PRELIMINARY SKIRMISHING

Gerald Armstrong looked inquiringly at Inspector Mitchell as the latter waved him to a chair in the library; then turned his regard to Detective Sergeant Brown. He learned nothing from the Sergeant’s stolid expression and again focused his attention on the latter’s superior officer.

“Sit down, Mr. Armstrong,” directed Mitchell. Taking a chair he planted himself in front of Armstrong, while Sergeant Brown braced his burly figure against a convenient sofa and remained a silent onlooker. “Now, sir, will you kindly tell us why you avoided the inquest on John Meredith?”

“I did not avoid it.”

“No? Well, it appeared that way to us at Headquarters,” replied Mitchell, observing Armstrong’s unconcealed annoyance with relish. A man in a temper might give out valuable information. “And it has been very apparent that you have also avoided an interview with us since then.”

“Well, what of it?” Armstrong assumed a more comfortable position. “Come, Inspector, why worry about the past? Now that I am at leisure I shall be very happy to answer any questions you put to me, provided always,” with a smile meant to be ingratiating, “that it is within my power to answer them.”

“Of course,” dryly. “Why did you leave Ten Acres so precipitately after John Meredith signed those papers on Sunday night?”

“There was nothing precipitate in my conduct,” replied Armstrong, with a slight frown. “I remembered that I had some work to do at home and so went there, intending to return to Ten Acres in time for breakfast on Monday morning.”

“But you did not return then?”

“No; I overslept.”

The explanation was very pat, and the smile left Mitchell’s eyes, to be replaced by an angry glitter.

“And when did you first learn of John Meredith’s murder?” he demanded.

“I learned of his death,” with emphasis on the last word, “on Monday shortly before noon.”

“And who informed you of Meredith’s murder?” Mitchell repeated the word intentionally and Armstrong flushed.

“Colonel Julian Hull, my senior partner, told me the news,” he stated. “It seems his daughter, Miss Lucille Hull, telephoned to him. I was not aware until last evening, when I called at the Hulls’, that the police authorities considered Meredith’s death was a case of murder and not suicide.”

“And what is your belief in the matter?” asked Mitchell.

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders. “I have formed no theories,” he answered. “The whole affair is frightfully tragic. That John Meredith would take his own life was incredible, but to any one who knew his lovable character as I did,” meeting Mitchell’s gaze without wavering, “it is inconceivable that any one should have killed him.”

“Inconceivable perhaps, but he was killed,” responded Mitchell grimly, “and we intend to locate the murderer. At what hour did you leave Ten Acres Sunday night, and did John Meredith know that you planned to leave?”

Armstrong shook his head. “No. I left there a little before midnight.”

“Without notifying Mrs. Marshall Meredith or any other inmate of the house?”

“Mrs. Meredith had retired for the night,” replied Armstrong. “Herman and Damason, the Filipino chauffeur, were aware that I left.”

“And why did you not tell Mr. Hollister of your intended departure?”

Armstrong frowned at the Inspector’s persistency. “It was after we had parted that I decided on impulse to return home that night. There was no occasion for disturbing Hollister,” he stated coldly.

Mitchell consulted his notebook in which he had made occasional entries as their conversation progressed.

“Are you well acquainted with Mr. Hollister?” he asked.

“We are friends, yes,” and Mitchell’s eyebrows lifted at the brief reply.

“You have just stated, Mr. Armstrong, that only Herman and Damason knew of your intended departure,” he began. “In her testimony at the inquest Miss Anne Meredith told of meeting you on your way out.”

“Yes, yes, I forgot; I did meet her,” broke in Armstrong with marked haste.

“And you told her of the prenuptial agreement and the codicil to his will, to which you had witnessed Meredith’s signature.” Mitchell paused before asking, “Wasn’t that breaking a confidence, sir?”

“Most emphatically not. Meredith did not pledge us to secrecy,” retorted Armstrong.

Mitchell scrutinized his flushed face for a moment in silence. “How was Miss Meredith dressed?” At the query Armstrong moved uncomfortably.

“I am sure I don’t know,” he grumbled. “She was suitably clad, if you mean that.”

