The next morning at eight o'clock, Morton, the day doorman, came on duty.

Corson eagerly began at once to question him, and he told the story of Sir Herbert Binney's departure from the house, but there his information ended.

"All I know is, Mr Binney went away from here in a taxicab, 'long about half-past six, I think it was. And he went to the Hotel Magnifique,—at least, that's what he told the driver. And that's the last I saw of him. But his man, Peters, is due any minute,—maybe he'll know more."

"Peters? A valet?"

"Yes, and general factotum. He comes every morning at eight, and takes care of his boss."

And in a few moments Peters arrived. His shocked astonishment at the news was too patently real to give the slightest grounds of suspicion that he had any knowledge of it before his arrival.

"Poor old duffer!" he said, earnestly, "he was awful fond of life. Now, who would kill him, I'd like to know!"

"That's what we all want to know, Peters," said Corson. "Come, I'll go up to his rooms with you, and we can look things over."

Up they went, and the detective looked about the apartment of the dead man with interest. There were but two rooms, a bedroom and bath and a good-sized sitting-room. The furniture was the usual type of hotel appointments and there were so few individual belongings that the place gave small indication of the habits or tastes of its late occupant.

"Nothing of a sybarite," commented Corson, glancing at the few and simple toilet appurtenances.

"No," returned Peters, "but he was accustomed to finer living in his English home. He's no brag, but I gathered that from things he let drop now and then. But when he was on a business trip, he didn't seem to care how things were. He was a good dresser, but not much for little comforts or luxuries."

"What about his friendships with ladies?"

"Aha, that was his strong point! As a ladies' man he was there with the goods! He liked 'em all,—from chorus girls to duchesses,—and he knew English ladies of high life, I can tell you."

"But over here he preferred the chorus girls?"

"I don't say he preferred them. He went out a lot to fine homes and hobnobbed with some big people. But he was in his gayest mood when he was getting off for a frolic with the girls."

"As he was last night?"

"Yes; he didn't say much about it, but he did tell me that he was to take a couple of peaches to dinner, and afterwards see them in a Review or something they dance in."

"Can't you be more definite? Don't you know what revue? Or the girls' names?"

"No; I've no idea. Sir Herbert didn't mention any names, and of course I didn't ask him anything."

"Then, I'll have to go to the Magnifique to get on with this. First, I'll take a look around here."

But a careful investigation of the late Sir Herbert's papers and personal effects cast no light on the mystery of his death. There were several photographs of young women, quite likely theatrical people, but none had a signature. However, Corson took these in charge as well as some few notes and letters that seemed significant of friendships with women.

"As young Bates is, I believe, the heir to Sir Herbert's estate, I suppose he'll take charge of these rooms, but, meanwhile, I'll lock up as I want to go downstairs again now. You're out of a job, my man!"

"Yes,—why, so I am! It's the first I've realized that!"

"Maybe Mr Bates will keep you on."

"Not he! Those young chaps don't want valets. He doesn't, anyhow. No, I'll be looking for a new berth. Oh, it'll be easy enough found, but I liked Sir Herbert mighty well. He was a queer dick, but a kind and easy-going man to live with."

"And he never chatted with you about his young lady friends?"

"Never. He was a reserved sort, as far as his own affairs were concerned. You could go just so far and no farther with Sir Herbert Binney."

"Well, he left a paper stating that his death was brought about by women."

"He did? Why, how could that be?"

"That's what I've got to find out. He tried to write a message, and died in the very act. But he wrote clearly and distinctly the words, 'Women did this,' and we've got to believe it."

"Oh, yes; if it was the other way, now, if women did it, he might try to put it up to a man, to shield the girls. But if he wrote that, it's so, of course. Must have been some of those skylarking kids, and yet, it ain't likely, is it now? Some vamp, I should say."

"That's it! Not a young chorus chicken, but an older woman, or women. Adventuresses, you know."

"Yes, that's what I mean. I suppose your first move is to trail his steps of last evening."

"Yes, and I must get about it before the trail gets cold. I've so many ways to look. You know, Peters, he wasn't liked by the girls of this house."

