  “Well, Fibs,” said Stone, as the two sat alone in conclave, “what about Rachel’s story?” “You know, F. Stone, how I hate to doubt a lady’s word, but—not to put too fine a point upon it, the fair Rachel lied.” “You think so, too, eh? And just why?” “Under orders. She was coached in her part. Told exactly what to say——” “By whom?” “Oh, you know as well as I do. You’re just leading me on! Well, he coached her, all right, and she got scared before the performance came off and that’s why she ran away.” “Yes, I agree to all that. Keefe, of course, being the coach.” “Yessir. He doing it, to save the Wheelers. You see, he’s so desperately in love with Miss Maida, that it sort of blinds his judgment and cleverness.” “Just how?” “Well, you know his is love at first sight—practically.” “Look here, Terence, you know a great deal about love.” “Yessir, it—it comes natural to me. I’m a born lover, I am.” “Had much experience?” “Not yet. But my day’s coming. Well, never mind me—to get back to Friend Keefe. Here’s the way it is. Miss Wheeler is sort of engaged to Mr. Allen, and yet the matter isn’t quite settled, either. I get that from the servants—mean to gossip, but all’s fair in love and sleuthing. Now, Mr. Keefe comes along, sees the lovely Maida, and, zip! his heart is cracked! All might yet be well, but for the wily Genevieve. She has her cap set for Keefe, and he knows it, and was satisfied it should be so, till he saw Miss Wheeler. Now, the fat’s in the fire, and no pitch hot.” “You do pick up a lot of general information.” “It’s necess’ry, sir.” The red-head nodded emphatically. “These sidelights often point the way to the great and shinin’ truth! For, don’t you see, Mr. Keefe, being so gone on Miss Maida, naturally doesn’t want her or her people suspected of this crime—even if one of them is guilty. So he fixes up a cock-and-bull story about a bugler man—on the south veranda. This man, he argues, did the shooting. He gets Rachel—he must have some hold on her, bribery wouldn’t be enough—and he fair crams the bugler yarn down her throat, and orders her to recite it as Gospel truth.” “Then she gets scared and runs away.” “Exactly. You see it that way, don’t you, Mr. Stone?” The earnest little face looked up to the master. Terence McGuire was developing a wonderful gift for psychological detective work, and sometimes he let his imagination run away with him. In such cases Stone tripped him up and turned him back to the right track. Both had an inkling that the day might eventually come when Stone would retire and McGuire would reign in his stead. But this was, as yet, merely a dream, and at present they worked together in unison and harmony. “Yes, Fibsy—at least, I see it may have been that way. But it’s a big order to put on—to Mr. Keefe.” “I know, but he’s a big man. I mean a man of big notions and projects. Anybody can see that. Now, he’s awful anxious Miss Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler shall be cleared of all s’picion—even if he thinks one of ’em is guilty. He doesn’t consider Mrs. Wheeler—I guess nobody does now.” “Probably not. Go on.” “Well, so Keefie, he thinks if he can get this bugler person guaranteed, by a reliable and responsible witness—which, of course, Rachel would seem to be—then, Mr. Keefe thinks, he’s got the Wheelers cleared. Now, Rachel, getting cold feet about it all, goes back on Keefe—oh, I could see it in his face!” “Yes, he looked decidedly annoyed at Rachel’s failure of a convincing performance.” “He did so! Now, Mr. Stone, even if he bolsters up Rachel’s story or gets her to tell it more convincingly—we know, you and I, that it isn’t true. There wasn’t any man on the south veranda.” “Sure, Terence?” “Yessir, I’m pretty sure. For, what became of him? Where did he vanish to? Who was he? There never was any bugler—I mean as a murderer. The piper who piped some nights previous had nothing to do with the case!” “Sure, Terence?” “Oh, come now, Mr. Stone—I was sure, till you say that at me, so dubious like—and then I’m not so sure.” “Well, go on with your theory, and let’s see where you come out. You may be on the right track, after all. I’m not sure of many points myself yet.” “All right. To my mind, it comes back to a toss-up between Miss Maida and her father, with the odds in favor of the old gentleman. Agree?” “I might, if I understood your English. The odds in favor of Mr. Wheeler indicating his guilt or innocence?” “His guilt, I meant, F. Stone. I can’t think that sweet young lady would do it, and this isn’t because she is a sweet young lady, but because it isn’t hardly plausible that she’s put the thing over, even though she was willing enough to do so.” “It seems so to me, too, but we can’t bank on that. Maida Wheeler is a very impulsive girl, very vigorous and athletic, and very devoted