ELEANOR dropped her embroidery and gazed out into the garden, with its flower-beds lit by the fading rays of the Western sun and the soft wind from the open window fanned her cheeks. An involuntary sigh escaped her.

“A penny for your thoughts,” and Douglas, who had approached unnoticed, stepped up to the raised window-seat. A loving smile curved Eleanor’s pretty mouth as she made room for him beside her and slipped her hand confidingly in his.

“Do you think a penny would bring me any comfort?” she asked.

“Take me for a penny, and I will do my utmost to comfort you.” Douglas kissed her gently as she leaned her head against his broad shoulder.

“Take you—gladly!” She raised her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “And I am richer in happiness than I ever was before.”

“My darling!” Douglas checked his impetuosity; the dark circles under Eleanor’s eyes had deepened and her extreme nervousness was betrayed by her restless glances about the room and the incessant movement of her fingers. “Now for your thoughts.”

“My thoughts? They are all with Cynthia. Oh, Douglas!”—straightening up,—“I can’t tell her of Fred Lane’s arrest; on top of all she has borne it would be cruel, cruel!”

“Is she better?”

“She is at last sleeping naturally. When she awoke from the opiate, some hours ago, she evinced no interest, and so I was able to avoid the questions which I feared she would ask me.”

“She was probably still under the effects of the opiate and too drowsy to recall the events of last night.”

“I dread her awakening.”

“You will have to put off telling her of Lane’s arrest and Annette’s death until she is strong enough physically to bear the shock.”

“Do you think him guilty?” The question seemed wrung from her.

“Of which crime?”

“Of both.”

“I don’t see how it is possible for him to have had anything to do with Annette’s death,“ replied Douglas thoughtfully, ”for the very reason you pointed out when Brett was accusing him this morning. It would be physically impossible for him to have left the room and locked and bolted the door on the inside.“

“What do you think caused her death?”

“I think it highly probable that she committed suicide.”

“You don’t think the draft blew out the gas?”

“A draft? Where on earth could it come from? Both windows were tightly closed, and the door also. Upon my word,” turning to look at her, “you don’t place any faith in that old legend about the ghost—of your great-great-aunt’s habit of extinguishing all lights in her room after eleven o’clock at night?”

“Yes, I do,” reluctantly.

“Oh, come now,” a chuckle escaped Douglas, but it died out suddenly. He had remarkably keen eyesight, and as he raised his head he encountered a steady stare from an oil portrait hanging on the wall opposite him. It was not the stare that attracted his attention, but the remarkable whiteness of the eyeballs in the painted face on which the light from the window was reflected. As he looked the eyes seemed to blink, then were gone. With an exclamation he rose, startling Eleanor by his sudden movement, and walked across the room until he stood directly in front of the painting, which was life-size and represented a handsome man in a navy uniform of the War of 1812. On closer inspection, the eyes appeared not to be painted in at all, and were represented by shadows. As he retreated from the portrait, however, the shadows took form and he distinctly saw the long lashes and eyeballs. It was an optical illusion, cleverly conceived by the artist, and, satisfied on that point, he returned to Eleanor, who had watched his movements with growing curiosity.

“Why this sudden interest in my great-great-grandfather?” she asked.

“It’s a fine portrait.” He reseated himself by her side. “I didn’t notice it last night. What is the old gentleman’s name?”

“Commodore Barry Thornton; my father was named for him. He inherited the same black hair, blue eyes, and tastes of that old sea-fighter,” nodding toward the portrait. “Do you know on what grounds they arrested Fred Lane for the murder of Senator Carew?”

“With an exclamation he rose, and walked across the room”

“Only in a general way. It is known that the Senator opposed his engagement to Cynthia, that they had a bitter quarrel that night, and that Lane left the ball to look for Cynthia’s carriage. He was gone some time, and, when the carriage did turn up, Senator Carew was seated in it—dead.”

“Is that enough to convict?”

“It’s purely circumstantial evidence,”—evasively,—“I don’t know yet what new testimony Mrs. Winthrop may have contributed to cause his arrest.”

“Mrs. Winthrop’s attitude is incomprehensible to me,” burst out Eleanor. “Fred’s father, Governor Lane, was her husband’s best friend, and Mr. Winthrop was under great financial obligations to him when he died. And now look at the way Mrs. Winthrop is treating that friend’s son—hounding him to the gallows. Is that gratitude?” with biting scorn.