“I never doubted but that she was,” replied Mitchell, disgust creeping into his voice. “How was she dressed, Mr. Armstrong? Did she have on the gown she wore at dinner or a street suit?”

“I don’t know,” sullenly. “It was dark—”

“In the house or out of doors?”

Armstrong’s eyes shifted from Mitchell to Sergeant Brown, who approached them at that moment, and from him back again to Mitchell.

“What’s that to you, Inspector?” demanded Armstrong.

“That’s my affair,” roughly. “Come, sir, I insist upon a direct reply. Where did you meet Miss Meredith on Sunday night?” Receiving no answer, he asked more urgently: “Was it inside the house or out? Answer at once, sir.”

“Outside the house,” sullenly.

“Outside is too vague, sir,” persisted Mitchell. “Did you meet Miss Anne close by the servants’ wing of the house and underneath the window of Gretchen’s bedroom?”

“That’s no business of yours!” Armstrong got to his feet in haste, an angry light in his eyes.

“I want an answer, Mr. Armstrong.”

“You won’t get it,” with sneering emphasis. “If I have anything more to say it will be to your superiors and in the presence of my lawyer.”

“If you are going to take that attitude, Mr. Armstrong,” Mitchell rose also, “I will see that you are served with a subpoena as a material witness to attend the next hearing of the inquest—”

A startled look crossed Armstrong’s face, then disappeared.

“Colonel Hull told me that the inquest was over—”

“For yesterday afternoon.” Mitchell pocketed his notebook and fountain pen. “The next hearing will be on Thursday afternoon at two o’clock at the District Morgue. I advise you not to forget to attend,” with significant emphasis. “One more question, where did you spend Sunday night—all of Sunday night?”

Armstrong’s bright color faded, leaving his sallow complexion a mottled yellow.

“What in blazes!” he shouted, then his voice died down as Herman drew back the portiÈres and stepped inside the library.

The butler bowed deferentially. “Luncheon is served,” he announced. “Miss Anne and Doctor Curtis are already at the table, and Miss Lucille is waiting for you in the hall.”

Flinging a word over his shoulder, which Mitchell failed to distinguish, Armstrong hurried into the reception hall as the Inspector, with a quiet nod to Herman, opened the French window on the veranda and, followed by his faithful henchman, Sergeant Brown, strode across the lawn in the direction of the lodge.

Luncheon, judged by Curtis’ feelings, was a long and trying ordeal. No one except Lucille felt inclined for conversation. When dessert was served she shot an aggrieved look at her cousin, which Anne missed entirely, and finally lapsed into silence. The scene in the hall and the finding of the discolored scalpel was ever present in Curtis’ mind, and his anxiety was not relieved by Anne’s absent-minded replies and unresponsive manner. As far as possible he bore the brunt of Lucille’s efforts to force conversation. Gerald Armstrong, on the contrary, contented himself with eating a remarkably good luncheon and confined himself to monosyllables, if he troubled to speak at all.

As they left the table, Armstrong edged his way to Anne’s side and motioned to her to wait. She cast a quick glance at Lucille and Curtis, who had preceded her toward the hall, then turned with marked reluctance to face her companion.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Why are you avoiding me?” with blunt directness.

Anne flushed. “I was under the impression that I went for a motor ride with you this morning—”

“With Lucille along,” he broke in, making no attempt to modify his aggressive manner. “You have avoided me.”

“I have not.” Anne’s eyes sparkled with anger. “Nor,” with quiet significance, “have I run away.” It was Armstrong’s turn to flush. “I must see you alone,” he insisted, raising his voice.

Herman, busy removing the dessert plates, turned and eyed them with unconcealed interest. The servants at Ten Acres had little liking for Armstrong; his overbearing manner and utter lack of consideration for them accounted for his unpopularity. They accepted his generous tips with outward thanks and inward rebellion over his presence in the house.

