CHAPTER VI.

THE PICTURE IN THE ROSE-GARDEN.

“Well, I will tell you how I have meditated upon his death by violence. If the consequences of committing such a deed were purely physical—if there were no moral side to the question—if the only thing that I could have outraged by the commission of such an act had been the law, I think I should have killed him long ago.”

“That is an extremely dangerous sentiment for you to express under the existing circumstances, Danton.”

“Oh, I know that; but that isn’t the point. When I meditated upon his death it was in the form of thinking out regrets that, because of the moral and mental aspects of the case, I was debarred from killing him. I have wished that we might both return to savagery long enough for me to take his life without experiencing regret for the act afterward. I wanted him dead and I wanted to kill him, but I never for an instant considered the possibility that I would do so; precisely in the same ratio in which my adventurous spirit is always stirred whenever I read of an expedition to the North Pole.”

“How is that?”

“Why, I meditate upon going there myself. I haven’t a doubt but that I could accomplish it much more satisfactory than Peary has ever done. I have meditated upon the accomplishment of such an expedition so many times that I have well-defined plans for the work, and yet if the money, the men, the ships and everything were placed at my disposal in the midst of one of those meditative journeys I would no more have undertaken it than I would seriously have considered the cold-blooded murder that had occurred. Do you understand me?”

“Yes. I think I do. A journey to the North Pole is one of your dreams which you make use of on account of its soporific effect, when you are composing yourself for sleep; and the death of Orizaba was one of your dreams which you used in connection with the happiness of your home life.”

“Exactly.”

“Then I think we understand each other.”

“No, Mr. Carter. Not quite.”

“Well, what else?”

“I would like to ask you a few questions.”

“Ask them.”

“You have assured me that you do not believe that I could have killed Orizaba in my sleep.”

“I have; emphatically.”

“You are certain that such a thing did not happen?”

“I feel as positive as if I knew by observation that it did not.”

“You have not assured me of your conviction that my hand did not strike that needle into his neck.”

“Have I not?”

“No.”

“Do you need that assurance from me?”

“I would like to have it.”

“Why? Are you not satisfied on that point in your own mind?”

“Not exactly. I know that I did not do the deed knowingly; but——”

“But what?”

“This: I know what it is to do things when under the influence of liquor, and to have absolutely no recollection afterward of having done them. I have awakened in the morning many a time with no remembrance of places I had visited while I was intoxicated. I have met friends often, on the day succeeding some such spree, and have been told by them of incidents that took place the preceding night—incidents in which I had a part, but of which I retained absolutely no recollection.”

“That is a common experience with men who drink to excess, Danton.”

“Yes, I know; but here is another point connected with it. In the majority of cases of the sort I have described, a rehearsal of the incidents recalls them to mind—I remember them, or rather recall them when reminded of them; but there have been other cases where such periods have remained total blanks in my mind, and which no sort of reminder could recall to my recollection.”

“That is not unusual, either.”

“Well, is it possible that I might have killed Orizaba while drunk and have totally forgotten it?”

“No. I am sure it is not possible.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Certainly I mean it.”

“Then you believe that I am not responsible for the death of Orizaba? I want your assurance of that, if you can give it.”

“Very well, my young friend, then you have it. I believe that you are no more responsible for the death of Ramon Orizaba than I am—unless the fact that you owned the weapon that killed him may be said to convey responsibility. But, Danton, I am not at all sure that you did own it.”

“You are not?”

“No. The needle is missing from your desk. You think you wiped away a spot of blood from the back of his neck. You believe that the needle was imbedded in his neck at the time because you think you detected its presence there. It remains to be seen if your conclusions, arrived at when you were not in a responsible condition of mind, are correct. How do you feel now, by the way?”

“Rocky; terribly rocky and shaky.”

Nick put out one hand and rested it on the shoulder of his companion.

“Danton,” he said, “I feel that the very best tonic I can give you for your services is to tell you how much I admire your conduct this morning. You have done nobly, and you have acted bravely and almost fearlessly. You have won my respect, my faith and my lasting friendship for all time, by your conduct since I found you awaiting me in the reception-room at my house. Be as brave through the ordeals you will have to face as you have been in the beginning, and take my word for it the clouds will disappear.”

Danton came to an abrupt stop, and there were tears in his eyes as he turned and faced the detective.

“You mustn’t talk to me like that, old chap, don’t you know,” he said. “I’ve been up against it awful hard since I found that dead body in the chair in my room, and I can tell you right now that ‘Little Reggie’s wild-oats’ days are over, and that’s no dream.”

“Good for you. I believe you are in earnest.”

“In earnest? So much so that if you had told me just now that there was a possibility that I might, even unconsciously, be the murderer, I should have gone directly and given myself up and faced the music. Thank Heaven, it is not necessary.”

They were ascending the long pathway which led to the side entrance of the house, and as Danton ceased speaking he raised his arm and pointed across the lawn.

Nick turned, and his eyes encountered a vision of beauty such as never before in his life had he encountered, and the memory of which remained with him to the end of his life.

