  Miss Mystery looked from Stone’s impassive face to Fibsy’s eager boyish countenance. Then she looked at Maurice Trask. The latter showed deepest sympathy and interest but Trask also had a wary air, as if ready to interrupt any disclosures that might be damaging to the girl. “First of all,” Stone said, “who sent you that telegram from San Francisco?” “I don’t know.” The calm little face was as expressionless as Stone’s own, and she made her statement as straightforwardly as if it had been true. “Miss Austin,” Stone spoke severely now, “it’s to your own advantage to adopt a more amenable manner. You will not help your cause by prevarication or evasion. Unless you will answer my questions truly, I must find out these things for myself. I can do it.” “If you can find out who sent that telegram, go ahead,” she flared at him. “I tell you I don’t know who sent it, and I don’t know who ‘A’ is.” “I know who she is,” said Fibsy, and then Anita’s quick, startled glance proved to the boy that his little ruse was successful and he had at least guessed the sex of the sender. “A woman,” the astute lad mused, “and she has annexed Carl. Maybe Carl is another name for that escaped Japanese. But it’s all so far away. How can they conduct operations between here and California!” “Miss Austin,” Stone tried to win her confidence, “believe me I am most anxious to help you. Please tell me why you came over here that Sunday night. It is utterly useless to deny that you did come, now tell me why.” Anita looked baffled, but after a moment’s pause, she said, “Do you think I killed Doctor Waring?” “I know you didn’t,” broke in Fibsy, with enthusiasm. “Now, come across, Miss Austin, and I’ll bet you F. Stone can dope out the whole game.” “I know most of the circumstances already,” Stone smiled, and followed up the small advantage he had gained. “You came over here late, secretly, across the snowy field. Doctor Waring let you in?” “Yes,” Anita breathed the word, and her starry eyes never left Stone’s face. She seemed almost hypnotized. “Then you sat down in the chair you’re in now, and he locked the door—why did he do that?” “I don’t know—he didn’t! Stop! You have no right to torment me like this! I have counsel—Mr. Trask here is my lawyer. Let him tell me what to do!” Her nerves were tense, and her little fingers were continually twisting round themselves. Her face was agonized, and Stone felt as if he were guilty of utter cruelty. But he must go on. “Mr. Trask cannot tell what he does not know,” he said, coldly. “I am in authority, you must answer me. Did Doctor Waring give you the money and the ruby pin?” “Yes, he did.” “Why?” “As gifts. Why does any one give presents?” “Because he loved you?” “Yes.” Anita’s voice dropped to a softer tone, her eyes had a faraway look, and her sensitive little mouth quivered. “Yet you had known him but a few days! You had never seen him before you came to Corinth?” “Never.” “Isn’t that a strange admission? How could he become so infatuated in so short a time?” “Have you never heard of such a thing?” the face was almost roguish now, and the dark eyes showed a hint of smile. Stone was baffled. He gazed at this strange young person, who was either fooling him to the top of her bent or was a helpless, harassed child. “Was Doctor Waring related to you?” he asked, with a sudden new idea. “Oh, no. He was no relation. I tell you I never met him before I came here.” “And he gave you the valuables?” “He did. I’ll swear to that—though I have no witness to prove it.” “And you accepted them! Accepted a large sum of money and a pin set with a precious stone from a man you scarcely knew! A man engaged to be married! A man of twice your own age! You must admit this calls for explanation.” “Why does it? Hadn’t he a right to give me those things if he chose?” “Wait a minute, Miss Austin. You loved him?” “Maybe.” “Then, if you did, do you want his name stained, his memory blotted by an act that is, to say the least, questionable?” “But he did give them to me.” “Unless you can say more clearly why he did so I’m not sure I can believe you. Did you ask for them?” “Oh, no!” Her disclaimer sounded true, but Stone began to think she was a consummate little actress as well as a clever falsifier. “Well,” he said, after a short pause, “I may as well tell you, Miss Austin, that I am here to solve this mystery. That I am not at all satisfied that you are telling me the truth; that, therefore, I shall have to seek the truth elsewhere. I