The young man’s appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity. He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He referred to the Coroner’s list of motives for crime, and added that he agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss Carrington’s will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he suggested that such a one be searched for.
“You’ve got that glove,” he reminded, “that was found clasped in the hand of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect those who lived under Miss Carrington’s roof?”
“I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr. Haviland,” and the Coroner spoke shortly; “but pursuing my own plan of obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions without comment on them?”
“Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently.”
Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland replied, “You said ‘suspicious’ the other time. I did see something unusual. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That’s unusual, but I don’t go so far as to call it suspicious.”
VIII
ANITA’S STORY
Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the breathless silence that followed it, by saying:
“Will you please explain what you mean by ‘stealthily?’”
“Just what I say,” returned Haviland, bluntly. “She went slowly, now and then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light; she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That’s what I mean by stealthily.”
“What was your errand?” asked Scofield of Estelle.
“Nothing. I didn’t go,” she replied, coolly.
“She tells an untruth,” said Gray, calmly. “She did go, just as I have described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she was implicated in Miss Carrington’s death. I am sure it is of casual explanation,—or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it.”
“How was it you chanced to see her?”
“I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened.”
“You knew it to be this Estelle?”
“Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid.”
“’Tisn’t red!” snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a frown.
“Well, auburn, then,” said Haviland, easily. “You may as well own up, Estelle; what did you go down for?”
“I didn’t go,” repeated the maid, obstinately, and no cross-questioning could prevail on her to admit otherwise.
“All right,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders; “I suppose it doesn’t matter, as the crime was committed about one o’clock. It’s up to you, Mr. Coroner, to find some person who acted suspiciously nearer that time. And, by the way, as man of business of this estate, unless some worthwhile evidence is forthcoming pretty soon, I’m going to round up a detective or two who will get somewhere.”
“Give us a little more time, Mr. Haviland,” said Scofield, suavely, “this inquest is only begun.”
“Well, get it over with, and then, if the truth hasn’t come to light, I’ll take a hand.”
Miss Frayne was called next, and Anita, with a look of importance on her pretty face, came forward.
Her evidence, at first, was merely a repetition of that already heard, and she corroborated Pauline’s recital of the scene as the two girls bade Miss Carrington good-night.
“And then?” prompted the Coroner.
“Then I went to my room, but I didn’t retire. I sat thinking over what Miss Carrington had said to me. And as I thought about it, I concluded that this time I was really dismissed from her secretaryship. And that made me feel very sorry, for it is a good position and I’ve no wish to lose it. So,—after a time, I began to think I would go to Miss Carrington’s room and if she were still up, I would beg her forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness for what?”
“For any fancied grievance she might have against me. I have always tried to please her, but she was, er,—difficult, and it was not easy to do the right thing at all times.”
“Did you go to her room?”
“I went to the door——”
“At what time?”
“Soon after one o’clock. Not more than five or ten minutes after.”
There was a rustle of excitement. The poison was said to be administered at about one! Did this fair doll-like girl know the secret of the tragedy?
“Proceed, Miss Frayne; tell the story of anything you saw at that time.”
“I saw nothing. But I heard a great deal.”
“What was it?”
“The door of Miss Carrington’s room was closed, and I was about to tap at it, when I heard talking inside. I paused, and I listened, in order to discover if her maid was still with her, or some one else. If it had been Estelle, I should have tapped for admittance. But it was not.”
“Who was it?”
“I cannot say. The voice I heard distinctly was that of Miss Carrington herself. Her voice was high-pitched, and of what is called a carrying sort. The things she said were so strange, I lingered, listening, for I was so surprised I couldn’t help it.”
“First, I heard her say, quite plainly, ‘Your face is the most beautiful I have ever seen! I wish mine were as beautiful.’ I assumed, then, she must be talking to Miss Stuart, for surely she would not say that to her maid. Then she said, ‘But, to-morrow, I shall be forever freed from this homely face of mine.’”
“Miss Frayne, this is very singular! Are you sure you heard correctly?”
