CHAPTER EIGHT

IT LOOKS BAD FOR HELEN

I drove Mary to the hospital with my spirits at lowest ebb. If The Sun were going to try to convict Helen of the murder, I realized that we had a hard fight ahead of us, for that yellow sheet was most zealous in hounding down any one who happened to be socially prominent, and in demanding punishment. The blacker the scandal, the deeper they dug, and the more details they gave to their gluttonous, filth-loving public. They would be particularly eager here, for they had no love for Jim, due to the stand he took against them during the war.

I knew the reporters would be hot on my trail and that sooner or later they would interview Mary. So I determined that Mary should spend as much time as possible at the hospital, feeling sure the reporters would not be allowed in the room where Helen lay, battered and unconscious. As for me, I wanted to get to the bridge on the Blandesville Road as quickly as possible and from there to the country-club to inquire what Woods had done the night before. I made up my mind I'd lead the reporters a merry old chase before they ran me to earth, and when they did, I'd tell them nothing. I also wanted to get in touch with Robinson as soon as I could, to find out whether he had discovered anything new of Zalnitch and his confederates—but that could wait until evening.

At the hospital they were at first opposed to having any one in the room with Helen, who still lay in a coma, but with the help of one of the nurses in charge, it was at last arranged.

As I drove over the road to the club, the bleak barrenness of the country struck me anew. Twenty-four hours before Jim had been alive. Twenty-four hours before we had been in our office discussing the proof of Woods' guilt, and Woods had telephoned to Jim, asking him to come to the country-club alone. My suspicions of the man stirred afresh, so that when I came to the bridge and found no one there, I decided to leave my search for the revolver until later and go straight on to the club.

It was still early for the golfers and the bridge players and there were only a few people there. These, of course, came up to me and pressed my hand with genuine sympathy. I realized how many, many friends Jim had and what a loss his death was to them all.

As soon as I could disengage myself I hunted up Jackson, the negro head-waiter and general house-man, who knows everything that happens at the club. He had just finished his dinner and I drew him into the cloak-room so that our talk might be uninterrupted. I took out a five dollar bill and held it up before his expectant eyes.

"Do you see that, Jackson?" I questioned.

"Yas, indeed Ah sees it, suh! Ah may be gittin' old but Ah ain't blind yit. Ah'll giv you whut you wants, instan'ly."

He started to leave, but I grabbed him.

"That's not what I want, Jackson," I laughed. Since the prohibition law went into effect, it has been only through some such ritual that "wets" can get theirs at the club. "All I want is to ask you a few questions."

"Fo' dat money?" His teeth gleamed.

I nodded.

"Mr. Woods was here last night?" I asked, abruptly.

"Yas, suh."

"What time did he come in?"

"Ah cain't raghtly say, Mist' Thompsin, but he had dinnah out heah 'bout seben-thuty," he answered.

"Did he leave the club after that?"

"Not 'til de telephone call come whut says Mist' Feldahson ben killt. Den he lef wif Mist' Brown an' Mist' Paisley."

"You're sure he was here all that time?" I asked.

"No, sah, I ain't suah, but Ah seen him ev'y now an' den thu de ev'nin'."

"Was he here at quarter past eight?" I questioned.

"He was heah at twenty-fahv minutes past eight, Ah knows, cause Ah done brought him a drink."

"You're sure of that?"

"Yas, suh! Positive!" the negro answered. "'Cause Ah looked at de clock raght den an' der."

As near as I could figure, the accident had happened about eight-ten or eight-fifteen and the bridge was six miles away from the club. Woods couldn't have been at the bridge at the time of the tragedy and got back to the club by eighty twenty-five. Still, he might have had an accomplice.

"Thank you, Jackson," I said, giving him the money. "Just forget that I asked you any questions!"

The darky chuckled. "Ah done fohgot 'em befoh you evah asted 'em, suh. Thank you, suh!"

As I passed into the big, central living-room, Paisley came in.

"What was this I saw in The Sun?" he asked.

"The sort of rot that nasty sheet always prints," I said.

"Nothing to it of course. I thought not. You don't feel like golfing?"

I shook my head. "Not to-day, old chap. By the way, were you with Frank Woods when the news of Jim's death reached the club?"

"Yes—why?" he asked.

"You won't think it too strange if I ask you how he appeared to take it?" I said, trying to make my remark seem as casual as possible. Seeing the puzzled expression on his face, I added: "I know it is a peculiar thing to ask, but please don't think any more about it than you can help, and just answer."

"Why—" Paisley began, a little flustered, "why he took it just the way the rest of us took it, I suppose. I don't remember exactly."

"Did he seem surprised?" I questioned.

"Of course," Paisley answered,

"He didn't seem relieved?"

"Say, what the devil are you driving at, Thompson?" Paisley burst out.

I saw I could get nothing from him so I left him looking after me with a perplexed and somewhat indignant gaze. As a detective it seemed I might make a good plumber. I knew very well he would not repeat my questions, but it would be just like good old Paisley to worry himself to death trying to solve them.

I drove back to the bridge, determined to find the revolver, if possible, and then hunt up Inspector Robinson to learn what he had to report. Apparently, my suspicions of Frank Woods were groundless. He had had dinner at the club and then waited around for Jim to keep his appointment. He had been seen by Jackson at eight twenty-five; Jackson was positive of that fact. Ten or fifteen minutes at the most in which to go six miles to the bridge and back to the club, put up his car and ask Jackson for a drink. The thing couldn't be done. He had heard of Jim's death with surprise and had heard of Helen's injury with the greatest horror. There seemed to be no doubt of one thing: no matter how much he wished for Jim's death, no matter how much he benefited by the murder, Frank Woods, himself, didn't do the killing.

An automobile was standing at the bridge when I got there and I cursed the whim that had sent me to the club on a false scent and kept me from having an uninterrupted search for the weapon. When I saw, however, that the driver of the automobile was Inspector Robinson, I was greatly relieved, for this would not only give me a chance to learn what he had discovered concerning the men in the black limousine, but would not interfere with the search for Jim's gun. Robinson had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up and was fishing around the edge of the little creek with his hands. So engrossed was he in his task that I was almost upon him before he looked up.

"Good afternoon, Inspector," I addressed him. "What are you doing, digging for gold or making mud pies?"

"I'm gettin' bait to catch a sucker," he snarled. "You must have thought you had one this morning."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"All that bunk you handed me about Schreiber and the men in the black limousine. That was a fine stall you pulled. I might have known you was tryin' to cover up somebody's tracks."

He dried his hands on a rather flamboyant, yellow handkerchief.

"I haven't the least idea what you are talking about," I replied coldly.

"Oh, you haven't, haven't you?" the little man burst out malignantly. "You're innocent, you are! Too damned innocent! I suppose you didn't know that your brother-in-law was shot in the back of the head and that your sister was the only one that was with him when it was done. I suppose that's news—eh?"

My heart stood still as I heard his words. So he was after the proof that Helen did it. He had read the insinuations in The Sun and had abandoned his work against Schreiber and Zalnitch for the fresher trail.

"I found out this morning that my brother-in-law was shot, but that only makes the case look the blacker for those who openly threatened his life."

"Among whom was your beautiful sister," the detective retorted acidly.

"How do you know that?" I demanded.

"From her maid and all the rest of the servants in the house. I found that out when I went up to take another squint at the automobile. You thought you were pretty smart sendin' me on a wild-goose chase after a couple of cracked Socialists, when all the time you knew it was your own sister done the thing. Tried to keep me off the track by slippin' me a little dough. Well, it didn't work, see? There's your dough back." He threw a crumpled wad of bills on the ground at my feet. "No one saw you give it to me, but I ain't takin' any chances, you may have marked those bills. From now on I work alone without any theories from you."

"Look here, Inspector!" I demanded, "I was in earnest when I told you I wanted you to find out all you could about the men in the black limousine. I'm sure they had something to do with Mr. Felderson's death. I didn't try to bribe you, nor throw you off the right track. Even though my sister did have a little unpleasantness with her husband, it was no serious difference."

I determined to find out just how much Robinson knew.

"She was utterly incapable of doing an act like this. What possible motive could she have?"

I could see that Robinson was rather impatiently waiting for me to go before continuing his search.

"Well, I ain't found out her motive yet. That can wait. It might have been money or jealousy."

"Money?" I scoffed. "My sister had plenty; more than she could use. And as for her being jealous of her husband, that is even more ridiculous."

The little man eyed me angrily. "I said that the motive could wait. There's no tellin' what a society woman will do. She may have been crazy for all I know. But I ain't, and all your arguin' is just so much time wasted. You think those guys in the automobile done it. I don't. I think your sister done it. You don't. All right, then, you take your road and I'll take mine, and we'll see who comes out ahead."

He turned and started back to where he had been hunting when I came up.

