One of the chief features of detective work is that you must be able to change your mind. That may not sound hard—especially when the owner of the mind happens to be a female—but believe me it's some stunt. You get pointed one way, and to have to shift and face round in another is candy for a weather vane but bread for a sleuth.

Well, that's what happened to me. In the week that followed my visit to the Whitneys I had to start out fresh on a new line of thought. I'd left the office pretty certain, as the others were, that the bond between Esther Maitland and Chapman Price was love, and before those seven days were gone I'd thrown that theory into the discard, rolled up my sleeves, taken a cinch in my belt, and set forth to blaze a new trail.

I came round to it slow at first and I came round through Mr. Ferguson. It was fine weather and when BÉbita would go off with Annie, I'd curl up in my conning tower in the school room window and take observations. As I said before, it was a convenient place, just over Miss Maitland's study, deserted all afternoon, and with the Venetian blinds down against the sun, I could sit comfortable on my cushion and spy out between the slats.

The first thing that caught my attention was that Mr. Ferguson, who'd come over pretty nearly every day, wouldn't make straight for the front piazza which was the natural way to get there. Instead he'd take a slanting course across the garden, come up some steps to the terrace, and then walk slow past the study door. Sometimes he'd see Miss Maitland and stop for a chat, and sometimes she wouldn't be there and he'd go by. But each and every time, thinking no one was watching, he'd let a look come on his face that's common to the whole male sex when the one particular star is expected above the horizon. I guess the cave man got it when, club in hand, he was chasing the cave girl and Solomon with his six hundred wives must have had it stamped on his features so it came to be his habitual expression.

Though it was registered good and plain on Mr. Ferguson's countenance, I couldn't at first believe it. It was too like a novel, too like Cinderella and the Prince. Then, seeing it so frequent, I was convinced. I'd say to myself "Why not—a girl's a girl if she is a plutocrat's social secretary, and all men are free and equal when it comes to disposing of their young affections." The romance of it got me, gripped at my heart. I'd sit with my eye to the crack in the blinds staring down at him as he'd send that look out for her—that wonderful look, that look which gives you chills and fever, blind staggers and heart failure and you'd rather have than a blank check drawn to your order and signed by John Rockefeller. Oh, gee—I was a girl once myself—don't I know! I'd have been interested if it was just an ordinary love story, but it wasn't. It was a love story with a mystery for good measure; it was a love story that had Mrs. Price thrown in to complicate the plot; it was a love story that was all tangled up with other elements; and it was a love story that I only could see one side of.

For I couldn't get at her feelings at all. This was mostly because I hardly ever saw her with him. If she did happen to be there when he passed, she'd be either in her room or under the balcony roof and I couldn't see how she acted or hear what she said. Also she had such a hold on herself, had such a calm, reserved way with her, that you'd have to be a clairvoyant to get under her guard.

Any woman would have been thrilled but me, knowing what I did—can't you see my thoughts going round in wheels and whirligigs? If she reciprocated—and there's few that wouldn't or I don't know my own sex—what was she doing with Price? Was she a siren playing the two of them? Was she Mrs. Price's secret rival with both men? Was she the kind of vampire heroine they have in plays who can break up a burglar-proof home with one hand tied behind her? You wouldn't think it to look at her—but the more I hit the high spots of society the more I feel you can't tell people by the ordinary trade-marks.

Then one afternoon toward the end of the week I saw a little scene right under my window that lightened up the darkness. It gave me what I call facts; what the Whitneys, anyway Mr. George—but that belongs farther on.

Mr. Ferguson came out of the wood path, across the garden and on his usual beat, up the terrace steps. He had a spray of lemon verbena in his hand and as he walked over the grass with his long, light stride, he kept his eyes on the balcony keen and expectant, his face all eager and serious. Suddenly it changed, brightened, softened, glowed like the sunlight had fallen on it—you didn't need to be a detective to know she'd come out of the study.

This time she came down the steps and went toward him. They met under my window and stood there, he facing me, brushing his lips with the spray of lemon verbena and looking down at her, a lover if ever I saw one. He asked her what she was doing that afternoon, and she said going for a walk, and when he wanted to know where, she said through the woods to the beach. "A solitary walk?" he asked and she said yes, her walks were always solitary.

"By preference?"

She turned half away from him and I could see her profile. I'd hardly have known it for Miss Maitland's, soft, shy, the cheek pink. Her eyes were on the toe of her shoe, white against the green grass, and with her head drooping she was like a girl, bashful and blushing before her beau.

"It generally is by preference," she said.

"Would it exclude me," he asked, "if I tried to butt in?"

She didn't answer for a moment, then said very low:

"Not if you really wanted to come—didn't do it just to be kind to a lonesome lady."

