When we reached the upper landing Heath was already far down the hall, lumbering toward the open door of a room at the north end. We followed rapidly, but the Sergeant's broad back obstructed our view, and it was not until we had actually entered the room that we saw the cause of the sudden and startling summons that had come to us. This room, like the hallway, was brilliantly lighted: it was obviously Mrs. Anthony Llewellyn's bedroom. Though larger than Virginia Llewellyn's room, it contained far less furniture,—there was a rigorous, almost bleak, severity about it, which reflected the character and personality of its occupant.

    Mrs. Llewellyn stood leaning against the wall just inside the door, her lace handkerchief pressed tight against her drawn face, her eyes staring down at the floor in frightened horror. She was moaning and trembling, and did not lift her eyes when we came in. What she was looking at seemed to hold her fascinated and speechless.

    There, within a few feet of her, limp and crumpled on the deep blue carpet, lay the still form of Amelia Llewellyn.

    At first Mrs. Llewellyn merely pointed. Then with a great effort she said in an awed, husky voice:

    "She was just going to her room, and she suddenly staggered, put her hands to her head, and collapsed there." Again she pointed stiffly to her daughter, almost as if she imagined we could not see the prostrate figure.

    Vance was already on his knees beside the girl. He felt her pulse, listened to her breathing, looked at her eyes. Then he beckoned to Heath and motioned to the bed opposite. They lifted the girl and placed her across the bed, letting her head hang down over the side.

    "Smelling salts," ordered Vance. "And, Sergeant, call the butler."

    Mrs. Llewellyn jerked herself into activity, went to her dressing-table and produced a green bottle like the one that Kinkaid had given Vance at the Casino earlier that night.

    "Hold it under her nose—not too close to burn," he instructed the woman, and turned toward the door.

    The butler appeared. His weariness seemed to have vanished; he was now nervously alert.

    "Get Doctor Kane on the phone," Vance said peremptorily.

    The man went swiftly to a small telephone desk and began dialing a number.

    Kinkaid remained in the doorway looking on with a hard face, rigidly immobile. Only his eyes moved as he took in each aspect of the situation. He looked toward the bed, but his gaze was not on the quiet form of his niece: it was coldly focused on his sister.

    "What's the answer, Mr. Vance?" he asked stiffly.

    "Poison," Vance mumbled, lighting a cigarette. "Yes—quite. Same like Lynn Llewellyn. An ugly business." He glanced up slowly. "Does it surprise you?"

    Kinkaid's eyes drooped menacingly.

    "What the hell do you mean by that question?"

    But Doctor Kane was on the wire, and Vance spoke to him:

    "Amelia Llewellyn's seriously ill. Come over immediately. And bring your hypo—caffein and digitalis and adrenalin. Understand? . . . Right-o." He replaced the receiver and turned back to the room. "Kane's still up, fortunately—he'll be here in a few minutes." Then he adjusted his monocle and studied Kinkaid. "What's your answer to my question?"

    Kinkaid began to bluster, apparently thought better of it, and thrust out his jaw.

    "Yes!" he snapped, meeting Vance's gaze squarely. "I'm as much surprised as you are."

    "You'd be amazed to know how far I am from being surprised," Vance murmured, and moved toward the two women. He took the smelling salts from Mrs. Llewellyn, and again felt the girl's pulse. Then he sat down on the edge of the bed and waved Mrs. Llewellyn aside.

    "What's the whole story?" he asked her, not unkindly. "Let's have it before the doctor gets here."

    The woman had stumbled to a chair, seated herself erectly, and drawn her robe about her. When she spoke it was in a calm self-possessed tone.

    "Amelia came to my room here and told me you wanted to see me. She sat down in this chair I'm sitting in now. She told me she'd wait for me here—that she wanted to talk to me. . . ."

    "Is that all?" asked Vance. "You didn't come down immediately, don't y' know. I did a bit of typing in the interim."

    Mrs. Llewellyn compressed her lips. She added coldly:

    "If it's essential for you to know: I put some powder on my face and straightened my hair at the dressing-table there. I delayed—to pull myself together. . . . I knew it would be an ordeal."

    "And durin' this spiritual preparation, just what was your daughter doing or saying?"

    "She didn't say anything. She lighted a cigarette and smoked. . . ."

    "Nothing else? No other indication of activity?"