"May I ask what you expect to find here?" I queried, walking after him.

"Sure you can ask," he replied. As he found me following, he turned and snapped: "Say, what the hell are you hangin' around here for, anyway?"

"I merely wanted to ask what you had discovered about the men in the black limousine. That's why I stopped."

"Well, you've found out, haven't you? Nothin'. All right then, you go on into the city and see if you can find out anything more!"

I walked on down the sloping bank, searching the ground to see if I could find the gun that might reveal so much. I could feel the eyes of the inspector boring into my back.

"What are you looking for?" he demanded.

"A cuff-link," I answered easily. "I think I lost one here last night. You didn't happen to find it, did you?"

"A cuff-link? Humph!" he grunted. "No, I haven't found it, but I wouldn't be surprised if I was lookin' for that same cuff-link."

All this time I was searching the bank with my eyes. A scrubby, little bush overhung the creek and I kicked at it with my foot. There was a "plopp" as though something heavy had dropped into the water. Instinctively I knew it was the object for which we were both searching, and I turned to find the inspector eying me quizzically.

"What was that noise?"

"What noise?" I asked.

"Sounded as though that precious cuff-link of yours had dropped into the water." He started for me, and as he did so, I bent down quickly and plunged my arm into the water. My fingers closed on the revolver just as he came bounding toward me. With a quick shove I pushed it far into the soft clay of the bank, and, grabbing a rock off the bottom of the creek, withdrew my arm from the water and slipped the rock into my pocket. The red-faced little detective was peering over my shoulder as I turned. Rarely have I seen a man so angry.

"Give me what you pulled out of that creek!" he almost screamed.

"What for, Inspector?" I asked quietly.

"Never mind what for. You give me what you found in that creek, or I'll—" he grabbed me by the shoulder.

"All right," I said; "all right, Inspector, don't get so excited over nothing. It's yours." I pulled the muddy rock from my coat pocket and gravely handed it to him. "It was only an ordinary, every-day rock. I didn't know you were a geologist."

He pounced on me and ran his fingers over my person. Red-faced, he surveyed me.

"I ain't a geologist, but I am a criminologist, and just one more of your monkey tricks like that and I'll put you where you'll have time to study a lot of rocks and do a lot of thinkin' before bein' funny again. Now, you get out! Get into that car as quick as you can, if you know what's good for you!"

Hoping I could retrieve the revolver later, and realizing that nothing could be gained by staying there longer, I started toward the car. I had hardly taken five steps when I heard a joyful yell and turned to see Robinson struggling to his feet, the muddy revolver in his hand.

"Here's your cuff-link," he cried. "Before I'm through you'll find that this ain't a cuff-link, but a necklace for the neck of that pretty sister of yours. You, with your Socialists and your cuff-buttons, tryin' to keep me from gettin' what I go after. Well, it didn't work! It don't usually, when I go after somethin'. It didn't work, did it?"

"No. It didn't work," I admitted.

"Oh, I don't blame you," Robinson went on, mollified by his success and the soft tone of my reply; "I'd of done the same thing in your place, if my sister was a murderer."

The word "murderer" acted like an electric shock on me.

"She didn't do it, I tell you; she couldn't have done it!"

"Now, Mr. Thompson," Robinson began in a soothing voice. "These things happen in even the best families sometimes. You mustn't take it too hard."

"Will you let me examine that revolver?" I demanded.

"Why, no. I can't let you examine it. But I'll examine it when I get ready."

"Will you be so good as to do it now?" I asked.

"What for?"

"Because it may not have been fired at all. That would make things look entirely different, you know."

The inspector took out the gaudy handkerchief again and wiped the mud off the barrel and the grip. I had shoved the pistol barrel foremost into the bank so the muzzle was filled with clay. It was Jim's—a "32" automatic.

"It won't be spoilin' any evidence by my cleanin' this mud off the outside, because you put that there yourself," the detective said, wiping the pistol carefully. He released the spring and pulled out the clip. I saw a cartridge at the top of the clip and exclaimed:

"There! You see? That gun was never fired!"

The inspector looked at me with a pitying smile.

"Now, that's where you're wrong, Mr. Thompson. You see, you don't know the inner workings of an automatic. When a gun like this is fired, it discharges the old shell and a new cartridge comes to the top of the clip. There are only three cartridges left in this clip."

"Do you mean to say that my sister fired more than one shot?" I asked sarcastically.

"Not at all, not at all," the little man responded airily. "There were probably only four cartridges in the gun in the first place. You're gettin' all excited over this thing. Of course, I don't blame you, Mr. Thompson, for tryin' to fight against facts, but it certainly looks bad for sister."

I got into my car and started home, my heart dead within me. It certainly did look bad for Helen.



CHAPTER NINE

LOOK OUT, JIM

A good general realizes when he is beaten and changes his tactics accordingly. Where I had been certain of Zalnitch's guilt before, and had planned his prosecution, now, with the sickening certainty that it was my sister herself who was guilty, I began to plan her defense. Yes, I'll admit right now, the gun convinced me. I had been certain that Jim had not been killed through careless driving, that is why I had been so insistent that Inspector Robinson should hunt down those responsible for his death. Now that it was too late, I cursed myself for not having let well-enough alone and aided the coroner in giving a verdict of accidental death. My suspicions against Zalnitch had been based on the knowledge that he hated Jim and would have done anything to put him out of the way. Coincidence had brought him over the same road that Jim had traveled a few minutes before his death. This had strengthened my suspicions, but the case would have been hard to prove, while the evidence against Helen was too pronounced to be disregarded. Woods, too, had gained my suspicions, and yet he was miles away from the murder. I realized suddenly that I had been refusing to look at the obvious in order that I might place the guilt where I wanted to believe it lay. Yet it did seem the irony of fate that the two men benefiting by Jim's death should have had nothing to do with it.

Helen did it! As the awful realization of what that meant came over me, I hoped, for a brief second, that death would take her and so spare her the consequences of her act. It would be such an easy way out. I felt sure that if she died I could hush the whole thing up. The Sun could be bought, if enough money was offered.

These gruesome thoughts carried me into the city almost before I knew it. I stopped at the house to change my muddy clothes, before going to the hospital to get Mary, and learned from the maid that mother had been asking for me. I went quickly to her room. She was lying in bed and at first I thought she was asleep, but she turned as I approached her.

"Is that you, Warren?" she asked softly.

"Yes, mother. Stella said you wanted to see me." I bent down and kissed her lightly. She reached up and put her thin weak arms around my neck.

"Warren, is there anything wrong? If there is you must tell me."

"No, mother. What made you think that?" I asked.

She slowly withdrew her arms and let them fall at her side.

"I don't know. I seemed to feel that something had happened. Just lying here, I felt afraid for you children—and then there were so many people ringing the bell and the telephone, I was afraid that some accident had happened to you or Helen."

I patted her wan cheek. "It's just your imagination. The only thing wrong is that my dearest, little mother isn't as well and strong as her good-for-nothing son."

I kissed her again, and she smiled up at me. "I'm so glad," she whispered. "I was worried."

I almost choked when I got outside. If Helen should recover and be put on trial, it would kill mother, I felt sure. And I would be left alone in the world. Down-stairs, I asked Stella who had called, and she told me the reporters had been trying to find me all day.

During the drive to the hospital, I tried to focus my mind on Helen's defense, but all the force seemed to have been sapped out of me. I felt weak and miserable and unutterably lonely.

At the hospital, they received me with the quiet sympathy that strengthens you in spite of yourself and gives you hope. Doctor Forbes, who had operated on Helen the night before, was in the office. He had just come from Helen's room and he reported her condition to be "extremely satisfactory."

"There is only one thing that worries me," he said. "Your sister seems to have something on her mind that keeps her from resting as quietly as I could wish. It is some real or fancied danger that repeats itself over and over in her delirium. If we could only hit on something that would ease her mind of those fears, I should have every reason to believe she'd get well. I say this to you because you are her brother and are no doubt acquainted with what has happened to her in the last few weeks, and may be able to suggest what it is she fears."

"Perhaps it is the accident itself," I offered.

He shook his head. "It may be, but I think not. However, suppose you step into the room and listen to what she says. If we can only rid her of her fears and get her to rest quietly, I am positive she will recover."

I shook his hand warmly and went upstairs to Helen's room. I knew what it was Helen feared. The consequences of her crime. The terrible fear of public prosecution for the murder of her husband was torturing her poor delirious brain. For a moment I forgave her everything and pitied her from the depths of my heart.

The smell of ether lay thick in the air as I walked down the long corridor to Helen's room. I knocked softly at the door and a white-capped nurse opened it a little way, her finger to her lips. I beckoned her outside and told her Doctor Forbes wished me to find out, if I could, what troubled my sister's mind.

