Title: The Meredith Mystery
Author: Lincoln, Natalie Sumner
Language: English
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THE MEREDITH MYSTERY

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[Illustration: “Give me that key!”]

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THE MEREDITH MYSTERY

by

NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

Author of “The Cat’s Paw,” “The Unseen Ear,” “The Red Seal,”
“I Spy,” “The Moving Finger,” etc.



A. L. Burt Company
Publishers                New York
Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company
Printed in U. S. A.

Copyright, 1923
By D. Appleton and Company

Copyright, 1922, 1923, by Street and Smith
Printed in the United States of America

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                                   TO
                     MARIE LOUGHBOROUGH CHAMBERLAIN

             A kind tender heart, and a true loving friend
             Are God’s best gifts—from beginning to end.

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                                CONTENTS

                I THE TEMPTATION
               II THE SCENTED HANDKERCHIEF
              III A QUESTION OF COLOR
               IV RUFFLES
                V THE INQUEST
               VI TESTIMONY
              VII SUSPICION
             VIII THE PLEDGE
               IX TWO PIECES OF STRING
                X THE SOLITARY INITIAL
               XI THE HAND ON THE COUNTERPANE
              XII MURDER
             XIII PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING
              XIV THE DUPLICATE KEY
               XV AT THE FORK OF THE ROAD
              XVI A CRY IN THE NIGHT
             XVII UNDER LOCK AND KEY
            XVIII THE POLICE WARRANT
              XIX OUT OF THE MAZE

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                          THE MEREDITH MYSTERY



                               CHAPTER I

                             THE TEMPTATION


Anne Meredith looked at her mother, appalled. “Marry David Curtis!” she
exclaimed. “Marry a man I have seen not more than a dozen times. Are you
mad?”

“No, but your uncle is,” bitterly. “God knows what has prompted this
sudden philanthropy,” hesitating for a word. “This sudden desire to, as
he expresses it, ‘square accounts’ with the past by insisting that you
marry David Curtis or be disinherited.”

“Disinherited—?”

“Just so”—her mother’s gesture was expressive. “Having brought you up as
his heiress, he now demands that you carry out his wishes.”

“And if I refuse—?”

“We are to leave the house at once.”

Anne stared at her mother. “It is too melodramatic for belief,” she
said, and laughed a trifle unsteadily. “This is the twentieth
century—women are not bought and paid for. I,” with a proud lift of her
head, “I can work.”

“And starve—” Mrs. Meredith shrugged her shapely shoulders.

Anne colored hotly at her mother’s tone. “There is always work to be
found—honest work,” she contended stubbornly.

“For trained workers,” Mrs. Meredith supplemented.

“I can study stenography—typewriting,” Anne persisted.

“And what are we to live on in the meantime?” with biting irony. “The
savings from your allowance?”

Again the carmine dyed Anne’s pale cheeks. “My allowance,” she echoed.
“It has kept me in clothes and a little spending money. But you, mother,
you had father’s life insurance—”

“My investments have not turned out well,” Mrs. Meredith looked away
from her daughter. “Frankly, Anne, I haven’t a penny to my name.”

Anne regarded her blankly. “But your bank account at Riggs’—”

“Is overdrawn!” Walking swiftly over to her desk she took a letter from
one of the pigeonholes. “Here is the notification—see for yourself.” She
tossed the paper into Anne’s lap. “If you refuse to accede to your
uncle’s wishes, we leave this house _beggars_.”

Beggars! The word beat its meaning into Anne Meredith’s brain with cruel
intensity. Brought up in luxury, with every wish gratified, could it be
that want stared her in the face? Her gaze wandered about the cozy
boudoir, and she took in its dainty furnishings, bespeaking wealth and
good taste, with clearer vision than ever before. With a swift, half
unconscious movement she covered her eyes with her fingers and found the
lids wet with tears.

Rising abruptly she walked over to the window and, parting the curtain,
looked outside across the well-kept lawn. The giant elms on the place
gained an added beauty in the moonlight. From where she stood she
glimpsed the Cathedral, resembling, in the mellow glow from hidden arc
lights, a fairy palace perched high upon a nearby hill, and far in the
distance the twinkling lights of Washington, the City Beautiful. It was
a view of which she had never tired since coming to her ancestral home
when a tiny child.

The historic mansion, set in its ten acres, from which it derived its
name, had been built by a Virginia gentleman over one hundred years
before. He had occupied it with lavish hospitality until his death,
after which his widow, a gracious stately dame with the manner and
elegance of the _veille cour_, had led Washington society for many
years. The wits, beaux, and beauties of the early nineteenth century,
the chief executives, as they came and went, the diplomats and American
statesmen, together with every foreigner of distinction who visited the
capital city had been welcomed there, and as one Washingtonian whispered
to another:

“A passport viséd by St. Peter would not be more eagerly sought by some
of us than admission to these dear old doors.”

The prestige which clung to beautiful Ten Acres was one of the reasons
which had induced John Meredith to purchase his brother’s share in it
and, as his fortune grew with the years, to renovate the colonial
mansion and make it one of the show places within the District of
Columbia. With the exception of a wing added to increase its size, he
had left the quaint rooms and corridors untouched in their old-time
simplicity.

From her chair by her desk Mrs. Marshall Meredith watched her daughter
in silent speculation. A woman of the world, entirely worldly, she had
seen to it that Anne, her only child, had been provided with the best of
education in a convent in Canada. Upon Anne’s graduation a year before,
she had prevailed upon her brother-in-law, John Meredith, to give her a
trip abroad before she made her debut.

John Meredith’s pride in his pretty niece had intensified with her
success in society, and once again Ten Acres had become the center of
social life. Diplomats, high government officials, and residential
society sought eagerly for invitations to the banker’s lavish
entertainments, and Mrs. Meredith’s pet ambition—a titled
son-in-law—seemed nearer attainment.

Like a bolt from the blue had come Meredith’s extraordinary interest in
David Curtis, a patient at Walter Reed General Hospital, his invitation
for a week-end visit to Ten Acres, and now his ultimatum that his niece
marry David Curtis within a week or leave his house forever.

Mrs. Meredith’s outlook on life was shaken to its foundations. Her
frayed nerves snapped under the continued silence and she rose as Anne
turned back from the window and advanced to the center of the room. She
looked very girlish in her pretty dressing gown which she had donned
just before her mother sent for her to come to their boudoir, and her
chestnut hair, her greatest glory, was still dressed as she had worn it
that evening at dinner. Her mother switched on another electric light
and under its direct rays Anne’s unnatural pallor was intensified.

“It is cruel of Uncle John to force such a marriage,” she declared.

“You will agree to it?” The question shot from Mrs. Meredith. Anne shook
her head. “But think of the alternative—”

“There may be _but_ the one alternative.” Anne had some difficulty in
speaking and her voice was little more than a whisper. “Suppose—suppose
there was an unsurmountable obstacle—”

“An obstacle—of what kind?”

“A—a previous marriage—”

“Good God!” Mrs. Meredith stepped back and clutched a chair for support.
“You don’t mean—Anne—!”

“That I might be already married?” Anne’s soft voice added flame to her
mother’s fury. Stepping forward she gazed sternly at her daughter.

“No; it is not possible,” she declared. “I know every incident in your
life. The good Sisters kept a strict watch, and you have never been away
from my chaperonage since you left the convent. You cannot avoid your
uncle’s wishes with such a palpable lie.” In her relief she laughed.
“Anne, you frightened me, silly child.”

“And what are your feelings compared to mine?” Anne raised miserable,
agonized eyes and gazed straight at her mother. “Uncle John demands that
I marry David Curtis, and you, mother, are playing into his hands for
this most unnatural marriage—”

“Unnatural—?”

“Yes. You both wish me to marry a stranger—a blind man.”

“Say, rather, a hero blinded in the late War.”

“Cloak it in any language,” Anne’s gesture of despair was eloquent. “Oh,
mother, I cannot marry him.”

“Cease this folly, Anne, and pull yourself together,” Mrs. Meredith’s
voice was low and earnest. “I have been to your uncle this evening, and
he has agreed that this marriage with David Curtis is to be a marriage
of convenience only; and yet, ungrateful girl that you are, you forget
all that I have dared for your sake.”

Anne recoiled. “For me?” she said bitterly. “Oh, no. You love luxury,
wealth, power, and by sacrificing me you can attain your desires. You
wish to force me to marry this blind man—to make a mockery of the
marriage vows by assuring me that the ceremony is all that is required
of me. Do you think God smiles on such vows?”

Her mother stepped to her side and seized the girl’s hand. It was
marvelous how her long, slender fingers could compress the tender flesh.
Anne uttered a cry of pain, then threw back her head and met her
mother’s furious glance with an amount of resolution which amazed her.

“I am more than six years old,” she said quietly. “And I am subservient
to your will only because you are my mother and I am not yet of age. If
I must do this abominable thing, let it be done immediately.”

Mrs. Meredith dropped her hand. The passion died out of her face and the
smooth, handsome mask covered it as before.

“I am glad that you have recovered your senses,” she said in a calmer
voice. “Your uncle has retired for the night, not feeling well, but Sam
Hollister is waiting in the library to learn your decision.”

Anne shrank back. “Sam knows—” she gasped.

“Certainly; he has been your uncle’s confidential lawyer for many
years,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “Sam was present this evening when your
uncle disclosed his wishes to me regarding your marriage.”

“And why was I not present also?” demanded Anne, stepping forward as her
mother walked toward the hall door.

“Because John has a horror of hysterics,” she stated. “He has often told
you that he never married because he dreads a tyranny of tears,” and
going outside she shut the door with a firm hand.

Anne stared at the closed door for a full minute, then walked unsteadily
over to the couch and threw herself face downward among the sofa
pillows. Not until then did her clenched hands relax.

“Uncle John, how could you? How could you?” she gasped and her voice
choked on a sob.

The grandfather clock in the big entrance hall to Ten Acres was chiming
eleven when Mrs. Meredith pulled aside the portières in front of the
library door and crossed its threshold. At her almost noiseless entrance
a man standing with his back to the huge stone fireplace, which
stretched across one end of the large room, glanced up and made a hasty
step forward. With characteristic directness Mrs. Meredith answered his
inquisitive look.

“Anne has consented to marry David Curtis,” she announced and stopped
abruptly, her hasty speech checked by Sam Hollister’s upraised hand.

“Doctor Curtis is here,” he said, and indicated a lounging chair upon
their right.

Mrs. Meredith faced David Curtis as he rose and bowed. In the brief
silence she scanned him from head to foot. What she saw was a tall,
well-set-up man, broad-shouldered and with an unmistakable air of
breeding. Ill health had set its mark on his face, which was pale and
furrowed beyond his years, but the features were fine, the forehead
broad, and the sightless eyes a deep blue under their long lashes.

The lawyer broke the pause. “Doctor Curtis has just informed me that he
cannot accede to Mr. Meredith’s wishes regarding a marriage with your
daughter,” he said. “He will tell you his reasons.”

Mrs. Meredith’s face paled with anger. Hollister, watching her, felt a
glow of reluctant admiration as he saw her instantly regain her
self-control.

“Your reasons, Doctor Curtis?” she asked suavely. “Pray keep your seat.
I will sit on the sofa by Mr. Hollister.”

David Curtis, with the instinct of location given to the blind, turned
so as to face the sofa.

“Your daughter, madam,” he began, “is a young and charming girl, with
life before her. I”—he hesitated, choosing his words carefully—“I have
to start life afresh, handicapped with blindness. Before the War I had
gained some reputation as a surgeon, now I can no longer practice my
profession. Until I learn some occupation open to the blind, I cannot
support myself, much less a wife.”

“But my brother-in-law proposes settling twenty-five thousand dollars a
year each upon you and Anne after your marriage,” she interposed
swiftly. “It is—” she hesitated and glanced at Hollister. “Have you told
him?”

Hollister bowed gravely. “It is to be a marriage in name only,” he
stated. “You can live abroad if you wish, Curtis. Meredith only
stipulates that this place, Ten Acres, is to be occupied after his death
for two or three months every year by you both, and never sold.”

“And Mr. Meredith’s reasons for wishing this marriage to take place?”
demanded Curtis. “What are they?”

Hollister shook his head. “I do not know them,” he admitted. “John told
me to tell both Anne and you that he would state his reasons immediately
_after_ the marriage ceremony. I have known John Meredith,” the lawyer
added, “for nearly fifteen years, and I know that he always keeps his
word.”

Curtis’ sensitive fingers played a noiseless tattoo on the chair arm.
“It is too great an injustice to Miss Meredith,” he objected.

“But the alternative is far more unjust,” broke in Mrs. Meredith. “My
brother-in-law has announced that if this marriage does not take place,
he will disinherit Anne. She has never been taught any useful
profession; she is delicate in health—her lungs,” her voice quivered
with feeling. “If this marriage does not take place Anne will be a
homeless pauper. Upon you, doctor, rests the decision.”

She was clever, this woman. She instinctively seized Curtis where he was
vulnerable; she appealed to his kindly heart and the human interest
which was part of his profession.

The seconds ticked themselves into minutes before Curtis spoke.

“Very well, I will go through with the ceremony,” he said, and Mrs.
Meredith had difficulty in restraining an exclamation. Hollister read
rightly the relief in her eyes and smiled. He had no love for the
handsome widow. She rose at once.

“You will not regret your decision, Doctor Curtis,” she said, and turned
to Hollister. “Will you tell John?”

“If he is awake, yes; if not, the news will keep until to-morrow.”
Hollister concealed a yawn. “Good night, Mrs. Meredith,” as she walked
toward the entrance. Curtis’ mumbled “good night” was almost lost in her
clear echo of their words as she disappeared through the portières.

“Coming upstairs, Curtis?” asked Hollister, pausing on his way out of
the library. “Can I help you to your room?”

“Thanks, no. I’ve learned to find my way about fairly well,” answered
Curtis. “I’ll stay down and smoke for a bit longer.”

“All right, see you in the morning,” and Hollister departed, after first
pausing to pick up several magazines.

In spite of his statement that he was fairly familiar with his
surroundings, it took Curtis some moments to locate the smoking stand
and a box of matches. While lighting his cigar he was conscious of the
sound of voices in the hall, which grew louder in volume and then died
away. He had resumed his old seat and his cigar was drawing nicely when
a hand was laid on his shoulder.

“Sorry to startle you,” remarked the newcomer. “I am Gerald Armstrong.”

“Yes, I recognize your voice,” Curtis started to rise, but his
companion, one of the week-end house guests at Ten Acres, pressed him
back in his chair.

“I only stopped for a word.” Armstrong hesitated as if in doubt. “I’ve
just learned of—that you and Anne Meredith are to be married.”

“Yes,” answered Curtis as the pause lengthened. “Yes?”

“You are going through with the ceremony?”

Curtis turned his head and looked up with sightless eyes in Armstrong’s
face.

“Certainly. May I ask what affair it is of yours?”

“None,” hastily. “But you don’t know Anne—”

“I do.”

“Oh, yes, you know that she is the only daughter of Mrs. Marshall
Meredith and the niece and reputed heiress of John Meredith, millionaire
banker,” Armstrong’s usually pleasant voice was harsh and discordant.
“As to the girl herself—you are marrying Anne, sight unseen.”

With a bound Curtis was on his feet and Armstrong winced under the grip
of his fingers about his throat.

“Stand still!” The command was issued between clenched teeth. “I won’t
hurt you, you fool!” Shifting his grip Curtis ran his sensitive fingers
over Armstrong’s face and brow. He released him with such suddenness
that Armstrong, who had stood passive more from surprise than any other
motive, staggered back. “Go to bed!”

Armstrong hesitated; then without further word, whirled around and sped
from the library.

Curtis did not resume his seat. Instead he paced up and down the
library, dexterously avoiding the furniture, for over an hour. At last,
utterly exhausted, he dropped into a chair near the doorway. His brain
felt on fire as he reviewed the events of the evening. He had promised
to marry a girl unknown to him three days before. He would marry her
“sight unseen.” God! To be blind! Fate had reserved a sorry jest for
him. What could be the motive behind John Meredith’s sudden friendliness
for him, his invitation to spend a week at Ten Acres, and now his demand
that he and Anne Meredith go through a “marriage of convenience”?

And he had weakly consented to the plan! Curtis rubbed a feverish hand
across his aching forehead. Forever cut off from practicing his beloved
profession, with poverty staring him in the face, handicapped by
blindness, it was a sore temptation to be offered twenty-five thousand
dollars a year to go through a mere ceremony. But he had steadfastly
refused until Mrs. Meredith had pointed out to him that Anne would
thereby lose a fortune.

Anne—his face softened at the thought of her. Could it be that she had
sung her way into his heart? The evening of his arrival he had spent
listening enthralled to her glorious voice. Her infectious laugh, the
few times that she had addressed him, lingered in his memory.

With a sigh he arose, picked up his cane and felt his way out into the
hall. He had cultivated a retentive memory and his always acute hearing
had aided him in making his way about. He had grown both sure-footed and
more sure of himself as his general health improved. At John Meredith’s
suggestion he had spent a good part of a day familiarizing himself with
the architectural arrangements of the old mansion until he felt that he
could find his way about without great difficulty.

Curtis was halfway up the circular staircase to the first bedroom floor
when he heard the faint closing of a door, then came the sound of
dragging footsteps. As Curtis approached the head of the staircase the
footsteps, with longer intervals between, dragged themselves closer to
him. He had reached the top step when a soft thud broke the stillness.
Curtis paused in uncertainty. He remembered that the wide hall ran the
depth of the house, with bedrooms and corridors opening from it. From
which side had proceeded the noise?

Slowly, cautiously, he turned to his right and moved with some speed
down the hall. The next second his outflung hands saved him from falling
face downward as he tripped over an inert body.

Considerably shaken, Curtis pulled himself up on his knees and bent over
the man on the floor. His hand sought the latter’s wrist. He could feel
no pulse. Bending closer he pressed his ear against the man’s chest—no
heartbeat!

Curtis’ hand crept upward to the man’s throat and then was withdrawn
with lightning speed. He touched his sticky fingers with the tip of his
tongue, then sniffed at them—blood. An instant later he had located the
jagged wound by sense of touch. Taking out his handkerchief he wiped his
hands, then bending down ran his fingers over the man’s face, feature by
feature, over his mustache and carefully trimmed beard, over the scarred
ear. The man before him was his host, the owner of Ten Acres, John
Meredith.

With every sense alert Curtis rose slowly, his head bent in a listening
attitude. The silence remained unbroken. Apparently he and John
Meredith, lying dead at his feet, were alone in the hall.



                               CHAPTER II

                        THE SCENTED HANDKERCHIEF


Fully a minute passed before David Curtis moved. Stooping down, he
groped about for his cane. It had rolled a slight distance away and it
took him some few seconds to find it. Possession of the cane brought a
sense of security; it was something to lean on, something to use to
defend himself.... He paused and listened attentively. No sound
disturbed the quiet of the night. Taking out his repeater he pressed the
spring—a quarter past two. He had remained downstairs in the library far
later than he had realized.

How to arouse the sleeping household and tell them of the tragedy
enacted at their very doors? In groping for his cane he had lost his
sense of direction. He took a step forward and paused in thought. Sam
Hollister! He was the man to go to, but how could he reach Hollister
without running the risk of disturbing the women of the household?
Suppose he rapped on the wrong door?

To be eternally in the dark! Curtis raised his hand in a gesture
eloquent of despair; then with an effort pulled himself together.
Falling over a dead man, and that man his host, was enough to shake the
stoutest nerves of a person possessing all his faculties—but to a blind
man! Curtis was conscious that the hand holding his cane was not quite
steady as he felt his way down the hall in search of his bedroom. The
soft chimes of the grandfather clock in the hall below brought not only
a violent start on his part in their train but an idea. The house
telephone in his bedroom! John Meredith, that very afternoon, had taught
him how to manipulate the mechanism of the instrument.

Quickening his pace Curtis moved down the corridor and turned a corner.
If he could only be positive that he was going in the right direction
and not away from his room. His outstretched hand passed from the wall
to woodwork—a door. He felt about and found the knob. No string such as
he had instructed the Filipino servant, detailed to valet him, to tie to
his door as a means of identification in case he had to go to his room
unaccompanied by a servant or friend, was hanging from it.

With an impatient ejaculation, low spoken, Curtis walked forward, taking
care to step always on the heavy creepers with which the halls were
carpeted. He had passed several doors when his hand, raised higher than
usual, encountered an electric light fixture. The heat of the bulb
proved that the light was still turned on, it also restored Curtis’
sense of direction as recollection returned of having been told by
Fernando, the Filipino, that an electric fixture was near his room. A
second more and he again paused before a door. Cautiously his fingers
moved over the polished surface of the mahogany toward the door knob and
closed over a piece of dangling twine.

With a sigh of utter thankfulness Curtis pushed open the door, which was
standing slightly ajar, and entered the room. The house telephone should
be in a small alcove to the left of the doorway—ah, he was right—the
instrument was there. What was it John Meredith had told him—his room
number was No. 1; that of the suite of rooms occupied by Mrs. Meredith
and her daughter Anne, No. 2; his own bedroom call No. 3; that occupied
by Gerald Armstrong, No. 4. Lucile Hull, Anne’s cousin and another guest
over the week-end, was No. 5—no, five was the number of Sam Hollister’s
bedroom in the west wing. But was it? Curtis paused in uncertainty. He
did not like the idea of awakening Lucille Hull at nearly three o’clock
in the morning. He was quite positive that to tell her John Meredith lay
dead in the hall would send her into violent hysterics. It was no news
to impart to a woman.

Suddenly Curtis’ hand on the telephone instrument clenched and his body
grew rigid. A sixth sense, which tells of another’s presence, warned him
that he was not alone. It was a large bedroom with windows opening upon
a balcony which circled the old mansion, two closets, and a mirrored
door which led to a dressing room beyond and a shower bath.

From the direction of the windows came a sigh, then the sound of some
one rising stiffly from the floor, and a chair rasped against another
piece of furniture as it was dragged forward with some force.

Moving always in darkness it had not occurred to Curtis to switch on the
electric light when first entering the room. But why had not his
appearance alarmed the intruder? He had made no especial effort to enter
noiselessly. It must be that the room was unlighted. There was one way
of solving the problem. Curtis opened his mouth, but the challenge,
“Who’s there?” remained unspoken, checked by the unmistakable soft swish
of silken garments. The intruder was a woman.

What was a woman doing in his bedroom? His bedroom, but suppose it
wasn’t his bedroom? Suppose he had walked into some woman’s room by
mistake and _he_ was the intruder? The thought made him break out in a
cold perspiration. No, it could not be. It was _his_ bedroom; the string
tied to the door knob proved that.

A sudden movement behind him caused Curtis to turn his head and the
sound of a light footfall gave warning of the woman’s approach. As she
passed the alcove something was tossed against Curtis’ extended hand,
and then she slipped out of the room. Curtis instinctively stooped and
picked up the object. As he smoothed out the small square of fine linen
he started, then held it up to his nose—only to remove it in haste.
Chloroform was a singular scent to find on a woman’s handkerchief.

The door of his bedroom had been left ajar and through the opening came
a woman’s voice.

“Good gracious, the hall is in darkness!” Mrs. Meredith’s tones were
unmistakable. “Anne, how you startled me!” in rising crescendo. “Come to
bed, child; the fuse is probably burned out.” A door was shut with some
vigor, then silence.

Curtis slipped the handkerchief inside his coat pocket and once again
turned to the house telephone. His nervous fingers spun the dial around
to the fifth hole and he pressed the button. He must chance it that
Hollister’s call number was five. Three times he pushed the button, each
with a stronger pressure, before a sleepy “hello” came over the wires.

“Hollister?” he called into the mouthpiece, keeping his voice low.

“Yes—what is it?”

“Thank the Lord!” The exclamation was fervid. He had secured help at
last without creating a scene. “This is Curtis speaking. John Meredith
is lying in the hall, dead.”

“What? My God!” Hollister’s shocked tones rang out loudly in the little
receiver. “Are you crazy?”

“No. He’s there— I stumbled over his body. Yes—front hall. Bring
matches—the lights are out.”

Curtis was standing in the doorway of his room as Hollister, in his
pajamas, ran toward him down the hall, an electric torch in one hand and
a bath robe in the other.

“Have you rung for the servants, Curtis?” he asked, keeping his voice
lowered.

“No. I couldn’t recall their room numbers or find a bell.”

Hollister brushed by him into the bedroom, switched on the light, and,
pausing only long enough to get the servants’ quarters on the house
telephone and order a half-awake butler to come there at once, he bolted
into the hall again.

“Where is John?” he demanded.

“Lying near the head of the staircase—” Not stopping for further words
Curtis caught the lawyer’s arm and, guided by Hollister, hurried with
him down the hall.

At sight of the figure on the floor Hollister stopped abruptly.
Loosening Curtis’ grasp, he thrust the electric torch into his hand,
then dropped on one knee and looked long and earnestly at his dead
friend.

“You are sure he is beyond aid?” he stammered.

“Absolutely. He died before I reached him.”

Hollister crossed himself. “John—John!” His voice broke and covering his
face with his hands he remained upon his knees for fully a minute. When
he rose his forehead was beaded with tiny drops of moisture.

“Go and hurry the servants, Curtis. Oh, I forgot—you can’t see.” It was
not often that the quick-witted lawyer was shaken out of his calm. “We
must get John back into his bedroom.”

“You cannot remove the body until the coroner comes,” interposed Curtis.

“But, man, the place is all blood—it’s a ghastly sight!”

“I imagine it is,” replied Curtis curtly. “The coroner must be sent for
at once.”

“Very well, I’ll attend to that. You stay here and keep the servants
from making a scene; we can’t alarm the women.” Hollister stopped long
enough to put on his bath robe. “I’ll telephone from my room—there’s an
outside extension phone there; then I’ll put on some clothes before I
come back,” and he sped away.

Herman, the butler, heralded his approach with an exclamation of horror.

“Keep quiet!” Curtis’ stern tones carried command and Herman pulled
himself together. “Go and see what is the matter with the electric
lights in this corridor; then come back. Make as little noise as
possible,” he added by way of caution and the alarmed butler nodded in
understanding.

At sound of the servant’s receding footsteps Curtis dropped on one knee
and ran his hand over John Meredith. A startled exclamation escaped him.
He had left the body lying partly on one side as he had found it; now
John Meredith was stretched at full length upon his back. Could
Hollister have been so foolish as to turn him over? Only the coroner had
the right to move a dead body.

As Curtis drew back his hand preparatory to rising, he touched a strand
of hair caught around a button on the jacket of Meredith’s pajamas.

“If I could only see!” The exclamation escaped him unwittingly. He
hesitated a brief second, then deftly unwound a few hairs and placed
them inside his leather wallet just as Herman stopped by his side.

“There weren’t nothing the matter with the lights,” he said, in an
aggrieved tone. “They was just turned off. My, don’t the master look
awful! You oughter be thankful, sir, that you can’t see ’im.”

Hollister’s return saved any reply on Curtis’ part, and the servant
stepped back respectfully to make room for him.

“Coroner Penfield is coming right out,” the lawyer announced. “Also Dr.
Leonard McLane, Meredith’s family physician. I thought it best to have
him here when we break the news to Mrs. Meredith and Anne, not to
mention Miss Hull—she’s a bundle of nerves.”

His thoughts elsewhere, Curtis failed to remark the change in
Hollister’s voice at mention of Lucile Hull’s name.

“Did you notify the police?” he asked.

“The police? Certainly not.” Hollister stared at his companion. “We
don’t need the police, Curtis. Say, are you ill?” noticing for the first
time the blind surgeon’s pallor.

“I’m beginning to feel a bit faint.” Curtis pushed his hair off his
forehead and unloosened his collar.

“Here, Herman, nip into my room and get the flask out of my bureau
drawer,” directed Hollister. “Hurry!”

As the servant hastened on his errand Hollister half guided, half pushed
Curtis to a hall chair and propped him in it. Not pausing to dilute the
fiery liqueur, he snatched the flask from the breathless servant and
tilted it against Curtis’ lips.

“Take a good swallow,” he advised, keeping his voice low. “There, you
look better already,” as the fiery stimulant brought a touch of color to
Curtis’ cheeks. “Rest a bit, then I’ll let Herman take you to your room
and help you undress. You haven’t been to bed?”

“No. I was on my way to my room when I tripped over Meredith’s body.”
Curtis spoke with an effort, the sensation of deadly faintness had not
entirely vanished, in spite of the stimulant. He had no means of knowing
that Hollister was watching him with uneasy suspicion. “I stayed down in
the library until around two o’clock or a little after.”

“Ah, then you don’t know the exact hour you found poor Meredith,”
Hollister spoke half to himself, but Curtis caught the words.

“It was a quarter past two by my repeater,” he answered.

“A quarter past two—and you did not call me until three o’clock,”
exclaimed Hollister. “How was it that you let so long a time elapse?”

“Because I did not know which was your room,” explained Curtis, speaking
slowly so that Hollister could not fail to understand. “I thought it
best to call you on the house telephone, and it took me quite a time to
find my way back to my bedroom. The moment I got there I telephoned to
you—”

“The moment you got there,” repeated Hollister. “The moment you got to
_your bedroom_, do you mean?”

“Yes. I identified it by the string on the door knob. You found me
standing in my doorway when you came down the hall.”

Hollister stared at him, his eyes big with wonder. “Was it from that
room you telephoned to me?” he asked.

“Yes,” with growing impatience. “I have already told you that I called
you on the house ’phone in my bedroom.”

“But, my dear fellow, that wasn’t your bedroom.”

Curtis half rose. “That wasn’t my bedroom,” he gasped. “Then whose was
it?”

“John Meredith’s bedroom—good Heavens!” as Curtis collapsed. “Help,
Herman. Doctor Curtis has fainted.”



                              CHAPTER III

                          A QUESTION OF COLOR


Coroner Penfield waited with untiring patience for Inspector Mitchell to
complete his examination before signing to the undertaker’s assistants,
who stood grouped at the further end of the hall, to remove the body. In
utter silence the men came forward with their stretcher, and all that
was mortal of John Meredith was tenderly lifted and carried to a spare
bedroom. As the bearers passed Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door it opened
and Anne Meredith stepped across the threshold.

Dressed in her white pegnoir and the unnatural pallor of her cheeks
enhanced by the deep shadows under her eyes, she appeared, in the
uncompromising glare of the early morning sunlight, like a wraith, and
the men halted involuntarily. Before any one could stop her, Anne
stepped to the side of the stretcher and drew back the sheet. A shudder
shook her at sight of the bloodstains. With a self-control little short
of marvelous in one so young she mastered her emotion and laid her hand,
with caressing tenderness, against the cold cheek.

“Poor Uncle John!” she murmured. Her hand slipped downward across the
broad chest. There was an instant’s pause, then stooping over, she
kissed him as some one touched her on the shoulder.

“Anne,” her mother’s voice sounded coldly in her ear. “Come away, _at
once_.”

Under cover of the sheet Anne plucked at a button on the jacket, then
with a single sweep of her arm she tossed the sheet over the dead man’s
face.

“Pardon me,” she stammered as Coroner Penfield walked over to the
stretcher. “Uncle John was very dear to me,” her voice ended in a sob.
“I—I—had to see him—to—to—convince myself that this awful thing had
really happened. Oh, merciful God—”

Her mother’s firm grasp on her arm checked her inclination to hysterics.

“Come.” There was no mistaking the power of the imperious command. With
a grave inclination of her head to Coroner Penfield and Inspector
Mitchell, who had stood a silent spectator of the little scene, she led
her daughter inside the boudoir and closed the door. Not until Anne was
in her own bedroom did Mrs. Meredith release her hold upon her arm.

“I trust your morbid curiosity is satisfied,” she said, making no effort
to conceal her deep displeasure.

Anne walked over to her bureau and, turning her back upon her mother,
opened a small silver bonbon box and in feverish haste slipped several
hairs, which she had held tightly clenched between the fingers of her
left hand, under the peppermints which the box contained.

“I am quite satisfied, mother,” her voice shook pitifully. “Would you
mind sending Susanne to me. I—I will lie down for awhile.”

“An excellent plan.” Mrs. Meredith turned back to the door connecting
Anne’s bedroom with the boudoir. “Doctor McLane expressly ordered us to
remain in our rooms until Coroner Penfield sent for us. Have you—” she
paused—“have you seen Lucille?”

“No.” Anne looked around quickly. “Has she been told about Uncle John?”

“She was still asleep when I went to her room half an hour ago, and I
thought it best not to awaken her.” Mrs. Meredith laid her hand on the
knob of the door, preparatory to closing it behind her. “I will go there
shortly. Try and rest, Anne; a little rose water might make your eyes
less red,” and with this parting shot, her mother retreated.

Crossing the boudoir Mrs. Meredith hastened into her bedroom. The suite
of rooms which she and her daughter occupied were the prettiest in the
old mansion, overlooking the well-kept grounds and lovely elm trees, but
she did not pause to contemplate her surroundings, although the large
bedroom and its handsome mahogany furniture were worthy a second look.

“Susanne,” she called. “Order my breakfast at once, then go to Miss
Anne.”

“_Oui, madame_” The Frenchwoman emerged in haste from the closet where
she had been rearranging Mrs. Meredith’s dinner gowns. She smiled
shrewdly as she went below stairs. “You give orders as if you were
already mistress here,” she muttered, below her breath. “But wait,
madame, but wait.” And with a shrug of her pretty shoulders Susanne
hastened to find the chef.

Mrs. Meredith regarded herself attentively in the long cheval glass,
added a touch of rouge, then rubbed it off vigorously. Pale cheeks were
not amiss after the tragedy of the night. Powder, delicately applied,
removed all traces of sleeplessness, and finally satisfied with her
appearance, she left her bedroom. The old mansion had but two stories,
with rambling corridors and unexpected niches and alcoves. The wide
attic was lighted by dormer windows and a deep cellar extended under the
entire building.

The large drawing-room, library, billiard room and dining-room were on
the first floor, the servants’ quarters in a wing over the kitchen and
three large pantries, and the ten masters’ rooms took up all the space
on the second floor. A second wing, added at the time John Meredith had
had electricity and plumbing installed, furnished three additional
bedrooms and baths and were reserved for bachelor guests. The ground
floor of this wing made a commodious garage.

As Mrs. Meredith walked down the broad corridor she noted two detectives
loitering by the head of the circular staircase and frowned heavily. Her
pause in front of the door leading to the bedroom occupied by Lucille
Hull was brief. She knew, from her earlier visit that morning, that her
cousin had neglected to lock the door upon retiring the night before.
Without the formality of knocking she turned the knob and entered. The
dark green Holland shades were drawn and in the semidarkness Mrs.
Meredith failed to see a pair of bright eyes watching her approach. By
the time Mrs. Meredith reached the bedside, Lucille was in deep slumber,
judging by her closed eyes and regular breathing.

Lucille’s good looks were not due to cosmetics, Mrs. Meredith conceded
to herself as she stood looking down at her. Even in the darkened room
the girl’s regular features and beautiful auburn hair which, flying
loose, partly covered the pillow, made an attractive picture. Mrs.
Meredith laid a cool hand on the girl’s exposed arm, and gave it a
gentle shake.

“Lucille,” she called softly. “Wake up.”

Slowly the handsome eyes opened. Her first glance at the older woman
became a stare.

“Good gracious, Cousin Belle, you!” she exclaimed. “And fully dressed.
Am I very late? Have I slept the clock around?”

“On the contrary it is very early; only six o’clock.” Mrs. Meredith’s
somewhat metallic voice was carefully lowered. “I have distressing
news—”

Lucille raised herself upon her elbow, her eyes large with fear.