“I am sure. But there is more. She next said, ‘To-morrow you will be glad!—glad!’ It was almost a scream, that. And she went on, ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,—if you—ah, but will you?’ and then her voice trailed off faintly, and I could hear no more.”
“You heard nothing more at all?”
“Yes; I waited,—oh, I admit I was eavesdropping, but it was so strange I couldn’t help it,—there was silence. It may well be some one else was replying to her, but I could not make out any other person’s words. A low voice would not be audible like a high-pitched one. But after a moment, Miss Carrington resumed; she said, ‘I shall change my will. Not Carr’s half, that must stand. But the other half shall never go to a niece who has no affection for me!’ Again I heard nothing, for the responses were inaudible. Then Miss Carrington said, in a musing tone: ‘I have already willed you ten thousand dollars of those United States bonds, but——’ And then, after quite a long pause, Miss Carrington cried out, not loudly, but tensely, ‘Henri, Henri! you are the mark I aim at!’ That frightened me so, I ran swiftly back to my room, and locked the door.”
“You assumed Henri to be Count Charlier?”
“I had no other construction to put upon the words.”
“You thought the gentleman was in Miss Carrington’s room?”
“I couldn’t think that! And yet, it sounded as if she were speaking to him, not of him.”
“This is a very strange story, Miss Frayne. Have you mentioned these things you overheard to any one before this?”
“No. I have thought them over, and concluded it was best to tell the story first to you.”
“And quite right. It is, then, your opinion that there was another person in Miss Carrington’s room, to whom she was speaking?”
“It seemed so to me.”
“But you did not hear this other person’s voice?”
Anita paused a moment and then said: “Not distinctly.”
“Did you hear it at all?”
“I cannot say. When I did not hear Miss Carrington’s voice clearly, there were sounds that might have been another person or her own voice speaking more inaudibly.”
“Might it not be that she was merely talking to herself,—soliloquizing?”
“It could not have been that. She spoke definitely and decidedly to some one when she said ‘Your face is beautiful,’ and when she said, ‘I have willed you ten thousand dollars,’ indeed, every thing she said was as if spoken to some hearer; not as one who talks to herself.”
“After you regained your room, did you leave it again?”
“No, I did not.”
“H’m. Now, are you positive, Miss Frayne, that all these speeches were said just as you have repeated them? It is a great strain on the memory to repeat accurately a conversation as long as the one you have just rehearsed.”
“The speeches I heard are burned into my brain. I could not forget them if I would. I may have erred in some minor or unimportant words, but the most of what I heard is precisely as I have repeated it. Indeed, so thoroughly was I amazed at it all, I wrote it down as soon as I reached my room. I had then no thought of—of what was going to happen, but Miss Carrington had made peculiar remarks during the evening about something happening to her, and in connection with that the words I heard seemed so remarkable,—not to say uncanny,—that I made a note of them. This is not an unusual habit with me. I often make notes of conversations, as it has been useful in my services as secretary.”
“As how?”
“If a caller in a social or business way had conversation with Miss Carrington, and I was present, I often made a record, in case she asked me later just what had been said.”
“I see. And how do you interpret the words, ‘Henri, you are the mark I aim at?’”
“I can only think that Miss Carrington was in favor of considering a marriage between herself and the Count.”
“You made use of the word ‘uncanny.’ Do you imagine that Miss Carrington had any foreboding of her approaching doom?”
“When I heard her say, ‘To-morrow I will be forever freed from this homely face of mine,’ and ‘to-morrow all these jewels will be yours,’ I couldn’t help thinking,—after the discovery of her death,—that she must have anticipated it.”
“Did her voice sound like the despairing one of a person about to die?”
“On the contrary, it sounded full of life and animation.”
“Did she seem angry with the person to whom she was speaking?”
“At times, yes. And, again, no. Her voice showed varying emotions as she talked on.”
“Her speech was not continuous, then?”
“Not at all. It was broken, and in snatches. But, remember, I could not hear all of what she said, and the other person or persons not at all.”
“Did you not catch a word from the other voice?”