As we entered, I saw Mary sitting by the bed, holding the hand of the poor white figure that lay, death-like, beneath the sheet. Helen's head was swathed in bandages, except for the oval of her face. She looked quite like some fair nun who had said her last "Ava." It was impossible to believe that it was her hand that had fired the shot that killed Jim, and if she lived, that she would have to face the world a murderer.

Mary only glanced up at me for a moment and then turned her eyes again to Helen's lips to catch any sound that might pass them. As I watched her sitting there so patiently, a little pale from her cramped vigil by the bedside, a great tenderness welled up in my heart, for her. Just then Helen's lips began to move. At first the words were inaudible, although Mary leaned forward to catch them. Then with a half-cry, in which there was a perfect agony of fear——

"Look out, Jim! It's going to hit us! Oh-oh-oh——"

The voice died away and was succeeded by moans, low and trembling. Mary glanced up with a startled look in her eyes. The nurse went quickly to the bedside and soothed the impatient hand that was plucking at the sheets. As for me, my forehead was bathed in sweat and tears were running down my cheeks, but a joy throbbed and sang through my heart till I felt that I should suffocate unless I left that ether-filled room for the open air.

I tiptoed toward the door and caught a nod from Mary as I passed, which said she would join me later. For a second, after I closed the door, I couldn't move. My legs failed me and I felt I was going to faint. Gathering all my strength, I stumbled over to a chair by the window and sat down.

I think I should have dropped to my knees and thanked God right there, if I hadn't feared that my prayers would have been interrupted. That cry, "Look out, Jim!" proved not only that Helen had nothing whatever to do with Jim's death, but that she had tried to warn him of his danger. "It's going to hit us!" What could that mean but that my first theory was correct, that the men in the black limousine had recognized Jim's car and had tried to run him into the ditch? Schreiber and Zalnitch were at the bottom of it, after all, and Helen was innocent.

As I had hoped she would die, when I thought her guilty, now I hoped and prayed she would live. I recalled Doctor Forbes' words: "If we could only hit on something that would ease her mind of those fears, I would have every reason to believe she would get well." I could at least tell him the cause of the fear and leave it to him to find a remedy. With Helen well, ready to testify as to the details of that tragic night, we would certainly bring Jim's murderers to trial.

The door opened and Mary came out. I rose and walked over to her, my eyes still betraying the emotion Helen's words had roused in me.

"You heard what she said?" Mary breathed.

"We knew she didn't do it, didn't we?"

"But, Warren, the things she says are all so weird and mixed up. Sometimes she talks of things that happened just recently and then again she babbles of things that took place a long time ago when we were kids. Once when the nurse came into the room, Helen began crying as though her heart would break and begged that we wouldn't think too harshly of her. Again she repeated over and over, 'He didn't do it—He didn't do it!'"

"Her other fears," I replied, "probably had to do with Woods. But that cry to Jim to 'Look out!' is a real clue and I'm going to sift it to the bottom."

"What are you going to do?" Mary demanded.

"I'm going to accuse Zalnitch of Jim's murder—going to accuse him to his face."

"Oh, be careful, Bupps! Nothing must happen to you!"

The tone she used, her sweet anxiety for my safety, went to my head and I reached out to take her in my arms, but with a little protesting gesture she stopped me.

"Please don't be foolish, Warren!" Then as she saw my spirits droop, she added, "Not till Helen is well."



CHAPTER TEN

I ACCUSE ZALNITCH

"Mr. Zalnitch is busy and can't see you."

The girl, evidently a stenographer or secretary, looked coolly competent in her white shirt-waist and well-made skirt. I was surprised to find a young woman of her evident education and refinement in the employ of such a man.

"Did you give him my message?" I asked.

"Yes. He said he was not interested."

I felt vaguely disappointed that my strategy had not worked. I had given the name of Anderson, and had represented myself as the head of the Steamfitters' Union of Cleveland, anxious for instructions on how to settle a labor problem in our local union. I had done this, feeling that if I gave my own name, he might refuse to see me. Apparently my alias was to have no better success.

"When will he be free, can you tell me?"

"I couldn't say," the girl answered. "He is very busy at present, but if you will come in and wait, perhaps he may see you later."

It seemed to me there was the faintest suggestion of a smile on the girl's face as I stepped across the threshold into the small waiting-room, but I hadn't a chance to observe more closely, for she turned her back on me at once and immediately resumed her typewriting.

The room in which I found myself was one of a dingy suite in an old warehouse that had been converted into a newspaper building to house The Uplift, a weekly paper, edited by a Russian Jew named Borsky and financed by Schreiber. It was a typical anarchistic sheet, and had been suppressed for a time, during the war. Opposite where I sat was a door from which the paint had peeled in places. This evidently led into Zalnitch's office, for I could hear the murmur of voices behind it. The rooms were ill-lighted and unclean, and it made me mad to see as nice a girl as the stenographer working herself to death in such dingy surroundings and for such a man as Zalnitch.

I watched her as she worked and marveled that any one could make her fingers go so rapidly. I noticed with admiration and dissatisfaction, that unlike my stenographers, she didn't have to stop to erase a misspelled word every two minutes. I wondered what salary Zalnitch paid her and if she would like to change employers.

"I hope you will pardon my interrupting your work—" I began.

"You're not," the girl responded, without even glancing up.

"May I ask if you are entirely satisfied with your employment here?"

"Why do you ask?" she inquired, stopping for a moment and fixing me with clear gray eyes.

"I am badly in need of a competent stenographer and I thought you might prefer working in a place where the surroundings are pleasanter and the pay probably higher."

She studied me a moment, as though card-indexing me, then having apparently decided that I was in earnest and not merely trying to flirt, that elusive smile again played about her mouth.

"You are the first steamfitter I ever met that found himself badly in need of a stenographer."

Caught! I bit my lip at my stupid blunder, but had to laugh in spite of myself.

"Your make-up is all wrong, Mr. Anderson—if your name is Anderson. I don't know what you are trying to do, nor why you picked out steamfitting as your mythical life-work, but I do know you aren't a detective."

This time the smile came out in the open. I liked her immensely. She might make an ally. She would at least know what had happened in the office during the last few days.

"Miss—?"

"Miller," she added.

"Miss Miller. I am a lawyer, and my sister is about to be accused of a terrible crime which she didn't commit. I think I know who did commit it, but so far I haven't been able to connect him definitely with the crime. I think you can help me. Will you?"

"What makes you think I can help you?" she asked.

"Because you are so situated you can observe the person I believe to be responsible for the crime," I replied.

Her gaze changed from pleasant questioning to indignant surprise. When she spoke her voice was coldly final.

"I think you have made a mistake in judgment of character. Please let me finish my work now."

"Miss Miller, please don't think for a minute that I—"

Behind me a door opened and, as I turned, I found myself looking into the wrathful eyes of a stunted little man with an enormous head. Any one who has once seen Zalnitch can never forget him. His wizened, misshapen body is a grotesque caricature of a man's, which, surmounted by his huge head with its bushy hair, makes him look for all the world like some scientist's experiment. In the doorway to Zalnitch's private office stood Schreiber, a heavy-jowled, unsmiling mastiff of a man.

"What do you want that you should be keeping my stenographer from working?" Zalnitch's voice rose in a shrill crescendo. "Get out of here! You have no business here. Get out!"

"Zalnitch, I came here to speak to you."

"Get out!" he screamed. "I won't talk with you. I have no time to waste, even if you have. I know who you are. You're the brother-in-law of Felderson, the blood-sucking millionaire who sent me to jail. I won't talk with you, do you hear?"

As he grew more excited I seemed to grow cooler.

"Zalnitch, I'm going to swear out a warrant against you for my brother's murder."

For a moment the little man blinked at me in amazement; then he threw back his head and laughed, a shrill, giggling squeak. With his fists he pounded his misshapen legs.

"You arrest me for his murder? Hee-hee! You hear, Schreiber? He is going to—to arrest me!"

Suddenly he stopped, as quickly as he had started.

"Go ahead! Arrest me! Try to send me to prison again. I'll make you sweat blood before you are through. You think I killed him—your brother? I wish I had. I'd be proud to say I killed him! You hear? I wish I had killed him. I wish he were alive so I could kill him."

The little monstrosity emphasized each of his staccato sentences by stamping a puny foot on the floor. His gloating over Jim's death was more than flesh could stand.

"Stop!" I yelled. "If it wasn't you that killed him, it was one of that murderous gang of cutthroats and anarchists that was with you. If it wasn't you, then it was Schreiber's son—that Prussian jail-bird, or one of his friends."

Zalnitch's eyes blazed. "You call us anarchists and cutthroats. You, who are a product of the rotten government that has ground down and oppressed the people I represent. Because we rebel, you throw us in prison, making a mockery of your boasted liberty. So they did for a time in Russia. You call us 'cutthroats.' It's a good term. I hope to God we earn that title."

