E-text prepared by Al Haines

THE MANSION OF MYSTERY

Being a Certain Case of Importance, Taken from the Note-book of Adam Adams, Investigator and Detective

by

CHESTER K. STEELE

Author of "The Disappearance of John Darr"

International Fiction Library
Cleveland New York
Press of the Commercial Bookbinding Co., Cleveland

1911

CHAPTER I

THE STORY OF A DOUBLE TRAGEDY

The young man was evidently in a tremendous hurry, and as soon as the ferryboat bumped into the slip he was at the gate and was the first one ashore. He beckoned to one of the alert taxicabmen, and without waiting to have the vehicle brought to him, ran to it and leaped inside.

"Do you know where the Vanderslip Building is?" he questioned abruptly.

"Yes, sir."

"Then take me there with all possible speed."

"Yes, sir."

The door slammed, the taxi driver mounted to his seat, and off the taxi started at the best rate of speed the driver could attain. The young man sank down among the cushions and buried his chin in his hands.

His face, normally a handsome one, was now wrinkled with care, his hair was disheveled, and he looked as if he had lost much sleep. At times his mouth twitched nervously and he clenched his fists in a passion which availed him nothing.

"To think that she is guilty!" he muttered. "It is horrible! Horrible!" And then his whole frame shook as if with the ague. Twice he started up, to see if he had not yet arrived at his destination. But the drive was a long one, and to him, in his keen anxiety, it appeared an age.

"If he is away—out of town—in Europe, or on some case which he cannot leave, what am I to do?" he murmured. "I've pinned my whole faith on him."

Presently there was a jar, and the taxicab came to a halt in front of a large office building. The young man gave one look, and, before the driver could get down, had the door open and was on the pavement. "Here you are," he said and thrust a dollar bill into the fellow's hand. Then he crossed the broad pavement and was lost to sight in the corridor beyond.

"In a hurry and no mistake, and looks a heap worried, too," was the chauffeur's comment. "Well, I'm a quarter ahead on that fare."

For a moment the young man studied the directory on the corridor wall. Then he entered an elevator and alighted at the eighth floor. He, walked down a side hall until he came to a door upon the glass of which was inscribed the name:

Adam Adams

"This must be the place," he murmured, and opening the door he entered the office, to find himself in a plain but neatly furnished apartment, containing several chairs, and a flat-top desk, at which a young lady was writing.

"Is Mr. Adams in?" he asked, as the young lady arose to meet him.

"What name, please?" was the counter question, and the young lady gave the visitor a keen glance.

"Raymond Case." The young man brought forth his card. "Tell Mr. Adams I am the son of the late Wilbur Case, and wish to see him on important business."

The young lady disappeared through a door leading to an inner apartment. From this she entered another apartment, much larger, and overlooking the little city park far below. The room was filled with books and pictures, and some wall brackets contained several bits of finely-carved statuary. There was one large roller-top desk and three comfortable leather chairs.

At the desk sat a man of uncertain age, with a strong face, a somewhat bald head, and eyes that were neither light nor dark. The man was of ordinary height, but muscular to a surprising degree. His face showed a high order of intelligence and his mouth a determination not easily thrust aside.

"A gentleman to see you," said the young lady. She placed the card before him. "He told me to tell you that he is the son of the late Wilbur Case, and wishes to see you on important business."

The man at the desk drew a long breath and looked up from a slip of paper which he had been studying through a microscope. "Raymond Case, eh? All right, Letty, show him in."

In another moment the visitor was in the private office. Adam Adams arose and gave him a warm handshake.

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Case," he said cordially. "I knew your late father quite well—a fine man—a very fine man, indeed. Have a chair and make yourself at home." He noted that his visitor was much agitated and flushed. "Sit down by the window; there is a nice breeze there from across the park."

"Mr. Adams, I would like to see you in private," returned the young man, as he took a seat and mopped his forehead with his handkerchief.

"Very well," and the office door was carefully closed. Then came a brief pause, during which Raymond Case cleared his throat several times.

"Mr. Adams, you do not know much about me, but I know a great deal about you," he commenced. "Three or four years ago you recovered some stolen mining shares for my father, and last year you cleared up the Sandford mystery, after the police and the other detectives had failed completely."

Adam Adams bowed. He rarely spoke unless there was occasion for it.

"May I ask if you are now at liberty?" pursued the young man.

"At liberty? Bless you, no! I have half a dozen cases on hand. Two here in the city—one over in New Jersey—one in Yonkers, and—"

"But you will undertake a case for me, if I pay you well for it, won't you?" interrupted the young man eagerly. "Don't say no—please don't!" And there was a ring of agony in his speech. "I am depending upon you!"

The detective paused before replying, and looked the young man over with care. The clean-cut features showed not a sign of dissipation, and the expression was honesty itself. Certainly the young man had not gotten into trouble on his own account.

"I should want to know something about the case before I promised to do anything."

"Certainly—of course—" The young man cleared his throat again.

"You can tell me what the trouble is and if I decline to take the case I will give you my promise not to say a word to any outsider of what has passed between us."

"Oh, I know I can trust you, Mr. Adams, otherwise I should not have called here. My father said you were the squarest man he had ever dealt with. I came to see you about the Langmore affair."

"You mean the murder of Mr. and Mrs. Barry Langmore at Beechwood Hill?"

"Yes."

Adam Adams was surprised, although he did not show it. What had this rich young man, who lived in Orange, New Jersey, and did business in Wall Street, to do with that double tragedy which had so shocked the community?

"I presume you know some of the particulars of the sad affair," resumed
Raymond Case. "The newspapers have been full of it."

