PART TWO—THE SCRAP OF LACE

I

One morning when I was later than usual in arriving at Gramercy Park (Mme. Storey and I had been working the greater part of the night), Eddie, the hall boy, informed me that there was a lady waiting upstairs.

"Upstairs?" I repeated in surprise. I had the key to our offices.

"I placed a chair in the hall for her," he said. "She wouldn't wait down here. She was excited. That's her car outside."

The car (to which I had given an admiring glance on the way in) was a foreign-built limousine perfect in its appointments; the chauffeur one of those exalted creatures with the self-possession of a cabinet minister.

I hastened up the single flight of stairs in no little curiosity. There was the chair where the boy had placed it, but the lady was walking jerkily up and down. It was the more noticeable in that she was of an age and figure not given to unnecessary exertion.

I did not recognize her until I had thrown open the door of my office, letting a shaft of light out into the hall.

It was Miss Teresa de Guion. You could have blown me down with a fan. Not alone the fact that she was there at all at such an hour, but the state she was in. She had left off the famous makeup; her face was streaked and hollowed with distress; and she, often called the best-dressed woman in New York, had evidently thrown on her clothes anyhow. It was the first time I had seen her looking anywhere near her age, which was about sixty, and it shocked me. But a handsome woman still, with hair black as a raven's wing, and young, dark eyes.

Preceding me into my office, she breathlessly demanded to know where Mme. Storey was. I told her I was expecting her at any moment. Could I not find her on the telephone? I called up my mistress's apartment, and was told, as I expected, that Mme. Storey was on her way down.

Miss de Guion sat on a chair biting her pale lips. I hope I did not show my feelings unduly, nevertheless it made her exquisitely uneasy to have to sit there under my eyes. Presently she asked in a thick voice if she might wait in Mme. Storey's room. I made haste to open the door for her, and she passed in.

Teresa de Guion was one of the notable figures of New York life. She was, I think, the first, and certainly the greatest, of social secretaries. But the word secretary does not do her justice; prime minister would be nearer it. She came of a family of French descent that for several generations had ridden the crest of the wave in New York society. Their wealth originated in South America. Teresa, the last of her line, more than upheld the family traditions, for she was not only beautiful and vivacious, but she had a courage and freedom rarer then than now, and not on that account any the less potent.

It was odd that she had never married. They say she had a swarm of admirers; that it was part of a young man's education to tag after Teresa de Guion for a season or two. But she never distinguished one above his fellows; she was never even reported to be engaged. It may be that with all her beauty and cleverness she lacked something of essential charm. Charm for men, I mean. I suppose it would have taken a deal of charm to gloss over for men, her undoubted masterfulness. She always had devoted women friends.

When she was in her sixth or seventh season, that is to say, still a dazzling young beauty, her father died suddenly—killed himself, I have heard it whispered, leaving her penniless. One of the innumerable revolutions in South America had swept away everything he possessed. The only equipment Teresa had was her social equipment, and she promptly turned that to account. The two or three women who mattered most in New York society were her intimate friends. She undertook to relieve them of the more onerous part of their social duties; arranging their entertainments, keeping their lists, sending out their invitations.

This was one side of her business. The other lay in introducing sufficiently rich people to society. She could do that; she had the prestige and she had never abused it. She made no bones about it, for she was refreshingly frank. Therein lay her strength.

She was a success from the start. Indeed there was never anybody like her; for she had the aplomb of a duchess, and never lowered her colours for a single instant under any circumstances. Her best friend and principal client was the third Mrs. Peter John Cruger, who, as everybody knows, ruled New York society with a despotic hand for almost a generation, and Teresa de Guion was her grand vizir.

The great Mrs. Cruger died about five years ago, and her mantle descended, as a matter of course, to her eldest son's wife, Mrs. Peter John Cruger the fourth. This event, instead of overthrowing Miss de Guion, was actually the means of strengthening her hand, for the fourth Mrs. Cruger, better known as Bessie Cruger, while a beautiful and charming woman, was of a lazy and indifferent temper that found the duties of her exalted station very irksome. She yielded up more and more to Miss de Guion, who was only too ready to assume it; she gave up the entire direction of things social to the family friend. Things have very much loosened up and spread out, these days, but the Cruger set was still the set, and the only access to it lay through Teresa de Guion.

She and Mme. Storey knew each other well, of course. It would have been impossible for two such eminences in the little world that centres east of Central Park not to have become acquainted. I had seen Miss de Guion several times before. She was still a very charming woman, more charming than ever, perhaps. She had progressed with the generations; indeed she probably found this free and easy generation more congenial to her than her own had been. No one ever thought of her as an old woman; all her friends were young people; she still moved the gayest among the gay.

Such was the person I was so astonished to find at our office door at half past ten in the morning and in so extreme a state of agitation. I immediately scented a cause célèbre.

My mistress was not long in arriving. She had come in with the composed and languorous air that so belies her. She was in a high good humour, I remember.

"Bella, you have a disgustingly virtuous look," she said. "I see you mean to give me a very bad morning."

It is one of her pet fictions that she would never work if I did not drive her to it. I play up to it, of course. "Then your conscience must be troubling you," I replied.

As I have said before, to me Mme. Storey is the most beautiful creature in the world. I would be repaid for all my hard work simply by the privilege of looking at her every day. She is more than physically beautiful; grace hangs about her like a lovely garment. Everything she does, every gesture is therefore bound to be beautifully right.

Upon this day I remember, her tall figure was habited in a slip of warm brown velvet lined with orange silk which was designed to show in the sleeves and the folds of the girdle. On her head was a little straw hat of a peculiar vivid shade of blue that few women but herself could have worn to advantage. This elegant costume with the light-hearted touches suggested that she had planned a serene and ladylike day. I doubted that it would be realised. On her arm perched Giannino, the black ape, in a little orange jacket and cap with gold bells.

I said: "Miss Teresa de Guion is waiting in your room."

She glanced at me with raised eyebrows. But I said no more. I knew she would find out soon enough what was the matter, and she hates unnecessary comment.

She went on into her room, and I ground my teeth a little in chagrin. I did so want to witness the meeting of those two, and to hear what they had to say to each other. I did my best to start to work, but hardly with success, for I guessed there was something afoot far more exciting than the ordinary routine.

In a moment or two, to my joy, the little buzzer under my desk sounded. I sprang to my feet, snatching up my note-book. But at the door I held myself back for a moment, not to appear too eager. My entrance into the great room created a sudden silence. Evidently an important communication had already been made, for Mme. Storey looked grave.

Mme. Storey sat at the wide table with her back to the windows, Miss de Guion at her left, facing her. The latter held a cigarette between her agitated fingers, but she had only half lighted it, and it was already out. Mme. Storey handed over Giannino to me, with instructions to put him in his little house in the middle room. This presaged action. She consulted her calendar of engagements for the day.

When I returned to her desk she started issuing instructions crisply: "Bella, please call up Dr. Pulford in White Plains. Tell him I shall call for him at noon upon a matter of the most urgent importance, and shall ask for about an hour of his time. Then call up Sidney Crider at this number. Tell him to get into touch with Bourne, and to turn over his work on the Rampray case to Bourne. Then tell Crider to take a train for White Plains at twelve o'clock, and that you will be waiting for him in the station there. Before he starts, let him send his brother to this office to take your place, so that there will be somebody here that we can call up. Then call up Governor Rampray, J. G. Cowley, and Coatsworth and tell each one with apologies, that owning to unforeseen circumstances, I shall be unable to keep my appointments with them today, and that I will write or telephone asking for new ones. Young Crider will have to receive anybody else who may come here. Telephone my maid and ask her to come down and get Giannino. He is not to have bananas today. When we go out, leave the key with Eddie, to hand to young Crider when he comes. While you're telephoning I'll change my clothes."

"Must you stop for that?" faltered Miss de Guion.

"My dear! I couldn't undertake a job in the field rigged like this. I have everything here. I'll be ready before Bella's through telephoning."

"Couldn't we leave her to follow us by train?"

"Impossible, my dear! I must have her to take down your statement on the way to Cariswoode."

"My statement!" exclaimed Miss de Guion aghast. "Taken down—"

"Why, of course," said Mme. Storey. "We must be businesslike. Here, you have dwelt too long on this horror. I shall give you a drink before we start."

II

The extra seats in the Cruger limousine were on swivels, so that I was able to turn around and face Mme. Storey and Miss de Guion while they talked. I had a brief-case on my knees, and my note-book on top of it. The car had such wonderful springs I was able to take dictation without too much difficulty.

Mme. Storey was now wearing a trim tweed suit and a sport hat without any trimming. The severity of the costume made her look girlish. It suggested hard work ahead.

"Tell me as detailed a story as you are able," she said to Miss de Guion. "We have plenty of time, and it will save going back over the ground later."

Miss de Guion had got a better grip on herself by now. "I went up to Cariswoode, the Cruger country place near White Plains, on Sunday morning," she began. "I took my secretary, Louise Mayfield, with me, because there was a lot of work to be done in connection with the Elizabethan fête that Mrs. Cruger is giving for charity next month. The letters to those we wanted on the different committees had to be mailed from Cariswoode, because they were supposed to be written by Mrs. Cruger herself."

"What sort of girl was Miss Mayfield?" asked Mme. Storey.

A spasm of pain passed over Miss de Guion's face. "A very handsome girl, if that is what you mean," she said in a low voice. "You will see her."

"No, I mean her nature, disposition," explained my mistress.

Miss de Guion passed a hand over her face. "It's hard for me to describe her to you," she said wearily. "She's been so close to me these last months. She was very capable. She's the only girl I ever had who could come out of herself when it was required, and exert charm, fascination; and when the occasion had passed, immediately become the self-contained secretary again. Oh, she was invaluable to me! Invaluable!"

There was something very affecting in the spectacle of the old lady's dry-eyed despair. She was a hard old lady, and it is much more terrible, of course, to see a hard person cut up than a soft one.

Mme. Storey maintained a businesslike attitude, as the kindest thing under the circumstances. "How long has she been with you?" she asked.

"Eighteen months."

"How did she come to you?"

"She brought me a letter of introduction from a school friend now living in Pittsburgh. My friend described her to me as an orphan of good family obliged to earn her own living. That in itself, so like my own situation, would have warmed my heart to her. And she had other recommendations. She wrote a very characteristic and aristocratic hand. Very like my own, in fact. Almost impossible to find nowadays. Just what I wanted for filling in invitations and addressing envelopes. I engaged her at once for that purpose."

"And gradually discovered her other qualifications?"

"Yes. I found that I could entrust anything to her tact. A natural tact that scarcely required instruction. Oh, I leaned on her so!"

"Well, when you arrived at Cariswoode on Sunday," prompted Mme. Storey.

"There was only a small party. Vera McPeake—"

"The daughter of the lead trust?" put in Mme. Storey dryly.

"Yes; heiress to a hundred millions more or less," said Miss de Guion without perceiving any irony. "Not a bad sort of girl. She will do in time. Willing to learn."

"Who else?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Only Jack Rowcliffe."

"Ah, he and Miss McPeake are engaged, aren't they?"

"Yes."

"Are they in love with each other?"

Miss de Guion looked at her questioner in surprise. "My dear! How should I know? That's their affair. It's a wonderful chance for both of them. She has the prospect of the hundred millions and he has the social position. Each is young and personable, so that it is not a case of either having to swallow a pill."

I suspected that Miss de Guion must have promoted this match. It was right in her line.

Miss de Guion's face began to break up again, and she dabbed her tearless eyes with her handkerchief. "But what has this got to do with my poor—my poor Louise?" she faltered.

"I must consider every circumstance," said Mme. Storey gently. "What can you tell me about Miss Mayfield's friends, associates, lovers?"

"Very little. She had made her own friends, of course, but not very intimate ones, I fancy. My friends and my work consumed most of her time. As regards men, she had a level head, and no little humour. I never heard of, nor suspected, the least entanglement in that direction."

"Well, what did you do upon your arrival at Cariswoode?"

"We lunched."

"Was Miss Mayfield present?"

"No. She was not a guest, you see, though Bessie Cruger was most kind to her. She lunched somewhere; in her room, I suppose; and immediately went to work on the letters. It was a disagreeable day, and none of us left the house. A few people, intimate friends, came in for tea. Louise came down for tea at Bessie's, Mrs. Cruger's, especial request."

"And dinner?" asked Mme. Storey.

"No. Dinner was a formal affair; sixteen covers. Shall I name the guests?"

