  A murmur of indignation sounded faintly through the room. Public Opinion was not with the Coroner, however black the case might look against the pretty little model. For “model,” Natalie was always called, in spite of the fact that she was an honoured guest in the Stannard’s house. And she looked like a model. Her manners, though correct in every way, were not those of an ingenuous flapper or a pert dÉbutante. She had the poise and assurance of a woman of the world, with the appearance of an innocent, rather than ignorant, child. But her self-reliance, though it had given way before the Coroner’s accusation, was always evident in the clear gaze of her apprehending eyes and the set of her lovely head. Moreover, she had that precious possession called charm to an infinite degree. It was the despair of the artists who had painted her, and Eric Stannard, unwilling to be baffled, had tried a hundred times, more or less successfully, to fasten that charm in colour medium. Of late, he had tried it in his etching. An unfinished piece of work was a waxed plate bearing an exquisite portrayal of Natalie as Goldenrod. This he had previously painted, and the result, a study in yellow, was his copy for the etching. The canvas showed the girl, her arms full of goldenrod, her yellow gown and her yellow hair against a background of yellow autumn leaves. It was a masterpiece, even for Stannard. And aside from the colour, the lines were so beautiful that he decided to make an etching of the study. The waxed plate, with this design, had been found on the floor near Eric’s chair, after his death. The wax had been scratched and smudged, quite evidently by some furious hand, and the scratches and disfigurements were doubtless made by the very instrument that had caused the artist’s death. This was indicative, beyond a doubt; but what was indicated? That Natalie, in a fit of anger at Eric, had destroyed his picture of her? Or, that Joyce, in a jealous rage, had resented the portrait? The painting, as Natalie had posed for it, was a lovely girl in a full flowing robe of soft, opaque stuff, showing only a bit of throat and shoulder, and one rounded arm. The etching, as the artist had drawn it, garbed the figure in a filmy, transparent drapery, revealing lines that gave a totally different character to the work. Natalie Vernon was a prude, there was no denying that. Whether she was absurdly fanatical on the subject or not, was her own affair. But could an indignant girl go so far as to kill an artist who had drawn her in a way she didn’t care to be portrayed? It was most unlikely. Still, there was latent fire in those blue eyes, there was force of character in those curved scarlet lips, and if Miss Vernon chose to be an unusual, even eccentric model, she was important enough to make her own terms and insist upon them. And in a furious moment of surprised indignation, what might not a woman do? Again, could it not be that the artist’s wife had had her jealousy stirred to its depths by this latest result of her husband’s interest in the model? Could she not, coming upon him as he mused over his drawing on the wax, have snatched the etching tool from his table and revenged her slighted wifehood? “It’s a poor clue that won’t work both ways,” mused Bobsy Roberts, as he heard of this etching business. The story of it had been told while Natalie was out of the room. Joyce listened with an unruffled countenance. Either she was uninterested, or determined to appear so. Coroner Lamson next called as witnesses the guests who had been at dinner the night before. The first, a Mr. Wadsworth, told a straightforward story of the occasion. He was a genial, pleasant man, a neighbour and a widower. After dinner, he stated, he had been for a time with his host and others in the studio. Mr. Stannard had shown some new gems, a recent addition to his collection. After that, Mr. Wadsworth had gone to the Billiard Room, and later, he and Mrs. Faulkner had gone to the Drawing Room at the other end of the house. He had remained there with the lady until perhaps half past eleven—— “Wait,” interposed the Coroner. “Mrs. Faulkner came downstairs, after your departure, at that hour.” “Then it must have been a little earlier. I didn’t note the time. I went directly home, and retired without looking at the hour.” “You went out at the front door?” “Yes; Blake, the footman, let me out. I didn’t look for my hostess as I left, for we are on intimate neighbourly terms, and often ignore the formalities.” There was nothing more to be learned from this witness, and the next was Mr. Eugene Courtenay. But one swift, intense glance passed between Courtenay and Joyce as the witness took the stand. It was seen by no one but the keen-eyed Bobsy, and to him it was a revelation. “Oh, ho,” was his self-communing, “sits the wind in that quarter? Now, if his nibs and the stately chatelaine are—er—en rapport—it puts a distinctly different tint on the racing steed! I must see about this.” Eugene Courtenay was a man of the world, about thirty years old, and a near neighbour. He had been a suitor of Joyce’s before she succumbed to Stannard’s Cave Man wooing, and since, had been a friend of both. Easily and leisurely Courtenay gave his testimony, which was to the effect that after the dinner guests had scattered into the various rooms, he had been in the Billiard Room until he went home. Several others had been there, but had drifted away, and he was for a time alone there with his hostess. Then he had taken leave, going out from the Billiard Room, which