  “That matter can easily be settled,” Cray said, and going to the door he asked Mrs. Adams to send Miss Bascom to them. With an important air the spinster entered the room. Holding herself very erect and even drawing aside her skirts as she passed Miss Austin, she took a seat on the other side of the room. “Now, Miss Bascom,” Cray began at once, “what made you think of looking in this lady’s bureau drawer for that money?” “I didn’t look for it, Mr. Cray. I merely felt that she had done wrong and I thought perhaps some evidence would be hidden away in her room. And a top drawer is the place a woman oftenest hides things.” Cray gave a short laugh. “Rather clever of you, I admit. But Miss Austin says she did not put that money there, herself—that it was a plant.” “A plant?” Miss Bascom looked puzzled at the word. “Yes; she thinks some in-disposed person put it there to implicate her, falsely.” “Oh, I see. Well, Mr. Cray, let her say who did it, and who could have got that money to do it with.” The hard old face took on a look that was almost malignant in its accusation, and little Anita Austin gave a low cry as she saw it, and hid her face in her hands. “Take her away,” she moaned, “oh, take that woman away.” “You hear her,” Miss Bascom went on, unrelentingly. “Now, Mr. Cray, I’m a bit of a detective myself, and while you’ve been down here talking to Miss Mystery, I’ve been searching her room more carefully, and I’ve found a few more things, of which I should like to tell you.” Cray was nonplused. His sympathies were all with the poor little girl, who, clinging to the arms of her chair, seemed about to go to pieces, nervously, but was bravely holding on to herself. Yet, if the Bascom woman was telling the truth, he must beware of the “poor little girl.” “I’m not sure you’re within your rights, Miss Bascom,” he began, but he was interrupted with: “Rights! Indeed, the rights of this matter are above your jurisdiction! The blood of John Waring calls from the ground! I am the instrument of justice that has been chosen by an over-ruling Providence to discover the criminal. She sits before you! That girl—that mysterious wicked girl is both thief and murderess!” “Oh, no!” Anita cried, putting up her arm as if to ward off a physical blow. Then she suddenly became quiet—almost rigid in her composure. “That is a grave accusation, Miss Bascom,” she said, “you must prove it or retract it.” Cray stared at the girl in astonishment. Her agonized cry had been human, feminine, natural—but this sudden change to stony calm, to icy hauteur was amazing—and, to his mind, incriminating. Miss Bascom, however, was in no way daunted. “Prove it I will!” she said, sternly. “In another drawer, Mr. Cray, I found the rolls of silver coin—exactly one hundred dollars worth—that we have been told were in the desk with the roll of bills. The ruby pin, you know about. And so, these thefts are proved. Now, as to the murder—I admit, it seems impossible that a girl should commit the awful crime—but I do say that I have found the weapon, with which it was done, hidden in Miss Austin’s room.” Again that short, low cry—more like a hurt animal than a human being. And then, Anita Austin, the girl of mystery fell back into the depths of her chair, and closed her eyes. “You needn’t faint—or pretend to,” admonished Miss Bascom, brutally; “you’re caught red-handed, and you know it, and you may as well give up.” “I didn’t—I didn’t—” came in low moans, but the girl’s bravery had deserted her. Limp and despairing, she turned her great eyes toward Cray for help. With an effort, he looked away from her pleading face, and said: “What is the weapon? Where did you find it?” “It is a stiletto—an embroidery stiletto—and I found it tucked down in the crevice between the back and seat of a stuffed chair in Miss Austin’s room. Did you put it there?” She turned on the girl and fired the question at her with intentional suddenness, and though Anita uttered a scared, “No,” it was a palpable untruth. “She did,” Miss Bascom went on. “You can see for yourself, Mr. Cray, she is lying.” “But even if she is, Miss Bascom, I must ask you to cease torturing her! I can’t stand for such cruelty!” Cray’s manhood revolted at the methods of the older woman who was causing such anguish to the poor child she accused. “You are not a legal inquisitor, Miss Bascom,” he went on; “it is for me to establish the truth or falsity of your suspicions.” “Yes, you! You’re like all the other men! If a girl is pretty and alluring, you would believe her statement that white is black!” “I believe no statements that cannot be proved to my