"No need now."

"After dinner a number of people came in for music. Music on Sunday nights is a regular institution at Cariswoode when the Crugers are there. I have spent a lot of thought on making those occasions unique of their kind. Ischl played, and Doria, the new Spanish soprano, sang. Louise came down for the music; she was very musical. Afterward we danced."

"Miss Mayfield too?"

"No. She retired early, as she had a busy day before her. Monday, that is yesterday morning, we lay late. I had my breakfast in bed. Afterwards I went to Bessie's boudoir en négligé, and we smoked and gossiped for an hour or so. Vera McPeake was there too. During this time Louise was working in the boudoir adjoining my bedroom. Afterwards I wrote a few letters, dressed for lunch, and after lunch Bessie, Miss McPeake and I were driven into White Plains to do a little shopping."

"Where was Rowcliffe?" put in Mme. Storey.

"He went off to the Kenwood Club to play golf."

"Go on."

"We returned to Cariswoode for tea. Immediately afterwards we went to dress, for we were dining at the Heber Bassetts' in Ridgefield before going on to the Van Brocklin dance, also in Ridgefield. We started shortly after six, as dinner was for seven, and we had twenty miles to drive. Louise came downstairs to see us off. She was to dine with some friends in Scarsdale near by, the Hyatts. She did not have to start so early, and she was not dressed yet. She came out on the terrace as we drove away, and that is the last—that is the last—" The old lady was overcome by emotion again.

Mme. Storey patted her hand. "Hurry on. Hurry on," she said.

Miss de Guion pulled herself together. "The dinner? It was just a dinner. There was nobody of any account there. Bessie is much too lax in such matters. The late Mrs. Cruger was always consulted in respect to the people she was asked to meet at dinner, but Bessie will not trouble herself. I would have attended to it, but I was busy in New York. Consequently we were bored. We went on to the dance at the ridiculous hour of nine-thirty. One has to humour the Van Brocklins. Long established people, but hopelessly outdistanced now. Fancy asking people to dance at nine o'clock! Bessie would have dropped them long ago, but Pete Cruger insists on keeping up the connection, simply because old Mr. Van Brocklin was an associate of his father's—"

"By the way, where is Mr. Cruger now?" put in Mme. Storey.

"Fishing, in Canada. He has been telegraphed for."

"Go on."

"There is nothing to say about the dance, either. It was as dull as we expected. A Viennese orchestra, because the Van Brocklins presume to frown upon jazz. Old-fashioned waltzes, fancy! One expected to hear the strains of a schottische or a polka next. We left at the earliest possible moment, about one. It was three when we got home."

"I thought you said it was only twenty miles?"

"We had an accident. We ran out of gasolene on the road. Bessie was most annoyed."

"This car and this chauffeur?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Yes. We had to sit there an hour while he walked back to some place where he could get gas. It was very tiresome."

"Go on."

Miss de Guion's agitation rose afresh.

"It seemed to me," she said, "that I had no more than fallen asleep when I was violently awakened by my maid. The girl was utterly distraught, her hair flying in every direction; she was holding a bed quilt around her. She stuttered out something, I can't tell you what. But the purport was clear. Something had happened to Louise. Louise was dead!" Miss de Guion put a hand over her eyes.

"I sent the girl away to cover herself," she presently went on. "I stopped only for a dressing-gown and slippers, and found my way to the floor above, where I knew Louise was lodged somewhere. I was guided to her room by the sight of a little group of servants at the door—peering in. They parted as I came up. I looked in and I saw—I saw my poor Louise lying on the floor in front of her dressing-table. The chair was close beside her, as if she had slipped from it. She was wearing her prettiest evening dress of yellow malines. I had given it to her. It had not been worn before—

"I could not—I could not bring myself to touch her, but they told me she was already cold and stiff. It was only too evident that she had fallen as she was dressing the night before, and had lain there all those hours!"

"The room?" asked Mme. Storey softly.

"It was in perfect order. No sign of any disturbance. Louise's dress was not disordered; her hair was perfectly arranged. The clothes she had taken off were put away. On the bed lay her evening cloak, side by side with her night gear, ready for her return."

"Doors? Windows?" asked Mme. Storey.

"There was but the door from the hall, and a cupboard door. The door from the hall was locked, they told me, and the key on the inside. The butler had forced it. There was but one large window. It was closed."

"Does that not seem odd in warm weather? Was it locked?"

"I cannot tell you that."

"Go on."

"The doctor had been telephoned for; Dr. Singer. He came. I retired while he made his examination. I—I could not bear it. He reported that it was a case of heart failure. It seemed the obvious explanation, for I remembered having heard Louise laughingly refer to her weak heart."

"What happened then?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Dr. Singer returned to White Plains. He said he would issue the necessary certificate. Shortly afterwards Mrs. Cruger sent her personal secretary in to the—the undertaker to make the arrangements."

"You notified Miss Mayfield's relatives?"

"She had no near relatives. I expected to take the last sad duties upon myself."

"Go on."

"When Mrs. Cruger's secretary—his name is Jamison, got to the mortuary rooms, Singer's car was waiting there. Dr. Singer had brought the certificate. While they were inside the establishment, the two chauffeurs got into talk about the affair, and Dr. Singer's chauffeur told Bracker, our chauffeur—"

"This man again?" asked Mme. Storey with a nod towards the front seat.

"Yes—told Bracker that his master had told him the girl looked as if she might have been asphyxiated, but that it would cost him his practice to bring up anything like that in connection with the Crugers. There is the miserable story that has thrown us into such confusion!" Miss de Guion cried passionately. "Mere backstairs gossip, I dare say. But what were we to do! It is damnable!"

"Let us hope it is only gossip," said Mme. Storey gravely. "At least we will get a dependable verdict from Pulford. He's a good doctor, though not a fashionable one."

"This Bracker is a well-meaning fellow," Miss de Guion went on. "He told Jamison at once, who told Mrs. Cruger when he got back, and Bessie instantly sent for me. I found her in a terrible state. Bessie Cruger is my dearest friend, but I am not blind to her faults. She would almost rather die than exert herself in any direction. She was determined not to take any notice of the matter. I think it is just idle gossip myself, but I pointed out to her that, the story having once been set in circulation, we could not let it go on rolling up credence and support like a wet snowball. It must be investigated, I said. She would not hear of calling in the police, but I had the happy inspiration of suggesting your name. Bessie welcomed that, and instantly dispatched me to New York to fetch you."

III

Cariswoode is, or was, one of the most famous country-houses in America, and I was full of curiosity concerning it. To reach the house one had to pass through an extensive ornamental park in the English style. The park was a bit too well cared for to my taste. There was something immoral in keeping so much rich land trimmed, prettified, and out of use. The house, when it burst into view, took my breath away by its mere size. With central block and wings it must have had a frontage of close on three hundred feet. I suppose in the three stories there were two hundred windows in view, all brightly polished. All very well for an institution, a hotel, a club, but preposterous for a dwelling. As a matter of fact, it has since become the most fashionable club in Westchester county.

It was magnificent, but it was not beautiful. Built of red brick in the Tudor style, as that was conceived thirty or forty years ago, the errors of taste were now only too apparent. It already looked old-fashioned. But it was imposing.

My curiosity respecting the interior was not to be gratified at the moment; for when we arrived it was already time for me to go back to White Plains to meet Crider. I therefore remained in the car. My instructions were simply to bring Crider to the house, explaining the situation to him as well as I was able, on the way, in order to save time later.

Crider turned up, of course. He is absolutely dependable. Of all the men who work for us regularly or on occasion, I set the most store by Sidney Crider; he is so quiet and sure of himself. One of the best things about him is that he can listen intelligently. You don't have to wear yourself out in tedious repetition and explanation. He received my strange tale quite as a matter of course.

When we got back, and at last got into the big house, my eyes flew about. It was certainly a coup d'oeil as the French say, or, as we would put it, an eye-opener. From the great central hall which rose to the roof with stairways and galleries, a vast corridor led off at either hand, so long you could scarcely see to the end, and with room after room opening off each side. These corridors were lined with paintings in elaborate gilt frames; with statuary, consoles and settees. The decoration was all of the "red" period; i.e., elaborate carved mahogany, thick red carpets, crimson walls and hangings. The richness of it all was simply overpowering, but I could not conceive of anybody being at home in such a museum. Frankly, it intimidated me. I felt like an insect.

Mme. Storey had established herself in a small room immediately to the right of the entrance. One entered it by a door concealed in the panelling. It was evidently an office, perhaps the butler's office; very plain and businesslike amidst all the magnificence.

She was seated in her plain suit at a flat-topped desk with exactly the air of a commanding officer in headquarters. It was soon evident that the vast, unwieldy household now received its chief impetus from her. The suffocating opulence had no terrors for Mme. Storey. In the presence of my mistress the great Mrs. Peter John Cruger herself, as I was presently to see, modified her imperious air. Such is the power of personality.

Mme. Storey banished everybody from the room while she talked to Crider and me. When we are working with her in the field she always makes a point of telling us the exact situation before we start in.

"While Miss de Guion was away fetching me," she began, "Mrs. Cruger sent again for Dr. Singer. The man swore that he had made no statement of any sort about the case to his chauffeur. However, that has no significance now, for Dr. Pulford states positively that the girl was asphyxiated. She appears to have come to her death as the result of inhaling a poisonous gas, all trace of which has disappeared. When I got here the body had been lifted to the bed, and so many people have been in and out of the room, that any evidence there may have been has pretty well been destroyed. However, it seems certain under the circumstances that the girl was alone when she died.

"The window of the room is twenty-five feet from the ground. There is no evidence of any ladder having been planted outside. There is a heavy gutter pipe strongly supported, that runs down alongside the window. It is possible someone may have climbed up by it, but it could only have been a daring and nimble climber, and one inspired by a strong motive. No motive of any sort has as yet appeared.

"As a matter of precaution I have collected all the objects on the girl's dressing-table, and I have them here; brush, comb, mirror, powder-box, bottle of toilet water, etc.

"She was supposed to be getting ready to dine with some friends of hers named Hyatt who live in Scarsdale near her. As it was odd that the Hyatts did not telephone when she failed to appear, I had them called up, and learned, through a discreet inquiry, that Miss Mayfield had not been expected there last night. It was evidently a ruse. Where she was going is another point that requires to be cleared up.

"I have one important clew. In a waste paper basket in the girl's room I found this envelope. An envelope of cheap, soft paper you see, without any distinguishing marks. Such envelopes are sold by the million. It is addressed to Miss Mayfield in a disguised hand, and was posted in White Plains yesterday. Fortunately for us, the girl slit the end neatly, and dropped it in the basket without crushing it. Now observe!" Mme. Storey dropped the envelope lightly on the desk, and removed her hands from it. "What does that envelope tell you?"

I was dumb. Crider, better trained than I, peered at it closely this way and that without touching it, and said slowly:

"The envelope has been subjected to pressure in the cancelling machine, and the soft paper has therefore taken and held the impress of its contents. It contained something a little thicker than the ordinary sheet of paper, but folded smaller than the envelope itself. It has made a little square bulge in the centre of the envelope. It was of softer texture than writing paper."

Mme. Storey listened with a gratified smile, as a teacher to the recitation of her prize pupil. "But what was it?" she asked.

"A handkerchief," announced Crider suddenly; "a lady's handkerchief."

"Excellent!" said Mme. Storey. "Anything more?"

"If I had a good glass—," murmured Crider.

Mme. Storey produced a reading glass, and handed it over.

"A handkerchief with an elaborate lace border," Crider reported after a further examination. "The cancelling stamp has struck an edge of it, and has shadowed out a confused bit of the design in ink."

Mme. Storey was delighted. "Anything else?" she asked.

But Crider could tell her no more.

Mme. Storey picked up the envelope delicately. "A negative thing," she said, "but important to us. Observe, by looking at it edgewise, you can see the bulge is exactly the same on one side as on the other. That tells us there was no letter slipped either in front or behind the handkerchief. The envelope contained nothing but the handkerchief."

"Where is it?" we both asked.

"That is for us to find out."

IV

Crider's job was to search the grounds, and later to go into White Plains to establish, if possible, who posted the envelope containing the handkerchief. Meanwhile Mme. Storey examined various persons in the house.

The first she had in was the butler, Glasgow. He was the most perfect butler I ever expect to behold; a man of fifty-odd, slightly bald, with a clear, pleasant skin. He made quite an elegant figure in his morning coat, and I should have taken him for one of the guests until I heard him speak. A slight tinge of deference in his tones placed him.

