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Initials Only

by Anna Katharine Green

CONTENTS

BOOK I

AS SEEN BY TWO STRANGERS

I POINSETTIAS

II "I KNOW THE MAN"

III THE MAN

IV SWEET LITTLE MISS CLARKE

V THE RED CLOAK

VI INTEGRITY

VII THE LETTERS

VIII STRANGE DOINGS FOR GEORGE

IX THE INCIDENT OF THE PARTLY LIFTED SHADE

BOOK II

AS SEEN BY DETECTIVE SWEETWATER

X A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION

XI ALIKE IN ESSENTIALS

XII Mr. GRYCE FINDS AN ANTIDOTE FOR OLD AGE

XIII TIME, CIRCUMSTANCE, AND A VILLAIN'S HEART

XIV A CONCESSION

XV THAT'S THE QUESTION

XVI OPPOSED

XVII IN WHICH A BOOK PLAYS LEADING PART

XVIII WHAT AM I TO DO NOW?

XIX THE DANGER MOMENT

XX CONFUSION

XXI A CHANGE

XXII O. B. AGAIN

BOOK III

THE HEART OF MAN

XXIII DORIS

XXIV SUSPENSE

XXV THE OVAL HUT

XXVI SWEETWATER RETURNS

XXVII THE IMAGE OF DREAD

XXVIII I HOPE NEVER TO SEE THAT MAN

XXIX DO YOU KNOW MY BROTHER?

XXX CHAOS

XXXI WHAT IS HE MAKING?

XXXII TELL ME, TELL IT ALL

XXXIII ALONE!

XXXIV THE HUT CHANGES ITS NAME

XXXV SILENCE - AND A KNOCK

XXXVI THE MAN WITHIN AND THE MAN WITHOUT

XXXVII HIS GREAT HOUR

XXXVIII NIGHT

XXXIX THE AVENGER

XL DESOLATE

XLI FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING

XLII AT SIX

BOOK I

AS SEEN BY TWO STRANGERS

I

"A remarkable man!"

It was not my husband speaking, but some passerby. However, I

looked up at George with a smile, and found him looking down at me

with much the same humour. We had often spoken of the odd phrases

one hears in the street, and how interesting it would be sometimes

to hear a little more of the conversation.

"That's a case in point," he laughed, as he guided me through the

crowd of theatre-goers which invariably block this part of Broadway

at the hour of eight. "We shall never know whose eulogy we have

just heard. 'A remarkable man!' There are not many of them."

"No," was my somewhat indifferent reply. It was a keen winter night

and snow was packed upon the walks in a way to throw into sharp

relief the figures of such pedestrians as happened to be walking

alone. "But it seems to me that, so far as general appearance goes,

the one in front answers your description most admirably."

I pointed to a man hurrying around the corner just ahead of us.

"Yes, he's remarkably well built. I noticed him when he came out

of the Clermont." This was a hotel we had just passed.

"But it's not only that. It's his height, his very striking

features, his expression -" I stopped suddenly, gripping George's

arm convulsively in a surprise he appeared to share. We had turned

the corner immediately behind the man of whom we were speaking and

so had him still in full view.

"What's he doing?" I asked, in a low whisper. We were only a few

feet behind. "Look! look! don't you call that curious?"

My husband stared, then uttered a low, "Rather." The man ahead of

us, presenting in every respect the appearance of a gentleman, had

suddenly stooped to the kerb and was washing his hands in the snow,

furtively, but with a vigour and purpose which could not fail to

arouse the strangest conjectures in any chance onlooker.

"Pilate!" escaped my lips, in a sort of nervous chuckle. But

George shook his head at me.

"I don't like it," he muttered, with unusual gravity." Did you

see his face?" Then as the man rose and hurried away from us down

the street, "I should like to follow him. I do believe -"

But here we became aware of a quick rush and sudden clamour around

the corner we had just left, and turning quickly, saw that something

had occurred on Broadway which was fast causing a tumult.

"What's the matter?" I cried. "What can have happened? Let's go

see, George. Perhaps it has something to do with our man.

My husband, with a final glance down the street at the fast

disappearing figure, yielded to my importunity, and possibly to

some new curiosity of his own.

"I'd like to stop that man first," said he. "But what excuse have

I? He may be nothing but a crank, with some crack-brained idea in

his head. We'll soon know; for there's certainly something wrong

there on Broadway."

"He came out of the Clermont," I suggested.

"I know. If the excitement isn't there, what we've just seen is

simply a coincidence." Then, as we retraced our steps to the corner

"Whatever we hear or see, don't say anything about this man. It's

after eight, remember, and we promised Adela that we would be at the

house before nine."

"I'll be quiet."

"Remember."

It was the last word he had time to speak before we found ourselves

in the midst of a crowd of men and women, jostling one another in

curiosity or in the consternation following a quick alarm. All were

looking one way, and, as this was towards the entrance of the

Clermont, it was evident enough to us that the alarm had indeed had

its origin in the very place we had anticipated. I felt my husband's

arm press me closer to his side as we worked our way towards the

entrance, and presently caught a warning sound from his lips as the

oaths and confused cries everywhere surrounding us were broken here

and there by articulate words and we heard:

"Is it murder?"

"The beautiful Miss Challoner!"

"A millionairess in her own right!"

"Killed, they say."

"No, no! suddenly dead; that's all."

"George, what shall we do?" I managed to cry into my husband's ear.

"Get out of this. There is no chance of our reaching that door,

and I can't have you standing round any longer in this icy slush."

"But - but is it right?" I urged, in an importunate whisper.

"Should we go home while he -"

"Hush! My first duty is to you. We will go make our visit; but

to-morrow -"

"I can't wait till to-morrow," I pleaded, wild to satisfy my

curiosity in regard to an event in which I naturally felt a keen

personal interest.

He drew me as near to the edge of the crowd as he could. There

were new murmurs all about us.

"If it's a case of heart-failure, why send for the police?" asked

one.

"It is better to have an officer or two here," grumbled another.

"Here comes a cop."

"Well, I'm going to vamoose."

"I'll tell you what I'll do," whispered George, who, for all his

bluster was as curious as myself. "We will try the rear door where

there are fewer persons. Possibly we can make our way in there,

and if we can, Slater will tell us all we want to know."

Slater was the assistant manager of the Clermont, and one of

George's oldest friends.

"Then hurry," said I. "I am being crushed here."

George did hurry, and in a few minutes we were before the rear

entrance of the great hotel. There was a mob gathered here also,

but it was neither so large nor so rough as the one on Broadway.

Yet I doubt if we should have been able to work our way through it

if Slater had not, at that very instant, shown himself in the

doorway, in company with an officer to whom he was giving some

final instructions. George caught his eye as soon as he was through

with the man, and ventured on what I thought a rather uncalled for

plea.

"Let us in, Slater," he begged." My wife feels a little faint; she

has been knocked about so by the crowd."

The manager glanced at my face, and shouted to the people around

us to make room. I felt myself lifted up, and that is all I remember

of this part of our adventure. For, affected more than I realised

by the excitement of the event, I no sooner saw the way cleared for

our entrance than I made good my husband's words by fainting away

in earnest.

When I came to, it was suddenly and with perfect recognition of my

surroundings. The small reception room to which I had been taken

was one I had often visited, and its familiar features did not hold

my attention for a moment. What I did see and welcome was my

husband's face bending close over me, and to him I spoke first. My

words must have sounded oddly to those about. "Have they told you

anything about it?" I asked. "Did he -"

A quick pressure on my arm silenced me, and then I noticed that we

were not alone. Two or three ladies stood near, watching me, and

one had evidently been using some restorative, for she held a

small vinaigrette in her hand. To this lady, George made haste to

introduce me, and from her I presently learned the cause of the

disturbance in the hotel.

It was of a somewhat different nature from what I expected, and

during the recital, I could not prevent myself from casting furtive

and inquiring glances at George.

Edith, the well-known daughter of Moses Challoner, had fallen

suddenly dead on the floor of the mezzanine. She was not known to

have been in poor health, still less in danger of a fatal attack,

and the shock was consequently great to her friends, several of

whom were in the building. Indeed, it was likely to prove a shock

to the whole community, for she had great claims to general

admiration, and her death must be regarded as a calamity to persons

in all stations of life.

I realised this myself, for I had heard much of the young lady's

private virtues, as well as of her great beauty and distinguished

manner. A heavy loss, indeed, but -

"Was she alone when she fell?" I asked.

"Virtually alone. Some persons sat on the other side of the room,

reading at the big round table. They did not even hear her fall.

They say that the band was playing unusually loud in the musicians'

gallery."

"Are you feeling quite well, now?"

"Quite myself," I gratefully replied as I rose slowly from the

sofa. Then, as my kind informer stepped aside, I turned to George

with the proposal we should go now.

He seemed as anxious as myself to leave and together we moved towards

the door, while the hum of excited comment which the intrusion of a

fainting woman had undoubtedly interrupted, recommenced behind us

till the whole room buzzed.

In the hall we encountered Mr. Slater, whom I have before mentioned.

He was trying to maintain order while himself in a state of great

agitation. Seeing us, he could not refrain from whispering a few

words into my husband's ear.

"The doctor has just gone up - her doctor, I mean. He's simply

dumbfounded. Says that she was the healthiest woman in New York

yesterday - I think - don't mention it, that he suspects something

quite different from heart failure."

"What do you mean?" asked George, following the assistant manager

down the broad flight of steps leading to the office. Then, as I

pressed up close to Mr. Slater's other side, "She was by herself,

wasn't she, in the half floor above?"

"Yes, and had been writing a letter. She fell with it still in her

hand."

"Have they carried her to her room?" I eagerly inquired, glancing

fearfully up at the large semi-circular openings overlooking us from

the place where she had fallen.

"Not yet. Mr. Hammond insists upon waiting for the coroner." (Mr.

Hammond was the proprietor of the hotel.) "She is lying on one of

the big couches near which she fell. If you like, I can give you a

glimpse of her. She looks beautiful. It's terrible to think that

she is dead."

I don't know why we consented. We were under a spell, I think. At

all events, we accepted his offer and followed him up a narrow

staircase open to very few that night. At the top, he turned upon

us with a warning gesture which I hardly think we needed, and led

us down a narrow hall flanked by openings corresponding to those we

had noted from below. At the furthest one he paused and, beckoning

us to his side, pointed across the lobby into the large writing-room

which occupied the better part of the mezzanine floor.