“What is it? Father—? Oh, Cousin Belle, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Hush, calm yourself! My news has nothing to do with your immediate
family.” Mrs. Meredith was not to be hurried. “Turn up that bed light,
Lucille; I cannot talk in the dark.”

Bending sideways the girl pushed the button of the reading lamp. Its
adjusted shade threw the light over the bed, but her face remained in
shadow. “Go on,” she urged. “Go on!”

“Your Cousin John has—has—committed suicide.”

With a convulsive bound the girl swung herself out of bed.

“W-what?” she stammered. “W-what are you saying? Cousin John a suicide?”

“Yes.”

She stared at Mrs. Meredith for a full second. “Did he kill himself?”
she asked, in little above a whisper.

Mrs. Meredith nodded. “His dead body was found in the hall near the
staircase early this morning,” she said. “It has shocked me
unutterably.”

“Cousin John dead! I cannot believe it. It is dreadful.” Lucille spoke
as one stunned. She covered her eyes with her hand in an attitude of
prayer, then rose and walked over to the windows and raised the shades
until the bedroom was flooded with light.

“And Anne?” she questioned. “Has Anne been told?”

“Yes.” Lucille, still with her back to her cousin, felt that the keen
eyes watching her were boring a hole through her head. “Doctor McLane
broke the news to Anne after he had spoken to me. I fear she is inclined
to be hysterical.”

“Poor Anne!” Lucille whirled around with sudden feverish energy. “I will
dress at once and go to her.”

“Not just now, she is lying down and absolute quiet is what she needs,”
Mrs. Meredith’s manner, which had thawed at sight of the girl’s emotion,
stiffened. “If you will come to the dining room, breakfast will be
served shortly.”

“Breakfast!” Lucille shuddered. “I don’t feel as if I could ever eat a
mouthful again. Oh, Cousin Belle, how can you be so—so callous?”

“So what—” Mrs. Meredith stopped on her way to the door, and under the
steady regard of her fine dark eyes Lucille’s burst of temper waned.

“So calm,” she replied hastily. “I wish that I had your self-control.”

A faint ironical smile crossed Mrs. Meredith’s pale face. “Self-control
will come when you cease smoking,” she remarked dryly, pointing to an
empty cigarette package and a filled ash tray by the bed. “And, you
doubtless recall your discussion, only yesterday, with Cousin John on
the subject of keeping early hours.”

Lucille flushed. “Cousin John was absurdly puritanical,” she protested.
“We—ah—” she hesitated. “How has Cousin John’s death affected his plans
for that extraordinary marriage? Surely, Anne won’t be forced to wed
that blind surgeon. Doctor Curtis?”

“Our thoughts have not gone beyond the moment,” replied Mrs. Meredith.
“We can think of nothing but John’s tragic death; all else is secondary.
We must adjust ourselves,” she paused. “Hurry, Lucille, and join me in
the dining room.”

Lucille dressed with absolute disregard of detail, a novel experience,
as her personal appearance usually was a consideration which loomed
large on her horizon, and generally consumed a good part of two hours of
every morning. Loving luxury, the idol of an indulgent father, she had
spent twenty-six indolent years, petted by men and gossiped about by
women. She had made her debut into Washington society upon her
eighteenth birthday and, in spite of the many predictions of her
approaching engagement to this man and that, one season had followed
another and she still remained unmarried.

Her father, Julian Hull, by courtesy a colonel, was a first cousin of
John Meredith, and at one time a business associate. But unlike Colonel
Hull, John Meredith had early deserted the stock-brokerage field and
devoted his financial interests and his business ability to banking. He
had climbed rapidly in his chosen profession, and finally attained the
presidency of one of the oldest banks in the District of Columbia, a
position which he had held until, upon advice of Doctor McLane, he had
resigned owing to ill health. The brokerage firm of Hull and Armstrong
had likewise prospered and, upon the death of its junior member, his
son, Gerald Armstrong, had been taken into partnership, a partnership
which, rumor predicted, would culminate in his marriage to Lucille.

Lucille and her father were frequent week-end visitors at Ten Acres, and
Lucille was often called upon to act as hostess at dinners and dances
when Mrs. Marshall Meredith was not present. John Meredith’s affection
for his niece, Anne, and his cousin’s daughter had appeared to be about
equally divided until Anne graduated from her convent school and came,
as he expressed it, to make her home permanently with her uncle. Her
half-shy, wholly charming manner, her old-world courtesy and
consideration for others, and her delicate, almost ethereal beauty had
made instant appeal, and John Meredith had been outspoken in his
affectionate admiration. His marked preference for Anne had brought no
appreciable alteration in the friendship between the cousins, and, in
spite of the eight years difference in their ages, she and Lucille were
inseparable companions.

It had been Meredith’s custom to have guests every week-end from January
to June and from June to January at Ten Acres. He never wearied of
improving the stately old mansion and its surrounding land and enjoyed
having others share its beauty. Anne’s nineteenth birthday anniversary
two days before had proved the occasion for much jollification, but the
house party, to the surprise of Mrs. Meredith, had only included Lucille
Hull, Sam Hollister and Gerald Armstrong. The arrival of David Curtis
just in time to be present at the birthday dinner had aroused only a
temporary interest in the blind surgeon and a feeling of pity, tinged
with admiration on Anne’s part, for Curtis’ plucky acceptance of the
fate meted out to him. What had occasioned surprise was Meredith’s
absorption in his blind guest the night of the dinner and the following
day; then had come his interview with his sister-in-law and the
peremptory statement of his wishes respecting a marriage between Anne
and David Curtis. In every way it had proved an eventful Sunday, ending
with John Meredith’s suicide.

Lucille checked her rapid walk down the corridor only to collide with
some vigor with David Curtis as she turned the corner leading from her
bedroom into the main hallway.

“Oh, ah—excuse me!” she gasped, as he put out a steadying hand. “Let me
pick up your cane,” and before he could stop her she had stooped to get
it.

“Thank you,” he said, as she put the cane back in his hand. “It was
awkward of me to drop it. I hope that I did not startle you, Miss Hull?”

Lucille looked at him queerly for a moment, “Miss Hull,” she repeated.
“Why not Anne Meredith?”

“No. _Miss Hull_,” his smile was very engaging; and again she noted the
deep blue of his sightless eyes.

“You are very quick to guess identities, Doctor Curtis,” she remarked.
“Are you coming downstairs?”

“Not just now. Coroner Penfield is waiting for me,” he added by way of
explanation.

“Then I will see you later,” and with a quick bow Lucille hurried toward
the staircase.

As Curtis stood listening to her light footfall he heard some one
approaching from the servants’ wing of the house.

“That you, Fernando?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir,” and the Filipino boy bowed respectfully. “I ver’ late.
Please pardon. This way, sir,” and he touched Curtis’ arm to indicate
the direction.

“Just a moment,” Curtis lowered his voice. “What color is Miss Hull’s
hair?”

“Mees Hull,” Fernando paused in thought. “She got what you call red
hair.”

Curtis tucked his cane under his arm and took out his wallet. Opening it
he carefully drew out several hairs.

“What color are these, Fernando?” he asked. “Look carefully.”

Fernando bent over and then glanced up, a mild surprise at the question
in his sharp black eyes.

“These, honorable sir,” he said slowly, “these are white hairs.”



                               CHAPTER IV

                                RUFFLES


As David Curtis crossed the threshold of the door of John Meredith’s
bedroom Doctor Leonard McLane sprang forward with a low ejaculation.

“Dave! It’s you—really you,” he exclaimed. “Penfield said a Doctor
Curtis was here, but it did not dawn on me that it was you.” He looked
closely at his old friend and his expression of eager welcome gave place
to one of compassion. His handclasp tightened. “I’m—”

“Leonard McLane,” Curtis’ tired face lightened. “I recognized your voice
when you first spoke.”

“The same keen ears.” McLane pulled forward a chair, and helped his
blind companion into it. “I recollect your memory tests; they were
almost uncanny—”

“Freakish, is a better word,” broke in Curtis, and a short sigh, which
McLane caught, completed his sentence. “My early training is standing me
in good stead, for which,” his smile was whimsical, “praise be!” A
movement to his right caused him to cease speaking as Coroner Penfield
stepped into the room.

“You are acquainted, gentlemen?” he asked, observing McLane’s hand
resting on his friend’s shoulder.

“Well, rather!” McLane smiled broadly. “We were pals at McGill Institute
in Canada and graduated in the same class. I came here and Doctor Curtis
went to Boston.”

“Where I remained until I went overseas with the Canadian forces at the
outbreak of the World War,” added Curtis. “I saw service with them until
we entered the War and then joined an American medical unit. I was
blinded in the Argonne.” He stopped for a moment, then asked, “Am I
speaking to Coroner Penfield?”

“I beg pardon, I thought that you two had met,” ejaculated McLane, as
Penfield shook Curtis’ extended hand.

“I know Doctor Curtis by reputation,” the latter said. “It is a pleasure
to meet you, even in such a ghastly business as this,” and he wrung
Curtis’ hand hard before releasing it.

“It is a ghastly business,” agreed McLane gravely. “A most shocking
affair.”

His words were echoed by Sam Hollister who, at that instant, came into
the room followed by Inspector Mitchell.

“Meredith’s suicide has fairly stunned me,” he added, as the men grouped
themselves about Curtis, who occupied the only chair in that part of the
room. “It is incomprehensible, astounding. A man in the best of health—”

“Hold on!” Coroner Penfield held up his hand. “Let me do the
questioning, Hollister.” He turned to McLane. “You were Mr. Meredith’s
family physician, were you not?”

“Yes; for the past five years.”

“Was he in good health?”

“He had made an excellent recovery from a nervous breakdown,” explained
McLane. “Yes, I should say that he was, until last night, enjoying
normal health.”

“Why until last night?” questioned Hollister, and Penfield frowned at
the interruption.

“Last night—he died,” replied McLane dryly, and would have added more,
but Penfield again cut in on the conversation.

“Can you place the exact time at which you found Meredith, Doctor
Curtis?” he asked, turning to the surgeon.

“A quarter past two this morning,” answered Curtis. “Meredith was dead
when I tripped over his body.” He paused. “I should say, however, that
he died only a few minutes before my arrival.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Hollister, and McLane glanced at the
little lawyer in some surprise; his manner was far from courteous.

“By the warmth of his body and its limp condition.” Curtis spoke
quietly, his sightless eyes turned toward Hollister. “Besides, I heard
Meredith coming down the corridor as I came up the staircase.”

“Did he walk briskly?” asked Hollister before Inspector Mitchell could
speak.

Curtis shook his head. “He appeared to drag one foot after the other;
then I heard a soft thud—”

“Probably staggered along the hall and fell,” broke in Mitchell.

“But where was he going?” persisted Hollister, not deterred by Coroner
Penfield’s irritation at his continuous questions.

“We have not yet found an answer to that question,” replied Mitchell.

“He was probably on his way to summon help,” suggested McLane.

“But he had the house telephone right here at hand,” objected Hollister.

“If he regretted his rash act and wished immediate aid he did not have
to leave his room and crawl down the hall to find it.” He looked
belligerently at the others. “Why didn’t John cry out? That would have
been the quickest way to have awakened us.”

“A man with such a gash in his throat would not have breath enough to
shout,” McLane pointed out.

“He could not have lived ten minutes after—”

“Inflicting it,” supplemented Hollister. “Then it is all the more
extraordinary that he left his bedroom and tried to go down this winding
corridor.”

Coroner Penfield and Inspector Mitchell exchanged glances.

“Mr. Hollister,” the latter asked, “when did you last see Meredith?”

“On my way to bed,” responded the lawyer. “I looked in for a moment. It
was just after I left you in the library,” he turned to Curtis; “about
eleven-twenty, I suppose.”

“And where was Meredith?” asked Mitchell patiently.

“Here in his room, reading in bed, as was his custom.” Hollister twisted
the ends of his waxed mustache until they pointed upward.

“And did he appear in his usual health or did he evince any, eh, morbid
tendencies?” Mitchell hesitated over his words, but Hollister’s reply
was instant.

“He seemed to be his usual self except that he showed unusual excitement
over the—” with a side-long glance at Curtis—“arrangements for the
marriage of his niece, Anne, to Doctor Curtis.”

Curtis lifted his head. “Ah, then you told him the result of our
conversation?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And did it appear satisfactory to him?”

“Yes.” Hollister paused before adding: “John insisted upon my drawing up
the prenuptial settlements so that he might sign the agreement before I
left.”

“Oh, so he signed some legal papers, did he?” Mitchell looked keenly at
the lawyer and then at Curtis; the latter’s expression puzzled him, and
he put his next question without removing his gaze from the blind
surgeon. “Can you let me see the papers?”

Hollister shook his head. “I haven’t them,” he answered. “I left the
papers lying on the bed by John Meredith.”

With one accord the Coroner, Inspector Mitchell and Leonard McLane
wheeled around and stared at the carved four-post mahogany bedstead
which occupied one side of the large room. It was evident that the bed
had been slept in; the pillows were tumbled about and the bedclothes
turned back in disorder. A dressing gown lay on the floor not far from
the bed. No papers of any kind were on the bed, but on the right side an
ominous red stain had spread a zigzag course from the under sheet to the
carpet.

Curtis broke the long pause. “I take it the papers are not on the bed
_now_, judging from your silence,” he said. “Was any one, beside
yourself, Hollister, aware that Meredith had drawn up this, what did you
call it—”

“Prenuptial agreement,” interposed Hollister.

“The witnesses knew—”

“And who were the witnesses?” asked Mitchell, notebook in hand.

“Miss Lucille Hull and Gerald Armstrong.” Hollister glanced keenly about
the bedroom and moved as if to cross to a mahogany secretary which stood
near one of the windows. “Perhaps they are in Meredith’s secretary—”

“Just a moment, Mr. Hollister,” Coroner Penfield held out a detaining
hand. “Nothing is to be touched in this room. Inspector Mitchell and I
will conduct a thorough search later on. In the meantime have you any
notes, any memorandum of the agreement signed by Meredith last night
which you could give us?”

Hollister nodded. “I made a rough copy, and if I remember correctly I
stuffed it in the pocket of my dinner jacket. I’ll get it,” and he
started for the door, only to be halted at the threshold by a question
from Coroner Penfield.

“After the signing of the agreement were you the first to leave Mr.
Meredith, or did the witnesses go first?” he asked.

Hollister thought a moment. “Gerald Armstrong left immediately,” he
said. “Miss Hull and I started to go at the same time, but Meredith
called her back.”

“I see,” Penfield paused, then looked up. “All right, Mr. Hollister, if
you will get that paper for me, I’ll be much obliged.” As Hollister
disappeared through the doorway, he turned to Mitchell. “Inspector, will
you look up Miss Hull and Mr. Armstrong and tell them that I wish to see
them within the next half hour.”

“Do you wish to see them together?” questioned Mitchell, stopping
halfway to the door.

“No, one at a time,” and Mitchell hurried away as Fernando, the
Filipino, upon the point of entering, stepped back to allow him to pass
from the room.

“If you please, sir,” said the latter, reappearing and bowing low to
McLane. “Doctor Pen is wanted on the telephone.”

McLane, knowing Fernando’s habit of clipping names, smiled. “It’s you he
wants, Penfield,” he explained, and as the coroner went out of the
bedroom, followed by Fernando, he closed the hall door and turned to
Curtis.

“The years drop away, Dave,” he drew up a chair as he spoke. “It seems
only yesterday that we were together in Montreal.”

                “‘But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
                Sin auld lang syne,’”

quoted Curtis, and his voice held a depth of pathos which touched
McLane. “I’ve heard with delight, Leonard, of your success and of your
happy marriage.”

“My wife is—well,” McLane laughed, a trifle embarrassed. “You must meet
her and then you’ll know for yourself how dear she is. Why haven’t you
let me know you were in Washington, Dave?”

“I intended to do so to-day anyway, even if this tragedy had not
happened,” explained Curtis. “John Meredith yesterday promised to run me
in to see you this morning.”

McLane eyed him closely. “I had no idea you were an intimate friend of
John Meredith’s.”

“I wasn’t,” broke in Curtis. “I only met him ten days ago at Walter
Reed—”

“What?”

Curtis nodded. “Just so,” he exclaimed. “I saw Meredith again on Monday
and he very kindly insisted that I come over here last Friday evening,
and spend the week with him.”

McLane glanced at his watch, then turned again to his companion. “Is it
really true,” he spoke with some hesitation, “really true that you are
to marry Anne Meredith?”

Again Curtis nodded his head. “It is as wild as an Arabian Nights’
romance,” he said somberly. “John Meredith appealed to the latent
dare-devil spirit that still lingers with me by such an extraordinary
proposition.”

“Exactly what was the proposition?” questioned McLane.

“Meredith wished me to marry his niece, Anne, and declared that after
the ceremony I need never meet her again except for a few months each
year at Ten Acres,” replied Curtis. “He agreed to settle twenty-five
thousand dollars a year on us individually.”

“A very tidy sum,” interposed McLane.

“And mental degradation!” The words came almost in a whisper. “Meredith
tempted me more than he knew. To be handicapped with blindness and
poverty, and then to be offered a chance to get away, to have some means
of subsistence for the life remaining to me—on the other hand, the
humiliation of taking such a means of rescue. God!” He shaded his face
with his hand.

McLane leaned over and patted him on the shoulder. “I understand,” he
said softly. “You agreed to Meredith’s proposal—”

“Only after I had been told by the girl’s mother that Meredith would
otherwise disinherit his niece and that thus she would be left
penniless,” answered Curtis. “Then I consented to go through with the
ceremony.”

“One for Anne and two for herself,” McLane muttered, too low for Curtis
to catch the words, then raised his voice. “Take it from me, Dave, Mrs.
Marshall Meredith is Satan in petticoats.”

Curtis laughed mirthlessly. “It would seem so,” he agreed. “Think of it,
man, was there ever so mad a scheme? A bride, and one that I have never
laid eyes on. I wonder if she be ugly as Hecate or with the temper of
Xanthippe.”

“Neither, I assure you,” replied McLane warmly. “Anne Meredith could not
do a mean or dishonorable act. Convent bred, she is at times painfully
shy, but she has plenty of character. And,” McLane wound up, “she is
very beautiful.”

Curtis passed a nervous hand across his sightless eyes. “What you say
makes our marriage appear even more unsuitable; in fact, a mockery. I am
a derelict—human flotsam—whereas Anne Meredith is at the threshold of
life with the world before her.”

McLane stood up and looked down at his companion. “Blindness with you
will not be a handicap,” he said stoutly. “I know your capabilities,
Dave; your generous heart and splendid courage. I am not afraid of the
future for either you or Anne,” and as Curtis opened his lips to speak,
he asked: “But tell me, what inspired Meredith’s wish that you and Anne
should marry?”

Curtis rose also and stood leaning on his cane. “Good knows, I don’t,”
he said. “I have absolutely no idea why he wished the marriage to take
place, or why he selected me—a blind man and a stranger—to be the
bridegroom.”

McLane stared at him in incredulity. “Most extraordinary!” he ejaculated
finally. “Has no one any inkling of the reason?”

“Sam Hollister said last night that Meredith would tell us after the
marriage ceremony,” answered Curtis. “But now he is dead.”

“Another mystery!” McLane drew a long breath. “Upon my word, Dave, you
have two very pretty problems on your hands.”

Curtis swung closer to his side. “You think that the two are linked
together?” he asked. “Meredith’s sudden determined wish for this
marriage and then his death—”

McLane hesitated. “It’s impossible to say at this stage of the
investigation,” he admitted. “And it is early to surmise.” His voice
trailed off as he stopped to glance about the bedroom. Curtis’ hand on
his shoulder brought his attention back to the blind surgeon.

“Describe the room, Leonard,” he suggested. “Everything, just as it
stands now.”

“I judge the room’s about fifteen by twenty-two feet,” McLane began.
“There are four windows opening on a balcony, two facing the east and
two the north. Two closet doors, one ajar, and another door leads to the
bathroom.”

“And the furniture,” prompted Curtis, as McLane stopped speaking.

“The four-post bedstead, a bed table, with reading lamp and smoking set
on it; a highboy and a bureau with toilet silver.” Curtis was listening
with close attention to every detail. “Meredith’s desk-secretary is near
the east window, and there is a table with books and magazines upon it
and another reading lamp near the bathroom door.”

“What about chairs?”

“Three; one a large tufted lounging chair near the north window; a chair
by the desk, and, eh,” bending his head to peer around—

“One by the bed,” supplemented Curtis. “It is overturned.”

McLane glanced at him in astonishment. “It is,” he admitted. “But I can
only see the legs of the chair from where we are standing. How did you
know the chair was there and lying on the floor?”

“Intuition perhaps, or only a good guess,” Curtis smiled oddly. “On
which side of the bed is it? On the side Meredith climbed out?”

“No, on the far side.” Curtis nodded his head thoughtfully as he stepped
forward.

“Which way is the bed?” he asked. For answer McLane led him to it.

With touch deft as a woman’s, Curtis passed his hands over the pillows
and the bolster, leaving them undisturbed; then his hands traveled
across the sheet, hovered for a second on the edges of the bloodstain
and followed its course over the side of the bed and from the valance to
the carpet.

As he dropped on one knee and ran his fingers along the carpet the hall
door opened and Coroner Penfield entered. He halted abruptly at sight of
David Curtis creeping across the floor, his long sensitive fingers
playing up and down the carpet, and glanced questioningly at McLane.
Before the latter could explain Curtis broke the silence.

“Meredith must have either fallen or stooped over here,” he said. “Oh, I
forgot,” his smile was a bit twisted. “_You_ can see this and deduct it
for yourself.”

“But we can’t,” cut in Penfield quickly. “What makes you think Meredith
stopped there? It is not on the way to the door.”

“Because of the amount of blood on this spot.” Curtis raised his head.
“See for yourself.”

“But we can’t see the blood,” exclaimed McLane. “The carpet is red.”

“So!” Curtis paused as Penfield bent down and felt the spot indicated by
the blind surgeon.

“You are right,” he exclaimed. “The carpet has been saturated with
blood. What was Meredith doing in this corner of the room? There are no
stains on the mahogany wainscoting,” he added, as Curtis turned to his
left and ran his hands over the wall, “nor on the paper.”

“It is quite possible that Meredith lost his sense of direction,”
suggested Curtis, rising. “He was probably frightfully weak from loss of
blood. It is remarkable that he got as far as he did with such a wound.
Is the bed to my left?”

“Yes, this way.” Penfield, as interested as McLane, followed Curtis back
to the four-poster. “Inspector Mitchell followed my instructions, and
nothing has been touched in this bedroom.”

“You are quite certain that no one has entered since your arrival?”
asked Curtis.

“Positive. Mitchell stationed a detective outside the door and another
on the balcony on which these windows open,” with a jerk of his hand in
their direction. “Well, what the—”

The coroner’s voice failed him as Curtis, who had approached the bed
from its other side, dexterously avoiding, as he did so, the overturned
chair, lifted the tossed-back sheet, blanket and counterpane and
disclosed a parrot. The bird, its brilliant plumage sadly tumbled, lay
inert upon its side, its eyes closed.

“Good Lord! Ruffles!” exclaimed McLane. “Is he dead?”

Curtis picked up the parrot and examined it. “There’s a heartbeat;
pretty feeble, but the bird’s alive.” Suddenly he raised the bird and
sniffed at its beak, then bent over and put his head down where the
parrot had lain.

“Why in the world didn’t the parrot get out from under the bedclothes
before it was smothered,” exclaimed Penfield. “I’ve always understood
that parrots were nearly human.”

“Ruffles is,” declared McLane. “I can tell you many stories of his
sagacity. Meredith was devoted to the bird. He never tired of hearing
him talk—he said that Ruffles took the place of wife and watchdog.”

“Watchdog?” Curtis raised his head. “Um!” He held up the parrot. “Carry
him over to the window, Leonard; the fresh air may revive him. He has
been chloroformed.”

“Well, I’ll be d—mned!” ejaculated a voice behind them and Inspector
Mitchell, who had returned a few minutes before, went with McLane to the
window and carried the parrot’s stand to him. McLane laid Ruffles on the
flooring under the perch and refilled the water cup, sprinkling some of
its contents on the bird, and then pulled back the curtains so that the
air blew slightly upon it.

Curtis wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and turned to Coroner
Penfield.

“Where have you taken Meredith’s body?” he asked.

“To the empty bedroom next to this,” answered Penfield. “We will hold an
autopsy there within the hour. McLane will aid me. Would you care to be
present, Doctor Curtis?”

“Yes, if I may.” Curtis moved over to the window. “How is the parrot,
Leonard?”

“Coming out of his stupor,” Mitchell answered for McLane, who had gone
into the bathroom. “There, Ruffles, drink a little water.” He held the
cup up to the bird. “Have you called the inquest, Doctor Penfield?”

“Yes; it will be held this afternoon,” answered the coroner. “Will that
suit your plans, Mitchell?”

“Sure!” Mitchell set the parrot on its perch and placed a steadying hand
on its back as the beadlike black eyes regarded him with an unwinking
stare. “Will the inquest be here or at the morgue?”

“I haven’t quite decided.” Penfield stroked his chin thoughtfully. “But
I have fully decided that Meredith’s death is not a case of suicide, but
of murder.”

McLane, reentering the bedroom, stopped as if shot and gazed in horror
at the coroner. Curtis replaced the handkerchief in his pocket and
changed his cane to his right hand.

“May I ask what has led you to that conclusion. Doctor Penfield?”

Penfield hesitated and looked behind him to make certain that the hall
door was closed, then lowered his voice to a confidential pitch as the
men gathered about him.

“For one thing,” he began, “the absence of any weapon. Had Meredith
killed himself the weapon would have been in this bedroom or in the
hall. It is a case of murder.”

A hoarse croak from the parrot cut the silence and turning they looked
at the bird. Ruffles leered drunkenly at them, before he spoke with
startling clearness:

“Anne—I’ve caught you—you devil!”



                               CHAPTER V

                              THE INQUEST


The opening and closing of doors and the murmur of distant voices came
fitfully to David Curtis as he sat near the window of his bedroom, his
head propped against his hand and his sightless eyes turned toward the
view over the hills to the National Capital. He had sat in that position
for fully an hour trying to reduce his chaotic thoughts to order. Out of
the turmoil one idea remained uppermost—John Meredith had undoubtedly
been murdered. Who had committed so dastardly a crime? Would the answer
be forthcoming at the inquest?

Contrary to custom, Coroner Penfield had decided to hold the inquest at
Ten Acres instead of having it meet in the District of Columbia Morgue,
and he had specified three o’clock that afternoon—it must be close to
the hour. Curtis touched his repeater—a quarter past three. The inquest
must have started. Curtis reached for his cane and then laid it down.

Coroner Penfield had said that he would be sent for when his presence
was required.

Curtis had eaten both his breakfast and luncheon in solitary grandeur in
the small morning room upstairs, waited on by Fernando who had been told
by Mrs. Meredith to act as his valet. During the morning he had
requested an interview with Anne, but a message had come from Mrs.
Meredith stating that the girl was completely unstrung by the shocking
death of her uncle and could see no one.

That the entire household was thrown out of its usually well-ordered
existence was evidenced by the confusion among the servants. It had
required all Mrs. Meredith’s combative personality to check the
incipient panic and keep them at their work. The servants represented a
number of nationalities. Jules, the chef, and his sister, Susanne, Mrs.
Meredith’s maid, had come from France before the outbreak of the World
War; Gretchen, the chambermaid, was a new acquisition, having arrived
from Holland only the previous fall; Fernando and his twin brother,
Damason, had been in John Meredith’s employ from the time he brought
them with him from the Philippine Islands eight years before. But in
point of service Herman claimed seniority, having served first as office
boy and then been taken into Meredith’s bachelor household as valet and
later as butler.

Curtis had judged somewhat of the excitement prevailing below stairs by
Fernando’s unusual talkativeness, except on one point—he became totally
uncommunicative when the subject of string was broached.

“You tell me you say last night, ‘Fernando, hang string on my door so I
find bedroom,’” he had repeated. “But please, Mister Doctor, you no tell
me that,” with polite insistence. “Always I do what you say. I good
boy.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” a touch of impatience had crept into Curtis’ quiet
voice. “How was it that a string was tied to the knob of Mr. Meredith’s
bedroom door and thereby led me to believe that it was my bedroom?”

“I dunno,” Fernando clipped his words with such vigor that his lips made
a hissing sound. “Please, Mister Doctor, I dunno,” and with that Curtis
had, perforce, to be satisfied.

Curtis stirred uneasily in his chair. He would have given much for an
interview with Anne before the inquest. As it was he was going further
into the affair blindfolded. His lips curled in a bitter smile—a blind
man blindfolded! Did Anne wish to go on with the marriage ceremony
arranged for her by her uncle? Was he to consider himself engaged to
her? He had been given no key to the situation—no inkling even whether
he was expected to remain as a guest at Ten Acres, or to leave
immediately after the inquest.

Mrs. Meredith had left him severely alone, but he had been informed by
Fernando that his fellow guests had gone their several ways into town
but would return in time to appear at the inquest. Leonard McLane had
hurried away also at the conclusion of the autopsy, first having
extracted a promise from Curtis that he would make him a visit of at
least a week’s duration should he decide to leave Ten Acres.

A discreet knock on the door brought back Curtis’ wandering thoughts
with a jump.

“Please, Mister Doctor, you are wanted downstairs,” announced Fernando,
and stepping forward he offered his arm to Curtis.

The coroner’s jury to a man gazed with curiosity at the blind surgeon as
Fernando guided him to the chair reserved for the witnesses. Upon
consultation with Mrs. Meredith and Sam Hollister it had been decided to
hold the inquest in the library and Coroner Penfield had lost no time in
summoning his jurymen, while the servants, under Mrs. Meredith’s
direction, had arranged tables and chairs and made of the attractive
living room a place in which to conduct a preliminary investigation. The
general public had been excluded, but Coroner Penfield had seen to it
that a large table and chairs had been set aside for representatives of
the press who had early put in an appearance on the scene.

Doctor Mayo, the deputy coroner, who had been busy jotting down the
details of the opening of the inquest, laid aside his fountain pen and,
picking up a Bible, stepped forward and administered the oath—“to tell
the truth and nothing but the truth”—to Curtis. As the latter resumed
his seat and Mayo went back to his table, Coroner Penfield stepped
forward.

“Your full name, occupation, and place of residence, doctor?” he asked.

“David Curtis, surgeon, of Boston,” he answered concisely. “I graduated
from McGill Institute in 1906. I am,” he added, “thirty-eight years of
age. I was blinded in the Argonne offensive when serving with American
troops.”

“And when did you return to this country?” questioned the coroner.

“About eight months ago.” Curtis paused, then added: “I was pretty well
shot up, and have been in first one hospital and then another in France,
and was not in shape to return until recently. I came to Walter Reed
Hospital a month ago for treatment, hoping my general health would
benefit thereby.”

“And when did you meet John Meredith?”

“He called upon me ten days ago.”

“Had you never met previous to that time?”

“Never.”

“And what was the occasion of the call?”

“Mr. Meredith said that a mutual friend, Arthur Reed, had written him
that I was at the hospital and requested him to look me up,” explained
Curtis. “Mr. Meredith took me out in his car a number of times and then
asked me to spend this week at Ten Acres.”

“I see!” Penfield disentangled the string of his eyeglasses, which had
slipped off his nose. “Had you met any member of this household before
you came here on Friday?”

“No; they were all strangers to me.”

“Doctor Curtis,” Penfield referred to his notes, “were you the first to
find John Meredith?”

“I was.”

“Describe the circumstances.”

Curtis cleared his throat. “As I was coming up the staircase I heard
footsteps approaching and then a soft thud. I could not place the sound
and went ahead up the staircase and down the corridor; the next second I
had fallen over Meredith’s body.” He hesitated. “I could find no
evidence of life.”

“And how did you learn that it was John Meredith who lay before you?”
questioned Penfield.

“Since my blindness my fingers have been my eyes,” replied Curtis.
“Meredith bumped his head against a door yesterday and asked me to see
if he had injured himself. On investigating the slight abrasion, I ran
my fingers over his head and face, and noticed his Van Dyke beard and
that the top of his right ear was missing. This aided me in establishing
the identity of the dead man.”

Penfield regarded Curtis for a moment before putting another question.

“What did you do next?” he inquired.

“I found my way into a bedroom and called up Mr. Sam Hollister, a fellow
guest, on the house telephone and told him of my discovery,” answered
Curtis. “He came at once.”

As Curtis ceased speaking the foreman of the jury leaned forward and,
with a deprecatory look at Penfield, asked:

“Was the hall lighted, Doctor Curtis?”

Curtis’ hesitation was hardly perceptible. “I could not see,” he said
simply, and the foreman, intent on the scene, flushed; he had forgotten,
in his interest, that he was addressing a blind man. “But on feeling my
way along the hall to the bedroom, my hand came in contact with an
electric fixture. As the bulb was hot I concluded the corridor was
lighted.”

Penfield paused to make an entry on his pad. “Did you hear any one
moving about, doctor? Did any noise disturb you as you examined Mr.
Meredith?”

Curtis shook his head. “No, I could detect no sound of any kind,” he
answered. “As far as I could judge I was alone in the hall with the dead
man.”

“In what position did you find the body, doctor?” asked Penfield.

“Meredith had evidently fallen forward, for he lay partly turned upon
his right side, his face pressed against the carpet,” replied Curtis.
“His head was almost touching the banisters which guard that side of the
staircase.”

Coroner Penfield glanced about the library and saw a vacant chair near
the huge open fireplace.

“That is all just now, Doctor Curtis,” he said. “Suppose you sit over
here; it will be more convenient if I should want you again.” And
stepping forward he walked with Curtis to the vacant chair. Returning
once more to his place at the head of the big table around which were
seated the jurymen, he summoned Herman, the butler, to the stand.

Herman’s perturbed state of mind was evidenced in his slowness of speech
and dullness of comprehension. It required the united efforts of
Penfield and the deputy coroner to administer the oath and to drag from
him his age, full name and length of service with John Meredith.

“He was a kind master,” Herman stated. “Not but what he had his
flare-ups and his rages like any other gentleman what has a big
household. But mostly he was right ca’m.”

“And did Mr. Meredith have one of his rages recently?” asked Penfield.

Herman tugged at his red side-whiskers. Of German parentage, he had been
born and raised in England and brought to the United States when a lad
of fifteen by an American diplomat. From the latter’s employ he had
drifted to the brokerage firm with which Meredith and his brother,
Marshall Meredith, had been at that time identified. There he had stayed
as office boy and utility man until Meredith engaged him as valet.

“Yes, sir,” he admitted finally. “He’s been in a temper ever since a
week ago.”

“And what brought on the temper?” asked Pen-field patiently.

“I don’t know, sir.” Herman paused, then added: “He found fault with the
cooking, with the way the car was running, with the postman because he
was late, with Miss Lucille and Miss Anne because they kept him waiting.
Oh, he blessed us all out this week, sir.”

“And you say he was a kind master?” remarked Penfield dryly.

“A kind and generous master,” replied Herman stubbornly. “He always had
his hand in his pocket to help some one.”

“Did you ever hear Mr. Meredith express enmity against any one?”
questioned the coroner, then noting Herman’s blank expression, he asked:
“Did he ever say he hated any person in particular?”

Again Herman fingered his side-whiskers. In his appearance and
deportment he resembled a model English manservant.

“I can’t exactly say, sir,” he replied evasively.

“I must have a direct answer.” Penfield’s voice deepened and Herman
glanced at him under half-closed lids.

