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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76659 ***
+
+
+                           Transcriber’s Note
+
+Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ in this transcription. Small
+capitals text in the Table of Contents is displayed in normal font
+but as ALLCAPS in four other places.
+
+                                   ————
+
+See the end of this document for details of corrections and other
+changes.
+
+            ———————————————— Start of Book ————————————————
+
+
+
+
+                            THE SEVENTH SHOT
+
+                          _A Detective Story_
+
+                                   BY
+                             Harry Coverdale
+
+                             [Illustration]
+
+                              CHELSEA HOUSE
+                  79 Seventh Avenue     New York City
+
+
+
+
+                             Copyright, 1924
+
+                            By CHELSEA HOUSE
+
+                            The Seventh Shot
+
+                (Printed in the United States of America)
+
+     All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
+                 languages, including the Scandinavian.
+
+
+
+
+                                CONTENTS
+
+
+      CHAPTER                                                 PAGE
+
+           I. “Brook Trout For Two”                             11
+
+          II. The Woman in Purple                               24
+
+         III. The “Tag”                                         36
+
+          IV. The Letter of Warning                             51
+
+           V. Miss Templeton                                    63
+
+          VI. The Divided Danger                                72
+
+         VII. The Dark Scene                                    80
+
+        VIII. Awaiting the Police                               96
+
+          IX. Reconstructing the Crime                         103
+
+           X. Facts and Fancies                                112
+
+          XI. In the Star Dressing Room                        123
+
+         XII. The Two Doorways                                 131
+
+        XIII. The Initial                                      142
+
+         XIV. A Tip—and an Invitation                          150
+
+          XV. A Morning Call                                   156
+
+         XVI. A Scarlet Evening Coat                           163
+
+        XVII. Blind Trails                                     168
+
+       XVIII. Miss Templeton at Home                           179
+
+         XIX. Glimmers in the Darkness                         190
+
+          XX. Checking Up                                      197
+
+         XXI. Tony’s Report                                    206
+
+        XXII. “Rita the Daredevil”                             215
+
+       XXIII. ’Twixt the Cup and the Lip                       223
+
+        XXIV. What Sybil Had Hidden                            229
+
+         XXV. New Developments                                 242
+
+        XXVI. Wrenn’s Story                                    248
+
+       XXVII. An Incriminating Letter                          263
+
+      XXVIII. A Strange Summons                                271
+
+        XXIX. Through the Night                                279
+
+         XXX. The Whisper in the Dark                          284
+
+        XXXI. Tony Does His Bit                                292
+
+       XXXII. The Lost Clew                                    302
+
+      XXXIII. The False Gods Go                                315
+
+
+
+
+                            THE SEVENTH SHOT
+
+                             [Illustration]
+
+                               CHAPTER I
+
+                         “BROOK TROUT FOR TWO”
+
+
+It was twelve o’clock—a hot, sunny noon in the latter part of August.
+Broadway blazed with the last fiery effort of the passing summer; there
+was a steady stream of humanity pouring up and down on either side of
+the clanging cars, and occasionally swirling between them. In spite of
+the temperature, New York was as fervently busy as usual, especially
+here on what is affectionately known as the Rialto. For in nearly every
+theater in the Forties rehearsals had begun, and those actors who were
+not already employed were frantically hunting jobs. Gone the brief
+weeks in which they had forgotten calcium and make-up boxes; it was
+nearly September—time to work.
+
+Chorus girls, half dead from three hours of ceaseless dancing, came
+hurrying from stage doors, wiping their dripping faces and talking
+shrilly of new steps, tired legs, and the brutalities of their stage
+managers. “Principals,” in scarcely less haste, repaired to one of
+the big restaurants for a cold buffet lunch, wearing the blank,
+concentrated expression that is born of trying to memorize lines or to
+estimate the cost of new costumes. Clean-shaven young men, all dressed
+precisely alike, forgathered on street corners or plunged pallidly into
+cafés. Shabby little actresses, out of work and wearing their best
+clothes of last year, scurried anxiously from agent to agent.
+
+A few stars sank wearily into touring cars or limousines and flew
+homeward for an hour and a half of rest and refreshment before the
+long, grinding, sweltering afternoon. Stage managers, with scripts
+sticking out of their pockets and a grim and absent glare in their
+eyes, strode along, mentally blue-penciling the prompt book and cursing
+the company. Authors crept miserably away to eat without appetite
+and wonder if there would be any play at all left by the date of the
+opening. In short, theatrical Broadway was at one of its most vigorous
+seasons of activity, and to walk along it was like turning the pages of
+a dramatic newspaper.
+
+At the side door of one of the big, cool, luxurious hotels extensively
+patronized by the profession when it has enough money in its pockets,
+two young women nearly ran into each other, laughed, and exchanged
+greetings:
+
+“Miss Legaye! How nice to see you again!”
+
+“It has been ages, hasn’t it? Are you lunching here, too, Miss
+Merivale?”
+
+“I hardly know,” returned the younger and taller girl, adding, with
+a frank laugh: “I was wondering whether it would be too sinfully
+extravagant to blow myself to a gilt-edged meal all alone. However, I
+believe I had about succumbed to temptation; I have a manager to see
+this afternoon, and I really think I should fortify myself.”
+
+“Lunch with me,” suggested Kitty Legaye. “I hate my own society, and I
+am all alone.”
+
+“For a wonder!” laughed the other. “Yes, I’d love to, if you’ll let
+it be Dutch. I’ve been up and down a thousand pairs of stairs this
+morning, and I’m nearly dead.”
+
+They went together into one of the most comfortable dining rooms in
+the city. They chose a little table so placed that an electric fan,
+artificially hidden behind flowering plants, swept it with a very fair
+imitation of aromatic summer winds.
+
+Miss Legaye, who always knew exactly what she wanted, waved aside the
+menu proffered by the waiter and rapidly ordered: “Brook trout in aspic
+for two. I’ll tell you the rest later.”
+
+Then she tossed off her fur neckpiece and turned to the other girl.
+
+“I never asked you if you liked trout!” she exclaimed, in a sweet,
+rather high voice which her admirers called “larklike.” “Now, that’s so
+like me! Do you?”
+
+“Very much,” said her companion, smiling. “I don’t often get it,
+though. You are looking awfully well, Miss Legaye!”
+
+“I am always well,” replied Kitty Legaye.
+
+She was an exceedingly pretty woman, already in her early thirties,
+but even by daylight she did not look more than twenty-five. On
+the stage, with the glamour of rouge and footlights to enhance her
+naturally youthful appearance, she passed easily for a girl in her
+teens. Very small, very dainty, with the clear, ivory-white skin
+which keeps its freshness so well, big dark eyes, brown curls, and a
+very red, tiny, full mouth, she still made an enchanting ingénue and
+captivated every one who saw her.
+
+To-day she was entirely charming in one of the innocently sophisticated
+frocks she particularly loved to wear—a creation of black and white,
+most daring in effect, though demurely simple in cut. Always pale by
+nature, she was doubly so now from fatigue and heat, yet she still
+looked young and lovely, and her smile had the irresistible and
+infectious quality of a child’s.
+
+If at times her eye grew a bit cynical or her pretty mouth a trifle
+hard, such slips in self-control occurred seldom. As a rule she kept
+a rigid guard upon herself and her expressions, not only because an
+obviously ugly mood or reflection made her look older, but because, if
+permitted to become a habit, it would be perilously and permanently
+aging.
+
+Kitty Legaye was too truly clever not to know that her one valuable
+asset, both as an actress and a woman, was her quality—or illusion—of
+youth. When she lost that, she shrewdly judged, she would lose
+everything. She was not a sufficiently brilliant actress to continue
+successfully in character work after her looks had gone. And so far as
+her personal and private life was concerned she had lived too selfishly
+to have made a very cozy human place for herself in the world.
+
+Not that she was a disagreeable or an unkind woman; she could even
+be generous on occasion, and she was almost always pleasant to her
+associates; but the spirit of calculation which she strove so hard to
+keep out of her face had left its mark upon her life. She had few close
+friends, though she liked many persons and many persons liked her. She
+had long since drifted away from her own people, and she had never been
+willing to give up her independence for the sake of any man. So, in
+spite of a great number of admirers and a remarkably handsome salary,
+her existence seemed just a little barren and chilly sometimes.
+
+We have said that she never had been willing to give up her
+independence. That had been true all her life until now. To-day she
+was considering just that proposition. Did she care enough, at last,
+to marry? Love—she had had no small measure of that all her life, for
+Kitty was by way of being temperamental; but marriage! That was another
+and a vastly more serious matter.
+
+She looked almost wistfully across the table at Sibyl Merivale. For a
+moment she had an unaccountable impulse to confide in her. She wished
+she knew her well enough. She looked, Kitty thought, like the sort of
+girl who would understand about this sort of thing—loving enough to
+get married, and—and all that.
+
+Sybil was as unlike Miss Legaye as she well could be. She was tall,
+and built strongly though slenderly, like a young Artemis, and her
+eyes were very clear and starry and blue. Her hair was of that rare
+and delicious shade known as _blonde cendrée_, and the silvery, ashen
+nimbus about her face made her brown eyebrows and lashes effective. Her
+skin was very fair, and her color came and went sensitively. She was
+not a beauty; her nose was decidedly _retroussé_, and her mouth too
+large. But she was unquestionably sweet and wholesome and attractive,
+and her lovely forehead and the splendid breadth between her eyes
+suggested both character and intelligence.
+
+Kitty looked disapprovingly at the dust-colored linen dress she wore;
+it was far too close to the tint of her hair to be becoming. Blondes,
+thought Kitty, could wear almost any color on the face of the earth
+except—just that! However, she felt rather pleased than otherwise that
+Miss Merivale was not looking her best. When she appeared in public
+with another woman, she was well satisfied to have the other woman
+badly dressed. She herself never was.
+
+Both women were honestly and healthily hungry, and talked very little
+until they were half through the trout. Then they met each other’s eyes
+and laughed a little.
+
+“Thank goodness you don’t pretend not to have an appetite, like most
+girls!” said Miss Legaye. “I’m starved, and not a bit ashamed of it!
+Boned squab, after this, waiter, and romaine salad.”
+
+“If you let me eat so much I shall be dull and stupid,” declared Sybil.
+“And I want to be extra brilliant to talk to my manager. I simply have
+to hypnotize him into engaging me!”
+
+“Who is he?”
+
+“Altheimer.”
+
+“Altheimer! You aren’t going into musical comedy, surely?”
+
+Sybil flushed a bit and bent over her plate to hide her discomfort.
+
+“I—I’m going into anything I can get,” she answered in a low voice.
+Then she smiled and went on more bravely: “I’ve been out of work since
+March, Miss Legaye. Beggars can’t be choosers.”
+
+“Oh, dear—how horrid!” Miss Legaye felt sincerely sympathetic—for the
+moment. “It’s a thousand pities that you have to go into one of the
+Altheimer shows. You can really act, and there—well, of course, he
+doesn’t care about whether you can act or not; he’ll take you for your
+figure.” And she looked the other girl over candidly.
+
+Sybil flushed again, but answered promptly: “I think he has some sort
+of part for me—a real part. He knows I don’t sing or dance. You are
+rehearsing, aren’t you, Miss Legaye?”
+
+“Yes; with Alan Mortimer.”
+
+“I wish you’d tell me what you think of him!” said Sybil, with
+interest. “He’s such a mystery to every one. His first play, isn’t it?
+As a star, I mean.”
+
+“Yes; Dukane is trying an experiment—starring an unknown actor in a
+Broadway production. Pretty daring, isn’t it? But Dukane doesn’t make
+many mistakes. He knows Alan Mortimer will make good. He’s got a lot of
+personality, and he’s extremely attractive, I think. I—saw a good deal
+of him down at Nantucket during the summer.”
+
+Kitty Legaye never blushed, but there was a certain soft hesitancy
+about the way in which she uttered the simple words that was, for her,
+the equivalent of a blush. Sybil, noting it, privately concluded that
+there had been something like a romance “down at Nantucket during the
+summer.”
+
+Being a nice girl, and a tactful one, she said gently:
+
+“Is it a good play, do you think?”
+
+Miss Legaye shrugged her shoulders carelessly; the moment of sentiment
+had passed.
+
+“It’s melodrama,” she rejoined; “the wildest sort. ‘Boots and Saddles’
+is the name, and it’s by Carlton; now you know.”
+
+They both laughed. Carlton was a playwright of fluent and flexible
+talent, who made it his business always to know the public pulse.
+
+“What time is your appointment with Altheimer?”
+
+“Quarter past one.”
+
+“What an ungodly hour! Doesn’t the man ever eat? But finish your lunch
+comfortably; if you’re late he’ll appreciate you all the more. Besides——”
+
+She paused, regarding the girl cautiously and critically; and that
+evanescently calculating look drifted across her face for the space of
+a breath.
+
+“Besides what?” demanded Sybil. “If I lose that part, I’ll sue you for
+a job! Besides what?”
+
+Kitty, for all her pretty, impulsive ways, rarely did things without
+consideration; so it was with quite slow deliberation that she answered
+Sybil’s question with another:
+
+“Would you like to come with Alan Mortimer?”
+
+“Mercy!” The girl put down her knife and fork and stared with huge blue
+eyes. “Do you mean to say that there’s a part open—after rehearsing ten
+days?”
+
+“How do you know how long we’ve been rehearsing?” queried the older
+woman.
+
+Sybil grew delicately pink. “I know a man in the company,” she
+confessed, laughing shyly. “Norman Crane—oh, he’s only got a little bit
+of a part; perhaps you haven’t noticed him, even. It’s a big company,
+isn’t it? But he’s quite keen about your play.”
+
+“Norman Crane?” repeated the other thoughtfully. “Why, yes, I know him.
+A tall, clean-looking fellow with reddish hair and a nice laugh?”
+
+“That’s Norman! He isn’t a great actor, but—he’s quite a dear.”
+
+Miss Legaye nodded slowly, still regarding her. The notion which had
+come to her a minute before seemed to her more and more markedly a good
+notion, a wise notion—nay, even possibly an inspired notion! Mortimer’s
+leading woman, Grace Templeton, was a brilliant blonde with Isoldelike
+emotions, and Kitty had loathed and feared her from the first, for the
+new star swung in an orbit that was somewhat willful and eccentric,
+to say the very least of it, and his taste in feminine beauty was
+unprejudiced by a bias toward any special type.
+
+For a long time Kitty had yearned to get rid of Miss Templeton. If
+the thing could possibly be managed, here was a girl of undoubted
+talent—she had seen her act and knew that she had twice the ability of
+the average young player—presentable, but not too radiantly pretty, and
+proper and conventional and all that—not at all the sort of girl who
+would be likely to have an affair with the star. And then, if she was
+interested in young Crane, why, it would be altogether perfect!
+
+“So you know Norman Crane,” she said. “Then if you did come into the
+company, that would make it particularly nice for you, wouldn’t it?”
+
+“Why, yes,” the girl returned, frankly enough. “We’re quite good
+friends, though I don’t see much of him these days. We used to play
+together in stock out West two years ago; we were both most awful
+duffers at acting.”
+
+Kitty Legaye nodded as though fairly well satisfied. It was on the
+tip of her tongue to say that she would try to get Sybil a small part
+in the play, with the chance to understudy Miss Templeton—it was all
+she could even partially promise until she had conferred with Dukane
+and Mortimer—when her attention was sharply distracted by the sight
+of two men who had just entered the room and who were looking about
+them in choice of a table. She uttered a quick exclamation, as quickly
+suppressed.
+
+“Look at those two men standing near the door!” she said. “There, close
+to the buffet. What do you think of them? Do tell me: I’ve a reason for
+asking.”
+
+Sybil’s eyes followed hers.
+
+The two men were both noticeable, but one of them was so striking in
+appearance that one hardly had eyes for any one else near by. He was a
+very tall, very broad, very conspicuous type of man. Everything about
+him was superlative—even the air of brooding ill temper which for
+the moment he seemed to wear. He was exceedingly dark, with swarthy
+coloring, coal-black hair, thick and tumbled, and deeply set black
+eyes. His features were strong and heavy, but well shaped. Indeed, he
+was in his general effect unquestionably handsome, and the impression
+which he made was one not lightly to be felt nor quickly to be
+forgotten.
+
+“Well?” insisted Miss Legaye impatiently, as Sybil did not immediately
+speak. “I asked you what you thought of him.” This time she did not
+say “them,” but Sybil did not notice the altered word.
+
+The girl continued to look at the tall, dark man as though she were
+mesmerized, and when she spoke it was in a curious, detached tone, as
+she might have spoken if she were thinking aloud.
+
+“He is a very strange man,” she said. “He does not belong here in a
+Broadway restaurant. He should be somewhere where things are wild and
+wonderful and free—and perhaps rather terrible. I think he belongs
+in—is it Egypt? He would be quite splendid in Egypt. Or—the prairies——”
+She spoke dreamily as she stared at him.
+
+“You look as though he were a ghost, not a man!” exclaimed Kitty, with
+a laugh. “I must tell him what you said——”
+
+“Tell him?” repeated Sybil, rousing herself. “You know him, then?”
+
+“My dear child,” said Kitty Legaye, “that is Alan Mortimer!”
+
+At the same moment Mortimer caught sight of her and strode toward her,
+passing between the fragile little luncheon tables with the energy of a
+whirlwind.
+
+“Guess what has happened now!” he exclaimed in a deep but singularly
+clear and beautifully pitched voice. “Dukane has fired Templeton, and
+apparently I open little more than two weeks from to-night without a
+leading woman! What do you know about that!”
+
+“Without a leading woman? No, you don’t, either,” promptly rejoined
+Kitty, the inspired. She always liked a neat climax for a scene,
+especially when she could supply it herself. “I’ve just picked out Miss
+Merivale to play _Lucille_.”
+
+Breathless and amazed, Sybil looked up to meet his eyes. They were dark
+and piercing. At first she thought only of that, and of their fire and
+beauty. Then something obscurely evil seemed for a transient second to
+look out of them. “What an awful man!” she said to herself. But he was
+holding out his hand.
+
+“Did you think of that all by yourself, Kit?” he said. A faint but
+rather attractive smile lightening his moody eyes. “How do you
+do—Lucille? You may consider the engagement—ah—confirmed.”
+
+But Sybil, as she drew her hand away, felt vaguely frightened—she could
+not have told why.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER II
+
+                          THE WOMAN IN PURPLE
+
+
+Mortimer had been drinking, else he would never have assumed the
+entire responsibility of engaging Sybil Merivale for the leading part
+in his play. When sober, he had a very wholesome respect for Dukane,
+the producing manager who had discovered him and who was “backing him
+blind” to the tune of many thousands of dollars. But when he had even
+a little too much to drink, the man’s whole personality and viewpoint
+underwent a metamorphosis. He became arrogant, self-assertive,
+unmanageable. Eventually it was this, as even his friends and adherents
+were wont to prophesy, which would be the means of his downfall.
+
+Now, though Dukane himself stood at his elbow, the actor, with a
+swagger which he had too much sense to use on the stage or when he was
+entirely himself, cried:
+
+“Let us sit down here with you, Kitty, and we’ll drink the health
+of the new _Lucille_.” Kitty smiled indulgently as she watched him
+seat himself and give a whispered order to the waiter which presently
+resulted in the party being served with high balls. Meanwhile, as
+Dukane also sat down, Kitty introduced him to Sybil.
+
+Dukane was short and squarely built, with gray hair and steely eyes,
+a face as smooth and bland as a baby’s, and an air so gentle and
+unassuming that his occasional bursts of biting sarcasm came upon
+his victims as a shock. His gaze, clear yet inscrutable, swept Sybil
+Merivale in the moment taken up by his introduction to her. He was used
+to thus rapidly appraising the material presented him.
+
+He was inclined to approve of her appearance. She was not startlingly
+beautiful, but the hair was unusual and would light up well. She
+carried her head properly, too, and her low-voiced “How do you do, Mr.
+Dukane!” was quite nicely pitched. It would be worth while hearing her
+read the part, at any rate. For once Mortimer had not too crassly put
+his foot in it, as he was apt to do after four or five high balls.
+
+That the actor had taken a good deal too much upon himself in
+practically engaging Miss Merivale without even consulting his superior
+troubled Dukane not a whit. He was not a little man, and he did not
+have to bluster in order to assert his authority. His actors and
+actresses were to him so many indifferently controlled children. When
+they said or did absurd things, he usually let them rave. If they
+really became troublesome or impertinent—as Miss Templeton had been
+that morning—he discharged them with the utmost urbanity and firmness.
+
+He sat down and quietly told the waiter to bring him cold meat and
+coffee, while Mortimer ordered more high balls. “Miss Merivale can
+come back with us and read the part in the last act,” Dukane said,
+sipping his coffee. “I shan’t ask the company to go through the early
+part of the play again to-day. In any case”—and he smiled at the girl
+pleasantly—“in any case, Miss Merivale will look the part.”
+
+“That’s more than Templeton ever did!” exclaimed Kitty Legaye, with
+open spite.
+
+Dukane smiled once more. “Miss Templeton,” he said, “is rather
+too—er—sophisticated to play _Lucille_. She is growing out of those
+very girlish leading parts.”
+
+“Why don’t you say,” interposed Kitty sharply, “that she’s too old? She
+is—and, what’s more, she looks it!”
+
+“She’s a ripping handsome woman, all the same,” declared Alan Mortimer,
+scowling into his half-emptied glass.
+
+Kitty bit her lip. “Of course _you_ would be sorry to see her go!” she
+began.
+
+“Who said I was sorry?” demanded the actor rather rudely. “I am not;
+I’m glad. She was getting to be a nuisance——” He checked himself, a
+glimmer of something like shame saving him in time. He turned to Sybil
+Merivale, and there was a warm light in his black eyes as he added:
+“I’m growing more glad every minute.”
+
+Sybil was uncomfortable. She hated this man and feared him; she hated
+the tone of the talk, the atmosphere of the table. She had a violent
+instinct of repugnance when she thought of joining the company. And
+yet—and yet a leading part, and on Broadway, and under Dukane! She
+could not, she dared not lose so wonderful a chance. Her big blue eyes
+were eager and troubled both at once.
+
+Dukane watched the play of expression in her sensitive face. “Mobile
+mouth—quick emotions—excellent eyes.” He went over these assets
+mentally. Aloud he said, in the nice, impersonally friendly tone with
+which he won people whenever he had the fancy: “You need only read the
+part, you know, Miss Merivale. You’re not committed to anything.”
+
+Sybil looked at him gratefully; he seemed to read her thoughts. All at
+once, with a surge back of her usual gay courage, she cried, laughing:
+
+“Committed! I only wish I were—or, rather, that _you_ were, Mr. Dukane!”
+
+“What’s that?” exclaimed Mortimer, a little thickly. “’Course he’s
+committed! You’re under contract, Miss—Miss M-Merivale. Word as good as
+his bond—eh, Dukane?”
+
+He was deeply flushed and his eyes glittered. In his excitement Sybil
+found him detestable. Fancy having to play opposite that!
+
+“Suppose you eat something,” suggested Dukane, pushing a plate with a
+piece of cold beef on it in his direction. “Oh, yes, you do want it;
+you’ve had a hard morning. Eat it, there’s a good fellow.”
+
+“A-all right,” muttered Mortimer, attacking the beef somewhat
+unsteadily. “Must keep up m’ strength, I s’pose.”
+
+A waiter leaned down to him and murmured something in French.
+
+“Eh?” said Mortimer. “Come again, George. Try Spanish; I know the
+greaser lingo a bit.”
+
+The waiter spoke again in halting English. The others could hardly help
+hearing part of what he said. It concerned a “lady in mauve—table by
+the window—just a minute, monsieur.”
+
+“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Alan Mortimer, and immediately directed an
+apologetic murmur toward Sybil. He got up, and walking with surprising
+steadiness and that lithe, animal grace so characteristic of him, made
+his way toward a table where a woman sat waiting with an expectant face.
+
+“Grace Templeton!” exclaimed Kitty under her breath. Her brown eyes
+snapped angrily. “I didn’t see her before—did you, Mr. Dukane?”
+
+“I saw her when I first came in,” answered the manager quietly. “That
+hair is so conspicuous. Really I think she should begin to confine
+herself to adventuress parts. She is no longer the romantic type.”
+
+“_And_ the dress!” Kitty shivered with a delicate suggestion of jarred
+nerves or outraged taste.
+
+Dukane dropped his eyes to hide the twinkle in them. It was true
+that even in that lunch-time Broadway assemblage, in which brilliant
+color combinations in the way both of hair and of garments proclaimed
+right and left the daring and the resourcefulness of womankind, Miss
+Templeton was a unique figure. Her hair was of a magnificent metallic
+gold, and a certain smoldering fire in her black-fringed gray eyes
+and a general impression she gave of violent and but half-controlled
+emotions saved her beauty from being merely cheap and artificial and
+made it vivid and compelling. A passionate, unforgettable woman, and her
+gown, sensational as it was, somehow expressed her.
+
+The French waiter had drawn upon his fund of native tact in calling it
+mauve. It was, as a matter of fact, a sharp and thunderous purple—the
+sort of color which is only permissible in stained glass or an
+illuminated tenth century missal. It was a superb shade, but utterly
+impossible for any sort of modern clothes. It blazed insolently against
+the massed greenery of the restaurant window. A persistent ray of
+yellow August sunshine, pushing its way past the cunningly contrived
+leafy screen, fell full upon it and upon the burnished golden hair
+above it. In that celestial spotlight Miss Templeton was almost too
+dazzling for unshaded mortal eyes.
+
+Now, as she sat looking up at Mortimer, who stood beside her table, her
+expression was in keeping with the gown and the hair. It was violent,
+conspicuous, crudely intense. Alan Mortimer’s expression, in its
+way, was as violent as hers. They looked, the two of them, as though
+they could have torn each other’s eyes out with fierce and complete
+satisfaction.
+
+“Am I very late, Mr. Dukane?” said an agreeably pitched voice just
+behind Sybil.
+
+Dukane started and raised his eyes. His face brightened.
+
+“Barrison, my dear fellow, I am glad you came! Do you know, you were so
+late that I had almost forgotten you! Miss Legaye, let me present Mr.
+Barrison; Miss Merivale, Mr. Barrison.”
+
+The newcomer smiled and sat down at the already crowded little table.
+
+“If you say you had forgotten me,” he protested, “I shall think you did
+not really need me at all, and that would be a hard blow to my vanity.”
+
+“Nonsense!” said Dukane. “Nothing could touch the vanity of a
+dyed-in-the-wool detective. What are you going to have, Barrison?”
+
+“I have lunched, thanks. If that is coffee—yes, I will have a
+demi-tasse. I thought Mr. Mortimer was to be with you, Mr. Dukane.”
+
+“He is talking to Miss Templeton over there.”
+
+Barrison’s eyes darted quickly to the other table. “Your leading woman,
+is she not?”
+
+“She was,” said Dukane calmly. “At present we are not sure whether we
+have any leading woman or not—are we, Miss Merivale?” And he looked at
+her kindly.
+
+“And, what is more,” said Kitty Legaye irritably, “we shall never find
+out at this rate. Do you people realize”—she glanced at a tiny gold
+wrist watch—“that it is nearly two, and that our rehearsal——”
+
+“Nearly two!” Sybil’s exclamation was one of real dismay. “And my
+engagement with Mr. Altheimer——Oh!”
+
+“Altheimer, eh?” Dukane looked at her with fresh interest. Whether a
+manager wants an actress or not, it always makes him prick up his ears
+to hear of another who may want her. “Telephone him that you have been
+asked to rehearse for me to-day, and that”—he paused, considering—“that
+you personally look upon your contract as very nearly signed.”
+
+“Oh, Mr. Dukane!” Sybil flushed brilliantly. At that moment she forgot
+her dread of being in Mortimer’s company; she was conscious of pure joy
+and of nothing else.
+
+“There—run along and phone him. You understand,” he added cautiously,
+“I’m not really dependable. If you are very bad, I shall say I never
+thought of engaging you.”
+
+“I won’t be,” she laughed valiantly, and sped away in the direction of
+the telephone booths.
+
+Dukane turned to watch the way she walked. In a second he nodded. “Can
+hurry without scampering,” he murmured critically, “and doesn’t swing
+her arms about. H’m! Yes, yes; very good.”
+
+“What do you really think of her?” asked Kitty, leaning forward. “You
+know she is my discovery.”
+
+“My dear girl, who am I, a mere worm of a manager, to say? I haven’t
+seen her work yet. She has carriage and a voice, but she may lose
+her head on the stage and she may read _Lucille_ as though she were
+reciting the multiplication table. I should say she was intelligent,
+but one never knows. I engaged a woman once who was all dignity and
+fine forehead and bumps of perception and the manner born and all the
+rest of it; and when it came to her big scene, she chewed gum and
+giggled. I am too old ever to know anything definitely. We must wait
+and see.”
+
+“She is charming to look at,” Barrison ventured.
+
+“Ah, you think so?” said the manager quickly. “I am inclined to like
+her looks myself. And she has youth—youth!” He shook his head half
+wistfully. “Here comes Mortimer back again, and in a worse temper, by
+the powers, than when he went!”
+
+The actor was evidently in a black mood. He made no reference to the
+woman he had just left, but stood like an incarnate thundercloud beside
+his empty chair and addressed the others in a voice that was distinctly
+surly in spite of its naturally melodious inflections:
+
+“What are we waiting for, anyway? Hello, Barrison! Let’s get back to
+rehearsal.”
+
+“My own idea exactly,” said Dukane. “As soon as Miss Merivale
+returns——Ah, here she comes! Waiter——”
+
+“This is my party,” remonstrated Kitty.
+
+“Rubbish! I feed my flock. Barrison, you are of the flock, too, for the
+occasion. How do you like being associated with the profession?”
+
+The young detective laughed. Dukane looked at him with friendliness.
+The manager was a man who liked excellence of all kinds, even when
+it was out of his line. Barrison’s connection with the forthcoming
+play, “Boots and Saddles,” was a purely technical one. A vital point
+in the drama was the identification of a young soldier by his finger
+prints. Dukane never permitted the critics, professional or amateur, to
+catch him at a disadvantage in details of this kind. He knew Barrison
+slightly, having met him at the Lambs’ Club, and found him an agreeable
+fellow and a gentleman, as well as an acknowledged expert in his
+profession. So he had asked him to show the exact Bertillon procedure,
+that there might be no awkwardness or crudity in the development of the
+stage situation.
+
+Barrison himself was much entertained by this fleeting association with
+the seductive and mysterious world “behind the scenes.” His busy life
+left him small time for amusement, and for that reason he was the more
+interested when he came upon a bit of professional work which was two
+thirds play.
+
+He was a quiet-seeming chap, with innocent blue eyes, a lazy, pleasant
+manner, and a very disconcerting speed of action on occasion. His
+superiors said that half of his undoubted success came from his
+unexpectedness. It is certain that no one, on meeting him casually
+and socially, would ever have suspected that he was one of the most
+redoubtable, keen-brained, and steel-nerved detectives in all New York.
+
+The bill was paid, and every one was standing as Sybil came back. She
+was a little breathless and flushed, and Dukane, with a new note of
+approbation on his mental tablets, got a very good idea of what she
+would look like with a bit of make-up.
+
+“I told Mr. Altheimer,” she cried eagerly. “And he was quite cross—yes,
+really _quite_ cross! I was ever so flattered. I don’t believe he
+wanted me one bit till he thought there was a chance of Mr. Dukane’s
+wanting me.” She laughed joyously.
+
+“Very likely, very likely,” Dukane murmured. “Why—what is the matter,
+Miss Merivale?”
+
+For the pretty color had faded from Sybil’s sensitive face. Her big
+blue eyes looked suddenly dark and distressed. “What is the matter?”
+the manager repeated, watching her closely.
+
+She pulled herself together and managed a tremulous smile.
+
+“Some one is walking over my grave,” she said lightly.
+
+But as she turned to leave the dining room with the rest, she could not
+help another backward glance at the brilliant figure in purple with the
+golden sunbeam across her golden hair, and the odd look which had just
+terrified her.
+
+Barrison, accustomed to noticing everything, followed her gaze, and,
+seeing the expression on Miss Templeton’s face, drew his lips into a
+noiseless whistle. For there was murder in that look; Jim Barrison had
+seen it before on other faces, and he knew it by sight.
+
+As for Sybil, the memory of the woman in purple haunted her all the way
+to the theater—the woman in purple with the black-fringed eyes full of
+living, blazing, elemental hate.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER III
+
+                               THE “TAG”
+
+
+The stage entrance of the Mirror Theater was on a sort of court or
+alley which ran at right angles from one of the side streets near Times
+Square. A high iron gateway which barred it except during theatrical
+working hours stood half open, and the little party made their way over
+the stone flags in the cool gloom cast by the shadow of the theater
+itself and the neighboring buildings—restaurants, offices, and shops.
+It looked really mysterious in its sudden dusk, after the midday glare
+of the open street.
+
+“Do you know,” said Jim Barrison, “this is the first time I have ever
+gone into a theater by the stage door!”
+
+“What a record!” laughed Miss Legaye. She was in excellent spirits, and
+inclined to flirt discreetly with the good-looking and well-mannered
+detective. “And so you never had a stage-door craze in all your
+properly conducted life! Don’t you think it’s high time you re—no, it
+isn’t reformed I mean, but the reverse of reformed. Anyway, you should
+make up for lost time, Mr. Barrison. Ah, Roberts! I suppose you thought
+we were never coming. Every one else here?”
+
+She was speaking to the stage doorkeeper, a thickset man of middle age,
+with a stolid face that lighted up somewhat as she addressed him. He
+did not answer, but beamed vacuously at her. She was always charming to
+him, and he adored her.
+
+They went on into the theater. Barrison was taken in tow by Dukane.
+“Hello, Willie! Mr. Barrison, this is Mr. Coster, my stage manager,
+and I am inclined to dislike him, he knows so much more than I do.
+Mr. Barrison is a detective, and has come to help us with those
+finger-print scenes, Willie.”
+
+“Pleased to meet you,” said Willie, absently offering a limp, damp
+hand. “Gov’nor, is it true you’ve canned G. T.?”
+
+“Quite true,” said Dukane cheerfully. “Let me present you to Miss
+Merivale. She will rehearse _Lucille_.”
+
+“Lord!” groaned Willie, who was hot and tired and disposed to waste no
+time on tact. “About two weeks before——”
+
+Mortimer lurched forward. “Say!” he began belligerently. “She’s my
+leading lady—see? Any one who doesn’t like——”
+
+“Oh, go ’way and take a nap!” interrupted Willie, without heat. He was
+no respecter of persons. “So _that’s_ it! All right, gov’nor. I’m glad
+to see any sort of a _Lucille_ show up, anyhow. Even if she’s bad,
+she’ll be better than nothing. No offense, Miss Merivale.”
+
+“I quite understand,” said Sybil, so sweetly that Willie turned all the
+way round to look her over once more with his pale, anxious eyes.
+
+“Come on, folks; they’re all waiting,” he said, and led the way onto
+the big, bare stage.
+
+Willie Coster was a small, nervous man with a cynical pose and
+the heart of a child. His scant hair was sandy, and his features
+unbeautiful, but he was a good, clever, and hard-working little chap,
+and even the companies he trained were fond of him. He constantly
+and loudly proclaimed his disgust with all humanity, especially the
+humanity of the theaters; but he was usually broke because he hated to
+refuse a “touch,” and every one on earth called him Willie.
+
+He was a remarkable stage manager. He was a true artist, was Willie
+Coster, and he poured his soul into his work. After every first night
+he got profoundly drunk and stayed so for a week. Otherwise, he
+explained quite seriously—and as every one, including Dukane, could
+quite believe—he would have collapsed from nervous strain.
+
+Only a few electric lights had been turned on. The stage looked dim and
+dingy, and the auditorium was a vast abyss of unfathomable blackness.
+Close to the edge of the stage, where the unlighted electric footlights
+made a dully beaded curve, stood a small table littered with the four
+acts of the play and some loose sheets of manuscript, presided over
+by a slim little youth who was Coster’s assistant. This was the prompt
+table, whence rehearsals were, technically speaking, conducted. As a
+matter of fact, Willie Coster never stayed there more than two minutes
+at a time.
+
+The company had already assembled. They looked hot, resentful, and
+apprehensive. They stood around in small groups, fanning themselves
+with newspapers and handkerchiefs, and making pessimistic conjectures
+as to what was going to happen next.
+
+Every one knew that something had gone wrong between Templeton and the
+management, and collectively they could not make up their minds whether
+they were glad or sorry. She had been the leading woman of the show,
+and every one felt a trifle nervous until reassured that another lead
+would be forthcoming.
+
+It was Claire McAllister, one of the “extra ladies,” who first
+recognized Sybil.
+
+“Gee, ain’t that the Merivale girl?” she exclaimed to the young man who
+played a junior officer in one very small scene. “I saw her in a real
+part once, and she got away with it in good shape, too.”
+
+The young man to whom she spoke looked up, startled, and then sprang
+forward eagerly, his eyes glowing.
+
+“Sybil!” he cried gladly.
+
+She turned quickly, and, laughing and flushing in her beautiful frank
+way, held out both her hands to him.
+
+“Isn’t it luck, Norman?” she exclaimed gleefully. “I’m to have a chance
+at _Lucille_!”
+
+Alan Mortimer had scarcely opened his lips since leaving the
+restaurant. Now, with a very lowering look, he swung his tall figure
+forward, confronting Norman Crane.
+
+“I don’t think I remember you,” he remarked, with an insulting
+inflection. “Not in the cast, are you?”
+
+Norman, flushing scarlet, started to retort angrily, but Dukane stopped
+him with a calm hand upon his arm.
+
+“All right, all right, my boy,” he said evenly. “You’re in the cast,
+all right; but—come, come! We are rehearsing a play to-day, and not
+discussing personalities.”
+
+In some occult fashion he contrived to convey his meaning to young
+Crane. It was not the smallest of Dukane’s undoubted and unique
+talents; he knew how to appeal directly and forcibly to a human
+consciousness without putting the thing into words. Crane, who was
+extraordinarily sensitive, understood instantly that the manager wished
+to excuse Mortimer on the grounds of his condition, and that he put
+it up to the younger man to drop the issue. Wherefore, Crane nodded
+quietly and stepped back without a word.
+
+It is proverbial that red hair goes with a peppery disposition.
+Norman Crane’s short, crisply waving locks were not precisely red,
+and his temper was not too savage, but there was a generous touch
+of fire in both. His hair was a ruddy auburn, and there was in his
+personality a warmth and glow which could be genial or fierce,
+according to provocation or occasion. He was a lovable lad, young even
+for his twenty-three years, with a clean ardor about him that was
+very attractive, especially to older and more sophisticated persons.
+Norman Crane was in all ways a fine fellow, as fine for a man as Sybil
+Merivale was for a woman. They were the same age, buoyant, clear-eyed
+young people, touched both alike with the spark of pure passion and the
+distinction of honest bravery.
+
+Dukane was too truly artistic not to appreciate sentiment; in his
+business he had both to appraise and exploit it. And as he saw the two
+standing together he experienced a distinct sensation of pleasure. They
+were so obviously made for each other, and were both such splendid
+specimens of youth, spirit, and wholesome charm. He determined mentally
+to cast them opposite each other some day, for they made a delightful
+picture. Not yet; but in a few years——
+
+The managerial calculations came to an abrupt end as he chanced to
+catch sight of Alan Mortimer’s face.
+
+Intense emotion is not generally to be despised by a manager when he
+beholds it mirrored in an actor’s face, but this passion was a bit too
+naked and brutal, and it was decidedly out of place at a rehearsal.
+The man could be charming when he liked, but to-day the strings of his
+self-restraint were unkeyed. His face had become loose in line; his
+eyes smoldered beneath lowered lids. Dukane saw clearly revealed in
+that look what he had already begun to suspect—a sudden, fierce passion
+for Sybil Merivale.
+
+This sort of thing was nothing new for Mortimer. He was a man who
+attracted many types of women—some of them inexplicably, as it seemed
+to male onlookers—and whose loves were as fiery and as fleeting
+as falling stars. He had made love both to Kitty Legaye and Grace
+Templeton, playing them against each other not so much with skill
+as with a cavalier and amused mercilessness which might well have
+passed for skill. Now he was tired of the game, and, in a temporarily
+demoralized condition, was as so much tinder awaiting a new match.
+
+Then the youth and freshness of the girl unquestionably attracted
+him. Alan Mortimer was in his late thirties and had lived hard and
+fast. Like most men of his kind, he was willing enough to dally by the
+wayside with the more sophisticated women; but it was youth that pulled
+him hardest—girlhood, unspoiled and delicate. Dukane, more than a bit
+of a philosopher, speculated for a passing minute as to whether it was
+the inextinguishable urge toward purity and decency even in a rotten
+temperament, or merely the brutish wish that that which he intended to
+corrupt should be as nearly incorruptible as possible.
+
+But the manager permitted himself little meditation on the subject.
+He had no wish that others should surprise that expression upon the
+countenance of his new star.
+
+“Last act!” he called sharply.
+
+Willie Coster glanced at him in surprise. It was unusual for the
+“governor” to take an active hand in conducting rehearsals.
+
+“How about Miss Merivale?” he said. “Isn’t she to read _Lucille_?”
+
+“Here is the part.” Dukane took it from his pocket and dropped it
+on the prompt table. “Miss Templeton—er—turned it in this noon.” He
+suppressed a smile as he recalled the vigor with which Grace Templeton
+had thrown the little blue-bound booklet at him across his desk. He
+added: “Let Miss Merivale take the complete script home with her
+to-night; that will give her the best idea of the character.” For
+Dukane, unlike most of his trade, believed in letting his people use as
+much brain as God had given them in studying their rôles.
+
+“Then we start at the beginning of Act Four,” said Coster. “Here’s the
+part, Miss Merivale. Just read it through for this rehearsal, and get
+a line on the business and where you stand. Everybody, please! Miss
+Merivale, you’re not on till Mr. Mortimer’s line, ‘The girl I would
+give my life for.’ Then you enter up stage, right. Ready, Mr. Mortimer?”
