"I know it, Swift," he at once returned. "But I believe my only hope lies in placing myself unreservedly in your hands. I 'm going to trust myself to your—"

A queer little sound from Miss Fluette—between a gasp and a sob—checked him. She got abruptly to her feet, and fixed such a look of aversion upon me, that I hope I may never again be the object of its like. It is decidedly unpleasant not to be in the good graces of so handsome a girl. The color ebbed quickly from her cheeks, her eyes widened and her lips trembled.

"Royal," she said brokenly, but with an effort at self-control, "does this—this man mean that you are suspected of—of your uncle's murder?" And all her feelings were compressed into the emphasis of that last word.

"Belle!" came in gentle chiding from Miss Cooper, "Don't! Can't you see that Royal is trusting to Mr. Swift?" Then she too rose; she passed round to her cousin's side of the table, drew a chair close up to her and sat down. She took Miss Fluette's hand into her own, and sought to draw her back into her seat, just as Maillot spoke up with a confidence and assurance for which I could not help but admire him.

"Suspect me!" he cried amazedly, dashing the remnant of his cigarette into the fire. "Oh, figs! Of course he doesn't, Belle; but—look here: there are plenty who will. I want to make it plain that, in a way wholly unintentional on my part, I have got myself mixed up in a pretty bad mess, and then I want to make sure of Mr. Swift's cooeperation in my efforts to extricate myself.

"My dear Belle,"—a gentle note crept into his voice,—"please consider the circumstances under which I came here last night; think of the tragedy which followed so swiftly; consider the story I have to tell, and then ask yourself, Who is going to believe it? God help us both, dear girl, but this thing has all got to be brought out and aired in public!"

The fine brown eyes searched my face.

"Do you believe that Royal Maillot is guilty of this monstrous crime?" she asked me point-blank.

Before I had time to frame a reply, she once more sprang impetuously from her chair, her face flushed and her eyes sparkling with anger.

"Answer me, sir, do you believe that?"

I replied, then, calmly, if non-committally:

"As Mr. Maillot has said, I am of a disposition to help him out of a tight place, and I trust that his friends will not put unnecessary obstacles in the way of working to that end."

She said no more. Poor Belle Fluette! She was to have my sympathy more than once during the days that were to follow. Miss Cooper looked at me a little apprehensively, but I read confidence in her eyes.

"Let Mr. Maillot proceed," I now said. "It is not fair to him to fail at this stage to hear all that he has to say, providing he really desires to continue. I want to ask one question, though, before you proceed."

"Well?"

I glanced meaningly at Miss Fluette. "Considering all the circumstances, can you confide in me with propriety—just now?"

"To be sure," he replied, promptly and earnestly; "as well now as any time. You may readily imagine that to sit here and unfold affairs so intimately personal is a matter of expediency and not of choice."

He had missed my point altogether; I wanted to spare the girl. But it was n't for me to warn him of the complications which were likely to arise from his disclosures.

"I can well believe that," said I. "Go on."



CHAPTER VII

HOW THE ERRAND ENDED

"Don't you know, Swift," Maillot resumed, after a meditative pause, "that it's a mighty easy matter to misjudge a man? Certain reports concerning a person become current, for example, and before we know it—perhaps without giving the matter a thought—we gradually grow to accept them as accurately descriptive of his personality.

"I have wondered more than once during the past week whether we have n't an entirely erroneous conception of every prominent man whom we don't know intimately. 'By your actions be ye judged'—if we were, most of us would be condemned out of hand.

"No, sir; it's not by a man's actions that he may be accurately appraised, but the motives that lie behind those actions; and those motives are exceedingly difficult to define. The incentive that impels us to a given act may be all right, the intention to perform it the best in the world, and then the act itself may be all wrong. Who 's to blame then? Who more than any other can set himself up to censure our conduct, or lay down a code of ethics and morals for his neighbor to follow? I am assuming that you have heard a good deal about my uncle, and I know the reports concerning him are anything but flattering."

This speech fell in so harmoniously with my own train of reasoning, that I gave the young man's words the closest attention. Assuming that he was in fact guilty, as I had already tentatively theorized, then would not his present utterances appear very like a plea in vindication of his deed?—or, at least, as an apology? If he were guilty, he was supplying me the support of a sound argument.

His analysis of motives, at any rate, made me exceedingly regardful of every shifting light and shade of his really remarkable narrative. I remained keenly alert not to miss a phase of it, but carefully to ponder and weigh every one.

However, that narrative must not be retarded.

"Before I came here last night," he took it up once more, "I thought I had imagined every possible combination of emotions with which my uncle would receive my brazen offer; but his amazement when he heard me was as nothing to mine at the way in which he took it.

"First of all, in a gruff, glum sort of way, the old gentleman seemed really glad to see me; but he was in a hurry to warn me that I had better get my errand over quickly, as he was contemplating catching a nine-thirty train for Duluth—for what purpose he did n't say. As the evening wore on, however, and after I had once or twice hinted that I could wait till a more opportune time to make known my business, he impatiently commanded me to proceed; whereupon I naturally concluded that he had, since my coming, given over the projected trip.

"That fellow Burke was in the hall when I entered; and while there was nothing in his manner that I could have picked out as hostile, still I felt vaguely that he resented my intrusion. But why should he? Blamed if I know. As my uncle and I entered the library, Burke had the nerve to butt in with a reference to some papers and a reminder that the Duluth train left at nine-thirty. Maybe you think the old gentleman did n't turn him down cold—didn't bother Burke in the least, though, or interrupt the cool, unwavering inspection that he continued to bestow upon me. The fellow was fairly burning up with curiosity to find out what my business was.

"Well, after Mr. Page and I got in here, he put it to me bluntly: Did I want money? If so, how much and what for? Now was n't that an encouraging beginning in view of what I was after? Nevertheless I was resolved to do or die; to be heard to the end, or else kicked out of the house forthwith. That last is what I had coming to me, all right—it's what I was looking for.

"I began by saying that I simply wanted him to listen to me for a few minutes—to hear me till I got through—and then he would know well enough what I was after. I could see that my manner, if not my words, had aroused his curiosity; thus emboldened, I plunged right in. I told him of my love for Belle."

The two of them then and there verified this all-absorbing fact by another interchange of ardent glances. Heaven knows, neither of them was in the least self-conscious or at all shy over the matter. Miss Belle seemed to glory in it; to accept his unspoken professions of devotion with a joyous sort of triumph which crowned her haughty beauty with the shining mien of a conqueror.

I thought of Mr. Fluette, financier, speculator, man of affairs that he was, and concluded that I did not at all envy him his self-imposed task of keeping asunder these two lovers. I wondered, too, in the event he could be brought to appreciate the depth and sincerity of their attachment, whether his opposition would still remain obdurate. If so, the future must be dark and stormy—if not tragic—for him. Here was a woman, if I read aright, capable of great sacrifices; she was ready to rush headlong into them, too, if need be.

Ah, well! When did a parent and a lover ever see things from the same point of view?

Maillot did not pause long.

"When I first mentioned her name,—for as I had to do so, I did it boldly,—his interest quickened, and I was positive that his attention became more respectful. He seemed to think quite suddenly that what I had to say might be of some importance, after all.

"Mr. Page was not given to betraying his mind and emotions; indeed, I believe he was usually credited with possessing an abundance of the former to the exclusion of the latter. Nevertheless I knew that he was interested, for it was at this stage that he irritably silenced my references to the nine-thirty train.

"Swift, I don't know whether I can make you see it in the way I do. It is all so marvellous and strange; the canvas is so big, and I can't handle my colors very well. During the course of my narrative he would smile now and then, or even chuckle, as though hugely delighted over some aspect of the subject which did not appear to me as being at all funny; but the instant I paused, he would promptly command me to proceed.

"Candidly, his attitude was very mystifying; but since he was not only harkening to me, but doing so with a marked, if peculiar, attention, I made the best of an extremely disagreeable task, and pleaded my cause with all the ardor of which I was capable."

I here caught Miss Cooper indulging in a furtive little smile.

"When I concluded by bluntly asking him for the ruby, his face was a study." Maillot drew a long breath, and shook his head over the recollection.

"I wouldn't again undergo the ordeal of the succeeding minutes for a whole bushel-basketful of rubies, every one as large and priceless as the blessed stone I was after. It was a question whether I 'd have to defend myself from a sudden assault, or be treated as a dangerous lunatic. And all the time he sat there twiddling his thumbs, apparently oblivious of my presence.

"I can see the old gentleman now. He was sitting there where Miss Cooper is, his chin on his breast, and from time to time he would take me in with a look from beneath his gathered brows, which, for sheer, downright hyperborean iciness, had a Dakota blizzard backed away down to the equator and stewing in its own perspiration. I was afraid to say anything more, and at the same time I was wild with impatience to get some inkling of what was going on behind his impassive crust.

"And, Swift, you never, never could guess how that silence was broken. He suddenly tossed his head back, and burst out with a great guffaw of laughter. I jumped clear out of my chair.

