Philip Darwin was a man of so great wealth and social prominence that the news of his murder and the subsequent arrest of his wife aroused the public to such a pitch of sensational excitement and furor that the district attorney, an exceedingly clever man by the name of Grenville, was forced to set the trial for the end of November, within two months from the date of the murder.

Whereupon I hastened to lay the case before my lawyers, who were also the Trenton solicitors, since I took no great stock in Cunningham for the reason that he had been Darwin's attorney. Therefore, as I remarked before, I went to the firm of Vaughn and Chase, where I found the senior partner in his office. I would rather have spoken to Chase, who was younger and more enthusiastic, but he was out of town, so I had to content myself with Richard Vaughn.

The senior partner was the old-fashioned type of lawyer, cautious and unimaginative, and he listened to my rather disconnected statements with patient tolerance. When I had finished he shook his head and eyed me rather pityingly.

"You know of course that we do not make it a practice to take up criminal cases?" he said with indulgent kindliness.

"I didn't know," I said, rising and walking toward the door. "I came to you because you have handled her father's business for years, but I certainly won't trouble you to defend her since it might break a rule of your firm," and I flung open the door.

"Tut, my dear boy, don't fly off the handle at my first remark. Close the door and sit down, please. Of course we'll take the case," he continued as I resumed my seat, "or rather we shall see to it that she has proper counsel at the time. But you must realize for yourself that we haven't much evidence to go on."

"You have a good knowledge of her character, you know she is incapable of murder, and you have her account of what happened in the study," I returned.

Again he bent upon me that tolerant, pitying look. "My dear boy," he said, laying a hand on my knee, "you are young and in love and as is only natural you are letting your heart run away with your head. Besides you know nothing of courts and their proceedings. Mrs. Darwin's account of that minute or two in the study is, to say the least, extremely fanciful."

"But true," I interrupted with conviction.

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied soothingly. "But remember that a jury of twelve honest, but more or less stolid, citizens is convinced by facts and not by fancies."

"What do you advise then?" I asked dully.

"I shall call on the little lady myself and have a talk with her and arrange for her defense. I shall also try to make her more comfortable. My advice to you is, get more evidence, good, substantial, unshakable evidence."

It was all very well for Mr. Vaughn to talk of getting further evidence, I muttered savagely to myself as I dined that night. But where in Kingdom Come was I going to find it? Over and over I reviewed the coroner's inquest and the more I studied the facts the blacker things grew for Ruth.

In utter weariness of mind I finally flung myself into my chair, from which I had been called so abruptly two nights before, and waived aside the newspapers that Jenkins was offering me. I had caught a glimpse of the headlines. Philip Darwin's life history, his penchant for chorus girls, his wealth, and his prominence, were blazoned forth for all to read. Even his wedding was raked from the files, and old pictures of the wedding party were on display. I had no desire to go over the sickening business again.

And then as Jenkins laid the papers on the table, the name, Cora Manning, caught my eye and I picked up the discarded sheet and avidly devoured the column devoted to this woman whose name had appeared on Philip Darwin's will. An enterprising reporter had discovered where Cora Manning lodged and had forthwith set out to interview her. But the only person he saw was the girl's good-natured landlady who declared that Cora Manning had left the house at eleven the night of the murder, carrying her suitcase and that she had told her landlady that she was going on a journey of great importance and not to worry in the least about her. When the reporter asked where the girl had gone the landlady returned that she had no idea, but that since she had taken artists, writers, and actors as lodgers, she had ceased to worry herself about their comings and goings so long as they paid their board, for according to her they were all erratic and far from responsible.

All of which, contended the reporter who had made the scoop, only corroborated the statement which he had made the previous evening as to what actually took place in the study between the husband and wife. Mrs. Darwin had entered the study and had quarreled with her husband about the letter. Mr. Darwin in anger had torn up his will and had defiantly begun a new one, writing down the first name that occurred to him to annoy his wife, whereupon she snatched the pistol from the drawer and killed him.

"Fool!" I muttered, flinging the paper into the fire in my indignation. "Of all the idiotic trash that has been printed that's about the worst. Does the young idiot think all that could happen in two minutes? Ye gods, has the whole world gone mad that they can believe her guilty!"