It was the month of June, it will be remembered, and a great part of the garden was given up to the cultivation of roses. There were thousands of them in bloom, from the purest white to the deep and haughty red of the jacqueminot, and they clung to low bushes and to high ones. They climbed upon trellises and peeped from interstices in the lattice work built by the gardener to support them. They hung in clusters far out of reach overhead, and they smiled up from the dew-laden leaves and grasses in the beds. Roses in all their richness, in all the magnificent and munificent glory of strength, and color and grace. Roses! Roses everywhere. And in the very midst of them, framed in nature’s richest and most priceless work, dressed in a simple white morning gown with the glory of her hair glistening in the slanting sun, with her eyes sparkling irridescently and her lips parted in a smile, and with festoons of roses hanging from her shoulders and arms, encircling her neck and filling her hands, stood Mercedes, looking toward her brother and his companion.

Involuntarily Nick Carter raised his hat and bowed—to the matchless beauty of the scene more than to the young woman who completed it. And then he was conscious of a shiver that went through him like an electric shock when he suddenly remembered the cold and silent clod of clay that was sitting so still in a chair somewhere in the house before him, whose dead eyes would never look upon this scene, whose senseless nostrils could never again expand to meet the fragrance of that June morning—that useless body which only yesterday had been as filled with hopes and longings as any person alive.

“It is your sister, is it not?” said Nick in a low tone to Danton.

“Yes.”

“Take me to her. It is an excellent moment for me to make her acquaintance. Remember, I am a friend from England—Mr. Felix Parsons, in the diplomatic service.”

She saw that they were approaching her, and waited where she was for them to draw near, and Nick saw at a glance that she had eyes only for her brother.

He saw, too, that her smile expanded as they came nearer to her; that a look of pleased surprise came into her eyes as she studied her brother, and he knew that it was because, although he had attended a banquet and been out all the night, he showed never a sign of the effects of it—of the wines he had drank, of the liquors he had imbibed; and then he was presented to her.

“Mercedes,” said Danton, “this is an old friend and a very dear friend—Mr. Parsons. Felix, this is the best, the sweetest and the dearest sister that ever blessed a young scapegrace in this world.”

CHAPTER VII.

THE DETECTIVE’S SEARCH FOR CLUES.

“He is in the big chair near the south window, sir. I supposed he was sleeping, and, knowing that you would be offended if you returned and discovered him there, I sought to awaken him, sir.”

“Sought to awaken him! Why didn’t you do it?”

“He would not awaken, sir.”

“What the devil do you mean, Rogers?”

“He would not wake up, because he could not, sir. He is dead.”

“Dead! Good heavens! You must be mistaken!”

“He is dead, sir; and quite cold. I saw you as you approached the house, almost at the same moment that I discovered him, sir, and so I came directly to you. Will you tell me what to do next, sir?”

“Yes; send one of the stable-boys for a doctor as quickly as he can go. Say that Orizaba is ill. Bring the doctor to my rooms as soon as he arrives. In the meantime, tell nobody of your discovery. I will go with my friend to my rooms at once. Go. Wait at the stable for the doctor, and then bring him to me at once.”

Then, as Rogers turned away, Danton called out:

“Oh, Felix. I am going to my rooms. My man tells me that Orizaba is there, and that he is ill! Will you come with me?”

With a murmured apology to Mercedes, Nick rejoined Danton, and together they entered the house and proceeded at once to Danton’s rooms.

Nick nodded his approval when Danton related the conversation that had taken place between him and his valet, but he made no comment. But when they entered and closed the door behind them, he said:

“It may prove a little bit harder for you in the end, to attempt to carry the impression now, that you were not at home early this morning, but it is decidedly better in view of my idea of what is to come. Your sister seemed to take the news that Orizaba is ill with very little concern.”

“Oh, she expected that we would both be out of the counting to-day. I usually am when I have been to a banquet. She thinks his illness is only the effects of his night out, and his presence in my room due to his not being able to find his own.”

“I see,” said the detective—but it was evident that he had other ideas concerning Mercedes’ reception of the news; however, he said nothing more on the subject, but at once busied himself in examining the room.

Orizaba’s position in the chair was precisely as Danton had described it.

A rapid, but careful, inspection of the back of his neck disclosed a small blue mark, not larger than the head of a pin, where the needle had entered the flesh. Around it there was no sign whatever of a wound, and there was not a thing that could be discovered externally, to indicate that an instrument of death had entered there.

“It is too bad that I cannot go deeper into that question here and now,” said Nick, “but for obvious reasons the body must not be disturbed until after the doctor and the coroner have viewed it—and, anyhow, the body itself is the least of my concerns just now.”

Suddenly he glanced up sharply at Danton, who was watching him eagerly.

“Did you have a shower in this neighborhood yesterday?” he asked.

“Yes. A light one; late in the afternoon.”

“Are you wearing the shoes you wore at the banquet, or did you put on a different pair when you started to find me?”

“I changed them.”

“Where are the ones you wore to the banquet?”

“Here.”

“Let me see them. Ah! I thought so.”

“What?”

“Never mind, just now. You think that half an hour might have elapsed while you were asleep in the piazza chair. Yes. I remember. Here is a small stain of ink on the ends of the thumb and first finger of Orizaba’s right hand, as if he had used them to pick an obstruction from the point of a pen—a hair, for example. Tell me, was Orizaba left-handed? Did he write with his left hand?”

“With either. With one almost as well as with the other.”

“And you use purple ink on your desk, I take it, eh?”

“Yes. I do.”