satisfaction. Miss Austin, do you own an embroidery stiletto?” “Yes,” was the hesitating answer, and the dark eyes swept him a beseeching glance that made Miss Bascom fairly snort with scorn. “Where is it?” “I—I fear I must admit that it is just where Miss Bascom says it is—unless she has removed it. Tell me, Mr. Cray,” and Miss Mystery suddenly resumed her most independent air, “must I submit to this? I thought accused people were entitled to a—oh, you know, counsel—a lawyer, or somebody to take care of them.” “Wait, Miss Austin. You’re not accused yet—that is, not by legal authority.” “Oh, am I not? Then—” and she gave Miss Bascom a glance of unutterable scorn, “I have nothing to say.” “Nothing to say!” the spinster almost shrieked. “Nothing to say! Of course she hasn’t! She kills a man, takes his valuables, and then declares she has nothing to say.” “Now, now, Miss Bascom, be careful! Why did you put your stiletto in such a place, Miss Austin?” “I don’t know.” The dark eyes gave him a gaze of childlike innocence, and Cray couldn’t decide whether he was looking at a deep-dyed criminal or a helpless victim of unjust suspicion. “And where did you get the money and the ruby pin?” “I don’t know—I mean I don’t know how they got in my room. This lady says she found them there—that’s all I know about them.” An indifferent shrug of the slim shoulders seemed to imply that was all Miss Mystery cared, either, and Cray asked: “Then, if the valuables—the pin and the money are not yours, you are, of course, ready to relinquish possession of them.” “Of course I am not! Since I am accused of stealing them, I propose to retain possession until that accusation is proved or disproved! Perhaps Miss Bascom wishes to take them herself.” “You know, Miss Austin,” Mr. Cray spoke very gravely, “you are making a mistake in treating this matter flippantly. You are in danger—real danger, and you must be careful what you say. Do you want a lawyer?” “I don’t know,” the girl suddenly looked helpless. “Do you think I ought to have one?” “Have you funds?” “Yes. I am not a rich girl—but, neither am I poor. However, I think I shall ask advice of some one before I decide upon any course.” “Of whom? Perhaps no one can advise you better than I can.” “What is your advice, Mr. Cray?” The sweet face looked at him hopefully, the curved red lips quivered a little as the speaker added, “I am very alone.” Again Miss Bascom sniffed. Unattractive, herself, she resented with a sort of angry jealousy the appealing effect this girl had on men. She knew intuitively that Cray would sympathize with and pity the lonely girl. “My advice is, Miss Austin, first, that you dispel this mystery that seems to surround you. Tell frankly who you are, what is your errand in Corinth, how you came into possession of Doctor Waring’s ruby, and why you hid your stiletto, if it is merely one of your sewing implements.” Miss Mystery hesitated a moment, and then said, quietly: “Your advice is good, Mr. Cray. But, unfortunately, I cannot follow it. However, I am willing to state, upon oath, that I did not kill Doctor Waring with that stiletto.” “I’m afraid your oath will be doubted,” Miss Bascom intervened sharply. “And, too, Mr. Cray, even if this girl did not strike the fatal blow, she well knows who did! She is in league with the Japanese, Nogi. That I am sure of!” “Nogi!” exclaimed Anita. “Yes, Nogi,” Miss Bascom went on, positively. “You came here only a day or two after he did. You have a Japanese kimono, and several Japanese ornaments adorn your room. You went to the Waring house that night, Nogi let you in and out, and though the Japanese doubtless committed the murder, you stole the money and the ruby, and then, your partner in crime departed for parts unknown.” Miss Bascom sat back in her chair with a look of triumph on her plain, gaunt face. Clearly, she was rejoiced at her denunciation of the girl before her, and pleased at the irrefutable theory she had promulgated. “And how did Miss Austin or the Jap, either, leave the room locked on the inside?” propounded Cray, his own opinions already swayed by the arraignment. “That,” said Miss Bascom, with an air of finality, “I can’t explain definitely, but I am sure it was an example of Japanese jugglery. When you remember the tales of how the Japanese can do seemingly impossible tricks, can swallow swords and get out of locked handcuffs, it is quite within the realm of possibility that one could lock a door behind him, and give it the appearance of having been locked from the inside.” Now, Cray had already concluded that the door had been cleverly locked