We saw people standing in various attitudes of grief and dismay

about a couch, one end of which only was visible to us at the

moment. The doctor had just joined them, and every head was turned

towards him and every body bent forward in anxious expectation. I

remember the face of one grey haired old man. I shall never forget

it. He was probably her father. Later, I knew him to be so. Her

face, even her form, was entirely hidden from us, but as we watched

(I have often thought with what heartless curiosity) a sudden

movement took place in the whole group - and for one instant a

startling picture presented itself to our gaze. Miss Challoner

was stretched out upon the couch. She was dressed as she came from

dinner, in a gown of ivory-tinted satin, relieved at the breast by

a large bouquet of scarlet poinsettias. I mention this adornment,

because it was what first met and drew our eyes and the eyes of

every one about her, though the face, now quite revealed, would

seem to have the greater attraction. But the cause was evident and

one not to be resisted. The doctor was pointing at these poinsettias

in horror and with awful meaning, and though we could not hear his

words, we knew almost instinctively, both from his attitude and the

cries which burst from the lips of those about him, that something

more than broken petals and disordered laces had met his eyes; that

blood was there - slowly oozing drops from the heart - which for

some reason had escaped all eyes till now.

Miss Challoner was dead, not from unsuspected disease, but from the

violent attack of some murderous weapon; As the realisation of this

brought fresh panic and bowed the old father's head with emotions

even more bitter than those of grief, I turned a questioning look

up at George's face.

It was fixed with a purpose I had no trouble in understanding.

II

"I KNOW THE MAN

Yet he made no effort to detain Mr. Slater, when that gentleman,

under this renewed excitement, hastily left us. He was not the man

to rush into anything impulsively, and not even the presence of

murder could change his ways.

"I want to feel sure of myself," he explained. "Can you bear the

strain of waiting around a little longer, Laura? I mustn't forget

that you fainted just now."

"Yes, I can bear it; much better than I could bear going to Adela's

in my present state of mind. Don't you think the man we saw had

something to do with this? Don't you believe -"

"Hush! Let us listen rather than talk. What are they saying over

there? Can you hear?"

"No. And I cannot bear to look. Yet I don't want to go away. It's

all so dreadful."

"It's devilish. Such a beautiful girl! Laura, I must leave you

for a moment. Do you mind?"

"No, no; yet -"

I did mind; but he was gone before I could take back my word. Alone,

I felt the tragedy much more than when he was with me. Instead of

watching, as I had hitherto done, every movement in the room opposite,

I drew back against the wall and hid my eyes, waiting feverishly for

George's return.

He came, when he did come, in some haste and with certain marks of

increased agitation.

"Laura," said he, "Slater says that we may possibly be wanted and

proposes that we stay here all night. I have telephoned Adela and

have made it all right at home. Will you come to your room? This

is no place for you.''

Nothing could have pleased me better; to be near and yet not the

direct observer of proceedings in which we took so secret an

interest! I showed my gratitude by following George immediately.

But I could not go without casting another glance at the tragic

scene I was leaving. A stir was perceptible there, and I was just

in time to see its cause. A tall, angular gentleman was approaching

from the direction of the musicians' gallery, and from the manner

of all present, as well as from the whispered comment of my husband,

I recognised in him the special official for whom all had been

waiting.

"Are you going to tell him?" was my question to George as we made

our way down to the lobby.

"That depends. First, I am going to see you settled in a room quite

remote from this business."

"I shall not like that."

"I know, my dear, but it is best."

I could not gainsay this.

Nevertheless, after the first few minutes of relief, I found it

very lonesome upstairs. The pictures which crowded upon me of the

various groups of excited and wildly gesticulating men and women

through which we had passed on our way up, mingled themselves with

the solemn horror of the scene in the writing-room, with its

fleeting vision of youth and beauty lying pulseless in sudden death.

I could not escape the one without feeling the immediate impress of

the other, and if by chance they both yielded for an instant to

that earlier scene of a desolate Street, with its solitary lamp

shining down on the crouched figure of a man washing his shaking

hands in a drift of freshly fallen snow, they immediately rushed

back with a force and clearness all the greater for the momentary

lapse.

I was still struggling with these fancies when the door opened, and

George came in. There was news in his face as I rushed to meet him.

"Tell me - tell," I begged.

He tried to smile at my eagerness, but the attempt was ghastly.

"I've been listening and looking," said he, "and this is all I

have learned. Miss Challoner died, not from a stroke or from

disease of any kind, but from a wound reaching the heart. No one

saw the attack, or even the approach or departure of the person

inflicting this wound. If she was killed by a pistol-shot, it was

at a distance, and almost over the heads of the persons sitting at

the table we saw there. But the doctors shake their heads at the

word pistol-shot, though they refuse to explain themselves or to

express any opinion till the wound has been probed. This they are

going to do at once, and when that question is decided, I may feel

it my duty to speak and may ask you to support my story."

"I will tell what I saw," said I.

"Very good. That is all that will be required. We are strangers

to the parties concerned, and only speak from a sense of justice.

It may be that our story will make no impression, and that we shall

be dismissed with but few thanks. But that is nothing to us. If

the woman has been murdered, he is the murderer. With such a

conviction in my mind, there can be no doubt as to my duty."

"We can never make them understand how he looked."

"No. I don't expect to."

"Or his manner as he fled."

"Nor that either."

"We can only describe what we saw him do."

That's all."

"Oh, what an adventure for quiet people like us! George, I don't

believe he shot her."

"He must have."

"But they would have seen - have heard - the people around, I mean."

"So they say; but I have a theory - but no matter about that now.

I'm going down again to see how things have progressed. I'll be

back for you later. Only be ready."

Be ready! I almost laughed,- a hysterical laugh, of course, when I

recalled the injunction. Be ready! This lonely sitting by myself,

with nothing to do but think was a fine preparation for a sudden

appearance before those men - some of them police-officers, no doubt.

But that's enough about myself; I'm not the heroine of this story.

In a half hour or an hour - I never knew which - George reappeared

only to tell me that no conclusions had as yet been reached; an

element of great mystery involved the whole affair, and the most

astute detectives on the force had been sent for. Her father, who

had been her constant companion all winter, had not the least

suggestion to offer in way of its solution. So far as he knew - and

he believed himself to have been in perfect accord with his daughter

• she had injured no one. She had just lived the even, happy and

useful life of a young woman of means, who sees duties beyond those

of her own household and immediate surroundings. If, in the

fulfillment of those duties, she had encountered any obstacle to

content, he did not know it; nor could he mention a friend of hers

• he would even say lovers, since that was what he meant - who to

his knowledge could be accused of harbouring any such passion of

revenge as was manifested in this secret and diabolical attack.

They were all gentlemen and respected her as heartily as they

appeared to admire her. To no living being, man or woman, could he

point as possessing any motive for such a deed. She had been the

victim of some mistake, his lovely and ever kindly disposed

daughter, and while the loss was irreparable he would never make it

unendurable by thinking otherwise.

Such was the father's way of looking at the matter, and I own that

it made our duty a trifle hard. But George's mind, when once made

up, was persistent to the point of obstinacy, and while he was yet

talking he led me out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.

"Mr. Slater knows we have something to say, and will manage the

interview before us in the very best manner," he confided to me

now with an encouraging air. "We are to go to the blue reception

room on the parlour floor."

I nodded, and nothing more was said till we entered the place

mentioned. Here we came upon several gentlemen, standing about, of

a more or less professional appearance. This was not very agreeable

to one of my retiring disposition, but a look from George brought

back my courage, and I found myself waiting rather anxiously for the

questions I expected to hear put.

Mr. Slater was there according to his promise, and after introducing

us, briefly stated that we had some evidence to give regarding the

terrible occurrence which had just taken place in the house.

George bowed, and the chief spokesman - I am sure he was a

police-officer of some kind - asked him to tell what it was.

George drew himself up - George is not one of your tall men, but he

makes a very good appearance at times. Then he seemed suddenly to

collapse. The sight of their expectation made him feel how flat and

childish his story would sound. I, who had shared his adventure,

understood his embarrassment, but the others were evidently at a

loss to do so, for they glanced askance at each other as he

hesitated, and only looked back when I ventured to say:

"It's the peculiarity of the occurrence which affects my husband.

The thing we saw may mean nothing."

"Let us hear what it was and we will judge."

Then my husband spoke up, and related our little experience. If it

did not create a sensation, it was because these men were well

accustomed to surprises of all kinds.

"Washed his hands - a gentleman - out there in the snow - just

after the alarm was raised here?" repeated one.

"And you saw him come out of this house?" another put in.

"Yes, sir; we noticed him particularly.

"Can you describe him?"

It was Mr. Slater who put this question; he had less control over

himself, and considerable eagerness could be heard in his voice.

"He was a very fine-looking man; unusually tall and unusually

striking both in his dress and appearance. What I could see of

his face was bare of beard, and very expressive. He walked with

the swing of an athlete, and only looked mean and small when he

was stooping and dabbling in the snow."

His clothes. Describe his clothes." There was an odd sound in

Mr. Slater's voice.

"He wore a silk hat and there was fur on his overcoat. I think

the fur was black."

Mr. Slater stepped back, then moved forward again with a determined

air.

"I know the man," said he.

III

THE MAN

"You know the man?"

"I do; or rather, I know a man who answers to this description. He

comes here once in a while. I do not know whether or not he was in

the building to-night, but Clausen can tell you; no one escapes

Clausen's eye."

"His name."

"Brotherson. A very uncommon person in many respects; quite capable

of such an eccentricity, but incapable, I should say, of crime. He's

a gifted talker and so well read that he can hold one's attention for

hours. Of his tastes, I can only say that they appear to be mainly

scientific. But he is not averse to society, and is always very well

dressed."

"A taste for science and for fine clothing do not often go together."

"This man is an exception to all rules. The one I'm speaking of, I

mean. I don't say that he's the fellow seen pottering in the snow."

"Call up Clausen."

The manager stepped to the telephone.

Meanwhile, George had advanced to speak to a man who had beckoned

to him from the other side of the room, and with whom in another

moment I saw him step out. Thus deserted, I sank into a chair near

one of the windows. Never had I felt more uncomfortable. To

attribute guilt to a totally unknown person - a person who is little

more to you than a shadowy silhouette against a background of snow

• is easy enough and not very disturbing to the conscience. But

to hear that person named; given positive attributes; lifted from

the indefinite into a living, breathing actuality, with a man's

hopes, purposes and responsibilities, is an entirely different

proposition. This Brotherson might be the most innocent person

alive; and, if so, what had we done? Nothing to congratulate

ourselves upon, certainly. And George was not present to comfort

and encourage me. He was -

Where was he? The man who had carried him off was the youngest in

the group. What had he wanted of George? Those who remained

showed no interest in the matter. They had enough to say among

themselves. But I was interested - naturally so, and, in my

uneasiness, glanced restlessly from the window, the shade of which

was up. The outlook was a very peaceful one. This room faced

a side street, and, as my eyes fell upon the whitened pavements, I

received an answer to one, and that the most anxious, of my queries.