"Lonesome lady be hanged," he exclaimed as joyful as if she'd given him a kiss, "it's just the other way round—kindness to a lonesome gentleman. I'm terribly lonesome this afternoon."

But he wasn't going to be long—far from it. Round the corner of the house, walking soft as a cat, came Mrs. Price. She made me think of a cat every way, stepping so stealthy, her body so slim and lithe, a small, secret smile on her face as if she'd come on two nice little helpless mice. She was all in white, shining and spotless, a tennis racket in one hand, a bunch of letters in the other. They didn't see her and she got quite close, then said, sweet and smooth as treacle:

"Good afternoon, Dick."

They weren't doing anything but planning a walk, but they both started like it had been a murder.

"Oh," says Mr. Ferguson, looking blankly disconcerted, "oh, Suzanne, I didn't see you. How do you do—good afternoon."

She came to a halt and stood softly swinging her racket, looking at him with that mean, cold smile.

"I was in my room and saw you so I came down at once. It's a splendid afternoon for our game, not a breath of wind."

I saw, and she saw, and I guess any but a blind man could have seen, he'd a date to play tennis with her and had forgotten it. Of course a woman would have scrambled out, had something to offer that made a noise like an excuse; but that poor prune of a man—they're all alike when a quick lie's needed—couldn't think of a thing to say. He just stood between them, looking haunted and stammering out such gems of thought as, "Our game—of course our game—I hadn't noticed it but there is no wind."

She had him; he couldn't throw her down after he'd made the engagement, and with her there he couldn't say what he wanted to Esther Maitland. And neither of them helped him; Mrs. Price listened to his flounderings with the little smile, light and cool on her painted lips, and Miss Maitland stood by, not a word out of her. I noticed that Mrs. Price never looked at her, acted as if she wasn't there, and presently Ferguson, getting desperate, turns to her and says:

"How about taking our walk later—after Mrs. Price and I have finished our game?"

The girl got red, burning; she started to answer, but Mrs. Price cut in, for the first time addressing her:

"Oh, Miss Maitland, that reminds me—I want these letters answered, if you'll be so kind. Just follow the notes on the edges, and please do it as soon as possible—they're rather important. They must go out on the evening mail."

She handed the letters to the girl and Esther Maitland took them with a murmur. I know that kind of answer—it's the agreeing response of the wage-earner. It comes soft and polite—it has to—but like the pleasant rippling of the ocean on the beach it's not the only sound that element can give forth.

Ferguson tried to say something; he was mad and mortified and everything else he ought to have been, but she wouldn't give him a chance.

"Come along, Dick," she says, bright and easy, "you've kept me waiting which is very rude, but I'm in a good humor and I'll forgive you. There's a racket at the court—we were playing there this morning. You can walk with Miss Maitland some other day. I'm afraid she'll have to attend to my work this afternoon."

He got balky, lingered, looked at Miss Maitland, but she turned sharply away and moved toward the balcony. So there was nothing for him to do but to go off with his captor. I couldn't but look after them, both in beautiful white clothes, both rich, both young, he so tall, she so slim, for all the world like a picture of lovers on the cover of a magazine. Then I switched back to Miss Maitland. She's come to a halt, right below the window, and, standing there like a graven image, was watching them.

I never saw any one so still. You wouldn't have known she was alive except for her eyes which moved after them, moved and moved, until the pair disappeared behind the rose-covered trellis that hid the courts. Then she let out a sound, a smothered ejaculation that you couldn't spell with letters; but you didn't need to, it said more than printed pages. Rage was in it and pain and love. They were in her face, too, stamped and cut into it. I wouldn't have known it for hers, it was all marred and tragic, a pitiful, dreadful face.

She looked blankly at the letters in her hand, at first as if she didn't know what they were, then crumpled them, threw them on the ground and made a run for the balcony. She was almost there, I craning my neck to keep her in sight, when she stopped, wheeled around, went back to the scattered papers and picked them up. "Oh, bread and butter," I thought, "bread and butter! Aren't you cursing it now?" Bad as I believed her to be I couldn't but be sorry for her, for I've been in that position myself. Take it from me, licking the hand that feeds you is a job that comes hard to the worst of us.

She pressed out the letters, smoothed away the creases slow and careful and came back to the balcony. Just before she disappeared under it she stopped and lifted her face, the eyes closed, the teeth pressed on her under lip. It quivered like a child's on the brink of tears, but she wasn't crying—fighting, I'd say, against something deeper than tears. I couldn't bear to look at it and shut my own eyes; when I opened them she was gone.

You didn't need to tell me any more after that. She was in love with Ferguson, not Price; she was in love and straining every nerve to hide it; she was in love so she was jealous of Mrs. Price—and I'd bet a hat she was the kind who could love fierce and hard.

