  Genevieve hesitated. Although she had thought of doing this herself, yet she was not quite sure she wanted to. But Allen insisted. “Come with me or not, as you choose,” he said; “but I’m going to tell Stone. A secret like that must be divulged—in the interests of law and justice and——” “Justice to whom?” asked Genevieve. “Why, to all concerned.” Allen stopped to think. “To—to Keefe, for one,” he concluded, a little lamely. “Yes, and to yourself for two!” Genevieve exclaimed. “You want the secret to come out so Maida won’t marry Curt to keep it quiet! Own up, now.” Allen couldn’t deny this, but back of it was his instinctive desire for justice all round, and he doggedly stuck to his determination of laying the matter before Fleming Stone. Genevieve accompanied him, and together they sought Stone in his sitting-room. Fibsy was there and the two were in deep consultation. “Come in,” Stone said, as his visitors appeared. “You have something to tell me, I gather from your eager faces.” “We have,” Allen returned, and he began to tell his story. “Let me tell it,” Miss Lane interrupted him, impatiently. “You see, Mr. Stone, Mr. Allen is in love with Miss Wheeler, and he can’t help coloring things in her favor.” “And you’re in love with Mr. Keefe,” Stone said, but without a smile, “and you can’t help coloring things in his favor.” The girl bridled a little, but was in no way embarrassed at the assertion. “Take your choice, then,” she said, flippantly. “Who do you want to tell you the secret we’re ready to give away?” “Both,” Fibsy spoke up. “I’ll bet it’s a worth-while yarn, and we’ll hear both sides—if you please. Ladies first; pipe up, Miss Lane.” “The actual secret can be quickly told,” the girl said, speaking a little shortly. “The truth is, that Mrs. Wheeler is not the legal heir to this estate of Sycamore Ridge—but, Mr. Keefe is.” “Curtis Keefe!” Stone exclaimed, and Fibsy gave a sharp, explosive whistle. “Yes,” said Genevieve, well pleased at the sensation her words had produced. Not that her hearers made any further demonstration of surprise. Stone fell into a brown study, and Fibsy got up and walked up and down the room, his hands in his pockets, and whistling softly under his breath. “Well!” the boy said, finally, returning to his chair. “Well, F. Stone, things is changed since gran’ma died! Hey?” “In many ways!” Stone assented. “You’re sure of this, of course?” he asked Genevieve. “How do you know?” “Well, I learned it from Mr. Appleby’s papers——” “Private papers?” “Yes, of course. He didn’t have ’em framed and hanging on his wall. You see, Mr. Keefe, being Mr. Appleby’s confidential secretary, had access to all his papers after the old gentleman died.” “His son?” “Of course, young Sam is the heir, and owns everything, but he kept Curt on, in the same position, and so, Curt—Mr. Keefe went over all the papers. As stenographer and general assistant, I couldn’t very well help knowing the contents of the papers and so I learned the truth, that Mr. Keefe, who is of another branch of the family, is really the principal heir to the estate that is now in Mrs. Wheeler’s possession. I can’t give you all the actual details, but you can, of course, verify my statements.” “Of course,” mused Stone. “And Mr. Keefe hasn’t announced this himself—because——” “That’s it,” Genevieve nodded assent to his meaning glance. “Because he wants to marry Maida, and if she’ll marry him, he’ll keep quiet about the heirship. Or, rather, in that case, it won’t matter, as the elder Wheelers can live here if it’s the property of their son-in-law. But, if not, then when Mr. Keefe walks in—the Wheeler family must walk out. And where would they go?” “I can take care of them,” declared Allen. “Maida is my promised wife; if she consents to marry Keefe, it will be under compulsion. For she knew this secret, and she dared not tell her people because it meant poverty and homelessness for them. You know, Mr. Wheeler is incapable of lucrative work, and Mrs. Wheeler, brought up to affluence and comfort, can’t be expected to live in want. But I can take care of them—that is, I could—if they could only live in Boston. My business is there, and we could all live on my earnings if we could live together.” The boy—for young Allen seemed scarcely more than a boy—was really thinking aloud as he voiced these plans and suggestions. But he shook his head sadly as he realized that Daniel Wheeler couldn’t go to Boston, and that a marriage between Keefe and Maida