The three strings

MARIAN VAN NESS detached herself from the stream of people moving slowly up Seventeenth Street and raced to the opposite curb, only arriving in time, however, to see the Mt. Pleasant car sail serenely by. A second, third, and fourth car, their passengers clinging like ants to steps and even fenders, rounded the curve without stopping and continued up Connecticut Avenue. In despair Marian turned about and tucking the papers she carried more securely under her arm, set out for the Burnham house. She had walked but a third of the way when a man fell into step with her and looking around she found René La Montagne by her side.

“Ah! Captain, good afternoon,” she exclaimed. “Did you receive my telephone message?”

“But yes, madame, and I hurried most quickly to the State Department only to find you gone.” The French officer reached over and took her small bundle of papers. “Permit that I carry them,” he said with a quick courtly bow, and taking possession of the papers he slipped them inside the pocket of his blue tunic. “Tell me, madame, you have seen Evelyn,” and Marian read in his eyes the passion even Evelyn’s name kindled in the gallant officer and her heart throbbed with the quick and ready sympathy every woman feels for true romance.

“Yes. I am on my way to join Evelyn now,” she answered. “Frankly, Captain, what has estranged you two?”

La Montagne’s expression grew troubled. “It is not of my making,” he protested. “My letters remain unanswered——”

“Are you quite certain, Captain, that Evelyn received your letters?”

“But yes,” and as she would have spoken he added rapidly: “When I cabled that I would arrive shortly in this country, having been detailed here to instruct in the aviation, and received no reply I questioned in my mind if Evelyn had received it. Getting leave, I went to Chelsea and called upon Mr. and Mrs. Burnham——”

“You did!”

“Of course, madame.” La Montagne emphasized his remarks with gesticulations eminently characteristic of his race. “It was my misfortune that Evelyn was away, and through some inadvertence my cable had not been forwarded to her. I had but a few hours in Chelsea, but upon my return to duty I wrote to Evelyn a letter requiring a reply, and I sent it by what you call ‘registered’ post.”

“And she answered the letter?”

“No.” In spite of his effort to keep his tone expressionless the monosyllable betrayed emotion.

“Then you can take it that Evelyn never received your letter,” exclaimed Marian vehemently.

“You think not!” La Montagne’s face lighted, then fell. “But how is that within the possible? The return card bore her signature of receipt.”

Marian stopped and stared at the Frenchman. “Her signature? Are you quite sure?”

“Oui, madame. I have read her few letters too often to be mistaken,” retorted La Montagne. “She signed the receipt.”

Marian resumed her walk up the street, a puzzled frown creasing her forehead. “Where did you send the letter?” she asked.

“To Burnham Lodge, Chelsea, New Jersey.”

Marian quickened her pace to avoid being run down by a speeding automobile as they crossed Massachusetts Avenue.

“And where was the return receipt card from?” she inquired, a trifle breathless from her exertions.

“From the same place.” La Montagne fumbled in an inside pocket. “But view,” he said, holding up a much battered return registered mail card. Marian took the card and studied the postmark, its date, and Evelyn’s clear and distinct signature in puzzled silence, then handed back the card.

“I can only tell you,” she stated slowly, “that Evelyn spent the entire summer in a convent out West; she has not been at Burnham Lodge for a year.”

The Frenchman stared at her. “What is it you say?” he exclaimed in deep astonishment, and Marian repeated her statement. “But it is not possible!” he ejaculated. “Not possible!”

“Yes it is,” Marian’s face expressed indomitable determination. “And I can’t have Evelyn’s happiness jeopardized by——” She stopped to wave her hand to Dr. Hayden, Dan Maynard, and James Palmer, who whirled by in an automobile. La Montagne, who had raised his hand in salute as the other men lifted their hats, whirled back to Marian, his face alight.

“Evelyn has not lost her affection; she is still true,” he began incoherently. “Ah, you have brought me news the most good—let us hurry to Evelyn.”

“Wait just a moment,” and Marian laid a detaining hand on the impetuous Frenchman’s arm. “We must sift this out a bit first. How were you received at Burnham Lodge and by whom?”

“Most cordially by both Mr. and Mrs. Burnham.”

“Was that the first time you had met them?”

“No, oh, no; we have met before in Paris, and I saw Mrs. Burnham when in New York visiting my American cousins. It was in my cousin’s house that I met Evelyn.”

