  Bobsy Roberts was at his wits’ end. He pondered long and deeply but he could seem to see nothing to do but ponder. There was no trail to follow, no clue to track down, and no new suspect to consider. He sat by the hour in the studio, as if he could, by staring about him wring the secret from the four walls that enclosed the mystery. “Walls have ears,” he said to himself, whimsically, “now if they only had eyes and a tongue, they might tell me what I want to know.” The studio furnishings included several small tables and escritoires which had drawers and pigeon-holes stuffed with old letters and papers. Like most artists Eric Stannard was of careless habits regarding his belongings. Roberts patiently and laboriously went over these papers, and found little of interest. Old bills, old notes of appointment with patrons, old social invitations and such matters made up the bulk of the findings. But he came across a small parcel, neatly tied with fine string and looking unmistakably like a jeweller’s box. Bobsy opened it, and found a small gold heart-shaped locket. With it was a card bearing the words “For my Goldenheart. From Eric.” It was quite evidently a gift for the one to whom the letter was written, but it had never been presented. It was easily seen that the parcel had been opened, the card put in, and the string retied in the same punctilious fashion that the jeweller had tied it. The paper wrapping was uncrumpled, but it was a little faded by time, and dusty in the creases. “Bought it for her but never gave it to her,” Bobsy surmised. “Surely I can make something out of this.” But nothing seemed definite. A provokingly blank paper, without address of any sort, can’t be indicative of much. The box bore the jeweller’s name, and possibly a visit to the firm might tell when the trinket was bought, which might mean some help, or, more likely, none. Bobsy showed it to Joyce Stannard, but she took little interest in it. “It must have been bought before I married Mr. Stannard,” she said. “Why?” “I know by the box. That sort of a box was used by that firm the year before I was married. In all probability Mr. Stannard did buy it for a lady, and for some reason or other didn’t present it. It’s of no great value.” “No,” agreed Bobsy, “except as it proves that his interest in ‘Goldenheart’ has lasted for some time.” “Then Goldenheart can’t be Miss Vernon,” said Joyce, wearily. “It seems to me, Mr. Roberts, that you get nowhere. You make so much of little things——” “Because we can’t get any big piece of evidence. You know yourself, Mrs. Stannard, that our principal clue is the finding of you and Miss Vernon in a situation which might mean the guilt of either of you, and must mean the guilt of one of you.” “Mr. Roberts, I want to say to you very frankly that I wish to be cleared of suspicion. I did not kill my husband. I can’t quite believe Miss Vernon did, but at any rate I want the mystery cleared up. I don’t know how to set about it myself, and if you don’t either, I want to employ some one else. This is no disparagement of your powers, but if you know of any—more experienced Detective——” “There are plenty of more experienced detectives, Mrs. Stannard, but I am anxious to succeed in this quest myself. Will you not give me a longer time, and if at the end of, say, another week, I have made little or no progress, call on whomever you like.” “Very well. But I must be freed myself. I am willing to spend a fortune, if need be, but I cannot live under this cloud of suspicion.” “Let us work together then. Tell me anything I ask, and you may be able to give me some help. First, can you state positively that no person came in through the Billiard Room and went on to the studio while you were in the Billiard Room, just before the tragedy?” “Why, of course, nobody passed through.” “The Billiard Room was lighted?” “Yes. Not brilliantly, but a few lights were on.” “Mr. Courtenay had just left you?” “A short time before, yes.” “And,—now think carefully,—could you not have been sitting with your back to the door, or—perhaps, had you your face hidden in your hands, or for any such reason, could some one have passed you without your knowing it?” Joyce hesitated a moment, and then she said, “No; positively not. I was sitting on one of the side seats, and I may have had my eyes closed, for I was thinking deeply, but if any one had passed through the room I should have heard footsteps, of course.” “On the soft, thick rug?” “Much of the floor is bare, and my hearing is very acute. Yes, Mr. Roberts, I must have heard the intruder, if one came in that way.” “I do not think one did, but there is no other way for any one to have entered the studio.” “Why not by coming in the Terrace door, and passing Natalie instead of me?” “The probability is less. The Terrace door was closed, and, too, Miss Vernon sat back on the Terrace, and must have seen any one passing in front of her.” “But suppose she did see him, and chooses to deny it for his sake?” Bobsy looked at her. “I’ve been waiting for this,” he said. “You mean Barry Stannard. There is room for thought in that direction. He had reason to be angry at his father, first because of his refusal to let Barry marry the girl, and