"I know that the pair were found murdered. I have not looked into details, being so busy with other matters."

"It was an outrageous deed, Mr. Adams!" cried the young man, jumping up and beginning to pace the floor. "One of the foulest of which I have ever heard."

"A murder is always foul, no matter under what circumstances it is committed. What do you wish me to do?"

"Find the murderer."

"That may not be easy. Are not other detectives already working on the case?"

"Yes, but they are only local men and not worth their salt."

"They may be doing all that can be done. It is a mistake to presume that every mystery of this sort can be solved. Here in New York men go to their death every year and nobody ever finds out how, or by what hand."

"But the local men simply jump at conclusions. They are a set of blind fools, and—" The young man stopped short.

Adam Adams smiled faintly. He knew something of the bungling work done by detectives of small caliber. Had he not himself once saved a poor Jew from hanging after several country detectives had apparently proved the fellow guilty? And had not those same sleuths of the law been angry at him ever since?

"Excuse me, Mr. Case, but how is it that you take an interest in this affair?" he asked. "Are you related to the Langmores in any way?"

"I am not." The young man began to blush. "Is it necessary that I tell you why?" he stammered.

"It is not necessary for you to tell me anything," responded the detective dryly.

"I didn't mean to say—"

"Let me give you a word of advice. Never try to get a detective to do anything for you unless you are willing to tell him all you know and all you suspect. It is generally hard enough to solve an enigma without having other mysteries attached to it."

The young man lowered his face and looked confused for a moment.

"Then I will tell you everything," he said. "You may take notes if you wish."

"It is not necessary, since I have a good memory."

"The Langmores lived just on the outskirts of the town, on the road leading to Sidham, which is several miles distance."

"I have a general idea of the location."

"The house is a fine, old-fashioned stone mansion, setting well back from the road, and surrounded by a well-kept lawn and numerous trees and bushes. At the rear of the garden is a small stream, which flows into the river a mile and a half below."

"Is the place surrounded by a fence?"

"On two sides only. In the front there is a hedge and in the rear the little stream forms the boundary of the property."

"I understand."

"At the time of the tragedy there were four persons in the house, so far as known—Mr. and Mrs. Langmore, Mr. Langmore's daughter, Margaret, and a servant, Mary Billings."

"Wait a moment. You said Mr. Langmore's daughter. Was she not Mrs.
Langmore's daughter also?"

"No. You see Mr. Langmore was a widower when he married the present
Mrs. Langmore, who was a widow. There are two sets of children."

"I understand. When did the tragedy occur?"

"At some time between eleven and twelve in the morning. During that time Margaret Langmore was in her room writing several letters, and was practicing on the piano in the parlor. The house is a large one, with sixteen rooms and several hallways and stairs."

"Where was the servant?"

"In the kitchen and out to the barn. There are two other girls, but one is in the hospital sick and the other was to town on an errand."

"Where were Mr. and Mrs. Langmore?"

"The daughter thought her stepmother had gone out to visit a neighbor, as she had said something about doing so earlier in the morning. Mr. Langmore had gone to the bank in town at nine o'clock and Margaret saw him come home about half-past ten or eleven."

"What was she doing at the time?"

"Practicing on the piano. She heard her father go directly to his library, which is situated across the hallway from the parlor. She heard the door shut, and then went on with her practicing."

"Did she hear anything in the library?"

"She thinks she heard something, but is not sure. She was practicing a very difficult piece by Wagner—"

"And it was loud enough to drown out every other sound."

"That's it. When the clock struck twelve she stopped practicing to learn if lunch was ready. She also wanted to speak to her father, and so crossed the hallway and opened the library door." The young man's voice began to tremble a little. "She found her father stretched lifeless in an armchair."

"How had he been killed?"

"That is a part of the mystery. He was either choked or smothered to death, or else he was poisoned. The doctors don't seem to be able to get at the bottom of it."

For the first time since Raymond Case had begun his recital Adam Adams began to show an interest.

"If the man was strangled his throat should show the marks," he observed.

"There are no marks, and the doctors have found no trace of poison."

"Humph!" The detective rubbed his chin reflectively. "What next?"

"Margaret Langmore was so horrified she ran from the room screaming wildly. Her shrieks brought the servant to the spot, and a minute later two of the neighbors, Mrs. Bardon and her son Alfred, came over from next door."

"Where was Mrs. Langmore at this time?"

"Nobody knew. Alfred Bardon is a physician, and, thinking there might still be a spark of life in Mr. Langmore, did all he possibly could to resuscitate the gentleman. The servant girl ran upstairs to find some drugs for him and in the upper hallway stumbled over the dead body of Mrs. Langmore."

"And how had she died?"

"In the same manner as her husband. This news of a double tragedy was too much for Margaret, and she fainted. The others notified more of the neighbors and the police, and of course, the news spread like wildfire. I was stopping at the Beechwood Hotel at the time and as soon as I heard of the tragedy, I jumped into an automobile that was handy and rode over."

"Then you arrived at the house about as soon as the police?"

"A little before."

"What did you see?"

"Just what I have told you. The doctor had been trying to bring Mr.
Langmore around but had suddenly been taken sick and could do nothing."

"Humph, sick, eh? Did he say what made him sick?"

"He did not know. He thought it might be from leaning over the dead man, or from working in that position. I think the sudden sickness frightened him a little."

"When the police arrived what did they find of importance?"

"Nothing."

"Had anything been stolen?"

"Nothing, so far as they could learn."

"Of course, you must have known these folks pretty well to take such an interest."

"I knew Mr. Langmore very well and I was acquainted with his wife."

Adam Adams knit his brow for a moment and tapped lightly on his desk with his forefinger.

