  Trask, helped along by Fleming Stone, investigated the family tree of the Warings. But they ran up against a blank wall. As far as they could learn Doctor Waring never had brother or sister. His mother, who was a Truesdell, had also been an only child. But of course, Miss Mystery could be of the Truesdell family, and could, as Trask observed, be the same relation to John Waring’s mother that Trask was to John Waring’s father. Which relation was that of second cousin. “It gives a reason for the girl’s presence here,” Stone said, “and as it’s the only reason we can think of, it must be followed up.” “And I’ll follow it up,” Trask said, “if I once get hold of that girl. Where can she be, Mr. Stone?” “Not very far away, I think, as all the stations and routes out of town are watched. She’d have trouble to leave Corinth.” “She could get out in a motor car.” “Who’d take her?” “Lockwood, of course.” But just then, Gordon Lockwood came into the Waring study. His usual calm was entirely gone, his eyes wildly staring and his voice quivered as he said, “She’s gone! Anita’s gone!” “Yes, I know it—I thought you went with her!” and Stone stared in turn. “No, I didn’t!” Lockwood said, quite unnecessarily. “Find her, Mr. Stone—you can, can’t you?” “I can find her,” said Fibsy, “if you’ll tell me one thing, Mr. Lockwood, right straight out.” “What is it? I’ll tell you anything. I’m afraid—” “You’re afraid she’s killed herself,” said Fibsy, calmly. “Well you tell me this. Are you two—aw—you know—” The boy blushed, and Stone smiled a little as he said: “McGuire is a bit shy of romantic matters. He means are you and Miss Austin lovers?” “We are,” said Lockwood, emphatically. “She is my fiancee—” “All right,” said Fibsy, “then I’ll find her. She hasn’t done anything rash, in that case.” He wagged his wise little head. “Where is she?” Stone asked, confident that the boy could tell. He knew of Fibsy’s almost clairvoyant powers of divining truth in certain situations. “Want her here?” he asked, laconically. “Yes.” “I’ll get her.” Snatching his cap, he darted from the house, but he was closely followed by Maurice Trask. Lockwood would have stopped Trask, but Stone said: “Let him go. This thing is coming to a crisis—Trask will help it along.” Fibsy went toward the Adams house, but stopped at the house next door to it. This was the home of Emily Bates. Ringing that lady’s doorbell, Fibsy asked to see her. “Mrs. Bates,” he said, politely, while Trask listened, “we want to see Miss Austin, please.” “Anita!” said Mrs. Bates, flurriedly; “why—she—she isn’t—” “Oh, yes, she is here,” said the boy, patiently, rather than rudely. “We have to see her, you see.” “Here I am,” said Miss Mystery, coming in from the next room. “I think,” she said turning to Mrs. Bates, “I think, as you advised me, I’ll tell all.” “Don’t tell it here!” cried Fibsy. “Please, Miss Austin—don’t spill your yarn here—oh, I mean, don’t—don’t divulge—” The unusual word nearly choked the excited boy, who always in moments of strong emotion lapsed into careless English, but who tried not to. “Now, look here,” Maurice Trask put in. “Here’s where I take hold. Miss Austin, you have told your story to Mrs. Bates?” “Yes,” said, Anita, looking very sad, but determined. “Then you tell it to me. I’m heir to the Waring estate, and so I have a right to know all you know about—the family.” His knowing look proved to Anita that he assumed also her right to be classed with “the family” and she looked at him in astonishment. “You know?” she cried. “Yes—I know,” he spoke very sternly. “And I insist upon a private interview with you, before you tell your story to any one else.” “You shall have it, then,” she said, and her eyes grew grave. “Mrs. Bates, will you and Terence leave us alone for ten minutes. That will be long enough, and then, I’ll go to see Mr. Stone—if necessary.” “Now, look here,” Trask said, as the door closed after the others, “I know who you are.” “I don’t believe it,” and Miss Mystery looked at him straight from beneath the “Truesdell brows.” “Well, anyway, I know you are a Truesdell connection.” “Yes, I am. Go on.” “I don’t know just what branch,” he went on, a little lamely. “But it’s a branch strong enough to hold me—and also to interfere with this heirship of yours.” “Can’t be. There’s no Truesdell so close to John Waring as I am.” “You think so? Then listen.” As Miss Mystery told him her story, the man’s face fell, he sat, almost petrified with astonishment, and when she had finished the short but amazing recital, he said: “My heavens! What are you going to do?” “I don’t know what to do.” “If you tell—I—” “Of course you do.” “And if you don’t tell—then John Waring’s name is left unstained—” “There is no shadow of stain on John Waring’s name! What do you mean?” “Now, look here, Miss Austin, you keep quiet about all this, will you? I’ll call off those sleuths and I’ll arrange to close up and cover up the whole matter. Then, you marry me—there’s only a distant cousinship between us—and I’ll put up the biggest memorial to Waring you ever heard