This was the street into which we had turned, in the wake of the

handsome stranger they were trying at this very moment to identify

with Brotherson. George had evidently been asked to point out the

exact spot where the man had stopped, for I could see from my

vantage point two figures bending near the kerb, and even pawing

at the snow which lay there. It gave me a slight turn when one of

them - I do not think it was George - began to rub his hands

together in much the way the unknown gentleman had done, and, in

my excitement, I probably uttered some sort of an ejaculation, for

I was suddenly conscious of a silence in the room, and when I

turned saw all the men about me looking my way.

I attempted to smile, but instead, shuddered painfully, as I

raised my hand and pointed down at the street.

"They are imitating the man," I cried; "my husband and - and the

person he went out with. It looked dreadful to me; that is all."

One of the gentlemen immediately said some kind words to me, and

another smiled in a very encouraging way. But their attention

was soon diverted, and so was mine by the entrance of a man in

semi-uniform, who was immediately addressed as Clausen.

I knew his face. He was one of the doorkeepers; the oldest employee

about the hotel, and the one best liked. I had often exchanged

words with him myself.

Mr. Slater at once put his question:

"Has Mr. Brotherson passed your door at any time to-night?

"Mr. Brotherson! I don't remember, really I don't," was the

unexpected reply. "It's not often I forget. But so many people

came rushing in during those few minutes, and all so excited -"

"Before the excitement, Clausen. A little while before, possibly

just before."

"Oh, now I recall him! Yes, Mr. Brotherson went out of my door

not many minutes before the cry upstairs. I forgot because I had

stepped back from the door to hand a lady the muff she had dropped,

and it was at that minute he went out. I just got a glimpse of his

back as he passed into the street."

"But you are sure of that back?"

"I don't know another like it, when he wears that big coat of his.

But Jim can tell you, sir. He was in the caf‚ up to that minute,

and that's where Mr. Brotherson usually goes first."

"Very well; send up Jim. Tell him I have some orders to give him."

The old man bowed and went out.

Meanwhile, Mr. Slater had exchanged some words with the two

officials, and now approached me with an expression of extreme

consideration. They were about to excuse me from further

participation in this informal inquiry. This I saw before he

spoke. Of course they were right. But I should greatly have

preferred to stay where I was till George came back.

However, I met him for an instant in the hall before I took the

elevator, and later I heard in a round-about way what Jim and

some others about the house had to say of Mr. Brotherson.

He was an habitue of the hotel, to the extent of dining once or

twice a week in the caf‚, and smoking, afterwards, in the public

lobby. When he was in the mood for talk, he would draw an

ever-enlarging group about him, but at other times he would be

seen sitting quite alone and morosely indifferent to all who

approached him. There was no mystery about his business. He was

an inventor, with one or two valuable patents already on the market.

But this was not his only interest. He was an all round sort of

man, moody but brilliant in many ways - a character which at once

attracted and repelled, odd in that he seemed to set little store

by his good looks, yet was most careful to dress himself in a way

to show them off to advantage. If he had means beyond the ordinary

no one knew it, nor could any man say that he had not. On all

personal matters he was very close-mouthed, though he would talk

about other men's riches in a way to show that he cherished some

very extreme views.

This was all which could be learned about him off-hand, and at so

late an hour. I was greatly interested, of course, and had plenty

to think of till I saw George again and learned the result of the

latest investigations.

Miss Challoner had been shot, not stabbed. No other deduction was

possible from such facts as were now known, though the physicians

had not yet handed in their report, or even intimated what that

report would be. No assailant could have approached or left her,

without attracting the notice of some one, if not all of the

persons seated at a table in the same room. She could only have

been reached by a bullet sent from a point near the head of a small

winding staircase connecting the mezzanine floor with a coat-room

adjacent to the front door. This has already been insisted on, as

you will remember, and if you will glance at the diagram which

George hastily scrawled for me, you will see why.

1. B., as well as C. D., are half circular openings into the office

lobby. E. F. are windows giving upon Broadway, and G. the party

wall, necessarily unbroken by window, door or any other opening.

_____________________G.______

| ===desk |

| |

| Where Miss C Fell-x o

| A o

| o

E o

| _____ |

| |_____|table |

| o

| o

| B o

| o

| ________ H ________ |

| *** | |

| ** ** |elevator |

| ** staircase

| ** ** X. |_________|_____C_________D____

| ***

F Musician's Gallery

|____ ______________ ________________ ______

|

| Dining Room Level With Lobby

It follows then that the only possible means of approach to this

room lies through the archway H., or from the elevator door. But

the elevator made no stop at the mezzanine on or near the time of

the attack upon Miss Challoner; nor did any one leave the table

or pass by it in either direction till after the alarm given by

her fall.

But a bullet calls for no approach. A man at X. might raise and

fire his pistol without attracting any attention to himself. The

music, which all acknowledge was at its full climax at this moment,

would drown the noise of the explosion, and the staircase, out of

view of all but the victim, afford the same means of immediate

escape, which it must have given of secret and unseen approach.

The coat-room into which it descended communicated with the lobby

very near the main entrance, and if Mr. Brotherson were the man,

his sudden appearance there would thus be accounted for.

To be sure, this gentleman had not been noticed in the coatroom by

the man then in charge, but if the latter had been engaged at that

instant, as he often was, in hanging up or taking down a coat from

the rack, a person might easily pass by him and disappear into the

lobby without attracting his attention. So many people passed that

way from the dining-room beyond, and so many of these were tall,

fine-looking and well-dressed.

It began to look bad for this man, if indeed he were the one we had

seen under the street-lamp; and, as George and I reviewed the

situation, we felt our position to be serious enough for us severally

to set down our impressions of this man before we lost our first

vivid idea. I do not know what George wrote, for he sealed his words

up as soon as he had finished writing, but this is what I put on paper

while my memory was still fresh and my excitement unabated:

He had the look of a man of powerful intellect and determined will,

who shudders while he triumphs; who outwardly washes his hands of

a deed over which he inwardly gloats. This was when he first rose

from the snow. Afterwards he had a moment of fear; plain, human,

everyday fear. But this was evanescent. Before he had turned to

go, he showed the self-possession of one who feels himself so

secure, or is so well-satisfied with himself, that he is no longer

conscious of other emotions.

"Poor fellow," I commented aloud, as I folded up these words; "he

reckoned without you, George. By to-morrow he will be in the hands

of the police."

"Poor fellow?" he repeated. "Better say 'Poor Miss Challoner!'

They tell me she was one of those perfect women who reconcile even

the pessimist to humanity and the age we live in. Why any one

should want to kill her is a mystery; but why this man should

• There! no one professes to explain it. They simply go by the

facts. To-morrow surely must bring strange revelations."

And with this sentence ringing in my mind, I lay down and endeavoured

to sleep. But it was not till very late that rest came. The noise

of passing feet, though muffled beyond their wont, roused me in spite

of myself. These footsteps might be those of some late arrival, or

they might be those of some wary detective intent on business far

removed from the usual routine of life in this great hotel.

I recalled the glimpse I had had of the writing-room in the early

evening, and imagined it as it was with Miss Challoner's body

removed and the incongruous flitting of strange and busy figures

across its fatal floors, measuring distances and peering into

corners, while hundreds slept above and about them in undisturbed

repose.

Then I thought of him, the suspected and possibly guilty one. In

visions over which I had little if any control, I saw him in all

the restlessness of a slowly dying down excitement - the

surroundings strange and unknown to me, the figure not - seeking

for quiet; facing the past; facing the future; knowing, perhaps,

for the first time in his life what it was for crime and remorse to

murder sleep. I could not think of him as lying still - slumbering

like the rest of mankind, in the hope and expectation of a busy

morrow. Crime perpetrated looms so large in the soul, and this man

had a soul as big as his body; of that I was assured. That its

instincts were cruel and inherently evil, did not lessen its capacity

for suffering. And he was suffering now; I could not doubt it,

remembering the lovely face and fragrant memory of the noble woman

he had, under some unknown impulse, sent to an unmerited doom.

At last I slept, but it was only to rouse again with the same quick

realisation of my surroundings, which I had experienced on my

recovery from my fainting fit of hours before. Someone had stopped

at our door before hurrying by down the hall. Who was that someone?

I rose on my elbow, and endeavoured to peer through the dark. Of

course, I could see nothing. But when I woke a second time, there

was enough light in the room, early as it undoubtedly was, for me

to detect a letter lying on the carpet just inside the door.

Instantly I was on my feet. Catching the letter up, I carried it

to the window. Our two names were on it - Mr. and Mrs. George

Anderson: the writing, Mr. Slater's.

I glanced over at George. He was sleeping peacefully. It was too

early to wake him, but I could not lay that letter down unread; was

not my name on it? Tearing it open, I devoured its contents, - the

exclamation I made on reading it, waking George.

The writing was in Mr. Slater's hand, and the words were:

"I must request, at the instance of Coroner Heath and such of

the police as listened to your adventure, that you make no

further mention of what you saw in the street under our windows

last night. The doctors find no bullet in the wound. This

clears Mr. Brotherson."

V

SWEET LITTLE MISS CLARKE

When we took our seats at the breakfast-table, it was with the

feeling of being no longer looked upon as connected in any way with

this case. Yet our interest in it was, if anything, increased, and

when I saw George casting furtive glances at a certain table behind

me, I leaned over and asked him the reason, being sure that the

people whose faces I saw reflected in the mirror directly before us

had something to do with the great matter then engrossing us. His

answer conveyed the somewhat exciting information that the four

persons seated in my rear were the same four who had been reading

at the round table in the mezzanine at the time of Miss Challoner's

death.

Instantly they absorbed all my attention, though I dared not give

them a direct look, and continued to observe them only in the glass.

"Is it one family?" I asked.

"Yes, and a very respectable one. Transients, of course, but very

well known in Denver. The lady is not the mother of the boys, but

their aunt. The boys belong to the gentleman, who is a widower."

"Their word ought to be good."

George nodded.

"The boys look wide-awake enough if the father does not. As for

the aunt, she is sweetness itself. Do they still insist that Miss

Challoner was the only person in the room with them at this time?"

"They did last night. I don't know how they will meet this

statement of the doctor's."

"George?"

He leaned nearer.

"Have you ever thought that she might have been a suicide? That

she stabbed herself?

"No, for in that case a weapon would have been found."

"And are you sure that none was?"

"Positive. Such a fact could not have been kept quiet. If a weapon

had been picked up there would be no mystery, and no necessity for

further police investigation."

"And the detectives are still here?

"I just saw one."

"George?"

Again his head came nearer.