will tell you, too, that I don’t want to implicate you, that I should much prefer to keep your name out of it all, but that you leave me no choice but to go ahead with my investigations wherever they may lead. A few more questions and you may go. What was Doctor Waring doing when you came?” “He—he was sitting at his desk.” She looked troubled at Stone’s speech and seemed half inclined to be more friendly. “You saw him through the French window, before you came in?” “Yes; the window has a silk curtain, but I saw him between the edge of the silk and the window sash.” “Was he reading?” “No; there were books on the desk, but he was not reading.” “He rose and let you in?” “Yes.” “He had sent for you?” “No—that is, yes.” “You spoke truly the first time. He did not send for you and you came of your own accord. Was he surprised to see you?” “He didn’t say so.” “What did he say? What was his first word?” “Why—I don’t know. He said—‘Anita! You!’—or something like that.” “And kissed you?” “Yes.” And then a sudden wave of crimson spread over the scared little face. It was evident she had not voluntarily made the admission. It had slipped out as her memory was busy with the scene. “I won’t stand it!” she cried, “I can’t stand it! Mr. Trask, save me from this terrible man!” Maurice Trask sitting near her, held out his hand, and Miss Mystery took it. It seemed to reassure her, and she said, “Remember, you’re my lawyer. Don’t let him question me any more. Tell him things yourself—” “But he doesn’t know things—” said Stone, gravely. “Then let him make them up! I refuse to stand this persecution. I didn’t kill that man—” “Wait a moment, Miss Austin,” Stone feared if he let her go now, he would lose his chance, “since you are admittedly the last person who is known to have seen Doctor Waring alive, you cannot avoid, or evade the strictest questioning. You were here,” he spoke very gravely, “late at night. Next morning he was found dead. There are no footprints in the snow but your own. There was no other way into the room. Therefore, you are responsible for his death or—you know who is.” “Must I—must I be convicted?” Her tone was heartbroken, her strained little face piteous in its appeal. But Stone did not believe in her. He had concluded she was entirely capable of pulling wool over her questioners’ eyes, and he watched her keenly. “I don’t say you must,” he returned deliberately, “but I say you may.” “Never,” declared Trask. “You know what I told you, Mr. Stone.” “And you know that I refused to accept your terms. I shall carry this matter through to the end. I do not say I think Miss Austin guilty of crime, but I do say she knows all about the death of Doctor Waring and she must be made to tell.” “Suppose I say I—he killed himself,” she said, “will you believe me?” “With your stiletto?” asked Stone, quickly. “Y—Yes.” “And then you took the stiletto home and hid it?” “Yes.” “What for?” “To shield his memory. Suicide is a coward’s act.” “Rubbish!” Fibsy exploded, unable to keep quiet any longer. “I say, Miss Mystery, you are a mystery! Why don’t you tell what you know. It’s up to you. Here you were with the victim, shortly before his death, you probably know all about what happened. By the way, how did you get out?” “Out the same way I came in.” “And bolted that window-door behind you?” “Oh—no—well, you see—” “I see you are not to say another word, Miss Austin,” Trask decreed. “I’m very sorry I asked Mr. Stone to take up this case. However, I shall take you home now, then I’ll come back and I hope I can persuade Mr. Stone to discontinue his work. If I’d had any idea of these disclosures you’ve made, I never should have engaged his services. Come, Anita, I will take you home. Mr. Stone, await my return. I shan’t be long.” The two went, and Stone, pacing up and down the long room said musingly, “All centers round that girl.” “Righto,” said Fibsy, “but she didn’t kill the man.” “The trouble is, Terence, your saying that doesn’t make it so.” “No, but its being so makes me say it.” Gordon Lockwood came in, his face full of anxiety. “I’m glad to see you alone for a moment, Mr. Stone,” he said. “I saw Trask taking Miss Austin home. Now, tell me, please, can you get at the truth about that girl?” “I haven’t as yet. She’s as great a mystery as the death of Doctor Waring.” “She is. But I have every faith in her. She is the victim of some delusion—” “Delusion?” “Yes; I mean she’s under a mistaken sense of duty to somebody, or—” “State your