    "She may have crossed her knees or folded her hands—I wasn't noticing." The woman spoke with withering sarcasm; then added: "Oh, yes. She leaned over to the night-table and poured herself a glass of water from the jug."

    Vance inclined his head.

    "Natural impulse. Nervous, upset. Too many cigarettes. Dry throat. Yes. Quite in order. . . ." He rose and inspected the vacuum-jug on the night-table between the bed and the chair in which Mrs. Llewellyn was sitting.

    "Empty," he remarked. "Very thirsty. Yes. Or perhaps. . . ." He returned to his seat on the edge of the bed and appeared to meditate. "Empty," he repeated, and nodded thoughtfully. "Dashed funny. All water bottles empty tonight. At the Casino. In Mrs. Lynn Llewellyn's room. And now here. Great paucity of water. . . ." He looked up quickly. "Where, Mrs. Llewellyn, is the entrance to your daughter's room?"

    "The door at the end of the little corridor that leads off the hall at the head of the stairs." She was inspecting Vance with a curious concern in which was mingled a patent antagonism.

    Vance addressed himself to Heath.

    "Sergeant, take a peep at the water-service in Miss Llewellyn's room."

    Heath went out with alacrity. A few minutes later he returned.

    "It's empty," he reported in stolid bewilderment.

    Vance rose and, walking to an ash-tray on the telephone desk, put out his cigarette. He lingered dreamily over the process.

    "Yes, yes. Of course. It would be. As I was sayin'. A drought hereabouts. Water, water nowhere; but many drops to drink—what? Reversin' the Ancient Mariner. . . ." He lifted his head and faced Mrs. Llewellyn again. "Who fills the jugs?"

    "The maid—naturally."

    "When?"

    "After dinner—when she turns down the beds."

    "Ever failed you before?"

    "Never. Annie's thoroughly competent and dependable."

    "Well, well. We'll speak to Annie in the morning. Matter of routine. In the meantime, Mrs. Llewellyn, please continue. Your daughter lit a cigarette, poured herself a glass of water, and you graciously answered our summons. Then, when you came back?"

    "Amelia was still sitting in this chair." The woman had not moved her eyes from Vance. "She was still smoking. But she complained of a severe headache over her eyes, and her face was greatly flushed. She said her whole head throbbed and that there was a ringing in her ears. She also said she felt dizzy and weak. I attached no importance to it: I put it all down to nervous excitement, and told her she'd better go to bed. She said she thought she would—that she felt miserable—and then she spoke a little incoherently about Virginia, and got up. She pressed her hands to her temples and started toward the door. She was almost there when she swayed from side to side, and fell to the floor. I went to her, shook her, and spoke to her. Then I think I screamed,—horrible things seemed to be happening tonight and I was unstrung for a moment. This gentleman"—she indicated Heath—"came in and immediately called the rest of you. That's all I can tell you."

    "That's quite enough," murmured Vance. "Many thanks. You've explained a good deal. Perfect description of your son's collapse, too. Quite. Parallel. Only he went out on the west side of the city—your daughter on the east side. He was harder hit. Shallower breathing, faster pulse. But same symptoms. He's pulled through nicely. Your daughter will come out of it even better, once she has some medical treatment. . . ."

    He slowly drew out his cigarette-case and carefully selected a Régie. When it was lighted he sent a perfect blue ring toward the ceiling.

    "I wonder who'll be disappointed by the recovery. I wonder. . . . Interestin' situation. Interestin' but tragic. Tragic no end." He lapsed into gloomy thought.

    Kinkaid had moved into the room, and now sat gingerly on the edge of the heavy fumed-oak centre-table.

    "You're sure it's poison?" he asked, his fish-like eyes fixed on Vance.

    "Poison? Yes, yes. Excitation symptoms, of course. But that won't do. Collapse, or faint, from natural causes, responds to an inverted head and smellin' salts. This is different. Same here as with your nephew. One difference, though. Lynn got the bigger dose."

    Kinkaid's face was like a mask, and when he spoke again his lips scarcely moved.

    "And like a damned fool I gave him a drink from my carafe."

    Vance nodded.

    "Yes. I noticed that. Grave blunder on your part—speakin' ex post facto."

    The butler appeared at the door again.

    "Pardon me, sir." He spoke directly to Vance. "I trust you will not think me presumptuous. I heard your inquiry regarding the water jugs, and I took it upon myself to waken Annie and ask her regarding them. She assured me, sir, she filled them all tonight, as usual, when she did the rooms shortly after dinner."

