  Elsie Powell’s nature was generous. She gave of herself to all with whom she came in contact, and gave freely and willingly; time, thought, and sympathy as well as more material gifts. Her disposition was so free from selfishness that not always did she sufficiently guard her own interests. But when need arose, she promptly rose to the occasion. And the morning after the day which was to have been her wedding-day, she awoke with a saddened heart but a mind alert and ready to plan and execute action of some sort that should bring about the end of her troubles. She wasted little time in grieving,—indeed her mental attitude was that of dumfounded amazement rather than grief. Lying in her pretty room, partly dismantled by reason of her anticipated flight from it, she sized up the situation to herself. “If I go to pieces,” she mused, “it will do no good, and will be small comfort to me. Therefore, I will brace up, put my wits to work and do my part toward solving the mystery. And I’ll do more than any fool detective. I never had much opinion of their cleverness, anyhow. To begin with, they’d never dare suspect Henrietta Webb, and if they did, she’d pull the wool over their eyes. But she can’t bamboozle me, and I’m going to start out by assuming that in some mysterious way she has hidden Kim and means to keep him hidden until I marry somebody else,—which, of course, she thinks I’ll do, in order to get my inheritance. But I shan’t! How would I feel, married to John Doe, and then have Kimball come home and look at me reproachfully! Not much. If I don’t marry Kimball Webb, I marry nobody at all,—and that settles that!” Her decision arrived at, Elsie hopped out of bed, and dressed and went to breakfast quite as usual. “Why, Elsie,” exclaimed Gerty; “you needn’t get up! I’ll look after everything,—I suppose there will be reporters and, later on, callers in shoals—” “Yes, Gert, you may attend to those; I’m going on the warpath!” “Meaning?” “I’m going to solve the mystery of Kim’s getaway,—though it’s no mystery to me! But I’m going to get him back. That’s all about that!” “How are you going to set out?” “Dunno. First, I’m going over to the Webb house, and see what they’ve got to say. I didn’t get any satisfaction out of them yesterday, but I’m going to make them surrender. They owe me one Kimball, and I’m going to collect!” “I don’t think you ought to go out today, Elsie.” “Rubbish! You talk as if Kim were dead! I’m not a widow, to stay in seclusion. No, ma’am; I’ve thought it all out and I’ve made up my mind.” Gerty protested no more. She knew from experience, when Elsie’s mind was made up, nothing could shake it. At the Webb house, Elsie found her prospective relatives-in-law closeted with a detective. He was a City Official, from the Bureau of Missing Persons, and he was deeply interested in the case. Often missing persons were merely placed on record, and little was done by way of effort to discover their whereabouts. But in the case of Kimball Webb a big story was anticipated. Moreover, the absolute insolubility of the puzzle of how he managed his flight,—or how it was managed for him, gave an added interest. Elsie’s arrival, also, thrilled the detective, and he turned eagerly to question her. However, he found himself the questioned one instead of the inquirer. “I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Hanley,” Elsie smiled at him; “tell me, won’t you, just how you’re going to set to work on the case? For I mean to help you, and I want to do so intelligently.” She glanced at the two Webbs for a nod of sanction but she received no such encouragement. Indeed, Henrietta gave a scornful sniff, and Mrs. Webb remarked: “Don’t be forward, Elsie. You can’t help, and it would look very queer if you tried.” “It’ll be queer if I don’t try,” Elsie returned, but with a smile that freed her words from rudeness. “I’m most certainly going to work on the case, and if Mr. Hanley doesn’t want my help, I’ll work on my own lines.” Hanley looked at her with growing respect. Here, he decided, was no silly society girl, but a young woman of brain and, perhaps, initiative. “You know nothing that will throw any light on Mr. Webb’s absence?” he asked, gazing intently at her. “No, indeed; if I had I should have told it without being asked. I’m here to learn, to seek, to solve,—not to inform.” “Yes,—oh, certainly.” The detective was a little flustered. Miss Webb had been haughty, even condescending,—but Hanley knew that sort. Elsie’s attitude was a new one to him, and he had to adjust himself. “Well, Mr. Hanley,” the sweet voice went on, “which is it to be? Do we work together, or, each for himself?” “Together, miss, by all means. I’ll be only too glad of any help you can give me.” Hanley had decided; it would certainly be better for him to be in with the one most nearly affected, and he considered that Elsie was. Although, to