meaning more definitely, will you?” “I’m not sure that I can. But I’m positive—” “Ah, now, Mr. Lockwood,” this from Fibsy, “you’re positive the young lady is an angel of light, because you’re head over heels in love with her. That’s all right, and I don’t blame you—but, take it from me, you’ll prove your case quicker, better and more surely, if you investigate the secret of Miss Mystery, than if you just go around babbling about her innocence and purity.” Lockwood looked at the boy, ready to resent his impudence. But Fibsy’s serious face and honest eyes carried conviction and the secretary at once took him for an ally. “You’re right, McGuire,” he said; “and, I for one am not afraid of the result of a thorough investigation of Miss Austin’s affairs.” “You’ve reason to be, though,” Stone observed. “I can’t be sure, of course, but many stray hints and bits of evidence, to my mind point to Miss Austin’s close connection with the whole matter.” “What is your theory as to the death, Mr. Stone,” Lockwood asked. “Suicide or murder?” “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m quite ready to form an opinion when I get some real evidence. I’m through questioning Miss Austin—I shouldn’t have let her go otherwise. I want next to do a lot of further questioning. And I’d very much like to get hold of that servant, Nogi.” “You think he’s implicated?” Lockwood stared. “Why else would he run away? He must be found. He is probably the key to the whole situation.” “Guilty?” “Maybe and maybe not. If he and Miss Austin were in collusion—” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Stone, but I cannot have any thing said in my presence that reflects on that young lady’s good name. We are engaged to be married—that is, I consider myself bound to her, and hope to win her full consent.” “But I understood—I thought, Trask—” “Mr. Trask wants to marry her, but I hardly think his suit will succeed. The lady must decide, of course, but I have reason to hope—” “Gee, Mr. Lockwood, ’course she’ll take you,” Fibsy informed him, “now, let’s you and me get busy to find out Miss Mystery’s mystery. You ought to know it, if you’re going to marry her—and too, you can’t believe there’s anything that can’t stand the light.” “What can it be?” Lockwood asked, helplessly. “How can a young girl like that have a real secret that so pervades and surrounds her whole life that she will give no hint of it? Who is she? What is she? Why is she here? I don’t believe she came here merely to sketch in water colors.” “No,” agreed Stone. “If that were all, why the mystery about her home and family? I understand she has given several contradictory statements as to where she really lives.” “She has,” assented Lockwood. “But may it not be just a twist of her humorous nature? I assure you she is roguishly inclined—” “No; it isn’t a joke,” Fibsy said, frowning at the thought. “She’s got a real secret, a mystery that means a whole lot to her,—and prob’ly to other people. Well, F. Stone, I guess it’s up to me to go out and seek her people.” He sighed deeply. “I hate to leave the seat of war, but I gotta do it. Nobody else could ever ferret out the antecedents and general family doings of Miss Mystery but Yours Truly. And this is no idle boast. I’m going out for the goods and I’ll fetch home the bacon.” He looked glum at the prospect, for it looked like no easy or simple matter that he proposed to undertake. “You see,” he went on, “that girl is stubborn—my, but she’s stubborn. You’ll have a handful, Mr. Lockwood. But if so be’s you’re willing to face the revelations, I’ll go and dig ’em up.” “Where do you think you’ll go, Terence?” asked Stone. “To California, F. S., of course. Didn’t that telegram come from there? All I’ve got to do is to find ‘A’ and the ‘Carl’ that she ‘annexed’ and there’s your mystery of the young lady solved. But the death of the Doctor—that’s another thing.” “Do you really mean this?” Lockwood said, staring at Fibsy. “How can you find a needle in a haystack, like that?” “I can’t—but I’ve gotta.” “But it’s so much simpler to get the information from Miss Austin herself.” “You call that simple!” Fibsy looked at him. “Well, it isn’t. It’s easier to go to Mars, I should say, than to get any real information out of that little scrap of waywardness.” “No, nothing can be learned from her,” said Stone. “Then, shall I be off?” asked Fibsy. “Wait twenty-four hours, my lad, and then if we’re no further along, I suppose you’ll have to go. Nogi must