"Have the police any idea as to how the murderer got into the house and got out again?" he asked.

At this question Raymond Case's face flushed.

"They do not think the murderer left the house," he answered in a low tone.

CHAPTER II

LOVE UNDER A SHADOW

Raymond Case dropped back into his chair and buried his face in his hands. Adam Adams eyed him curiously and with something of a fatherly glance.

"It is plain to see what his trouble is," thought the detective. "He is in love."

He was right, Raymond Case was furiously, desperately, hopelessly in love. He had met Margaret Langmore at Bar Harbor but a few short weeks before, and it had been a case of love at first sight upon both sides. A few automobile rides and a few dances, and he had proposed and been accepted, and he had counted himself the happiest man in all this wide world. And now—

"Then they suspect the servant girl?" queried Adam Adams, knowing they did nothing of the sort.

"No!" came sharply. "They suspect Margaret—Miss Langmore."

"Ah!"

"Yes. It is—is preposterous—absurd, but they insist. And that is what has brought me to you. I want to prove her innocence to the world. Do that, and you can name your own price, Mr. Adams."

"You have a high regard for the young lady—you are close friends?"

"More. I may as well tell you, though so far Margaret and I have kept the matter more or less a secret. I love her and we are engaged to be married."

"Did Mr. Langmore know of his daughter's engagement?"

"He did, and he approved of it."

"And what of Mrs. Langmore, didn't she approve?"

"She did not know of it. Margaret did not tell her."

"Why not?"

"Because—well, the young lady and her stepmother did not get along very well together. Margaret wanted to be friendly, but Mrs. Langmore was very dictatorial, and besides she loved her own children better than Mr. Langmore's."

"Let me ask, was the daughter on good terms with her father?"

"Yes, excepting on one point. He wished her to obey her stepmother and that she was not always willing to do. This brought on a run of petty quarrels which fairly made Margaret sick."

"And this is the reason why the police think Miss Langmore the guilty person?"

"It is. Their theory is that she first quarrelled with her stepmother and murdered her, and then struck down her father to cover her guilt, he having discovered what she was doing."

"How old is Miss Langmore?"

"She has just passed her twenty-third birthday."

"Humph! Rather young to commit such a cold-blooded crime as this."

"She never did do it—I'll wager my life on it! Oh, it's absurd—insulting! But what are you going to do with a lot of pig-headed country police—"

"How did they come to suspect her? Was there nothing else?"

"Yes, there was. Mrs. Bardon, the woman who lives next door, is a great gossip and one who is continually poking her nose into other folks' business. She told the police that she was out in the garden cutting a bouquet early in the morning, and she heard a violent quarrel going on at the breakfast table between Mrs. Langmore and Margaret, and that Mr. Langmore took his wife's part. Margaret wished to give a small house party and Mrs. Langmore would not listen to it."

"Did Mrs. Bardon hear all that was said?"

"No, only enough to make her run to the police with the tale."

"Is any other house near by?"

"The Harrison mansion, but it is locked up, as the family is in Europe."

"Did you hear if Mrs. Bardon and her son were home all morning?"

"They were, excepting when the doctor went out to make some calls, between nine and eleven."

"Did they see any suspicious characters around the Langmore mansion?"

"Not a soul."

"Did Mary Billings, the servant, see anybody?"

"She thinks she saw somebody near the river, but she is not sure; in fact, she is so scared that she is all mixed up. She has told the police a thousand times that she had nothing to do with the crime."

"Did Miss Langmore see anybody?"

"She saw a Doctor Bird pass in his buggy and a farmer named Carboy go by on foot."

"When was this?"

"While she was at the piano. She doesn't know the exact time."

There was a pause and the detective gave a faraway look out of the window and down the bustling thoroughfare.

"So far as you are aware, Mr. Case, did Mr. Langmore have any personal enemies?"

"I never heard of any."

"He was rich?"

"Yes."

"What was his business?"

"He was a dealer in patents and a promoter. Some thought he was rather eccentric, but I never found him so. He used to have an office here in New York but gave that up a year ago."

"Well, what is your idea of this crime?"

"I haven't any. But I know Margaret Langmore is not guilty."

"Evidently if they suspect her they have concluded that Mrs. Langmore was killed first."

"That is their idea, but it looks to me as if both were killed at about the same time, although I know that couldn't very well be."

"No, not if one was upstairs and the other down. Do you think it possible that one killed the other and then committed suicide?"

At this Raymond Case started back.

"I had not thought of that!" he cried. "If it is true then that clears Margaret." Evidently he was thinking only of the girl he loved—everything else concerning the mystery was of secondary consideration.

"Such a thing is possible, although not probable, unless the two had a bitter quarrel between themselves. Every crime must have a motive. People do not commit murder unless there is a reason for it or unless they are insane. Motives may be divided into three classes—jealousy, revenge, or gain. In this instance I think we can throw out jealousy—"

"Mrs. Langmore was jealous of Margaret."

"And wasn't the young lady jealous of her stepmother in a way?"

"But she is not guilty—I'll stake my life on her innocence."

"Then let us come down to revenge or gain. You say nothing was stolen.
Was there a safe in the house?"

"Yes, and it is closed, and will remain so until the experts open it."

"Nobody knew the combination but Mr. Langmore?"

"That's it. Margaret did know, but her stepmother had her father change the combination and keep it to himself."

"Had he much money in the house?"

"I think not. Margaret says her father was in the habit of depositing cash in the bank as soon as he received it."

"What sort of promoting did he do?"

"He organized companies to manufacture his patents. He also speculated in real estate and in mortgages. He owned two buildings in this city and several in the country."