Finding that the talk was turning into a political harangue, I turned my back on Zalnitch and started toward the door. Schreiber followed me.

"Chust one minud." There was heavy menace in his look. "You galled my son a chail-bird a minud ago. He vas in chail because he did righd, but dot don't matter. You're egsited, because your brodder vas gilled. Ve don't know nodding aboud it. Ve heard aboud it de nexd day. I don'd have nodding against Velderson, bud if you dry to pud my son, Karl, in chail again, someding vill happen to you. I'm delling dis to you vor your own good."

Disappointed at the interview, I closed the door behind me and started down the hall. I don't know just what I had hoped to find out, but I thought Zalnitch would betray himself in some way—must in some way show his guilty knowledge of Jim's death. Instead, he had laughed at me when I threatened to arrest him, even wished he could claim the credit for the crime.

I heard the pattering of feet and turned to find Miss Miller behind me.

"Mr. Thompson."

"Yes, Miss Miller."

"A few moments ago you asked me to help you discover who killed your brother-in-law. For some reason you think Mr. Zalnitch had something to do with it, and you wanted me to give you any information I could about him."

"Yes," I responded.

"When you made that proposal, I was very angry because I resented your thinking I'd spy on my employer. However, your suspicions are so ridiculous I feel it is only fair to tell you that you are wasting your time."

"What makes you so sure that Zalnitch had nothing to do with it, Miss Miller?"

"Because I know he is utterly incapable of doing anything of that kind," she answered.

I half smiled. "Mr. Zalnitch has the reputation of holding life very cheaply—that is, the lives of others who stand in his way. He hated my brother-in-law for that very reason. If he didn't kill him, it wasn't because he didn't want to. For proof of it, you heard what he said in there."

The girl looked me over for a minute. A far-away look had come into her eyes.

"Mr. Thompson, Mr. Zalnitch is obsessed by a wonderful idea. You people call him 'Bolshevist' and 'anarchist,' because he is trying to overthrow the existing order of things. In working out his great theory, he would stamp out a nation if it interfered with the fulfillment of his plan, and he would not think that he had done anything wrong. In fact, he would think it the only thing to do. In that much, he holds life cheaply. But if you think he would descend to wreaking vengeance on individuals for personal spite, you are all wrong. He is too big a man for that."

"Did Zalnitch send you out to say this to me?" I asked suspiciously.

The girl flushed angrily. "Really, Mr. Thompson, you make it almost impossible for any one to help you. Instead of being sent, I may be dismissed for having come out here to talk to you. You asked for my assistance and now that I have tried to give it, you make me regret the impulse."

She turned and started to leave, but I called her back.

"Miss Miller, please forgive me and don't think me ungrateful. Mr. Felderson meant more to me than any person living, and I have made up by mind to bring his murderer to justice if I have to devote the rest of my life to it. I know that I have been jumping at conclusions. I've done a lot of things since Mr. Felderson's death that I can't understand, myself,—things that were entirely unlike me—but I feel that I would be a traitor to my brother-in-law's memory unless I follow every possible clue. He had only three enemies and one was Zalnitch, who threatened him. Isn't it only natural that I should suspect him?"

Her look was entirely sympathetic as she replied.

"I know how Mr. Felderson's death must have affected you, Mr. Thompson, and I do want to help you. You say he had three enemies; then I advise you to look for the other two, for I am positive Mr. Zalnitch had nothing to do with the murder."

I thanked her and went down the rickety stairs, believing somehow that she had told me the truth. But if not Zalnitch, then who? I knew that in less than a week, as soon as Helen was well enough to stand the shock, she would be indicted, unless in the meantime, I could discover the murderer. Helen had regained consciousness the night before, but was far too weak to undergo any questioning. My impatience at the delay, necessary before she could tell the story of the crime, had driven me, most foolishly, I now realized, into trying to force Zalnitch to a guilty admission of complicity.

When I got hold of myself, I knew well enough that the only sensible course was to wait until Helen should be able to clear up the mystery, so I went to the office and began the heavy task of putting Jim's effects in order.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

A DOUBLE INDICTMENT

Jim was buried on Tuesday. The funeral was very quiet, only Mary and myself, with a few of Jim's most intimate friends, attending. I have always had a repugnance to large and ostentatious funerals and I felt that Jim would have preferred to have the actual ceremony over as quickly and quietly as possible. It affected me too much to allow me to think of anything else but my loss, at the time, and I should have left town the day after, had I not received a summons to appear before the grand jury.

Mary called me up and told me that she, too, had been summoned, so I drove the car around for her. She was nervous and frightened at the thought of having to testify and she asked me all the questions she could think of on what to do and what to say. I reassured her, telling her the district attorney was friendly to Jim and that I was confident our testimony as to Helen's words would stave off any indictment until Helen was well enough to testify.

"But, Warren, the fact that she was delirious will make it pretty shaky testimony, won't it?" Mary argued.

"Yes, that's true. But I don't think that they will want to bring an indictment while Helen is ill. You see, the indictment couldn't be served anyway, and I think our testimony will convince them there's a reasonable doubt as to Helen's guilt."

She seemed convinced until the gloomy bulk of the court-house came in view, when terror rushed back fourfold.

"Oh, Bupps, can't I get out of it?"

"No, dear, it's got to be gone through with. Remember it depends on you and me."

"But what if they ask me Jim's and Helen's conversation before they started for the country-club?"

"Tell them as little as possible, but stick to the truth. We know Helen's innocent and the truth can't hurt her."

We passed Inspector Robinson in the hall down-stairs and the half smile on his lips irritated me. It was his report to the grand jury that had stirred things up. He knew only too well that with the sensational Sun to back him, an indictment would be taken by the public to mean proven guilt.

At the entrance to the anteroom we found Wicks, his face drawn into lines of the most acute misery.

"I couldn't 'elp it, sir. They made me come."

"I know it, Wicks. Don't worry! It's a mere formality," I reassured him.

"I 'ope so, sir, but I don't like it."

"None of us do, Wicks, but it can't be helped," I replied. "Did Annie come with you?"

"No, sir. Strange to say she wasn't called, sir."

Good! That helped our case some. Mary and I walked into the anteroom to await our turn. The coroner was already there. Wicks had followed us and took a seat close by. Mary's face was a study in suppressed nervousness.

"Couldn't you go in there with me, Bupps?" she asked.

"No, Mary, the grand jury does its work in secret."

A clerk called the coroner and as he passed from the room, Robinson and Pickering came in. Robinson didn't even glance in my direction, but Pickering walked over quickly and shook hands.

"Devilish sorry things have taken the turn they have, old man," he said.

"You mean about—my sister?"

"Yes. Robinson seems to think he has all the proof he needs. I wish I could help you."

"Thanks awfully," I replied.

He had only been seated a few moments when he was called to testify. As the coroner left the room, I tried to read in his face the nature of his testimony, but it was inscrutable. Pickering was out in less than ten minutes, and then Wicks was called. His legs seemed a bit shaky as he started for the door and he gave me a parting look, half awe, half terror.

Robinson paced up and down, his short stubby legs expressing confidence and satisfaction. Every turn, he scrutinized Mary, as if trying to place her in some criminal category.

At last Wicks came out, perspiring as if he'd been in a steam bath. Robinson looked him over once, gave a snort of derision and passed into the jury room. I wanted to ask Wicks some questions, but the poor man fled before I could attract his notice.

Mary got up and walked over to the big windows where a flood of warm September sunlight poured into the room. For a moment she stood gazing down on the crowded square below, then suddenly turned and half sobbed:

"Bupps, I can't stand it! I may say something that will hurt Helen."

Great sobs shook her slender body. I went over and clumsily tried to comfort her.

"Mary, dear, Helen didn't do it. When she is well enough, we'll be able to find out all about it. Even if they do bring an indictment, Helen can prove her innocence."

The sobs diminished to sniffles, and then to occasional sighs. She opened her bag, extracted a miniature powder-puff and dabbed at her small upturned nose spitefully. I knew that the storm had passed.

"I know—that—that I'm foolish to c-cry, but I just c-couldn't help it."

A clerk opened the door and called Mary's name. She gave me a startled glance and her face blanched. I thought she was going to break down again, but suddenly I saw her raise her chin defiantly and an angry sparkle come to her eyes. She snapped shut her vanity-bag and marched toward the jury room like a soldier, sentenced to be shot, yet determined to die bravely.

It was only after she had left that I began to think about my own testimony. After all, the evidence was terrifyingly strong against Helen. She had threatened to kill Jim. She had quarreled with him just before their last ride, had chosen the back seat purposely, had Jim's revolver with her, and knew she was being taken to see her lover humiliated and threatened. Against all this, I had only a brother's faith in his sister and those half dozen words cried out in a delirium. A sickening certainty that they would indict Helen came over me. What if she did—? What if she should confess?