be sure, the Webbs had called him in, and he was responsible to them. Nor did it require an abnormally acute mind to discern that the Webbs and Miss Powell were not entirely at one. This impression of his was deepened when Miss Webb said, severely, “I must beg of you, Elsie, not to disgrace us by any public effort in this distressing matter. We are already sufficiently embarrassed at the unfortunate publicity it has gained, and I want to keep further disclosures entirely to ourselves.” “Can’t be done, Miss Webb,” said Hanley; “the thing is out,—why, ma’am, it had to come out! And now, you can no more stop the press notice of it than you could dam the Hudson! Better take that part of it calmly, for the papers will be full of it for nine days, at least. Now, ma’am, I’d like to see Mr. Webb’s room.” Dejectedly, Henrietta Webb led the way. Elsie followed, as a matter of course, and soon Hanley was silently but carefully scrutinizing the furniture, walls and floor of the room in question. “No exit but the door,—so far as appears on the surface,” he remarked, at last. “You don’t know of any secret entrance, I suppose!” “Certainly not,” said Henrietta, positively. “Those things occur in old country houses,—not in city homes.” “Well, we must think of everything,” Hanley said, and he proceeded to tap walls, and partitions in a knowing manner. “Nope, nothing of that sort,” he concluded, after exhaustive experimenting. “You’re sure?” asked Elsie, her eyes shining with eagerness. “I had thought there might be something like that.” “No, ma’am,” declared Hanley; “I know a lot about building, and I can tell for sure and certain, there’s no entrance through these walls of any sort. Why, look at the wall paper,—intact all round. And, not only that, but I can tell by tapping, there’s no chance of a secret door or panel.” “Mr. Whiting is an architect, and he said the same,” observed Miss Webb, coldly, as if to disparage Hanley’s would-be superior knowledge. “There, you see!” said Hanley, taking the snub in good part. “If a smart architect and a smart detective agree there’s no secret passage or entrance or exit, you may depend on it there isn’t any.” “What about the chimney?” asked Elsie. “I’ve thought this all out, you see.” “Quite right, miss.” But Hanley’s investigation of the chimney that he made by looking up inside the big, old-fashioned fireplace, showed him at once the impossibility of any one entering or leaving the room by that means. “A monkey couldn’t negotiate that,” he stated, “let alone a man.” The bathroom gave no hint of help. The little window had been found closed and fastened, and save for the entrance door there was no other break in the walls. In a word, Hanley expressed his positive assurance that nobody could by any chance enter or leave Kimball Webb’s room, except by the door that opened from the hall. “The windows are out of the question,” he asserted. “To begin with, they’re third story windows, with a sheer drop to the street. “Next, they were opened only at the tops for a few inches, and fastened in that position. Nobody could get through one of those narrow apertures.” This was so evident, there was no use dwelling on it. “Then,” said Elsie, slowly, “the problem comes down to this; how did Mr. Webb get out through the door, and leave it fastened behind him,—not only locked with a key, but bolted with a strong, firm bolt?” “That’s the problem,” and the detective looked at her in admiration. He had never seen a young woman,—a mere girl, who could so succinctly state a case. “But, granting that,” urged Henrietta Webb, “where is he now? The front street door was fastened with heavy bolts, all of which were intact in the morning. The rear door, the same.” “Then,” said Elsie, turning on her quickly, “he must be in this house still!” Henrietta Webb turned pale. “What nonsense!” she cried. “In that case, Elsie, are you smart enough to find him?” and with a suppressed exclamation, half shriek and half gasp, she ran from the room, and they heard her go downstairs to her mother’s room. “Good!” cried Elsie. “I’m glad she’s gone! Excuse me, Mr. Hanley, but though she is his sister, I am Mr. Webb’s fiancÉe, and I have really more reason to want to find him than anybody else on earth. And I’m going to find him, too! But, first, can you form any theory? Can you make any suggestion?” “I can’t. I’ve never seen a case that ran so hopelessly up against a blank wall. There’s foul play, somewhere,—that is, unless—you don’t think—” Elsie read his thoughts. “No, I don’t think Mr. Webb went away of his own volition. I know he did not! And quite aside from his love for me, and his wish to marry me yesterday, if those things hadn’t been so, Mr. Webb is too much of a gentleman, too kind-hearted a man, to go away and leave his mother and sister, to say nothing of myself, in this fearful predicament.” “That’s right! No