"Who are the other members of the family?"

"Margaret's married sister, Mrs. Andrew Wetherby, of Sanhope, and Mrs.
Langmore's two sons, Tom and Dick Ostrello."

"Where are these people located?"

"Mrs. Wetherby is traveling with her husband in South America. The
Ostrello brothers are commercial travelers and somewhere on the road."

"Then the Ostrellos are not rich?"

"No, they are poor, and Mrs. Ostrello was poor, too, before she married
Mr. Langmore."

There was another pause.

"Can you tell me anything else?" asked Adam Adams.

"Nothing of much importance. It's a deep mystery, isn't it?"

"Yes, it's very simplicity makes it deep." The detective drew a long breath. "I was thinking of taking a vacation. My doctor says I need it."

"Oh!" There was a world of disappointment in the word. "Don't say that! You must take hold of this. I planned it all out as I came to town. I know you can clear Margaret if you will only try. Think of her position—the disgrace—my position— Oh, you can't refuse me, Mr. Adams!" The young man came closer and caught the detective by the shoulder. "If it's money, set your price."

"If I take hold, I'll charge you only what is fair, Mr. Case. But I never take a case, unless—"

"Any request you have to make is already granted."

"Unless I can first interview the person who stands accused of the crime."

"You can see Miss Langmore at any time. I told her that I was coming to town to interview you, and that I would bring you back with me, if you would come. I told her what a wonderful man you were and what you had done for others. I think it cheered her a little, although she was terribly cast down."

"You must not promise too much on my account, young man. I am no wizard, and I cannot perform the impossible, much as I might wish to do so."

"But you will come?"

"Yes, I will come."

"At once?" cried Raymond Case impatiently.

"At once."

CHAPTER III

MARGARET LANGMORE

As Raymond Case had said, the Langmore mansion was a large one, setting in the midst of an extensive lawn, sprinkled here and there with maples and oaks and fine flowering bushes. The hedge in front was well kept and the side fences were also in good repair. In the rear was a stable and also an automobile shed, for the late master of this estate had been fond of a dash in his runabout when time permitted. Down by the brook, back of the stable, was a tiny wharf, where a boat was tied up, a craft which Margaret Langmore had occasionally taken down to the river for a row.

The mansion now looked dark and lonesome, although many folks passed on the highway and whispered to each other that there was the spot where the gruesome tragedy had been committed. "And to think that the man's own daughter did it," they would generally add. "Beats all how bloodthirsty some folks can get. He must have cut her short on money or something and she was too high-strung to stand it."

"No, it ain't that," another would answer. "She's been flirting around with a certain young man, a Wall Street gambler, and her mother wouldn't have it and told her so. That's the real trouble, my way of thinking."

Inside of the house all was as quiet as a tomb save for the ticking of the long clock in the lower hall. Below, a single policeman was on guard, in company with a woman, who had been sent in to help: Upstairs another woman was stationed, to see that Margaret Langmore might not take it upon herself to leave for parts unknown.

Margaret sat in her own room, in the wing on the second floor, a dainty apartment, trimmed in blue and containing all her girlish treasures. On the walls were numerous photographs of her old schoolmates and the flag of the seminary she had attended. And on the mantel rested the picture of Raymond Case, the high polish of the surface marred in one spot where a tear had fallen upon it.

The girl was tall and slender, with a wealth of light-brown hair and eyes of deepest blue. It was more than a pretty face, for it had a certain sadness that was touching.

For several minutes the girl had not moved. Now, as the door opened and the woman who was on guard upstairs came in, she gave a long sigh.

"Can I do anything?" asked the woman, in a voice that was not unkindly.

"Nothing, thank you, Mrs. Morse."

"Would you like a cup of tea, or a bit of toast? Mrs. Jessup can make it easy enough—she has nothing at all to do."

"I do not care to touch a thing."

The answer came in a dreary monotone. The girl's trials were beginning to tell upon her. At first she had tried to bear up bravely, and the words Raymond had spoken had comforted her, but now he was gone and the whole world looked dark once more.

"Has anybody called?" she asked at length.

"Nobody to see you."

"Nobody?" Margaret began to pace the floor. "When did the coroner say the examination was to be continued?" she went on.

"To-morrow morning at eleven o'clock."

"And who is to be put on the stand?"

At this question the woman in charge began to fidget. "Excuse me, miss, but I was ordered not to answer questions. I'm sorry, and I wish you wouldn't worry so much. If I can do anything else—"

"You can do nothing."

At that moment came the sounds of carriage wheels and a cab from the depot drew up to the door. Margaret looked through the slats of a blind and saw that the arrivals were Raymond Case and a stranger, a man wearing a rather ordinary suit of clothing and a rough slouch hat.

"Thank Heaven, Raymond has brought somebody!" murmured the girl.

There was a short consultation at the front door and she heard the young man say: "He has a perfect right here and I demand admittance for us both." Then another murmur followed and the pair came upstairs. They knocked on the door of Margaret's room and were admitted, and Mrs. Morse was told that she might go.

"This gentleman has come to give Miss Langmore some advice," said
Raymond Case. "If we want you we will call."

"But I have orders—"

"Miss Langmore will remain in this room, so you have nothing to fear.
She has a legal right to receive advice."

"Oh, if the gentleman is a lawyer I have nothing to say," was the retort, and Mrs. Morse swept from the room.

The instant she was gone, the young man closed the door and then rushed up to Margaret Langmore and kissed her.

"I have succeeded!" he cried. "I told you I would. This is Mr. Adam Adams. Mr. Adams, this is Miss Margaret Langmore. Now, I guess we are going to show these country bumpkins a thing or two!" he added earnestly.