also, because of Eric Stannard’s annoyance of the little model. The father out of the way, the son steps into a fortune and wins his bride beside.” “But Barry never did it! I confess I’ve thought of it as a theory, but I can’t believe it of Barry,—I simply can’t.” “Mrs. Stannard, somebody killed your husband. If not a common malefactor, who was bent on robbery, then it must have been one of Mr. Stannard’s intimates. If that is so, Barry Stannard is no more above suspicion than Miss Vernon or yourself.” “That’s true enough. Well, go ahead, Mr. Roberts. Do all you can, but do get somewhere. You reason around in a circle, always coming back to the proposition that it must have been either Miss Vernon or myself.” “That is where I stand at present,” said Bobsy, very gravely, “but I shall try to get some new light on it all,—and soon.” Joyce looked after him sadly as he took leave and went away, and as soon as he was gone she threw herself on a couch and cried piteously. The visit to the jeweller merely corroborated what Joyce had said that the gold heart was bought shortly before her marriage to Eric. The date was looked up and the purchase verified. So it seemed to tell nothing save that it was meant for a gift but never given. Probably, thought Roberts, it was owing to Eric’s marriage that he concluded not to give a keepsake to a woman other than his bride. But, after all, mightn’t Goldenheart be Joyce herself? No, for the letter found in the desk denied that. But that letter might have been written a long time ago. Not likely, for it stated that Joyce would not be unwilling to consider separation from her husband. That of course, pointed to the fact that Joyce loved another, doubtless Courtenay, but more than all it pointed to Natalie as Goldenheart. Well, it was not inconceivable that Eric Stannard, the gay Lothario, had called more than one woman Goldenheart. Yet had it been Natalie, would he not have said Goldenrod, especially as he had painted her in that guise? And so, as usual, Bobsy Roberts puzzled round in circles and came back to the old idea that it must be one of those two women, and could not by any possibility be any one else. And now, to prove it. He planned to delve deeply into the recent past of the two, and also into Eric’s behaviour of late, and he felt he must get some hint or some clue to go upon. Then, too, there were the missing jewels. The emeralds had been returned to Joyce,—that is, she said they had been returned. But the rest of the collection was still unfound. Bobsy didn’t think they had been stolen or lost, but merely that Eric had hidden them so securely that they were unfindable. A queer procedure that. It would seem that he would have left some record of their hiding place. But he was a queer man,—careless in every way. And the jewels might be in a bank or Safe Deposit, or might be in some desk or drawer in the house. The whole business was unsatisfactory, nothing tangible to work on. An out and out robbery, now, one might track down. But a jewel disappearance that might be all right and proper, was an aggravating proposition. So Bobsy Roberts was decidedly disgruntled and not a little chagrined. He had welcomed this great case as an opportunity to show his powers of real detective work. But it was not so easy as he had thought it. It was all very well to say the criminal must be one of two people and quite another thing to bring any real proof, or even evidence, aside from the finding of them present at the scene of the crime. Bobsy tried to balance up the points against each. Motive? About equal, for Joyce didn’t love her husband, and Natalie was angry at his intentions to her. Inheritance? Equal again, for the seventy thousand dollars that was Natalie’s bequest was quite as desirable a fortune for her, as the larger portion that Joyce received was for her. Moreover, Natalie would doubtless marry the son and have a fortune as great as Joyce’s. Opportunity? Certainly equal. Both women were alone, within a few steps of the victim, unobserved of anybody, and so familiar with the room and furnishings that they could extinguish the light and still find the way around quietly. Bobsy visualised the scene. Whichever one did it, after striking the blow, she had to cross the room to the electric light switch by the front hall door, turn it off and then go back again, doubtless meaning to leave the room as she had entered it. But before she had left the room she heard sounds from the wounded man, and paused,—or perhaps she heard the other woman coming in in the darkness, and paused in sheer fright and uncertainty. Then came the sudden, blinding illumination as Blake snapped on the key, and then—discovery by Blake and Mrs. Faulkner both. No escape was possible then. She had to stay and face the issue. Now, which of the two acted the part of guilt? Though not there at the time, Bobsy had had the story repeated by all who were there, and knew it by heart. Natalie had cowered in terror, Joyce had nearly fainted. Surely there was no choice between these as evidence of guilt! Either woman’s action was quite compatible with a criminal’s sudden action at being discovered, or an innocent woman’s horror at the scene before