"Have they searched the lobby? I believe she had a weapon."

"Laura!

"I know it sounds foolish, but the alternative is so improbable. A

family like that cannot be leagued together in a conspiracy to hide

the truth concerning a matter so serious. To be sure, they may all

be short-sighted, or so little given to observation that they didn't

see what passed before their eyes. The boys look wide-awake enough,

but who can tell? I would sooner believe that -"

I stopped short so suddenly that George looked startled. My

attention had been caught by something new I saw in the mirror upon

which my attention was fixed. A man was looking in from the corridor

behind, at the four persons we were just discussing. He was watching

them intently, and I thought I knew his face.

"What kind of a looking person was the man who took you outside last

night?" I inquired of George, with my eyes still on this furtive

watcher.

"A fellow to make you laugh. A perfect character, Laura; hideously

homely but agreeable enough. I took quite a fancy to him. Why?"

"I am looking at him now."

"Very likely. He's deep in this affair. Just an everyday detective,

but ambitious, I suppose, and quite alive to the importance of being

thorough."

"He is watching those people. No, he isn't. How quickly he

disappeared!"

"Yes, he's mercurial in all his movements. Laura, we must get out

of this. There happens to be something else in the world for me to

do than to sit around and follow up murder clews."

But we began to doubt if others agreed with him, when on passing

out we were stopped in the lobby by this same detective, who had

something to say to George, and drew him quickly aside.

"What does he want?" I asked, as soon as George had returned to

my side.

"He wants me to stand ready to obey any summons the police may

send me."

"Then they still suspect Brotherson?"

They must."

My head rose a trifle as I glanced up at George.

"Then we are not altogether out of it?" I emphasised, complacently.

He smiled which hardly seemed a propos. Why does George sometimes

smile when I am in my most serious moods.

As we stepped out of the hotel, George gave my arm a quiet pinch

which served to direct my attention to an elderly gentleman who,

was just alighting from a taxicab at the kerb. He moved heavily

and with some appearance of pain, but from the crowd collected on

the sidewalk many of whom nudged each other as he passed, he was

evidently a person of some importance, and as he disappeared within

the hotel entrance, I asked George who this kind-faced, bright-eyed

old gentleman could be.

He appeared to know, for he told me at once that he was Detective

Gryce; a man who had grown old in solving just such baffling

problems as these.

"He gave up work some time ago, I have been told," my husband went

on; "but evidently a great case still has its allurement for him.

The trail here must be a very blind one for them to call him in.

I wish we had not left so soon. It would have been quite an

experience to see him at work."

"I doubt if you would have been given the opportunity. I noticed

that we were slightly de trop towards the last."

"I wouldn't have minded that; not on my own account, that is. It

might not have been pleasant for you. However, the office is

waiting. Come, let me put you on the car."

That night I bided his coming with an impatience I could not control.

He was late, of course, but when he did appear, I almost forgot our

usual greeting in my hurry to ask him if he had seen the evening

papers.

"No," he grumbled, as he hung up his overcoat. "Been pushed about

all day. No time for anything."

"Then let me tell you -"

But he would have dinner first.

However, a little later we had a comfortable chat. Mr. Gryce had

made a discovery, and the papers were full of it. It was one which

gave me a small triumph over George. The suggestion he had laughed

at was not so entirely foolish as he had been pleased to consider

it. But let me tell the story of that day, without any further

reference to myself.

The opinion had become quite general with those best acquainted

with the details of this affair, that the mystery was one of those

abnormal ones for which no solution would ever be found, when the

aged detective showed himself in the building and was taken to the

room, where an Inspector of Police awaited him. Their greeting

was cordial, and the lines on the latter's face relaxed a little

as he met the still bright eye of the man upon whose instinct

and judgment so much reliance had always been placed.

"This is very good of you," he began, glancing down at the aged

detective's bundled up legs, and gently pushing a chair towards

him. "I know that it was a great deal to ask, but we're at our

wits' end, and so I telephoned. It's the most inexplicable - There!

you have heard that phrase before. But clews - there are absolutely

none. That is, we have not been able to find any. Perhaps you can.

At least, that is what we hope. I've known you more than once to

succeed where others have failed."

The elderly man thus addressed, glanced down at his legs, now

propped up on a stool which someone had brought him, and smiled,

with the pathos of the old who sees the interests of a lifetime

slipping gradually away.

"I am not what I was. I can no longer get down on my hands and

knees to pick up threads from the nap of a rug, or spy out a spot

of blood in the crimson woof of a carpet."

"You shall have Sweetwater here to do the active work for you.

What we want of you is the directing mind - the infallible instinct.

It's a case in a thousand, Gryce. We've never had anything just

like it. You've never had anything at all like it. It will make

you young again."

The old man's eyes shot fire and unconsciously one foot slipped to

the floor. Then he bethought himself and painfully lifted it back

again.

"What are the points? What's the difficulty?" he asked. "A

woman has been shot -"

"No, not shot, stabbed. We thought she had been shot, for that was

intelligible and involved no impossibilities. But Drs. Heath and

Webster, under the eye of the Challoners' own physician, have made

an examination of the wound - an official one, thorough and quite

final so far as they are concerned, and they declare that no bullet

is to be found in the body. As the wound extends no further than

the heart, this settles one great point, at least."

"Dr. Heath is a reliable man and one of our ablest coroners."

"Yes. There can be no question as to the truth of his report. You

know the victim? Her name, I mean, and the character she bore?"

"Yes; so much was told me on my way down."

"A fine girl unspoiled by riches and seeming independence. Happy,

too, to all appearance, or we should be more ready to consider the

possibility of suicide."

"Suicide by stabbing calls for a weapon. Yet none has been found,

I hear."

"None."

"Yet she was killed that way?

"Undoubtedly, and by a long and very narrow blade, larger than a

needle but not so large as the ordinary stiletto."

"Stabbed while by herself, or what you may call by herself? She

had no companion near her?"

"None, if we can believe the four members of the Parrish family who

were seated at the other end of the room.

"And you do believe them?"

"Would a whole family lie - and needlessly? They never knew the

woman - father, maiden aunt and two boys, clear-eyed, jolly young

chaps whom even the horror of this tragedy, perpetrated as it were

under their very nose, cannot make serious for more than a passing

moment."

"It wouldn't seem so."

"Yet they swear up and down that nobody crossed the room towards

Miss Challoner."

"So they tell me."

"She fell just a few feet from the desk where she had been writing.

No word, no cry, just a collapse and sudden fall. In olden days

they would have said, struck by a bolt from heaven. But it was a

bolt which drew blood; not much blood, I hear, but sufficient to

end life almost instantly. She never looked up or spoke again.

What do you make of it, Gryce?"

"It's a tough one, and I'm not ready to venture an opinion yet. I

should like to see the desk you speak of, and the spot where she

fell."

A young fellow who had been hovering in the background at once

stepped forward. He was the plain-faced detective who had spoken

to George.

"Will you take my arm, sir?"

Mr. Gryce's whole face brightened. This Sweetwater, as they called

him, was, I have since understood, one of his proteges and more or

less of a favourite.

"Have you had a chance at this thing?" he asked. "Been over the

ground - studied the affair carefully?"

"Yes, sir; they were good enough to allow it."

"Very well, then, you're in a position to pioneer me. You've seen

it all and won't be in a hurry."

"No; I'm at the end of my rope. I haven't an idea, sir."

"Well, well, that's honest at all events." Then, as he slowly rose

with the other's careful assistance, "There's no crime without its

clew. The thing is to recognise that clew when seen. But I'm in no

position, to make promises. Old days don't return for the asking."

Nevertheless, he looked ten years younger than when he came in, or

so thought those who knew him.

The mezzanine was guarded from all visitors save such as had

official sanction. Consequently, the two remained quite

uninterrupted while they moved about the place in quiet consultation.

Others had preceded them; had examined the plain little desk and

found nothing; had paced off the distances; had looked with longing

and inquiring eyes at the elevator cage and the open archway leading

to the little staircase and the musicians' gallery. But this was

nothing to the old detective. The locale was what he wanted, and

he got it. Whether he got anything else it would be impossible to

say from his manner as he finally sank into a chair by one of the

openings, and looked down on the lobby below. It was full of

people coming and going on all sorts of business, and presently he

drew back, and, leaning on Sweetwater's arm, asked him a few

questions.

"Who were the first to rush in here after the Parrishes gave the

alarm?"

"One or two of the musicians from the end of the hall. They had

just finished their programme and were preparing to leave the

gallery. Naturally they reached her first."

Good! their names?"

"Mark Sowerby and Claus Hennerberg. Honest Germans - men who have

played here for years."

"And who followed them? Who came next on the scene?

"Some people from the lobby. They heard the disturbance and

rushed up pell-mell. But not one of these touched her. Later her

father came."

"Who did touch her? Anybody, before the father came in?"

"Yes; Miss Clarke, the middle-aged lady with the Parrishes. She

had run towards Miss Challoner as soon as she heard her fall, and

was sitting there with the dead girl's head in her lap when the

musicians showed themselves."

"I suppose she has been carefully questioned?"

"Very, I should say."

"And she speaks of no weapon?"

"No. Neither she nor any one else at that moment suspected murder

or even a violent death. All thought it a natural one - sudden, but

the result of some secret disease."

"Father and all?"

"Yes."

"But the blood? Surely there must have been some show of blood?"

"They say not. No one noticed any. Not till the doctor came - her

doctor who was happily in his office in this very building. He saw

the drops, and uttered the first suggestion of murder."

"How long after was this? Is there any one who has ventured to make

an estimate of the number of minutes which elapsed from the time she

fell, to the moment when the doctor first raised the cry of murder?"

"Yes. Mr. Slater, the assistant manager, who was in the lobby at

the time, says that ten minutes at least must have elapsed."

"Ten minutes and no blood! The weapon must still have been there.

Some weapon with a short and inconspicuous handle. I think they

said there were flowers over and around the place where it struck?"

"Yes, great big scarlet ones. Nobody noticed - nobody looked. A

panic like that seems to paralyse people."

"Ten minutes! I must see every one who approached her during those

ten minutes. Every one, Sweetwater, and I must myself talk with

Miss Clarke."

"You will like her. You will believe every word she says."

"No doubt. All the more reason why I must see her. Sweetwater,

someone drew that weapon out. Effects still, have their causes,

notwithstanding the new cult. The question is who? We must

leave no stone unturned to find that out."

"The stones have all been turned over once."

"By you?

"Not altogether by me."

"Then they will bear being turned over again. I want to be witness

of the operation."

"Where will you see Miss Clarke?

"Wherever she pleases - only I can't walk far."

"I think I know the place. You shall have the use of this elevator.