The detective advanced and shook hands. Margaret Langmore was a trifle disappointed in his appearance and her face clouded for an instant. Raymond was quick to notice it.

"You mustn't judge a man by his appearance. Mr. Adams makes himself look that way on purpose. He's the smartest, swiftest—"

"That will do," interrupted the detective with a brief smile.

"Will you help me?" The girl eyed the detective squarely. "I—I need help so much."

"I must hear your story first."

"Oh, I thought Raymond would tell you everything."

"He has told me all he knows. But I want to hear the story from your own lips. Something may have slipped him, you know."

"I will tell you everything. Please sit down."

Margaret Langmore began her narrative. It was fully an hour before she finished. Occasionally the detective asked a question, but for the most part he sat back with his eyes closed, as if thinking of something else.

"Now, Miss Langmore," he exclaimed, as he straightened up at the conclusion of her recital, "whom do you suspect of this crime?"

"I suspect no one, sir."

"Have you any idea why this awful deed was committed?" The detective had been on the point of saying "murder" but had checked himself.

"Not the least in the world."

"Some of the windows were, of course, open. What of the doors?"

"The front door and that to the side piazza were locked. The back door was open."

"Then a person might have sneaked in by the back way?"

"I presume so."

"Your father was quite dead when you found him?" asked the detective quickly.

"I—I—thought so." The girl began to choke up and sob. "It—it was such a shock—I—I—" She could not go on.

Adam Adams watched her keenly and noted how she trembled from head to foot.

"Do not take it so hard, Margaret," put in Raymond Case, placing his hand upon her shoulder. "It will all come out right in the end—I am sure of it."

"But it will not bring back my father!" sobbed the girl. "And he was so dear to me! And to think that we should quarrel at all—"

"The quarrel took place at the breakfast table, so you said," came from Adam Adams. "And you rushed out to get away from what your stepmother was saying to you?"

"Yes. I could not bear it any longer."

"Your father took Mrs. Langmore's part?"

"He did, but at the same time he told her not to be so hard on me—that
I had been without a mother to guide me so many years, and all that."

"Do you think they quarreled between themselves after you left, or after your father came back from the bank?"

"I cannot say as to that."

"Mr. Adams has an idea that possibly one or the other of them was responsible," put in Raymond. "He thinks one might have killed the other and then committed suicide."

"I do not think so. I said it was possible," corrected the detective. "In taking up an affair of this sort one must look at it from all sides."

"I do not believe my father either killed her or committed suicide," answered Margaret Langmore firmly.

"Do you think Mrs. Langmore would act in such a fashion?"

The girl pondered for a moment.

"Honestly I do not. She may have killed my father, but if so she would have run away."

"The safe was closed at the time of the tragedy?"

"Yes."

"And absolutely nothing was stolen?"

"Nothing, so far as we have been able to ascertain."

"Was anything out of order, as if the assassin had been scared off while hunting around for something to steal?"

"I did not see anything. But I was so upset I noticed scarcely anything."

"That was natural, of course. The safe has not yet been opened?"

"No, we are waiting for a man to come from the safe makers."

"Now, one thing more. After you came back to the house before practicing what did you do?"

"I wrote some letters to girl friends, telling them I could not give a house party."

"And before that?"

"I—I, must I tell? I threw myself on the bed yonder for a good cry.
It was silly, I know—but—but—"

"Did you hear anything unusual while you were here? Think carefully."

"I have tried to think it out several times. Sometimes I think I heard some sort of a shriek, but I am not at all certain. Then, again, I think I heard the fall of something heavy on the floor. But it may be all fancy."

"And that is all you can tell me?"

"Yes." Margaret Langmore gave a long sigh. "Oh, Mr. Adams, can you not do something for me? It is horrible to be suspected in this fashion. I cannot make a move without being watched!"

"It is certainly a cruel situation." The detective paused. "I am sure of one thing, Miss Langmore."

"And that is—"

"That you are innocent. Those who think you are guilty are fools, as
Mr. Case says."

"Yet more than half the folks around here think that way."

"Let them. We'll set to work to prove their mistake."

"Good!" almost shouted Raymond Case, and his face broke out into a look of relief. "Then you will take the case, Mr. Adams?"

"I will."

"I know you will succeed."

"If you do succeed, I shall be grateful to you all my life," came from
Margaret Langmore warmly.

CHAPTER IV

DETECTIVE AND DOCTOR

As already intimated, Adam Adams, in his career as an investigator and detective, had solved many difficult criminal problems, yet this somewhat remarkable individual realized that the mystery before him was as difficult of solution as any he had yet encountered.

The most tantalizing thing about the whole affair was its simplicity. Two people had been murdered in their own home in broad daylight. No one had been seen around the place, and even the manner in which the foul deed had been committed was a secret.

A score of possibilities presented themselves to his mind when he left Margaret Langmore and Raymond Case to begin the task he had set before himself—to clear the fair name of the beautiful girl who had placed her faith in him and his ability.

"I'll take a look around the house first," he reasoned. "Then I'll find out a little more about these dead folks and their connections."

Thinking that he must be some noted lawyer from New York, Mrs. Morse was very gracious to him, and readily consented to show him around.

"Here is the spot where Mrs. Langmore's body was found," said the woman, leading the way to a bend in the upper hallway. "The servant girl tripped over it in her hurry, and went sprawling. She was about scared out of her wits."

"Naturally enough. Do you know how the body was lying?"

"At full length, they say, face downward, and with the fists clenched."

"Was that window open?"

"Yes, but not the blinds."

"Where does that door lead to?"

"Mrs. Langmore's dressing room. The door was open when they found her—as if she had come out and was trying to get downstairs."