had an outside door. He had not gone directly home, but had sauntered across a lawn, and had sat for a short time on a garden seat, smoking. He had chanced to sit facing the studio South window, and had noticed the light go out in that room. He thought nothing of it, nor when, a few moments later the room was relit, did he think it strange in any way. Why shouldn’t people light and relight their rooms as they chose? He then went home, knowing nothing of the tragedy and heard nothing of it till morning. No further questioning brought out anything of importance and Courtenay was dismissed. Mr. and Mrs. Truxton gave no new information. They told of the dinner party, and of the hours afterward. Mr. Truxton mentioned the jewels exhibited by Eric Stannard, and dilated slightly upon them with the enthusiasm of a gem lover, but neither he nor his wife could shed any light on the mystery. “Where are these jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, scenting a possible robbery. “I don’t know,” Joyce answered, listlessly. “Mr. Stannard kept some of them in Safety Deposit and some in the house. He had a place of concealment for them, but I preferred not to know where it is. When I wished to wear any of the jewels he got them for me, and afterward put them away again.” “Do you not think, Mrs. Stannard, that a burglar intent on securing these gems might have attempted a robbery, and——” “Come, come, Lamson,” interposed Inspector Bardon, “a burglar would scarcely make his attempt while the household was still up, the house alight, and people sauntering through the grounds.” “No, of course not,” responded the Coroner, in no wise abashed. Next, Barry Stannard was asked to tell what he could of the whole matter. “It was the work of a burglar,” said young Stannard, confidently; “it simply shows his cleverness that he chose a time when he could effect an entrance easily. He need not have been a rough customer. He may have been of a gentlemanly type,—even in evening clothes. But he gained access to my father, I haven’t the slightest doubt, and brought to bear some influence or threat that he hoped would gain him his end. When my father refused his demands,—this is my theory and belief,—he either feared discovery or, in a rage of revenge, killed my father with the nearest weapon he could snatch at.” “And then, you think, Mr. Stannard, that this intruder turned off the lights and made his exit just before the ladies entered the room?” “I do. He was evidently a cool hand, and made a quick and clever getaway.” “And just how did he leave the room? You know, Mrs. Stannard was in the Billiard Room and Miss Vernon on the Terrace, while Blake was at the main hall door.” “He made his escape by the large West window,” replied Barry. “If you will examine it on the outside, you will see the marks of the jimmy, or whatever you call the tool that burglars open windows with.” An officer was sent at once to investigate this, and returned with the information that there certainly were marks and scratches outside the window in question. It was a long, French window, opening like a double door, and near the lock were the tell-tale marks. Bobsy Roberts cast one comprehensive glance at the West window, and then closed and reopened one of his rather good-looking grey eyes. He glanced at Barry, and observed, silently, “Some scheme!” after which, he calmly awaited developments. “But how can we think that a man entered at that window,” said Lamson, “when we notice how it is filled with furniture and apparatus?” “It might have been managed,” asserted Barry. And then Bobsy Roberts spoke out loud. “It couldn’t be,” he said, positively. “No one could, by any chance or skill, come in or go out by that window without moving those plaster casts that are on the floor. No one could do it without overturning that small easel, whose leg is directly in the path of the window frame as it swings back. If you will try it, Inspector, you will see what I mean.” It was true. Even though the window might be opened, it would crash into and knock over the small, light-weight easel, which held an unfinished picture on a mounted canvas. And it would also knock down some casts which leaned against it. Barry looked crestfallen, the more so, that now the Coroner regarded him with a sort of suspicion. “Mr. Stannard,” he said, “I don’t want to do you an injustice, but your theory is so suspiciously implausible, that I can’t help thinking you might have made those scratches on the window yourself, for the purpose of diverting suspicion.” “I did,” Barry blurted out, almost like a school-boy. “And I am not ashamed of it. My father’s death is a mystery. So much of a one that I feel sure it will never be solved. For that reason, I did and do want to turn your mind away from the absurd and utterly unfounded presumption you make that the crime could have been committed by either of the two ladies who, hearing my father’s dying struggles, rushed to his assistance.” “That may be the case,” said Lamson, “with one of the ladies you refer to. But the other is, to all appearances the one responsible for the crime. It is my duty to prove or disprove this, even though the position and high character of the ladies make it seem impossible.” “It is impossible!” protested Barry. “I know of facts and conditions which make it possible and probable that an outsider, a—well, a blackmailer, perhaps,—might have attacked my father. This is outside of discovery or proof, but I request,—I demand that you cease to persecute your present suspects!” The boy, for in his