out her lovely “lint
white locks,” as Dick called them. “And one man gave out at the last
moment, so I sat between old Mr. Forsythe and Mrs. Wheeler.”

“Good Heavens! what a combination! Were you the only young person
present?”

“No; Sybil Ferguson and Tony Forsythe were across the way from me, and
Captain McLane sat by Mary Patterson. Mrs. Patterson invited Ned Morgan
for me, but, as I said before, he could not come as he is ill in bed
with grippe.”

“Did you play auction afterwards?”

“Yes. I had miserable luck; everything went against me,” Peggy sighed
with vexation. “I even drew Mrs. Wheeler as my first partner. Have you
ever played with her?”

“Once!” Mrs. Macallister’s tone spoke volumes. “Was Ruth Wheeler there,
also?”

“No, she went to a débutante dinner given by the Wilsons. Oh, Granny, I
must tell you something so funny. During dinner, Mr. Forsythe leaned
across me and asked Mrs. Wheeler if Ruth enjoyed being out.

“‘She does indeed,’ answered Mrs. Wheeler, with a beaming smile, ‘and
she has been a great success since her début last December. Why, Mr.
Forsythe, she has already had two proposals and one hint.’”

“That is just like Maria Wheeler,” laughed Mrs. Macallister.

“What did you do this evening, Granny? You read a blood-curdling
mystery story as usual, I suppose.”

“Indeed, I did nothing of the sort. I was most agreeably entertained by
a young man.”

“General de Peyster?”

“I said a young man,” with dignity.

“I give it up, Granny; you have too many of the male gender anxious to
call on you. It would take me an hour to go through the list.”

“Tut! child, I am not to be flattered,” but she smiled quietly, well
pleased. She had queened it too long in salon and drawing-room not to
know her power. “My visitor this evening was Count de Morny.”

“Count de Morny! Why, good gracious, Granny, he was here only this
afternoon.”

“I know it,” placidly.

“Why did he come a second time?”

“He came to ask my permission to pay his addresses to you.”

Peggy dropped her slipper with a thud on the floor, while the rich,
warm blood mounted to her cheeks.

“And you told him?”

“That he could--yes.”

The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room. Mrs. Macallister was the
first to break the silence.

“Peggy, look at me.”

Slowly the deep blue eyes were raised to hers, but the dearly loved
face was blurred by the tears that filled them.

“Granny, Granny, I cannot leave you. Why need we speak of marriage, we
are so happy, we two?”

“Nonsense, child,” Mrs. Macallister’s tone was husky, and she cleared
her throat of a suspicious lump. “Do you think I want you to be a
lonely old maid? No, dear heart, I wish you to marry a man worthy of
you. I want to see you rich in domestic happiness, so that when you
reach my age and look back over the past, you can say, as I do: ‘My
life has been one grand Thanksgiving Hymn.’”

It was not often that the stately dame showed emotion, and Peggy was
deeply touched. She dropped down on her knees and pressed her cheek
against her grandmother’s as the loving arms met around her.

“Hush, dearie, do not cry.” Mrs. Macallister rocked her back and forth
as she had been wont to do in her babyhood. “You do not have to accept
Count de Morny if you do not care for him. I did not think it fair to
either of you to forbid his proposal. He says he loves you devotedly,
and he offers you a most distinguished name, and a splendid social
position in the Old World. I know nothing against him, and I like him
personally. But, Peggy, I warn you, de Morny is not a man to trifle
with. He has a high temper under that debonair manner. Come, it is
late; go to bed, dear, and do not worry any more. Remember, I shall
not force you into any marriage. The decision must rest with you. Now,
hurry and undress,” kissing her warmly. “I will come back and tuck you
up in bed.”

Left alone, Peggy went thoughtfully over to her bureau. She took up a
photograph in its silver frame and studied it long; the Court dress
was becoming to de Morny. Then her left hand strayed toward a kodak
picture, a snap shot, and she gazed down into a gay, laughing face,
but the lips, which curved in a merry smile, were well shaped, and the
chin determined. A strong face, and a lovable one; and the other--Peggy
sighed as she put them back in their places.

Glancing at the clock she was shocked to find it long after midnight.
Hastily picking up her jewelry, she pressed the spring of her secret
drawer. It opened half-way, then stuck. Slipping her hand inside the
small opening, she felt about to find the obstruction. A box was jammed
against the top, and with impatient fingers she pulled it out breaking
the side of the pasteboard in her effort to get it free. Its contents
fell into the now fully opened drawer. She picked it up and examined
it; then let it fall as if it scorched her fingers. It was the broken
top of a hat-pin which she had given Beatrice Trevor that Christmas.
She recognized it instantly because of the curious design in gold
surrounding the cat’s-eye. She picked up the box. It was the identical
one which Beatrice had entrusted to her care. The twine around the
middle still held; only one end had been broken.

Merciful Heaven! what had she discovered? No, it could not be
possible--her gentle, charming friend could not be guilty. It was
too monstrous for belief. And yet, Beatrice’s intense desire to
get the box out of the house, her quarrel with her stepmother--the
doctor’s testimony that Mrs. Trevor had been killed by a stab from a
hat-pin--all pointed to her guilt.

With trembling fingers the bewildered and over-wrought girl thrust the
telltale cat’s-eye back into the box, put it securely in the drawer,
dropped in her jewelry and snapped the lock. Then, for the first time
in her healthy, happy life, Peggy fainted just as Mrs. Macallister
re-entered the room.




CHAPTER XVI

PLAYING WITH FIRE


IT was a very woe-begone Peggy who came into the drawing-room the next
afternoon, and Dick looked with consternation at her pale cheeks and
heavy eyelids.

“Peggy! What have you been doing with yourself?” he exclaimed,
detaining her small hand in his.

“Sit down here,” patting the chair next her. Dick needed no second
bidding. “I could not sleep--Granny was so upset,” she began,
incoherently, “I simply had to send for you.”

“Is Mrs. Macallister ill?” he demanded.

“Oh, no. I gave her a dreadful fright, that was all. She found me in my
room last night in a dead faint.”

“Great Heavens!” bending toward her much alarmed. “My dearest--what--”

“I am all right now; my fainting was caused by a shock. I made a
terrible discovery. But before I tell you about it, you must give me
your solemn word of honor not to repeat what it was.”

Dick gave her the desired promise; then he listened with growing
amazement to her account of finding the broken hat-pin in the box
Beatrice had entrusted to her care. He drew a long breath when she
finished.

“Rosamond’s Bower can’t be mentioned in the same breath with this
Trevor maze,” he said. “This discovery of yours, Peggy, certainly
complicates matters more than ever.”

She looked at him with troubled eyes, and her lips quivered as she
answered: “Indeed, Dick, I cannot think Beatrice knew anything of this
fearful murder, or that she is implicated in any way in it.”

“Of course not, Peggy,” returned Dick, soothingly, but there was doubt,
black doubt, in his heart. He remembered the quarrel Wilkins overheard.
“Don’t you think the simpler way to find out would be to go and ask
her!”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” wailed Peggy, wringing her hands. “And I would not
hurt her now when she is in such trouble, by letting her think I have
doubted her, and had betrayed her trust. She would be sure to jump to
that conclusion. Dick,” with sudden energy, “you have just got to clear
her. Think of the suffering of a proud, delicately reared, and lovable
girl being under the stigma of murder. It would kill her.”

“I’ll do my very best, Peggy,” declared Dick, stoutly. “I do not need
your urging. Remember all that is at stake for me.”

A bright blush dyed Peggy’s pale cheeks, and she hastened to change the
subject.

“Have you seen Mr. Gordon?”

“No,” vexedly. “Gordon still declines to see anyone, and his lawyers
are equally reticent. He even refused to allow them to apply for bail.”

“I thought a man arrested on a charge of murder was never permitted to
be bailed out?”

“Oh, it has been done in the District on several occasions. I am told
Gordon takes the situation very calmly.”

“My heart aches for him. It is like him to face his troubles so
bravely. What has the Navy Department done about him, Dick?”

“Done? Oh, nothing. They cannot take any steps in the affair until
after the Civil Court decides whether he is innocent or guilty. Now,
Peggy,” he went on, glancing at her sorrowful face, “I don’t want you
to make yourself ill worrying, so I am going to tell you in strict
confidence that the Attorney General is convinced that Mrs. Trevor was
a victim of the Camorra. But mind you,” as her face brightened with
relief, “he has no direct evidence, only surmise and a threat to go
upon, so far. But he is sending for the head of Pinkerton’s Agency to
investigate these clews. If necessary he will communicate direct with
the Italian Government.”

“That is splendid!” exclaimed Peggy, her eyes shining with relief. “But
then,” again perplexed, “why should Beatrice secrete the top of her
hat-pin?”

“It is bewildering,” acknowledged Dick. “Perhaps she accidentally found
the broken pin and did not dare confess that she had it, thinking it
might involve her in further difficulties with the police.”

“Of course that is it,” agreed Peggy. “Under the same circumstances I
might have done the same myself. I am so glad I consulted you, Dick.
You have taken a weight off my mind. Can’t you stay and have tea with
me?”

“I am sorry that I cannot. I must hurry off. At present I am covering
the Russian Grand Duke’s visit here for an out-of-town paper, and
am to have an interview with his Chief-of-Staff at five o’clock. If
anything else turns up let me know, and above all--” his tone was very
tender--“take care of your precious self.”

Her reply was interrupted by Hurley’s quiet entrance.

“Count de Morny, Miss Margaret,” he announced, holding back the
portière, as the Frenchman appeared in the doorway.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, advancing with outstretched hand, “it
is ze great plaiser to find zat you are in.”

Peggy was instantly conscious of the restrained antagonism between the
two men as they greeted each other.

“Monsieur Tillinghast and I, like ze great minds, sink alike,” smiled
de Morny. “We each decide to come here. We shall wear out ze chairs.”

“To-day it is just how-de-do and good-by, Count,” said Dick, briefly.
“Unfortunately I must hurry away. Good-by again, Peggy.”

De Morny’s eyes sparkled with anger as he watched their cordial leave
taking. As Dick disappeared he drew his chair closer to Peggy and
proceeded to improve his opportunity.

“You look fatigue, Mademoiselle,” glancing keenly at her.

“I have been doing too much,” confessed Peggy. “Fortunately Lent will
be here soon, and I can then take a much-needed rest.”

“It ees hard to go every night and in ze day time, too, yes,”
sympathized de Morny. “I nevaire haf known so fas a season. But I like
eet. I feel as keen as a mink.”

“As a what?” questioned Peggy, puzzled.

“As a mink,” complaisantly. “I am ver happy to-day, Mademoiselle; for
Madame, your _grande mère_, has given me permission to tell you how
much I lof you.”

Peggy’s heart beat fast, and she crumpled her handkerchief into a
little ball. De Morny stopped to glare at Hurley, as that solemn
individual came in with the tea tray.

“Will you not gif me some hope,” he pleaded, as soon as Hurley went out
of the room. “_Mon cœur_, I adore you; I cannot lif without you.”

The excited Frenchman bent forward, caught Peggy’s little hand, and
impulsively kissed it before she could snatch it away.

“Monsieur, monsieur, you go too fast,” she remonstrated. “You forget
that at the Charity Ball I said I would listen to you and,” hesitating,
“my other friends, only on one condition.”

“And that condition, Mademoiselle?”

“Is that you find the murderer of Mrs. Trevor.”

The pupils of de Morny’s eyes contracted suddenly. An involuntary
shiver ran down Peggy’s spine as they met hers.

“And zen--what, Mademoiselle?” he asked, slowly.

“Come and have a cup of tea.” Peggy held the tongs poised over the
sugar bowl. “One lump, or two, Count? Oh, Granny,” as Mrs. Macallister
walked in, “you are just in time to have some hot toast and tea.”




CHAPTER XVII

ACROSS THE POTOMAC


AFTER getting his special story on the wires, Dick had only time for
a hasty meal at a down-town restaurant. Then he hurried over to the
_Star_ office, and was soon at work in the city room. About half past
nine his chief sent for him.

“This is the busiest Saturday night we’ve had in years,” grumbled
Colonel Byrd. “You know Dr. Gibson, superintendent of St. Elizabeth’s,
don’t you?” Dick nodded assent. “Well, go over there as quick as you
can and see if you can get him to talk. Word has just come in that
two of the criminally insane have escaped and are still at large
terrorizing the neighborhood. Get all the details, for it is local news
and we will feature it.”

St. Elizabeth’s, The U. S. Government Hospital for the Insane, is
on Nichols Avenue beyond Anacostia. Anacostia, one of the most
beautifully situated suburbs of Washington, is on the Eastern Branch
of the Potomac, and directly across from the Navy Yard. The scenery in
that vicinity is very fine, and from the extensive grounds about the
Insane Asylum there is a wonderful view of the winding Potomac, with
Washington and its environs in the distance.

At no time an accessible place even in summer, on that stormy night it
was a fearful journey to the Government Reservation; and Dick prepared
for his trip with no great alacrity.

Some hours later he stopped, footsore and weary, at the intersection
of Sheridan Road and Nichols Avenue and sought shelter from the storm
on a porch of a vacant house. He had not only interviewed Dr. Gibson,
but, joining one of the searching parties, had been present at the
capture of the two escaped lunatics. The pursuit and capture would
make a readable story, so, well satisfied with his night’s work, he
waited patiently to catch the last car to Washington, which left at
eight minutes past one o’clock. It lacked fifteen minutes of that time,
so, pulling his coat collar up about his ears, he made himself as
comfortable as circumstances permitted.

While waiting, his eyes, grown accustomed to the darkness, discerned a
solitary figure coming toward him from Anacostia. When opposite Dick
the newcomer paused and, screening himself from the storm behind one
of the porch pillars, struck a match. Holding it in the hollow of his
two hands, he lighted his pipe. As the tiny flame flared up his face
was visible. Dick, too amazed to speak, drew back deeper in the shadow
of the friendly porch. With growing curiosity, he watched the slender
figure glide rapidly up Nichols Avenue. What was Alfred Clark doing in
that neighborhood after midnight?