In some way I had to save Helen if only for mother's sake. After all, Woods, too, had threatened Jim. He knew Jim had proof of his dishonesty. He had made the engagement and had asked Jim to come alone. At this point of my review of the facts I decided to tell the jury all. If Woods was at the country-club the entire evening he would be able to establish a complete alibi and my testimony would not hurt him, while it might be enough, if I could make it so, to hold the jury until Helen could testify. Hearing steps outside, I turned to see the object of my mental attentions walk into the room.

"You here, Woods?" I queried.

"Yes. Those admirable servants of your sister's gave the police just enough of the vulgar details of that meeting between Felderson and myself to make them think I—well, they ordered me to report and here I am."

He looked worried and irritable. For the first time I realized what the man must have gone through during the last few days, with his business troubles and Helen's injury. How he had met his obligations without Helen's money, I didn't know.

"I should have thought you'd have been glad to testify to save Helen from an indictment."

Woods whirled around. "You don't mean to say there's a chance of that, Thompson? Why, she didn't do it, she couldn't have done it. She—she isn't capable of doing such a thing. It's monstrous. I've read the rot that The Sun has been printing, but I didn't think—I can't think any one would take it seriously." A gray shadow seemed to fall across his face.

"Felderson was shot from behind and Helen was the only one with him," I threw out, watching Woods closely to see what effect my words would have on him. The man looked as though he knew more about the crime than I had supposed.

"I know that! But haven't people sense enough to see that Helen is utterly incapable of such an act. Good God, they must be blind!"

I was brought back to the business on hand by hearing my name shouted. They must have let Mary out by another door for when I entered the jury room she was not there. It was hot and stuffy, smelling of stale tobacco and staler clothing. I noticed that the jurymen seemed deeply interested and that they were, for the most part, a rather intelligent lot. The foreman, a near-sighted business-looking person, seemed to radiate sympathy through his glasses. The district attorney, Kirkpatrick, knew Jim well, had his help often and was one of his best friends.

"What is your name?" he asked.

"Warren Thompson."

"Your address?"

"Eleven thirty-two Grant Avenue."

"Your business?"

"I am a lawyer," I responded.

The district attorney seated himself at a table and arranged some papers before him.

"You were what relation to the deceased?"

"The brother-in-law," I replied.

"Mr. Thompson," the attorney began, leaning on the table in front of him, "will you please tell the jury if there was any unhappiness in the married life of your sister and brother-in-law?"

"Until recently Mr. and Mrs. Felderson were very happy together. During the last three months their happiness has not been quite—so pronounced."

"What was the cause of their disagreement?"

I determined to begin my attack on Woods at once.

"A man whom Mr. Felderson disliked and did not wish to come to the house."

"Can you tell the jury that man's name?"

"Frank Woods."

The attorney glanced at his notes.

"Did this man Woods make love to Mrs. Felderson?"

"I couldn't say. He was very attentive to her."

"Did Mrs. Felderson ask her husband to divorce her?"

"Yes," I replied.

"And Mr. Felderson refused?"

"No. Mr. Felderson consented."

"You are sure of that?" he demanded.

"Yes. I was present when he said he would give her a divorce."

"Was Woods there at the time?"

"Yes."

The foreman of the jury interrupted here.

"Will you tell the jury just what took place at that meeting?"

I told them briefly what happened, not forgetting to mention that Woods had threatened Jim's life in case he did not let Helen go.

"Has that man been summoned?" asked the foreman.

"Yes. He is waiting to appear now," a clerk responded.

"Mr. Thompson, did you hear your sister threaten to kill her husband?" Kirkpatrick asked.

"My sister was very excited at that time and said several things—"

"Please answer my question!" fired the district attorney.

"I can't remember," I replied.

Kirkpatrick again consulted his papers.

"A witness says that on the evening of the disagreement between Mr. and Mrs. Felderson, she used the words: 'I could kill him,' referring to her husband. Did you hear her use those words?"

"I don't think she realized what she was saying."

"I did not ask for your opinions. Did you hear her say she could kill him or that she would like to kill him?"

"Yes."

The attorney seemed satisfied and I noticed the foreman of the jury lean back in his chair.

"Now, Mr. Thompson," Kirkpatrick began, "on the evening of the tragedy did you see Mrs. Felderson leave with Mr. Felderson?"

"No," I replied.

"Do you know if she was sitting in the back seat or the front seat of that automobile?" he asked.

"I couldn't say."

Kirkpatrick took Jim's revolver from the table.

"Is this revolver familiar to you?"

"I don't know."

"Did Mr. Felderson have a revolver like this?" he demanded.

"Yes."

"Do you know whether he was carrying it at the time of the tragedy?"

"I'm not sure," I stated.

"Did Mr. Felderson usually carry a gun?"

"No."

"Did Mrs. Felderson have a revolver?"

"No," I replied, "I don't think she even knows how to use one."

"Please only answer my questions!" Kirkpatrick rebuked me sharply.

"You have stated to the jury that Mr. Woods had threatened Mr. Felderson's life in case he did not give Mrs. Felderson a divorce. When did Mr. Felderson intend giving his wife the promised divorce?"

"I don't think he really intended to give Mrs. Felderson a divorce."

"But you stated that he consented to a divorce?"

"He did, but with certain reservations," I answered.

"What were those reservations?"

"That there should be nothing in Mr. Woods' past that could cause Mrs. Felderson trouble in the future, in case she married Woods."

"Did Mr. Woods know of Mr. Felderson's intention not to divorce Mrs. Felderson?" he demanded.

"I don't know. I know that Mr. Felderson had made an important discovery about Mr. Woods' past life."

"Was this discovery of such a nature as to cause Mr. Felderson to refuse a divorce?"

"It was!" I answered.

"Can you tell the jury what this discovery was?"

"No, I can not."

"Did Mr. Woods know that Mr. Felderson had made this discovery?"

"I think he did."

"Aren't you certain?"

"No."

"This is important, Mr. Thompson. Will you tell the jury why you think Mr. Woods knew of Mr. Felderson's discovery?"

"Because Mr. Woods called Mr. Felderson up shortly after the discovery was made and asked for an interview at the country-club."

"Was Mr. Felderson on his way to that meeting when he met his death?" the attorney queried.

"Yes," I responded.

"Do you know whether Mr. Felderson intended to inform Woods that he would not divorce Mrs. Felderson?"

"I think he intended to accuse Woods of dishonesty," I replied.

"Mrs. Felderson knew the purpose of the meeting, did she not?"

"I couldn't say."

Kirkpatrick turned to the jury.

"Has the jury any questions they wish to ask?"

I seized my opportunity.

"I would like to say a few words with the permission of the jury."

Receiving a nod of consent, I related to them as briefly as possible my conviction of my sister's innocence, her cry of danger to her husband, and the coincidence of the black limousine on the road at about the same time as the tragedy. I also told of the enmity of Zalnitch for Jim and of his presence with the others in the black limousine. The foreman of the jury leaned forward.

"Will you repeat the words that your sister uttered?"

"She cried, 'Look out, Jim! It's going to hit us!'"

"Your sister was delirious at the time, was she not?"

"Yes," I answered. "But from the tone of her voice I feel perfectly sure she referred to something that occurred on the night of the tragedy."

"You think she referred to the black limousine when she said, 'It's going to hit us'?" the foreman continued.

"Yes."

"Yet the coroner's verdict was that your brother-in-law was killed by a bullet, fired, apparently, from behind and above."

I felt the weakness of my ground.

"The bullet might have been fired from the automobile and ricochetted from some part of Mr. Felderson's machine."

I saw the incredible smile that played on the face of the prosecutor.

"That will do, Mr. Thompson," Kirkpatrick announced, and I passed out of the stuffy room into the corridor. Wicks had returned and was standing with Mary. They looked at me with wide and anxious eyes.

Mary saw the droop in my shoulders and caught my arm.

"What happened, Warren?" she asked.

"Nothing yet," I responded.

"Are they going to——?"

"I don't know, I don't know."

Tears welled up in Mary's eyes. "Oh, Warren, that man was terrible!"

"What man?" I asked.

"The man who asked me all the questions," Mary sobbed. "There wasn't anything he didn't ask me."

"Did he ask you about the conversation between Helen and Jim?"

"He asked me everything, I tell you!" Mary exclaimed angrily. "He twisted and turned everything I said into something horrible."

Discouraged, I led the way to the car. I drove out into the country, thinking the fresh air might quiet Mary's nerves. Twice I tried to start a conversation about some trivial thing, to take her mind off her unpleasant experience of the afternoon, but with no success. It always came back to the jury room. Our drive, for the most part, was a silent one. At length we turned back and as we walked up the steps of Mary's home, her father came from the house with a newspaper in his hand.

"This is terrible, Warren."

"What is it?" I cried, reaching for the sheet.