+
+The company breathed one deep, unanimous sigh of relief. They had
+feared that the advent of a new _Lucille_ would mean going back and
+doing the whole morning’s work over again. But Dukane was—yes, he
+really _was_ almost human—for a manager!
+
+There were three other persons who had seen Mortimer’s self-betraying
+look as his eyes rested on Sybil Merivale’s eager young beauty. One
+was Norman Crane, one was Kitty Legaye, and one was the detective, Jim
+Barrison.
+
+Barrison’s eyes met those of Dukane for a moment, and he had a shrewd
+idea that the manager was telegraphing him a sort of message. He
+resolved to hang around as long as he could and get a word alone with
+Dukane after rehearsal was over.
+
+At this point John Carlton, the author, arrived. He was a dark, haggard
+young man, but, though looking thoroughly subdued after a fortnight
+under the managerial blue pencil, he quite brightened up on being
+introduced to Barrison.
+
+“Thankful, no end,” he muttered in a hasty aside. “Was afraid they’d
+cut out the whole finger-print business.”
+
+“Cut it! Why? No good?”
+
+“Too good!” sighed the discouraged playwright. He had, however, hauled
+a lagging sense of humor out of the ordeal, for shortly after, he went
+with Barrison to sit in a box in the dark auditorium, and evolved
+epigrams of cynic derision as he watched the rehearsal of his play.
+Barrison found him not half a bad fellow, and before the hot afternoon
+wore itself out, they had grown quite friendly.
+
+Barrison’s own part in the rehearsal was soon disposed of. After he had
+explained the way the police detect finger prints upon objects that
+seem innocent of the smallest impression, and illustrated on a page of
+paper, a tumbler, and the surface of the table, his work was over for
+the day. Mortimer promised to practice a bit, that the effect might be
+quite technical and expert-looking. Barrison was to come to another
+rehearsal in a few days and see how it looked. Then the detective found
+himself free to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal, such as it was.
+
+“Which won’t be much,” Carlton warned him. “This is just a running over
+of lines for the company, and to start Miss Merivale off. Nobody will
+do any acting.”
+
+“The last act ought to be the most important, I should think,” said
+Barrison.
+
+“Oh, well, so far as action and hullabaloo goes—shots and soldiers
+and that sort of thing. But it’s a one-man play, anyway, and I’ve had
+to make that last act a regular monologue. It’s all Mortimer. He’s
+A1, too, when he cares to take the trouble. Drunk now, of course, but
+he’s no fool. He’ll keep sober for the opening, and if the women don’t
+go dippy over his looks and his voice and his love-making, I miss my
+guess. Now, watch—this is going to be one of the exciting scenes in the
+play, so far as action goes. Pure melodrama, but the real thing, if I
+say it as shouldn’t—girl in the power of a gang of ruffians, spies and
+so forth. Night—dark scene, you know—a really dark scene, with all the
+lights out, front and back. Pitch black. Just a bit of a wait to get
+people jumpy, and then the shots.”
+
+Willie Coster cried out: “Hold the suspense, folks! No one move. Lights
+are out now.” He waited while ten could be counted; then deliberately
+began to strike the table with his fist. “One—two——”
+
+“Those are supposed to be shots,” explained Carlton.
+
+“Three—four—five—six——”
+
+“That’s enough!” interposed Dukane. “The women don’t like shooting,
+anyway.”
+
+“All right. Six shots, Mortimer. Now you’re coming on, carrying
+_Lucille_—never mind the business. Miss Merivale, read your line:
+‘Thank God, it’s you—in time!’ Right! All the rest of you—_hurry up_!
+You’re carrying torches, you boobs; don’t you know by this time what
+you do during the rescue? Oh; for the love of——”
+
+He began to tell the company what he thought of it collectively and
+individually, and Carlton turned to Barrison.
+
+“All over but the shouting—and the love scene. Mortimer can do that in
+great form, but you’ll get no idea of it to-day, of course. He isn’t
+even trying.”
+
+“He’s a good bit soberer than he was, though,” said Barrison, who was
+watching the star carefully.
+
+“Well, I’m inclined to think he is. Maybe he’ll wake up and do his
+tricks, but you never can tell with him. There go the extras off; it’s
+the love scene now.”
+
+The last scene in the play was a short, sentimental dialogue between
+_Tarrant_, the hero, and _Lucille_. Sybil read her lines from the part;
+Mortimer knew his, but recited them without interest or expression,
+giving her her cues almost mechanically, though his eyes never left
+her face, and as they played on toward the “curtain,” he began to move
+nearer to her.
+
+“A little more down front, _Lucille_” said Coster from the prompt
+table. “_Tarrant_ is watching you, and we want his full face. All
+right; that’s it. Go on, _Tarrant_——”
+
+“‘What do you suppose all this counts for with me,’” said Mortimer,
+speaking slowly and with more feeling than he had used that afternoon.
+“‘What does it all amount to, if I have not the greatest reward of
+all—_Lucille_?’”
+
+Barrison, listening to the sudden passion vibrating in the genuinely
+splendid voice, thought he could begin to understand something of the
+man’s magnetism. If he really tried, he could make a tremendous effect.
+
+“‘But the honors that have been heaped upon you!’” read Sybil, her
+eyes bent earnestly upon the page before her. “‘Your success, your
+achievements, your——’” She stopped.
+
+“Catch her up quicker, Mortimer!” exclaimed Coster. “We don’t want a
+wait here, for Heaven’s sake! Speak on ‘your success, your’—speak on
+‘your.’ Now, once more, Miss Merivale!”
+
+“‘Your success,’” read Sybil again, “‘your achievements, your——’”
+
+“‘Honors! Success! Achievements!’” Mortimer’s tone was ringing and
+heartfelt. “‘What do they mean to me, _Lucille_—without you? They are
+so many empty cups; only you can fill them with the wine of life and
+love——’”
+
+“Noah’s-ark stuff,” murmured Carlton. “Likewise Third Avenue melodrama.
+But it’ll all go if he does it like that!”
+
+“‘Lucille—speak to me——’”
+
+“‘You are one who has much to be thankful for, much to be proud of!
+Your medal of honor—surely that means something to you?’”
+
+“‘Ah, yes! I am proud of it—the gift of my country! But it is given
+to the soldier. The man still waits for his prize! There is only one
+decoration which I want in all this life, _Lucille_, only one——’”
+
+“_And_ so forth—all right!” said Willie, closing the manuscript; for
+the final line of the play, the “tag,” as it is called, is never given
+at rehearsals.
+
+But Mortimer appeared to have forgotten this ancient superstition of
+the theater—seemed, indeed, to have forgotten everything and everybody
+save Sybil and the opportunity given him by the situation.
+
+He caught the girl in his arms and delivered the closing line in a
+voice that was broken with passion:
+
+“‘The decoration that I want is your love, _Lucille_—your kiss!’”
+
+And he pressed his lips upon hers.
+
+Sybil wrenched herself free, flaming with indignation. Crane, very
+white, started forward. Mortimer, white also, but with a very slight,
+very insolent smile, wheeled to meet him. But Dukane, moving with
+incredible swiftness, stood between them. His face was rather stern,
+but his voice was as level and equable as ever as he said quietly:
+
+“All right, all right—it is the business of the piece. But just a bit
+premature, Mortimer, don’t you think? Suppose we let Miss Merivale get
+her lines first? There will be plenty of time to work up the action
+later. Rehearsal dismissed, Willie. Have every one here at nine sharp
+to-morrow. What’s the matter with _you_?”
+
+For Willie Coster was sitting, pale and furious, by the prompt table,
+swearing under his breath with a lurid eloquence which would have
+astonished any one who did not know him of old.
+
+“Damn him!” he ended up, after he had exhausted his more picturesque
+and spectacular vocabulary. “He’s said the tag, gov’nor—he’s spoken the
+tag—and queered our show!”
+
+“Oh, rot, Willie!” said Dukane impatiently. “You’re too old a bird to
+believe in fairy tales of that sort!”
+
+But Willie shook his sandy, half-bald head and swore a little more,
+though more sorrowfully now.
+
+“You mark my words, there’ll never be any luck for this show,” he
+declared solemnly. “Never any luck! And when we open, gov’nor, you just
+remember what I said to-day!”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER IV
+
+                         THE LETTER OF WARNING
+
+
+“But isn’t it very early to stop rehearsal?” asked Barrison of John
+Carlton.
+
+“Of course it is. They ought to have gone over the whole act again, and
+lots of the scenes several times. That rescue stuff was rotten! But
+it’s an off day. Something’s wrong; I’m not sure what, though I _think_
+I know. Oh, well, it’s all in the day’s work. Wait till you’ve seen as
+many of your plays produced as I have!”
+
+“It’s as mysterious to me as one of the lost arts of Egypt. I couldn’t
+think out a scene to save my neck.”
+
+“And yet,” said John Carlton reflectively, “a detective gets an immense
+amount of raw dramatic material in his business. He must. Now, right
+here in our own little happy family circle”—he waved an arm toward
+the stage—“there’s drama to burn! Can’t you see it—or are you fellows
+trained only to detect crime?”
+
+“How do you mean—drama?” queried Barrison, seeking safety in vagueness.
+
+“Well,” said Carlton, reaching for his hat and stick, “it strikes me
+that your well-beloved and highly valuable central planet draws drama
+as molasses draws flies. Pardon the homely simile, but, like most
+geniuses, I was reared in Indiana.”
+
+“He’s a queer sort of chap,” said Jim, looking at the tall actor as he
+stood talking to Dukane, his heavy, handsome profile clearly outlined
+against an electric light.
+
+“Queer? He’s a first-class mystery. ‘He came like water, and like wind
+he goes’—though I hope he’ll prove a bit more stable as a dramatic
+investment. Seriously, no one knows anything about him. He’s Western, I
+believe, and I suppose Dukane fell over him some dark night when he was
+out prospecting for obscure and undiscovered genius.”
+
+“He’s good looking.”
+
+“My son,” said Carlton, whose familiarity and colloquialism were in
+striking contrast to the grandiloquent lines he gave his characters to
+speak, “wait till you see him in khaki, with the foots half up and a
+little incidental music on the violins going on! Manly beauty is not a
+hobby of mine, but I’ve had experience with matinée idols, and I bet
+that Mortimer is there with the goods. What are you laughing at?”
+
+“The difference between your stage dialogue and your ordinary
+conversation.”
+
+“Oh, well, I can’t help talking slang, and I don’t know how to write
+it so that it sounds like anything but the talk of a tough bunch in a
+corner joint.” He stopped abruptly at the entrance to the box and said,
+as though acting on impulse:
+
+“See here, speaking of Mortimer, did you ever see a three-ring circus?”
+
+“Yes. I always found it very confusing.”
+
+“Me, too. Mortimer doesn’t. He likes it. Takes three at least to
+make him feel homelike and jolly. He’s been—between ourselves—the
+temperamental lover with Grace Templeton, and the prospective fiancé
+with Miss Legaye; at least, that’s how I dope it out; and now it looks
+as though he was going to be the bold, bad kidnaper with this charming
+child just arrived in our midst. What do you think, from what you’ve
+seen to-day?”
+
+“He hasn’t been himself to-day,” answered Barrison. “And, anyhow, there
+can’t be a three-ring circus with one of the three features absent.
+Miss Templeton, I understand, is not to be counted any longer.”
+
+He spoke with rather forced lightness. He disliked bringing women into
+conversation. He did Carlton the justice, however, to see that it was
+not a vulgar predilection for gossip which centralized his interest in
+the three who had received Mortimer’s attention. Obviously he looked
+upon them as cold-bloodedly as did Dukane; they were part of his stock
+in trade, his “shop.”
+
+“Not to be counted any longer! Isn’t she just? If you’d ever seen the
+lady you’d know that you couldn’t lose her just by dismissing her.”
+
+Barrison had seen her, but he said nothing.
+
+“However,” went on the author, leading the way out of the box and
+through the communicating door between the front and back of the house,
+“it’s none of my business—though I’ll admit it entertains me, intrigues
+me, if you like. I _can_ talk something besides slang. I’m nothing but
+a poor rat of an author, but if I were a grand and glorious detective
+with an idle hour or so to put in, I’d watch that combination. I’m too
+poor and too honest to afford hunches, as a rule, but I’ve got one
+now, and it’s to the effect that there’ll be more melodrama behind
+the scenes in ‘Boots and Saddles’ than there ever will be in the show
+itself!”
+
+Though Barrison said nothing in reply, he privately agreed with the
+playwright. Nothing very startling had happened, to be sure, yet he was
+acutely conscious of something threatening or at least electric in the
+air—a tension made up of a dozen small trifles which might or might not
+be important. It would be difficult to analyze the impression made upon
+him, but he would have had to be much less susceptible to atmosphere
+than he was not to have felt that the actors in this new production
+were playing parts other than those given them by Carlton, and that
+they stood in rather singular and interesting relation to each other.
+
+Mortimer infatuated with Sybil Merivale; Kitty Legaye, he strongly
+suspected, in love with Mortimer; Crane wildly and youthfully jealous;
+Miss Templeton in the dangerous mood of a woman scorned and an actress
+supplanted! It looked like the makings of a very neat little drama, as
+John Carlton had had the wit to see.
+
+Barrison, however, was still inclined to look upon the whole affair as
+something of a farce; it was diverting, but not absorbing. There was
+nothing about it, as yet, to quicken his professional interest. He did,
+to be sure, recall Grace Templeton’s wicked look in the restaurant,
+and had a passing doubt as to what she was likely to do next; but he
+brushed it away lightly enough, reminding himself that players were
+emotional creatures and that they probably took it out in intensity
+of temperament—and temper! They were not nearly so likely actually to
+commit any desperate deeds as those who outwardly or habitually were
+more calm and conservative.
+
+But something happened at the stage door which disturbed this viewpoint.
+
+When they crossed the stage the company was scattering right and left.
+Miss Legaye was just departing, looking manifestly out of sorts; Sybil
+and young Crane were talking together with radiant faces and evident
+oblivion of their whereabouts; Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Carlton
+had stopped to speak to Willie Coster, so Barrison made his way out
+alone.
+
+He found Dukane standing by the “cage” occupied by the doorkeeper,
+with an envelope in his hand.
+
+“When did this come, Roberts?” he said.
+
+“About twenty minutes ago, sir. You told me not to interrupt
+rehearsals, and the boy said there was no answer.”
+
+“A messenger boy?”
+
+“No, sir—just a ragamuffin. Looked like he might be a newsboy, sir.”
+
+Dukane stood looking at the envelope a moment in silence; then he
+turned to Barrison with a smile.
+
+“Funny thing, psychology!” he said. “I haven’t a reason on earth for
+supposing this to be any more important than any of the rest of Alan
+Mortimer’s notes—the saints know he gets enough of them!—and yet I have
+a feeling in my bones that there’s something quite unpleasant inside
+this envelope. Here, Mortimer, a note for you.”
+
+The actor came around the corner from a corridor leading past a row of
+dressing rooms, and they could see him thrust something into his coat
+pocket.
+
+“Went to his dressing room for a drink,” said Barrison to himself.
+Indeed, he thought he could see the silver top of a protruding flask.
+
+“Note for me? Let’s have it.”
+
+He took it, stared at the superscription with a growing frown, and then
+crumpled it up without opening it.
+
+“Wrenn!” he exclaimed in a tone of ungoverned rage. “Where’s Wrenn? Did
+he bring me this?”
+
+“Wrenn?” repeated Dukane, surprised. “You mean your valet? Why, no; he
+isn’t here. A boy brought it. Why don’t you read it? You don’t seem to
+like the handwriting.”
+
+With a muttered oath, the actor tore open the envelope and read what
+was written on the inclosed sheet of paper. Then, with a face convulsed
+and distorted with fury, he flung it from him as he might have flung a
+scorpion that had tried to bite him.
+
+“Threats!” he exclaimed savagely. “Threats! May Heaven curse any one
+who threatens me! Threats!”
+
+He seemed incapable of further articulation, and strode past them out
+of the stage door. Barrison could see that he was the type of man
+who can become literally blind and dazed with anger. Mentally the
+detective decided that such uncontrolled and elemental temperaments
+belonged properly behind bars; certainly they had no place in a world
+of convention and self-restraint.
+
+Quietly Dukane picked up both letter and envelope, and, after reading
+what was written on them, passed them to Barrison.
+
+“When I have a lunatic to dry nurse,” he observed grimly, “I have no
+scruples in examining the stuff that is put in his feeding bottles.
+Take a look at this communication, Barrison. I’ll admit I’m glad that
+I don’t get such things myself.”
+
+Jim glanced down the page of letter paper. On it, in scrawling
+handwriting, was written:
+
+  You cannot always escape the consequences of your wickedness and
+  cruelty—don’t think it! Just now your future looks bright and
+  successful, but you cannot be sure. You are about to open in a new
+  play, and you expect to win fame and riches. But God does not forget,
+  though He seems to. God does punish people, even at the last moment.
+  I should think you would be afraid that lightning would strike the
+  theater, or that a worse fate would overtake you. Remember, Alan, the
+  wages of sin; remember what they are. Who are you to hope to escape?
+  I bid you farewell, _until the opening night_!
+
+The last four words were heavily underlined. There was no signature.
+
+“What do you make of it?” asked Dukane.
+
+“It’s from a woman, of course. Quite an ordinary threatening letter. We
+handle hundreds of them, and most of them come to nothing at all.”
+
+“Possibly,” said Dukane thoughtfully. “And yet I don’t feel like
+ignoring it entirely. Not on Mortimer’s own account, you understand.
+He’s not the type of fellow I admire, and I don’t doubt he richly
+deserves any punishment that may be in store for him. But he’s my star,
+and if anything happens to him I stand to lose more money than I feel
+like affording in these hard times.”
+
+“I can have a couple of men detailed to keep an eye on him,” suggested
+Barrison.
+
+Dukane shook his head. “He’d find it out and be furious,” he returned.
+“Whatever else he is, he’s no coward, and he detests having his
+personal affairs interfered with. Hello! What is it you want?”
+
+The thin, gaunt, white-haired man whom he addressed was standing, hat
+in hand, in the alley just outside the stage door, and he was evidently
+waiting to speak to the manager.
+
+“If you please, sir,” he began, half apologetically, “Mr. Mortimer told
+me to——”
+
+“You’re Mortimer’s man, aren’t you?”
+
+“Yes, sir; I’m Wrenn. I came down in the car for Mr. Mortimer, sir.
+He—he seemed a bit upset-like this morning.” His faded old eyes looked
+appealingly at the manager.
+
+“He did,” assented that gentleman dryly. “You take very good care of
+Mr. Mortimer, Wrenn,” he added, in a kinder tone. “I’ve often noticed
+it.”
+
+“Thank you, sir. I try——”
+
+“He sent you back for something?”
+
+“Yes, sir.” The old servant was clearly anxious and ill at ease, and
+the answer came falteringly: “A—a letter, sir, that he forgot——”
+
+Barrison had already thrust that letter into his own pocket. He knew
+that Dukane would prefer him not to produce it. As a specimen of
+handwriting it was worth keeping, in case of possible emergencies in
+the future.
+
+Dukane affected to hunt about on the floor.
+
+“Here is the envelope,” he said, giving it to the valet. “I don’t see
+any letter. Mr. Mortimer must have put it in his pocket; indeed, I
+think I saw him do so. He seemed a good deal excited, and probably
+doesn’t remember.”
+
+“Yes, sir, but——” Wrenn still hesitated.
+
+“That’s all. Go back to your master and say the letter is nowhere to be
+found. Tell him I said so.”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+Unwillingly Wrenn walked away.
+
+“A decent old chap,” commented Dukane, looking after him. “I can’t
+understand why he sticks to that ill-tempered rake, but he seems
+devoted to him.”
+
+They went out together, and saw Wrenn say something at the window of
+the great purring limousine that was waiting in the street at the
+end of the court. After a minute he got in, and the car moved off
+immediately.
+
+“No,” said the manager, as though there had been no interruption to his
+talk with Barrison, “I hardly think that we’d better have him shadowed,
+even for his own protection. I think that the writer of that note means
+to save her—er—sensational effect for the first night, don’t you?”
+
+“Well,” admitted the detective, “it would be like a revengeful woman to
+wait until a spectacular occasion of that sort if she meant to start
+something. Particularly”—he spoke more slowly—“if she happened to be a
+theatrical woman herself.”
+
+“Ah, yes,” said Dukane calmly. “Especially if she happened to be a
+theatrical woman herself.”
+
+He was silent for a long minute as they walked toward Broadway. Then,
+as he stopped to light a cigar, he said:
+
+“Every woman is a theatrical woman in that sense. My dear fellow,
+women are the real dramatists of this world. If a man wants to do a
+thing—rob a bank, or elope with his friend’s wife, or commit a murder,
+or anything like that—he goes ahead and does it as expeditiously and as
+inconspicuously as possible. But a woman invariably wants to set the
+stage. A woman must have invented rope ladders, suicide pacts, poisoned
+wine cups, and the farewell letter to the husband. Next to staging a
+love scene, a woman loves to stage a death scene—whether it’s murder,
+suicide, tuberculosis, or a broken heart. Would any man in _Mimi’s_
+situation have let himself be _dragged_ back to die in the arms of his
+lost love? Hardly! He’d crawl into a hole or go to a hospital.”
+
+“It was a man who wrote the story of _Mimi_,” Barrison reminded him.
+
+“A man who, being French, knew all about women. Yes, I think we can
+safely leave our precautions until September the fifteenth. Just the
+same, Barrison, I shall be just as well pleased if you’ll manage to
+drop in at rehearsals fairly often during the next fortnight. There
+might be developments. I’ll leave word with Roberts in the morning that
+you are to come in when you like.”
+
+Barrison promised, and left him at the corner of Broadway.
+
+As he walked back to his own rooms, Dukane’s words lingered in his
+memory:
+
+“Women are the real dramatists of this world!”
+
+He thought of the same phrase that evening when, while he was in the
+middle of his after-dinner brandy and cigar, his Japanese servant
+announced:
+
+“A lady on business. Very important.”
+
+Barrison started up, hardly able to believe his eyes. The woman who
+stood at his door was Miss Templeton!
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER V
+
+                             MISS TEMPLETON
+
+
+She was in full evening dress, with her splendid shoulders and arms
+bare, and her brilliant hair uncovered and elaborately dressed. Her
+tightly clinging gown was black, embroidered in an orchid design of
+rose color and gold. A long black lace scarf, thrown over one arm, was
+her only apology for a wrap. She was just then, as Barrison was obliged
+to confess to himself, one of the handsomest women he had ever seen in
+his life. He realized now that she was younger than he had thought.
+
+Also she looked far less artificial and flamboyant than she had looked
+at luncheon. Jim’s orange-shaded reading lamp was kinder to her than
+that intrusively glaring sunbeam had been. There was even a softness
+and a dignity about her, he thought. Perhaps, though, it was merely a
+pose, put on for the occasion as she had put on her dinner dress.
+
+Moving slowly and with a very real grace, she came a few steps into the
+room and inclined her handsome head very slightly.
+
+“Mr. Barrison?”
+
+He bowed and drew a high-backed, brocaded chair into a more inviting
+position. “Won’t you sit down?”
+
+“Thank you. I am Grace Templeton.”
+
+“I know,” he said, smiling courteously. “I feel enormously honored.”
+
+“Ah, yes. You saw me at lunch to-day.”
+
+“I have seen you before.”
+
+“Really!” Her eyes lit up with genuine pleasure. She was inordinately
+vain of her stage reputation. She thrilled to the admiration of her
+anonymous audiences. Jim, looking at her, marveled at that imperishable
+thirst for adulation which, gratified, could bring a woman joy at such
+a moment. For he felt sure that it was no ordinary crisis which had
+brought Miss Templeton to consult him that night.
+
+She sank into the chair he proffered, and the high, square back made
+a fine frame for the gilded perfection of her hair. He thought, quite
+coolly, that no one ever had a whiter throat or more exquisitely formed
+arms and wrists. Her manner was admirable; not a trace now of that
+primitive and untamed ferocity of mood which had blazed in her whole
+face and figure not so many hours before.
+
+She was very beautiful, very sedate, very self-contained. Barrison
+was able to admire her frankly—but never for a second did he lift the
+vigilance of the watch he had determined to keep upon her. In his own
+mind he marked her “dangerous”—and not the less so because just at
+present she was behaving so extremely, so unbelievably well.
+
+“You are surprised to see me here, Mr. Barrison,” she said, making it
+a statement rather than a question.
+
+“I confess that I am.”
+
+“I wanted your help, and—when I want a thing I ask for it.”
+
+She paused a moment, looking at him steadily. “Won’t you please sit
+down yourself?” she said. “And move your lamp. I like to see the face
+of the person I am talking to.”
+
+Barrison did what she wished silently. In half a minute more they
+confronted each other across the library table, with the reading light
+set somewhat aside. Miss Templeton drew a deep breath and leaned
+forward with her lovely arms upon the table.
+
+“When I heard that you were to be called in as an expert to help
+in—our—play”—she paused, with a faint smile that was rather
+touching—“you see, it _was_ ‘our play’ then—I made up my mind to
+consult you. For I was troubled even then. But the best laid schemes——”
+She broke off, with a little gesture that somehow made her look
+younger. “Oh, well—I found myself, in an hour, in a minute, in a
+position I was not used to: I was dismissed!” She made him feel the
+outrageousness of this.
+
+“My mind was naturally disturbed,” she went on. “It is a shocking
+thing, Mr. Barrison, to find yourself cast adrift when you have been
+counting on a thing, believing in it——”
+
+“I should scarcely have thought that it would be so awful,” Jim
+ventured, “for you, who surely need not remain in such a predicament
+any longer than you care to.”
+
+She flashed him a grateful glance. “That is nice of you. But I truly
+think that it is worse in a case like mine. One grows accustomed to
+things. It is somewhat appalling to find oneself without them, to
+find them snatched away before one’s eyes. You see, I have never been
+‘fired’ before.” She uttered the last words with a surprisingly nice
+laugh. “It was rather terrible, truly. I asked Alan Mortimer to-day who
+you were,” she said quietly. “When I knew, I determined that I would
+come to see you.”
+
+“And so——” he suggested encouragingly.
+
+She was, if this were cleverness, much too clever to change her gentle,
+rather grave attitude. “And so,” she said, as she leaned upon the
+table, “I have come to speak to you of the things which a woman does
+not speak of as a rule.”
+
+Jim Barrison was slightly alarmed. “But why come to me?” he protested,
+though not too discourteously. “We are strangers, and—surely you do not
+need a detective in your trouble, whatever it is?”
+
+“Why not?” she demanded swiftly. “In your career, Mr. Barrison, have
+you never found yourself close to the big issues of life, the deep and
+tragic things? Does not the detective’s profession show him the most
+emotional and terrible and human conditions in all the world? It is as
+a detective that I want you to help me, Mr. Barrison.”
+
+“I—I shall be only too glad,” stammered Barrison, with a full-grown
+premonition of trouble. He wished the woman had been less subtle; he
+had no mind to have his sympathies involved.
+
+She seemed to guess at something of his worry, for she lifted her
+black-fringed eyes to his and laughed—not gayly, but sadly. “It’s all
+said very quickly,” she told him. “Alan Mortimer used to be in love
+with me; he is not now.”
+
+Barrison found himself dumb. What on earth could a man say to a woman
+under such circumstances? He was no ladies’ man, and such homely
+sympathy as he had sometimes had to proffer to women in distress
+seemed highly out of place here. Miss Templeton, in her beauty and her
+strangeness, struck him as belonging to a class in herself. Resourceful
+as he was, he had not the right word just then. She did not appear to
+miss it, though. She went on, almost at once, with the kind of mournful
+calmness which nearly always wins masculine approbation:
+
+“Understand, there was no question of marriage. I do not claim anything
+at all except that—he did care for me.” She put her hand to her throat
+as if she found it difficult to continue, and added proudly: “I am the
+sort of woman, Mr. Barrison, who demands nothing of a man—except love.
+I believed that he gave me that. There were other women; there was one
+woman especially. She wanted him to marry her. She did not love him,
+as I understand love, but she did want to marry him. She had lived
+a selfish, restless life for a good many years—she is as old as I,
+though no one knows it—but she had never settled down. She is the type
+that eventually settles down; I am not. She wants to be protected and
+supported; I don’t. She is a born parasite—what we call a grafter; I am
+_not_. Perhaps you can guess whom I mean.”
+
+“Perhaps I can,” conceded Barrison, remembering what Carlton had said
+about Kitty Legaye and Alan Mortimer.
+
+“Ah!” She smiled faintly. “Very well. Here am I, flung aside from my
+part—and from him. She is left in possession, so to speak. That is
+almost enough to send a woman’s small world into chaos, is it not? But
+there was something more left for me to endure. Another woman came into
+the little play that I thought was fully—too fully—cast. I don’t mean
+Mr. Carlton’s play; I mean the one that goes on night and day as long
+as men and women have red blood in their veins and say what they feel
+instead of what is written in their parts! Another woman was engaged—or
+practically engaged—to take my place.”
+
+“Yes, I know. Miss Merivale.”
+
+“Miss Merivale.” She repeated the name slowly and without heat. “She is
+fresh and young and charming. I do not hate her as I do the other, but
+I am more afraid of her. She is just what he cannot find in the rest
+of us. She will win him. Yes, I know quite well that she will win him.”
+
+“But I don’t think she wants to win him,” said Barrison, recollecting
+the scene in which the “tag” had been prematurely spoken. He had a
+mental picture of Sybil, scarlet of cheek and indignant of eyes,
+shrinking from Mortimer’s kiss.
+
+But Miss Templeton looked at him almost scornfully.
+
+“He can make her want to,” she declared positively. “Don’t contradict
+me, because I know!” Miss Templeton paused a moment and then continued:
+“Mr. Barrison, do not detectives occasionally undertake the sort of
+work that necessitates their following a person and—reporting on what
+he does—that sort of thing?”
+
+“Yes, Miss Templeton.”
+
+“And would you undertake work of that kind?” Her fine eyes pleaded
+eloquently.
+
+“No, Miss Templeton; I’m afraid not.”
+
+“But why not? You’ve said detectives do it.”
+
+“Plenty of them.”
+
+“Do you mind telling me, then, why not?”
+
+Jim hesitated; then he decided to be frank. “You see,” he said gently,
+“I don’t do this entirely as a means of livelihood.”
+
+“You mean you’re an amateur, not a professional?”
+
+“I am a professional. But, since I can pick and choose to a certain
+extent, I usually choose such cases as strike me as most useful and
+most interesting.”
+
+“And my case doesn’t strike you as either?”
+
+“I don’t see yet that you have a case, Miss Templeton. I don’t see what
+there is for a detective to do.”
+
+“Then I’ll explain. I want you to follow—shadow, do you call it?—Mr.
+Mortimer every day and every night. I want to know what he does, whom
+he sees, where he goes. I will pay—anything——”
+
+Barrison put up his hand to check her. “Yes, I know,” he said quietly.
+“I quite understood what you wanted me to do. But your determination,
+or whim, or whatever we may call it, does not constitute a case.”
+
+“I can make you see why. I can tell you the reasons——”
+
+“I’m afraid that I don’t want to hear them, Miss Templeton. I simply
+can’t do what you ask me to. I’m sorry. There are detectives who
+will; you’d better go to them. I don’t like cases of that sort, and
+I don’t take them. Again—I’m sorry. Try not to think me too rude and
+ungracious.”
+
+She sat with down-bent head, and he could not see her face. He felt
+unaccountably sorry, as he had told her he felt. He could not have felt
+more grieved if he had hurt some one who had trusted him.
+
+Suddenly she flung up her head, and there was another look on her
+face—a harder, older look.
+
+“All right,” she said, in a metallic tone, “you won’t help me. I’m
+sure I don’t know why I should help you. But—if you won’t shadow Alan
+Mortimer these next two weeks, you take a tip from me: Shadow Kitty
+Legaye.”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER VI
+
+                           THE DIVIDED DANGER
+
+
+As she swept to the door, her golden head held high, her black scarf
+floating from one round white arm, she encountered a newcomer, one Tony
+Clay.
+
+“Beg pardon!” he gasped, standing aside.
+
+He was a cherubic, round-faced cub detective whom Barrison liked and
+helped along when he could—a nice lad, though a bit callow as yet.
+
+Miss Templeton’s trailing scarf caught in a chair and Tony hastened to
+extricate it. Feeling profoundly but unreasonably reluctant, Barrison
+made the introductions:
+
+“Miss Templeton, may I present Mr. Clay? He will put you in a
+taxi—won’t you, Tony?”
+
+“Rather!” breathed the patently enraptured Tony.
+
+“My car is waiting,” Miss Templeton said sweetly. “I shall be so glad
+if Mr. Clay will see me safely as far as that.”
+
+Five minutes later Tony Clay returned, with sparkling eyes and a
+delirious flow of language:
+
+“I say, Jim, where did you—how did she happen to——Oh, gee! Some people
+have all the luck! Isn’t she a peach? Isn’t she a wonder? Isn’t she
+just the——”
+
+“Have a brandy and soda, Tony, and shut up,” said Barrison, rather
+wearily. He was feeling a bit let down, for Miss Templeton was not a
+restful person to talk to, nor yet to hear talk for any long period.
+
+But Tony raved on. “She reminds me,” he babbled happily, “of some
+glorious, golden lioness——”
+
+“Fine for you!” murmured Barrison, burying himself in a particularly
+potent drink.
+
+Long after Tony Clay had gone, Jim sat scowling at the cigarettes
+which he lighted from one another with scarcely an interval, and at
+the brandy and soda of which he consumed more than what he usually
+considered a fair allowance. Both as a man and a detective he admired
+Miss Templeton.
+
+He wished he had seen her handwriting and could compare it with the
+note which he still kept put away in a locked cabinet where he cached
+his special treasures. He wondered if——
+
+But her suggestion as to Kitty Legaye, inspired by jealousy as it
+was, was not without value. On the face of it, it seemed far-fetched,
+or would have to a less seasoned experience; but Jim Barrison
+had forgotten what it was to feel surprise at anything. Stranger
+things—much, much stranger things—had turned out to be quite ordinary
+and natural occurrences.
+
+There are, as Barrison knew, many varieties of the female of the
+species; he had come up against a goodly number of them, and could
+guess what the different sorts would do in given extremities. And
+he knew that in the whole wild lot there is none wilder, none more
+secret, none more relentless, none more unexpected and inexplicable,
+than she who has counted on snatching respectability and domesticity
+at the eleventh hour and been disappointed. If Kitty Legaye had really
+expected to marry Alan Mortimer, and if he was getting ready to throw
+her over for a perfectly new, strange young girl, then one need not be
+astonished at anything.
+
+Yet, little Miss Legaye seemed a steady bit of humanity, not emotional
+or hysterical in the least.
+
+“Oh, hang it all!” he muttered resentfully, as he turned out his light
+at least two hours later than was his habit. “I wish women had never
+learned to write—or to talk! It would simplify life greatly.”
+
+Then he fell asleep and dreamed queer dreams in which Grace Templeton,
+Kitty Legaye and Sybil Merivale chased each other round and round,
+quarreling for possession of the anonymous note which for some reason
+the old man Wrenn was holding high above his head in the center of the
+group. As the three women chased each other in the dream, Jim grew
+dizzier and dizzier, and finally woke up abruptly, feeling breathless
+and bewildered, with Tara, the Jap, standing beside him.
+
+“Honorable sir did having extreme bad dreams!” explained Tara, with
+some severity of manner.
+
+Barrison answered meekly and lay down again to fall only half asleep
+this time and toss restlessly until morning.
+
+He kept his word to Dukane and attended rehearsals with religious
+regularity, though what technical use he had was exhausted after
+a few days. He found himself becoming more and more interested in
+the play—or, rather, in the actors who were appearing in it. Their
+personalities became more and more vivid to him; their relations more
+and more complex.
+
+Not the least curious of the conditions which he began to note as he
+grew to feel more at home behind the scenes was the strange, almost
+psychic influence which Mortimer appeared to have over Sybil Merivale.
+Almost one might have believed that he hypnotized her; only there was
+nothing about him that suggested abnormal spiritual powers, and the
+girl herself was neither morbid nor weak.
+
+Barrison, now at liberty to roam about “behind” as he willed, overheard
+Miss Merivale one day talking to Claire McAllister, the extra woman.
+
+“Say, I heard him ordering you about to-day as if he had a mortgage on
+you,” said Claire, who was practical and pugnacious. “What do you let
+him play the grand mogul with you for?”
+
+“I don’t believe I can make you understand,” said Sybil, breathing
+quickly, “but I don’t seem able to disobey him. When he looks at me
+I—it sometimes seems as if I couldn’t think quite straight.”
+
+“D’you mean,” demanded Claire McAllister sharply, “that you’re in love
+with him?”
+
+Sybil flushed indignantly. “That’s just what I do not mean!” she
+exclaimed. “Can’t you see the difference? I—I hate him, I tell you!
+It’s something outside that, but—but it frightens me. Sometimes it
+seems, when I meet his eyes, that I can’t move—that he can make me
+do what he likes.” She shivered and hid her face in her hands. “It’s
+_that_ which makes me so frightened,” she whispered in a broken way.
+
+The extra girl regarded her curiously, then hunched her shoulders
+in the way of extra girls when they wish to indicate a shrug of
+indifference.
+
+“Well,” she remarked cheerily, “when little Morty takes the last high
+fall, we’ll look round to see if there wasn’t a certain lady handy to
+give him the extra shove.”
+
+Sybil turned on her quickly. “What do you mean?” she cried. “What do
+you mean by that?”
+
+Miss McAllister stared in surprise. “Sa-ay!” she remonstrated. “I was
+just kiddin’! Say, you didn’t suppose I thought you were goin’ to
+murder the guy, did you?”
+
+Sybil was rather white. “Awfully silly of me!” she apologized.
+“Only—sometimes I’ve felt as though——And it sounded awful, coming from
+some one else like that.”
+
+“Sometimes felt—what?”
+
+“As though—I almost—could!” She turned abruptly and walked away.
+
+Barrison, standing leaning against a piece of scenery, felt a hand upon
+his arm. He looked around into the agitated face of Norman Crane.
+
+The boy had heard just what he himself had heard, and the effect
+thereof was written large upon his handsome, honest young countenance.
+
+“Think of her—think of Sybil up against that!” he whispered huskily.
+“And me able to do nothing! Oh, it’s too unspeakably rotten, that’s
+what it is! If I could just wring that bounder’s neck, and be done with
+it——”
+
+“Look here!” said Jim Barrison, losing his cast-iron, chain-held
+patience at last. “There are about a dozen people already who want to
+murder Alan Mortimer. I’m getting to want to myself! For the love of
+Heaven, give a poor detective a rest and don’t suggest any one else;
+I’m getting dizzy!”
+
+Norman stared at him and edged away.
+
+“Does that fellow drink?” he asked Carlton, a few minutes later.
+
+“I hope so,” said the author absently, rumpling his hair with one hand
+while he wrote on a scrap of copy paper. “Mortimer has waited until now
+to have the last scene lengthened. Maledictions upon him! May his next
+reincarnation be that of a humpbacked goat!”
+
+Crane left him still murmuring strange imprecations.
+
+Barrison went home, divided between annoyance and amusement at the
+promiscuous hate Mortimer had aroused. He was unquestionably the most
+unpopular man he had ever heard of; yet he was sometimes charming,
+as Barrison had already seen. Several times at rehearsal, when he
+deliberately had chosen to exert his power of magnetism, the detective,
+critical observer as he was, could not fail to note how successful he
+was. His charm was something radiant and irresistible, and he could
+project it at will, just as some women can. A singular and a dangerous
+man, Jim decided. Such individuals always made trouble for themselves
+and for others. The theater was becoming rather electric in atmosphere,
+and Barrison was glad to get home. But his troubles were not over
+yet—even for that day!
+
+Just as he was sitting down to dinner Tony Clay appeared, looking hot
+and unhappy.
+
+“Hello, Tony! Have you eaten?”
+
+Tony nodded in a most dispirited fashion. His friend watched him a
+moment, and then said kindly:
+
+“Go ahead; what’s the trouble?”
+
+The young fellow looked uncomfortable. “Nothing,” he began; “that
+is——Oh, hang it all! I can’t lie to you. I’m upset, Jim!”
+
+“No!” said Barrison, with a smile.
+
+“Jim,” Tony went on, rather desperately, “do you believe that there
+ever are occasions when it is permissible to give a client away? To a
+colleague, I mean. Do you?”
+
+“You just bet your life I do!” said Jim emphatically. He put down his
+knife and fork and eyed his young friend with kindling interest. “Go
+on, kid, and tell me all about it.”
+
+“Well”—poor Tony looked profoundly miserable—“you know—that is of
+course you don’t know—but—Miss Templeton engaged me to shadow Alan
+Mortimer.”
+
+“I knew that as soon as you did,” remarked Jim.
+
+Tony opened his round eyes till each of them made a complete O.
+
+“The devil you did!” he ejaculated, somewhat chagrined. “Well, she did
+engage me, and I shadowed away to the best of my ability. But now—Jim,
+I’m up against something too big for me, and I’ve brought it to you.”
+
+He looked pale and shaken, and Barrison said good-humoredly:
+
+“Go to it, Tony. I’ll help you if I can.”
+
+“Jim!” Tony Clay faced him desperately. “I think you ought to know that
+Miss Templeton has it in for Mortimer——”
+
+“I do know it, lad.”
+
+“And that—she bought a revolver to-day at the pawnshop near
+Thirty-ninth Street. I saw her. I suppose she got a permit somehow. But
+I hope I’ll never again see any one look the way she did when she came
+out with the parcel!”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER VII
+
+                             THE DARK SCENE
+
+
+It was a little after eight in the evening of September the
+fifteenth—the opening night of “Boots and Saddles” at the Mirror
+Theater.
+
+Already the house was filling up. From his seat on the aisle half a
+dozen rows back, Jim Barrison saw that it was going to be a typical
+first-night audience. As this was a comparatively early opening, there
+were a goodly number of theatrical people present, and practically
+every one in the social world who had already returned to town was to
+be seen. Max Dukane’s productions were justly celebrated all over the
+country, and Carlton was a popular playwright. Then there was much
+well-stimulated curiosity in regard to Alan Mortimer. Dukane’s press
+agent had done his work admirably, and the mystery surrounding the
+handsome new light in the dramatic heavens had been so artistically
+exploited as to pique the interest even of jaded theatergoers.