    Vance looked at the gaunt, pallid man with open admiration.

    "Excellent, Smith!" he exclaimed. "We're most grateful."

    "Thank you, sir."

    The sound of a bell came to us. The butler hastened away, and a few moments later Doctor Kane, still in dinner clothes and carrying a small medicine case, was ushered in. His color was even paler than when I had last seen him, and there were shadows under his eyes. He went directly to the bed where Amelia Llewellyn lay unconscious. There was a look of distress on his face that struck me as a personal rather than a professional one.

    "Symptoms of collapse," Vance told him, standing at his side. "Thin, fast pulse, shallow breathing, pallor, et cetera. Drastic stimulants indicated. Caffein first—three grains,—then digitalis. Maybe the adrenalin won't be needed. . . . Don't ask questions, doctor. Work fast. My responsibility. Been through it once tonight already."

    Kane followed Vance's instructions. I felt a bit sorry for him, though at the time I could not have explained my attitude. He impressed me as a pathetic character, a weakling dominated by Vance's stronger personality.

    While Kane was in the bathroom preparing the hypodermic, Vance prepared Amelia Llewellyn's arm for the injection. When the caffein had been administered, Vance turned to us.

    "We'd better wait downstairs."

    "Are you including me?" Mrs. Llewellyn asked haughtily.

    "It might be best," said Vance.

    The woman acquiesced ungraciously, preceding us to the door.

    A little while later Doctor Kane joined us in the drawing-room.

    "She's reacted," he told Vance in a voice that was somewhat tremulous with emotion. "Her pulse is better and her color is more normal. She's moving a little and trying to talk."

    Vance rose.

    "Excellent. . . . You put her to bed, Mrs. Llewellyn. . . . And you, doctor, please hover round a while and watch things." He moved toward the door. "We'll be back in the morning."

    As we were going out, the wagon arrived to take away the body of Virginia Llewellyn. The drizzle had ceased, but the night was still damp and cold.

    "Distressin' case," Vance commented to Markham, as he started the motor of his car and headed downtown. "Devilish work goin' on. Three persons poisoned—one of 'em quite dead; the two others under medical care. Who'll be next? Why are we here, Markham? Why is anything? And all eternity to dawdle about in. Depressin' thought. However. . . ." He sighed. "There's a great darkness. I can't find my way. Too many obstacles thrown in our path, clutterin' up the road. Lies and realities all shuffled together—and only one way open to us—the way of make-believe, leadin' to the worst crime of all. . . ."

    "I don't get your meaning." Markham was gloomy and perturbed. "Naturally I feel some sinister influence—"

    "Oh, it's far worse than that," Vance interjected. "What I was tryin' to say is that this case is a crime within a crime: we are supposed to commit the final horror. The ultimate chord in this macabre symphony is to be our conviction of an innocent person. The entire technique is based on a colossal deception. We are supposed to follow the specious and apparent truth—and it will not be the truth at all, but the worst and most diabolical lie of the whole subtle business."

    "You're taking it too seriously." Markham endeavored to be matter-of-fact. "After all, both Lynn Llewellyn and his sister are recovering."

    "Yes, yes." Vance nodded glumly, not taking his eyes from the shining macadam of the roadway. "There's been a miscalculation. Which merely makes it all so much more difficult to figure out."

    "It happens, however—" began Markham; but Vance interrupted impatiently.

    "My dear fellow! That's the damnable part of it. 'It happens.' Everything 'happens'. There's no design. Chaos everywhere. It happens that Kane prescribed rhinitis tablets containing the drug that gives the exact symptoms of Virginia Llewellyn's hideous death. It happens that Amelia Llewellyn was in the clothes closet at just the right moment to hear Virginia cry out and to witness her passing. It happens that Lynn Llewellyn and his wife were poisoned at practically the same moment, though they were on different sides of the city. It happens that Amelia drank the water in her mother's jug. It happens that every one was in the house tonight at dinner-time and thus had access to all the bathrooms and water-services. It happens that no water was in any of the carafes when we got to them. It happens that Kinkaid gave Lynn a drink from his carafe ten minutes before the chap collapsed. It happens that I received a letter and was on hand to witness Lynn's passing out. It happens that Doctor Kane was invited to dinner at the last moment. It happens that we were in the house when Amelia was poisoned. It happens that Kinkaid arrived at the house at just that moment. It happens the letter I received was postmarked Closter, New Jersey. It happens—"

    "Just a moment, Vance. What's the point of that last remark about Closter?"