was the only way to preserve to them their present home. “Some situation!” remarked Fibsy. “And the secret is no secret really, for if Miss Wheeler doesn’t marry Mr. Keefe, he’ll tell it at once. And if she does, the whole matter doesn’t matter at all! But I think she will, for what else can she do?” Jeffrey Allen looked angrily at the boy, but Fibsy’s funny little face showed such a serious interest that it was impossible to chide him. “I think she won’t!” Allen said, “but I’m not sure just yet how I’m going to prevent it.” “You won’t have to,” said Stone; “Miss Wheeler will prevent it herself—or I miss my guess!” He looked kindly at the young man, but received only a half smile in return. “If we all do our share in the matter, perhaps we can arrange things,” Genevieve said, speaking very seriously. “I’ve something to say, for I am engaged to Curtis Keefe myself.” “Does he think you are?” Stone said, rather casually. Miss Lane had the grace to blush, through her rouge, but she declared: “He doesn’t want to,” and added, “but he ought to. He has made love to me, and he once asked me to marry him. But since then he has said he didn’t mean it. I don’t suppose I’ve enough evidence for a breach of promise suit, but—oh, well,” and she tossed her pretty head, “I’ve not the least doubt that if Miss Wheeler were out of the question—say, safely married to Mr. Allen, I’d have no trouble in whistling my Curtie back.” “I’ll bet you wouldn’t!” Fibsy looked at her admiringly. “If I were only a few years older——” “Hush, Terence,” said Fleming Stone, “don’t talk nonsense.” Immediately Fibsy’s face became serious and he turned his attention away from the fascinating Genevieve. “But all this is aside the question of the murderer, Mr. Stone,” said Allen. “How are you progressing with that investigation?” “Better than I’ve disclosed as yet,” Stone returned, speaking slowly; “recent developments have been helpful, and I hope to be ready soon to give a report.” “You expect Mr. Appleby down?” “Yes; to-night or to-morrow. By that time I hope to be ready to make an arrest.” “Maida!” cried Jeffrey, the word seeming wrung from him against his will. “Forgive me, if I do not reply,” said Stone, with an earnest glance at the questioner. “But I’d like to talk to Miss Wheeler. Will you go for her, Mr. Allen?” “I’d—I’d rather not—you see——” “Yes, I see,” said Stone, kindly. “You go, Fibs.” “I’ll go,” offered Genevieve, with the result that she and McGuire flew out of the room at the same time. “All right, Beauteous One, we’ll both go,” Fibsy said, as they went along the hall side by side. “Where is the lady?” “Donno; but we’ll find her. I say, Terence, come down on the veranda just a minute, first.” Leading him to a far corner, where there was no danger of eavesdroppers, Genevieve made another attempt to gain an ally for her own cause. “I say,” she began, “you have a lot of influence with your Mr. Stone, don’t you?” “Oh, heaps!” and Fibsy’s sweeping gesture indicated a wide expanse of imagination, at least. “No fooling; I know you have. Now, you use that influence for me and I’ll do something for you.” “What’ll you do?” “I don’t know; nothing particular. But, I mean if, at any time I can help you in any way—I’ve influence, too, with big men in the financial and business world. I haven’t always worked for the Applebys, and wherever I’ve been I’ve made friends that I can count on.” “Oh, you mean a tip on the stock market or something of that sort?” “Yes, or a position in a big, worth-while office. You’re not always going to be a detective’s apprentice, are you?” “You bet I am! Watcha talking about? Me leave F. Stone! Not on your fleeting existence! But, never mind that part of the argument, I’ll remember your offer, and some day, when I have a million dollars to invest, I’ll ask your advice where to lose it. But, now, you tell me what you want.” “Only for you to hint to Mr. Stone that he’d better advise Miss Wheeler not to marry Mr. Keefe.” “So’s you can have him.” “Never mind that. There are other reasons—truly there are.” “Well, then, my orders are to advise F. Stone to advise M. Wheeler not to wed one C. Keefe.” “That’s just it. But don’t say it right out to him. Use tact, which I know you have—though nobody’d guess it to look at you—and sort of argue around, so he’ll see it’s wiser for her not to marry him——” “Why?” Miss Lane stamped her foot impatiently. “I’m not saying why. That’s enough for me to know. You’ll get along better not