“Yes, sir, certainly; but as one of the family, so to speak,” he coughed
deprecatingly. “Twenty years service, come this Christmas; I dislike
to—to tell tales, sir. But if you insist,” observing Penfield’s
impatient expression, “why, sir, I heard Mr. Meredith, sir, speak very
harshly, sir, to some—some female, last night, sir, as I was on my way
to bed.”

“And who was the female? Come,” as Herman again hesitated. “You are
unnecessarily taking up the time of this court. Answer more quickly.”

“Very well, sir.” Herman held his portly figure more erect. “As I was
passing down the corridor, sir, after closing the house for the night I
heard Mr. Meredith say—his bedroom door being partly open—‘I intend to
have my will in this matter, whatever the consequences; so save your
hysterics. Beggars cannot be choosers. Not one penny of my money will go
to—’ That’s all I heard, sir,” ended Herman.

“And the woman, who was she?” demanded Penfield. “Come, did you not
catch a glimpse of her through the open door?”

Herman wagged a bewildered head. “’Nary a glimpse of her face,” he said.
“But—but—I saw a bit of her dressing gown reflected in the mirror of the
bathroom door and it resembled one that Miss Anne wears.”

Penfield regarded the butler attentively for a moment. “At what hour of
the night was this?” he asked.

Over in his corner by the fireplace Curtis’ hands contracted tightly
around his cane and the lines of his face grew set and stern. Was Anne
Meredith to be dragged so soon into the investigation?

“It was just before midnight.” Herman spoke with more assurance. “I had
locked up the house for the night as was my custom.”

“Do you generally close the house at midnight?” questioned Penfield.

“Oh, no, sir. The time varies according to the hour Mr. Meredith and his
guests retire,” explained Herman quickly. “I waited up last night until
after Mr. Armstrong left.”

“Oh, so he went away last night?”

“Yes, sir. He came down just as I was putting up the night latch on the
front door and asked me if he could get his car out of the garage, so I
went with him, sir, and roused Damason.”

“Damason?” questioningly.

“Yes, sir; Fernando’s twin brother and Mr. Meredith’s chauffeur. He
sleeps in the lodge down by the gate,” Herman added. “It took some time
to rouse him and that made me late in closing the house.”

“I see!” Penfield fussed with his papers. “Just one more question,
Herman. Did you find the house locked this morning as you had left it on
going to bed?”

“It was, sir.” Herman rose and stood respectfully waiting, and at
Penfield’s gesture of dismissal he left the library. As he sought his
pantry he passed the drawing-room and hurried his footsteps at sight of
Mrs. Meredith sitting composedly by a window, reading a book.

Sam Hollister did not keep Penfield waiting. His quick and courteous
replies to every question put to him, after the oath had been
administered, gained grateful looks from the reporters whose eyes had
traveled several times to the clock on the mantel during Herman’s
testimony.

“You state that you drew up some legal papers last night for Mr.
Meredith which he signed in the presence of Miss Lucille Hull and Mr.
Gerald Armstrong,” repeated Coroner Penfield. “Where are those papers
now?”

“I have no idea,” replied Hollister. “I last saw them on the bed by Mr.
Meredith. This morning, in the presence of Doctor Leonard McLane, and
with the assistance of Inspector Mitchell, I searched Meredith’s desk
and his room, but could find no trace of the documents.”

“So!” Penfield gnawed at his underlip, a habit of his when in doubt.
“What were the documents, Mr. Hollister?”

Hollister drew out two folded papers and spread them open. “This is a
rough draft,” he explained. “It is what is known as a prenuptial
agreement, and in it Mr. Meredith settled upon his niece, Anne Meredith,
and her fiance, Doctor David Curtis, a yearly income of fifty thousand
dollars, share and share alike, for their lifetime, and a sum in cash of
ten thousand dollars apiece upon their marriage within the week. He
also,” the lawyer spoke more slowly, “wished a codicil added to his will
in which he revoked a bequest of one million dollars to Anne and gave it
to his cousin’s daughter, Miss Lucille Hull.”

“Did he give a reason for altering the bequest to his niece in favor of
her cousin?” questioned Penfield, after a brief pause.

“He said that Anne Meredith was amply provided for by the terms of the
prenuptial settlement.” Hollister laid the papers in the coroner’s hand.
“I forgot to mention that if the marriage between Anne and Doctor Curtis
does not take place, Anne is to be disinherited.”

Penfield ran his eyes down the two papers, then laid them in front of
him.

“These are rough, unsigned drafts,” he stated, turning to the jury, then
addressed the lawyer. “Does the original will stand?”

“Yes, until the codicil and the prenuptial agreement are found,” replied
Hollister.

“Then Miss Anne Meredith inherits a million dollars by the terms of her
uncle’s will,” Penfield spoke with added gravity. “And her cousin, Miss
Lucille Hull, does not receive that amount?”

“Just so.” Hollister drew out a handkerchief. “Anne Meredith will
inherit a handsome fortune whether the will stands or the codicil and
prenuptial agreement go into effect or not.”

“But as matters stand she will inherit a million dollars without having
to be married,” Penfield pointed out dryly, and his eyes sought Curtis.

The latter had gradually pushed his chair backward so that he was
sheltered from the general gaze by a corner of the fireplace. There was
a second’s pause before Penfield resumed his examination.

“Did you hear any noise during the night after retiring to bed?” he
asked.

Hollister shook his head. “I am a heavy sleeper,” he admitted. “And last
night I was very weary. I fell asleep at once and never awakened until
Doctor Curtis called me on the house telephone, and told me that John
Meredith was lying dead in the hall. I stopped only long enough to get
my electric torch and rushed out and joined the doctor.”

Penfield looked up. “Why did you want your electric torch?”

“Because Doctor Curtis informed me that the lights were out,” replied
Hollister concisely.

Penfield referred to his notes for a second. “When did you last see Mr.
Gerald Armstrong?” he asked.

“When he left Meredith’s bedroom after witnessing the signing of the
codicil.” Hollister gazed at his highly polished shoes and then about
the room. “I left Miss Lucille Hull with Mr. Meredith a few minutes
later and went to my room.”

“Were you aware that Mr. Armstrong intended to leave the house at once?”
asked Penfield.

“No. On the contrary I supposed that he was still here, as we had all
been asked to stay longer,” replied Hollister. “I had no idea that he
had left last night until I went to find him early this morning, and was
told by Herman that he had departed.”

Penfield turned and whispered a few words to the deputy coroner, who
nodded attentively; then addressed the lawyer.

“That is all, Mr. Hollister, thank you.” And as the latter left the
witness chair Doctor Mayo approached Curtis.

“Coroner Penfield has recalled you to the stand,” he said. “Allow me—”

But Curtis did not wait for the offered arm. With assured tread he made
his way to the witness chair and waited for the coroner to address him.

“Doctor Curtis,” the coroner turned back his notes until he came to the
entry he wished, “you stated in your direct testimony that to the best
of your belief the electric lights were turned on in the hall at the
time you found Mr. Meredith’s body, as the bulb was hot to the touch.
Why then did you telephone Mr. Hollister that the lights were out?”

Curtis’ fingers grew taut about his cane and his sightless eyes stared
straight before him. “From where I stood in the bedroom trying to
telephone to Mr. Hollister, I overheard Mrs. Meredith tell her daughter
Anne that the hall was in darkness,” he stated quietly.

Penfield closed his notebook and rose.

“You are excused, doctor; please resume your seat by the fireplace.” He
waited until Curtis had crossed the room and then turned to Doctor Mayo.

“Call Mrs. Marshall Meredith to the stand.”



                               CHAPTER VI

                               TESTIMONY


In the interval that followed the members of the jury relaxed and leaned
back in their comfortable chairs, but no one broke the silence. Only the
rustle of paper at the press table as reporters prepared copy could be
heard, and David Curtis waited with the patience and quietude which his
long convalescence in hospitals had engendered. He was not aware of the
many curious glances cast in his direction, but the keen-eyed reporters
who had scented a story of unusual interest in the rumored marriage
between the blind surgeon and Anne Meredith, gained nothing by their
scrutiny. Curtis’ expression was not indicative of his feelings.

When on the witness stand he had contented himself with answering the
questions put to him. He had evaded nothing, nor had he volunteered
information. No one had questioned him as to his having gone to John
Meredith’s bedroom instead of his own, and he had not mentioned the
presence of a woman in the dead man’s room. Could it be that she was the
“female” of Herman’s story, and was that “female” Anne Meredith, as the
butler evidently believed? If so, what then did the parrot’s cry,
“Anne—I’ve caught you—you devil!” signify? Had the parrot repeated
Meredith’s death cry?

The lines about Curtis’ firm mouth tightened. His creed in life was
simple: to live straight, never forget a friend, and never go back on a
woman. Some natures there are with a direct appeal to each other—deep
calling to deep—and since his first meeting with Anne he had found his
thoughts engrossed by her charming, piquant personality. The first
impression had deepened, and then had come Meredith’s extraordinary plan
for their marriage. Small wonder that Curtis had been unable to put Anne
out of his thoughts.

The opening and shutting of the folding doors and the sound of men
rising indicated the arrival of Mrs. Meredith, and Curtis moved his
chair forward that he might not miss any of the proceedings. Mrs.
Meredith was conscious of the concentrated regard which her entrance
attracted.

With a courteous inclination of her head to the coroner she took the
chair he indicated and waited with outward serenity for her examination
to commence.

“Are you a resident of Washington, madam?” asked Coroner Penfield, after
the oath had been administered and the usual first questions answered.

“I make my winter home in Washington,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “I am a
native New Yorker.”

“Your name before your marriage?”

“Anabelle Rutherford.” Mrs. Meredith settled back into a more
comfortable position. “I married Marshall Meredith twenty-three years
ago and came with him to Washington. After his death I spent a great
deal of time traveling, but at the earnest solicitation of my
brother-in-law I decided again to make Washington my permanent
residence.”

“And did you make your home with him?”

“No. I have an apartment at the Dresden. My daughter Anne and I
generally spend every holiday and week-end here at Ten Acres with my
brother-in-law, however.” Mrs. Meredith was given to short sentences,
loquacity not being one of her failings. “Mr. John Meredith was devoted
to Anne and desired to have her with him as much as possible.”

“Mrs. Meredith,” Penfield laid down his pencil and looked keenly at the
handsome widow. The black gown which she had donned was modish in cut
and very becoming, but it occurred to the coroner that her beautiful
diamond earrings were inappropriate for the occasion and the deep
mourning of her attire. “Did your brother-in-law appear in his usual
spirits yesterday, or did he seem troubled in mind?”

“John appeared about as usual,” she replied, “except for his excitement
over the prospective marriage of my daughter to Doctor Curtis. That
absorbed his attention to the exclusion of all else.”

At mention of Curtis’ name Penfield glanced involuntarily toward the
spot where the surgeon was sitting and Mrs. Meredith caught his look.
Until then she had not observed Curtis and had not realized that he
might be in the room. Mrs. Meredith smoothed the frown from her forehead
and again fixed her gaze on Coroner Penfield.

“When did you last see John Meredith alive?” he asked.

“At dinner,” she answered. “He complained of a headache and went to his
room soon afterward.” Penfield paused and referred to his notes, before
putting the next question. “Did you retire early, Mrs. Meredith?”

“No, it must have been about eleven-thirty or a quarter of twelve.” She
twisted her lorgnette chain in and out of her fingers. “I read in bed
for a little while and then fell asleep.”

“And did no sound disturb you? Did you sleep through the entire night?”
asked Penfield. A certain eagerness crept into his voice and Mrs.
Meredith caught its warning note in time to be on her guard.

“On the contrary, I was very restless,” she said. “My daughter Anne is a
wretched sleeper and I heard her moving about a number of times during
the night.”

Penfield looked at her steadily for a second. “And what was your
daughter doing in the hall at the time John Meredith died?” he asked.

The crepe trimming on Mrs. Meredith’s gown betrayed her rapid breathing,
otherwise she sat calmly facing them.

“Anne started to get a book from the library,” she explained, and her
voice was admirably controlled. “I heard her walking through the boudoir
which separates our bedrooms and went to remonstrate with her. When we
found the hall in darkness she returned to her bedroom.”

Penfield raised his eyebrows. “Without being aware that her uncle lay
dead only a short distance down the hall?” he asked.

“The hall is winding and was also unlighted,” she reminded him quietly.
“We were informed of Mr. Meredith’s death by Doctor McLane very early
this morning.”

The coroner looked a trifle nonplused and drummed his fingers on the
table in indecision for a second.

“Was Mr. Meredith on good terms with every member of his household?” he
asked finally.

“To the best of my knowledge he was,” she stated, meeting his eyes with
a level gaze. “I assure you, sir, I know of no reason for my
brother-in-law’s rash and unhappy act.”

“Act, madam?”

“In committing suicide.” Again her fingers played with her lorgnette
chain. “The tragedy has quite unnerved the entire household. Aside from
the first shock, we grieve for the loss of a courtly gentleman and dear
friend.”

Curtis would have given much to have been able to study Mrs. Meredith’s
expression. He had followed every word of her testimony with keenest
attention, his ears attuned to catch every inflection in her voice,
every hesitation, however momentary, and he admitted defeat. She had
shown admirable composure and nimbleness of wit. Her explanation of the
scene in the hall with Anne, which he had overheard, was quick—too quick
to convince him of its truth.

Penfield considered Mrs. Meredith in silence for a moment. “I think that
is all just now, madam,” he said courteously. “In case we should require
you again at this hearing, kindly remain in your bedroom.”

With one last comprehensive look at the silent jury and the busy
reporters, Mrs. Meredith wasted no time in leaving the room. Her place
was taken in rapid succession by Jules, the chef, and Fernando, the
Filipino, both of whom stated that they had retired early, slept soundly
through the night and knew nothing of the death of John Meredith until
awakened by Herman the next morning. Susanne, Mrs. Meredith’s maid, told
of sharing her bedroom with Gretchen, the chambermaid, and of sound and
dreamless slumber until also awakened by the agitated butler. Gretchen,
the next witness, stuttered and stammered to such an extent that
Penfield finally lost patience with her.

“There is no occasion for tears,” he said. “Just answer my question. Did
you hear any unusual noise last night?”

Gretchen nodded her head dumbly; two big tears in her blue eyes
obstructed her vision and she brushed them away with the hem of her
white apron. She was an extremely pretty girl and the foreman of the
jury eyed her admiringly. She spoke fairly good English, considering her
short stay in the country.

“What sort of a noise was it?” demanded Penfield as she remained silent.
“When did you hear it and where?”

“Peoples—they talk under my window,” she stammered. “My bed it is—how
you say?” with a graceful gesture, “it is close by. The woman she say: I
will do it to-night.’ And the man he reply: ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’
Then, gentlemens, I hear,” her eyes were twice their usual size, “the
north door shut and by and by feetsteps go softly, softly by my door.
Then—” her voice trailed off.

“Well, what?” asked Penfield, after a second’s wait.

“Nothings, gentlemens; I go to sleep.” There was more than a hint of
obstinacy in both tone and appearance, and Penfield showed his
displeasure.

“Come, come!” he exclaimed. “You can tell us more than that. If you
don’t, you will get into serious trouble with the police.”

“But, indeed, gentlemens, I go to sleep,” she protested, tears again
welling to her eyes. “Nothing more do I know until Herman bang upon our
door this morning and say the master is dead.”

Penfield eyed her steadily. “Did you recognize the woman’s voice?” he
asked.

“Please, gentlemens, it was,” she gazed in fright about the room. “It
was—” her eyes had strayed to David Curtis. She saw him facing her, his
whole expression one of suspense. Her voice ended in a gurgle.

“Go for some aromatic spirits of ammonia,” directed Penfield, as Doctor
Mayo sprang to his assistance. “The girl will be all right in a minute;
there, let in the air, the room is stuffy. What think ye, doctor,” as
Curtis approached. “A fake or faint?”

Curtis ran his fingers gently over the girl’s forehead and across her
closed eyelids, then listened to her rapid breathing.

“A case of excitement and fright combined,” he said, as smelling salts
were thrust into his hand by Fernando, who had stuck his head inside the
door at the sound of the commotion and, with the quickness which
characterized all his movements, secured Anne’s bottle of salts which
she had left on the hall mantelpiece some days before and forgotten.
Curtis moved the salts back and forth before Gretchen, and in a few
minutes her blue eyes opened, only to close the next instant as he bent
over her.

“It is all right, Gretchen.” His calm voice held a soothing quality
which brought confidence to overwrought nerves. “You have nothing to
fear.”

“But the gentlemens—he say—” her voice was husky with emotion. “I don’t
tell on my young Mees.”

Curtis’ heart contracted suddenly. Was Anne again to be dragged into the
investigation? Coroner Penfield, at his elbow, allowed no time for
thought.

“You mean Miss Anne Meredith?” he demanded.

A nod was the only answer of which she was capable, but it satisfied
Penfield. He exchanged a look with Mayo, then continued his examination
as his assistant gave the girl a dose of aromatic spirits of ammonia.

“And the man,” he began. “Did you recognize his voice also?”

“No, gentlemens.” Gretchen straightened up and handed the empty glass to
Mayo. “I tell everyting I know,” and she held out her hands in appeal.
“Everyting.”

“You are excused,” exclaimed Penfield, and Gretchen, with a sidelong
glance at Curtis, slid out of the witness chair and from the room as the
surgeon went back to his seat by the fireplace.

Gretchen’s place was taken by Damason. His facial resemblance to his
brother was marked, but whereas Fernando was thin and wiry, Damason was
above medium height and thick-set. His testimony was brief and to the
point. He corroborated Herman’s statement of having been aroused the
night before by the butler and Gerald Armstrong.

“Mr. Armstrong got his car,” he went on to say. “And when he drove away
I went back to bed.”

“Did you hear any one walking about the place, Damason?” questioned
Penfield.

“No, sir.”

“That is all, thanks.” And at a sign from the coroner Damason rose and
stepped toward the door with alacrity, then halted and turned back.

“I forgot, please, sir,” he said, with a low bow. “This note has just
come for you, sir.”

Penfield tore off the envelope and read the few lines penned on the note
paper. Turning he addressed the jury.

“This is a note from Mr. Gerald Armstrong,” he began. “In it Mr.
Armstrong states that,” he replaced his eyeglasses and read aloud, “‘The
news of Mr. John Meredith’s tragic death has proved a great shock. I
have just learned that the inquest is called for three o’clock.
Unfortunately I have an engagement which I am unable to break and cannot
be present. As you probably have been told, I left Ten Acres just before
midnight, therefore know nothing of the distressing event which
transpired there after my departure, and my testimony would not aid your
investigation.’”

Penfield laid down the note without comment. “Mayo,” he said, “kindly
request Miss Lucille Hull to step here.”



                              CHAPTER VII

                               SUSPICION


Lucille’s prompt arrival drew a pleased look from Coroner Penfield,
which quickly changed to one of admiration. She had taken more than
ordinary pains with her toilet and her mirror had told her, five minutes
before, that she was justified by the result. Her name had figured in
too many social events to be unknown to the reporters and they one and
all favored her with close attention.

“What relation are you to Miss Anne Meredith, Miss Hull?” asked
Penfield, after she had answered a number of questions.

“We are second cousins,” she replied. Her voice did not carry very well
and Curtis moved his chair nearer the center table. “My father, Colonel
Julian Hull of Washington, was a first cousin of John Meredith and,” she
added, her voice deepening, “his lifelong friend.”

Penfield scanned his memorandum pad. “Mr. Hollister testified, Miss
Hull, that you were one of the witnesses at the signing of the
prenuptial agreement in favor of Miss Meredith and Doctor Curtis and of
the codicil to Meredith’s will—”

“Not of the codicil,” she broke in quickly. “Only of the agreement. As
Mr. Hollister pointed out, I could not witness a document under which I
stood to benefit.”

“Ah! Then you were aware last night of the contents of the codicil,”
ejaculated Penfield, and Lucille flushed warmly.

“What business is that of yours?” she demanded; her voice had a shrill
note to it generally lacking. Penfield replied to her question with
another.

“What became of the codicil and the agreement?” he asked.

Lucille raised her eyebrows. “How should I know?” She shrugged her
shoulders. “The last I saw of them, they were on Cousin John’s bed.”

Penfield regarded her attentively. “Mr. Hollister also stated that as
you were leaving, after signing the document, Mr. Meredith called you
back. Please tell the jury what he said to you.”

“It was a personal conversation,” she commenced heatedly. “It had
nothing to do—”

“We are the best judge of that,” broke in Penfield. “According to the
evidence thus far adduced this afternoon, you are the last person known
to have seen your cousin _alive_.” Lucille changed color. “Therefore,
the conversation you had with him then, however trivial it may appear,
may have some bearing on the tragedy and may aid the police in solving
the mystery surrounding his death.”

“I assure you,” Lucille spoke so low that Curtis again edged nearer so
as not to miss what she said, “we talked only of my cousin Anne and her
prospective marriage. I am very outspoken.” Lucille’s beautiful eyes
flashed spiritedly and her color rose. “I told Cousin John I thought
that it was abominable of him—to”—she stammered and stopped, then added
weakly—“to make a cat’s-paw of Anne to further his plans.”

“And what were his plans?” asked Penfield swiftly.

“I—it was a figure of speech.” Lucille’s high color faded, leaving her
deadly white. “I was indignant and did not choose my words.”

Penfield studied her in silence. “Then we are to understand that you
knew nothing of Mr. Meredith’s so-called ‘plans’?” he asked dryly.

“Yes.”

Penfield stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What answer did Mr. Meredith
make to you?” he inquired a minute later.

Again Lucille flushed. “He told me to hold my tongue,” she replied. At
the bitterness in her voice Curtis’ lips twitched. “And then I went to
bed.”

“Were you disturbed during the night by any sound in the house?” asked
Penfield.

“No.” The curtness of her tone brought a sharp look from Penfield, but
he contented himself with a slight bow and gesture of dismissal as he
said:

“Thank you, Miss Hull.”

On leaving the witness chair Lucille hesitated at sight of Curtis, then
with an inclination of her head, of which he was entirely oblivious, she
hurried from the library, conscious that several of the reporters were
edging her way in quest of an interview.

“Inspector Mitchell of the Central Office, will be the next witness,”
Penfield announced, and there was a stir of interest as the well-known
police official advanced to the center table. The coroner’s questions
were brief and to the point.

“Have you made a thorough search for the two documents signed by John
Meredith last night and last seen by Mr. Hollister and Miss Hull lying
on his bed?” inquired Penfield a few minutes later.

“I have, sir, but can find no trace of them,” responded Mitchell.

“Did you find any evidence that a burglar might have broken into the
house last night or early this morning?”

“No, sir.”

Penfield shuffled his papers about until he found one that he wished.

“On examining the body of John Meredith as it lay in the hall this
morning, did you find near it the weapon with which the wound in his
throat was made?” asked Penfield.

Mitchell shook his head. “We have searched everywhere but can find no
weapon of any kind,” he stated. “It is not in his bedroom where, judging
from the bloodstains, the wound was inflicted, nor was it lying by the
body, nor along the hall down which he staggered until he fell dead at
the staircase.”

Penfield laid down his pencil. “Did you examine the body upon your
arrival?” he asked.

“I did, sir.” Mitchell paused and took an envelope out of his pocket.
“Mr. Meredith was dressed only in his pajamas and was barefooted. There
was nothing noticeable about the pajamas except that the jacket was
unbuttoned about the throat and chest. Caught around the second button I
found these hairs.” Mitchell leaned over the table and carefully shook
some hairs on a paper pad. Penfield as well as the members of the jury
leaned forward to get a better look at them. Mitchell enjoyed the
interest he had aroused for a moment before adding: “The hairs are from
a woman’s head and are chestnut in color.”

Curtis, who had listened to Mitchell’s statements with absorbed
attention, started to his feet. The few hairs which he had taken from
around that selfsame button were _white_. What, then, did Inspector
Mitchell mean by declaring the hairs he had were _chestnut_? Curtis made
a step forward then halted, stopped by a sudden thought—he had asked
Fernando the color of the hairs and the Filipino had declared they were
white. Suppose the lad had lied to him and they were chestnut after all?
To be sightless—Curtis bit his lip to keep back a groan; a second later
he had mastered his feeling of helplessness. The question of color could
be easily settled by handing what he had to Coroner Penfield. Curtis
pulled out his leather wallet and opened it. His search among its
various compartments was unrewarded—the hairs were not there.

Dazedly Curtis resumed his seat and again turned his attention to what
was going on in time to hear Penfield address the next witness in the
chair.

“Doctor Mayo, kindly inform the jury of the result of the autopsy,” he
directed.

The deputy coroner held up an anatomical chart and as he spoke traced a
red line to illustrate his meaning.

“Meredith died as the result of a wound inflicted in his throat,” he
stated. “The larynx was opened and one of the larger vessels severed.
The wound,” he spoke slowly, deliberately, “could not have been
self-inflicted.”

A dead silence followed his statement. The reporters sat with their
pencils poised, their eyes fixed intently upon the scene being enacted
before them. Curtis, also, had hitched his chair around close to the
table and sat forward resting his weight upon his cane.

“Then in your opinion, Doctor Mayo,” Penfield spoke with distinctness,
“John Meredith was murdered?”

“Yes, sir; the autopsy proves that,” Mayo hesitated. “If you wish
further evidence to that end, the absence of a weapon furnishes it.”

“That is all, doctor.” The deputy coroner had started back to his seat
when Penfield stopped him. “Please tell Miss Anne Meredith that we
require her presence here at once.”

The minutes dragged interminably to Curtis as they waited for Doctor
Mayo to return. Suddenly the prolonged silence was broken by the pushing
back of the folding doors and Curtis heard a light tread follow Doctor
Mayo’s heavier footsteps across the room to the center table. Anne
paused by the vacant witness chair.

“You sent for me?” she asked, looking questioningly at Coroner Penfield.

“Yes, Miss Meredith. Just a moment, please,” as she was about to seat
herself. “Doctor Mayo will administer the oath.”

Anne’s clear tones never faltered as she repeated the solemn words and
Curtis’ stern expression relaxed a little; there was no indication in
her voice of hysteria, such as he feared might be the result of the
strain she must have been under. Again he longed for sight as he tried
to visualize the scene, longed for a glimpse of Anne, longed with a
great longing for an opportunity to aid her should she require aid.
Surely his blindness had not cost him the privilege of serving a woman!

“Miss Meredith,” Penfield’s usually harsh voice took a softer note as he
studied the face before him. Gowned entirely in white, the slender
figure seemed an epitome of girlhood. Her air of distinction, her small
shapely head, whose fine outline was unaltered by the beautiful chestnut
hair coiled about it, and the unwonted color which her unaccustomed
prominence had brought forth, gave the final touch to what the coroner
realized suddenly was actual beauty, and that of a high order. Her half
foreign, wholly quaint manner and her deep blue eyes were at variance,
however, with the cold, haughty gaze which met his. Penfield changed the
words upon his lips. He had not expected to find such composure in so
young a girl.

“Miss Meredith,” he began again, “have you seen your mother during the
past two hours?”

“No,” she replied. “By your direction, I believe, we have kept to our
own bedrooms and have not communicated with each other.”

Penfield glanced down at his notes, then across at her. “Were you aware
that your uncle drew up and signed a prenuptial agreement settling fifty
thousand dollars a year upon you and Doctor Curtis?”

A burning blush crimsoned Anne’s face as her gaze rested for a second on
Curtis seated across the table from her.

“I was told so,” she answered, lowering her voice, but Curtis caught the
words.

“Who told you of the document?” asked Penfield. “Your uncle?”

Anne shook her head. “No.” She spoke with more of an effort. “I met Mr.
Gerald Armstrong as he was leaving the house last night and he told me.”

“And did he tell you also that Mr. Meredith had signed a codicil to his
will revoking a bequest to you of one million dollars and giving it to
your cousin, Miss Lucille Hull?”

Again Anne nodded her head. “He did,” she said simply.

“Miss Meredith,” Penfield spoke impressively, “where are those documents
now?”

“I have no idea.” Anne regarded him in grave surprise. Penfield’s
chagrin was manifest; his question had not shaken her composure. “I
presume my uncle put them away safely.”

“They cannot be found,” replied Penfield. “Until they are located, Miss
Meredith, you will receive the original bequest of one million dollars.”
He paused, then added gravely, “You will thus be extremely wealthy
without having to go through a marriage ceremony.”

Again a burning blush covered Anne’s cheeks and brow, but her eyes did
not falter in their direct gaze at the coroner.

“You overstep your privilege,” she replied with gentle dignity. “My
private affairs are certainly no concern of yours.”

Penfield colored under his tan. “Are you aware that your uncle was
murdered?” he asked.

“Murdered!” The horrified exclamation escaped Anne as she reeled in her
chair and then recovered herself. “Murdered? No—impossible!”

“The result of the autopsy proves that he was murdered,” reiterated the
coroner. “Can you tell us of any one who bore him enmity?”

Anne was conscious of a deadly faintness and she clutched the arms of
her chair with a convulsive grip.

“No,” she faltered. “No.”

“Think carefully,” advised Penfield, viewing her emotion with
satisfaction. Was she at last unnerved?

“No.” The monosyllable rang out with greater clearness and Curtis
smiled, well pleased; she had gotten herself in hand again.

Penfield changed his tactics. “When did you last see your uncle alive?”
he asked.

“After dinner last night,” she replied. Her pause was infinitesimal.

“When did you first learn that he was dead?”

Anne stared at him as the silence lengthened. So swiftly that none
guessed his intention, Coroner Penfield reached across the table and
took up a sheet of paper on which lay a few hairs.

“These,” he said, “match your hair in color, Miss Meredith.”

Anne looked at the paper and her expression changed to one of horror.

“Where”—she could scarcely articulate—“where did you find them?”

“They were found by Inspector Mitchell wound around the second button on
Mr. Meredith’s jacket.” He stopped, then added smoothly, “Inspector
Mitchell left several hairs still around the button, and we watched you
cleverly remove them before our eyes when the body was being carried
past your door on a stretcher.”

Anne never took her gaze from his face. The coroner was the first to
speak. “Come, Miss Meredith, suppose you tell us where you were when
John Meredith was murdered.”

Twice Anne tried to speak, but no sound passed her dry lips.

“I—I”—again she stopped, then gathering courage in the stillness—“I have
nothing to say.”

For one long minute Coroner Penfield regarded her. The silence in the
big library grew oppressive. Somehow Curtis found himself upon his feet
and by Anne’s side.

“Did your hair,” went on Penfield remorselessly, “get caught around that
jacket button when you pressed your ear against Meredith’s chest to find
out if his heart was still beating?”

As one stricken Anne gazed dumbly at the coroner. Curtis’ deep voice cut
the silence.

“Miss Meredith has a right to be represented by counsel,” he said. “You
exceed the authority vested in this inquest, Coroner Penfield.”

Penfield frowned, then smiled.

“The inquest stands adjourned until Thursday afternoon,” he announced.
Stepping forward, he checked the rush of the newspaper men. “Not now,
gentlemen; you cannot interview Miss Meredith,” with a side glance at
the tableau near him. “Doctor Curtis will give you the name of her
counsel.”



                              CHAPTER VIII

                               THE PLEDGE


The violent slam of the front door jarred through the house, then came
the sound of rapid footsteps up the staircase and down the hall. Colonel
Julian Hull hesitated at his bedroom door, stood in thought for fully
three minutes, then continued on his way to a room at the back of the
house which he designated as his “den.” His wife looked up at his
entrance. Her mild blue eyes widened at his disheveled appearance.

“Why, Julian! Is anything wrong?” she asked.

“Wrong?” Colonel Hull flung himself into his desk chair. “Wrong? Is
anything right?”

His wife’s only answer was a patient smile. Thirty years of married life
had accustomed her to his explosive tendencies. She wisely changed the
subject.

“Did Lucille get you on the telephone?” she inquired.

Colonel Hull brought his revolving chair back to its upright position
with a jerk.

“No. Why didn’t you tell me at once that she called up?” He reached for
the instrument resting on his desk. “Just like a woman. Central,”
switching the hook up and down, “Central, Cleveland 64. What’s that?
Special operator—I don’t need her—the number is correct. What? Service
discontinued. Well, I’ll be—” He banged up the receiver and turned,
red-faced, to his wife. “They have cut off their telephone at Ten
Acres.”

“I am not surprised,” replied Mrs. Hull. “They were probably pestered
with calls.”

“But how am I going to reach Lucille?” he demanded.

“Why not motor out there after dinner?”

Colonel Hull’s good looks were marred by a scowl. “I had to leave the
car at the shop—burned out a bearing,” he admitted.

“Julian—your new car!”

“Yes, yes, I know; but I had to get to”—leaving the sentence unfinished
he picked up the evening paper and turned the sheets swiftly until he
came to the financial page, read its quotations, and then flung it down
on the flat-top desk. “Jove, Claire, John’s death has been a frightful
shock. It’s—it’s”—holding out a hand which shook slightly—“it’s unnerved
me.”

Mrs. Hull laid aside her embroidery and looked directly at her husband,
her eyes full of tears.

“John Meredith was a good man,” she said, “and the soul of honor.” She
hesitated, then added in an awe-struck whisper, “Lucille said on the
telephone that the authorities believe he was murdered.”

Her startling news did not have the effect she had anticipated; instead
of the intense excitement she had expected, Colonel Hull nodded his head
solemnly and remained absolutely silent. Mrs. Hull scanned him in
surprise.

It was from her father that Lucille inherited her finely chiseled
features and brilliant coloring, also her tendency to “nerves.” Mrs.
Hull’s phlegmatic disposition matched her colorless appearance. There
was nothing original about Mrs. Hull; she led a parrot-like existence,
taking her ideas of life from her husband and depending upon Lucille for
style in dress and deportment. Her kitchen and housewifely duties
bounded her horizon. A woman of independent means, she had married
Julian Hull at a time when his fortune was at low ebb and in spite of
the fact that he was some five years her junior in age, and, prophecies
to the contrary, the match had turned out most happily. Mrs. Hull had
not shone in society, and it was with inward thanksgiving that she had,
upon Lucille’s debut, laid the reins of entertaining in her daughter’s
clever hands, and retired to her charities and her garden.

“Do you realize what I said, Julian?” she asked finally. “It is thought
that your Cousin John was murdered.”

“I heard you the first time,” he said testily, brushing a hand across
his gray mustache. “I am horrified, yes, but scarcely surprised.”
Catching his wife’s startled look, he added: “John wasn’t the caliber to
commit suicide.”

“But—but why should any one murder him?” she demanded. “He never harmed
any one.”

Hull stirred uneasily in his seat. “It was a shocking crime,” he
answered. “Let us hope the murderer will be caught at once and meet the
punishment he deserves. Did Lucille speak of Anne and her mother?”

“Only to say that Belle was wonderfully calm and collected,” replied
Mrs. Hull. “She did not mention Anne. I gathered that the household was
demoralized—”

“Small wonder,” broke in her husband. “We must go there to-night; I’ll
engage a taxi. What’s the matter?” observing the change in Mrs. Hull’s
expression as he reached again for the telephone.

“I—must I go?” she asked timidly. “You know how scenes distress me.”

Colonel Hull leaned over and patted her gently on the shoulder. “I think
it best, dear,” he said. “We will not stay long.”

Submissive always to his slightest wish, Mrs. Hull rose.

“I will tell Jane to serve dinner as soon as it is ready,” she said.
“You look very tired, Julian; you will feel better after you have had a
good meal,” and, not waiting for an answer, Mrs. Hull sought her
waitress.