“So Evelyn told me.” Marian did not think it necessary to add that Evelyn had awakened her from her brief nap after her all night vigil in Mrs. Ward’s room, and poured out her story of love, misunderstanding and lost letters with such pathos that Marian had promptly championed her cause with every impulse of her loyal nature. Having met Captain La Montagne earlier in the summer she had then and there vowed to see him before the twenty-four hours were over, and if, as she had begun to suspect, she found that peculiar methods were being used to estrange the lovers, she decided to try and aid them.

“Captain,” she commenced, “did you see much of Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”

“No.” The Frenchman tempered the brief answer with an explanation. “Mr. Burnham is some years older and we are not what you might call”—he paused, searching for a word—“in sympathy.”

“I see.” Marian stared thoughtfully at a passing touring car. “It must have been fully five years ago, but was there not some story about Mr. Burnham when he was in Paris?”

There was a pause, and when he spoke, the Frenchman confined himself to the word: “Yes.”

Marian’s eyes lighted. “My memory sometimes plays me tricks,” she said. “What were the details?”

La Montagne did not answer at once. “It was not so much,” he began. “Count André de Sartiges and Mr. Burnham had a dispute at Longchamps, and the next afternoon André slapped Mr. Burnham’s face in the club.”

“And what happened then?” persisted Marian as he stopped.

“Nothing,” La Montagne shrugged his shoulders. “In France it meant a duel; but as Mr. Burnham was an American who did not believe in dueling, the affair was soon forgotten.”

“All the same Mr. Burnham had to leave Paris,” retorted Marian, “and Mr. Burnham is a man who harbors grievances. I fear, Captain, that he does not favor your engagement to Evelyn.”

La Montagne transferred his regard from Marian to a colored passer-by and the woman happening to catch his eye, started back, alarmed. After he and Marian passed, the woman turned and regarded their backs before continuing on her way.

“I ’spect he looked dat away when he seed a Hun,” she ejaculated. “An’ from de medals he’s awearin’, he musta seen a pile ob Huns, but why fo’ he look at a respectable colored lady like he wanter murder her.”

Totally unaware of the sentiments he had aroused, la Montagne strolled by Marian’s side for some moments in silence.

“Madame Burnham has given me letters of introduction to friends and her husband has invited me to their house,” he said at last. “To question Mr. Burnham’s friendship——”

“Is wise,” supplemented Marian softly. The Frenchman remained silent and she added with vehemence: “Because when Mr. Burnham’s animosity is suppressed it is all the more dangerous. Take a friendly tip from me; do not trust him, and remember, he has great influence over his wife.”

“If Evelyn will but marry me, we need not heed Burnham,” exclaimed La Montagne.

“And what have you to live on if you married without Mrs. Burnham’s consent?” asked Marian dryly. “Ah! forgive me,” as La Montagne colored hotly under his tan. “By the terms of her father’s will Evelyn can only inherit her fortune by marrying to suit her mother. If Mrs. Burnham disapproves, the fortune goes to her instead of to Evelyn.”

“Wills! Bah!” La Montagne’s gestures were expressive. “I adore Evelyn, not her money. If Le Bon Dieu be so good as to spare me through this war Evelyn will not be badly off, as I will eventually inherit my uncle’s estate.” He turned eloquent, appealing eyes to Marian. “Ah, madame, use your kind offices that I may see Evelyn now.”

“Not now, to-morrow.” Marian tempered her refusal with a warm bright smile. “Call it what you will. Captain—a sixth sense, or woman’s intuition—but do not trust Peter Burnham.” She stopped and held out her hand. “I will not let you come further,” she stated positively as he started to remonstrate. “I will telephone you and anything sent in my care will always reach Evelyn. Good by,” and not waiting to hear his hearty thanks she turned down the street and ran up the Burnhams’ steps.

Jones opened the front door for her with gusto.

“Miss Evelyn’s gone to her room,” he confided to her. “And the master’s out. Shall I bring a cup of tea to your room, Mrs. Van Ness?”

“No, thanks, Jones, it is too near dinner time,” and Marian, not glancing inside the drawing room door as she passed down the hall, mounted the staircase to the second floor. She went at once to Evelyn’s room, and to her disappointment found it empty. Pausing undecidedly at the door, she finally crossed the hall to her bedroom and, taking off her hat, wasted no time in dressing for dinner.