to her father. She worships him, and she has been known to say she would willingly kill old Mr. Appleby. These things must be remembered, Fibsy.” “That’s so. But I’ve noticed that when folks threaten to kill people they most generally don’t do it.” “I’ve also noticed that. But, striking out Maida’s name, leaves us only Mr. Wheeler.” “Well, ain’t he the one? Ain’t he the down-trodden, oppressed victim, who, at last, has opportunity, and who is goaded to the point of desperation by the arguments of his enemy?” “You grow oratorical! But, I admit, you have an argument.” “’Course I have. Now, say we’ve got to choose between Miss Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler, how do we go about it?” “How?” “Why, we find out how Mr. Appleby was sitting, how Mr. Wheeler was facing at the moment, and also Miss Maida’s position. Then, we find out the direction from which the bullet entered the body, and then we can tell who fired the shot.” “I’ve done all that, Fibs,” Stone returned, with no note of superiority in his voice. “I found out all those things, and the result proves that the bullet entered Mr. Appleby’s body from the direction of Miss Maida, in the bay window, and directly opposite from what would have been its direction if fired by Mr. Wheeler, from where he stood, when seen directly after the shot.” Fibsy looked dejected. He made no response to this disclosure for a moment, then he said: “All right, F. Stone. In that case I’m going over to Mr. Keefe’s side, and I’m going to hunt up the bugler.” “A fictitious person?” “Maybe he ain’t so fictitious after all,” and the red-head shook doggedly. A tap at the door of Stone’s sitting-room was followed by a “May I come in?” and the entrance of Daniel Wheeler. “The time has come, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began a little abruptly, “to put all our cards on the table. I’ve investigated things pretty thoroughly, and, though I’m not all through with my quest, I feel as if I must know the truth as to what you know about the murder.” “I have confessed,” Wheeler began, but Stone stopped him. “That won’t do,” he said, very seriously. “I’ve proved positively that from where you stood, you could not have fired the shot. It came from the opposite direction. Now it’s useless for you to keep up that pretence of being the criminal, which, I’ve no doubt, you’re doing to shield your daughter. Confide in me, Mr. Wheeler, it will not harm the case.” “God help me, I must confide in somebody,” cried the desperate man. “She did do it! I saw Maida fire the shot! Oh, can you save her? I wouldn’t tell you this, but I think—I hope you can help better if you know. You’d find it out anyway——” “Of course I should. Now, let us be strictly truthful. You saw Miss Maida fire the pistol?” “Yes; I was sitting almost beside Appleby; he was nearer Maida than I was, and she sat in the bay window, reading. She sits there much of the time, and I’m so accustomed to her presence that I don’t even think about it. We were talking pretty angrily, Appleby and I, really renewing the old feud, and adding fuel to its flame with every word. I suppose Maida, listening, grew more and more indignant at his injustice and cruelty to me—those terms are not too strong!—and she being of an impulsive nature, even revengeful when her love for me is touched, and I suppose she, somehow, possessed herself of my pistol and fired it.” “You were not looking at her before the shot?” “Oh, no; the shot rang out, Appleby fell forward, and even as I rose to go to his aid, I instinctively turned toward the direction from which the sound of the shot had come. There I saw Maida, standing white-faced and frightened, but with a look of satisfied revenge on her dear face. I felt no resentment at her act, then—indeed, I was incapable of coherent thought of any sort. I stepped to Appleby’s side, and I saw at once that he was dead—had died instantly. I cannot tell you just what happened next. It seemed ages before anybody came, and then, suddenly the room was full of people. Allen and Keefe came, running—the servants gathered about, my wife appeared, and Maida was there. I had a strange undercurrent of thought that kept hammering at my brain to the effect that I must convince everybody that I did it, to save my girl. I was clear-headed to the extent of planning my words in an effort to carry conviction of my guilt, but that effort so absorbed my attention that I gave no heed to what happened otherwise.” “Thank you, Mr. Wheeler, for your kindness. I assure you you will not regret it.” “You’re going to save her? You can save my little girl? Oh, Mr. Stone, I beg of you——” The agonized father broke down completely, and Stone said, kindly: “Keep up a good heart, Mr. Wheeler. That will help your daughter more than anything else you can