Colonel Hull remained in his chair for over five minutes, then rousing
himself he walked to the mantel and lifted down a large silver mirror.
He stared at his reflection with critical eyes.

“Tired—bah!” he muttered, half aloud. “It’s age—and ghosts.” Putting
down the mirror he unlocked a lower section of his desk and took out a
decanter and glass. The cordial brought back his color and relieved his
sense of depression. He was whistling cheerily when, after sending his
telephone message, he went to his room and dressed for dinner.

Eight o’clock came all too soon for Mrs. Hull’s peace of mind. With his
dinner jacket Colonel Hull acquired good humor, and not for many a day
had his wife found him so entertaining. The dinner itself was
particularly appetizing, and it was with a sigh of regret that Mrs. Hull
left the table and went to her bedroom for her wrap.

Ten years before they had given up their old home on Capitol Hill and
moved to a more pretentious house on Wyoming Avenue. The change had
proved more agreeable to Lucille than to her mother, who loved the old
garden and the quaint house, with its air of bygone grandeur. In her
eyes electric lights and English basements did not compensate for homely
comfort and the peace of a street not frequented by automobiles.

When Mrs. Hull reached the reception hall on the ground floor she heard
voices coming from the little room which opened from it. At her approach
a young man brushed by Colonel Hull and came to meet her. Under the soft
glow of the shaded hall lights she recognized her husband’s junior
partner.

“Why, Gerald,” she exclaimed in pleased greeting, “I am so glad that you
are here. I understood Lucille to say that you were out of town.”

“I am on my way to the train now,” answered Gerald Armstrong. “I
stopped, thinking that Lucille might be home. The Colonel tells me,
however, that she has remained at Ten Acres.”

“Yes, Cousin Belle asked her to stay—”

“I don’t know why Belle feels called upon to act as chatelaine,”
interrupted her husband. “I suppose she will feel her oats now more than
ever.”

“She is _grande dame”_. Armstrong’s smile only partly covered a sneer.
“John Meredith’s suicide was a frightful thing.”

“But it wasn’t suicide,” broke in Mrs. Hull in her turn. “Lucille said
it was a case of murder.” Armstrong’s step backward brought him under
one of the bracket lights and Mrs. Hull noted with concern his pallor
and the haggard lines in his face. He flushed hotly on meeting her gaze,
and to cover his confusion stroked his fair mustache, which hid the
weakness of his mouth.

“Murder!” he repeated. “It can’t be. Why, John Meredith was beloved, not
hated.”

“That is just what I told Julian,” declared Mrs. Hull. “Lucille said it
wasn’t a burglar, but it _must_ have been.”

“Of course it was.” Armstrong’s voice of conviction pleased Mrs. Hull,
confirming her high opinion of him. It was his custom to side with her
in any family discussion. Swiftly he turned to Colonel Hull. “Did
Lucille tell you that John Meredith left her a million dollars?”

“Good gracious!”

“Well, by Jove!”

The simultaneous exclamations brought a smile to Armstrong’s lips, but
his eyes remained hard and watchful.

“Have you seen Lucille?” he asked.

“No, we are on our way to Ten Acres now,” Mrs. Hull spoke as a person in
a daze, and her husband, immersed in a large silk handkerchief, blew his
nose with vigor. “To think of John leaving such a sum of money to
Lucille! I knew he was fond of the child, but”—she drew a long
breath—“it passes belief!”

“Here is your car,” exclaimed Armstrong, as a taxi puffed its way to the
door and stopped. “Let me help you in, Mrs. Hull,” and taking her firmly
by the elbow he piloted her down the few steps leading to the driveway
which cut across the sidewalk and led to their front door and the garage
in the rear of the house. Colonel Hull followed them more slowly. He did
not speak to Armstrong until the latter had tucked a light lap robe over
his wife’s expensive gown.

“Will you come out with us, Gerald?” he asked, one foot on the running
board. “I am sure Lucille and Anne will be glad to see you.”

Armstrong shook his head. “I haven’t time to make it, Colonel,” he
answered. “Thanks, just the same.” He partly closed the door. “About
Anne,” his voice changed, “there’s a chap out at Ten Acres—David Curtis.
Ever met him?”

Colonel Hull dropped heavily on the seat by his wife’s side.

“David Curtis,” he repeated. “N-on, I can’t say that I have. A banker?”

“A surgeon—and blind at that.” Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “Anne
is to marry him. Good night,” and he slammed the door shut.

His parting salutation met with no response. Both Colonel Hull and his
wife were temporarily bereft of speech.

Lucille was stifling a yawn when Herman ushered her mother and father
into the drawing-room at Ten Acres. She was unaffectedly glad to see
them.

“I hoped that you would come,” she said, as her father kissed her. “Why
didn’t you get here for the inquest this afternoon, Dad?”

“Couldn’t leave the office—Armstrong didn’t show up—stocks a bit
critical,” Colonel Hull replied jerkily as Mrs. Meredith came toward
them. She had heard the arrival of the taxi when in her boudoir and had
paused only long enough to inspect herself in her mirror before going to
the drawing-room. Hull successfully concealed a frown as he bowed to the
handsome widow; outwardly friends, their mistrust was mutual and of long
duration.

“We expected you earlier in the day, Julian,” she said. “Didn’t Sam
Hollister reach you on the telephone?”

“No.” Hull followed her to the sofa and sat down. “I was told by
‘Central’ that your phone was disconnected.”

“For outsiders, yes, but we can still send calls from here.” She looked
at Lucille and her mother and lowered her voice. “Would you care to see
John?”

Colonel Hull’s ruddy complexion paled. “No,” he answered, with
unnecessary vehemence; then, catching her surprised expression, modified
his tone. “I can do John no good, poor lad! And—and—viewing the body
would be—ah—harrowing. I would like to remember him as I last saw him.”

“And when was that?” asked a quiet voice at his elbow.

Twisting around Hull found himself confronted by a stranger whose
presence had been partly concealed by the wing chair in which he was
seated. Mrs. Meredith viewed Hull’s astonishment with some amusement.
She broke the pause.

“Julian, this is Doctor David Curtis,” she explained. “Doctor Curtis, my
cousin, Colonel Julian Hull.”

Curtis’ long, nervous fingers closed over Colonel Hull’s flabby hand
with a force which made the latter wince. Hull mumbled a greeting and
continued to stare at the sightless man before him. Curtis felt the
scrutiny as he wheeled his chair around so as to make one of the group.

“I am sorry,” he began apologetically. “I thought that you were aware of
my presence. I have been sitting here talking to Miss Hull, and she left
me for a few minutes to find Mr. Hollister. You say”—and Hull was struck
by the way Curtis located without apparent hesitancy each speaker. It
seemed as if his blindness had sharpened his other faculties abnormally.
“You say, Colonel Hull, that you would like to remember John Meredith as
you last saw him. Exactly when were you with him last?”

“What is that to you?” demanded Hull aggressively.

Curtis took time, before answering, to light the cigarette which Mrs.
Meredith, an interested listener, handed to him.

“Mr. Hollister, at the request of Miss Anne Meredith, is acting as her
attorney.” Curtis’ speech was deliberation itself. “And he has asked me
to aid him in clearing up the mystery surrounding John Meredith’s
death—”

“Therefore you try to implicate me,” broke in Hull.

“On the contrary, I asked a very simple question with a view to finding
out how Meredith looked when you last saw him. If I bungled my meaning
you must not take offense,” replied Curtis.

Colonel Hull covered his anger with bluff heartiness, while inwardly
registering a score to settle with the surgeon at some future date.

“Certainly, I’ll answer any questions,” he exclaimed, with a broad
smile. “But you must admit your meaning was a bit obscure—and from a
total stranger; well, we’ll let it go, eh, Belle?” with a sidelong look
at Mrs. Meredith. “What is it you wish to know?”

“When you last saw Meredith, was he agitated or his normal self?”
questioned Curtis.

“Oh, he was a bit excited,” Hull admitted, with an air of candor. “He
called at my office one day last week and got uneasy over stock
quotations. He had been dabbling in oil, against my advice.”

“And that was the last time you saw him?” At Curtis’ polite persistency
Hull’s color deepened, but he was saved reply.

“Dad!” Lucille tapped him on his shoulder. “Mother is waiting in the
hall. She isn’t feeling well,” turning to Mrs. Meredith, who had risen
also, “so don’t keep her waiting, Dad.”

“I’ll come at once.” Colonel Hull waited courteously for Curtis to
precede him. “I am told, little girl, that John left you a very handsome
fortune.”

“In a codicil to his will,” Mrs. Meredith replied for Lucille who, a
step or two ahead, had not caught her father’s remark. “Unfortunately
the codicil cannot be found.”

Colonel Hull stopped dead in his tracks and glared at Mrs. Meredith.

“What’s that?” he demanded. “Do you mean the codicil has been
suppressed—stolen, if you like it better?” meeting Mrs. Meredith’s stony
look with angry eyes.

“Dad!” Lucille laid a restraining hand on his arm and pressed it
warningly. “Don’t excite yourself. You will alarm mother.”

Mrs. Hull, who had been too nervous to keep still, stopped her aimless
wandering about the square hall and waited for their arrival. Lucille,
in advance of the others, turned to Curtis.

“Mother,” she said, “let me introduce Doctor David Curtis,” she
hesitated before adding, “Anne’s fiance.”

“I am very pleased to meet you.” _Savoir faire_ was not Mrs. Hull’s
strong point, and that she was ill at ease was as apparent to Curtis,
sensitive of his surroundings, as it was to his companions. She shook
his hand listlessly, then dropped it and pulled her evening cloak up
about her shoulders.

“The taxi is at the door,” announced Colonel Hull. “Come, Claire.” But
she lingered a moment to address Mrs. Meredith.

“When will John be buried?” she asked in an undertone.

“We will hold funeral services to-morrow morning in the chapel at Oak
Hill,” responded Mrs. Meredith. “Only the family will be present. I
thought Sam Hollister had told you of the arrangements; he has them in
charge.”

“I haven’t seen Sam.” Mrs. Hull kissed Lucille warmly, and then shook
hands with Curtis before she moved toward the front door. “Good night,
doctor. Oh, Belle,” with a change of tone, “it does make me feel so
badly to come here and not find John. He was so genial, so kind. Only
the last time I talked with him about Julian’s career, he said I was my
husband’s lodestar.”

Mrs. Meredith did not answer in words. After administering a cold kiss
on Mrs. Hull’s flushed cheek, and with a wave of her hand to the
Colonel, she turned back to Curtis, who stood waiting near the entrance
to the library.

“Lodestar is good, only spell it ‘load’” she commented, caustically, but
keeping her voice lowered so that it would not reach the Hulls. “John
had quite a sense of humor.”

Curtis smiled. “Are you going upstairs, Mrs. Meredith?” he asked.

“Yes—and you?” pausing on the lower step.

“I’ll smoke awhile in the library; it is only nine o’clock,” as the
clock chimed the hour. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she echoed, and continued up the staircase.

Curtis listened until her soft footfall faded away in the distance, then
turned thoughtfully and entered the library. The servants had spent but
scant time after the inquest in replacing the furniture in its
accustomed places, and Curtis found some difficulty in moving about.

“Oh, do be careful,” exclaimed a soft voice to his right, and a hand
touched his. “This way. I,” her dignity sat quaintly upon her, “I am
Anne.”

“As if it could be any one else!” Curtis spoke with involuntary fervor,
and Anne laughed shyly, then recollection returned to her, and her
expression grew serious.

“I came downstairs hoping to find you,” she explained, her color
mounting. “When I heard Cousin Claire and Cousin Julian talking in the
drawing-room I came in here to wait until they left. I want,” she
hesitated, selecting her words carefully, “to speak of Uncle John’s plan
for—for our marriage.” The last words came with a rush, then she paused,
tongue-tied.

Curtis Came to her rescue. “I understand,” he began gravely. “We will
call the whole affair off. In other words,” striving to spare her
embarrassment, “I release you from your promise.”

She plucked nervously at her gown. “It is you who do not understand,”
she said. “I don’t wish to be released.”

Curtis raised his head. Had his ears played him false?

“You mean,” he asked slowly, “that you wish to go on with the marriage
ceremony?”

“Yes.” The affirmative was little more than a whisper.

“But,” it was his turn to hesitate, “it seems now that you are very
wealthy; it is not necessary to carry out the bargain your uncle wished
to force upon you.”

She did not answer at once. “I gave my word to him,” she murmured. “I
cannot break faith with the dead.”

The ticking of the mantel clock was distinctly audible in the silence.
Suddenly she spoke again, a catch in her voice.

“You hesitate—you do not wish to—to marry me?” she asked.

The hot color mounted to his brow and then receded.

“I only hesitate on your account,” he said. “In marrying me you will be
tied to a blind man—a failure.”

She did not reply at once. Instead, Curtis heard her move backward a few
steps and then a slight click sounded as an electric lamp was switched
on. Anne turned and regarded Curtis gravely under its direct rays. There
was none too much flesh even yet on the tall, straight figure, but the
air of alertness and poise which had formerly been characteristic had
returned to him. His face still bore traces of mental suffering,
although its unyouthful sadness had been effaced.

“Because it is a bargain,” Curtis’ voice startled her from her
contemplation of him, “I wish it to be a fair one. You are offering me
the wherewithal to live. I can offer you nothing—”

“Perhaps,” she broke in swiftly, “I crave your friendship, your aid.”

Curtis felt his heart skip a beat and then race on.

“I will do anything, _anything_ for you,” he replied, a trifle
unsteadily. “And will gladly carry out your uncle’s plan.”

“Thank God!” she whispered.

The portières were thrust back suddenly and Mrs. Meredith stood on the
threshold, with Hollister behind her.

“You may go to your room, Anne,” she said in icy tones.

A second later the portières dropped back into place and Curtis was
alone.



                               CHAPTER IX

                          TWO PIECES OF STRING


David Curtis felt around his empty cigarette case and sighed
regretfully; he had not realized his rapid consumption of its contents.
The cigarettes had, at least, provided diversion of a sort. Since Anne’s
peremptory summons by her mother, he had been left severely alone. No
one had entered the library and the folding doors, which had been in use
for the inquest in place of the portières, and closed again by Mrs.
Meredith after Anne’s departure, had prevented his hearing anything
transpiring in the hall. The clock on the mantel had ticked off the
minutes with maddening regularity. At the stroke of ten he laid on the
smoking table, by his elbow, a box of matches, which he had been
twiddling between his fingers, and picked up his cane. The opening of
one of the library doors caused him to face in its direction.

“Excuse me, sir,” apologized Herman as he advanced further into the
room, “I did not know you were still here, sir. I was thinking of
closing up the house for the night.”

“I won’t detain you,” replied Curtis quickly. “I am on my way to bed
now. Has every one retired?”

“Yes, sir.” Herman busied himself closing one of the long French windows
opening on the veranda and bolting the other four. “Mr. Armstrong has
just come back.”

Curtis paused on his way to the door. “Mr. Armstrong,” he repeated,
inquiringly. “Mr. Gerald Armstrong?”

“Yes, sir.” Herman dusted off his hands with a deprecatory gesture. “He
told me, sir, that he missed his train, so he came back, sir, to spend
the night.”

“Oh!” Curtis’ ejaculation covered doubt. He caught and wondered at the
badly suppressed excitement in the butler’s usually unemotional voice.
“Where is Mr. Armstrong?”

“He went straight to his old room, sir; he hadn’t taken away his
things.” Herman switched off two of the tall standing lamps, leaving the
room in semidarkness. “Said I need not disturb Mrs. Meredith to tell her
of his arrival. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”

“No, thanks.” Curtis reached the doorway and turned around. “Good night,
Herman.”

“Good night, sir.” Herman watched the tall, erect figure pass into the
hall, a glint of admiration in his eyes. “He beats all,” he muttered
under his breath, then devoted his attention to closing the house.

As Curtis reached the staircase a thought struck him and he hesitated.
Why not get Herman to refill his cigarette case from the stock which
John Meredith had kept for his guests? He swung around and had partially
retraced his steps when he paused abruptly. He had caught the sound of
heavy breathing on his right, then light, receding footsteps.

“Herman?” His low call met with no response, and after a moment’s wait
he returned to the staircase and slowly mounted it, his cane swinging at
a convenient angle in his right hand. It was leaded and made an
excellent club in an emergency.

Keeping his left hand on the banisters, he circled the corner of the
staircase, recalling McLane’s clear description of the way to his
bedroom. He had just made the turn into his corridor when a hail from
Sam Hollister stopped him.

“Hello, Curtis!” Hollister kept his usually hearty voice at a low pitch.
“I am glad you haven’t gone to bed. I want a word with you.”

“You can have more than one if you wish,” responded Curtis. “I am in no
hurry.”

“Good! Suppose we go to John’s old bedroom. This way.” He slipped his
arm inside Curtis’ and suited his step to his as they went down the
winding corridor. “I was on my way to look you up.”

“Yes?” queried Curtis, as his companion ushered him into the bedroom,
switched on the light and then closed the hall door. “What can I do?”

An answer came from an unexpected quarter. “Go to H—l!” shouted Ruffles,
awakened from slumber by the brilliant electric light. The parrot hopped
about on his perch and flapped his wings in Hollister’s face as the
latter approached.

“I’ll wring that bird’s neck some day,” he grumbled. “How John stood his
infernal talking is one of the mysteries of this place.”

Curtis snapped his fingers and hummed a popular tune. Ruffles’ plumage
assumed its normal sleek appearance and his anger subsided. He gently
nipped Curtis’ extended finger, then with one sleepy eye cocked at
Hollister, descended from the top of his perch to a lower crossbar and
prepared to enjoy his interrupted nap.

“Hum! You seem to have the same knack of pleasing Ruffles as John,”
commented Hollister, eyeing the parrot with disfavor. “Come over this
way, Curtis.” He pushed a chair aside and Curtis followed him across the
bedroom. He judged they were near an open window from the cooler air
which blew upon them. “I’ll shut this in just a minute—”

“No, please don’t,” broke in Curtis. “The room is a trifle close and the
fresh air feels good.”

“Well, if it’s not too much draught.” Hollister looked somewhat dubious;
he was not a cold-air enthusiast. “Take this seat by the secretary, I’ll
sit here.”

A second later Curtis heard the jingle of keys knocking against wood.
Hollister caught his inquiring expression.

“I’m going through John’s desk,” he explained. “Inspector Mitchell and
Coroner Penfield said they ransacked it thoroughly, without results,
however.”

“And what do you expect to find?” asked Curtis.

“The documents John signed last night,” promptly. “Or if not, some clue
to their present whereabouts. We could find no trace of them in the
bureau or highboy. This,” laying his hand on the secretary, “is the only
available place for John to place the papers. He certainly did not leave
them lying around the room.”

“Perhaps he gave them to some one,” suggested Curtis, as Hollister
inserted a key in the top drawer of the secretary.

Hollister twisted and turned the key before he could get the drawer
unlocked. “If John did that, wouldn’t that person come forward now and
turn them over to me or to the police?” he asked.

“Provided that person has heard of Meredith’s death,” supplemented
Curtis.

Hollister turned his head and stared at him. “Not know of his death!” he
ejaculated in astonishment. “If John did give them to any one, that
person is living here now. You will recall that no one was admitted to
this house after Gerald Armstrong’s departure.”

Curtis tapped his cane thoughtfully. “I do not recollect that the
coroner asked if any caller was admitted to the house after Meredith
retired to his room,” he said.

“Maybe he didn’t,” retorted Hollister. “But you know that no one called
here, for you were down in the library later than anybody else, and the
library is near the front door—”

“And I am blind.”

Hollister looked taken aback. “I forgot,” he mumbled. “But you have
remarkable hearing—”

“The heavy portières were drawn and I sat in the far end of the library,
near the fireplace,” Curtis pointed out. “Also, I was absorbed in my
thoughts. I cannot swear that no one was admitted last night.” Hollister
took out, examined, and replaced the contents of the drawer before
answering.

“It hadn’t occurred to me that some one—some outsider—might have had
access to John last night after we left him,” he admitted slowly.
“Frankly, I have been haunted by one idea—that the papers were stolen—”

“By whom?” Curtis’ quiet voice gave no hint of the anxiety consuming him
as he waited for Hollister’s reply.

Hollister carefully sorted a bundle of papers and put them back in one
of the pigeonholes. “By the person who benefited through the
disappearance of the documents,” he said, and Curtis frowned at the
indirect answer.

“And who is that?” he asked.

Hollister eyed him keenly. “You know as well as I,” he exclaimed
roughly. “None other than John’s niece—Anne Meredith.”

Curtis bent the cane in his strong grasp, then let it spring back. “Miss
Meredith asked to have you retained as her lawyer,” he said. “As her
representative you should be the last person to point suspicion toward
her.”

“As her lawyer I am trying to divert suspicion from her by finding those
cursed documents,” snapped Hollister, his quick temper rising. “And look
here, Curtis,” swinging toward the blind surgeon in his excitement, “it
is going to be d—mned serious for her if we don’t find them. Don’t
forget that John was murdered.”

“By heaven! Do you mean to insinuate—”

Curtis was on his feet, his hand clenched about the other’s arm.

“No, no. Let go, you fool!” Hollister strove to free himself. “I haven’t
the faintest idea that she murdered her uncle, but,” as Curtis released
his grip on his arm, “but I do believe that she took those papers.”

Curtis mastered his temper with difficulty. “Your reasons for thinking
Miss Meredith a thief?” he demanded.

Hollister’s appraising glance at his companion lasted fully a minute.

“Well,” he said finally, “through the disappearance of the codicil and
the prenuptial agreement, Anne inherits a large fortune without having
to go through a marriage ceremony with you.”

“And is that your only reason for thinking she took the documents?”
persisted Curtis.

“Isn’t that enough?” replied Hollister, insolently. “She wanted to dodge
being married to you. That, depend on it, made her a thief.”

“Indeed?” Curtis laid his cane across his knees and bent a little
forward. “Then how do you account for the fact that she is still willing
to marry me?”

Hollister dropped the loose papers he had at that moment removed from a
smaller drawer of the secretary.

“Do you mean to say that you two are going on with Meredith’s plan?” he
stammered. “You are going through with the marriage farce?”

Curtis bowed affirmatively. “We are,” he said. “Anne and I have just
reached that decision.”

“I’ll be everlastingly blessed!” Hollister sat back and contemplated his
companion in astonishment. It was some seconds before he spoke. “Anne is
a damned sight cleverer than I thought!”

“I don’t get your meaning?”

“You don’t, heh? Well,” Hollister pulled himself up short, “let’s see
what we can find in this desk.” He stooped over and picked up the papers
which he had dropped some moments before. “Receipted bills, household
accounts,” running his eyes down them. “Stop a minute, what’s this?” He
unfolded as he spoke a legal-size sheet. “Evidently part of an
inventory, furniture and so on. Here’s a notation in one corner, written
crisscross, in John’s hand: ‘Contents of safe deposit belongs to’—that’s
all,” looking up blankly at Curtis.

“Well, what about it?” asked Curtis, with growing impatience.

“Oh, nothing.” Hollister refolded the paper, gathered the others in a
neat bundle and replaced them in the drawer, but the legal-size sheet
with its inventory of “furniture and so on,” he slipped inside his coat
pocket.

“Put it back,” advised Curtis sternly. Hollister’s mouth dropped open
and his hand fell to his side.

“How?” he began, then turned fiercely on Curtis. “Damn it, you _can_
see!”

“No.” Curtis smiled. “You simply forgot that that grade of paper rustles
badly. It required no particular art of divination to detect you, but
don’t try to fool me again, Hollister.”

The lawyer colored hotly, bit his lip, hesitated, then took out the
paper and put it with the others in the drawer.

“I kept it out on impulse,” he said apologetically. “I don’t know why,
unless it was that John’s handwriting in that notation seemed a bit
shaky.”

“Was there room to complete his sentence?” Hollister took the paper from
the drawer again and extended it toward Curtis. “Feel here,” he said,
and guided Curtis’ fingers over the lower right-hand corner. “What do
you find?”

“That the corner has been cut off diagonally,” replied Curtis. He ran
his hand over the sheet. “The other corners are untouched.”

“Just so.” Hollister crossed his short legs and assumed a more
comfortable attitude. “Well, the notation is just above the corner and
runs from edge to edge of the paper. It reads: ‘Contents of safe deposit
box belongs to’—the name must have been written just beneath it.”

“And cut off.” Curtis handed back the paper. “Put it away, Hollister.
The question now is, did Meredith cut off the corner or did some one
else? And if so, with what object?”

“And what has the contents of the safe deposit box to do with John’s
murder and the disappearance of the codicil and the prenuptial
agreement?” demanded Hollister, his excitement mounting.

“The answer to that will be found when his safe deposit box is opened,”
replied Curtis dryly. “Does Coroner Penfield know of this safe deposit
box?”

“I told him that John had a box at the Metropolis Bank,” answered
Hollister. “We have taken steps to have it opened in the presence of the
Registrar of Wills and the bank officials to-morrow morning.”

“Good!” Curtis leaned forward and placed the inventory sheet in the open
drawer, then closed it. “Go ahead, Hollister, and look through the
desk.”

“There is only one drawer more that I haven’t examined.” The lawyer
opened it as he spoke and went over its contents with care. “Pshaw!
nothing but invitations, souvenirs, and menus.” He closed the drawer
with a slam. “Our hunt is a failure, Curtis.”

Curtis pushed back his chair. “It would seem so,” he admitted, “as far
as locating the missing papers is concerned. Tell me, Hollister,” as his
companion rose, “what was the relationship between John Meredith and
Gerald Armstrong?”

“Why, none,” responded Hollister. “Armstrong is a man of about thirty, I
should imagine. He is a partner of Colonel Hull’s and that threw him
more or less in contact with John in a business way, as Hull’s firm
transacted some financial deals for John at one time.”

“Is Armstrong particularly attractive?”

“I believe he is quite a favorite with women.” Hollister’s tone lacked
enthusiasm. He paused by the electric light switch, preparatory to
turning it off, when Curtis, who followed him more slowly across the
bedroom, should have reached the hall door. “John liked him well enough.
They always appeared friendly, and he was a frequent visitor here. I
can’t understand why Armstrong left so suddenly last night, or why he
hasn’t been back.”

“Armstrong returned just before I came upstairs.”

“He did?” Hollister stared at Curtis in silence for a second, then spoke
with more than usual rapidity. “Have you talked with him?”

“No. Herman told me of his arrival and that he had gone at once to his
bedroom.” Curtis paused by the open door and, unseen by Hollister, who
had partly turned his back to switch off the lights in the bedroom, laid
his hand on the outside door knob. From it still dangled the piece of
string which the night before had led him to believe that he was
entering his bedroom. “Coming, Hollister?”

The lawyer closed the door tightly behind him. “I’ll walk with you to
your bedroom,” he half whispered. “It is later than I thought.”

Their footsteps made no noise on the heavy carpet and they traversed the
corridor in silence. At the entrance to Curtis’ bedroom Hollister bade
him a low voiced “good night.”

“Just a second.” Curtis stopped him as he was about to turn back. “Can I
borrow a cigarette?”

“Certainly, take these,” and the lawyer thrust a package into his hand.
“No, I don’t want any to-night,” and not waiting to hear Curtis’ words
of thanks, Hollister hurried away.

The package had been thrust into his hand upside down, and to Curtis’
dismay the cigarettes scattered on the floor before he could catch them.
Stooping down he groped around and after some difficulty located the
majority of them. He was about to rise when he touched a string partly
tucked out of sight under the edge of the strip of carpet which ran the
length of all the corridors.

Getting to his feet, Curtis closed his door, then stooped over. The bit
of string lay in the corridor directly under the door knob.

Curtis carried the string into his bedroom, closed the door, and making
his way to a chair, sat down. First laying aside his cane, he lighted a
cigarette, then held up the string and felt it carefully. He judged it
to be about six inches in length, of ordinary twine, and one end was
tied in a loop which had been neatly cut. Curtis held the two ends of
the loop together. Its size proved that it could have been tied over his
door knob.

Curtis smoked for many minutes without moving, the twine held suspended
in his left hand, and his mind busy with the enigma of the two strings.
Why had Fernando denied tying a string to his door knob, so that he,
Curtis, might identify his bedroom? Why had the string been cut off, and
why, above all, had a string been tied to John Meredith’s door knob? An
hour later Curtis undressed and went to bed with the enigma still
unsolved.



                               CHAPTER X

                          THE SOLITARY INITIAL


Gretchen, the chambermaid, craned her neck over the banisters in her
endeavor to find out what was going on in the large square reception
hall on the floor below. Her limited knowledge of English prevented her
understanding much of what she overheard. The voices grew more
indistinct as the speakers moved away, and finally ceased entirely.
Gretchen straightened up and rubbed her stiff muscles, then with a
backward glance down the corridor toward Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door,
she turned to her right and ran into Susanne.

“Oh, excuse!” she exclaimed in confusion, her pretty color mounting.

Susanne picked up the lingerie which Gretchen’s unexpected collision had
knocked from her hand and smiled kindly.

“_Mon Dieu._ You are in a hurry,” she commented. “But, _petite_, why so
white?” as Gretchen’s color receded as rapidly as it had come.

“I”—Gretchen caught her breath sharply—“it is this house; it make me
nervous.” Tears hung on her eyelashes and she brushed them away. She
edged closer to the French maid, who was eyeing her in real concern.
“Did you go with madame to the funeral?”

“But, yes.” Susanne’s kindly expression altered to one of deep
seriousness. “The services were of the most simple at the chapel, but at
the grave were many strangers and they crowded about until some one in
authority ordered them back. Mademoiselle Anne was greatly upset and
Madame Meredith very angry.”

“Have they returned?” questioned Gretchen timidly.

“_Oui_. Here comes madame now,” as Mrs. Meredith’s voice was heard on
the staircase. With an alarmed look behind her, Gretchen darted past
Susanne and down the corridor toward the back stairs. The French maid
regarded the flying figure thoughtfully for a second, then advanced in
time to meet Mrs. Meredith at the head of the circular staircase.

“Shall I pack madame’s trunks?” she asked as the older woman paused to
take breath after her rapid climb upstairs.

“No; Mr. Hollister wishes us to remain here for several days longer,”
replied Mrs. Meredith. “Have you seen Miss Anne?”

“_Oui, madame;_ she has gone to her room.” Susanne followed her mistress
down the corridor. “Doctor McLane just telephoned, madame, that he call
soon to see Mademoiselle Anne.”

“Very well, let me know _first_,” with emphasis, “when he comes. Wait
for me in my bedroom, Susanne,” and Mrs. Meredith crossed the boudoir.
Not stopping to knock on the panel of the closed door, she opened it,
and stepped inside her daughter’s room. Anne looked up from the couch
where she had thrown herself twenty minutes before, and at sight of her
mother, half rose.

“Don’t get up.” Mrs. Meredith drew a chair over to the couch and seated
herself. At her air of conscious rectitude Anne’s heart sank. “There is
something I wish to discuss with you.” Unconsciously Anne braced
herself; her mother’s “something” was sure to be disagreeable—it
generally was. “I noticed, Anne, that during the funeral services you
sat in the same pew with Doctor Curtis.”

“Yes, mother, I did.” Anne judged she was expected to answer as Mrs.
Meredith came to a full pause.

“And you took his arm and walked with him afterward from the chapel to
the grave?”

“I did.” She gazed full at her mother. “He is blind, you know.”

“So that was it—philanthropy.” Mrs. Meredith nodded her head, well
satisfied. “But, my child, don’t let your kind heart run away with our
discretion. It is no longer necessary to cultivate Doctor Curtis’
acquaintance.”

“I beg your pardon, mother.” Anne’s heart was beating a bit more
rapidly. “I do not agree with you.”

Mrs. Meredith sat back in her chair. “When you take that tone, Anne, I
know you are going to be obstinate. But you must listen to me. The
so-called ‘engagement’ between you and Doctor Curtis is at an end.”

“On what grounds?” meeting her mother’s eyes. “Expediency?”

“Anne, how dare you?”

Anne straightened her slender figure and threw back her head. “On the
contrary, mother,” she said clearly, “Doctor Curtis and I will carry out
Uncle John’s plans to the letter.”

Mrs. Meredith gazed at her, thunderstruck. “You mean—”

“That our marriage will take place before this week is out.”

Mrs. Meredith, livid with wrath, sat for some moments absolutely silent.
When she finally spoke, both voice and manner were more conciliatory.

“Heroics are all very well in their place,” she began, “but before this
rash marriage is consummated, there are many things to consider. First,
Doctor Curtis is blind. He has no future,” she paused, “but he has a
past—”

“Explain your hints, mother,” as Mrs. Meredith paused again.

“Has he spoken to you of his past career?”

“No.” Anne’s white cheeks turned crimson. “We have never had a lengthy
conversation.”

“It is just as well,” dryly. “I have started an investigation—”

Anne was on her feet, her usually calm, cold demeanor transformed into
passionate fervor. “I warn you, mother, to stop any so-called
investigations. Is your record, and mine, so clean in this plan for a
hurried, wild marriage that we can afford to blacken the man, who under
hard pressure of blindness and destitution consented to it?”

“Anne!”

“Stop, mother; I will be heard,” as Mrs. Meredith raised her hand with
an imperative gesture. “Doctor Curtis afforded us the means to gratify
that mysterious mandate which Uncle John insisted upon by agreeing to
marry me, and by that marriage, in name only, I will inherit a large
fortune.”

“Your uncle’s death alters that—”

“Does it?” For the first time Anne did not meet her mother’s eyes.
“Doctor Curtis has proved himself a gentleman and a man of honor in his
treatment of me. Yesterday, when I was heckled by Coroner Penfield, he
came to my assistance. I,” raising her head proudly, “I will not be a
party to any act, overt or concealed, which endeavors to pry into his
past.”

The door banged shut as Anne, springing to her feet, fled through it.
Pressing her hands against her hot cheeks, she leaned panting against
the wall of the boudoir to recover her self-possession before going to
Lucille’s bedroom.

Downstairs in the library Sam Hollister rubbed his bald head with a
large silk handkerchief and gratefully accepted Herman’s suggestion of a
cocktail from what had once been John Meredith’s private stock.

“Bring three,” he added. “I am sure Mr. Armstrong will join me, and
Doctor Curtis will be here presently.” As the butler disappeared, he
turned to Gerald Armstrong. “A cocktail,” he remarked dryly, “may make
you a more agreeable companion.” Armstrong transferred his gaze from his
carefully creased trousers to Hollister’s flushed countenance.

“Why so heated?” he asked. “Sit down and take things calmly.”

The look that the lawyer cast at his younger companion was anything but
complimentary. “Calmly?” he fumed. “Where is that ass, Hull?”

“Do you mean Colonel Julian Hull?” Armstrong made no attempt to conceal
his amusement. “My revered senior partner is, I believe,” glancing at
his wrist watch, “in our office watching the stock market.”

“And you ought to be with him,” with equal vehemence. “Why are you
hanging around this house?”

“Isn’t that my business?” Armstrong’s sallow cheeks had turned a deep
red, but otherwise he displayed no anger. His voice had not lost its
teasing quality, which to many people was an annoying characteristic.

“It may be the coroner’s business if you are not careful,” exploded
Hollister, losing his little store of patience, which had been sorely
tried that morning. “What put it into your head not to appear at the
inquest yesterday afternoon?”

“My dear Hollister,” Armstrong smiled tolerantly, “I explained in my
note to Coroner Penfield, which I understand he did me the honor to read
at the inquest, that not having been in the house at the hour John
Meredith died, my testimony would add nothing to the investigation.”