of.” “Omit the clause about my marrying you,” she returned, “and I may agree to your plans. I haven’t quite decided what to do—and beside, Mr. Trask, who killed my—Doctor Waring?” “Never mind who killed him. Call it suicide—it must have been anyway—” “No—I’m not sure it was—oh, I don’t know what to do.” “Time’s up,” called Fibsy through the closed door. “And, I say, Miss Austin, you take my tip, and come along and tell your story to F. Stone. It’ll be your best bet in the long run.” Perhaps it was the boy’s speech, perhaps it was the gleam of disappointed greed that Anita saw in Trask’s eyes, but she rose, with a sudden decision, and said, as she opened the door: “That’s just what I’ll do. Come with me, Mrs. Bates—or, would you rather not?” “Oh, I can’t,” said Emily Bates, “don’t ask me, Anita, dear.” “No, you stay here. I’ll come back soon.” And so Miss Mystery again walked across the snow-covered field to the Waring house, this time to remove all occasion for using her nickname. “You found her?” said Stone, as the trio came into the study, where he and Lockwood still sat. “Yes,” said Fibsy. “I just thought where would a poor, hunted kid go? And I said to myself, she’d go to the nearest and nicest lady’s house she knew of. And of course, that was Mrs. Bates’ and sure enough there she was. And—she’s going to tell all!” Fibsy was melodramatic by nature, and his gesture indicated an important revelation. “I am,” said Anita, quietly. She went straight to Lockwood’s side, and he took her hand calmly, and led her to a seat on the wide davenport, then sat beside her. Her hand still in his, she told her story. “I am of Truesdell blood,” she began, “as Mr. Trask surmised. But, also, I am of Waring blood. Doctor John Waring was my father.” No one spoke. The surprise was too great. In his wildest theories, Fleming Stone had never thought of this. Fibsy’s great astonishment was permeated with the quick conviction, “then she didn’t kill him!” Gordon Lockwood was conscious of a rapturous reassurance that he had no rival as a lover. Trask, already knowing the truth, sat gloomily realizing he was not the heir. Anita, her beautiful face sad, yet proud to acknowledge her ancestry, went on: “This is his story. When John Waring was twenty years old, he met a young woman—an actress—who so infatuated him that he married her. They were absolutely uncongenial and unfitted for one another, and after a few weeks, they agreed to separate. There was no question of divorce, they merely preferred to live apart. He sent her money at stated intervals but he pursued his quiet, studious life, and she her life of gayety and sport. She was a good woman—she is a good woman—she is my mother.” Another silence followed this disclosure. Is, she had said—not was. And John Waring her father! Gordon Lockwood held her hand closely. He was content to listen. Whatever she could say could not lessen his love and adoration. “I tell you this, for her sake and—my father’s also. There is no stigma to be attached to either, they were merely so utterly opposite in character and disposition that they could not live together. “As I said, after a few weeks they separated, and—my father did not know of my birth. My mother would not let him know, lest he come back to her. She was a light-hearted, carefree girl, and while she loved me, she did not love my father. Later on—when I was about four, I think, she caused a notice of her death to be sent to my father. This was because she wanted to sever all connection, and take no chance of ever meeting him again. She was at that time a successful actress, and earned all the money she wanted. She adored me, she had no love affairs, she lived only for me and her art. Though a good actress, she was not widely renowned, and in California, where she had chosen to make her home, she was liked and respected. The climate just suited her love of ease, freedom and indolence—as a New England life of busy activity would have been impossible to her. I want you to understand my mother. She was—she is, a mere butterfly, caring only for trifles and simple gayety. Her home is charming, her personality, that of a delightful child. But her temperament is one that cannot stand responsibilities and chafes at demands. However, all that matters little. The facts are that John Waring, learning of his wife’s death, devoted himself utterly to his books and his study. “When my mother saw in the papers he was about to marry, she was appalled. She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t let him marry another woman, unaware of her existence. She couldn’t raise a question of divorce for she knew that would tend to reflect unpleasantly on his past. “And, too, at last, she was beginning to feel as if she might like to resume her position as his wife, now that he was prominent and wealthy. She told me the whole story—of which I had been utterly ignorant, and she sent me here. I was to see Doctor Waring and use my own judgment as to when and how I should tell him all this. “I came here, with a feeling of dislike and