passionate tirade he seemed even younger than usual, quivered with the tensity of his emotion and faced the Coroner with a belligerent antagonism that would have been funny in a case less grave. Roberts regarded him with interest. “Some chap!” he thought. “I wonder, now, if he did it himself,—and is trying to scatter the scent. No, I fancy it’s his fear for the dolly-baby girl, and he jimmied the door in a foolish attempt to make a noise like a burglar.” “Do you know where your father kept his jewels?” asked Lamson, suddenly, and Barry started, as he said, “No, I’ve no idea. That is, the ones in the house. The others are in deposit with the Black Rock Trust Company.” “Who does know the whereabouts of those kept in the house?” But nobody seemed to know. Joyce had said she did not. Barry disclaimed the knowledge. Inquired of, Miller, the valet, did not know. Nor Halpin, the old Butler, nor any of the other servants. It would seem that Eric Stannard had concealed his treasures in a hiding-place known only to himself. An officer was sent to search his personal rooms, and in the meantime Joyce was subjected to a further grilling. Exhausted by the nervous strain, her calm, handsome face was pale and drawn. Wearily, she answered questions that were not always necessary or tactful. At last, when Lamson was trying to draw from her an account of what she was doing or thinking after Courtenay had left her alone in the Billiard Room, she seemed to lose both patience and control, and burst forth, impulsively, “I was listening at the Studio door!” “Ah! And what did you hear?” “I heard my husband say, ‘No, no, my lady, I will not divorce Joyce for you!’ and then he laughed,—a certain laugh of his that I always called the trouble laugh,—a sarcastic, irritating chuckle, enough to exasperate anybody,—anybody, beyond the point of endurance!” The Coroner almost gasped, but fearing to check the flow of speech that promised so much, he said, quietly, “Did you hear anything further?” “I did. I heard him say, ‘I’ll give you the emeralds, if you like, but I really won’t marry you.’” “Your husband was not a cruel man, Mrs. Stannard?” “On the contrary, he was gentleness itself. He was most courteous and gallant toward all, but if any one went counter to his wishes or opinions, he invariably used a good-natured, jeering tone that was most annoying.” “And to whom were these remarks that you overheard, addressed?” “How can you ask? I was just about to go into the room, as I felt it my right, when, at that very moment, the light was extinguished. I was so surprised at this, that I stood there, uncertain what to do. Then hearing Eric gasp, as if in distress, I pushed the curtain aside and went in. The rest, I have told you.” Joyce sat down, and as she did so, a wave of crimson swept over her face. She looked startled, ashamed, as if she had violated a confidence or told a secret, which she now regretted. Barry sat beside her, and he was looking at her curiously. Then the man who had been sent to search for the jewels returned. He reported that he had not been able to find any trace of them, but brought a note he had found on Mr. Stannard’s writing desk. Coroner Lamson read the note, and passed it over to Inspector Bardon. Eventually it was read aloud. It ran thus:
The note fell like a bombshell. Everybody gasped at this revelation of the artist’s intrigue with his model. Joyce turned white to her very lips, and Barry flushed scarlet. “Call Miss Vernon,” commanded the Coroner, abruptly. Natalie came in, looking lovelier than ever, and quite composed now. Without a word, Lamson handed her the note. The girl read it, and returned it. Except for the trembling of her lip, which she bit in her endeavour to control it, she was calm and self-possessed. “Well?” said the Coroner, as gentle toward her now as he had been fierce before, “what does that note to you mean?” Natalie turned the full gaze of her troubled eyes on him. If her angel face was ever appealing, it was doubly so now, when her drooped mouth and quivering chin told of her desperate distress. “It is not to me,” she whispered. “That’s right,” Bobsy Roberts thought; “stick to that, now. It’s fine!” “It was written to you, and left in Mr. Stannard’s desk. Where are the emeralds? Where are the other jewels hidden?” “I do not know. I tell you that letter is not mine.” “Not yours, because you didn’t receive it. But it was written to you, and before it was sent, the writer told you, in so many words, the purport of it here in this very room, and in a rage, you killed him.” Natalie stopped her accuser with a gesture of her hand. Her rosy palm lifted in protest, she said, “Why do you believe Mrs. Stannard’s story and not mine? What I saw in this room was the jealous wife, cowering in an agony of fear and terror at sight of her own crime.” Lamson paused. He remembered that the testimony of the two disinterested witnesses, Mrs. Faulkner and Blake, went to show that these two women were both there, near the victim, within a brief moment of the crime itself. Who should say which was guilty, the jealous wife or the disappointed girl? And another point. Mrs. Faulkner and Blake had told in detail the succession of events at the critical moment of the turning off the lights, of the cry for help, and of their entrance; might not Joyce have timed her story by this, and claimed an entrance at the same moment? And, also, might not Natalie merely have patterned her recital after that of Joyce? Which woman was guilty? |
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