His voice carried to the farther end of the library and David Curtis
listened attentively as he skillfully avoided the furniture in his slow
progress toward the two men. Absorbed in watching each other, neither
man heard his approach. Curtis paused almost at Hollister’s back and
gently struck his cane against the side of a mahogany card table.
Armstrong swept a startled glance behind him and then resumed his
nonchalant pose, while Hollister stepped to one side and laid his hand
on a chair back.

“Hello, Curtis!” Hollister pushed the chair he had grasped toward the
blind surgeon. “Sit down and be comfortable. Here comes Herman with the
cocktails.”

“Thanks, but I won’t have any,” Curtis said, as the butler stopped
before him, silver tray in hand. “Cocktails and brain work don’t go
together successfully.”

“And what does your brain work comprise?” asked Armstrong, with a
snicker of amusement as he took one of the frosted glasses. He drained
his before Herman had time to serve the lawyer. “If you don’t wish the
one Doctor Curtis scorned, I’ll take it, Hollister.” He drank the second
cocktail more leisurely, then turned to Curtis. “You haven’t answered my
question, doctor.”

“Ever hear of the fourth dimension, Armstrong?” Curtis smiled, as he
addressed the young stockbroker; it deepened at the latter’s sulky nod.
“Well, a problem of that kind provides very good mental relaxation—”

“For a blind man,” interjected Armstrong, contemptuously.

“Just so,” agreed Curtis, his manner unruffled. He turned to their
silent companion. “Why so fidgety, Hollister? You have snapped your
watch cover shut half a dozen times since I have been sitting here.”

Hollister replaced his hunting-case watch in his pocket.

“Mrs. Meredith is late,” he explained. “We have to be at the Metropolis
Bank in twenty minutes.”

Armstrong leaned forward, a touch of eagerness in his manner.

“So you are going to open John Meredith’s safe deposit box to-day,” he
commented. “I understand the bank officials had called it off until
later in the week.”

“I don’t know who your informant could have been,” replied the lawyer
dryly, “but it has not been postponed, except as to hour, to oblige
Coroner Penfield. Ah, here is Mrs. Meredith,” as the widow appeared in
the doorway.

“Don’t let me disturb you, Gerald,” she exclaimed, as Armstrong went
with Hollister to the door. “Oh, Doctor Curtis, I did not at first see
you,” catching sight of the blind surgeon over Hollister’s shoulder. She
turned to the lawyer. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, Sam; but
Anne detained me. How long do you suppose we will be at the bank?”

“About an hour, perhaps two, but not longer than that,” Hollister added,
catching her expression of dismay.

“In case we are delayed in returning,” Mrs. Meredith addressed Curtis
directly, “I have told Herman to serve luncheon and not to wait for us.
In our absence, doctor, I trust that you will act as host.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Meredith,” replied Curtis, bowing deferentially. He
could not see the sudden look of aversion which Gerald Armstrong cast in
his direction, but he was aware intuitively that Mrs. Meredith’s formal
courtesy cloaked the animosity which he fully realized from almost their
first meeting was only slumbering, ready to burst forth at any moment.
That she had not taken kindly to his inclusion in the house party had
been incautiously told him by Lucille Hull; and he judged that only dire
necessity had later induced Mrs. Meredith to agree to her
brother-in-law’s plan for his marriage to her daughter.

Herman’s approach broke up the little group. “Damason is at the door,
madam, with the car,” he announced, and with a bow to Curtis Mrs.
Meredith moved away, Hollister in her wake. Armstrong was about to
follow them when Herman addressed him.

“Inspector Mitchell has just telephoned to ask if you were here, sir,”
he said. “He is waiting to speak to you.”

Armstrong smothered an oath. “Tell him to go to—Guinea!” he directed.
“No, wait,” as Herman bowed and moved a few steps away. “I’ll talk to
the beggar,” and he hurried back into the library, and over to the
branch telephone standing on a small table in a corner, which had been
devoted exclusively to John Meredith’s use.

Armstrong’s conversation over the telephone with Inspector Mitchell
appeared to be a strictly one-sided affair, or so Curtis judged from the
few monosyllabic remarks from the stockbroker. When he hung up the
receiver a few minutes later he was scowling.

“Persistent devils, these detectives,” he said, walking over to the
smoking stand and striking a match which he applied to an expensive
cigar. “Mitchell insists that I wait until he gets here.”

“Does his request put you to inconvenience?” asked Curtis politely.

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders, but whatever answer he would have made
was forgotten on catching sight, through one of the windows, of Lucille
and Anne walking across the lawn toward the lodge. Without a word of
explanation to Curtis, he opened the French window and hurried after the
two girls.

Curtis made his way over to the window and stood in it facing the lawn.
He was not aware that his tall figure in its well-fitting suit of gray
clothes was silhouetted against the dark background of the library, or
that, at Armstrong’s hail, Anne and her cousin had swung around. Anne’s
gaze traveled past Armstrong’s advancing figure and rested on Curtis.
She instinctively raised her hand to wave a friendly greeting, then
dropped it. For an instant she had forgotten that Curtis was blind.
There was a catch in her throat as she spoke to Armstrong and her face
was unsmiling as she walked with him and Lucille to the lodge.

It was fully ten minutes before Curtis left the window and went slowly
upstairs to his bedroom. Pausing by his bed, he laid his cane across it.
In doing so his hand touched some clothing. Lifting it up he found it
was a suit of pajamas. Curtis bent down and passed his hand rapidly over
the bed; it was, as he thought, made up. Why then were his pajamas laid
out on the bed at noon? Had Gretchen, the chambermaid, forgotten to put
them away or was it carelessness on the part of Fernando, his Filipino
valet?

Somewhat perplexed, Curtis again picked up his pajamas. As he ran his
fingers over the jacket he drew out a handkerchief from the pocket.
Holding it close to his nose he detected the odor of chloroform. Only a
faint, very faint, trace of the chloroform remained, but it was
sufficient to identify the handkerchief as the one thrown toward him by
the unknown woman in John Meredith’s bedroom on the night of Meredith’s
murder.

Curtis sat down in the nearest chair and spread the pajamas across his
knee. In the rapid march of events he had forgotten the handkerchief
which he had inadvertently stuffed into the pocket of his pajamas on
going to his room to rest after the discovery of Meredith’s body.

He judged the handkerchief to be of the finest linen, of dainty size.
Deftly his fingers traveled around its edges. Was there no mark by which
he might establish the identity of the mysterious woman in Meredith’s
bedroom? His long, sensitive fingers stopped at one corner. Slowly they
traced out the solitary initial—the capital letter “A.”



                               CHAPTER XI

                      THE HAND ON THE COUNTERPANE


A low tap at his bedroom door aroused Curtis. Rising in some haste he
went over to his bureau, took out his despatch box, and, opening it,
securely locked the handkerchief inside it. Not until the box was again
in the drawer did he turn toward the door.

“Come in!” he called as the knock was repeated with more insistence.
Doctor Leonard McLane stepped briskly inside and closed the door behind
him.

“I am glad I found you, Dave,” he said, and, observing Curtis’ pleased
smile on recognizing his voice, added: “I called to see Anne Meredith,
but she had gone out motoring with Lucille Hull and Gerald Armstrong.
Herman told me that you were in, so I came upstairs.”

Curtis sighed with relief. “I am very glad that you are here, Leonard,”
he exclaimed. “Frankly, I was just thinking of telephoning to you to
come over at once.”

“Indeed?” McLane drew up a comfortable rocker and seated himself near
the blind surgeon. “What do you wish to see me about, and why are you
caressing a pair of pajamas?”

As he spoke Curtis had picked up the pajamas from the chair where he had
dropped them upon hearing McLane’s knock on his door.

“I’ll explain all in good time,” he answered, seating himself. “Please
treat our conversation as confidential, Leonard.”

McLane nodded his head thoughtfully. “I presume it’s about John
Meredith’s murder and”—he hesitated—“Anne.”

“Why do you connect the two?” quickly.

“It is what every one is doing,” said McLane. He noticed the harassed
lines in Curtis’ face and his expression grew more serious. “Coroner
Penfield told me what transpired at the inquest and that you insisted
that Anne be represented by a lawyer. How,” he glanced keenly at his
companion, “how did you happen to pick on Sam Hollister?”

“Anne asked for him,” replied Curtis. “Isn’t he a good lawyer?”

“W-why, yes; so I understand.” McLane’s tone did not convey conviction.
“But he is not a criminal lawyer.”

Curtis hitched his chair closer to McLane. “You think it will come to
that?” he asked, with unconcealed anxiety.

McLane nodded his head somberly. “It appears to me that Anne knows more
than she has told,” he said. “Why she is withholding information which
may aid the police in detecting her uncle’s murderer is one of the
mysteries of the case.”

“But there is no criminal action in that,” protested Curtis.

“Unless it comprises being an accessory after the act,” McLane pointed
out. He paused a moment before asking, “What are the _known_ facts
connecting Anne with the murder?”

Curtis sat back in his chair and checked off each point as he spoke.
“First, Herman, the butler, testified that he overheard John Meredith
quarreling with a ‘female’ in his bedroom that night. He took her to be
Anne because he thought he recognized her dress. Secondly, Gretchen, the
chambermaid, said that she overheard a conversation between a man and a
woman after midnight under her window. The woman said, ‘I will do it
to-night,’ and the man replied, ‘Don’t lose your nerve.’”

“Well, did Gretchen identify the woman?” asked McLane as Curtis paused.

“Indirectly, yes. She declined, as she put it, ‘to tell on her young
mees.’” Curtis hesitated. “Her statement satisfied the coroner and she
was excused.”

“I see!” McLane stroked his chin reflectively. “Well, what next?”

“I overheard Mrs. Meredith speak to Anne in the hall just after I found
Meredith’s body.” Curtis spoke with growing reluctance, and McLane
nodded his head in silent understanding. “Mrs. Meredith said nothing to
connect Anne with the crime, but it did prove that Anne was up and about
at the time of her uncle’s murder.”

“Quite so, it did,” agreed McLane. He lowered his voice. “Did anything
come up at the inquest about the parrot and its cry: ‘Anne—I’ve caught
you—you devil?’”

“No.”

McLane sat back and frowned. “Why not, I wonder?” he muttered.

“The inquest is not over,” Curtis pointed out. “Only adjourned until
Thursday.”

“And this is Tuesday morning—”

“Which leaves us very little time to solve the mystery of Meredith’s
death.” Curtis sighed, then bent forward and laid his hand on McLane’s
knee. “Can I depend upon your help, Leonard?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good!” Curtis’ face lighted with his charming smile. “We must work to
clear Anne. She must not be dragged any further into the limelight.”

“If it only stops at the limelight!” The exclamation escaped McLane
involuntarily. “I am afraid, Dave, that Coroner Penfield is holding back
something more than the episode of the parrot to spring at the next
hearing of the inquest.”

“It may be,” admitted Curtis. “Penfield stopped his direct examination
after producing the hair which he and Inspector Mitchell found wound
around the button on the jacket of Meredith’s pajamas. The hair matched
Anne’s in color and texture.”

“And Penfield claimed that it was caught around the button when Anne
pressed her ear over Meredith’s heart to see if it was still beating,”
broke in McLane. “It was a clever deduction on his part.”

“Quite so, and one warranted by facts—as far as he knew them,” answered
Curtis. “Is the hall door closed, Leonard? Are we alone?”

McLane glanced toward the door and then about the room.

“The door is shut,” he said. Rising, he walked over to it, pulled it
open and glanced up and down the empty hall, then closed the door and
turned the key in the lock. “We are entirely alone, Dave. Go ahead and
say what you wish.”

Curtis waited until his companion had resumed his seat.

“After I had notified Sam Hollister of Meredith’s death, I went back
with him to the body,” he began. “Hollister left me to telephone to
Coroner Penfield. While waiting for him to return, I ran my hands over
Meredith’s body and found some hair, evidently from a woman’s head,
caught around that jacket button.” He paused. “I may also state that
when I first found Meredith he was lying partly on his right side, face
pressed against the carpet and his arms outflung.”

“So I read in your printed testimony,” interjected McLane.

“But when I examined the body for the second time, it was lying on its
back,” finished Curtis.

“It was?” McLane shot a questioning glance at his blind companion. “Why
didn’t you mention it at the inquest?”

“I was not questioned on that point,” calmly. “If I am recalled at the
next hearing I will speak of it. In the meantime—”

“Yes?” as Curtis paused.

“I want your advice, and, if need be, your aid.”

“Sure, go ahead.” McLane was listening with deep attention and with
increasing impatience at his friend’s deliberation of speech.

“I unwound several of the hairs,” went on Curtis, “and put them in my
wallet. Later that morning, that is yesterday, I showed them to Fernando
and asked him their color. He said the hairs were white.”

“White!” echoed McLane in astonishment.

“Fernando said that they were white,” repeated Curtis. “I had to depend
upon his eyesight.”

“But,” McLane took out his handkerchief and dabbed his forehead, “the
hair Penfield found about the button was chestnut in color. I’ve seen it
and it certainly came from Anne’s head.”

“Possibly Fernando lied when he told me the hair was white.”

“Sure, he might have; with the object of shielding Anne. The servants
are devoted to her,” McLane added. “Let me see the hair and I can settle
the question.”

“Unfortunately the hair has disappeared out of my wallet.”

“Good Lord!” McLane sat back and regarded Curtis in startled surprise.

“I discovered it was missing during the inquest at the time it was
stated that the hair Penfield found was chestnut in color,” went on
Curtis. “Having nothing to prove my statement, I kept silent.”

“I see!” McLane gnawed at his upper lip. A second or more passed before
he broke the silence. “There isn’t a white-haired woman in the
household,” he said.

“Then Fernando lied,” Curtis’ lips compressed into a hard line, “and not
for the first time. Listen attentively, Leonard.” The injunction was
hardly needed, but Curtis could not see his companion’s absorbed regard
as he sat back watching him. “When dressing for dinner on Sunday evening
I told Fernando to tie a string on the outside knob of my door so that
when I came upstairs, if I was alone, I could identify my bedroom
without difficulty.”

“Did he do so?”

“No. Fernando claims that I never ordered him to tie a string on the
door knob.” Curtis spoke more slowly than usual. “But after discovering
Meredith lying dead in the hall, I went in search of my room and,
finding a string hanging from a knob of a closed door, entered that
bedroom, supposing it to be mine.”

“Whose was it?”

“John Meredith’s.”

McLane sat back and again rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief.

“I’m blessed if I see—” he exclaimed.

“Unhappily I don’t see—at any time.” Curtis covered his sigh with a
slight cough. “This is the point, Leonard; a string was tied to John
Meredith’s door knob and is still hanging there. A string was also hung
on my door knob Sunday evening and cut off before I came upstairs.”

“What?”

Instead of replying Curtis rose and went over to his bureau. Taking his
despatch box from the drawer he made his way to the bed and, turning the
key in the lock, threw back the lid.

“This piece of string,” he said, holding it up, “has one end tied in a
loop, which has been cut.” He handed the string to Leonard. “I found the
string lying in front of my door, partly hidden under the hall carpet.”

McLane took the string and eyed it attentively. “Just a moment,” he
exclaimed. “I’ll be back.” He stopped at the hall door, unlocked it and
sped up the hall. During his absence Curtis stood by the bed, head bent
in a listening attitude. Barely three minutes elapsed before McLane was
beside him again.

“I have compared the string with that still hanging from Meredith’s
door,” he said, in explanation. He placed the string in Curtis’ hand.
“It is the same color and weight, and was evidently cut from the same
ball of twine.”

“And Fernando denies that I ever requested him to tie a string to my
door,” mused Curtis, as he put the string back in his despatch box.

“Could he have tied the string on your door, then cut it off, and tied
one on Meredith’s door as a practical joke?” asked McLane. “And after
the events of Sunday night be afraid to confess?”

“That is a plausible theory,” admitted Curtis, somewhat dubiously,
however. “But why pick out John Meredith’s door?”

“Ask me something easy,” begged McLane. “Did you go in Meredith’s
bedroom, Dave?”

“Yes. I telephoned from there for Sam Hollister.” Curtis paused, then
spoke with added gravity. “While standing before the instrument trying
to recall Hollister’s number, I heard a woman moving about in the
bedroom.”

McLane’s eyes were twice their usual size. “Go on,” he urged. “Don’t
keep me in suspense. Did the woman see you?”

“No. I had not switched on the electric lights,” Curtis explained,
keeping his voice low but distinct. “As she went by me on her way out of
the room, she tossed this handkerchief in my direction.” He took it out
of his despatch box and gave it to McLane. “When I picked it up I
detected the smell of chloroform very plainly.”

McLane turned the handkerchief over several times and the solitary
initial caught his eye.

“A,” he said aloud, and the gravity of his tone was unmistakable.
“Anne?” He laid the handkerchief back in the despatch box. “Lock up the
box, Dave,” he directed. “Have you shown the handkerchief to Coroner
Penfield?”

“No.” Curtis pocketed the key of the despatch box. “I know you won’t
approve, Leonard, but”—and his tone was grim—“I decline to further
involve Anne Meredith in the mystery of her uncle’s murder.”

“I am with you there,” declared McLane. “I wish, however, that you had
spoken to me sooner about the handkerchief.”

“This is the first time I have seen you since we met in Meredith’s
bedroom yesterday,” Curtis pointed out. “But I must confess, Leonard,
that the handkerchief did slip my mind. I had left it in the pocket of
this suit of pajamas, and only recollected the handkerchief when I found
the pajamas lying on this bed about fifteen minutes before you came in.”

“Lazy habits you have,” commented McLane, speaking more lightly.
“Leaving your pajamas around your room at this time in the morning.”

“I did not leave them there,” protested Curtis. “I don’t know who could
have laid them on the bed. It’s made up, is it not?”

McLane turned about and gazed at the bed as Curtis crossed the room to
his bureau, despatch box in hand.

“The bed is made up,” McLane stated slowly. Something caught his eyes
and he stepped close to the bedstead and bent forward. “By Jove!” he
exclaimed. “There is an impression of a hand on the counterpane—”

“_Monsieur le docteur!_” McLane straightened up swiftly and encountered
Susanne’s frightened gaze. The French maid was standing holding the hall
door ajar. “Mademoiselle Anne is calling for you—come quickly!”



                              CHAPTER XII

                                 MURDER


David Curtis was not far behind Leonard McLane in reaching the hall and
instinctively swung in the direction the latter was headed. Anne
Meredith turned back from the head of the circular staircase at their
approach.

“Oh, Doctor McLane!” she exclaimed. “I found poor Gretchen stretched out
here in a dead faint. She is coming to, now. Thank you,” addressing
Inspector Mitchell who, seated on the top step, supported the
chambermaid’s head on his broad shoulder. “You were very kind.”

“Not at all, Miss Meredith.” Mitchell, considerably embarrassed by his
role of nurse, gladly relinquished his place to McLane and Susanne, who
at a sign from Anne helped to support the half-conscious Dutch girl.

Herman, standing in the square hall at the foot of the circular
staircase, had heard the commotion and, with forethought, instantly
provided himself with a glass of water and a smaller glass containing
whisky.

Armed with these he appeared on the scene just as McLane, with the
assistance of Susanne, had gotten Gretchen stretched out on a broad
settee which stood in a window alcove off the corridor. Susanne placed a
pillow under Gretchen’s head and loosened her black gown with a deftness
which won an approving word from McLane. It took some persuasion to
induce Gretchen to swallow some of the whisky and she made a wry face as
the powerful stimulant slipped down her throat. It quickly dispelled the
deadly faintness which had overcome her. Finally, satisfied that
Gretchen would be able to go to her room, supported by Susanne, McLane
left her and went over to the small group at the head of the staircase.

“What brought on Gretchen’s attack?” asked McLane, taking care to speak
so as not to be overheard by either Susanne or the Dutch girl.

“I don’t know, doctor,” answered Anne. “She has been very nervous and
unlike herself ever since the inquest.”

Inspector Mitchell, who had been regarding David Curtis as the latter
stood by Anne’s side, with fixed scrutiny, broke into the conversation.

“I may have startled your maid unintentionally,” he said apologetically.
“Herman told me that Doctor McLane was with Doctor Curtis and I came
upstairs unannounced. It isn’t my custom to make much noise,” he smiled.
“And your maid did not apparently know that I was near her. When she
turned and saw me, she dropped where she stood.”

“Pardon, mademoiselle.” Susanne had left Gretchen and drawn nearer in
time to catch Mitchell’s remark. “All las’ night and to-day have what
you call ‘shadows’ followed poor Gretchen.”

“Shadows?” questioned Anne, frowning in her perplexity.

“Spies, if monsieur permits the word,” with a spiteful look at Inspector
Mitchell. “The poor girl is distracted with fear.”

“What is she afraid of?” demanded Mitchell quickly.

Susanne partly turned her back on him without answering.

“Please, mademoiselle,” she began, addressing Anne, “Gretchen must have
peace, or she be ill. She is a good girl.”

“She is!” Anne spoke with sudden energy. “Come, Inspector, there is no
law which permits you to introduce spies into our household.”

“I beg your pardon,” Mitchell spoke stiffly. “We have not exceeded our
rights. Investigations have to be conducted when a crime has been
committed.”

“A crime?”

“Yes, madam; and the greatest crime of all—murder, cold-blooded
premeditated murder.”

Curtis, standing close beside Anne, heard her sudden intake of breath,
but she faced Mitchell with no other indication of emotion.

“You still contend that my uncle was murdered?” she asked. “And that it
was not a case of suicide in a moment of mental aberration.”

“I do; the medical evidence establishes that fact.” Mitchell would have
added more, but Anne turned swiftly to Curtis.

“Can you tell with absolute accuracy from the wound that it was _not_
self-inflicted, Doctor Curtis?” she demanded.

All eyes were turned toward the blind surgeon. McLane, as well as
Curtis, had caught the unconscious note of appeal in Anne’s voice, and
he waited with interest for Curtis’ answer. It took the form of a
question.

“Was John Meredith by chance ambidexterous?” he asked.

“He was.”

An exclamation escaped Mitchell. “Why didn’t you state that fact at the
inquest?” he inquired with warmth.

“Because I was not questioned on the subject,” she responded, and again
addressed Curtis. “Doesn’t that prove that Uncle John could have killed
himself?”

Curtis’ hesitation was imperceptible except to McLane.

“I believe that the fact that Meredith was ambidexterous will enable
experts to cast sufficient doubt on the medical testimony to render it
practically valueless,” he said.

“Perhaps an expert can tear it to pieces,” broke in Mitchell. “But you
can’t get over the fact that no weapon was found near the body. If John
Meredith killed himself, what did he do with the weapon?”

“I can tell you.” A new light shone in Anne’s eyes and her voice held an
unaccustomed ring, a note of hope, mixed with relief. “I read your
testimony in the morning paper, Doctor Curtis, as given at the inquest.
You said that Uncle John lay partly on his right side, his hands
outflung, and his head resting against the banisters which circle this
part of the corridor.”

As she spoke she left the head of the stairs and walked to the spot
where Meredith’s body had lain, the others trooping after her.

“Suppose,” she began, addressing Inspector Mitchell who was watching her
with eager attention, “suppose Uncle John carried the weapon—shall we
say a knife,” her voice faltered, then recovering herself, she spoke
with more composure, “carried the knife down this corridor with him,
what could have become of it?”

“Blessed if I know,” muttered Mitchell. “We have searched every
available spot. There are no cracks and crannies or corners in this
corridor which we have overlooked, and have found absolutely no trace of
a weapon of any kind. Come, Miss Meredith, did some one,” his voice grew
harsh, “carry away the weapon before we got here?”

“No.”

Mitchell turned an angry red as he faced her. He was sensitive to
ridicule, and the conviction was growing upon him that Anne was poking
fun at him.

“Quit kidding us!” he exclaimed, roughly. “And answer your own question,
if _you_ can. If Meredith did carry a weapon in his hand, what became of
it?”

“The most natural thing in the world happened to it,” she replied, and
this time her note of triumph was plainly discernible in her voice. “As
Uncle John fell forward, the knife could have slipped from his outflung
hand and fallen through the banisters to the hall beneath. Look—” and
she leaned far over the railing.

With one accord the men with her followed her example, even Curtis, in
the excitement of the moment, forgetting his blindness as he bent
forward and hung over the railing.

The wide circular staircase, with its railing of solid mahogany, was
colonial in design. It started from the square hall beneath and, the
treads being of unusual width, required a larger “well” than was
customary. The banisters did not stop at the stairhead, but circled the
“well,” thus protecting the bedroom floor, and allowing a general view
of the entrance hall and the front door.

Commencing from the base of the staircase in the entrance hall were
boxes of hothouse plants which ran almost to the library door. John
Meredith had liked the green foliage against the white wainscoting and,
the previous winter, had the boxes put there in place of the cushioned
benches which had occupied the space formerly.

“That’s a good theory of yours, Miss Meredith,” admitted Mitchell. “If
the knife did drop between one of these banister posts, it must have
lighted in that flowerbox. Let’s see.” He whirled around and hurried
down the staircase, McLane hotfoot after him.

Anne started forward, then stopped. The next instant a small hand was
slipped into Curtis’ as he turned to follow the others.

“Come this way,” she said softly. A pretty color dyed her white cheeks
as she saw his face light up. His expression altered quickly to one of
concern as his grasp tightened over her icy fingers.

“Are you having a chill?” he asked, halting abruptly.

“Oh, no. It is nerves.” Her smile was a bit piteous. “I will be all
right. Please don’t worry. I wonder—I—” She checked her incoherent
ejaculations as they went down the staircase and stopped by McLane’s
side.

Regardless of the danger of injuring the costly ferns and other plants
which filled the boxes, Mitchell and McLane ran their hands among them,
feeling with feverish haste among the leaves and the moss which formed a
dense covering. Rapidly the two men worked their way down the boxes. A
short, excited cry from Inspector Mitchell, who had made more speed than
either McLane or Curtis, brought the others to his side. Withdrawing his
hand from a box completely filled with ferns, he held up a small,
discolored knife.

“Found!” he shouted. “Don’t touch it, doctor.” He laid the knife, which
he held gingerly between two fingers, in a clean handkerchief, and
extended it so that McLane could get a good look at it. “Those are
bloodstains.”

“Probably.” McLane bent closer. “A chemical test will be necessary
though, Mitchell, to distinguish bloodstains, rust, and fingerprints.”

“Sure. Hold it a moment, doctor, in the handkerchief, but don’t let it
get out of your possession.” Mitchell thrust the handkerchief into
McLane’s eager hand, and rushing back to the pantry, appeared a second
later with Detective Sergeant Brown at his back, and hastened up the
staircase.

“Describe the knife, Leonard,” directed Curtis, as McLane stepped closer
to his side.

McLane did not reply at once. Anne, who stood watching the two men with
eager eyes, was about to speak when McLane broke the pause.

“A curious weapon,” he said slowly, “but a most effective one, Dave. It
is a scalpel.”

“A scalpel,” repeated Curtis.

“Yes, one manufactured by Meinicke.” McLane lowered his hand. “Where do
you suppose John Meredith obtained a surgical knife?”

Curtis’ face was alight with interest. “A surgical knife,” he muttered.
“Strange!” He paused, then spoke more quickly. “However, the
fingerprints will tell us—”

“Of murder,” broke in Mitchell’s harsh voice behind them and they
wheeled about. “Miss Meredith,” his eyes never left the young girl’s
face, “you have led us to the weapon and thereby proved conclusively
that your uncle did not commit suicide. It is a case of cold-blooded
murder.”

“Explain your meaning,” directed Curtis, before either of his startled
companions could speak.

Mitchell stepped back a few paces. “Look up there,” he pointed, as he
spoke, to the next floor where Detective Sergeant Brown stood leaning
over the railing gazing down at them. “The sergeant is standing exactly
where John Meredith’s dead body was found by Doctor Curtis. Now,” he
spoke with significant impressiveness, “if John Meredith carried that
surgical knife, as you cleverly suggested, Miss Meredith, and it dropped
out of his hand and fell between the posts of the banisters it would
have alighted in that box of ferns,” indicating one further down the
hall. “By no freak of chance or possibility could it have fallen from
there into the box where I found it.”

Anne gazed dazedly at the Inspector. “I don’t understand,” she faltered.
“You found the knife—”

“In the wrong place to establish your theory—of suicide.” Mitchell’s
covert smile was ominous, and Anne shivered involuntarily.

“One moment.” Curtis changed his cane from one hand to the other, and
stepped closer to the Inspector. “Mitchell, suppose you have the
sergeant drop a penknife or ordinary knife through the banisters.”

Mitchell looked at him keenly. “You mean—?”

“To reenact the scene of Sunday night, or rather Monday morning,”
replied Curtis. “Tell the sergeant to stagger and fall. As he does so we
will see if the knife flies out of his hand, and through the banisters,
and thus know,” his voice deepened, “exactly where it falls.”

“A capital idea!” declared McLane. “Go to it, Mitchell. I’ll stay here
and you watch the proceedings from above. Wait, though,” as Mitchell
started for the staircase. “To make the test as complete as possible
I’ll give you a scalpel from my surgical bag. It’s here with my hat.
First, however, take this,” and he handed the handkerchief and the
discolored scalpel, which Mitchell had found concealed among the ferns,
back to the Inspector.

As McLane took another scalpel from his surgical kit, Gerald Armstrong
ran down the staircase and joined Anne. He was followed more leisurely
by Lucille Hull. She shuddered slightly as Mitchell displayed the
discolored scalpel before wrapping it securely in his handkerchief and
placing it in his pocket. To Anne the minutes seemed endless as she
waited for Mitchell to mount the staircase and instruct Detective
Sergeant Brown in the role he was to assume.

“What is going on?” demanded Armstrong. He made no attempt to modify his
naturally strident voice and it grated on Anne. McLane caught her sudden
start, and guessing the strain she was under, explained the situation in
a few words. Lucille listened with close attention, her eyes following
the movements of the two men on the floor above as far as she could see
them.

“Watch out, down below,” called Mitchell. “Stand back a little further,
Doctor Curtis; you are too near.”

Curtis retreated a few steps. Anne put out her hand to guide him but
dropped it hurriedly on catching her cousin’s gaze; there was a mocking
gleam in Lucille’s eyes which brought the hot color to Anne’s pale
cheeks with a rush. It had not faded when the silence was broken by the
sound of a heavy fall.

A piece of glittering steel came flying through the air. It fell without
sound among the ferns and was lost to sight.

Leonard McLane was the first to speak. He waited until Mitchell and
Sergeant Brown reached them.

“You were right, Mitchell,” he said, addressing the Inspector. “The
scalpel fell directly into this box,” laying his hand upon it. “It is
the fourth box from the one where you found the discolored scalpel.”

“Then our theory is correct,” declared Mitchell. He bowed gravely to
Anne. “Thank you, Miss Meredith.”

Before she could reply Herman appeared from the pantry.

“You are wanted on the telephone, Doctor Curtis,” he announced. “This
way, sir,” and in silence Curtis accepted the butler’s guidance.

A second more and the little group in the square reception hall broke
up; Anne accompanying her cousin to her bedroom, and Armstrong, at a
quiet word from Inspector Mitchell, led the way into the library,
followed by the two police officials.

Left to himself Leonard McLane repacked his surgical kit and took up his
hat and overcoat; then he paused before opening the front door and stood
in thought. Fully two minutes passed before he moved. Replacing his hat,
overcoat and bag on the hall table he turned around and went slowly
upstairs, and entered David Curtis’ bedroom. Except for himself the
bedroom was empty.

McLane walked directly over to the bedstead and halted by it. Bending
down he closely scanned the spotless linen. It was unwrinkled,
immaculate.

McLane straightened up with a jerk; his eyes wide with wonder.

“I’ll be—!” he gasped. “The counterpane has been changed.”



                              CHAPTER XIII

                        PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING


Gerald Armstrong looked inquiringly at Inspector Mitchell as the latter
waved him to a chair in the library; then turned his regard to Detective
Sergeant Brown. He learned nothing from the Sergeant’s stolid expression
and again focused his attention on the latter’s superior officer.

“Sit down, Mr. Armstrong,” directed Mitchell. Taking a chair he planted
himself in front of Armstrong, while Sergeant Brown braced his burly
figure against a convenient sofa and remained a silent onlooker. “Now,
sir, will you kindly tell us why you avoided the inquest on John
Meredith?”

“I did not avoid it.”

“No? Well, it appeared that way to us at Headquarters,” replied
Mitchell, observing Armstrong’s unconcealed annoyance with relish. A man
in a temper might give out valuable information. “And it has been very
apparent that you have also avoided an interview with us since then.”

“Well, what of it?” Armstrong assumed a more comfortable position.
“Come, Inspector, why worry about the past? Now that I am at leisure I
shall be very happy to answer any questions you put to me, provided
always,” with a smile meant to be ingratiating, “that it is within my
power to answer them.”

“Of course,” dryly. “Why did you leave Ten Acres so precipitately after
John Meredith signed those papers on Sunday night?”

“There was nothing precipitate in my conduct,” replied Armstrong, with a
slight frown. “I remembered that I had some work to do at home and so
went there, intending to return to Ten Acres in time for breakfast on
Monday morning.”

“But you did not return then?”

“No; I overslept.”

The explanation was very pat, and the smile left Mitchell’s eyes, to be
replaced by an angry glitter.

“And when did you first learn of John Meredith’s murder?” he demanded.

“I learned of his death,” with emphasis on the last word, “on Monday
shortly before noon.”

“And who informed you of Meredith’s _murder_?” Mitchell repeated the
word intentionally and Armstrong flushed.

“Colonel Julian Hull, my senior partner, told me the news,” he stated.
“It seems his daughter, Miss Lucille Hull, telephoned to him. I was not
aware until last evening, when I called at the Hulls’, that the police
authorities considered Meredith’s death was a case of murder and not
suicide.”

“And what is your belief in the matter?” asked Mitchell.

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “I have formed no theories,” he
answered. “The whole affair is frightfully tragic. That John Meredith
would take his own life was incredible, but to any one who knew his
lovable character as I did,” meeting Mitchell’s gaze without wavering,
“it is inconceivable that any one should have killed him.”

“Inconceivable perhaps, but he _was_ killed,” responded Mitchell grimly,
“and we intend to locate the murderer. At what hour did you leave Ten
Acres Sunday night, and did John Meredith know that you planned to
leave?”

Armstrong shook his head. “No. I left there a little before midnight.”

“Without notifying Mrs. Marshall Meredith or any other inmate of the
house?”

“Mrs. Meredith had retired for the night,” replied Armstrong. “Herman
and Damason, the Filipino chauffeur, were aware that I left.”

“And why did you not tell Mr. Hollister of your intended departure?”

Armstrong frowned at the Inspector’s persistency. “It was after we had
parted that I decided on impulse to return home that night. There was no
occasion for disturbing Hollister,” he stated coldly.

Mitchell consulted his notebook in which he had made occasional entries
as their conversation progressed.

“Are you well acquainted with Mr. Hollister?” he asked.

“We are friends, yes,” and Mitchell’s eyebrows lifted at the brief
reply.

“You have just stated, Mr. Armstrong, that only Herman and Damason knew
of your intended departure,” he began. “In her testimony at the inquest
Miss Anne Meredith told of meeting you on your way out.”

“Yes, yes, I forgot; I did meet her,” broke in Armstrong with marked
haste.

“And you told her of the prenuptial agreement and the codicil to his
will, to which you had witnessed Meredith’s signature.” Mitchell paused
before asking, “Wasn’t that breaking a confidence, sir?”

“Most emphatically not. Meredith did not pledge us to secrecy,” retorted
Armstrong.