Dick hesitated. It was obviously his duty to return to the _Star_ with
his story, but a certain furtiveness in Clark’s movements caused all
doubt to vanish. Throwing his duty to the winds, he pulled his soft
hat low on his head, scrambled down the steps, and turned up Nichols
Avenue.

Dick picked his way carefully along the frozen and slippery sidewalk,
keeping Clark in view, but not getting close enough to let him suspect
that he was being shadowed. On and on they went, past the entrance
and the extensive grounds of St. Elizabeth’s, past the few straggling
houses marking the outskirts of the little village, and into the more
desolate country beyond.

After about twenty minutes’ walking, Clark turned into a lane on his
right, and going some distance in the direction of the Potomac River,
he suddenly leaped a fence and struck off across country. It was not
very easy to follow him in the more open fields, and Dick, fearful of
being discovered, dropped far behind. On reaching the top of a slight
rise in ground he was dismayed to find that Clark had disappeared. He
glanced about him in every direction, but save for himself the field
was deserted.

Cursing himself for going on so wild a goose chase, he started forward
in the direction he judged Clark might have gone. But his hopes fell
when, after trudging along for ten minutes, he found no trace of his
quarry. Thoroughly discouraged, he rested for a moment against a rail
fence before retracing his way to Anacostia. As his eyes traveled over
the low, rolling country, he noticed three trees forming a triangle
standing in a field a quarter of a mile away. His heart gave a bound;
at last he knew where he was. He could not be mistaken. He hurried
over to the trees; yes, he was right, they were the tall poplars which
he himself had named “The Three Sisters.” He was on land belonging
to Allan Dorsey. While he had accompanied Allan there in the summer,
he had never been there in winter or at night. Allan Dorsey, whose
paintings were known the world over, had purchased the deserted farm
because of the magnificent views which stirred his artist soul. He
would work for days at a time in solitude, and only Dick was privileged
to come and see him on rare occasions.

“Lord! I wish Allan were there instead of in Paris,” thought Dick.
“He’d give me a high ball for the inner man, and a dry suit for the
outer one.” He shivered in his damp clothes. “May the foul fiend seize
that Clark! I wonder where in thunder he went to.”

As if in answer to his unspoken question, an idea flashed into his
head. The studio! By Jove! that was it; and yet, what in the name of
Heaven was Clark doing in so deserted and forsaken a place?

There was but one way to find out and suiting the action to his
thought, Dick walked in the direction of the old barn which had been
converted into a roomy and up-to-date studio. It stood some distance
from the “Three Sisters,” hidden from view by a grove of trees.

Dick cautiously approached the building. There was no sign of life or
human habitation. The heavy, old-fashioned wooden shutters were tightly
closed, but as Dick bent and placed his ear against the wide door, he
distinctly heard the sound of several voices. Certain now that he was
on the right track, and his curiosity at fever heat, he paused to
think over the situation.

The rain and sleet had stopped some time before, and the wind was dying
down. Suddenly he thought of the skylight Allan had built into the
roof of the barn to obtain a better light. If he could climb up there
he could see all that was going on inside the studio. To think was
to act with Dick; his blood was up and he was determined to see the
adventure through, whatever the consequences. Taking off his coat and
shoes and hiding them behind a large bowlder, he proceeded to climb a
tree whose limbs stretched out close to the roof of the barn. He hated
to trust his weight to the slender limb, but there was no other way to
accomplish his object. So, putting his trust in Providence, he crept
along until just parallel with the chimney, then dropped lightly as a
cat to the shingled roof.

Very gingerly and softly he crawled forward on hands and knees to the
skylight. Gently he ran his hand over the portion of the glass frame
nearest him. Joy of joys; one of the panes of glass was out, and his
hand passed through the opening and touched the large Holland shade
which was drawn over the inside of the skylight. Light was visible
around the edges of the shade; that was all he could discover. He
pulled out his penknife and gently cut an opening in the green shade,
and applied his eye to the hole.

Seated directly beneath him around a table were four masked men. Their
voices carried distinctly in the closed room to where he crouched above
them. To his great surprise they spoke in Italian, a language with
which he was fairly familiar, having studied it with a view to going
into the Consular Service.

The smallest man of the four placed a square box in the center of the
table.

“Draw,” he said briefly. “The one who gets the marked card is accepted
by the Brotherhood as its Avenger.”

One by one four hands were slipped inside of the small opening in the
end of the box and silently withdrawn, holding a card at which each
glanced indifferently. Dick could not tell from their quiet movements
which had drawn the fatal card. The leader rapped softly on the table
before speaking.

“Our plans are now perfected,” he said. “There can be no failure. In
this country of the free we, children of the Camorra, can wreak its
vengeance upon those who have thwarted our society. The Grand Duke
Sergius has seen fit to hound certain of our members who have come
within his power. The Brotherhood has decreed his death. The Grand
Duke, the President, the great men of this country, and the Diplomatic
Corps will be assembled five days from now to attend the dedication of
the Lincoln Memorial. No better opportunity could be found. The means,
I leave to the fortunate holder of the marked card. Remember--the Place
and the Hour.”

Dick could hardly believe his ears. The Camorra! Surely he was in some
mad dream. So bewildered was he that he missed a few sentences, but his
wandering attention was attracted by the excited gestures of the masked
man who sat facing the leader.

“You ask for an explanation,” said the latter. “For that you must apply
to Giovanni Savelli. The Trevor affair is in his hands. But are you not
his direct agent?”

The man’s answer was spoken in so low a tone that Dick, not catching
what he said, bent far over the skylight, forgetful of the frailness of
the structure. Glass and frame gave way beneath his weight, and, with a
resounding crash, Dick fell forward into space.




CHAPTER XVIII

NIP AND TUCK


BEFORE Dick, half stunned by his fall, could get upon his feet, the
four masked men threw themselves upon him, and, despite his struggles,
bound him hand and foot. They cleared away the débris made by him in
his unlucky fall, and placed him in the cleared space.

“Do you speak Italian?” asked the leader in fairly good English, as
the men, after reconnoitering outside, returned and grouped themselves
about their prisoner.

“No,” lied Dick, calmly.

“That is not so,” spoke up one of the men next the leader. “He is a
good linguist and speaks our language fluently.”

Dick recognized the voice despite the mask.

“Clark! You renegade!” he shouted with sudden fury.

Clark made a hasty move in his direction, but the leader checked him.

“What matter,” he said, indifferently. “It will not be long in his
power to injure us by any information he may have picked up to-night.”

The finality of his tone sent a cold shiver up and down Dick’s spine.
Apparently his doom was sealed. Only a game of bluff might pull him out
of his ghastly predicament.

“Don’t be too certain of that,” he said, coolly. “Clark, there, can add
to the information he has already given you of me by saying that I am
a representative of the _Washington Star_, one of the most influential
newspapers in the country. You know the power of the press in America.”

His words made a visible impression on the three men. They glanced
uneasily at each other. The leader spoke hastily and sternly.

“It does not matter who is at your back. You are in our power and
cannot escape the fate of a spy.”

Dick’s heart sank, but he refused to give up. He was fighting for
time. Something must intervene.

“I was sent over to follow that man,” pointing to Clark. “Do you think
my disappearance will not be noticed if I don’t turn up safe and sound?
Well, you are wrong. By noon to-morrow you will all be in custody; your
precious plans for murdering the Grand Duke will then be nipped in the
bud. Thus, instead of carrying out the orders of the Camorra you will
be preparing to swing for my death.”

“Your arguments are all very fine, my friend,” returned the leader
composedly, “provided everything happens as you say. But no one will
know of your disappearance. It is an easy matter to secure a specimen
of your handwriting, forge a letter from New York to your employers
saying you were called there suddenly. One of the Brotherhood will
impersonate you on a voyage to Europe. We never fail in our plans.
Months will elapse before your disappearance will be noticed. You will
never be traced.”

“Sounds well,” commented Dick. “You forget I have a very substantial
body which is apt to betray your best laid schemes.”

“It will not be found.”

“Pooh! Murder will out!”

“Not in this instance.” The leader rose and stepped over into a corner
and picked up a satchel, which he opened. He took out a hypodermic
syringe and a small black leather box such as surgeons carry. “We have
plenty of disguises with us,” he continued. “You will be dressed in one
of them. Your body will be found, but it will never be recognized as
yours. In this little vial,” taking it out of the leather case, “there
is a deadly poison. Under its influence your body becomes bloated and
your features unrecognizable. It will be necessary to bury you at once,
as decomposition follows fast. Therefore, no lengthy examination can be
made.”

A terrible fear was upon Dick, brave fellow that he was. He could
have faced death by dagger or revolver without flinching, but this
creeping horror shook his nerve. Despairingly he glanced about the
room; there was no help there. His eyes traveled back to the leader,
and, fascinated, he watched him fit on the hypodermic needle and fill
the syringe. His back and forehead were bathed in a cold perspiration,
and his throat was parched and dry. He thought of Peggy, his dear, dear
love, and involuntarily a groan escaped him.

“Tut!” said the Italian. “Just a pin prick. A few twists of your limbs
and all will be over.”

At his signal two of the men tore off Dick’s left cuff and bared his
arm. As the hand holding the needle hovered above Dick’s wrist, a shot
rang out, and the leader crumpled up and fell forward over him, the
syringe flying across the room.

“Throw up your hands!” commanded a stern voice from the broken
skylight. The amazed men looked up into the barrels of four revolvers,
while Dick fainted away.

A few minutes later Dick recovered consciousness. Dazed and bewildered
he looked at the tall man bending over him, and put out his hand to
push the brandy flask away.

“De Smirnoff!” he gasped. “How in h--l did you get here?”

“Gently, gently, my friend; drink this cognac,” and, as Dick complied
with his request, he added, “I am a member of the Russian Secret
Police. It is my special duty to guard the person of his Imperial
Highness, the Grand Duke Sergius.”




CHAPTER XIX

THE CONFERENCE


“HOW my head aches,” groaned Dick, “and every part of my body.” He
touched himself tenderly as he changed his position on the lounge.

“It is not surprising,” said Long, dryly, “after the experience you
went through last night, or rather early this morning. How I wish I had
been with you, instead of sitting up and chatting small talk with a
stuffy dowager. Just my beastly luck!”

“You are a nice one to begrudge me such an adventure, after all the
fighting you have seen,” retorted Dick. “I wish you had been with me,
though. Just thinking of that fearful needle hovering over me sends my
heart into my mouth.” He shuddered. “I never was so glad to see anyone
in my life as de Smirnoff.”

“It was a close shave. Have you had a chance to ask the Russian how he
came to be there?”

“No. I was in pretty bad shape, so de Smirnoff sent me back to town
with one of his assistants. We came directly here. It was good of you
to square me with my chief, Chester,” looking gratefully at Long. “How
did you do it?”

“After hearing your story I went to see Colonel Byrd and told him you
had stumbled into an affair of state over in Anacostia which couldn’t
be divulged at present. The old boy was very decent, took my word for
it, and said you were not to return to work until fit to be up and
doing. Then I returned here, and Mrs. Brisbane gave me a capital midday
dinner. She told me you did full justice to the share she sent up to
you.”

“Bless her heart! She is the salt of the earth. As poor as she is,
she is always doing something for her fellow man. Only last week she
sent five dollars to an indigent Southern friend, who is frightfully
hard up, thinking she would buy some much-needed underclothing. She
received a note yesterday from the Southerner saying that she and her
daughter were so obliged for her kind assistance. It had enabled them
to buy a canvasback duck, which they had wanted for a long time!”

“De Smirnoff said he would drop in this afternoon,” continued Dick. “He
ought to be here at any moment now,” glancing at his watch. “I asked
Mrs. Brisbane to have him shown right up.”

“Then I’ll be going.” Long started to rise.

“No, no, Chester; sit down. I particularly want you to know each other.”

A quick rap interrupted him, and Long hastened to open the door.

“Here is Count de Smirnoff,” said Mrs. Brisbane’s cheery voice from the
hall. As the Russian, with innate courtesy stood aside to allow her to
enter first, Dick rose and went into the hall.

“How are you, Count?” he said, cordially, and their hands met in a
strong, firm clasp. “Thanks so much, Mrs. Brisbane, for taking all this
trouble. Won’t you both come in?”

But Mrs. Brisbane shook her head and disappeared down the corridor.
Dick ushered the Russian into his room and closed the door.

“Count de Smirnoff--my friend, General Long,” he said, quickly.

“General Long is well known to me by reputation,” exclaimed de
Smirnoff. “It is a great pleasure to meet so distinguished an American.”

“I am glad of this opportunity of thanking you for what you did for my
friend, Tillinghast, last night, Count,” answered Long, shaking hands
warmly; while Dick busied himself putting cigars and cigarettes on the
table alongside a syphon of vichy and its accompanying bottle of Scotch.

“I am a poor hand at expressing my feelings, Count,” said the latter,
gravely. “I owe you a debt I can never repay.”

“If I have won your friendship, I am repaid,” replied de Smirnoff,
looking with admiration at Dick’s fine, determined face.

The Slav and the Anglo-Saxon have one trait in common--neither is
demonstrative. Long, seeing that both men were much embarrassed, broke
the awkward pause.

“Suppose, Count, you tell us how you came to arrive at the studio at so
opportune a moment for Dick.”

“May I speak of confidential matters?” asked the Russian, glancing
hastily about the room.

“Yes, indeed; there is no danger of our being overheard.”

“Some months ago our Secret Service Bureau, which is probably the
finest in the world, received information that the Camorra were
plotting against the Grand Duke’s life,” began de Smirnoff.

“I thought it was usually the Nihilists who do that,” interposed Long.

“The hands of the Nihilists, anarchists, the Mafia, and the Camorra are
all raised against law and order, General; call them what you will.
At present the Camorra desire to punish the Grand Duke because he was
instrumental in having certain information against their leaders given
to the Italian Government.

“Russia wishes to honor the memory of that great American, Lincoln,
whose friend she was; therefore, it was decided that the Grand Duke
should come to this country to attend the ceremonies of the dedication
of his Memorial. The moment they heard this the Camorra leaders laid
their plans to assassinate his Imperial Highness. I was put on the
case, and my researches brought me here.