"Humph!" The detective pushed the blinds of the window open and began to examine the carpet on the floor.

"We've looked around, but we couldn't see a thing," pursued the woman.

"We? Who?"

"The coroner and the police officers."

"Oh! You say the body was lying right here?"

"Yes—the head there, and the feet there. I suppose you are going to try to clear Miss Langmore, aren't you?" went on Mrs. Morse curiously.

"I am—if she is innocent."

"You'll have a task doing it. Everybody around here thinks her guilty."

To this Adam Adams did not reply. He was down on his hands and knees, close to where the head of the murdered woman had rested. He placed his nose to the carpet and drew in a long breath. His olfactory nerves were sensitive, and detected a certain pungent, stinging odor, of a sort not easily forgotten.

"You must be pretty short-sighted," was the woman's comment. The sight of the man on his hands and knees amused her.

"Well, I might have a better pair of eyes, I admit."

From his examination of the carpet, the detective turned to the window. Outside was the roof to the side piazza of the mansion. On the tin roof were some dried-up spots of mud. He looked them over carefully, and came to the conclusion that they were footprints, but how old was a question.

"When did it rain last around here?" he asked.

"We haven't had a real storm for ten days or two weeks. We have had several showers, though."

He took a glance into Mrs. Langmore's dressing room. Everything was in perfect order, even to the powder-box and the cologne bottles on the dresser.

"That is all I wish to see up here," he said, and passed below, where he encountered the policeman in charge. Like the woman, this officer had taken him to be a lawyer, and he readily consented to let the detective inspect the library.

"Mr. Langmore was found in that chair," said he. "He looked as if he had suffered great pain before he died. I think he was strangled, although he didn't show the marks of it."

The library was a richly-furnished apartment. Along two walls were rows of costly volumes, many relating to modern inventions. On the walls hung some rare steel engravings, including one of Fulton and his first steamboat. There was a large library table, with a student's lamp, a mahogany roller-top desk, half a dozen comfortable chairs, and a small, but well-built safe, which, as said before, was closed and locked.

"The coroner locked and sealed the desk, and put all the loose papers in it," said the policeman.

There were two windows to the library, and one was close to the side porch, the roof of which the detective had examined from above. A person dropping from above could easily have entered the library by the window, thus saving himself the trouble of walking through the halls and down the stairs. Adam Adams looked outside, and saw on the ground a number of footprints, some running to a gravel path but a few feet away.

"Where are the bodies?" he asked, as he continued his examination of the room.

"At Camboin's morgue. The doctors have been looking for poison, but they can't find any."

The detective got down in front of the safe and examined it critically. Had it been opened after the murder and then closed again? That was an important question, but he was unable to answer it.

More by instinct than anything else, he got down and peered under the safe. A crumpled-up bit of paper caught his eye, and he picked it up and slipped it into his pocket without the policeman being the wiser.

"Has anybody else been here?" he asked. "I mean any outsiders."

"A good many folks from the village."

"Anybody else?"

"Yes, a detective from Brooklyn. He thought there might be a job for him, but there wasn't, so he went away," and the policeman smiled grimly.

"What was his name?"

"I think he said it was Peterson."

"Is that the Bardon house yonder?" And Adam Adams pointed through the window and across the side lawn.

"Yes. Doctor Bardon was the first to come over—he and his mother."

"So I heard. I think I'll step over and speak to them a moment."

"So you are working for Miss Langmore?"

"Yes, in a way."

"You'll have an uphill job clearing her. The coroner thinks he has a clear case against her."

"Do you know what evidence he possesses?"

"Not exactly. He isn't telling all he knows," returned the officer of the law. "There is the doctor now."

A buggy was coming down the road. It turned in at the next house, and a young man, carrying a small case, leaped out and disappeared into the dwelling.

In a few minutes more, Adam Adams made his way next door. An elderly servant admitted him and ushered him into the doctor's office, where the young physician sat marking down some calls in his notebook.

"This is Doctor Bardon, I believe. I just came over from the Langmore house. I am working on this mystery, and I understand you were the physician who tried to bring Mr. and Mrs. Langmore to life after they were found."

"I worked over Mr. Langmore, yes," was the young physician's answer. "I saw at once that it was impossible to do anything for his wife. She had a weak heart naturally, and was stone dead some time before I got there."

"You thought you saw a spark of life in Mr. Langmore?"

"Not exactly a spark, but I thought there might be hope. But I was mistaken, although I did everything I could."

"I have been told that working over the corpse made you sick."

At these words, the face of the young physician showed his annoyance.
He drew himself up.

"Excuse me, but you are—" and he paused inquiringly.

"I am working on this case in the interests of Miss Langmore. My name is Adams."

"Oh!"

"What I would like to know is, What made you sick? Was it merely that a crime had been committed—something you were not accustomed to?"

"No, it was not, Mr. Adams. I am young, I know, but I have had a good hospital experience, and such things do not unnerve me. To be sure, Mr. Langmore was a good neighbor, and I thought much of him. But it was not that."

"Then what was it?"

"It was something about the corpse. As I worked I had to sneeze—something seemed to get into my nose and throat, and in a minute more I began to have cramps and grew deathly sick. It was the queerest sensation I ever experienced in my life. I haven't gotten over it yet."

"You had to go out to get some fresh air?"

"I did. If I had not, I think I should have suffered much more."

"And you found no trace of any poison, or anything of that sort?"

"Not the slightest. Another doctor was called in, and then I went back. The peculiar odor, or whatever it was, was gone, and I could find no further trace of it."

"You think it must have evaporated?"