Mitchell scrutinized his flushed face for a moment in silence. “How was
Miss Meredith dressed?” At the query Armstrong moved uncomfortably.

“I am sure I don’t know,” he grumbled. “She was suitably clad, if you
mean that.”

“I never doubted but that she was,” replied Mitchell, disgust creeping
into his voice. “How was she dressed, Mr. Armstrong? Did she have on the
gown she wore at dinner or a street suit?”

“I don’t know,” sullenly. “It was dark—”

“In the house or out of doors?”

Armstrong’s eyes shifted from Mitchell to Sergeant Brown, who approached
them at that moment, and from him back again to Mitchell.

“What’s that to you, Inspector?” demanded Armstrong.

“That’s my affair,” roughly. “Come, sir, I insist upon a direct reply.
Where did you meet Miss Meredith on Sunday night?” Receiving no answer,
he asked more urgently: “Was it inside the house or out? Answer at once,
sir.”

“Outside the house,” sullenly.

“Outside is too vague, sir,” persisted Mitchell. “Did you meet Miss Anne
close by the servants’ wing of the house and underneath the window of
Gretchen’s bedroom?”

“That’s no business of yours!” Armstrong got to his feet in haste, an
angry light in his eyes.

“I want an answer, Mr. Armstrong.”

“You won’t get it,” with sneering emphasis. “If I have anything more to
say it will be to your superiors and in the presence of my lawyer.”

“If you are going to take that attitude, Mr. Armstrong,” Mitchell rose
also, “I will see that you are served with a subpoena as a material
witness to attend the next hearing of the inquest—”

A startled look crossed Armstrong’s face, then disappeared.

“Colonel Hull told me that the inquest was over—”

“For yesterday afternoon.” Mitchell pocketed his notebook and fountain
pen. “The next hearing will be on Thursday afternoon at two o’clock at
the District Morgue. I advise you not to forget to attend,” with
significant emphasis. “One more question, where did you spend Sunday
night—_all_ of Sunday night?”

Armstrong’s bright color faded, leaving his sallow complexion a mottled
yellow.

“What in blazes!” he shouted, then his voice died down as Herman drew
back the portières and stepped inside the library.

The butler bowed deferentially. “Luncheon is served,” he announced.
“Miss Anne and Doctor Curtis are already at the table, and Miss Lucille
is waiting for you in the hall.”

Flinging a word over his shoulder, which Mitchell failed to distinguish,
Armstrong hurried into the reception hall as the Inspector, with a quiet
nod to Herman, opened the French window on the veranda and, followed by
his faithful henchman, Sergeant Brown, strode across the lawn in the
direction of the lodge.

Luncheon, judged by Curtis’ feelings, was a long and trying ordeal. No
one except Lucille felt inclined for conversation. When dessert was
served she shot an aggrieved look at her cousin, which Anne missed
entirely, and finally lapsed into silence. The scene in the hall and the
finding of the discolored scalpel was ever present in Curtis’ mind, and
his anxiety was not relieved by Anne’s absent-minded replies and
unresponsive manner. As far as possible he bore the brunt of Lucille’s
efforts to force conversation. Gerald Armstrong, on the contrary,
contented himself with eating a remarkably good luncheon and confined
himself to monosyllables, if he troubled to speak at all.

As they left the table, Armstrong edged his way to Anne’s side and
motioned to her to wait. She cast a quick glance at Lucille and Curtis,
who had preceded her toward the hall, then turned with marked reluctance
to face her companion.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Why are you avoiding me?” with blunt directness.

Anne flushed. “I was under the impression that I went for a motor ride
with you this morning—”

“With Lucille along,” he broke in, making no attempt to modify his
aggressive manner. “You have avoided me.”

“I have not.” Anne’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Nor,” with quiet
significance, “have I run away.” It was Armstrong’s turn to flush. “I
must see you alone,” he insisted, raising his voice.

Herman, busy removing the dessert plates, turned and eyed them with
unconcealed interest. The servants at Ten Acres had little liking for
Armstrong; his overbearing manner and utter lack of consideration for
them accounted for his unpopularity. They accepted his generous tips
with outward thanks and inward rebellion over his presence in the house.

Armstrong’s marked attention to Lucille had explained in Herman’s
inquisitive mind the reason of Meredith’s many invitations to
dinner-dances and house parties. That Meredith was particularly attached
to the young stockbroker, the butler had had occasion to doubt, having
witnessed one or two heated arguments between them. Armstrong had once
or twice expressed himself at the dinner table in mocking terms about
“bread and butter misses,” and therefore, that he should suddenly evince
a preference for Anne’s society, whose unsophisticated outlook on life,
and unspoiled, sunny disposition had endeared her to the servants,
caused Herman to linger over his work in the dining room in the hope of
overhearing what transpired. His hopes, however, were promptly
frustrated.

“I hear the front doorbell, Herman,” Anne turned her back on Armstrong
to address the butler. Looking over her shoulder, she spoke to Armstrong
and the disdain in her charmingly modulated voice made him flush again,
but this time with anger. “There is no occasion for seeing you alone,
Gerald.”

“Isn’t there?” His laugh was unpleasant. “Suppose, instead of having a
friendly chat with you, I go to the police?”

Anne’s hands clenched over her handkerchief. Without deigning to reply,
she hurried into the hall in time to meet her mother as the latter came
in the front door with Sam Hollister.

“Have you lunched, mother?” she asked, as Susanne appeared to take Mrs.
Meredith’s wraps, while Herman relieved the lawyer of his overcoat and
hat.

“I had a salad and cup of coffee at the Shoreham,” replied Mrs.
Meredith. “How about you, Sam?”

“No luncheon for me, thanks.” Hollister picked up his leather brief
case, and glanced at Mrs. Meredith. “Shall we proceed with business?”

“It would be best.” Mrs. Meredith removed her hat and handed it to
Susanne, paused before the hall mirror to inspect her hair and gave it a
deft touch here and there before turning to her daughter. “Come into the
library, Anne. Where is Lucille?”

“Already in the library, mother.”

“In that case,” Mrs. Meredith started for the library, then halted as
Gerald Armstrong appeared from the dining room where he had stood just
inside the door watching them. “Ah, Gerald, good morning.” As he
returned her greeting and stepped forward to accompany her into the
library she motioned him to stop. “You will have to excuse us,” she
explained. “Mr. Hollister is to read Mr. Meredith’s will and only his
relatives are to be present.” With a gracious bow she stepped past
Armstrong. The latter tried to catch Anne’s eye, but she walked by with
head averted, listening to what Hollister, on her right, was saying.
Armstrong bit his mustache, paused uncertainly, then, ignoring Susanne’s
muttered apology as he brushed against her, he opened the front door and
stepped out on the veranda.

At sound of Mrs. Meredith’s entrance Curtis rose from his seat by
Lucille and turned toward her. “Why, Cousin Belle, I did not hear you
return,” exclaimed Lucille, springing up. “We should have waited
luncheon for you,” with a reproachful look at Anne.

“I told Anne not to wait,” remarked Mrs. Meredith. “While Sam was going
over papers in his office I went to the Shoreham and had a bite to eat.
Now, Sam, if you will proceed, please.”

Hollister drew forward a card table and placed his brief case on it. “I
have here,” he began, “the last will and testament of John Meredith. It
was signed by Meredith in my office a year ago and left in my care.
To-day, in the presence of the proper officials, I took it out of my
vault and have brought it here to read in the presence of John
Meredith’s relatives.”

“Just a moment, please.” Curtis stepped forward, and addressed Mrs.
Meredith. “I fear my presence is an intrusion. If you will let me
withdraw—”

“Please wait, doctor.” The color flashed up in Mrs. Meredith’s face, and
a smile, which Anne remembered afterwards as both beautiful and
ingratiating, lit her fine dark eyes. “My daughter would, I am sure,
prefer to have you here.”

Curtis hesitated in uncertainty. Was he really wanted?

“Please stay.” Anne’s soft voice solved his doubts and he resumed his
seat as she moved over and sat down by Lucille on the sofa.

Hollister picked up a document which he had taken a moment before from
his brief case while watching the little scene between Mrs. Meredith and
the blind surgeon. But his reading of the will was doomed to another
interruption. The portières were thrust forcibly to one side as Colonel
Julian Hull walked unannounced into the library.

“Why wasn’t I notified, Belle?” he demanded. “As John’s first cousin I
am entitled to be present at the reading of his will.”

“Lucille represented you,” she replied coldly. “Who informed you,
Julian, that the will was being read?”

“What concern is that of yours?” with a scowl. “Go on, Hollister,” and
without a word to any of the others he flung himself down in the nearest
chair.

It seemed to Anne, as Hollister’s deep voice went on and on, that she
would never hear the end of “whereas” and “because of” which sprinkled
each page of the document. At its close, Hollister laid the will on the
table and touched another more bulky manuscript.

“This,” he explained, “is the complete list, mentioned in Mr. Meredith’s
will, of special bequests of his personal effects. Do you wish it read
aloud?”

“No.” Colonel Hull was on his feet, his eyes blazing with anger. “I have
heard enough. According to that document, Hollister, Anne Meredith is
given one million dollars and Ten Acres. The rest of his fortune goes to
charities and Lucille, my daughter, gets a paltry one hundred thousand
dollars and a diamond necklace. What,” he turned and glared at Mrs.
Meredith and her daughter, “what have you done with the codicil, signed
by John on Sunday night, in which the million-dollar bequest to Anne was
revoked and that amount given to Lucille?”

Mrs. Meredith straightened her stately figure. “Your language is
obnoxious,” she said, and would have added more, but Sam Hollister
interrupted her, his gaze grave with displeasure.

“We are all aware that the codicil and prenuptial agreement have
disappeared,” he pointed out. “When I left John on Sunday night the
documents were on his bed and Lucille was with him.”

Lucille paled as she met her father’s glance. “They were still on the
bed when I went to my room a few minutes after you left, Sam,” she said,
a catch in her voice.

“Do you suppose Lucille would suppress a document giving her one million
dollars?” Colonel Hull laughed scornfully, even as he put the question.
“The idea is absurd.”

“It is no more absurd than to suggest by inference that some one in this
room is responsible for its disappearance,” retorted Mrs. Meredith, with
spirit. “You forget yourself, Julian.”

“I shall fight for Lucille’s rights,” shouted Colonel Hull, his temper
at white heat. “That will shan’t be probated without a contest.”

Hollister replaced the will and its accompanying manuscript in his brief
case and carefully closed and locked the leather flap. Slipping the key
in his pocket he faced the infuriated stockbroker.

“This document will be filed with the registrar of wills at once,” he
said. “You are at liberty to take whatever action you please.” He turned
to Mrs. Meredith. “I am going to my room, Mrs. Meredith, and within the
hour shall return to my office. Is there anything I can do for you and
Anne?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Mrs. Meredith was graciousness itself, “except to
return in time for dinner. I will consult with you then,” and she nodded
a friendly good-by.

As Hollister, with a kindly word to Anne who sat as one dazed, passed
Curtis he tapped the blind surgeon on the shoulder.

“Come up to my room,” he whispered, and not waiting to hear what Curtis
said to Mrs. Meredith, slipped out of the room as Colonel Hull and his
agitated daughter disappeared into the little-used drawing-room.

Curtis was not far behind Hollister in reaching the latter’s bedroom.

“What do you wish to see me about, Hollister?” he asked, as the lawyer
closed the bedroom door and half dragged him over to the window seat.

“A new development,” answered the lawyer tersely. “You recall this
inventory,” taking a sheet of paper out of his wallet. “It is the paper
we found in John’s secretary which bears the notation, in his
handwriting: ‘Contents of safe deposit box belongs to.’”

“Yes, I recollect it,” Curtis said impatiently as the lawyer paused.
“The name was evidently clipped off the page. Go on.”

“We opened the safe deposit box this morning in the presence of the
officers of the Metropolis Bank and court officials,” Hollister spoke
with subdued excitement. “It was a large box—”

“And what did its contents comprise?” questioned Curtis eagerly.
“Meredith’s will?”

“No. I had that in my office vault.”

Curtis straightened up and turned his sightless eyes upon his companion.
“Did you find the missing documents?”

“No, neither of them.” Hollister spoke with impressive slowness. “The
box was empty except for this key,” and he laid it in Curtis’ hand.

In dumfounded silence Curtis ran his fingers over the grooves and
notches and then traced the name stamped upon it in raised letters.

“A Yale key,” he said. “Was this linen tag tied to it?”

“Yes.” Hollister dropped his voice until he almost whispered. “The tag
bears, in Meredith’s handwriting, the single word—Duplicate.”



                              CHAPTER XIV

                           THE DUPLICATE KEY


David Curtis balanced the Yale key in his hand in deep thought.

“And this key was the only object in Meredith’s safe deposit box?” he
asked.

“It was.” Hollister lighted a cigar and puffed vigorously. “Damned odd,
isn’t it? Why did Meredith preserve the key so carefully?”

“It might have been left there accidentally.”

“True.” The lawyer pointed to the inventory sheet lying on the window
ledge. “That notation reads: ‘Contents of safe deposit box belongs to.’”
He folded the paper and replaced it in his wallet. “What do you make of
it? There were no ‘contents-’”

“Except this key,” ended Curtis. “But a key has to belong to a—lock.” He
smiled. “It is obviously up to you, Hollister, to locate the lock.”

“You think—” Hollister glanced at him keenly as he paused.

“That behind the lock this key fits we may find the missing contents of
the safe deposit,” Curtis explained. “I say may, remember, not _will_;
and at that it is only a shot in the dark.”

Hollister looked dissatisfied. “How am I to go about it?” he grumbled.
“Inspector Mitchell and I have been carefully through every desk and
drawer in Meredith’s bedroom and the library. We have found nothing,
documents or otherwise, except what is ordinarily in the possession of a
very wealthy man. Meredith, judging superficially, left his financial
affairs in good shape.”

Curtis did not answer at once. “This key, you say, is marked
‘duplicate’,” he began finally. “Do you recall seeing its original on
Meredith’s bunch of keys?”

“I don’t remember it,” admitted Hollister. “But then there were a number
of Yale keys on his ring.”

“Did you find a lock for every key that _was_ there?”

“A good point!” exclaimed Hollister, his face clearing. “But I don’t
believe that I can answer your question offhand. Mitchell has the keys.
Let’s see if he is still on the premises.”

Laying down his cigar Hollister hastened across the room and over to the
house telephone. It took him a second or two to get an answer to his
ring. “Hello—hello!” he called. “Who is this? Fernando?” finally
distinguishing the latter’s broken English. “Where is Inspector
Mitchell? At the lodge? Hurry over and ask him to return here, Fernando.
Tell him that Mr. Hollister wishes to see him. Hold on, Fernando!” as
the Filipino started to hang up his earpiece. “Bring Inspector Mitchell
to Mr. John Meredith’s bedroom.”

Replacing his receiver on the house telephone hook, Hollister found
Curtis had crossed the room and was waiting for him at the door. As the
two men stepped into the corridor and started for Meredith’s bedroom,
Gretchen flitted down the corridor leading to the servants’ quarters,
paused for a second to cast an uneasy glance at the backs of the two men
and then, doubling on her tracks, slipped unheard along the corridor in
the direction of Lucille Hull’s bedroom. She missed, by a fraction of a
second, encountering Inspector Mitchell and Fernando as they came up the
circular staircase. The Filipino had acted so promptly on Hollister’s
order that he had caught the Inspector just as he was stepping into a
police car driven by Detective Sergeant Brown, which had been parked
under the trees near the entrance to Ten Acres.

Inspector Mitchell listened with close attention to Hollister’s account
of finding the inventory sheet with its notation regarding a safe
deposit box and the discovery of the “duplicate” key.

“Is that the only box Meredith had at the bank?” he asked.

“No,” replied Hollister. “He had another, which we opened to-day in the
presence of the proper authorities. It contained the securities,
jewelry, and other valuables listed in Meredith’s memorandum of special
bequests. We checked it off this morning and all were accounted for.”

“Then you think this notation refers to the box holding only the
duplicate key?” asked Mitchell.

“That is my idea, yes,” answered Hollister.

“Did you think to ask the bank officials when Meredith rented the, shall
we say, second box?” broke in Curtis.

Hollister nodded his head vigorously. “Yes. The box containing the
securities he has had for going on ten years, while this smaller box he
rented only four weeks ago to-day.” Hollister looked squarely at
Mitchell. “The box rents for twenty-five dollars a year. Now, why should
Meredith pay that amount and place only a duplicate key in it?”

“He may have intended to place other valuables there,” suggested the
Inspector, shaking several bunches of keys out of a chamois bag which he
removed from an inside pocket. He spread the keys on the table before
them, and then, taking them up one by one, he matched each key with the
one bearing the linen tag with its single word, “duplicate,” written
plainly upon it. The Inspector was thorough in his examination and
Curtis had time to become impatient before he spoke.

“This Yale key is unlike any we have here.” Mitchell spoke with more
gravity; he had not at first taken Hollister’s comments on the
importance of the duplicate key very seriously. “And these keys are all
that we found in this bedroom, in the library and in the pockets of
Meredith’s suits of clothes.”

“Did you look in the pocket of Meredith’s pajamas?” questioned Curtis.

“Wasn’t a thing in it, except a handkerchief,” replied Mitchell. “If
you’ll let me keep this key, Mr. Hollister, I’ll have Sergeant Brown and
an assistant search for its mate.”

“And the lock which it fits,” put in Curtis swiftly, as the Inspector,
taking Hollister’s permission for granted, slipped the keys back in the
chamois bag, keeping, however, the key under discussion in his right
hand.

“We will institute a thorough search, don’t fear,” responded Mitchell,
none too well pleased with Curtis’ tone. He brushed by the blind surgeon
and was the first to step into the hall, the others just behind him.
“Where is that wretched parrot of Mr. Meredith’s? It isn’t in his old
bedroom.”

His question was overheard by Fernando, who had loitered near the head
of the circular staircase, one eye on the closed door behind which the
three men were conferring and the other on the front hall beneath.

“Mees Anne has Ruffles,” he volunteered, coming toward them. “The bird,
she cry so much, an’ Mees Anne say ‘Fernando, bring Ruffles to my
room.’”

“Oh!” Mitchell scratched his head in some doubt. “Well, see that the
bird isn’t taken out of the house, Fernando. Say, didn’t you look after
Mr. Meredith?”

“I took care of his clothes and his room, yes, sir,” explained the
Filipino. “Always I run errands for him, and I wait at the table under
Herman, yes, sir.”

“Do you recognize this key?” As he spoke Inspector Mitchell thrust it
almost under Fernando’s nose. “Do you know what it unlocks?”

Fernando turned the key over and over, his expression inscrutable as he
fingered the linen tag. “I no see it before,” he stated, handing it
back.

“Have you seen one like it?” asked Curtis, breaking his silence.

“Perhaps,” was Fernando’s noncommittal reply.

“Mr. Meredith kept always the keys under his pillow at night;
sometimes,” looking first at one man and then the other, “Mr. Meredith
forget in the morning and send me for them.”

“Do you identify this positively as like one Mr. Meredith had?”
persisted Mitchell.

“Honorable sir,” Fernando dropped back a step to let Mitchell pass, and
bowed low to the Inspector, “it look like most any key on Mr.
Meredith’s—what you call it—bunch? You see for yourself; you got keys.”

Mitchell took his last words for a statement, but to Curtis’ keen ears
they sounded like an interrogation.

“So you don’t know what this key unlocks?” The Inspector held it out for
a second before pocketing it. “All right, Fernando, trot along.” He
turned to Hollister. “Good-by, sir; I’ll be over later in the
afternoon.”

“Wait,” Curtis laid a detaining hand on Mitchell’s shoulder. “About that
scalpel—” He hesitated. “Have you learned anything?”

“Not yet, but I am dead certain that it was used to kill Meredith—”

Hollister started forward. “You have found the weapon?” he exclaimed,
running down the steps after Mitchell. “How—where—”

“Come along and I’ll show it to you,” called Mitchell over his shoulder,
and not waiting for the others to catch up with him, went toward the
front door. Curtis hesitated a second, then, tucking his cane under one
arm and grasping the banisters, he hastened to keep up with his more
active companions.

As their heads disappeared out of sight down the staircase, Fernando
drew a long breath. With a prolonged glance up and down the silent
corridor, he walked to Mrs. Marshall Meredith’s boudoir door and knocked
softly upon it. At his second tap he heard Mrs. Meredith’s curt, “Come
in,” and stepped inside, closing the door at his back with care not to
let it slam.

“You sent for me, madam?” he asked.

“Yes.” Mrs. Meredith pushed her chair back from her desk and regarded
Fernando through her gold lorgnettes. “I have already told Herman and
the other servants that by the terms of Mr. Meredith’s will my daughter
inherits Ten Acres,” she stated, having seen in her swift glance about
the boudoir that the communicating door between it and Anne’s bedroom
was tightly closed. “Miss Anne is still a minor and I am her legal
guardian. Thus, you understand, Fernando, that retaining your present
situation in this house depends upon your fidelity _to me_.”

“Yes, madam.”

“So far I have found you satisfactory. I fail to see why you hesitate
_now_.”

Fernando, standing respectfully before her, shifted from one foot to the
other, and his yellow face reddened under her angry gaze.

“Do you understand?” demanded the irate woman, a second time.

“Yes, madam. You wish me to find a certain key in Mr. Meredith’s
bedroom.”

Fernando drew a step nearer. “The detective man has one like it.” Mrs.
Meredith paled under her rouge. “And you did not get it from him?”

“But have patience, please, madam.” Fernando was taking pains with his
English and spoke with care. “It may be difficult, madam.”

“I suppose that means you need a bribe.” Mrs. Meredith unclasped her
handbag and handed the servant a gold piece. “Have you anything to
report?”

“No, madam,” humbly, then as an afterthought, “Herman tell me that Mr.
Armstrong try to see Mees Anne _alone_.”

Their gaze clashed. Mrs. Meredith was the first to speak.

“Thank you, Fernando. You may go.”

But Fernando did not stir. “Please, madam, will Mees Anne marry the
blind doctor?”

Mrs. Meredith looked at him in marked displeasure. “My daughter’s
affairs are not a topic for discussion,” she stated, frigidly. “That is
all, Fernando.”

As the hall door clicked shut on the servant’s retreating figure, Mrs.
Meredith turned back to her desk with a heavy frown. Could it be
possible that her willing tool was growing restive?

Fernando reached the first floor in time to open the front door as the
bell sounded. A stranger stood on the threshold.

“May I see Mr. Samuel Hollister?” he asked. “I was told at his office
that he was here.”

Looking past the stranger Fernando descried Hollister coming up the
graveled walk accompanied by Doctor Curtis.

“Here he is,” he exclaimed. “Behind you, sir. How better you go join
him?”

With a somewhat surprised glance at the Filipino, the stranger wheeled
around and going down the veranda steps reached Hollister and Curtis as
they paused under the pergola.

“Mr. Hollister?” he asked, raising his hat. “My name is Elliott—Frank
Elliott, of Chicago. Your clerk sent me out here as I have only a brief
time in Washington.” His slight hesitation was but momentary. “I
understand that you were John Meredith’s lawyer and are now an executor
of his estate under the terms of his will.”

“Your information is correct,” replied Hollister, as the other stopped.
“Let me introduce Doctor David Curtis, Mr. Elliott.”

Elliott looked with some curiosity at the blind surgeon as they shook
hands.

“I must see you, Mr. Hollister, on a matter touching Meredith’s estate,”
he said. “It is of vital importance—”

“Pardon me,” broke in Curtis. “I had better withdraw.”

“No,” objected Hollister, before Elliott could speak. “Doctor Curtis is
engaged to marry Miss Anne Meredith, the chief beneficiary under her
uncle’s will; therefore—”

“I can speak before him,” finished Elliott. He stroked his clean-shaven
chin and cleared his throat nervously. Evidently he found difficulty in
broaching the reason of his presence at Ten Acres, or so Curtis
concluded from his rapid breathing.

“I am one of a group of men,” began Elliott, his hand dropping from his
chin to his watch fob, which he stroked with restless fingers. “We are,
frankly, fighting prohibition and have pooled our interests.”

“By interests you mean money?” asked Curtis quietly, and Elliott eyed
him more keenly; he had before centered his attention on the lawyer, and
had addressed his remarks exclusively to him.

“Yes, money,” he admitted. “This money we placed in John Meredith’s
hands to bank for us.”

“When?” demanded Curtis.

“To be exact it was just four weeks ago to-day.” replied Elliott. “I
came on here and personally saw Meredith place the money in his safe
deposit box.” Hollister stared at Elliott, his excitement rising. Curtis
let his cane swing from one hand to the other as he drew a step closer
to the stranger.

“Do you recall the number of the safe deposit box and the bank?” he
asked.

“The last, yes—it was the Metropolis Bank. But Meredith did not tell me
the number of the box,” responded Elliott. “I do know, however, that he
rented it that morning expressly to hold our funds.” Twice Hollister
opened his mouth to speak, then glanced in doubt at his blind companion.
Elliott, also, was staring at Curtis and it would have taken a more
astute person than the little lawyer to read his expression.

“Mr. Elliott,” Curtis lowered his voice to a confidential pitch, “have
you any objection to telling us the amount of money you placed in John
Meredith’s care?”

“I have no objection at all,” declared Elliott, modifying somewhat his
hearty voice. “It was one hundred thousand dollars in cash.”



                               CHAPTER XV

                        AT THE FORK OF THE ROAD


Gretchen looked at the panting woman before her with concern.

“Plees, Mees Hull, sit awhile,” she begged, pointing to one of the
comfortable wicker chairs on the side veranda of Ten Acres. Gretchen had
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hull toiling up the brick walk, which led from
the Rockville Turnpike into the grounds, and, by a circuitous route
through the trees, up to the old mansion, and skirted it on either side.
She had left the pantry window to open the little-used north door to
admit her. Mrs. Hull subsided into the nearest chair with thankfulness.

“I declare, Gretchen,” she gasped, “this is a fearful place to reach
from the city, unless you have a car.”

Gretchen’s smile, while expansive, was a trifle vague. It showed her
pretty dimples to advantage. “Plees, I get you a drink—”

“Of water,” firmly. “I never touch anything stronger, Gretchen,” and the
chambermaid vanished inside the house.

Mrs. Hull was grateful for the cool breeze which fanned her hot cheeks,
and she drew her breath with more regularity and ease after a few
minutes of absolute quiet. From where she sat she had an extended view
of the old-fashioned garden, with its box-hedge maze, one of the
historic features of the place, and the pergola almost completely hidden
under its cover of rambler roses. As she sat waiting in patience for
Gretchen’s return, she saw three men emerge from the pergola and go
toward the lodge gates. By his height and the use of his cane she judged
the outside man to be David Curtis; Sam Hollister she recognized at
once; but the man nearest to her was a stranger.

Gretchen’s return and her glass of water diverted Mrs. Hull’s attention
from the three men, and when she looked again in the direction they had
taken they were not in sight.

“How pretty you have grown, Gretchen,” commented Mrs. Hull, regarding
her admiringly. “You are stouter than when you arrived here from Europe
with Miss Lucille, and it is becoming to you,” hastily, observing that
Gretchen evidently considered her last remark a doubtful compliment.

“Thank you, madame!” Gretchen dropped a pretty curtsy—one of her foreign
ways, as Herman termed it; his attentions to the little Dutch girl had
early been discouraged, and his liking had, as in many similar cases,
changed to dislike. He had resumed “keeping company” with Susanne,
hoping that the astute French girl had not observed his inclination to
stray from her side. If she had noticed his sudden ardor for the pretty
stranger, Susanne gave no sign, and domestic affairs at Ten Acres had
settled down into their well-oiled, accustomed groove.

“You like it here, Gretchen?” asked Mrs. Hull, transferring her gaze
from the girl to the view over the garden. The varying shades of green
of the late spring were restful to the eyes, and Mrs. Hull was unmindful
of the lengthy pause before her question was answered.

“But, yes, madame; it’s ver’ nice,” replied Gretchen. “Would madame like
annudder drink?”

“No, no more, thanks.” Mrs. Hull took her handkerchief out of her bag.
“If ever you decide to leave here, and there may be changes now,
remember, you must come to us, Gretchen. I shall always keep a place for
you.”

“You are mos’ kind, madame.”

“Not a bit; Miss Lucille is devoted to you, we all are,” finished Mrs.
Hull. “Is that Fernando coming out of the maze?” As she put the
question, Mrs. Hull handed the empty glass to Gretchen and her eyes
rested full on the girl’s face. Gretchen’s eyes were fixed upon the man
Mrs. Hull had seen a moment before and a rich carmine dyed her cheeks a
deep red. Astonished at the effect of her question, Mrs. Hull repeated
it.

“No, no, madame; it is Damason,” stammered Gretchen. “Will madame come
inside?”

“Is Miss Lucille at home?”

“Yes, madame.”

“Then run along and ask her to come out here,” directed Mrs. Hull. “And,
Gretchen, you need not mention to Mrs. Meredith that I am calling upon
my daughter.”

Gretchen was saved a trip to Lucille’s bedroom, for she met her at the
foot of the circular staircase. Her shoes were dusty, as from walking,
and Gretchen concluded that she must have entered only a moment before
by the front door. A second more and Lucille was with her mother on the
veranda.

“Gretchen must wear Mercury wings,” said Mrs. Hull, after kissing her
warmly. “I just saw Damason crossing the garden and mistook him for
Fernando, and Gretchen nearly blushed her head off when I called her
attention to him.”

Lucille’s pale, set face relaxed into a sunny smile. “That is a budding
romance,” she explained. “We are all wondering which brother Gretchen
will marry.”

“It must be very uncomfortable to be courted by a twin.” Mrs. Hull swung
her chair with ponderous grace toward the one her daughter was occupying
close at hand. “I hope Gretchen makes a wise choice.” Then in an altered
voice: “Why are you remaining here?”

“Because it is best.” Lucille was careful to speak low. “Have you seen
father?”

“No, not since breakfast. Why?” And there was unmistakable anxiety in
Mrs. Hull’s usually expressionless voice.

“He was here just after luncheon and made a most unfortunate scene—”

“About what?”

“Hush!” Lucille’s firm hand closed over her mother’s bare wrist with a
force which made her wince. “He was present when Sam Hollister read
Cousin John’s will. By the terms of that will Anne inherits this place
and one million dollars.”

“And you—”

“A paltry one hundred thousand dollars.” The bitterness in her voice cut
Mrs. Hull and she involuntarily laid her hand over her heart as if in
actual physical pain. Her daughter was oblivious of her emotion as she
continued her account of the scene in the library. “Father declared the
codicil Cousin John signed Sunday night, revoking Anne’s bequest in my
favor, had been purposely mislaid or stolen outright—”

“Lucille!”

“Let me finish, mother.” Lucille had inherited her father’s intolerance
of interference, even in trivial matters. “Father plans to contest the
will.”

Mrs. Hull stirred unhappily in her chair. “Why will Julian act without
thought!” she exclaimed.

“He wished to protect my rights—”

Mrs. Hull appeared silenced, if not convinced. It was fully five minutes
before she spoke again.

“And you still wish to remain here as Anne’s guest?” she asked.

Lucille colored warmly. “You never look ahead, mother,” she complained.

Mrs. Hull dropped her eyes that Lucille might not see the sudden tears
which filled them. She played nervously with her handkerchief before
addressing her again.

“Where is your father now?” she inquired.

“He returned to Washington.” Lucille sighed. “I presume he is at the
office.”

A troubled look crossed Mrs. Hull’s face. “He spends too much time
there,” she said. “Julian is no longer a young man. I cannot help but
think, as much as I like Gerald Armstrong, that he shirks his
obligations to your father, Lucille.”

“Please, mother, no criticism of Gerald.” Lucille laid a warning finger
across her mother’s lips.

Mrs. Hull stared at her daughter in silence. Mother love sharpened her
usually abstracted gaze, and she saw with a dull ache in her heart the
dark circles under Lucille’s handsome eyes and the paleness of her
usually rosy cheeks. Impulsively she leaned forward and threw her arms
about the girl.

“Is all well between you and Gerald?” she asked wistfully.

“Yes, mother,” but Lucille looked elsewhere than into her mother’s
kindly eyes as she withdrew from her embrace. “Here comes Cousin Belle.
Pull yourself together.”

Mrs. Meredith’s unexpected appearance through the north door took away
what little wits Mrs. Hull had remaining to her. She stood in awe of her
husband’s cousin, a feeling which she had never been able to conquer in
the passing years and which had always prevented any degree of intimacy.

“I saw your arrival some time ago, Claire,” said Mrs. Meredith, with a
perfunctory kiss on both cheeks. “And I waited in the library for you.”

“My dear, I was so out of breath.” Mrs. Hull shook her head
pathetically. “When you reach my age and, eh, circumference, you will
understand, Belle, that I had to rest in the nearest chair.”

Mrs. Meredith prided herself on her figure, and her smile at Mrs. Hull’s
remark was pitying.

“Julian should engage a chauffeur and permit you the use of his car,”
she stated. “Come inside, Claire, and remove your coat and hat. You must
stay to dinner.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—”

“But you must.” Mrs. Meredith’s tone held just the right shade of
cordiality, and Mrs. Hull looked hopelessly at her quick-witted
daughter. But Lucille failed her by taking Mrs. Meredith’s side.

“Do stay, mother,” she urged, slipping her arm about her waist as they
walked through the north door, through the reception hall and into the
library. “It will be so nice to have you.”

But Mrs. Hull did not accept the chair her daughter led her to; instead
she turned and faced Mrs. Meredith with simple dignity.

“Lucille has just told me of what transpired after Cousin John’s will
was read this afternoon,” she began. “Do you think it proper that
Lucille and I remain as guests at Ten Acres?”

A swift change passed over Mrs. Meredith’s handsome face, but one that
neither of her guests could interpret. Advancing she laid her hand for
an instant on Mrs. Hull’s ample shoulder.

“Whatever is done about the probating of John’s will, will be decided by
our lawyers,” she said. “If the will _is_ contested, it will be a
friendly suit in law. Personally I believe that Julian will reconsider
and withdraw his hot-tempered threat. You know, Claire, that he is a
creature of impulse.”

Whatever reply Mrs. Hull would have made was checked by the entrance of
Anne. She was a favorite with Mrs. Hull, and the latter kissed her with
tender warmth.

“You don’t look a bit well, Anne,” she announced, with customary candor,
holding the girl at arm’s length. “Why don’t you send her away for a
change, Belle? This atmosphere of gloom,” looking about the somber room,
“is enough to depress the stoutest heart.”

Anne smiled as she pressed her hand, then turned to her mother.

“Sam Hollister has just telephoned Herman that neither he nor Doctor
Curtis will be here for dinner,” she said.

“Indeed!” Mrs. Meredith raised her eyebrows in displeasure. “And where
have they gone?”

“I don’t know, mother.”

Mrs. Meredith selected her favorite chair. “Switch on the lights, Anne,”
she directed. “We might as well make ourselves comfortable until dinner
time.”

Two hours later Anne slipped away from the dining room, and telephoned
to the garage. A few words to Damason sufficed and she went to the hall
closet and took down her sport coat. The dinner had been shorter than
usual and, for which Anne was devoutly thankful, had passed off more
cheerfully than other meals since the death of her uncle. Gerald
Armstrong had appeared just before dinner was announced, looking
extremely well groomed in his evening clothes. Mrs. Hull attributed his
conversational powers to her presence, but Herman might have contributed
another reason for his sudden loquaciousness had he told of an empty
cocktail shaker reposing in Armstrong’s bedroom.

