A QUESTION OF COLOR

Coroner Penfield waited with untiring patience for Inspector Mitchell to complete his examination before signing to the undertaker’s assistants, who stood grouped at the further end of the hall, to remove the body. In utter silence the men came forward with their stretcher, and all that was mortal of John Meredith was tenderly lifted and carried to a spare bedroom. As the bearers passed Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door it opened and Anne Meredith stepped across the threshold.

Dressed in her white pegnoir and the unnatural pallor of her cheeks enhanced by the deep shadows under her eyes, she appeared, in the uncompromising glare of the early morning sunlight, like a wraith, and the men halted involuntarily. Before any one could stop her, Anne stepped to the side of the stretcher and drew back the sheet. A shudder shook her at sight of the bloodstains. With a self-control little short of marvelous in one so young she mastered her emotion and laid her hand, with caressing tenderness, against the cold cheek.

“Poor Uncle John!” she murmured. Her hand slipped downward across the broad chest. There was an instant’s pause, then stooping over, she kissed him as some one touched her on the shoulder.

“Anne,” her mother’s voice sounded coldly in her ear. “Come away, at once.”

Under cover of the sheet Anne plucked at a button on the jacket, then with a single sweep of her arm she tossed the sheet over the dead man’s face.

“Pardon me,” she stammered as Coroner Penfield walked over to the stretcher. “Uncle John was very dear to me,” her voice ended in a sob. “I—I—had to see him—to—to—convince myself that this awful thing had really happened. Oh, merciful God—”

Her mother’s firm grasp on her arm checked her inclination to hysterics.

“Come.” There was no mistaking the power of the imperious command. With a grave inclination of her head to Coroner Penfield and Inspector Mitchell, who had stood a silent spectator of the little scene, she led her daughter inside the boudoir and closed the door. Not until Anne was in her own bedroom did Mrs. Meredith release her hold upon her arm.

“I trust your morbid curiosity is satisfied,” she said, making no effort to conceal her deep displeasure.

Anne walked over to her bureau and, turning her back upon her mother, opened a small silver bonbon box and in feverish haste slipped several hairs, which she had held tightly clenched between the fingers of her left hand, under the peppermints which the box contained.

“I am quite satisfied, mother,” her voice shook pitifully. “Would you mind sending Susanne to me. I—I will lie down for awhile.”

“An excellent plan.” Mrs. Meredith turned back to the door connecting Anne’s bedroom with the boudoir. “Doctor McLane expressly ordered us to remain in our rooms until Coroner Penfield sent for us. Have you—” she paused—“have you seen Lucille?”

“No.” Anne looked around quickly. “Has she been told about Uncle John?”

“She was still asleep when I went to her room half an hour ago, and I thought it best not to awaken her.” Mrs. Meredith laid her hand on the knob of the door, preparatory to closing it behind her. “I will go there shortly. Try and rest, Anne; a little rose water might make your eyes less red,” and with this parting shot, her mother retreated.

Crossing the boudoir Mrs. Meredith hastened into her bedroom. The suite of rooms which she and her daughter occupied were the prettiest in the old mansion, overlooking the well-kept grounds and lovely elm trees, but she did not pause to contemplate her surroundings, although the large bedroom and its handsome mahogany furniture were worthy a second look.

“Susanne,” she called. “Order my breakfast at once, then go to Miss Anne.”

“Oui, madame” The Frenchwoman emerged in haste from the closet where she had been rearranging Mrs. Meredith’s dinner gowns. She smiled shrewdly as she went below stairs. “You give orders as if you were already mistress here,” she muttered, below her breath. “But wait, madame, but wait.” And with a shrug of her pretty shoulders Susanne hastened to find the chef.

Mrs. Meredith regarded herself attentively in the long cheval glass, added a touch of rouge, then rubbed it off vigorously. Pale cheeks were not amiss after the tragedy of the night. Powder, delicately applied, removed all traces of sleeplessness, and finally satisfied with her appearance, she left her bedroom. The old mansion had but two stories, with rambling corridors and unexpected niches and alcoves. The wide attic was lighted by dormer windows and a deep cellar extended under the entire building.

The large drawing-room, library, billiard room and dining-room were on the first floor, the servants’ quarters in a wing over the kitchen and three large pantries, and the ten masters’ rooms took up all the space on the second floor. A second wing, added at the time John Meredith had had electricity and plumbing installed, furnished three additional bedrooms and baths and were reserved for bachelor guests. The ground floor of this wing made a commodious garage.