"'What a nephew!' he cried, while I stood staring at him in dumb astonishment. 'Good Lord, what I 've missed by not knowing you all these years! A chip off of the old block!' He abruptly squared round on me, and paid me a compliment very similar to one I had heard a few nights before.

"'See here, my boy,' said he, admiringly, 'for pure and unlimited cheek, you 're in a class by yourself. Why, the very audacity of your impudence is not without its attraction! Here you come into my house and ask me to stand and deliver a fortune, with all the light and airy assurance of a bill-collector. And the best of it is that you are dead in earnest, too—oh, Lord!' And he went off into another gale of laughter.

"I here timidly mentioned the fact that I had never in my life been more dead in earnest.

"'Earnest!' he barked at me. 'D' ye suppose I can't tell when a man means what he says? Humph!

"'But see here, my lad, it's a pity we were n't drawn together years ago,' he broke off to snap at me. 'Sit down! I 'm not going to bite—if I am a "hound."'

"Well! I dropped back into my chair, where I sat blinking, a good deal bewildered, realizing only dimly that I had not been thrown bodily from the house, and, after a while, that he was not even angry.

"On the contrary, he seemed to be in the best of spirits. Presently he began to put me through a cross-examination, which I can recommend as a model for any one to follow who wants to elicit the minutiae of detail of another fellow's life.

"Before he finished, he had dragged out everything that had ever occurred to me with which anybody bearing the name of Fluette was even remotely associated—a complete history of Belle's and my acquaintance, everything I knew or had ever heard about Mrs. Fluette, all about Genevieve, and every word that I could remember that had ever passed between Mr. Fluette and myself.

"He took me through my talk with Mr. Fluette last Wednesday night I don't how many times—anyhow, until he must have had it pretty well photographed upon his mind. For some mysterious reason, he seemed to relish the epithet by which Mr. Fluette had referred to him. I 'll bet I repeated that part of our conversation a score of times; and every time I uttered the word 'hound' Mr. Page chuckled.

"But by and by I came to observe that each mention of either Belle or Mrs. Fluette was received with a courtesy and respect for which I could not account. I was at last moved to ask him whether he was acquainted with them; but he testily shook his head, and bade me with some asperity not to ask questions. He dropped into a brown study pretty soon, so I shut up.

"When he spoke again his words effectively banished all speculation from my mind; in fact, they left me speechless. Of a sudden he looked at me with a sly smile.

"'My boy,' he said, almost in a whisper, 'the ruby 's yours.'"

Thereupon, Maillot declared, Mr. Page inquired whether he had ever seen the ruby; to which the young man replied in the negative. The fire on the hearth had by that time sunk to a glowing bed of coals, and, save for the dim ruddy glow, the illumination was afforded by means of a single candle—just sufficient to make of the commodious library a place of ghostly shadows, and failing to relieve its farther reaches from utter gloom and darkness.

"It's a bonny bit of glass," the old gentleman had next said. "It's as compact a package, I daresay, as one can crowd a fortune into. I 'll get it." With a brusque injunction to his nephew to remain where he was, he took the candle and disappeared behind the curtains of the alcove, which, as the reader will remember, concealed the passageway extending thence, through the conservatory, and into the bedroom.

Maillot could not say how long his uncle was gone; he was still too full of awe and wonder to note the passage of time; but by and by Mr. Page returned, bearing the lighted candle in one hand and a small, worn, leather box in the other.

The first he placed upon the table immediately, and then, after resuming his chair, laid the little leather box in front of himself. He sat absently tapping it with his fingers, and from time to time regarding his nephew with the same secret, indecipherable smile which the young man had already observed and wondered at.

And now we approach the most startling, the most mystifying, stage of this amazing conference.

"Before giving you this ruby," said Mr. Page, after a while, "I 'm going to bind you to a few conditions—for your own protection," he had hastily added, with a grin, when the young man's face suddenly lengthened at this unexpected contingency. "You 'll agree fast enough after you 've heard me. If you don't, you don't get the Paternoster ruby"—and with a peculiar little laugh—"most people would agree to anything for that, my lad."

Maillot's interest was now centred upon the conditions; and they at once became a part of the fairy tale of which he was the beggar-transformed-into-a-prince hero—so much were they of a nature to add to his elation, rather than provoke objections.

Therefore he promptly acquiesced in their terms, binding himself upon his honor as a gentleman to fulfil them to the letter.

"Take this little box to Fluette," were the words with which his uncle charged him; "show him the contents, but"—and here Maillot said the old gentleman probed him through and through with a look—"on no account allow the ruby to go out of your possession—not even for the briefest instant. Whatever else he may be, Alfred Fluette is no fool. Once he gets his fingers on this ruby, there 's no telling what he 'll try to put over on you. Of course he has no idea that you took him at his word, but I reckon he 'll have to believe the evidence of his own senses."

Mr. Page had here rubbed his hands together in secret delight, and Maillot said that his eyes sparkled as he proceeded.

"Then you can make him come to terms. We 'll see which he wants to keep the worst—his daughter, or the ruby he 's sweat blood to get. . . . Won't let his daughter marry a man that has a drop of this 'hound's' blood in his veins, hey?" Page had snarled. "Well, you just watch the old 'hound' close his jaws." Suddenly he became the masterful, domineering man the world knew; he addressed Maillot in the curt, incisive tones which never failed to exact obedience.

"You tell him this, young man, exactly as I am telling it to you. Tell him you have performed your part of the bargain; tell him that the second Miss Belle is yours, the ruby shall be his; tell him he shall never get his hands on it one tick of the clock before.

"He won't hesitate; I know Alfred Fluette. If you follow my instructions explicitly, the young lady will be Mrs. Royal Maillot by this time tomorrow night. If I 'm not very much mistaken, he 'll be the most astounded man in the world when you open the box. You want to do it, too—open it under his nose; dazzle his eyes—hypnotize him with its blood-red flame." He had been working himself slowly into a passion; now it ended in a violent outburst. "Make the old dog get down on his hunkers and beg, d'ye hear? Make him whine! Then close the box and put it in your pocket. . . . A 'hound,' am I?"

He sat silent for a while, then went on quite calmly, in his former concise manner.

"I 'll give you a line over my signature—he has mighty good reasons for recognizing it on sight—so he can't dispute your right to bargain with him. Then—"

Maillot's eagerness and impatience were so intense that he had been unable to restrain himself when the old gentleman lapsed most vexatiously into a revery.

"Well?" Maillot had urged.

"Marry the girl. Then give Fluette the Paternoster ruby. Bring your wife to me—for after all is said and done, Royal, I 'm a lonely old man. I 'll see you started on a honeymoon that will make old Fluette open his eyes still wider. You never heard that I was stingy when I wanted to gratify a whim, did you? Well, it's my whim that this thing be done in the best style. I 'll have to leave that part of it to you. You just go ahead and do the proper thing—and send me the bills. . . . Hound? Bah!"

Mr. Page sat toying with the jewel-box many minutes before he expressed himself as confident that Maillot would carry out his instructions to the letter; then, without warning, he pressed the spring and the lid flew open.

The gem lay between them like a splash of crimson flame.



CHAPTER VIII

MAILLOT'S EXPERIENCE

"We must have made a Rembrandt-like picture"—to quote the young man again—"the two of us bending over this table by the light of a solitary candle. There was a wan reflection of the flame from the polished table-top, but elsewhere all was darkness and the shadows crowded in close. The most brilliant thing in the room was that wonderful jewel, glowing and scintillating like blood-red fire.

"It was considerably larger than the end of my thumb—as large as a big hickory-nut and, my uncle averred, flawless. Rubies of such a size and without a flaw are extremely rare, I believe; in fact, there are only one or two known to be in existence. The old gentleman declared that one of five carats was worth five times as much as a diamond of equal weight, and that the value increased proportionately with each additional carat.

"But I could only sit and stare at it and wonder, and now and then pinch myself to see whether I was in reality awake and not the victim of a fantastic Arabian Nights sort of dream."

After a while the conference between uncle and nephew ended. Mr. Page would not allow the young man to depart from the house at that hour of the night with the gem, pointing out (reasonably enough) that nobody but a fool would be abroad at such a time with five hundred thousand dollars on his person; though, in his anxiety to secure the ruby and be away before his uncle had an opportunity to change his mind, Maillot might have retorted that a fool would not have had it at all.

"There are men who have left no stone unturned to discover where I have kept this stone," Mr. Page had concluded, with another chuckle, "and they have by no means given it up yet." Then, with grim significance in view of the tragedy which so swiftly followed,—"I 'd have been murdered long ago, if it would have helped 'em to finding where I keep the stone hid."

The leather jewel-box—shabby, according to Maillot's description, and plainly showing the marks of age—was at last closed, and shortly the young man was shown to his room by Mr. Page.

Maillot declared that, ascribing the circumstance to reaction from the evening's powerful excitement, he almost immediately sank into a deep sleep.