"What else is there to think? The windows and blinds had been thrown wide open, and the sun was shining into the room."

This was all the young doctor could tell, and as he was in a hurry to get away on more business, the detective did not detain him further. He ascertained that Mrs. Bardon was also away, and then left the house.

In his pocket he still carried the bit of paper which he had picked up from under the safe. It had evidently been part of the wrapper around some small object, and bore the following, printed in blue ink:

nder & Co., ley Street, ter, N. Y. ark.

The paper might be valuable, and it might be worthless. It had evidently been around a small box or bottle. The address was evidently that of some firm doing business in some town in New York State. What the "ark" could stand for, he could not surmise.

As the detective left the Bardon house, he saw a middle-aged man entering the Langmore mansion. The man was well dressed and carried a dress-suit case.

"A visitor of some sort," he mused. "Perhaps a relative."

When he stepped up on the piazza Raymond Case came out to meet him.
The young man wished to know if he had learned anything from the doctor.

"Not a great deal," answered Adam Adams. "Who was that man who just came in?"

"Thomas Ostrello, one of Mrs. Langmore's sons by her first husband."

"Is he a frequent visitor here?"

"I believe not. He is a commercial traveler, and on the road nearly all the time."

"Has he been here since the tragedy?"

"No. He was here the day before it occurred, but went away in the evening. I suppose his mother's death has shocked him a good deal."

"I believe you said the Ostrellos are not well off?"

"No; they are poor, so Margaret told me. Both of the sons are on the road, one for a paint house and this one for a drug house. By the way, I am going to town, to see the coroner. Do you want to come along?"

"No, I'll see him later. I want to take a walk around this place first. I may pick up a stray clue."

Left to himself, Adam Adams walked slowly around the mansion, noting the several approaches. He looked in at the stable and the automobile shed, and strolled down to the brook. He made no noise, for it was his practice to move about as silently as possible and without attracting attention.

Suddenly he halted and stepped out of sight behind some bushes not far away from the brook. He heard a splashing, which told him that somebody was near.

CHAPTER V

THE MAN AT THE BROOK

Beside the brook stood a shabbily-dressed man, apparently fifty-five or sixty years old. He wore an old rusty black coat and a soft hat with a hole in it. His face was tanned and partly covered with a beard.

The man was acting in a manner to excite anybody's curiosity. He carried a stick in his hand, and was poking around in the water with it. Every once in a while he looked around, to see if anybody was observing him.

Straining his eyes, Adam Adams saw a strip of white floating on the water. Once or twice it disappeared. Finally the end of the strip caught on an overhanging bush, and then the strange man withdrew his cane from the brook.

As he turned around the detective dodged out of sight. Apparently satisfied that he was not observed, the strange man leaned down at the bank of the brook, took something from his pocket and placed it down on the moist dirt. Then he took another object from his pocket and repeated the operation.

"Can they be shoes he has in his hands?" mused the detective. "And if they are, what is he doing with them?"

Hearing the slamming of a door at the mansion, Adam Adams drew still further back among the bushes. A minute later he saw the man make a long leap, clear the brook, and hurry away among the trees and brushwood on the other side.

"Humph! Perhaps this is worth investigating," mused the detective, and made his way to the spot the strange individual had occupied. On the bank of the brook he saw the marks of the man's broad shoes and also some prints made by smaller shoes. The latter prints were irregular, and at once arrested the detective's attention. He smiled grimly to himself.

"Clue number one!" he muttered.

Adam Adams looked around in the water. Soon he came upon the strip of white, and, pulling on it, brought to light a white silk shirtwaist, torn to ribbons in front and at one sleeve. He wrung the water and mud from the garment and examined it. Inside of the collar band were the initials, "M. A. L."

"Margaret A. Langmore," he murmured. "Those initials are hers. If the shirtwaist was hers, how did that fellow get possession of it? And did he place it here or find it here?"

Drying the garment as much as possible, he placed it in his pocket, and continued his search around the vicinity. He spent fully an hour in the locality, and then walked back the way he had come, and into the mansion. There he found Thomas Ostrello in conversation with the policeman.

"It is a terrible blow to me," the commercial traveler was saying. "And to think I was here just the day before it happened! If I had remained here over night, it might not have occurred at all!"

"Well, that's the way things happen," answered the policeman. "Once I was at one end of my beat when a thief broke into a store at the other end and stole sixteen dollars and two hams."

"And I suppose they blamed you for it."

"Sure they did. I was laid off for a week, without pay. If anything happens it is always the poor copper who is to blame."

"Well, the family are not blaming you for this."

"They can't—especially as they've got the person who did the deed."

At this Thomas Ostrello shrugged his shoulders.

"I don't know about that."

"You don't?"

"No. I'd hate to believe any girl could do such a fearful thing as this." The commercial traveler paused. "I'm going to take a look around. I suppose it's all right."

"Certainly, Mr. Ostrello," answered the policeman, and then the commercial man stepped into the library, closing the door after him.

Adam Adams had passed into the dining room, just back of the library, but had heard what was said. Now, looking through the doorway, which had a sliding door and a heavy curtain, the latter partly drawn, he saw the man glance around hurriedly, moving from one object to another in the library. He looked under the table and the chairs, in the corners, and even into the various bookcases. Then he came and knelt down before the safe, and tried the knob of the combination half a dozen times.

"He is more than ordinarily interested," reasoned the detective. "But then it was his own mother who was murdered."

The commercial man continued his search until he had covered every object in the room several times. He even looked behind the pictures, and into the drawer of the table, something which had escaped the coroner's eye when sealing up the desk. Adam Adams saw him shake his head in despair. He took a turn up and down the apartment and clenched his hands nervously.