It has not been running since last night or it would be full of

curious people all the time, hustling to get a glimpse of this place.

But they'll put a man on for you."

"Very good; manage it as you will. I'll wait here till you're ready.

Explain yourself to the lady. Tell her I'm an old and rheumatic

invalid who has been used to asking his own questions. I'll not

trouble her much. But there is one point she must make clear to me."

Sweetwater did not presume to ask what point, but he hoped to be

fully enlightened when the time came.

And he was. Mr. Gryce had undertaken to educate him for this work,

and never missed the opportunity of giving him a lesson. The three

met in a private sitting-room on an upper floor, the detectives

entering first and the lady coming in soon after. As her quiet

figure appeared in the doorway,

Sweetwater stole a glance at Mr. Gryce. He was not looking her

way, of course; he never looked directly at anybody; but he formed

his impressions for all that, and Sweetwater was anxious to make

sure of these impressions. There was no doubting them in this

instance. Miss Clarke was not a woman to rouse an unfavourable

opinion in any man's mind. Of slight, almost frail build, she had

that peculiar animation which goes with a speaking eye and a widely

sympathetic nature. Without any substantial claims to beauty, her

expression was so womanly and so sweet that she was invariably

called lovely.

Mr. Gryce was engaged at the moment in shifting his cane from the

right hand to the left, but his manner was never more encouraging

or his smile more benevolent.

"Pardon me," he apologised, with one of his old-fashioned bows,

"I'm sorry to trouble you after all the distress you must have been

under this morning. But there is something I wish especially to

ask you in regard to the dreadful occurrence in which you played so

kind a part. You were the first to reach the prostrate woman, I

believe."

"Yes. The boys jumped up and ran towards her, but they were

frightened by her looks and left it for me to put my hands under

her and try to lift her up."

"Did you manage it?"

"I succeeded in getting her head into my lap, nothing more."

"And sat so?"

"For some little time. That is, it seemed long, though I believe

it was not more than a minute before two men came running from the

musicians' gallery. One thinks so fast at such a time - and feels

so much."

"You knew she was dead, then?"

"I felt her to be so."

"How felt?"

"I was sure - I never questioned it."

"You have seen women in a faint?"

"Yes, many times."

"What made the difference? Why should you believe Miss Challoner

dead simply because she lay still and apparently lifeless?

"I cannot tell you. Possibly, death tells its own story. I only

know how I felt."

"Perhaps there was another reason? Perhaps, that, consciously or

unconsciously, you laid your palm upon her heart?"

Miss Clarke started, and her sweet face showed a moment's perplexity.

"Did I?" she queried, musingly. Then with a sudden access of

feeling, "I may have done so, indeed, I believe I did. My arms

were around her; it would not have been an unnatural action."

"No; a very natural one, I should say. Cannot you tell me

positively whether you did this or not?"

"Yes, I did. I had forgotten it, but I remember now." And the

glance she cast him while not meeting his eye showed that she

understood the importance of the admission. "I know," she said,

"what you are going to ask me now. Did I feel anything there but

the flowers and the tulle? No, Mr. Gryce, I did not. There was

no poniard in the wound."

Mr. Gryce felt around, found a chair and sank into it.

"You are a truthful woman," said he. "And," he added more slowly,

"composed enough in character I should judge not to have made any

mistake on this very vital point."

"I think so, Mr. Gryce. I was in a state of excitement, of course;

but the woman was a stranger to me, and my feelings were not unduly

agitated."

"Sweetwater, we can let my suggestion go in regard to those ten

minutes I spoke of. The time is narrowed down to one, and in that

one, Miss Clarke was the only person to touch her."

"The only one," echoed the lady, catching perhaps the slight

rising sound of query in his voice.

"I will trouble you no further." So said the old detective,

thoughtfully. "Sweetwater, help me out of this." His eye was dull

and his manner betrayed exhaustion. But vigour returned to him

before he had well reached the door, and he showed some of his old

spirit as he thanked Miss Clarke and turned to take the elevator.

"But one possibility remains," he confided to Sweetwater, as they

stood waiting at the elevator door. "Miss Challoner died from a

stab. The next minute she was in this lady's arms. No weapon

protruded from the wound, nor was any found on or near her in the

mezzanine. What follows? She struck the blow herself, and the

strength of purpose which led her to do this, gave her the

additional force to pull the weapon out and fling it from her. It

did not fall upon the floor around her; therefore, it flew through

one of those openings into the lobby, and there it either will be,

or has been found."

It was this statement, otherwise worded, which gave me my triumph

over George.

V

THE RED CLOAK

"What results? Speak up, Sweetwater."

"None. Every man, woman and boy connected with the hotel has been

questioned; many of them routed out of their beds for the purpose,

but not one of them picked up anything from the floor of the lobby,

or knows of any one who did."

There now remain the guests."

"And after them - (pardon me, Mr. Gryce) the general public which

rushed in rather promiscuously last night."

"I know it; it's a task, but it must be carried through. Put up

bulletins, publish your wants in the papers; - do anything, only

gain your end."

A bulletin was put up.

Some hours later, Sweetwater re-entered the room, and, approaching

Mr. Gryce with a smile, blurted out:

"The bulletin is a great go. I think - of course, I cannot be sure

• that it's going to do the business. I've watched every one who

stopped to read it. Many showed interest and many, emotion; she

seems to have had a troop of friends. But embarrassment! only one

showed that. I thought you would like to know."

"Embarrassment? Humph! a man?"

"No, a woman; a lady, sir; one of the transients. I found out in

a jiffy all they could tell me about her."

"A woman! We didn't expect that. Where is she? Still in the

lobby?"

"No, sir. She took the elevator while I was talking with the clerk."

"There's nothing in it. You mistook her expression."

"I don't think so. I had noticed her when she first came into the

lobby. She was talking to her daughter who was with her, and looked

natural and happy. But no sooner had she seen and read that

bulletin, than the blood shot up into her face and her manner became

furtive and hasty. There was no mistaking the difference, sir.

Almost before I could point her out, she had seized her daughter by

the arm and hurried her towards the elevator. I wanted to follow

her, but you may prefer to make your own inquiries. Her room is on

the seventh floor, number 712, and her name is Watkins. Mrs. Horace

Watkins of Nashville."

Mr. Gryce nodded thoughtfully, but made no immediate effort to rise.

"Is that all you know about her?" he asked.

"Yes; this is the first time she has stopped at this hotel. She

came yesterday. Took a room indefinitely. Seems all right; but she

did blush, sir. I ever saw its beat in a young girl."

"Call the desk. Say that I'm to be told if Mrs. Watkins of

Nashville rings up during the next ten minutes. We'll give her

that long to take some action. If she fails to make any move, I'll

make my own approaches."

Sweetwater did as he was bid, then went back to his place in the

lobby.

But he returned almost instantly.

"Mrs. Watkins has just telephoned down that she is going to - to

leave, sir."

"To leave?"

The old man struggled to his feet. "No. 712, do you say? Seven

stories," he sighed. But as he turned with a hobble, he stopped.

"There are difficulties in the way of this interview," he remarked.

"A blush is not much to go upon. I'm afraid we shall have to resort

to the shadow business and that is your work, not mine.

But here the door opened and a boy brought in a line which had been

left at the desk. It related to the very matter then engaging them,

and ran thus:

"I see that information is desired as to whether any person was

seen to stoop to the lobby floor last night at or shortly after

the critical moment of Miss Challoner's fall in the half story

above. I can give such information. I was in the lobby at the

time, and in the height of the confusion following this alarming

incident, I remember seeing a lady,- one of the new arrivals

(there were several coming in at the time)- stoop quickly down

and pick up something from the floor. I thought nothing of it at

the time, and so paid little attention to her appearance. I can

only recall the suddenness with which she stooped and the colour

of the cloak she wore. It was red, and the whole garment was

voluminous. If you wish further particulars, though in truth, I

have no more to give, you can find me in 356.

"HENRY A. MCELROY."

"Humph! This should simplify our task," was Mr. Gryce's comment,

as he handed the note over to Sweetwater. "You can easily find out

if the lady, now on the point of departure, can be identified with

the one described by Mr. McElroy. If she can, I am ready to meet

her anywhere."

"Here goes then! " cried Sweetwater, and quickly left the room.

When he returned, it was not with his most hopeful air.

"The cloak doesn't help," he declared. "No one remembers the cloak.

But the time of Mrs. Watkins' arrival was all right. She came in

directly on the heels of this catastrophe."

"She did! Sweetwater, I will see her. Manage it for me at once."

"The clerk says that it had better be upstairs. She is a very

sensitive woman. There might be a scene, if she were intercepted

on her way out."

"Very well." But the look which the old detective threw at his

bandaged legs was not without its pathos.

And so it happened that just as Mrs. Watkins was watching the

wheeling out of her trunks, there appeared in the doorway before

her, an elderly gentleman, whose expression, always benevolent,

save at moments when benevolence would be quite out of keeping with

the situation, had for some reason, so marked an effect upon her,

that she coloured under his eye, and, indeed, showed such

embarrassment, that all doubt of the propriety of his intrusion

vanished from the old man's mind, and with the ease of one only too

well accustomed to such scenes, he kindly remarked:

"Am I speaking to Mrs. Watkins of Nashville?"

"You are," she faltered, with another rapid change of colour. "I

• I am just leaving. I hope you will excuse me. I -"

"I wish I could," he smiled, hobbling in and confronting her

quietly in her own room. "But circumstances make it quite imperative

that I should have a few words with you on a topic which need not

be disagreeable to you, and probably will not be. My name is Gryce.

This will probably convey nothing to you, but I am not unknown to the

management below, and my years must certainly give you confidence in

the propriety of my errand. A beautiful and charming young woman

died here last night. May I ask if you knew her?"

"I?" She was trembling violently now, but whether with indignation

or some other more subtle emotion, it would be difficult to say.

"No, I'm from the South. I never saw the young lady. Why do you

ask? I do not recognise your right. I - I -"

Certainly her emotion must be that of simple indignation. Mr. Gryce

made one of his low bows, and propping himself against the table he

stood before, remarked civilly: -

"I had rather not force my rights. The matter is so very ordinary.

I did not suppose you knew Miss Challoner, but one must begin

somehow, and as you came in at the very moment when the alarm was

raised in the lobby, I thought perhaps you could tell me something

which would aid me in my effort to elicit the real facts of the case.

You were crossing the lobby at the time -"

"Yes." She raised her head. "So were a dozen others -"

"Madam," - the interruption was made in his kindliest tones, but in

a way which nevertheless suggested authority. "Something was picked

up from the floor at that moment. If the dozen you mention were

witnesses to this act we do not know it. But we do know that it

did not pass unobserved by you. Am I not correct? Didn't you see

a certain person - I will mention no names - stoop and pick up

something from the lobby floor?"