her. But one had stabbed and one was overcome at the sight. And Bobsy vowed he’d find out which was which before his week was up. Returning to The Folly, he asked permission to spend some time in Eric’s rooms on the second floor. Here he studied his problem afresh. The bedroom, dressing-room and den were all as the dead man had left them. Here again were the untidy cupboards and drawers, for servants had always been forbidden by Eric himself to put his personal belongings in order, and since his death the police had stipulated the same. But nothing turned up. Sketches, photographs, old letters, all were scanned and perused without throwing one gleam of light on the great question. Slowly Bobsy walked down stairs, after his fruitless quest. Slowly he went down the great staircase, admiring every inch of the way. He had made rather a study of staircases and this splendid specimen, with its big, square landings interested him greatly. The carved wainscoting, the beautiful newels and balusters were things of beauty and were fully appreciated by the detective. He reached the lower hall and stood thinking of Blake’s experience. There the footman had stood, listening at the studio door, when Mrs. Faulkner came down and saw him. Then, in less than a minute they had both entered the studio. No, there was not time for any other intruder to have been in there and to have got away, in the dark, with those two women standing by the dying man. It was a physical impossibility. Now, once again, which? Joyce passed him as he stood in the hall. Then she turned back and, after a moment’s hesitation, she spoke to him. “Mr. Roberts, I’ve had a strange letter. I want to ask advice about it. Will you help me?” “In any way I can, Mrs. Stannard. What is it?” “Come in the studio. I’ll speak to you first about it. I was looking for Barry, to ask him.” They went into the great room, the room about which hung the veil of mystery, and sat down. “Here is the letter,” said Joyce, handing it to him. “I wish you would read it.” Bobsy took the letter curiously. What would he learn? It was on mediocre paper, and written in a fairly good, though not scholarly looking penmanship. It ran:
The address was given, and the whole epistle showed an honest and straightforward air, quite different from the usual clairvoyant’s circular letter. “It isn’t worth the paper it’s written on,” said Bobsy, handing it back. “But how do you know? I’ve read up on this sort of thing and while there is lots of fraud practised on a gullible public, it’s always done by a cheap grade of charlatan, whose trickery is discernible at a glance. This letter is from a refined, honest woman, and I’ve a notion to see what she’ll say. It can do no harm, even if it does no good.” “Of course, Mrs. Stannard, if you choose to look into this matter I have nothing to say, but you asked me for advice.” “I know it,” and Joyce shook her head, “but if you don’t advise me the way I want you to, I’ll——” “Ask somebody else?” “Yes, I believe I will.” “Do. I really think if you confer with Barry Stannard or with Mrs. Faulkner, they would give you advice both sound and disinterested. They’d probably tell you to let it alone.” “I’m going to ask them, anyway. I won’t ask Natalie, for I don’t think she knows anything about it. Why, Mr. Roberts, if we could just get a clue to the mystery, it might be of incalculable help.” “Yes, but you can’t get a clue from a fraud.” “I don’t believe she is a fraud, but even so, I might learn something from her.” “If you do, I hope you will give me the benefit of the information.” Joyce laid the matter before Barry and Beatrice. Natalie was present also, and Joyce was surprised to find that the girl was well versed in the whole subject of psychics and occult lore. “I don’t know an awful lot about it, Joyce,” she said, “but I’ve read some of the best authorities, and sometimes I’ve thought I was a little bit psychic myself. I’d like to see this Orienta.” “It doesn’t seem right,” objected Mrs. Faulkner. “What do you suppose she does? Go into trances?” “Yes, of course,” said Natalie. “And then she talks and tells things and when she comes to again, she doesn’t know what she has said.” “Then I don’t believe it’s true.” “Oh, yes, it is, Mrs. Faulkner. I mean, it’s likely to be. Why, if she could tell us who——” “Do we want her to?” said Barry, very soberly. “Isn’t it better to leave the whole thing a mystery?” “No,” said Joyce, decidedly. “I want to find out the truth, if there’s any way to do it. I don’t think much of detectives, at least, not Mr. Roberts. Oh, he’s a nice man,—I like him personally. But he doesn’t accomplish anything.” “Well, let’s have Orienta come here,” suggested Natalie. “And we can see how we like her, and if we don’t want her to, she needn’t try her powers in our cause.” “The police might object,” said Mrs. Faulkner. “Oh, no,” rejoined Barry. “This is a private matter. We’re at liberty to do a thing of that sort, if we want to. But I don’t approve of it.” “I’m going to write to her, anyway,” Joyce declared. “I want to see what she proposes to do.” “Yes, do,” urged Natalie. “And ask her to come here as soon as she can arrange to.” |
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