"Well do I know that,—and small wonder. The girls in this house are as nice a bunch of young ladies as ever lived. And the tenants are decent men,—they don't chuck an elevator girl under the chin or try to kiss her every time they ride up or down in her car alone with her!"

"And Sir Herbert did?"

"That he did! I heard it time and again. All the girls were right down mad about it. They're not that sort of girls."

"But I suppose they're not the sort of girls to stab him in their righteous wrath?"

"Oh, good Lord, no! Though there's one of 'em, now,——"

"Which one?"

"No, I'll mention no names. Why, I've no right to hint at such a thing."

"But if you know anything——"

"I don't. Go ahead with your investigations. If there's anything to start your suspicions, let me know which way you're looking."

Corson went downstairs again, and rounded up all the girls employed in the house who might be apt to come in contact with the tenants.

Daisy Lee, an elevator girl, and Julie Baxter, a telephone girl, were the only ones who seemed to have rancorous or vindictive feelings toward the dead man.

Daisy, a frail, pale girl with a soft pretty face and lovely eyes, said frankly she was glad he was dead, for he bothered the life out of her with his attentions.

"He'd wait till I took other people up or down," she said, angrily, "so's he could ride with me alone, and then he'd kiss me."

"Why didn't you report his actions to the management?" Corson said, sharply.

"Well," Daisy blushed and hesitated.

"Speak up, Day!" said Julie. "I'll tell you, sir. She didn't tell 'cause he brought her candy and flowers if she wouldn't."

"That's so," Daisy admitted, pouting. "I like flowers and candies as well as anybody, and they're scarce nowadays."

"Where were you last night?" Corson inquired, suddenly.

"Home and in bed," declared Daisy, and when Julie gave her a quick, surprised look she said, defiantly, "Well, I was!"

"And where were you?" The detective turned to Julie.

"Home and in bed," she said also, but her tone was not convincing.

Corson was about to ask further questions of them, but just then Mr Vail came down in the elevator, and the detective turned to him.

"What!" Vail exclaimed, as the news was told him. "Binney! Why, who did it?"

"Women," said Corson, succinctly, and Vail looked mystified.

"Women! What women? And how do you know?"

He was enlightened as to the written message, and he looked utterly amazed.

"I never heard of such a thing! How could he write all that after he was stabbed with a stroke that killed him?"

"Well, he did! He was just dying when Bob Moore came down from taking you up."

"Oh, then? Yes, Moore and I chatted a few moments about detective stories, and do you mean to say that at that very moment poor old Binney was being murdered a few floors beneath us?"

"Just that, sir."

"What an awful thing! Have you any idea of the identity of the women? How could women do it?"

"That's what everybody says! To me it's just as easy to think women did it as men,—and a heap more logical! Why, a man wouldn't have dared to come into a brightly lighted place like this and stab somebody and get away again! But an angry woman—that's just what she would do!"

"That's true: I mean it's true no man would take a chance like that,—no sane man. But a woman, in a towering rage or insanely jealous or something—well, anyway, it's the most astonishing case I ever heard of!"

"It's all of that! You knew Sir Herbert Binney pretty well, didn't you, Mr Vail?"

"In a business way; not socially. We had several conferences as to his Bun bakery. I've a Bread business of my own, and we talked about a combine, but we finally gave up the plan and Sir Herbert took his offers to the Crippen concern,—or, said he was going to do so."

"You and he friendly?"

"Oh, yes; the affair was entirely amicable. The whole thing resolved itself into the fact that his Buns were really more cake than bread,—at least, from the American point of view,—and so better adapted to Crippen's use than to ours."

"And you came in last night just before Sir Herbert came?"

"So you tell me now. Naturally, I didn't know he followed me in."

"Where'd you spend the evening?"

"With a friend, Dr Weldon, in Fifty-first Street."

"Mind if I call him up and ask him?"

Vail stared at the detective.

"Meaning you're questioning my veracity, or connecting me with the crime?"

Corson reddened, but stuck to his suggestion. "No, sir, but,—well, you're the nearest I've found to a material witness, and——"

"Well, do you know, it strikes me you don't know what a material witness is! However, I've not the least objection to your calling up my friend,—go to it! Here's his number."