“Good. Where are the clothes you wore to the banquet? Get them, for we must work rapidly in order to be through before the doctor arrives.”

“Here,” replied Danton, and he brought them from a chair in the bedroom, where he had thrown them down carelessly.

Nick examined them carefully and then returned them to their owner.

“They are all right,” he said. “Hang them, if you can, in their accustomed place, where your valet keeps them. When you have done that, come here.”

Danton returned in a moment and took his place beside Nick.

“Well?” he inquired.

“Look there,” said Nick, pointing at the bottom of the legs of the trousers on the dead man. “Tell me what you see.”

“Only a small, green burr.”

“Exactly. Only a small, green burr—and on the other leg, the remnants of another small, green burr that has been picked off and thrown away. I did not find any evidence of such a thing on the trousers you wore, Danton.”

“Well, I don’t know, to be sure, but I don’t think I went anywhere to get such things fast to me.”

“Exactly; and it is evident that Orizaba did, is it not?”

“Why, yes.”

“Do you remember if he drank very much last night? Was he as full as you were when you started for home?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think he was, however, for the reason that he generally kept his head much better than I could.”

“And yet, when your sister heard that he was in your rooms, ill, you say she doubtless believed that it was because he was drunk last night. Now, you take your stand over there at the window and keep your eyes out through it, so that you can tell me the moment you see any signs of the doctor’s arrival. That’s it. Don’t have me in mind at all, but tell me when you see anybody coming.”

Danton obeyed, and as soon as his back was turned, Nick Carter began to work in earnest.

One by one he examined every pocket in the clothing of the dead man, turning out the contents, examining each article and paper separately, and with careful scrutiny; and while he did so, there were several articles which he transferred to his own pockets, and that with the appearance of the utmost pleasure.

There were two letters, a check, a fountain-pen, a small card-case, which, however, contained no cards, but was well supplied with other things, and a piece of blue blotting-paper, which exactly fitted into the closed card-case.

These he deposited in his own pockets, and then, when he had rearranged the clothing of the dead man so that there remained no evidence that anything had been disturbed, he straightened up and drew back just as Danton announced that the doctor had arrived.

It must be remembered that there was not a sign of violence anywhere upon the body of the dead man.

He was seated in the big, upholstered chair near the window, in an attitude such as a person asleep might quite naturally have assumed. His head was thrown back against the cushion, and his hands were disposed as gracefully and naturally as if he had used every personal sense in placing them before the fatal blow had fallen upon him.

The doctor summoned by Rogers happened also to be the coroner, which was fortunate, inasmuch as he could give immediate permission for the removal of the body. He happened, also, to be not particularly gifted with understanding, and to be one of those individuals who believes so thoroughly in what he does know that opposite opinions serve merely to fasten his own convictions the more firmly. Moreover, an affair of this kind in a household like the Dantons! Well! He considered it a beneficent intervention of Providence that Orizaba should have died thus suddenly in order that he might be called in and be for a moment on terms of familiarity with the multi-millionaire’s family.

But Doctor Jackson, the coroner, did not return alone. He brought a younger man with him, who was also a physician, a young Doctor Pollock, whose keen, black eyes, alert manner, and comprehensive attitude at once impressed Nick, so that he remarked, mentally, to himself:

“There’s a young chap who will not be fooled by appearances, and who will manage to get at the bottom of this thing without much delay. I must have a private talk with him as soon as possible.”

Doctor Jackson lost no time in arriving at a decision concerning the case.

“The gentleman expired four or five hours ago,” he said, rubbing his hands together as if he were imparting information of the most delightful character, calculated to give unalloyed pleasure to everybody within the sound of his voice. “Overindulgence in stimulants brought about his death, I have no doubt. However, the autopsy will fully determine that part of it. There is, no doubt, however, that the valves of the heart will be found to be greatly enlarged, and—er—badly—er—congested. Your friend—or was he a relative, Mr. Danton? I think I have heard that he was a cousin. Yes? Very well, your cousin’s death is due to heart failure, sir, superinduced by overexcitement and stimulant, followed by the sudden relaxation of falling asleep in this chair. Ahem! I think he may now be removed.”

CHAPTER VIII.

CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE WHICH MIGHT HAVE HANGED DANTON.

“Then call it the act of an expert. Doctor Pollock, I must be frank with you and rely upon your discretion also. I am not Mr. Parsons at all. I am a person of whom you have no doubt heard, a detective, named Nick Carter.”

“Indeed! Yes, sir, I have heard of you and I am glad to make your acquaintance. I will also be glad to serve you if you will tell me how I may do so.”

“In the first place, doctor, Ramon Orizaba was murdered. I have already discovered that much, but for important reasons I wish particularly that you should have the credit of the discovery.”

“Murdered! There is absolutely no outward evidence of a crime.”

“No; but I can show you much that will convince you; therefore will you do as I have requested?”

“Certainly I will.”

“Then in an hour if you will meet me in the room to which they are taking the body, I will talk with you there.”

“Very good; I will be there.”

Turning from the doctor, Nick motioned for young Danton to come to him.

“The servants already know that Orizaba is dead,” he said rapidly. “I think you had best carry the information to your mother yourself. Tell her only what the valet told you and what the doctor has said since he arrived. That will be enough for the present. I will take it upon myself to go into the rose-garden and break the news to your sister. Conduct yourself throughout exactly as you have done up to the present moment—if you think you can keep up under this awful strain.”