by some one, but he hadn’t before thought of the cleverness of the Japanese. He rose almost abruptly, and said, “I must look into some of these matters. Miss Austin, you need not attempt to leave town, for you will not be able to do so.” “I most certainly shall not attempt to leave—as you express it—if I am asked not to. But, I may say, that when I am entirely at liberty to do so, I propose to go away from Corinth.” Her dignity gave no effect of a person afraid or alarmed for her own safety, merely a courteous recognition of Cray’s attitude and a frank statement of her own intentions. Miss Bascom sniffed and said: “Don’t worry, Mr. Cray. I’ll see to it, that this young woman does not succeed in evading justice, if she tries to do so.” At which Miss Mystery gave her a smile that was so patronizing, even amused, that the spinster was more irate than ever. “And, now, Miss Austin,” the attorney said, “I’ll take your finger prints, please, as they may be useful in proving what you did not do.” He smiled a little as the girl readily enough gave her consent to the procedure. “And,” he went on, more gravely, “I will ask you for one of your shoes—one that you wore on Sunday.” Surprised into a glance of dismay, Miss Mystery rose without a word and went upstairs for the shoe. She returned with the dainty, pretty thing, and merely observed, “I’d like to have it back, when you are through with it.” Putting the shoe in his overcoat pocket, Cray went away. “Miss Bascom,” Anita said, turning to her enemy, “may you never want a friend as much as I do now.” “The nerve of her!” Liza Bascom muttered to herself, as Miss Mystery went upstairs to her own room. “There’s a very deep mystery here!” Cray soliloquized, as he returned to the Waring house. “But I’m getting light on it.” Cray was far from lacking in ingenuity, and he proceeded at once to compare the finger prints he had of Anita Austin with the prints on the small black-framed chair that had been found drawn up to the desk chair of John Waring. They were identical and Cray mused over the fact. “That girl was here that night,” he decided; “there’s no gainsaying that.” He called the butler to him. “Ito,” he began, “did you let in any one late Sunday night—after you came home?” “No, sir,” the imperturbable Jap declared, thinking the question foolish, as all the inquirers knew the details of his Sunday evening movements. “Do you remember seeing this chair, Monday morning?” “Distinctly. I saw Mr. Lockwood smoothing its back.” “Smoothing its back! What do you mean?” “I looked through from the dining-room window, to see if Mr. Lockwood was coming to breakfast, and I perceived him carefully smoothing the plush of the little chair, sir.” Cray meditated. Here was a point of evidence. Lockwood was not the sort to absent-mindedly paw over a chair back. He was doing it on purpose. For what reason? What reason could be, save to erase some evidence? Cray examined the chair. It had a frame of shiny black wood, while seat and back were covered with a dark plush of a fine soft quality. Cray drew his fingers across the back. They left a distinct trail of furrows in the fabric. Ito, watching, nodded his head, gravely. “Not finger-prints,” Cray said to himself—“but, maybe finger-marks. Whose?” “You surely saw this, Ito?” “Yes, sir; and Miss Peyton also saw. She was then in the doorway, asking Mr. Lockwood to come to breakfast.” Cray went in search of Helen and put the question to her suddenly. “What was Gordon Lockwood doing, when you went to call him to breakfast, Monday morning?” “He was—I don’t remember.” “Speak the truth—or it may be mean trouble for you and him, too.” “He was—he seemed to be dusting off a chair.” “With a duster?” “No; just passing over it with his hand.” “That isn’t dusting it.” “Well, I don’t know what you call it! Perhaps he was merely pushing the chair into place.” “It isn’t his custom to push the study furniture into place. He was erasing indicative marks on that plush chair back—that’s what he was doing.” “Absurd!” Helen cried; “what marks could there be?” “I don’t know. Come and let us see.” Cray took Helen to the study, and asked her to sit in the chair. “Lean back,” he directed. “Now, get up.” The girl obeyed, and there was plainly seen on the plush the faint but unmistakable imprint of the beaded design that adorned the back of the frock she wore. “I told you so!” Cray said, in triumph. “That plush registers every impress, and when Lockwood rubbed it smooth it was to erase a damaging bit of testimony.” “Rather far-fetched, Mr. Cray,” said Gordon Lockwood himself, who had come in and had heard and