decent man could do such a sneak! Well, then as it’s perfectly clear you suspect Miss Webb of being complicated,—why do you?” “I don’t want to say anything against Miss Webb. I’ve nothing to say against anybody. But,—oughtn’t a detective to suspect everybody? Or at least, to investigate the possibilities of every suspect?” “Yes’m; that’s right. Never mind why. I’ll bear in mind that Miss Webb’s part in the matter must be inquired into. Any more hints?” “Oh, that isn’t a hint. What sort of a detective are you, asking for hints? Why don’t you get busy? Hunt for clues, or something definite like that!” “Clues? Why, it isn’t a murder!” “You don’t know,—it may be! And, anyway, there are clues to other crimes than murder.” “But it isn’t a crime. Leastways,—” “Leastways, you’re absolutely useless! Go away, I’ll hunt for clues myself. And, first of all, where are those white marks that were on the floor yesterday?” “White marks? What sort of marks?” “Just some white daubs. They showed clearly on this plain green carpet, and now they’re gone.” “Anything else been disturbed?” “No, except that the whole room seems to have been cleaned, the bed made, and the chiffonier tidied.” “Oh, well, they told me about that. The condition of the room only went to prove that Mr. Webb had retired as usual on Wednesday night, and then he went away either in his evening clothes and carried his night clothes with him; or he went wearing his night things and carrying his dress suit.” “Either of which suppositions is absolutely ridiculous! As he had been to bed, why dress again in his dinner clothes, and why take his pajamas with him? Or, if he went away in his night clothes,—why in the world wouldn’t he carry a morning suit with him,—and not full dress?” “Right you are,—it all don’t get us anywhere!” “But it ought to! The very fact that the conditions are ridiculous,—inexplicable,—ought to make it easier to get up a theory. If he had gone away in a business suit and carried his night things in a bag, it would be easily believed he had suddenly been called on some important matter. But to go off with evening clothes and no other suit is so ridiculous, that it ought to point to some inevitable conclusion,—even if not a definite one!” “My! You sure are a thinker, Miss Powell! But,—let’s hear that indefinite conclusion you’d draw from the facts!” “I haven’t drawn it yet,—but I shall,—and, I want you to help me.” Elsie’s appealing smile brought a hearty “Sure I will, miss!” and after some further futile looking about, they both went downstairs. Elsie waylaid the chambermaid, and stepped aside to speak with her. “Did you do up Mr. Webb’s room yesterday?” she asked, with an ingratiating glance. “Yes, miss,” replied the girl, a bit frightened. “That’s all right; only, tell me, did you notice those white marks on the carpet?” “I did, ma’am,—and I tried hard to get it all off? Did I leave any sign of it?” “No; I wish you had! But never mind. What do you think made those marks?” “I couldn’t say, ma’am. They was like chalk, now, and mighty hard to get off they was.” “You remember just how they looked,—and where they were?” “Oh, yes, ma’am.” “Very well, then, that’s all. Don’t mention the matter to anybody, please.” “No, ma’am, I won’t.” Elsie went on down to the drawing room, and there found Mrs. Webb making the detective’s hair stand on end, as she detailed to him her experiences with spirits and her reasons for belief that her son had been taken away from his home by supernatural means. Hanley listened, more with a horrified interest in her talk than with any belief in its bearing on the present case, and Elsie almost laughed outright as she heard Mrs. Webb solemnly avowing that she had seen, at sÉances, live people wafted through a solid wooden door. “Oh, come, now,” she said, as she entered the room. “Dear Mrs. Webb, don’t ask us to believe such things!” “Believe or not, as you choose,” said Mrs. Webb, haughtily; “your scepticism only exposes your ignorance. Why, innumerable such cases are on record; to students of spiritism the passing of matter through matter is one of the proved facts of psychical research.” “And you think that Kim passed through that locked wooden door? Through the panels,—and left no trace of his passing?” “I do,—indeed I do, Elsie! For, my dear child, what other explanation is there?” Mrs. Webb’s triumphant air impressed her hearers, even though it amused them. The trusting soul believed so implicitly in her creed that one must respect her sincerity, at least. “Who lives next door?” asked Hanley, suddenly. “Which side?” asked Mrs. Webb. “On the left, is the home of Owen Thorne, the banker; and on the other side, the Marsden St. Johns live. They’re at Lakewood just now; they’re always there in the spring. But they don’t own the house they live in. It’s Mr. Whiting’s. Part of the estate his father left him.” “Are the Thorne