“I must keep up. There is no choice.”

“True. But don’t drop down in your tracks. Once in a while you look as if you were about to do that very thing.”

“I feel so, too. But I manage to pull myself together. If I drop, it will be because I am a dead one—like Orizaba.”

“Keep up your courage. Go to your mother, and when you have finished with her, follow me to the rose-garden where we left your sister. I remember that she said she had taken her coffee, and that after she had filled her lungs with the breath of the roses, she should sit under the arbor and read, so I have no doubt that I will find her there.”

And so while the servants, directed by the two doctors, were conveying all that was left of Ramon Orizaba to the rooms he had occupied in life, Reginald Danton sought the apartment of his mother, and Nick Carter went out of the house through the side door and started along the gravel walk toward the arbor where Mercedes had told him she would sit and read.

He crossed the lawn and passed among the wealth of roses toward the very spot where he had been presented to her; and there, where she had stood during the two or three moments they had conversed together, the ground was littered with the roses she had carried in her arms and upon her person; and from that spot toward the arbor, fifty feet away, there was a trail of roses and rose leaves in such proficiency as almost to suggest that she had played the game of hare-and-hounds with them, in order to lead her pursuer to her retreat.

He followed quickly, for there was something about that confused littering of the flowers along the pathway which suggested haste and excitement. He could almost imagine that she had flung them there in her excitement as she turned to fly from some real or fancied peril. The roses along the walk seemed to speak to him and to bid him hasten to her side, and he lost no time in making his way to the arbor.

At the entrance he halted abruptly.

Inside that rose-embowered place, screened effectually from view from the outside, Mercedes had fallen, and she was stretched at full length upon the ground; her face, now waxen in hue, was turned toward the canopy of roses over her, and her whole attitude told him that she had fainted the instant she crossed the threshold and knew that she had escaped from the view of others.

“Poor child,” murmured Nick, bending over her, and he began to chafe her hands and to wait patiently until nature should come to his assistance and revive her, for it was not at all to his purposes that he should call for assistance or seek restoratives, and thus betray a weakness which she had sought so strenuously to hide.

While he bent above her, and stroking her hands, looked down upon her exquisitely beautiful face, vaguely wondering that creation could have wrought so perfectly upon one human being, a shadow fell across them both, and, raising his eyes, he saw that Danton had followed him into the garden.

“What has happened to Mercedes?” he demanded, instantly falling upon his knees beside his sister.

“She has fainted, that is all,” replied Nick. “How is it that you are here?”

“My mother was already informed, it seems. She sent me to bring Mercedes to her.”

“Ah! Well, your sister is already reviving. It will be better, when she opens her eyes, that she should not discover a stranger. I will step to one side, out of her range of vision. When she is sufficiently recovered, you can break the news of Orizaba’s death to her.”

Nick passed outside the arbor, but he stood where he could not only observe, but also hear all that took place between brother and sister, and, for reasons of his own, the circumstance was one which entirely accorded with his wishes.

“Mercedes,” said Danton, in a low, eager tone. “It is I—Med.”

She sighed and seemed to make an effort to smile, but it was a failure.

“I fainted, did I not?” she whispered.

“Yes, dear. I think so. Why did you faint? What was the matter? You looked so well when I saw you in the garden only a little while ago. What happened to you, Mercedes?”

“Did I look well? Did I look happy? Oh, Meadows! How can you say that?”

“Why, what is the matter, child-sister? Why do you look so frightened? Your eyes——”

“Hush, hush! Tell me what the doctor said. What did he say?”

“That is what I came here to tell you, Mercedes. Ramon is—dead.”

Not a trace of surprise manifested itself in her face as she looked up into her brother’s eyes. Then she slowly raised herself to her elbow, thence to a sitting posture, and thus she leaned against the rustic bench, still looking into her brother’s eyes.

“Did the doctor find—does the doctor know—did he discover what it was—that killed—Ramon?” she asked hesitatingly.

“Why, yes,” replied Danton. “He said that death was due to heart failure.”

“Thank God!”

“Why, Mercedes, what do you mean?”

“What do I mean? You ask me that?”

“Do you mean to tell me——”

“Hush, my brother. Did you think I did not know?”

“Know what, Mercedes?”

“That Ramon was dead. Did you think I did not know? Oh, my God! I wish that I might have died a thousand times before I did know—before I saw what I did see.”

“Good Heaven! Mercedes, tell me what you mean!”

“Hush, Reginald. I have never called you by that name before, have I? But it seems as if I could never again address you by the name I have loved to use. Oh, my brother, my brother, why did you not kill me also, instead of condemning me to live on, with this horrible secret in my keeping? Instead of forcing me to be the one person in all the world who knows that you have committed a—murder! Oh, God help me!”

Young Danton started back in terror, and his sister buried her face in her arms against the rustic bench and burst into a passion of sobs.

But the young man pulled himself together wonderfully well, and he forced himself to ask quite calmly:

“Mercedes, I have feared that you would fear that I had a hand in the death of Orizaba, but somehow I had disabused my mind of that fear so utterly that I had, for the moment, forgotten it. Do you mean to say that you think I killed him?”