“I cannot say. Much, in a low tone, that I could not hear clearly, might have been Miss Carrington’s voice or another’s. The door was closed, and as soon as I realized there was some one there, not Estelle, I had no thought of knocking, and I soon went away. I ought to have gone away sooner, and would have done so, but I was so amazed and puzzled I stayed on involuntarily.”
“Your story, Miss Frayne, is very extraordinary. Can you suggest, from what you heard, who might have been in the room with Miss Carrington?”
“I can not, nor do I wish to. I have told you what I heard, it is for you to make deductions or discoveries.”
“I wish to say a word, Mr. Coroner,” and Pauline Stuart, with her dark eyes blazing, rose to her feet. “I am sorry to say this, but I must ask you to hesitate before you put too much faith in the amazing tale you have just listened to. I am sure Miss Frayne could not have heard all that nonsense! It is impossible, on the face of it, that my aunt should have received any one in her room after her maid left her. It is incredible that she should have made all those ridiculous and meaningless remarks! And it is despicable for any woman to imply or hint that Miss Carrington was receiving a gentleman caller! I am surprised that you even listened to what must be the ravings of a disordered mind!”
Pauline looked at Anita like an avenging goddess. But the darts of scorn from her dark eyes were met and returned in kind from the big blue ones of the secretary.
“I resent your tone and your words,” said Anita, deliberately; “but since you choose to adopt that attitude, I will go on to say what I had intended not to reveal, that I saw you coming from your aunt’s room, after the conversation I have told of took place.”
“Wait a minute,” said the Coroner; “you said that immediately after hearing the alleged conversation you went at once to your room, and did not leave it again.”
“Nor did I. But a few minutes later, unable to restrain my curiosity, I opened my door, and looked out. My position then commanded a full view of the hall, and I saw Miss Stuart go from her aunt’s room to her own.”
Pauline looked at the speaker. Coldly her glance swept back to the Coroner, and she said: “I deny that I was in my aunt’s room after leaving it at midnight in company with Miss Frayne. But she forces me to tell that I saw her going away from it at exactly quarter past one.”
“How do you fix the time so accurately?”
“I was sitting in the upper hall,—it is really a sitting-room, at the bay-windowed end,—looking at the moon. I, too, had been disturbed at my aunt’s attitude, and her threats to send me away to-day, and I had gone to the hall window-seat, a favorite haunt of mine, and had sat there for a half hour or more.”
“Could any one going through the hall see you?”
“Probably not, as the draperies are heavy, and I was in the deep window-seat. I was thinking I would go to my room, and then I saw Miss Frayne come from my aunt’s room and go to her own.”
“Are you sure she came from the room?”
“She was closing the door, her hand was on the knob. She did not see me, I am sure, for I drew back in the window and watched her. And just then I heard the hall clock chime the quarter after one.”
“You didn’t see Miss Frayne when she went to Miss Carrington’s room?”
“No; I suppose I was then looking out of the deep window.”
“Nor did you hear her?”
“No, the rugs are thick and a light foot-fall makes no sound.”
“What did you next do?”
“I went—I went straight to my own room.”
The slight hesitation told against Pauline. All through her testimony, all through her arraignment of Anita,—for it amounted to that,—she had been cool, calm and imperturbable. But now a momentary hesitation of speech, added perhaps, to the circumstantial story of Anita Frayne, caused a wave of doubt,—not enough to call suspicion,—but a questioning attitude to form in the minds of many of the audience.
To whom, if not Miss Stuart, could Miss Carrington’s remarks about beauty have been addressed? It was well known that Miss Lucy adored beauty and had all her life lamented her own lack of it. This was no secret woe of the poor lady’s. To any one who would listen, she would complain of her hard lot in having all the gifts of the gods except good looks. To whom else would she say ‘To-morrow all these jewels will be yours,—if you—ah, but will you?’
And yet, after all, it did not make sense. Was it not far more likely to be a figment of Miss Frayne’s clever mind, for what purpose who might say?
At any rate, their stories were contradictory and moreover were garbled.