"I was as exhausted," he amplified, "as if I had been all day digging ditches or shovelling coal. I could scarcely realize that my mission had succeeded; I feared the entire proceeding was only a stupendous, ghastly hoax, which my uncle had in mind, but to what end, or who the intended victim, I could not in the least conceive.

"And then came a crash that made me think the house had collapsed, and I knew I had been asleep. I was only dimly sensible that the noise, whatever its source, had been loud and decidedly out of place in this household at such an hour.

"I sprang from bed, and first thing banged against the door of a wardrobe, which had swung open. It nearly knocked my brains out, and hurt something awful. So I straightway forgot all about the noise, and after groping a while for matches, presently found one and lighted the candle. Then I filled the basin on the wash-stand and bathed my eye."

What followed was something more than corroborative of Burke's statement. After the secretary had rapped and Maillot thrown open the door, the latter was considerably surprised at Burke's very patent fright.

"The plain truth of the matter is that the fellow was in a condition of cowering terror," was Maillot's language, "and when I learned that he had n't made the first move toward ascertaining the cause of the disturbance, why, I simply pushed him to one side and went to see about it myself.

"Burke disgusted me. He would neither approach the body nor allow me to get very far away from him; and when I broached the matter of going after help, he even went so far as to argue with me that there was no necessity for either of us leaving the house until daylight. The mere suggestion that he should wait here alone threw him into a blue funk; so I was finally obliged to tell him flatly, that if he did n't go, I would, and that he should n't follow me, either.

"Well, apparently he chose the lesser of two evils, and went to fetch the police."

I remembered Burke's reluctance to come down the front stairs, after I had sent Stodger to conduct him to me, together with my colleague's remark to the effect that "Burke did n't have much sand"; clearly, the secretary was a coward.

And now, too, I recalled the triumphant light in his pale eyes, while we were inspecting the concealed safe—the only time I had detected any expression in them—as if he had already anticipated the predicament Maillot would be in after relating his story of what had brought him to this house, and the occurrences of last night. How could he have had an inkling of all this?

However, at the time I did n't waste many minutes over an unprofitable mental catechism; there were other and more vital matters requiring immediate attention. I asked Maillot a good many questions, but elicited no further information germane to the tragedy. So I presently said:

"Have you any idea what your uncle did with the ruby after having shown it to you?"

"Well," he returned, with thoughtful deliberation, "there 's the safe. I suppose, when he disappeared through the curtained alcove last night, he went at once to his bedroom, got the box from the safe, and when we separated for the night—well, I don't know; I can't guess. When he left me in my room, he was still carrying the box in his hand."

"You are positive of that?"

"Yes, positive; for after all that had happened between us, and knowing as I did what the box contained, I remember very distinctly that I looked oftener at it than I did at him. The little leather box in his left hand is more vivid in my memory than any other detail of his appearance."

"But you can remember how he was dressed?"

"Oh, yes; just as we found him. After bidding me good-night, he certainly did n't go to bed as he announced he should; he could n't even have started to undress."

I glanced in Miss Cooper's direction. Her blue eyes were regarding me with an expression of deep and interested attention, but they also yielded a faint light of some emotion which materially aided me to a decision. I can make my position clear only by briefly sketching what was going on in my own mind.

Why did I hesitate to decide between Maillot and Burke in charging one or the other of them with the perpetration of this crime?—for crime it was, beyond a shadow of doubt. Well, there were several reasons, any one of which was sufficient, to indicate what my attitude toward these two men should be.

In the first place, both had frankly and without the least hint of reserve respecting each other's attitude that I had been able to detect, told stories which they must have known beforehand would tend strongly to incriminate them; but notwithstanding this fact, they had given their accounts with a knowledge that if they maintained a strict silence, I must have remained unable to find this information otherwise. The hostility between the two—and I could not account for it—did not explain this willingness, because neither had made an open attempt to direct suspicion toward the other.

I make a possible exception here: Burke's enigmatic conduct while we were examining the hidden safe might be construed as innuendo deliberately planned. On the other hand, if he were innocent, and considering that the two had been alone, then he might honestly have believed Maillot to be guilty, but was reluctant to make a charge which he was unable to defend with tangible proof. The circumstance of their stories agreeing in all essentials verified my conclusion that both had told the truth; still it was possible that either of them might not have told all the truth.

Again, I was convinced by the manners of both that there was more behind the tragedy than had been made to appear, excepting by the haziest sort of allusion; a potential factor whose existence had been barely suggested, whose nature remained entirely obscure. On the surface it looked as if somebody had slain Felix Page and stolen the ruby. Simple enough. But was this all? I was sure not.

The point, though, that I wish to make is this: whatever the prime motive for the murder might have been, Maillot had not the slightest idea respecting it, nor did he even suspect that such a motive existed. He was still too dazed from the whirl of events of the past twenty-four hours to consider the matter in any other light than the way in which it most nearly affected himself.

As for Burke, I was pretty much in doubt. I felt that he knew something that he was keeping in reserve, but what it might be or how to get hold of him and force the information from him I did not at this stage know.

If anything at all about the puzzle was clear, it was that the two had not and were not working together. Individually, the evidence—such as it was—more strongly indicated Maillot. It was at this moment that I looked toward Miss Cooper and decided.

"Maillot," said I, tersely, "it's up to you and Burke to submit to a personal search."

He flushed hotly, but maintained his attitude of calm. I did not dare a glance in Miss Fluette's direction.

"Candidly," I added, "I don't think you have the ruby—for that matter, I don't think Burke has either. But such a proceeding is only fair to me, for if I turn you two chaps loose I 'm taking all the chances. I ought to be bundling you both off to jail; I don't want to do that, you see, and I deserve some sort of—"

"Enough," Maillot cut in. "I believe you 're a good fellow, Swift; I have no objection to you going over me with a microscope."

He rose at once, extended his arms above his head to facilitate my task, and even essayed a bit of banter at my hesitating to begin.

In truth, it was hard enough to do; the presence of the two girls made the operation not only doubly disagreeable, but extremely embarrassing as well. Miss Fluette's cheeks were hot with indignation, her hazel eyes snapped. She made no comment—thank goodness!—but it was plain to be seen that she restrained herself only with the greatest of efforts. I am pretty adept at "going through" a man; and while in the present instance it required but a few moments to satisfy myself that Maillot could not have the gem, I was all the while acutely sensible of a little foot tapping nervously beneath the table and an angry look searing my offending back.

"There!" I ejaculated at last, with an attempt at making light of the matter and at including Miss Cooper and Miss Fluette as recipients of my apology. "If you 'll only lose sight of the man in the instrument, you 'll forgive the liberty, Maillot.

"You may go; but let me tell you"—I eyed them all seriously—"prepare for a grilling at the inquest. I would advise you to be frank, as you have been with me; the instant a jury feels that answers are being dragged from a witness they straightway receive a bad impression. I 'm sure Miss Fluette would far rather put up with unwelcome publicity, than that you should suffer through any quixotic ideas of shielding her name."

He took it all as I intended he should, but never a sign of approval did I get from the two pretty girls. With my concluding words Miss Fluette thrust a hand under Maillot's arm and gave it an affectionate little squeeze.

Before the door closed, Miss Cooper's head bent and she glanced back at me across her shoulder. She was much the more beautiful of the two.



CHAPTER IX

TRACKS IN THE SNOW

I knew that Royal Maillot appreciated his position as well as I did myself; and I felt perfectly secure in granting him his liberty. In truth, I had a certain policy in doing so. He might possibly have slain his uncle; if so, however, the act had not been premeditated, but the result of a sudden uncontrollable outburst of passion, and he was not the sort of fellow who would run away from the consequences, however severe they might be. The effects of my friendliness and my willingness to take him at his word were plainly demonstrated by a gratitude which was the more convincing and trustworthy by reason of its not being outspoken. If he was keeping anything back, I was adopting the surest means of forcing his confidence.

And I meant, too, before I was through in this house of death, to send Alexander Burke about his business. My plans concerning that gentleman, however, included an espionage that would record every detail of his conduct for some days to come. During the time I was with Maillot in the library, a number of Mr. Page's business associates had gathered at the house for the purpose of performing such offices as they could. Among these was Mr. Ulysses White—of White, Stonebreaker & White—Mr. Page's attorney. This gentleman informed me that he was quite certain the millionaire had never made any testamentary disposition of his property, in which event Maillot would inherit the whole estate. This was a contingency which the young man had already mentioned, and for a few minutes its reiteration made me grave.

After spending some unprofitable time with the assembled gentlemen—all men of affairs who were impatient to be off—I sought out Stodger, finding him engaged in conversation with the coroner's deputy, a talented and ambitious young physician of the name of Wentworth De Breen. Later on Dr. De Breen and I became warm personal friends, and I shall have much to say of him before concluding these "Reminiscences." [1]

He and I went together to the landing to inspect the body, for there were one or two matters concerning which I was desirous of his opinion. Dr. De Breen was a blunt, abrupt young fellow, not given much to conversation upon topics outside his profession, and even then his remarks were invariably terse and much to the point.