“When I reached Washington I communicated with the Chief of your Secret
Service, and he immediately coöperated with me to safeguard the Grand
Duke. My agents brought me word that several Italians, disguised as
fruit venders, were spending much time in Anacostia with a certain
Tamaso Velati. I had my agent point out the latter to me. Despite his
disguise I recognized him as a man long suspected of having secret
dealing with that society. My suspicions were aroused, and I placed a
watch upon his movements.

“Last night, accompanied by four of your Secret Service men, I crossed
over to Anacostia. We went to a tavern near the water-front and
waited for my spy to join me there. He was very late in keeping his
appointment; I was on the point of starting out after Tamaso without
waiting for him, when he appeared. He told me that he had traced Tamaso
to a deserted building some miles away, and had waited about until he
saw several men join the Italian. Thinking some deviltry was to pay,
he hastened back to warn me. He is familiar with the country about
Anacostia, and so took us by a short cut direct to the studio. The
Italians were so absorbed in dealing with you, Monsieur Tillinghast,
they never heard our cautious approach. I saw the light shining above
the broken skylight, climbed on the roof by aid of the tree, and
reached the opening just in time to shoot Tamaso as he bent above you.”

Dick drew a long breath. The agonizing scene was too fresh in his mind
to be pleasant.

“Take a drink,” he said, by way of relieving his feelings, and he
pushed the paraphernalia towards the Russian. De Smirnoff helped
himself liberally, and the others followed his example.

“What have you done with the prisoners?” questioned Long.

“Tamaso is to be buried to-morrow. I surrendered the two Italians to
your Chief of the Secret Service.”

“That accounts for three men; what became of the fourth?” asked Dick.

De Smirnoff colored with vexation. “He escaped,” he said, bitterly.
Dick swore softly. “It was this way,” hastily explained the Russian:
“As two of my men forced open the studio door one of the masked men,
who stood near a window, threw up its sash. The detective covering him
fired, but missed, and before he could take aim again the prisoner had
pushed open the shutter, vaulted through the window and was gone. Luck
was with him; every one of our shots went astray, and though I sent men
in pursuit, he made good his escape. The other two men, cowed by the
death of their leader, gave us no trouble.”

“Were they Italians?” inquired Dick.

“Yes. Why do you ask?”

Dick pondered a moment. Should he take de Smirnoff into his
confidence? He looked earnestly at the Russian’s face; the broad brow
and clever, handsome eyes, the slightly aquiline nose, and the firm,
thin-lipped mouth--he looked what he was: a keen, brilliant officer of
the Secret Service, brave to a fault, secretive perhaps, but withal a
gentleman. Quickly Dick made up his mind to trust him.

“Because the fourth masked man was an American,” he answered, slowly.
Long, as well as de Smirnoff, glanced at him in surprise. “It was
Alfred Clark.”

“Well, by gad!” muttered Long, completely taken aback.

De Smirnoff looked inquiringly at Dick.

“I went to Anacostia to cover an assignment for my paper,” the latter
hastened to explain. “While I was waiting for a Washington car, Clark
passed me. I never trusted the fellow, and seeing him there on such a
night and at that hour made me suspect that he was up to no good. So I
followed him, with what results you already know.”

“Did you overhear much of their talk?”

“Enough to know that the men were plotting to assassinate the Grand
Duke at the dedication of the Lincoln Memorial. Then they spoke of the
Trevor murder.”

“What did they say about it?” asked Long, as Dick stopped to strike a
match.

“If I remember correctly, Clark asked some question which I did not
catch, and Tamaso replied: ‘The Trevor affair is in the hands of
Giovanni Savelli. But are you not his direct agent?’ In trying to hear
Clark’s reply I leaned too far forward and fell through the skylight.

“Now,” went on Dick earnestly, “this fits in with a Black Hand threat
the Attorney General received on Friday afternoon. He is convinced the
Camorra is responsible for his wife’s murder, chiefly because he knows
she lived in fear of this Giovanni Savelli. He doesn’t know why she
feared him. The Black Hand letter spoke of the Fabriani Merger, but
that looks to me like a blind to throw him off the trail. Can you tell
me, Count, the best way to get track of this Savelli?”

De Smirnoff leaned thoughtfully back in his chair and considered the
question.

“It seems to me,” he said finally, “that the person you need to put
your hands on is Monsieur Clark. You heard Tamaso say that he was
Savelli’s direct agent in the affair.”

Dick sat up as straight as his sore body would permit, and swore
fluently. “Of course, you are right. What a blundering fool I have
been.”

“You were in no condition to reason out clews last night, Monsieur,”
smiled de Smirnoff, consolingly.

“I am sure your theory is right,” argued Long. “Clark must be the
guilty man. He knew the combination of the safe, and he also knew when
certain inmates of the house would be absent.”

“It looks plausible,” agreed Dick. “Clark may have joined the Camorra
while in Naples. But he must have been very deeply involved to commit
murder for this Savelli.”

“Perhaps Monsieur Clark is using the Camorra to shield his own deed,”
suggested de Smirnoff, slowly. “We, in the Secret Service keep in
touch with every country in the world. I recollect now that this Alfred
Clark, of whom you speak, was a resident in Naples for many years. He
did not have a very savory reputation. Madame Trevor, or as she was
then, Hélène de Beaupré, spent several winters in that city. Monsieur
Clark, before he lost his money, was her devoted lover.”

Long bent forward and helped himself to Scotch and vichy.

“The plot thickens,” he said, laconically.

De Smirnoff nodded his head. “I must take steps to have this Monsieur
Clark apprehended,” he said. “According to Count de Morny, Madame
Trevor,” he raised his glass and examined its contents critically,
“Madame Trevor was not--a good woman.”




CHAPTER XX

CASTING OF NETS


DICK was awakened out of a sound sleep the next morning by a loud
banging on his door.

“Come in,” he shouted, sleepily; then, realizing that the disturber of
his peace could not crawl through the keyhole, he scrambled out of bed,
unlocked the door and jerked it open.

“I ax yo’ pardon, Marse Dick,” said Uncle Andy, bowing and scraping
on the threshold, “but dis hyer note done come fo’ yo’, an’ de bearer
am waitin’ fo’ an answer, sah.” As he spoke he handed Dick a sealed
envelope and a small package.

“Wait a minute, Uncle, and I’ll see what it’s about,” and Dick, going
inside his room, plumped himself down on the edge of his bed and tore
open the note. Not recognizing the bold, clear writing, he turned at
once to read the signature on the last page. It was from Beatrice
Trevor. With quickened interest, he read the few lines.

  _Dear Mr. Tillinghast_:

  My father tells me that you are doing your best to clear up the
  terrible mystery which surrounds our house. I am in great trouble. I
  must see you.

  I am going to dine alone with Mrs. Macallister to-night. Will you come
  there at eight o’clock? I have told Wilkins to wait for your answer.

                                             Sincerely yours,
                                                  BEATRICE TREVOR.

  P. S. Wilkins tells me the accompanying package belongs to you.

“Thank the Lord!” ejaculated Dick, aloud. “Your note’s a direct answer
to my unspoken wish. You want to see me, Miss Beatrice, but I bet not
half so badly as I want to see you. But what does your postscript mean?”

Taking up the small package he looked doubtfully at it. “Best way
to find out is to open it,” he muttered, tearing off the string and
wrapping paper. It proved to be a small pasteboard box, and on lifting
the cover he saw his broken cuff link lying inside on some cotton. It
was unmistakable. The round gold button with his interwoven initials
“R. T.” stared him in the face.

With a startled cry, he sprang up and pulled out his white waistcoat
from the half-opened bureau drawer. Quickly his fingers fumbled in the
little pocket--yes, there it was, just where he had put it four nights
before. In growing excitement, he jerked out his fingers and disclosed
not his broken cuff button, but a round coin attached to a broken,
golden link!

With open mouth, and eyes fairly popping from his head, Dick
contemplated the two links, while his bewildered mind gradually pieced
together the scene in the hall. It was not surprising he had made such
a mistake, the two were identical in size; and in the semi-darkness of
the large hall and his hurry he had never glanced at the recovered cuff
button, but had taken it for granted it was the piece of jewelry he had
dropped.

As busy as he was, he had not troubled to get his broken set mended. He
had used a second pair the next morning; and this was, therefore the
first time he had thought of the broken set since thrusting the button
into his waistcoat pocket.

Taking up the coin, he examined it closely. It was apparently very old;
the edges were worn thin and the hieroglyphics on the two sides were so
defaced he could make nothing of them. It was attached by a swivel to
the heavy red-gold link. The link itself was worn at the rough ends,
but still it must have been a powerful wrench which had caused it to
break off. To Dick it looked like a link torn from a watch chain; and
an unusual one at that, for the outer side was delicately etched in
some intricate design. Pshaw! What was the use of puzzling his brains,
Wilkins could tell him all about it; and with the thought Dick walked
over to the closed door, and, opening it, looked into the corridor.
But Uncle Andy, tired of waiting, had gone about his work. There was
nothing for it but to go to the back stairs and “fetch a yell” for the
old darky, as the ancient house boasted of no bell except the one to
the front door.

Mrs. Brisbane answered Dick’s stentorian shout from the kitchen, where
she had gone to superintend the cooking of the Maryland beaten biscuits
for the morning meal.

“What is it, Dick?” she called.

“Oh, good morning, Mrs. Brisbane. Will you please ask Uncle Andy to
show the messenger up to my room. Thanks, ever so much.” And Dick
retreated hastily, conscious of his pajamas as a female boarder thrust
her head out of the door to find out what the noise was about.

He was busy writing at his desk when Wilkins’ discreet tap sounded on
his door, and at his bidding the butler entered and closed the door
behind him.

“Good morning, Wilkins; sorry to keep you waiting, but I was delayed.”

“Morning, sir. That’s all right, sir. Miss Beatrice wanted me to be
sure and see you received her note, and told me to come over here
before you left for your office. I was to be particular and get an
answer.”

“I am writing it now. I’m much obliged to you for returning my cuff
link. By the way, where did you find it?”

“I didn’t find it, sir. The second man took up the large rug near the
fireplace to shake it in the yard yesterday morning and saw the bit of
jewelry lying under one corner. He brought it to me, and as I knew you
had broken your cuff button, sir, I was pretty sure it was yours.”

“Quite right, Wilkins, and here’s a small token of my thanks,” handing
the butler some change. And as the man thanked him profusely, Dick held
up the coin, and asked: “Who does this belong to?”

Wilkins stared at it in astonishment. “I don’t know, sir.”

“Oh, come, Wilkins, I picked it up in the hall under the armor the
other night, thinking it was my cuff link. Surely, you know who owns
it?”

Wilkins turned it over curiously in his hand; then shook his head. “I
have never seen it before, sir,” he said, positively.

Dick sat for a few moments thoughtfully nibbling his pen. He
recollected that the Attorney General’s watch chain was a plain gold
affair, very different from the link in his hand.

“Did Mrs. Trevor, or perhaps Miss Beatrice, have a chain like it?” he
asked. “Women wear such peculiar gewgaws nowadays.”

But Wilkins stuck to his guns. “No, sir, they didn’t. It’s an uncommon
thing, and I’m sure I’d ’a’ remembered it if I had ever seen either of
them wear such a thing,” he stubbornly declared. “Some guest must have
dropped it, though I dunno how it stayed so long unnoticed.”

Dick looked at Wilkins queerly. A sudden thought had entered his active
brain ... by Heaven!... Suppose....

“Has the front hall been swept since the murder of Mrs. Trevor?” he
asked.

Wilkins looked bewildered. “We don’t sweep it, sir,” he answered. “It
is a hard wood floor, sir. The different rugs in the hall are shaken
and gone over by a vacuum cleaner every day. We oiled the entire floor,
sir, the morning after the supper for Madame Bernhardt. If the gold
link had been there _then_, sir, we would have found it.”

“The morning after? Why, that was the third--Mrs. Trevor was murdered
that same night?”

“Yes, sir,” stolidly.

“Does Mr. Clark, the secretary, own such a chain?”

“No, sir; he always wears a fob.”

“At what hour did Mr. Clark leave the house the day Mrs. Trevor was
killed?”

“Why, I suppose about the usual time, sir, five o’clock.” Wilkins
hesitated. “I really don’t know the exact time because I didn’t see him
go, sir.”

“Well, ask the other servants if they know, and then send me word. But
don’t rouse comment by too many questions, Wilkins. I’ll make it worth
your while if you get that information on the quiet.”

Wilkins hesitated a perceptible moment. “It wouldn’t be much use asking
them, sir. Mr. Clark can run in and out of the house at any time,” he
volunteered, finally. “He has a front door key. Mrs. Trevor said she
couldn’t have the front bell rung so often, and asked the Attorney
General to give him an extra key.”

Dick looked thoughtfully at Wilkins, but the butler’s expressionless
face told him nothing.

“Was Mr. Clark with the Attorney General yesterday?”

“No, sir; I don’t think he has been to the house since Friday
afternoon. I heard Mr. Trevor tell Miss Beatrice he had been called
away on business.” He paused, and looked suggestively at the clock.
Dick signed his note and hastily sealed the envelope. And he was on the
point of handing it to the butler when Secretary Bowers’ advice about
the missing memorandum book occurred to him.

“Can you tell me, Wilkins, how Mrs. Trevor and Miss Beatrice spent the
afternoon of the third?”

“Yes, sir. Mrs. Trevor was at home receiving callers, for Wednesday
is Cabinet Day, you know, sir. Mrs. Trevor never served refreshments
except at private teas, so I spent the afternoon in the hall with the
footman helping her guests with their coats and wraps. Miss Beatrice
went out directly after luncheon and didn’t return until about five
o’clock, sir.”

“Did she join her stepmother?”

“Not at once, sir; she first went into the private office and took off
her wraps. After that she went into the drawing-room.”

“Was anyone else in the office at that time?”

“No, sir.”

“How long did she stay there?”

“About fifteen minutes, sir. Mrs. Trevor sent me to ask her to come
into the drawing-room as Mrs. Macallister wished to see her.”

“What was Miss Beatrice doing when you entered the office?”

“Sitting at her father’s desk, sir, and writing.”

“Had--had she a memorandum book in her hand?” asked Dick hesitatingly.
So much depended on the answer.