The jurymen sighed. The case had been mysterious enough before, now it was becoming inexplicable.
IX
FURTHER TESTIMONY
Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at ease. His French savoir faire was not proof against definite inquiries as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.
He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.
“You did not return to this house after leaving on Tuesday night?”
“Most assuredly not.”
“You were not in Miss Carrington’s boudoir at one o’clock or thereabouts?”
Count Charlier’s black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he controlled his indignation, and said, simply, “I was not.”
“But she was heard to address you.”
“Impossible, as I was not there.”
“She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What construction do you put upon those words?”
“It is not for me to boast of my attraction for a lady.”
Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed, he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy’s happiness as his wife.
“Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in United States bonds?” went on the Coroner.
“I—I don’t know,” and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.
“You do know!” shouted Haviland; “the will has been read, and you know perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you.”
“Why did you deny the knowledge?” asked Scofield, sternly.
“I’m—I’m not sure——”
“You are sure!” stormed Gray. “Now where were you when Miss Carrington spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony outside the window, perhaps.”
“Absurd,” said the Coroner.
“Not at all,” said Gray; “that window opens on a balcony enclosed by glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how could he be in the room—in her boudoir—unknown to the servants? Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington’s hand to be the property of Count Charlier.”
“But no!” cried the witness, excitedly; “I have repeatedly disclaimed that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been told, it is a—a surprise to me.”
“Surprise nothing!” murmured Haviland, but he said no more to the Count.
“If my story might be told now,—” ventured Mrs. Frothingham.
After a moment’s hesitation, Coroner Scofield decided to let her tell it, as having a possible bearing on Count Charlier’s testimony.
The rather stunning-looking widow was fashionably dressed, and she fluttered with an air of importance as she took the stand. She related again the story she had told of the supposed burglar, whom she saw leaving the living-room by way of a window, at four o’clock on Wednesday morning.
“How can you be so sure it was a burglar?” asked Scofield.
“Oh, he looked like one. All huddled up, you know, and his face buried between a high coat collar and a drawn-down cap. And he walked slyly,—sort of glided among the shrubs and trees, as if avoiding notice. No man on legitimate business would skulk like that.”
“Might it not have been Count Charlier?” asked the Coroner, bluntly.
“Certainly not!” and Mrs. Frothingham gave a little shriek. “The Count is a slim and elegant figure; this was a stocky, burly man; a marauder, I know.”
“It may be,” said the Coroner, wearily. “It may be that a burglar was concealed in the house, or let in by a servant, and that he attacked Miss Carrington as she was seated at her dressing table. It seems impossible that he should have administered poison to her, however, and the conjoined circumstances may indicate collusion between——”
“Between whom?” asked Inspector Brunt.
“I don’t know,” confessed Scofield. “Every way I try to think it out, I ran up against an impassable barrier.”
“That’s what I say,” began Haviland; “it is a most involved case. I shall cable Carrington Loria for authority to employ an expert detective.”
“Why cable him?” asked Pauline; “I am equally in authority now. Carr and myself each receive half the residuary estate of Aunt Lucy, and, of course, I am as anxious to find the—the murderer, as Carr can possibly be.”
“Well, somebody will have to authorize it who is willing to pay for it. As man of business in this home, I am willing to attend to all such matters, but I must have authority.”
“You seem to me a little premature, Mr. Haviland,” commented the Inspector. “Perhaps when the inquest is concluded, it may not be necessary to call on any other detective than our own Mr. Hardy.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Haviland; “but unless you people all wake up, you’re not going to get anywhere. I admit the getting is difficult, but that’s just the reason a wise sleuth should be called in before the trails grow cold.”
And then the Coroner returned to his task of questioning Mrs. Frothingham.
The widow was not definitely helpful. Her statements were often contradictory in minor details, and when she corrected them they seemed to lose in weight. She stuck to the main points, however, that by the help of a strong field-glass she had discerned, in the bright moonlight, a man leave by way of the French window, at four o’clock, and had seen him make his way stealthily out by the great entrance gates of the place.