+
+It was an oppressively hot evening, though September was so far
+advanced. All the electric fans in the world could not keep the theater
+cool and airy. To Barrison the air was suffocating. The gayly dressed
+people crowded down into neat rows; the hurrying, perspiring ushers
+in overheavy livery; the big asbestos curtain that shut them all
+into a simmering inclosure—these things in combination were strangely
+oppressive, even in a sense imprisoning. Moreover, he was not free from
+a half-sincere, half-humorous sense of apprehension. Hardly anything
+so definite, so full-fledged, or so grave; but undoubtedly a mental
+tension of sorts which would not readily conform to a perfunctory
+festal spirit.
+
+Dukane, for all his coolness and poise, had insisted on taking the
+warning letter seriously—at least to the extent of taking every
+conceivable precaution against danger, of arranging every possible
+protection for Mortimer. It was understood that, while Jim Barrison
+had his allotted seat in the front of the house, he would spend most
+of the evening back of the scenes. Tony Clay was also on duty. There
+was a husky young guard on the communicating door which was back of
+the right-hand boxes and opened on the world behind. No one was to be
+allowed to pass through that door that night but Dukane, Barrison, and
+his assistant. Roberts, at the stage door, had been similarly cautioned
+to let no one enter the theater on any pretext whatsoever after the
+members of the company had come for the performance.
+
+Barrison thought Dukane’s precautions rather exaggerated. He did not
+really think personally that any peril threatened Alan Mortimer that
+night. Murderers did not, as a rule, send word in advance what they
+mean to do. Still, such things had happened in his experience, and it
+was no harm to make sure. As for Miss Templeton and the revolver—well,
+that looked a bit more serious. He had not told Dukane of Tony’s
+confidential information, but he raked the many-hued audience with his
+sharp gaze, trying to see if the erstwhile leading woman was present.
+So far there was no sign of her. He was even inclined to treat Tony’s
+fears as somewhat hysterical. It will be recalled that Miss Templeton
+had made rather a good impression upon the detective, who was only
+human, after all, and prone to err like other mortals.
+
+The truth was that the whole situation struck him as a little too
+melodramatic to be plausible. He was suffering from the disadvantages
+of being a bit too cool and superior in view, a bit too well-balanced,
+a bit too much the practical sleuth regarding theatrical heroics
+with a pleasantly skeptical eye. Nevertheless, cavalierly as he was
+disposed to treat them, he thought that it was possible that these
+many concessions to a possible gravity of situation, a more or less
+apocryphal danger, did add to the feeling of oppression which held
+him. It really seemed hard to breathe, and it was difficult even for
+his trained judgment to determine just how much of the sensation was
+physical and how much psychological.
+
+At all events it was a very close, sultry night. As people came in and
+took their seats there were constant comments on the weather.
+
+“Humidity—just humidity!” pompously declared a man next Jim, one of
+those most trying wiseacres who know everything. “You’ll see it will
+rain before the evening is over.”
+
+“There’s not a breath stirring outside,” said the girl who was with
+him, fanning herself. “I wish we were sitting near an electric fan.”
+
+The asbestos drop had gone up, and the orchestra began to play
+music specially written for the piece. It drowned the chatter of
+the well-dressed, expectant crowd. But the overture was short, and
+the lights all over the house soon began to go down in the almost
+imperceptibly gradual fashion affected by Max Dukane in his big
+productions. When the other instruments had dwindled to a mere mist of
+retreating sound, one high, silver-clear bugle played the regimental
+call, “Boots and Saddles,” as a cue for the rise of the curtain upon
+the first act.
+
+But Barrison was not looking at the stage. Before the last lights had
+gone out in the front of the house he had caught sight of a woman who
+had just entered the right-hand stage box. She stood for a moment
+looking out over the audience before she slipped out of her gorgeous
+gold-embroidered evening cloak and took her seat.
+
+“Look!” exclaimed the girl to the pompous man—and, though she spoke in
+an undertone, it was an undertone pregnant with sharp interest, almost
+excitement. “Look! There’s Gracie Templeton, who started rehearsing
+with this show and got fired. They say she had quite an affair with
+Mortimer.”
+
+“Not much distinction in that,” remarked the man. “He’s crazy about
+women.”
+
+“Not much distinction either way,” said the woman lightly and
+heartlessly. “Grace has played about with ever so many men. But she
+isn’t altogether a bad sort, you know, and this Mortimer man seems to
+have the power to make women care for him awfully.”
+
+“Do you know him?” demanded her escort jealously.
+
+“Not I!” She laughed. “But seriously, Dicky, I shouldn’t think she’d
+want to come to-night and see him playing with another woman.”
+
+“Maybe she means to pull a Booth-and-Lincoln stunt,” suggested the
+pompous man. “She’s fixed just right for it if she does.”
+
+“Oh, don’t! It’s horrible just to think of! You’re so cold-blooded,
+Dicky! Hush! The play’s beginning. I do like military shows, don’t you?”
+
+Barrison did not wait to see the opening of the piece. He had seen it
+once at dress rehearsal, and, anyway, he had other fish to fry. He
+slid out of his seat swiftly and almost unnoticeably and made his way
+without waste of time up the aisle and around in discreetly tempered
+darkness to the stage box which held Miss Grace Templeton.
+
+As he passed between the box curtains and came up behind her, she did
+not hear him, and he stood still for a moment before making any move
+which would reveal his presence. In that moment he had noticed that she
+was dressed entirely in black, that melancholy rather than passion was
+the mood which held her, and that she was watching the stage less with
+eagerness than with a wistful, weary sort of attention. She leaned back
+in her chair, and her hands lay loosely folded in her lap. There was
+about her none of the tension, none of the excitement, either manifest
+or suppressed, that accompanies a desperate resolve.
+
+Barrison felt the momentary chill of foreboding, which certainly had
+crept up his spine, pass into a warmer and more peaceful sentiment
+of pity. He slipped into a chair just behind her without her having
+detected him. This, too, was reassuring. People with guilt, even
+prospective guilt, upon their consciences were always alert to
+interruption and possible suspicion. She was looking fixedly at the
+stage where Mortimer was now making his first entrance.
+
+He was a splendid-looking creature behind the footlights. Barrison had
+been obliged to admit it at dress rehearsal; he admitted it once more
+unreservedly now. Whatever there was in his composition of coarseness
+or ugliness, of cruelty, unscrupulousness, or violence, was somehow
+softened—no, softened was not quite the word, since his stage presence
+was consistently and notably virile; but certainly uplifted and tinged
+with glamour and colorful charm. Every one else in the company paled
+and thinned before him.
+
+“A great performance, is it not?”
+
+Jim spoke the words very gently into her ear, and then waited for the
+inevitable start. Strangely enough, in spite of the suddenness of
+the remark, she barely stirred from the still pose she had adopted.
+Dreamily she answered him, though without pause:
+
+“There is no one like him.”
+
+Then all at once she seemed to wake, to grow alive again, and to
+realize that she was actually talking to a real person and not to a
+visionary companion. She turned, with a startled face.
+
+“Mr. Barrison! I thought I was quite alone, and—what did I say, I
+wonder? I felt as though I were half asleep!”
+
+“You voiced my thoughts; Mortimer is in splendid form, isn’t he?”
+
+She nodded. “I never saw him to better advantage,” she said, speaking
+slowly and evidently weighing each word. “Watch him now, Mr. Barrison,
+in his scene with _Lucille_. So much restraint, yet so much feeling!
+Yes, a superb impersonation!”
+
+Barrison looked curiously at the woman who spoke with so much
+discrimination. Was she really capable of being impersonal,
+disinterested? Yes, he believed that she was. A certain glow of
+returning confidence swept his heart; it was surely not she whom he
+had to fear—if, indeed, there were any one. He made up his mind to take
+a look at what was taking place behind the scenes, and rose to his
+feet, resting his hand lightly, almost caressingly, on the back of Miss
+Templeton’s chair.
+
+“Good-by, until later,” he murmured. “I am going back to pay my
+respects to Dukane.”
+
+And as he spoke, his fingers closed upon the beaded satin bag which
+she had hung upon the back of her chair. Something uncompromisingly
+hard met his sensitive and intelligent touch. Instantly he withdrew his
+hand as though it had met with fire. There was a pistol in that pretty
+reticule; so much he was sure of.
+
+A moment later he tapped lightly on the communicating door, and,
+meeting the eyes of the suspicious young giant on guard there, and
+speedily satisfying him as to his reliability, passed through into the
+strange, bizarre world of scenery and grease paint and spotlights with
+which he had lately become so familiar.
+
+“Remember,” he said to the blue-capped lad with the six inches of
+muscle and the truculent tendency, who stood as sentinel at that most
+critical passageway, “no one—no one, Lynch—is to go through this door
+to-night. Understand?”
+
+“Right, sir!”
+
+Barrison made his way through a labyrinth of sets to where Dukane,
+against all precedent, was standing watching the performance from the
+wings.
+
+“You ought to be in front,” the detective told him reprovingly.
+
+“Indeed!” Dukane looked at him with tired scorn. Then he fished a paper
+out of his waistcoat pocket. “Read this. It came this afternoon.”
+
+The new letter of warning ran:
+
+  No man can run more than a certain course. When you look with love at
+  the woman who claims your attention to-night, do you not think what
+  might happen if a ghost appeared at your feast? You have called me
+  wild and visionary in the past. Will you call me that when this night
+  is over?
+
+Having read it and noted that the writing was the same as the previous
+one, Jim asked: “Have you shown this to Mortimer?”
+
+“Am I an idiot?” demanded Dukane pertinently. “No, my prince of
+detectives, I have not. I have troubles enough without putting my star
+on the rampage. Just the same, I think it is as well to be prepared for
+anything and everything. What do you think?”
+
+Unwillingly Barrison told him that he was not entirely happy in his
+mind concerning Miss Templeton. He asked minutely as to where Mortimer
+was going to stand during various parts of the play, notably during
+the dark scene in the last act. That, to his mind, offered rather too
+tempting a field for uncontrolled temperaments.
+
+“Ah!” said Dukane once more, looking at him. “You have found out
+something, eh? Well, no matter. Whether you suspect something or not,
+you are going to help, you are going to be on guard. Miss Templeton,
+now—do you think it would be a good thing for you to go and spend the
+evening with her in her box?”
+
+Barrison did not think quite that, but he consented to retire to Miss
+Templeton’s box for at least two acts. The which he did, feeling most
+nervous all the time, as though he ought to be somewhere else. Miss
+Templeton was most agreeable as a companion, and most calm. Once in a
+while his eyes would become glued to the beaded bag hanging on the back
+of her chair. Just before the last act he fled, and sent Tony Clay to
+take his place on a pretext. He did not think he could stand it any
+longer.
+
+Behind, he found a curious excitement prevailing. No one had been told
+anything or warned in any way, yet a subtle undercurrent of suspense
+was strongly to be felt. There is no stranger phenomenon than this
+psychic transmission of emotion without speech. To-night, behind the
+scenes at the Mirror Theater, the whole company seemed waiting for
+something.
+
+Sybil Merivale seemed particularly nervous.
+
+“I can’t think what has got into me!” she said with rather a shaky
+little laugh. “I wasn’t nearly so upset at the beginning of the play,
+and usually one gets steadier toward the end of a first night. I’m
+doing all right, am I not?”
+
+“You’re splendid!” Kitty Legaye said cordially. “I’m proud of you! You
+have no change here, have you?”
+
+“No; I’m supposed to be still in this white frock, locked up in the
+power of the border desperadoes.”
+
+“And I, praise Heaven, am through!”
+
+Kitty did sound profoundly grateful for the fact. Barrison thought
+she looked very tired and that her eyes were rather unhappy. She had
+played her part brilliantly and gayly, appearing, as usual, a fresh and
+adorable young girl. Now, seen at close range, she looked both weary
+and dispirited under the powder and grease paint.
+
+“I’m awfully fagged!” she confessed. “And my head is splitting. I think
+I’ll just sneak home.”
+
+“Oh, but Mr. Dukane will be wild!” exclaimed Sybil in protest. “Isn’t
+it a fad of his always to have the principals wait for the curtain
+calls, no matter when they’ve finished?”
+
+“Oh, stuff! We’re through with the regulation business, all of us
+bowing prettily after the third act, and Jack Carlton trying to make a
+speech that isn’t unintelligible with slang! That’s enough and to spare
+for one night. And I really feel wretched. Like the Snark, I shall
+slowly and silently vanish away! I call upon you, good people, to cover
+my exit.”
+
+She slipped into her dressing room, and a moment later the dresser,
+Parry, whose services were shared by her and Sybil, came out. She
+was a fat, pasty woman whose long life spent in the wardrobe rooms
+and dressing rooms of theaters seemed to have made her pallid with a
+cellarlike pallor.
+
+She disappeared around the corner that led to the stage door, and in a
+minute or so returned. As she opened Kitty’s door and entered, Barrison
+heard her say:
+
+“All right, Miss Legaye; Roberts is sending for a taxi.”
+
+Of the dressing rooms Kitty’s was the farthest back, Sybil’s next, and
+Mortimer’s—the star room—so far down as to be adjoining the property
+room, which was close to what is professionally known as “the first
+entrance.” There Willie Coster and his assistant ruled, supreme gods,
+over the electric switchboard. The passage to the stage door ran at
+right angles to the row of dressing rooms, so that any one coming in
+or out at the former would not be visible to any one standing near
+one of the rooms, unless he or she turned the corner made by the star
+dressing room. This particular point—the turning near Mortimer’s
+door—was further masked by the iron skeleton staircase which started
+near Sybil’s room and ran upward in a sharp slant to the second tier
+of dressing rooms where the small fry of the company and the extras
+dressed.
+
+It is rather important to understand this general plan. Make a note,
+also, that Mortimer’s big entrance in the “dark scene,” or, rather,
+at the close of it, must be made up a short flight of steps; that the
+scene was what is called a “box set”—a solid, four-walled inclosure;
+that it was but a step from the door of his own dressing room, and that
+the spot where he had to stand waiting for his entrance cue was in
+direct line, from one angle, with the stage door, and from another with
+the door communicating with the front of the house. This wait would
+be a fairly long one, since, when the dark scene was on, no lights of
+any sort would be permitted save perhaps the merest glimmer to avoid
+accidents. The actors were all expected to leave their lighted dressing
+rooms and have their doors closed before the melodramatic crash upon
+the stage told them that the property lantern had been duly smashed and
+that blackness must henceforth prevail until the “rescue.”
+
+“All ready?” came Willie Coster’s anxious voice. “The act is on. Miss
+Merivale, don’t stumble on those steps when you are trying to escape.
+You nearly twisted your ankle the other night. This is a rotten thing
+to stage. Lucky Carlton made it about as short as he possibly could.
+Playing a whole act practically in the dark! Fred, put that light out
+over there; it might cast a shadow.”
+
+“’Tain’t the dark scene yet!” growled the harassed sceneshifter
+addressed. He put it out, however.
+
+“My cue in a moment!” whispered Sybil. “I must run! Where are my two
+deep-dyed ruffians who drag me on?”
+
+“Present!” said one of them, Norman Crane, laughing under his breath.
+
+They hurried down to their entrance, where the other “deep-dyed
+ruffian” awaited them.
+
+Kitty Legaye, in a vivid scarlet satin evening coat, stole cautiously
+out of her dressing room.
+
+“Shut that door!” commanded Willie in a sharp undertone. “No lights,
+Miss Legaye!”
+
+Parry closed it immediately.
+
+“And now, Mortimer!” added the stage manager in an exasperated mutter.
+“Of course he’ll let it go until the last moment, and then breeze out
+like a hurricane with his dressing-room door wide open and enough
+light to——What is it?” And he turned to hear a hasty question from his
+assistant.
+
+Kitty came close to Barrison and whispered beseechingly:
+
+“Do, please, tell Mr. Dukane that I only went home because I really did
+feel ill. It’s—it’s been quite a hard evening for me.” Her brown eyes
+looked large and rather piteous.
+
+Barrison was sorry for her. She seemed such a plucky little creature,
+and so glitteringly, valiantly gay. Her red wrap all at once struck
+him as symbolic of the little woman herself. She was defiantly bright,
+like the coat. If her heart ached as well as her head, if she really
+was disappointed, hurt, unhappy—why, neither she nor the scarlet coat
+proposed to be anything but gay!
+
+She waved her hand and tiptoed lightly away in the direction of the
+stage door. Barrison turned to look through a crack onto the stage.
+They were almost—yes, they were actually ready for the dark scene.
+
+In another moment the lantern crashed upon the floor. There were shouts
+from the performers, and audible gasps from the audience. For a full
+half minute not a light showed anywhere in the house.
+
+Barrison felt oddly uncomfortable. The confusion, the noises from the
+stage, the inky blackness, all combined to arouse and increase that
+troubled, suffocating feeling of which he had been conscious earlier in
+the evening. The dark seemed full of curious sounds that were not all
+associated with the play. He almost felt his hair rise.
+
+A single one-candle electric bulb was turned on somewhere. Its rays
+only made the darkness more visible, rendered it more ghostly.
+
+A hand grasped his arm.
+
+“I thought—I saw a woman pass!” murmured Dukane’s voice. “Hello! There
+goes Mortimer to his entrance. He’s all right so far, anyway.” The
+actor’s huge bulk and characteristic swagger were just visible in the
+dimness as he left his room, closing the door behind him at once.
+“Barrison, like a good fellow, go out to Roberts and find out if any
+one has tried to come in to-night.”
+
+Dukane’s tone was strangely urgent, and Barrison groped his way to the
+stage door.
+
+The old doorkeeper, when questioned, shook his head.
+
+“No one’s passed here since seven o’clock,” he declared emphatically.
+“No one except Miss Legaye, just a minute ago.”
+
+“You’re sure?”
+
+“Sure!” exclaimed the man, misunderstanding him. “I guess there ain’t
+any two ladies with a coat the color of that one! I see it at dress
+rehearsal, and it sure woke me up. I like lively things, I does; pity
+there ain’t more ladies wears ’em.”
+
+Barrison laughed.
+
+“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I know Miss Legaye went out; but you’re
+sure no one came in?”
+
+“I tell you, no one’s gone by here since——”
+
+Barrison did not wait for a repetition of his asseverations, but went
+back toward the stage. The “rescue scene” was just beginning. Willie
+Coster, a faint silhouette against the one dim bulb, was conducting the
+shots like the leader of an orchestra:
+
+“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!”
+
+The six shots rang out with precision and thrilling resonance. And then
+Jim Barrison grew icy cold from head to foot.
+
+For there came a seventh shot.
+
+And it was followed by the wild and terrifying sound of a woman’s
+scream.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER VIII
+
+                          AWAITING THE POLICE
+
+
+That scream echoed across the blackness. There was a smell of gunpowder
+in the air. It seemed an interminably long time before the lights
+flared up, and the big curtain was rung down. At last it formed a wall
+between the people on the stage and the people in the audience, all
+about equally excited by this time.
+
+“What is it—oh, what is it that’s happened?” gasped Claire McAllister.
+
+Other women in the company echoed the bewildered and frightened cry.
+Panic was loose among them—panic and that horror of the unknown and
+uncomprehended which is the worst of all horrors. “What is it?” ran the
+quivering question from mouth to mouth like wind in the grass.
+
+Barrison and Dukane knew what had happened even before, with one
+accord, they dashed to the little flight of steps where Mortimer must
+have been waiting for his entrance cue. One look was enough. Then the
+manager’s voice, clear and authoritative, rang out:
+
+“Quiet there, every one. Mr. Mortimer has been shot.”
+
+And swiftly upon the startling statement came Barrison’s command,
+given with professional sharpness:
+
+“Nobody is to leave the theater, please, until the police have been
+here!”
+
+Shuddering and silent now, the men and women drew back as though the
+quiet figure upon the floor were a living menace, instead of something
+which never again could commit an action of help or of harm.
+
+Alan Mortimer must have died instantly.
+
+He lay at the foot of the steps, with his painted face upturned to
+the blaze of the glaring electric lights, and an ugly crimson patch
+of moisture upon the front of his khaki uniform. There was something
+indescribably ghastly in the sight of the make-up upon that dead
+countenance.
+
+Old Wrenn, the valet, was kneeling at the side of his dead master,
+trying to close the eyes with his shaking, wrinkled fingers, and making
+no attempt to hide the tears that rolled silently down his cheeks. But,
+after one look into the stony, painted face of the murdered man, Jim
+Barrison turned his attention elsewhere.
+
+At the head of the four little steps stood Sybil Merivale, in the white
+costume of _Lucille_, as motionless as if she were frozen, with her
+hands locked together. No ice maiden could have been more still, and
+there was a chill horror in her look.
+
+“Miss Merivale,” said Barrison quickly, “you were standing there when
+he was shot?”
+
+Slowly she bent her head in assent, and seemed to be trying to speak,
+but no sound came from her ashen lips.
+
+“Was it you who screamed?”
+
+“I—think so.” She spoke with obvious difficulty. “I was frightened. I
+think—I screamed. I don’t know.”
+
+Then every one who was watching started and suppressed the shock they
+felt; for she had moved her hands at last—the hands which had been so
+convulsively clasped before her. And on her white frock was a long
+splash of scarlet. One of the slim hands, as every one could see, was
+dyed the same sinister hue.
+
+She raised it, and looked at it, with her eyes dilating strangely.
+
+“His blood!” she murmured, in a barely audible voice.
+
+Dukane had sent Willie Coster out before the curtain to disperse the
+audience. The police had been sent for; the doors were guarded. Some of
+the girls in the company were sobbing. Only Sybil Merivale preserved
+that attitude of awful calm. She seemed unable to move of her own
+volition, and remained blind and deaf to every effort to help her down
+the four steps.
+
+It was young Norman Crane, finally, who took her hand in both his, and
+gently made her descend. Then, as she stood there, looking like a pale
+ghost in her white dress with the rather dull make-up that the scene
+had demanded, the boy put his arm gently around her.
+
+“It’s all right, dear,” he said tenderly. “Don’t look so wild, Sybil.
+Of course, it was a shock to you, but you must rouse yourself now.”
+He looked at Barrison as he spoke, and the detective thought that
+there was a touch of defiance in his tone as he emphasized the words,
+“Of course it was a shock to you.” He seemed anxious to establish
+definitely this fact.
+
+Jim quite understood and sympathized with him. That Sybil had had
+anything to do with Mortimer’s death the detective did not for a
+moment believe, but her position was certainly an equivocal one. This
+young actor was clearly in love with her, and the situation must be an
+agonizing one for him.
+
+In confirmation of his conclusions, Barrison heard Crane say to Dukane:
+
+“Miss Merivale and I are engaged to be married, sir. She is very much
+upset, as you see. Will you let me take her to her dressing room?”
+
+Dukane looked doubtfully at Barrison, who shook his head.
+
+“I shall be very grateful if Miss Merivale will stay where she is until
+the police come,” he said courteously, but firmly. “You might see if
+you can’t find her a chair.” For he had no desire to let a witness out
+of his sight at this stage of the game.
+
+Norman Crane flushed under his make-up. “I think you are going rather
+far!” he exclaimed hotly. “Surely you don’t think——”
+
+“I think,” said Barrison, deliberately cutting him short, “that you had
+better get the chair, and—has any one any brandy? Miss Merivale looks
+very bad indeed.”
+
+Old Wrenn spoke in a tremulous voice. “There is some in his—in the
+dressing room, sir.”
+
+He went off and brought it, then stood once more beside the body,
+wiping his shriveled old cheeks. Barrison, seeing his evident and
+genuine grief, made a mental chalk mark to the credit of Alan Mortimer.
+There must have been some good in the man, some element of the kind and
+the lovable, to have won the devotion of this old servant.
+
+Crane held the brandy to Sybil’s lips, and she drank a little
+mechanically. After a moment or so, her eyes became less strained, her
+whole expression more natural, and instead of the frozen blankness
+which had been in her face before, there now dawned a more living and
+at the same time an inexplicable fear. She looked up at the face of
+her young lover with a sort of sharp question in her blue eyes, a look
+which puzzled Jim Barrison as he caught it. What was it that she was
+mutely asking him? What was it that she was afraid of?
+
+It had been scarcely five minutes since Mortimer’s murder, yet already
+it seemed a long time. They all felt as though that still figure on
+the floor had been there for hours. Dukane would have had the dead
+man moved to his dressing room, but Barrison insisted that everything
+should be left as it was. It was just then that he espied a small
+object glittering on the floor just beyond the steps. He stooped,
+picked it up, and put it in his pocket. As he turned he saw, to his
+surprise, Tony Clay approaching.
+
+The older detective stared and frowned.
+
+“Where is Miss Templeton?” he demanded sharply. “I told you to stay
+with her whatever happened. Where is she?”
+
+“That’s what I want to know,” said Tony. “She’s gone!”
+
+“Gone! When did she go?”
+
+“Just before the dark scene. She felt faint and sent me for a glass of
+water. Before I got back, all that row on the stage started, and when
+the lights were turned on again, she’d gone; that’s all.”
+
+“All!” groaned Barrison despairingly. “Tony, you fool! You fool! Well,
+it’s too late to mend matters now.”
+
+“Did anything happen, after all?” asked Tony, with round eyes.
+
+Barrison stood aside and let him see Mortimer’s dead body, which had
+been hidden from his view by the little group around Sybil.
+
+“Oh, Heaven!” gasped Tony, horror-stricken. “Then you don’t think
+she—Miss Templeton—did it? Why, Jim, she couldn’t—there wasn’t time!”
+
+“I don’t think so myself. But it’s not our business to do any thinking
+at all—just yet. This can be a lesson to you, Tony. When you’re
+watching a person, _watch ’em_!”
+
+“Well, I think it can be a lesson to you, too!” said Tony unexpectedly.
+“You’ve been acting all along as though this affair were a movie
+scenario, that you thought was entertaining, but not a bit serious,
+and——”
+
+Jim Barrison flushed deeply and miserably. “I know it, Tony,” he said,
+in a very grave voice. “Don’t make any mistake about it; I’m getting
+mine! I’ll never forgive myself as long as I live.”
+
+Willie Coster came up to them. He was paler and wilder-eyed than ever,
+and his scant red hair stood stiffly erect. Poor Willie! In all his
+long years of nightmarish first nights, this was the worst. Any one who
+knew him could read in his eyes the agonized determination to go and
+get drunk as soon as he possibly could.
+
+“The police inspector has come,” he said, in a low tone. “And, say,
+when you get to sifting things down, I’ve something to say myself.”
+
+“You have! You know who fired the seventh shot?”
+
+“I didn’t say that. But if you’ll ask me some questions by and by, I
+may have something to tell you.”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER IX
+
+                        RECONSTRUCTING THE CRIME
+
+
+Inspector Lowry was an old friend of Barrison’s, though, like most of
+the regular force, inclined to treat the younger man as a dilettante
+rather than an astute professional. However, he was quite ready to
+include Jim in the investigation which he set about making without loss
+of time.
+
+Lowry was a big, raw-boned man of middle age, with a peculiarly soft,
+amiable voice, and a habit of looking at almost any point on earth
+save the face of the person to whom he was speaking. This seemingly
+indifferent manner gave him an enormous advantage over any luckless
+soul whom he chanced to be examining, for when he shot the question
+which was of all questions the most vital and the most important, he
+would suddenly open his eyes and turn their piercing gaze full upon his
+victim. That unfortunate, having by that time relaxed his self-guard,
+would be apt to betray his innermost emotions under the unexpected gaze.
+
+Naturally, the first thing to do was to get Sybil Merivale’s story.
+
+His manner to the girl was not unkindly. She was a piteous figure
+enough, as she sat drooping in the chair they had brought her, trying
+to keep her eyes from turning, with a dreadful fascination, to the
+spatter of red upon the steps so near her. Norman Crane stood at her
+side, with the air of defying the universe, if it were necessary, for
+her protection. Once in a while she would look up at him, and always
+with that subtle expression of apprehension and uncertainty which
+Barrison found so hard to read.
+
+“Miss—ah—Merivale? Quite so, quite so. Miss Merivale, if you feel
+strong enough, I should be glad if you would tell us what you know
+about the shooting.” The inspector’s voice was mild as honey, and his
+glance wandered about this queer, shadowy world behind the scenes. It
+is doubtful if he had ever made an investigation in such surroundings.
+To see him, one would have said that he was interested in everything
+except in Sybil Merivale and what she had to tell.
+
+“I don’t know anything about it,” she answered simply.
+
+“But you were quite close to him when he was shot, were you not?”
+
+“Yes.” She shuddered, and looked down at the stain of blood upon her
+dress. “He was just taking me up in his arms to carry me on——”
+
+“That was in the—ah—action of the play?”
+
+“Yes. After the six shots, I heard another, and felt him stagger. I
+slipped to the floor, and he fell at once. He put out his hand to catch
+at the scenery.” She pointed to the canvas door of the stage set
+which still stood open. “I felt something warm on my hand.” She closed
+her eyes as though the remembrance made her faint. “Then he—he fell
+backward down the steps. That’s all.”
+
+“Ah, yes.” The inspector thought for a moment, and then he said to
+Dukane: “Would it be possible for every one to go to the places they
+occupied at the moment of the shooting? I am assuming that every one is
+here who was here then?”
+
+“Every one; so far as I know, no one has been allowed to leave the
+theater. Willie, tell them to take their places.”
+
+Willie caused a rather ghastly sensation when he called out:
+“Everybody, please! On the stage, every one who is in the last act!”
+
+There was a murmur among the actors.
+
+“Good Lord!” muttered Claire McAllister. “They ain’t goin’ to rehearse
+us _now_, are they?”
+
+Dukane explained, and with all the lights blazing, the players took
+the positions they had occupied at the beginning of the dark scene.
+Stage carpenters and sceneshifters did the same; also Willie and his
+assistant, even Dukane and Barrison. The woman Parry and old Wrenn went
+into the dressing rooms, where they had been, and closed the doors.
+Sybil Merivale mounted the little flight of steps and stood at the top,
+looking through the open door onto the stage.
+
+“Is that just the way you stood?”
+
+Every one answered “yes” to this question.
+
+One or two things became apparent by this plan, which rather surprised
+Barrison. He had not, for one thing, realized how close Willie Coster
+stood to the place where Mortimer fell. Yet, of course, he should have
+expected it. It was, as a matter of fact, Willie who directed the six
+shots, which were supposed to come from the point back of _Tarrant’s_
+entrance. There were, as it turned out, at least three persons who were
+so close as to have been material witnesses had there been any light:
+Willie, the man who fired the shots and had charge of other off-stage
+effects, and—Norman Crane.
+
+Crane took up his position immediately inside the box set, close to the
+doorway.
+
+“Is that where you stood?” asked Lowry.
+
+“Yes. I played the part of a Mexican desperado, and was supposed to be
+on guard at the door leading down into the cellar, which was the stage.”
+
+“The door was open, as it is now?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then you could have seen through it anything that happened on the
+steps off stage?”
+
+“I could have if there had been light enough.”
+
+“As it was, you didn’t see anything?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Didn’t hear anything?”
+
+The young man seemed to pause for just a moment before he said “No,” to
+this question also. If the inspector noticed his hesitation, he did
+not appear to do so. He began to talk in an undertone to one of the men
+who had come with him.
+
+John Carlton had been sending in frantic messages ever since the
+tragedy, begging to be permitted to come behind, but the allied powers
+there agreed that there were enough people marooned as it was. There
+was nothing to be gained by adding another, and one whom it would
+probably be unnecessary either to hold or to bind with nervousness and
+disappointment.
+
+In an undertone, Dukane said to Jim Barrison: “I thought they always
+sent for a doctor first of all? Why isn’t there one here?”
+
+“There is,” returned Jim, in the same tone. “He’s over there with the
+two policemen and the plain-clothes man who came in with Lowry—the
+little, old fellow with spectacles. Lowry’ll call on him again in a
+moment; he examined the body and pronounced life extinct. That was all
+that was absolutely necessary. Lowry has his own way of doing things,
+and he’s supreme in his department. He’s ‘reconstructing the crime’
+just now.”
+
+Barrison, indeed, was listening with gradually increasing interest.
+This method which was being employed by Inspector Lowry, sometimes
+known as the “reconstruction-of-the-crime” method, was rather
+old-fashioned, and many younger and more modern men preferred the more
+scientific, analytical, and deductive ways of solving mysteries. Yet
+there was something distinctly fascinating, even illuminating, about
+the inspector’s simple, sure-fire fashion of setting his stage and
+perhaps his trap at one and the same time. Barrison felt his own veins
+tingle with the leap of his roused blood.
+
+“Barrison,” said Lowry pleasantly, “just go up there on those steps,
+and be Mortimer for a minute. So!” The younger man obeyed with
+alacrity. “Miss Merivale, was that about where he stood?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And you are sure that you yourself were just where you are now?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Just there, you know. Not more to the right?”
+
+She glanced at him with faint wonder.
+
+“I think I may have been a little more to the right,” she said. “That
+is, to your right, and my left. But I don’t see why you thought so—and
+it doesn’t matter, does it?”
+
+“And you, Mr. Crane,” pursued the inspector, paying no attention to her
+last words, “you are absolutely certain of where you stood?”
+
+“Absolutely.”
+
+“Ah, yes, quite so; quite so!” murmured Lowry, looking dreamily into
+space. Suddenly he faced about and said sharply: “Mr. Crane, will you
+kindly lift your right hand and point it at Mr. Barrison? Just so;
+exactly! At that range, you could hardly have missed him.”
+
+Norman Crane clenched his fists in a white heat of indignation. “You
+dare to imply——”
+
+“Only what your fiancée has already been fearing,” said the inspector
+calmly, “that your position in this matter is, to say the least, not
+less unpleasant than hers. You were, as is evident, only a few feet
+away from the man.”
+
+Crane started to speak, but checked himself. Barrison thought he
+knew what he would have said; or, if he was not going to say it, he
+should have, for the direction of the bullet was a thing which ought
+to be easily determined. But something prevented the young actor from
+uttering anything resembling a protest; it was simple to see what it
+was.
+
+Sybil Merivale, however unwillingly or unconsciously, had given color
+to suspicion against him by the low, heart-broken sobbing into which
+she had broken at the bare suggestion.
+
+After one quick look at the obvious distress of the young girl whom he
+loved so well, Norman Crane suddenly changed his antagonistic attitude.
+He faced the detectives quietly, and said to them, in a manner that was
+not without dignity:
+
+“Very well. I admit that it looks bad for me. I suppose that is enough?
+If you feel that you have any case at all against me, I shall make no
+trouble. Do you mean to arrest me?”
+
+The inspector looked at him rather more directly than was his wont, and
+also longer.
+
+At last he allowed himself to smile, and though he was known to be
+a hard man with even possible criminals, the smile was singularly
+pleasant just then.
+
+“Bless you,” he remarked tranquilly, “that’s all a matter for our
+medical friends to settle! If the bullet entered the body at a certain
+angle and a certain range, it will let you out.”
+
+“Then all this,” exclaimed Crane angrily—it was so like a boy to
+be most enraged when most relieved—“all this is waste of time—pure
+theatrics?”
+
+But at this point Willie Coster interfered. “Say, Mr. Inspector,” he
+said, awkwardly but determinedly, “I’m not crazy about a spotlight on
+myself, but just here there’s something I ought to say. I was pretty
+close by, myself, you understand.”
+
+“Exactly where you are now?”
+
+“Yes. And until the lantern was broken in the scrap scene, there was a
+little light shining through that door from the stage. See?”
+
+“Yes!” It was not only the representatives of the law who listened
+eagerly now. “Go on, man, go on!”
+
+“Well”—Willie hesitated, gulped, and plunged ahead—“I saw a woman’s
+shadow on the wall, and she had something in her hand. That’s all I
+wanted to say.”
+
+“Something in her——A revolver?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Would you be prepared to—ah—say that you recognized the shadow?”
+
+“I would not. One woman’s shadow’s much like another, so far as I can
+see; and the women, too, for that matter! I never troubled to tell ’em
+apart!”
+
+“And you won’t even express a—ah—an impression as to whether what this
+shadow woman held was a weapon or not?”
+
+“No!” snapped Willie impatiently. “Why should I? I didn’t think about
+it at the time. I was waiting to time those shots. All I know is that
+it was a woman, and that she was holding something. She had something
+in her hand.”
+
+“I’d give something if I had it in mine!” muttered the inspector
+fervently, more fervently than he usually permitted himself to speak
+when on a case.
+
+Barrison put his hand in his pocket and drew out the thing which he had
+found in the shadow of the miniature stairway. He thought it the proper
+time to hand it over, and he said:
+
+“I think you have it now, Lowry! The barrel was still warm when I
+picked it up a few minutes after the murder.”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER X
+
+                           FACTS AND FANCIES
+
+
+A short while later the inspector addressed them mildly:
+
+“I very often get a great deal of blame because I won’t do things
+in a regulation way. But, even while I get the blame, I also get
+the results—sometimes, not always.” The inspector looked around him
+thoughtfully, and repeated: “Not always. As most people know, the first
+thing we must do in locating a crime is to find out who could have done
+it; next, who wanted to do it. The opportunity is valueless without
+the wish; the wish is not enough without the opportunity. But, of the
+two essential points, the opportunity is the big thing. For instance,
+some one standing in Miss Merivale’s position—I mean, of course, her
+physical position—might have that opportunity. It also seems to me that
+some one standing on the stage level, on the right of the steps, and
+reaching upward, would have practically the same opportunity.”
+
+He took the little pistol and balanced it lightly in his big hand. Then
+he walked over to the point at which the weapon had been found at the
+side of the steps which was farthest from the front.
+
+He raised his arm and pointed at Barrison, who still stood where
+Mortimer had been standing.
+
+“You see,” he said, “it could have been done this way. The bullet would
+have entered the body under the right arm as he picked Miss Merivale
+up, supposing her story to have been true.”
+
+“Then,” exclaimed Norman Crane eagerly, “that eliminates both Miss
+Merivale and myself from the suspects!”
+
+“It surely eliminates you,” rejoined the police officer calmly,
+“because you couldn’t have thrown this gun through the door so that
+it fell where it did fall, unless you were a particularly skillful
+baseball pitcher; and then you couldn’t! But, as for Miss Merivale—Miss
+Merivale, we will suppose that you are going to shoot this man; please
+consider Mr. Barrison in that light. He is taller than you; the weapon
+you use may be held close to your side to avoid detection.”
+
+“I had no weapon!” she flashed.
+
+“Naturally not, naturally not!” agreed the inspector, with a pacific
+wave of his hand. “But you might have had, you know——”
+
+“How could——”
+
+“Pouf, pouf, my dear Miss Merivale! How you carried it—or, rather,
+could have carried it, is a secondary matter. I never saw a woman’s
+costume yet in which she could not secrete anything she wanted. Your
+dress is one of the very modern, extra loose coat affairs; there are a
+hundred ways in which you _could_ have secreted anything you wished. I
+didn’t say you had; I merely said that you were foolish to say it was
+impossible. As I was saying, if you did happen to have a pistol and
+did happen to shoot it off at Mr. Mortimer, the angle would be very
+much the same as that taken by the bullet of some one standing somewhat
+below and reaching upward as far as they could.”
+
+“Oh!” cried Sybil breathlessly. “You forget—he would have been shot
+squarely in front, if I had done it—or Norman!”
+
+“Yes?” said Lowry, pleasantly attentive.
+
+“Why, yes!” she reminded him. “He was facing me.”
+
+“We have only your word,” said the officer gently.
+
+“I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then stopped in discomfort. He
+recalled that he had sworn not to have seen anything through the open
+door.
+
+Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself from reminding him
+that his testimony under the circumstances would be rather worse
+than nothing. To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without any
+discourtesy to you, we are bound to consider any and all possibilities.”
+
+“But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all that would be settled by
+the doctors!”
+
+“I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily, Miss Merivale’s.
+Doctor Colton?”
+
+The little man with spectacles stepped forward, and, after a brief
+interchange of words with the inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer.
+
+Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to have the murdered man carried
+in somewhere, just as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees it.
+The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite so—quite so! That will do
+excellently. Very near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured
+the distance between the door of the room and the spot where the murder
+had taken place. “Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh, here’s the
+medical examiner now. In a minute I think you may dismiss your people,
+most of them, that is. We shall know where to reach them, if necessary,
+eh?”
+
+“Of course—at any time.”
+
+“Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale, and—let me see—the man
+who was on guard at the door between the front and back. And your
+stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to him a bit later. But the
+rest—what do you call them—supers?”
+
+“Extras. I may dismiss the extras?”
+
+“I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs in the upper tier
+of rooms, weren’t they?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then I doubt if we want them——”
+
+Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper that Claire
+McAllister should be held. He knew that she was bound to talk sooner
+or later about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and he felt that
+it might as well be sooner as later. Barrison, looking toward the star
+dressing room, saw that the door was a little open, and that old Wrenn
+was standing in the aperture, with an expression of intense agitation
+upon his wrinkled face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear, it
+would be impossible at that juncture to say. Barrison rather believed
+it was the latter. Though of what could that old man be so acutely
+afraid?
+
+There was another person who was taking an exceptional interest in the
+proceedings, the uniformed guard who had been placed on duty at the
+communicating door, the young man whom the inspector had said he wished
+to question later. Lowry suddenly turned upon him.
+
+“Is that where you stood at the time of the shooting?” he demanded.
+
+The young man started and flushed.
+
+“N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there by the door.”
+
+“Then go back there over by the door, and stay there until you are told
+to move.”
+
+The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and muttering something
+under his breath.
+
+Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed, and the body was to
+be removed, Barrison felt that Lowry had not yet quite finished with
+his reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by young Crane as
+“theatrics.” His instinct was not at fault.
+
+The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward Sybil Merivale. “Miss
+Merivale,” he said, “you have already given us some testimony which
+doubtless was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg you to be even
+more generous. You have said that you stood there at the head of the
+steps, waiting for your cue. I should like you now to be more detailed.