resentment toward a father who had been no father to me. Mother exonerated him, to be sure, but it was all such a surprise to me, that I accepted the errand in a spirit of bravado and was prepared to make trouble if necessary. “But when I saw John Waring—when I realized that splendid man was my father—I knew that all my love, all my allegiance was his, and that my mother was as nothing to me, compared with my wonderful father! “Except for what Mr. Trask calls the Truesdell brows, I look exactly like my mother. Also she resumed her maiden name of Anita Austin after they separated. So you may imagine the shock when Doctor Waring first heard the name, and first saw the living image of his wife, whom, you must remember, he supposed dead. “But I had my mission to perform—and so, I came here, that Sunday night.” The audience sat motionless. Lockwood, holding her hand, felt every tremor of her emotion as the girl told her story. Fleming Stone, realizing that he was hearing the most dramatic revelation of his career, listened avidly. Fibsy, with staring eyes and open mouth, clenched his fists in enthralled interest, and Maurice Trask heard it all with ever growing conviction that he must give up his supposed inheritance. As Anita began to tell of that Sunday night, the situation became even more tense. “I came to the French window, and tapped lightly. Doctor Waring let me in, and I sat by him in that plush chair. “The conversation I had with my father I shall not detail. It is my most sacred and beloved memory. We were as one in every way. We loved each other from the first word. We proved to be alike in our tastes and pursuits. Oh, if he could have lived! I told him of my mother and myself, and he was crushed. I wanted to spare him, but what could I do? He had to know—although the knowing meant the ruining of his career. He said, at once, he could not take the Presidency of the College, with the story of his past made public, nor could he honorably suppress it. He couldn’t marry Mrs. Bates—nor could he instal my mother as mistress here. “He had done no real wrong, in making that early and ill-advised marriage, but it seemed to him a blot on his scutcheon, and an indelible one. “He would sit and brood over these fearful conditions, then, suddenly he would realize my existence afresh, and rejoice in it. He loved me at once and deeply—and I adored him. Never father and daughter, I am sure, crowded a lifetime of affection into such a few moments.” Bravely Anita went on, not daring to pause to think. Her hand, tightly clasped in Lockwood’s, trembled, but her voice was steady, for it was her opportunity to clear her father’s name, and she must neglect no slightest point. “At last, he told me I must go away, and he would think out what he could do. He gave me the money, for he was afraid I hadn’t sufficient cash with me, and he gave me the ruby pin, saying I must keep it forever as my father’s first gift to me. With infinite gentleness he bade me good-by, and softly opened the glass door for me. I went away and he closed the door. “I went home to the Adams house, making, of course, those footprints in the snow. It was a very cold night, I remember the clear shining stars, but I thought of nothing but my father—my splendid, wonderful father. And I hoped, oh, how I hoped, that some way would be found that he and I could spend our lives together. I didn’t know what he would do—but I prayed to God that some way out might be found. “The rest you know. Of the manner of my father’s death, I know nothing at all. Of Nogi, I have no knowledge. I kept all this secret at first, because I hoped to shield my father’s name better that way. But I think now, it’s better told. I couldn’t live under the weight of such a secret. “One more word as to my mother. She has had an admirer for many years, named Carl Melrose. She has kept him at a distance, but, as you know from the telegram she sent me, she has already either married him or promised to. Also, she advised me to tell the whole truth. I have done so.” Unheeding the others, Lockwood put his arm round the exhausted girl as she fell over toward him. His wonderful calm helped her, and his gentle yet firm embrace gave her fresh courage to endure the strain. “Thank you, Miss Austin,” and Stone spoke almost reverently. “You have shown marvelous wisdom and bravery and I congratulate you on your entire procedure. You are an exceptional girl, and I am proud to know you.” This was a great deal for Fleming Stone to say, and Anita acknowledged it with a grateful glance. Fibsy, his eyes streaming with unchecked tears, came over and knelt before her. “Oh, Miss Austin!” he sobbed, “Oh, Miss Anita!” Trask alone remained unmoved, and sat with folded arms and frowning face. But little attention was paid him, and Stone said, thoughtfully: “Our problem of the mystery of Doctor Waring’s death is as great as ever.” “It is,” agreed Lockwood, “but I am sure now, Mr. Stone, that it was a suicide. The motive is supplied, for I knew Doctor Waring so well, I knew the workings of his great