seen the latter part of the detective’s investigation. “Not so very, Mr. Lockwood, when you learn that the finger prints on the chair frame are your own and those of a certain young person who is already under suspicion.” Gordon Lockwood, as always under a sudden stress, became even more impassive, and his eyes glittered as he faced the attorney. “Don’t be too absurd, Mr. Cray,” he advised, coldly. “I suppose you mean Miss Austin—I prefer to have no veiled allusions. But the finding of her finger prints on a chair in this room, and mine also, does not seem to me to be in any way evidence of crime.” “No?” Cray gave him scorn for scorn. “Perhaps then, you can explain Miss Austin’s presence here that night.” “I don’t know that she was here—and I most certainly could not explain any of her movements. But I do deny your right to assume her guilty from her presence.” “Ah, you tacitly admit her presence, then. Indeed, one can scarcely doubt it, when it is shown that this little shoe of hers,” he took it from his pocket, “exactly fits the prints that cross the field of snow between here and the Adams house.” “To measure footprints—after all this time!” and Lockwood’s lip curled. “The prints are exactly as they were made, Mr. Lockwood. The unchanging cold weather has kept them intact. I tried this shoe, and the prints are unmistakable. Moreover, the short stride is just the measure of the natural steps of Miss Austin. The footprints lead from the Adams house over here and back again. The returning prints occasionally overlap the ones that came this way, showing that the trip away from this house was made latest. Miss Austin was seen to come over in this direction—well, none but a half-wit would be blind to the inevitable conclusions!” “None but a half-wit would read into this evidence what you pretend to see,” retorted Lockwood, almost losing his calm. “That’s my business,” Cray said, sharply: “now, Mr. Lockwood, why did you smooth off that chair back? Careful, now, two witnesses saw you do it.” “I’m not denying it”—Lockwood smiled in a bored, superior way, “but if I did it, I was—and am unconscious of it. One often touches a piece of furniture in passing with no thought of doing so.” “That won’t go down. Both the butler and Miss Peyton saw you definitely and deliberately rub over the back of that chair. Why did you do it?” Cray was inexorable. But the impassive secretary merely shrugged his shoulders. “I can’t answer you, Mr. Cray. I can only repeat it must have been an unconscious act on my part, and it has no sinister significance. I may have been merely pushing the chair out of my way, you know.” “Look here, Mr. Lockwood, you are a man of honor. Do you, upon oath, declare that you did not purposely smooth that chairback, for the reason that it showed some incriminating impress?” “I am not under oath. I have stated that I did not do what you accuse me of, and I have nothing further to say on the subject.” Lockwood drew himself up and leaned with folded arms against the mantelpiece. Cray dropped the subject, but his snapping eyes and compressed lips seemed to show he had not finally dismissed it. “At what time,” he said, abruptly, “did Doctor Waring lock his study door?” “About ten o’clock,” the secretary replied. “And you heard nothing from the room after that? No sound of voices? Nobody coming in at the French window?” “No,” replied Lockwood. “Then we are forced to the conclusion that whoever entered did so very quietly, that it was with the knowledge and permission of Doctor Waring himself, that the visitor was the person whose footprints lead straight to the door, and whose finger prints are on the chair that stood near the Doctor’s own chair. We are borne out in this view by the fact that the same person now possesses the money and the ruby pin which we know Doctor Waring had in his room with him, and we know that the person is here in Corinth for unexplained reasons, and is, in fact, so peculiar that she is known as—Miss Mystery. Just why, Mr. Lockwood, are you arguing against these obvious inferences, and why do you undertake to free from suspicion one against whom everything is so definitely black?” “Because,” Lockwood spoke very quietly, but his jaw was set in a stubborn way, “the lady you call Miss Mystery, is a young and defenseless girl, without, so far as I know, a friend in this town. It is unfair to accuse her on the strength of this fantastic story and it is unfair to condemn her unheard.” “Not unheard,” said the attorney, “but what she says only incriminates her more deeply.” |
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