It was an extra edition of The Press, our only respectable paper. In black head-lines, I read the words:

"SOCIETY LEADER INDICTED FOR HUSBAND'S MURDER!"

Then underneath in small type:

"Frank Woods, Well Known Business Man, Released on $10,000 Bail."

Helen and Frank Woods had both been indicted.



CHAPTER TWELVE

WHO AM I

I jumped into the automobile and drove as fast as I could to the offices of Simpson and Todd, the best criminal lawyers in the state, to retain them as council for Helen. Simpson had already gone home, but George Todd was there, and I talked the case over with him.

"You can get a stay of proceedings, can't you?" I asked.

"Surely," he replied. "I'll see that the warrant isn't served until Mrs. Felderson's doctor assures me she is out of danger. The trial needn't come off for three or four months—six if you wish. We can see to that. In the meantime, when will you be able to see Mrs. Felderson?"

"I was going up there now," I answered. "The chances are the doctor won't let me question her yet, but it may be we can see her. Will you come with me?"

"I'd like very much to. Wait till I get my coat!"

We ran up to the hospital and asked if we could be admitted if only for a few moments to Mrs. Felderson's room. Johnson, the little interne with the glasses, had just come in, and when he heard my request he was splutteringly indignant.

"What the devil do you think Mrs. Felderson is suffering from, a broken ankle? Don't you realize she has been desperately ill? If you tried to question her now, she'd become excited and it might result in a serious relapse. Of course you can't see her! You won't be able to talk to her for two or three weeks yet."

"I'm sorry," I said, "I should have known better. It was stupid of me, but then, I've been little else than stupid for days. This tragedy has been too much for me. You will let me know as soon as she can be seen, won't you, Johnson?"

"I'll let you know," he murmured. "You may be able to see her to-morrow, but I won't let you bother her with any infernal questions until she is well."

The week passed only too slowly. Each day I went to the hospital and sat for a brief fifteen or twenty minutes by Helen's side. She was fully conscious and I thought I could see at times that there were questions she wanted to ask me. Remembering the doctor's emphatic instructions, I said very little, never asking any questions, only telling her a few of the unimportant happenings of the town. She seemed uninterested and lay apathetically quiescent except when some apparently perplexing question corrugated her brows. They told her of Jim's death early in the week, but far from being shocked, she had appeared almost indifferent, showing only too plainly how little he meant in her life. Woods she never referred to.

Mary, of course, was her devoted slave, hardly leaving her bedside, and in our daily meetings at the hospital, I fell more and more in love with her, if such a thing were possible. Once when I was coming up the corridor with a large bunch of flowers, I met her outside Helen's door. As she took the blooms from me, she reached up and patted my cheek.

"Bupps, you're a darling to bring these lovely flowers to Helen every day. I think you're quite the nicest brother a girl could have."

"If you think that, why won't you have me?" I asked.

"I think I will——" she answered, smiling, "for a brother."

She started to open the door, but I grasped her hand.

"Mary, do be serious! You know I love you."

She haughtily drew herself up in all the majesty of her five feet three inches and commanded: "Unhand me, villain! I spurn your tempting offer." Then earnestly, "Let me go, Bupps! I've got to put these flowers away."

With a quick wrench she freed herself and was gone, leaving me half sick with love of her.

After the first sensational extra, the newspapers had said but little of Helen's and Frank's indictment. Somehow I was confident that Helen would be able to clear herself. Woods had published a statement in which he said he would be able to prove where he was every minute of the evening of the tragedy, and so had had no difficulty in finding bail. In fact, since the indictment, he seemed to have gained a good deal of sympathy and popularity. Every one who knew of his devotion to Helen felt that he had indicted himself to try to save her.

One morning, about a week after my interview with the be-spectacled interne, I met Doctor Forbes as he was coming from Helen's room and he gave me permission to ask her a few questions.

"I'm trusting to your good sense, Thompson, not to overdo it," Forbes cautioned. "Remember, she is still in a very weak condition and don't be surprised if she fails to respond to your questions as you expect. Above all things, do not refer in any way to the fact that she has been indicted, the shock might be too much for her."

"Thank you, Doctor," I replied, eager to get away, "I'll be very careful."

"And remember, no more than ten minutes this first time."

I nodded and opened the door. Helen was propped up in bed and showed unmistakably the great suffering she had been through. She was pale and wan, but smiled when she saw me and gave me her cheek to kiss.

"Good morning," she whispered. "The flowers were lovely."

"I'm glad you liked them, Sis, dear," I said, sitting down by the side of her bed.

I asked her the usual questions, how she felt and if she wanted anything, and then tried to lead up to the only question that was of any consequence to either of us.

"Helen, dear, there are certain questions about your accident that have puzzled us. The doctor said that you could talk for ten minutes this morning and I want to ask you some questions."

"Wait a minute!" she interrupted. "Did the doctor say I might really talk this morning?"

"Yes, dear."

"There are a hundred questions then that you must answer me. I want to know so many things." She looked away and passed a thin hand over her forehead. Finally she turned her big brown eyes toward me and said:

"First, tell me who I am!"

For a brief second I felt numb all through. My brain whirled until I thought my head would burst.

"Helen, dear, what did you say?"

My speech was thick, as though my tongue was swollen. Still keeping her gaze fixed on me, she continued:

"They call me Helen, and I gather that you are my brother. There is a beautiful girl who comes here every day. She and I seem to be great friends, but I don't know her, I have heard them call her Mary; tell me who she is!"

If I could have run from the room I should have done so. A horror gripped me such as I never felt before. Then I saw two large tears tremble in Helen's eyes, overflow and course down her cheeks and I gathered all the strength that I could muster for the task of trying to awaken a memory that had apparently ceased to function.

"Helen, dearest little sister, I am your brother. The beautiful girl you speak of is Mary Pendleton, one of the best and truest friends you ever had. She was your bridesmaid, don't you remember?"

Helen shook her head weakly.

"I have been married, then?" she asked.

"You were married to James Felderson. Can't you remember him?" I begged.

Again she shook her head. "No. It's all gone." She thought hard a minute, then she asked: "He is dead—my husband?"

"Yes," I muttered, trying to keep the tears back, "he was killed in the same accident—"

"What was he like?" she interrupted.

"Helen, think!" I cried, fighting blindly against the terror that was choking me. "Little sister. You must think—hard. Jim. Don't you remember big handsome Jim?" I snatched my watch from my pocket and opened the back, where I carried a small picture of Jim, taken years before. I had put it there in boyish admiration when I first knew him. I held it up in front of her eyes. "You must remember him, Helen!"

She gazed at the picture with eyes in which there were tears and a little fright, but not a spark of recognition. Fearing that I was over-exciting her, I sat close to her and drew as best I could a mental picture of Jim. I was only half-way through the recital when the door opened and Doctor Forbes came in.

"The ten minutes are up, Mr. Thompson."

I stooped and kissed Helen.

"Promise that you'll come back to-morrow," she whispered.

I promised and hurried from the room. Outside the doctor awaited me questioningly.

"Her memory is completely gone!" I gasped.

The doctor patted me on the shoulder sympathetically.

"We suspected that day before yesterday. I would have told you before, but thought that your questions might start her memory functioning."

I gripped him by both arms. "But, Doctor, can nothing be done? Will she have to—have to begin all over again?"

"I can't say yet. There may be some pressure there still. We'll have to wait until she is much stronger before we can tell."



CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WE PLAN THE DEFENSE

Helen's loss of memory was the last straw. The shock of finding her unable to remember the most familiar things was bad enough from a purely physical standpoint, but when I realized how completely it swept away all my plans for Helen's defense, how it fastened the guilt on her poor shoulders, I felt that our case was hopeless indeed.

I drove to the offices of Simpson and Todd and was lucky enough to find both of them in. Simpson, a slender man with steel-gray hair and eyes, at once ordered a closed session to thrash out the whole affair. He first made me repeat everything I knew about Jim's murder, from the beginning. Several times he interrupted me, to ask a question, but for the most part he sat with his back to me, gazing out of the window, the tips of his fingers to his lips. Half the time I thought he wasn't listening, until a quick question would show his interest. Todd, on the contrary, was the picture of attention. He took notes in shorthand most of the time I was talking. When I had finished, Simpson rose and came over to me.