As Mrs. Meredith walked down the broad corridor she noted two detectives loitering by the head of the circular staircase and frowned heavily. Her pause in front of the door leading to the bedroom occupied by Lucille Hull was brief. She knew, from her earlier visit that morning, that her cousin had neglected to lock the door upon retiring the night before. Without the formality of knocking she turned the knob and entered. The dark green Holland shades were drawn and in the semidarkness Mrs. Meredith failed to see a pair of bright eyes watching her approach. By the time Mrs. Meredith reached the bedside, Lucille was in deep slumber, judging by her closed eyes and regular breathing.

Lucille’s good looks were not due to cosmetics, Mrs. Meredith conceded to herself as she stood looking down at her. Even in the darkened room the girl’s regular features and beautiful auburn hair which, flying loose, partly covered the pillow, made an attractive picture. Mrs. Meredith laid a cool hand on the girl’s exposed arm, and gave it a gentle shake.

“Lucille,” she called softly. “Wake up.”

Slowly the handsome eyes opened. Her first glance at the older woman became a stare.

“Good gracious, Cousin Belle, you!” she exclaimed. “And fully dressed. Am I very late? Have I slept the clock around?”

“On the contrary it is very early; only six o’clock.” Mrs. Meredith’s somewhat metallic voice was carefully lowered. “I have distressing news—”

Lucille raised herself upon her elbow, her eyes large with fear.

“What is it? Father—? Oh, Cousin Belle, don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Hush, calm yourself! My news has nothing to do with your immediate family.” Mrs. Meredith was not to be hurried. “Turn up that bed light, Lucille; I cannot talk in the dark.”

Bending sideways the girl pushed the button of the reading lamp. Its adjusted shade threw the light over the bed, but her face remained in shadow. “Go on,” she urged. “Go on!”

“Your Cousin John has—has—committed suicide.”

With a convulsive bound the girl swung herself out of bed.

“W-what?” she stammered. “W-what are you saying? Cousin John a suicide?”

“Yes.”

She stared at Mrs. Meredith for a full second. “Did he kill himself?” she asked, in little above a whisper.

Mrs. Meredith nodded. “His dead body was found in the hall near the staircase early this morning,” she said. “It has shocked me unutterably.”

“Cousin John dead! I cannot believe it. It is dreadful.” Lucille spoke as one stunned. She covered her eyes with her hand in an attitude of prayer, then rose and walked over to the windows and raised the shades until the bedroom was flooded with light.

“And Anne?” she questioned. “Has Anne been told?”

“Yes.” Lucille, still with her back to her cousin, felt that the keen eyes watching her were boring a hole through her head. “Doctor McLane broke the news to Anne after he had spoken to me. I fear she is inclined to be hysterical.”

“Poor Anne!” Lucille whirled around with sudden feverish energy. “I will dress at once and go to her.”

“Not just now, she is lying down and absolute quiet is what she needs,” Mrs. Meredith’s manner, which had thawed at sight of the girl’s emotion, stiffened. “If you will come to the dining room, breakfast will be served shortly.”

“Breakfast!” Lucille shuddered. “I don’t feel as if I could ever eat a mouthful again. Oh, Cousin Belle, how can you be so—so callous?”

“So what—” Mrs. Meredith stopped on her way to the door, and under the steady regard of her fine dark eyes Lucille’s burst of temper waned.

“So calm,” she replied hastily. “I wish that I had your self-control.”

A faint ironical smile crossed Mrs. Meredith’s pale face. “Self-control will come when you cease smoking,” she remarked dryly, pointing to an empty cigarette package and a filled ash tray by the bed. “And, you doubtless recall your discussion, only yesterday, with Cousin John on the subject of keeping early hours.”

Lucille flushed. “Cousin John was absurdly puritanical,” she protested. “We—ah—” she hesitated. “How has Cousin John’s death affected his plans for that extraordinary marriage? Surely, Anne won’t be forced to wed that blind surgeon. Doctor Curtis?”

“Our thoughts have not gone beyond the moment,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “We can think of nothing but John’s tragic death; all else is secondary. We must adjust ourselves,” she paused. “Hurry, Lucille, and join me in the dining room.”