    "Merely that Kinkaid has a hunting lodge on the outskirts of Closter and spends much of his time there, though I believe he closes it for the season before this time of year—generally in September."

    "Good Heavens, Vance!" Markham sat up straight and leaned forward. "You're not intimating—"

    "My dear fellow—oh, my dear fellow!" Vance spoke reprovingly. "I'm not intimating anything: just driftin' along vaguely in what the psychoanalysts call free association. . . . The only point I'm endeavorin' to make is that life is real and life is earnest, and that there's nothing real and nothing earnest about this case. It's tragic—fiendishly tragic—but it's a drama of puppets; and they're all being manipulated in a carefully prepared stage set—for the sole purpose of deception."

    "It's the devil's own work," mumbled Markham hopelessly.

    "Oh, quite. A clear case of Luciferian guilt. A soothin' idea. But quite futile."

    "At least," submitted Markham, "you can eliminate Lynn Llewellyn's wife from the plot. Her suicide—"

    "Oh, my word!" Vance shook his head. "Her death is the subtlest, most incalculable part of the plot. Really, y' know, Markham, it wasn't suicide. No woman, in the circumstances, commits self-destruction that way. She was an actress and vain,—Amelia explained that to us in no uncertain terms. Would she have made herself unlovely, with a generous application of skin food and a hair-net, for her last great dramatic scene on earth? Oh, no, Markham. No. She had gone to bed in the most approved conventional and slovenly domestic fashion, with all indications of having looked forward to the morrow—unpleasant as it might have turned out to be. . . . And why should she have called out in distress when the poison began to work?"

    "But the note she left," Markham protested. "That was certainly indicatory enough."

    "That note would have been more convincing," Vance answered, "if it had been more in evidence. But it was hidden, so to speak—folded and placed under the telephone. We, d' ye see, were supposed to find it. But she was to die without knowing of its existence."

    Markham was silent, and Vance continued after a pause.

    "But we were not to believe it. That's the incredible part of it. We were to suspect it—to look for the person who might have prepared it and put it there for us."

    "Good God, Vance!" Markham's voice was scarcely audible above the hum of the car. "What an astounding idea!"

    "Don't you see, Markham?" (Vance had drawn up sharply in front of Markham's house.) "That note and the letter I received were typed in precisely the same inexpert way—obviously both of them were done by the same person: even the punctuation and the margination are the same. Do you think for one moment a distracted woman on the point of suicide would have sent me the letter I received? . . . And that reminds me. . . ."

    He reached into his pocket and, taking out the letter, the suicide note, and the sheet of paper on which he had typed a few lines in the Llewellyn home, handed them to Markham.

    "I say, will you have these checked for me? Get one of your bright young men to use his magnifying glass and scientific tests. I'd adore an official verification that all were done on the same machine."

    Markham took the papers.

    "That's easy," he said, and looked at Vance with questioning uncertainty. Then he got out of the car and stood for a moment on the curb. "Have you anything in mind for tomorrow?"

    "Oh, yes." Vance sighed. "Life has a way of going on here and there. Everything returneth. One generation passeth away, but the sun also ariseth. It's all vanity and vexation of spirit."

    "Pray abjure Ecclesiastes for the moment," Markham pleaded. "What about tomorrow?"

    "I'll call for you at ten, and take you to the Llewellyn house. You should be there. Bounden duty and all that. Servant-of-the-people motif. Sad. . . ." He spoke lightly, but there was a look on his face that belied his tone. Markham, too, must have seen it and recognized its significance. "I could bear to have communion with Lynn and Amelia when they will have recovered. A bit of research, don't y' know. They're both survivors, as it were. Heroically rescued by your amicus curiæ. Meanin' myself."

    "Very well," acquiesced Markham with marked discouragement. "Ten o'clock, then. But I don't see just where questioning Lynn and Amelia Llewellyn will get you."

    "I don't ask to see the distant scene—"

    "Yes, yes," grunted Markham. "One step enough for you. I know, I know. Your Christian piety augurs ill for somebody. . . . Good night. Go home. I detest you."

    "And a jolly old tut-tut to you."

    The car sped dangerously down the slippery street toward Sixth Avenue.