He was very near-sighted, and while he persisted in wearing nose-glasses, it seemed impossible for him to obtain a pair that would remain on his nose for more than a minute at a time. They were saved from destruction by a black silk cord; and there was something in the way with which he would adjust them and fix his attention upon a person or thing, which made you feel that whatever escaped his scrutiny must be surpassingly minute. And such, indeed, was the fact.

He examined the crushed skull, silently and methodically, touching it here and there with fingers as light and refined as any woman's. Not a word did he utter until of a sudden he bent a scowling look of comprehension upon the iron candlestick. The only cranial wound or contusion was on the right temple.

"Who did this, Swift?" he asked.

"That's the problem, Doctor," was my reply. "There are two chaps, though, who are in a devil of a ticklish position. Since you 're here now, it will probably be you who will conduct the inquest, and I 'm a little curious to see how the evidence strikes you."

He nodded, and after deftly recovering his glasses, emptied the pockets. They yielded up nothing of the slightest consequence to either of us, and in a moment Dr. De Breen hesitated and frowned over the body's left hand.

He presently took it in his own hand, and scrutinized it intently, I watching him interestedly, for he had stumbled upon one of the very points concerning which I wanted his opinion. Next he turned quickly to the right hand. Both members were bruised and discolored in spots, and bore a number of abrasions.

Dr. De Breen now darted one of his quick, penetrating looks at me.

"Carrying something," he said concisely. "They couldn't break his grip—rapped him over the head."

"So that 's what you make of those scratches and bruises, is it?"—for I wanted to be convinced.

"Sure. . . . What was it?"

"I think I know," was my reply: "an oblong, leather box, about four inches by three or three and a half."

"Humph!"—as he filled in the blanks of a removal permit—"not much to kill a man for."

"Ever hear of the Paternoster ruby?" said I, casually.

Dr. De Breen turned to me with uplifted brows, and his glasses at once shot to the end of their tether. He blinked a moment.

"The devil!" he then muttered. "You don't say!"

From which I gathered that he had heard of it, and also that he had already drawn his own inference as to the contents of the leather box.

"I 'll wait till after the inquest, Swift," he informed me at parting, with a very direct and authoritative manner; "but if this case turns up any promising features, I 'm in; get that?"

I grinned cheerfully. "Very well, Doc."

And the last I saw of him, as he went away, he was still feeling aimlessly for the silken cord, the while his mind was intent upon something else. A queer, congenial chap was Wentworth De Breen, and as keen and fine-strung, despite his absent-mindedness, as is said to be the bridge leading across to Mahomet's paradise. He had a whim for dabbling in such puzzles as my calling now and then brought me face to face with; and before I got through with Mr. Page and his ruby, this hobby of the doctor's was to supply me with an invaluable bit of evidence.

I carried the removal permit to Mr. Ulysses White, and then betook myself to a more thorough examination of the tragedy's surroundings.

First of all, I went again to the untidy bedroom and the closet above the concealed safe.

A careful and methodical search brought very little to light which I thought might subsequently be of use to me. I examined the safe carefully with an idea of discovering a secret compartment; but there was none. The position of the safe itself, evidently, had been considered sufficiently private by the builders.

I paused for a moment beside an old-fashioned walnut table which stood close by the bed's head. Its top had been covered at some remote period with artificial leather, which was held around the edges by a strip or braid of similar material, the whole made secure by ornamental brass-headed tacks placed at intervals of two or three inches.

In the dust on the imitation leather cover was an oblong imprint which, the instant I perceived it, I was seized with a caprice to measure. Its dimensions proved to be just four by three and one-half inches.

Now, this mark in the dust was so manifestly fresh, and its size and shape so suggestive, that before I was well aware of the mental operation, my mind had already accounted for its presence there.

After Mr. Page had obtained the ruby from the safe last night, he had, for some reason, paused by this table before returning to Maillot in the library, and had laid the box thereon. Why? He had retained the candle, which he was at the time carrying, for there was no indication in the dust that he had temporarily relieved himself of that object. Had he turned aside to get something from the bed?—or maybe from the table?

The first mentioned, though unmade since it had last been slept in, was not disarranged in the way one would be obliged to disturb it in getting at the usual places of concealment, and it was hardly likely that Mr. Page would have taken the pains to obliterate any such indications.

As for the table, it had no drawer.

Pondering the matter, perhaps more than it warranted, I turned to the dresser. The only detail here worth a passing notice was a small pasteboard box containing a number of .38 calibre cartridges. Originally there had been fifty in the box. I counted them. Six were missing; just the number required to charge the cylinder of most revolvers of the same calibre. However, there was no revolver; nor did my entire examination of the apartment avail to bring one to light.

At last,—just as I was turning to leave the room,—I received a shock which, for the time being, fairly paralyzed me.

As I have already recorded, the room in which I now was occupied that portion of the ground floor immediately behind the conservatory, and in the wing containing the library—that is, the eastern wing, as the house fronted south. Two large windows, small-paned and opening on hinges, afforded light and ventilation. It was through one of these that my surprise came.

On entering the room I had drawn aside one of the blinds, and had done so without more than the most casual glance outward, because I had already thoroughly inspected the premises contiguous to the house.

But now, as I lifted my hand to draw the blind over the window again, I happened to look at the snow beneath the window. In a flash I froze, my outstretched hand remaining suspended in mid-air.

When Burke, Maillot, and I had been in this room an hour or so earlier, the snow was then like an unsullied tablet upon which no character had been written; but since that time—during the very minutes I had been busy in this room, perhaps—it had received a record. Somebody with unusually small feet—small enough to be a woman's—had walked around from the front of the house to the window. After looking in—possibly at me intent upon my investigation—the mysterious prowler had departed again, but not as he had come. The retreating footsteps extended away at a right angle from the house, and at a short distance disappeared among some shrubbery.

A moment's reflection made me feel sure that only my presence in the room had forestalled a rather perilous undertaking. Why should anybody want to look in, simply, and why adopt such a compromising means of entering, if the temptation had not been extraordinarily powerful?

My hesitation was but momentary. I flung open the window, leaped out and commenced running along the trail of the daring, unknown visitor. The visit had been so recent that I was spurred by a faint hope of overtaking the fellow.

I had not proceeded far before I heard a shout from the house. I glanced back without slacking, and saw Stodger staring at me in amazement from an up-stairs window. Motioning to him to remain where he was, I continued to follow the footprints.

As soon as the bushes screened me from the house, I arrived at a point where the trail presented a new aspect: the distance between the impresses measurably widened, signifying that my unknown caller had broken into a run the instant the shrubbery concealed him from the house. I quickened my pace.

The chase led me to a low stone wall marking the boundary of the premises, across some vacant lots, to the intersection of two streets, where the presence of a trolley line discouraged further pursuit.

On one of the corners, however, stood a grocery of the suburban variety; and when I arrived hatless and without an overcoat, the grocer came out, and eyed me curiously.

"Did you see anybody just ahead of me come this way?" I panted.

"Yep," returned the grocer. "Fellow came running across those lots not five minutes ago. Three other fellows waiting for him on the corner here."

"Three others!" I exclaimed. I had n't the least idea what it all meant.

"Yep," said the grocer. "When he came there were four. The whole bunch caught a down car. They was Chinymen."

I could do no more than vent my bewilderment in ejaculations.

"Chinamen!" I cried.

"Or Japs," remarked the grocer. "Come to think of it, they must 've been Japs; they did n't have no pigtails."

Well, there was nothing else for me to do but turn round and go back the way I had come. The grocer could tell me no more, and I was completely stumped. Why four Chinese—or Japs—should be interested in my movements in the Page house I could not in the least imagine.

But one thing was certain. I had skirted the border of some secret, desperate enterprise. It challenged directly all my powers and capabilities. I was irritated, nettled, not at my inability to fathom the mystery at once, but at a species of mental numbness which prevented me from even conjecturing a plausible theory to account for the strange episode.

I strode along in a deep, moody revery, unconsciously scanning each in turn of the absurdly small footprints. I vaulted the low wall into the Page premises, and before I had fairly recovered my balance, I pounced upon a folded sheet of paper which lay in the snow on one side of the trail.

I unfolded it. The sheet bore a roughly sketched floor plan of some house's interior. There was a wide hall, a square stair-well, and three or four rooms. One of the rooms—the smallest—had been designated by a cross.

All at once I uttered a little cry. This was a second-floor plan of the very house I had been exploring. Although I had not been up-stairs yet, I had seen enough of the relative positions of the different rooms to recognize the one indicated by the cross.

It was the bath room.



[1] Dr. De Breen figures conspicuously in the remarkable case of Estes Lamar, chronicled in the third volume of Inspector Swift's "Reminiscences."



CHAPTER X

THE SECOND STORY

The reader will have observed, very likely, that up to the present I have made no mention of a close examination of the second story, nor, moreover, of having ascended the stairs above the balcony-like landing with its grewsome burden.

Such was indeed the case; and while my failure in this regard might argue neglect, or at least a strange lack of system, I can only point out that the entire sequence of events, from the moment of my arrival at the house, had been most unusual.