I had to get this into the office and the next day asked for time off from Mrs. Janney and went in. I found them different to what they had been on my first visit, taking it serious like they were warming to it. I'd hardly sat down before I heard the reason. O'Malley had been busy and turned up enough evidence to make them sure that Chapman Price and Miss Maitland were in deep in some sort of plot or conspiracy.

O'Malley's investigation of Price's movements on the night of July the seventh had revealed these facts: Price had taken his car from Sommers' garage at Cedar Brook at eight-thirty, not returning till five minutes before two. To one of the garage men he had said that the night being so fine he had gone for a long run over the island. No trace of his whereabouts during these hours had been found until O'Malley dropped on a policeman at the end of the Queensborough Bridge. This man said Price had crossed over to the city between nine-thirty and ten. He was positive of his identification, as early in June he had stopped the young man for exceeding the speed limit on the bridge, taken his name and address and had a heated altercation with him. From that time to his return to Cedar Brook Price had dropped out of sight. He had not been in the lodgings he kept in town or in any of the garages he patronized. Whatever his business had been in the city he had had plenty of time to return to Grasslands and participate in the theft of the jewels.

A continued watch of the house at 76 Gayle Street had shown that both Miss Maitland and Price had been there on the Thursday previous and Price on Sunday afternoon. Each had entered with noiseless haste and each had used a latchkey. O'Malley in a search for a room had interviewed the janitor, a grouchy old chap living in the basement; and got a line on all the tenants, none of whom answered to the description of Price or Miss Maitland. Of their visits to the house the man was evidently ignorant, but he supplied some information which showed how they could come and go without his cognizance.

On July the eighth a lady, giving no name, had taken the right hand front room on the top floor for a friend, Miss Agnes Brown, an art student coming from the west but not yet arrived in the city. The lady paid a month's rent in advance, took the key, and said when Miss Brown arrived, the janitor would be informed, but that she might be delayed through illness in her family. This lady, as described by the janitor, was beyond a doubt Esther Maitland.

O'Malley was positive that the man honestly believed the room unused and awaiting its occupant. He had seen no signs of habitation, heard no sound from behind its closed door. Cooking was permitted in the house and it was part of his business to sweep down the halls every morning and empty the pails containing the food refuse which were placed outside the doors. He had seen no pail, no milk bottles, and never at night, when he went up to light the hall gas, had there been a gleam from the transom of Miss Brown's apartment.

The room had been engaged by Esther Maitland the day after the robbery, had been secured for a tenant who had not materialized. She had taken the key herself and had visited the place, as Chapman Price had done. Both had made their exits and entrances so carefully that the janitor had no idea any one had ever been inside the door since the day it was rented.

After I'd heard all this I opened up with what I'd collected. The Chief didn't say much, which is his way when you come in with a new "twist," but Mr. George wouldn't have it, got quite peevish and said my imagination had run away with me.

"Do you think a girl in love with another man would have embroiled herself with Price the way she has?" he snapped out.

"I don't know, Mr. George. I'm not ready to say yet what she's done or hasn't done. No one can deny that things are dead against her. All I'm sure of now is that she is in love with Mr. Ferguson and, that being the case, I don't think she's the kind, guilty or innocent, who'd take up with another man."

"But you can't base a conviction on a moment's pantomime such as you overlooked. The girl was probably angry at Mrs. Price's manner. It can be a deuced disagreeable manner; I've seen it."

"She didn't act like that—it wasn't only anger—it was all sorts of feelings."

He couldn't see it any way but his own and hammered at me.

"But the whole structure's built on the assumption of an affair between her and Price. Do you think she'd steal for him, lie for him, hire a room to meet him in, unless she was so crazy about him she was clay in his hands?"

"Mr. George," I said, dropping back in my chair sort of helpless but still as obstinate as a government mule, "every word you say sounds like sense and I'm not saying it isn't. But while I'm not passing any criticisms on you, in this kind of question, I'd back my own judgment against any man's that ever lived since Adam tried to throw the blame on Eve."

The Chief laughed like he was amused at the scrapping of two kids.

"That's right, Molly," he says, "don't let him brow-beat you, stick to your own opinion."

"Well, what do you think?" Mr. George turned to him all red and ruffled up. "Isn't she building up theories on the flimsiest kind of foundation?"

The Chief wouldn't give him any satisfaction.

"I'll take a leaf out of her book," he said, "not pass any criticisms. And I think we're going on too fast. I expect to have Chapman here himself in a day or two and ask some questions about that long ride on the night of July the seventh. After that we'll be on a firmer footing—or we ought to be. Meantime, Molly, you go back to Grasslands. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut and if anything turns up let me know."