+You are relating, remember, what occurred within the last two minutes
+of Alan Mortimer’s life. There could scarcely be two minutes more
+important, and I must ask you as solemnly and urgently as I can to omit
+nothing that could possibly throw any light upon the problem of how he
+met his death. Will you repeat what you said before, with any additions
+that come to you as you strain your memory?”
+
+“I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What more is there to
+tell?”
+
+“Try to remember!” said the inspector.
+
+Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing, and that he had no idea of
+anything further that the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil
+flushed painfully and looked away. The younger detective shook his head
+in silent admiration. The inspector might be old-fashioned, but he had
+his inspirations.
+
+“I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a low voice, “and looking at
+the stage through the open door. I have told you that.”
+
+“What was your cue, Miss Merivale?”
+
+“But you know that—after the lantern was broken, there were to be six
+shots, and he”—she would not mention his name—“was to carry me on in
+his arms.”
+
+“Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough. “It is true that we
+have heard this before, Miss Merivale, but in my experience even the
+most honest witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated the words
+with faint emphasis—“seldom tells a story precisely the same twice. You
+were standing there——”
+
+“I was standing there, and I heard him come up behind me.”
+
+“How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if you were not looking in his
+direction?”
+
+“I heard him speak.”
+
+“What did he say?”
+
+“I don’t know. He was muttering to himself. He seemed horribly
+angry—upset. I thought——” She checked herself.
+
+“What did you think?”
+
+“That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very much excited. He kept
+muttering things under his breath, and once he stumbled.”
+
+Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally; but he was cold sober
+to-night. I know.”
+
+“Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then it was something else
+which had upset him; quite so. You see, one gets more from the second
+telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss Merivale. You knew
+from his voice that he was excited. Did he come up onto the steps at
+once?”
+
+“I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly; she seemed honestly
+confused. “When he spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken a
+step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn round at once.”
+
+“Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?”
+
+“Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then paled. “It hasn’t—truly,
+it hasn’t—anything to do with—all this!” she pleaded.
+
+“I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of that,” Lowry said, quite
+gently; Barrison had an idea that the old sleuth was truly sorry for
+the girl, but he never willingly left a trail. “What did he say?”
+
+“He said—he said: ‘If you knew the state of mind I’m in, you’d think I
+was showing great self-control toward you, this minute!’ That’s exactly
+what he said.”
+
+“What did he mean by that?” demanded the inspector, surprised and not
+taking the trouble, for once, to hide it.
+
+She was silent.
+
+“I asked you, Miss Merivale, if you have any idea what he meant by so
+peculiar a greeting? Can you think of anything in your acquaintance—in
+your relation with him—which might explain it?”
+
+“Yes!” she said, lifting her head and answering boldly. “I know
+perfectly well what he meant. He was excited or probably he would not
+have said it then, for he cared awfully about his profession, his work
+on the stage, and he would ordinarily have been thinking most of that,
+just then. But he meant—I am sure he meant that—the darkness gave
+him—opportunities.”
+
+“Opportunities?”
+
+“Opportunities—such as—such as—he had abused before.”
+
+There was the pause of a breath.
+
+“You mean,” said Inspector Lowry, “that he had forced his attentions
+upon you in the past?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Against your will? I asked you—against your will?”
+
+“I had always refused his attentions,” she answered, with hesitation.
+
+The detectives noted the change of phrase as she answered, but the
+inspector made no comment.
+
+“Very well,” he said. “What did you answer then? I presume you turned
+round to face him?”
+
+“Yes, I did.”
+
+“What did you answer?”
+
+“I didn’t say anything—then.”
+
+“Ah—not then! What did you do, Miss Merivale? Did you hear me?”
+
+“Yes, I heard you. I did not do anything. I stood still. I was
+frightened.”
+
+“You stood still, facing him. Could you see him?”
+
+“Yes. He was just below me. I could see him, and I thought I heard him
+laugh in a—a dreadful way. He came up two of the steps, and I could see
+his face.”
+
+“It was not the dark scene yet?”
+
+“No; the lantern was not yet out. It was dark, but not pitch dark. His
+face frightened me. He had frightened me before.”
+
+“And did Mr. Mortimer speak to you again?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+The answer came in a gasping breath, and Norman Crane seemed to echo
+it unconsciously. He was following every syllable that she spoke with
+a terrible attentiveness, and at that last “yes” he shuddered and drew
+his breath quickly. Lowry fixed him with that disconcerting, unexpected
+look of his.
+
+“So that was what you heard through the open door!” he said, making it
+a statement, not a query. “Well, Miss Merivale, he was coming up the
+steps toward you, and he said——”
+
+“He said, ‘When I pick you up to-night to carry you onto the stage—I
+shall kiss you!’”
+
+The shudder that came with this admission shook her. Her eyes turned
+toward the body which, for some reason, had not yet been taken away,
+and in their gaze there was fear and loathing, and—it might be—contempt.
+
+“Ah!” said Inspector Lowry, apparently unsurprised. “And what did you
+answer, Miss Merivale?”
+
+She hardly seemed to hear. Her eyes were still fixed upon that dead
+face, awful in its paint and powder, such a handsome face, lately so
+full of compelling charm, even now a face that one could scarcely pass
+without a second look.
+
+“What did you say, Miss Merivale?”
+
+She paused for only a moment; then, looking straight at the inspector,
+she replied very deliberately indeed:
+
+“I said: ‘If you do that—I shall kill you!’”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER XI
+
+                       IN THE STAR DRESSING ROOM
+
+
+A brief pause followed Sybil’s unexpectedly dramatic statement. Then
+Inspector Lowry bowed gravely.
+
+“That is all, Miss Merivale,” he said, without looking at her. “We
+shall not want you for a while, though I shall have to speak to you
+again later. I should advise you, as a friend, to go to your own
+dressing room to rest.”
+
+“May I—mayn’t I—go home?” she asked piteously. But on such points as
+these no amount of courtesy or human sympathy could make Lowry less
+inexorable.
+
+“Not just yet,” he said calmly. “Later, we shall see. Go and rest, my
+dear young lady. Do go and rest!”
+
+Norman Crane started forward to help her, but, to every one’s surprise,
+Claire McAllister, the extra woman who had been kept for possibly
+relevant testimony, was before him.
+
+“You come with me, you poor kid!” she exclaimed, as tenderly as she
+possibly could. “I’ll see to you. Gee, but this is a bunch of boobs,
+not to see that you’re about as apt to get in wrong as a two-months’
+one! Come on, deary!”
+
+They vanished within the dressing room wherein Sybil had dressed for a
+possible triumph that selfsame evening—hard as it was for any of them
+to believe it. That evening? It might just as well have been a month
+earlier, and even Dukane, the imperturbable, was haggard with the
+strain already.
+
+To him Lowry said something in a low voice, and the manager turned at
+once to Mortimer’s valet, still standing at the door:
+
+“Wrenn, clear the couch in there. We are——” He paused, respecting the
+man’s feelings, and ended gently: “We are bringing him in.”
+
+They carried the big, splendidly made form into the room which he
+had left such a short time before, in such a high tide of life and
+strength. There was nothing of tragedy in this setting. Barrison looked
+about him curiously, as though he were in a queer sort of dream in
+which all manner of incongruities might be expected.
+
+There were brilliant electric bulbs topping and framing the glass on
+the dressing table; Barrison knew that actors were obliged to test
+their make-up under various lighting effects, and there was something
+darkly strange in this array of lights still ready for a test that
+could not come again—for Mortimer. At that same table, under the same
+bulbs, other stars would put on paint and wigs and costumes. This one
+would do so no more.
+
+In that vivid glare, the litter of the paraphernalia of make-up glowed
+with a somewhat gay, decorative effect. Rouge boxes and cold-cream jars
+and sticks of grease paint lay just as he had left them. Evidently
+Mortimer had been “touching up” for the last act, and the valet had not
+yet had time to clear up or put away anything.
+
+Lowry’s keen eyes ran over the room, in that seemingly cursory but
+actually minute inspection which characterized his methods. There was
+nothing about it unlike other theatrical dressing rooms. There was
+the usual long dresser with its rows of brilliant bulbs; there were
+the clothes hanging on the walls; there was the couch—now bearing
+that tragic burden, the magnificent body in khaki—the big trunk, the
+two chairs—the small one by the table, and the easy one for rest and
+visitors. Apparently, there was nothing in the room for a detective to
+note, save the dead man, and—here the inspector’s glance became more
+vague, a sure sign that he was particularly interested, for he was
+looking at Wrenn.
+
+The old man, in his decent black clothes, was standing near the couch;
+and he was watching the intruders with a sort of baleful combination
+of terror and resentment. The fear which he had shown in his face when
+he looked out of the dressing-room door a few minutes since, had not
+vanished from it; but to it was added another, and a not less violent
+emotion. He was angry, he was on the defensive. He might, for the
+moment, have been some cornered animal, frightened, but nevertheless
+about to spring upon his enemy.
+
+It was against Lowry’s principles to ask questions at such moments
+as might be considered obvious; so it was Dukane who said, with some
+asperity:
+
+“What’s the matter, Wrenn?”
+
+The old man’s face worked and his voice shook, as he returned:
+
+“Mr. Dukane, sir—you—you aren’t going to let all these people in here,
+to poke and pry about among my poor master’s things? It’s—it’s a wicked
+shame, so it is! I’d never have thought it possible! It’s an outrage——”
+
+“You’re crazy, Wrenn!” said Dukane, trying to remember the old fellow’s
+bereavement, and doing his best to speak kindly instead of impatiently.
+“These are detectives, officers of the law. They are on this case, and
+they have a perfect right to do anything they want to.”
+
+“But, sir”—the old servant was working himself up more and more, and
+his cracked voice was growing shrill—“what are they doing here, sir?
+What can they have to do here? Can’t his—his poor body rest in peace
+without a—a lot of policemen poking——”
+
+The inspector interrupted him placidly. “Much obliged for the
+suggestion, Wrenn! We might not have thought of searching this dressing
+room, but, thanks to you, we certainly will now!”
+
+“Of course,” he said to Barrison later, “we’d have had to do it anyway,
+but I wanted to scare that old chap into thinking it was chiefly his
+doing!”
+
+Wrenn gasped. “Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Dukane!” he implored. “Can’t he—lie
+in peace—just for to-night? I—I’d like to sit with him to-night, sir.
+Surely there’s no harm?”
+
+“Was he so very kind to you?” said the inspector sympathetically.
+
+Wrenn hesitated. “Mostly he was, sir,” he said at last, quite simply.
+And then he added in a queer, forlorn way: “I—I’ve been with him a long
+time, you know, sir.”
+
+The detectives, despite Wrenn’s protests, searched the room with
+methodical thoroughness. If there was one single thing, no bigger than
+a pin, which ought not, in the nature of things, to be in a dressing
+room of this kind, why, they were there to find it.
+
+“But why?” Dukane whispered to Barrison. “Not that there is the
+slightest objection—but what is it Lowry expects to find?”
+
+“He doesn’t,” replied Barrison. “He’s from Missouri; he wants to be
+shown. We always search the premises, you know——”
+
+“But it wasn’t here he was killed.”
+
+“No; but it was so near here that——Hello! They’ve got something!”
+
+He spoke in the tone of suppressed excitement that a fox hunter might
+have used.
+
+The plain-clothes man with the inspector had opened the trunk, and was
+staring into it with a puzzled face. At the same moment, Wrenn emitted
+a low moan, as though, after a struggle, he found himself obliged to
+give up at last. He staggered a trifle, and caught at the back of a
+chair to steady himself.
+
+“Well,” said the inspector, softly jocose. “Haven’t found the murderer
+in that trunk, have you, Sims?”
+
+“No, sir,” said the officer; but his voice was as puzzled as his eyes.
+“Only this.”
+
+He took something out of the trunk, and held it up in the unsparing
+glare of the dressing-room lights. It was assuredly an odd sort of
+article to be found in a man’s theater trunk. For it was a piece of
+filmy white stuff, with lace upon it, badly torn.
+
+“A sleeve,” said the inspector, with an obvious accent of astonishment.
+“A woman’s sleeve—let’s have a look at it.”
+
+He took it into his own hands. Clearly, it was the sleeve and part of
+the shoulder of a woman’s dress or blouse, trimmed with elaborate, but
+rather coarse and cheap lace. On the front, where it had evidently been
+ripped and torn away from the original garment, were finger prints,
+stamped in a brownish red.
+
+The inspector’s eyes strayed to the dressing table with its array of
+paints and powders.
+
+“Anything there that will correspond? Barrison, take a look, while
+Sims goes through the rest of the trunk.”
+
+Barrison returned with a jar.
+
+“It’s bolamine,” explained Dukane. “They use it for a dark make-up,
+to suggest tan or sunburn. Mortimer would naturally use it in an
+out-of-door part of this sort.”
+
+“On his hands, too?”
+
+“Surely on his hands; only amateurs forget the hands.”
+
+“Ah!” said Lowry. “We’ll have the finger prints examined and compared
+with Mortimer’s, though it’s scarcely necessary, I imagine. It’s so
+evident that——”
+
+Wrenn broke in, almost frantically:
+
+“It’s only a make-up rag, sir! Every one uses make-up rags, sir, to
+wipe the make-up off!”
+
+“Ah!” said Lowry. “You provided yourself with these make-up rags, then?”
+
+“Yes, sir!” Wrenn spoke eagerly. “I asked the chambermaid at the hotel
+for some old pieces for Mr. Mortimer, and——”
+
+“Wrenn, don’t be a fool,” said Lowry, speaking sharply for the first
+time. “In the first place—unless I am much mistaken—make-up rags are
+used only when the make-up is taken off—right, Mr. Dukane?”
+
+The manager nodded.
+
+“And then—why, in that case, was this rag so precious that you had to
+shut it up in a trunk, before it had been used? For I take it that a
+make-up rag doesn’t show just one or two complete sets of finger prints
+when a man gets through with it! It must look something like a rag
+that’s used on brasses or an automobile! Also, I see that there are two
+or three cloths already on the dressing table.”
+
+He turned his back on Wrenn, and examined the bit of linen that he
+held, while the other detectives held their breath.
+
+“This,” he said at last, “was torn from the dress of some woman who was
+in the dressing room to-night, at some time after Mortimer was made up.”
+
+He turned to Dukane, with the faintest shrug, and said:
+
+“You know, when I tried to reconstruct the crime by putting every
+one in their places—the places they had occupied at the time of the
+shooting—I was attempting the impossible. For there evidently was some
+one else here, some one who has gone; some one”—his eyes flew suddenly
+and piercingly to Wrenn—“whom this man wishes to shield.”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XII
+
+                            THE TWO DOORWAYS
+
+
+Whether it was strictly correct or not, no one was in a position to
+question, but, anyway, Inspector Lowry told Sybil finally to go home
+after leaving her address. A lot of skeleton theories had come tumbling
+down with the discovery that another and unknown woman had been present
+in Mortimer’s dressing room that night.
+
+Even Claire McAllister’s testimony—that Miss Merivale had told her she
+sometimes wished she could kill their star—fell flat after Sybil’s own
+confession of not only what she had felt, but what she had threatened.
+
+The whole business was, as Barrison could see, a sickening one for
+Inspector Lowry. He had fallen down right and left; practically
+speaking, he had nothing left now to work on, out of all his ingenious
+work of reconstruction.
+
+Only his examination of the two men on guard at the doors had brought
+out anything clear cut, anything on which seriously to work.
+
+First of all, he had questioned Joe Lynch, the young fellow whose job
+it had been to keep any one save the detective and the manager from
+passing either way through the communicating door.
+
+“Your name is Joe Lynch, you say?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“You have already said that you stood there by the communicating door
+during the dark scene, Lynch?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Just there?”
+
+“As near as I can say, sir, yes. I was close up here by the door. My
+orders was to keep it shut except for the detectives or Mr. Dukane.”
+
+“And did you know why?”
+
+“Why, how do you mean, sir?”
+
+“Did you understand why the orders were so strict to-night of all
+nights?”
+
+“Oh, that. Yes, sir; I knew there’d been some talk of Mr. Mortimer
+being in some sort of danger.”
+
+“Who told you?”
+
+“Why, I couldn’t say, sir. I don’t rightly know. Them things gets
+about. Anyhow, I knew that; and I was, so to speak, sort o’ set on
+taking care of Mr. Mortimer.”
+
+“Did you like him, then?”
+
+The young man’s dull eyes opened wide.
+
+“Me, sir?” he said, in surprise. “I never see him to talk to. But I was
+wanting to do my part. Mr. Dukane and Mr. Barrison, too, told me I was
+to look sharp. So I did.”
+
+“Ah! You did, eh? You looked sharp, eh?”
+
+“Yes, sir.”
+
+“Sure?”
+
+“Why, yes, sir! Course I did! I—I was keen on showing I was as quick as
+the next.”
+
+“Ah! How were you going to show that?”
+
+Young Lynch laughed frankly, yet with a sort of embarrassment, too.
+
+“Well, sir, Mr. Dukane, he offered twenty-five dollars either to Mr.
+Roberts or me if we could spot any one trying anything suspicious, or
+anything.”
+
+“_Ah!_” The inspector’s laconic monosyllable sounded a bit sharper than
+usual. “So that was it! Lynch, you were standing there when you heard
+the shot?”
+
+“Yes, sir, as near as I can say now, in these very tracks.”
+
+The inspector stood beside him and let his eyes move slowly from the
+big door beside them to the little flight of steps where the star had
+met his death.
+
+“Mighty narrow way to pass,” he murmured, half to himself.
+
+“Sir?” said Lynch respectfully.
+
+The inspector continued to measure distances with his eye.
+
+“You see,” he said to Lynch, “if you will draw a straight line from
+here where we stand, past the angle of the property-room corner to the
+entrance where Mr. Mortimer was waiting, do you see what I mean?”
+
+Lynch looked obediently where he was directed. “No, sir,” he said,
+after he had looked.
+
+Lowry sighed gently. “Not much space to pass any one, anyway,” he
+murmured.
+
+Lynch looked at him, still blankly.
+
+“Lynch,” said the inspector, “if I were in your place, and had a chance
+of making twenty-five dollars if I caught any one, and while I was on
+duty like this, and heard a shot——”
+
+He paused, not seeming to look at Lynch, but really noting every shadow
+and light that passed over his face.
+
+“If I were, in short, as you had been situated, I should have left
+my post when I heard that shot and run forward toward the man I was
+supposed to guard. I think I should have considered it my duty.”
+
+“Would you, indeed, sir?” cried young Lynch hopefully.
+
+The inspector suddenly looked at him and said dryly. “So that’s what
+you did? Suppose you tell me all about it. You heard the shot, and——”
+
+“If you please, sir,” protested the young man eagerly and rather
+unhappily, “it wasn’t the shot; leastways, I didn’t know about how many
+shots there’d be. It was the scream. I heard the shots, one after the
+other, and then the scream—a dreadful scream, if you please, sir. And,
+of course, I thought first of all of Mr. Mortimer, and there being
+danger, and—and all that. And I run forward, sir, a few steps, through
+the dark, wishing to be of some use, and——”
+
+“And to get the twenty-five dollars?”
+
+“Well, sir, that perhaps; of course, I’m not saying that wasn’t in the
+back of my mind. But what I was thinking of first was that there was
+trouble, and that I might be needed.”
+
+“That’s all right; I believe you.” Lowry spoke shortly, but not at all
+unkindly. “The point is that, within half a second of the time of the
+shooting, you had left this particular point, and run in the direction
+of the shots. In other words, Lynch, this door was unguarded.”
+
+“Unguarded, sir!” Lynch was aghast, and truly so. “Unguarded, sir! But
+I had been at my post all the evening! No one had gone in or out——”
+
+“No one had gone in or out during the evening, I am absolutely
+convinced. But, after the murder, any one who chanced to be there could
+have gone out. Isn’t that so?”
+
+“But——” The young guard’s troubled eyes began to measure the distance
+between the door and the stage steps, just as the detectives had done
+before.
+
+“Ah!” said Lowry. “You see why I spoke of the narrow passage which
+would have to be traversed. It would be very narrow, indeed. Any one
+who wanted to get from those steps to the communicating door would
+have to pass you at very close quarters, Lynch. And yet—the thing could
+be done. The thing could be done. I have not lived so long without
+learning that it is these unlikely, well-nigh impossible things that
+come off in the smoothest way of all. All right, Lynch, I’m obliged to
+you. It’s not your fault. You were a bit overzealous, but I don’t think
+we’ll put you in jail for that. However you look at it, you’ve shown us
+one way in which the murderer might have escaped.”
+
+He turned and crooked his arm in that of Barrison.
+
+“Now, we’ll go and interview the stage doorkeeper,” he said. Together
+he and Barrison attacked old Roberts, who confronted him at the
+entrance with a look of mingled apprehension and bravado. His round,
+flabby face was rather pale, and he gave the impression of a weak old
+child trying to act like a brave man.
+
+“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he demanded, in a tone that broke
+timidly in spite of himself.
+
+They were both very nice to him. In this case, Lowry let Barrison do
+most of the talking, feeling that it was a case that required tact.
+He stood back in thoughtful silence while Jim got around the old
+doorkeeper in his very best and most diplomatic style with the result
+that within five minutes poor old Roberts was crumpling up in rather a
+piteous fashion, perfectly ready to tell them anything and everything
+he had ever done, said, or heard of.
+
+“I didn’t mean no harm,” he protested at last, with such an attitude
+of abasement that neither Barrison nor, indeed, Lowry had the heart to
+rub it in. “I do hope—oh, I do hope, that you’ll not let Mr. Dukane
+discharge me! I’ve been here a good many years, and no one can say as
+I’ve not been faithful. I don’t believe there’s been another night in
+all my life when I’ve left my post.”
+
+“It would have to be to-night!” murmured Lowry.
+
+“It would!” agreed Barrison. “Go on, Roberts. No one wants to kill you,
+and I don’t believe there’s the least likelihood of your losing your
+job. Just tell us——”
+
+“You don’t know Mr. Dukane, sir!” Roberts almost wept. “He’s strict,
+sir; very strict! He says a thing and you’ve got to do it, no matter
+what happens! _I_ know—haven’t I been working for him for twenty years?
+And now to be fired and out——”
+
+“Who said you were going to be fired? Get along, Roberts! Tell us what
+it was that you did.”
+
+“I left the stage door, sir,” said Roberts humbly.
+
+“That we gathered. But why did you leave it, and when, and for how
+long?”
+
+Roberts sniffed and answered in a small stifled voice:
+
+“As to when I left it, sir—it was when Mrs. Parry came to ask me to get
+a taxi for Miss Legaye.”
+
+“Why didn’t you get a taxi, then—telephone for one?”
+
+“I did, sir. I telephoned two places, but there wasn’t a single machine
+in. The starters all said the same thing: It looked like rain, and
+they couldn’t guarantee a taxi for an hour yet. I—I like Miss Kitty,
+sir; she’s always kind to me, and I didn’t want her to have to wait,
+’specially when she was sick, as Mrs. Parry said she was. So, when I
+found I couldn’t get one over the wire, I went out into the alley to
+see if I could see one passing.”
+
+“Well, that doesn’t seem very awful,” said Barrison, smiling at him.
+“Did you get one?”
+
+Poor old Roberts brightened a bit at the kindly inflection.
+
+“I couldn’t see one, sir, not from this door, so I went up to the gate
+at the end of the court, and looked up and down the street. And after
+a minute I saw one coming and hailed it, and it stopped. So I ran
+back again; and Miss Legaye was standing just outside the stage door,
+waiting. So I called to her ‘All right, Miss Legaye, your taxi’s here!’
+and went on back. She passed me, in her red coat, about halfway, and
+I told her I was sorry to have kept her waiting. Then I hurried back
+here.”
+
+“And you are sure you didn’t pass any one but Miss Legaye in the alley,
+no one coming in?”
+
+The old fellow shook his head. “So far as any one going out goes,”
+he said, “how do I know? My eyes are not so young as they were. But
+coming in! Why, I was back here! How could any one pass me in the light
+without my seeing them?”
+
+“But,” suggested Barrison, “while you were down at the street signaling
+the taxi, some one who had been hiding in the alley might have slipped
+in, mightn’t they?”
+
+Old Roberts hung his head, and his whole heavy body expressed dejection.
+
+“That’s what I keep saying to myself, sir!” he whispered. “Not that I
+think it’s likely—but—my eyes aren’t what they once were, and suppose
+the murderer was hiding there, and just waiting for a chance to get in?”
+
+“And how long, altogether, were you away?” Lowry spoke for the first
+time.
+
+“That’s easy, sir. I went out a few minutes after Mrs. Parry told me to
+send for the taxi, and I had just come back when Mr. Barrison here came
+out to ask me if I’d seen any one pass.”
+
+“That was just before the shooting,” Barrison said.
+
+“_Before_ the shooting. And you’re prepared to swear, Roberts, that no
+one came out of the theater after that?”
+
+“I am, sir!” The old man’s eyes, dim as they were, left no room for
+doubt; he was speaking the truth.
+
+“All right, Roberts. I’m sure you’ve told the truth, and Mr. Dukane
+shall be told so. I don’t believe you’ll lose your job. Just the same,
+I wish you hadn’t gone to hunt taxicabs at that particular moment.”
+
+As the two detectives walked away, Lowry said under his breath:
+“We’ve proved that no one left the theater by the stage door after
+the shooting, but we’ve proved that they might have done so by the
+communicating door. We’ve proved that Lynch was at his post for the
+whole evening up to the shooting, so that no one could have come in
+by that way before then; but, since he left it afterward, there is no
+reason to suppose that that some one could not have made their exit
+that way after the crime. In other words, my dear friend and colleague,
+while we can’t prove it, we can find a perfectly possible way for the
+murderer to have entered and an equally possible way for him, or her,
+to have departed.”
+
+“You think that—whoever it was—came in while Roberts was blundering up
+or down the alley?”
+
+“I see no other explanation. Barrison, you are not officially under me,
+but I respect your judgment, and I like your work. I should be obliged
+if you would take on such branches of this case as seem to lie in your
+way. You have been in it since—so to speak—its inception. You should
+have a line on many aspects of it that I couldn’t possibly get, coming
+into it as I must, from a purely and coldly official standpoint. I’ll
+expect you to do your darnedest on it, and help me in every way you
+can. Right?”
+
+“Right, sir.” The young detective’s tone was full of ardor.
+
+“Then good night to you. One moment. Did you notice the initial on this
+pistol, the one you picked up?”
+
+He produced it as he spoke.
+
+“No,” said Jim. “I didn’t want any one to see it, so tucked it away
+without a look.”
+
+“Take it along with you,” said Lowry unexpectedly. “You may be able to
+spot the owner.”
+
+Barrison seized the tiny weapon with avidity; it was too dark where
+they stood for him to see clearly, and he said, with open eagerness:
+
+“What is the initial? That of any of the principals in the case?”
+
+“Of two of them,” said the inspector, as he turned to round a corner.
+“It’s M. Good night.”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XIII
+
+                              THE INITIAL
+
+
+The inspector’s announcement gave Jim Barrison food for thought.
+
+Then why had Lowry let Sybil go with no further examination? They would
+have to establish next her possession of a weapon, and the fact that
+she was sufficiently practiced in the use of firearms to have hers
+marked with her initial, and——
+
+But just then he discovered that it had begun to rain at last; big
+drops heralded the storm that had been threatening all the evening.
+Under the circumstances, his library at home would be a pleasanter
+place for speculation than the corner of a street. He turned up his
+coat collar and ran for a Sixth Avenue car. As he passed the clock
+outside a jeweler’s shop, he saw that it was ten minutes past one
+o’clock, and suddenly he was conscious that he was tired. The evening
+had been a long one, and hard on the nerves.
+
+He stood on the back platform, and let the rainy winds blow about him.
+His dinner coat was getting noticeably wet, but he wanted to think
+and breathe. How hot the theater had been! The smell of a singularly
+vile cigarette close beside him made him turn in a disgusted sort of
+curiosity to see what manner of man could smoke it. It turned out to
+be Willie Coster, who had boarded the car when he did.
+
+“Hello!” said Jim. “Didn’t see you before. I thought you left the
+theater before we did.”
+
+“I had,” said Willie, puffing deeply on his rank weed. “I stopped at
+the corner to get this.”
+
+Unblushingly he indicated an object done up in brown paper, which he
+carried under his arm. There was not the slightest doubt that it was a
+bottle of quart dimensions. Barrison recalled the legend that Coster
+always got drunk after a first night. He could not help smiling at the
+serious deliberation with which he was going about it.
+
+“I see!” he said. “Well, it’s been a pretty trying time for you, a
+thing like this, coming on top of all your hard work on the piece. I
+dare say you feel the need of something to brace you.”
+
+Willie shook his head. “That’s a nice way of putting it,” he said
+soberly; “but it won’t wash. No, sir; the fact is, I mean to get drunk
+to-night. I never touch anything while I’m working, and when my work’s
+done, I consider I’m entitled to a little pleasure.”
+
+“I see,” Barrison said again. “And does getting drunk give you a great
+deal of pleasure?”
+
+“Oh, yes!” said Coster gravely. “I’m not a drunkard, understand. I
+don’t go off on bats; _that_ wouldn’t give me pleasure. And I can
+always sober up in time for anything special. But I like to go quietly
+home like this and drink—well, say, about this bottle to-night, and
+another to-morrow. Then I’ll taper off and quit again. See?”
+
+“Perfectly. If you have to do it, it seems a very sensible method. Look
+here; is there any particular hurry about this systematic debauch of
+yours?”
+
+“Hurry? Oh, no, there’s no hurry. Any time will do. Why?”
+
+“Then,” said Barrison, who had an idea, “why not come over to my
+rooms—we’re almost there—and have a couple of drinks with me and a bite
+to eat, first? You can go home and get drunk later, you know, just as
+well.”
+
+“Just as well,” said Willie, with surprising acquiescence. “I don’t
+want any drinks, thanks, for I only drink alone. But now you mention
+it, I’m hungry.”
+
+Barrison knew that he himself was far too tired already to lengthen
+out this night so preposterously, but that idea which had so suddenly
+come to him drove all consideration of fatigue from his mind. He was a
+detective, and thought that in the dim distance he could see a shadowy
+trail. In a weird case of this sort, anything was worth a chance.
+
+At Barrison’s rooms they found a cold supper waiting, and Tara asleep
+in a chair, contriving somehow to look dignified even in slumber. There
+is no dignity like that of a superior Japanese servant. He even woke
+up in a dignified manner, and prepared to serve supper. But Barrison
+sent him to bed, and sat down to talk to Willie over cold chicken
+and ham, and macedoine salad. The little stage manager ate hungrily,
+but stubbornly refused to drink. He also scorned his host’s expensive
+smokes, preferring his own obnoxious brand.
+
+“Coster,” said Barrison at last, “I want you to tell me what you know
+of Alan Mortimer.”
+
+“What I know! He was the yellowest guy in some things that ever——”
+
+“That isn’t just what I meant. I mean—you’ve been with Dukane a long
+time, haven’t you?”
+
+“Sure thing. I’ve been with the gov’nor five—no, six—years.”
+
+“Then you must know how he came to take up Mortimer. Where did he
+discover him first? He’s a stranger on Broadway.”
+
+“Why don’t you ask the gov’nor about it?” demanded Willie shrewdly.
+
+“Well,” Jim was obliged to admit, rather uncomfortably, “he’s not the
+sort of man you feel like pumping. Of course, Lowry will get it all out
+of him sooner or later, but I’m curious. And I can’t see what objection
+he could have to your——”
+
+“Being pumped,” finished Willie. “Maybe not, but I don’t really know
+much about it, anyway.” His eyes strayed wistfully to his brown paper
+package. “See here,” he said, “I’m much obliged for the eats, but I
+guess I’ll be trotting along. I’ve got a very pressing engagement!”
+
+“With John Barleycorn?” laughed Barrison. “Oh, see here, Willie,
+what’s the difference? If you prefer your whisky to mine, I’ll get you
+a corkscrew, and you can just as well start here. Eh? Make an exception
+and have a couple of drinks with me, like a good sport.”
+
+He felt slightly ashamed of himself, but he prodded his conscience out
+of the way by telling himself that as long as the man was going to get
+drunk anyway, he might just as well——
+
+Willie hesitated and was lost. The first drink he poured out made his
+host gasp; it nearly filled the tumbler.
+
+“Will you take it straight, man?” he asked, in a tone of awe.
+
+“Certainly I will. I don’t take it for the taste, I take it for the
+effect. The more you take at a time, the quicker you get results.
+What’s the good of little dabs of drinks like yours, drowned in soda
+water? When I drink, I drink.”
+
+“I perceive that you do!” murmured Barrison, and watched him swallow
+the entire contents of the glass in three gulps. He choked a bit, and
+accepted a drink of water, then leaned back with an expression of pure
+bliss stealing over his face.
+
+“Gee, that was good!” he whispered joyously. “Now I’ll have one more
+in a minute; that will start me off comfortably. Then I’ll go home.
+You know,” he added, with that shrewd glance of his, “I’m on to your
+getting me to tank up here; you know I’ll talk more. But I’m blessed
+if I can make out what it is you want to know. If there’s any dark
+mystery going, I’m not in it. But you just pump ahead.”
+
+He poured out another enormous draft.
+
+“Mortimer used to be in a sort of circus, a wild West show, didn’t he?”
+
+Willie grunted assent between swallows. “It was a sort of punk
+third-class show,” he said. “Never played big time, just ordinary tanks
+and wood piles out West. They had a string of horses and a few cowboys
+who could do fancy riding; Mortimer was one of them. His real name
+was Morton. The gov’nor was waiting to make connections somewhere on
+his way to the coast, and dropped in to see one or two of the stunts.
+This chap was a sort of matinée idol wherever he went, and the gov’nor
+spotted him as a drawing card if he ever happened on the right part.
+You know the gov’nor never forgets anything, and never overlooks a bet.
+He took the guy’s name and address, and put him away in the back of his
+head somewhere, the way he always does. When Carlton came to him with
+this war-play proposition, the gov’nor thought of Morton, and wrote
+him. That’s all I know about it.”
+
+“Was Mortimer married?”
+
+“Not that I know of. Not likely—or, rather, it’s likely he had half a
+dozen wives!”
+
+Barrison was disappointed; he had thought it just possible—there was
+the pistol, marked with M, and the unknown woman who had been in the
+dressing room that night. However, Willie was not proving much of a
+help. Barrison yawned and thought of bed.
+
+“One more question,” he asked suddenly. “What was the name of the show?”
+
+“I don’t remember. Blinkey’s or Blankey’s, or something like that.
+Blinkey’s Daredevils, I think, but I’m not sure. Say, you’d better let
+me go home while I can walk.”
+
+“All right; you go, Willie. Were there any women in the show?”
+
+“A couple, I think—yes, I’m sure there were, because I remember the
+gov’nor speaking about a sort of riding-and-shooting stunt Mortimer did
+with some girl, a crack shot.”
+
+Barrison started. Was that the trail, then?
+
+“Much obliged to you, Willie,” he said carelessly. “There wasn’t much
+to tell, though, was there? Why did Dukane keep it all so dark, I
+wonder? I should have thought that would have been good advertising,
+all that cowboy stuff, and the traveling show, and the rest of it.”
+
+“I don’t know why the gov’nor does some things; no one does,” said
+Willie, getting to his feet with surprising steadiness, and carefully
+corking his precious bottle. “But he’s never given any of that stuff to
+the press agent, and I’ve a notion he doesn’t want it made public. I
+don’t know why, but I’m pretty sure he has some reason for keeping it
+dark. Now you know as much about it as I do, and I’d never have told
+you as much as that if I hadn’t started in here!”
+
+While he was wrapping up his bottle, with a painstaking deliberation
+which was, as yet, almost the only sign of what he had drunk, Barrison
+drew the little pistol from his pocket and laid it on the table. It
+was almost a toy, and mounted in silver gilt, a foolish-looking thing
+to have done such deadly harm. The letter was in heavy raised gold, a
+thick, squarely printed M. In the rays of the student lamp it glittered
+merrily, like the decoration on some frivolous trinket.
+
+“Hello!” said Willie Coster, looking dully at it from the other side of
+the table. “So that’s the gun that did it? Let’s see the letter.” He
+swayed forward to look closer.
+
+“It’s an M,” said Barrison.
+
+“You’re looking at it upside down,” said Willie; “or else it’s you
+that’s drunk and not me. That’s a W, man, a W! Good night!”
+
+He ambled toward the door, bearing his package clasped to his breast,
+and disappeared.
+
+Barrison seized the pistol and turned it around. Willie was right. The
+initial, seen so, was W!
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XIV
+
+                        A TIP—AND AN INVITATION
+
+
+Jim Barrison had scarcely grasped this fact when the telephone rang.
+In the dead silence of that hour, half after two in the morning, the
+shrill tinkle had a startling effect. Barrison, his fatigue forgotten,
+sprang to the instrument.
+
+It was Tony Clay’s voice that came to him. “I want to come up for a
+minute.”
+
+“Oh, confound you!” ejaculated the detective irritably. “What do you
+want at this hour? I’ll have to come down and let you in; the place is
+closed.”
+
+“I know it is. That’s why I’m calling up. I’m in the drug store at the
+corner, and I’ll be there as soon as you can get downstairs. All right?”
+
+“I suppose so. But I’d like to wring your neck!”
+
+“Welcome to try, old man, just a bit later. So long!”
+
+Barrison hung up, and tramped downstairs with suppressed profanity on
+his tongue, to let Tony in at the front door of the apartment house
+where he roomed. The younger man was already waiting on the steps,
+dripping wet, but whistling softly, rather off the key.
+
+“Come in, you blamed night owl!” growled Barrison, under his breath.
+“Don’t slam the door. And if you haven’t something worth while to tell
+me, after routing me out like this, I’ll wake Tara and give him full
+permission to jujutsu you into Bellevue! Come on, and stop whistling.”
+
+Upstairs, Tony demanded Scotch and cigarettes, and took off his wet
+coat.
+
+“Heavens! Does that mean you’re intending to _stay_?”
+
+“Not permanently,” Tony reassured him soothingly. “I do manage to
+arrive at inconvenient times, don’t I?”
+
+“You do, you do! Now what is it?”
+
+“Well,” said Tony, settling himself in the chair recently vacated by
+Willie Coster. “I’ve been calling on Miss Templeton.”
+
+Barrison was conscious of a queer little thrill, not entirely
+unpleasant. Truth to tell, he had not been able to dismiss a certain
+vision from his mind, through all his practice and professional
+occupations. He could see it now, all in a moment, gold hair,
+dark-fringed eyes, marble-white throat and arms, and a mouth that could
+soften and droop like a child’s at the most unexpected moments.
+
+“She’s out of the case, I suppose you know,” he said shortly. “Go
+ahead, though.”
+
+“You see,” said Tony, “when you pitched into me like that about her
+giving me the slip, I was sort of sore, but I knew you were right, too.
+So I gave you the slip, in my turn, and chased over to her hotel. I
+wasn’t at all sure she’d see me, but I thought I’d try it on anyhow,
+and she sent down word I was to come up. She wore a kimono thing, and
+looked like an angel——” He paused in fatuous reflection.
+
+“Get on, you young fool!”
+
+Barrison’s tone was the sharper because he himself admired Miss
+Templeton rather more than was wholly consistent with the traditions of
+a cold-blooded detective.
+
+So Tony went on: “She seemed to know that there had been something
+wrong at the theater; that impressed me at once. The moment I came into
+the room, she said: ‘Something has happened to him?’ I told her about
+it, and she just sat for a moment or two looking straight in front of
+her. She looked—strange, and awfully white and tired and—sort of young.
+After a while she said: ‘Thank Heaven it wasn’t I’—just that way. Then
+she asked some questions——”
+
+“What sort of questions?” interrupted Barrison, who was looking at the
+floor, and had let his cigarette go out.
+
+“Oh, the usual thing: Who was behind at the time, and whether any one
+was suspected, and—she made rather a point of this—where Miss Legaye
+was when it happened.”
+
+“I know; she’s always harped on that.” Barrison frowned impatiently,
+yet he was thinking as hard as he knew how to think. “Anything else,
+Tony?”
+
+“Yes; she asked me to give you this.”
+
+Tony took a small unsealed envelope out of his waistcoat pocket and
+handed it over. “She said it was important,” he added; “that’s why I
+insisted on coming in to-night.”
+
+Barrison read his note, and then looked up. “Do you know what this is?”
+he said.
+
+The boy flushed indignantly. “Good heavens, Jim!” he exclaimed. “You
+don’t suppose I read other people’s letters? She just gave it to me to
+bring, and I brought it, that’s all.”
+
+Barrison smiled at him, with a warm feeling round his heart. “That’s
+all right, Tony,” he said kindly, “and you’re all right, too! You’d
+better look at it.” He held it out.
+
+Tony shook his head. “If there’s anything in it you want to tell me,
+fire ahead!” he said stoutly. “I—I haven’t any particular reason for
+seeing it, you know.”
+
+Barrison understood him, and smiled again. “I’ll read it to you, then,”
+he said, and read:
+
+  “MY DEAR MR. BARRISON: I have just heard, though scarcely with
+  surprise, I admit, of Mr. Mortimer’s death. It has shocked me very
+  much, I find, even though it was the sort of tragedy that was bound
+  to come sooner or later. I cannot pretend complete indifference to
+  it, nor yet indifference to the conviction of his murderer. I am
+  going to assume that you really want any sort of help, from any
+  source, in solving this mystery. Though you refused to help me once,
+  I am ready to help you now in whatever way I can, and I believe that
+  my help may be worth more than you are now prepared to see. I knew
+  Alan Mortimer rather well; it is possible that I can throw light
+  upon certain phases in his life of which you are still ignorant. I
+  promise nothing, for I do not yet know how valuable my testimony
+  may prove. But—will you lunch with me at one o’clock to-morrow—or,
+  rather, to-day—at my hotel? And meanwhile, if you will forgive me for
+  reiterating the suspicion I once suggested to you, you can hardly
+  do better than look up Miss Kitty Legaye, and get her views on the
+  murder. Far be it for me to suggest a course of action to an expert
+  detective like yourself, but—if Miss Legaye left the theater early,
+  she would hardly be likely to learn of the tragedy until she got
+  the morning papers. Don’t you think that it would be interesting to
+  forestall them, and yourself be the one to break the news to her?