Glasgow made an admirable witness.

"At eight o'clock this morning I was polishing silver in my pantry," he said, "when Meeker, a housemaid on the second bedroom floor came to me. She came to me because the housekeeper, Mrs. Evremond, was not down yet. Meeker, who was in somewhat of a state, told me that Miss Mayfield had given instructions that she was to be called at seven o'clock this morning, but that after several attempts she—Meeker—was unable to get any answer from her room. I made light of her fears. 'Miss Mayfield has stopped all night with her friends,' I said. However, I got the duplicate key to that door, and gave it to Meeker, telling her to open the door and look. She presently returned to me, saying she could not get the key into the door.

"I then accompanied her upstairs. I found that the key was in the lock on the inside. A prolonged knocking failed to bring any reply. Somewhat alarmed myself, I then got a pair of thin tweezers, and inserting them in the keyhole, contrived to turn the key a little at a time, until I was able to push it through on the other side. I then opened the door with the duplicate key, and found—well, what you already know, madam."

"Will you please illustrate the position of the body as exactly as you can," said Mme. Storey.

The man got down on the floor, and lay on his left side with one arm doubled beneath him, the other flung over in front. His knees were drawn up; his chin pressed into his breast. He had the instinct of an actor. It was horrible. I turned my head away.

"Thank you," said Mme. Storey. "Were her eyes open or closed?"

"Closed, madam," he replied.

"Did you observe a handkerchief in the girl's hand; on the dressing-table; any place in the room?"

"No, madam."

"You might have overlooked it?"

"I hardly think so, madam. The sight gave me such a shock of horror that every detail of the scene seems to be burned into my brain. That fresh young girl with her shining hair, her pretty, light dress—"

The perfect butler was human like the rest of us. It was no moment for emotion, and Mme. Storey interrupted him: "Please show me again the exact posture of the hand you could see."

He held out his right hand loosely closed, the thumb fitted into the crook of the two first fingers. In imagination I could see a dainty handkerchief clipped there.

Mme. Storey made no comment. "Proceed," said she.

He went on to describe how he had sent the trembling maid to arouse Miss de Guion's maid, and Mrs. Cruger's own maid, that their mistresses might be notified. On his own initiative Glasgow had sent a footman to telephone Dr. Singer.

"After the discovery of the body was any person left alone with it at any time?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Only myself, madam," he answered simply. "While I was waiting for the others to come. After that time I think there were always several persons present."

"You have had several hours now to think things over," said Mme. Storey; "has any peculiar circumstance of any sort suggested itself?"

"There was a noticeable smell when I opened the door," Glasgow said slowly.

"What sort of smell?"

"A sweetish, spirituous sort of smell."

"Chloroform?"

"No, madam, not the same as chloroform."

"A strong smell?"

"No, madam, faint. And after a little while it had disappeared."

"You are sure the window was closed?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Yes, madam. Else the smell would have escaped."

"Did it not strike you as strange that the window should be closed on such a warm night?"

"I did not think of it at the moment, madam, being too much overcome. But it does seem strange."

"There is a screen outside the window," said Mme. Storey. "How does it operate?"

"It slides up and down in a groove, like the sash, madam."

Glasgow then went on to describe the arrival of Miss de Guion and Mrs. Cruger on the scene, and later, the doctor, and his examination of the body. This brought out nothing new or significant. After the doctor had delivered his verdict, Glasgow and a footman had lifted the body to the bed, and all had left the room, Glasgow locking the door and taking both keys with him, pending the arrival of the undertaker.

Mme. Storey went back to the night before. "Glasgow, how had Miss Mayfield expected to get to Scarsdale?"

"Mrs. Cruger had offered her a car, madam, but she declined it. I understood she was to telephone for a taxi when she was ready."

"How is it that none of you realised she had never left the house?"

"I can only say, madam, that each one of us thought one of the others had let her out. Many of the servants would be at dinner at that hour."

"Glasgow, how is the mail delivered here?"

"Rural delivery, madam. By Ford car three times a day; eight-thirty, two-thirty and six-thirty."

"Then there was a delivery last evening after Mrs. Cruger and her guests had started for Ridgefield?"

"Yes, madam, I took it in myself."

"Was there anything for Miss Mayfield?"

"Yes, madam. One letter."

"What can you tell me about it?"

"Only that it was contained in a cheap, common envelope, madam. I sent Albert, the second man, upstairs with it."

"Then Albert was the last person who saw Miss Mayfield alive?"

"He did not see her, madam. I presume she was dressing. She told him to slip the letter under the door, and he did so."

"Is this the envelope, Glasgow?"

"Yes, madam."

"Now, is the maid Meeker outside?"

"Yes, madam, waiting your pleasure." Glasgow opened the door, and gave a sign. "Do you wish me to step outside, madam?"

"Not at all," said Mme. Storey. "At the moment I only wish to find out if Meeker's sense of smell is any better than yours."

The maid entered.

"Meeker, did you smell anything when Mr. Glasgow opened the door of Miss Mayfield's room?"

The housemaid was agitated, but she answered readily: "Yes, madam, vi'lets."

"Ah! Are you sure?"

"Ah, yes, ma'am. Vi'let perfumery. It brought the very flowers before my eyes."

"Thank you, that's all."

Meeker retired.

"One last question, Glasgow," said Mme. Storey. "I can see that you are a man of discretion. It has been suggested that a crime has been committed, and for the sake of the good name of this house, we must go absolutely to the bottom of the matter. Can you, as the result of your observation, suggest the slightest reason or motive for such a crime?"

"No, madam," replied Glasgow, but he stumbled over the word, and changed colour. Mme. Storey simply waited with her grave glance fixed upon him. He could not support it. His fresh face suddenly became moist all over. "I'm sure there's nothing in it," he burst out. "I don't want to get anybody into trouble. I don't want to sow suspicion."

"You are an honest man, Glasgow," said Mme. Storey with a reassuring smile. "Never mind: you will not sow suspicion with me. It is my business to sift suspicion."

"Well, madam, I thought maybe Mr. Rowcliffe was too sweet on Miss Mayfield," he said, blushing like a girl.

"He's engaged to Miss McPeake."

"I know. But I caught him looking strangely at the other girl when he thought he was unobserved. It was at tea time Sunday, and again yesterday."

"What do you mean by strangely?"

"Well, passionately, as they say," Glasgow blurted out with crimson face.

"And did Miss Mayfield return these glances?"

"Oh, no, madam! By no means! She never looked at him."

"Thank you very much, Glasgow. I shall respect your confidence."

V

Glasgow's final statement, with the tragical possibilities it suggested, was to me like the first ray of light breaking through the murk that enveloped the situation. I was very much excited by it. Mme. Storey gave no sign. For some moments after the butler left the room, she sat staring at a pad before her, making meaningless dots upon it with a pencil. Finally I could stand it no longer.

"Will you question Rowcliffe?" I asked.

I was sorry as soon as I had spoken, for Mme. Storey merely smiled at me in a tantalising way. "What an ugly little room this is!" she said irrelevantly. "Shall we take a look at the splendour outside?"

I wanted to see the house, but I wanted much more to know what was passing through her mind. However, when she is in this impish mood there is nothing to do but wait for things to happen. I followed her out of the room.

In the great hall there was a nervous and highly self-conscious group consisting of the dignified housekeeper, Mrs. Evremond, Glasgow, another manservant, and a couple of maids. Notwithstanding the difference in their stations, the common excitement had drawn them close together. They cast looks of respectful awe upon Mme. Storey as we passed. We crossed the hall and continued on down one of the mighty corridors I have spoken of.

Along each side extended an endless suite of rooms. We passed in and out of them, looking at things. I wondered what they were called. The ordinary names of rooms would give out long before you got through. Later I learned that these were the "state" apartments, and wondered what a good American family did with them. The rooms that were customarily used were in the other wing. Every room had several mountainous crystal chandeliers depending from the ceiling, and every room was filled with gorgeous furnishings and pictures; too much; too much; and not in the best modern taste as even I could see. The present Mrs. Cruger had excellent taste, as I was to learn, but was too indolent to overthrow the gilt and red velvet regime of her predecessor.

"Fancy having to dust all this gimcrackery, Bella," murmured Mme. Storey.

"Yes, but why are we looking at it just now?" I asked.

"Just to stimulate curiosity," she drawled.

The rooms facing towards the south had full-length windows giving on a terrace with a brick parapet, below which you could see the marvellous flower gardens of Cariswoode, now in their glory. In one of these rooms we paused before the famous portrait of the third Mrs. Peter John Cruger, by Campoamor y Nuñez, the Spanish master. A truly regal lady was depicted, but one hardly conspicuous for amiability.

"A prudent master, Bella," remarked Mme. Storey drily. "Observe how one of the lady's hands is partly concealed behind her, while the other is hidden under a flounce. Hands are so difficult to paint!"

Out on the terrace I perceived a handsome young man in a miraculously fitting lounge suit. I supposed this to be Rowcliffe. He came to one of the open windows, to look in, and discovering us, hastily turned on his heel. I began to understand Mme. Storey's reference to stimulating curiosity.

There was a stir at the door of the room, and we beheld a tall, blonde lady advancing towards us. I had not seen her before, but there was no need to be told that this was the chatelaine, for she was followed by a deferential trio, to wit: Mrs. Evremond; an immaculate brow-beaten gentleman whom I guessed to be the secretary; and a second younger gentleman, copy of the other, whose position in the household I never did learn. He may have been the secretary's secretary.

Mrs. Cruger and Mme. Storey had talked before. "Is there any way in which I can assist you?" Mrs. Cruger now asked.

"Not at the moment, thank you," Mme. Storey said pleasantly.

Mrs. Cruger looked at the portrait we had been studying as much as to say: "What has that got to do with the case?"

"I was just mulling things over in my head," murmured Mme. Storey.

Mrs. Cruger bit her lip. She was really an exquisite creature. Her oft-published photographs render her a little insipid, but that is because no photograph could convey the air of delicacy and distinction that enveloped her. She looked as rare and precious as a bit of Venetian glass. This ethereal exterior covered very human failings. She turned her head, saying curtly to her followers:

"You needn't wait."

The three vanished silently. I had an impression that they were still hovering about outside the door. What a life, I thought.

"Have you discovered anything?" Mrs. Cruger asked with an extraordinary anxiety.

Mme. Storey shrugged.

"Tell me!" said the other sharply.

"It's all inchoate," answered Mme. Storey. "I cannot report yet."

Mrs. Cruger stared, and her transparent skin showed a bright flush. Evidently this lady was not accustomed to be denied, however courteously. "Surely I have a right to know what is going on in my own house!" she said.

"Assuredly," rejoined Mme. Storey blandly. "What is your theory of the affair?"

"I have none," said Mrs. Cruger. "The girl died of heart failure. That's all there is to it. This storm of gossip has blown up simply because people insist on making a sensation out of anything that happens to us.

"But Dr. Pulford—" suggested Mme. Storey.

"He was called in without my authority!" said Mrs. Cruger angrily.

"It seemed the obvious first step to take," murmured Mme. Storey deprecatingly.

"He's too bolshevik for my taste!" said Mrs. Cruger.

I saw my mistress's eyes twinkle. "I see that," she said drily. "You can depend upon it, I will take everything into account."

"Whom do you suspect?" demanded Mrs. Cruger. "I insist on knowing!"

This was an unfortunate tone to take with Mme. Storey. "As you have reminded me, this is your house," she said softly. "Nevertheless, I must be allowed to conduct my investigation in my own way."

For a moment the two pairs of eyes contended for mastery. It was Mrs. Cruger's that fell.

"I hope you don't suspect me?" she said with rather a silly sounding laugh.

"Why should I?" asked Mme. Storey mildly. "Have a cigarette?"

"Thanks. One needs one," said Mrs. Cruger. They lit up, amicably enough.

"I liked the girl," Mrs. Cruger went on. "Oh, why did it have to happen here? I wish she had never come to the house! What am I to tell my husband when he returns? He never—" She hastily put the cigarette in her mouth.

"Never what?" asked Mme. Storey offhand.

"Never should have gone to Canada," said Mrs. Cruger quickly.

It was obviously not what she had started to say. Mme. Storey affected to take no notice.

"How about Rowcliffe?" asked Mme. Storey, blowing a cloud of smoke.

"Rowcliffe?" echoed the other. Her face cleared, and she became more at ease.