“I didn’t see any such book, sir,” answered Wilkins, surprised. “After
I gave her Mrs. Trevor’s message, Miss Beatrice picked up her hat and
fur coat and went immediately out of the room.”

“What did she do with the papers on which she was writing?”

“She stuffed them inside the pocket of her fur coat, sir.”

“Could you see what she had been writing?”

“No, sir; I couldn’t.”

“Well, I won’t detain you any longer, Wilkins. Here’s the note for Miss
Beatrice. By the way, were Mrs. Trevor and Mr. Clark good friends?”

“Not always, sir.” Then, seeing Dick’s surprise, Wilkins hastened to
add: “Mrs. Trevor had a very quick temper. Many’s the time I’ve nearly
given notice on account of her hasty way of finding fault. She and Mr.
Clark were very thick, that is,” stumbling in his speech, “good friends
like. Mr. Clark had eyes for nobody but Miss Beatrice, and he and Mrs.
Trevor often had words over her. They had several nasty quarrels last
month, sir. Is--is that all, sir?”

“Yes. I’m very much obliged to you, Wilkins,” replied Dick, heartily.
“Good day.”

“Good day, sir,” answered Wilkins. He stopped for a moment on the other
side of the door to scratch his head in perplexity. “He’s a rum cove,
wonder what he’s up to.”

Dick wondered very much himself. It was a case of the blind leading
the blind. If Clark was guilty, and certainly suspicion pointed his
way, why should Beatrice hide the hat-pin? Above all, who had dropped
the broken gold link in the Trevors’ front hall? More and more puzzled
by the facts which he had elicited from the communicative Wilkins, he
dressed with what speed he could, and, not waiting for breakfast, ran
across to the corner drug store and rang up a taxi-cab. While waiting
he telephoned to Peggy and then to Mrs. Curtis. Both of them told
him they had never owned a chain of any description with such a coin
attached to it.

The taxi-cab was not long in coming, and he was whirled away to the
Treasury Department as rapidly as the speed laws of the District
allowed. On his arrival there he went direct to the Secret Service
Division, and on mentioning his name and errand he was at once taken to
Chief Connor.

“I won’t take up a moment of your time, Chief,” explained Dick, as the
two men sat down.

“Count de Smirnoff told me of your share in the capture of the three
Italians on Saturday,” said the famous Secret Service man. “What can I
do for you?”

“Did the Count tell you the identity of the fourth man?”

“Yes. Apparently Clark realized the game was up, for on inquiry at the
Buckingham we learned that he hasn’t been to his room since Saturday
afternoon. I have sent a description of him to every Secret Service man
in the country, and have also had the trans-Atlantic steamship lines
watched. We shall catch him, never fear, but I am afraid he will get
off afterwards. Conspiracy is a mighty hard thing to prove.”

“I am convinced you can hold Clark for another crime,” said Dick
slowly. Chief Connor looked at him in surprise.

“As for instance?” he asked.

“Mrs. Trevor’s murder.”

“Indeed!” The Chief sat back and pulled his mustache thoughtfully. “And
your grounds for such a charge?”

“Clark is the one person beside the Attorney General who can open the
safe. Mrs. Trevor’s body, you may remember, was found locked inside it.
The burglar, Nelson, declares on oath that she was there when he opened
the safe. According to the butler, who has lived with the Trevors for
over twenty years, Clark and Mrs. Trevor quarreled often. He had a
key to the Trevors’ front door, so that he could enter without anyone
in the house being the wiser. And,” added Dick, “he knew where every
member of the household would be on that night. Then the Camorra had
evidently decreed her death; Clark was said to be their direct agent in
the affair.”

“And his motive for killing Mrs. Trevor?”

“Count de Smirnoff informed me Clark was an old lover of hers in
Naples. I know that he has been paying great attention to Miss Trevor.
Possibly he did not take the precaution of being off with the old love
before being on with the new.”

Chief Connor followed Dick’s arguments closely.

“Circumstantial evidence does point toward him,” he admitted. “There is
no doubt that Clark is a pretty thorough-going rascal. Have you tried
to find out where he was on the night of the third?”

“Not yet. I came to find out if Clark had been arrested, to tell you of
my suspicions, and to ask your advice in the matter.”

“My men are busy now tracing Clark’s career. If they discover any facts
which point to the murder I will send for you. In the meantime, haven’t
you a mutual friend who would know something of Clark’s life here?”

Dick’s face brightened. “Of course, there’s Charlie Archibald; he knows
Clark pretty well. Charlie works in the Department of Justice. I’ll go
right over there.” He rose as he spoke.

“Let me know the result,” said Chief Connor.

“All right, sir. Many thanks for your suggestion. Good-by.” And he
hastened out of the building.

“The chase is getting warm,” thought Dick, as the taxi turned and
started up Fifteenth Street. “If only--only Peggy meant what she said.
Well, here’s for another try,” and he opened the door just as the car
drew up in front of the Department of Justice.

Dick hastily threaded his way through the busy rooms searching for his
friend.

“Hello, Charlie, you’re a sight for sair een,” he hailed. “Where have
you been keeping yourself?”

“Oh, boning for an exam,” said Archibald, his tired face lighting up
with a smile. “You look as if the world were treating you pretty well,
Dick?”

“Nothing to boast of. Say, Charlie,” drawing him to one side and
speaking in a low tone, “can you tell me anything about Alfred Clark?”

“Tell you anything about him?” echoed Archibald, surprised. “Well,
no, not much; he’s a quiet sort of chap, keeps himself pretty much to
himself, not a good mixer with the boys. I’ve seen more of him than the
others because he’s lending me a hand in my studies for the District
Bar examination.”

“Perhaps you can tell me where he was on the night of the third?”

“The third,” repeated Archibald. “What the deuce was I doing that
night? Wait a moment.” He took out a memorandum book and turned the
leaves rapidly. “22nd January--1st of February--ah, here we are--‘study
with Clark.’ Of course, I remember now. That night I went over to his
rooms at the Buckingham, to go over some papers with him. He has often
told me to go up to his room and wait if he wasn’t there; and so I sat
waiting and waiting until after midnight, but he never showed up. Then
I cleared out.”

“Did he ever tell you what detained him?”

“Nope, just said he forgot the engagement.”

“Do you know where Clark generally spends his time when not working?”

“He used to be with the Trevors all the time. He is quite a lady
killer, you know.” Dick shivered involuntarily, while his unconscious
friend went on. “He is society mad, but lately he’s not been like
himself. It may be money troubles; he plays the races and has been a
heavy loser. I know because I made him a small loan, and lately the
money lenders have been pressing him for payments.” He looked curiously
at Dick. “Why do you want to know all this? You and Clark never hit it
off very well.”

“I’ll explain some other time. Many thanks, old man. By-by,” and Dick
turned and ran down the corridor after the Attorney General, who had
just entered the building.

“How are you, Tillinghast?” said he, cordially, as Dick brought up
breathless before him. “Want to see me?”

“Only to ask you one question.” As he spoke, he took the gold coin out
of his pocket. “Have you ever seen this before, sir?”

The Attorney General examined the coin with interest, then handed it
back to Dick.

“Never laid eyes on it before,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

But Dick never waited to reply; he was off down the corridor as fast as
his legs could take him.

“District Building,” he called to the chauffeur as he jumped inside and
slammed the door.

Detective Hardy was reflecting on his week’s work with great
satisfaction when Dick burst hurriedly into his office.

“Time’s up, Hardy,” he said, coolly. “Come, divulge your news.”

Hardy smiled indulgently. He could afford to tease Dick a little.

“News in regard to what, sir?”

“Who killed Mrs. Trevor?”

“That’s rather a large order,” smiled the detective.

“Well, I’ll amend the question. Who do you _think_ killed Mrs. Trevor?”

Hardy’s eyes flashed with anger. He hated to be made fun of, especially
by a young “Mr.-Know-It-All,” and he instantly determined to take the
wind out of his sails.

“It isn’t a case of ‘think,’ Mr. Tillinghast; I have absolute proof.”

“Against whom?”

“Miss Beatrice Trevor.”

“Oh, nonsense!” exclaimed Dick, roughly. But his heart sank as he
thought of the hat-pin and Beatrice’s endeavor to secrete it. Should he
confide in Hardy? His conscience pricked him. Undoubtedly the detective
should be told. But he had given his word to Peggy to shield her
friend; let the consequences be what they might, he would keep it.

“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Hardy. “We know they had a bitter
quarrel; she threatened to strike her stepmother.”

“Pooh! If we believe everything an angry woman says--” Dick shrugged
his shoulders expressively. “Their bark is worse than their bite,
Hardy.”

“Maybe so, but not in this instance.”

“Next?” questioned Dick, with a tantalizing smile.

“Her maid--” began Hardy, then checked himself. “Look here, sir; this
is absolutely private, it must not get into the papers until I say so.”

“Sure; I’ll keep absolutely mum.”

“I’ve made myself solid with Suzanne, Miss Trevor’s maid. Nothing like
using a little tact in that direction, sir,” chuckled Hardy. “Anyway,
she told me that a handsome, strong (mind you, _strong_) hat-pin that
was given to Miss Beatrice by Miss Macallister is missing. Wait a
moment,” as Dick opened his lips to speak. “Suzanne says Miss Beatrice
wore it that afternoon, and when she came in went into the private
office and took off her hat there, later, carrying it up to her room,
but she didn’t have the hat-pin with her, because Suzanne asked her
where it was when she put her coat and hat away. Miss Beatrice made no
reply, and shortly after went downstairs to dinner. Suzanne never saw
the hat-pin again. She remembers it distinctly because of the curious
design of the gold about the cat’s-eye in the top.”

“See here, Hardy, that’s not much to go on. You haven’t found the
weapon remember, and therefore cannot prove it belonged to Miss
Beatrice. Secondly, Mrs. Trevor was found locked in the safe, not on
the floor.”

“Quite true, sir. But you must recollect that Mrs. Trevor was a small,
slender woman. I don’t believe she weighed over one hundred and
twenty-five pounds.”

“I know; but a relaxed body is a mighty heavy, unwieldy thing to lift.”

“Miss Trevor is tall and strong,” said Hardy, dryly. “She is a fine
tennis player, a good fencer, and is also a magnificent cross-country
rider. It wouldn’t be much exertion for her to get Mrs. Trevor into the
safe, which was a short distance away.”

Dick shook his head. “I can’t agree with you, Hardy.”

The detective leaned toward Dick and raised his hand impressively.

“Listen to me, sir. Her initialed handkerchief with blood stains upon
it was found in the safe near the body.”

Dick stared with unbelieving eyes at the triumphant detective.

“You are crazy,” he said, tersely. “In the first place, Doctor Davis
said no blood was visible on Mrs. Trevor’s outer garments. Then all the
witnesses, including yourself, testified at the inquest that nothing
had been found either in the safe or in the room.”

“I have just seen Doctor Davis,” explained Hardy, patiently. “He said
that undoubtedly some blood must have spurted out on the murderer’s
hand when the foul blow was struck. Secondly, we didn’t find the
handkerchief. It was brought to me by a person who said his conscience
would no longer permit him to keep the matter secret. He had held back
the information to protect Miss Trevor; but now, convinced of her
guilt, he could no longer shield her.”

“And may I ask the name of this--this shrimp?” asked Dick, boiling with
rage.

“Certainly. Alfred Clark, the secretary!”




CHAPTER XXI

FORGING THE FETTERS


DICK sat back in his chair and glowered at Hardy.

“Do you know that your informant is at present a fugitive from
justice?” he asked.

“What!” cried the detective, springing to his feet in his surprise.

“It’s a fact,” declared Dick. “The Secret Service men are after him. I
expect to hear of his arrest at any moment.”

Hardy sank back in his chair and mopped his red face. He had very much
the appearance of a pricked gas balloon.

“Would you mind putting me wise?” he asked, finally. “I’ve been so busy
shadowing Miss Trevor, I am all in the dark about Clark. The Secret
Service Bureau haven’t notified us yet. I suppose they want him for
some Government business.”

In a few terse sentences Dick told him of his interview with Chief
Connor, and of the evidence he had collected against Clark. At the end
Hardy swore with fluency and ease.

“What a blank--blank--fool I’ve been to be taken in by that scoundrel,”
he gasped. “Then this handkerchief business is only a plan to throw
dust in my eyes.”

“I think so,” agreed Dick. “Clark evidently wanted to turn suspicion
against Miss Trevor, so manufactured this evidence. It was probably an
easy matter for him to pick up one of Miss Trevor’s handkerchiefs; as a
rule women shed them wherever they go. Then he pricked his arm, or made
his nose bleed so as to get blood stains on it. Depend upon it, Hardy,
he is your man.”

“You are right, sir,” exclaimed Hardy, banging his fist on the table.
“Now that you have shown me the way, I’ll bring the murder home to
him, or bust. Here, Johnston,” to a plain clothes officer who had just
entered the office, “get your hat and come on.”

Dick left the two detectives at the main entrance of the District
Building and rushed down to the _Star_. After a satisfactory
interview with Colonel Byrd, he hastened to his desk where he found
an accumulation of work waiting for him. But, as it happened, that
particular work was never finished by him, for at that moment a
District messenger boy handed him a note, the contents of which
surprised him very much. It read:

  _Dear Dick_:

  Get over here as quick as you can. Must see you. Most important.

                                             Yours in haste,
                                                  TOM BLAKE.

Blake the phlegmatic--Blake the most easy-going and laziest of clubmen!
Dick wondered what was to pay as he closed his desk and got his
overcoat and hat. After a few words of explanation to Colonel Byrd, he
left the office and hastened up to Stoneleigh Court.

Blake’s apartment on the sixth floor faced on Connecticut Avenue, but
from the side windows there was a magnificent view of the White House
grounds and the Washington Monument, whose wonderful white shaft
seemed to float aloft, detached from the solid earth, a part of the
fleecy clouds themselves; while still farther to the south a glimpse of
the Potomac River could be caught now and then as it twisted and turned
along the Virginia and Maryland shores.