It is rare that so many divagations become inevitable. I was obliged to acquaint myself with the circumstances as they forced themselves upon me, and not as if I had been free to ferret them out in accordance with any customary course of procedure. All along I had been impatient to get up-stairs; but first one thing and then another had arisen, demanding immediate attention. We shall soon learn, however, how my search in the second story was rewarded. While the results may appear not very significant, they were nevertheless of vast importance in pointing a way to the riddle's answer.

For, mind, although I was reasonably sure that the ruby represented the motive for the murder, I had been given a number of reasons for believing that this motive involved a plot infinitely farther-reaching than the determination of some common thief or housebreaker to secure the gem. If I wanted to fix responsibility for Mr. Page's cruel death, I would be obliged to lay bare the controlling cause in all its ramifications. Whether Maillot or Burke was the guilty man, it was at this stage of vital consequence that the State's Attorney be given light upon every factor in the tragedy; and as this was my business, it is not surprising that I was animated with an ambition to make a thorough job of the matter.

And furthermore, I was satisfied that the Paternoster ruby had not yet been removed from the house, wherever the murderer might be—a belief which I was very shortly to have strengthened by certain seemingly unimportant incidents. The trail in the snow was one of these confirmatory incidents, although I had no occasion yet to so regard it.

While it was my first duty, therefore, to discover the murderer, I saw no reason why I should not at the same time find the well-nigh priceless gem, inasmuch as I hoped that the latter would point definitely to the former.

The ruby had disappeared between eleven o'clock last night and the time of Stodger's arrival—shortly before three in the morning. One of the two men who had passed the night in the house might have secreted it. Their presence offered the most plausible explanation.

Was Maillot the one? His fantastic story was certainly a strain upon one's credulity, I must confess; yet, I had sat face to face with him, and I am not without skill—nor was I at the time—in penetrating a man's outward aspect and discerning the sincerity of his purpose. In justice to him, I can not emphasize too strongly how convincing had been every utterance of his, the which I have been at some pains to record. And then, I could not attribute the freshly oiled hinges nor the rifled safe to Maillot. Consequently the next step was to turn to Burke: when I did so I was met only by a mental image of his inscrutable tawny eyes; the baffling, impassive visage which showed no mark of age.

Well, Maillot did not have the ruby. And now, if a search of Burke's person and belongings resulted as the former search had, why, I must look to some hiding-place near at hand.

And this was a task after my own heart. I cast ahead in pleased anticipation to some delightful hours after nightfall in this dreary old mansion, when I would be alone and at liberty to pursue my quest with the least likelihood of being disturbed.

If the ruby were really here, I meant to remain pretty close to it until it came to light, or else have a dependable substitute take my place when it should become necessary for me to go abroad. It was this determination which led to the scar that will disfigure my face as long as I live.

The erstwhile secretary submitted without demur to an examination of his clothing, and without any change of expression that I could perceive. The pale eyes followed my movements with a blank, incurious stare (though Stodger maintains that they did not cease for an instant regarding him), and I was glad enough to see the fellow depart, after I had privately passed word to Stodger not to lose Burke until another man could relieve him.

The flight of stairs above the landing gave upon a hall which—excepting in the front, where there was a large diamond-paned window—entirely surrounded the stair-well, and was continued by a lateral passage connecting the gables or wings.



One leaning over the balustrade at the top looked down upon the ascending stairs, the balcony midway up, and a good portion of the spacious hall below. The lateral hall gave access to all the rooms on the second floor.

An examination of the appended plan, although drawn from memory and by fingers to which such a task is strange, will give a better idea of the locus criminis than any amount of verbal description alone can accomplish. So the reader, if he will consult the chart from time to time as the narrative proceeds, will escape much confusion in his attempts to follow the movements of the different actors.

Arriving at the head of the stairs, I first gave my attention to the etagere. This piece of furniture was simply a pedestal of shelves, without sides, front, or back, so that to tilt it in any direction far out of the perpendicular would mean to spill its burden of old newspapers and periodicals.

Maybe it would have been convenient in a music-room, but situated where it was it was certainly in the way of anybody using the stairs. If a person unfamiliar with the house should ascend the stairs in the dark, the instant he turned at the top he must almost inevitably collide with it—a circumstance which I was to have brought home to me a few nights later, with consequences which missed being fatal by only the slenderest of margins. But after all, I concluded, if a stranger missed it only by a miracle it might have served a double purpose here; no one slept in the second story, ordinarily, and it would make a good burglar alarm, as well as a repository for the iron candlestick and the sea-shell match receptacle.

From the point where it now leaned against the balusters back to the lateral corridor or hall, there were many little details to arrest and stimulate my curiosity. The carpet between these two points plainly showed signs of a recent struggle, and at the western vortex of the angle formed by the balustrade surrounding the stair-well, innumerable drops of congealed paraffin were scattered widely over the floor.

And the railing itself also held a record. Stout as were the uprights sustaining it, it had received the impact of a body sufficiently heavy to throw it askew. At this point on the railing there was a deep triangular dent, destined to assume a high place in solving the problem of Felix Page's murder.

When I stood directly in front of the bath room door, I could look down over the balustrade to the landing—the body had been removed to a more suitable place—and I could also see the front door and most of the first-floor hall.

A dozen or so feet west of the stair-well two doors opened upon the lateral passage. They were directly opposite each other; the front room having been the one occupied by Maillot the previous night, while the other was Burke's.

Now as I allowed my glance to rove along the dim-lighted hall in the direction of the two bed-chambers, it was at once arrested by some small—and at the distance, indistinguishable—object lying in the centre of the floor a few feet beyond the two doors. I went and picked it up.

It was the shabby leather jewel-case.

But now it bore many indications of extremely rough usage. It was not only open, but empty; the lid was bent, twisted out of shape, and hanging precariously by one damaged hinge. The leather was freshly torn and scratched, while the inner lining of faded blue satin had been slit in a number of places. I contrived after some manipulation to get the box into a semblance of its former shape, and then slipped it into a pocket of my coat.

Neither Maillot's room nor Burke's revealed anything of much consequence. In the former I noted the open wardrobe door, and, owing to its position relative to the bed, was obliged to admit the likelihood of Maillot's accident. In the other room, in a small leather satchel, were the papers by which Burke accounted for his presence. They were of no interest to me. I turned them over to Mr. White, who, with the other gentlemen, was just departing.

With a feeling of lively anticipation, I entered the bath room. I had not forgotten that this room alone had been designated by a distinguishing mark on the chart which I had found while following the mysterious footprints. But I discovered nothing to justify my hopes. The place was monotonously like other bath rooms in which I had been. I gave it an exceptionally thorough overhauling, then went carefully over it once more—even resorting to my magnifying-glass from time to time—but all to no purpose; the room was discouragingly wanting in anything that might be regarded as a clew.

In the end I fell to musing over a bar of common laundry soap on the stationary wash-stand. It was impossible not to contrast this humble detergent—for it was of a bigness and coarse yellowness to suggest the largest possible quantity for the smallest possible price—with the dead man's wealth, and to wonder a little at such petty economies as were signified by it, by the paraffin candles, the absence of servants, and by some other details of the menage which perhaps I have already mentioned.

I recalled, with a smile, that Burke had smelled of laundry soap, and that on the wash-stand in Maillot's room there had been no soap at all. Well, there are some queer ways of utilizing wealth; but I contend that, of all of them, to deny oneself the commonest comforts of existence is the queerest and the hardest to understand. A philosophy of living is involved utterly incomprehensible to me.

Passing through the bath room, I emerged upon the landing of the rear stairs. Across the landing was another small room, which contained, besides a dust-mantled sewing-machine, nothing but some broken and worn-out furniture.

I followed the stairway to the bottom, and about half-way down found a bit of flattened paraffin about the size of my thumb nail.

After re-ascending these stairs I stood once more looking idly down over the balustrade, going over in my mind the parts of the puzzle which had been set for me to bring together into an intelligible and perfectly rounded whole, and wondering what I would succeed in making of it all. For a while I was aware of a strange lack of confidence in myself, of a feeling of uncertainty. Had I been negligent in not arresting both Maillot and Burke? It seemed the simplest and most direct method of proceeding; it would be no difficult matter to fasten the crime on one or the other, or both of them; why should I go behind the few plain details which lay so invitingly before me?

Perhaps the intrusion of a pair of blue eyes into the midst of my cogitations had much to do with my irresolution. Somehow I was extremely desirous of winning their approval. The possibility that I might win more did not enter my thoughts, because, I reflected rather dismally, the owner of the blue eyes moved in a sphere in which I had neither part nor parcel.

Still, my determination to solve the mystery of Felix Page's death was inextricably interwoven with another determination to win one final friendly, commendatory look—perhaps a word or two, or even a warm hand-clasp—from Miss Genevieve Cooper.

How was I to do that? By fastening an odious crime upon her cousin's lover? I shrank from such an alternative. Heaven grant that so far I had not reasoned falsely.

