  Joyce went up to Natalie’s room and found the girl sitting up in bed trying to eat some of the dainty breakfast a maid had just brought her. A cap of lace and tiny rosebuds confined the gold hair, and a breakfast jacket of pale blue brocade was round her shoulders. “Joyce,” she said, staring at her with big blue eyes, “where did those jewels come from?” “I don’t know, Natalie. It’s the most mysterious thing I ever heard of. But listen, dear, I’ve something to tell you. Barry has confessed——” “What!” Natalie almost shrieked the word. “What do you mean?” “Just what I say. Barry has confessed that he killed his father. You suspected him all the time, didn’t you?” “Did you?” “Oh, I couldn’t—and yet who else could it have been? I did think of Barry at first, and then I decided it couldn’t be.” “And then you suspected me?” “Oh, Natalie, how can I say? I did and I didn’t. I had no notion which way to turn. But now, even though he says so, I can’t believe it was Barry.” “Barry! Of course it wasn’t Barry!” “But he confessed, Natalie.” “Of course he confessed. He couldn’t help it!” As she spoke, Natalie was getting out of bed, and seating herself at her dressing table began to do up her hair. “If you don’t mind going, Joyce, I want to dress. Run along now, I’ll be down very soon.” “What are you going to do?” Joyce looked at the girl uncertainly, for she was brushing her hair with unwonted vigour. Her eyes were tear-filled, but her face showed a brave, determined expression, and she hurried her toilet as if important matters impended. “Go now, Joyce,” and rising, Natalie pushed her gently toward the door. Some minutes later, Natalie came downstairs, in a trim out-of-door costume. Her smart little hat was veiled, and she had a motor coat over her arm. “May I take the little electric, Joyce, and drive it myself?” “Why, yes, of course. Where are you going?” “First, to see Mr. Roberts. And if I’m not home for some hours, don’t be alarmed. I may go to—well, I may take a long drive. But I’ll be back to dinner.” In a moment Joyce saw the little electric coupÉ whirling down the drive. Straight to Headquarters Natalie went, and found Bobsy Roberts. “Barry Stannard didn’t kill his father,” she said, without preamble. “You had no right to arrest him.” “But he confessed the crime, Miss Vernon.” “Don’t you know why he did that?” The lovely eyes fell before Bobsy’s surprised glance. “No, why? If he is not the criminal?” “Of course he isn’t. He said all that to—to save me.” Bobsy looked sharply at her. “Is that so? And how am I to know that you’re not telling me this to save him?” “You can’t know! That’s just it. You’ve not wit enough to know what is the truth and what isn’t.” “Thank you for the implied compliment.” “Don’t be sarcastic. This isn’t the time for it. Please help me, Mr. Roberts.” It would have been a far less impressionable man than the detective who could have refused the pleading glance of those pansy-blue eyes. “How can I help you, Miss Vernon?” “This way. Tell me of some detective, some really great one, who can unravel this tangle. I didn’t kill Mr. Stannard. Barry didn’t, either. But he says he did, to save me. Now, I want some one who can find the real criminal and so clear both Barry and myself.” “And you expect me to recommend somebody?” “Oh, I do, Mr. Roberts, I do. I know you’re big enough and honest enough to admit that you are at the end of your rope, and if you know of any one—I don’t care how much he costs, I must have him—I must! Tell me, won’t you?” “Yes, I’ll tell you, because I can’t refuse you, but also because I know he will only verify our conclusions. You must know, Miss Vernon, we’ve had our eye on young Stannard all the time.” “Oh, I thought you were sure the criminal must be Mrs. Stannard or myself.” “We did think that at first—you see, we have to think what the evidence shows.” “Well, never mind that now. Who is this man you have in mind?” “Alan Ford. He’s not one of the story-book wizards, but he’s a big light in the detective field, and he can find out if any one can.” “Where is he?” Bobsy gave her the New York address of the detective, and Natalie rose to go. Then, acting on a sudden impulse, “Come with me,” she said. “To New York?” cried the amazed Bobsy. “Yes. It’s only a couple of hours’ run, and I don’t want to go alone.” “Why, I’m glad to go, if I can arrange it.” “Do arrange it. I want you so much.” Now, when a little flower-faced girl looks pleadingly out of heavenly colored eyes, and her red mouth quivers with fear of being refused, few men have the power to say no. Anyway, Bobsy hadn’t, and he managed to “arrange” it, and in a few moments they were on their way. “I thought you’d want to see Stannard,” he said. “No, I’d rather not, until I see if I can get the great Mr. Ford.” The little car ate up the miles, and soon they were in the crowded streets of the city. Alan Ford was in his office, and received them with his characteristic quiet dignity. The tall, big man looked taller than ever as he stood beside the petite model, his