Dick had plenty of time to admire the view before Tom made his
appearance, dressed immaculately.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, old man, but I had to shift after traveling
all night, first getting some sleep; never closed my eyes all night in
a beastly upper berth. Lunch ready, Lambert?” as his man came to the
door. “All right, come along, Dick.”

Dick sighed with satisfaction, as he helped himself to a juicy piece
of beefsteak and some French fried potatoes. He was almost famished,
and Tom was in like condition. For a short time conversation languished
while they both attended to the wants of the inner man.

“Where have you been, Tom?” Dick finally asked, helping himself to a
hot muffin.

“Philadelphia,” answered Tom, his speech somewhat impeded by a large
mouthful which he, with difficulty, swallowed in a hurry. “I had to
go over there to see about the strike in the Warren textile mills.
I’m a big stockholder in the concern, so had to take an interest in
the blooming business. Can’t say I was much help; couldn’t seem to
understand the rights of the row. Far as I could make out, the workers
wanted more wages.”

“Most people do,” interrupted Dick, laughing.

“I know, but the business doesn’t warrant a raise, hasn’t paid a
dividend for months. The strikers claim they can’t even buy the
necessities of life at the present scale of wages. The whole trouble
is, no one knows nowadays what are necessities and what luxuries, and
no one attempts to live without them both.”

“Oh, I could exist without the necessities if someone supplied me with
all the luxuries,” laughed Dick. “But seriously, Tom, why did you send
me this urgent note?”

Tom beckoned to Lambert. “Put the cigars and coffee on the table,
and don’t wait.” He remained silent until his order had been swiftly
obeyed, then continued, “While I was in Philadelphia, Dick, I saw your
brother John.”

“How’s the dear old chap?” inquired Dick, much pleased to get
first-hand information, as he and his brother were poor correspondents.

“Looking finely, but, of course, as busy as ever. Never saw such
a man for work,” grumbled Tom. “He told me he was on the point of
coming to Washington, when he read in the papers that I was at the
Bellevue-Stratford. Therefore, he decided to consult me instead of you.”

“What did he consult you about?”

“The Trevor murder.”

Dick straightened up in his chair. “What on earth induces him to take a
particular interest in that?”

“In the first place he knows you are investigating the murder, having
read your signed despatches to the _Inquirer_. Secondly, he feels that
he is holding back some information which may help to elucidate the
mystery. He confided certain facts to me, first making me promise to
tell no one but you.”

“What did he tell you?” eagerly demanded Dick.

“That Beatrice Trevor and Donald Gordon were married on the first of
January.”

His startling news had more effect on his friend than Tom expected. For
a moment Dick felt physically ill, and the dishes on the table whirled
up and down.

“Here,” exclaimed Tom, startled by his white face. “Take some whisky,
quick!” He poured out a liberal portion. “There, that will soon set you
up.”

“Are you sure there is no mistake?” asked Dick, imploringly.

“Absolutely positive,” answered Tom, gravely. “Your brother and I both
realize the scandal that must follow if the secret leaks out before
Gordon is cleared of this monstrous charge. John gave me all the
details known to him. The marriage was perfectly legal. He performed
the ceremony, and Mrs. John Dundas and Arthur Vandergrift were the
witnesses. The affair was kept absolutely quiet for personal reasons
given by Mrs. Dundas. John wouldn’t, of course, tell me what they were,
except to say that everything was open and above board.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

“Only that the marriage took place at three o’clock in the afternoon.
He gave me this copy of the marriage certificate for you.” He took the
paper out of his notebook and handed it to Dick. The printed lines
danced before the latter’s eyes as he studied them.

“Whichever way I look at it, Gordon’s guilt seems certain,” he said,
finally.

But Tom shook his head in doubt. “I still don’t see where the motive
comes in,” he argued. “Just because he married Beatrice in secret he
didn’t have to kill her stepmother.”

“It happens that Gordon was an old lover of Mrs. Trevor’s,” answered
Dick, shortly. “General Long says he was madly infatuated with her, and
there’s a rumor they were married in London before she met Trevor.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Tom, in open-eyed amazement. “Do you mean that
Gordon intentionally or unintentionally committed bigamy?”

“I don’t know,” moodily. “Apparently the marriage was kept from the
Trevors. But why? From a worldly point of view it was a most suitable
match. Both are well-born, wealthy, and good looking. Why, then, elope?”

“Blessed if I know.” Tom scratched his head hopelessly. “Mrs. Trevor,
as proved by her letter, made an appointment with Gordon at a most
unconventional hour. Perhaps she refused to keep silent about the
past in that last interview, and in a boiling fury he snatched up the
hat-pin.”

“But then how did Beatrice get so entangled in the affair?” asked Dick.

“Is she?” inquired Tom, puzzled by the new development.

“Yes,” despondently. “I know positively that she had the top of the
broken hat-pin in her possession after the murder. It was undoubtedly
the weapon used to kill Mrs. Trevor. Also, Beatrice’s blood-stained
handkerchief is said to have been found inside the safe by the body
of her stepmother. Gordon is the last man to throw suspicion on an
innocent woman by using her handkerchief and her hat-pin. Even if
guilty, he would never hide behind a woman’s petticoat.”

Tom’s eyes grew bigger and bigger as he listened to Dick.

“It strikes me you are on the wrong tack,” he said when the latter
paused. “All your arguments appear to me to point to the fact that
Gordon is trying to shield Beatrice. Innocent himself, he might have
purposely let them arrest him for her crime.”

“Good God!” Dick looked at Tom in sudden horror.

“Beatrice might have been concealed behind a curtain and overheard the
scene between her husband and her stepmother. Mrs. Trevor was very
beautiful, also very fascinating; perhaps Gordon lost his head and made
love to her. Beatrice’s jealousy roused--”

“No, no,” exclaimed Dick. “Beatrice was at the ball then. I was with
her myself at the very time Mrs. Trevor and Gordon were together.”

“Why not later on then?” pursued Tom. “She was the last person to
enter the house--everyone else was in bed--perhaps the two women met
and continued their quarrel. You remember Wilkins overheard Beatrice
threaten her stepmother earlier in the evening. Stronger than most of
her sex, blind hatred may have nerved Beatrice’s arm and eye to strike
the fatal blow.”

“I won’t believe it!” declared Dick, fiercely. “I won’t! I stick to it
that Alfred Clark is the criminal.”

“The secretary?” asked Tom, much astonished.

“Yes. He was Mrs. Trevor’s old lover, too....”

“Another! Apparently the woods were full of them,” interpolated Tom.

“Mrs. Trevor was probably jealous of his attentions to Beatrice, and
threatened to disclose some disgraceful secret of his past. Clark, to
silence her, killed her, the cold-blooded fish. He would not scruple to
throw suspicion on Beatrice, particularly as, being married to Gordon,
she must have rejected his suit.”

“For all that, Dick,” said Tom, obstinately, “if Beatrice Trevor ever
comes to trial for this crime, you will have great difficulty in
convincing twelve good men and true that she is innocent.”

“I’ll do it!” Dick’s eyes snapped with determination.

“How?”

“By proving that that black-hearted scoundrel Clark is guilty.”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Lambert’s discreet voice from the doorway
interrupted them. “James has just sent up word, sir, that the car is
here, sir.”

“All right, Lambert; get Mr. Tillinghast’s coat and hat, and mine.
I’ll take you wherever you wish to go, Dick, but first come with me to
Galt’s. I have to buy a wedding present for May Seymour. Please come
and help me select it.”

Dick consulted his watch. “If you won’t be very long, I’ll come. I have
an appointment with General Long at four o’clock.”

Lambert helped them into their overcoats, and a few minutes later they
were whirled away in the big Pierce Arrow car which was Tom’s latest
addition to his overstocked garage.

“I had a great mind to turn detective and use the knowledge of
Beatrice’s secret marriage to find the murderer of her stepmother,”
said Tom, as the big car slowed up at a street crossing. “You remember,
Dick, that Peggy Macallister challenged us all. But don’t worry, old
man,” seeing the telltale color rise in Dick’s face. “I know when I am
out of the running. But what struck me as being extremely ludicrous
was her including Count de Morny in the wager. I was the only one to
appreciate the humor of it.”

“I fail to see any particular humor in the situation,” retorted Dick,
warmly. “De Morny has as great a right to win Peggy as any man; far
more than I, in fact.” And he sighed as he bitterly thought of his
small bank account.

“Tut! I wasn’t thinking of your rivalry, but of de Morny’s putting
himself out to revenge Mrs. Trevor’s death. Why, man alive, they hated
each other like poison.”

Dick looked curiously at Tom. “What makes you think so?”

“I don’t think--I _know_. De Morny told me so himself. He said she
affected him as a cat does some people; simply couldn’t stand being in
the same room with her, and yet they were constantly thrown together
at bridge parties. I thought it simply one of his over-charged Latin
speeches; but one day at the Macallisters I inadvertently overheard
them talking. They were in a bay window concealed by the curtain, and I
stood with my back to them waiting for the crowd to thin so I could go
and speak to Mrs. Macallister.”

“And what did you overhear?” asked Dick, with growing interest.

“At first I paid no attention to the few words I caught; but finally I
heard a woman’s voice say: ‘Indeed, Count, I will not agree....’

“‘You must. If you do not, disaster will overtake you. Be warned in
time.’

“His voice was so threatening that I involuntarily turned to interrupt
them just as Mrs. Trevor parted the curtains and walked out. Until
then I had not known for certain who they were. They spoke in French.
From that moment Mrs. Trevor won my admiration. There was no trace of
excitement or embarrassment in her manner. Jove! she carried off the
situation with a high hand, and de Morny followed her lead.”

“Probably they didn’t know they had been overheard,” suggested Dick.

“That must have been it,” answered Tom. “Come to think of it, the last
time I saw Mrs. Trevor was on Wednesday about noon. She was sitting in
her limousine in front of de Morny’s small house on K Street.”

“Considering their dislike was mutual, it’s strange she should drive up
to his door. Was the Attorney General with her?”

“No, she was alone; probably she stopped to leave a note. They played
auction a great deal. De Morny told me the other day, though, that he
would have to give up playing as his losses had been very heavy this
winter. Here’s Galt’s, come on in.”

It did not take Tom long to select a present. He picked out an
after-dinner coffee service, and gave directions as to its marking and
delivery. Dick glanced impatiently at the clock. He had barely time to
keep his appointment if he left at once. As he turned to speak to Tom
he heard a man standing next him say:

“My mastaire wishes it repaired and returned at once, Monsieur.”

Dick’s eyes traveled over the speaker, obviously by the cut of his
clothes a foreigner, then on to the piece of jewelry which the man laid
on the counter as he spoke. It was a long, heavily linked, red-gold
watch chain. Dick waited for the valet to go before addressing the
clerk, who had often waited on him.

“May I look at this chain?”

“Why, yes, Mr. Tillinghast.”

Dick took it up in his left hand. The outer sides of the links were
covered with intricate scroll work. One link was missing. With
trembling fingers, he took the coin out of his pocket and placed the
link in the broken chain. It fitted exactly!

Dick’s heart was beating nearly to suffocation as he asked, in little
more than a whisper:

“Can you tell me to whom this chain belongs?”

“Certainly, sir. Count de Morny.”




CHAPTER XXII

AT THE TIME APPOINTED


DICK leaned limply against the high, glass counter, his cold fingers
holding fast to the telltale chain.

“Mr. Tillinghast.” He whirled around and found Hardy standing by his
side. “I tried to see you at your office, but Colonel Byrd said you
were at Stoneleigh Court. On going there, Mr. Blake’s servant told me
I might catch you here. Chief Conner has received word that Clark was
arrested this morning in New York on board an outgoing tramp steamer.
He was disguised as an Italian stoker. Two Secret Service men are
bringing him back on the six ten train to-night. Chief Conner sent me
word to look you up at once, as he--”

“Just a moment, Hardy,” Dick interrupted. He had done some rapid
thinking, and a daring plan had occurred to him, which he decided to
put into instant execution. “Are you a good bluffer?”

“You bet; try me.”

“Then go to the head clerk and tell him you need this chain,” picking
it up, “as a piece of evidence in a murder. Do that, then come with me,
and by night you will have the real murderer of Mrs. Trevor under lock
and key. Be quick.”

Hardy did exactly as Dick suggested, meeting with but little opposition
from the head clerk after he had convinced that individual that he was
a properly accredited representative of the law.

“Come on, Tom,” called Dick, as his friend stopped for a moment to
examine a tray filled with cigarette cases.

“What’s up?” he inquired, joining the two men at the door.

“Another clew,” answered Dick, briefly. “In with you both,” bundling
them unceremoniously into the waiting motor. “I want half an hour’s
uninterrupted talk with you and Hardy, Tom.”

Tom looked keenly at Dick’s serious face. “Drive to the Mall,” he
ordered, and the chauffeur started slowly off in that direction. “Out
with your story, Dick.”

The latter took the broken link out of his pocket and handed it to
Tom. “I found this link in the Trevor house under the armor in the
front hall. No member of that household can identify it. Wilkins, their
butler, declares it was not there on the morning of the murder, as he
and the footman oiled the floor then. Clark, according to the butler,
wears a fob. Swarms of people called and left cards at the Trevors’
but they go no further than the front door. I am telling you all this
to prove that that broken link was not where I found it _before_ the
murder, nor could it have been dropped there after the finding of the
body. Now, that broken link is exactly the same design and fits in this
chain which Hardy has just received from the clerk at Galt’s.”

“Well, what then?” demanded Hardy, eagerly.

“Just this.” Dick spoke slowly and distinctly so as to be heard by the
deeply interested men. “This chain belongs to Count de Morny.”

“Hold on--hold on,” exclaimed Tom, recovering from his surprise.
“Perhaps some person attending the inquest dropped it?”

“That part of the house was roped off and guarded by policemen.”

“You are right,” agreed Hardy. “I remember the careful arrangements we
made to keep the crowd to the left as they entered the house. Besides,”
examining the chain closely, “it must have taken a tremendous wrench to
break off that link, and the few pieces of furniture on the way to the
library and parlor were moved to make room for the people passing back
and forth.”

“Exactly,” said Dick. “My theory is that de Morny, after committing
the murder, concealed himself behind the armor in the corner by the
chimney. In getting up, his chain must have caught and wrenched off the
link.”