knowing.” “Does he know she’s the—the——” “I don’t wonder you can’t say it! I can’t, either. Yes, he knows she’s—it—but he’s so crazy about her, he doesn’t care. What is there in that girl that gets all the men!” “It’s her sweetness,” said Fibsy, with a positive nod of his head, as if he were simply stating an axiom. “Yep, Keefe is clean gone daffy over her. I don’t blame him—though, of course my taste runs more to——” “Don’t you dare!” cried Genevieve, coquettishly. “To the rouged type,” Fibsy went on, placidly. “To my mind a complexion dabbed on is far more attractive than nature’s tints.” Miss Lane burst into laughter and, far from offended, she said: “You’re a darling boy, and I’ll never forget you—even in my will; now, to come back to our dear old brass tacks. Will you tip a gentle hint to the great Stone?” “Oh, lord, yes—I’ll tip him a dozen—tactfully, too. Don’t worry as to my discretion. But I don’t mind telling you I might as well tip the Washington monument. You see, F. S. has made up his mind.” “As to the murderer?” “Yep.” “Who is it?” “Haven’t an idea—and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m his trusty.” “Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’t you?” But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stone had accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he would be apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or Maida Wheeler, either. “He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errand he sent you on,” she said, rather crossly. Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance. “This, from you!” he said, dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden, and I know where to find her!” He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida in the garden. “Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now to see Mr. Stone? He wants you.” “Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him. Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms. “Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tell me a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem rather pointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you kill Mr. Appleby?” “Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion. “You know no one believes that statement?” “I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner. “That is, no one but one person—your father. He believes it.” “Father!” exclaimed the girl in evident amazement. “Yes; he believes you for the best of all possible reasons: He saw you shoot.” “What, Mr. Stone? My father! Saw me shoot Mr. Appleby!” “Yes; he says so. That is not strange, when, as you say, you fired the pistol from where you stood in the bay window, and Mr. Wheeler stood by or near the victim.” “But—I don’t understand. You say, father says he saw me?” “Yes, he told me that.” Maida was silent, but she was evidently thinking deeply and rapidly. “This is a trap of some sort, Mr. Stone,” she said at last. “My father didn’t see me shoot—he couldn’t have seen me, and consequently he couldn’t say he did! He wouldn’t lie about it!” “But he said, at one time, that he did the shooting himself. Was not that an untruth?” “Of a quite different sort. He said that in a justifiable effort to save me. But this other matter—for him to say he saw me shoot—when he didn’t—he couldn’t——” “Why couldn’t he, Miss Wheeler? Why was it so impossible for your father to see you commit that crime, when he was right there?” “Because—because—oh, Mr. Stone, I don’t know what to say! I feel sure I mustn’t say anything, or I shall regret it.” “Would you like your father to come here and tell us about it?” “No;—or, yes. Oh, I don’t know. Jeffrey, help me!” Allen had sat silently brooding all through this conversation. He had not looked at Maida, keeping his gaze turned out of the window. He was sorely hurt at her attitude in the Keefe matter; he was puzzled at her speech regarding her father; and he was utterly uncertain as to his own duty or privilege in the whole affair. But at her appeal, he turned joyfully toward her. “Oh, Maida,” he cried, “let me help you. Do get your father here, now, and settle this question. Then, we’ll see what next.” “Call him, then,” said Maida, but she turned very white, and paid no further attention to Allen. She was still lost in thought, when her father arrived and joined the group. “You said, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began at once, “that you saw your daughter fire