“I know that you killed him, Reginald.”

“You—know—that—I—killed—him? Good God, Mercedes, what do you mean? How can you know a thing which is not true?”

“I saw you.”

Danton started back with a cry that seemed to him loud enough to have reached to the river, but which in reality was scarcely heard by the detective a few feet away, and then he stood there as if paralyzed, staring into the face of his sister with glassy, unseeing eyes. “You saw me!” he whispered shrilly. “Then it is true after all. I did it without knowing that I did it, and all the assurances given me by Mr. Carter, were wrong. I did it, you say, and you saw me. Oh, God! Oh, God! I did it after all, and I did it without knowing it!”

Mercedes raised her eyes again and fixed them coldly upon her brother.

“Reginald,” she said slowly, “you are dearer to me than anybody in all the world, and I will keep your secret so well that all the tortures in the world shall never draw it from me—so well that the keeping of it will kill me, for I feel as if I were dying even now; but, Reginald, do not think that I shall hold you guiltless. Do not suppose that I can be made to believe that you did not commit that awful deed with deliberation and after full premeditation. I saw you, I say. I saw every motion that you made, everything you did.”

“Tell me what you saw,” he said slowly.

“You did not latch the door when you entered the room, and a draft had swung it partly ajar. I stood in the hallway. I saw you approach the chair in which Ramon was seated, asleep. You held a bottle in your hand, and I saw you hold it under his nostrils so that he might inhale the fumes of whatever it contained—and then I became conscious of the odor of chloroform.”

“But there is no chloroform in the room. I have never in my life had chloroform in my possession,” groaned Danton, whose only thought then was to convince himself that his sister might be mistaken. Still, she paid no heed to what he said.

“Wait,” she said. “I saw you hold the chloroform under his nose. Then you crossed the room to your desk. You found the casket and opened it, and I knew then what you were going to do. I tried to cry out. I tried to rush into the room, but I could neither speak nor move. All power of sound and motion had been taken from me. I was as a dead body, standing there, chained, compelled to witness the most terrible sight the eyes can behold—the infamy of my own brother. You opened the casket and you took from it that terrible instrument you have shown to me. I recognized it by the cork handle, and again I tried to call out to you and stop you—but I could not make a sound. I could not move.”

“And then——” asked Danton tensely.

“Then? Then you passed behind the chair in which he was seated; you pushed his head forward until his chin rested upon his breast, for the chloroform had stupefied him so that there was no fear that he would awaken; and then, while you held his head forward with your left hand, you did something with your right, and I saw a shudder like a spasm shoot through Ramon’s figure—and I knew that you had killed him, even as that terrible man, Cadillac, had murdered his victims in Paris.”

She broke out into sobbing again, and he made no effort to stop her; presently she recovered sufficiently to continue.

“I would not have cried out then if I could have done so,” she said, “for it was too late. I knew that Ramon was dead. I saw you replace his head back against the cushion of the chair. I saw that you smoothed his coat, as if to obliterate any traces you might have left there of the crime you had committed. I saw you hold up the cork handle of the instrument you had used, and I saw that it was empty—that the terrible needle was gone from it. I saw you take it back to the desk and drop it again into the casket where you kept it, and then I fled to my room, entered it, locked the door, and fell into a swoon from which I did not recover until the sun was shining into my room. Then I dressed and came out here. I steeled myself to act the part you saw me play, but when you went into the house, taking your friend with you to visit the scene of your crime, it was too much for me. I ran here to the arbor, and then—then I opened my eyes and found you beside me.”

CHAPTER IX.

THE MAN ON THE COUCH.

She leaped to her feet and confronted him with flashing eyes, for sorrow gave place to anger, and all the maternal instinct of woman, which is aroused quite as thoroughly in the heart of a sister when she is fighting for a brother as for a mother when she fights for a child—all that wonderful fighting and enduring quality with which God has endowed womankind, rose up within her to battle against the peril in which she believed her brother stood at that instant when his secret became the property of a third person.

“You heard me!” she gasped. “You heard everything that I said?”

“Yes,” said Nick. “I heard everything;” but the kindly look in his eyes and the subdued voice in which he spoke convinced her that, at least, he was not immediately to be feared, and she sank back upon the bench and buried her face in her hands again.

Suddenly she raised her head and with a quick motion leaned toward him.

“You—you knew about it—before,” she whispered tentatively.

“Yes,” he replied. “I thought I did. Now I am sure that I did.”

“Then—you saw—I mean—he did not chloroform you—— Ah! You were not unconscious. You saw—the things—that I have—described. You—saw—them—yourself!”

“Mercedes,” interrupted Danton, “are you mad? What do you mean, sister?”

“Wait,” said Nick sternly. “Sit over there beside your sister, Danton, and whatever is said, don’t you speak at all. Your sister saw much more than she has described, as you will presently discover. It is a fortunate thing that I overheard this conversation between you, for through its revelations we will get at the truth. Sit down, Danton, and wait.”

Then he turned to Mercedes.

“Miss Danton,” he said kindly, “you are overwrought, but you are brave, and tender, and true. You love your brother, even though now you believe him to be guilty of a horrible crime—even though you believe it on the evidence of your own senses, than which, it would seem there could be no better. But yet, there are times when our own senses deceive us most outrageously, as I shall presently prove to you. Yours have deceived you. You saw that murder committed, and you were paralyzed with terror at the spectacle. Has it occurred to you that your perceptions might have been dulled, or have become distorted by reason of the same terrors?”