family at home?” “Yes, so far as I know. They were there yesterday. Why?” “I only wondered if any of the neighbors saw Mr. Webb leave this house during the night.” “Maybe he hasn’t left it,” put in Elsie. “He must have done so. He couldn’t be concealed here against his will all this time, and you won’t allow that he’s willingly absent.” “Of course I won’t!” “Then he must have left this house between the hours of two A. M. and, say, seven,—or, when did you call him, Mrs. Webb?” “About eight, or soon after.” “Very well, say he got away,—somehow,—between two and eight,—there’s a possibility that a watching or wakeful neighbor might have seen him go.” “Oh, I see,” and Mrs. Webb nodded. “Well, make inquiries. As I said, the St. Johns are away, and their house is closed; but ask the Thornes if you like. It’s quite possible they saw something!” The weird look came again into her eyes, and Elsie at once surmised that Kimball’s mother had a mental vision of her son, wafted by supernatural means through his own bedroom door, down two flights of stairs, and through the closed and locked street door, out,—away, nobody knew where, and the interested neighbors looking on! Then Henry Harbison was announced, and with a sigh of relief Elsie turned to talk to him. Harbison was to have been an usher at the wedding, and he called to see if he could be of any assistance to the family of the missing bridegroom. After sympathetic greetings and inquiries, the young man took an active part in the discussion of the mystery. “It’s the strangest thing I ever heard of!” he declared; “but I bet I can put you wise to a possible solution, anyway.” “Good!” cried Hanley; “I confess it baffles me. I’m about to give up my part in it and ask the Chief to turn it over to a cleverer man.” “Don’t!” begged Elsie; “you and I are working together, you know, Mr. Hanley,—and I like your methods.” Hanley stared. What had she seen of his methods, as yet, he wondered. “Well, here’s my theory,” began Harbison. “I was at Kimball’s bachelor dinner, you know, night before last, at the Club. Also, Wallace Courtney was there. Now, you know, Mrs. Webb, your son is writing a play,—a mighty clever one, too, founded on a satirical view of New England aristocratic tendencies.” Mrs. Webb flushed almost angrily. “I do know it,—and I regret it exceedingly. I strongly advised Kimball against such ridiculing of his native town and of his own family traditions and standards, but he only laughed, and said nothing was too sacred to use for material for a play. Yes, Mr. Harbison, I know all about that play. It’s nearly finished, too.” “That’s the point. As you may or may not know, Wallace Courtney is a playwright, also, and by the merest chance, he is writing a satirical play on the very same subject. Now, he didn’t know about Kim’s play, until the night of the dinner. It was mentioned, and Courtney asked Kim what it was about,—that is, how he had treated the matter. Well, sir, do you know they’ve chosen almost identical plots! Why, whichever of those plays first reaches the public, the other will be stamped as a plagiarism. Courtney was terribly put out. He tried to conceal his wrath, but it kept cropping out—” “Why, Kimball wasn’t to blame!” cried Elsie. “Not a bit. But Courtney was so upset at the coincidence, and the peculiar situation. Well, he worried around until he found out that Kim’s play was nearing completion,—and then he went to pieces for fair. ‘You shan’t put it on!’ he cried, excitedly. ‘I’ll move Heaven and earth to prevent you! Why, it wipes out my every chance!’ Oh, he said a lot more in that strain, and Kimball added fuel to the fire by treating it lightly. ‘Go ahead with your play, Wally,’ he told him; ‘I’m going on my honeymoon, and I’ll be gone a fortnight or more. You’ll have time to get ahead of me.’ Of course that wouldn’t give Courtney time enough, nor any where near it,—and he sulked all the evening. We all guyed him on his ill nature, but that only made things worse. Now, here’s my suggestion. Pretty slim, I admit,—but take it for what it’s worth. Might Courtney somehow or other have kidnapped Kimmy, intending to keep him away until he can get his own play finished and on the road to production?” “Motive all right,” said the detective, smiling, “but how about the method?” “That’s where I get off,” and Harbison laughed. “You see, while the whole affair is pretty awful in a social way, and has made a fearful mess of the wedding, and all that, I can’t look on it as a tragedy.” “Who does?” exclaimed Elsie. “Of course, there’s no tragedy,—if you mean any harm to Kimball, personally,—but I do call it a tragedy all the same!” “It is,” Hanley agreed; “but, of course, the angle I get is the mystery side of it. How did Mr. Webb get out of his door, and lock it behind him? That’s what I want to know!” |
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