“Some natures don’t wear well under an obligation, and the cloven hoof crops out.” Douglas pushed the window farther open. “Ingratitude is an abominable sin, and the one most frequently committed.” A faint knock on the hall door interrupted him. “Come in,” he called, and Brett opened the door. He drew back when he saw Douglas was not alone.

“Don’t go,” said Eleanor, gathering up her embroidery and workbag, “I must run upstairs and ask the nurse how Miss Carew is.” She hastened toward the door, which Brett still held open, but he stopped her on the threshold.

“I will be greatly obliged if you will spare me half an hour, Miss Thornton; when you come downstairs again will be time enough,” he added, as Eleanor stepped back into the library.

Eleanor studied his impassive face intently for a second before answering, then: “I’ll be down again shortly,” and she disappeared up the hall.

Brett closed the door carefully and selected a chair near Douglas, and sat down heavily. Douglas pulled out his cigarette case and handed it to the detective, who picked out a cigarette and, striking a match, settled back in his chair contentedly as he watched the rings of smoke curling upward.

“I am glad of an opportunity to have a quiet word with you, Mr. Hunter,” he began. “Things have been moving pretty swiftly to-day, and I’m free to confess that the death of Annette has stumped me. Was it murder or suicide?”

“Everything points to suicide.”

“I’m not so sure of that,” drawing his chair nearer and lowering his voice. “I’ve been searching Annette’s belongings and have found several things which puzzle me completely.”

“What were they?”

“Well, for one thing, the torn kimono.”

“What—you don’t mean——?”

“Exactly. Annette apparently owned a wrapper precisely like Miss Thornton’s, and it was she who paid you that midnight visit when you spent the night in the library on Tuesday evening at the Carew residence. I found the wrapper upstairs among her effects. She had mended the tear very neatly, but the slip which you tore out of it that night exactly fitted the darn. I had the slip with me in my pocket and fitted the two together.”

“Great Scott! what on earth was she doing in the library at that hour?”

“Aye, what?” significantly. “You recollect that Nicodemus testified that Annette did not want to sleep on the third floor because—’it wor too far off from her folks, an’ she had to be down whar she could hear dem.’ It looks as if Annette were in the habit of taking an unusual interest in her mistress’ affairs.”

“It does indeed,” agreed Douglas, knocking the ashes from his cigarette on the window ledge. “Did you get any information from Annette yesterday?”

“Very little. I saw her soon after I found your note telling me of her interview with Colonel Thornton. She admitted that she had information which she was willing to sell, and finally made an appointment to see me early this morning. Thanks to circumstances—call it murder or suicide—I am no wiser than I was twenty-four hours ago.”

“Do you still cling to the theory that she met her death because some one was afraid of what she would tell you to-day?”

“Yes; it looks that way to me. And yet I can’t for the life of me discover how anyone could have committed a murder in that locked room.”

“In searching the room did you discover any secret passages leading to it?” exclaimed Douglas.

“I did not. I thought I might find one, so I tapped that entire wall, but could not find a trace of any concealed door. I tell you, Mr. Hunter, Annette did not commit suicide,” Brett spoke earnestly. “She expected to receive a large sum of money within a few days; I virtually pledged the amount to her. There was no object in her taking her own life.”

“Why don’t you investigate her past, Brett? That might give you a clew.”

“I have already cabled her description to the Paris police, asking for any information about her which they may have. I expect an answer shortly.”

“Good. Tell me, what information did Mrs. Winthrop supply which induced you to arrest Captain Lane?”

“She told me that he had been seen on the street Monday night, when looking for Miss Carew’s carriage, and that he was carrying a sharp letter file.”

“Who gave her that information?”

“She didn’t state, but I have an idea that it was Annette; probably the girl wanted money and went to her direct, she was none too scrupulous, apparently.”

“I believe you are right,” exclaimed Douglas.

“Mrs. Winthrop also told me that she found, tucked away among her brother’s papers, yesterday an envelope containing a threatening letter. The contents were written in a disguised hand, but the postmark on the envelope read, ‘Lanesville, Maryland.’ She is firmly convinced that, if young Lane didn’t write those letters himself, he instigated them.”

“Oh, nonsense! He isn’t such a fool,” roughly. “I believe he is innocent.”

At that moment the door opened and Colonel Thornton walked in. He flung his hat on the table. “I am glad to find you both here,” he said. “Don’t get up,” as Douglas rose, “I’ll take this chair. I called you up at headquarters, Brett, but they told me you had just come here, so I hurried over from Mrs. Winthrop’s to catch you.”

“Does she want me for anything in particular?” asked Brett.