be found.” “I’m glad Mr. Trask called you in, Mr. Stone,” Lockwood said, slowly, “but I do hope you won’t associate any thought of Miss Austin with the crime. She could no more commit crime than a small kitten could.” “I fancy you’re right,” and Stone, half absent-mindedly, “but opinions as to what people can or can’t do, are of not much real use.” “Have you a theory?” “Yes, I have a theory, but the facts don’t fit it—and it seems as if they could not be made to. Yet it’s a good theory.” “You don’t care to tell it to me?” “Why, I’m willing to do so. My theory is that John Waring committed suicide, but I can’t make any facts bear me out. You see, it’s not only the absence of a weapon, but all absence of motive, and even of opportunity.” “Surely he had opportunity—in here alone.” “It can’t be opportunity if he had no implement handy. And nothing can explain away the missing weapon, and the locked room, on the suicide theory.” “What can explain the locked room, on a murder theory?” Lockwood asked. “I haven’t thought of anything as yet. What book was Doctor Waring reading that night?” “There were several on his desk, but the one that was found nearest the body, the one stained with blood, is a copy of Martial’s Epigrams.” “May I see it, please?” Lockwood brought the book and Fleming Stone examined it carefully. It was not a rare or finely bound edition, it seemed more a working copy or a book for reference. It was printed in Latin. “He was fond of Martial?” asked Stone. “He was a reader of all the classics. He preferred them, of course, in their original Latin or Greek. He was also a modern linguist.” Stone opened the volume to the stained page, which was numbered 87. He studied it closely. “It’s all Greek to me,” he said, frowning, “even though it’s Latin, but I hoped to read something on the page beside the printed text.” However, the irregularly shaped red blur gave him no clue, and he returned the book to Lockwood. “Had the Doctor any private accounts?” the detective asked suddenly. “Not that I know of,” replied the secretary. “He was a man of singularly few secrets, and I was always at liberty to open all letters, and had free access to his desk and safe. I never knew him to hide or secrete a paper of any sort.” “No harm in looking,” Stone said, and began forthwith to search the desk drawers and compartments. The search was fruitless, until at length, a small checkbook was found. And a curious revelation it gave them. For of its blank checks but one had been torn out, and the remaining stub gave the information that it was a check for ten thousand dollars drawn to the order of Anita Austin. Those who looked at it stared incredulously. “It is dated,” Stone said, “the date that Doctor Waring died.” It was. Had this too, been given to the strange young woman, whom Stone was beginning to designate to himself by the title of adventuress? Was it possible that young girl, who seemed scarce more than a child, had some how maneuvered to get all this from a man whom she had deliberately fascinated and infatuated? It was incredible—yet what else could be assumed? Gordon Lockwood looked deeply distressed. His lips set in a tight line, and he said, through his clenched teeth: “I don’t care! Nothing can shake my faith in that girl! She is blameless, and only these misleading circumstances make you think otherwise, Mr. Stone.” The detective looked at him as one might regard a hopeless lunatic. But young McGuire’s face was a study. He looked horror-stricken and then dazed. Then he had an inspiration apparently, for he smiled broadly—only to lapse again into a profound gloom. “If it ain’t the beatin’est!” he said, at last. “Whatcha make of it, F. Stone?” “I’m completely staggered for the moment. Fibs,” the detective returned, “but these cumulative evidences of Miss Mystery’s—er—acquisitive disposition, seem—I say seem to lead to a suspicion of her undue influence over Doctor Waring, at least, as to obtaining money.” “Oh, she didn’t!” Lockwood fairly groaned. “Don’t blame her! Perhaps Waring fell a victim to her beauty and grace, and perhaps he urged these gifts upon her—” “Perhaps,” Fibsy said; “perhaps he threatened to kill her if she didn’t accept his checks and coin and rubies!—and maybe she had to kill him in self-defense—” “Self-defense!” Lockwood cried, grasping at any straw. “Could it have been that?” “No,” Stone said; “be rational, man, whatever made Anita Austin kill Doctor Waring, it wasn’t a case of self-defense.” |
|