+  Just suppose that you found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all!
+
+  “If I do not hear from you, I shall expect you for luncheon at one.
+  Sincerely yours,
+
+                                                 “GRACE TEMPLETON.”
+
+Jim Barrison automatically registered the fact that the writing was not
+that of the threatening letters, and sat still staring at the sheet
+after he had read it aloud. His brain was in a whirl of excitement. The
+words which he had just read seemed, in the very utterance of them, to
+have taken on a vitality, a meaning, that they had not had in the first
+place.
+
+One could read such a communication in more ways than one; at
+present he could read it only as a curious and inscrutable message,
+or inspiration. He could not have said just why it seemed to him so
+important, so imperative. He only knew that the phrases of it, simple
+as they were, seemed to fill the room and echo from wall to wall.
+Miss Templeton herself might have stood before him; he might have been
+listening to her voice.
+
+Tony Clay, poor lad, was looking troubled, huddled there in the big
+chair on the other side of the table. He had forgotten to finish his
+whisky and soda, and was staring at Barrison in a queer, uncomfortable
+way.
+
+“I say, Jim!” he burst out at last, desperate through his shyness.
+“You’re looking not a bit like yourself. What’s the matter? That note
+doesn’t sound so very important, now I hear it, and yet, to look at
+you, one would say you’d received a message from the tomb.”
+
+Barrison laughed. “I haven’t!” he said lightly. “But I have received a
+tip. Just a plain, ordinary, every-day sort of tip! And I’m going to
+follow it, too! How much sleep do you need, Tony?”
+
+Tony considered. “Four will do me,” he said judicially.
+
+“You’ll get five. It’s three o’clock now. At eight you’ll be ready for
+business; at eight thirty we’ll be at Miss Kitty Legaye’s door. It may
+be a pipe dream, but I’ve taken kindly to the notion of announcing the
+news of Mortimer’s death in person! Now tumble in on that couch there,
+and don’t dare to speak again until eight in the morning!”
+
+As he fell asleep, he was still repeating the pregnant words: “Just
+suppose that you found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all!”
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER XV
+
+                             A MORNING CALL
+
+
+Miss Legaye lived at a very smart little hotel near Fifth Avenue.
+It was not one of the strictly “theatrical” hostelries, since Kitty
+had always had leanings toward social correctness. But the house was
+patronized by so many actresses of exactly the same predilections
+that it could not help being run with an indulgent and sagacious
+understanding of their tastes and peculiarities, and might almost as
+well have been one of the just-off-Broadway variety.
+
+When Barrison and Tony Clay presented themselves at the “Golden Arms”
+at twenty minutes after eight in the morning, they found the hotel
+barely awake. The clerk who had just come on duty at the desk eyed
+them with surliness and distaste. The very electric lights, turned on
+perforce, because of the outrageous dinginess of the morning, seemed to
+glare at them with disfavor. Bell boys looked unrelentingly cross; a
+messenger boy was making his exit with as much dripping and mud as he
+could; and a departing patron appeared to be becoming quarrelsome over
+a fifteen-cent overcharge.
+
+“Well?” demanded the clerk. He looked frankly ugly; ugly in temper as
+well as in features. He could see that they were not incoming guests,
+for they had no luggage; and it was too early for callers of any
+reputable type. He put them down as a breed suspicious, being unknown,
+of neither fish nor fowl variety. “_Well?_” he repeated urgently.
+
+Barrison produced a card. “We would like to see Miss Legaye,” he
+suggested pleasantly.
+
+As he put down the slip of pasteboard on the desk counter, his quick
+eyes noted a bell boy standing at the news stand, taking over an armful
+of assorted morning papers. Obviously, the lad was just going up to
+leave them at the doors of the guests; they would have to work quickly,
+he and Tony, if they were to get ahead of them.
+
+“Miss Legaye,” repeated the clerk. “Miss Legaye. Are you guys dippy?
+Miss Legaye always leaves word that she ain’t at home to no one till
+after twelve o’clock. Now beat it!”
+
+Barrison sized up the clerk, and decided on his course.
+
+“Say, brother,” he murmured, with a confidential accent, “we don’t
+mean to annoy Miss Legaye; we want to give her a boost. Get me? We’re
+reporters, and we’re looking for a first-class story. Say, take it from
+me, she’ll be keen to see us if you’ll just phone up!”
+
+The slang won his case. The clerk looked at him with more respect.
+
+“Say, you’re talking almost like a human being!” he remarked. “Want me
+to phone up for you, eh?” He waited a perceptible space. “Times is
+hard,” he declared, in an airy manner, “and phone calls is high. Did I
+hear you say anything?”
+
+“Maybe not me,” said Barrison, who had laid a dollar bill on the desk.
+“But I’ve known money to talk before now.”
+
+The clerk actually chuckled. “You’re on,” he said, pocketing the bill
+with a discreet look around the almost deserted office. “I’ll phone up!”
+
+He turned around a minute later to inform Barrison that Miss Legaye
+would see him at once.
+
+A few minutes later they were knocking at the door of Kitty Legaye’s
+apartment. Resting against the lintel were half a dozen morning papers;
+clearly she had ordered them ahead, in the expectation of criticisms of
+the first night. The indefatigable bell boy had been ahead of them, but
+there was still time to rectify that.
+
+The boy who had piloted them had vanished. Barrison picked up the
+whole bundle, and gave them a vigorous swing down the corridor. This
+had barely been accomplished when the door opened, and an impeccably
+attired lady’s maid asked them to please come in; Miss Legaye would see
+them in a moment.
+
+Kitty’s parlor was like Kitty herself, discreet, yet subtly daring;
+conventional, yet alluring. She had made short work of the regulation
+hotel furnishings, and replaced them with trifles of her own, which
+gave the place a dainty and audacious air calculated to pique the
+interest of almost anybody.
+
+One of the modern dark chintzes had been chosen by the little lady
+for her curtains and furniture coverings; she also had dared to put
+cushions of cherry color and of black on the chaise longue, and
+futurist posters in vivid oranges and greens upon the innocuous drab
+wall paper. The extreme touches had been made delicately, without
+vulgarity. Barrison, who had rather good taste himself, smiled as
+he read in this butterflylike audacity a sort of key to little Miss
+Kitty’s own personality.
+
+She came in almost immediately, and, though Jim had never admired her,
+he was forced to admit to himself at that moment that she was very
+charming and quite appealing.
+
+The creamy pallor which was always so effective an asset of hers
+seemed a bit etherealized this morning, whether by a sleepless night
+or the gray, rainy light. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from
+her small face, with a rather sweet absence of coquetry; or was it,
+instead, the very quintessence of coquetry, brought to a fine art?
+Her big brown eyes were bigger and browner than ever, and her slim,
+almost childish little figure—which looked so adorable always in its
+young-girl frocks before the footlights—looked incomparably adorable
+in a straight, severely cut little white wrapper, like the robe of an
+early martyr.
+
+She came forward to meet them quickly, but quite without embarrassment.
+
+“Mr. Barrison!” she exclaimed, rather breathlessly. “What is it? Of
+course I said I would see you at once. I knew you wouldn’t come without
+some good reason. What do you want of me?”
+
+Her eyes were as clear as the brown pools in a spring brook, and
+Barrison felt suddenly ashamed of himself and—almost—wroth with Grace
+Templeton for putting him up to this.
+
+“Miss Legaye,” he said, with some hesitation, “I am already calling
+myself all sorts of names for having aroused you at this unearthly
+hour. And you were not well, too.”
+
+“Oh, that headache!” she said. “That is all gone now! I got to bed
+early, and had a really decent sleep for once, so I am in good shape
+this morning! But—what _did_ you want to see me about?”
+
+Just as Barrison was trying to find words in which to answer her
+properly, the maid spoke from the doorway:
+
+“You told me to take in the papers, miss, but there’s none there.”
+
+Kitty turned in astonishment. “Not there! But they always leave them at
+eight, and I particularly said that I wanted all of them this morning.
+That’s funny! Never mind; you can go down to the stand and get them,
+and Mr. Barrison can tell me what I want to know first of all. Oh, Mr.
+Barrison, tell me about last night! Did it all go off as well as it
+seemed to be going when I left?” She looked with honest eagerness into
+his eyes.
+
+Barrison felt most uncomfortable, but he forced himself to say
+steadily: “Have you really not heard anything about what happened last
+night, Miss Legaye?”
+
+If it were possible to turn paler, she turned paler then; and her eyes
+seemed to darken, as though with dread; yet there was nothing in her
+look but what might come from honest fear of the unknown.
+
+“Mr. Barrison! What is it that you are trying to make me think? What do
+you mean? Oh—_oh_!” She drew in her breath sharply. “Is that what it
+means? Is that what you came here for—to—tell me something? Is that it,
+Mr. Barrison?”
+
+Her eyes pleaded with him, looking earnestly out of her little white
+face. She looked a butterfly no longer; rather, a tired and frightened
+little girl. “Won’t you tell me what it all means?” she begged.
+
+“Miss Legaye,” Jim said gently, “there was a tragedy last night at the
+theater after you left.”
+
+“A tragedy?”
+
+“Yes; there was—a murder.”
+
+She stared at him, as though she did not yet understand. “A murder?”
+
+“Miss Legaye, I see it is a shock to you, but you must hear it from
+some one; you might as well hear it from me. Mr. Mortimer was shot last
+night during the last act, and is dead.”
+
+She shrieked—a thin, high, deadly shriek, which rang long in the ears
+of the two men. Her face grew smaller, sharper; she beat the air with
+her hands. The maid ran to her.
+
+News? Oh, Heaven, yes! There was no question of this being news to her;
+it was news that was coming close to killing her.
+
+“Say that again!” she managed to say, in a slow, thick utterance
+that sounded immeasurably strange from her lips. “Alan Mortimer was
+murdered? You said that? You are sure of it?”
+
+“Yes, Miss Legaye.”
+
+She flung up her hands wildly, and fainted dead away.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XVI
+
+                         A SCARLET EVENING COAT
+
+
+It was a real faint. They had a good bit of difficulty in getting her
+out of it.
+
+There wasn’t much room in Jim Barrison’s mind for anything except
+self-reproach. He _knew_ that the tidings of Mortimer’s murder had come
+upon Kitty Legaye like a stroke of lightning. She had no more been
+prepared for it than she would have been prepared for the end of the
+world. He had an idea that the end of the world would, as a general
+proposition, have affected her much less. Barrison was no new hand, and
+not too soft-hearted or gullible; and he knew that what he had looked
+upon that morning was sheer, absolute shock and grief, unlooked for,
+terrible, devastating.
+
+Poor little Kitty, with all her frivolities, had bigness in her. As she
+struggled back into the gray world, she obviously tried to straighten
+up and steady herself. The terror was all the time at the back of
+her brown eyes, but she was doing her best to be game, to be, as she
+herself would have expressed it, “a good sport.”
+
+Of course, she wanted particulars, and he gave them to her, feeling
+like a pickpocket all the time. Papers were obtained, and she was
+induced to take coffee with brandy in it, and—at last—she broke down
+and cried, which was what every one had been praying for since the
+beginning.
+
+Probably never in his clear-cut, well-established career had Jim
+Barrison experienced what he was experiencing now: The sense that he
+had brought unnecessary suffering upon an innocent person, and brought
+it in a peculiarly merciless and unsportsmanlike way. He felt savage
+when he thought of that “tip” of Miss Templeton’s—or did he, really?
+He was obliged to confess to himself that, where she was concerned,
+he would be almost sure to discover approximately extenuating
+circumstances!
+
+It was partly to soothe his own aching conscience that Jim forced
+himself to ask a few perfunctory questions.
+
+“You don’t mind?” he asked Kitty.
+
+“Naturally I don’t,” she said, trying not to cry, and choking down
+coffee. “You’ve been awfully kind, Mr. Barrison. If there’s anything I
+can do to help, please let me. You know”—she looked at him in a sudden,
+piteous way—“I had expected to marry Mr. Mortimer. Maybe you can guess
+what all this means to me? Will you tell me what you wanted to know?”
+
+“For one thing,” he said, “we want to establish as nearly as we can
+when the murderer—the murderess, as we think it was—entered the
+theater. Old Roberts says that he went out through the alley to the
+street to get you a taxi——”
+
+“Dear old thing!” she whispered.
+
+“Yes; he is a nice old sort. He made it very clear that it was only
+his devotion to you that induced him to leave his post. Well, it seems
+almost certain that some one passed him, and perhaps you, in the alley
+last night. You don’t remember seeing even a shadow that might be
+suspicious?”
+
+She shook her head thoughtfully.
+
+“No, I don’t,” she said. “But I was in a hurry, and wasn’t looking out
+for anything of that sort. Roberts knows I was in a hurry?” She spoke
+quickly.
+
+“Oh, yes. He says you were in a hurry, and not feeling well. The point
+is, did you see anything at all on your way to the taxi?”
+
+“Nothing. I was only thinking of getting home and to bed; it had been a
+horrid evening.”
+
+Now, of course, the obvious thing for Jim Barrison to do then was to
+take his leave. More, it was manifestly the only decent thing for him
+to do. He had proved conclusively that Kitty had not expected the
+news of Mortimer’s murder; in addition, she had declared that she had
+noticed no one on her way out to the taxi the night before. On the face
+of it, there was nothing further to be found out here. And yet, after
+he had got to his feet and taken up his hat, he lingered. As a matter
+of fact, he never was able, in looking back afterward, to tell just
+what insane impulse made him blurt out suddenly:
+
+“Miss Legaye, you were wearing a red wrap last night, weren’t you?
+Something quite bright, scarlet?”
+
+She looked up at him faintly surprised. “Why, yes,” she answered, “you
+saw it yourself, just as I was going out.”
+
+Jim hesitated, and then said something still more crazy: “Would you—do
+you very much mind letting me see it—now?”
+
+She stared at him in undisguised astonishment. “Certainly,” she said,
+rather blankly. “Celine, will you bring my red evening coat, please?”
+
+The maid did so at once; it flamed there in the gray light of that
+rainy morning like some monstrous scarlet poppy. Barrison lifted a
+shimmering, brilliant fold, and looked at it.
+
+“It’s a gorgeous color!” he said, rather irrelevantly.
+
+“Scarlet!” whispered Kitty, in a strange tone. “And to think I was
+wearing _that_ last night. I do not believe that I shall ever feel like
+wearing scarlet again! You are going, Mr. Barrison?”
+
+“Yes; you have been very patient with me, and very forgiving for having
+been the bearer of such bad news. Good-by. I won’t even try to express
+the sympathy——”
+
+“Don’t; I understand. Mr. Barrison, _why_ did you want to see this
+coat?”
+
+“It was just an impulse!” he declared quickly. “You forgive me for
+that, too?”
+
+She bent her head without speaking, and the two men went away.
+
+“Tony,” said Jim Barrison, when they were in the street once more,
+facing the wet blast, “it’s no lie to say that facts are misleading.”
+
+“It’s no lie to say they very often mislead _you_!” retorted Tony,
+somewhat acidly. He felt the loss of sleep more and more, and was
+fretful. Also, he was hungry. “What wild-goose chase are you off on
+now?”
+
+“None; I’m going round in circles.”
+
+“You said it!”
+
+“It’s a fact,” continued Barrison, unheeding, “that the little woman
+back there was genuinely shocked and upset by hearing of Mortimer’s
+death.”
+
+“Rather!”
+
+“But it is also a fact—also a fact, Tony—that that evening coat of hers
+is damp this morning, and it didn’t begin to rain till after midnight!”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XVII
+
+                              BLIND TRAILS
+
+
+“Mind you,” Barrison went on hastily, “there are a hundred explanations
+of a thing like that; it isn’t, strictly speaking, evidence at all.
+Only—I couldn’t help noticing! Now, Tony, I want you to go home and go
+to bed—see?”
+
+“It’s lucky you do!” said Tony.
+
+“Shut up! Go to bed and sleep your fool head off; and then—get back
+there to the Golden Arms, and find out who saw Miss Legaye come in last
+night; what time it was, whether she seemed excited, and—_what she
+wore_! That last is the most important. Make up to the maid. You can
+bribe, torture, or make love to her; I don’t care which. Only find out
+everything you can. Get me?”
+
+Tony grunted, and departed.
+
+Jim turned his face toward Forty-fourth Street. He knew that John
+Carlton usually breakfasted at the Lambs’ Club, and he needed his help.
+Also, he thought tenderly of the prospect of a mixed grill. Barrison
+could get along with very little sleep, when he was on a case, but
+he had to have food. Carlton was at breakfast, devouring, with about
+equally divided attention, bacon and eggs and the morning papers. He
+welcomed Jim with much excitement and a flood of slang.
+
+“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison? I can’t seem to get a
+line on myself to-day. Am I the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do
+I stack up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole and pull the
+hole in after me? Sit down!”
+
+“Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly as he obeyed. “Order
+me some breakfast, first, and then tell me what you’re talking about.”
+
+Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented from ordering a meal
+adequate to the needs of a regiment on march, condescended to translate
+his emotions.
+
+“You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching toast and marmalade.
+“That poor guy going out like that—I never liked him, but it was a
+rotten way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it alive—leaves
+me, so to speak, guessing. My play is off, for the present anyway, and
+I’ve been spending my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting
+some simply priceless advertising! Everybody will be after me, I
+guess, and all the beautiful leading men will be thirsting to play the
+part in which poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting killed.
+I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the only way I can express
+myself—except on paper! Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a
+flivver?”
+
+“You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told him. “Meanwhile, I
+want your help.”
+
+“Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically. “Meanwhile, I want yours!
+I can live just long enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without
+talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds before I cash in,
+if you don’t tell me everything that happened last night. Beastly of
+you and the governor not to let me back, so I could be in on what was
+doing.”
+
+Barrison told him what had happened. He was not too completely
+communicative, however; he liked the playwright, and had no reason
+to distrust him, but he knew that this case was likely to be a big
+one, and a hard one, and he had no mind to take outsiders into his
+confidence unless it was strictly necessary.
+
+“And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I hope, saved you from an
+early grave shared by the cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and
+do yours!”
+
+Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make yourself intelligible to
+my inferior intelligence? All right; fire away! What can I do for you?”
+
+Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about a wild West show
+called by the name of its manager, Blinkey or Blankey.
+
+Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what sort of a game’s that?”
+he demanded. “What has a wild West show to do with my perfectly good
+play——”
+
+“Never mind. Can you find out for me?”
+
+The writer shook his head.
+
+“Not in a million years. I don’t know anything about the profession
+except where it happens to hit me. Why don’t you tackle the governor?
+He knows everything and everybody.”
+
+“I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns him. And I don’t
+imagine he’s very cheery this morning.”
+
+“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard lines for him! Tell
+you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s
+a decent sort of chap, on the dramatic department of the New York
+_Blaze_. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be some one in his office
+who can.”
+
+“Thanks. That’s just what I want.”
+
+Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and departed. He met two or
+three men whom he knew on his way out. One and all were talking about
+the murder. He was not known to have any connection with the case, so
+he escaped being held up for particulars, but he heard enough to show
+him that this was going to be the sensation of the whole theatrical
+world.
+
+It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would not be in his office, so
+he went downtown to hunt up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the
+_Blaze_.
+
+He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter of typewriters, and
+the jangle of telephones beating about his ears. Then a keen-faced but
+very quiet young man rather foppishly dressed, and with sleek hair
+which looked as though it had been applied with a paint brush, appeared.
+
+“I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to see me?”
+
+Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this one was typical. The
+detective wasted as few words as possible, but stated what he was
+after. Lucas shook his head doubtfully.
+
+“Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll have a look at the
+files, though. My chief is rather a shark for keeping records of past
+performances. Will you look in a bit later—or phone?”
+
+“I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave. He had not expected
+any rapid results, yet he felt vaguely disappointed. Or was it because
+he was tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You cover a lot of
+theatrical assignments, don’t you?”
+
+“Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently, eying him.
+
+“Isn’t there anything playing here in town now with a—a wild West
+feature? Anything that includes a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere,
+or—or that?”
+
+Barrison could not help clinging to that faint clew concerning
+Mortimer’s connection with the “daredevil” outfit, out West.
+
+Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I don’t know of any. You
+wouldn’t mean a single act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?”
+
+“Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the name. Of course, it might
+be nonsense, but there was something that looked like just the shadow
+of a coincidence. “Who is she?”
+
+“Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum vaudeville theater this
+week. I don’t know why she calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such
+a daring stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a gun, I
+understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.”
+
+Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost of a trail, but——
+
+“You’re going to see her to-night?”
+
+“Yes. Going to see the show from the front and interview her afterward.
+She’s through with her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a
+usual thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a bit of a pull with
+us; advertising, you know; and we usually give one of his acts a
+write-up every week.”
+
+“Might I come along?”
+
+“You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be an awful thing! It’s one of
+those continuous affairs. Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me
+at the theater, I can get you in on my pass. Eight?”
+
+“Eight it is.”
+
+Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts of Coyne’s Music
+Hall, of which he had never heard, and took his departure. He went into
+a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found that the inspector would
+not be at his office until the afternoon. Then he went uptown again,
+and, taking a deep breath and a big brace with it, went to call on Max
+Dukane.
+
+He had no real reason for dreading an interview with him; the manager
+had always been most courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of
+apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane of yesterday would not
+be quite the Dukane of to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which
+had brought him so much financial loss which was to be considered.
+Ever since Willie Coster had intimated that Dukane had a secret
+reason for keeping dark the conditions under which he had come across
+Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to him. He had always
+recognized in the manager a man of immense power and authority. If he
+had a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be immensely
+unscrupulous as well.
+
+However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock, he presented
+himself at the great man’s office.
+
+This time, though there were half a dozen people ahead of him, he did
+not have to wait at all. The fact surprised him, but when he had been
+admitted to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He had been
+thus speedily summoned in order to be the more speedily dismissed.
+
+“Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything I can do for you?”
+
+He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face was hard and cold. He
+did not look so much angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own
+stony fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard, and was not any
+too pleased to be reminded of it.
+
+Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood by the desk, feeling
+rather like a small boy reporting to his teacher.
+
+“Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is. I’ve come about the
+case.”
+
+“Case?”
+
+“The murder of Alan Mortimer.”
+
+Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not interested in it.”
+
+“Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer was your star, under
+your management; I should imagine that the disaster to him must concern
+you very closely.”
+
+Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had been holding in his hand.
+
+“Concern me?” he said, in a hard, disagreeable tone. “Yes, it does
+concern me. It concerns me to the tune of several thousands of dollars.
+The part was especially worked up for him; there is no one available to
+take it at a moment’s notice. But there my concern begins and ends. So
+far as his murderer goes——”
+
+“Yes, that is what we are chiefly interested in.”
+
+“_I_ am not interested in it. Mortimer was an investment, so far as
+I was concerned. It is an investment which has failed. I have other
+things to think of that seem to me more important—and more profitable.”
+
+“But you engaged me, professionally, to——”
+
+“You will receive your check.”
+
+Barrison flushed indignantly. “Mr. Dukane! You cannot think I meant
+that. But if you were sufficiently interested to engage me——”
+
+Dukane raised his hand and stopped him. “Barrison,” he said, in short,
+clear-cut accents, “let us understand each other. I engaged you to keep
+Alan Mortimer alive. Alive, he was worth a good deal to me. Dead, he is
+worth nothing. I was perfectly willing to pay to protect my property;
+but having lost it, I wash my hands of the matter.”
+
+“Don’t you really want to see his murderer brought to justice?”
+
+“I really care nothing about it.”
+
+“Then you are not even willing to help the authorities?”
+
+“Help?” The manager raised his head haughtily, and stared at him with
+cold eyes. “What have I to do with it? What should I have to say that
+could help?”
+
+“You might tell us something about Mr. Mortimer’s life—something that
+could point toward a possible enemy. You know as well as I do that when
+a man dies under such circumstances, it is necessary for the officers
+engaged on the case to know as much of his life and antecedents as
+possible. In this case, no one seems to know anything except you, Mr.
+Dukane. That’s why I am obliged to come to you.”
+
+“I know nothing about his life, nor about his antecedents. I picked him
+up in a Western town, stranded, after his show had gone to pieces.”
+
+“What was the name of the show?”
+
+“I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, if you will be good enough to let me
+get on with my morning’s business——”
+
+“I shall certainly do so,” said Barrison quietly, as he turned away.
+“But I must warn you, Mr. Dukane, that I believe you are making a
+mistake. The detective force will find out what they have to find out.
+If you have any reason——”
+
+“Reason?”
+
+“I say, if you have any reason for wanting them not to do so, you would
+do much better to forestall them, and give them your help frankly to
+begin with.”
+
+“Is that all?”
+
+“That is quite all, Mr. Dukane.”
+
+“Very well, Barrison. As I say, you will receive your check in due
+time. Barrison——”
+
+The detective turned at the door, and waited for him to go on. Dukane
+was sitting with his head somewhat bent; after a moment he lifted
+it, and said, in a gentler tone than he had used before during the
+interview:
+
+“I have given you the impression of being a hard man. It is a truthful
+impression; I am a hard man. I should not be where I am to-day, had I
+not been hard, very hard. But if I have spoken to you with bitterness,
+you will remember, please, that I feel no bitterness toward you. I like
+you, on the contrary. But in my life there is no place for individual
+likes or dislikes. Long ago, I decided to play a great game for great
+stakes. I have won at that game; I shall continue to win. Nothing else
+counts with me; nothing! That is all. Good-by, Barrison!”
+
+“Good-by, sir,” the younger man said, and went out of the big, rich,
+inner office, where even the noise and bustle of the world came softly,
+lest anything disturb the imperious brain brooding and planning at the
+desk.
+
+It was in a very sober mood that Barrison reached Miss Templeton’s
+hotel at luncheon time, and sent up his card.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XVIII
+
+                         MISS TEMPLETON AT HOME
+
+
+“I thought you’d just as lief have lunch up here,” said Miss Templeton.
+
+Barrison looked at her as though he had never seen her before. Indeed,
+he was not sure that he ever had.
+
+It is an experience not unknown to most of us, that of finding
+ourselves confronting some one or something long familiar, as we
+thought, but presented all at once in a new guise. From the first, Jim
+had felt in Miss Templeton a personality deeper and truer than would
+be superficially descried through her paint and powder and conspicuous
+dresses. But, so far, his idea of her had had to be more or less
+theoretical and instinctive; he had not had very much to go by.
+
+To-day, and for the first time, he saw in the flesh the woman whom he
+had half unconsciously idealized in the spirit: a very sweet, rather
+shy woman, whose starry eyes and clear skin looked the more strikingly
+lovely for being, to-day, unassisted by artifice.
+
+She wore a nunlike gray frock, and her splendid gold hair was simply
+arranged. It would be hard to imagine a greater contrast than that
+which she presented with the Woman in Purple of but a brief fortnight
+ago.
+
+Her parlor was a further surprise. Unconsciously, he found himself
+remembering Kitty Legaye’s dainty and bizarre apartment, and comparing
+the two. Who would have dreamed that it was in such surroundings as
+these that this woman would choose to live?
+
+She had not, like Kitty, transformed her apartment with stuffs and
+ornamentations. Her individuality had somehow transfused itself through
+everything, superior to trappings or furnishings. She had left the
+room very much as it must have been when she took it. The curtains and
+the carpets were the same that the hotel manager had put there; but
+they seemed somehow of secondary importance. On that drab regulation
+background she had contrived to paint herself and what she lived for in
+colors that were, while subdued, unmistakable. No one could enter there
+without knowing that he was in the sanctum of a personality.
+
+First and foremost, there were books; books on shelves, on the table,
+books everywhere. And they were not best sellers either, if one could
+judge by their plain heavy bindings.
+
+“Italian history,” she said, seeing him glance curiously at a title. “I
+take up wild fads from time to time, and read about nothing else until
+the subject is exhausted, or until I am! At present I spend my time in
+the company of the Medici!”
+
+He thought that she was the last woman on earth whom he would expect to
+care for such things, but that was to be the least of his surprises.
+All her books sounded one persistent note, romance, adventure, a
+passionate love for and yearning after the beautiful, the thrilling,
+the emotional in life. There were books of folklore and legends,
+medieval tales and modern essays on strange, far lands more full of
+color and wonder than ours. There were translations from different
+tongues, there were volumes full of Eastern myths, and others of sea
+tales and stories of the vast prairies and the Barbary Coast. There was
+not a single popular novel among them all. Every one was a treasure box
+of romance.
+
+The pictures which she had collected to adorn her rooms were equally
+self-revealing. They ranged from photographs and engravings to Japanese
+prints; more than one looked as though it had come from a colored
+supplement. Here, again, the message was invariably adventurous or
+romantic.
+
+Miss Templeton smiled as she saw her guest’s bewildered look.
+
+“It’s a queer assortment, isn’t it?” she said. “But I can’t stand the
+flat, polite-looking things that people pretend to admire. Things have
+to be alive, to _call_ me, somehow!”
+
+All at once, it seemed to Jim that he had the keynote to her character.
+It was vitality. She was superbly alive—with the vivid faults as well
+as the vivid advantages of intense life.
+
+Luncheon was served at once, and it proved almost as cosmopolitan
+in its items as the rest of Miss Templeton’s appurtenances. She had
+ordered soft-shell crabs to begin with, because she said that for the
+first twenty-five years of her life she had never had a chance to taste
+them, and now, since she could, she was making up for lost time, and
+ate them every day! With truly feminine logic, she had made her next
+course broiled ham and green corn, because she had been brought up on
+them in the Middle West. She had a new kind of salad she had recently
+heard of, solely because it _was_ new; and she finished with chocolate
+ice cream for the reason, as she explained, that chocolate ice cream
+had always been her idea of a party, and when she wanted to feel very
+grand, she made a point of having it.
+
+Barrison was no fool where women were concerned; he knew that she was
+purposely making herself attractive to him, and he knew that she was
+sufficiently fascinating to be dangerous. Her unexpectedness alone
+would make her interesting to a man of his type. But he could usually
+keep his head; he proposed to keep it now. So far as playing the
+game went, he was not altogether a bad hand at it himself, and Miss
+Templeton, he imagined, was not precisely a young or unsophisticated
+village maid. That there was danger merely made it the more
+exhilarating.
+
+“Mr. Barrison,” she said at last, “of course you are asking yourself
+what it is that I have to tell you—why, in short, I asked you to lunch
+to-day.”
+
+“I am asking myself nothing at the present moment,” he returned
+promptly, “except why, by the favor of the gods, I should be playing in
+such extraordinary luck! But, of course, I’ll be interested in anything
+you have to tell me.”
+
+“Yes,” she said slowly. “I think you probably will be interested.
+You’ll forgive me if I begin with a little—a very little—personal
+history? It won’t be the ‘story of my life,’ don’t be frightened! But
+it’s essential to what I want to tell you afterward.”
+
+“Please tell me anything and everything you care to,” he begged her,
+with the air of grave attention which a woman always delights to see in
+a man to whom she is speaking.
+
+She sat, her chin resting on her clasped hands; her eyes abstracted,
+fixed on nothing tangible that he could see, as she spoke:
+
+“You understand me a little better now, seeing me at home—in as much of
+a home as I can have—among the books and pictures that I love, don’t
+you? Never mind; perhaps you don’t. Though I don’t think I’m very hard
+to understand. I’m just a woman who’s always been hunting for something
+that——”
+
+“The Blue Bird of Happiness?” he suggested gently. “You’ve read it, of
+course?”
+
+“Naturally—and loved it. But—I don’t imagine that _I_ could ever find
+my Blue Bird at home, as they did. It would have to be in some very far
+place, I’m sure, only to be won after tremendous effort!”
+
+“After all, that Blue Bird they found at home flew away as soon as
+it was found!” he reminded her. “I can see that you hear the call of
+adventure more clearly than most people. Have you always dreamed of the
+‘strange roads?’ Or has it been a part of—growing up?”
+
+“You were going to say ‘growing older!’” she said, with a faint smile.
+“I think I’ve always been so. I seem always to have been struggling
+away from where I was—rotten, discontented nature, isn’t it? Will you
+hand me those cigarettes, please?”
+
+Barrison proffered his own case, and she took and lighted one with a
+grave, almost a dreamy air. “You see,” she said, “I was brought up in
+a deadly little Illinois town. While I was still practically a baby, I
+got married. He was a vaudeville performer, and to me quite a glorious
+personage. The girls I knew thought so, too. He was better looking than
+any drummer who’d been there, and had better manners than the clerk at
+the drug store, who was the village beau.”
+
+She spoke calmly, without sentiment, yet she did not sound cynical;
+her manner was too simple for that.
+
+“Well, I didn’t find the Blue Bird _there_. I found nothing in that
+marriage with a glimmer of happiness in it, until I came in sight of
+the divorce court. That looked to me like the gate of heaven! Then I
+went into the movies.”
+
+“The movies! I never knew that.”
+
+“No, of course not. No one knows it. It’s all right to advertise
+leaving the legitimate stage for the screen; but if you’ve come the
+other way, and graduated from the screen to the stage, you’re not
+nearly so likely to tell the press man. Anyway, I was in an old-style
+picture company—I’m talking about six years ago—that was working on
+some blood-and-thunder short reels out in Arizona, when they hired a
+bunch of professional cow-punchers for some rough Western stuff in a
+feature picture. Alan Mortimer was one of them.”
+
+“Alan Mortimer!”
+
+“Yes, or, rather, Morton. He changed his name later on.” She looked
+at him. “Surely you must have guessed that I knew him before this
+engagement—this play? How did you suppose that we got to be so intimate
+in two weeks of rehearsals? _I_ didn’t spend the summer at Nantucket!”
+
+“That’s where Miss Legaye met him, isn’t it?”
+
+“Yes. She always goes down there, and Dukane wanted him to be there
+while Jack Carlton was—he was working on the play, you know. But I
+hadn’t maneuvered and worked and planned for nothing. I’d got on in my
+profession, and played a few leading parts. I moved heaven and earth to
+get into his company—and I succeeded!”
+
+“You mean—you wanted to see him again?”
+
+Her eyes flashed suddenly. For a second she looked fierce and
+threatening, as she had looked that first day in the restaurant.
+
+“Wanted? I had thought of nothing else for five—nearly six years! I
+used to be mad about him, you see. He made women feel like that.”
+
+“I know he did.”
+
+Barrison spoke naturally enough, but truth to tell, he was feeling a
+bit dazed. The Mortimer case was developing in a singular fashion.
+It was like one of those queer little Oriental toys where you open
+box inside box, to find in each case a smaller one awaiting you. He
+wondered whether he was ever to get to the end of this affair. The
+further you went in it, the more complicated it seemed to get. But she
+was speaking:
+
+“I was very much in love with him. But I never had any illusions as to
+his real character. He was rather a blackguard, in more ways than one.
+It wasn’t only that he treated women badly—or, anyway, lightly. He was
+crooked. I am very sure of that. He gambled, and the men in the company
+wouldn’t play with him; they said he didn’t play straight. There was
+one elderly man with a daughter, who was his particular crony; they
+were both supposed to be shady in a lot of ways—I mean the two men. So
+far as I know, the girl was all right. Evidently they stuck together,
+too; perhaps they had to, knowing too much about each other! But I saw
+the older man at the theater two or three times during rehearsals.”
+
+“What did he look like?” demanded Barrison, struck with a sudden idea.
+
+“Oh, very respectable looking, like so many crooks! Elderly, as I say,
+and thin, and——”
+
+“You surely don’t mean Mortimer’s old valet, Wrenn?”
+
+She looked at him in a startled fashion.
+
+“Why, yes, that’s the name. I don’t believe I should have remembered it
+if you hadn’t reminded me. The man was Wrenn, I am sure.”
+
+Jim’s pulse was pounding. Light at last, if only a glimmer! He was
+really finding out something about Mortimer’s past, really coming upon
+things that might have led up, directly or indirectly, to his murder.
+
+“Do you remember anything about the daughter?” he asked.
+
+“Not very much. She rode for us in one or two scenes, but she was
+hard to use in the picture. I do remember that she was an awfully
+disagreeable sort of girl, and most unpopular. What I wanted to tell
+you particularly was that Mortimer had a crooked record behind him, and
+that at least one man near him—this Wrenn—knew it. That was one thing.
+The other——”
+
+But Barrison could not help interrupting.
+
+“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Miss Templeton! This is all
+tremendously interesting to me—more interesting than you can possibly
+guess! It’s just possible that you’ve put me on the clew I’ve been
+looking for. Was there any man in that crowd called Blankey, or
+Blinkey, or anything like that?”
+
+She shook her head wonderingly.
+
+“Not that I know of,” she said. “But Alan had several particular pals,
+he and Wrenn. One of them may have been called that. I don’t know.”
+
+Jim was slightly disappointed, but, after all, he had gained a good
+deal already; he could afford to be philosophical and patient.
+
+“And you don’t remember anything about the girl at all?” he insisted.
+“Only that she was disagreeable, and could ride?”
+
+“Wait a minute,” said Miss Templeton thoughtfully; “I’ve some old
+snapshots tucked away. There ought to be some group with that girl in
+it.”
+
+Barrison smoked three cigarettes in frantic succession while she
+hunted. Finally, she put a little kodak photograph in his hand.
+
+“There am I,” she said, “rather in the background, dressed up as a
+beautiful village lass—do you see? And that’s Alan. He was handsome,
+wasn’t he?” Her voice was quite steady as she said it, but it had
+rather a minor ring. “And there—that girl over there in the shirtwaist
+and habit skirt, is Wrenn’s daughter.”
+
+As Barrison looked, he felt as certain as though he had seen her with
+his own eyes, that she—Wrenn’s daughter—was the woman who had been in
+Mortimer’s dressing room the night before.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XIX
+
+                        GLIMMERS IN THE DARKNESS
+
+
+He raised his eyes to find Miss Templeton regarding him from the other
+side of the table with a rather curious expression.
+
+“I had no idea that you would be interested in the Wrenn girl,” she
+said. “I thought that my information would point rather toward her
+father. Why are you interested in her?”
+
+Barrison hesitated. Charming as he found this woman, he had no mind to
+confide in her just yet. He countered with another question, one which
+had, as a matter of fact, trembled on his lips ever since he had come
+into the room. It was an impertinent question, and he knew that she
+would have a perfect right to resent it. Yet there was an indefinable
+attitude about her—not familiarity, but something suggesting
+intimacy—when she spoke to him, that made him somewhat bolder than his
+good taste could justify.
+
+“Miss Templeton,” he said, “you have just told me that you cared so
+much for Alan Mortimer that you waited for six years to get in the
+same company with him. I know that only a few days ago you were still
+sufficiently interested in him to be——”
+
+He really did not know how to put it, but she did.
+
+“Jealous?” she suggested promptly, and without emotion. “Oh, yes, I
+was—in a way—insanely jealous. You see, it had become an obsession with
+me; I don’t imagine I really loved him any longer, but I was being
+cheated of something I had worked for and sacrificed for. Probably, not
+being a woman, you wouldn’t understand.”
+
+“Probably not,” said Jim. “And—will you forgive me for adding this?—I
+understand even less your mood to-day. Last night you were deeply moved
+at the play; I saw that. Perhaps”—he paused; he did not know whether
+to speak of the revolver or not—“you were even on the verge of—some
+scene—some violent expression of emotion, some——”
+
+She glanced at him, startled. “How did you know that? But, suppose it
+were true. Will you go on, if you please?”
+
+“No; I am merely offending you.”
+
+“You don’t—offend me.” Her tone was singular. “I should really like you
+to go on. There was something else that you did not understand. What
+was it?”
+
+“It is in the present tense,” he answered. “It’s something that I
+cannot understand now. Miss Templeton, you have done me the honor of
+asking me here to-day, and of talking to me with a certain measure
+of confidence. You have been most gracious and charming, a perfect
+hostess. I have enjoyed myself completely. And yet—last night, the man
+who has occupied your thoughts and, let us say, your hopes for years
+past—was tragically murdered.”
+
+She was silent for a second or two. “Is that what you don’t
+understand?” she demanded abruptly.
+
+“Yes. I cannot reconcile the two women I know to exist: The angry,
+passionate, jealous woman who looked—excuse me—as though she could have
+done murder herself, a short fortnight ago, and the woman who has been
+talking to me to-day about her fruitless quest for the Blue Bird of
+Happiness.”
+
+“I think that is rather stupid of you, then,” she answered composedly.
+“Can’t you see it’s all part of the same thing? The quest for love—for
+the unattainable—but, Mr. Barrison, that is something else which
+puzzles you, which, in a way, jars on you. I can see it quite well. It
+is to you a strange and rather a horrible thing that I should be calm
+to-day, giving you lunch—and eating it, too!—talking of all sorts of
+things, while he, the man I used to be in love with, is lying dead.
+Isn’t that it?”
+
+“That is certainly part of it.”
+
+After a moment, she pushed back her chair and rose restlessly.
+
+“No, don’t get up!” she exclaimed, as he, too, rose. “Sit still, and
+let me prowl about as I choose. I am not used to expressing myself,
+Mr. Barrison, except in my actions. Words always bother me, and I
+never seem able to make myself clear in them. Let me see if I can make
+you see this thing, not as I do, but a little less confusedly. In the
+desert, a man sometimes follows a mirage for a long time; longs for
+it, prays for it, worships it from afar. He is dying of thirst, you
+see, and his feeling about it is so acute it is almost savage. The
+mirage isn’t real, the water that he thinks he sees is just a cloud
+effect, but he wants it, and while he is hunting it, he is not entirely
+sane. One day he finds it is not real. All that everlasting journeying
+for nothing; all that thirst for something that never has existed!
+Men do strange things when they find out that the water they were
+traveling toward is nothing but a mirage. Some of them kill themselves.
+But suppose, just when that man was losing his reason with the
+disappointment and the weariness—suppose just then some traveler, some
+Good Samaritan, or—just a traveler like himself, or—some—never mind!”
+She choked whatever it was that she had meant to say. “Suppose, then,
+some one appears and offers him a real gourd of real water! Does he
+think much more about the mirage? He only wonders that he ever dreamed
+and suffered in search for it. But—it had taken the sight of the real
+clear water to make him see that the other was just a feverish dream.”
+
+She paused in her restless pacing up and down the room, and looked at
+him. “Do you understand better now?”