It may seem a poor business thus to mix sentiment with one's humdrum daily affairs; but—well, and so it is. After mature reflection, I can think of but one extenuating plea: I was only twenty-six at the time.

Up to the present it had been difficult to ascribe to each circumstance its own proper value; but now they were beginning to shape themselves into some semblance of order, and for the first time a fairly complete concept of the tragedy's enactment irresistibly presented itself to me.

The antecedent circumstances leading up to the crime, however, were largely conjectural, although they were pretty strongly suggested by the details of the struggle itself. I was thus enabled to supply the missing portions with more or less plausibility. Here, then, is the way I reconstructed the night's occurrences in this house—the fatal sequence of events which began when Felix Page bade Maillot good-night, culminated in the older man's death, and ended with the flight of the murderer. You will perceive that the four "Chinese" had no place in it; I could find none for them.

After Mr. Page and Maillot separated, for some reason the former had not retired. I took it as being more than likely that he had returned to the library, where presently he fell into a doze before the dying fire. But, no, first of all he went to the safe to dispose of the box containing the ruby; after that he returned to the library. While he nodded over the fire the thief stole to the safe, opened it with the combination, and took not only the ruby, but everything else the strong-box contained.

But cautious as the thief is, some disturbing noise penetrates to the sleeper's consciousness; in fancy we may see the old man—fox, pirate of the pit, as he had been called—starting broad awake, fearless, every faculty alert and strained to catch the betraying sounds.

In a moment he bestirs himself to ascertain what is afoot in his house at so unseemly an hour. Noiselessly he enters the hall from the library, in time to behold the marauder—by the latter's own candle flame, I was positive—ascending the front stairs.

And here the tragic episode departs from all precedent; at this stage it assumes its baffling aspects. If the thief had not been a member of the household—even but a temporary member—why should he have gone up the stairs instead of leaving the house by the nearest way? And again, why should Mr. Page have followed the thief so stealthily if he had not recognized him?

But the master of the house steals on up the stairs behind the other. At about the time he arrives at the head of the stairs the thief vanishes: else why did Mr. Page pause to light the candle in the iron candlestick which stood upon the etagere?

Fatal move, that! In some manner the etagere is knocked forward against the balustrade; the thief is alarmed, although some door must have closed behind him. And now the old gentleman is facing no longer a thief merely, but a man with murder in his heart.

Which door had it been: Maillot's, or Burke's, or yet some other door?

Once more we are given a strong indication that Felix Page knew the man, for he and the assassin in limine do not immediately close in combat. Not yet. Some words certainly pass. The taper in the heavy iron candlestick must burn long enough to account not only for the drops of paraffin scattered about over the floor, but those that ran like congealing tears down the side.

I could fancy the outraged and mystified old gentleman demanding an explanation, and before long exploding with wrath, the thief standing hopelessly convicted—caught "with the goods."

Suddenly the struggle is precipitated by the infuriated householder endeavoring to recover his property. We may safely assume that it was by no gentle means that he sought to do this, and at once the battle wages to and fro between the head of the stairs and the lateral passage, quite up to the bath room door. The thief is striving to retain the leather box, the other to wrest it from him.

It is pretty certain, too, that the old gentleman hastily put down the iron candlestick before he grasped the box—on the floor, somewhere near the western angle of the balustrade—and in the end, as the combat in one of its uncertain revolutions sweeps past it, the thief frees himself with a desperate effort, snatches it from the floor, and becomes an assassin in actu.

The dull impact of the blow, as the scene is blinded by sudden darkness; the crash of the body against the railing; the dominant jar when the body strikes upon the landing below—and the dark deed is accomplished.

What next follows?

Panic on the part of the murderer, we may be sure, as he stands one second in a stupor of horror at what he has done; then he must have flown—whither?

It is at this juncture that Alexander Burke steps into the hall, and beholds nothing in the light of his own candle. It is at this point that Royal Maillot springs from his bed, collides with the open wardrobe door, and straightway forgets the tumult in his own physical suffering, until Burke raps upon his door. And it is at this point that, unless there was some third person in the house, either one or the other of these two young men has deliberately lied. In turning them both loose I trusted to convict the guilty man by his own conduct. It will develop how far my course was justified.

The mute but vivid testimony would seem to lead, step by step and with irresistible logic, straight to the private secretary—had it not been for two circumstances which placed him once for all beyond the possibility of having been the person who struck the blow.

First, he would have been but as a babe in Felix Page's powerful grasp; there would have been no struggle at all.

Second, the fellow was an arrant coward, and he would never have offered the least resistance unless convinced that he was in imminent peril of his life—which was improbable.

The rear stairway was associated with the thought of Burke's cowardice, for he had chosen that way to accompany Stodger: whose shoe-sole had left the flattened fragment of paraffin there?

For some time I had been alone in the house—save, of course, for the still, sheeted form. The place was as silent as any tomb. Then of a sudden a sound smote upon my ear that brought me in a flash to attention.

There is a certain fascination about a door slowly opening in a house which you suppose to be empty. Until you have found out the cause you ascribe it to anything from ghosts to Bengal tigers, and even then may be sure of a surprise. The invisible agency may turn out to be only the wind or a wandering cat. But it makes no difference what starts the door to swinging open; the bald fact of its doing so when by all known laws it should remain firmly shut, is per se potent enough, or hypnotic enough,—or whatever influence it is that it exerts,—to root you at once to the spot until the Unseen declares itself. In truth, an opening door is pregnant with such infinite possibilities.

It was with some such sort of suspended animation that I stared down over the balustrade and waited, my look glued upon the front door. It swung inward with a slowness inexpressibly aggravating. And then I recoiled with a little cry.

Miss Genevieve Cooper was standing in the lower hall, pale and trembling, and darting quick nervous glances in every direction.



CHAPTER XI

A PACT

At my involuntary expression of amazement, Miss Cooper looked up, and our eyes met. Her charming face immediately broke into a smile; her fears seemed to fall away from her like the dissolving of a sun-smitten mist.

"Mr. Swift!" she exclaimed under her breath. Her voice expressed relief. And, too, she spoke as if there might be others in the house whom her errand did not in the least concern. "I 'm so glad! I was afraid I should not find you here."

The idea of her wanting to find me for any reason was distinctly pleasing. I 'm afraid I appeared for the moment a trifle foolish; I was tongue-tied, at any rate.

"May I come up?" she went on brightly. "Or will you come down?"

She was so pretty standing there and looking up at me, so everything that a dainty, refined little lady should be, that I could have remained indefinitely watching her.

But I 'm glad to say that I did not. I found my tongue by and by, and voiced some inane remark to the effect that she might most assuredly "come up," if she had the least inclination to do so, but, on the other hand, that I was more than willing to "come down." Which I did, when she made known her choice by sitting down in the settle Stodger and I had occupied some hours earlier.

But I moved down the steps deep in meditation. Great as had been my surprise when the opening front door disclosed Miss Cooper, I was not long in surmising why she had come, and I was more than a trifle reluctant to discuss the brutal details of the tragedy with a lady so obviously gentle and refined. The subject was so utterly foreign to anything within her experience that I felt she could harken to and review the different aspects of the crime only with shuddering aversion. But, dear me, how incapable is any man of estimating a woman's fortitude!

While I descended to her, she continued to talk—the merest bit flurried, perhaps, but with a direct, fearless glance which the dullest comprehension must have understood.

"I suppose I should have rapped," she was saying; "but who was here to open the door? Poor Mr. Page! Poor man! How terrible it is!"

She was a little awed, and seemed glad when at last I stood confronting her.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, she made room on the settle for me to sit beside her. I did so, awkwardly enough. There was not the slightest trace of coquetry in her conduct, she was entirely free from the least indication of affectation, and I could not do otherwise than meet her in the same spirit, although I apprehended some difficult moments before our colloquy should be finished. Her errand must indeed be urgent that she should alone brave this house of death.

After a minute of hesitation on her part, during which she sat with downcast eyes while I took a base advantage of the opportunity to drink in her loveliness, she abruptly faced me. Her countenance reflected an expression of determination, tempered by the wistfulness of uncertainty and doubt.

"Mr. Swift," she began, in a straightforward manner, "it was simply impossible for me not to have sought you out—if not here, then at the police station, or wherever it is you make your headquarters."

I remarked that a message would have brought me speedily to her.

"Oh, no!" in quick protestation. "There is no place where we could have been private—to-day. And, besides, I would n't have put you to so much trouble."

"Trouble!" I interrupted. "I would have been only too glad."

She smiled at my warmth, proceeding:

"Anyhow, I succeeded in finding you alone; now tell me—truly—am I bothering you?"

"Truly, you are not bothering me in the least. I can fancy nothing nicer than sitting just like this and talking—with you. It's so—so—"

"Comfy?"—archly.

"Exactly. But that's a woman's word; I never would have thought of it."

The handsome eyes flashed a look at me which made me hastily revise my opinion that she was entirely free from any trace of coquetry.

"I did n't come here to listen to nice things," she said, smiling into my eyes; "I 'm awfully serious."