“But the motive?” demanded Hardy. “Count de Morny is a member of the
Diplomatic Corps; there will be an awful howl and international
complications unless we have absolute proof of his guilt before we
arrest him.”

“Mr. Blake can tell you that Mrs. Trevor and the Count hated each
other.”

“Yes, he told me so,” corroborated Tom, as the detective looked at him.
“I also overheard the Count threaten her.”

“Gordon was not the only man late in arriving at the Bachelors’
Cotillion that night,” went on Dick. “De Morny never got there until
after midnight. He gave very evasive answers to Miss Macallister when
she asked what had detained him. We all teased him about his unusual
solemnity; and then towards the end of the ball he astonished us by
sudden outbursts of hilarity. At the time I attributed them to too many
convivial glasses of champagne. But a more sinister cause may have been
responsible for his conduct.

“To sum up--we know de Morny hated Mrs. Trevor; we know he threatened
her; we know this chain belongs to him; we know one link from it was
found in the Trevor house; we know he could have killed Mrs. Trevor
that night and have gone afterwards to the ball--it is what Gordon is
accused of doing.

“Now, I propose we go to de Morny and demand an explanation. If he
cannot give a satisfactory one, Hardy, here, as a representative of the
law, can threaten to arrest him.”

“I can--” Hardy looked troubled--“but you gentlemen have got to stand
by me, for I may get into a devil of a row by exceeding my authority.”

“Don’t worry,” said Tom. “I am convinced de Morny is the murderer, and
that our bluff will work.”

“I must speak to Captain Brown first, sir,” objected the detective.

Tom wasted no time in words, he leaned across and spoke to his
chauffeur.

“Police Headquarters,” he ordered, “as fast as you can get there.”

About an hour later the big car purred softly up K Street and stopped
before a modest red-brick house. Tom led the way up the short flagged
walk and rang the bell. A Union Transfer baggage wagon drove up to the
curb, and Hardy nodded toward it, whispering to Dick: “Making a quick
get-away.”

“Take my card to Monsieur le Comte,” said Tom to the attendant who
answered the door. “I will detain him but a moment.”

His air of authority had its effect on the servant, and he promptly
showed them into the small parlor, saying he would summon his master.

Too nervous to sit down, Dick wandered around the cozy room, looking
at first one ornament and then another. The place spoke of wealth and
good taste. A Corot and a Millet hung on the walls. The rich coloring
of the oriental hangings and rugs gave out an air of comfort and warmth
which was added to by the cannel coal fire burning cheerfully in the
grate. It had grown bitterly cold outside, and the men, grateful for
the warmth, stood grouped about the fireplace as Count de Morny entered.

“Ah! Monsieur Blake, most welcome; and you, too, Monsieur,” shaking
Dick warmly by the hand, “and--” looking at the detective.

“Detective Hardy,” supplemented Tom, feeling exceedingly uncomfortable;
but the Frenchman apparently did not notice the air of constraint in
each man’s attitude, but greeted Hardy with all the courtesy of his
nation.

“Won’t you seet?” he asked, pulling the lounging chairs nearer the
fire. “Eet ees cold outside, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Thanks. We have only come for a moment,” answered Dick, “just to ask
you--” He hesitated, glancing at Hardy.

“To ask you,” said Hardy, stepping forward, “what took place between
you and Mrs. Trevor on the night of Wednesday, February third?”

A look of blank astonishment crossed de Morny’s face.

“Ze night of ze sird!” he exclaimed. “But I do not see Madame zen.
I do not remembaire--one moment--” As he spoke, he drew a small
Morocco-bound memorandum book from his vest pocket, and rapidly turned
its leaves. “_Mais, oui_--I was at ze Bachelors’ zat night,” he added,
triumphantly.

“You did not go there until after midnight,” said Dick.

“_Oui_, Monsieur,” said de Morny. He eyed the men sharply. It just
occurred to him that their behavior was somewhat peculiar. “And what
then?” haughtily.

“We wish to know where you were between the hours of ten o’clock and
one in the morning on the night of the third.”

“Why should you question me, Monsieur Hardy?” turning squarely on the
detective.

“Because I want to know when you killed Mrs. Trevor,” he bluntly
replied.

The detective’s meaning dawned slowly upon de Moray’s mind; then he
leaped to his feet with an oath, his handsome eyes flashing with fury.

“_Pardieu!_” he cried. “You dare--you dare--” Not able to express his
indignation in his limited English, he burst into French.

Tom tried to stem the torrent of his words by addressing him in his
native tongue, while Dick and Hardy stood hopelessly looking on, but de
Morny would not be appeased.

“I--I--” he began, lapsing into broken English, “I--a de Morny--am
accused by a pig of an Americaine of a crime so foul! Bah!” Then,
mastering his rage by a great effort, he asked more calmly, “May I ask
Monsieur for his reasons of a charge so monstrous?”

“Certainly,” said Hardy. “You were heard to threaten her--”

“_I_, Monsieur?” in great astonishment.

“Yes; I overheard you do so at Mrs. Macallister’s,” interrupted Tom.

De Morny looked at him with an enigmatic smile. “So!” was his only
comment.

“You cannot give a satisfactory account of your whereabouts on February
third between the hours of ten and one in the morning; at least you
haven’t yet.”

“So!” Again the Frenchman smiled.

“Now, Count--” Hardy spoke slowly, to make sure that de Morny
understood him--“we have irrefutable evidence that you were in the
Trevor house on that night. A piece of your property was found there.”

“What is eet?” questioned de Morny, with a rising inflection.

“This--” taking the watch chain out of his pocket.

“_Mais c’est impossible!_” ejaculated the Frenchman. “I myself sent the
chain to ze jeweler to be mended.”

“Exactly, Count--_to be mended_. Here is the broken link you lost in
the Trevor house on the night of February third.”

Spellbound, de Morny gazed at the coin lying in Hardy’s broad palm.
Then he reached over, took up the watch chain, laid it on the bare
mahogany table, and fitted the broken link into place. In silence
the three men watched him, as a cat watches a mouse, but they could
learn nothing of the passion burning within him from his set face and
brooding eyes. Finally, he broke the long pause to ask:

“And you sink--”

“That the owner of that chain is the murderer of Mrs. Trevor.”

“You are right, sir,” said a low, clear voice back of the detective.
“_I am he._”

With a convulsive bound Hardy swung round; Dick and Tom being too
petrified to move.

“Ah, _non, non_, de Smirnoff, say not so,” cried de Morny, deep feeling
in his shaking voice.

The Russian had entered unnoticed some minutes before by a door
communicating with an inner room. Too shocked for speech, and sick at
heart, Dick gazed at him. This--this was the man who had saved him
from a horrible death--and he had repaid the debt by hounding him to
the gallows. But for his intervention the criminal would have gone
undetected.

“And why not, Henri?” asked de Smirnoff, quietly. “I cannot have you,
_mon ami_, arrested for my crime. And so, Monsieur,” to Hardy, “you
found my lucky piece and traced it here--I do not know how you did it,
but it was clever work. I thought I had covered my tracks.”

“Hold, sir,” said Hardy, his sense of fair play causing him to
interrupt. “I must warn you that everything you say will be used
against you.”

De Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “It can make no difference.” Then,
as Hardy pulled out a pair of handcuffs, his face flushed hotly. “Not
that--my God!--not that; I will come quietly with you.”

At a sign from Dick, Hardy reluctantly put them back in his pocket.

“My warm thanks, Messieurs,” said de Smirnoff, slowly, “for the great
kindness; and I have another favor to ask of you. My host, Count de
Morny, knows nothing of this affair. I would like, if possible, to
explain my share in it to him and to you. It was no sordid murder. Will
you not sit a moment?”

Dick held a whispered conversation with Tom and Hardy, and then turned
to de Smirnoff.

“We agree to listen, Count.”

De Smirnoff bowed his head in grave acknowledgment, and then signed to
the men to draw up their chairs. It was a scene Dick never forgot: the
room, lighted only by the winter twilight and the bright blaze of the
cannel coal, the five men seated in a circle around the hearth, the
firelight flickering on their excited faces. De Smirnoff was by far the
calmest of them all.

“It will not take long in the telling,” he began; “but to make the
present situation clear, I must speak first of the past. Hélène de
Beaupré’s mother, Olga Weletsky, was a Russian. She married Claude
de Beaupré, and they lived first in one country and then in another,
finally returning to St. Petersburg. There they lived in comparative
poverty and obscurity, having spent most of their patrimony in their
wanderings about the world.

“About five years later they both died within a very short time of each
other, leaving their only child, a girl of twenty-three, in the care
of an uncle, Colonel Weletsky. I saw her often before the death of her
parents. She was very beautiful then--the beauty of the devil--the
beauty that destroys men’s souls.

“My only son, Sacha de Smirnoff, met her frequently at a friend’s
house, and fell madly in love with her. She returned his passion, but
she would not consent to a marriage ceremony being performed, as she
said she did not believe in the solemn rites of the church. I think
she simply did not wish to bind herself legally to one man. They lived
together for two years.” He paused, then resumed his story.

“While this was going on, I was in Persia looking after some mining
interests, which I inherited from an uncle. News travels but slowly in
that country of no telegraphs, telephones, or railroads, and during
those two years and more I heard but seldom from Sacha. Therefore,
you can understand my horror and my agony when, on my return to St.
Petersburg, I found that my son had been arrested as a nihilist,
secretly tried, and sent God knows where.” His voice shook with
feeling. “Hélène had also vanished. I joined the Secret Police as a
political spy. For nearly four despairing years I searched Siberia for
my boy, visiting every penal settlement in that vast land.

“There is no need of recounting the humiliation and suffering I
endured during that time; the worst agony being my anxiety for my son.
Finally, I found him in the worst settlement of all, broken in health
and in spirit, a physical and almost mental wreck. Remembering him as
I did in the glory of his young manhood, tall, handsome, brave, it was
a fearful shock to me to find him crippled, scarred, and cringing.
Shortly after my arrival Sacha fell ill with brain fever, and for days
I nursed him, fearing he would never recover. He rallied finally, and
slowly day by day regained his strength. I did everything I could to
lighten his confinement, while all the time planning his escape.

“One day a fresh batch of political prisoners arrived, among them an
old friend of Sacha’s. When he found who I was, he told me that he
himself after Sacha’s arrest, had gone to Hélène and given her proofs
of Sacha’s innocence of the crime he was charged with, thinking that
of course she would use the papers to clear him. But the Vampire was
already tired of Sacha. She disappeared with the papers, believing that
safe in the wilds of Siberia Sacha would never trouble her again, and
she could live her own life untroubled by the past.

“Boris advised me to recover those papers, give them to the proper
authorities, and secure my son’s release. It seemed the only thing to
do, as Sacha’s health was such that to try and escape in the rigors of
that climate was courting certain death. Therefore, I left Siberia,
first arranging with one of the Cossack officials at the settlement to
send me word every month of my son’s physical condition, care of my
Paris bankers.” He stopped and sighed deeply, then drew out his cigar
case. “Will you not join me, I speak more calmly when I smoke?

“I will not weary you with a detailed account of my search for Hélène.
My connection with the Secret Police helped me, and I was of great use
to the Bureau, as few suspected that I belonged to the force. Finally
I traced Hélène to Italy, Paris, England, and then here. I knew of the
Grand Duke’s proposed visit, and asked permission to accompany him; and
I was sent on as special agent to guard him against the Camorra, as
you already know,” to Dick. “I came on to Washington before the Grand
Duke, however, and meeting Henri,” placing his hand affectionately on
de Morny’s shoulder, “an old friend of Sacha’s, accepted his invitation
to visit him during my stay here. That was on the second of February.

“On Wednesday morning as I was going out of the front door, I was
astounded to see Hélène sitting in her automobile by the curb. I
believe her chauffeur was in the vestibule waiting to deliver a note. I
paid no attention to him but went straight to the limousine and opened
the door. I have altered little, and Hélène knew me at once. She shrank
back in her seat.

“‘You have nothing to fear,’ I said, quickly. ‘I simply want those
papers which will clear Sacha. Have you kept them?’

“My one terror had been that she might have destroyed them, and my
heart leaped with joy when she told me she had the papers, but she also
said she had no intention of giving them up.

“‘I am not here to haggle with you,’ I answered. ‘What is your price?’

“‘Twenty thousand.’

“‘Roubles?’

“‘No, dollars.’

“Her ruling passion was gambling. It was an inherited vice. She would
sell her soul for money to lose over the gaming tables.”

“It ees so,” interrupted de Morny. “I was warning her, Monsieur Blake,
when you overheard me. She was my cousin, but yes, and I did not want
the name disgraced. I hated and despised her for her treatment of my
friend, Sacha; and it was I, Messieurs, who first notified Count de
Smirnoff that she was in Washington.” The Frenchman’s eyes sparkled
vindictively.

“Hélène leaned back in her car, thinking, thinking,” continued de
Smirnoff. “Finally she said, speaking low that the chauffeur should not
hear:

“‘Come to my house to-night at one o’clock. I can see you alone then;
the others will be at the ball. Knock very softly on the front door.’

“I nodded understandingly, saying: ‘I will bring the money, do not fail
me,’ and closed the door of the car as the chauffeur cranked the engine.

“The rest of the day was taken up with arranging my affairs. I produced
my letters of credit and drew out the money without difficulty from
different banks until I had the requisite amount. It was a quarter of
my fortune, but no sum was too great to spend in rescuing my son from
his living death. After helping me Henri went to Baltimore on business
connected with his Embassy--”

“_Oui_, I did,” again interrupted de Morny, “and I only return by ze
midnight train.”

“I was sitting here by the fire about eight o’clock,” went on de
Smirnoff, “thinking and planning for the future--the happy future--when
Sacha and I could go to sunny Italy and in that ideal climate, he would
regain his shattered health. We would take a villa on Lake Como-- Just
then the housekeeper brought in a cablegram. I tore it open--my son was
dead!