+
+“No,” said Barrison flatly. “It is very pretty, and, I suppose,
+symbolic, but I have not the least idea, if you will pardon me for
+saying so, what you are driving at.”
+
+“Think it over,” said Miss Templeton, lighting another cigarette.
+“One more touch of symbolism for you. Suppose the—traveler—who showed
+him the real gourd of water should spill it, or drink it all himself,
+or—refuse to share it, after all? What do you think would be likely to
+happen then?”
+
+“I should think the thirsty man would be quite likely to shoot him!”
+said Jim laughing a little.
+
+She smiled at him. “Ah,” she said, “you see you understand more than
+you pretend. Yes, that’s just what might happen——Oh, by the by, Mr.
+Barrison, there was something else that I sent for you to say. You know
+I warned you in regard to Kitty Legaye?”
+
+“Yes, but it is out of the question,” said Barrison. “I am sure that
+Mortimer’s murder was an overwhelming surprise to her.”
+
+“Maybe so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I am sure that, when I rushed
+out of the theater last night in that darkness and confusion, I saw
+Miss Legaye’s face at the window of a taxicab at the front of the
+house.”
+
+“At the front of the house! But that would be impossible!”
+
+“I only tell you what I am certain I saw.”
+
+“Would you be prepared to swear that?”
+
+She considered this a moment. “No,” she admitted finally. “I would not
+be prepared to go quite as far as that. I felt very sure at the time,
+and I feel almost as sure now. But a glimpse like that is sometimes
+not much to go by. I only tell you for what it is worth. And now, Mr.
+Barrison, I have an engagement, and I am going to turn you out. You
+forgive me?”
+
+“I am disposed to forgive you anything,” said Jim, with formal
+gallantry, “after the help you have given me—to say nothing of the
+pleasure I have had!”
+
+She made a faint little face at him. “That sounds like something on the
+stage!” she protested. “I wish you would think over my—my——”
+
+“Allegory?” he suggested.
+
+“I was going to say my confession. I am sure, the more carefully you
+remember it, the simpler it will become. Especially remember your own
+suggestion as to what would happen to the niggardly rescuer who might
+refuse to be a rescuer, after all!”
+
+Barrison saw fit to ignore this. He shook hands cordially and
+conventionally.
+
+“Good-by,” he said. “And thanks.”
+
+“Good-by,” she returned briefly.
+
+As he went downstairs, his face was a shade hot. There were two
+reasons for it. For one thing, Miss Templeton’s attitude—the allegory
+of the mirage and the gourd of water—what did she mean by it? Was it
+possible that she—that she—Jim Barrison was not conceited about women,
+but he could hardly avoid being impressed with a subtle flattery in
+her manner, a flattery dignified by what certainly looked like rather
+touching sincerity. And on his part—well, he was not yet prepared to
+tell himself baldly just what he did feel.
+
+Several years ago, Barrison had imagined himself in love with a
+beautiful, heartless girl who had baffled him in one of his big cases.
+She had gone out of his life forever, and he had imagined himself
+henceforth immune. Yet this woman, with her curious paradoxes of
+temperament, her extraordinary frankness, and her strange reserves, her
+cold-blooded dismissal of a past passion, and her emotional yearning
+for joy and the fullness of life—well, he knew in his heart of hearts,
+whether he put it in words or not, that she thrilled him as no woman in
+the world had ever thrilled him yet.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER XX
+
+                              CHECKING UP
+
+
+“I know that the Wrenn woman probably did it,” said Barrison, speaking
+to Lowry in the inspector’s office. “And I’m going to move heaven and
+earth to find her. But I’ve a hunch—a sort of theory—that those two
+women, Miss Templeton and Miss Legaye, know more than they’ve told us
+yet.”
+
+He tried to keep himself from feeling guilty when he spoke of Grace
+Templeton; certainly his own reasons for particular interest in her
+had no place in a police investigation, and yet he became subtly
+embarrassed whenever her name came up.
+
+“Never,” said Lowry, smoking his large, black, bad cigar, “never
+have theories. Find out the situation, and build your theories into
+that. You started off on the idea that these two women—Templeton and
+Legaye—were mixed up in the business somehow. You’ve been chasing
+’round, worrying about them, to make that idea good. Now, I don’t
+believe either of ’em knows a darned thing about it! They may both
+have been in love with the man, but nowadays actresses, with their
+futures ahead, don’t often queer themselves that way. However, if there
+were any evidence against either of ’em, I’d go after it fast enough.
+But there isn’t. In fact, there’s conclusive evidence clearing them
+both. There’s the pistol, for instance. Not one initial among the four
+belonging to the two women resembles an M.”
+
+“One moment, inspector!” broke in Barrison. “That isn’t an M, it’s a W.”
+
+“Discovered that, eh?” remarked the inspector imperturbably. “I
+wondered if you would. If you’ll look at the pistol closely, though,
+my dear boy, you’ll find that the angle at which it is engraved is a
+curious one. It might be either an M or a W. It depends on how you look
+at it. The letter is oddly shaped; looked at from different points,
+it makes just as good a W as it does an M, and vice versa. Well, the
+ladies in question have no more W’s in their names than they have M’s.
+Then, Miss Templeton could not have got behind the scenes in time.”
+
+“I imagine not,” admitted Jim. “Of course, we are dealing in what was
+possible, not likely; the door was unguarded just then, and——”
+
+“The door was unguarded after the shot, not before.”
+
+“If you believe the man Lynch. But—mind you, I suspect her no more than
+you, but—she was familiar with the theater.”
+
+“Familiar—hell! No one’s familiar with any place in the pitch dark! And
+the other woman had gone home, hadn’t she?”
+
+“Miss Legaye had gone home, as it was generally supposed,” said Jim,
+feeling obliged to register conscientiously every passing suspicion
+of his. “But Miss Templeton thinks she saw her near the front of the
+theater just after the tragedy.”
+
+“Well, you’ve only got that woman’s word for _that_! Will she swear to
+it? No? I thought not! She’s just talking through her hat, either to
+queer the other, or to make herself interesting to you! Say, Barrison,
+you’re dippy on this thing! I always thought you were a pretty snappy
+detective for a young un! Now get rid of your theories, and your
+hunches and your intuitions and your suspicions, and check up! That’s
+what I’ve been doing all day, and, take it from me, while it may be
+old-fashioned, it’s the method that gets there nine times out of ten.
+Here goes!”
+
+He took a sheet of paper and made notes, as he talked.
+
+“Now that shot, according to the medical report, was fired at close
+range; very close range, indeed. The khaki of the man’s uniform was
+quite a bit burned by it. The bullet entered under the right arm, so he
+must have had his arms lifted, either to take hold of Miss Merivale, as
+she said, or for some other reason. It entered the body below the right
+armpit, and made a clean drill through the right lung at a slightly
+upward angle. Then it lodged in an upper rib just under the right
+breast. That explains the big splotch of blood on the breast. It could
+have been fired from either of two ways.”
+
+He drew a rough diagram on the page before him, representing an
+imaginary, cylindrical man, two crosses, and a couple of dotted lines.
+
+“So! If Miss Merivale did it,” he explained, pencil in hand, “he’d
+have to be standing facing toward the front of the house, with his arm
+slightly raised, and his right side exposed to her aim.”
+
+“Isn’t that an unlikely attitude, under the circumstances?”
+
+“It is unlikely, but it is perfectly possible. It’s only in songs that
+every little movement has a meaning all its own! Do you always have a
+good and logical reason for every motion you make? If you do, you’re
+a freak! The great difficulty with most detectives is that they try
+to get a reason and a sequence for everything, as though they were
+putting a puzzle together or writing a play. In real life, half the
+things we do we do for no reason at all, or from sheer natural human
+contrariness! However, never mind that. Now, if the other woman—the
+woman we believe was in the theater last night—fired the shot, she only
+had to stand in close at the foot of the four-step entrance, and reach
+up. Even if she were a small woman, she would be able to place her
+bullet just about where it was found. It’s a toss-up, Barrison. Either
+Miss Merivale fired that shot, or the unknown woman did.”
+
+“The unknown woman I don’t consider unknown any longer. She is Wrenn’s
+daughter, without a doubt.”
+
+“On Miss Templeton’s testimony? Tut, tut, my dear Barrison!”
+
+“But, surely, the unknown woman, if you insist on continuing to think
+her unknown, is the more likely bet of the two?”
+
+Inspector Lowry pulled at his cigar, and wrinkled his heavy brows.
+
+“Likely! I’m mortally afraid of those ‘likely’ clews! When a thing
+looks too blamed ‘likely,’ I get scared. Nature and life and crime
+don’t work that way! Besides,” drawled the inspector, “we’ve not got
+her, and we _have_ got the other one! There’s everything in possession!”
+
+“But you aren’t going to hold Miss Merivale on a mere——”
+
+“Hold your horses, boy! We aren’t holding her at all at present. She is
+as free as air, and will continue to be free for quite a while, anyway.
+But she’s being watched, Barrison, my boy, she’s being watched every
+minute. And she’ll go on being watched.”
+
+Lowry relighted his defunct cigar.
+
+“Incidentally,” he added, “we’ve got a few fresh points on this. You’d
+be interested in hearing them, I suppose?”
+
+“Interested!”
+
+“Very well. For one thing, Mrs. Parry, the dresser at the theater, has
+given us rather an odd piece of evidence. She says that a messenger
+boy called at Miss Merivale’s dressing room during the evening. She was
+not in the room at the time, but saw him knock, saw him admitted, and
+saw him go away.”
+
+“Nothing odd in that, surely—on a first night?”
+
+“Nothing at all odd. Mrs. Parry also recalls that, when she went in to
+help Miss Merivale for the last act——”
+
+“Miss Merivale had no change for the last act.”
+
+“No; so I understand. But she had gone back to her dressing room as
+usual for a few final touches. She had to alter her make-up slightly,
+hadn’t she?”
+
+“Yes; she had to be rather paler in the last act.” Barrison was
+somewhat impressed by Lowry’s thorough, even if archaic, way of getting
+his facts.
+
+“Quite so,” said the inspector equably. “Well, Mrs. Parry says that,
+as she entered the dressing room, she saw Miss Merivale walking up and
+down the room, evidently very angry. She had a note in her hand, and
+as she saw the woman, she tore it up in a lot of little pieces, and
+made an effort to become composed. Then she went hastily over to the
+dressing table, and caught up something that was lying there.”
+
+“Something! What?”
+
+“Mrs. Parry does not know. She knows that it was a small object
+possibly as long as her hand. She does not vouch for its shape. She
+just saw it in the flash of an eye.”
+
+“And what is Miss Merivale supposed to have done with it?”
+
+“Miss Merivale put it, very swiftly indeed, into the front of her white
+gown.”
+
+Barrison felt thunderstruck. That pretty, frank-eyed girl! Why, the
+thing was unbelievable! Impetuously he said:
+
+“But, as you’ve impressed on me more than once, the testimony of a
+single person can’t be conclusive. Suppose——”
+
+“Suppose that testimony is borne out by that of others? Miss McAllister
+remembers Miss Merivale’s fingering the buttons on the front of her
+blouse several times, in a nervous way. And two of the minor actors in
+that scene say that she kept her hand at her breast when it was not
+part of the business, as though she could not entirely forget something
+she carried there.”
+
+Lowry paused, as though to let these points sink into his hearer’s
+intelligence. Then he continued:
+
+“We found the torn scraps of the note, at least enough of them to be
+able to get quite a fair idea of what its purport had been.” Lowry
+opened the drawer of his desk and took out a Manila envelope. From it
+he drew a sheet of paper upon which had been pasted a number of words,
+some of them in sequence and some of them detached and far apart. He
+pushed the paper across to Barrison.
+
+“Have a look,” he said laconically. Barrison read:
+
+  How madly—you—you accept—know I may hop—you pretend—needn’t
+  expect—scape, you beau—might just as—make up—rrender—to-ni——
+
+“What do you make of it?” asked Lowry, after Barrison had stared at the
+cryptic mosaic of paper scraps for a moment or two.
+
+The younger detective began to fill in and piece together. He evolved
+the logical complete letter:
+
+  You know how madly I love you. If you accept the accompanying I know
+  I may hope. Though you pretend, you needn’t expect to escape, you
+  beauty. You might just as well make up your mind to surrender the
+  battle to-night.
+
+Lowry read it and smiled.
+
+“Quite good,” he pronounced. “Here’s another answer.”
+
+And he pushed another sheet toward Jim.
+
+This one read—with the words of the recovered scraps underlined—as
+follows:
+
+  No matter how determinedly, how madly you resist, you accept your
+  fate. You know I may hope. You pretend courage, but you need not
+  expect to escape, you beautiful fiend! You might just as well make up
+  your mind to surrender to-night.
+
+Barrison read, and then, with a slight shrug, pushed it back toward the
+older man.
+
+“I see very little difference,” he said.
+
+“Really? Can’t you see that one is a love letter, and one a threat?”
+
+“If you choose to put in phrases like ‘you beautiful fiend!’” said
+Barrison, raising his eyebrows.
+
+Lowry chuckled. “Doesn’t it sound kind of natural?” he queried. “Oh,
+well, maybe I’m behind the times! I just tried to make it natural. But
+seriously, Jim, there is a difference, and you’d better get on to it
+quick. That letter—which was from Mortimer; I’ve had the handwriting
+verified—might have been a threat to a woman whom he was dead set on
+getting, or a billet-doux to a girl he was sweet on, and who was acting
+shy. Isn’t that right?”
+
+Barrison frowned over the two epistles.
+
+“You’ve something else up your sleeve,” he declared, watching him
+closely. “I’ve a good mind to go and call on Miss Merivale myself.”
+
+“Do!” said Lowry, turning to his desk with the air of a man dismissing
+a lot of troublesome business, and glad of it. “You will find that she
+is too ill to see a soul; utterly prostrated since last night. Will
+that hold you for a while, you uppity young shrimp?”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXI
+
+                             TONY’S REPORT
+
+
+Barrison often dined at a chop house in the Thirties, near his own
+rooms. He repaired thither to-night, after having telephoned his
+whereabouts to Tony Clay’s boarding house, with a message for that
+youth to come on to join him there if he could.
+
+As he sat lingeringly over one of the meals he liked best, he
+endeavored to forget the problems which had stabbed at him relentlessly
+all day. He wished that it were only from a professional angle that
+the business worried him; to his own uttermost disgust, he found an
+enormous mass of personal worry connected with it. He would like, for
+instance, to have been able to eliminate Miss Templeton. Or—would
+he? He was alarmed to find his condition so critical that he was not
+absolutely sure.
+
+He glanced up at last, uncertain whether with relief or disgust, to
+find Tony Clay wending his way toward him between tables.
+
+“Hello!” he said, with a very fine show of enthusiastic welcome.
+
+Tony bobbed an acknowledgment. When he was seated opposite Jim, he
+growled:
+
+  “How doth the little butterfly
+    Improve each shining hour,
+  By sending other folks to spy,
+    And bring to him more power!
+
+  “What pretty things he learns to do,
+    What merry games he beats!
+  He lets the other fellow stew,
+    While he sits still and eats!”
+
+Barrison could not help laughing, as he greeted him:
+
+“What do you suppose I’ve been doing? Sitting here ever since we
+parted? What are you going to eat, oh, faithful, good, and seemingly
+hungry servant?”
+
+“I want all the ham and eggs there are in the place, and the ham cut
+thick, and the eggs fried on both sides!”
+
+“You half-baked little ass!” remarked Jim affectionately. “Give your
+own order.”
+
+Tony ordered, with a vague yet spectacular carelessness which made
+Barrison roar.
+
+“Not awake yet, Tony?” he queried, when his young friend had committed
+himself to mushrooms and guinea hen after the ham and eggs.
+
+“Eh? Sure I’m awake! Say, you didn’t give me a job at all, oh, no!”
+
+“The point is, did you get it?”
+
+“Get it? You bet your life I got it. But, Jim, your hunch about that
+Golden Arms business was punk. There’s nothing doing there.”
+
+“No?” said Barrison. He tried to sound cool and casual, but it wasn’t
+much of a success; he felt a bit flat about it all. “Go ahead, Tony;
+suppose you tell me about it, eh?”
+
+Tony nodded, and straightened up at sight of the ham and eggs.
+
+“Well; first off you wanted a line on the maid. I got that, all right.
+She was one of those musical-comedy sorts. I spotted her from the
+beginning, and I guess you did, too. She wasn’t able to get away from
+her ‘lady’ much, but she was supposed to eat like anybody else, and——”
+
+“Tony, if you tell me that you gave up your sleep to go and fix her at
+lunch, and that——”
+
+“I don’t, and I didn’t tell you anything. But, as a matter of fact, I’d
+have bust if I hadn’t got a chance on this thing, Jim; you know that.
+Maybe I seem a bit slow sometimes, but, take it from me, I’m there with
+the goods when the time comes! Anyway, the maid’s story is perfectly
+straight, and I’m certain she’s telling the truth. It seems that she
+isn’t supposed to knock at Miss Legaye’s door until half after eleven.
+She sleeps in a room on top of the house, connected by telephone, and
+only comes down at special times, or when she’s phoned for. Last night,
+she didn’t expect Miss Legaye in early, so didn’t come downstairs to
+her door till about twenty minutes past eleven. It being a first
+night, she really didn’t imagine Miss Legaye would be in much before
+midnight. But at eleven twenty Maria—that’s the maid—came and knocked.
+She saw that the lights were turned up inside the room.
+
+“Miss Legaye called out to her: ‘Maria, don’t bother about me to-night;
+I’m tired, and I’m going to bed right away. Come at about eight
+to-morrow, please.’
+
+“Maria went up to bed then, and didn’t come down again until eight, the
+hour she was expected. That was about fifteen minutes before you and I
+turned up this morning.”
+
+“Well?” demanded Barrison, not so much eagerly as savagely, for he
+was hot on what he thought to be a trail of some sort, even if not a
+criminal trail. “Well, what else does she say about when she came in to
+Miss Legaye’s rooms this morning?”
+
+“She says that she came to the door and knocked, as was always her
+rule, before using her key. She had a key, but was not expected by Miss
+Legaye to use it unless there was no answer. This time she didn’t get
+any answer, so she opened the door, and went in.
+
+“She went in to Miss Legaye’s bedroom, and found her half awake and
+half asleep. She said she had had a bad night, and had had to take her
+sleeping medicine. She looked pale. Maria says that the thing that
+upset her, Maria, most was the sight of Miss Legaye’s fine opera coat
+on a chair near the window, where the rain had made it all wet. She
+said she had barely hung it up, and made Miss Legaye comfortable, when
+we telephoned up.”
+
+Barrison thought a moment. “That sounds all right,” he admitted. “Get
+ahead, Tony, to the rest of your investigation. For, of course, you
+must have got at some one else!”
+
+“Yes,” said Tony, as he munched fried ham; “I got at the night clerk of
+the Golden Arms.”
+
+“The night clerk? But he wasn’t on duty?”
+
+Tony buttered a piece of bread with a glance of scorn. “And would that
+make him inaccessible to _you_, you pluperfect sleuth?” he demanded
+caustically. “To me it merely meant that I would have to dig up his
+address and call on him when he was not on guard, so to speak. He is
+a very nice, pleasant youth. You would not get on with him at all;
+you would hurt his feelings. I have feelings of my own, so we were
+delighted with each other! You do neglect your opportunities, you know,
+Jim!”
+
+“Did you find out when Miss Legaye got in last night?” asked Barrison,
+but Tony’s answer was disappointing.
+
+“I did not,” he rejoined. “I found that my night clerk had not seen
+Miss Legaye at all last night.”
+
+Barrison jumped and stared at him. “Not seen her!” ejaculated he.
+
+“No. She had not come through the office at all. But he says that she
+often avoids the crowd in the hotel office by going up to her apartment
+by the back way. He says she hates publicity.”
+
+“Oh!” Barrison was thinking. “Is there, then, no one who would have
+seen her, if she came in ‘the back way,’ and went up to her room?”
+
+“I can’t see how any one could have seen her. You see, Jim, it’s this
+way. In the Golden Arms Hotel, there is a side door, which is kept open
+and unguarded until after eleven o’clock at night. Lots of people,
+women especially, who don’t want to go through the crowded office at
+that hour, prefer to slip in that way. It’s a regular thing; they all
+do it. As to the elevator boy who——”
+
+“Yes, I was going to ask about him. Did he take her up?”
+
+“No, he didn’t. At that hour of the night, even an elevator boy
+sometimes nods. Anyway, he remembers the bell ringing for a long time
+while he was half asleep, and when he got to the lift there was no one
+there. The answer seems obvious.”
+
+“That she walked upstairs, having become tired of waiting?”
+
+“I should say so. Especially as she lived only one floor up, and often
+ran up the flight to save time!”
+
+Barrison thought of this as he drank black coffee. “And that is all you
+found out?” he demanded suddenly, raising his head.
+
+“Not at all!” responded Tony cheerfully. “I found out that the first
+news the night clerk had had of Miss Legaye last night was a telephone
+message from her room at about eleven o’clock.”
+
+“A message? What was it?”
+
+“She said that she had a frightful headache, and that she wanted one of
+the bell boys to go out to the drug store for her, and get a medicine
+bottle filled—stuff that she often took when she had trouble about
+sleeping.”
+
+“And then?”
+
+“And then the boy went upstairs, and got the empty bottle from her. She
+was wearing a wrapper. He took the bottle out and had it filled. That’s
+all. It establishes the fact that she was in, and undressed, at eleven.”
+
+Barrison called for the check and paid it; then he still knitted his
+brows over the thing that troubled him.
+
+“Tony!” he said suddenly.
+
+“Well?”
+
+“_Could_ she have gotten upstairs into that hotel without being seen? I
+can’t believe it.”
+
+“Why not?”
+
+“I thought there were maids or guards on every floor.”
+
+“Quite so,” said Tony; “you remind me. There is a maid stationed on
+every floor of all decent hotels. There was one on every floor of this.
+But she is human, and therefore she is movable. This one, on Miss
+Legaye’s floor, was on duty up to twenty minutes to eleven, and she was
+on duty after eleven had struck. In between she had been called in to
+settle some newcomer, an old lady who wanted eight hundred and seventy
+things to which she was not entitled. She was away less than half an
+hour, but it was during that time that Miss Legaye must have gone to
+her room.”
+
+Barrison still sat looking at his coffee cup in a troubled way, and
+Tony suddenly spoke:
+
+“Jim, that’s a cold trail, a dead one. See? Why do you keep tracking
+back to it? You know, and I know, that there’s nothing doing at that
+end of the story. What keeps you nosing around it?”
+
+“I can’t tell you, Tony,” said Barrison, low and not too certainly. “It
+isn’t exactly evidence that keeps me following that trail. It’s——”
+
+“Say!” broke in his subordinate sharply. “Shall I tell you what it is?
+It’s that woman—it’s Miss Grace Templeton; that’s what it is. You’re
+dippy about her! And because she’s tipped you that there’s something
+queer about Miss Legaye, you believe it!”
+
+“I thought you admired Miss Templeton yourself!” said Jim Barrison,
+rallying his forces.
+
+Tony Clay surveyed him in surprise. “Admired her?” he exclaimed.
+“Of course I admire her! But that wouldn’t prevent me from doing my
+bit on a case! I wouldn’t let a thing like that interfere with me
+professionally!” He spoke most grandiloquently, with a swelling chest.
+
+Jim Barrison looked at him a moment seriously; then his face broke into
+irrepressible smiles. “Wouldn’t you?” he queried. “Tony, you’ll be a
+great man one of these days!”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXII
+
+                          “RITA THE DAREDEVIL”
+
+
+Promptly at eight o’clock, Barrison presented himself at the entrance
+to Coyne’s Theater, where he had agreed to meet Teddy Lucas, of the
+_Blaze_.
+
+The house was of the flagrantly cheap variety, to judge by the people
+then going in. On either side of the glaringly illuminated doorway were
+vivid lithographs of ladies with extremely pink cheeks and tights,
+and gorgeously yellow hair and jewelry; also, of prodigiously muscled
+acrobats, performing miraculous feats in impossible positions.
+
+Barrison found his own eyes attracted, almost at once, by something
+which stood out, oasislike, among the more lurid and obvious sheets;
+a large frame containing three photographs, under the plainly printed
+title: “Rita the Daredevil! Late of the World-famous Blankley
+Daredevils!”
+
+Then this _was_ the girl who had been playing in the riding act with
+Mortimer when Dukane came upon him first. Now, if by any chance Jim
+could connect that girl with Wrenn’s disagreeable daughter, whom Miss
+Templeton remembered! He was eager for a sight of her. Would that
+rather dim snapshot he had seen prove sufficient to identify her?
+He wondered! None of these pictures looked particularly like that
+nondescript smudge of a woman in the corner of the kodak picture which
+had been shown him that day.
+
+He examined them with close interest. One was of Rita the Daredevil,
+sitting a vicious-looking, rearing broncho, with a nonchalant air,
+and huge, ornamental spurs; another was of Rita the Daredevil firing
+with a rifle at an apple held up by a fat man in evening clothes. The
+third was, presumably, a likeness of Rita the Daredevil herself, doing
+nothing in particular but scowl at the world from beneath a picturesque
+sombrero.
+
+She certainly looked disagreeable enough to justify Grace Templeton’s
+unpleasant recollection of her. Of a markedly Spanish type, with the
+faint Indian cast which is so prevalent in South America, she was in
+no sense beguiling or prepossessing. It would be hard to vision those
+glowering black eyes soft with any tender emotion; her mouth was as
+hard and as bitter in line as that of some fierce yet stoical young
+savage, brooding over a darkly glorious nightmare of revenge.
+
+Fascinated, even while repelled, by the odd, forbidding face, Barrison
+started as he was roused from his momentary trance by the cool, rapid
+tones of Teddy Lucas:
+
+“Awfully sorry if you’ve been waiting. I don’t imagine we’re late for
+our act, though. Have you a cigarette? We can smoke here. Righto! Come
+along!”
+
+They went in and took the places reserved for them in a stage box. Jim
+was glad to be so close to the stage; he wanted to study this woman as
+minutely as he could. As they settled themselves, an attendant changed
+the cards giving the names of the acts. With a real thrill Barrison saw
+that they read:
+
+“Rita the Daredevil.”
+
+“Good stuff,” murmured Lucas critically. “They don’t say what she does,
+nor what makes her a daredevil. They just say it, and wait for her to
+make good. Of course, she probably won’t.”
+
+He took the evening newspaper from under his arm, and on the margin of
+the first page scribbled a short enigmatic note in pencil. On the stage
+was a small table decorated with a .44 rifle and several small weapons,
+a target painted in red and gold instead of black and white, and a
+large mirror. Almost immediately Rita the Daredevil made her entrance.
+
+She was dressed in the regulation “cowgirl’s” outfit—short skirt
+of khaki, sombrero, heavy leather belt, high-laced brown boots,
+embroidered gauntlets. As though to give a touch of daintiness to her
+costume, she wore a thin white shirtwaist, and a scarlet tie. Also, the
+buckle on her belt was of gold, and there was a golden ornament in the
+band of her broad felt hat.
+
+Daintiness, however, seemed out of place. There was about the young
+woman an absence of feminine coquetry that set her apart from most
+vaudeville performers. Sometimes she forced a smile, and made a little
+bow to the house, but conciliatory measures were plainly foreign to
+this woman’s temperament. She was there to do certain things; one would
+be safe to wager that she would do them well.
+
+And she did. She was a marvelous shot, cool, and steady; and the men
+in her audience were genuinely enthusiastic. A good many of them could
+appreciate straight and clever shooting when they saw it.
+
+She shot bull’s-eyes, tossed glass balls, shot apples on the head of
+her meek partner, the smiling man of the photograph; she shot over her
+shoulder, looking in a mirror; she shot, after sighting carefully, with
+her eyes blindfolded; she shot with guns of every size and caliber.
+In everything she did was apparent the same crisp, grim efficiency.
+She did not do her work at all gayly, nor as if she enjoyed it. There
+was something resentful about her whole personality. Doubtless she
+grudged the entertainment she gave and would have preferred to earn her
+salary, if possible, by making herself unpleasant to people, instead of
+diverting them!
+
+Barrison gave many glances to the man who so patiently and
+self-effacingly assisted her. He was, in spite of the professional
+smile, not a happy-looking man. There were moments when, for all his
+creases of flesh, he looked positively haggard, and his eyes were
+very tired. He was a man who for some reason lived under a shadow or
+a burden of some sort; and—this belief came suddenly to Barrison—she
+herself suffered from the same handicap. These two people were the
+victims either of a heavy trouble, a grievous disappointment, or a
+gnawing wrong. You could see the pinches and rakings of suffering in
+both faces.
+
+The climax of Rita’s act was now pending. The partner came down to the
+footlights, and explained that “The Daredevil, whose life had been one
+hourly challenge to such dangers as lesser mortals hold in justifiable
+dread,” would now show the ladies and gentlemen how little she cared
+for common risks or common caution. It appeared that she wished any one
+who liked to come and examine the pistols she was going to use. It was
+necessary for the audience to understand that they were all loaded. Did
+any one care to examine them?
+
+Yes; to Teddy Lucas’ surprise, Barrison did. He leaned over the side
+of the box, and had the satisfaction not only of noting that they were
+all loaded, six chambers each, but that each one of the three that she
+intended to use was marked in precisely the same way as the one which
+was now locked up in his safe at home.
+
+“I thought she did the stunt with four,” said Ted, arching his
+eyebrows. “She was advertised to.”
+
+Another point. Until recently, she had done her trick with four
+pistols, all exactly alike. Where was the fourth? Jim knew where the
+fourth was. Naturally, there had not been time to have another made and
+marked in precisely the same way.
+
+He handed back the weapons, saw them examined by several other curious
+people, and settled back to see what she was going to do with them.
+
+The stunt itself turned out to be disappointing. It was a mere juggling
+trick, the old three-ball affair, done with loaded pistols; that was
+all. To be sure, there was a certain amount of risk about it, since
+even a clever shot cannot always be responsible for what will happen to
+a trigger when it is caught in the lightning manipulation of juggling.
+But it was not nearly so dangerous as it was advertised to be.
+
+“Now, it’s safe to assume,” remarked Teddy languidly, in Barrison’s
+ear, “that she never fired one of those things off yet, in that stunt,
+and never will!”
+
+And then two things happened. It was difficult even for Jim Barrison’s
+trained mind to tell him which had happened first. His eyes caught
+sight of some one in the box opposite, a gray-haired, dignified figure
+of middle height, not sitting, but standing with his look fixed sternly
+upon the stage. It was Max Dukane, the great manager, and Barrison, in
+a great flash of intuition, knew why he was there. He had come either
+to warn or threaten these people who knew him since the days when he
+had discovered Mortimer in the show known as Blankley’s Daredevils.
+
+And at the selfsame instant, it seemed, the pistols which Rita was
+tossing so composedly and surely, experienced a hitch in their
+methodical orbits. One, two, three, they rose and fell, and she caught
+them neatly each time, and sent them whirling as though they were
+tennis balls, instead of loaded guns. But something had happened. There
+was a faint cry, Barrison was near enough to hear it. And then a shot.
+
+The detective’s hair seemed to rise. It was so soon after that other
+tragedy! Was it possible? But nothing had happened, it seemed, except a
+flesh wound for Rita herself. She was holding her hand against her arm,
+and staring in front of her in a dazed and frightened way. Her partner
+was tearing away her sleeve to investigate, and the house was wildly
+excited. It was superb advertising, of course; only, Barrison knew that
+it was not advertising. She had been frightened by Dukane’s sudden
+appearance, and even her sure hand had lost its cunning for a second.
+
+He looked toward the other box sharply, at the very moment, as he
+thought, when Rita had sunk down wounded. But even so, he was too late.
+Dukane had gone.
+
+“Shall we go behind now, and have a talk with her?” suggested Teddy
+Lucas, rising. “Really, that was quite well staged. Every one will be
+twice as ready to believe her a daredevil after they have seen her
+wounded. Ready?”
+
+They made their way behind.
+
+Barrison’s blood was thrilling with that excitement of the chase which
+keeps a good detective alive on this earth, and without which one can
+scarcely imagine him contented.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIII
+
+                       TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP
+
+
+Rita received them in her dressing room, which was frankly a
+utilitarian apartment. Since she had to share it in turn with other
+performers, she had not much chance to impress her individuality upon
+it. And, for that matter, she was not the type of woman, probably, who
+would have thought it worth her while to take the trouble. She scorned
+frivolities.
+
+When they saw her at close range, they were both struck by the fact
+that she was scarcely made up at all. Doubtless, if she had taken the
+trouble, she could have softened her face and expression, and made
+herself less hard and repellent. Not that she was ugly. She was not;
+her features were regular enough, and her black eyes quite splendid
+in their smoldering sort of way. If she had not bound up her hair so
+tightly, its masses and luster would have been a sensation; and her
+figure was good, in a lean, wiry style all its own.
+
+The truth was that she was uncompromising, unyielding, ungraceful as
+she was ungracious.
+
+If Rita had really experienced a shock during her act, she certainly
+had recovered from it, so far as the eyes of outsiders could determine.
+
+After greeting them, she eyed her visitors coldly and sharply.
+
+“Wanted to talk to me?” she demanded, in rather a metallic voice.
+
+“Please, for the _Blaze_,” said Teddy Lucas, in his most insinuating
+tone.
+
+But Rita the Daredevil shook her head with a slight scowl.
+
+“Waste of time,” she stated. “We aren’t playing here after next week,
+and——”
+
+“I beg your pardon!” slid in Teddy smoothly but firmly. “You are not
+playing at this theater, but you have time at——”
+
+“I tell you——” she began hotly. But another voice made itself heard.
+It was, as they were somewhat surprised to find, the voice of Rita’s
+subservient partner, who had appeared just behind them, and who now
+confronted them with a curious little air of authority, in spite of his
+plump body and his very ancient evening dress.
+
+“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he said courteously, and
+made them a bow which was quite proper and dignified. It was the bow
+of—what was it? Jim tried to think. Was it the bow of a head waiter, or
+a floorwalker, or—a ringmaster? That was it, a ringmaster. This man was
+used to the exacting proprieties of the circus. No one else could be so
+perfect! Instantly, Jim placed him as Blankley himself.
+
+“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he repeated gently. “Our
+plans have changed. Vaudeville performers live, unfortunately, in a
+world of changes. We had expected to play in and around New York for
+some weeks; our expectations have not materialized. We leave New York
+to-night.”
+
+“To-night!” repeated Teddy Lucas, sitting up and opening his eyes.
+“Isn’t that rather short notice?”
+
+“It is,” said the fat man, and Jim saw his hand shake as he raised it
+to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. But he was firm enough, for
+all that. “It is extremely sudden, but—it is—advisable.”
+
+“More advantageous time, I suppose?” said Teddy, watching him with
+seeming indifference.
+
+“Yes, yes,” said the fat man eagerly, and his hand shook more than
+ever. “More advantageous time! Meanwhile, if you care to interview Mrs.
+Blankley——”
+
+Barrison pricked up his ears. Mrs. Blankley!
+
+“She—I—we would be glad to be mentioned in your paper,” went on
+the fat man hurriedly. “You could hardly give your space to a more
+scintillating—a more——”
+
+“Nick,” said Rita the Daredevil shortly, “I don’t want to be
+interviewed. You arranged with Coyne for this gentleman to come,
+representing his paper, but I don’t stand for it. You never can get it
+out of your head that we’re not running our own show any longer, and
+that the public doesn’t care a continental about us. You keep hanging
+on to the old stuff. You keep thinking that because you used to be a
+big noise in your own little gramophone, you’re loud enough to take in
+Broadway nowadays. It doesn’t get across, Nick. If these gentlemen want
+a story,” and her voice was keen and bitter, “they’d better get after
+something else.”
+
+“Miss—er—I mean, Mrs. Blankley,” said Teddy, “weren’t you hurt, when
+that bullet exploded to-night?”
+
+She changed color; oh, yes, she did change color. But she said with a
+swiftness that made Jim Barrison admire her the more: “That? Oh, that
+was just advertising! Didn’t you guess?”
+
+Teddy Lucas looked at her. “H’m!” he said, deliberating. “I confess I
+did think it was advertising at first, but——”
+
+Rita looked strange; for a moment it seemed that she was going to
+strike the newspaper man. Then she let her heavy, dark eyes sink, and
+turned away with a muttered remark that none of them could catch.
+
+It was Jim’s moment; the only moment that had been put straight into
+his hands that night. He seized it boldly. The fat man was talking
+nervously and volubly to the reporter; there was a chance.
+
+“Miss Wrenn,” said Jim Barrison deliberately, “will you let me talk to
+you alone?”
+
+He never forgot the look that came into those big black eyes, as she
+raised them then to meet his. He could not have told whether it was
+horror or hatred, but he was sure that it was one or the other. For a
+full half minute she stared at him so, her face white as chalk. Then
+she drew a deep breath, and took a step back.
+
+“Since I must,” she said, answering his request. “But I warn you, it
+will be to very little purpose—I know why you are here. Do you truly
+think that—this—this investigation—is worth your while?”
+
+“I don’t know that,” he said steadily, but still in a voice that was
+audible to her alone. “I only know that it is necessary; that it is my
+duty. I know that you are the girl I am seeking. Your name is Wrenn. Is
+it not?”
+
+“It is,” she replied. “Marita Wrenn!”
+
+Marita! So the initials were to be explained logically after all! M
+for Marita; W for Wrenn. The two engraved in that odd fashion which he
+could quite understand had been of her inspiration.
+
+“Will you believe,” he went on, steadying his voice, and keeping all
+excitement out of it, “that I am only trying to get at the facts? That
+I——”
+
+“Marita!” came the voice of the fat man sharply. “This gentleman”—he
+indicated Lucas—“has asked us to take supper with him and his friend.
+We will go?”
+
+“I should be delighted,” she said, in the mechanical way, which one
+felt was her way of accepting all pleasures in life, however they came.
+
+Blankley turned to them with his anxious little bow. “If you would
+pardon us——” he begged. “My wife must take off a little make-up, and
+then—may we join you at the stage door?”
+
+Barrison hated to let the woman out of his sight, but he scarcely knew
+how to refuse so simple a request. He was here as Teddy Lucas’ guest,
+and not in his professional capacity. So the two young men went out to
+the stage door to wait.
+
+They waited until, with a short laugh, the reporter showed his watch.
+Almost sixty minutes had gone by.
+
+“I don’t know just your game, my dear fellow,” he said, as he turned
+away. “But, for my part, I think you’ve been jolly well sold!”
+
+“How about you?” said Barrison, raw about his part of it, and yearning
+to be disagreeable.
+
+Lucas laughed. “I’m fixed all right,” he said amiably. “I’m going to
+write a peach of a story about the shock which led to the canceling of
+the Blankley engagement!”
+
+“What shock?” asked Barrison.
+
+Lucas looked at him in polite scorn. “My dear friend,” he said, in a
+tired voice, “didn’t you see Dukane in the box to-night?”
+
+Barrison jumped. “You mean you saw him?” he exclaimed.
+
+Lucas sighed heavily. “Saw him?” he said. “My dear fellow, I’m a
+reporter!”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXIV
+
+                         WHAT SYBIL HAD HIDDEN
+
+
+Jim Barrison was dog tired. He felt as though the past twenty-four
+hours had been twenty-four months; it scarcely seemed possible that the
+murder had been committed only the night before! Nevertheless, weary as
+he was he called up Lowry and told him of his evening’s experience. The
+inspector made some cryptic grunts at the other end of the wire, and
+ended up with a curt “I’ll see about it. Good night!”
+
+Barrison smiled, but felt slightly annoyed as he hung up the receiver.
+“‘I’ll see about it!’ As though he were Providence incarnate, and could
+wind up the moon and stars to go differently if he felt like it!”
+
+He was past more than a fleeting flash of resentment, however, and lost
+no time in wending his way homeward and to bed. Tara made a dignified
+offering of Scotch and sandwiches, but he waved him away sleepily, and
+tumbled in.
+
+So profound was the slumber into which he immediately fell, that the
+shrill ringing of the telephone hardly pierced his rest. If he heard it
+at all, it was only as a component part of his fitful dreams.
+
+The voice which came to Tara over the wire was cool and crisp:
+
+“Mr. Barrison, please.”
+
+Tara glanced compassionately toward the bedroom where his master was
+already in deep repose.
+
+“No, sir!” he responded, politely but firmly.
+
+“What do you mean—no? Has he gone to bed?”
+
+“Yes—please.” Tara was nothing if not deferential.
+
+“Well, get him up. I want to speak to him.”
+
+“Honorably excuse,” said Tara, with an instinctive bow to the
+instrument, “but—I _not_!”
+
+“You won’t call him?”
+
+“Please—I not!”
+
+The voice at the end of the wire cursed him gently, and then continued:
+
+“Well, will you take a message?”
+
+“Oh, yes, please—I thank!”
+
+The Jap hastily seized pencil and paper, and, after making sundry
+hieroglyphics in his own language, said good night humbly, hung up,
+and translated what he had noted into English. In the morning, when he
+carried coffee in to a refreshed but still drowsy Barrison, the message
+which that gentleman read was as follows: “Hon. gent. paper man say if
+you please call. Import.”
+
+Barrison knew that this meant Teddy Lucas in all probability, but he
+also knew that it was too early to catch him at the newspaper office
+yet. He ate breakfast and hunted through the morning papers for
+matters of interest. In the _Blaze_, he found a picturesque little
+account of the spectacular exit of Mr. and Mrs. Blankley. It was toned
+down, however, a good deal, Dukane’s name not being mentioned, and
+nothing more sensational being suggested than that “Rita the Daredevil”
+lost her nerve after the narrow escape which had left her in a state of
+collapse when the _Blaze_ representative was admitted to her presence.
+Her husband had urged her discontinuance of the engagement, et cetera.
+Barrison could not entirely understand, but he knew that the ways of
+newspapers were strange and devious. Later he would call up Lucas and
+find out more about it.
+
+It was at this point that his eye caught sight of another item on the
+page given over to dramatic news. It was starred in a half column, and
+was headed:
+
+                  TRAGIC AND SENSATIONAL ROMANCE OF MISS
+                               KITTY LEGAYE!