“She simply wanted to ask a few more details in regard to the coroner’s inquest. She is very much upset over Annette’s extraordinary death. It seems that the girl made some statement to her, and Mrs. Winthrop depended on her testimony to prove Lane killed Senator Carew.”

“What did I tell you?” Brett glanced triumphantly at Douglas. “I’m afraid, though I’m morally certain of Captain Lane’s guilt, that we will have some difficulty in establishing the fact.”

“You will,” agreed Colonel Thornton. “So far you have only proved, first, that there was enmity between the two men; second, that Lane had the opportunity; third, that Annette saw him with the letter file, the weapon used to kill Carew, in his hand.”

“The last has not been sworn to,” objected Douglas, “and Annette is dead, so that statement, the most important of all, cannot be accepted as testimony.”

“Unless some one else saw Lane in the street at the time Annette did,” burst in Brett swiftly, resuming his seat.

“If they had they would have come forward before this,” reasoned Douglas. “I consider it extremely probable that Annette was lying when she said she saw a letter file in Lane’s hand. Remember the drenching rain; walking in what proved almost a cloudburst would make most people blind to so small a thing as a letter file carried in a man’s closed fist.”

“What on earth was her object in making such a statement?” asked Colonel Thornton.

“That is what we have yet to find out,” answered Douglas. “And there’s another point, Brett, which you have overlooked.”

“What’s that?”

“You recollect that you told me Senator Carew’s clothes were absolutely dry when his dead body was found in the carriage. Considering the downpour of rain that night, it seems incredible that he should not have got wet.”

“I have come to the conclusion that the coachman, Hamilton, lied when he said he had not stopped at the house for Senator Carew on Monday night,” replied Brett. “Having lied in the beginning, he is now afraid to admit the truth for fear that he may be convicted of killing the Senator.”

“That sounds plausible,” acknowledged Colonel Thornton.

“I don’t believe it.” Douglas shook his head obstinately. “It has been proved already that the Senator did not spend Monday evening at home. I tell you the key to this mystery is how Senator Carew got into that carriage on such a stormy night without getting his clothes wet. When you have solved that problem you will know who committed the murder.”

Thornton was about to reply when the hall door was thrown open, and Eleanor, her lovely eyes opened to their widest, exclaimed:

“Uncle Dana, the Secretary of State wishes to see you!”

“God bless me!” Colonel Thornton sprang out of his chair as the distinguished statesman followed Eleanor into the room.

“Please don’t let me disturb you,” exclaimed the Secretary, as Douglas stepped forward, and Brett edged toward the door. “I only dropped in for a second to pick up Mr. Hunter,” laying a hand on Douglas’ arm. “They told me at the Albany that you were stopping here for a few days, so I came over in my motor to ask you to drive back to my office with me, although it is Sunday.”

“Won’t you be seated, Mr. Secretary?” asked Colonel Thornton, as Douglas hastily gathered up some papers which he had left on the center table, and started for the door.

“Thanks, no; it is imperative that I get to my office——” The Secretary stopped speaking as a man darted inside the door and slammed it shut. In his haste the newcomer collided with Douglas and then collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Philip Winthrop!” gasped Eleanor, while the others gazed at the exhausted figure in amazement.

“Have you any brandy?” exclaimed the Secretary, noticing the ghastly color of Winthrop’s face. Thornton hastily produced a decanter and gave the half-fainting man a stiff drink, which in a few minutes had the desired effect of bringing him round.

“Thanks,” he murmured faintly.

“What does the doctor mean by letting you come out?” asked Thornton. “You are in no condition to leave your room.”

“I’ll be better in a minute; give me some more,” Winthrop motioned toward the decanter. Colonel Thornton glanced questioningly at the Secretary, who nodded assent, so he gave Winthrop a milder dose, which restored him somewhat, and his voice was stronger when he resumed speech. “The doctor doesn’t know I’m here. I slipped out while Mother was lying down, caught a cab at the corner, and drove over here. I want to see the detective, Brett.”

“Here I am, sir.” Brett stepped forward into the circle about Winthrop.

“Good!” Winthrop raised himself just in time to see Eleanor open the hall door softly. “Come back!” he shouted; then, as she paid no attention to him, cried, “Stop her! stop her; don’t let her slip away!”

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Colonel Thornton, as he stepped forward and pulled Eleanor back into the room and shut the door. “You drunken loafer! stop bellowing at my niece.”

“I won’t, I won’t!” Winthrop had worked himself into a frenzy. “She can’t drug me here, fortunately—I won’t be silent—she is an international spy, and she murdered Senator Carew!”