She shook her head in a slow negative.

“Yet,” continued Nick, “I will presently prove to you that you know positively that your brother did not commit that act.”

“Oh, sir, if you only can. But it is impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible. Things are only improbable. This one is not even an improbability. Now, follow me closely. When we—your brother and I—entered the rose-garden an hour ago, and I was presented to you, where did you honestly think we had come from?”

“I did not know. I had no thought about it save that you had been out somewhere together; but I thought I understood the reason for that.”

“Precisely. You mean that you supposed that we had gone out of this house together this morning, do you not?”

“Certainly.”

“It did not occur to you that I had just come from New York, and, in fact, had never set foot upon this estate before?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I knew better than that. I beg, sir, that you will not attempt to deceive me. I will appreciate everything you would do for my brother, but do not think that I can be deceived.”

“I think you have been deceived and now I am endeavoring to set you right. You say you knew that I had not just come here from New York. Tell me exactly why you think you knew that.”

“Because I saw you before.”

“Ah! Now, are you sure that it was I whom you saw? Did you see me sufficiently plainly to identify me?”

“N-n-no. I did not see your face; but it could have been nobody else whom I saw.”

“You think so? We will see, for I understand now exactly how you have made an awful mistake. Was it on the couch in your brother’s room where you think you saw me? No, let me put the question differently: When you were looking into that room through the half-open door, and saw the terrible scene you have just described, were you conscious that there was a person—a third person in that room?”

“Yes.”

“And where was that third person?”

“Stretched upon the couch, apparently sleeping.”

“And when you saw me in the garden with your brother a little while ago, you naturally supposed that I was the same person you had seen asleep on the couch in your brother’s room? Is that it?”

“Yes; but there is also another reason.”

“Indeed, what is that?”

“I know that there were three persons who came into the house some time after midnight, and I know that those three persons went to my brother’s rooms.”

“Excellent. Now we are getting at it. How did you know that?”

“I saw them from my window.”

“Describe them as you saw them.”

“My brother came up the walk first, and alone. I think he must have stopped on the piazza, for I did not hear him come up the stairs, although I listened.”

“Well! and what next?”

“Soon after that I saw Ramon Orizaba and a stranger approach the house together. That stranger I now suppose to be yourself.”

“Precisely. And did you again listen to discover if they came up the stairs?”

“Yes. I thought that all three came up together and went into the room.”

“Now, what was it that called you from your room, so that you happened to be passing your brother’s door at the moment when the sights you saw within held your attention?”

“Nothing at all. I was merely restless. I knew from his manner of walking that my brother was intoxicated. I also saw that Ramon Orizaba was in a condition that was not much better, and I naturally supposed the same thing of the third person. I knew they had gone into my brother’s rooms, and I wished to assure myself that they were not quarreling.”

“Now tell me what was the first discovery you made inside your brother’s room. What was the very first thing you saw which attracted your attention?”

“I saw him. He was standing at the couch with his back toward me, and he was leaning over the person who was lying on the couch—yourself.”

“We will say that it was I, for the present, if it pleases you, although I was at that time in my own bed in the city of New York. Now what was your brother doing?”

“I did not know. He had a bottle in his hand—an ordinary four-ounce vial.”

“The bottle which you afterward supposed contained chloroform?”

“Yes.”

“And your supposition was that he had been administering it to the person who was lying on the couch?”

“In the light of what I saw subsequently—yes.”

“Now, when he turned away from the man on the couch, did you see his face plainly? I want you to be sure about this. You say it was your brother; I want to know if you saw your brother’s face and so recognized it.”

“I did not see it plainly; no.”

“Was not the room lighted?”

“Very dimly. There was only one incandescent bulb turned on, and that was in the adjoining room—not in that one.”

Nick turned to Danton.

“I believe you assured me that all the lights were turned on when you awoke. Are you certain about that?”

“Absolutely positive,” was the quick reply, for Danton was now leaning forward in intense excitement, since he had caught the drift of Nick Carter’s questions.

The detective turned again to Mercedes.

“The light was, then, very dim,” he said. “Now, if you could not see the man’s face clearly, can you give me any good reason for believing that it was your brother whom you saw with the bottle in his hand?”

“Only that I felt positive that it was my brother,” said Mercedes, now beginning to stare in amazement, for she also was beginning to understand.

“Did this man whom you saw wear a coat?” asked Nick.

“Yes. He was fully dressed.”

“Was it a dress coat?”

“No. I do not think so. I remember thinking afterward that Reginald must have changed his coat and waistcoat after entering the house, for I noticed when he came up the walk that he wore a low, white waistcoat and his dress suit. When I saw him with the bottle in his hand—or the person whom I did see with a bottle in his hand, wore an ordinary coat and a dark vest.”

“Like what Reginald is wearing now?”

“No. Dark. Quite dark. Almost black, or quite so in that light.”

“When he turned away from the man on the couch, did he at once approach the man in the chair—Orizaba?”

“Yes.”

“And during all the time you were there at the door, while the man whom you supposed to be your brother was using the chloroform and the needle—while he was murdering Orizaba—could you still see the third man, on the couch?”