It was still lacking fifteen minutes to the dinner hour when she returned to Evelyn’s bedroom; its occupant was still absent, and Marian hesitated whether to go downstairs or into the library. Finally deciding in favor of the latter course she walked down the hall, and parting the portières, stepped into the room. A man bending over an open drawer of the desk straightened up at her approach and she recognized Dan Maynard.

“Good evening,” he exclaimed, and the cordial ring in his voice found its accompaniment in the quick lighting of his eyes as he looked at her. “Don’t go,” as murmuring a polite greeting, she started to leave.

“Am I not disturbing your occupation?” she asked.

Maynard laughed softly. “My occupation consists at the moment in searching for writing paper,” he acknowledged, pushing back a lot of loose papers and some string in the drawer. “Do take this chair,” and he wheeled one forward.

Marian settled down in the depths of the big chair with a sigh of content; she had had no rest the night before, the work at the State Department had been exacting, and while the walk home had for the moment refreshed her, she was more weary than she at first realized.

“I thought I saw you motoring with Dr. Hayden and Jim Palmer,” she remarked, after waiting for Maynard to break the silence.

“He gave me a lift as far as the Connecticut Avenue telegraph office.” Maynard looked down at his business suit and then at her becoming evening dress. “I must apologize for not dressing for dinner,” he said. “The fact is I left England so hurriedly that my luggage is still in London. The clerk in the shipping office, when I went to inquire when the next Cunarder would sail, whispered in my ear that she was leaving that afternoon and I had just time to make the boat but could not go back to collect my belongings.”

“Was your trip across uneventful?” she questioned, noting with inward approval his tall, well-knit form and broad shoulders.

“Yes, except for the search at Quarantine; some report had gotten about that there were suspects aboard and we met with a lot of espionage and were severely cross-examined,” he stepped back to the desk and closed the drawer. “I am glad you like René La Montagne,” he said, and she started at the irrelevant remark. “He’s an ‘ace,’ you know, in the French Flying Corps.”

“Yes.” She looked at him, slightly puzzled. “How do you know I like Captain La Montagne?”

“Because you were walking with him.”

She laughed amusedly. “Is my walking with people a sign that I like them?”

“So I have heard—commented,” he said, and his eyes held hers. “I would very much like to do some sight-seeing; will you not take pity and show me Washington?”

Marian’s fingers were playing with the string of coral which she wore about her neck. “It would be the blind leading the blind,” she said, and her voice sounded strained even to her own ears. “Washington is changed in the last few months. Mr. Burnham would prove a better guide than I.”

“Speaking about me?” inquired their host from the doorway of his room and Marian started; she had not heard the door opened. “Why are you two sitting up here?” he demanded querulously, and Maynard, glancing in his direction, noted that Burnham made a detour of the room which prevented his near approach to the chair where the dead man had been found. “The drawing room is much pleasanter,” he remarked, stopping half way across the room. “Suppose we go there.”

Before Marian could rise, the portières were pushed aside and Detective Mitchell stepped inside the library. He looked with quick displeasure from one to the other.

“You were directed, sir,” he said, addressing Burnham, “by the Chief of Police not to use this room until further notice.”

“Tut, tut!” Burnham reddened angrily. “I don’t take instructions in my own house, and I won’t permit my guests to be dictated to. You can go, Mitchell.”

Instead of complying with his dictatorial order the detective stood his ground. Burnham, his face almost apoplectic in color, advanced threateningly and except for Maynard’s hasty step forward his raised fist would have struck Mitchell.

“Keep cool, Burnham,” he advised, and his voice brought the angry man to his senses. “Mitchell, there is no occasion for this excitement; Mrs. Van Ness and I were sitting here chatting and Mr. Burnham had just joined us. We have moved nothing in this room.”

Mitchell glanced searchingly about; apparently Maynard’s statement was correct; every piece of furniture, even the chess table, apparently stood in its accustomed place. He glanced apologetically at Marian, who had risen and stood with one hand on the back of her chair.

“It’s all right,” he admitted. “But as a precautionary measure the room will have to be sealed.”

Maynard, by an imperative gesture, stopped another explosion from Burnham. “What authority have you, Mitchell, for taking such a step?” he inquired.

“The coroner’s orders,” gruffly. “I’ll get him,” and Mitchell disappeared.