do. I assumed that if one of you were guilty the other was shielding the criminal, but your story has straightened out the tangle considerably.” “Lemme ask something, please,” broke in Fibsy. “Say, Mr. Wheeler, did you see the pistol in Miss Maida’s hands?” “I can’t say I did or didn’t,” Wheeler replied, listlessly. “I looked only at her face. I know my daughter’s mind so well, that I at once recognized her expression of horror mingled with relief. She had really desired the death of her father’s enemy, and she was glad it had been accomplished! It’s a terrible thing to say of one’s own child, but I’ve made up my mind to be honest with you, Mr. Stone, in the hope of your help. I should have persisted in my own story of guilt, had I not perceived it was futile in the face of your clear-sighted logic and knowledge of the exact circumstances.” “You did wisely. But say nothing to any one else, for the present. Do not even talk to Miss Maida about it, until I have time to plan our next step. It is still a difficult and a very delicate case. A single false move may queer the whole game.” “You think, then, you can save Maida—oh, do give a tortured father a gleam of hope!” “I shall do my best. You know they rarely, if ever, convict a woman—and, too, Miss Wheeler had great provocation. Then—what about self-defence?” “Appleby threatened neither of us,” Wheeler said. “That can’t be used.” “Well, we’ll do everything we can, you may depend on that,” Stone assured him. And Wheeler went away, relieved at the new turn things had taken, though also newly concerned for Maida’s safety. “Nice old chap,” said Fibsy to Stone. “He stuck to his faked yarn as long as the sticking was good, and then he caved in.” “Open and shut case, Terence?” “Open—but not yet shut, F. Stone. Now, where do we go from here?” “You go where you like, boy. Leave me to grub at this alone.” Without another word Fibsy left the room. He well knew when Stone spoke in that serious tone that great thoughts were forming in that fertile brain and sooner or later he would know of them. But at present his company was not desired. The boy drifted out on the terraced lawn and wandered about among the gardens. He, too, thought, but he could see no light ahead. “S’long as the old man saw her,” he observed to himself, “there’s no more to be said. He never’d say he saw her shoot, if he hadn’t seen her. He’s at the end of his rope, and even if they acquit the lady I don’t want to see her dragged through a trial. But where’s any way of escape? What can turn up to contradict a straight story like that? Who else can testify except the eye-witness who has just spoken? I wonder if he realized himself how conclusive his statement was? But he trusted in F. Stone to get Maida off, somehow. Queer, how most folks think a detective is a magician, and can do the impossible trick!” In a brown study he walked slowly along the garden paths, and was seen by Keefe and Maida, who sat under the big sycamore tree. “Crazy idea, Stone bringing that kid,” Keefe said, with a laugh. “Yes, but he’s a very bright boy,” Maida returned. “I’ve been surprised at his wise observations.” “Poppycock! He gets off his speeches with that funny mixture of newsboy slang and detective jargon, and you think they’re cleverer than they are.” “Perhaps,” agreed Maida, not greatly interested. “But what a strange story Rachel told. Do you believe it, Mr. Keefe?” “Yes, I do. The girl was frightened, I think; first, at the information she tried to divulge, and second, by finding herself in the limelight. She seems to be shy, and I daresay the sudden publicity shook her nerves. But why shouldn’t her story be true? Why should she invent all that?” “I don’t know, I’m sure. But it didn’t sound like Rachel—the whole thing, I mean. She seemed acting a part.” “Nonsense! You imagine that. But never mind her, I’ve something to tell you. I know—Maida, mind you, I know what Mr. Appleby meant by the speech which I took to be ‘Mr. Keefe and the airship.’” Maida’s face went white. “Oh, no!” she cried, involuntarily. “Oh, no!” “Yes,” Keefe went on, “and I know now he said heirship. Not strange I misunderstood, for the words are of the same sound—and, then I had no reason to think of myself in connection with an heirship!” “And—and have you now?” “Yes, I have. I’ve been over Mr. Appleby’s papers—as I had a right to do. You know I was his confidential secretary, and he kept no secrets from me—except those he wanted to keep!” “Go on,” said Maida, calm now, and her eyes glistening with an expression of despair. “Need I go on? You know the truth. You know that I am the rightful heir of this whole place. Sycamore Ridge is mine, and not your mother’s.” “Yes.” The word was scarce audible. Poor Maida felt as if the last blow had fallen. She had seared her conscience, defied