"No." The word came out with startling violence. "I was conscious

of nothing but the confusion." She was facing him with determination

and her eyes were fixed boldly on his face. But her lips quivered,

and her cheeks were white, too white now for simple indignation.

"Then I have made a big mistake," apologised the ever-courteous

detective. "Will you pardon me? It would have settled a very

serious question if it could be found that the object thus picked

up was the weapon which killed Miss Challoner. That is my excuse

for the trouble I have given you."

He was not looking at her; he was looking at her hand which rested

on the table before which he himself stood. Did the fingers tighten

a little and dig into the palm they concealed? He thought so, and

was very slow in turning limpingly about towards the door.

Meanwhile, would she speak? No. The silence was so marked, he

felt it an excuse for stealing another glance in her direction. She

was not looking his way but at a door in the partition wall on her

right; and the look was one very akin to anxious fear. The next

moment he understood it. The door burst open, and a young girl

bounded into the room, with the merry cry:

"All ready, mother. I'm glad we are going to the Clarendon. I

hate hotels where people die almost before your eyes."

What the mother said at this outburst is immaterial. What the

detective did is not. Keeping on his way, he reached the door, but

not to open it wider; rather to close it softly but with unmistakable

decision. The cloak which enveloped the girl was red, and full

enough to be called voluminous.

"Who is this?" demanded the girl, her indignant glances flashing

from one to the other.

"I don't know," faltered the mother in very evident distress. "He

says he has a right to ask us questions and he has been asking

questions about - about -"

"Not about me," laughed the girl, with a toss of her head Mr. Gryce

would have corrected in one of his grandchildren. "He can have

nothing to say about me." And she began to move about the room

in an aimless, half-insolent way.

Mr. Gryce stared hard at the few remaining belongings of the two

women, lying in a heap on the table, and half musingly, half

deprecatingly, remarked:

"The person who stooped wore a long red cloak. Probably you

preceded your daughter, Mrs. Watkins."

The lady thus brought to the point made a quick gesture towards the

girl who suddenly stood still, and, with a rising colour in her

cheeks, answered, with some show of resolution on her own part:

"You say your name is Gryce and that you have a right to address me

thus pointedly on a subject which you evidently regard as serious.

That is not exact enough for me. Who are you, sir? What is your

business?"

"I think you have guessed it. I am a detective from Headquarters.

What I want of you I have already stated. Perhaps this young lady

can tell me what you cannot. I shall be pleased if this is so."

"Caroline" - Then the mother broke down. "Show the gentleman what

you picked up from the lobby floor last night."

The girl laughed again, loudly and with evident bravado, before

she threw the cloak back and showed what she had evidently been

holding in her hand from the first, a sharp-pointed, gold-handled

paper-cutter.

"It was lying there and I picked it up. I don't see any harm in

that."

"You probably meant none. You couldn't have known the part it

had just played in this tragic drama," said the old detective

looking carefully at the cutter which he had taken in his hand,

but not so carefully that he failed to note that the look of

distress was not lifted from the mother's face either by her

daughter's words or manner.

"You have washed this?" he asked.

"No. Why should I wash it? It was clean enough. I was just going

down to give it in at the desk. I wasn't going to carry it away."

And she turned aside to the window and began to hum, as though done

with the whole matter.

The old detective rubbed his chin, glanced again at the paper-cutter,

then at the girl in the window, and lastly at the mother, who had

lifted her head again and was facing him bravely.

"It is very important," he observed to the latter, "that your

daughter should be correct in her statement as to the condition of

this article when she picked it up. Are you sure she did not wash

it?"

"I don't think she did. But I'm sure she will tell you the truth

about that. Caroline, this is a police matter. Any mistake about

it may involve us in a world of trouble and keep you from getting

back home in time for your coming-out party. Did you - did you

wash this cutter when you got upstairs, or - or -" she added, with

a propitiatory glance at Mr. Gryce - wipe it off at any time between

then and now? Don't answer hastily. Be sure. No one can blame you

for that act. Any girl, as thoughtless as you, might do that."

"Mother, how can I tell what I did?" flashed out the girl, wheeling

round on her heel till she faced them both. "I don't remember doing

a thing to it. I just brought it up. A thing found like that

belongs to the finder. You needn't hold it out towards me like that.

I don't want it now; I'm sick of it. Such a lot of talk about a

paltry thing which couldn't have cost ten dollars." And she wheeled

back.

"It isn't the value." Mr. Gryce could be very patient. "It's the

fact that we believe it to have been answerable for Miss Challoner's

death - that is, if there was any blood on it when you picked it

up."

"Blood!" The girl was facing them again, astonishment struggling

with disgust on her plain but mobile features. "Blood! is that

what you mean. No wonder I hate it. Take it away," she cried.

"Oh, mother, I'll never pick up anything again which doesn't belong

to me! Blood!" she repeated in horror, flinging herself into her

mother's arms.

Mr. Gryce thought he understood the situation. Here was a little

kleptomaniac whose weakness the mother was struggling to hide.

Light was pouring in. He felt his body's weight less on that

miserable foot of his.

"Does that frighten you? Are you so affected by the thought of

blood?"

"Don't ask me. And I put the thing under my pillow! I thought

it was so - so pretty."

"Mrs. Watkins," Mr. Gryce from that moment ignored the daughter,

"did you see it there?"

"Yes; but I didn't know where it came from. I had not seen my

daughter stoop. I didn't know where she got it till I read that

bulletin."

"Never mind that. The question agitating me is whether any stain

was left under that pillow. We want to be sure of the connection

between this possible weapon and the death by stabbing which we

all deplore - if there is a connection."

"I didn't see any stain, but you can look for yourself. The bed

has been made up, but there was no change of linen. We expected

to remain here; I see no good to be gained by hiding any of the

facts now."

"None whatever, Madam."

"Come, then. Caroline, sit down and stop crying. Mr. Gryce

believes that your only fault was in not taking this object at once

to the desk."

"Yes, that's all," acquiesced the detective after a short study

of the shaking figure and distorted features of the girl. "You had

no idea, I'm sure, where this weapon came from, or for what it had

been used. That's evident."

Her shudder, as she seated herself, was very convincing. She was

too young to simulate so successfully emotions of this character.

"I'm glad of that," she responded, half fretfully, half gratefully,

as Mr. Gryce followed her mother into the adjoining room. "I've

had a bad enough time of it without being blamed for what I didn't

know and didn't do."

Mr. Gryce laid little stress upon these words, but much upon the

lack of curiosity she showed in the minute and careful examination

he now made of her room. There was no stain on the pillow-cover

and none on the bureau-spread where she might very naturally have

laid the cutter down on first coming into her room. The blade was

so polished that it must have been rubbed off somewhere, either

purposely or by accident. Where then, since not here? He asked to

see her gloves - the ones she had worn the previous night.

"They are the same she is wearing now," the anxious mother assured

him. "Wait, and I will get them for you."

"No need. Let her hold out her hands in token of amity. I shall

soon see."

They returned to where the girl still sat, wrapped in her cloak,

sobbing still, but not so violently.

"Caroline, you may take off your things," said the mother, drawing

the pins from her own hat. "We shall not go to-day."

The child shot her mother one disappointed look, then proceeded to

follow suit. When her hat was off, she began to take off her gloves.

As soon as they were on the table, the mother pushed them over to Mr.

Gryce. As he looked at them, the girl lifted off her cloak.

"Will - will he tell?" she whispered behind its ample folds into her

mother's ear.

The answer came quickly, but not in the mother's tones. Mr. Gryce's

ears had lost none of their ancient acuteness.

"I do not see that I should gain much by doing so. The one

discovery which would link this find of yours indissolubly with

Miss Challoner's death, I have failed to make. If I am equally

unsuccessful below - if I can establish no closer connection there

than here between this cutter and the weapon which killed Miss

Challoner, I shall have no cause to mention the matter. It will be

too extraneous to the case. Do you remember the exact spot where

you stooped, Miss Watkins?"

"No, no. Somewhere near those big chairs; I didn't have to step out

of my way; I really didn't."

Mr. Gryce's answering smile was a study. It seemed to convey a

two-fold message, one for the mother and one for the child, and both

were comforting. But he went away, disappointed. The clew which

promised so much was, to all appearance, a false one.

He could soon tell.

VI

INTEGRITY

Mr. Gryce's fears were only too well founded. Though Mr. McElroy

was kind enough to point out the exact spot where he saw Miss Watkins

stoop, no trace of blood was found upon the rug which had lain there,

nor had anything of the kind been washed up by the very careful man

who scrubbed the lobby floor in the early morning. This was

disappointing, as its presence would have settled the whole question.

When, these efforts all exhausted, the two detectives faced each

other again in the small room given up to their use, Mr. Gryce showed

his discouragement. To be certain of a fact you cannot prove has not

the same alluring quality for the old that it has for the young.

Sweetwater watched him in some concern, then with the persistence

which was one of his strong points, ventured finally to remark:

"I have but one idea left on the subject."

"And what is that?" Old as he was, Mr. Gryce was alert in a moment.

"The girl wore a red cloak. If I mistake not, the lining was also

red. A spot on it might not show to the casual observer. Yet it

would mean much to us."

"Sweetwater!"

A faint blush rose to the old man's cheek.

"Shall I request the privilege of looking that garment over?

"Yes."

The young fellow ducked and left the room. When he returned, it

was with a downcast air.

"Nothing doing," said he.

And then there was silence.

"We only need to find out now that this cutter was not even Miss

Challoner's property," remarked Mr. Gryce, at last, with a gesture

towards the object named, lying openly on the table before him.

"That should be easy. Shall I take it to their rooms and show it

to her maid?"

"If you can do so without disturbing the old gentleman."

But here they were themselves disturbed. A knock at the door was

followed by the immediate entrance of the very person just mentioned.

Mr. Challoner had come in search of the inspector, and showed some

surprise to find his place occupied by an unknown old man.

But Mr. Gryce, who discerned tidings in the bereaved father's face,

was all alacrity in an instant. Greeting his visitor with a smile

which few could see without trusting the man, he explained the

inspector's absence and introduced himself in his own capacity.

Mr. Challoner had heard of him. Nevertheless, he did not seem

inclined to speak.

Mr. Gryce motioned Sweetwater from the room. With a woeful look the

young detective withdrew, his last glance cast at the cutter still

lying in full view on the table.

Mr. Gryce, not unmindful himself of this object, took it up, then

laid it down again, with an air of seeming abstraction.

The father's attention was caught.

"What is that?" he cried, advancing a step and bestowing more than

an ordinary glance at the object thus brought casually, as it were,

to his notice. "I surely recognise this cutter. Does it belong

here or -"

Mr. Gryce, observing the other's, emotion, motioned him to a chair.