"He's some sort of relation of yours, isn't he?"

"My first cousin," said Mrs. Cruger. "My mother was a Rowcliffe, you know."

"Yes," said Mme. Storey. "What do you think about this match with Miss McPeake?"

"I think the obvious thing," said Mrs. Cruger. "She's so rich she's bound to arrive anyway. Why shouldn't she arrive through him?"

"Why not, indeed?" agreed Mme. Storey. "He's reputed to be rather wild, isn't he?"

"I don't suppose you want me to repeat gossip," said Mrs. Cruger languidly. "I know nothing of my own knowledge."

"Never mind gossip," went on Mme. Storey. "Give me an impression of his character."

Mrs. Cruger entered into this readily. It seemed strange to me that she was so willing to have suspicion cast on her relative. Odd, too, that she should betray no curiosity as to why he should be suspected.

"All I can say is, Jack Rowcliffe's the sort of young man who purrs in every woman's ear," she said. "Even in mine. It's just a bad habit he's got. I suppose there are women who fall for it."

"Have you noticed any particular woman lately?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Oh, no," said Mrs. Cruger. "There wouldn't be any now. This match means too much to him."

This answer still further confused me. Mme. Storey took it as a matter of course. I could see that, as usual, my mistress was not revealing her real objective in her questions.

"What sort of girl is Miss McPeake?" she asked carelessly.

Mrs. Cruger moved a delicate shoulder. "How can one really know a person of that sort? Her life is strange to me. She does not like us, but she strives to make a good impression. I think she has a bad temper," she added as an afterthought.

"Why do you think so?"

"Oh, I don't know. A certain twitch in her eye."

"Where is she now?"

"In her rooms. Wishes to keep out of all this. I cannot blame her for that."

"Of course not," said Mme. Storey. "You can do something to help me, if you will. Go to her, and without revealing your object, try to have her downstairs in half an hour."

Mrs. Cruger, with a curious docility, made as if to obey.

Mme. Storey glanced at her watch. "But not before half an hour, please," she said. "I need that time."

Mrs. Cruger, with a nod of understanding, left us. Mme. Storey glanced at me with smiling eyes. But I was all at sea.

"I can make nothing of her," I said helplessly.

"She's eager to help us," said Mme. Storey, "as long as we don't come anywhere near the truth."

VI

Mme. Storey and I sauntered out on the terrace overlooking the dazzling flower beds—too dazzling, too well ordered, like everything else about Cariswoode. The elegant young gentleman had disappeared, but out of the tail of my eye I caught a glimpse of him watching us from the far end of the terrace. Mme. Storey and I stood at the parapet looking down at the gorgeous chequered design.

"Like a review of flowers," murmured my mistress. "Poor little soldiers on parade!"

Presently at our ears we heard a dulcet male voice: "It reminds one of the grand finale at the Hippodrome, doesn't it?"

Mme. Storey turned with her most delightful seeming smile. "You must be Jack Rowcliffe," she said.

"You have actually heard of me," he murmured. "I am speechless with delight!"

I edged away a little, as I was clearly not expected to take part in this conversation. But there was nothing to prevent me from listening. The other two half sat against the parapet, and continued in the same strain. The foolish young man did not know, of course, that Mme. Storey was most dangerous when she appeared to be willing to philander.

"I had no hope of ever meeting you," he said. "I can't aspire to your circle. Too clever for me."

"It all depends on what you regard as cleverness," said Mme. Storey. "I should say you were quite clever enough for your own purposes."

"Oh, I'm just a humming-bird," he observed with a disarming air.

From time to time he cast a rather hard glance at me, as if to bid me take myself off. Lacking instructions from Mme. Storey, however, I stood my ground. My mistress presently made her wishes plain by introducing me in form. Rowcliffe bowed, and paid no further attention to me.

I studied him covertly. Jack Rowcliffe was at this time the premier young man about town. One could not read a society column without coming upon his name three or four times. It was always written first among the list of bachelors attending a function. One imagined the society reporters rolling it unctuously over their tongues. I had often tried to imagine what sort of young man would be produced by such a life. My instinct told me it was a horribly unnatural one, but if one was young and did not have much fun, one could not help being impressed. I suspect that Jack Rowcliffe figured in the day-dreams of many a girl who had not the remotest chance of ever meeting him in the flesh.

Well, he was uncommonly good looking, with thick, sleek, black hair, and glowing dark eyes a little too big for a man's. He was no tame cat, though; the rest of his features were heavy, and there was a dangerous masculine suggestion about him that, I suppose, constituted his charm for women. His manner was self-possessed to a degree, but I was startled to perceive deep in his eyes, a hint of terror and pain, which he no doubt believed was safely hidden. I felt that in him we were drawing close to the tragedy of Cariswoode.

After a while his sense of the fitness of things impelled him to say: "I suppose we shouldn't be talking like this—under the circumstances."

Mme. Storey shrugged. "Very distressing," she said. "But after all it's not our affair."

I thought I saw a twitch of pain in his face; but he instantly said, with his eyes fixed admiringly on Mme. Storey: "What a big woman you are! Able to be so honest!"

"Well, I feel that I can talk more plainly with you than with the others," Mme. Storey replied. "What is your theory?"

He shrugged, and spread out his palms. "What is yours?" he asked boldly.

Mme. Storey likewise spread her palms.

"Of course, you're not giving anything away," he remarked.

"Perhaps I have nothing to give," she said. "What sort of girl was she?"

This time I was sure I heard the hint of a stammer in his ready voice. "A devilish handsome girl. That's all I can tell you. Only saw her twice when she came in to tea. Then she kept herself very much to herself."

"If she was so handsome," murmured Mme. Storey, "one would suppose you'd try to know her better."

"Oh, I'm on my good behaviour," he answered with a disarming laugh; meanwhile his eyes were perfectly wretched.

Mme. Storey reminded me at this moment of a great surgeon delicately wielding a steel probe. "One thing that hampers me is that everything in the room was changed before I got here," she said. "Did you see it before it was changed?"

"Oh, no!" he cried, off his guard. "I never went near it!" Feeling that he had given too much away, he quickly added: "There's was no reason for me to butt in."

"I suppose not," said Mme. Storey. "Did you know that Miss Mayfield was not expected at the Hyatts' last night? Where do you suppose she was going?"

"Maybe there was a man in the case," he remarked bitterly.

"Why should she conceal it? She had as much right as any girl to her men friends."

"The old party is a jealous old party," he said. "Wouldn't tolerate that Louise should have any interest apart from hers."

"You are observant," murmured Mme. Storey.

He darted a glance of pure terror in her face. Mme. Storey's eyes were cast down.

At this moment we perceived a distinguished-looking trio approaching without haste along the terrace. Mrs. Cruger was in the middle, overtopping both the other women. They made a notable picture in their exquisite light dresses, designed in the perfection of simplicity that only the very rich can attain to; all three moved with the air of those born to command. When they came closer a difference appeared. Miss McPeake lacked the expression of serene repose that the faces of Mrs. Cruger and Miss de Guion wore; an expression that not only hid the trouble of their minds, but denied the very existence of any trouble.

Miss McPeake was more richly dressed than the other two. With all her smartness, she was far from being a pretty girl, and at present her face was drawn and sharp; her eyes frankly tormented. This torment, whatever had given rise to it, revealed a mean nature. There was a hateful jealousy in the way her eyes pounced on Rowcliffe, and then bored rudely into Mme. Storey's averted face. A shocking display there in that highly bred little company. Rowcliffe frowned and rubbed his perfect black moustache.

He made haste to carry off the uncomfortable situation. "Mme. Storey and I have been taking a moment's respite from the horror," he said with his admirably assumed straightforward air. "If we dwell on it exclusively, we'll simply go off our heads."

Like a thunderclap came the girl's cry: "You fool!"

It was significant of the strain we were all under that nobody looked at her after she cried out.

"You fool!" she repeated. "Do you suppose she's taking any respite from her work of prying and spying? That's what she's here for! She's been pumping you! I can see it! She's been turning you inside out for her own purposes, and you don't know it, you conceited fool!"

With that she turned and ran away into the house.

It was an ugly exhibition, but there was the deepest pain in the girl's cry, too. One could not but feel sorry for her; for all of them, poor blind creatures! Mrs. Cruger merely shrugged, and Miss de Guion murmured perfunctorily:

"Poor girl! She's quite overwrought!"

It was very clear that neither of these ladies gave a rap for Miss McPeake's feelings in the matter. A curious thing was that Rowcliffe looked absolutely astounded by Vera's outburst. Whatever his own anxieties may have been, one would have sworn he didn't know what his fiancée was up to.

"Better go after her," suggested Miss de Guion.

He hastened into the house.

"You will think we are all lunatics," murmured Miss de Guion, raising her pretty, plump, jewelled hands. The marvellous old lady had recovered her usual sang-froid. "It is the horrible suspense, the uncertainty. Why, even Bessie and I have been quarrelling bitterly all morning."

Mrs. Cruger cast a look of peculiar exasperation on her friend that I could not interpret.

"I believe lunch is ready," said Mrs. Cruger morosely. "But who wants any lunch?"

"My dear, you must eat something," urged Miss de Guion. "The governors of Upwey hospital meet this afternoon. I think you should be present just as if nothing had happened."

"You may think what you please," snapped Mrs. Cruger. "I'm not going!"

"But my dear—"

"That will do!" cried Mrs. Cruger, beside herself with exasperation. "I—" She checked herself with an effort.

The masterful old lady was not to be easily put down. She shrugged elaborately.

Mme. Storey and I left them on the terrace.

VII

As we were returning through the silent, thickly carpeted corridor, from one of the rooms on our right came a sound that sharply arrested our thoughts. It was the sound of a poignant whispering; two voices; a reproachful woman's; an angry man's. A whole drama was summed up in it. We could distinguish no word nor see the persons in the room, but we knew the speakers could be none other than Vera McPeake and Rowcliffe.

"Should we not listen?" I whispered.

Mme. Storey drew me on. Her lips shaped the words: "It is not necessary."

The room we were passing had a door towards either end. As we approached the second door, a few words did reach us. We heard the man's angry whisper: "I'm through! I'm through!" and we heard the woman repeat imploringly: "Jack! Jack!"

Mme. Storey's gesture signified: "That's all there is to it!"

Events followed fast after that. Upon returning to the little office we found a sealed envelope lying on the desk with Mme. Storey's name scrawled upon it. Upon opening it, my mistress read the letter it contained, and handed it over to me without comment. I read the headlong phrases in astonishment.

DEAR MME. STOREY:

I cannot keep silent any longer. You're on the wrong track. That girl was not the sweet, pure soul they would have you to suppose. That was just a blind to cover her schemes. I saw through her immediately. She was perfectly unscrupulous. She was just a servant, anyway. She was determined to get on, and if she couldn't get on, she meant to make as much trouble for others as she could. That was the kind she was. Perfectly rotten under her sweet and dignified airs. It was through men that she worked her schemes. All men were the same to her. She knew how to get them going without appearing to. Whatever happened to her, she richly deserved it. A word to the wise is sufficient.

VERA McPEAKE.

There was a knock on the door. I handed the letter back to Mme. Storey, who slipped it under the pad on the desk. Rowcliffe came in. There was a startling alteration in him. The gallant philandering air had given place to a hangdog look. His eyes were lowered; his chin was on his breast. One instantly liked the man better. This at least was honest.

"I want to speak to you a moment," he mumbled.

"Sit down," said Mme. Storey. "Have a cigarette."

He waved it away. "Can I speak to you alone?" he inquired significantly.

"Miss Brickley is present at all interviews," said Mme. Storey. "It is my rule. You can depend upon it, it would not be so, unless I had absolute confidence in her."

"Makes it harder," he muttered.

There was a silence, for Mme. Storey made no further move to help him out. I was trembling a little with excitement at the prospect of the confession I expected to hear.

"I suppose you suspect me," he began. "It's natural after the way I tried to conceal things from you—foolish, I suppose. But I couldn't help it—oh God! I couldn't bear to expose my heart before everybody! Nobody thinks I can feel anything—I've been through hell today! I can't stand it any longer. At any rate I've just broken it off with Vera. That's something. I've taken a horror of her—"

He fell silent. Mme. Storey presently said: "That is not what you came to tell me."