her sense of honor, crucified her very soul to keep this dreadful secret from her parents for their own sake, and now all her efforts were of no avail! Curtis Keefe knew that the great estate was legally his, and now her dear parents would be turned out, homeless, penniless and broken down by sorrow and grief. Even though he might allow them to stay there, they wouldn’t, she knew, consent to any such arrangement. She lifted a blanched, strained face to his, as she said: “What—what are you going to do?” “Just what you say,” Keefe replied, drawing closer to her side. “It’s all up to you, Maida dear. Don’t look offended; surely you know I love you—surely you know my one great desire is to make you my wife. Give your consent; say you will be mine, and rest assured, dearest, there will be no trouble about the ‘heirship.’ If you will marry me, I will promise never to divulge the secret so long as either of your parents live. They may keep this place, and, besides that, darling, I will guarantee to get your father a full pardon. I—well, I’m not speaking of it yet—but I’ll tell you that there is a possibility of my running for governor myself, since young Sam is voluntarily out of it. But, in any case, I have influence enough in certain quarters—influence increased by knowledge that I have gleaned here and there among the late Mr. Appleby’s papers—to secure a full and free pardon for your father. Now, Maida, girl, even if you don’t love me very much yet, can’t you say yes, in view of what I offer you?” “How can you torture me so? Surely you know that I am engaged to Mr. Allen.” “I didn’t know it was a positive engagement—but, anyway,” his voice grew hard, “it seems to me that any one so solicitous for her parents’ welfare and happiness as you have shown yourself, will not hesitate at a step which means so much more than others you have taken.” “Oh, I don’t know what to do—what to say—let me think.” “Yes, dear, think all you like. Take it quietly now. Remember that a decision in my favor means also a calm, peaceful and happy life insured to your parents. Refusal means a broken, shattered life, a precarious existence, and never a happy day for them again. Can you hesitate? I’m not so very unpresentable as a husband. You may not love me now, but you will! I’ll be so good to you that you can’t help it. Nor do I mean to win your heart only by what I shall do for you. For, Maida dearest, love begets love, and you will find yourself slowly perhaps, but surely, giving me your heart. And we will be so happy! Is it yes, my darling?” The girl stared at him, her big brown eyes full of agony. “You forget something,” she said, slowly. “I am a murderess!” “Hush! Don’t say that awful word! You are not—and even if you were, I’ll prove you are not! Listen, Maida, if you’ll promise to marry me, I’ll find the real murderer—not you or your father, but the real murderer. I’ll get a signed confession—I’ll acquit you and your family of any implication in the deed, and I’ll produce the criminal himself. Now, will you say yes?” “You can’t do all that,” she said, speaking in an awestruck whisper, as if he had proposed to perform a miracle. “I can—I swear it!” “Then, if you can do that, you ought to do it, anyway! In the interests of right and justice, in common honesty and decency, you ought to tell what you know!” “Maida, I am a man and I am in love with you. That explains much. I will do all I have promised, to gain you as my bride—but not otherwise. As to right and justice—you’ve confessed the crime, haven’t you?” “Yes.” “Do you confess it to me, now? Do you say to me that you killed Samuel Appleby?” There was but a moment’s pause, and then Maida said, in a low tone: “Yes—I confess it to you, Mr. Keefe.” “Then, do you see what I mean when I say I will produce the—murderer? Do you see that I mean to save you from the consequences of your own rash act—and prove you, to the world at large, innocent?” Keefe looked straight into Maida’s eyes, and her own fell in confusion. “Can you do it?” she asked, tremulously. “When I say I will do a thing, I’ve already proved to my own satisfaction that I can do it. But, I’ll do it only at my own price. The price being you—you dear, delicious thing! Oh, Maida, you’ve no idea what it means to be loved as I love you! I’ll make you happy, my darling! I’ll make you forget all this horrible episode; I’ll give you a fairyland life. You shall be happier than you ever dreamed of.” “But—Jeffrey—oh, I can’t.” “Then—Miss Wheeler, you must take the consequences—all the consequences. Can you do that?” “No,” Maida said, after an interval of silence. “I can’t. I am forced to accept your offer, Mr. Keefe——” “You may not accept it with that address.” “Curtis, then. Curtis, I say, yes.” |
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