"Gone!" he muttered to himself. "What could have become of it?"

He drew from his pocket a notebook he carried, and studied several items carefully. A long sigh escaped from his lips as he restored the notebook to his pocket.

As the commercial traveler moved toward the dining room, the detective stepped into a side apartment, used in the winter as a conservatory. He saw Thomas Ostrello make an examination of several places, including a sideboard. Then the woman who had been placed in charge of the downstairs portion of the mansion entered.

"Won't you have a bite to eat, Mr. Ostrello?" she asked.

"Perhaps so, later on. I do not feel like eating now. Can I take a look at my mother's room?"

"Why, yes. I suppose you know where it is?"

"Certainly; I often visited her there when she was not feeling well."

He passed out without another word, and was soon mounting the heavily-carpeted stairs. Once in the room, he closed the door tightly. Coming up softly after him, Adam Adams tried the door and found it locked. More interested than ever, the detective, just avoiding Mrs. Morse, who was passing through the hallway, slipped into the adjoining room, and finding, as he had imagined, a door between the two, applied his eye to the keyhole.

This might mean nothing, and it might mean everything. He saw Mrs. Langmore's son moving around the dressing room precisely as he had moved around the library. He heard the bureau drawers opened and shut, and then heard the squeak of a small writing desk that stood in a corner, as the leaf was turned down. Then came a rattle of papers and a sudden subdued exclamation. The desk was closed again, and the man came out of the room, leaving the hall door partly open.

"Whatever he was looking for, he must have found it," reasoned the detective. "Now, what was it?"

He waited in the hallway and heard Thomas Ostrello enter the dining room. A minute later came the rattle of dishes. Then Mrs. Morse confronted him.

"Back again, I see," she said rather sharply.

"Yes; I wish to have another talk with Miss Langmore," he returned, and, brushing her aside, knocked on the girl's door, and was admitted. The woman pursed up her lips.

"How very important some of those city lawyers are," she muttered. "Think they know it all, I guess. Well, he'll have a job clearing her, if what Coroner Busby says is true."

"Oh, I did not know you were coming back!" exclaimed Margaret. "Has anything happened?"

"I want to know something about this, Miss Langmore," and he brought out the torn and wet shirtwaist. "Is it yours?"

"Oh, certainly; but where did it come from? And it is all torn, too!
It was almost new when I had it on last!"

"When was that?"

The girl thought for a moment, and then turned pale.

"On the morning that—that—"

"That the tragedy occurred?"

"Yes. I don't know what made me put it on, but I did."

"And when did you take it off?"

"Why, let me see. Some time in the afternoon, I think. I—I fainted, and it got dirty, and so I put on another and threw this in the clothes closet."

"Are you certain you put it in the clothes closet?"

"Positive. Where did you find it?"

"Never mind that just now. Do you keep your shoes in that closet?"

"I do. But why—"

"Will you kindly see if all of your shoes are there?"

The girl ran over, opened the closet door, and began an immediate examination.

"One pair is missing—a pair I use a great deal, too," she said a minute later. "Oh, Mr. Adams, what does this mean?"

"I don't know—yet. While you are at it, you might let me know if anything else is missing."

Margaret began a close examination of everything in the closet, the detective watching her as keenly as he had before.

"She is either innocent, or else the greatest actress I've ever met," was his mental conclusion. "I think her innocent, but the best of us get tripped up at times. If she is innocent, that evidence was manufactured to prove her guilty. If only I had followed that man up! I might have learned something worth knowing."

"Nothing else seems to be missing," announced the girl, at length.

"Very well; then don't waste time by searching further. By the way, did you know Mr. Thomas Ostrello had arrived?"

"Yes; I told Raymond to telegraph for him. He used to call quite often to see his mother."

"What about the other son—Dick?"

"I do not know where he is."

"Didn't he come here?"

"He came once. But he is a dissipated young man, and I do not think my stepmother cared much for him."

"But she did think a good deal of the one who is now downstairs?"

"Yes, although they occasionally had their quarrels, just as we had ours. Tom would plead for his brother Dick, who seemed to be always wanting money. Once my father took a hand and said his wife shouldn't give Dick a cent more, as he only squandered it. That made Tom angry, and he had a quarrel with my father, and after that when Tom came he would ask to see only his mother, although he and I remained on fairly good terms."

"Tom was here the day before the tragedy?"

"Yes. I think he came to see his mother about some private business.
They had a long talk in her room, and she seemed to be quite excited
when he went away. I don't know what it was all about. But, Mr.
Adams, are you not hungry, and won't you have a lunch?"

"Thanks, I'll take a bite."

The lunch was served in Margaret's apartment, and the detective did ample justice to it, for he never allowed business to interfere with his appetite. As he ate, the girl watched him curiously.

"Mr. Adams," she said presently, "do you know, you do not seem a bit like a detective to me—I mean like the detectives you read about—the men going about in wonderful disguises and the like, and doing marvelous things? And yet, I know you have a wonderful reputation—Raymond told me about it."

At that he smiled broadly. "Wonderful disguises, eh? Well, I use them when I think them necessary, and not otherwise. When I started out, years ago, I used a great many more than I do now. To me a mystery of this sort is a good deal like a cut-up picture that you give a child to put together. First, you want to make sure you have all the pieces, and then you want to sit down, put on your thinking-cap, and match the pieces together. To you this is an awful tragedy," his tone softened greatly, "to me it is another case, nothing more. Work such as I have done is bound to harden a fellow, in spite of all of his finer feelings. But I feel for you and you have my sympathy."

"And you will aid me? You said you would," she pleaded.

"I am going to do what I can—no man can do more."