"No," he answered very low. He was leaning forward in his chair with his arms resting on his knees and his head down "I was lying when I said that Louise was nothing to me. I—I cared for her very much. Oh, I loved her with all my heart! I had seen her before she came up here. Many times. Whenever I went to Miss de Guion's. The first time I saw her she was just another beautiful girl to me. I made up my mind to have her. I thought I had only to make up my mind. But she laughed at me! Perfectly willing to be friends—but nothing doing. Ah! what a laugh she had! I had to laugh with her, though it was at my own expense—I lost my head completely. I adored her. She understood me through and through. I could be honest with her. She was charitable to my faults—but nothing more. When I told her she was driving me mad, she said she was sorry, but I was simply paying the price for the others. And she was right!

"When she came up here on Sunday it was simply more than I could bear—living under the same roof with her. She kept out of my way. Finally I made up my mind to ask her to marry me. I have no money, but—but we could have made out somehow. I knew she didn't love me, but I thought if it was a case of saving me from damnation, she might—she might— She was so kind! But I never got a chance to ask her. This thing happened. And now it's too late—too late!"

There was a long silence, broken only by his stifled sobbing. To see a man break down like that is too dreadful. I heartily wished myself away from there.

As Mme. Storey made no comment, he finally raised his head. "That is all," he said. "Did you expect something more?"

She shrugged.

"You surely can't think that I—" he began, aghast. "Why I—I adored her. It was a good feeling, the best I ever had. I would have cut off my hand to serve her! Oh, you're wrong, you're wrong!"

"I am not accusing you of anything," said Mme. Storey mildly.

He presently got up, and made his way heavily towards the door. When he opened it I caught a glimpse of Vera McPeake waiting close outside. Her face was transfigured with hatred and jealousy. She could not have heard what Rowcliffe was telling us, but she must have guessed its purport. The door closed.

Mme. Storey and I exchanged a glance. "Do you believe him?" I asked.

"As far as he went."

"But in that case we are exactly where we were when we started!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," she said.

In a few minutes there came another knock on the door, and Rowcliffe entered once more. His face was now as white as paper, his eyes so wildly distraught it was impossible to tell what feeling had given rise to it, whether grief or terror or both. There was simply no sense in his eyes.

"I—I just wanted to ask you—to forget what I said just now," he stammered. "I mean about Vera—Miss McPeake. I must have been out of my senses. We are still engaged, of course. I beg of you—oh, what must you think of me! Well, it doesn't matter, does it?" He turned abruptly and went out.

"I suppose Vera waylaid him outside," suggested Mme. Storey.

"Yes, I saw her," said I.

"Poor wretch!" murmured Mme. Storey. "He is paying!"

VIII

Bracker, the princely chauffeur, upon Mme. Storey's invitation, seated himself gracefully. Being a chauffeur, he was entirely at his ease. Perfect men of the world, the chauffeurs of the rich; I wonder it is not dangerous to have them around, they show up to such advantage.

"I won't keep you but a moment," said Mme. Storey deprecatingly.

He took it as a matter of course, which caused me an inward chuckle.

"I understand from Miss de Guion," my mistress went on, "that on your way back from Ridgefield early this morning, you had a stoppage."

"Yes, madam, the tank went dry."

"How did that happen?"

"I'm hanged if I know, madam. We had plenty of gas when we started."

"You think you had."

"I looked."

"Gasolene gauges are so untrustworthy."

"I know they are. So I unscrewed the cap and measured with a stick that I keep for the purpose. There was a good ten gallons."

"And you get?"

"Seven miles to the gallon, madam."

"Then six gallons should have taken you to Ridgefield and back?"

"Easily."

"Perhaps you had a leak."

"No, madam. She was tight, and is still tight."

"How about your speedometer?" asked Mme. Storey.

"I get you," he said with a quick look. "As to the total mileage I can't tell you; you lose track running around. But I set the trip dial every morning in order to keep tab on the gas. When we got home this morning it registered sixty-nine miles. Just what I drove her yesterday."

"But by pulling out a stem anybody can set the trip dial either forward or back?"

"Certainly. But if it's your idea that somebody used the car, I must tell you I have my own way of preventing that."

"Any objection to telling me what it is?"

"Not at all. It's just a hidden switch I installed, back of the main switch under the cowl."

"You left your car, I suppose, while the party was going on?"

"Yes, madam. I locked the body of the car, and went up to Mrs. Van Brocklin's chauffeur's rooms. He was having a sort of party, too. There was a lot of us there."

"Where were the cars parked?"

"Most of them were in a large yard or enclosure at the side of the house, but Mrs. Cruger told me to leave ours out in front, as she would wish to leave early. So I left it in the drive, a few yards short of the front door. It is expected that Mrs. Cruger's car should take the best place."

"Were there other cars in front?"

"Yes, madam. Two or three behind ours."

Mme. Storey tapped reflectively on the desk. "Are you and Mr. Rowcliffe friendly?" she asked suddenly.

"Why, yes, madam," he said, surprised. "Mr. Rowcliffe's keen on cars. An A1 chauffeur and mechanician too. Only last night he rode outside with me so's he could smoke, and we talked."

"Did you happen to mention the chauffeur's party to him?"

"Yes, madam. I mind saying that while he was having his time, we were going to have a time, too. Only there wouldn't be any girls at our party."

"And did you tell him about your patent switch?"

Bracker suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead. "He knew, he knew!" he said excitedly. "Why, we had worked on the car together!"

"And there is just about six gallons of gas to be accounted for?"

"Yes, madam—but surely you don't think—"

Mme. Storey rose. "I don't think anything, Bracker," she said. "I recommend the same course to you."

"Yes, madam. You can depend on me to keep my mouth shut. But—but—"

"That's all just now, thank you."

He made his way towards the door with a dazed air. "Mr. Rowcliffe—oh, my God!" I heard him mutter.

IX

It was an ill-balanced company that sat down to dinner at Cariswoode that night; five women and one man. I understood that guests had been expected, but the invitations had been quietly recalled. Though that poor girl's body was still lying somewhere upstairs, everybody dressed as a matter of course. During the afternoon Mme. Storey had telephoned to New York for her maid to bring up evening gowns for herself and for me. In her large way she took it for granted that I was to be received on the footing of a guest. It would have been all one to me either way.

Mme. Storey's dress, with a bit of pinning, did me very well. Her maid put up my stubborn red hair in a cunning and effective fashion. I knew it was effective, because it won a glance from even so experienced a connoisseur as Mr. Rowcliffe. I felt monstrously naked as I came downstairs, but I knew I had a pretty neck and arms, and that helped me to endure it.

While we were dressing in our respective rooms, Crider had made a report to Mme. Storey, but that I did not learn until later.

In the dining-room everybody was on parade. The table had been made small enough to bring us close together. It was a point of pride with all not to give the slightest sign of what was passing in every mind. Rather absurd to take such pains to be unnatural; but such was their code, and you could not but admire the gallantry with which they maintained it. Particularly Rowcliffe, who was quite astonishingly witty and engaging, though his eyes still had the dreadful look in their depths.

Only Miss McPeake lacked the requisite gameness to play up to him. Her face was pinched and haggard; she almost never spoke, and made the merest pretence of eating. The one who betrayed most in her face was the least interesting to watch. It was thrilling to speculate as to what was going on behind the smooth and smiling faces. With all the easy talk and laughter you felt that each one was encased in an armour of glass.

Mme. Storey looked positively glorious in a severe velvet gown of a curious shade of cold red, with no ornaments in her dark hair. For reasons of her own she chose to create a simple and stately effect tonight. The peerless Mrs. Cruger, in pale blue, looked like ah exhausted doll beside her. Miss de Guion was all a-shimmer in white and silver. Her complexion glowed, her eyes sparkled, she continually showed her white teeth; she looked ageless. An astonishing woman! It was she, principally, who, with Rowcliffe, kept the conversational shuttle-cock flying back and forth. Mme. Storey put herself forth very little. Her cue was to encourage the others. Rather a cruel pastime, but necessary.

Glasgow directed the serving of the meal from the sideboard, and there were two footmen to wait upon us like marvellous automata. Very handsome young men. The meal passed like a dream for me. I could never remember what we ate; one dish followed another, with a succession of wines which were taken as a matter of course. In that house it was not considered necessary to speak of where they came from.

When the meal at last drew to a close, Mrs. Cruger said: "I suppose you don't want to sit here alone, Jack."

"God forbid!" he answered.

"Then we'll have coffee in the lounge," said Mrs. Cruger. "It's cooler there."

The "lounge" was an immense room which made a great bow at the end of the west wing. The round part had a glass roof which was raised, and there was a whole semi-circle of open windows, so that we were almost outdoors. The open-air effect was heightened by quantities of growing plants and ferns. The furniture was of painted rattan with gay covers. We sank into insidiously comfortable chairs placed roughly in a circle. Presently a softly stepping footman placed coffee on stands convenient to the hand, and his mate followed him trundling a sort of wheeled tray bearing a dozen varieties of liqueurs. Glasgow hovered in the background. A delicious scented breath was wafted through the windows. The place was dimly lighted by shaded lamps along the back wall.

"Rather spooky, don't you think?" remarked Mme. Storey lightly.

"More light, Glasgow," murmured Mrs. Cruger.

He switched on a central dome which flooded the place with brilliancy. My heart beat a little faster, for I guessed what the light was required for.

When the servants had gone, Mme. Storey said quietly: "It is too bad to break the pleasant spell, but I think we ought to go into committee of the whole upon this matter."

One seemed to feel the shudder that all those well controlled people hid from view.

"Close the door, Jack," murmured Mrs. Cruger.

He came back from doing so, and dropped heavily into his chair. A wretched silence fell on us all.

"This is awful!" Rowcliffe cried at last. "Can't you tell us plainly where we stand?"

"I'm sorry," said Mme. Storey deprecatingly, "but you must tell me. I must question you and piece things together."

"Do you mean to say that the explanation is to be had from anybody here?" demanded Mrs. Cruger, sitting up straight.

Mme. Storey spread out her hands.

Again that silence. Rowcliffe was breathing audibly. He furtively dabbed his face with his handkerchief. Mrs. Cruger and Miss de Guion still wore masks of composure, but the strong light was cruel, and revealed that they were masks. Miss McPeake half turned in her chair, hiding her face from the others.

"Have you your note-book, Bella?" asked Mme. Storey.

I had it, and I produced it.

This act electrified them all. The code was broken, and they were outraged.

"I say!" cried Rowcliffe.

"Must we submit to be catechised here, and our answers written down?" Mrs. Cruger demanded toweringly.

"I'm sorry," said Mme. Storey. "I know just how you feel. But consider my position for a moment. I am acting the part of a bad citizen in consenting to keep this matter from the authorities for twenty-four hours. How else could I square myself with my duty but by keeping an exact record of everything that happened, to turn over to them later if necessary?"

Nobody could gainsay this. They relapsed into a sullen silence.

"Mr. Rowcliffe," began Mme. Storey, quite unimpressed by their hostile attitude, "did you leave the dance for a period last night?"

"Certainly not!" he answered indignantly.

Mme. Storey raised her eyebrows. "Why shouldn't you, if you felt like it?" she murmured.

"No reason," he said. "But I didn't, that's all."

"Mrs. Cruger," said Mme. Storey, "can you assure me that Mr. Rowcliffe was present throughout the dance?"

"Mercy!" drawled Mrs. Cruger. "How can I tell? I danced with him a couple of times."

"When, please?"

"Once when we first went in, and again, later."

"Much later?"

"No doubt."

"Miss de Guion," said Mme. Storey, "can you assure me that Mr. Rowcliffe was present throughout?"

The old lady had herself better in hand than her friend. "I can assure you of nothing," she replied calmly. "Everybody was coming and going. In a crowd you do not think of people unless you see them."

Mme. Storey returned to Mrs. Cruger. "Be frank with me," she said. "Is it not a fact that you and Miss de Guion remarked together on Mr. Rowcliffe's absence?"

This question was cunningly calculated. Mrs. Cruger was a proud woman, and could not bear to stoop to compound a lie with another.

She underwent a sudden change of front. "Yes, we did," she said. "You angered me for the moment. I am sorry. Hereafter I will be perfectly frank with you. Let's get this over with as quickly as possible."

"Thank you," said Mme. Storey.

I saw Miss de Guion shrug almost imperceptibly. She seemed to say: If Bessie wants the truth to be told it's all one to me. The experienced old lady could express all that in the cock of an eyebrow.

"Of course the fact that we did not see him is not to say that he was not somewhere about," Mrs. Cruger pointed out.

"Of course not," agreed Mme. Storey.