+
+           Popular Actress Announces Her Engagement to Star Who
+                               Was Murdered.
+
+                     (Interview by Maybelle Montagu.)
+
+  Miss Kitty Legaye, whose charm and talent have endeared her to
+  thousands of the American public, is to-day that saddest of figures,
+  a sorrowing woman bereft of the man who was to have been her husband.
+  Alan Mortimer, whose terrible and mysterious death has stirred the
+  entire theatrical world and baffled police headquarters, has left
+  behind him a woman whose white face bears the stamp of ineffaceable
+  love and endless grief.
+
+  In deepest mourning, which enhanced her childlike loveliness, the
+  exquisite little actress whose impersonations of young girls upon
+  the stage have made her famous all over the continent consented to
+  receive the representative of the New York _Blaze_. It was with a
+  touching simplicity that she said:
+
+  “We had intended to postpone the announcement of our engagement until
+  later, but he has been taken from me, and why keep silent any longer?
+  It is, in a way, a comfort to let the world know that we were to have
+  been married—that, at least, I have the right to mourn for him!”
+
+  Her sweet voice was choked with sobs, and in the eyes of even the
+  seasoned interviewer there were tears.
+
+Barrison shook his head, and smiled a wry, cynical smile.
+
+“Not so prostrated that she can’t make capital out of it!” he commented
+to himself. “Lost no time, I must say. However, it’s no concern of
+mine.”
+
+Refreshed by his sound sleep, he rushed through the process of dressing
+like a whirlwind, and went off to try the doubtful experiment of
+another call upon Mr. Dukane.
+
+But before he went up to the great man’s office, he paused to take
+due thought. After all, was it the best thing to do? He considered,
+and before he had decided, the door of the elevator opened, and young
+Norman Crane came out. He looked fresh and wholesome as ever, but, Jim
+thought, a bit anxious. He greeted the detective cordially.
+
+“Hello!” he said. “Beastly mess it all is, isn’t it? Were you going up
+to see the old man? Because you won’t. Not unless you’ve an awful drag
+at court! Every one in the world is waiting in the outer office, all
+the poor old ‘Boots-and-Saddles’ bunch, and everybody in town that’s
+left over.”
+
+“I hadn’t made up my mind whether I was going up or not,” admitted
+Barrison. “Now I have, I think. I’ll walk along with you, if you’ve no
+objection?”
+
+“Rather not! I’m——” He hesitated. “I’m going to inquire for Sybil.”
+
+“How _is_ Miss Merivale? I was sorry to hear that she was so ill.”
+
+“Who told you? Oh, it would be Lowry, of course! I can’t get used
+to the idea of having Sybil watched and spied on by policemen. Beg
+pardon!” He flushed boyishly. “I don’t mean to be offensive, Mr.
+Barrison, and you never strike me like that quite, but—you must know
+what I mean?”
+
+“Naturally I do,” said Jim, who liked the lad. “And, if you don’t
+mind, I’ll come with you when you go to inquire—not in a professional
+capacity!” he added hastily, seeing the glint of suspicion in the
+other’s transparent eyes.
+
+Crane laughed a little awkwardly. “I’d be very glad to have you,” he
+said frankly, “and, for that matter, in your professional capacity,
+too! Mr. Barrison, am I right in thinking that—that man suspects Sybil?”
+
+“Suspects is rather a plain term and rather a strong one. I don’t think
+he absolutely suspects her; but there are things that will need a bit
+of clearing up.”
+
+“I thought so!” The young man’s manner expressed a sort of angry
+triumph. “Now, Mr. Barrison, you must come. Sybil must talk to you,
+whether she feels like it or not! You know, the whole idea is too
+absurd——”
+
+“I think it is absurd myself!” said Barrison kindly. “But you know it’s
+just those ridiculous things that make such a lot of bother in the
+world! Miss Merivale, I’m convinced, is the last person in the world to
+have committed any sort of a crime.”
+
+“Heavens! I should say so!”
+
+“And yet—what was it that she hid in her dress that night?”
+
+Norman stopped and stared at him. “Why should you think she hid
+anything in her dress?” he demanded in unfeigned astonishment.
+
+“I’ll tell you by and by,” said Barrison evasively. He saw that Crane
+was really surprised by this, and he was debating with himself just how
+far it was politic and wise to go in this direction.
+
+In another few minutes they were at the boarding house where Sybil
+lived—a quiet house in the upper Forties, kept by a gentle, gray-haired
+woman who seemed of another day and generation, and who called Norman
+“my dear boy,” with a soft Southern drawl.
+
+Miss Merivale was better, she said; so much so, in fact, that she had
+had her removed into her own parlor at the front of the house, where
+she could have more cheerful surroundings and see her friends, the
+sweet lady added, smiling, if she felt strong enough. If the gentlemen
+would take the trouble to walk upstairs, she was sure they would do
+Miss Merivale good. She was better, but not so bright as one could wish.
+
+The boarding-house keeper and Norman Crane ascended first, and shortly
+after the former came back to tell Barrison that they were expecting
+him, if he would go up.
+
+“I thought,” she added softly, “that they would want to see each other,
+and so I had her couch fixed in my place, where I can be in and out, so
+to speak. Not that I’d have the time,” she added, gently humorous, “but
+it’s the idea, you know! I’m from the So’th, sir, and I have my funny
+notions about the proprieties!”
+
+Sybil, on the landlady’s old-fashioned sofa, looked rather pathetically
+wan, but she made an effort to greet Jim with some animation and
+cordiality. It was plain that she was still very shaken and depressed,
+and that her fiancé was much worried about her.
+
+She went at once to the matters that were in all their minds. It was
+characteristic of the girl that she did not shrink from approaching
+even the subjects responsible for her recent collapse. And she was
+very fair to look at, in her soft blue dressing gown lying back among
+the faded chintz cushions, with her ash-blond hair in two long braids
+upon her shoulders. Kitty Legaye should have seen her now!
+
+“Mr. Barrison,” she said at once, “it is awfully good of you to have
+called. Norman and I know that you are here as a friend, and not as an
+officer of the law, and we are both grateful. Mr. Barrison, you surely
+don’t think I had anything to do with—with that horror the other night?”
+
+“No, I don’t,” said Barrison, speaking as briefly and frankly as she
+was speaking herself.
+
+“Well, will you tell me on what grounds they are—are watching me?”
+
+“You are sure they are?” he said, to gain time.
+
+“Sure! Of course, I am sure! Look at that man over there, reading the
+paper and occasionally glancing up at the sky to see if it is going to
+rain. Isn’t he watching this house?”
+
+Barrison smiled. “Probably he is,” he admitted. He had noticed the man
+himself as he came in, but he had not imagined that the girl herself
+knew of her situation.
+
+“Well,” she insisted, and a faint spot of feverish color came into
+either cheek, “what is it that they expect to find out? What is it? I
+know that I was there, on the scene, but—but—surely that man would not
+have let me go if he had thought I had—done it!”
+
+Barrison was convinced of her innocence; but he was also convinced
+that the wisest course would be to enlighten her as to the points
+wherein her position was open to question by the law. He had hesitated
+because his connection with the case, while unofficial, more or less
+tied his hands; but, after all, the inspector had given him leave to
+use his own judgment.
+
+He spoke straightforwardly. “What did you hide in your dress, just
+before the last act, the night before last, Miss Merivale?”
+
+She started upright on the couch, and looked at him with wide eyes of
+amazement. “How did you know that?” she asked blankly.
+
+“But you didn’t, did you, dear?” struck in Norman Crane, taking her
+hand in his. “What could you have put in your dress? It’s absurd, as I
+told Mr. Barrison!”
+
+She thought for a moment, and then said quietly: “I put into my dress
+something that I wanted to hide, chiefly from you, Norman. I knew that
+if you saw it, you would be angry.”
+
+Norman Crane looked as though she had struck him.
+
+“You did hide something, then?” he exclaimed.
+
+“I certainly did, and would again, under the same conditions. Only, I
+can’t see how any one knew of the fact. Who was it, Mr. Barrison?”
+
+“Your dresser, the woman Parry.”
+
+“Of course!” She nodded slowly. “She was always a meddlesome old thing!
+And I know that she was consumed with curiosity when I got the package
+and the note that night.”
+
+“The package and the note!” repeated Norman Crane. “Sybil, you are
+crazy! What are you talking about?”
+
+“I know what the note was,” put in Barrison, smiling at her
+reassuringly. “At least, I know part of it, and I was daring enough to
+make up the rest of it in Lowry’s office last night!”
+
+Sybil looked up at him with a flash of laughter in her eyes, though
+poor Crane was still dazed.
+
+“And what did you make of it?” she asked, in a tone that tried for
+raillery and only achieved a certain piteous bravado.
+
+“I made of it a sort of love letter, if you can call it so,” said
+Barrison gently, “which might have accompanied a present, something
+which could be considered in the light of a test—no, that is not the
+word, a proof of——”
+
+“A proof,” she broke in passionately, “of my willingness to do
+something, and to be something that I could not do and could not be!
+And you made that out of it, with only those torn scraps to go by! Oh,
+you understand. I see that you do understand!”
+
+She hid her face in her hands and cried. In a moment, however, she put
+aside her own emotion, and explained:
+
+“He—Mr. Mortimer—had tried to make love to me many times; you both know
+that. Norman was furious with him, and I was always afraid that there
+would be trouble between them. Of my part of it—well, it is much harder
+to speak. Being men, perhaps you will not understand the sort of power
+of fascination that a man can have over a woman, even when she does not
+love him. I shall always believe that Alan Mortimer had some hypnotic
+power—however, that is not the point. Though I had always repulsed him,
+he could not help knowing that he had influence over me; a man always
+knows. You see, I don’t try to lie; I tell you the truth, even though
+it isn’t a pleasant sort of truth to tell.”
+
+“I know it is most painful to tell,” Barrison said, feeling indeed
+profoundly sorry for her, and most respectful of her courage in
+speaking as she did. Norman Crane said nothing.
+
+“That night—the first night,” Sybil went on, “Alan Mortimer made it
+especially—hard for me. He had chosen an ornament for me, a splendid
+jeweled thing, but I had refused it several times. That night, he sent
+it to me with a note, and told me that he expected me to wear it that
+evening, after the play was over.”
+
+“Have you got it now?” asked Barrison.
+
+She reached out to a small table near by and took it from a hand bag.
+“I have never been separated from it,” she said simply. “It is too
+valuable, and—until to-day—I did not know just what to do with it.”
+
+In another moment it lay before them—the case “as long as a hand,”
+which Mrs. Parry had seen the girl hide in the front of her dress.
+In yet another instant the case was open, and the splendid piece of
+jewelry that was within flashed in the morning sunshine. It was a
+pendant of sapphires and diamonds, and it was the sort of thing that
+would be extremely becoming to Sybil Merivale.
+
+Crane suppressed with difficulty a sound of rage as he saw it.
+
+Barrison cut it off quickly by saying: “You told us you did not know
+what to do with it until to-day. Why to-day?”
+
+“Because”—Sybil took up a morning paper, looked at a particular place,
+and dropped it again—“because to-day I know that Miss Legaye was
+engaged to him, and that, therefore, anything that he had, when he
+died, belongs to her. I am going to send the pendant to Miss Legaye.”
+
+She closed the case with an air of finality. “Isn’t that what I ought
+to do?” she asked, half anxiously, looking from one to the other.
+
+Norman Crane, who had been sitting moodily staring at the floor,
+suddenly lifted his head and bent to kiss her hand.
+
+“My darling,” he said honestly and generously, “I don’t understand
+everything you’ve been talking about, but I understand that you’re my
+dear girl—my fine girl—always. And—and whatever you say—must be right!”
+
+“And you, Mr. Barrison?” she persisted, looking at him wistfully, as
+she left her hand in Norman’s.
+
+Jim rose to go, and, standing, smiled down upon her. “I think your
+notion is an inspiration!” he declared. “I would give something to see
+Miss Legaye when she gets that pendant!”
+
+After which he departed, wondering how he was going to convince Lowry
+that the trail to Sybil was, professionally speaking, “cold.”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXV
+
+                            NEW DEVELOPMENTS
+
+
+He telephoned the _Blaze_ office, and caught Teddy Lucas just as he was
+starting out on an assignment.
+
+“Oh, it’s you,” said the reporter. “Wanted to tell you something about
+your friend Rita which might be useful in your business. I strolled
+round last night to the furnished rooming house where she and her
+husband hung out, and they never went home at all; just beat it to the
+train, I suppose. Their room was just as they’d left it, and full of
+junk. There was a shelf full of old photographs, and one of ’em was of
+two young girls, sisters I should say; at least, they were both dark.
+One’s evidently Rita herself, as she may have looked ten years ago,
+and the other, unless I’m very much mistaken, is the lady that the sob
+sisters are interviewing this morning!”
+
+“Not Kitty Legaye?”
+
+“That’s the one. Oh, and I poked about the files for you this morning.
+The Blankley Daredevils were a riding and shooting show that did small
+time in the East until a year ago. Then it bust up, and the company
+scattered. Blankley seems to have been a crook, for the reason for the
+smash-up was that he was arrested and sent to jail for six months!
+Quite a nice, snappy little story—what?”
+
+“Are you going to write it?”
+
+“Not my line. I’ve turned it over to a chap on the news staff!”
+
+“I noticed that you didn’t make much out of last night.”
+
+“My editor cut out most of it; thought I was giving Coyne’s theater too
+much advertising. Well, that’s all I had to tell.”
+
+“Where is that photograph?”
+
+“I swiped it. Send it up?”
+
+“Please! And I’m no end obliged.”
+
+“That’s all right.”
+
+Barrison walked out of the booth more astonished than he had ever
+been in his life. In all the speculations he had made in his own mind
+concerning this twisted and unsatisfactory case, it had never occurred
+to him to connect those two women. Kitty Legaye and Marita Blankley!
+He recalled the two faces swiftly, and saw that there was a faint
+resemblance, though Rita’s was far the harder and more mature. He would
+not swear that she was the older, though; little ladies like Kitty
+rarely looked their age. Kitty and Rita! The more he thought of it,
+the more astounding it seemed. Of course, the first thing to do was to
+locate Wrenn. But how? He wondered if Willie Coster could help him.
+
+He got Willie’s address easily enough from the theater, and went to
+call. He found him a little wan and puffy-eyed, but quite recovered,
+and amazingly cheerful for a man who has only been sober a few hours!
+
+“Wrenn?” he repeated. “How should I know? He’d scarcely be staying on
+at Mortimer’s hotel, I suppose?”
+
+Barrison explained that Mortimer’s rooms and effects were in the
+custody of the police, and that the old valet would not be allowed near
+them in any case.
+
+“I don’t believe that he’s left town,” Willie said, “and I’ll tell you
+why. He wasn’t at all well fixed for money. I don’t believe Mortimer
+ever paid him any wages to speak of; whatever it was that held them
+together, it wasn’t cash. He’s touched me more than once, poor old
+beggar!”
+
+“You! Why you?”
+
+“I don’t know,” said Willie simply. “People always do!”
+
+Good little fellow! Of course, people always did.
+
+“And you think he’d come and borrow money from you, if he meant to
+leave town?”
+
+“I’d not be surprised.”
+
+And, as a matter of fact, he did come that very day and for that very
+reason; and Willie, having ascertained his address, gave it to Barrison
+over the wire.
+
+“I feel rather rotten about telling you, too,” he added. “I don’t know
+what you want him for, and the poor old guy is awfully cut up about
+something—scared blue, I should say. Say, Barrison, you don’t suspect
+_him_, do you?”
+
+“Lord, no! But I think he knows who did it.”
+
+Willie grunted uncomfortably. “Well, treat him decently,” he urged.
+
+“I’m not exactly an inquisitor in my methods, you know,” Jim told him.
+“How much money did you lend him, Willie?”
+
+“Only a ten spot,” said Willie innocently.
+
+Barrison laughed and said good-by.
+
+Within the hour, he was at the address given him by Coster. It proved
+to be a shabby, dingy little lodging house east of Second Avenue, and
+the few men whom the young man met slouching in and out were as shabby
+and dingy as the place, and had, he thought, a furtive look. Sized up
+roughly, it had a drably disreputable appearance, as though connected
+with small, sordid crimes and the unpicturesque derelicts of the
+underworld.
+
+In a dreary hall bedroom on the third floor, he finally found Wrenn.
+
+The old man opened the door with evident caution in response to
+Barrison’s knock, and when he saw the detective, his face became rigid
+with a terror which he did not even attempt to conceal. Mutely, he
+stood back and let the visitor enter, closing the door with trembling
+hands. Then, still speechless, he turned and faced him, his anguished
+eyes more eloquent than any words could have been. Jim was touched by
+the man’s misery. He could guess something of what he must be suffering
+on his daughter’s account.
+
+“Don’t look like that, Wrenn,” he said kindly. “I’ve only come to have
+a talk with you.”
+
+The old man bent forward with sudden eagerness. “Then,” he faltered,
+“you’ve not come to tell me—of—her arrest, sir?”
+
+“No,” said Barrison; “I don’t even know where she is. Sit down, man;
+you look done up.”
+
+Wrenn sank onto the bed, and sat there, his wrinkled face working with
+emotion.
+
+“I was afraid you’d arrested her, sir!” he managed to say, after a
+moment, in broken tones.
+
+“You had been expecting that?”
+
+He nodded. “I’ve known that the—the police were bound to find out some
+time that she’d been in the theater that night, and I knew what that
+would mean. She _would_ come, though I tried so hard to prevent her!
+She _would_ come!”
+
+“Wrenn,” said Barrison deliberately, “it’s a pretty tough question to
+put to you, but—did she shoot Mortimer?”
+
+Wrenn looked at him with haggard eyes. “Before God, Mr. Barrison,” he
+said earnestly, “I don’t know, I don’t know! I didn’t _see_ her shoot
+him, but—I know she meant to.”
+
+“You know that!” exclaimed Barrison.
+
+“I know that she had threatened him more than once, and—it was her
+pistol. You knew that, sir?”
+
+“Yes, I knew that. Go on!”
+
+“I’d better tell you the whole story, sir. I’m getting old, and it’s
+weighed on me too long—too long! If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go back
+to the beginning.”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXVI
+
+                             WRENN’S STORY
+
+
+“I was born in the West,” said Wrenn, “and I was fairly well educated,
+but while I was still in college—a small, fresh-water university—I got
+into bad company, and was expelled. My people disowned me after that,
+and I drifted into the sort of ‘adventurous’ life that attracts so many
+young men. I never really liked the idea of living dishonestly, but I
+didn’t seem good for much else. I had not worked hard at college, and I
+had no particular ambitions, one way or another. I suppose I was lazy,
+and I know that I was very weak. Eventually I became what you, sir,
+would call a crook, though for a long time I tried to gloss it over
+and pretend it was just taking a chance or living by my wits, and the
+rest of it! Then I got more hardened, and admitted even to myself that
+I was no better than the rest of the crowd I went with—a cheat, a card
+sharper, a petty criminal. Twice I was in jail for short terms, and I
+don’t think either experience improved me much.
+
+“Then I married. She was a high-class Mexican girl—very beautiful. She
+was a Catholic, and had an idea of reforming me. So she did, for a
+short time, but the old wild longings came back. I’d settled down in a
+job as foreman on an Arizona ranch, and I was working hard and drawing
+good pay. We had two little girls, and things were going pretty well.
+Then my wife died, and I got reckless again.
+
+“There was a tough bunch of cow-punchers in our outfit, and we got to
+gambling a lot, and pretty soon I found out that it was easier and more
+exciting to win when I played crooked than when I played straight.
+And there were others who felt the same way. We formed a sort of
+combination—a gang. And we did very well, indeed.”
+
+Barrison sat and stared at the mild, respectable old fellow, who so
+patently and typically looked the part of a decent, sober, and trusty
+servant, and tried to visualize him as a bold, bad man of the wicked
+West. But some things are past the powers of the human imagination. He
+thought, with a sort of grimly humorous awe, of the strange alchemy of
+time, and shook his head, giving the problem up, as have better and
+wiser men before him.
+
+Wrenn went on with his story:
+
+“My girls were brought up in a rough-and-tumble way, I’m afraid. It
+affected them differently. The older Caterina—she was named for her
+mother—never took kindly to it. She was selfish and headstrong—they
+both were, for that matter. But I think Marita had more heart. Not that
+I ever called out much affection in either of them!”
+
+He bent his gray head for a moment.
+
+“Anyway, I didn’t give them much of a bringing up. Marita knocked
+about with the boys and learned to ride like a puncher herself. But
+Caterina—Kitty, we called her—hated the whole life, and when a rich
+prospector came along, she threw us over like a shot and went away with
+him. She was only just eighteen, but she was ambitious already. She
+wanted to get some pleasure out of life, as she had said twenty times a
+day since she could speak. I—I shall not mention her name, sir—the name
+which she is known by now, for—you would know it.”
+
+It was odd, the way he dropped so constantly into the respectful “sir,”
+and all the air and manner of a servant. It was clear that his was one
+of those pliable natures that can be molded by life and conditions
+into almost any shape. His instinct of fatherhood, his late-awakened
+sense of conscience, responsibility and compunction, were struggling up
+painfully through the accumulated handicap of a lifetime of habit.
+
+“I know her name,” Barrison said quietly. “You mean Kitty Legaye, don’t
+you?”
+
+The start that Wrenn gave now betrayed an even livelier terror than had
+yet moved him.
+
+“I didn’t say it!” he gasped in fright and agitation. “I have never
+said it—never once, through all these years! She always made us swear
+we would tell nobody. I don’t know what she would do if she thought
+I had spoken! She was so ashamed of us—and I can hardly wonder at
+that, sir. She has done so well herself! Oh, sir, if ever it comes up,
+you—you’ll see that she knows that it wasn’t I who told?”
+
+“I certainly will,” said the detective, pitying—though with a little
+contempt—this father’s abject fear of his unnatural daughter’s
+displeasure. “As a matter of fact, I found it out by accident. I only
+told you that I knew just now to show you that you have nothing to
+conceal about her. Nor,” he added, entirely upon impulse, “about Mr.
+Dukane!”
+
+This time Wrenn’s jaw dropped, in the intensity of his astonishment.
+
+“You—you know about—him—too!” he muttered breathlessly. “Is there
+anything you—do not know?”
+
+“Several things, else I should not be here now,” rejoined Jim, with
+an inner thrill of elation over the success of his half-random shot.
+“Suppose you go on with your story, and then I shall know more.”
+
+The other sighed deeply, and proceeded:
+
+“Since you know so much, sir, there is no sense in my hiding anything.
+Not that I think I should have hidden anything, in any case. As I told
+you, I am an old man, and all this has been hard to bear. But you don’t
+want me to tell about my feelings, sir; you want the story.
+
+“When Kitty had been gone a year or more, and Marita was about
+seventeen, Nicholas Blankley came to the town where we lived. It was
+a little Arizona settlement, where I ran a saloon and gambling place.
+Blankley was one of us—I mean he was a natural-born crook, but he
+wasn’t a bad sort of fellow at that, if you know what I mean, sir. He
+was a good sport, and square with his pals, which is more than can be
+said for most of us! He was in the theatrical line, and had worked on
+all sorts of jobs of that kind—advance man, stage manager, all sorts of
+things. He was interested in Rita from the first—saw her possibilities
+as a ‘cowgirl,’ and was fond of her, too—for she was young and fresh in
+those days, and the daring, reckless sort that got men. Nick got the
+daredevil name from her; that’s what he used to call her.
+
+“His idea was to start a sort of wild-West show, on the cheap; get
+some down-and-outers who could ride and shoot and who wouldn’t want
+much pay, and do short jumps at low prices. We would have to carry the
+horses, but no scenery, and no props to speak of, and we could use a
+big tent like the small circus people. It looked like a good venture,
+and I was tired of staying in one place. Marita was wild about it from
+the first. So I sold out my business, and we started. We made a success
+of it, though nothing very big, and kept at it fifteen years! Fifteen
+years! It seems impossible that it could have been as long as that,
+but it was. In that time Marita married Nick, and we ran across Alan
+Morton—I might as well go on calling him Mortimer, though.
+
+“There’s no use pretending that we were running our outfit strictly
+on the straight. We weren’t. We were out to get what we could out of
+the public, and we didn’t care much how we did it. But we didn’t do
+anything very bad; I, for one, was getting careful as time went on,
+and Nick had a notion of reforming after he married Rita. We did run a
+gambling business in connection with the show, and we did cheat a bit,
+and we did take in any sort of thug or gunman or escaped convict who
+had ever learned to ride, and Nick got away with a very good thing in
+phony change at one place. Very neat, indeed, it was, and he never had
+any trouble with it, either.”
+
+Wrenn spoke of this with a sort of pride which made Barrison shake his
+head again. He was the queerest felon with whom the detective had ever
+come in contact.
+
+“But as I say,” resumed Wrenn, “we got along all right, and did no
+great harm for all those years. Then we struck Mortimer. He was a bad
+one—just a plain bad one, from the very first.”
+
+“And I always thought you were so fond of him!” ejaculated the
+detective.
+
+“But I was, sir,” said the old man at once. “I was very fond of him,
+indeed! He was a—a very lovable person, sir, when he cared to be.”
+
+Barrison, again rendered speechless, simply stared at him for a moment
+or two.
+
+“Go on!” he managed to articulate, after a bit.
+
+“Well, sir, it was this way. Mortimer’s blood was younger than ours,
+and he was more venturesome, more energetic, more daring.”
+
+“Like your daughter.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” said the ex-gambler, rather sadly. “Like her. There was a
+time when I was afraid that she was getting too fond of him—he had such
+a way with women! Wherever he went there was trouble, as you might say.
+He helped the show—put new life into it, and he could ride—oh, well, no
+one ever rode better than he did. And you know how handsome he was?”
+
+Strangely enough, the old man’s voice choked a bit just there.
+
+“I don’t know why I always felt just the way I did about him,” he went
+on quietly. “He was often very rough and careless in his ways, but—but
+I was as fond of him as if he’d been my own son—and that, sir, is the
+gospel truth.
+
+“Mortimer had a scheme to branch out bigger, and get a sort of
+organized company together, with capital, and a circus arena somewhere
+with the right sort of scenery and music, and that sort of thing. Mr.
+Dukane had seen our show once, and had taken an interest in it—at
+least, had taken an interest in the lad—and Mortimer wrote to him for a
+loan to back the new plan.”
+
+“Wrote Dukane—for a loan?” repeated Jim, in admiration.
+
+“Yes, he did. I felt just as surprised as you, sir, when he told me
+what he had done. And—to this day, I’m not sure whether it was just
+plain, pure nerve on his part, or whether he—he—had in mind what the
+result might be.”
+
+“Result?”
+
+“Yes.” For the first time the old scapegrace’s utterance was slow and
+troubled—hardly audible. He would not meet Barrison’s eyes. What he
+said now seemed to be dragged up from the depths of his sinful and
+unwilling soul.
+
+“You know—you must know, sir,” he said, in those new and halting
+accents, “since you know so much—about the deal with Dukane?”
+
+“I know something,” said Jim, truthfully, but very cautiously—his heart
+was beating hard. “I know that there was a deal at all events.”
+
+“It—it doesn’t sound very well—put into words, does it, sir?” Poor old
+Wrenn’s tone was tired and appealing. “But there! I said I was going
+to make a clean breast of it, and I might as well. Dukane and Mortimer
+fixed it up between themselves——”
+
+“Dukane and Mortimer only?” interrupted Barrison, with a sudden
+intuition.
+
+Wrenn’s poor, weak, tragic eyes met his piteously, shifted, and fell.
+
+“Dukane and Mortimer and—I—fixed it up, sir,” he confessed humbly. “We
+were to double-cross Nick Blankley, and Dukane was to star Mortimer.”
+
+“He must have had a pretty high opinion of him!” exclaimed Jim Barrison
+wonderingly, for the great manager, while a shrewd gambler, was no
+plunger.
+
+“He knew that he had the makings of a favorite, sir; any one could see
+it. Mr. Dukane wanted him the way the owner of a racing stable wants a
+fine horse. He knew there was money in him if he was put out right. And
+Dukane was the man to do that. Anyway, that was the idea. They—I mean
+we—were to get Blankley out of the way, and Dukane would take care of
+us afterward.”
+
+“How do you mean get him out of the way?”
+
+“Oh, not kill him, sir!” Wrenn’s tone was virtuously shocked. “You
+wouldn’t think that, surely? It was just my way of putting it, as it
+were. No; he’d done a number of shady things, Nick Blankley had, and——”
+
+“So had you!” interpolated Jim Barrison, rather cruelly.
+
+“Oh, yes, sir! But we had—if you’ll pardon the expression—got away with
+it.”
+
+There it was, the point of view of the born criminal. If you weren’t
+found out, it was all right! Jim looked at the wretched creature before
+him, and mused on man as God made him.
+
+“Well?” he demanded, somewhat impatiently.
+
+“Mortimer told Dukane something that Blankley had done; it wasn’t very
+much—just a fraud.”
+
+“And Dukane lent himself to this!”
+
+“He’s a business man, sir. He suggested it, I believe. At least,
+Mortimer said so.”
+
+No wonder the manager did not care to talk about it!
+
+“Anyway,” continued Wrenn, “it was on Mortimer’s testimony that
+Blankley went to jail.”
+
+“For six months.”
+
+“You know that, sir? But it was eight months. He got pardon for good
+behavior. We”—he stumbled over this—“we hadn’t expected it yet a while.”
+
+“Great Scott!” said Barrison, looking at him. “And you tell all this!
+You mean that you double-crossed—betrayed your pal, your partner—got
+him out of the way, so that you could be free of him while you got rich
+in the new venture?”
+
+“It—it comes to that, sir; I told you it didn’t sound well when you
+put in into words. But it’s the truth, and I don’t care any longer who
+knows it. I’m tired. And, anyway, I think it’s more Dukane’s fault than
+ours.”
+
+Barrison thought so, too, but he said nothing, only waited in silence.
+
+“I came as Mortimer’s valet because there wasn’t much of anything else
+that I could do, and I swore I’d stick to him, and—and he liked me, and
+wanted me round him. And I did stick to him! I was fond of him, and I
+took care of him as well as I knew how. No one could have looked out
+for him better—no one, sir!”
+
+“I believe that. It’s queer; but, no matter, I believe it! What were
+you to get out of it?”
+
+“When he made his hit, I was to have ten thousand dollars.”
+
+“And what did your daughter—the one married to Blankley, whom you had
+sent to jail—what did she say about this pleasant little arrangement?”
+
+Wrenn’s head drooped once more.
+
+“Marita was always hard to manage, sir,” he said, in a faint voice.
+“She turned against me—her own father, and——”
+
+“I should think she might!”
+
+“And she turned against Mortimer, and against Mr. Dukane, who offered
+her money. She said she would wait for Nick to come out of prison, and
+would spend the rest of her life in getting even!”
+
+“Well, I sympathize with her!” said Barrison sincerely. So that was the
+meaning of the tragic and haggard lines about her mouth and the weary
+look in her eyes.
+
+“Well, Wrenn,” he went on quietly, “I don’t know just how the blame is
+to be divided in all this, but I imagine you’ve had almost your share
+of suffering. And Mortimer is done for. Dukane will get his eventually.
+I shall be sorry personally if your daughter Marita has to pay the
+penalty for the death of a rotter like the man who died the other
+night. I wish you could tell me something about her visit which would
+make her case look a little better.”
+
+Then Wrenn broke down, and, burying his head in his hands, cried like
+a child. He might have been a crook, a weakling, neglectful of his
+children through all the days of his life, but he was suffering now.
+His gaunt old body quivered under the storm of grief that swept him. In
+that abasement and sorrow it was even possible for Barrison to forget
+the despicable things he had just admitted. He was now merely an old
+man, bitterly punished not only for the sins of his youth, but those of
+his age.
+
+“That’s what I keep saying,” he panted at last, lifting his swollen
+eyes to the younger man’s pitying gaze. “I keep asking myself if there
+isn’t something that’ll clear her. Though we’ve been apart so long, and
+I was always a bad father to her, and a false friend to her husband, it
+will kill me altogether if I find that she is guilty of murder!”
+
+“She wrote those letters—the ones threatening Mortimer?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And she took advantage of the time permitted her by the hours of her
+act at Coyne’s to come to the theater that night?”
+
+“Yes, sir. Let me tell you just how it was. She slipped in while
+Roberts was out getting the taxi for Kitty.” He spoke his daughter’s
+name shyly and with embarrassment. “She came straight into the
+dressing room—though why no one saw her I can’t see! She was dressed
+just as she had come from the theater, in a khaki skirt and a white
+waist. And she pulled a pistol out of her dress as she came in. I knew
+the pistol, because it was always a fad of hers, in all her stunts, to
+carry guns like that—very small, and very much decorated, and with a
+letter that might be either an M or a W, according as you looked at it.
+
+“The moment she and Mortimer saw each other they flew out like two wild
+cats. I’d always tried to keep this from happening, because I knew that
+they were both past controlling when their blood was up, and they both
+had a lot to fight for.”
+
+“Both!” repeated Barrison. “I can’t see that. Your daughter had
+something to fight for, because of the wrong done to her husband, and
+incidentally to herself. But where was Mortimer’s grievance?”
+
+“Well, sir,” said Wrenn slowly, as though he were seriously trying to
+express something rather beyond the intelligence of his hearer, “you
+see—maybe it hasn’t struck you, sir, but, if you’ve risked a great deal
+on a thing, and find that something is going to interfere with it,
+after all, at the last moment, you—well, sir, you are apt to lose your
+head over it. Aren’t you?”
+
+Barrison laughed a trifle grimly.
+
+“Crooked logic,” he remarked, “but excellent—for the crooked kind! So
+you sympathize with Mortimer in his annoyance at seeing your daughter?”
+
+“I don’t sympathize, sir. In a way, I may say I understand it. But when
+she pulled out that gun, I fell into a sweat of fear, sir, for I knew
+that she was afraid of nothing, and that if she’d said she’d kill him——”
+
+“Never mind how you felt! Tell me what happened!”
+
+Wrenn wiped his forehead. “She went for Mortimer, and he got to her
+first, and caught hold of her arms. He was very strong, but she
+struggled like a demon, and every minute I expected one of two things
+to happen, the pistol to go off or some one to hear and knock at the
+door. After, I suppose, two or three minutes like that, I pulled her
+away from him—her waist was torn in the struggle, you remember.”
+
+“I remember.”
+
+“And I managed to get her out of the door, begging her to make a run
+for the stage entrance and to get away if possible without being seen.
+It was nearly dark then, you see—not the regular dark scene, but all
+the lights were being lowered, because there was to be so little light
+on the stage.”
+
+There was silence for a moment, then Wrenn went on again: “I’ve
+wondered, you know, sir, several times, whether she and Kitty met that
+night. I’ve—I’ve been afraid of it, I confess, because I don’t believe
+my daughter Kitty would feel much sisterly affection for Rita. She
+might even give it away if she had seen her.”
+
+Barrison sat plunged in deep thought for at least two minutes, while
+the shaken and troubled old man watched him very anxiously indeed. At
+last he spoke, not ungently:
+
+“Wrenn, will you give me your word that you will not leave this place,
+this address, until I see you again?”
+
+He supposed that he was rather mad in asking the word of a
+self-confessed crook like Wrenn, but he thought he had got to the end
+of his tether. At any rate, the old man lifted his head with quite an
+influx of pride, as he answered:
+
+“Yes, Mr. Barrison!”
+
+Jim departed, with just one determination in his brain—to pay Kitty
+Legaye a second call as fast as a taxi would take him to the Golden
+Arms!
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVII
+
+                        AN INCRIMINATING LETTER
+
+
+Kitty looked very pretty and quite pathetic in her smartly simple
+mourning. She saw Barrison at once, and received him with a
+subdued cordiality that was the perfection of good taste under the
+circumstances.
+
+“What is it?” she said, in a low voice. There was no artificiality
+about her now; she was disturbed, apprehensive. “I know it’s something.
+Please tell me.”
+
+“Yes, there is something,” he said. “It’s about—your sister.”
+
+He could hear her draw in her breath.
+
+“My sister!” she whispered. “Marita! How did you know anything about
+her?”
+
+“I don’t think we need go into an account of that,” Jim said steadily.
+“As it happens, I do know quite a good deal about her. I know, for
+instance, that she was in the theater only a little while before Alan
+Mortimer was murdered.”
+
+“You know that!” she exclaimed, in unfeigned surprise. “I thought——”
+
+Then she checked herself, but it was too late; she saw at once what she
+had admitted.
+
+“I knew it,” said Barrison, watching her. “The question is—how did you
+know it, Miss Legaye?”
+
+She dropped her eyes and was silent until he felt obliged to insist:
+
+“I am afraid I must ask you to tell me about it, though I can easily
+suppose it isn’t very pleasant for you.”
+
+“Pleasant!” she flashed out at him then. “Think what a position I am
+in! To lose him—_like that_—and then—to find my own sister mixed up in
+it!”
+
+“You think she was mixed up in it, then?”
+
+“How on earth do I know?” she cried excitedly. “I—I—oh, Mr. Barrison,
+you aren’t brutal, like most detectives; you are a gentleman! Won’t you
+make it a little easier for me? My sister and I were never very fond of
+each other, but I can’t be the one to implicate her now. I can’t!”
+
+“It may seem very dreadful to you, of course, Miss Legaye. But—how can
+you keep silent? She is already under suspicion. I don’t see how you
+can avoid telling everything you know.”
+
+“I thought—I never dreamed—that it would come to this!” she said
+miserably. “I thought no one knew of her being there except myself
+and—and my father.” She seemed to wince as she said the word; Jim
+remembered that Wrenn had said she was always ashamed of him. “He did
+not give you this information?”
+
+“He only corroborated what we already knew. Now, please, Miss Legaye,
+for all our sakes, even for your sister’s, tell me what you know.”
+
+“For my sister’s?” she repeated.
+
+“I don’t know what you have to tell; but, seriously, one of the reasons
+why I have come to you is that I can’t help hoping that you can supply
+some tiny link of evidence which will help to clear her. If you saw her
+leave the theater, for instance——”
+
+She shook her head, with an air of deep depression.
+
+“I did not see her leave the theater,” she said quietly. “I did not see
+her at all.”
+
+“Did not see her! Then how——”
+
+“Wait, Mr. Barrison, and I will tell you. I will tell you just exactly
+what happened, and you must believe me, for it is the truth. I did not
+see my sister, but—_I heard her voice_!”
+
+Now that she had made up her mind to speak, the words came in a rush,
+as though she could not talk fast enough, as though she were feverish
+to get the ordeal over with.
+
+“When I left you to go home, I had to pass his—Alan’s—door, as you
+know. Just as I reached it, I heard voices inside—not loud, or I
+suppose they would have been stopped by some one, for the whole stage
+was supposed to be quiet while the act was on. But there was rather a
+noisy scene going on then—the bandits quarreling among themselves over
+the wine, you remember—and, anyway, the voices inside the dressing room
+could only be heard by some one who was standing very close to the
+door. I stopped for a moment, instinctively at first, and then—I heard
+my sister’s voice, panting and excited!”
+
+All this tallied with Wrenn’s story. “Could you hear what she said?”
+asked Barrison.
+
+“Only a word or two.”
+
+“What words?”
+
+She flashed him a glance of deep appeal, then went hurriedly on:
+
+“I heard her say ‘Coward and cad,’ and—and ‘You ought to be shot, and
+you know it!’ That’s all.”
+
+All! It was quite enough. Barrison looked at her with faint pity,
+though he had felt at first that she was not sincere. She had a way
+of disarming him by unexpected evidence of true feeling just when he
+expected her to play-act. He could see that she was finding this pretty
+hard to tell.
+
+“What did you do, Miss Legaye?”
+
+“Do—I? Nothing. What was there for me to do? I went home.”
+
+“Didn’t it occur to you to try to see your sister, to interfere in what
+seemed to be such a very violent quarrel?”
+
+She shook her head vehemently.
+
+“No, it did not. Why should it? My sister and I had nothing in common.
+I had not seen her for many years; I—I did not want to see her. For the
+rest—I knew that she hated Alan Mortimer, and if she was talking to him
+at all, it seemed quite natural that she should talk to him like that.”
+
+“You did not feel afraid, then—did not look on those chance phrases you
+heard as—well, a threat?”
+
+She shuddered. “Oh, no; how could I? I thought she was just angry and
+excited. She always had a frightful temper. How could I guess that she
+had—anything else—in her mind?”
+
+“So you went straight home, without waiting?”
+
+“Yes.” She bent her head, and added, in a low, troubled tone: “You will
+think me very selfish, very much a coward, Mr. Barrison, but—those
+angry voices made me want to get away as fast as possible. I hate
+scenes and quarrels and unpleasantness of all kinds. I was thankful to
+get out of the theater, and to know that I had not had to meet Marita,
+especially in the mood she was in then.”
+
+“I see,” said Barrison, not without sympathy. “And is that all—really
+and absolutely all—that you know about the matter?”
+
+Kitty hesitated, and then she lifted her head and faced him bravely.
+
+“No,” she said clearly, “it is not all. If you will wait a moment, I
+have something I ought to show you.”
+
+She rose and went to a desk, returning with an envelope. She sat down
+again and took a letter from this envelope, which she first read
+herself slowly and with a curious air of deliberation. Then she held it
+out to Barrison.
+
+“I am going to trust you,” she said, meeting his eyes proudly, “not to
+make use of this unless you have to. Wait, before you read it! When
+I knew of the horrible thing that had happened at the theater that
+night, I thought of my sister. I—I am afraid it is scarcely enough to
+say that I suspected her. I remembered the angry words I had heard her
+say inside the dressing room. I knew her ungovernable rages and the
+bitterness she had for Alan. And I knew that she was a wonderful shot,
+and that she had never got out of the habit of going armed. I—well, I
+felt very sure what had happened.”
+
+She was breathing quickly, and speaking in a hoarse, strained tone.