Cross-questioning on this brought no variations, and the jurymen wagged their heads in belief of her story.
But her accounts of her own doings on Tuesday evening were vague and indefinite.
“I was in my own home all the evening,” she said at one time; and again, “I went out for a short walk at eleven o’clock.” This last in refutation of Haskins, the Carrington butler, who deposed to having seen the lady walk across the lawns of Garden Steps.
“Where did you walk?”
“Oh, just around my own place; and for a moment I strolled over here because the Steps looked so beautiful in the moonlight.”
“You were alone?”
“I was. I have no house guests at present, save the Count; and as my brother, who lives with me, is on a Western trip, I was alone, and I walked about to kill time until Count Charlier should return after his bridge game over here.”
“Did you walk near the house, while on the Garden Steps’ estate?” asked Scofield, scenting a possible espionage of her titled visitor.
“Oh, no!” and the witness bristled with indignation; “why should I! I was not really an acquaintance of Miss Carrington, merely a neighbor.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I saw you on the conservatory verandah,” said Haskins, in a deprecatory way.
“That is not true, Mr. Coroner,” said the lady, glancing scornfully at the butler. “I beg you will not accept a servant’s statement in preference to mine!”
“You are sure of this, Haskins?” said the Inspector gravely.
“Yes, sir. Sure, sir.” and the man looked doggedly certain, though a little scared.
“And you deny it?” went on Scofield to Mrs. Frothingham.
“I most certainly do! How absurd for me to be over here, and how more than absurd for me to deny it if I were!”
This seemed sensible. Why should she deny it? And mightn’t the butler be mistaken? Or deliberately falsifying?
If there were collusion or criminal assistance by any of the servants, surely the word of all of them must be mistrusted unless proven.
And, too, what could have brought Mrs. Frothingham to the verandah of a home where she was not an accepted guest? Or, could she have been spying on the Count?
For it had slowly entered the Coroner’s not very alert mind that perhaps the volatile widow had her own plans for the Count’s future, and Miss Carrington did not figure in them. The manner of the witness bore out this theory. She was self-conscious and at times confused. She frequently looked at the Count and then quickly averted her gaze. She blushed and stammered when speaking his name or referring to him. In a word, she acted as a woman might act in regard to a man of whom she was jealous. And the situation bore it out. If Mrs. Frothingham had matrimonial designs on her distinguished guest, would she not naturally resent his visits to a rich neighbor? Mrs. Frothingham was not rich, and she may well have been afraid of Miss Carrington’s charm of gold, which could cause many a man to overlook anything else that might be lacking.
Coroner Scofield was getting more and more tangled in the mazes of this extraordinary case. He was practically at his wits’ end. At last he blurted out: “It is impossible, it seems, to get a coherent, or even plausible story from a woman! Is there any man present, who knows any of the details of the happenings of Tuesday evening and night?”
There was a moment’s silence at this rather petulant speech, and then Stephen Illsley rose, and speaking very gravely, said:
“It seems to be my unpleasant duty to tell what little I know of these matters.”
The relieved Coroner heard this with satisfaction. Accepting his good fortune, he prepared to listen to Illsley’s testimony.
“I was spending the evening here,” the witness began, “and during my visit I was in the various rooms. At a late hour, perhaps something after eleven,—I was crossing the hall, and I saw Mrs. Frothingham on the stairway.”
“On the stairway!” exclaimed the Coroner, in amazement.
“Yes,” returned Illsley, his grave eyes resting on the face of the widow, who stared at him as if stricken dumb. “Yes, I saw her distinctly. She was evidently coming downstairs, one hand rested on the banister, and she was looking upward at the ceiling.”
“Did she see you?”
“I think not. If so, she made no sign. But she was not looking my way, and I went on into the reception room, where I was going in search of a scarf Miss Stuart had left there. When I recrossed the hall, the lady had disappeared.”
“Did not this seem to you a strange circumstance?”
“I had no right to any opinion on the subject. It was not my affair what guests were at the house I was visiting, or what they might be doing.”
“But Mrs. Frothingham asserts she was not an acquaintance of Miss Carrington.”