Miss McPeake suddenly blurted out: "Why don't you ask me if he was present throughout? I can assure you that he was; because I was with him the whole time."

Rowcliffe cast a glance of terror in his fiancée's direction. Clearly he dreaded support from this ill-balanced quarter.

"Ah, thanks," said Mme. Storey to the girl. "Where were you?"

"The dance was tiresome," answered Vera. "We went outside and walked about."

"For two whole hours?"

"I didn't say for how long," cried the girl sharply. "I don't know how long it was. Most of the time we were sitting in the car."

"Mrs. Cruger's car?"

"Of course."

"On the back seat?"

"Naturally. Where else?"

"The body of the car was locked," murmured Mme. Storey.

The girl's jaw dropped. She gazed at Mme. Storey in a sickly consternation that gave everything away.

Rowcliffe tried to save the situation by saying quickly: "That was only a slip of the tongue. We were sitting on the front seat, of course."

"And you went for a drive?" suggested Mme. Storey.

He glanced at her sharply. "Well, yes, we did," he said. "Any harm in that?"

"None whatever. Quite a long drive?"

"Oh, I don't know. I can hardly say."

"Forty miles?" suggested Mme. Storey.

"What makes you set that figure?"

"Six gallons of gas to be accounted for," she said softly.

"It may have been."

"Why did you turn back the trip dial of the speedometer when you returned?"

Rowcliffe bit his lip. "That was just to put one across on Bracker," he muttered. "He's so cranky about anybody else running that car."

"Then you must know to a mile how far you went?"

"Forty-one miles," said Rowcliffe sullenly.

"Too bad you didn't fill up the tank," suggested Mme. Storey.

"Well, I didn't happen to notice a filling station, and I forgot," he said.

"You had other things on your mind," suggested Mme. Storey.

"Yes," he answered thoughtlessly.

"And that was why you went away by yourself to think?"

"Yes," he said—and gasped seeing how he had been trapped.

Vera sneered painfully.

"So Miss McPeake was not with you," murmured Mme. Storey.

He shrugged. Exasperation was rapidly rendering him quite reckless.

"Where was she?"

"Ask her."

"Where were you, Miss McPeake?"

"I refuse to answer!" she cried shrilly.

Mme. Storey let that go for the moment. "You drove back to Cariswoode," she said to Rowcliffe.

"Yes, I did!" he cried.

Mrs. Cruger and Miss de Guion stared, pure amazement breaking through their masks. Evidently, though all these people were playing some game, it was not by any means the same game.

"Why?" breathed Mme. Storey.

"I'll tell you!" he cried, now quite beside himself. "Louise had told me she would be back at half past ten. I had asked her to meet me outside the house for five minutes, and I would find some way of stealing home from the dance. At first she refused, but I told her I would do something desperate if she did not come, and at last she promised to meet me at the little fountain in the center of the rose garden at quarter to eleven. That is why I came back!"

Vera McPeake spread her arms on the arm of her chair, and dropping her head upon them, broke into a hard, dry sobbing. One could not feel very sorry for her, because there was at least as much of rage as of grief in the sound.

"Well?" prompted Mme. Storey.

"She didn't come," he said, relapsing into sullenness again. "I waited half an hour, and then I drove back. I was afraid to wait any longer, for fear the car would be wanted."

Vera McPeake suddenly raised her head. "That's true!" she cried. "I was watching him, and I saw. He waited for half an hour, then he drove back."

We all looked at her. It was only too apparent from the terror in her voice that what she asserted was not true.

"You were watching him?" said Mme. Storey mildly.

"Yes, I was!" she cried. "I don't care what you think. I was watching him all the time. I had a right to watch him. I followed him out of the Van Brocklin house. I saw him get in the car and drive away. I jumped into the next car. I don't know whose car it was. It wasn't locked. I followed him. When he turned into the main drive at Cariswoode I turned into the service drive, and left the car standing there. I watched him from the shrubbery."

Mme. Storey turned back to Rowcliffe. "So you did not do anything desperate," she said.

"Oh, I hadn't meant that," he said.

"As a matter of fact," said Mme. Storey with a deadly quietness, "when she did not come you climbed up to her window."

Rowcliffe jumped up with a cry, flinging his arms up. "If you know it already, why is it necessary to sit there and torture me?"

"I did not know it," said Mme. Storey. "You are telling me."

"All right!" he cried recklessly. "It's true! I was desperate. I stood under her window. I saw the rain pipe. I kicked off my pumps and scrambled up it without caring what I did. Make what you like of it!"

"He was only inside a few seconds—a few seconds!" Vera McPeake cried hysterically.

Rowcliffe turned on her furiously. "Ah, be quiet, you fool! You want it both ways, don't you?" He turned back to us. "I didn't know until today that Vera had been watching me. She held me up outside the office when I came out, and threatened to tell you I had killed Louise if I tried to break the engagement. Well, you know the worst now. Everybody knows. And, thank God, this fool has no further hold over me. I'm done with her!"

"Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack! Oh, Jack!" the girl wailed. It was horrible to be a looker-on at such a scene.

"You climbed up to her window?" Mme. Storey quietly persisted.

He seemed to be bewitched now by the necessity of telling everything. "Yes," he said. "I raised the screen and went over the sill. I groped my way across the room. I stumbled over her body. Oh, my God! I put my hand down and felt of her face, her hands. Stone cold! I was terrified out of my senses. I got out—"

"You were satisfied she was dead, merely by touching her?" asked Mme. Storey.

"No," he said, still anxious to be explicit. "I dared not turn on the light, but I struck a match. That gave me light enough to see that she was dead. I didn't know what had happened. I couldn't think. But it was very clear that she was gone—gone! I was half out of my senses. I just got out."

"Did you notice a smell in the room?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Yes, violets," he answered. "I associated it with her."

"Why did you close the window when you went out?"

"I can't tell you. Some notion of guarding her. I didn't know what I was doing."

"You struck a match. You had one long look at her while it burned?"

He covered his face with his hands. "Yes," he whispered.

Mme. Storey rose. "Then give me what you took from her outstretched hand," she said.

Rowcliffe's hands dropped from his face. He stared at Mme. Storey in amazed horror. His eyes seemed to protrude slightly.

"How—how could you know that!" he gasped.

"The handkerchief," said Mme. Storey.

Rowcliffe, dazed, slipped a hand in his inner breast pocket, and drew it out again with a scrap of lace in his fingers. It was extraordinary to see even in his distraught condition how tenderly he fingered it. He took a couple of stiff, jerky steps forward, and let it drop into Mme. Storey's outstretched hand.

"How did you know?" he whispered again, awe-struck.

"There is no magic in it," said Mme. Storey simply. "I could not account for its disappearance in any other way."

"Well, you have it," he said apathetically. "You won't believe me, I suppose, but I took it simply because it had been close to her. I couldn't think; I had such a pain in my breast I couldn't breathe. I snatched it up because it had been near her. I knew I couldn't even grieve for her openly. I wanted some scrap of hers that I could keep in secret. Now, I suppose you'll hang me, eh? Another triumph for the great Rosika Storey. But I swear I've told you everything I know. I loved her. I would gladly have died myself, sooner than have a hair of her head injured."

"I don't expect to hang you," said Mme. Storey quietly. "All I wanted was the handkerchief, which is necessary to my case."

X

Jack Rowcliffe dropped back in his chair. Having delivered himself of his passionate confession, he was apathetic to what immediately followed. But the three women sitting up stiffly, were staring at the handkerchief with astonishment and expressions of growing horror. Mme. Storey was holding it up by two corners, revealing it wholly. One would have said that they beheld a dreadful apparition.

"An exquisite specimen," murmured Mme. Storey. "I have rarely seen anything finer. Almost a museum piece."

No sound escaped from any of the others.

"I must tell you," Mme. Storey said, "that this handkerchief came through the mail addressed to Miss Mayfield in a disguised hand. It was handed to her just before she died. The inference is therefore inescapable that it had something to do with her death, but there is no proof of that. The chemists must pass upon it."

Still no sound from the spellbound women.

"Tell me," Mme. Storey said to Rowcliffe, "have you put this handkerchief to your face at any time?"

"Yes," he said bitterly. "It didn't do me any harm."

"According to the report of my agent," Mme. Storey went on, "the envelope originated here at Cariswoode."

She paused. The women's stony eyes shifted to her face.

"It was collected at the bottom of the slide in the White Plains post office among a number of letters mailed by you three ladies yesterday afternoon. Miss de Guion, you told me, you remember, that you went in together—"

Every word she uttered tightened the screws of suspense. The pauses were most dreadful.

"Mrs. Cruger, did anybody give you letters to post?"

"No," whispered Mrs. Cruger.

"Miss de Guion?"

"No."

"Miss McPeake?"

"No."

"Then each of you posted your own letters. Mrs. Cruger, have you ever seen this handkerchief before?"

Mrs. Cruger, white to the lips, slowly shook her head.

"Miss de Guion, you?"

"No," said the old lady calmly.

"Miss McPeake?"

"No!" This negative had a defiant ring.

"Mrs. Cruger, may I ring for Glasgow?"

"As you will," murmured that lady.

When the benignant butler entered, Mme. Storey said: "Glasgow, will you please have Mrs. Cruger's own maid, Miss McPeake's maid, and Miss de Guion's maid sent into us one at a time."

No one presumed to object to this high-handed order. Glasgow retired. During the wait no one moved nor spoke. It was shattering to the nerves. Miss McPeake had quieted down. Her quick, small eyes travelled from one to another of us, sparkling with hatred, jealousy, suspicion. Her emotions were as violent and ephemeral as a fire in straw. Clearly a nature with ugly and dangerous potentialities.

The first to be shown in was a fresh-faced girl with a pleasant expression. She wore a neat working dress and plain apron.

"My maid, Agnes," Mrs. Cruger said in a dead voice.

Mme. Storey held up the handkerchief. "Agnes, have you ever seen this handkerchief before?"

After a brief examination the girl answered: "Not that I know of, madam." Her glance was as open as the morning.

"Thank you," said Mme. Storey, and Agnes retired with a wondering air.

The next was an extremely respectable middle-aged woman, who clearly set a high value on herself. Miss de Guion introduced her with a wave of the hand as "Catharine."

Mme. Storey put the same question to her.

She was more careful before committing herself. "No, madam," she said after a close examination. She retired with a perfectly self-possessed air.

The third was a French maid who might have stepped direct from the stage of a musical comedy; coquettish cap, carmined lips, short skirt and lace-edged apron. Upon being asked the usual question, she looked confused, bit her lip, answered "No," at a venture, and glanced at her mistress.

"Speak the truth, Cécile," said Vera McPeake with a sneer.

The girl then said, in excellent English, with a pert air: "I think it is one of a set belonging to Miss McPeake. There are six of them."

"Thank you," said Mme. Storey, and Cécile retired with visible reluctance.

Vera McPeake, shuffling the bracelets on her arm, said at once, defiantly: "It is, or was, one of mine."

"Why did you not say so at once?" asked Mme. Storey mildly.

With a flirt of her head she answered: "Oh, I didn't want to get anybody into trouble."

We stared at what appeared to be her unparalleled impudence.

"It's nothing to me," she went on. "I gave that handkerchief to Mrs. Cruger yesterday morning. She had admired it."

This statement threw the little circle into a fresh consternation. Rowcliffe had come out of his apathy. Vera enjoyed her moment of triumph. Mrs. Cruger got to her feet, struggling for speech. A bright red spot began to burn in either of her thin cheeks.

"How—how dare you?" she stammered.

"Didn't I give it to you—didn't I—didn't I?" the girl stridently demanded.

"You did," said Mrs. Cruger. "But do you dare suggest that I—"

"Pooh! And why not you as well as any of us? Who are you to hold yourself so high? I'm sick of your airs!"

"Be quiet!" said Mrs. Cruger haughtily.

"I shan't! I shan't!" cried the girl, beside herself. "What do I care for any of you now? You all hate me. You only pretended to be decent to me because I was rich. You laughed at me behind my back—"

"What possible reason had I for wishing the girl harm?" demanded Mrs. Cruger.

"How do we know what reasons you had? Perhaps you had a fancy for Jack yourself!"

"Preposterous!" cried Mrs. Cruger and Rowcliffe simultaneously.

"Oh, I don't know," sneered Vera. "There are funny things going on in this house. I thank God I come of common, simple, honest people!"