and good mind, and I am sure that he felt there was no other course for him. I can see just how he decided that the exposure of all this would react against the reputation of the College. That the sensation and scandal that would fill the papers would harm the standing of the University of Corinth, and that—and that alone—caused his decision. I know him so well, that I can tell you that never, never would he take his life to save himself trouble or sorrow, but for others’ sake—and I include Mrs. Bates—he made the sacrifice. “I can see—and I am sure of what I say—how he realized that the press and the public would forgive and condone a dead man, when, if he lived, the brunt of the whole matter would fall on his beloved College and on the woman he loved and respected. “Now—as I feel sure he foresaw—such of this story as must be made public will have far less weight and prominence, than if he were alive. I know all this is so—for, I knew John Waring as few people knew him.” A grateful glance from John Waring’s daughter thanked him for this tribute. “That ten thousand dollar check?” Trask said, suddenly, for his mind was still concerned with the financial side. “I think that must have been sent to my mother,” said Anita. “She, as I told you, returned to the use of her maiden name, and during our interview, my father told me he should write her at once and send her money. I feel sure he did do so—” “Without doubt,” Lockwood said; “and if so, the letter would have been mailed with the collection next morning. The returning voucher will show.” “Also the letter he wrote my mother will corroborate all I have told you,” said Anita, and both her assertion and Gordon’s, later came true. “I felt,” Anita said, by way of further explanation, “that Mrs. Bates ought to know all. So, when Mrs. Adams practically put me out of her house, and I had no wish to accept Mr. Trask’s invitation to come over here, nor,” she smiled affectionately at Lockwood, “could I fall in with your crazy plans—I just went next door and told Mrs. Bates all about it. She was very dear and sweet to me, and now, if you please, I will go back there. I am weary and exhausted—I cannot stand any more. But when you want me, I can be found at Mrs. Bates’. I leave all matters to be decided or settled, in the hands of Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Stone. Fibsy, dear, will you escort me home?” With a suddenly acquired dignity, Fibsy rose, and stood by her side, and in a moment the two went away together. When the boy returned the others were absorbed in the discussion of the mysterious death of John Waring. “I’m inclined to give it up,” Fleming Stone said, thinking deeply. “Don’t do it, F. Stone,” Fibsy said, earnestly. “It’s better to find out. You never have gave up a case.” “No. Well, Fibs, which way shall we look?” A strange embarrassment came over the boy’s face, and then he said, diffidently: “Say, gentlemen, could I be left alone in this room for a little while? I don’t say I kin find out anythin’—but I do wanta try.” The lapse into careless enunciation told Stone how much in earnest his young colleague was, and he rose, saying, “You certainly may, my boy. The rest of us will have a conference in some other room, as to what part of Miss Austin’s story must be made public.” Left to himself, Fibsy went at once to the bookcase that held the defaced copy of Martial, that John Waring had been reading the night he died. Opening the volume at the blood-stained page, the unlettered boy eagerly read the lines. Tried to read them, rather, and groaned in spirit because he knew no Latin. Small wonder that he was nonplused, for this was all he read: MARTIAL’S EPIGRAMS Liber IV, Epigram XVIII Qua vicina pluit Vipsanis porta columnis Et madet assiduo lubricus imbre lapis, In iugulum pueri, qui roscida tecta subibat, Decidit hiberno praegravis unda gelu: Cumque peregisset miseri crudelia fata, Tabuit in calido vulnere mucro tener. Quid non saeva sibi voluit Fortuna licere? Aut ubi non mors est, si iugulatis aquae? His chin in his hands, he pored over the Latin in utter despair, and rising, started for the door. Then he paused; “I must do it myself—” he murmured: “I must.” So he hunted the shelves until he found a Latin Dictionary. He was not entirely unversed in the rudiments of the language, for Stone had directed his education at such odd hours as he could find time for study. And so after some hard and laborious digging, Fibsy at last gathered the gist of the Latin stanza. His eyes shone, and he stared about the room. “It ain’t possible—” he told himself, “and yet—gee, there ain’t nothing else possible!” He rose and looked out at every window, he noted carefully the catches—he paced from the desk to the small rear windows of the room, and back again. “It’s the only thing,” he reiterated, “the only thing. Oh, gee! what a thing!” He went in search of Stone, and found the three men shut in the living room and with them was Nogi. Stone’s persevering efforts, by advertisements and circulars had at last succeeded, and the impassive