Lucille dressed with absolute disregard of detail, a novel experience, as her personal appearance usually was a consideration which loomed large on her horizon, and generally consumed a good part of two hours of every morning. Loving luxury, the idol of an indulgent father, she had spent twenty-six indolent years, petted by men and gossiped about by women. She had made her debut into Washington society upon her eighteenth birthday and, in spite of the many predictions of her approaching engagement to this man and that, one season had followed another and she still remained unmarried.

Her father, Julian Hull, by courtesy a colonel, was a first cousin of John Meredith, and at one time a business associate. But unlike Colonel Hull, John Meredith had early deserted the stock-brokerage field and devoted his financial interests and his business ability to banking. He had climbed rapidly in his chosen profession, and finally attained the presidency of one of the oldest banks in the District of Columbia, a position which he had held until, upon advice of Doctor McLane, he had resigned owing to ill health. The brokerage firm of Hull and Armstrong had likewise prospered and, upon the death of its junior member, his son, Gerald Armstrong, had been taken into partnership, a partnership which, rumor predicted, would culminate in his marriage to Lucille.

Lucille and her father were frequent week-end visitors at Ten Acres, and Lucille was often called upon to act as hostess at dinners and dances when Mrs. Marshall Meredith was not present. John Meredith’s affection for his niece, Anne, and his cousin’s daughter had appeared to be about equally divided until Anne graduated from her convent school and came, as he expressed it, to make her home permanently with her uncle. Her half-shy, wholly charming manner, her old-world courtesy and consideration for others, and her delicate, almost ethereal beauty had made instant appeal, and John Meredith had been outspoken in his affectionate admiration. His marked preference for Anne had brought no appreciable alteration in the friendship between the cousins, and, in spite of the eight years difference in their ages, she and Lucille were inseparable companions.

It had been Meredith’s custom to have guests every week-end from January to June and from June to January at Ten Acres. He never wearied of improving the stately old mansion and its surrounding land and enjoyed having others share its beauty. Anne’s nineteenth birthday anniversary two days before had proved the occasion for much jollification, but the house party, to the surprise of Mrs. Meredith, had only included Lucille Hull, Sam Hollister and Gerald Armstrong. The arrival of David Curtis just in time to be present at the birthday dinner had aroused only a temporary interest in the blind surgeon and a feeling of pity, tinged with admiration on Anne’s part, for Curtis’ plucky acceptance of the fate meted out to him. What had occasioned surprise was Meredith’s absorption in his blind guest the night of the dinner and the following day; then had come his interview with his sister-in-law and the peremptory statement of his wishes respecting a marriage between Anne and David Curtis. In every way it had proved an eventful Sunday, ending with John Meredith’s suicide.

Lucille checked her rapid walk down the corridor only to collide with some vigor with David Curtis as she turned the corner leading from her bedroom into the main hallway.

“Oh, ah—excuse me!” she gasped, as he put out a steadying hand. “Let me pick up your cane,” and before he could stop her she had stooped to get it.

“Thank you,” he said, as she put the cane back in his hand. “It was awkward of me to drop it. I hope that I did not startle you, Miss Hull?”

Lucille looked at him queerly for a moment, “Miss Hull,” she repeated. “Why not Anne Meredith?”

“No. Miss Hull,” his smile was very engaging; and again she noted the deep blue of his sightless eyes.

“You are very quick to guess identities, Doctor Curtis,” she remarked. “Are you coming downstairs?”

“Not just now. Coroner Penfield is waiting for me,” he added by way of explanation.

“Then I will see you later,” and with a quick bow Lucille hurried toward the staircase.

As Curtis stood listening to her light footfall he heard some one approaching from the servants’ wing of the house.

“That you, Fernando?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir,” and the Filipino boy bowed respectfully. “I ver’ late. Please pardon. This way, sir,” and he touched Curtis’ arm to indicate the direction.

“Just a moment,” Curtis lowered his voice. “What color is Miss Hull’s hair?”

“Mees Hull,” Fernando paused in thought. “She got what you call red hair.”

Curtis tucked his cane under his arm and took out his wallet. Opening it he carefully drew out several hairs.

“What color are these, Fernando?” he asked. “Look carefully.”

Fernando bent over and then glanced up, a mild surprise at the question in his sharp black eyes.

“These, honorable sir,” he said slowly, “these are white hairs.”