"It's a dreadful thing, sir," said Jenkins respectfully, as he replenished the fire that I had so signally extinguished.

"It's a miserable business and blacker than Egypt," I answered dismally. Then recalling Mr. Vaughn's words I said abruptly, "Jenkins, if you were the jury, knowing what you have read in the papers, would you say that Mrs. Darwin was guilty?"

"If I were twelve easy-going men not given to much reasoning, I'd say she was, sir," he replied deferentially, adding before I could speak, "But knowing Mrs. Darwin—as it were—personally—sir, I'd say she was innocent."

I buried my face in my hands with a groan of utter despair. If Jenkins, a servant, albeit an ultra-intelligent one, was as persuaded as Mr. Vaughn that the jury would find Ruth guilty, I might as well give up at once.

"If I were you, sir, if you will pardon the liberty of my giving advice, I'd ask Mr. McKelvie to help me, sir."

I raised my head. "Who is Mr. McKelvie, Jenkins?"

"He is a gentleman, sir, who is interested in solving problems of crime. It's a sort of hobby with him, sir," said Jenkins, his usually somber eyes beginning to sparkle as he spoke.

"You mean that he is a private detective?" I asked, not overly pleased, for Jones of Headquarters had struck me as being up to snuff and yet every clue that he found had only drawn the net more tightly about Ruth. It was no wonder therefore that I was chary of detectives, for except in books, I deemed them all cut out of the same mold and after the same pattern.

"Oh, no, sir," returned Jenkins, horrified. "He's not a detective in the ordinary sense of the word. He is what you call an investigator of crime and he only takes cases that he thinks are worth-while solving. He does it mostly to amuse himself, sir."

"Oh, I see. A second Sherlock Holmes, eh?" I said ironically.

Jenkins looked hurt. "He says, sir, that there is no one who can equal Sherlock Holmes. He says, sir, that beside Holmes he's only an amateur burglar, though begging his pardon, I don't agree with him, sir."

"How does it happen that you know so much about him, Jenkins?" I asked suspiciously.

"He once saved my life in the Great War, and in return I help him with his cases when he needs me, sir."

"Humph. I thought I employed you, Jenkins."

"Well, yes, sir. But I have my free hours, sir." The poor fellow's face grew so very mournful at my insinuation that I could not help smiling even in the midst of my despondency.

"I'm not blaming you, Jenkins. I was merely wondering why he didn't hire you altogether," I said.

"He's rather eccentric, sir. He does not want to be bothered with servants."

"And do you think this very strange gentleman will condescend to help me, Jenkins?" I inquired dubiously.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir, if I ask him."

"Do you really believe that he can find a ray of light amidst the Stygian darkness of this horrible business?" I asked, interested in spite of myself.

"I'm sure of it, sir."

"Very well, then. Get me my hat and give me his address. Anything is better than this deadening inaction."

When he returned with my overcoat and hat, Jenkins handed me a folded note. "If you don't mind, sir," he said apologetically. "Mr. McKelvie doesn't always receive strangers, sir."

Queer customer, I reflected as I departed on my errand and I had my doubts of his ability to aid me, grave doubts which were only increased by the faded gentility of the old house on Stuyvesant Square, and far from quieted by the sight of the darky who popped her head out of the front window at my ring. It was a head calculated to frighten away any but the boldest intruder, a head bristling with wooly gray spikes set like a picket fence around a face the whites of whose eyes gleamed brighter and whose thick lips flamed redder against the shiny blackness of her skin.

"Courageous man to employ such an apparition," was my thought as I proferred my request.

"Mistuh McKelvie?" she repeated after me, parrot-like. "No, suh, he ain't home, no, suh."

"Are you sure?" I persisted, holding out the note; for I recalled Jenkins' remarks.

"Ah ain't 'customed to tellin' no lies, young man," she responded with a haughty toss of the head.

"Will you please tell me then when I can find him at home?" I continued, too weary to be amused by the incongruity of unkemptness trying to look haughty and dignified.

"About a week, suh. He's away, yessuh," and she pulled in her head and slammed the window in my face.