"Let's examine this thing from the start. You have three people who had a motive for killing Felderson—Zalnitch, Woods and Mrs. Felderson. Let's take Zalnitch first, for I think suspicion falls the slightest on him. You say that Felderson helped to convict Zalnitch in the Yellow Pier case and that he made vague threats against those who had put him in prison, after he was released. Good! There's a motive and a threat. He was seen on the same road that Mr. Felderson traveled, a short time before the murder. All those facts point to Zalnitch's complicity. But—the bullet that killed Felderson was fired from behind and above, according to the coroner's statement. Knowing the average juryman, I should say that we would have to stretch things pretty far to make him believe that a shot fired from one rapidly moving automobile at another rapidly moving automobile would ricochet and kill a man. That's asking a little too much. Also, it is hard to believe that Schreiber, who was driving the car, would risk a smash-up to his own car and possible death for himself and party, in order to try to make Felderson go into the ditch. Then, too, if Zalnitch recognized Felderson's car, why didn't he fire point-blank at Felderson instead of waiting till he got past? No! The case against Zalnitch falls down. We can strike him off the list."

I hated to give him up, but I had to admit Simpson's logic was faultless.

"Now let us take up the case of Woods. Here is a man who threatened Felderson's life unless he gave his wife a divorce, which you say Felderson did not intend to do. There, again, is a motive. Woods knew that Felderson was in possession of certain papers that would ruin him. There is a stronger motive." He turned to me. "By the way, you have those papers, haven't you?"

I hadn't thought of them until that very minute.

"I don't know where they are right now, but I'm pretty sure I can find them."

He nodded.

"Get hold of them by all means! They may be important to us." He lit a cigar and threw himself into a chair.

"Well, let's go on. Woods had all the motive necessary for killing Felderson. He made a definite engagement with Felderson on the night of the murder, to meet him at a certain time and place specified by Woods. That's important. Everything up to that point is as clear as crystal, yet you say you have positive testimony that Woods was at the country-club waiting for Felderson at about the time the murder took place, and Woods claims that he has an absolute alibi. If that is true, it lets him out."

"But I'm not sure he was at the country-club at the time the murder took place," I explained. "I only know he was there just before and just afterward."

"What do you know of his movements that night?" Simpson asked.

"I know he dined there at seven-thirty or thereabouts and that he ordered a drink at eight twenty-five."

"And what time was the murder?"

"Probably about a quarter past eight—the bodies were found at half past, they say," I answered.

Simpson shook his head. "I'm afraid his alibi is good. It's cutting things too fine to think that he could have run six miles and back in less than half an hour and committed a murder in the bargain. It would have taken a speedy automobile. Do you know whether he had an automobile that night?" he queried.

"I think he did. I can find out in a minute," I added, going to the telephone.

I called up the country-club and finally succeeded in getting Jackson on the wire. Jackson thought Mr. Woods did not have an automobile that night, because he had gone to town in Mr. Paisley's car.

"He might have used somebody else's car," Todd suggested.

Simpson shook his head again. "We're getting clear off the track, now."

An idea came to me suddenly and I called Up Pickering at the Benefit Insurance Company.

"This is Thompson speaking, Pickering," I said.

"Yes."

"Do you remember if an automobile passed you on the night of the Felderson murder, going toward the country-club?"

"No."

"Do you mean you don't remember?"

"No, I remember perfectly. There was only one automobile passed us and that was the black limousine."

"You're sure?" I asked.

"I'm positive, old man. We only saw one car from the time we left Blandesville, until we reached the city."

I put up the receiver and sank back in my chair.

"Well?" Todd flung at me.

"I'm out of luck!" I responded.

Simpson rose. "Let's go on. We have crossed off two of our suspects from the list, let's see—"

"I'd rather not go on," I interrupted, looking out of the window to escape Todd's searching eyes. There was a moment's silence, then Simpson spoke.

"We'll do our best but it will be a hard fight. If Mrs. Felderson could only recall what happened that night and before, we might have a chance, but every woman that has come up for murder during the last few years, has worked that lost memory gag."

"But my sister really has lost her memory!" I exclaimed.

"I know, my dear boy," Simpson soothed. "That is what makes it so difficult. If she were only shamming now, we could—. But with your sister as helpless as a child, the prosecuting attorney will so confuse her, that our case will be lost as soon as she takes the stand."

"Why put her on at all?" I asked.

"Because we have to, if we hope to win our case," he replied. "The one big chance to win your jury comes when your beautiful client testifies."

For a few minutes he was silent, obviously thinking, and thinking hard.

"Of course, our defense will have to be temporary insanity," he declared at last.

"Oh, not that!" I begged.

"It's our only chance," Simpson argued, "and I don't mind saying that it's a pretty poor chance at that. Three years ago it might have been all right, because a conviction only meant a few months at a fashionable sanitarium, and then freedom. But when that Truesdale woman went free, an awful howl went up all over the country and I'm afraid the next woman who is found, 'guilty but insane,' will be sent to a real asylum."

A shudder of horror ran through me. For Helen to be sent to an asylum while her mind was in its weak state might well mean permanent insanity.

"You talk to your sister as often as you can and try to help her recover her lost memory. Of course you'll have the best specialists examine and prescribe for her. In the meantime, we'll investigate both the Woods and Zalnitch cases to see if they are hole-proof."

"You might get those papers on Woods, if you will," Todd reminded me.

I thanked them and left, greatly depressed but ready to fight to the last ditch to save Helen's life. The papers dealing with Woods had not been among Jim's effects when I had looked them over at the office and I was confident they had not been picked up on the night of the murder, for they would have been returned to me. Thinking they had probably been left in one of the pockets of the automobile, and overlooked when the machine was searched, I decided to run out to the Felderson home the first thing in the morning.



CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BULLETPROOF

Jim's car had been moved to his own garage the morning after the accident, and as I had a pass-key to the place I found it unnecessary to go to the house at all. Wicks and Annie were taking care of the establishment until Helen should come home, or the house be sold.

I opened the door of the garage and shuddered involuntarily as I caught sight of the wrecked Peckwith-Pierce. It had been more badly smashed than I had at first supposed. On the night of the murder I saw that the chassis was twisted and the axle broken, but I had not noticed what that jolting crash had done to the body of the car. The steering rod was broken and the cushions were caked with mud. One wheel sagged at a drunken angle like a lop-ear and the wind-shield was nothing but a mangled frame. One long gash ran the length of the body, as though it had scraped against a rock, and this gash ended in a jagged wound the size of a man's head. In the back were three small splintered holes.

I examined these with particular interest, wondering what could have caused them. Evidently the police had neglected to examine the machine. The sight of what looked like the end of a nail caused me to drop to my knees and to begin digging frantically at the wood with my pen-knife. At the end of five feverish minutes I held the prize in my hand.

It was a misshapen, steel, "32" rifle bullet.

In the floor of the car, near where Jim's feet must have been, I found two more splintered holes, apparently made by the same rifle from which the shots had been fired into the back of the car.

Two thoughts flashed through my mind, exuberant assurance that this latest discovery cleared Helen completely. She couldn't have fired a rifle from the rear seat of the automobile, nor could she have put those bullet holes into the back of the car. In my joy that I had found proof of my sister's innocence, I forgot to speculate on who could have committed the murder. My second thought was really a continuation of the first, that I must bring the coroner and Simpson at once to confirm my discovery.

I carefully locked the door of the garage, as though fearful some one would rob me of my find, or that the automobile might move away of its own volition, then I ran to the house and rang the bell. All the curtains were drawn and I had about decided there was no one at home, when, after what seemed an interminable wait, I heard the sound of footsteps within, and Wicks opened the door.

"Who'd you expect to see, Wicks, a policeman?" I asked.

"No, sir. One of those blarsted reporters, sir."

"Poor old Wicksy," I sympathized. "Well, it'll soon be over now. I want to use the telephone."

I ran down the hall to the table where I knew the telephone to be, and called up Simpson. He promised he would come right up.

The coroner demurred for a moment, pleading important business, but when he heard I had proof that would clear Mrs. Felderson, he, too, promised to be with me in a few minutes.

Wicks, who had been listening, was so excited that he momentarily forgot himself and clutched me by the arm as I put down the receiver.

"Is it true, sir, that you can prove Mrs. Felderson 'ad nothing to do with it?" he gasped.

"Truest thing you know, Wicks!"

"I fear I'm going to act unseemly, sir. I feel like yelling, 'ip, 'ip, sir." Then he noticed he had me by the arm and hastily murmured apology.

"That's all right, Wicksy, old top. Go as far as you like," I cried. "I'm so happy and relieved I could kiss the Kaiser."

"You surely wouldn't do that, sir," Wicks reproved.

"All right, Wicks. I guess it's not being done this year."

The butler turned to leave but stopped at the door to say: "Mr. Woods called about a week ago, sir."

"What did he want?" I demanded.

"He stated as 'ow 'e was after some papers concerning a business deal that 'e and Mr. Felderson were interested in."

In the excitement over my discovery, I had completely forgotten the real errand that had brought me to the house.

"What did you tell him, Wicks?"

"I told 'im that you had charge of all Mr. Felderson's effects, sir, and that he could probably obtain them from you," the butler replied.

"That was right. Did he leave after that?"

"Shortly after that, sir," Wicks answered. "But first he asked for the key to the garage, sayin' that 'e would like to hinspect the auto."