And, in very truth, she straightway grew grave. She drew a long breath, and sat suddenly more upright, questioning me with a look. Such fine, honest eyes!

Her first spoken interrogation was direct enough, in all conscience; while I was expecting some such inquisition, I was by no means prepared with an immediate answer.

"I want to know, Mr. Swift,—is it going to appear that Royal Maillot murdered his uncle?"

She spoke very quietly, but, too, very earnestly. Murder is an ugly word; I marvelled that she did not shrink from it.

"Why are you so anxious to know, Miss Cooper?" I temporized—"out of friendship for Mr. Maillot?"

"No," frankly meeting my intent look, "though that would be a sufficient reason." She paused a moment, biting her under lip in the intensity of her musing. Then,—

"Mr. Swift, I 'm going to be perfectly candid with you; I 'm going to lay bare my mind—and my feelings. I pray that you will do the same by me. Am I presuming too much?"

Lay bare my feelings—great heavens! She would have thought me crazy. In a sense, Torquemada himself could scarcely have made me more uncomfortable; but I would not have had that delightful tete-a-tete broken in upon for anything in the world.

"I realized this morning," she proceeded, after I had clumsily begged her to, "that Royal is in a desperate plight, though why or how he came to be I can't understand.

"I realized, too, that the story he told will appear incredible—even ridiculous—to anybody who does not know him. I do know him"—I could well believe that!—"and for that reason, nothing short of an admission of guilt from him would cause me to consider him as a participant—in any capacity, Mr. Swift—in last night's tragedy."

"Your loyalty does you credit," I murmured, for lack of anything better to say.

"Loyalty?" she cried, with emotion. "Oh, Mr. Swift! That's not the word! It's not loyalty that moves me to speak in Royal's behalf, although I would do much for him in any case. But—Belle—"

She was stopped by a sudden accession of feeling, and I tried to inject into my demeanor the encouragement she quite plainly needed.

"Before you go on," I quietly observed, "I will say that Mr. Maillot impressed me very favorably."

"Yes," quickly; "I also perceived that. It was that circumstance which finally overcame my reluctance to intrude upon you. You were greatly puzzled, though, baffled, by his extraordinary story."

"Not baffled, I trust," I said.

"Well, no; perhaps not baffled. But the extravagant recital that fell from his lips must have seemed to you fantastically improbable.

"It is chiefly for Belle Fluette's sake, however," she pursued, "that I want to learn—oh, everything about this dreadful affair—all the little details. I want to enlist your sympathies for Royal; not against him."

It was a relief when she grouped her desire for information into this vague generalization; I could see my way as long as she was not too specific. But some further intimate knowledge respecting this pretty young lady was imminently in store for me.

"Miss Cooper," said I, "I am against no man—except the guilty one; and even he, in a measure, has my sympathy."

"Then"—she was suddenly breathless—"in your estimation. Royal is not the—the—not the guilty—"

My smile checked her. Alas, I was not to escape.

"You read a meaning into my speech that was not in my mind," I said—and immediately regretted it. Her countenance at once reflected a deep concern.

"Please, please, Mr. Swift, don't be inscrutable with me," she pleaded.

I thrilled at the wistful light in her handsome blue eyes, and I looked longingly at the wavy brown tresses and at the scarlet lips, now eagerly parted and revealing a glimpse of pearly perfection beyond. Such delectable realities were quite unknown in my lonely life, and before them the image of Miss Fluette's more highly colored and aggressive beauty faded away to a mere blur.

"Miss Cooper," I rejoined, with perhaps unnecessary warmth, "heaven forbid that I should not be frank with you. The truth is, I 'm sorely perplexed. It did not require this appeal from you to spur me on to find a way for Mr. Maillot out of his predicament, for undeniably—whether by his own fault or by accident—he 's in a very serious one. Maybe, if you will state more definitely just what you want to know, I can then tell you."

The expressive eyes thanked me, then suddenly twinkled with a gleam of humor.

"Even a mere man," she sagely remarked, "could not have remained blind to the fact that Belle and Royal—foolish children!—are awfully fond of each other."

"Your assumption of mature wisdom is eminently becoming," said I, "because it is so apparent."

"My!" she retorted. "I really believe you improve with acquaintance."

"Thanks," I said; "I need encouragement."

"On the contrary," she said coolly, "I think a snubbing is what you need."

I dodged. "Yes," said I, "I could not help noticing that their affection is—er—rather immoderate."

Instantly a tiny line appeared between her brows; she was all seriousness again.

"There you have my interest in this matter—my reason for meddling," she informed me. "Belle's welfare means a great deal to me; just how much you can perhaps best understand after hearing a bit of my history. Have you the patience?"

What a question! Lucky it was for me this day that I could combine business with the delight of revelling in this agreeable tete-a-tete. It was lucky, in truth, for all who were being drawn into the web of the Page affair. For if the two had not fitted so smoothly together, the interests of the Central Office would have been forgotten.

She colored prettily at the ardor of my gaze—it was of no use; I could n't help it—but save for the circumstance that she temporarily averted her look from mine, went steadily ahead with what she had to say.

"I have been an orphan ever since I can remember, though my father and mother are not even memories. They fell victims to yellow fever in New Orleans before I was two years old. Uncle Alfred took me at once into his household, which has been my home all of my life that I know anything about.

"I am two years older than Belle, but reared together as we have been, we are more nearly sisters than cousins. Indeed, I even believe that we are closer together than most sisters; we love each other very, very dearly.

"You can see, then, how anything affecting her will equally affect me. Belle has been gently nurtured; she is a proud, high-spirited, intrepid girl, but of a delicate organism that would break beneath the shock of Royal Maillot being stigmatized by such a crime. I tremble to think of it!"

Her look was again bent upon me, with utmost gravity now, and her voice broke a little as she concluded:

"Can you comprehend my anxiety, Mr. Swift? Can't you see that I would make any sacrifice to forestall such a dreadful chance?"

In spite of her reserved nature and admirable habit of self-control, it was easy to see that she was deeply affected; she was, indeed, torn by conflicting doubts and anxieties; and I became meditative and, for her sake, exceedingly desirous of lightening the burden of her worry.

That very beautiful and very wilful young lady, her cousin, would never have made such an appeal to me. I did not care to conjecture the way in which she, long before this stage of the conversation, would have been expressing her indignation and withering me with her scorn and contempt.

"Miss Cooper," said I at length, "assume for just a moment that Mr. Maillot is guilty: would you counsel me, for the reasons you have stated, to turn aside from my duty and permit him to go unpunished?"

She caught her breath sharply. Her lips went suddenly white, and her look became a trifle wild. I watched her keenly.

"Mr. Swift!" she presently whispered, in dismay. "How unfair!"

"I do not mean to be unfair," I tried to make clear; but she cut me short.

"Are you trying to prepare me for—for the worst?"

"Gracious, no!" I expostulated, with an embarrassed laugh. "But I should like to have you answer my question."

"It is hideous even to assume such a thing," she very soberly made answer; "but if such were actually the case, I—I—"

"Well?" I prompted curiously, when she paused and pressed a hand to her throat.

Of a sudden the lovely eyes were brimming with tears. She timidly laid a hand upon my arm.

"You don't think he 's guilty, do you?" she murmured distressfully. It wrung my heart.

"Don't—please don't," I said hastily. "Here is my honest opinion, Miss Cooper: whatever that young man has done to involve himself in this affair, I am sure that he is no deliberate, cold-blooded assassin; my judgment of his character could not be so far at fault.

"For the same reason I am strongly inclined to believe his story, preposterous as it appears standing alone. I don't mind admitting—to you, Miss Cooper—that I 'm looking beyond him for the guilty man."

She drew a long breath of relief and clasped her hands in her lap. But how little did either of us realize that we had disposed of one difficult situation only to turn round and find ourselves face to face with another. My candor, to which she had made such a powerful appeal, soon led to an impasse; one that neither of us was in the least prepared for.

"Of course," she said presently, in a low voice, "I would not utter a word or lift a finger to influence you from what you regard as your duty. If your assumption were true, why, I would be with Belle, doing all that lies within my humble power to comfort her."

She leaned toward me impulsively, her face all at once bright and animated.

"Mr. Swift," she began, and stopped amid sudden confusion.

"Tell me, Miss Cooper," I encouraged her.

"Oh, I can't—I should not," she said, blushing.

Her blushes signified a deal to me, for I harbored an idea that she was not given to betraying her feelings so vividly. I was curious.

"The first impulse was the best, I 'm sure," I urged.

"It was merely a flitting thought," she responded, her repose still shaken; "it was purely out of absent-mindedness that I came so near to voicing it. It was nothing, believe me. There—it is gone!"

"Which is to be deplored," I soberly returned. "I attach considerable importance to your thoughts. Besides, you opened this conversation with an assurance of frankness. Perhaps—so far—I have n't been as frank as I might; but it's simply because I have not yet found words to tell you all you want to know."

At once she stripped the occasion of its seriousness.