grey eyes looking down into her eager blue ones. “What can I do for you?” he asked, kindly, and smiled at her because he couldn’t help it. The winsome face made everybody smile from sheer gladness of looking at it. “Can you take a case, Mr. Ford? An important murder case?” “The Stannard case?” “Yes.” “I’d like to say yes, but I am just starting on a Western trip, and I shall be gone at least a month.” Great crystal tears formed in Natalie’s eyes and one rolled down her cheek. She couldn’t possibly help this, the teardrops were beyond her control. But they stood her in good stead, for Alan Ford couldn’t bear to see a woman cry. It unnerved him as no danger or terror could do. “Don’t, please,” he said, impulsively. “But I’m so disappointed! You see Barry Stannard has confessed——” “What! Young Stannard confessed! Then what do you want of me?” “Because Barry didn’t do it. He confessed to save me.” “And did you do it?” The question was in the tone of a casual every-day inquiry, but few people would have replied anything but the truth with Alan Ford’s gaze upon them. “No, I didn’t. You must come up there and find out who did do it. Oh, can’t you manage somehow?” The coaxing face was brightened by a sudden hope, and Alan Ford couldn’t bring himself to dash that hope from the lovely beseeching girl. “It makes a difference, now that they’ve arrested Stannard,” he said, slowly. “Oh, of course it does! Arrested him wrongfully, too. You see, he had to say he did it, or I would have been arrested.” “Tell me the main facts,” said Ford to Bobsy. And in straightforward terms, Bobsy told the great detective all that the force had been able to accomplish. “It would seem,” said Alan Ford, speaking with deliberation, “that the criminal must be one of the four people most nearly connected with the dead man. His wife, Miss Vernon here, Barry, the son, or Mr. Courtenay, the lover.” “I don’t like for you to use that term,” said Natalie, gently. “For Mr. Courtenay and Mrs. Stannard could not be called lovers during Mr. Stannard’s life.” “Good for you, for standing up for her. Well, I will postpone my Western trip for a few days at least.” “He’s coming,” said Natalie, briefly, as in the late afternoon she arrived at The Folly. “Who is?” asked Joyce, “and where have you been?” Joyce and Beatrice were having tea in the Reception Room, for by common consent all the household avoided the Studio. The servants shuddered as they were obliged to pass it or go through it, and Natalie declared it was haunted. “I’ve been to New York,” the girl replied, as she flung off her motor coat, and threw herself into a big armchair. “Give me some tea, please, and I’ll tell you all about it. I’ve engaged Alan Ford.” “Who is he?” asked Beatrice, fixing a cup of tea as Natalie liked it. “He’s a great, big, splendid detective—I mean big in his profession—and he’s also the biggest man I ever saw, physically.” “Well, I am glad!” exclaimed Joyce. “I think Mr. Roberts has done all he could, but I don’t think he has much real cleverness. Do you, Beatrice?” “No. And yet, we oughtn’t to judge him too harshly. He’s had a hard time of it, for every new bit of evidence he gets, or thinks he gets, seems to point to some one of the family here.” “I know it,” agreed Natalie, “but Alan Ford will find the real murderer and then we’ll all be freed of suspicion.” “What’s that, Natalie? Alan Ford!” And into the room strode Barry Stannard. Natalie’s face shone with welcome. “How did you get here?” she cried; “I thought you were arrested!” “Even a murder suspect can get bail if he has money enough,” said Barry, “and there were other reasons. They wouldn’t swallow my confession whole. But never mind that now; tell me, did you say Alan Ford is coming?” “I did, Barry, dear. I went and got him. And just in time, too, for he was going West at once. But he’s staying over for us, and he’s coming out here to-morrow morning. Isn’t it fine!” “Splendid! You’re a trump, Natalie. You know, girl, don’t you, why I confessed?” “Of course I do. I was sure you couldn’t make the police believe you, and then I knew it would swing back to me. So I had to take desperate measures, and I did.” “Barry,” said Joyce, “your attempts to get suspicion turned your way, or any way, are too transparent. You scratched up the window frame to make it appear a burglar had entered there, and nobody believed it for a minute.” “I know it, I’m no good as a deceiver. But, oh, Natalie, don’t think I suspected you, but I knew others would, and did, and I was frantic. And I vowed I did it, in an effort to distract their attention from you. But your going yourself for Ford, clears you in every one’s eyes, and now he’ll find the man. It was some man who came in—it has to be. There is no other explanation—positively none.” “It wasn’t Eugene!” whispered Joyce, her face drawn with new apprehension. “Of course it wasn’t,” said Beatrice, soothingly. “Don’t worry over that, Joyce, dear. Mr. Wadsworth has exculpated Mr. Courtenay.” “But nothing seems sure,” Joyce said, with a sad