"Did you give it to him?" I snapped.

"Y-yes, sir. I saw no 'arm in that, sir."

I ran to the garage and quickly searched the broad pockets of Jim's car. The portfolio was not there. I hurried toward the house to ask Wicks if Woods had had any papers with him when he returned the garage key, but slackened my pace before I had gone half-way. After all, it made very little difference. The evidence had only been gathered to keep Helen with her husband. Now, since that was no longer an issue, what did it matter if Woods had stolen the proofs of his own dishonesty. True, Simpson and Todd had asked me to get them, but I felt that they had urged the importance of those papers more to give me something to do than for any real need of them.

Just then an automobile came up the drive and Simpson jumped out. He was gravely skeptical until I led him into the garage and showed him the bullet holes; then he was enthusiastic. He examined the back of the car minutely, and at the end of his scrutiny he turned to me.

"I'm not at all sure that we were justified in giving Zalnitch a clean bill of health so soon. It is just possible he had a lot more to do with this than we supposed."

While we were talking the coroner drove up. He took the bullet I had extracted from the back of the car and looked at it as though he expected to find its owner's name etched on it, after which he examined the holes in the back of the car and in the foot-board. Then I eagerly related our suspicions against Zalnitch, but he shook his head.

"This would seem to clear Mrs. Felderson but it also makes it look as though every other suspect is innocent. Look at these holes in the floor! The bullets that lodged there must have been fired from above. Also you will notice there are three bullet holes in the back of the car and two in the foot-board, besides the shot that killed Mr. Felderson. Unless your friends, the Socialists, were carrying a young armory with them, they could never have fired that many shots in the short space of time that it took Mr. Felderson to pass them. I should say that it would take a man from—well, from fifteen to thirty seconds, at least, to fire six shots at any target, and before that time, the automobile would have been out of range."

"He might have used an automatic rifle," I interposed.

The coroner took off his hat and rubbed the bald spot on the back of his head.

"That is possible," he admitted, "but it doesn't explain how those bullet holes got into the floor. There might have been a struggle and the gun discharged into the floor that way."

"That doesn't explain the holes in the back of the car," I objected, fearing that they would again go back to the theory that Helen was responsible.

"The holes in the foot-board seem to me positive proof that the shots were fired from above," Simpson argued. "Are there any buildings or trees along that road where the murderer might have stationed himself and waited for Felderson to come along?"

"There are no buildings," I replied, "but there must be trees in the vicinity of that stream."

"That sounds as though it might bring results," Simpson said. "Thompson, suppose you take the coroner out there and see what you can find. In the meantime I'll start proceedings to quash that indictment against Mrs. Felderson."

The coroner insisted he was due at an inquest that very moment, but would go with me in the afternoon. As we walked toward the cars, Simpson asked me if I had found the papers dealing with Woods' case, and I told him I thought Woods had stolen them and repeated the information Wicks had given me.

"I don't think we shall need them, fortunately," Simpson replied. "Todd saw Woods last night. He's making a frantic effort to raise money and came to him, among others. He says that Woods can clear himself of all connection with the crime. Men who were with him that night can testify he didn't leave the club. By the way, Woods hasn't approached you, has he?"

"No," I laughed, "he knows I have no money, and if I had I wouldn't give it to him."

After they had left, I decided to go out to the Blandesville bridge and do a little preliminary scouting on my own. Eager for Mary's company, and wishing to tell her the glorious news that was to clear Helen, I drove to the hospital, only to find that Mary had not been there and Helen was asleep; so I drove on to Mary's, hoping to find her home.

"Miss Pendleton is just going out, but I will ask if she will see you," the maid informed me.

I stepped into the living-room and picked up a magazine. As I took it in my hand it fell open to a story entitled, "Who Murdered Merryvale?" I looked at one of the illustrations and quickly laid the magazine down, conscious that I'd never again read a mystery story built around a tragic death. Then I heard Mary's light step pattering down the stairs and turned to greet her. She was dressed in a smart, semi-military costume which she had worn while a volunteer chauffeur during the war, and she looked simply radiant.

"Mary, we've made certain discoveries which absolutely clear Helen of suspicion," I cried, taking her hands in mine. I told her of my find of the morning, and watched her eyes widen with joy and surprise. "So, while we haven't found out yet who murdered Jim, we know that Helen had no part in it."

Mary was thinking hard about something, but she recalled herself quickly, and said:

"Oh! It's wonderful, Bupps, simply wonderful!"

"I'm going out to the Blandesville bridge to do a little sleuthing on my own hook. Can you come with me?"

"I'm sorry, but I can't, Warren. I have another engagement," she answered.

"Some other man?" I asked, disappointed and a bit jealous.

"Yes."

"Is it that young Davis?"

She shook her head.

"It's some one you don't like very well."

"That's natural," I replied. "I don't love any of my rivals. Who is it?"

"Promise you won't say anything if I tell you who it is?"

"Of course I won't say anything," I said a little haughtily. "You have a perfect right to go with any one you care to."

"It's Frank Woods."

"Mary," I gasped, "do you mean to say you'd be seen with that man, after what he did to Jim?"

"Now, Bupps, you promised not to say anything."

"I know—but this is different. Do you think I'll stand quietly by and see that man make a fool of you as he did of Helen? Do you think I'll let that—that rake make love to you?"

"He's not going to make love to me!" Mary answered with some asperity.

"That's what you think. That's what Helen thought and Jim thought. That's what all of them think when he starts. Do you know what he wants to do? He asked you to go out with him so he could try to borrow money of you, to save his rotten hide."

"But, Bupps, he didn't ask me to go riding with him. I asked him to take me."

"You asked him to take you?" I cried.

"Don't talk so loud, Bupps! The people on the street will hear you."

If there was anything she could have said that would have made me angrier than I already was, it was that.

"I'm not talking loud," I shouted, "and what if I do? The people on the street may hear me, but they will see you with Frank Woods, which is a hundred times worse. Why, it is as much as a girl's reputation is worth to be seen alone with him."

"I'll take care of my reputation," she replied coldly.

"You think you will," I said, flinging myself into a chair.

"Warren! Do you know that's insulting?" Mary exclaimed angrily. "You're acting like a schoolboy. I have good reasons for wanting to go out with Frank Woods."

"Reasons!" I sneered.

She went into the hall and I followed.

"Mary, I don't know what your reasons are, and I don't care. I'm not going to have that man making love to you. Either you don't go out with him, or I quit."

Mary turned and looked me straight in the eyes.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Any girl who is Frank Woods' friend, after the mess he stirred up in my family, isn't my friend."

Mary's face was white, but her little chin was set determinedly.

"That's just as you wish," she said, and ran up-stairs.

I picked up my hat and gloves and left the house.



CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE ANSWER

The coroner and I drove out to the bridge that afternoon and I must admit I was mighty poor company. Mary's unreasonableness, her stupid obstinacy, when she knew she was wrong and I was right, her willingness to break our friendship at the first opportunity, gave me little room to think of anything else.

That she should risk her reputation to run after that man was inexplicable, but it was just like a woman. Show them a place they must not go or a man they must not see and they will sacrifice life, liberty and everybody else's happiness to satisfy their curiosity. It has been true from Pandora to Pankhurst.

Well, if she could get along without me, I could get along without her. I'm the easiest going person in the world, but when it comes to allowing the girl you are practically engaged to, to make a fool of herself over another man, I won't stand for it. I knew she would probably come to me afterward and say she was sorry and she didn't know, but I made up my mind that she would have to give me an awfully good reason for her sudden interest in Frank Woods before I would forgive her.

These thoughts held my attention all the way out. Now and again I would be recalled from my gloom by some question from the coroner. He was trying to solve the problem of who murdered Jim and I am sure he must have thought it strange that I was so preoccupied.

As we neared the bridge, I noticed again how scant the vegetation was on both sides of the road. Any one wishing to murder Jim would have been able to see him coming for at least a half-mile. On the left of the road was clay soil, sparsely covered with weeds and shrubs, while a half-mile away could be seen the thirteenth hole of the country-club golf links.

When we reached the crest of the hill leading down to the bridge, our eyes at once caught sight of a tall maple tree, on the right-hand side of the road and about two hundred yards from it.

As he saw it the coroner gave a grunt of satisfaction.

"There's our tree."

We stopped the car and scrambled through the thorny bushes that lined the road. The ground was hard clay with only burdock and weeds growing on it. There was nothing that would lead us to believe that any one had been there before. When we reached the tree, the coroner examined the ground around it carefully. When he arose he seemed disappointed.

"What did you expect to find here?" I asked.

"I didn't know what we might find. If the man who fired those shots used this tree, I thought we might find an empty cartridge or two. There ought to be at least some broken twigs or something to show that he was up there, but I find nothing at all."