and non-committal Japanese was there, and quite willing to tell all he knew. Fibsy interrupted his story. “Go back,” he directed, “to the beginning. Let me hear it all. It’s O. K., F. S.” “I was attending to my dining-room duties,” Nogi said, “and I had taken the water tray to the study. I was weary and hoped the master would soon retire. So, I occasionally peeped through the small window from the dining-room. I saw a lady come and make a visit, and then I saw her and I heard her go away. Then I hoped the master would go to bed. But, no—he was very busy. He wrote letters, he burned some papers, he moved about much. He was restless, disturbed. Then he sat at his desk and read his book.” “This one?” cried Fibsy, excitedly waving the Martial. “I think so—one like that, anyway.” “This was the one! Go on.” “Then—oh, it was strange! Then the master got up, went to the small window at the back of the room—” “Which one?” “The one by the big globe, and he opened it. But for a moment—” “Did he put his hand out?” Fibsy cried. “Yes, I suppose to see if it rained. Yes, he put his hand out for a moment, then he closed the window.” “And locked it?” asked Fibsy. “It locks itself, with a snap catch. Then—ah, here is the strange thing! Then he went back, sat at his desk, and in a moment he fell over and the blood spurted out.” “Didn’t he stab himself?” Fibsy asked. “I don’t know. He didn’t seem to do anything but scratch his ear, and over he fell! Such a sight! I was afraid, and I ran away—fast.” “All very well,” said Stone, “but what became of the weapon?” “I know,” Fibsy almost screamed, in his excitement. “Oh, F. Stone—I know!” “Well, tell us, Terence—but steady, now, my boy. Don’t get too excited.” “No, sir,” and the lad grew suddenly quiet. “But I know. Wait just a minute, sir. Where are the photographs of the house that the detectives took the day after?” “I’ll get them,” Lockwood said, and left the room. He returned, and Fibsy found a magnifying glass and looked carefully at certain pictures. “It proves,” he said, solemnly. “F. Stone, you have solved your greatest case!” It was characteristic of the boy, that although the solution was his own, his deference to Stone was sincere and un-self-conscious. “Please,” he said, “I don’t know Latin, but you will find the explanation of Doctor Waring’s death on that red stained page. He was reading Martial, as we know, and—” he pointed to the Epigram on the page in question, “as he read that, he found a way out.” The grave statement was impressive, and Stone took the book. “Shall I translate, or read the Latin aloud?” he asked the others. “Wait a minute, I’ll get a Martial in English,” Lockwood said, out of consideration for Trask’s possible ignorance of the dead language. “What number is the Epigram?” he asked, returning. Stone told him, and Lockwood found the place, and passed the English version to Stone. Aloud, the detective read this: TRANSLATION Book IV, Epigram 18
“And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly, “he went to that window back by the big globe and got one—and here’s the proof! Look through the glass, F. S.” Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a moment. Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious. The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed in a moment or two. They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery was solved. “Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone, thoughtfully. “He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not have taken his life at that time.” “There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.” Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more than anything else in life, but he said: “Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up. “But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and—” “The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!” “Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring, about two inches across. It’s gone now.” “Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning—or perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.” “He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.” “In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it must have been that.” The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police. The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement. He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure. Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish death. Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her mother arranged matters between themselves. The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he destroyed it. “Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone together. “I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.” “But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?” “Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and in deed. I just want to be—Anita Lockwood.” Whereupon Gordon lost his head entirely. |
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