Armstrong’s marked attention to Lucille had explained in Herman’s inquisitive mind the reason of Meredith’s many invitations to dinner-dances and house parties. That Meredith was particularly attached to the young stockbroker, the butler had had occasion to doubt, having witnessed one or two heated arguments between them. Armstrong had once or twice expressed himself at the dinner table in mocking terms about “bread and butter misses,” and therefore, that he should suddenly evince a preference for Anne’s society, whose unsophisticated outlook on life, and unspoiled, sunny disposition had endeared her to the servants, caused Herman to linger over his work in the dining room in the hope of overhearing what transpired. His hopes, however, were promptly frustrated.

“I hear the front doorbell, Herman,” Anne turned her back on Armstrong to address the butler. Looking over her shoulder, she spoke to Armstrong and the disdain in her charmingly modulated voice made him flush again, but this time with anger. “There is no occasion for seeing you alone, Gerald.”

“Isn’t there?” His laugh was unpleasant. “Suppose, instead of having a friendly chat with you, I go to the police?”

Anne’s hands clenched over her handkerchief. Without deigning to reply, she hurried into the hall in time to meet her mother as the latter came in the front door with Sam Hollister.

“Have you lunched, mother?” she asked, as Susanne appeared to take Mrs. Meredith’s wraps, while Herman relieved the lawyer of his overcoat and hat.

“I had a salad and cup of coffee at the Shoreham,” replied Mrs. Meredith. “How about you, Sam?”

“No luncheon for me, thanks.” Hollister picked up his leather brief case, and glanced at Mrs. Meredith. “Shall we proceed with business?”

“It would be best.” Mrs. Meredith removed her hat and handed it to Susanne, paused before the hall mirror to inspect her hair and gave it a deft touch here and there before turning to her daughter. “Come into the library, Anne. Where is Lucille?”

“Already in the library, mother.”

“In that case,” Mrs. Meredith started for the library, then halted as Gerald Armstrong appeared from the dining room where he had stood just inside the door watching them. “Ah, Gerald, good morning.” As he returned her greeting and stepped forward to accompany her into the library she motioned him to stop. “You will have to excuse us,” she explained. “Mr. Hollister is to read Mr. Meredith’s will and only his relatives are to be present.” With a gracious bow she stepped past Armstrong. The latter tried to catch Anne’s eye, but she walked by with head averted, listening to what Hollister, on her right, was saying. Armstrong bit his mustache, paused uncertainly, then, ignoring Susanne’s muttered apology as he brushed against her, he opened the front door and stepped out on the veranda.

At sound of Mrs. Meredith’s entrance Curtis rose from his seat by Lucille and turned toward her. “Why, Cousin Belle, I did not hear you return,” exclaimed Lucille, springing up. “We should have waited luncheon for you,” with a reproachful look at Anne.

“I told Anne not to wait,” remarked Mrs. Meredith. “While Sam was going over papers in his office I went to the Shoreham and had a bite to eat. Now, Sam, if you will proceed, please.”

Hollister drew forward a card table and placed his brief case on it. “I have here,” he began, “the last will and testament of John Meredith. It was signed by Meredith in my office a year ago and left in my care. To-day, in the presence of the proper officials, I took it out of my vault and have brought it here to read in the presence of John Meredith’s relatives.”

“Just a moment, please.” Curtis stepped forward, and addressed Mrs. Meredith. “I fear my presence is an intrusion. If you will let me withdraw—”

“Please wait, doctor.” The color flashed up in Mrs. Meredith’s face, and a smile, which Anne remembered afterwards as both beautiful and ingratiating, lit her fine dark eyes. “My daughter would, I am sure, prefer to have you here.”

Curtis hesitated in uncertainty. Was he really wanted?

“Please stay.” Anne’s soft voice solved his doubts and he resumed his seat as she moved over and sat down by Lucille on the sofa.

Hollister picked up a document which he had taken a moment before from his brief case while watching the little scene between Mrs. Meredith and the blind surgeon. But his reading of the will was doomed to another interruption. The portiÈres were thrust forcibly to one side as Colonel Julian Hull walked unannounced into the library.

“Why wasn’t I notified, Belle?” he demanded. “As John’s first cousin I am entitled to be present at the reading of his will.”

“Lucille represented you,” she replied coldly. “Who informed you, Julian, that the will was being read?”