Mrs. Cruger came down off her high horse. Her face flushed all over; she was just the angry woman like Vera, though in a better style. "I had no reason for harming the girl," she cried. "But you had! You hated her. Any fool could see through this attempt to throw dust in our eyes. You have convicted yourself out of your own mouth."

"Certainly I hated her," retorted Vera. "I'm not grieving over her death. But, as it happens, I had no hand in it. That is the handkerchief I gave you."

"You have no proof it is the same one!"

"Then produce the one I gave you."

Mrs. Cruger's manner became faltering.

"Can you produce it?" murmured Mme. Storey.

"It was stolen from me," she said with a helpless gesture.

"Old stuff!" cried Vera with a fleering laugh.

The sound stimulated Mrs. Cruger's anger afresh. "Still she has not proved that is the handkerchief she gave me," she insisted. "She has a number of them."

"I can prove it all right," cried Vera. "I had six. The other five are still in my possession. Send for them!"

"How do I know you only had six? You may have had seven or eight or a whole trunkful!"

"I can prove that, too. They were sold to me by Benitos Brothers. They are unique. Their history is known. It can be easily proved that there are no more than six anywhere."

"Then you gave it to me simply for the purpose of stealing it back again!" cried Mrs. Cruger.

"You know that's not so! When I left the room you had it in your hand. 'Thank you so much,' you said, as I went out of the door. I have not been anywhere near your room since. That can be proved by your maid and mine. When your maid leaves your suite empty, she locks the door after her, doesn't she?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Cruger with a disagreeable smile. "How did you happen to know that?"

"Oh, it's the usual custom," said Vera with a shrug.

Mrs. Cruger's head went down. Her finer nature was at a disadvantage with the termagant, and it was impossible not to feel sorry for her. At the same time there was a suggestion of terror in her attitude that needed to be explained. From the first she had been too anxious to have it all hushed up.

"How about your maid, Bessie?" Miss de Guion asked her with a compassionate air.

"I trust her," Mrs. Cruger said piteously. "You all saw her just now. Such a simple girl. How is it possible she could look like that if she knew anything?"

"Where did you put the handkerchief?" asked Mme. Storey.

"In a drawer of my dressing-table."

"Locked?"

"No."

"When did you discover the loss of it?"

"When we were ready to start last evening and it occurred to me I would like to carry it. It was gone then."

"Had you looked at it during the day?"

"No."

"Have you any reason to suspect anybody?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" Mrs. Cruger, all but wringing her hands, dropped into her chair.

"Well, without suspecting anybody, let us go over the possibilities," suggested Mme. Storey soothingly. "Who may have been in your room?"

"The housemaids, of course, but only when Agnes is there. Agnes is responsible for my things."

"Well, what persons were in your room when you were there yourself?"

Mrs. Cruger did not answer. Her head slowly went down again.

In the silence that followed, it was inevitable that our thoughts should turn to the remaining one of the trio, and our eyes followed our thoughts. Miss de Guion was sitting easily in her chair, with her eyes fixed solicitously on Mrs. Cruger's distressed face. She became aware of our glances with a start.

"Good heavens!" she cried. "You're all looking at me!"

Nobody spoke. Her eyes travelled from face to face, aghast. "You think that I—" she stammered.

"Oh, surely it cannot be necessary for me to defend myself against the suspicion of having harmed my own dear girl!" The old lady's bosom began to heave. "The nearest thing to a daughter I ever possessed! Why, she lies there now in the pretty dress I designed for her myself with so much care! Oh, this is too much! After all I've been through today! Is not her loss enough for me to bear without—without—"

She seemed to be at the point of breaking down altogether.

This struck me as a little bit overdone, for, as a matter of fact, Miss de Guion had had herself well in hand since morning. But there! everybody was overwrought and hysterical. The long-drawn-out scene had demoralised us.

"Perhaps you don't believe in my affection for her," Miss de Guion went on. "You think I'm hard and unfeeling. Oh, I know what people say about me—just because I don't wear my heart on my sleeve! Well, leaving all affection aside, I depended on her. You must believe that! I am getting to the age when I want to take things easily. And I should trust everything to her. It is impossible for me to replace her. Is it likely that I—that I—"

"Nobody is accusing you," put in Mme. Storey gently.

"Your silences, your eyes accuse me!"

"Let us put aside all thought of accusations," said Mme. Storey soothingly. "The true facts must speak for themselves in the end. You were present when Miss McPeake presented the handkerchief to Mrs. Cruger?"

"Yes," said Miss de Guion with her handkerchief to her eyes.

"You remained on in Mrs. Cruger's room after Miss McPeake had gone?"

"Yes."

"You saw Mrs. Cruger put it away in the drawer?"

"Yes, yes, yes! What does that prove?"

"Nothing. Did anybody else know the handkerchief was in that drawer?"

Mrs. Cruger intervened here. "Agnes knew. She had heard us talking about it, though she had had no opportunity to look at it. She saw me put it away."

"Leaving Agnes out of it for the moment," said Mme. Storey, "what were you and Mrs. Cruger doing after Miss McPeake left?"

"Sitting there, smoking, talking," said Miss de Guion.

"This was in Mrs. Cruger's dressing-room?"

"Yes."

"How is that placed in respect to the other rooms of her suite?"

"The bedroom is on one side of it, the boudoir on the other."

"Was Mrs. Cruger in the room with you all the time?" asked Mme. Storey softly.

"I suppose so," said Miss de Guion. "I can't remember."

"Mrs. Cruger?"

"I can't remember," the blonde lady stammered wretchedly.

"Oh, assume that she and Agnes both passed to and fro between the rooms," put in Miss de Guion impatiently. "Does that prove that I took the handkerchief?"

"Certainly not—if we can show that any one else could have taken it," said Mme. Storey.

Miss de Guion sat forward in her chair. "I'll tell you who could have taken it!" she cried with a furious glance at the sneering Vera. "The only one who had any interest in harming my poor girl! That woman!" She pointed with a dramatic forefinger.

Vera laughed in her face.

"But how?" asked Mme. Storey.

"Through her maid, Cécile. You all saw the girl, a shifty, lying jade! She's always running after Agnes. Bessie has spoken to me about it. A most unfortunate influence on the girl. We no sooner come downstairs than Cécile goes running to Agnes in Bessie's rooms. What more likely than that she was there while we were lunching yesterday?"

"That won't hold water!" said Vera contemptuously. "I didn't know where the handkerchief had been put, and certainly Cécile didn't know."

"Agnes may have told her innocently," suggested Miss de Guion.

"We'll ask her," said Mme. Storey.

Glasgow, who had previously been sent up to Miss McPeake's room to obtain the remaining handkerchiefs of the set, now brought them in. He was dispatched for Agnes.

The five neatly folded squares of lace were laid on the little stand at Mme. Storey's elbow. She still had the first handkerchief in her hand.

"With your permission," she said to Vera, "I will keep them all for the present. To guard against any possibility of mistake I will mark the one returned to me by Mr. Rowcliffe. I want you all to watch me do it." She borrowed my pencil from me. "See, two pencil dots in the corner."

Everybody regarded the dainty fabric with awe and horror.

The pleasant-faced girl entered the room, somewhat scared by the second summons.

"Agnes," said Mme. Storey, "I want you to think back and tell me what happened yesterday. When Mrs. Cruger went downstairs to lunch you remained in her room?"

"Yes, madam."

"Did anybody come there?"

"Only Miss McPeake's maid, Cécile," she answered readily.

Miss de Guion glanced triumphantly at Vera.

"Had she come before?"

"Oh, yes, madam. She was always coming in. I couldn't very well refuse her, being Miss McPeake's maid. I told Mrs. Cruger about it."

"Was anything said yesterday about a handkerchief that Miss McPeake had given to Mrs. Cruger?"

"Yes, madam. I mentioned it."

"What did Cécile say?"

"She said: 'Let's have a look at it.'"

"And did you show it to her?"

"Oh, no, madam. It had been put away."

"Did you tell her where it had been put?"

"No, madam. But I may have looked towards the place, unthinking."

"And did you leave the room afterwards?"

"I was in and out, putting away the things. I didn't think I had to watch her, being as she was Miss McPeake's own maid."

"All right," said Mme. Storey. "That's all, thank you."

The instant the door closed behind Agnes, Miss de Guion cried out: "Now you see which way the wind lies!"

Vera laughed. "Nothing in it," she retorted. "That girl is too simple by half! Besides, if I was up to any games I would not take my maid into my confidence!"

They wrangled unpleasantly back and forth.

Mme. Storey rose. "This is getting us nowhere," she said. "The truth is bound to appear tomorrow. I will ask you all to meet me at ten o'clock in the office that Mrs. Cruger has placed at my disposal."

To me this seemed like a reckless move. I could not but feel that the hours of the night would give the real culprit time to destroy true evidence and concoct false. But Mme. Storey knew exactly what she was about, of course.

XI

Crider was waiting in the office.

"I assume that you have carried out your instructions?" said Mme. Storey.

"Yes, madam. I have three men posted about the house. Should anybody attempt to leave it during the night, he will be detained, while you are communicated with."

"Good! I want you to watch what I am going to do next, so that you can be called upon to testify regarding it. Lock the door, Bella."

I obeyed.

Mme. Storey sat down at the desk. "I have here the marked handkerchief handed me by Rowcliffe," she said. "Observe that I add two additional dots in the corner, making four in all. This handkerchief remains in my possession."

"Be careful!" I said involuntarily.

"In itself it is harmless," she said.

I looked at her, uncomprehending.

"I mean to use four of the remaining handkerchiefs," she went on. "Watch now. I put the two dots in the corner of each one. Next I would like to have them soiled a little bit—not too much."

We looked around the room for some means of accomplishing this. There was a fire-place.

"Scrape a little soot or grime out of the chimney with a bit of pasteboard, and dust each handkerchief lightly," said Mme. Storey. "Make them look exactly alike."

Crider and I did this together. Afterwards Mme. Storey folded and crumpled the handkerchiefs until they exactly resembled the one recovered from Rowcliffe. She put the original handkerchief away in the little velvet bag she carried, and dropped the other four in the drawer of her desk.

Crider was then dismissed. His final instructions were to report to Mme. Storey at nine next morning. It was about eleven o'clock. Glasgow was still hovering in the hall awaiting our pleasure, and Mme. Storey sent me to him to inquire about Rowcliffe. That gentleman, I learned, had not gone upstairs, but was smoking a cigar on the terrace. Glasgow went after him.

Rowcliffe entered the office with the same crushed and stricken air; nevertheless it was clear that confession had in a measure eased his soul; for his eyes no longer had the same tortured look I had marked in the morning.

Mme. Storey drew one of the handkerchiefs from the back of the drawer. "I merely want to return this to you," she said. "After all, you have the best claim to it, and I realise that it will be safe with you. I shall have to borrow it back again tomorrow."

He was so glad to get it, it did not occur to him to question her motives. He took it in his eager hands, and thrust it back in his inner pocket. Stammering his thanks, he bade us good-night.

Mme. Storey's next move was to call up young Crider in New York for the purpose of instructing him how to handle the next day's business at the office. Absorbing as our present task was, there were other things that had to be kept going.

While she was waiting for the connexion she handed me another handkerchief from the drawer, saying: "Hide this in your dress and carry it to Mrs. Cruger's room. Glasgow will direct you. Simply say to Mrs. Cruger that I feel it will be safest in her possession during the night, and ask her to keep it for me until morning. If either of the other ladies should be with her, do not show it, of course, but ask Mrs. Cruger to step down here."

I found Mrs. Cruger in her dressing-room, a fairy-like pink bower. She was seated at her dressing-table, having her fine, blonde hair brushed, while she stared into the mirror with a face that had a silvery look in its pallor. She was alone but for Agnes. Seeing me, she sent the maid into the next room. I delivered her the handkerchief, together with my message. She nodded, and, dropping the handkerchief in a jewel case, let the top fall.

"It will be quite safe," she murmured.

When I got back to the office Mme. Storey was deep in her conversation with Crider over the 'phone. She had not much more than concluded it when there came a tap on the door, and Miss de Guion entered. The old lady was dressed just as we had last seen her, in the shimmering and artfully draped gown that made her look almost slender. Her back was stiff and her head up; she had the look of one who had conquered human weakness.

"I thought perhaps I could be of some assistance to you after the others were out of the way," she said simply.

"I'm so glad you came!" rejoined Mme. Storey quickly (and quite truthfully). "You can help me."

"What is the real situation?" asked Miss de Guion anxiously.