A little sheepishly, Corson took the number and called up Dr Weldon. The hearty response of a genial voice assured the inquirer that Mr Vail had spent the evening before with the doctor, that he had arrived late, having been to a theater, and that the two had played chess until nearly two o'clock, when Mr Vail, surprised at the lateness of the hour, had started for home. That was the extent of Dr Weldon's information.

"And quite satisfactory," Corson said, with a relieved air. "I had to know, sir, that you weren't with Sir Herbert. Now, I must find out who was with him,—of either sex."

"You're all right, Corson," Vail said; "I think you see your duty clearly, and if I can help you in any way, call on me. And, look here, don't you let any suspicion fasten itself on Bob Moore. That chap's all right. He's everlastingly reading murder yarns, but he's interested in the detective side of them, not the crime side. I wouldn't say this, but I heard something about his being questioned and I want to stand up for him. In a general way, I mean. And as to this case, it's very strange, I know, but don't let its strangeness lead you into impossible theories. You know, already, that at the time of Sir Herbert Binney's murder, Bob Moore was up at the tenth floor,—I can testify to that,——"

"Now, I don't know, Mr Vail," and Corson looked deeply perplexed. "What you say's true enough, but look here, we've only Moore's word that he found that man dying when he came down. Suppose Sir Herbert came in and Moore stabbed him——"

"And Sir Herbert wrote a paper saying it was women?"

"Well, no,—but maybe Bob wrote that paper himself——"

"You're getting pretty well tangled up, Corson. Why don't you put a handwriting expert on that paper, and see if it's in the dead man's fist or not?"

"Good idea, Mr Vail! I never thought of it!"

"Try it, and, excuse me, Corson, but I say this in all honesty, I think you'd better get some help. I believe this is a big case and a mysterious one, and it wouldn't do you any harm to have a colleague to advise with. Do as you like, or as you're told, but that's how it looks to me. Now I must be off, but I'll come home early, for I'm interested to know how things go."

"Hold on a minute, Mr Vail; you know Moore pretty well. Do you think it's possible that he knows who did it, knows who the women are, even perhaps saw the thing done, and then helped them to get away and disposed of the weapon?"

"Anything is possible, Corson, but I think what you suggest is exceedingly improbable. I know Moore only from my chats with him now and then in the elevator, and that's all I can say. To me, anything crooked in that young man seems decidedly unlikely."

Vail went off leaving a sadly perplexed detective behind him, who felt that he didn't know which way to turn, and was inclined to follow the advice he had received regarding a colleague.

Corson was anxious for further talk with the members of the Prall household, but they had not made appearance yet and he hesitated to call them.

He decided to run down to the Magnifique at once, when he received unexpected help from the telephone operator, Julie Baxter.

"Sir Herbert has a lot of telephone calls from ladies," she said, with a meaning glance.

"Is that so? Did he have any yesterday?"

"Yes, he did. About five o'clock, a skirt called him up and they had a merry confab."

"Who was she?"

"Dunno; but he called her 'Babe.'"

"Not very definite! Most girls get called that! What did she say?"

"How should I know that?" and Julie's big eyes stared haughtily at him.

"By the not unheard of method of using your ears. What did she say?"

Really eager to tell, Julie admitted that she listened in, and that an appointment was made for dinner at the Magnifique. Further details she could not supply.

Whereupon Corson carried out his plan of going to the big hotel at once.

He hunted down the head waiter of the grill room of the night before, and, having found him asleep in his room, waked him up and proceeded to interrogate him.

"You bet Sir Herbert Binney was here," the man declared, when he got himself fully awake; "he had two of the prettiest little squabs I ever saw, along, and they had a jolly dinner."

"And then?"

"Then they all went off to the theater, and after the show he brought them back, also two more,—four of 'em in all,—and they had supper."

"All amicable?"

"Oh, yes,—that is, at first. Later on, the girls got jealous of each other, and—well, the old chap's a softy, you know, and they pretty much cleaned him out."

"Just what do you mean?"

"Well, he made them presents, or promised them presents,—he's terribly rich,—and each of those girls was afraid somebody else would get more than she did. So, they squabbled quite a lot."

"Sir Herbert was good natured?"

"Yep; he just laughed and let 'em fight it out among themselves."

"Now, look here, did any of those four girls get angry enough to wish Sir Herbert any harm?"

"Did they? Why, I heard Babe Russell say she was going to kill him, and Viola Mersereau, she said, if she was sure it would never be discovered, she'd shoot him herself."

"Are you sure of these things? Because—somebody did kill Sir Herbert Binney about two o'clock this morning."

"What! Who did it?"

"We don't know, but we've reason to suspect women."

"That's the bunch, then! Lord, I didn't think they'd go so far as that! But that Viola is a ring-leader,—she's a vamp, if there ever was one! And little Russell! Well, she's soft and babyish looking but she's got the temper of a wildcat! And they were out for the goods, those young she's! They're all straight, you know, but they're just little greedies. And that man was their natural prey. Why, they could get anything out of him! Not pearl necklaces and diamonds,—I don't mean that,—but fans and vanity-cases and silk stockings and lockets and such trifles. Not trifles in the aggregate, though. That man must have spent a good big roll on 'em last night."

"How do you mean, spent it?"

"Why, he'd give this one or that one a yellowback to buy a new hat, say,—and then the others would tease for new hats. And maybe, if he didn't have the kale, he'd give 'em checks, or he'd tell 'em they could have the hat or the scarf or whatever charged to him. But he was strict. He told each one the limit she should pay, and if she paid more, they couldn't be friends any more. It was a queer mix-up, but all friendly and decent. He was just like a big frolicsome boy, and the girlies were like soft little kittens, playful,—but, kittens can scratch."

"And they did?"

"Yes, there was more real ill nature shown last night than ever before. Sir Herbert wasn't as generous as usual; I daresay he's tired of the game,—anyway, they couldn't bamboozle him to more than little trinkets, and I think Viola was out for furs. And furs mean money. But he only smiled when she hinted and she spoke more plainly, and then when he didn't agree she got mad."

"You seem to know all about it."

"Couldn't help knowing. They took no pains to be quiet, and I was around most of the time, and finally I became interested to see how it would come out."

"And how did it?"

"They all went off together,—I mean the girls did. He bundled 'em into a taxicab, gave the driver a bill and said good-night. That's the way he always does. He never escorts 'em home. Then he came back in here, settled his account, lit a cigar and strolled off by himself."

"At what time was this?"

"Abut one, or a little before. Not very late. Sir Herbert's no villain. I read him like a book. He just liked to see those girls enjoy a good supper, same's he liked to see 'em dance on the stage. Anyway, there's the history of the evening, so far as I know anything about it."

Corson went away, went to the theater where the girls belonged,—found out where they lived and went there.

The four lived in the same boarding house, and one and all refused to appear at any such unearthly hour as ten A. M.

But the strong arm of the law was used as an argument, and, after a time, four kimonoed and petulant-faced maidens put in an appearance.

Corson meant to be very intimidating, but he found himself wax in their hands. One and all they denied knowing anything of Sir Herbert Binney after he had entertained them at supper and sent them home in a cab.

They expressed mild surprise at his tragic fate, but no real regret. They seemed to Corson like four heartless, brainless dolls who had no thought, no interest outside their silly selves.

But in the dark eyes of Viola Mersereau and in the blonde, rosy face of Babe Russell he saw unmistakable signs of fear,—and, working on this, he blustered and accused and threatened until he had them all in hysteria.

"You've not got a chance!" he declared. "You're caught red-handed! You two said in so many words that you wished the old chap was dead, and after you got home, you sneaked out,—whether there were others to know it, or not, I can't say,—but you two sneaked out, went to The Campanile, waited your chance, dashed in and stabbed the man and dashed away again. And you'd been safe, but for his living long enough to tell on you! 'Women did this!' Of course they did! And you're the women! Who else could it be? What other women,—what other sort of women would commit such a deed? Come now, are you going to own up?"