“In letters of fire the message burned into my brain. How long I sat
here I do not know; but when I rose my soul was frozen, my mind made
up. She who was blood guilty should answer for her crime. I would keep
my appointment, get the letters, and forward them to Russia, thus
making certain that Sacha should sleep in no unhallowed grave, but be
brought to the old vault in St. Petersburg to rest at last with honor
unblemished by the side of his illustrious ancestors.

“At the time appointed I was in the Trevors’ vestibule, and I tapped
softly on the door. In a few minutes Hélène admitted me, and we tiptoed
softly into what was apparently a private office. The light was on
and I glanced about the room to see if we were alone; the open safe
attracted my attention. Hélène noticed my glance in that direction.

“‘My papers are there with my jewelry. I had to get the combination
before I could see you. Have you the money?’

“I nodded. She went to the safe and picked up a small bundle. As I
watched her my hand closed over a hat-pin lying on the top of the desk
I was standing by; I glanced down at it--the long, sharp-pointed steel
caught my attention. It was an ideal weapon for my purpose; far better
than a revolver shot which might arouse the household. As it happened
the pin broke in the wound--” There was not a trace of feeling in his
voice.

“Hélène returned, and in silence I handed the money to her and watched
her count it. Beautiful as ever, living in the lap of luxury--while he,
Sacha, her devoted lover always, had experienced the dregs of life in
that hell upon earth. Merciful God! Could such things be?

“In silence she handed me the papers; in silence I took them. She was
about to speak when her eye caught the glitter of a ring on the floor.
She dropped on one knee to pick it up, resting her left hand against my
thigh to balance herself.

“Quickly I seized my chance; and with one strong, straight stroke drove
the hat-pin into her heart, putting out my left hand to catch and
steady her body. And I held her until her head fell back and I saw her
eyes glazing. Thus died Hélène--the Vampire!”

No one spoke. In the terrible silence the ticking of the small clock
sounded clear and distinct. De Smirnoff roused himself.

“My tale is soon finished. I carried the body to the safe and fastened
the door; but first I put the twenty thousand dollar gold certificates,
wrapped in her handkerchief, by her side. She had paid the price, I had
no further use for the money.”

A gasp came from Hardy. “Good God! Clark must have stolen the money,”
he cried, “he found the handkerchief.”

“What matter?” said de Smirnoff, indifferently. “It is blood money,
ill-gotten gains! To continue; I put out the lights in the room and
went into the hall, but just as I started for the door I heard someone
coming downstairs, so I hid behind a suit of old armor. The man, whom I
judged to be Mr. Trevor, went straight to the front door and admitted
a woman. They went immediately into the room I had just left. Just as
I started to go, Mr. Trevor returned into the hall and went upstairs.
He came down at once, and in a few seconds I heard him talking at the
telephone. This was my opportunity. I rose up hurriedly; but in my
haste I caught my watch chain in some sharp part of the iron stand
which supported the armor. I heard something snap, but dared not stop
to investigate. I slipped out of the front door and down the front
steps as noiselessly as I could,--but dropped the head of the hat-pin
in opening the door.

“With a supreme effort, I took up my everyday life the next morning,
attending to my duties in safe-guarding the person of the Grand Duke,
and accepting the invitations I received as Henri’s guest. It has given
me infinite satisfaction to see Hélène’s wicked past revealed gradually
to the world she had fooled so long.

“Monsieur Tillinghast--” he turned directly to Dick--“I am glad, glad I
was of service to you the other night, for you remind me of Sacha.” His
voice quivered on his son’s name.

“Count--Count--what can I say,” faltered Dick.

“Say nothing. It is Kismet. In my grief for my son I have never given
the loss of my lucky coin another thought; but I hated to be without my
chain, a present from Sacha when a lad; so I asked Henri to send it to
a jeweler’s to be mended. That--is--all--I--think--Messieurs--”

For some time his voice had grown husky from weariness and emotion; now
he could hardly articulate. None of his listeners cared to break the
painful pause. Suddenly, Hardy, the most callous of the four men, rose
and turned on the lights. As he did so a cry escaped de Morny:

“Look--look!” he shouted pointing to de Smirnoff.

With a bound Dick was by the Russian’s side, his hand on his heart.
De Smirnoff’s head was thrown back, his body, unnoticed in the dimly
lighted room, had twisted slightly, and his eyes were fixed in a
dreadful stare. There was no need for Dick to speak. Each man in the
room knew de Smirnoff was dead.

Tom leaned over and took the half-burnt cigar from the nerveless
fingers.

“The poison was here,” he said.

Dick’s pitying gaze fell on the livid face.

“Better so,” he said softly.




CHAPTER XXIII

THE LIFTING OF THE CLOUD


“DURLEY, fill up Miss Beatrice’s champagne glass. I insist, my dear,”
as Beatrice protested. “Your health needs such a tonic, and it can do
you no harm. I promised your father that I would take good care of you,
so you must prepare to do exactly as I say,” and Mrs. Macallister shook
a warning finger at her guest.

Peggy had called for Beatrice that afternoon and carried her home in
the Macallisters’ landaulet. And already their tender but unobtrusive
sympathy, and the cheery atmosphere of the house had had a beneficial
effect on her over-wrought nerves.

Intuitively, Mrs. Macallister knew that Beatrice was silently grieving
her heart out, too proud to complain even to those dear friends, as
each day added its burden to those which her sensitive woman’s soul
was bearing so bravely. As her handsome dark eyes, filled with unshed
tears, encountered Mrs. Macallister’s piercing ones, that astute dame,
deeply touched by their wistful appeal, then and there registered a vow
to do everything within her power to help her. “There’s some man in the
case,” thought she, watching Beatrice covertly. “And what on earth ails
Peggy? She hasn’t been herself since the night I found her in a dead
faint.”

All through dinner Peggy had eaten nothing. She sat, pale and
preoccupied, making bread balls and leaving her grandmother to
entertain Beatrice. The hat-pin was weighing heavily on Peggy’s mind,
taking away both appetite and sleep. She was trying to screw up her
courage to ask Beatrice to explain its presence in her box, but each
time she looked at her friend’s sad face her heart misgave her.
What--what if she couldn’t explain? Peggy sighed drearily.

“For goodness’ sake, Peggy,” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister thoroughly
exasperated. “You are very depressing to-night. What is the matter?”

“Nothing, nothing,” she hastily declared, suddenly waking up to the
fact that she had not taken any part in the conversation for some time.
“I was thinking of a story Mr. Sinclair told me this morning when I
was in the bank about Mrs. Wheeler. He said his bookkeeper sent word
to Mrs. Wheeler that she had overdrawn her bank account. She promptly
wrote a note to him saying she was so sorry the mistake had happened,
and she enclosed her check on them to cover the overdraw!”

“Poor Mrs. Wheeler,” said Beatrice, as they rose from the table and
strolled into the library. “I wonder what Washington would do without
her, her blunders are so numerous?”

“Their name is legion,” agreed Mrs. Macallister, helping herself to
coffee. “Is that the door bell, Hurley?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I think it is probably Dick Tillinghast,” exclaimed Beatrice rising
in her agitation. “I took the liberty of asking him to call here, Mrs.
Macallister. I hope you won’t mind, but I--I--” she broke off. “It was
imperative that I see him at once.”

“My dear, of course not. I am always glad to see Dick,” answered Mrs.
Macallister, concealing her surprise. Could it be that he was the man
in the case! Why, good gracious, _she_ had other plans for him. “Ask
Mr. Tillinghast to come in here, Hurley.” Her usually tranquil tones
were so emphatic that the well-trained servant positively jumped as he
hastened out of the room.

Mrs. Macallister looked at the two girls very sharply. Surely she had
not been mistaken? Dick had seemed to have only ears and eyes for
Peggy; and yet--Beatrice’s very evident excitement; Peggy’s open-eyed
wonder. “Oh, these men!” thought Mrs. Macallister, disgustedly, “you
can’t tell by the looks of a toad how far he’ll jump. If that young man
has played fast and loose with my Peggy, I’ll--” And in growing anger
she waited. The silence was unbroken by the two girls. They could hear
the front door opened, and Hurley’s raised voice; then steps sounded
down the hall and stopped when they reached the library. Hurley threw
open the door and announced:

“Mr. Gordon.”

Too astounded to move, Peggy and her grandmother sat gazing at the
young officer, thinking they saw an apparition. As he crossed the
threshold, one wild scream of agony burst from Beatrice, and she swayed
forward a dead weight into his arms.

“Beatrice--Beatrice--my darling--my dear, dear wife!” he cried,
distractedly. Then, seeing no answering gleam of recognition in her
dazed eyes, he turned appealingly to Mrs. Macallister. “Merciful God!
have I killed her?”

“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Macallister, her active mind instantly grasping
the significance of the situation. “Joy never kills. Quick, Hurley,” to
the butler who was standing by with mouth agape, “some champagne.” And,
as he darted out of the room to obey her order, she bade Gordon lift
the limp form on to the wide lounge.

With Peggy’s assistance, he chafed her cold hands, and watched with
anxious eyes while Mrs. Macallister forced Beatrice to swallow some
foaming champagne. The stimulant had instant effect, a little color
crept up into the wan cheeks, and she made a feeble attempt to sit up,
all the time keeping her eyes fixed on Gordon as if she feared he would
vanish from her sight.

“Donald--Donald--is it you?” she gasped, the pent-up longing of days
finding voice at last. Then, as recollection gradually returned to her,
her features were distorted with agony. “Don--Don--how could you?”

“Hush, my darling, you are wrong, wrong--I am innocent!” Her eyes
distended with dawning hope as she glanced from one anxious face to the
other.

“Here, take another glass of this,” insisted Mrs. Macallister, who
firmly believed that a sip in time often saved many ills. “You will
need all your strength, for I judge there are many things which will
have to be explained to-night.”

“You are right, Madam,” exclaimed Gordon. “And the one to begin is
right behind you.”

Mrs. Macallister wheeled around with such energy that she knocked a
cherished vase off the center table, to find Dick Tillinghast just
within the door.

“Mercy on us, Dick,” she said, divided between vexation over the
fate of the vase, and anxiety to hear what extraordinary events had
transpired. “Come in and tell us at once what has happened.”

Dick took the chair Peggy pushed toward him, and reading the agonized
question in Beatrice’s pleading eyes, he said briefly:

“The real murderer, Count de Smirnoff, has confessed.”

A cry of surprise broke from Mrs. Macallister and Peggy, but Beatrice’s
feelings were too deep for words. She bowed her face in her hands, and
only Gordon caught the fervid whisper: “God, I thank Thee,” while hot
scalding tears trickled through her fingers. Regardless of the others’
presence, he threw himself on his knees beside her.

“My best beloved, can you ever forgive me for doubting you; I, who am
most unworthy--”

Beatrice raised a radiant face. “Hush!” she said. “Do not let me hear
you say such a thing again. I, too, am greatly to blame.”

“Pardon me,” interrupted Dick. “Neither of you have any cause for
self-reproach. You were simply the victims of circumstances. But it
strikes me that you two have played at cross-purposes long enough.
If it isn’t too painful,” addressing Beatrice, “would you mind
straightening out some of the kinks in the rope?”

“Gladly,” she answered. “Where shall I begin?”

“Suppose you start with the marriage ceremony,” suggested Dick, smiling
covertly.

“What!” exclaimed Beatrice, astonished. “You know of our marriage?”

“Yes. As it happened, my brother performed the ceremony.”

Gordon’s amazement was evident. “I never connected him with you; but go
on, dearest--” and he touched her hand lovingly.

“Last November I went to visit my aunt, Mrs John Dundas, my mother’s
sister, in Philadelphia. At that time I was very unhappy at home.
Alfred Clark wanted me to marry him, and Mrs. Trevor encouraged his
suit. Mr. Clark,” coloring vividly, “did not behave well. If I wanted
to live in peace and tranquillity I had to be nice to him. Every time
he thought I slighted or neglected him, he would complain to her, and
between them they would hatch up all sorts of stories to tell Father.
He believed my stepmother’s lies, and often bitterly reproached me for
making disagreeable scenes. If Mrs. Trevor stopped tormenting me, Mr.
Clark always egged her on to more deviltry. They were not always good
friends, though, and I hoped one of their numerous quarrels would lead
to his dismissal. But I think he must have had some hold over her, for
she apparently feared to break with him altogether.”

“He had,” interrupted Dick. “I have just seen Clark. Under Chief
Connor’s severe examination, he has made a complete confession. It
seems--” Dick hesitated for words. It was not a pleasant tale he had
to tell; he would have to expurgate it as best he could. “It seems
that Mrs. Trevor, while living in Naples, had a desperate affair with
Giovanni Savelli. In about a year he found she was unfaithful to him. I
suspect Clark was the other man in question, but he wouldn’t admit it.
Anyway, Giovanni threatened to kill her when he turned her out in the
streets; he was so violent in his anger that, in desperate fear, she
fled the city at night.

“Some time after her marriage to your father, Clark came to Washington,
and through her influence secured his secretaryship. To terrorize Mrs.
Trevor, he told her that Giovanni was planning to revenge himself on
her, and that if she did not do exactly as he, Clark, wished, he would
inform Giovanni of her whereabouts.

“Now comes his devilish ingenuity. While in Naples, both Clark and Mrs.
Trevor joined the Camorra. Clark, desiring at last to get Mrs. Trevor
out of his way as he feared she would speak of his disreputable past in
one of her violent rages, sent word to Giovanni six weeks ago that she
was betraying secrets of the Camorra to the Italian Embassy here. To
further involve her, he himself sent information to the Ambassador in
Mrs. Trevor’s name. The Camorra leaders promptly investigated Clark’s
charges, found they were apparently true, and decreed her death.”

“What a fiend!” ejaculated Mrs. Macallister, horrified.

“He will have plenty of time to repent in one of our penitentiaries,”
said Dick, dryly. “Won’t you continue your story, Miss Beatrice?”

“Right after my arrival in Philadelphia, I met Don at a hop at the
League Island Navy Yard, where he was stationed. On Christmas day
we became engaged--” Gordon caught her hand in his and kissed it
passionately.

“I was very, very happy. On the 29th of December I received a long
letter from Father saying Mr. Clark had asked formally for my hand in
marriage, and that, after due consideration, he had given his consent.
Then he enumerated the advantages of the match. Through the whole
letter I could perceive my stepmother’s fine Italian hand. I knew the
great influence she had over him, and while he said he would never
force me to take anyone I disliked; still, he hoped, and so forth.