“Certainly.”

“Then, Miss Danton, your brother is guiltless, for Reginald Danton was unconscious, on the couch, when the murder was committed.”

CHAPTER X.

THE VICTIM OF A NEMESIS.

“Ah!” said the detective, “that is another matter. I think, however, that we will experience very little difficulty in determining that question, when once I have had access to the lares and penates in the room of Ramon Orizaba. However, I see Doctor Pollock returning, and so I will leave you two together, with the injunction that you had better go to your mother as soon as convenient. And, Danton, within a few hours it must be generally known that your guest was murdered, so I would suggest that you prepare your mother for the intelligence. In fact, I wish you would tell her at once, for it is more than likely that I will find it necessary to talk the matter over with her soon. Now, just one more suggestion. I think you owe it to your sister to tell her everything that has occurred, just as you told it to me, and to add to the telling all that has taken place since you entered my house this morning. You may also tell her who I am, and why I am here.”

The detective left them then and hurried across the lawn to meet the doctor who had returned according to his promise, and together they repaired at once to the room where the body of Ramon Orizaba had been taken—to the rooms he had occupied always when he was a guest at Linden Fells.

“Doctor,” said Nick, when they were alone together in the room and had closed and locked the door behind them, “I have asked this favor of you for two reasons. One is because I want a good, reliable witness to all that happens and to support every discovery I may make, and the other is because I require your professional services as an expert. The undertakers will be here shortly, and we will then have to turn the body over to them, but, in the meantime, we can easily complete such researches as it is necessary to make.

“You will find, to begin with, that this man was killed by a needle which was thrust into the back of his neck. Come; we will turn the body over and search for it, and I will ask you to withdraw it for use as evidence. There is the only mark left by the wound. It is scarcely perceptible, is it?”

“No. I should not have seen it at all if you had not drawn my attention to it.”

“Will you extract the needle? The broken end must be quite close to the surface of the skin.”

“Are you sure it is there?”

“Positive.”

“Just beneath the skin?”

“Yes; but be careful; it is of glass and will break easily.”

There was a moment of silence, and then the doctor, who stood with his back to the detective, spoke.

“You say the needle is of glass?”

“I have reason to believe it is.”

“Well, you are mistaken. It is of steel.”

“Steel? Let me see it.”

The doctor passed the tiny weapon to the detective, who examined it critically, and then, after carefully wrapping it in paper, deposited it inside his own card-case. But he did not hesitate to express his surprise to the physician at the discovery, for the needle extracted from the neck of the murdered man was in reality a needle—a three-sided, sharp-pointed needle such as is used by furriers; in fact—to give it its true colloquial name—a fur needle.

“A dangerous weapon,” said the doctor.

“Dangerous, indeed,” assented Nick. “Now, doctor, if you will proceed with your examination from the professional standpoint, so that you will be prepared to give your testimony in detail at the proper time and place, I will give my attention to the other things in the room.”

From that time on the two men worked together in silence, only occasionally calling the attention of each other to some discovery that was pertinent to the occasion.

And Nick’s investigation of the desk and its contents, of the bureau and of every nook and cranny of the room itself, was eminently satisfactory—so satisfactory, in fact, that when at last he had completed his researches, and discovered that the doctor was also done with his part of the work, he said to him:

“Here, doctor, is quite a remarkable circumstance—one, in fact, that is entirely unique in my experience, for I find by this correspondence that I have examined that this dead man has been, during his life, in constant correspondence with a person whom he believed would some day murder him—as he has done—and more than that, that he has even lived in close juxtaposition with the would-be murderer, for a period which, according to the letters, covers almost ten years. But the remarkable part of it is, that, although he has lived close to his Nemesis, and, although he has corresponded constantly with him, he has, in all that time had no idea of the identity of his enemy.”

“Do you mean that the murderer lives here in this house?” asked the doctor.

“I mean that the murderer lived here in this house; but, unless I am greatly mistaken, the murderer has fled before this.”

“You know, then, who is the murderer?”

“Yes. I know exactly. Have you finished with your work?”

“Yes.”

“Come, then. Let us go. I will ask you to join me in a family gathering for a little while; after that, we will each turn our testimony over to the proper officials, and I think there will be little or no trouble in apprehending the assassin.”

Ten minutes later, in the library of the house, behind closed doors, Nick Carter stood in the center of the room facing Mercedes, Reginald, and their mother. Beside him was seated the doctor, and upon the table before him were placed the articles he had collected during his morning’s work—the things he had taken from the pockets of the dead man, and the effects and letters he had discovered in Orizaba’s room.

“Mrs. Danton,” he began, “I feel that I should address my remarks to you. You have been told, have you not, of the terrible thing that has happened in your home?”

She bowed her head in the affirmative. She felt too much emotion to trust herself to speak.

“Reginald,” continued Nick, “I have occupied the few moments while I waited for you to bring your mother and sister to this room in telephoning to New York, for I find that your valet, Rogers, has started for the city without your leave. Ladies, and you, Reginald, the valet whom you have known as Paul Rogers, is the murderer of Ramon Orizaba—at least, I am sufficiently satisfied of the correctness of that statement to have telephoned to police headquarters for his arrest. Presumably he will be met at the station when he arrives in the city, but if he is not, I think I shall have no difficulty in finding him later.”