the shot that killed Mr. Appleby?” “I did say that,” Daniel Wheeler replied, “because it is true. And because I am convinced that the truth will help us all better than any further endeavor to prove a falsehood. I did see you, Maida darling, and I tried very hard to take the blame myself. But it has been proved to me by Mr. Stone that my pretence is useless, and so I’ve concluded that the fact must come out, in hope of a better result than from concealment. Do not fear, my darling, no harm shall come to you.” “And you said you did it, father, and mother said she did it.” “Yes, of course, I told your mother the truth, and we plotted—yes, plotted for each of us to confess to the deed, in a wild hope of somehow saving our little girl.” “And you saw me shoot, father?” “Why, yes, dear—that is, I heard the shot, and looked up to see you standing there with consternation and guilt on your dear face. Your arm had then dropped to your side, but your whole attitude was unmistakable. I couldn’t shut my eyes to the evident fact that there was no one else who could have done the deed.” “There must have been, father—for—I didn’t do it.” “I knew you didn’t! Oh, Maida!” With a bound Allen was at her side and his arm went round her. But she moved away from him, and went on talking—still in a strained, unnatural voice, but steadily and straightforwardly. “No; I didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby. I’ve been saying so, to shield my father. I thought he did it.” “Maida! Is it possible?” and Daniel Wheeler looked perplexed. “But, oh, I’m so glad to hear your statement.” “But who did do it, then?” Miss Lane asked, bluntly. “Who cares, so long as it wasn’t any of the Wheelers!” exclaimed Jeffrey Allen, unable to contain his gladness. “Oh, Maida——” But again she waved him away from her. “I don’t understand, Mr. Stone,” she began; “I don’t know where these disclosures will lead. I hope, not back to my mother——” “No, Maida,” said her father, “there’s no fear of that.” Reassured, Maida went on. “Perhaps I can’t be believed now, after my previous insistence on my guilt, but God knows it is the truth; I am utterly innocent of the crime.” “I believe it,” said Fleming Stone. “There was little evidence against you, except your own confession. Now you’ve retracted that it only remains for me to find the real criminal.” “Can you,” cried Fibsy excitedly, “can you, F. Stone?” “Don’t you know which way to look, Terence?” “I do—and I don’t—” the boy murmured; “oh, lordy! I do—and—I don’t!” “But there’s another matter to be agreed upon,” said Maida, who had not at all regained her normal poise or appearance. Her face was white and her eyes blurred with tears. But she persisted in speech. “I want it understood that I am engaged to marry Mr. Keefe,” she said, not looking at Jeffrey at all. “I announce my engagement, and I desire him to be looked upon and considered as my future husband.” “Maida!” came simultaneously from the lips of her father and Allen. “Yes, that is positive and irrevocable. I have my own reasons for this, and one of them is”—she paused—“one very important one is, that Mr. Keefe knows who shot Mr. Appleby, and can produce the criminal and guarantee his confession to the deed.” “Wow!” Fibsy remarked, explosively, and Fleming Stone stared at the girl. “He used this as an argument to persuade you to marry him, Miss Wheeler?” “I don’t put it that way, Mr. Stone, but I have Mr. Keefe’s assurance that he will do as I told you, and also that he will arrange to have a full and free pardon granted to my father for the old sentence he is still suffering under.” “Well, Maida, I don’t wonder you consented,” said Miss Lane, her round eyes wide with surprise. “And I suppose he’s going to renounce all claim to this estate?” “Yes,” said Maida, calmly. “Anything else?” said Allen, unable to keep an ironic note out of his voice. “Yes,” put in Fibsy, “he’s going to be governor of Massachusetts.” “Oh, my heavens and earth!” gasped Genevieve, “what rubbish!” “Rubbish, nothing!” Fibsy defended his statement. “You know he’s after it.” “I felt sure he would, when Sam Appleby gave up the running—but—I didn’t know he had taken any public steps.” “Never mind what Mr. Keefe is going to do, or not going to do,” said Maida, in a tone of finality, “I expect to marry him—and soon.” “Well,” said Stone, in a business-like way, “I think our next one to confer with must be Mr. Keefe.” |
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