As his visitor sank into it, he remarked, with all the consideration

exacted by the situation:

"It is unknown property, Mr. Challoner. But we have some reason to

think it belonged to your daughter. Are we correct in this surmise?

"I have seen it, or one like it, often in her hand." Here his eyes

suddenly dilated and the hand stretched forth to grasp it quickly

drew back. "Where - where was it found?" he hoarsely demanded. "0

God! am I to be crushed to the very earth by sorrow!"

Mr. Gryce hastened to give him such relief as was consistent with

the truth.

"It was picked up - last night - from the lobby floor. There is

seemingly nothing to connect it with her death. Yet -"

The pause was eloquent. Mr. Challoner gave the detective an agonised

look and turned white to the lips. Then gradually, as the silence

continued, his head fell forward, and he muttered almost

unintelligibly:

"I honestly believe her the victim of some heartless stranger. I

do now; but - but I cannot mislead the police. At any cost I must

retract a statement I made under false impressions and with no

desire to deceive. I said that I knew all of the gentlemen who

admired her and aspired to her hand, and that they were all reputable

men and above committing a crime of this or any other kind. But it

seems that I did not know her secret heart as thoroughly as I had

supposed. Among her effects I have just come upon a batch of letters

• love letters I am forced to acknowledge - signed by initials

totally strange to me. The letters are manly in tone - most of them

• but one -"

"What about the one?"

"Shows that the writer was displeased. It may mean nothing, but I

could not let the matter go without setting myself right with the

authorities. If it might be allowed to rest here - if those letters

can remain sacred, it would save me the additional pang of seeing

her inmost concerns - the secret and holiest recesses of a woman's

heart, laid open to the public. For, from the tenor of most of these

letters, she - she was not averse to the writer."

Mr. Gryce moved a little restlessly in his chair and stared hard at

the cutter so conveniently placed under his eye. Then his manner

softened and he remarked:

"We will do what we can. But you must understand that the matter is

not a simple one. That, in fact, it contains mysteries which demand

police investigation. We do not dare to trifle with any of the facts.

The inspector, and, if not he, the coroner, will have to be told about

these letters and will probably ask to see them."

"They are the letters of a gentleman."

"With the one exception."

"Yes, that is understood." Then in a sudden heat and with an almost

sublime trust in his daughter notwithstanding the duplicity he had

just discovered:

"Nothing - not the story told by these letters, or the sight of

that sturdy paper-cutter with its long and very slender blade, will

make me believe that she willingly took her own life. You do not

know, cannot know, the rare delicacy of her nature. She was a lady

through and through. If she had meditated death - if the breach

suggested by the one letter I have mentioned, should have so preyed

upon her spirits as to lead her to break her old father's heart

and outrage the feelings of all who knew her, she could not, being

the woman she was, choose a public place for such an act - an hotel

writing-room - in face of a lobby full of hurrying men. It was out

of nature. Every one who knows her will tell you so. The deed was

an accident - incredible - but still an accident."

Mr. Gryce had respect for this outburst. Making no attempt to answer

it, he suggested, with some hesitation, that Miss Challoner had been

seen writing a letter previous to taking those fatal steps from the

desk which ended so tragically. Was this letter to one of her lady

friends, as reported, and was it as far from suggesting the awful

tragedy which followed, as he had been told?

"It was a cheerful letter. Such a one as she often wrote to her

little protogees here and there. I judge that this was written to

some girl like that, for the person addressed was not known to her

maid, any more than she was to me. It expressed an affectionate

interest, and it breathed encouragement - encouragement! and she

meditating her own death at the moment! Impossible! That letter

should exonerate her if nothing else does."

Mr. Gryce recalled the incongruities, the inconsistencies and even

the surprising contradictions which had often marked the conduct of

men and women, in his lengthy experience with the strange, the

sudden, and the tragic things of life, and slightly shook his head.

He pitied Mr. Challoner, and admired even more his courage in face

of the appalling grief which had overwhelmed him, but he dared not

encourage a false hope. The girl had killed herself and with this

weapon. They might not be able to prove it absolutely, but it was

nevertheless true, and this broken old man would some day be obliged

to acknowledge it. But the detective said nothing of this, and was

very patient with the further arguments the other advanced to prove

his point and the lofty character of the girl to whom, misled by

appearance, the police seemed inclined to attribute the awful sin

of self-destruction.

But when, this topic exhausted, Mr. Challoner rose to leave the

room, Mr. Gryce showed where his own thoughts still centred, by

asking him the date of the correspondence discovered between his

daughter and her unknown admirer.

"Some of the letters were dated last summer, some this fall. The

one you are most anxious to hear about only a month back," he

added, with unconquerable devotion to what he considered his duty.

Mr. Gryce would like to have carried his inquiries further, but

desisted. His heart was full of compassion for this childless old

man, doomed to have his choicest memories disturbed by cruel doubts

which possibly would never be removed to his own complete

satisfaction.

But when he was gone, and Sweetwater had returned, Mr. Gryce made

it his first duty to communicate to his superiors the hitherto

unsuspected fact of a secret romance in Miss Challoner's seemingly

calm and well-guarded life. She had loved and been loved by one

of whom her family knew nothing. And the two had quarrelled, as

certain letters lately found could be made to show.

VII

THE LETTERS

Before a table strewn with papers, in the room we have already

mentioned as given over to the use of the police, sat Dr. Heath in

a mood too thoughtful to notice the entrance of Mr. Gryce and

Sweetwater from the dining-room where they had been having dinner.

However as the former's tread was somewhat lumbering, the coroner's

attention was caught before they had quite crossed the room, and

Sweetwater, with his quick eye, noted how his arm and hand

immediately fell so as to cover up a portion of the papers lying

nearest to him.

"Well, Gryce, this is a dark case," he observed, as at his bidding

the two detectives took their seats.

Mr. Gryce nodded; so did Sweetwater.

"The darkest that has ever come to my knowledge," pursued the

coroner.

Mr. Gryce again nodded; but not so, Sweetwater. For some reason

this simple expression of opinion seemed to have given him a mental

start.

"She was not shot. She was not struck by any other hand; yet she

lies dead from a mortal wound in the breast. Though there is no

tangible proof of her having inflicted this wound upon herself, the

jury will have no alternative, I fear, than to pronounce the case

one of suicide."

"I'm sorry that I've been able to do so little," remarked Mr. Gryce.

The coroner darted him a quick look.

"You are not satisfied? You have some different idea?" he asked.

The detective frowned at his hands crossed over the top of his cane,

then shaking his head, replied:

"The verdict you mention is the only natural one, of course. I

see that you have been talking with Miss Challoner's former maid?"

"Yes, and she has settled an important point for us. There was a

possibility, of course, that the paper-cutter which you brought to

my notice had never gone with her into the mezzanine. That she,

or some other person, had dropped it in passing through the lobby.

But this girl assures me that her mistress did not enter the lobby

that night. That she accompanied her down in the elevator, and saw

her step off at the mezzanine. She can also swear that the cutter

was in a book she carried - the book we found lying on the desk.

The girl remembers distinctly seeing its peculiarly chased handle

projecting from its pages. Could anything be more satisfactory if

• I was going to say, if the young lady had been of the impulsive

type and the provocation greater. But Miss Challoner's nature was

calm, and were it not for these letters -" here his arm shifted a

little -" I should not be so sure of my jury's future verdict.

Love -" he went on, after a moment of silent consideration of a

letter he had chosen from those before him," disturbs the most

equable natures. When it enters as a factor, we can expect anything

• as you know. And Miss Challoner evidently was much attached to

her correspondent, and naturally felt the reproach conveyed in

these lines."

And Dr. Heath read:

"Dear Miss Challoner:

"Only a man of small spirit could endure what I endured from you

the other day. Love such as mine would be respectable in a

clod-hopper, and I think that even you will acknowledge that I

stand somewhat higher than that. Though I was silent under your

disapprobation, you shall yet have your answer. It will not lack

point because of its necessary delay."

A threat!

The words sprang from Sweetwater, and were evidently involuntary.

Dr. Heath paid no notice, but Mr. Gryce, in shifting his hands on

his cane top, gave them a sidelong look which was not without a

hint of fresh interest in a case concerning which he had believed

himself to have said his last word.

"It is the only letter of them all which conveys anything like a

reproach," proceeded the coroner. "The rest are ardent enough and,

I must acknowledge that, so far as I have allowed myself to look

into them, sufficiently respectful. Her surprise must consequently

have been great at receiving these lines, and her resentment equally

so. If the two met afterwards - But I have not shown you the

signature. To the poor father it conveyed nothing - some facts have

been kept from him - but to us -" here he whirled the letter about

so that Sweetwater, at least, could see the name, "it conveys a

hope that we may yet understand Miss Challoner."

"Brotherson! " exclaimed the young detective in loud surprise.

"Brotherson! The man who -"

"The man who left this building just before or simultaneously with

the alarm caused by Miss Challoner's fall. It clears away some of

the clouds befogging us. She probably caught sight of him in the

lobby, and in the passion of the moment forgot her usual instincts

and drove the sharp-pointed weapon into her heart.

"Brotherson!" The word came softly now, and with a thoughtful

intonation. "He saw her die."

"Why do you say that?"

"Would he have washed his hands in the snow if he had been in

ignorance of the occurrence? He was the real, if not active, cause

of her death and he knew it. Either he - Excuse me, Dr. Heath and

Mr. Gryce, it is not for me to obtrude my opinion."

"Have you settled it beyond dispute that Brotherson is really the

man who was seen doing this?"

"No, sir. I have not had a minute for that job, but I'm ready for

the business any time you see fit to spare me."

"Let it be to-morrow, or, if you can manage it, to-night. We want

the man even if he is not the hero of that romantic episode. He

wrote these letters, and he must explain the last one. His initials,

as you see, are not ordinary ones, and you will find them at the

bottom of all these sheets. He was brave enough or arrogant enough

to sign the questionable one with his full name. This may speak

well for him, and it may not. It is for you to decide that. Where

will you look for him, Sweetwater? No one here knows his address."

"Not Miss Challoner's maid?"

"No; the name is a new one to her. But she made it very evident

that she was not surprised to hear that her mistress was in secret

correspondence with a member of the male sex. Much can be hidden

from servants, but not that."

"I'll find the man; I have a double reason for doing that now; he

shall not escape me."

Dr. Heath expressed his satisfaction, and gave some orders.

Meanwhile, Mr. Gryce had not uttered a word.