Burnham pounded the nearest table in his wrath. “Do you think I am going to take orders in my own house?” he demanded of Maynard. “Do you?” and his hand continued to punctuate the question.

“Take care, you’ll injure your chess table,” cautioned Maynard. “There is no use in bucking up against the police, Burnham; they are within their rights in asking to have this room set aside for further investigation. It was thoughtless of me to come in.”

“I think we had all better leave,” suggested Marian, who had listened to the argument between Burnham and the detective with a strained attention which had not escaped Maynard’s notice. “I stopped in here expecting to find Evelyn.”

“She is with Mrs. Ward,” grumbled Burnham—his temper was still ruffled. “Hello, what’s that commotion?” as the sound of raised voices reached them. “The police again—I’ll tell Mitchell what I think of him, the interfering idiot!” And taking a hasty step forward he swung his arm upward and back.

But it was not the detective who stepped across the threshold and ran full tilt against Burnham’s outstretched, threatening fist.

“Good gracious, Peter, what are you doing?” demanded his wife, dropping her pet dog to tenderly feel her nose. “Are you mad!” as, ignoring the presence of Marian and Maynard, he embraced her with effusion.

“No,” he retorted. “But I think people will soon make me mad. I sent you a telegram, Lillian, not to return. Didn’t you get it?”

“I got it—also the morning newspapers,” dryly. “You might have telegraphed with as much effect to Mont Blanc not to freeze as to wire me not to come home after I read what took place here yesterday. So you are really here, Dan,” shaking hands cordially with the actor before greeting Marian whom she kissed warmly, then she subsided into the nearest chair, and addressed her husband. “Now, Peter, what is it all about?”

Burnham looked vexedly at his wife; there were times when her brusque manner tried his patience, but experience had taught him that she pursued one idea with bulldog tenacity, and if she had made up her mind to hear full particulars of the mysterious tragedy which had brought her hurrying back to Washington, she would sit in that chair until she had the information she desired. Burnham was saved replying to her question by the return of Mitchell and Coroner Penfield, and he welcomed the latter with relief.

“My wife, Coroner Penfield,” he said by way of introduction, “and Mrs. Van Ness; Mr. Maynard you have already met.”

Penfield bowed to all in turn.

“I am sorry, Mr. Burnham,” he began, finding attention centered upon him, “but I really think it is necessary to close this room for a few days.”

“Why?” demanded Mrs. Burnham, and Penfield eyed her uneasily; he had heard much of her, of her social position, her philanthropy, her eccentricities, and her caustic wit. In spite of her disheveled and dusty traveling costume her air of breeding and quiet hauteur showed the characteristics which had gained her leadership among Washington’s most exclusive society.

“Sudden death has to be investigated, madam,” explained Penfield, not relishing the persistent gaze of her penetrating cold blue eyes. “It is unfortunate that your library should have been the scene of this man’s death.”

“It is very unfortunate,” agreed Mrs. Burnham, as Penfield paused, finding himself getting somewhat involved in his statement. “Have you and the police discovered the name of the individual who had the temerity to commit suicide in my house?”

“He did not commit suicide.” Penfield was losing patience and the faint smile on Maynard’s face nettled him. “The man was murdered.”

“Murdered!” Except for the exclamation Mrs. Burnham sat bolt upright silently regarding Penfield who bore her fixed stare as long as he could and then changed his position.

“We haven’t been able to identify the man so far,” he went on to say. “We have searched the Rogues’ Gallery, photographers’ studios, telegraphed his description to other cities, and no clue.”

“And no clue?” Mrs. Burnham’s repetition of the words was parrot-like in its mimicry. “Did the dead man have no papers in his pocket? Were his clothes unmarked?”

“They were,” replied Penfield. “The only article to be found in the man’s pockets was a string.” He turned abruptly to Maynard. “You recall seeing the string?”

“I do.”

Penfield looked relieved. “I am glad you do,” he exclaimed. “This case puzzles me, and I have given it so much thought that I concluded I had imagined the string.”

Burnham, who had seated himself near his wife, looked up.

“Have you the string?” he asked.

“No,” glumly. “I recollect twirling it about my fingers just before Mrs. Ward fell unconscious to the floor. After we carried her to her room I searched for the string but could not find it,” finished Penfield.

The parting of the portières disturbed Mrs. Burnham and looking up she beheld Jones, his eyes twice their usual size, regarding her from the doorway.

“Dinner is served, madam,” he announced.