Mme. Storey made a gesture of helplessness. "I wish I knew! I suspect—but have no proof. I can go no further without the assistance of the chemists."

"Whom do you suspect?" asked Miss de Guion.

"Ah, you know!"

The old lady nodded.

"What I want you to do," Mme. Storey went on, "is to keep this dreadful handkerchief until tomorrow. I do not know what efforts may be made to recover it. I have no place to put it. There is a safe here, but Glasgow has the combination, and even Glasgow has his price, of course. Any drawer I might choose to lock it in may have a duplicate key. But the guilty person would never guess I had put it in your keeping."

Mme. Storey produced another handkerchief from the drawer, and offered it.

"I will keep it gladly," said Miss de Guion, tucking it inside her dress.

After some further conversation about the case, which seemed to have great significance, but had none (so I omit it), Miss de Guion went back upstairs.

Having given her time to get out of the way, Mme. Storey said: "Bella, I fancy there must be a telephone in Vera McPeake's boudoir. Ask Glasgow to connect me with her."

It was so, and in a few minutes Vera appeared in the office wearing an all-enveloping white robe of exquisite fleecy Angora, and a remarkable lace cap. Her fine trappings only made the pinched and spiteful face look more common.

She came in with a defiant air. "What have you got to say to me?" she demanded.

"Hardly necessary for me to say anything," replied Mme. Storey blandly. "You and I understand each other. I could not let it appear before the others, of course."

"I thought you were against me, too," muttered the girl.

"By no means!" said Mme. Storey quickly. "And the best proof of that is, that I'm going to ask you to keep the most important bit of evidence I have. No place in this house would be safe for me. I have no assurance that the murderer would not kill me to get it back again. But it would never be supposed that I had given it to you to keep. Will you do that for me?"

Mme. Storey offered her the last handkerchief out of the drawer.

The girl put forth a slow hand for it. She was deeply suspicious. With her sharp black eyes she was endeavouring to bore through Mme. Storey. "Oh, I'll keep it safe," she said with a sneer. "Is that all?"

"That is all," said Mme. Storey pleasantly. "And thank you."

Vera turned and left the room without another word. I began to see Mme. Storey's purpose, and commended it.

"Now to bed, Bella," said my mistress. "We have a day before us!"

XII

At ten o'clock the next morning Mme. Storey and I were waiting in the little office for the others to gather. That astonishing woman, my mistress, was reading her mail (which had been sent up from town) with perfect coolness, concentrating on each letter in turn, and issuing her instructions concerning it. I remember how I resented her self-command, for my nerves were in strings. I had slept very little. My hand trembled so that I could scarcely make legible notes. These scenes are more than I care for.

An hour earlier Crider had reported that nobody in the house had made any attempt to get away during the night. Crider had received certain other instructions in private, and had driven into White Plains. We were momentarily expecting him back.

Every member of the little house party had breakfasted upstairs, and we had not yet seen anybody. All the usual routine of the great household had proceeded in as quiet and orderly a fashion as if no suggestion of tragedy had ever approached those gorgeous, still rooms. I remember it was a lovely day out of doors. The sunlight was washing the leaves of Cariswoode with liquid gold, and the branches were full of singing birds. How I longed that I might be able to give myself up to it!

The four persons came in practically together. Mrs. Cruger and Miss de Guion side by side, followed by Vera McPeake, and a moment afterwards, Rowcliffe, giving Vera a wide berth. Four of the plain chairs the room contained had already been placed for them in a line facing Mme. Storey at the desk. I was sitting at the end of the desk on her left, resting my note-book upon it. There was a moment's confusion as they seated themselves, owing to Vera's silent refusal to sit next either Rowcliffe or Miss de Guion. They finally arranged themselves with Vera nearest the windows, then Mrs. Cruger, Miss de Guion and Rowcliffe in that order. Nobody had said a single word.

Mme. Storey seemed scarcely to glance at the four. I studied their faces covertly. Nothing conclusive was to be read there. All were agitated according to their several natures; all silenced by agitation; but there was no guilty quality to be perceived any more in one face than in another. It was significant though, that while the three women were breathlessly watching Mme. Storey, Rowcliffe was watching them, just as I was.

"First of all, the handkerchief if you please," said Mme. Storey quietly.

All four made a simultaneous move to produce it, and each, seeing what the others were about, stared in confusion and anger. When all four handkerchiefs were visible: "A trick!" each one murmured in various tones of anger and fright.

"Yes, a trick," said Mme. Storey coolly. "But one that only a guilty person need fear."

Such was their agitation, one would have said at the moment that all four were equally guilty.

Mme. Storey was unconcerned. "Bella, please take the handkerchiefs one at a time," she said. "Mark each in pencil with the initials of the person from whom you receive it."

I obeyed; putting each handkerchief on the desk and writing the initials: V.M., B.C., T.deG. and J.R. All four were placed in a pile under a paper-weight for the time being.

"As you have guessed, none of you had the original handkerchief," Mme. Storey continued. "That has not left my possession; I have it here." She produced it.

"I have taken every precaution that it may be identified," she said. "Before handling the others I added two dots in the corner; Miss Brickley and Mr. Crider looking on while I did so. You can therefore be sure that the handkerchief I hold in my hand is the same one that Mr. Rowcliffe took from the hand of the dead girl upstairs."

Again one seemed to feel the shudder in the air.

"Bella," said Mme. Storey. "See if Crider has returned."

I went to the door. Crider was waiting in the hall. At a sign from me he came in, holding a small object hidden mysteriously under his coat.

"Sit down by the door for a moment," said Mme. Storey. To the others she resumed: "First I want to establish if possible that this handkerchief was really responsible for Miss Mayfield's death; and if so, how. I have not yet had an opportunity to obtain scientific aid; but I have a theory of my own; and I will now undertake a simple experiment to prove whether or not it is the correct one."

Rowcliffe looked at her now. All four white faces remained turned towards her without stirring. Only the eyes seemed alive.

"The person who sent this handkerchief to the girl," Mme. Storey went on, "was perfectly familiar with the doings and the plans of this household. He or she must have known that if it was mailed in White Plains in mid-afternoon it would be delivered here at half past six, or shortly after you had all left for the dinner and dance. I assume that the sender also knew the girl was going out soon after, and that the delivery of the packet would find her dressing in her room. And so it happened.

"From that moment, of course, we can only proceed upon surmise. Miss Mayfield opened the envelope, and was astonished and charmed by the contents. What girl would not have been? She did not know who sent it to her, but I do not suppose she was much put about by that, for every pretty girl receives anonymous gifts. No doubt she had her own idea as to who had sent it.

"After examining it, I think she dropped it on her table while she finished dressing. The handkerchief would furnish just the touch she needed to complete her costume. Being all ready, she would pick it up again, and moisten it with perfume. She was fond of fine scent, but it is a significant circumstance that she used it in the form of a toilet water rather than an extract. The reason is a simple one; the toilet water is much less expensive than the extract. But you have to use more. I have the bottle here that I took from her dressing-table; a violet toilet water of one of the best makers. This bottle was evidently left uncorked all night. Someone who entered the room after the body was discovered, replaced the stopper.

"After she moistened the handkerchief—liberally," Mme. Storey continued gravely, "what would be her next act? The natural, the inevitable thing since she loved the scent, would be to apply it to her nostrils and breathe of it deeply. That, if I am correct, was the last act of her life—Crider, please—"

Crider came to the side of the desk opposite to me. He produced from under his coat—a guinea-pig!

"A guinea-pig," said Mme. Storey, "because the physical reactions of this little animal most closely resemble those of the human organism."

There was a brief-case lying on the desk. A messenger had brought up the letters in it. Mme. Storey threw back the cover, and let it remain so. She then uncorked the bottle of toilet water, and pouring a few drops on the handkerchief, clapped the wet spot over the guinea-pig's nostrils. There was a convulsive movement under Crider's hand. Mme. Storey quickly dropped the handkerchief into the brief-case, and threw the cover shut. Crider removed his hand, the little animal lay dead on the desk.

With the briefest of pauses Mme. Storey went on: "As to these other handkerchiefs: Bella, spread them out on the desk with the initials turned down—now examine them carefully, you and Crider, and tell me if any one of them is changed, since they left our hands last night."

I obeyed her automatically. Crider came around to my side, and we examined the handkerchiefs together. Whereas all four had been exactly alike the night before, one was now unmistakably different from the others. I looked at Crider and he confirmed it with a nod.

"This one has been washed," I said.

"Read the initials," commanded Mme. Storey.

I tried to, but my tongue would not form the sounds. It was Crider who said:

"T.deG."

Miss de Guion pitched forward out of her chair, and crashed to the floor. A scene of indescribable confusion took place. Vera McPeake shrieked; Rowcliffe sprang up, knocking over his chair, and clapping his hands to his head ejaculated hoarsely over and over: "My God! My God! My God!" Mrs. Cruger's head fell backward, and the last vestiges of life seemed to leave her inert frame. As for me, I dropped into my chair like one paralysed.

What happened immediately after this is vague to me. I remember Mme. Storey and Crider hastening to raise Miss de Guion up. Crider must have summoned Glasgow, for I saw the two men carrying the heavy body from the room. What became of Vera and Rowcliffe I do not know. When clear recollection returned, Mrs. Cruger was alone in the room with us. She had covered her face with her hands, and was weakly weeping.

"You suspected this from the first?" said Mme. Storey.

Mrs. Cruger nodded without taking down her hands.

"Explain to me—when you are able."

The other began to speak brokenly: "It was my fault—in a way. But I couldn't foresee this. It began months ago. Teresa irritated me more and more with her masterful ways. And the entertainments she arranged didn't represent me. She was growing old—old-fashioned—made a fool of me. And she presumed to dictate whom I might and might not have for friends! Then I saw Louise; so young, so intelligent; she understood. And in a moment of exasperation with Teresa, I wrote to Louise suggesting that she, well, act for me direct. You understand. Louise never got that letter. I found it out from her indirectly. I never told her I had written to her. I knew it had fallen into Teresa's hands—I just drifted—I never dreamed of any outcome like this—"

"Why didn't you tell me this at first?" asked Mme. Storey.

"How could I? It was just a suspicion—it was too dreadful. Teresa is so old. I wanted it hushed up!"

That was all. She made her way out of the room unaided. Crider came back.

"Telephone to the police," Mme. Storey said to him, gravely.

POSTSCRIPT

The saddest feature of the case did not take place until the first reports were published in the newspapers. Then, in the frantic young man who rushed to Cariswoode, was discovered the real lover of Louise Mayfield, a splendid young fellow, Ralph Penry. It was with him that Louise had had an engagement to dine in a hotel in White Plains the night she died. They were engaged to be married, but had felt it necessary to conceal the fact, owing to the jealous, imperious nature of Louise's employer. The young man's grief was heart-breaking to witness.

An unexpected outcome was that Penry and Rowcliffe became friends, drawn together by their common loss. Indeed Rowcliffe's regeneration was a bit of good that came of the miserable affair. He went to work, and has made good, I hear. Vera McPeake subsequently found another impecunious young blue blood and married him.

The trial of Teresa de Guion revealed a subtlety, a determination, a patience in that strange woman sufficient to have accomplished wonders if turned to better purpose. Her boldness was evidenced by the fact that it was she who had insisted on the investigation. She was wise enough to realise that it must be gone through with, once the story was started. She was really a mediæval character, completely out of place in the twentieth century.

It was shown that among her thousands of acquaintances was a famous chemist, engaged upon research work in connexion with poison gases. There is no need to bring up his name again. As soon as she resolved upon a poison, Miss de Guion unostentatiously began to cultivate this man, and, little by little by the exercise of her charm and cleverness, drew his secrets from him, without his ever suspecting that he was being used. When he had told her what she wanted to know, she set up a little laboratory in a room she hired secretly for the purpose; and here she conducted experiments at no little risk to herself, until she had produced what she required.

When she went up to Cariswoode she had the poison with her in the form of a powder contained in a bottle. Chance threw the lace handkerchief in her way. She dissolved the powder in water, and impregnated the handkerchief. The poison was inactive in water, and the handkerchief was harmless wet or dry, until a touch of alcohol released its deadly fumes. The chances were a hundred to one that the girl's death would be ascribed to natural causes, but as it happened, the hundredth chance prevailed.

She was found guilty, but in view of her age and broken physical condition (she went all to pieces before the trial) her sentence was commuted to life imprisonment. She died in prison.