“I did not know that, then; and even so, it gave me no right to speculate concerning the lady’s presence there. Nor should I refer to it now, except that in view of the subsequent tragedy it is due to every principle of right and justice that all truths be known as to that evening. Mrs. Frothingham will, of course, recall the episode and can doubtless explain it.”
“I should like to hear the explanation!” said Pauline, with flashing eyes. “As mistress here now, I am interested to know why a stranger should wander about this house at will.”
Mrs. Frothingham sat silent. Her face showed not so much consternation or dismay as a cold, calculating expression, as if debating just what explanation she should offer.
At last she spoke. “I may as well own up,” she said, and laughed nervously. “I was on the verandah, as the vigilant butler noticed. I did step inside the hall, as I had so often heard of the rare tapestries and paintings, and, in my ennui, I thought it no harm to take a peep. The great door was ajar, and I was a little chilled by my walk across the lawns. I said to myself, if I meet any one I will merely beg a few moments’ grace and then run away. Yes, I did take a step or two up the stair, to look at a picture on the landing. It was all innocent enough, perhaps not in the best of taste, but I was lonely, and the light and warmth lured me. In a moment I had slipped out and run away home, laughing over my escapade like a foolish child.”
Her light laugh rippled out as she concluded her story. She looked ingenuous and truthful, but the Coroner distrusted feminine fairy-tales, and this was a little too fanciful to be true.
Moreover, Mrs. Frothingham was looking at him sharply from the corner of her eye. Clearly, she was watching him to see how he took it.
He didn’t take it very well. The acknowledged presence of an outsider in the house, for a not very plausible reason, was illuminating in his estimation. She had been on the stairway. Had she been to Miss Carrington’s room? True, she said she went only to the landing,—but pshaw, women had no regard for the truth! Had she and Count Charlier planned between them to—bah, why did this woman want to kill her neighbor? Even if she were jealous of the Count’s attention, would she go so far as crime? No, of course not! He must question her further. And yet, what good would that do, if she would not tell the truth?
Well, she was in the house at half-past eleven, that much was certain, for Stephen Illsley’s story and her own and also the butler’s testimony all coincided as to that.
And then, Detective Hardy, who had just returned from a short errand, made a startling statement. He declared that the glove which had been found clasped tightly in the dead fingers of the late Miss Carrington did belong to Count Henri Charlier.
Mr. Hardy had been searching the Count’s wardrobe, and though he did not find the mate to that particular glove, he found many others, some worn and some entirely unused, but all of the same size and made by the same firm as the one now in the Coroner’s possession!
Thus cornered Count Charlier reluctantly admitted that it was his glove.
“I denied it,” he thus excused himself, “because I have no idea how it came into Miss Carrington’s possession, and I did not wish to implicate her in an affair with my unworthy self.”
“H’m,” thought Gray Haviland, fixing his attention on the Count and on the flustered Mrs. Frothingham; “a precious pair of adventurers! I expect Scofield is right, we won’t need an expert detective.”
There was more of the inquest. But its continuance brought out no developments not already here transcribed. There was much cross-questioning and probing; there was much rather futile effort to make all the strange details fit any one theory; there was variance of opinion; and there was more or less dissension.
But as a final result, the Coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Miss Lucy Carrington met her death by poison administered by a person or persons unknown, who thereafter, probably for the purpose of diverting attention from the poison, struck her a blow on the head. The jury in their deliberation felt that Count Henri Charlier was implicated. But not having sufficient evidence to make a charge, suggested to the detective force that he be kept under surveillance.
X
BIZARRE CLUES
It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it.
It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy.
Anita Frayne had practically “gone to pieces.” She was nervous, and jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her.
Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of his time to matters of business connected with the estate.
Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent hysterics.
The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested the place.
Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and rarely talked together.
But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by Hardy, the detective.
“They’ve arrested the Count,” Hardy began, and Anita screamed an interruption:
“Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?”
“Yes,” returned the detective. “I found the other one of that pair of gloves, the mate to the one in the lady’s hands,—where, do you suppose?”