VIII

STRANGE DOINGS FOR GEORGE

That evening George sat so long over the newspapers that in spite

of my absorbing interest in the topic engrossing me, I fell asleep

in my cozy little rocking chair. I was awakened by what seemed

like a kiss falling very softly on my forehead, though, to be sure,

it may have been only the flap of George's coat sleeve as he stooped

over me.

"Wake up, little woman," I heard, "and trot away to bed. I'm going

out and may not be in till daybreak."

"You! going out! at ten o'clock at night, tired as you are - as we

both are! What has happened-Oh!"

This broken exclamation escaped me as I perceived in the dim

background by the sitting-room door, the figure of a man who called

up recent, but very thrilling experiences.

"Mr. Sweetwater," explained George. "We are going out together. It

is necessary, or you may be sure I should not leave you.

I was quite wide awake enough by now to understand. "Oh, I know.

You are going to hunt up the man. How I wish -"

But George did not wait for me to express my wishes. He gave me a

little good advice as to how I had better employ my time in his

absence, and was off before I could find words to answer.

This ends all I have to say about myself; but the events of that

night carefully related to me by George are important enough for me

to describe them, with all the detail which is their rightful due.

I shall tell the story as I have already been led to do in other

portions of this narrative, as though I were present and shared the

adventure.

As soon as the two were in the street, the detective turned towards

George and said:

"Mr. Anderson, I have a great deal to ask of you. The business

before us is not a simple one, and I fear that I shall have to

subject you to more inconvenience than is customary in matters like

this. Mr. Brotherson has vanished; that is, in his own proper

person, but I have an idea that I am on the track of one who will

lead us very directly to him if we manage the affair carefully.

What I want of you, of course, is mere identification. You saw the

face of the man who washed his hands in the snow, and would know it

again, you say. Do you think you could be quite sure of yourself,

if the man were differently dressed and differently occupied?

"I think so. There's his height and a certain strong look in his

face. I cannot describe it."

"You don't need to. Come! we're all right. You don't mind making

a night of it?"

"Not if it is necessary.

"That we can't tell yet." And with a characteristic shrug and smile,

the detective led the way to a taxicab which stood in waiting at the

corner.

A quarter of an hour of rather fast riding brought them into a

tangle of streets on the East side. As George noticed the swarming

sidewalks and listened to the noises incident to an over-populated

quarter, he could not forbear, despite the injunction he had

received, to express his surprise at the direction of their search.

Surely," said he, "the gentleman I have described can have no

friends here." Then, bethinking himself, he added: " But if he has

reasons to fear the law, naturally he would seek to lose himself in

a place as different as possible from his usual haunts."

"Yes, that would be some men's way," was the curt, almost

indifferent, answer he received. Sweetwater was looking this way

and that from the window beside him, and now, leaning out gave some

directions to the driver which altered their course.

When they stopped, which was in a few minutes, he said to George:

"We shall have to walk now for a block or two. I'm anxious to

attract no attention, nor is it desirable for you to do so. If you

can manage to act as if you were accustomed to the place and just

leave all the talking to me, we ought to get along first-rate.

Don't be astonished at anything you see, and trust me for the rest;

that's all."

They alighted, and he dismissed the taxicab. Some clock in the

neighbourhood struck the hour of ten. "Good! we shall be in time,"

muttered the detective, and led the way down the street and round

a corner or so, till they came to a block darker than the rest, and

much less noisy.

It had a sinister look, and George, who is brave enough under all

ordinary circumstances, was glad that his companion wore a badge

and carried a whistle. He was also relieved when he caught sight

of the burly form of a policeman in the shadow of one of the

doorways. Yet the houses he saw before him were not so very

different from those they had already passed. His uneasiness could

not have sprung from them. They had even an air of positive

respectability, as though inhabited by industrious workmen. Then,

what was it which made the close companionship of a member of the

police so uncommonly welcome? Was it a certain aspect of

solitariness which clung to the block, or was it the sudden

appearance here and there of strangely gliding figures, which no

sooner loomed up against the snowy perspective, than they

disappeared again in some unseen doorway?

"There's a meeting on to-night, of the Associated Brotherhood of

the Awl, the Plane and the Trowel (whatever that means), and it is

the speaker we want to see; the man who is to address them promptly

at ten o'clock. Do you object to meetings?"

"Is this a secret one?"

"It wasn't advertised."

"Are we carpenters or masons that we can count on admittance?"

"I am a carpenter. Don't you think you can be a mason for the

occasion?"

"I doubt it, but -"

"Hush! I must speak to this man."

George stood back, and a few words passed between Sweetwater and

a shadowy figure which seemed to have sprung up out of the sidewalk.

"Balked at the outset," were the encouraging words with which the

detective rejoined George. "It seems that a pass-word is necessary,

and my friend has been unable to get it. Will the speaker pass out

this way?" he inquired of the shadowy figure still lingering in

their rear.

"He didn't go in by it; yet I believe he's safe enough inside," was

the muttered answer.

Sweetwater had no relish for disappointments of this character, but

it was not long before he straightened up and allowed himself to

exchange a few more words with this mysterious person. These appeared

to be of a more encouraging nature than the last, for it was not long

before the detective returned with renewed alacrity to George, and,

wheeling him about, began to retrace his steps to the corner.

"Are we going back? Are you going to give up the job?" George asked.

"No; we're going to take him from the rear. There's a break in the

fence - Oh, we'll do very well. Trust me.

George laughed. He was growing excited, but not altogether agreeably

so. He says that he has seen moments of more pleasant anticipation.

Evidently, my good husband is not cut out for detective work.

Where they went under this officer's guidance, he cannot tell. The

tortuous tangle of alleys through which he now felt himself led was

dark as the nether regions to his unaccustomed eyes. There was snow

under his feet and now and then he brushed against some obtruding

object, or stumbled against a low fence; but beyond these slight

miscalculations on his own part, he was a mere automaton in the hands

of his eager guide, and only became his own man again when they

suddenly stepped into an open yard and he could discern plainly

before him the dark walls of a building pointed out by Sweetwater as

their probable destination. Yet even here they encountered some

impediment which prohibited a close approach. A wall or shed cut

off their view of the building's lower storey; and though somewhat

startled at being left unceremoniously alone after just a whispered

word of encouragement from the ever ready detective, George could

quite understand the necessity which that person must feel for a

quiet reconnoitering of the surroundings before the two of them

ventured further forward in their possibly hazardous undertaking.

Yet the experience was none too pleasing to George, and he was very

glad to hear Sweetwater's whisper again at his ear, and to feel

himself rescued from the pool of slush in which he had been left to

stand.

"The approach is not all that can be desired," remarked the detective

as they entered what appeared to be a low shed. "The broken board

has been put back and securely nailed in place, and if I am not

very much mistaken there is a fellow stationed in the yard who will

want the pass-word too. Looks shady to me. I'll have something to

tell the chief when I get back."

"But we! What are we going to do if we cannot get in front or rear?

"We're going to wait right here in the hopes of catching a glimpse

of our man as he comes out," returned the detective, drawing George

towards a low window overlooking the yard he had described as

sentinelled. "He will have to pass directly under this window on

his way to the alley," Sweetwater went on to explain, "and if I can

only raise it - but the noise would give us away. I can't do that."

"Perhaps it swings on hinges," suggested George. "It looks like

that sort of a window."

"If it should - well! it does. We're in great luck, sir. But

before I pull it open, remember that from the moment I unlatch it,

everything said or done here can be heard in the adjoining yard.

So no whispers and no unnecessary movements. When you hear him

coming, as sooner or later you certainly will, fall carefully to

your knees and lean out just far enough to catch a glimpse of him

before he steps down from the porch. If he stops to light his cigar

or to pass a few words with some of the men he will leave behind,

you may get a plain enough view of his face or figure to identify

him. The light is burning low in that rear hall, but it will do.

If it does not, - if you can't see him or if you do, don't hang out

of the window more than a second. Duck after your first look. I

don't want to be caught at this job with no better opportunity for

escape than we have here. Can you remember all that?"

George pinched his arm encouragingly, and Sweetwater, with an

amused grunt, softly unlatched the window and pulled it wide open.

A fine sleet flew in, imperceptible save for the sensation of damp

it gave, and the slight haze it diffused through the air. Enlarged

by this haze, the building they were set to watch rose in magnified

proportions at their left. The yard between, piled high in the

centre with snow-heaps or other heaps covered with snow, could not

have been more than forty feet square. The window from which they

peered, was half-way down this yard, so that a comparatively short

distance separated them from the porch where George had been told

to look for the man he was expected to identify. All was dark there

at present, but he could hear from time to time some sounds of

restless movement, as the guard posted inside shifted in his narrow

quarters, or struck his benumbed feet softly together.

But what came to them from above was more interesting than anything

to be heard or seen below. A man's voice, raised to a wonderful

pitch by the passion of oratory, had burst the barriers of the

closed hall in that towering third storey and was carrying its tale

to other ears than those within. Had it been summer and the windows

open, both George and Sweetwater might have heard every word; for

the tones were exceptionally rich and penetrating, and the speaker

intent only on the impression he was endeavouring to make upon his

audience. That he had not mistaken his power in this direction was

evinced by the applause which rose from time to time from innumerable

hands and feet. But this uproar would be speedily silenced, and the

mellow voice ring out again, clear and commanding. What could the

subject be to rouse such enthusiasm in the Associated Brotherhood

of the Awl, the Plane and the Trowel? There was a moment when our

listening friends expected to be enlightened. A shutter was thrown

back in one of those upper windows, and the window hurriedly, raised,

during which words took the place of sounds and they heard enough

to whet their appetite for more. But only that. The shutter was

speedily restored to place, and the window again closed. A wise

precaution, or so thought George if they wished to keep their

doubtful proceedings secret.

A tirade against the rich and a loud call to battle could be gleaned

from the few sentences they had heard. But its virulence and pointed

attack was not that of the second-rate demagogue or business agent,

but of a man whose intellect and culture rang in every tone, and

informed each sentence.

Sweetwater, in whom satisfaction was fast taking the place of

impatience and regret, pushed the window to before asking George

this question:

"Did you hear the voice of the man whose action attracted, your

attention outside the Clermont?"

"No."

"Did you note just now the large shadow dancing on the ceiling over

the speaker's head?"

"Yes, but I could judge nothing from that."

"Well, he's a rum one. I shan't open this window again till he

gives signs of reaching the end of his speech. It's too cold."

But almost immediately he gave a start and, pressing George's arm,

appeared to listen, not to the speech which was no longer audible,

but to something much nearer - a step or movement in the adjoining

yard. At least, so George interpreted the quick turn which this

impetuous detective made, and the pains he took to direct George's

attention to the walk running under the window beneath which they

crouched. Someone was stealing down upon the house at their left,

from the alley beyond. A big man, whose sh