All day long Anne’s head had ached with a dull throbbing pain which made
her long for forgetfulness—oblivion, even. A desire to be by herself, to
get out in the air possessed her, and snatching the first opportunity
she had stolen away, hoping that her absence would not be noticed until
she had gotten into her roadster and driven off.

She opened the front door cautiously and hurried down the veranda steps
and along the driveway toward the lodge. A taxicab turned in at the
lodge gates and deposited a passenger and then drove off. But Anne’s
attention was centered on her car parked close to the central driveway,
and she did not observe a man walking slowly toward her. Her foot was on
the running board when a hand was laid on her shoulder.

“Anne!” Gerald Armstrong’s hot breath was unpleasantly close to her
face. “Where are you going?”

“For a drive.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” and his dictatorial manner sent a chill down
her spine.

“Hop in.”

She was in her place in an instant, her foot on the starter, but the
engine was cold. Another second and Armstrong would be by her side. Why
hadn’t she told Damason to leave the engine running?

In her haste Anne had switched on her headlights and in their glare she
saw a man approaching. He walked with assured tread, his cane tapping
time to his footsteps, his sightless eyes looking full at the
headlights. Anne stopped her engine and turned to Armstrong standing on
the running board.

“My fiance, Doctor Curtis, is going with me,” she said. “Kindly step
down and make room for him.” Leaning out of the car, she called:
“David!”

At sound of his name in her clear, soft tones Curtis felt his heart leap
and was conscious of an accelerated pulse as he increased his footsteps.
It was the first time she had ever called him “David.” For the first
time in his life he liked his given name!

“What is it—Anne?” he asked. “Where are you?”

“Keep to the right,” she exclaimed. “I am in my car waiting for you.”
She breathed more easily as Curtis, touching the fender, passed down the
side of the car and stopped by Armstrong.

“You win, doctor.” Armstrong laughed tolerantly, keeping his voice
pleasant with an effort. “If you had been a second later, I’d have gone
with Anne. I’ll explain to your mother, Anne. By-by.” And with a jaunty
wave of his hand, he sauntered back to the house.

Curtis placed his hand on the open door and swung inside the car. He had
no key to the situation, but Anne had called him—that was enough. Anne’s
foot was on the accelerator as he slammed the door; the next second the
gears slipped into place and the powerful roadster started down the
driveway and made the turn into the Rockville Pike. Not until then did
Anne break her silence.

“I had such a headache,” she said. “And it was so stuffy in the house I
stole away, and—and—”

“I came along.” Curtis laughed happily. “Thank God!”

Anne shot a half shy, half merry glance at him. She had been so long
immersed in bitter, unhappy thoughts that nature could stand no more.
Suddenly she gave way to unrestrained laughter.

“Oh!” she gasped, when she could make herself intelligible between gusts
of merriment. “If you had seen Gerald’s face! You came _just_ at the
right moment.”

“Thank you—”

“It is I who should thank you for rescuing me from an intolerable
situation.” She had sobered as quickly as she had given way to
irresistible mirth. “I have a great deal to thank you for.”

“Don’t!” Curtis laid his hand for an instant on hers. “I am happiest
when at your service.” His voice deepened with feeling. “I hope that you
believe me.”

“I do,” she said, and Curtis’ face lighted with a tender smile and his
heart pounded with unusual vigor against his ribs. He was too happy to
say more, and for a while they sped down the turnpike in silence.

Once and again she stole a glance at her silent companion, noting with
critical eyes his broad shoulders and deep chest. He had taken off his
hat and the breeze waved his naturally curly hair out of its severely
smooth lines. The stern repression which generally characterized his
features had relaxed in his enjoyment of the drive. He looked almost
boyish in the dim light from the dash lamp. There was that about Curtis
which inspired confidence in young and old, and Anne’s heart sang more
lightly as she drove the car at slower speed through Rockville and swung
into the road leading to Frederick, Maryland.

“Do you care where we go?” she asked. “Or do you want to return?”

“I should say not,” with honest vehemence. “Keep right ahead. It’s a
fine road.”

“And there are not many cars out to-night for a wonder.” Anne bent
forward and switched on the big lights. “No stars are visible. I
shouldn’t wonder if we had a storm.”

As they reached open country Anne pressed down on the accelerator and
the car raced ahead. They passed several other motorists and then Anne
saw that she had a clear stretch of road before them. The car tore
onward, gathering speed for the next hill. As they reached the crest she
saw that the ground dipped suddenly in a steep incline and she pressed
down on the brake. Instead of checking speed, the roadster gathered
momentum. Involuntarily a low cry escaped Anne as the car lurched
sideways, then righting itself, swept down the steep hill at breakneck
speed.

“What is it?” demanded Curtis quickly.

“The brakes won’t work,” she panted, tugging at the hand brake. “I’ve
lost control—”

“Go into second,” he shouted. He heard the noise of the shifting gears
as he set the hand brake. Leaning over he grasped the wheel. “I’ll hold
it steady; you guide.” He raised his voice. “Is there anything ahead?”

“No.” Her fingers closed over his hands and he swung the car in the
direction she indicated, holding it with powerful grip straight in the
center of the road. She felt their terrific speed lessen as the car
reached the bottom of the steep grade and struck the level, and she shut
off the engine. The roadster coasted along for some distance and she
caught sight of a fork in the road ahead.

“Turn to the right,” she gasped. “We’ll park in the gutter.” As the car
came to a standstill Anne dropped limply back in her seat. Curtis’ voice
sounded miles away and there were dancing sparks in front of her eyes.

“There is a box of ammonia vaporoles in the right-hand pocket,” she
stammered weakly as her head drooped forward. “I am so ashamed—” her
voice died away entirely.

The box was tucked at the bottom of the leather pocket in the door, and
Curtis had some difficulty in finding it. With one of the little ampules
crushed in his hand, he bent over Anne and held it so that the fumes
reached her. She was still only partly conscious when he lowered his
hand to unfasten the high collar of her sport coat. As he dragged it
back his signet ring caught in a fine gold chain which she wore around
her neck and tucked under the front of her low-cut gown.

As Curtis strove to disengage his ring the chain swung back and its
pendant struck his hand. It was a key. Instinctively his fingers traced
the slightly raised lettering, “Yale,” and then slipped down the key.
Mechanically he counted each notch and groove. Curtis drew in his breath
sharply. The key was identically the same as the one marked “duplicate”
in Meredith’s safe deposit box. How came it to be in Anne’s possession?

A long-drawn sigh from Anne aroused Curtis. Without taking thought, he
pressed back the catch of the chain and released the key. As he secreted
it carefully in his pocket he slipped the chain inside Anne’s gown
again.

“Do you feel better?” he asked, as Anne raised her head.

“Yes.” She struggled upright. “It was silly of me to faint. I am
mortified—”

“You need not be,” quickly. “It was a ghastly run down that hill. It
won’t be possible to drive this car back. Do you know where we are?”

“We have passed Gaithersburg,” she replied. “There is a farmhouse back
in the field there. We have stopped almost in front of its gate—”

“Don’t get out,” exclaimed Curtis, as she half rose. She sank back
again, conscious that her knees were shaking under her. “I can make my
way to the house and will either telephone to Rockville for a car to run
us back, or get one of the inmates of this farmhouse to take us to
Washington. They probably have a car.”

“But what about my roadster?”

“I’ll call up the nearest service station and get them to send a trouble
wagon for it,” he said, stepping out of the car. “Don’t worry, I won’t
be long.”

Anne watched him make his way slowly across the long grass to the fence.
“Keep to the right,” she called, and he waved his hand to indicate that
he heard and understood. She was still watching him when a car, coming
from Rockville, dashed past and took the turn to the left.

The house was fully a quarter of a mile from the road and Curtis walked
with care. Anne stared after him anxiously until the darkness hid him
from view, then turned around in her seat—to find a masked man standing
on her running board.

Anne stared at him in paralyzed silence. Slowly his right hand came into
view and a revolver touched her breast.

“Make no noise,” he commanded, and his voice had a terrifying sound
coming from behind the black cloth which dropped below his chin. “Give
me that key.”

“The key!”

“The _key_!” with stern emphasis. “Be quick or I’ll—” And the revolver
pressed against her side.

Mechanically Anne dragged out her gold chain. It hung suspended in her
hand in the light from the dash lamp. Anne gazed at the empty ring of
the safety catch, where the key had been fastened, as if hypnotized.

“It’s—gone—_gone_!” And the horror in her eyes as she raised them to the
masked man was more convincing even than her words.

Raised voices coming down the walk from the farmhouse aroused the masked
man from his contemplation of Anne and the empty chain. As silently as
he had come, he vanished into the night.

Curtis’ hail met with no response and climbing into the car, assisted by
the farmer and his son, he found that Anne had fainted again.



                              CHAPTER XVI

                           A CRY IN THE NIGHT


“Why doesn’t God create an insect to destroy weeds,” mused Mrs.
Meredith. Albeit not given to expressing her emotions aloud, she had
acquired the habit of airing her wrath when alone by a sort of audible
conversation under her breath which, unsuspected by her, Susanne had
often utilized, thereby acquiring much desirable information quite
unknown to her mistress.

“Susanne!” Mrs. Meredith raised her voice and her maid came out of
Anne’s room and into the boudoir.

“Madame, you called?”

“Which bedroom have you given to Mrs. Hull for the night?”

“The pink bedroom, madame; across the corridor from zat of Doctaire
Curtis,” explained Susanne, smoothing out a fold in her pretty apron.

“Oh, very well.” Mrs. Meredith consulted her watch. “It is late,
Susanne; I have everything I wish, so do not wait for me. Good night.”

“Good night, madame.” Susanne turned at the door. “I hope you sleep,
madame.”

Mrs. Meredith looked up sharply in time to catch a glimpse of the French
maid’s trim figure in its becoming black gown as Susanne whisked through
the hall door, closing it after her. Crossing the boudoir, she entered
her daughter’s bedroom. Anne, on the point of switching off the reading
lamp, left it lighted as her mother approached the bed.

“Now, Anne,” Mrs. Meredith seated herself on the nearest chair, “we are
alone, and you can tell me in detail about this escapade of yours.”

“Escapade?” Anne sat bolt upright. “What a word, mother.”

“Does it not fit the occasion?” smoothly, meeting Anne’s indignant
glance with unperturbed equanimity. “You slip away without a word to me,
drive for miles in the country, just escape a serious accident, leave
your car broken on the roadside, and come home close upon midnight in a
farm truck. I might well add the adjective ‘indiscreet’ before
escapade.” Anne’s small hands closed spasmodically over the bedclothes
as she dragged them closer to her.

“You forget that I was not alone, mother,” with emphasis. “Doctor
Curtis, my fiance, was with me.” Mrs. Meredith gazed at her daughter in
silence for a minute. “You still persist in carrying out this bargain
marriage?” she asked, bitingly.

Anne flushed scarlet. “Kindly recollect, mother, that the bargain was
not of my seeking,” she replied. “And you were its strongest advocate.”

Mrs. Meredith’s gaze strayed from Anne to a photograph standing in a
silver frame on her dressing table. It was an excellent likeness of her
brother-in-law, John Meredith. Mrs. Meredith hastily averted her eyes.

“Have you recovered entirely from your fright, Anne?” she asked more
kindly. At the unexpected change of topic Anne relaxed against her
pillows. Was it possible that her mother did not care to pursue a
conversation which, in her present mood, might lead to an open quarrel?

“I am better, thank you,” she responded. “Doctor Curtis did everything
in the world for me. But for his presence of mind when the brakes on the
car would not work, I would have been killed.”

Mrs. Meredith blanched. “I am very grateful to Doctor Curtis,” she spoke
with more feeling than usual. “I fear that I have misjudged him.”

Anne eyed her mother inquiringly. What did such a _volte face_ portend?
They sat in silence for over two minutes, then Mrs. Meredith rose and,
leaning down, kissed Anne.

“To-morrow morning,” she stated, “I will send a note to the society
editors of the local newspapers and ask them to announce your engagement
to Doctor Curtis. Good night, Anne; pleasant dreams.” And she went to
her bedroom to undress feeling that her whole duty to herself, to Anne,
and to society in general had been admirably performed.

Downstairs in the library David Curtis hung up the telephone receiver
with growing impatience. It was the sixth time he had tried to get
Doctor Leonard McLane on the telephone. He was most anxious to speak to
McLane, but the latter had been called to Baltimore to perform an
operation, so had reported McLane’s servant, and had not returned.
Curtis did not like to leave word for McLane to ring him up, owing to
the lateness of the hour. The telephone bell might disturb the inmates
of the household. He had not seen McLane since the discovery of the
discolored scalpel concealed among the ferns in the reception hall. Much
had transpired since then, and Curtis was in a fever to discuss the new
events with his level-headed friend. In McLane’s judgment and advice he
could place implicit confidence.

Anne’s condition troubled him. Upon reaching home in the farmer’s small
truck, he had persuaded her to go immediately to bed and had given
Susanne a sedative to administer when she was undressed.

Anne had not told him of her encounter with the masked man, and Curtis
had concluded that her second fainting spell had been caused by nerves
frayed to the breaking point.

As Curtis reached the table, standing by the entrance to the library, on
which he had laid his cigarette case and box of matches, he heard the
front door open and a startled exclamation in a girl’s voice, and then a
man’s heavier bass.

“Good gracious, Lucille, where have you been at this time of night?”
asked Sam Hollister, stopping on his way from the circular staircase to
the library.

Lucille closed the front door softly and placed her finger to her lips.
“Not so loud, Sam,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want to awaken any
one. I couldn’t sleep, and so went out for a walk about the grounds.”

Hollister eyed her in concern. Lucille’s beauty was enhanced by her
pretty evening gown and graceful wrap, which she had partly thrown back,
disclosing her perfectly shaped neck and throat.

“See here, Lucille,” he said, going closer to her, “I’ve wanted very
much to see you; to tell you how badly I feel about this will business.”

“It is not your fault, Sam—”

“I know. But to deprive you of anything—” His voice shook with a depth
of feeling which surprised Curtis, an unwilling listener to their
conversation. “I wish to God I could find that codicil giving you the
million dollars, even though it would put the final barrier between us.”

“Sam!”

“I’ve asked you a dozen times to marry me.” Hollister made a brave
attempt to smile humorously, but the look of passionate love and sorrow
in his eyes told a story of self-effacement and dogged devotion to an
ideal. “I know that I am not much to look at, and while I’m not poor, I
am not a millionaire. Just the same, Lucille, I’d give my life to serve
you—to save you from pain.”

“Sam!” Lucille’s eyelids were wet with unshed tears as she laid her hand
on the little lawyer’s.

“You are the best and truest friend—”

“And nothing else.” Hollister sighed forlornly. “There, I won’t detain
you, Lucille. You look utterly weary. Go to bed, dear.” He turned away
quickly, fearing he might say more, and thereby missed her quick,
furtive glance at him as she ran softly up the staircase.

Curtis was sitting at the telephone stand when Hollister appeared in the
library.

“I couldn’t find you in your bedroom, Curtis,” explained Hollister,
drawing up a chair. “I thought perhaps that you might be here, so came
down. I hope you are not in a hurry to go to bed.”

“No.”

“Good.” Hollister drew his chair close to Curtis and took several papers
out of his pocket. Selecting a telegram he opened it. “I wired a friend
of mine in Chicago, whose word I could rely on, and asked for
information regarding Frank Elliott.”

“And what was the reply?”

Hollister held up the telegram and read it aloud. “Elliott, promoter.
Has good financial backing and an assured income of fifteen thousand
dollars a year. A man of integrity and standing in his community. Member
of Stock Exchange and University Club.” He lowered the telegram and let
his glasses dangle from their cord. “That gives Elliott a clean bill of
health.”

“Apparently so,” agreed Curtis, cautiously. “Do you think your friend
could furnish you with a photograph or personal description of Elliott?”
Hollister looked questioningly at his companion. “You doubt our
visitor’s identity?”

“On general principles I doubt anybody who lays claim to one hundred
thousand dollars,” retorted Curtis. “Frankly, how did Elliott strike
you?”

“I liked his appearance,” promptly. “He was well dressed and looked what
he claims to be, a prosperous business man, and obviously a gentleman.”

“Of what age?”

“Around forty-five, I should judge offhand.” Hollister tipped his chair
back into a comfortable position. “We’ll be in a deuce of a quandary if
we can’t produce that one hundred thousand dollars. Where in the name of
God did John Meredith tuck it away?”

“And who in heaven’s name murdered Meredith!” ejaculated Curtis, with
equal fervor. He hesitated a perceptible moment. “My acquaintance with
Meredith was very slight—I never saw the man,” with a fleeting smile.
“Do you think he appropriated that money to his own use?”

“Good God, no!” Hollister’s voice denoted shocked surprise. “John was
the soul of honor in every relation of life.”

“Then,” Curtis drew a long breath, “it is up to us to locate the money
and keep his memory stainless.”

“And locate his murderer,” added Hollister solemnly.

Curtis moved restlessly. “Did Frank Elliott give you further evidence to
prove his statement regarding the ownership of that one hundred thousand
dollars?” he asked.

“No. He is returning on Thursday and promised to bring several men with
him to substantiate his statement,” replied the lawyer.

“Did he tell you their names?”

“No.” Observing Curtis’ dissatisfied frown, Hollister added hastily:
“You must take into consideration that Elliott is in an embarrassing
position.”

“How so?”

“He stated that that money is owned by certain men who pooled their
funds to fight prohibition,” Hollister spoke more slowly. “In other
words, they are trying to defeat the dry laws, and that is illegal. He
and his friends can’t go to the courts to claim that money without
getting themselves involved in trouble with the Federal Government.”

Curtis whistled softly. “So that is it,” he commented. “Suppose you ring
up Western Union and send a night letter to your Chicago friend,
Hollister, asking for a description of Frank Elliott and his present
whereabouts.”

The lawyer pursed up his lips. “Oh, well, if you insist—” He shrugged
his shoulders and went with reluctance to the telephone. It took him ten
minutes to get his despatch taken down by a sleepy operator, and when he
hung up the receiver he was not in the best of tempers.

“I’m off to bed,” he stated ungraciously. “Coming, Curtis?”

“In a moment, I want to send a call.” Curtis hitched his chair closer to
the instrument stand and reached for the telephone. “Don’t wait for me,
Hollister, I’ll come along shortly.”

The lawyer wandered over to the smoking table and helped himself to
several cigars. Then he turned back and faced the blind surgeon.

“See here, Curtis,” he began, “don’t run off with the idea that I
propose to give up a hundred thousand dollars to Elliott or any man
without incontestable proof that it belongs to him. I am not an utter
fool.” Not waiting for a rejoinder, he stalked from the library, taking
no pains to walk softly.

Curtis paused in the act of calling “Central” and replaced the telephone
receiver. What had caused Hollister’s sudden outburst of temper? The
lawyer’s conversation with Lucille Hull, which he had inadvertently
overheard, was the first inkling that he, Curtis, had had that Hollister
was in love with her. Evidently he was an unsuccessful suitor of long
standing, judging from what he had said to Lucille. Could it be that
Hollister had stolen the codicil to Meredith’s will so that Lucille
would not inherit the million dollars and thus, as Hollister himself had
expressed it, “place another barrier between them”? Bah! the idea was
absurd, and Curtis smiled to himself, but the smile vanished at the
thought that Hollister knew of the codicil and knew of its whereabouts
on Sunday night. Who could say that he had not returned to Meredith’s
bedroom, engaged Meredith in conversation and stolen the papers—and
murdered Meredith.

Curtis shook his head. Hollister was not the type of man to indulge in
bloodshed, whatever the incentive; nor had nature cast him for the role
of a Don Quixote.

Putting out his hand, Curtis lifted the receiver and gave McLane’s
telephone number to “Central.” A half-awake servant took his message to
have McLane call him first thing in the morning, and giving up all hope
of talking with his friend that night, Curtis sought his bedroom. As he
passed down the corridor leading to his room, he heard some one move
just ahead of him and an alarmed exclamation in a woman’s voice,
followed by his name in a lower key.

“I am sorry I frightened you, Miss Hull,” he said apologetically.

“It is Mrs. Hull, not Lucille, doctor.” As she spoke Mrs. Hull peeped
out from the alcove where she had retreated at his unexpected
appearance. The alcove was shallow and Mrs. Hull, as she gathered her
dressing gown about her, was thankful that she faced a blind man.

“Can you tell me, doctor, where I can find an outside telephone?”

“There is one in the library,” replied Curtis. “Can I send a message for
you?”

“No, thank you. I’ll get Lucille.” Mrs. Hull glanced nervously about.
“You will think me absurd, doctor, but my husband was not well to-day.
He was to call for me after dinner this evening, but he did not come,
and it became so late that finally Lucille persuaded me to stay here all
night.”

“Very rightly, Mrs. Hull,” responded Curtis sympathetically. “Is there
anything I can do for you?”

“Oh, no! I couldn’t sleep thinking about Colonel Hull.” She spoke
spasmodically in short, nervous jerks. “He has a new car and is _so_
imprudent. I will get Lucille to call up our home and talk with her
father. Don’t let me detain you. Good night.” And she stepped past him
down the corridor on her way to her daughter’s bedroom as Curtis turned
toward his door.

Curtis wasted little time in undressing. He was about to get into bed
when a thought occurred to him. Going over to the chair where he had
cast his suit, he took out the key which Anne had worn on the gold chain
and put it inside the pocket of the jacket of his pajamas, fastening the
flap with a safety pin. Then he climbed into bed. He had not troubled to
switch on the electric light. Moving in perpetual darkness he had
finally broken himself of the habit of pressing the button when entering
a room at night.

The night seemed endlessly long to Curtis as he twisted and turned on
his pillows, in sleepless unrest. He could not dismiss Anne from his
thoughts. Was the key which he had taken from her Meredith’s? If so, how
had it come into her possession? And what possible bearing could the key
have on Meredith’s murder?

Bitterly Curtis regretted his lack of opportunity to question Anne about
the key on their homeward journey in the farm truck. The presence of the
farmer prevented anything like a private conversation, and immediately
upon their arrival at Ten Acres Anne had been surrounded by her mother,
Mrs. Hull, and Lucille, and hurried to her bedroom.

It was approaching two o’clock when Curtis finally dropped off into
dreamless slumber, lulled to sleep by the soft breeze blowing through
his open windows.

Nearly an hour later he awoke with a start. What had aroused him?
Suddenly he caught a faint sound made by a padded footfall. Some one was
moving about in his room. Curtis lay still, every faculty awake, his
nerves tingling. By an effort of will only he kept his sightless eyes
closed. Had the intruder switched on the electric light? If so, he was
at an even greater disadvantage. At least in a darkened room he and the
intruder would have an equal chance. A rustle of papers on his desk by
the north window came to him with startling distinctness. He could not
lie there like a bump on a log and be robbed—

Throwing back the covers he gathered himself for a spring. Clearing the
footboard he landed in the center of the room and dashed in the
direction of the window. Something brushed by him as he reached the
window sill and he clutched at it frantically. His fingers closed over a
hand—a tiny hand.

A hoarse cry broke from Curtis and he almost loosened his grasp, then
his grip tightened as his wits returned, and he pulled back—and lost his
balance.

A piercing scream of such anguished intensity that it chilled the blood
in the hearer’s veins rang through the night, and echoed and reechoed in
Curtis’ ears as he staggered to his knees—a severed hand in his grasp.

With his heart pounding like a mill race Curtis touched the captured
hand at the wrist where it had been severed. His fingers encountered
hair—_hair?_—no, fur.

Curtis’ overcharged nerves gave way to a gurgling, choking laugh, and he
sank down on the floor. It was no human hand that he held—it was a
monkey’s paw.

An incessant pounding on his door aroused Curtis. Stopping at his
bureau, he picked up a handkerchief and wrapped the monkey’s paw in it
and thrust it inside the drawer. When he opened the hall door he found
several excited servants facing him.

“If _Monsieur_ pleases,” gasped Susanne, Gretchen’s terrified face
peering over her shoulder. “What is it?”

“A nightmare,” he responded. “I am sorry. Good night.”



                              CHAPTER XVII

                           UNDER LOCK AND KEY


David Curtis rose from his seat by the window and stretched his cramped
muscles. He had sat in the same position for what seemed to him
interminable hours, waiting in watchful silence for the return of his
mysterious visitor. But the remainder of the night had proved
uneventful. The servants were astir early and he heard doors and windows
being opened on the lower floor as they went about their work. He had
about completed dressing when a knock sounded on his door, and he
crossed the room and, turning the key, threw it open.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Fernando, with your breakfast, honorable sir.” The Filipino set the
tray on the chair and, removing some magazines and books from a small
table, put it in front of the window and then arranged the tray. Turning
about he saw Curtis struggling to tie his cravat and went to assist him.
“I get your cane, sir. The table—it is this way,” and he walked
solicitously across the room with Curtis and pulled back his chair
before the improvised breakfast table.

Curtis ate half-heartedly; he had little appetite. “You may pour out
another cup of coffee,” he said, “and then you need not wait. But
first,” his voice deepened, “why did you tell me you were Fernando?”

“I—I—” The Filipino, taken completely by surprise, came to a stammering
halt.

“Just so, Damason.” Curtis smiled grimly. “Why are you masquerading as
your twin brother?”

“He sick,” Damason passed one moist hand uneasily over the other. “I
take his place; it is all the same.” He cast a quick, suspicious glance
at Curtis. “How you know?”

“By your height,” calmly. “You will recollect that I rested my hand on
your shoulder when you tied my cravat. Your brother must be two inches
shorter than you. Your voices, however, are identical. Is Fernando very
ill?”

“Oh, no, sir. He what you call,” hunting about for a word, “sick to his
stomach. He drink soda and be all right.”

“If I can do anything, let me know. I am a physician.”

“Thanks, honorable sir.” Damason bowed low. “If you want anything,
please ring, sir, and I come.”

“Very well, Damason,” and the Filipino started for the door just as it
opened and admitted Leonard McLane.

“It’s Leonard, Dave; I came right up,” he said, nodding to Damason as
the chauffeur slipped into the hall, closing the door behind him. “What
is it, old man?” laying his hand on Curtis’ shoulder to keep him in his
seat. “Don’t rise. I found your urgent message about three this morning
and came over as soon as I decently could and not awaken the household.”
He gazed keenly at Curtis, and asked in concern: “Has anything of
importance happened? You look as if you had had a night of it.”

“I had,” laconically. “Sit down, Leonard. I want your advice.”

McLane listened enthralled as Curtis rapidly told of the arrival of
Frank Elliott and the latter’s claim to the one hundred thousand
dollars, of the duplicate key in the safe deposit box, of his drive to
Frederick in Anne’s car and finding a similar key hanging on her gold
chain.

“Here is the key.” As he spoke, Curtis drew it out of his pocket and
exhibited it.

“And you don’t know what this key unlocks?” asked McLane.

“No. But it must be of some importance or Anne would not carry it on her
person, nor Meredith have its duplicate in a safe deposit box,” replied
Curtis doggedly. “And I am commencing to believe that when we find what
this key opens we will have gone a long way in solving the problem of
who killed Meredith and why.”

“I agree with you,” declared McLane, with heartening vigor. “Is that all
that transpired?”

“No. I was awakened early this morning by a monkey—”

“In this room?”

“Yes. And just as I got a firm grip on its hand—I can’t call it a
paw—and tried to drag the beast back inside the window, the hand was
severed from the body and left in my grasp.”

McLane half rose in his seat and then sank back. “You are kidding me!”
he exclaimed.

Curtis left his chair and went over to his bureau. When he came back to
the window he unwrapped a bloodstained handkerchief and displayed its
contents.

“Are you convinced?” he asked. “Look at the window sill and tell me what
you see.”

McLane bent over the sill and studied it in silence. “There is a streak
of blood and a mark on the stone ledge where a sharp blade struck. It
must have been driven with terrific force.”

“By whom?”

McLane leaned far out of the window and scanned the brick walls. “Some
one must have been crouching on this balcony just outside your window,
Dave,” he said.

“Sure—the man who hadn’t the courage to steal into my room, but had to
send a poor dumb beast to do his dirty work,” declared Curtis savagely.

McLane straightened up. “I had almost forgotten,” he exclaimed. “I saw
an impression of a hand on your counterpane yesterday. At first glance I
thought it was a child’s soiled hand.”

“That proves the monkey has made other visits to my bedroom,” broke in
Curtis grimly. “With what object, I wonder—”

“To steal—”

“What?”

McLane shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll answer that later—when I know,” he
added dryly. “I wasn’t entirely convinced that it was a child’s hand
which I had seen on the counterpane, so I came back to your room, Dave,
just before leaving the house, only to find that the counterpane had
been changed in our absence.”

Curtis whistled softly. “I’ll be everlastingly blessed!” he ejaculated.
“Well, we have one clue to go upon which will enable us to identify the
person so interested in my room,” he spoke with renewed energy. “And
that is the monkey. People who possess monkeys in this vicinity are not
numerous. We should have little difficulty in locating the owner of my
midnight visitor.”

“I can tell you the owner’s name now—”

“You can?” Curtis was quick to detect the odd inflection in McLane’s
voice.

“Who is it?”

“Anne Meredith.”

The answer was unexpected. Curtis drew in his breath sharply.

“Are you sure?” he demanded. “Think, Leonard, what you are implying-”

McLane nodded. “Her uncle, John Meredith, gave a marmosette to Anne for
Christmas. It is a wonderfully intelligent little beast. Anne called it
her thinking machine.”

“I never heard of it—”

“How many days have you been here?” quickly. “I came last Friday,”
stopping to count; “this is Wednesday morning, four days in all.”

“And John Meredith was killed on Sunday night,” put in McLane. “It is
hardly surprising that you are not familiar with everything about Ten
Acres and its inmates.”

“I’ve found it a house of mystery,” groaned Curtis. “Where does Anne
keep her monkey?”

“Fernando, the Filipino, takes care of it for her—”

Curtis rose. “So that is it!” His face cleared.

“And Fernando is ill this morning. Go, Leonard, and find out if the
monkey is still alive and—if its paw is missing. If it is, swear out a
warrant for Fernando’s arrest—”

“On what grounds?”

“As a housebreaker,” grimly. “That will hold him, for the time being.
Hurry, Leonard.” He pushed his friend impatiently toward the door and
into the corridor. They had reached the head of the circular staircase
when Gretchen intercepted them.

“Doctor McLane,” she called timidly, and the two men halted. “Plees come
and see Mees Lucille.”

“Is she ill?” inquired McLane, observing Curtis’ impatient frown at the
interruption to their plans.

Gretchen bowed her head and McLane, looking at her closely, saw that she
was crying.

“Which is Miss Lucille’s bedroom?” he asked. Gretchen pointed dumbly
down the left hand corridor. “Stay here, Dave, and I’ll return as
quickly as possible.”

As Curtis rested his hand on the banisters he caught a faint sob on his
right as Gretchen buried her face in her apron.

“What is it?” he asked kindly. “What distresses you, Gretchen?”

“Mees Lucille,” she stammered. “She got the bad news on the phone.”

“What news?” quickly.

“Her father was hurt las’ night in his car.” Gretchen drew a sobbing
breath. “Mees Lucille fear to tell her mother. Poor Mees Lucille!”

Curtis’ kind heart was touch by her genuine grief. “Perhaps Miss Lucille
is unduly alarmed,” he suggested. “Her father may not be seriously
hurt.” Gretchen looked unconvinced. “It was what you call a ‘bad
smash,’” she repeated the words almost as if she had learned them by
rote. “I feel so because we come togedder from my country, and she is my
dear young Mees.”

Curtis had a retentive memory. Where had he heard Gretchen use that
phrase before in the same agitated tones? Before he could question her
further she had darted down the corridor toward Lucille’s bedroom. He
lingered by the staircase for over five minutes, then becoming restive,
turned and paced up and down the hall, each turn taking him a little
further from the staircase. He paused abruptly before a closed door and
touched the knob somewhat doubtfully—a piece of twine still hung from
it.

His memory had not been at fault in the location of John Meredith’s
bedroom. He swung open the door and stepped inside.

“_Mon Dieu!_” Susanne’s excited exclamation made him pause. _“Mon Dieu,
Monsieur le Docteur!”_ She pulled herself together and lowered her voice
to its normal tone. “You haf—haf—” She reached out her hand to clutch
the door as she got to her knees, but Curtis had swung the door to
again. As he did so his hand brushed against the inside knob—from the
key in the lock was suspended a wig.

“Is this yours?” he asked politely, concealing his astonishment and also
his inclination to laugh.

“But yes, _monsieur_.” Susanne passed him and disengaged her property
from the key, caught between the hair and the pretty cap she always
wore. “Some time ago, _monsieur_, I had the fever, and my hair lef’ me.”
Her nimble fingers replaced the wig and cap. “_Monsieur_ will do me a
kindness by not speaking of my misfortune.”

“Of course, Susanne, I will say nothing.”

“_Merci, monsieur_,” and waiting for no more, Susanne hurried off, in
her haste never observing a small object hopping along the hall. She had
not entirely closed the door and through the narrow opening it passed
into John Meredith’s bedroom.

Curtis rested on his cane in deep thought. His brief conversation with
the French maid had given him time to wonder at her presence in
Meredith’s bedroom. What was she doing there? And above all, why was she
on her knees? If she had not been on her knees how had her wig become
caught in the key of the door? He had obviously swung the door against
her as he entered. If she had been directly in front of the door he
could not have opened it without using some force.

Curtis walked to the door and grasping the inside knob pulled it slowly
open, as he did so walking in the direction it swung. It brought him
against the right wall of the bedroom. Susanne must have been kneeling
there when he entered. Curtis stood where he was and pushed the door to.
Not until he heard the click of the latch did he move. Tucking his cane
under his arm he moved his hands back and forth over the high mahogany
panels with which the room was wainscoted. What had interested Mrs.
Meredith’s French maid might prove of interest to him! He worked his way
to the corner by the door, then, undiscouraged by his lack of success,
covered the ground again slowly, feeling each panel as he went along. He
had traversed some distance down the room when he paused to push a chair
out of his way.

“Watch your step!” The hoarse warning came just under his lifted foot
and he swayed back in startled surprise. His hand struck the wainscoting
a resounding blow; he distinguished a faint buzzing sound, and a panel
swung toward him. Curtis clutched it in time to regain his balance. He
heard a flutter of wings and a bird alighted on his shoulder.

“Pretty Poll, pretty Poll!” The parrot preened its feathers, then its
softer tones grew shrill. “Anne—you devil—I’ve caught you!”

Curtis scratched the parrot’s head. “I’ll wring your neck, Ruffles,” he
muttered, “some day—perhaps.”

The parrot’s chuckle carried a hint of diabolic mirth as it fluttered
down to the floor and hopped across to its old quarters. From that
vantage point the bird eyed Curtis as he turned his attention to the
open panel and the steel door which, when closed, it cleverly concealed.

Curtis’ first care was to locate the spring which he had accidentally
struck, so that he might be able to open the panel again. His diligent
search was rewarded by finding a section where the panels joined. The
spring was a clever piece of mechanism, and Curtis made sure that he
could operate it before turning his attention to the steel door. He ran
his fingers lightly over its surface and found the small keyhole. Taking
out the key which he had removed from Anne’s gold chain the night
before, he inserted it in the lock—a turn of his wrist and the door
opened slowly.

It was some seconds before Curtis put his hand inside the compartment.
He touched a number of packages lying one upon another. Taking up one he
removed the rubber band and fingered the bank notes before returning
them to their safe hiding place. Drawing up his chair, Curtis seated
himself and went deliberately through the contents of John Meredith’s
secret compartment.