“Where?”
“Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count’s chiffonnier drawer; of course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that while visiting.”
“I know it,” said Pauline, earnestly; “it is hard. I’ve often noticed that, when I’ve wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can’t do it, unknown to the servants or somebody.”
“Rubbish!” said Anita, “It would have been easy for the Count to dispose of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. He never committed that crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to incriminate an innocent man. It’s too absurd to fasten the thing on Count Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same purpose and by the same person!”
“By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!” cried Hardy. “Somehow I can’t see the Count’s hand in this thing, and yet——”
“And yet, he did it!” put in Haviland. “Have they really jailed him? I’m glad.”
“I’m sorry,” said Pauline, and her face was white; “Did he—did he—c-confess?” The girl’s voice trembled, and she could scarcely pronounce the words.
“Not he,” said Hardy; “he seemed dazed, and declared his innocence,—but he was not convincing. He takes it very hard and talks wildly and at random. But you know what Frenchmen are; liable to go off their heads at any time.”
“But look at it,” reasoned Anita; “why would the Count kill Miss Carrington? Why, he thought of marrying her.”
“Not much he didn’t!” and Hardy smiled a little. “I size it up this way. Matters had gone so far that he had to propose to the lady or clear out. He didn’t want to clear out for then she would take back the little matter of ten thousand dollars already marked for him in her will. Moreover, he couldn’t realize that tidy little sum, which he very much wants, so long as she lived. To be sure, he would have had far more, had he married her, but that was not in ‘his nibs’’ plans. So he resorted to desperate measures. He’s a thorough villain, that man! Outwardly, most correct and honorable, but really, an adventurer, as is also his friend, the dashing young widow.”
“Mr. Hardy,” and Pauline spoke calmly, now, “do you know these things to be true of Count Charlier, or are you assuming them?”
“Well, Miss Stuart, I know human nature pretty well, especially male human nature, and if I’m mistaken in this chap, I’ll be surprised. But also, I’ve set afoot an investigation, and we’ll soon learn his record, antecedents and all that. At present, no one knows much about him; and what Mrs. Frothingham knows she won’t tell.”
“It was very strange for Aunt Lucy to give him that money——” began Pauline musingly.
“Not at all,” broke in Gray, “I know all about that. Miss Carrington had a certain bunch of bonds that amounted to just fifty thousand dollars. In one of her sudden bursts of generosity, and she often had such, she decided to give those bonds to five people. I mean, to devise them in her will, not to give them now. Well, four were Miss Stuart and Carr Loria, Miss Frayne and myself. And then, she hesitated for some time, but finally announced that the fifth portion should be named for the Count. I was there when the lawyer fixed it up, and Miss Carrington turned to me and said, laughingly, ‘I may change that before it comes due!’ Oh, she was always messing with her will. I’m glad there’s a tidy bit in it for me, as it is. Her demise might have taken place when I was for the moment cut out.”
“Was there ever such a time?” asked Hardy.
“There sure was! Only last month, she got firing mad with me, and crossed me off without a shilling. Then she got over her mad and restored me to favor.”
“You and Miss Frayne have other bequests than those particular bonds you mentioned?” asked the detective.
“Yes, we have each ten thou’ beside, which was all right of the old lady, eh, Anita?”
“None too much, considering what I have stood from her capricious temper and eccentric ways,” returned the girl.
“Your own temper is none too even,” said Pauline, quietly; “I’d rather you wouldn’t speak ill of my aunt, if you please.”
What might have been a passage at arms was averted by the appearance of a footman with a cablegram.
“It’s from Carr!” exclaimed Pauline, as she tore it open, and read:
Awful news just received. Shall I come home or will you come here? Let Haviland attend all business. Love and sympathy.
Carrington Loria.
“He’s in Cairo,” commented Haviland, looking at the paper; “that’s lucky. If he had been off up the Nile on one of his excavating tours, we mightn’t have had communication for weeks. Well, he practically retains me as business manager, at least for the present. And Lord knows there’s a lot to be done!”