“Rogers! My man, Rogers?” exclaimed Reginald.

“Yes. Had it ever occurred to you that Rogers was above his station?”

“Often. He was remarkably well educated for a man in such a position.”

“He occupied several positions; among them, he represented himself as an agent for an enemy of Orizaba’s. Rogers was evidently clever at disguises, for in his room, which I found time to visit for a moment, there was, in addition to a half-filled bottle of chloroform, a very good supply of wigs, pigments and other necessaries for manufacturing disguises. Do you remember when Rogers came to you this morning in the rose-garden and told you that Orizaba was dead?”

“Perfectly.”

“I noticed then that the soles of his boots were stained with clay—a kind of blue clay unlike anything I saw during our walk together from the station this morning—which you assured me was the route by which you returned to the house from the banquet.”

“It was the same.”

“Do you remember that I asked you if there had been a shower here in the afternoon of yesterday? I wished to know if the clay had been softened sufficiently to make those stains. In discovering the stains upon the boots of Rogers I paid no attention to them, more than to observe that they were there; but when I saw stains exactly like them on the boots of the murdered man I was interested. Also, the discovery of the burrs upon his clothing, to which I called your attention, brought to mind the fact that I had seen, also without heeding them at the time, marks of the same sort of burrs on the trousers of your valet when he came to you in the garden, so when I sent you to your mother, and before going in search of your sister myself, I found Rogers’ room and looked through it.

“I was already satisfied that Rogers was the murderer when I talked with you and your sister in the arbor, but I chose to say nothing of the fact at that time. Now I have additional proof. You will remember that I asked you if you used purple ink on your desk?”

“Yes.”

“There were stains of purple ink in the thumb and finger of Orizaba’s right hand. I asked you if he wrote with his left hand and you replied that he used both. Let me tell you now that he has used his left hand to rob you, systematically, for a long time. You have been careless with your check-book and with your balances, so you have not discovered the fact, but here is a check he drew on your desk last night—a check for a much larger amount than he has ever dared to take before, doubtless, since the drawing of it made his hand tremble so that he spoiled the signature and was obliged to draw a second one. The second one is perfect. I found it in your valet’s room, where he dropped it by mistake, showing that it was given to him, that both were drawn for him, that he was in the room with Orizaba at the time they were drawn—in short, that he was the third person whom your sister saw and believed to be you. Moreover, he is of your height and build, and in one of the drawers of his bureau there is a false mustache exactly like yours, which is still soft from recent use; so that it is not strange that your sister believed she saw you in the dim light. The lights, by the way, he turned off for the purpose of his work, and then turned on again when that work was done and he was ready to depart, in order that you might not see the difference and wonder at it. Also, while upon this subject, a trivial matter, but one of interest, in connection with the checks, is the fact that the ink inside Orizaba’s fountain pen is black. Also, Orizaba carried a key which fits your desk and another which fits the casket.

“Also, like all expert forgers, he carried his own blotter with him. Fortunately in this case it was one that he had not used before, and bears a very good impression of the two signatures he signed last night.

“Now, in Orizaba’s room I found many letters which partially explain these mysteries; but only partially. We will have to conjecture for the rest. At sometime in the career of Orizaba he had married and deserted a woman who died in misery and want, and since that time he has been pursued by a Nemesis in the shape of her brother who has taken a vengeance that is truly Satanic, for he has held over Orizaba’s head all these years—ten of them—the threat of imminent death, and, what is still more remarkable, he has during that time managed to extort money from his victim, while he has himself remained so darkly in the background that Orizaba has never once guessed his identity.

“Of the occurrences of last night—or, rather of early this morning, I can only surmise, but either by appointment, or because the man was awaiting him, he encountered the man who he believed to be the agent of his Nemesis between the station and this house. They walked away in another direction, and so got the clay on their shoes. That agent was Rogers, but so cleverly disguised that Orizaba did not recognize him—probably the agent was so familiar to him that he never thought of connecting him with Rogers, having known him a much longer time.

“When they met last night Rogers was insistent for a larger amount of money than usual, and finally accompanied Orizaba to your rooms. Orizaba was at your desk preparing to draw the check when you entered the room. Rogers was here also, for they believed you were asleep in a chair on the piazza. When you entered Rogers concealed himself, and he remained concealed until you had composed yourself to sleep on the couch. Then he chloroformed you, and the proceedings continued. Rogers then took his check and went out, and Orizaba, overcome by all that had happened, dropped asleep in the chair.

“Presently, for some reason, Rogers returned. Doubtless he had intended to kill Orizaba last night, since the encounter on the road. He administered more chloroform to you on the couch, and then performed the remainder of the ceremony as your sister has described it to us, for she saw it.

“And now, Reginald, there is just one point about which I am at fault, but which I think this letter will possibly explain. I found it in Rogers’ room, addressed to you, and I have not yet broken the seal. Before I do so I will explain the point to which I referred.

“Your Cadillac needle was not the instrument which killed Orizaba. He was killed with a steel needle—a furrier’s needle—but the cork handle of your glass needle was used to press it into the flesh. The glass needle was removed and the steel one substituted for it, but why I do not know. Let us see now if this letter will inform us. Listen.”

Nick broke the seal, spread the letter open before him and read aloud: