  It was soon after this, that the reporter, Pinckney, came again to see Avice. The girl liked the wide-awake young man, and granted him an interview. “Shall I announce your engagement to Judge Hoyt?” he asked, gravely, but with intense interest. “No, indeed!” said Avice, with spirit. “You’re not going to lose all that fortune?” “Not necessarily. But I object to having my engagement announced before it has taken place! Oh, do all these things have to be in the papers?” “Certainly they do; and that’s why you’d better tell me the truth than to have to stand for all the yarns I’d make up.” “Oh, don’t make up a lot of stuff, please don’t!” “Well, I won’t, if you’ll give me a few facts to work on. First, do you think that Swede killed your uncle?” “Oh, I don’t know what to think! But I’m going to get the best detective I can find, and let him find out all he can. I believe uncle was killed by some robber, and his reference to Cain was merely the idea of a murderer. Uncle often talked that way.” “Look here, Miss Trowbridge, I don’t want to butt in, I’m sure; but I’m a bit of a detective, myself, in an amateur way. Don’t you want me to,—but I suppose you want a professional.” “I think I do want a professional,” began Avice, slowly; “still Mr. Pinckney, if you have a taste for this sort of thing, and know how to go about it, I might work with you more easily than with a professional detective. I’m going to do a lot myself, you know. I’m not just going to put the matter in an expert’s hands.” “I hardly know what to say, Miss Trowbridge; I’d like to take up the case, but I might muff it awfully. I suppose you’d better get the real thing.” “Well, until I do, why don’t you have a try at it? If you discover anything, very well; and if not, no harm done.” Jim Pinckney’s face glowed. “That’s great of you!” he cried; “I’d like to take it up on that basis, and if I don’t find out anything of importance in a few days, engage any Sherlock Holmes you like.” But a few days later when Pinckney again called on Avice, he was in a discouraged mood. “I can’t find out anything,” he said. “The whole case is baffling. I went to the scene of the crime, but could find no clues. But, what do you think, Miss Trowbridge? When I reached the place where they found Mr. Trowbridge, there was that young office boy, looking over the premises.” “That Fibsy, as he calls himself?” “Yes; I asked him what he was doing, and he said, ‘Oh, just pokin’ around,’ and he looked so stupid that I feel sure he had found something.” “He’s just smart enough for that,” and Avice smiled a little. “Yes, he is. I asked him to come here today, and I thought you and I would both talk to him, and see if we can learn anything of his find. If not, I admit I am at the end of my rope, and if you choose, perhaps, you’d better get a real detective on the case.” “I spoke to Judge Hoyt about that, and he agreed. But Mr. Landon doesn’t want a detective. Ah, here’s Fibsy, now. Come in, child.” The boy had appeared at the door with a beaming face, but at Avice’s calling him “child,” his countenance fell. “I ain’t no child,” he said, indignantly; “and say, Miss Avice, I found some clues!” “Well, what are they?” “A shoe button, and a hunk o’ dirt.” “Interesting!” commented Pinckney. “Just what do you deduce from them?” Then Fibsy rose up in his wrath. “I ain’t a-goin’ to be talked to like that! I won’t work on this case no more!” “Sorry,” said Pinckney, grinning at him. “Then I suppose we’ll have to call in somebody else. Of course, he won’t do as well as you, but if you’ve decided to throw the case over, why——” “Aw, can the guyin’!” and with a red, angry face, Fibsy jumped up and fairly ran out of the room and out of the house. “Now you’ve made him mad,” said Avice, “and we’ll never know what he found in the way of clues.” “He said, a shoe button, and some mud! We could hardly expect much from those treasures.” Then Judge Hoyt came. His calls were frequent, and he continually tried to persuade Avice to announce their engagement. But the girl was perverse and said she must first solve the mystery of her uncle’s death. The judge was always willing to listen to her latest theories, but though he never said so, Avice felt pretty certain that he did not suspect the Swede. She told him of Fibsy’s finds, and he said curiously, “What did he mean by mud?” “He didn’t say mud,” corrected Avice, “he said dirt I think he meant soil or earth.” “How would that be a clue? Any one can get some soil from the place, if they don’t take too much. A few square feet might be valuable.” “Why pay any attention to that rubbishy boy?” exclaimed Pinckney. “Why not get a worth-while detective, and let him detect?” “Yes, that’s the thing to do,” agreed Hoyt. “Duane stands well in the profession.” “Alvin Duane! just the man,” and Pinckney looked enthusiastic. “But he’s a bit expensive.” “Never mind that,” cried Avice; “I must find uncle’s murderer at any cost!” “Then let’s have Duane,” and Judge Hoyt reached for the telephone book. Meantime the administrators of law and justice were pursuing the uneven tenor of their way, hoping to reach their goal, though by a tortuous route. “It’s a mighty queer thing,” said District Attorney Whiting, “I’m dead sure the western chap killed his uncle; we’ve even got his uncle’s word for it, and yet I can’t fasten it on him.” “But,” said the chief of police to whom this observation was addressed, “aren’t you basing your conviction on that curious coincidence of names, Cain and Kane? To my mind that’s no proof at all.” “Well, it is to me. Here’s your man named Kane. He’s mad at his victim. He goes to the place where the old man is. And as he kills him, the old man says, ‘Kane killed me.’ What more do you want? Only, as I say, we’ve got to have some more definite proof, and we can’t get it.” “Then you can’t convict your man. I admit it’s in keeping with that young fellow’s western ways to kill his uncle after a money quarrel, but you must get more direct evidence than you’ve dug up yet.” “And yet there’s no one else to suspect. No name has been breathed as a possible suspect; the idea of a highway robber is not tenable, for the watch and money and jewelry were untouched.” “What about the Swede?” “Nothing doing. If he had killed the man, he certainly would have done it for robbery? What else? And then he would not have come forward and told of the dying words. No, the Swede is innocent. There’s nobody to suspect but Landon, and we must get further proofs.” The District Attorney worked hard to get his further proof. But though his sleuths searched the woods for clues, none were found. They had the bare fact that the dying man had denounced his slayer, but no corroboration of the murderer’s identity, and the neighborhood of the crime was scoured for other witnesses without success. The district attorney had never really thought the Swede committed the murder. A grilling third degree had failed to bring confession and daily developments of Sandstrom’s behavior made it seem more and more improbable that he was the criminal. And so Whiting had come to suspect Kane Landon, and had kept him under careful watch of detectives ever since the murder, in hope of finding some further and more definite evidence against him. But there were no results and at last the district attorney began to despair of unraveling the mystery. And then Groot made a discovery. “That Stryker,” he said, bursting in upon Whiting in great excitement, “that butler,—he’s your man! I thought so all along!” “Why didn’t you say so?” asked the other. “Never mind chaffing, you listen. That Stryker, he’s been taking out a big insurance. A paid-up policy, of,—I don’t remember how much. But he had to plank down between eight and nine hundred dollars cash to get it. And he used his bequest from old Trowbridge to do it!” “Well?” “Well, here’s the point. You know how those premiums work. After Stryker is sixty years and six months old, he can’t get insured at all,—in that company any way, and at those rates.” “Well?” “Well, and Friend Stryker reaches his age limit next week!” “You’re sure of this?” “Sure, I’m sure! I got it from the agent Stryker dealt with. The old fellow has been fussing over that insurance off and on for years; and now, just at the last minute, a man up and dies who leaves him enough money to get his insurance. Is it a coincidence?” “At any rate we must look into it,” said Whiting, gravely. “What have you done?” “Done? I’ve just found this out! Now’s the time to begin doing. I’ll search his rooms first, I think, and see if I can nail any sort of evidence. And by the way, on the day of the murder, it was Stryker’s day out, and he’s never given any definite or satisfactory account of how he spent the afternoon. For one thing, he wasn’t definitely asked, for nobody thought much about him, but now I’ll hunt up straws, to see how the wind blows.” Groot went off on his straw hunt, and as it turned out, found far more decided proof of the wind’s direction than straws. Inspector Collins and he came back together with their news. “It’s Stryker, all right,” said Collins to the district attorney; “the handkerchief is his.” “The handkerchief his?” “Yes, we found others in his dresser just like it. It’s a peculiar border, quite unmistakable, and the size and textures are the same. Oh, it’s his handkerchief, for sure. And Sandstrom found it, just as he said, and he was scared out of his wits,—remember he saw the police there with the body,—so he hid the handkerchief, and was afraid even to wash it.” “What’d he take it for?” “Plain theft. Thought he’d make that much. Same way he took the milk bottle. Say, maybe Stryker laid a trap for Mr. Trowbridge, and maybe somebody else did tell him of it, over the telephone, as a warning!” “Arrest Stryker as soon as possible,” said Whiting, “perhaps we’d better let the Swede go.” “Sure let him go. He won’t make any trouble. I’ve got to know him pretty well, and I sort of like him.” Groot’s shrewd, old face showed a gleam of pity and sympathy for the wronged prisoner. “But how could we know it was Stryker’s handkerchief?” “Where can we find him? Is he at home?” “Guess he is now,” returned the detective. “They expected him in about five o’clock. I’ll go to the house myself, and a couple of chaps with the bracelets can hang around outside till I call ’em.” At the Trowbridge house, Groot was admitted as usual. His visits had been rather frequent ever since the crime, but as he had done nothing definite, the family paid little attention to him. He asked for Avice, and found her, with Judge Hoyt, in the library. “Come in, Groot,” said the lawyer. “What’s up now?” “Where’s the man, Stryker?” asked Groot, in lowered tones. “Is he in?” “I think so,” said Avice, “he always is, at this hour. Do you want to see him?” “Yes, mighty bad, he’s the murderer!” “What!” exclaimed both his hearers together. “Yes, no doubt about it,” and Groot told the story of the handkerchief. Avice looked simply amazed, but Judge Hoyt said, “I’ve looked for this all along.” “Whyn’t you give us a hint, Judge?” “I hadn’t enough to base my idea on, to call it a suspicion. I never thought of the handkerchief being his. As a matter of fact, I rather thought it was Mr. Trowbridge’s own, and that the murderer, whoever he was, had used it and left it without fear of its incriminating himself. Surely no one would leave his own handkerchief on the scene of his crime! Are you sure it’s Stryker’s?” “Positive. But all that can be proved and investigated later. Now we want to nail our bird and jail him. Will you send for him, Miss Trowbridge?” “Certainly,” and Avice rang a bell, a sorrowful look coming into her eyes at thought of suspecting the old servant. A parlor-maid appeared, and Avice asked her to send the butler to them. “Won’t he bolt?” asked Groot, fearing to lose his quarry at the last moment. “Why should he?” said Avice, “any more than yesterday? He doesn’t know he’s suspected, does he?” “Oh, no, he couldn’t know it.” “Then he’ll be here in a minute.” While waiting, Groot told them, in low tones, about Stryker’s insurance matter. “Time up next week!” repeated Judge Hoyt. “That looks bad, very bad. I’ve heard Stryker speak of insuring, several times, but I thought nothing about it. He wasn’t asking my advice, merely discussing it as a business proposition. When I’ve been here of an evening with Mr. Trowbridge, we often spoke with Stryker almost as to a friend. He’s an old and trusted servant. I’m desperately sorry to learn all this.” “So am I,” said Avice. “I do want to track down uncle’s murderer,—but I don’t want it to be Stryker!” The parlor-maid returned. “Miss Avice,” she said, “Stryker isn’t in the house.” “Isn’t?” cried Groot, starting up; “where is he?” “I don’t know, sir, but he can’t be far away. The second man says that Stryker was in his pantry and he answered a telephone call there, and then he just flung on his hat and coat and went out.” “He’s escaped!” shouted Groot, dashing out of the room and downstairs, two at a time. And he had. Search of the house showed no trace of the vanished butler, save his belongings in his room. And among these were several handkerchiefs, indisputably from the same lot as the one found at the place of the crime. And a further search of the rooms of every inmate of the household showed no other such handkerchief. |
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