shake of her head. “Well, it will be sure, once Alan Ford gets here,” declared Barry. “I can hardly wait to see him.” Alan Ford arrived the next morning. When he entered the Reception Room, his tall, commanding presence seemed to fill the whole room. With perfect courtesy, he greeted Joyce first, and then the others, and finally seated himself, facing the group. Though not to be called handsome, his face was fine and scholarly, and his iron grey hair made him look older than his fifty years. His manner was quiet, but alert, as if no hint or lightest word could escape his attention. “Let us waste no time,” he began, “for my business engagements are pressing, and what I do here must be done as quickly as possible. I can promise you nothing, for the accounts I have read of this case make it seem to me that your local workers have done all that could be expected of them. The whole affair is mysterious, but sometimes a new point of view or the opinions of a different mind may lead to something of importance.” “You know the main details, then?” asked Barry. “The main details as told in the papers, yes. Also, I’ve seen Mr. Roberts this morning, and I’ve discussed matters with him and with Captain Steele. But never mind those sources of information. I want the stories of each one of you here. And, if you please, I want them separately, and in each instance, alone. Otherwise, I cannot take the case.” “Why, of course, Mr. Ford,” said Joyce, “we will agree to anything you stipulate. Please direct us, and we will obey.” “Then first, I will talk with Mr. Stannard, and later with the ladies. Also, I must ask that the interviews be in the Studio, the room where the crime took place. This is not only because it is more appropriate, but I can think better in a large room. This little low-ceiled box of a room doesn’t give me space to think!” Ford’s winsome smile took all hint of rudeness from the words, and as he rose, his great height and proportionate bulk seemed to bear out his statement, and the assumption that his mind was of wide scope and far-reaching limits, made it seem plausible that he felt stifled in a small or low room. “But you haven’t yet been in the studio,” said Natalie. “How do you know it is big and high?” “It was so described in the newspaper accounts. That is why I took an interest in the case. Also, I am willing to admit, I paused for a glance in at the studio door, as I came into the house, and before I entered this room.” “A queer man,” thought Natalie. “Why should a great detective talk about such foolish details as large or small rooms? Why should he take an interest in a case because of them?” The others had similar thoughts, but no comment was made on the visitor’s peculiarities, save that Beatrice Faulkner seemed to feel obliged to defend her husband’s architectural ideas. “The rooms are carefully proportioned,” she said, pleasantly, but with a touch of pride in the fact. “The architect who designed them knew just what measurements were most effective from a technical and artistic point of view.” “The rooms are all right,” said Mr. Ford, smiling kindly at the speaker, “the trouble is with my own foolish vagaries.” Then led by Barry, they all went into the studio. Alan Ford looked around him, with the most intense admiration expressed on his fine face. “Magnificent!” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, your late husband was indeed a genius. I have never seen a more perfectly proportioned room, or one more appropriately and effectively decorated. The windows are marvels and the furniture is in every respect fitting.” “Oh,” said Joyce, “Mr. Stannard furnished the room. It was not built for a studio.” “It is, then, the joint product of two geniuses. I know of Mr. Stannard’s reputation.” For a few moments Alan Ford seem to forget the errand on which he had come. He was, it was plain to be seen, deeply impressed with the beautiful apartment, and his dark, deep-set grey eyes roved about from pictures to statues, from furniture to decorations with admiring and approving gaze. “Have you a picture of Mr. Stannard?” he said at last. “Yes,” and Joyce took a photograph from a small chest full of portraits. “This is a photograph of a painting done by himself. It was made about four years ago, but he changed little since.” Ford took the card and studied it. He saw a noble head and brow, fine features, and a general air of self-appreciation that was, however, not to be called conceit. The mouth had a few weak lines about its corners, but on the whole it was the presentment of a man of genius. “Have you a photograph of the subject in life?” he asked; “not taken from a painting.” “Yes, but not a recent one,” replied Joyce. “Except for some little snapshots,” and she put a half-dozen small pictures in the hands of the detective. “Better yet,” Ford said, and he carefully scrutinized the papers. But all the pictures of Eric Stannard gave the same impression of power, self-confidence and dominance. |
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