“The letter frightened me, Mrs. Macallister; and so when Don, after
reading it, suggested that we marry secretly and at once, I agreed.
We told my aunt, and she, also knowing that Father always sided with
Mrs. Trevor, said that it would probably come to an elopement sooner
or later. Therefore, liking and trusting Don as she did, she consented
to arrange the affair for us. I returned to Washington with my aunt
immediately after the ceremony, and Don came down the following day to
report for duty at the White House.

“Ah, Don!” she broke off, turning towards him, “you should not have
asked me to postpone the announcement of our marriage on the flimsy
excuse that you found on your arrival only unmarried officers were to
be the President’s aides. You should have given me your full confidence
then.”

“I was wrong,” admitted Gordon gravely. “But you do not know the
tangle I found myself in. Go on, dearest.”

“I was cruelly hurt,” said Beatrice, slowly; “though I tried to
convince myself that everything you did was for the best. And so things
drifted until the evening of the third.” She stopped and drew a long
breath.

“As I came downstairs dressed for the Bachelors’ that night, I was
surprised when Mrs. Trevor called me into the library. While outwardly
civil, we usually saw as little of each other as possible. She asked me
if it was true that I had definitely refused Mr. Clark, and when I said
it was, she flew into a terrible rage. When her anger had spent itself,
she begged and implored me to change my mind and marry him, saying that
I would bitterly rue the day if I did not.

“I laughed the idea to scorn; and told her I was pledged to another,
better man. ‘His name?’ she asked. ‘Donald Gordon,’ I replied. Without
a word she leaned over and took out several notes from the drawer of
her secretary, saying: ‘I am afraid your chevalier--_sans_ _peur et
sans reproche_--is but human. Here is a letter from him to me; read it.’

“Startled, my eyes fell on the handwriting I knew so well, and I read
the first few lines--words of endearment and love were written there,
Donald--” A fierce exclamation broke from him, and he started to
interrupt. “Wait,” she said. “Your turn will come later. To go back:
for a moment the room swam round me, and the black demons of jealousy
and despair conquered. Remember, I thought I already had cause to doubt
you. Mrs. Trevor’s beauty had proved irresistible to others; why not
to you? But I was determined not to give in; so I told her I did not
believe her, and she laughed, oh, a laugh of pure deviltry. At least,
it seemed so to me. She handed me another note from you, which said
that you would be there that night, and would rap on the door for her
to admit you.

“It was damning evidence, and my hope and faith crumbled away. In a few
passionate words I renounced you; and then, tearing off your signet
ring, which I always carried concealed since our wedding, I gave it to
her and bade her return it to you.

“As I started to leave the room, she said: ‘I will stop urging your
marriage to Alfred Clark on one condition.’

“‘And that is?’ I asked.

“‘That you give me your mother’s pearls.’

“For a moment I stared at my stepmother, thinking she had taken leave
of her senses. My dear mother’s rope of pearls! They are worth about
twenty thousand dollars. Grandfather Trowbridge had collected them from
all parts of the world, and their great value lay in their wonderful
match. Therefore, I thought my ears had played me false, and I asked
unbelievingly: ‘And your price?’ ‘You know it,’ she answered. By that
time I was wrought up beyond endurance, and cried out: ‘You devil, get
out of my way, or I may forget myself and strike you!’ That is the part
overheard by Wilkins--” her voice trailed off in a sob.

Dick broke the pause that followed. “Clark also told me that Mrs.
Trevor was trying to raise a large sum of money, hoping to buy his
silence,” he said. “She must have realized that she was nearly at the
end of her resources.”

“‘Whoso diggeth a Pit shall fall therein,’” quoted Mrs. Macallister,
softly.




CHAPTER XXIV

JOURNEYS END IN LOVERS’ MEETING


“BEATRICE, dear, why did you secrete your broken hat-pin, and where
did you get it after the murder?” demanded Peggy, finding courage at
last to ask the question which had worried her so much. Then, seeing
Beatrice’s open-eyed surprise, she added: “Your box caught when I
opened my secret drawer on Friday night, and your cat’s-eye fell out. I
instantly recognized it. But believe me, dear, I never for one moment
thought you were connected with Mrs. Trevor’s death.”

“She never did,” affirmed Dick. “In fact, it was Peggy’s desire to
clear you from suspicion which urged me on in my efforts to find the
real murderer.”

“Peggy, dear Peggy; you best of friends.” Beatrice leaned forward and
kissed her warmly. “Did you open the box?”

“No, indeed!” indignantly. “The cat’s-eye fell out of the broken end,
and I simply thrust it back again without investigating further.”

“I wish you had, dear; you would have understood then the dilemma I
was placed in. I put our marriage certificate in the bottom of the box
under the cotton, and then dropped the cat’s-eye on top. Father told
me, after Don’s arrest, that the police would have great difficulty in
proving his guilt because they could find no motive for the crime,” she
went on to explain. “He himself was as puzzled as they. I instantly
thought of our marriage certificate, and fearing its discovery might
injure Don, I made plans to hide it.

“As to the broken pin--I never found it until after Mrs. Trevor’s
funeral. When I put on black I decided to send all my dresses to a
dear friend in New York. It was Suzanne’s afternoon out, but I was in
a great hurry to send the express package, so I took down my dresses
myself and laid them on the bed. On folding the ball dress I had worn
at the Bachelors’ Cotillion I found the cat’s-eye securely caught by
the gold setting in the lace underflounce of the train.

“I was simply horrified. I had no doubt whatever that the pin had been
used to murder my stepmother. I knew I had left it in the private
office on that Wednesday afternoon when I took off my coat and hat
there. I went to the office to write a note to Peggy, which I gave
to Mrs. Macallister in the parlor later on. I thought,” she glanced
appealingly at Gordon, “that the guilty man had dropped the pin in the
vestibule; for it must have caught in my dress when I let go of my
train to insert my latch key and open the front door.

“I reasoned that the police would never believe my explanation if they
found the pin in my possession, unless I told them the story of my
quarrel with Mrs. Trevor, and of our marriage, Don. I knew Peggy was
coming to see me, and made up my mind to ask her to keep the pasteboard
box for me. You already know what took place on my return from the ball
by my testimony at the inquest,” continued Beatrice. “When I heard Mrs.
Trevor had been murdered, I thought Don had come to the house that
night and had killed her in a moment of ungovernable rage. Can you ever
forgive me, dear?” clasping his hand in both of hers.

“There can be no question of that,” said Gordon passionately. “You had
every cause to doubt me. Mine was the fault. I have acted like a blind,
crazy idiot. Listen: when in London some four years ago, I met Hélène
de Beaupré and became very much infatuated with her. Well, she made a
fool of me, as she did of others. One day, tired of having me around,
she dismissed me. That ended the affair as far as I was concerned.”

“Just a moment,” interrupted Dick. “Did Alfred Clark see you and Hélène
at the Home Office applying for a special license?”

If he had exploded a bomb under their noses, he could not have created
a greater disturbance. Gordon sat up as if he had been shot, gazing
incredulously at Dick.

“Great Heavens!” he ejaculated. “What an accomplished liar Clark is!
And yet, this fabrication has a foundation of truth. He did see us in
the Home Office talking to the clerk in charge of special licenses. We
were waiting there for Sam Peters. You remember him, don’t you?” Dick
nodded. “Sam was to be married at noon. He knew no one in London, nor
did his American bride-elect, except Hélène and myself. He asked me to
be his best man, and Hélène to act as a witness. He had to procure his
special license, so we agreed to meet him at the Home Office and go
with him to the church. Sam will verify what I am telling you, if you
care to ask him.”

“No, no, Don, I’ll take your word for it,” said Dick, hastily.

“Beatrice has just told you of our marriage,” continued Gordon. “I
never knew until your theater party, Dick, which you gave on the night
of my arrival here, that Beatrice’s stepmother and Hélène de Beaupré
were one and the same person. Beatrice always spoke of her as ‘Mrs.
Trevor.’ Mrs. Trevor greeted me that night as a stranger, and of
course I took my cue from her. In the days that followed she must have
seen how deeply and passionately I loved Beatrice, for she hinted as
much to me. Then she told me that she had a package of my foolish,
extravagant letters written years ago.

“‘I never throw anything away that might be of possible use,’ she went
on. ‘Do you think the Attorney General would look with favor on your
suit for his daughter’s hand if he saw those letters?’

“I stared at her aghast, as the whole horrible situation flashed
over me. What in Heaven’s name was I to do? I should have confided
everything to you then, my darling, but no man likes to speak of past
love affairs, no matter how innocent, to his bride.

“For days Hélène played with me as a cat does with a mouse, keeping me
on tenter-hooks. But on the morning of the third I received a note from
her, asking me to go and see her that night about eleven thirty, and
saying that she had decided to return my letters. Overjoyed, I gladly
kept the appointment, and she admitted me after I had given the signal
agreed on. We went at once to the private office.

“Here are the letters,” she said, speaking in a low voice. “I return
them to you freely. But first you must pledge me your word as an
officer and a gentleman never to mention them to either my husband or
Beatrice.”

“Of course, I willingly promised, and after a few words of thanks I
left the house as silently as I had entered. I went directly to the
Benedict, destroyed the letters, then on to the ball.”

“Good Heavens! did she not give you my message--my ring?” gasped
Beatrice.

“No; neither of them.”

“Clever woman,” commented Mrs. Macallister. “She arranged it so you
were in honor bound never to speak of the letters to Beatrice; and
the latter, believing you false, would never refer to them either. Of
course, she reckoned without the knowledge of your secret marriage.
Mrs. Trevor was a shrewd judge of human nature. It was a pretty scheme
she hatched to separate you two, and not get caught herself.”

“You have summed it up exactly, Mrs. Macallister,” agreed Gordon. “The
first letter she showed Beatrice was probably one written years ago.
I was bitterly hurt and angry, Beatrice, when you refused to speak to
me at the hall. Then you returned my letter, unopened, which I wrote as
soon as I heard of Mrs. Trevor’s death.

“I was much surprised, at being summoned as a witness at the inquest.
But when the coroner showed me my signet ring, which you, my dearest,
had said you would never part with, and told me it had been found in
the dead woman’s hand, I was bewildered--horrified. I jumped to the
conclusion that you two had met, quarreled and--God forgive me--”
Gordon could not continue; and Beatrice, with shining eyes bent toward
him.

“And so,” she said, “you took the crime upon yourself that I might be
spared. It was noble of you, dear heart,” and before them all, she
kissed him passionately.

Mrs. Macallister swallowed a suspicious lump in her throat, while Peggy
buried her nose in a convenient pillow.

“Tell us, Dick, how the real criminal came to confess,” she said as
soon as she could speak clearly.

With bated breath they listened to his thrilling account of de
Smirnoff’s vengeance.

“Some of the unfortunate story has to come out in the papers,” ended
Dick. “It cannot be hushed up, altogether, as justice has to be done
the living.”

“My poor father!” cried Beatrice. “Where is he!”

“At his house completely prostrated by the news.”

“I must go to him at once.” Beatrice sprang to her feet. “Will you call
a cab, Don?”

“Mine is waiting; but, dearest, you cannot go without a coat,” as
Beatrice, forgetful of everything, hastened to the door. Quickly Peggy
ran upstairs to collect her belongings.

“Miss Beatrice,” Dick asked, “did you leave a handkerchief of yours in
the private office that Wednesday?”

“I don’t remember. I may have dropped one in the library just before
Peggy called for me in the carriage. I burst out crying on the way to
the ball, and she had to lend me one of hers. Thanks, dear,” as Peggy
returned with her wraps. Hurley ran down the steps and put her suit
case in the waiting vehicle.

“Here is your box, Beatrice,” and Peggy handed it back to her.

Beatrice looked at it with great distaste. “Except that it has my
marriage certificate in it, I could not bear to touch it,” she said.

“Give it to me.” Gordon took the box and slipped it into his overcoat
pocket. “I will return you the certificate, dearest; but to-morrow I
intend to go over the Aqueduct Bridge and throw the cat’s-eye into the
Potomac.”

“Good night, dear Mrs. Macallister.” Beatrice’s eyes were bright with
tears as she kissed her. “How can I thank you all for what you have
done for me? Good night, dear, dear Peggy,” and shaking hands warmly
with Dick, she ran lightly down the steps, as Mrs. Macallister closed
her front door.

Gordon helped her into the cab, gave the address to the driver; then
hesitated. Beatrice leaned forward and touched the empty seat beside
her.

“Donald--my husband--come home.”

And even in the dim illumination of the street lamp, Gordon saw in her
glorious eyes the light that never was on land or sea, and he gathered
her in his arms with a sigh of deep happiness as the cab started
homeward.

       *       *       *       *       *

Dick followed Peggy back into the library with a fast-beating heart.
Now or never! Mrs. Macallister had discreetly disappeared.

“Peggy,” he said, standing back of her as she faced the open fire,
“there’s something I want to say to you--”

“Well, say it,” provokingly; but catching sight of Dick’s determined
face in the mirror over the mantel, she took fright. “I wonder where
Granny is?”

“Oh, bother Granny! Peggy, darling--no, you sha’n’t dodge,” as Peggy
moved slightly away and stood with head half averted. “I’ve always
adored you, always. The first, the very first encouragement you ever
gave me was that challenge. I have won, thank God! I know I am not
half worthy of you; but I want you so, my darling.” There was no
doubting the passionate longing in his low, tense voice. “Peggy--I have
come for my reward.”

No answer. A log broke in half in the glowing fire, casting sparks in
every direction. Dick drew a long breath and squared his shoulders--so
be it, he would go.

As he moved slightly, Peggy turned her blushing face, and the alluring
eyes twinkled at him for a second.

“Why don’t you take your reward?” she whispered.


                                THE END




TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

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On page 157, hatpin has been changed to hat-pin.

On page 159, door jamb has been changed to door-jamb.

On page 235, everyone has been changed to every one.

On page 253, watch-chain has been changed to watch chain.

On page 341, “in in” has been changed to “in it”.

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