"Dear me!" she laughed, "you are a diplomat, too; how alluringly you persuade one to talk! Very well. If the impertinence of my poor little idea will not drive you to changing your opinion, I will put it into words."

I waited.

"I wondered," she continued shyly, "supposing I knew every detail of this crime that you know—if I could aid you any. Only in this one particular case," she made haste to add, "because it means so much to me."

My pulses leaped. The idea of having this lovely girl as a coadjutor, to give her sharp wits free play with the harassing minutiae which had not only arisen but were bound to continue to arise as I went deeper into the mystery, was one that filled me with joy.

After all, doubtless I had been unnecessarily considerate of her feelings. Miss Cooper was a gentlewoman, to be sure; but it did not inevitably follow that she was too sensitive to harken to a distasteful topic. I know that my features must have reflected my feelings at this moment, for the color began to grow deeper and deeper in her pretty face, and at last she sprang nervously to her feet.

"It was only a silly impulse," she deplored, in a flustered rejection of the scheme; "it was very stupid of me to express it. Pray forget it. . . . I—I must go." She darted an uncomfortable glance toward the door.

I did not stir. She was so lovely in her discomposure, so inexpressibly winning, that I sat there with my heart throbbing as it had never throbbed before.

Make her my confidante? Every nerve of my body thrilled at the thought. And the incentive that had prompted the proposal left it shorn of all forwardness or presumption. I appreciated the cause of her agitation; and at last, with an effort, I hid my own emotions behind an appearance of calmness.

"Please sit down again," I entreated. "It is a bargain."

She stood irresolute, poised for flight, yet constrained by a desire to return again to the settle. Her color was still high, her eyes were sparkling, she was breathing fast.

"You would be an invaluable aid," I said simply. "The idea, instead of being impertinent, gratifies me more than I can express; I 'm sometimes very blind, Miss Cooper. And think: you may be the instrument of freeing Mr. Maillot from all suspicion or blame."

Slowly, her eyes shining, she resumed her seat. It was manifest that my regarding the matter so favorably pleased her immensely—doubtless because the potentialities appealed strongly to her curiosity and imagination, aside from any faith she might have entertained in her ability really to assist me. She was collected once more, but alive with enthusiasm.

"Such an alliance," I went on, "will entail many demands upon your time; from now on I shall make no move that we have not threshed out together."

"How lovely!" she murmured, joyfully. "And you will always find me ready."

And then I told her everything there was to tell. I recounted every incident that had befallen me since coming to the house, every fragment of possible evidence that my search had brought to light; to all of which she listened with the closest attention, interrupting only occasionally to elicit more comprehensive information. Verily, how I had misjudged her!

Next I strove to prepare her against the inquest. "It will try your strength to the utmost," said I. "What with Mr. Maillot's injured eye, coupled with the struggle preceding the fight and Burke's inability to have delivered the death-blow himself, you must anticipate the worst."

"Royal may have to go to jail?" she interrupted, in a troubled voice.

"It's not unlikely. If the coroner's jury fastens the crime upon him, the coroner will have no alternative except to hold him for the grand jury. If we could show that a third person was in the house last night, it would help him tremendously.

"But bear in mind, Miss Cooper," I strove earnestly to allay her fears, "that the inquest will be merely a preliminary hearing, of no consequence further than the extent to which it will excite comment and influence public opinion; that's the worst feature of it for an innocent man. Whatever we may succeed in accomplishing will in all probability come after the inquest."

Last of all, I produced the small leather jewel-case, and the visiting-card I had found lying before the concealed safe. She examined the card first, reading aloud the inscription thereon:

"'I pray that you be showered with all the blessings of the season. With love'—"

Her face went suddenly white. The hand holding the card dropped to her lap. She sat bolt upright, and directed at me a look of surprised bewilderment.

"Clara!" she gasped. "Why, that's—"

We both started and looked at the front door.

"Listen!" Miss Cooper whispered.

Light, stealthy footsteps sounded upon the porch. Next instant the knob was being slowly turned by a cautious hand.



CHAPTER XII

THE CIPHER

We sat rigid and breathless, with our eyes glued to the slowly revolving door-knob. At last a faint click announced that the latch was released. Then the door opened a few inches, to reveal the slender figure of Alexander Burke.



Manifestly he was ignorant of our presence. Neither I nor Miss Cooper stirred, and Burke was for the time being blinded by having come so abruptly from the snow glare into the comparative dimness of the hall.

I regretted that we were not in a position to follow his movements unobserved, for of course he must be attracted to us the instant either of us stirred. I was exceedingly curious to learn what had brought him back to his employer's house.

And now he did a singular thing. His hand was still on the knob, and only his head and the upper part of his body projected through the doorway. His attitude was that of a strained listener; and had I not been there to testify to the contrary, one might have sworn that he received a warning not to enter. The silence, however, remained absolutely unbroken.

All at once a shudder convulsed his frame. He slowly withdrew his head, as if fearful of disturbing the house's lifeless occupant. Next he deliberately closed the door, without entering at all.

Miss Cooper turned to me in blank amazement, and for a moment I confess that I was nonplussed myself by such singular conduct. But in a second I comprehended: the fellow was afraid.

I laughed quietly, and explained to my companion:

"He expected to find the house thronged with people, and the undisturbed stillness dismayed him. . . . Careful! He's still on the porch, hesitating between desire to enter and fear to make the attempt. Slip quietly into the library; I mean to find out what he 's after, if I can. He does n't need to know of your being here."

She colored, and nodded in comprehension, and at once tripped across the hall, carrying with her the card and jewel-box.

"Mind, I shall be close at hand," I whispered after her; which she acknowledged, before the door hid her from me, with one of her bright, friendly smiles.

I then went and threw the front door wide open. Burke jumped as if I had unexpectedly fired a shot at him.

"Come in," said I, dryly.

He stared unblinkingly at me for a moment, but during that moment he recovered his equanimity, and became again his customary inscrutable self. It would perhaps be too much to say that the color returned to his face, for it was colorless at all times. However, I knew that for once I had caught the man off his guard.

I surveyed him with derisive contempt.

"I didn't expect to find you here," he said at length.

"And all whom you did expect to find have gone," returned I. "But that's no reason why we should stand holding the door open and filling the house with cold. Come in."

"I don't understand you," said he, hesitating a second longer; "I was looking for no one."

I glanced out for some sign of Stodger, but saw nothing of him. Then I closed the door and placed my back against it.

"Perhaps no one in particular," I observed. "Neither did you anticipate encountering such a forbiddingly empty house. Look here, Burke, what did you come back for?"

His eyes might have been actually sightless, his pallid features a lifeless mask, for all the expression they conveyed; there was absolutely no facial sign by which I could even determine whether I commanded his attention; but his hands were never quiet, the slender, nervous fingers twitched unceasingly.

Was his mind occupied by the crack in the library door? For an instant I imagined that he detected Miss Cooper's presence, and my look hardened with a sudden gust of anger; but he immediately answered my question.

"I came for the papers I brought here last evening; they should be returned to the file-case."

"Is Mr. Page wanting them?" I inquired ironically.

"It's not a joking matter, Mr. Swift; it would be decidedly awkward for me to have them misplaced."

"Then I can set your mind at ease: I gave them to Mr. Ulysses White"—naming Mr. Page's lawyer.

Burke elevated the blank expanse where his eyebrows should have been.

"Don't you think," said he, in a tone of hurt surprise, "that you might properly have consulted me before making any disposition of them? I feel, in a way, responsible for all the business affairs which Mr. Page ordinarily entrusted to me."

"I daresay I might have done so," returned I, indifferently, "if you had been present when I handed them to Mr. White. Don't you regard them as being safe with him?"

"To be sure—they could n't be in safer hands. But it is the implication that I no longer command or deserve the confidence—"

"Pooh!" I unceremoniously cut in. "Burke, if I were you, I 'd be a little careful how I emphasized an attitude of innocence toward this affair. There 's no implication or innuendo about; I 'm only too willing to tell you frankly that I am something more than suspicious of you. I know that you have n't told everything you might about this murder. You 're lucky that I have n't run you in before this. Is that plain enough?"

He recoiled a step, with a queer, hissing intake of breath.

"Swift," he muttered, "I have half a mind to make you prove your words."

"Do," said I, grimly. "I would like nothing better."

He stared at me so long that it gave me an uncanny feeling. I broke the silence with a blunt demand.

"Burke, where 's that ruby?"

"Don't try to browbeat me," he said through his teeth. "Please understand that you are not dealing with a criminal, and I don't propose to be bulldozed by any fat-witted sleuths."

I laughed in his face.

"Maybe it will interest you to know that I have wit enough to contrast your secretive manner with Maillot's willingness to talk, and to draw the one consistent inference therefrom."

There is a nervous affliction of the eyes, called by pathologists nystagmus, which is characterized by a perpetual weaving to and fro of the eyeballs; it is impossible for the unfortunate victim to fix his look upon a given point without the greatest effort. When the attention of such a one is not centred the swaying of his eyes goes on incessantly.