“What concern is that of yours?” with a scowl. “Go on, Hollister,” and without a word to any of the others he flung himself down in the nearest chair.

It seemed to Anne, as Hollister’s deep voice went on and on, that she would never hear the end of “whereas” and “because of” which sprinkled each page of the document. At its close, Hollister laid the will on the table and touched another more bulky manuscript.

“This,” he explained, “is the complete list, mentioned in Mr. Meredith’s will, of special bequests of his personal effects. Do you wish it read aloud?”

“No.” Colonel Hull was on his feet, his eyes blazing with anger. “I have heard enough. According to that document, Hollister, Anne Meredith is given one million dollars and Ten Acres. The rest of his fortune goes to charities and Lucille, my daughter, gets a paltry one hundred thousand dollars and a diamond necklace. What,” he turned and glared at Mrs. Meredith and her daughter, “what have you done with the codicil, signed by John on Sunday night, in which the million-dollar bequest to Anne was revoked and that amount given to Lucille?”

Mrs. Meredith straightened her stately figure. “Your language is obnoxious,” she said, and would have added more, but Sam Hollister interrupted her, his gaze grave with displeasure.

“We are all aware that the codicil and prenuptial agreement have disappeared,” he pointed out. “When I left John on Sunday night the documents were on his bed and Lucille was with him.”

Lucille paled as she met her father’s glance. “They were still on the bed when I went to my room a few minutes after you left, Sam,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Do you suppose Lucille would suppress a document giving her one million dollars?” Colonel Hull laughed scornfully, even as he put the question. “The idea is absurd.”

“It is no more absurd than to suggest by inference that some one in this room is responsible for its disappearance,” retorted Mrs. Meredith, with spirit. “You forget yourself, Julian.”

“I shall fight for Lucille’s rights,” shouted Colonel Hull, his temper at white heat. “That will shan’t be probated without a contest.”

Hollister replaced the will and its accompanying manuscript in his brief case and carefully closed and locked the leather flap. Slipping the key in his pocket he faced the infuriated stockbroker.

“This document will be filed with the registrar of wills at once,” he said. “You are at liberty to take whatever action you please.” He turned to Mrs. Meredith. “I am going to my room, Mrs. Meredith, and within the hour shall return to my office. Is there anything I can do for you and Anne?”

“Nothing, thank you,” Mrs. Meredith was graciousness itself, “except to return in time for dinner. I will consult with you then,” and she nodded a friendly good-by.

As Hollister, with a kindly word to Anne who sat as one dazed, passed Curtis he tapped the blind surgeon on the shoulder.

“Come up to my room,” he whispered, and not waiting to hear what Curtis said to Mrs. Meredith, slipped out of the room as Colonel Hull and his agitated daughter disappeared into the little-used drawing-room.

Curtis was not far behind Hollister in reaching the latter’s bedroom.

“What do you wish to see me about, Hollister?” he asked, as the lawyer closed the bedroom door and half dragged him over to the window seat.

“A new development,” answered the lawyer tersely. “You recall this inventory,” taking a sheet of paper out of his wallet. “It is the paper we found in John’s secretary which bears the notation, in his handwriting: ‘Contents of safe deposit box belongs to.’”

“Yes, I recollect it,” Curtis said impatiently as the lawyer paused. “The name was evidently clipped off the page. Go on.”

“We opened the safe deposit box this morning in the presence of the officers of the Metropolis Bank and court officials,” Hollister spoke with subdued excitement. “It was a large box—”

“And what did its contents comprise?” questioned Curtis eagerly. “Meredith’s will?”

“No. I had that in my office vault.”

Curtis straightened up and turned his sightless eyes upon his companion. “Did you find the missing documents?”

“No, neither of them.” Hollister spoke with impressive slowness. “The box was empty except for this key,” and he laid it in Curtis’ hand.

In dumfounded silence Curtis ran his fingers over the grooves and notches and then traced the name stamped upon it in raised letters.

“A Yale key,” he said. “Was this linen tag tied to it?”

“Yes.” Hollister dropped his voice until he almost whispered. “The tag bears, in Meredith’s handwriting, the single word—Duplicate.”