Ten minutes later Curtis closed the door of the bedroom, taking the
precaution to lock it and pocket the key. There was no suggestion of
hesitancy in the blind surgeon’s movements—it was a man virile, fearless
and resourceful who walked quietly down the corridor toward the
servants’ wing of the house.



                             CHAPTER XVIII

                           THE POLICE WARRANT


Susanne was some little time in repairing the ravages which rage and
surprise had made in Mrs. Meredith’s complexion.

“That will do, Susanne.” Mrs. Meredith rose before her dressing table.
“Tell Miss Anne that I am waiting for her.”

Susanne started at her stern tone; the French maid’s nerves were not
under their usual excellent control. Before she could execute the order
Anne appeared in the doorway.

“What is it, mother?” she asked. “Why did you send me word to dress at
once?”

Mrs. Meredith paused to pick up a half sheet of note paper which she had
tossed on her breakfast tray twenty minutes before.

“This is from Coroner Penfield,” she explained. “He has had the
effrontery to demand your presence and mine in the library—at once.”

Anne shrank back toward the boudoir, with a quick hunted look behind
her. It seemed to Susanne’s observant eyes that she sought shelter—

“Why does Coroner Penfield wish to see us?” asked Anne.

“Heaven knows!” with a contemptuous shrug of her shoulders. “He states
in his note that Inspector Mitchell is with him.”

Anne drew a long breath. “Suppose we go down at once, mother,” she said.
“Anything is better than—than—suspense.”

“Very well.” Mrs. Meredith picked up a scented handkerchief. “Close my
door, Susanne, and see that no one enters the room. Come, Anne.”

As Mrs. Meredith and Anne crossed the reception hall on their way to the
library they encountered Mrs. Hull just coming out of the dining room.
She had never taken kindly to having breakfast served in her bedroom
and, with Sam Hollister for company, had just completed that meal.

“Where away so early in the morning, Belle?” she asked, as her cousin
paused to greet her. “I don’t recall having seen you up and dressed at
this hour since our acquaintance.”

“You would not see me now but for an impertinent message from Coroner
Penfield,” answered Mrs. Meredith tartly. “He and Inspector Mitchell are
waiting in the library to interview Anne—”

Anne shivered involuntarily. All the way along the upper corridor and
down the staircase she had longed for a word of sympathy, of
encouragement, of understanding from her mother. If she could only feel
that she was not utterly alone, the coming interview would lose half its
terrors! Just a word, just a glance, a loving touch. She laid her hand
on her mother’s arm, only to have it withdrawn as Mrs. Meredith moved to
one side. She had been rebuffed.

Mrs. Hull saw the incident and divined its significance as she met
Anne’s tragic eyes. Hot resentment conquered every other feeling. She
slipped her arm about the young girl’s waist and held her closely to
her.

“I’ve always wanted to know a coroner,” she stated calmly, meeting Mrs.
Meredith’s displeased frown with unruffled composure. “I guess I’ll go
in with you and Anne. Come, dearie,” and she supplemented her remarks
with a kiss, which Anne returned with fervor, unconscious that her cheek
was wet with a tear.

“Damason”—Anne had caught sight of the chauffeur as he came into the
reception hall from the pantry—“ask Doctor Curtis to come at once to the
library. Suppose we go on, mother, and not keep Coroner Penfield waiting
any longer,” and with Mrs. Hull’s motherly arm still about her, Anne
followed Mrs. Meredith into the presence of the two men.

Anne’s clear voice reached David Curtis as he paused in the act of
closing the front door, a grinning Western Union messenger boy waiting
on the veranda, cap in hand, for the generous tip which he saw in the
blind surgeon’s fingers. The next second he had darted down the steps, a
silver dollar reposing in his pocket, while Curtis turned toward the
library. He had taken but a few steps in that direction when Sam
Hollister’s voice brought him to a halt.

“Hello, Curtis!” he said, both manner and voice subdued. “This is
frightful about Colonel Hull—a bad smash.”

“Has his wife been told?”

“I imagine not. We ate breakfast together and she said nothing.”
Hollister polished his bald head with his handkerchief. “Her devotion to
Julian Hull is akin to that of a dumb animal. I am glad that she did not
see the morning paper. Damason, here, handed it to me just as she left
the dining-room.” Curtis turned his sightless eyes inquiringly in the
direction of the dining-room.

“Damason?” he asked, and the Filipino, hovering in the background, came
a step nearer.

“Yes, honorable doctor.”

“Where is Mr. Gerald Armstrong?”

“Asleep, honorable sir.”

“What—and with this story abroad?” Hollister raised the morning
newspaper with its glaring headlines before tossing it to one side.

“Please, sir, it is the cock’s tail,” ventured Damason. “He drink many.
You like I try and wake Mr. Armstrong?”

“Yes. Tell him to come to the library, and, Damason,” sternly, “you come
with him.” The Filipino bowed humbly, then, turning, took the circular
staircase two steps at a time, in his blind haste nearly colliding with
Lucille Hull and Leonard McLane as they walked down the corridor in
earnest conversation.

Inside the library Mrs. Meredith was regarding Coroner Penfield
thoughtfully through gold-rimmed lorgnettes.

“If I am correct, and I think I am,” she stated coldly, “the next
hearing of this inquest is scheduled for to-morrow. Why then should my
daughter and I be subjected to further questioning to-day?”

“Because, madam, evidence of vital importance has been found,” responded
Penfield sternly. “Inspector Mitchell has a most unpleasant duty to
perform.”

Mitchell stepped forward with marked reluctance. His gaze rested on
Anne’s white face, and as he noted her youth his heart smote him—his
dealings with criminals had not made him callous to human suffering.

“Anne Meredith,” he began, without preface, “in the name of the law I
arrest you for the murder of your uncle, John Meredith.”

Twice Anne essayed to speak, and twice her voice failed her. Mrs. Hull’s
gasping sob came faintly to her; she was more conscious of her mother’s
stony silence.

“What are your grounds for so preposterous a charge?” Anne asked, and
her voice sounded oddly in her own ears.

“You will learn them in due time,” responded Mitchell, extending the
police warrant with its imposing seal. “I warn you that anything you say
may be used against you.”

“So?” Anne faced him proudly, her eyes flashing with indignation. “You
decline to tell me on what you base your charge and in the next breath
warn me that anything that I may say in my own defense will be used
against me. Is it fair, is it honorable to handicap me at every turn?”

“It is neither fair nor required by the law,” broke in a stern voice
back of her, and Anne turned with a low cry of relief as Curtis stepped
forward and confronted Inspector Mitchell. Behind him appeared Sam
Hollister, his hands gripping a telegram which, in his agitation, he had
failed to read.

“Come, come, Mitchell, you must not heckle my client,” the lawyer
announced. “Keep within the law.”

“I am strictly within my rights,” declared Mitchell, his anger rising.
“I—”

“Just a second.” Curtis held up his hand, and turned to Coroner
Penfield. “In simple justice to Miss Meredith and to prevent a serious
error on the part of the police, I insist that Inspector Mitchell tell
us his reasons for securing the warrant for Miss Meredith’s arrest.”

“Reasons?” snapped Mitchell, before Penfield could answer. “There are
reasons a-plenty. First, motive—destroying a codicil to her uncle’s will
in which he revoked a bequest to her of a million dollars; second,
opportunity—she was seen in his bedroom late Sunday night by Herman, the
butler, who overheard their quarrel; third, her talk with the man
outside the chambermaid’s window, I’ll do it to-night’; fourth, the
parrot’s repetition of Meredith’s exclamation: ‘Anne—I’ve caught you—you
devil.’” Mitchell paused and eyed Anne, then looked hastily away—her
ghastly face disturbed him.

“Fifth—the weapon,” he went on. “You slipped up there, badly.”

“I aided you in finding the weapon,” put in Anne. “Was that the act of a
guilty person?”

“It was excellent camouflage,” retorted Mitchell. “And it might have
succeeded if you hadn’t miscalculated the direction the scalpel would
fall when dropped through the banisters, and thus secreted it in the
wrong fern box.” He returned the warrant to his pocket. “What clinched
the case against you, Miss Meredith, was finding your fingerprints on
the knife.”

Like an animal at bay Anne faced her accuser. No one spoke. Mrs.
Meredith sat with face averted, one hand opening and closing
spasmodically on her scented handkerchief. Mrs. Hull, unconscious of the
tears running down her cheeks, was breathing with difficulty, oblivious
that her daughter, with Leonard McLane, had joined the group.

“And if the court requires further proof,” went on Mitchell’s relentless
voice, “a lock of your hair was wound around the button on Meredith’s
pajamas jacket when we found his dead body in the hall.” Curtis advanced
to Anne’s side. “I was the first to find Meredith’s body,” he stated. “I
also discovered, while Hollister was telephoning for the coroner, that
some hairs were caught on the button over Meredith’s heart. These hairs
I removed.” Paying no attention to Mitchell’s surprised ejaculation, he
added: “They were white.”

“Say, you _are_ dippy!” Mitchell’s contempt was plain. “Where are the
hairs?”

“Gone,” briefly. “Stolen out of my pocketbook.”

“What are you giving us?” roughly. “Stuff and nonsense?”

“No,” Curtis smiled; his object had been attained—he had succeeded in
diverting attention from Anne to himself. “You have been so keen in
tracing the crime to Miss Meredith that you have blundered badly—”

“What!” Mitchell’s eyes blazed with wrath.

“Here, there’s no use listening to you—”

“Oh, yes, there is.” Curtis spoke more rapidly and his manner grew
stern. “In handling this case, Mitchell, you have failed to study one
factor—the character of the murdered man. John Meredith had a warm
heart, a peppery temper, and a confiding disposition. It made him a prey
to a dastardly conspiracy—”

A shout in the hall interrupted him. A second later the portières were
dragged aside and Gerald Armstrong lurched into the library. At his back
came Damason, while Gretchen and Susanne, lured from their work on the
second floor by the disturbance, stopped just outside the library and
peered through the wide opening left by Armstrong’s impetuous handling
of the handsome portières.

Armstrong’s bloodshot eyes darted about the room. Catching sight of
Curtis, he sprang toward him.

“What do you want, Curtis?” he demanded, with a foul oath, regardless of
the women present.

“Gerald!” Anne pressed her fingers over her ears. Paying not the
slightest attention to her, Armstrong stopped directly in front of the
blind surgeon.

“Answer my question,” he ordered. “What do you want?”

“Armstrong,” Curtis’ calm tone was in marked contrast to that of the
infuriated man before him, “you have twice stated that you were not at
Ten Acres when Meredith died. Were you here when he was _murdered_?”

Armstrong shifted his gaze from Anne to the blind surgeon, from there
his eyes wandered to Lucille, standing terrified by Leonard McLane’s
side.

“What are you driving at?” he demanded roughly.

“This—” Curtis rested his weight on his cane, leaving his right hand
free. “Meredith lived for over five minutes after being stabbed in the
throat. You had ample time to be out of the house before he died.”

As if hypnotized, Armstrong regarded the sightless man before him. The
entrance of Detective Sergeant Brown through one of the French windows
failed to arouse him. As Brown drew closer Anne saw a small brown object
huddled in his left arm.

“Jocko!” she cried. At her familiar voice the monkey raised its head and
made a feeble attempt to spring toward her. “Why, he’s ill—injured—”
seeing the bloody stump which the monkey carried pressed to its breast.
“How did he lose his paw?”

“It was cut off last night, Anne,” began Curtis, “by the man who sent
the monkey into my room to steal—a key.”

Anne’s violent start went unobserved by Inspector Mitchell. His eyes had
happened to be fixed on Mrs. Meredith and he saw her crimson and then
turn deadly white. It was the first time she had shown emotion since
entering the library.

Detective Sergeant Brown put the monkey down in an armchair, and Anne
moved impulsively forward and sat by it, for the moment her own
agonizing situation forgotten in her pity for the evident suffering of
her little pet.

The Sergeant addressed Curtis while facing his superior officer.

“I found the monkey in the grove of trees down beyond, where you
suggested he might be, sir,” he said. “And I found the bolo knife—”

Galvanized into life, Armstrong turned and glared at Brown.

“You’re a damned liar!” he cried. “The knife belongs to Fernando—”

“Who loaned it to _you_.” Curtis’ voice cut the air like a whiplash. “It
was you, Armstrong, who knew that John Meredith had drawn out one
hundred thousand dollars in cash to invest in certain securities; it was
you who took advantage of another’s misfortune; you, contemptible hound
that you are, made a woman your cat’s-paw—” He wheeled around.
“Mitchell, bring Gretchen here.”

The grim earnestness of his tone called for prompt unquestioned
obedience, and Mitchell swung around to find Susanne pushing the pretty
Dutch girl into the room. In her terror Gretchen sat down on the nearest
chair and Brown, with instant forethought, wheeled the chair and its
occupant forward.

“Here she is, Doctor Curtis,” he announced. “Right forninst ye.”

“Gretchen,” Curtis spoke more kindly, “at the inquest you testified that
the voice of the woman under your window on Sunday night was that of
your ‘young Mees.’ Coroner Penfield took it for granted that you
referred to your employer, Miss Anne Meredith. This time we require a
spoken answer; do not nod your head, as you did before. Did you mean by
‘young Mees,’ Miss Anne or Miss Lucille Hull?” Gretchen’s terrified gaze
swept the room. “I—I—” she faltered. “It was—God help me—it was—” she
gulped a sob. “It was Mees Lucille.”

Curtis broke the pause as he faced toward the door. “Is Miss Hull
present?”

“Yes.” Lucille controlled her voice admirably, but Doctor McLane noted
with growing alarm her ghastly, twitching features. “What is it, Doctor
Curtis?”

“Are you engaged to marry Gerald Armstrong?” Lucille carefully refrained
from looking at her mother.

“I was,” she admitted, “once.”

“Lucille!” Armstrong had turned livid. “You aren’t deserting me? He
can’t prove anything. He only knows—”

“That John Meredith was murdered by your accomplice—” Curtis stepped in
the direction from which Lucille’s voice came. He had almost reached her
side when a figure barred his progress.

“One moment, Doctor. I stabbed John Meredith,” and Mrs. Hull laid her
hand in his.



                              CHAPTER XIX

                            OUT OF THE MAZE


Inspector Mitchell gazed at Mrs. Hull as if he thought her demented.

“You! _You_ killed John Meredith!” he gasped, as the others listened in
petrified silence.

“Yes.” Mrs. Hull unconsciously tightened her grasp on David Curtis’
hand. His firm clasp helped her to keep her self-control. “But I did not
_intentionally_ stab him. It was an accident.”

Lucille walked unsteadily over to her mother. “Dearest,” she stammered.
“You must be mad!” Then as she caught Mrs. Hull’s pathetic, pleading
eyes, she turned in sudden frenzy to Coroner Penfield. “I tell you she
is mad—mad, and unaccountable for what she is saying.”

“Hush, Lucille, be quiet, dear.” Mrs. Hull turned in appeal to Leonard
McLane. “Calm her, doctor, until I finish what I have to say.”

McLane led the unstrung, half frantic girl out of the library, the
startled servants making way for them. As they reached the door Gerald
Armstrong tried to stop Lucille, but on meeting her look of loathing he
cowered back and covered his face with his shaking hands.

Sam Hollister, recovering somewhat from his stupor, brought up a chair
for Mrs. Hull.

“Sit down,” he said. “You look utterly spent”

With murmured thanks she sank down just as Anne approached and, dropping
on her knees, put her arms around Mrs. Hull.

“Excuse me, Coroner Penfield.” Mrs. Hull had some difficulty in
controlling her voice, as she blinked away the tears which persisted in
filling her eyes and half blinding her. “And you also, Inspector
Mitchell. Have a little patience and I will tell you my unhappy story of
Sunday night, and then go with you.” She sighed deeply.

“My husband has met with financial reverses during the past two months,”
she went on. “I knew something of his affairs, but he did not take me
entirely into his confidence. It was about midnight on Sunday, Julian
had retired early and I was about to go upstairs, when Gerald came to
see me and told me that their firm was virtually ruined. He suggested
that I see John Meredith and ask his aid.

“I am a home body, and starting again at the bottom, with a small house,
little money and no servants held no particular terrors for me, but as I
thought of my husband and his pride in his business integrity; Lucille,
accustomed to every luxury, and her social ambitions; and of the people
who had trusted my husband and who might be ruined through his
bankruptcy, I pocketed my pride and told Gerald that I would see John.”
Mrs. Hull paused, then continued more slowly:

“Gerald said that I must go to Ten Acres immediately, in spite of the
hour; that unless he had a check for fifty thousand dollars, or its
equivalent in cash, the firm could not open its doors on Monday
morning.” Again Mrs. Hull sighed. “I believed him and he brought me out
in his car. It was after midnight and Gerald admitted me into the house
through the north door, to which he had a latch key. He would not come
upstairs, but told me that he had tied a piece of twine to John’s door
knob so that I could make no mistake in the room.”

“But why all this secrecy?” demanded Mitchell. “Why didn’t you telephone
and make an appointment for the next morning?”

“Because I knew that my husband and John were not on good terms,” she
responded. “They had had a dispute a week before. I was not sure that my
husband would approve of my asking a favor of John, nor was I at all
sure that John would see me if I asked for an appointment. I knew John’s
habit of reading in bed half the night.” She hesitated and looked at
Penfield. “May I have a glass of water?”

There was a pause as Damason dashed out of the room, to return an
instant later, goblet in hand. Mrs. Hull drank thirstily, then,
returning the empty glass, she laid her hand on Anne’s shoulder as the
girl knelt beside her.

“I found John Meredith sitting up in bed, with a dressing gown thrown
over his shoulders, reading. My unexpected appearance astounded him. He
heard what I had to say very patiently, then slipping his hand under his
pillow, drew out a key.

“‘I have about one hundred thousand dollars in cash in my safe here,’ he
said. ‘I intended to reinvest it, but will gladly accommodate Julian
with a loan to tide him over. Will fifty thousand be sufficient?’” Mrs.
Hull paused, overcome by emotion, and the others waited in silence for
her to continue.

“In my nervousness, while explaining my errand to John, I had picked up
a sharp knife which lay on the open book by his side, and which he had
evidently used to cut its leaves.” Mrs. Hull stopped, her eyes darkened
in horror, as in imagination she lived the scene over again. “I have a
malady of the heart, and the suspense and John’s generous promise of
financial aid proved too great a tax. My head swam, I felt myself
reeling forward—I had remained standing—and threw out my left hand, in
which I still grasped the knife. John looked up, jerked back his head
and held up his hands to catch me. I swayed toward him, my left hand
swept downward and the knife slashed his throat.” Mrs. Hull broke down
utterly. When she looked up Curtis was holding a glass to her lips.

“Drink this,” he coaxed, and she obediently swallowed the powerful
stimulant.

“I am almost through my story, gentlemen,” she gasped. “The horror of
what I had done brought me to my senses and I fled from the room,
intending to get assistance. I ran down the hall, made the wrong
turning, and becoming completely confused went down the back stairs and
from there into the reception hall. I still carried the knife. In a
revulsion of feeling I threw it in one of the fern boxes and going to
the north door, slipped outside and over to Gerald’s motor, parked near
the entrance to Ten Acres.”

“Was Armstrong waiting in the car for you?” asked Curtis quickly.

“No. I had just strength enough to climb into the car and then I must
have fainted,” answered Mrs. Hull. “When I came to myself we were almost
home. Julian was in his room sound asleep and no one heard me.” With an
effort she got to her feet and loosened Anne’s tender clasp. “That is
all,” she stated. “But please do not think me utterly despicable—I never
knew until just now that Anne was suspected of killing her uncle, or I
would have given myself up to the police.”

“Cousin Claire, it was an accident,” declared Anne loyally. “Surely,
Inspector Mitchell, you cannot charge Mrs. Hull with murder?”

Mitchell shook his head. “Mrs. Hull must come with me to Headquarters
and tell her story to the authorities. There’s manslaughter to
consider—”

“Wait!” Curtis’ imperative tones interrupted the inspector. “Before you
proceed further—” In his earnestness Curtis drew a step nearer and
stumbled over a footstool. He involuntarily flung out his hand and
caught hold of the person standing by him. “Mrs. Hull, the wound which
you accidentally inflicted did not cause John Meredith’s death.”

A cry broke from Mrs. Hull and she swayed on her feet, while the others
in the room gazed at the blind surgeon in stupefied silence.

“I assisted at the post-mortem examination,” continued Curtis, speaking
with slow distinctness. “My fingers are my eyes and they detected a
superficial downward gash on Meredith’s throat just above the point
where the larger blood vessels were severed.”

Mrs. Hull hung on his words, her agonized expression giving place to one
of dawning hope.

“I didn’t kill John—thank God! Oh, thank God!” she gasped. “Doctor, you
mean—?”

“That when you fled in terrified horror from the bedroom pursued by
Meredith, he was followed by a witness of the scene. This witness,”
Curtis turned his head slowly, his sightless eyes sweeping the room,
“caught up with Meredith as the latter fell, half unconscious, at the
head of the staircase, and bending down cut Meredith’s throat.”

In the tense silence Anne heard her mother’s sudden intake of breath.
Turning slightly she saw that Mrs. Meredith sat watching Curtis in
deadly fascination, unconscious apparently that her fingers were
twitching convulsively about her scented handkerchief. Inspector
Mitchell’s aggressive voice brought Anne’s attention back to the others.

“Who was this witness?” he demanded.

“The man who planned the interview—Gerald Armstrong.”

As his name was pronounced Armstrong strove to wrench his wrist from
Curtis’ iron grasp.

“You lie, d—mn you; you lie!” he stammered, through lips grown white and
shaking. “You have no proof—”

“Tut! your face gives you away,” declared Mitchell, pointing to
Armstrong’s convulsed features as the latter cowered back at his
approach. “Let go, Doctor Curtis.”

Slowly Curtis released his hold. “Your pulse betrayed your emotion,
Armstrong, when I announced that I knew there were _two_ wounds on
Meredith’s throat,” he stated. “Believing yourself entirely safe from
suspicion after Mrs. Hull’s confession, the shock was more than your
nerves could stand.”

“It’s a lie—a lie—” Armstrong reiterated through dry lips as his hunted
gaze swept the room. His sudden dash for the library window was blocked
by Detective Sergeant Brown and the uplifted razor was knocked from his
hand. A minute more and he stood staring stupidly at a pair of handcuffs
dangling from his wrists.

“A handy weapon,” exclaimed Brown, picking it up. “So the razor did the
trick as far as Meredith was concerned, eh, Armstrong?”

A snarling curse was Armstrong’s only answer as he collapsed in a chair.

Before Curtis could speak, Anne turned and faced Coroner Penfield.

“I did go to Uncle John’s room late Sunday night,” she said. “Mother had
told me of his plan to have me marry Doctor Curtis.” She avoided looking
at Curtis. “And I went to ask him to reconsider. At first Uncle John was
very bitter and said many harsh things,” she hesitated and colored
painfully as she met her mother’s unfriendly glance. “Years ago when
they first went into business, my father and Uncle John were junior
partners in the firm of ‘Turner and Waterman’ stockbrokers—”

An exclamation from Curtis interrupted her. “The firm failed,” he said,
“and my father, Dan Curtis, who had intrusted his financial affairs to
it, went down in the crash. He committed suicide—”

“So Uncle John told me,” admitted Anne softly. “He said my father as
well as he had never gotten over his tragic death. They tried vainly to
locate your mother and aid her financially, but she—”

“Returned to her parents in Canada,” interjected Curtis. “I was brought
up in the wilds of the far Northwest and taught by the trappers not to
depend upon sight alone, but to use my hearing and my reasoning
faculties to gauge my sense of direction. It has proved invaluable
training for my present condition,” touching his sightless eyes.
“Shortly after my mother’s death I went to McGill Institute and worked
my way through college. The rest of my career you already know.”

“Uncle John learned of your parentage and went at once to Walter Reed
Hospital,” went on Anne. “He took an instant liking to you and invited
you here.” Again Anne’s white cheeks crimsoned. “He hit upon the plan of
our marriage as an act of restitution.”

“Very thoughtful of him,” remarked Mrs. Meredith dryly, feeling that she
had been in the background quite long enough. Her sensations at the
rapid progress of events had been beyond speech. “Continue your story,
Anne.”

“I left Uncle John in anger.” Anne’s voice was slightly husky, the
emotional strain was telling upon her. “But I could not sleep. I felt
that I must tell him that I agreed to his plan.” She bit her lip and
partly turned her back on Curtis. “As I got to his room I met Uncle John
and his ghastly appearance horrified me. Staggering past me, he thrust a
key into my hand, saying in a whisper: ‘Keep this, Anne.’ But in
pronouncing my name his voice rose, as he added: ‘I’ve caught you, you
devil.’ Ruffles, the parrot, took up his cry as Uncle John disappeared
up the dimly lighted corridor. Completely dazed by the situation, I
hesitated, then started to follow him, when a handkerchief was thrust
under my nose and I was carried into Uncle John’s bedroom—”

“By Gerald Armstrong,” stated Curtis. He turned in the direction of the
silent figure hunched in a chair. “Why did you use Anne’s handkerchief
to chloroform her?”

Armstrong stirred and glanced up in sullen rage. His evident intention
of not answering was changed by Brown’s peremptory tug at the handcuffs.

“The handkerchief, as well as Meredith’s razor, was lying by a bottle of
chloroform on Meredith’s bureau near the window by which I entered,” he
admitted, squirming about in his seat so as to avoid Mrs. Hull’s gaze.
“I thought Anne had seen me in her uncle’s bedroom. As she lost
consciousness I raced down the hall and caught Meredith”—he sucked in
his breath and a shudder shook him—“never mind the details. I got back
to the bedroom—”

“And chloroformed the parrot also?” asked Curtis.

“Yes. I was afraid the infernal bird would awaken the household. I had
overheard Mrs. Hull’s interview with Meredith, having slipped up the
back stairs to my bedroom and from there along the balcony to Meredith’s
open window. I heard him speak of the money in the safe and went in to
get the key of his secret compartment as he staggered into the hall,
evidently in pursuit of Mrs. Hull. It came to me in a flash that if I
took the money Mrs. Hull would be suspected, and, God! how I needed
money!” His voice rose and cracked. “I knew our firm was going to the
wall and with one hundred thousand dollars in cash I could get out of
the country. I searched Meredith’s body”—another shudder shook Armstrong
and he drew his coat sleeve across his forehead to wipe away the beads
of moisture—“then I searched his bedroom. Where did you conceal the key,
Anne?”

“In the cuff of my dressing gown,” answered Anne. “When I regained
consciousness my one idea was to follow Uncle John, and I went down the
corridor and found his body.” She looked at Penfield. “I did catch my
hair in that button, trying to find out if Uncle John was alive. And
later you caught me trying to remove the hair.”

“Why didn’t you take me into your confidence?” asked Penfield, and at
his tone of kindly solicitude Anne’s eyes filled with tears.

“I was afraid,” she admitted. “I realized that you suspected me of
killing Uncle John and I did not know how to clear myself.”

“One more question,” and Penfield closed his notebook. “How did your
fingerprints get on the scalpel?”

“I found the knife under the ferns and laid it back,” she explained. “I
thought that Uncle John had gone out of his mind and killed himself and
concluded he had thrown the knife through the banisters.”

Penfield rose and buttoned his sack coat. “I must congratulate you,
Doctor Curtis, upon your clever handling of this case,” he said. “But
for you Mrs. Hull would be under arrest, charged with a most heinous
crime.”

Curtis could not see Mrs. Hull’s look of passionate gratitude.

“How can I express myself!” she began incoherently. “The mental anguish
I have endured believing that I caused John’s death—Doctor, how can I
thank you?”

“Don’t please!” Curtis begged in embarrassment. “I never suspected you.
But I did think your daughter, Lucille, had been incited to rob Meredith
and was guilty of the greater crime also. I had been told by Meredith
that her engagement to Armstrong was an affair of long standing. He also
told me that there were rumors in the city of the firm of ‘Hull and
Armstrong’ being under financial stress, and that he was morally
certain, although without proof, that it had been Armstrong’s crooked
methods which threatened to swamp Colonel Hull.” Curtis paused and
cleared his throat.

“When you told of having stabbed Meredith,” he continued, “I realized
that such a gash, while it would bleed profusely, was not necessarily
fatal, and my thoughts turned to Armstrong. He could have witnessed the
scene unknown to you.” Curtis paused again. “I knew that he was standing
here by me, and under pretense of keeping my balance, I held my fingers
over his pulse as I tried out my theory.”

“Clever work, Doctor!” declared Inspector Mitchell admiringly. “But what
put you on Miss Lucille Hull’s trail?”

“Gretchen’s statement to me this morning that Lucille was her ‘young
Mees,’ and my recollection of the maid’s behavior at the inquest. Mrs.
Hull’s voice is sometimes similar in intonation to that of her daughter,
which accounts for Gretchen’s mistake in the identity of the woman under
her window,” replied Curtis. “But it was Susanne who gave me a clue to
the whereabouts of Meredith’s carefully concealed safe. I would like to
speak to Susanne.”

“_Monsieur_, I am here.” And Susanne, who had been hovering in the back
of the room, came forward.

“Why were you in Mr. Meredith’s bedroom?” asked Curtis. “And why were
you on your knees?”

“If it please _Monsieur_,” began Susanne, twisting her apron in some
embarrassment as she met Mrs. Meredith’s stern glance, “I heard _Madame_
Meredith talk much to herself about a key and _Monsieur_ John’s wealth
being under lock and key in his room. So, _Monsieur_, I went early this
morning to his old bedroom to look for zat key—to return it to _Madame_”
with calm assurance. “And I search on my knees for eet.”

“I had the key until last night,” admitted Anne.

“When I took it from you—” broke in Curtis.

“You!” But Anne’s exclamation was drowned in a deeper cry from
Armstrong.

“So you beat me to it!” he cried. “I followed Anne’s car, hoping for a
chance to get it from her.”

“You were the masked man?” Light burst upon Anne as Curtis turned his
head questioningly from one to the other.

“Yes. I drove by and parked my car on the left fork of the road when I
saw you had stopped,” explained Armstrong. “I improvised a mask out of
the lining of my coat. I suspected, Curtis, that Anne had given you the
key, and was putting up a game of bluff when she claimed it was missing;
so I used the monkey to see if you were awake before I entered your
bedroom last night. You got a strangle hold on his paw, Curtis, and I
took the only way of getting him free,” with an ugly glance at Jocko,
sitting curled up in comparative comfort in the big armchair.

“Did you have the monkey in my room yesterday, Armstrong?”

“_Non, Monsieur_, it was I,” broke in Susanne. “I had carried him from
_Mademoiselle_ Anne’s bedroom. Jocko does not like ze parrot. He escape
me down the corridor and run in your room. Before I get him he soil your
counterpane and later I change it.” Leonard McLane, who had entered the
library unobserved some moments before, smiled involuntarily.

“So much for that mystery,” he exclaimed. “What about the white hairs
around the button on Meredith’s jacket, Curtis?”

“I saw Fernando an hour ago,” answered the blind surgeon. “He confessed
that he had lied as to their color and stole them from my wallet,
thinking to protect Anne. He admitted that you, Armstrong, cut the
string from my door knob and intimidated him into lying about it.
Fernando is not a courageous soul! He overheard your conversation with
Jim Nolan, the notorious confidence man, alias Frank Elliott.”

Armstrong rose with such abruptness that he overturned his chair.

“I’m going,” he announced.

“With me,” and Detective Sergeant Brown was by his side, revolver in
hand. Armstrong blanched and bit his lip. With shoulders sagging and
head bent he accompanied Inspector Mitchell and Brown from the library.
Escorted by the two men and Coroner Penfield, he slunk through the
reception hall and out of the house, Susanne and Damason, their
curiosity still unsatisfied, in their wake. Mrs. Hull, at a whispered
word from McLane, also hurried from the room.

Curtis turned and took several restless steps up and down. He still had
a most unpleasant duty to perform.

“Mrs. Meredith,” he began, pausing near her, “did you turn out the light
in the corridor on Sunday night just after I discovered John Meredith’s
dead body?”

“I did,” answered Anne, before her mother could reply. “I had some
insane notion, after I found poor Uncle John, that I must slip back to
my bedroom unseen, so I turned off the light. I met mother just at the
entrance of our boudoir.”

“Wait, Anne, I have a confession to make.” Nothing could be more suave
and apparently tranquil than Mrs. Meredith’s voice and manner. It had
just occurred to her astute mind that the blind surgeon might be a
person to propitiate. She saw Anne’s face of distress, Curtis’ slight,
cynical smile, and met Leonard McLane’s questioning glance with supreme
audacity. “I saw Doctor Curtis and Sam leave John’s bedroom and rush
down the corridor. Much surprised by their conduct, I entered my
brother-in-law’s bedroom. On the bed I saw several papers. I took the
prenuptial agreement, Anne, that I might safeguard your interests—”

Anne turned deadly white. “Mother!”

“It is safely put away,” she went on, paying not the slightest attention
to Anne. “When it is required I will produce it.”

“And the codicil to Meredith’s will,” stated Curtis swiftly. “You have
that also—denial is useless,” as she attempted to speak. “Both documents
must be given to Hollister to-day, madam. If you wish I will hand them
to him with the one hundred thousand dollars in cash, the inference
being that they were placed in the safe by Meredith.”

“Very well, I will give them to you, on condition—”

“No conditions, madam,” with stern emphasis. “I have no intention of
pressing the subject further. So far as you are concerned, it will never
be mentioned by me.”

“Nor by me,” was the audacious retort, as Mrs. Meredith swept by Curtis
and left the room.

McLane broke the ensuing pause by walking over to the chair and lifting
Jocko in his arms. “I’ll take care of this little fellow, Anne,” he
said. “Lucille is resting quietly in her room with her mother and
Gretchen is looking after her. Colonel Hull’s injury in his motor
accident last night comprised a broken arm and a collar bone. I’ll see
you both later,” and he discreetly vanished.

Curtis fumbled with his cane in unhappy silence. He had solved the
problem surrounding John Meredith’s mysterious death, but like many
another gratified desire it brought a bitter pang to his heart. He was
in honor bound to release Anne from her promise to marry him. But how
could he leave with his passionate love for her untold? Love had made no
count of the hours of their short acquaintance. Anne had crept into his
heart to be enshrined forever. Was it obligatory that he leave her in
silence? The minutes lengthened as pride warred fiercely with love.

“Anne,” he stopped suddenly before where she sat, watching him with deep
attention, “I cannot in honor hold you to your promise. Your uncle’s
plan that we marry as an act of restitution was unjust to you. I honor
you highly, I esteem your friendship—” He kept his voice calm by an
effort of will. “Without a career, I feel that I have no right to ask
you to share your life with me. I am not worthy—”

Worthy? Could mortal man be so blind? Was this calm, kindly friendship
to be all that he could offer her starving heart? Her lonely childhood,
her mother’s cruel neglect had reached their culmination. Was this man,
who had protected her in her hour of need, who had won her heart by his
chivalry and courage in the face of adversity, to pass out of her life?
She raised her eyes, and had Curtis been able to read their longing
appeal, his stubborn pride would have yielded.

Anne rose slowly to her feet and rested both hands upon his shoulders.

“Dave,” she whispered, with lips that trembled even as she smiled, “I
can’t release you from your promise, because—” she faltered, “because—”

He was holding her in close embrace. At last barriers of false pride
were set aside.

“My dear, dear Anne,” he stammered. “Tell me, sweetheart, because—”

“I love you,” and Anne, glancing shyly upward into his transfigured
face, knew that she had reached her happy haven at last.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Meredith Mystery" ***

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