+
+“I knew that there was more than a chance that some one else knew
+of her presence, and—I could not bear to have her arrested. I won’t
+pretend that it was all sisterly affection, but I think it was that,
+too, in a way. I couldn’t forget that, after all, we were of the same
+blood, and had been children and young girls together. I—I sent her
+money; I had seen in the paper that she and her husband were playing in
+New York, and I sent it to their theater, and with it I sent a note,
+begging her to lose no time in getting out of town. Was it—do you think
+it was very wrong?” she asked him rather piteously.
+
+“It was at all events very natural,” Jim answered, a little surprised
+and touched by what she had told him. “And may I read this now?”
+
+“Yes, read it. It is Marita’s answer to me. She accepted the money and
+sent me this letter.”
+
+With an odd movement of weariness and sorrow, she turned and laid her
+hands upon the back of her chair, and her face upon them.
+
+The note was in the same scrawling hand that had made all the threats
+against Mortimer, that he knew to be that of Marita Blankley. And it
+ran thus:
+
+  KITTY: I am glad that you have some feeling as a sister left in you.
+  I did not suppose that the day would ever come when it would be _you_
+  who would help me get out of trouble! I dare say at that it was only
+  your hatred of having our names linked together, or having any one
+  know you knew me even! Of course I was a fool to go to the theater
+  last night. I might have known what would happen. Now I am going to
+  try to forget it all. I shall live only for my husband, and we shall
+  get out of town as soon as possible! I can trust _you_ not to talk, I
+  know! There was never much love lost between us, Kitty. Your sister,
+
+                                                             MARITA.
+
+Barrison sat very still after reading this. At last he noticed that
+Kitty had lifted her head and was watching him with an anxious face.
+
+“Well?” she demanded.
+
+“You told me not to use this unless it were necessary,” said Barrison
+very gravely. “It is necessary now, Miss Legaye. I must take it to
+headquarters at once!”
+
+She gave a little cry.
+
+“Oh, I was afraid—I was afraid!” she exclaimed. “You think it—it looks
+bad for her?”
+
+“I think,” said Jim Barrison, “that it is practically conclusive
+evidence!”
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVIII
+
+                           A STRANGE SUMMONS
+
+
+It was barely an hour later, and Lowry and Barrison sat together in
+the inspector’s office. Before them lay the letter which Kitty Legaye
+had given Jim, side by side with the threatening letter which had come
+to the Mirror Theater. The handwriting, as was to be foreseen, was
+identical. There, too, lay the photograph “swiped” by the reporter
+Lucas, showing the two young faces, so easily recognized now as the
+likenesses of Rita Blankley and Kitty. There was the pistol with its
+odd, non-committal initial, which had been identified as Rita’s.
+
+A telegram was handed to Lowry, and, after reading it, he passed it
+to Jim. It was signed with an initial only, obviously one of the
+inspector’s regular men, and came from Indianapolis. It read:
+
+  Got your friends. All coming back on next train. G.
+
+“The Blankleys?” asked Barrison.
+
+“Sure. They’ll be here to-morrow, and then I guess the case’ll be over.”
+
+Just as Barrison was leaving the office, the inspector said casually:
+
+“By the bye, Jim—if you want to take a look at the place where the
+Blankleys lived, here’s the address on a card. I’d like you to go
+round there and have a look. You’re the sort of fellow who gets on with
+people better than the regular officers. Will you?”
+
+“Rather!”
+
+Jim went off with his card, wondering just what the inspector meant.
+“The sort of fellow who gets on with people!” That sounded as though
+there were people on the premises whom the inspector had failed to pump
+satisfactorily. He decided to “take a look” without delay.
+
+It turned out to be quite the usual type of furnished rooming house,
+kept by a faded, whining woman, with hair and skin all the same color.
+
+It seemed that she had a boy—thirteen he was, though he looked younger.
+He went to school mostly, but he was a good deal more useful when he
+stayed away. “And what was the good of schooling to the likes of him?”
+said she.
+
+Barrison refrained from shaking her till her teeth rattled, and
+soothingly extracted the rest.
+
+Freddy, who appeared to be a sharp youngster from what she said, could
+always turn a pretty penny by acting as messenger boy for the “ladies
+and gents” in the house. Some of them were actors; more of them were
+not. It was fairly evident that the place was largely patronized by
+denizens of the shady side of society. Before Jim was done with the
+woman, he had ascertained that Freddy had more than once acted as
+messenger for the Blankleys, for whom, by the bye, she had a sincere
+respect. She said they were “always refined in their ways,” and paid
+cash.
+
+Barrison remembered that Roberts, the stage doorkeeper, had reported
+that the threatening letters had been delivered by a street urchin.
+He asked to see Freddy, but he was at school—for a wonder. His mother
+appeared to resent the fact, and to look upon it as so many hours
+wasted.
+
+She promised that the evening would find him free to talk to the
+gentleman as much as the gentleman desired. Barrison had given her a
+dollar to start with, and promised another after he had conferred with
+Freddy.
+
+When he left, he had an unsatisfied instinct that he had somehow missed
+something Lowry had expected him to get. The unseen Freddy was in his
+mind as he went uptown—in his mind to such an extent that he spoke of
+him to Tony Clay when he met him on Broadway and accepted that youth’s
+urgent pleading to go to a place he knew of where they could get a good
+drink. The boy was in his mind when, on coming out of the café, they
+found themselves stormbound by crosstown traffic and looking in at the
+windows of Kitty Legaye’s taxicab.
+
+Her charming, white-skinned face framed in its short black veil and
+black ruff, lighted to intense interest as she caught sight of them.
+
+“Have you any news?” she cried, in carefully subdued excitement.
+
+Barrison could not bring himself to tell her that the police had caught
+up with her sister, and that she was on her way back to face her
+accusers. Kitty saw his hesitation, and thought it might be because
+Clay was present.
+
+“Let me give you a lift!” she said impulsively.
+
+Barrison accepted, after a second’s cogitation. “Go on to my rooms,
+Tony,” he said. “I’ll be there shortly.”
+
+He got into the machine with Miss Legaye, and said to her gravely, as
+they began to move again:
+
+“Tell me, please, Miss Legaye, you had no intercourse with your sister
+since she came to New York—I mean until you sent her the money, and she
+answered you?”
+
+“None!” she said quickly and frankly.
+
+“Did your letter come by mail or by a messenger boy?”
+
+She started, and looked at him in surprise. “By mail,” she replied.
+“Why?”
+
+“Perfect nonsense,” he said, really feeling that the impulse which had
+made him speak was an idle one. “I’ve found a boy who did a lot of
+errands for her, and I wondered if you could identify him, that’s all.”
+
+She shook her head; though it was getting dusk, he could see her dark
+eyes staring at him.
+
+“I don’t know anything about that,” she said. “What sort of a boy, and
+what do you expect to prove by him?”
+
+“He’s merely a witness,” Barrison hastened to explain. “You see,
+the—the letter you let me have corresponds exactly in writing to the
+letters that came to Mortimer, threatening him. We think this is the
+boy who carried Mrs. Blankley’s messages while she was in New York.
+That’s all. You see, though it’s a small link, it is one that we can’t
+entirely overlook.”
+
+“Have you seen him?” she asked.
+
+“No; I am to see him to-night,” said Barrison. “And—Miss Legaye, I
+must tell you”—he hesitated, for he was a kind-hearted fellow—“I ought
+to warn you that you may have an unpleasant ordeal ahead of you. Your
+sister and her husband are—coming back to New York.”
+
+She was silent for half a minute.
+
+“Thank you,” she said. “You have been very good to—warn me. I don’t
+think you will ever know how glad I am to have met you this afternoon,
+Mr. Barrison.”
+
+He did not pretend to understand her. As they had gone several blocks,
+he said good night with more warmth and consideration than he had ever
+expected to feel for Kitty Legaye, and, alighting from the taxi, made
+his way directly to his rooms.
+
+He found Willie Coster awaiting him there, with his hair standing on
+end, and an expression of blank and rather appalled astonishment on his
+mild countenance.
+
+“Say!” he cried, as Jim entered. “I went to call on the gov’nor this
+afternoon, and—he’s sailed for London to put on three or four plays!
+And I’m out of a job! Now, what do you think of that?”
+
+Barrison stood still in the center of the room and nodded his head
+slowly. So Dukane had heard the warnings in the air, and had slipped
+away! Well, it was only a matter of time! They had nothing criminal
+against him, but—the story would not make a pleasant one, as noised
+abroad about the greatest theatrical manager of America. Eventually,
+it would come out. However, meanwhile he had gone. He was sorry for
+Willie; sorry for the hundreds of actors and other employees who would
+suffer. It looked from what Willie had to tell that Dukane’s exit had
+been a complete and clean-cut one. He had closed up his office, put his
+road companies in subordinate hands, and—cleared out.
+
+“And I—who have been with him all these years—don’t even get a
+company!” complained poor Willie.
+
+Barrison remembered what Dukane had said to him about not being able to
+afford to consider any man personally. For some reason he had chosen to
+forget Willie Coster, and, true to form, he had forgotten him!
+
+Tony Clay came in then. It was half past seven, nearly an hour later,
+when Tara reminded them politely of dinner.
+
+“We’ll go out somewhere,” said Jim, rising and stretching himself.
+“You two shall be my guests. I feel that this case is practically over,
+and when I’m through with a case I feel like Willie after a first
+night—I want to relax. I don’t want—at least not necessarily—to get
+drunk, but I do want to——”
+
+Oddly enough, it was Tony Clay who interrupted him in a queer, abrupt
+sort of voice. He sounded like a man who hated to speak, but who was
+driven to it in spite of himself.
+
+“Look here, you fellows,” he said, “don’t let’s go out for dinner
+to-night.”
+
+“Why not?” demanded Barrison, in astonishment. “I thought you were
+always on the first call for a feed, Tony!”
+
+“Oh, well, maybe I am. And—I know you think me an awful duffer in lots
+of ways, Jim, but—I have a hunch that perhaps——”
+
+“That what?” demanded Jim, as he paused.
+
+“That something is going to happen!” declared Tony defiantly. “Now call
+me a fool if you like! I shan’t mind a bit, because I dare say I am
+one. But that’s my hunch, and I’m going to stick to it. I don’t know
+whether it’s something good or something darned bad, but—if something
+doesn’t turn up before another hour’s out, I miss my guess!”
+
+They laughed at him, but they stayed.
+
+“Tony,” said Barrison, after the lights were lighted and Tara had gone
+to prepare dinner, “you have something more than a hunch to go on.
+What is it? Out with it!”
+
+“Well,” said Tony unwillingly, “maybe I have something, but it’s too
+vague for me to explain, yet. Only—I’d be just as pleased if we three
+stuck together to-night. That’s all.”
+
+The boy spoke earnestly, and Barrison looked at him in real wonder.
+
+“Tony,” he said, “if you really know anything——”
+
+The bell rang, and Tara brought in a telegram.
+
+Barrison tore it open and read:
+
+  Am in danger. Come to me, Ferrati’s road house, two miles beyond
+  Claremont, before nine. Come, for Heaven’s sake, and mine.
+                                                            G. T.
+
+Barrison gazed at the words in dazed stillness for a moment; then
+seized his hat.
+
+“Stop, Jim!” cried Tony urgently. “You must tell us—you must tell
+me—what is the matter?”
+
+Barrison shook his head as he dashed to the door.
+
+“I can’t tell any one anything!” he cried, as he went. “I am needed.
+Isn’t that enough for any man?”
+
+He was gone, and the door had slammed after him.
+
+Tony quickly picked up the telegram which had fluttered to the floor.
+“Didn’t I warn him?” he muttered.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXIX
+
+                           THROUGH THE NIGHT
+
+
+On—on through the blue dusk of the September evening.
+
+Now that he found himself actually in the touring car that he had so
+impetuously engaged, Jim Barrison found his chaotic thoughts settling
+into some sort of approximate order, if not of repose. He began to
+analyze himself and this strange ride through the night.
+
+He knew that suddenly he had forgotten the habit and the prompting
+of years; the caution that usually made him project himself into a
+possible future and meet it intelligently; the restraint and sensible
+skepticism which had always made him consider risks and appraise them,
+even while being quite as willing to take them as any other brave man.
+He knew that he had in a single moment forgotten all the training and
+the custom of his mature lifetime, because a woman had asked him to
+come to her!
+
+A woman? That would not have been enough, he knew, in any other case.
+He was as chivalrous and as plucky as most men—a gallant gentleman in
+all ways; but his discretion would have aided his valor in any ordinary
+enterprise. As it was—he had been deaf and blind to any and all
+promptings save those that pounded in his ardent pulse. And all because
+a woman had sent for him! A woman? Say, rather, the woman! The one
+woman in the world who could so move him, change him, separate him from
+himself!
+
+For the first time, but with characteristic honesty and thoroughness,
+Jim Barrison acknowledged to his own heart that he loved Grace
+Templeton.
+
+He loved her, and he was going to her. The fact that she wanted him was
+enough. It was strange—some day when he was sane, perhaps, he would see
+how strange.
+
+The chauffeur slowed up and turned to say over his shoulder:
+
+“I guess it’s here, sir. There’s a sign that says Fer—something, and
+that’s a road house in there, all right! Shall I drive in, sir?”
+
+“Yes; go ahead.”
+
+The big car crept in slowly around the curving drive toward the low
+row of not too brilliant lights, for this road house was set far back
+from prying eyes. There were a few trees in front, too, which further
+enhanced the illusion of privacy. Barrison could not help noticing
+that, unlike most road houses, this one seemed bare of patrons for the
+nonce. There was not another automobile to be seen anywhere about.
+
+He had heard of Ferrati’s before. It was one of those discreet little
+out-of-town places, far away from the main road, hidden by trees,
+vines, and shrubbery, and known only to a certain selection among
+the elect. Whatever its true character, it masqueraded as modestly
+as a courtesan behind a cap and veil. Proper to the last degree was
+Ferrati’s; any one could go there. The tone was scrupulously correct—if
+you frequented its main rooms. And the authorities saw nothing wrong
+with it. Ferrati himself saw to that!
+
+But there were stories—Barrison had heard a few of them—which suggested
+that the resort, like some people, had a side not generally known to
+the public. It was even said that it was a headquarters for a certain
+blackmailing concern much wanted by the police; that all manner of
+underworld celebrities could be sure of a haven there in off hours, and
+that the bartender was nearly as skillful at knock-out drops as he was
+at mixed drinks.
+
+How, Jim asked himself, had Grace Templeton ever got into these
+surroundings? Of course he sensed something queer about it all, and he
+could not help wondering despairingly whether that unquenchable thirst
+for adventure to which she had borne witness had been the means of
+bringing her inadvertently into such an unsavory neighborhood.
+
+He did not dismiss the car, but told the man to wait, and, running
+up the short flight of steps at the front door, asked the rather
+seedy-looking maître d’hôtel, or whatever he was, for Miss Templeton.
+
+The man did not seem to understand him, but a second individual, who
+was clearly his superior in position, made his appearance, and greeted
+Barrison politely and with some air of authority.
+
+“Is your name Ferrati?”
+
+“Giovanni Ferrati, if the signor pleases.” He bowed, but Barrison had
+the impression that the man was watching him. He was dark and foreign
+looking, with a face like a rat.
+
+“The signor wished——”
+
+“I am to meet Miss Templeton here,” said Barrison shortly.
+
+The rat-faced one’s expression cleared from a dubious look to delighted
+relief. So far as he was able, he beamed upon the newcomer.
+
+“Ah, that is well! If the signor would come this way——”
+
+Jim followed where he led, with an unaccountable sense of distrust and
+discomfort gaining place in his breast. For the first time, a genuine
+doubt assailed him. Suppose it were a trick, a trap? Nothing since he
+had first entered this “joint,” as he savagely termed it to himself,
+had put him in any way at his ease. And at last he was conscious of a
+well-developed instinct of suspicion. It was not only what he had known
+before—that Grace was in trouble; it was a conviction that the whole
+situation was an impossible one—false, dangerous, utterly unlike what
+he had been expecting. Suppose—he hardly dared to put his thoughts into
+words. He only knew that he found his environment singularly menacing.
+He could not tell what it was that was in the air, but it was something
+wicked and deadly. He wished that he had waited long enough to verify
+that telegram! If Grace Templeton had _not_ sent it——
+
+“This way, signor, if you please!” said the rat-faced man called
+Ferrati.
+
+At the end of a dim and unsavory corridor, he turned the knob of a door.
+
+“The lady awaits you, signor!” he said, with a remarkably unpleasant
+smile.
+
+The room within was highly lighted, as Jim Barrison could see, even
+through the small space where it was held open by Ferrati. He walked in
+promptly.
+
+On the instant, the lights were switched out—at the very second of his
+entrance. He could see nothing now; it was pitch dark.
+
+Mingled with his rage was a perfectly human mental comment: “You idiot;
+it serves you right!”
+
+For of course he was in a trap—a nice, neat trap, such as any baby
+might have walked into!
+
+The door closed behind him quickly, and something straightway clicked.
+
+He was locked into this mysterious room in this strange and murderous
+resort, and the darkness about him was that of the grave.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXX
+
+                        THE WHISPER IN THE DARK
+
+
+Darkness is a very strange thing. It is probably as strong and
+mysterious an agent when it comes to transmuting—and to deceiving—as
+anything on this earth. Nothing known to man is the same in the dark as
+at another time, and under the light.
+
+It seemed to Jim Barrison that a series of pictures were being painted
+upon that cruel, that unfeeling, darkness. He had never, perhaps,
+been so close to himself before. The possibilities of human pain had
+certainly never been so apparent to the eyes of his mind. For suddenly,
+and with terrible clearness, he recalled his conversation with Grace
+Templeton, and seemed again to hear her say:
+
+“Suppose the traveler who showed him the real gourd of water should
+refuse to share it, after all? What do you think would be likely to
+happen then?”
+
+And once more he could hear himself reply:
+
+“I should think the thirsty man would be quite likely to shoot him!”
+
+And then—then—what was it she had said, with that enigmatical smile of
+hers?
+
+“Yes, that’s just what might happen!”
+
+_Yes, that’s just what might happen!_ She had said that. How much
+had she meant by it, and how much had she meant it? He did not know.
+But, though he was not willing to apply it too closely as a key to
+his present position, he could not bring it to mind without a strange
+chill. For, if there were women of that kind, he was sure that
+she—lovely and idealistic as she was—was one of them.
+
+He stood still, perfectly still, straining his ears, since it would
+have been utterly vain to have strained his eyes. For a time he even
+heard nothing. Yet he was poignantly conscious of another presence
+there—whose?
+
+He was afraid to permit himself much in the way of conjecture; that
+sharp and taunting memory was still too fresh with him. He would rather
+a thousand times over that he had been tricked and trapped by some
+desperate criminal determined to torture him to death than that _she_
+should have thus deliberately led him here, should have thus cruelly
+traded upon her certain knowledge of his interest in her! The thing
+would not bear thinking of; it could not be!
+
+He scarcely breathed as he stood there, motionless, waiting for that
+other’s first movement. He was so tensely alert that it seemed strange
+to him that the other could even breathe without his hearing it. He
+wished for a revolver, and cursed himself for the precipitancy which
+had carried him off without it.
+
+And then he heard—what he had dreaded most of all to hear—the faint,
+almost imperceptible rustle of a woman’s dress!
+
+It was the veriest ghost of a rustle, as though the very lightest and
+thinnest of fabrics had been stirred as delicately as possible.
+
+But—it _was_ a woman, then!
+
+“Who is it?” he demanded, and his voice to his own ears seemed to
+resound like an experimental shout in one of the world’s famous echoing
+caverns.
+
+And the answer came in a whisper—a woman’s whisper:
+
+“Hush!”
+
+Then there was a long, blank, awful silence, and then the rustle once
+again. And again that sibilant breath voiced:
+
+“Can you tell where I am standing?”
+
+“Who are you?” Barrison repeated, though dropping his own voice
+somewhat.
+
+“Please don’t speak so loud!” He could barely hear the words. “I am
+Grace Templeton—surely you know?”
+
+“Why are you whispering?”
+
+“Because we may be overheard. Because there is danger, very great
+danger!”
+
+“Danger—from whom?”
+
+“Come closer, please! I am so afraid they will hear! Can’t you place me
+at all? If you are still at the door—are you?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Then come forward to the right, only a few steps, and then wait.”
+
+Now it has already been pointed out in these pages that the dark is
+paramountly deceptive. Barrison could not accurately locate the woman
+who was whispering to him; neither could he entirely identify the voice
+itself. If you will try the experiment of asking a number of different
+people to assemble in pitch darkness and each whisper the same thing,
+you will probably find that it is painfully easy to mistake your
+bitterest enemy for your very nearest and dearest friend. Jim Barrison
+had no soul thrill, nor any other sort of evidence, to assure him that
+the woman in the dark room was Grace Templeton; on the other hand,
+there was nothing to prove her any one else.
+
+And yet—and yet—he had a curious, creeping feeling of dread and
+suspicion. He did not trust this unknown, unidentified, whispering
+voice in the darkness.
+
+It came again then, like the very darkness itself made audible;
+insistent, soft, yet indefinitely sinister:
+
+“Come! Come here to me! Only a few steps forward and just a little to
+the right.”
+
+Barrison took one single step forward, and then stopped suddenly.
+
+He did not know what stopped him. He only knew that he _was_ stopped,
+as effectually and as imperatively as if some one in supreme authority
+had put out a stern, restraining hand before him.
+
+And then, all at once, something happened—one of those tiny things that
+sometimes carry such huge results on their filmy wings. The whisper
+came again, more urgently this time:
+
+“Aren’t you going to come to me, when I’m in danger?”
+
+When people are born in the West, they carry certain things away from
+it with them, and it matters not how long they are gone nor in what far
+parts they choose to roam, they never get rid of those special gifts
+of their native soil. One is the slightly emphasized “r” of ordinary
+speech. No Easterner can correctly mimic it; no Westerner can ever
+get away from it except when painstakingly acting, and endeavoring to
+forget that to which he was born. The two r’s in the one brief sentence
+were of the nature to brand any one as a Westerner. And Barrison knew
+that Grace Templeton had never spoken with the ghost of such an accent
+in her life. Who was it whom he had heard speak recently who did
+accentuate her r’s like that? Marita did! And one other—though much
+more delicately and——
+
+He remembered, with a throb of excited pleasure on dismissing a hideous
+suspicion from his mind, and on entering normally into the joys of
+chance and danger, that he had one weapon which might turn out to be
+exceedingly useful in his present predicament. He had come away without
+his gun, but he had with him the tiny pocket lamp, the electric torch
+of small dimensions but great power, which had been the joy of his life
+ever since it had been given him. Like all nice men, he was a child in
+his infatuated love of new toys!
+
+He drew the little cylinder from his coat pocket cautiously, and, with
+the same exultant feeling that an aviator doubtless knows when he drops
+a bomb on a munitions factory, he flashed it.
+
+The result was surprising.
+
+Straight in front of him was a square, black hole in the floor. If he
+had taken that step forward and to the right which she had urged, he
+would have gone headlong to practically certain death. The human brain,
+being quicker than anything else in the universe, reminded him that
+there had been some unexplained disappearances in this neighborhood.
+But he was now chiefly concerned in finding out who the woman was.
+Before he could flash his light in her face she had flung herself upon
+him.
+
+There was no more pretense about her. She was grimly, fiercely
+determined to force him toward that wicked, black hole into eternity.
+Not a single word did she utter; she did not even call for assistance,
+though, since the people in this house were her friends or tools, she
+might well have done so. She seemed consumed by one single, burning
+desire: to thrust him with her own hands into the pit.
+
+Never had Jim struggled against such ferocity of purpose. She was like
+a demon rather than a woman, in the way she writhed between his hands,
+and forced her limited strength against his trained muscles in the bold
+and frantic effort to annihilate him. And, in that dense blackness, it
+was a toss-up as to who would win. The woman herself might easily have
+gone headlong into the very trap she had planned for him. But she did
+not seem to think or to care for that; her whole force of being was
+centered, it seemed, in the one sole purpose of his destruction.
+
+At that furious, struggling moment, Barrison became convinced of an odd
+thing. He was perfectly certain, against all the testimony of all the
+world, that the woman who fought him so murderously was not only the
+woman who had planned his own death that night, but also the criminal
+for whom they were so assiduously seeking. He was sure that his hands
+at that very minute grasped the person who had killed Alan Mortimer.
+
+It seemed to last forever, that silent, breathless struggle in the
+dark. But finally he got her hands pinioned behind her in one of his,
+and deliberately, though with a beating heart, raised his electric
+torch and flashed it full in her face.
+
+Mutinous, defiant, almost mad with rage for the moment, the dark eyes
+of Kitty Legaye blazed back at him.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXXI
+
+                           TONY DOES HIS BIT
+
+
+Things happened very rapidly in Jim Barrison’s rooms after he had
+made his hasty departure. Tony Clay stood for a moment, holding the
+telegram in his hand; and then, tossing it to Willie Coster, he made a
+jump for the telephone. There he called Spring 3100, and, getting his
+number, demanded Inspector Lowry in a voice that might have been the
+president’s for authority, and a Bloomingdale inmate’s for agitation.
+
+“Now, now,” came the deep, official tones from the other end of the
+wire; “hold your horses, my friend! Is it an accident or a murder?”
+
+“It’s probably both,” stormed Tony.
+
+He had the inspector on the wire, and was pouring out his tale, trying
+his best to keep himself coherent with the ever-present picture in
+his brain of Jim in trouble. Tony was not one of the most inspired of
+detectives, but he was as good a friend as ever a man had, and he loved
+Jim.
+
+It happened that Lowry had a weakness for Jim himself. Also, the
+story told by Tony was, though wild, certainly one to make any police
+official sit up and take notice. Ferrati’s, as has already been
+suggested, was not looked upon favorably by the police.
+
+He told Tony Clay that he would come up to Ferrati’s himself with a
+couple of men.
+
+“And we’ll stop for you,” he said, meaning to be most kind and
+condescending.
+
+Tony retorted hotly: “I’m leaving for Ferrati’s now! I can’t wait for
+the police department to wake up!”
+
+He hung up viciously and turned to face Willie Coster, also Tara, who,
+though less demonstrative than these Occidentals, was clearly about as
+anxious as either of them.
+
+“Tara, get a taxi!” said Tony briefly.
+
+“Immediate, honorable sir!”
+
+Tara’s alacrity was rather pathetic. Willie Coster looked after him
+with a kindly nod.
+
+“D’you know,” he remarked, in a low tone, “that Jap is just as keen to
+help Barrison as we are. You’ll find when we start out after him he
+won’t let himself be left behind.”
+
+Tony turned to scowl at him in bewilderment.
+
+“When ‘we’ start out after him!” he repeated. “You aren’t expecting to
+spring anything of that sort, are you?”
+
+Willie Coster looked at him a moment only. Then his small, pinched face
+blazed suddenly into fiery red.
+
+“Say,” he snapped, “do you think you’re the only he-man on the
+premises? And do you suppose that no one else is capable of a friendly
+feeling for Barrison, and a natural wish to help him out of a mess,
+except just your blessed self? Because, if that’s what you think, you
+forget it—quick!”
+
+Tony felt abject, and would have apologized, too, but a snorting arose
+in the street below them, and Tara announced the taxi which, in some
+inscrutable way, he had maneuvered there in more than record time.
+
+Tony recalled what Willie Coster had said.
+
+“Tara,” he said abruptly, “you are fond of Mr. Barrison, I know.”
+
+“Yes, sir,” Tara said.
+
+“We think Mr. Barrison is in danger. We are going to see what we can do
+for him. Now remember, there isn’t a reason in the world why you should
+come too, only——”
+
+The Jap spoke in his elaborately polite way:
+
+“Honorably pardon, sir! There is reason.”
+
+“But——” Tony was beginning, but he never finished. He saw the reason too
+plainly. Tara, like himself and like Willie, was too fond of Barrison
+to stay away. That was reason enough.
+
+“All right, Tara, you come along!” he said, turning away. And his voice
+might have been a bit husky.
+
+“Where, first?” said Coster, as they entered the taxicab. And there
+were three of them, too!
+
+Tony gave the name of the hotel where Miss Templeton lived, which was
+not so far away. Once there, he left his companions in the taxi and
+went up alone to interview the lady. In his hand, tightly crumpled
+with the vehemence of his intense feeling, he kept the telegram which
+had come for Jim Barrison, signed with her initials.
+
+He penciled a note to Miss Templeton which made her send for him as
+soon as she received it.
+
+They knew each other, but she was so excited that she did hardly more
+than acknowledge his hasty bow.
+
+“Mr. Clay,” she exclaimed, “what does it all mean? I know you would
+not have sent me this message without a reason! You say: ‘Mr. Barrison
+is in grave danger because of you. Will you help me to save him?’”
+She confronted Tony with pale cheeks and wide eyes. “Now, Mr. Clay,
+you know that such a thing is impossible! How could Mr. Barrison be
+in danger on my account without my knowing it? And I swear to you
+that I can think of nothing in all the world which could subject him
+to danger—because of me! Nevertheless, I cannot let a thing like this
+go—no woman could! If there is danger to Mr. Barrison, I should know
+it! If it is, in some way, connected with me, I should know it all the
+more, and care about it all the more! What is it?” Suddenly she dropped
+the rather haughty air which she had assumed and clasped her hands like
+a frightened child. “Oh, Mr. Clay, you know that I would do anything to
+help him! What is it? What is it?”
+
+By way of answer, Tony handed her the telegram.
+
+After she had read it, she held it in rigid fingers for a moment; it
+seemed they were not able to drop it. She looked at Tony Clay.
+
+“And, receiving this,” she murmured faintly, “he—went?”
+
+“He went,” answered the young man, “so fast that we could not stop him;
+though I, for one, suspected something shady, and had warned him he
+must be on his guard.”
+
+It is probable that in all his life Tony Clay never understood the
+look that flamed in the woman’s face before him now. In that strange
+combination of emotions was pain and fear, but there was also joy and
+triumph.
+
+“So he cared like that!” she murmured.
+
+And then, before Tony Clay could even be sure that she had uttered the
+words, she had changed again to a practical and utilitarian person. She
+seized a long raincoat from the back of a chair and said immediately:
+
+“I am ready. Shall we go?”
+
+Tony glowered at her. Another one? Aloud he remarked:
+
+“If you will merely testify that you did not send that telegram——”
+
+She looked as though she would have liked to slap him in her
+exasperation.
+
+“Of course I didn’t!” she raged. “But what has that to do with this
+situation? I thought you said he was—in danger?”
+
+“I am afraid he is. Very well, ma’am; if you must come, you must. We
+have rather a larger crowd than I had expected at first.”
+
+It was impossible for him to avoid an injured tone.
+
+However they felt about it, Miss Templeton went with them. When the
+light of passing street lamps fell upon her face, it had the look of an
+avenging angel.
+
+On the way, she insisted that Tony should tell them what had made him
+suspicious as to danger awaiting Barrison that night. And after a
+little hesitation he told—this:
+
+“You know Jim had put me onto the Legaye end of the case—had suggested
+my talking to the maid, and all that. Well, I did it, and, as a matter
+of fact, I got in deeper than I expected to.” He looked at each of
+them defiantly, but no one seemed disposed to sit in judgment, so he
+continued: “Maria—she’s quite a nice girl, too, and don’t let anybody
+forget it—told me to-day that her lady was terrifically upset about
+something.”
+
+“When was that?” demanded Coster.
+
+“Late in the afternoon, just before I came to dinner—to the dinner that
+didn’t come off. Jim and I parted when he took a ride in Miss Legaye’s
+taxi, and he left me to come on to join him alone.”
+
+“Did you come straight on?”
+
+“Yes,” said Tony, “I did. But something happened on the way, and that
+has given me the clew to—to—what’s taking us out here.”
+
+“Well, tell it, for Heaven’s sake!”
+
+“Well, it seems,” said Tony unwillingly, yet with the evident
+realization that he was doing the right thing, “it seems that Miss
+Legaye was in the habit of going shopping with her maid—Maria—and of
+dropping her when she was tired—I mean when Miss Legaye was tired, not
+Maria—and leaving her to come on with packages and so on. She had done
+that to-day. Just after she and Jim Barrison had gone on, I met Maria,
+and I stayed with her, too”—defiantly—“until after the time I should
+have been at Jim’s rooms!”
+
+“Not very long, was it?”
+
+“Not more than half an hour, I’m sure.”
+
+“And in that time, what could have happened that——”
+
+“Nothing happened. Nothing could have happened. It was only that—that——”
+Tony swallowed hard, and then went on courageously: “She asked me when
+her mistress had gone home, and I told her just a few minutes before.
+Then she said she must telephone her, if we were to have a moment
+together. She said that she could easily make out an excuse. And,
+though I had no—no particular interest in Maria,” faltered poor Tony
+unhappily, “I couldn’t see what I could do to get out of that! And—and
+she did telephone, and when she came back from telephoning,” he said,
+speaking carefully, and evidently trying his best to make the thing
+sound as commonplace as possible, “she told me that her mistress had
+just come in, and that she was so excited she could scarcely speak,
+and she wanted Maria at once, and that she had told Maria that if ever
+she had cared anything about her, she must be prepared to stand by
+her now—and to hurry—hurry—hurry—hurry! That’s what poor Maria kept
+repeating to herself. And that’s what I had in my mind when I went into
+Jim’s rooms, for it was the last thing in my mind.
+
+“I was afraid then and there of Miss Legaye’s doing something—queer—but
+before I had a chance to tell Jim what I thought—that message came, and
+he was off!”
+
+Almost directly they were at Ferrati’s and confronting Ferrati himself,
+who looked alarmed at the sight of these visitors.
+
+It required small astuteness to see that his party was an unexpected
+one, and that the unexpectedness was only rivaled by the lack of
+welcome.
+
+Finding that ordinary and moderately courteous inquiries were only met
+with extreme haziness of perception, Tony saw that he would have to
+push his way in.
+
+He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Willie Coster expected
+the same result; also that Tara looked mildly pleased. Doubtless he
+was pondering enjoyably upon jujutsu and what it could accomplish.
+Considered collectively, the party was not one to be ignored.
+
+As though to put an exclamation point after the sound sense of the
+rest, Miss Templeton, who had been extremely quiet through it all,
+suddenly drew out a revolver from the pocket of her raincoat. Tony
+thrilled, for it was the one that he had seen her buy.
+
+“Before we fight our way in,” she said amiably enough, “suppose we try
+just walking in? I don’t believe that these poor creatures will make
+much trouble.”
+
+She smiled, not too pleasantly, at the poor creatures.
+
+But they did!
+
+They made so much trouble that it took the lot of them fifteen minutes
+to get to that dark inner room where Jim Barrison was imprisoned. By
+that time Lowry and three good men had arrived in a racing car, and
+by the same time, Tony Clay had been put out of business by two of
+Ferrati’s “huskies.”
+
+“Never mind about me!” he had implored them. “Get Jim out!”
+
+They did. And they found Jim blinking at them out of that awesome
+darkness, holding Kitty in an iron grip. He was rather white, but he
+tried to smile.
+
+“Suppose you take her?” was his first utterance. “She’s one handful.”
+
+Kitty, once in the hands of the officers, shrugged her shoulders and
+changed her tune.
+
+“What a lot of fools you are!” she exclaimed contemptuously. “You had
+the clew in your hands a dozen times over! It was only to-day that this
+fellow got onto it, though, and so”—again she shrugged her shoulders—“I
+had to finish him, if I could, hadn’t I?”
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXII
+
+                             THE LOST CLEW
+
+
+Ferrati was the selfsame man who had first induced Kitty to run away
+from her home, her father, and her sister. As she had progressed, she
+had grown away from him and his evil influences; but, as often happens
+in a situation of this sort, when she found herself in trouble of a
+criminal nature, she had gravitated most naturally back to the man who,
+she was sure, could help her out of her problem.
+
+Face to face with each other in the inspector’s own office, neither
+Kitty nor Ferrati had the nerve to hold out; between them, as a matter
+of fact, they cleared up sundry police mysteries which had worried the
+heads and irritated the underlings for months past.
+
+The trap set for Jim Barrison elucidated a good many mysteries and
+showed the way in which several rich men had disappeared from the face
+of the earth. The trapdoor was not in any sense a secret one; it had
+been seen by half a dozen policemen during the energetic investigations
+of Ferrati and his establishment which had gone on from time to time
+ever since it had become generally known that men who subsequently
+disappeared had been “last seen dining at Ferrati’s.” But the
+explanation had been so simple and there had been so little attempt,
+seemingly, at subterfuge or evasion, that the law had been put off the
+scent so far as that trapdoor was concerned.
+
+The room in which it was situated was a kind of pantry, and directly
+under it was a part of the cellar. Like many restaurant keepers, he had
+bought an old country house and made it over into a resort. Thrifty
+Italian that he was, he had made as few and as inexpensive alterations
+as possible in the actual structure of the building, and had found it
+cheaper to put in a trapdoor and a ladder than to build a complete
+staircase reaching to his cellar. This was the explanation that he gave
+the police, and it was probably true, and was assuredly logical.
+
+What became apparent now, however, was that the trapdoor had served
+other ends than that of legitimate café service. What could be easier
+than to inveigle a man into the room and get rid of him through the
+cellar door? As for the disposal of the body, that, too, was quaintly
+provided for and covered by Ferrati’s business. Every morning, just
+at dawn, the restaurant garbage was carted away. It was not difficult
+to carry other and more ghastly things away at the same time; and the
+road is lonely at that hour. A couple of discreet henchmen could quite
+easily drop something over the cliffs in the direction of the river.
+But, after all, this was a secondary matter for the moment.
+
+The great thing was that they knew now who had fired the seventh shot.
+It only remained to find out how it had been done, for even after Kitty
+had admitted it, the thing seemed impossible from the facts which they
+had securely established.
+
+She did not in the least mind telling them about it. She told her story
+with simplicity and directness. In her curious, calculating little head
+there was not the slightest trace of regret or remorse for what she
+had done. Barrison, watching her, remembered his talk with Wrenn, and
+seemed to descry in the daughter the same strange bias he had noted in
+the father; the same profound selfishness, the same complete absence
+of conscience where her own wrongdoing was concerned. It also appeared
+clear that only one person had ever sincerely touched the heart of
+either of them, and that was the man who was dead.
+
+There was one thing that Kitty did truly grieve for, and that was
+Mortimer’s death. Whether it was because she had loved him, or because
+in losing him, she had lost the chance of marrying and so squaring her
+somewhat twisted and clouded past, would never be known to any one but
+herself. That she did grieve, however odd it might appear, was certain.
+
+The detectives exchanged glances of wonder as they realized how simple
+the case had been from the very first, once given the clew. As for the
+clew itself, Barrison had had it once, but had lost it. It was, as
+he had at one time suspected, that red evening coat. It had left the
+theater exactly when it was supposed to have left; only—it was not
+Kitty who had worn it!
+
+It was the morning after the episode at Ferrati’s, and Lowry was
+holding an informal inquiry. None of them who were present would ever
+forget it—nor the enchanting picture which the self-confessed murderess
+presented as she sat there with a poise that her situation could not
+impair, looking exquisite in the swathing black which she wore for the
+man whom she had herself killed!
+
+Inspector Lowry was, for once in his life, totally at a loss,
+absolutely nonplused. To Barrison, and the other men who knew him
+well, his blank amazement in the face of the phenomenon represented by
+Kitty Legaye was, to say the least of it, entertaining.
+
+At last he remarked, still staring at her as though hypnotized: “It is
+a most remarkable case! Miss Legaye, if you feel the loss of this man
+so deeply—and I am convinced that you do, in spite of the paradox it
+presents—why, if you don’t mind, did you shoot him?”
+
+She flashed him a scornful glance. “Shoot him!” she repeated
+vehemently. “You surely don’t suppose for one moment that I meant to
+shoot him?”
+
+“But——” the inspector was beginning.
+
+“Shoot _him_!” she rushed on, with a different emphasis. “Of course I
+didn’t! It is the sorrow of my life that it turned out in that horrible
+manner. No; it was that Merivale woman whom I meant to shoot! He was
+making love to her, and I couldn’t stand it! I aimed at her, but—but—I
+suppose he was closer to her than I thought, and—it happened!”
+
+She bit her lips and clenched her small hands. They could all see that
+it was only with the greatest difficulty and by the most tremendous
+effort that she was able to control the frenzy of her rage and despair
+over that fatal mischance.
+
+“At that, I hadn’t planned to kill even her,” she went on, after
+a moment or two. “Not then, at any rate. But when the opportunity
+came, sent straight from heaven as it seemed,” said this astounding,
+moralless woman most earnestly, “I simply could not help it.”
+
+“Suppose you tell us what actually happened.”
+
+“Why not, now? What I told him”—she looked at Jim Barrison—“was all
+quite true up to the point where I stopped at Alan’s door and heard my
+sister’s voice. The rest, of course, was different. What I really did
+then was to wait, listening to the struggle and quarrel inside until I
+could make out that my—my father was succeeding in separating them. The
+door opened and Marita almost staggered out, with her waist all torn
+and her hair half down. She looked dreadful, and I was so afraid some
+one would see her.
+
+“At the same second I saw the pistol lying just inside the door. Alan
+said: ‘Shut that door!’ Neither he nor my father had seen me. I bent
+down quickly and, reaching in, picked up the pistol. The next second my
+father had shut the door very quietly and quickly, for no lights were
+to be shown in the theater.
+
+“I still had no real intention of using the thing that night. I just
+picked it up, acting on an impulse. Besides, I didn’t think that my
+sister was in any state to handle it then; so I kept it, and did not
+give it to her. Then I pulled off my evening coat and made Marita put
+it on.”
+
+“One moment, with Inspector Lowry’s permission,” Barrison interrupted.
+“All that must have taken time, Miss Legaye, and there were people all
+around you. I myself was only a short distance away.”
+
+“You were standing up stage,” she informed him tranquilly, “and the
+stairway going to the second tier of dressing rooms masked Alan’s door
+from where you were. As for the time, it took scarcely a minute; it
+happened like lightning. Such things take time to tell about, but not
+to do.”
+
+“And in giving your sister your wrap, you were trying to shield
+her, and were moved by sisterly affection?” suggested the inspector
+sympathetically.
+
+“Indeed I was not!” snapped Kitty resentfully. “I never had the least
+affection for my sister! I was moved by the fear of a lot of talk and
+scandal. I wanted to get her out of the theater, and out of my life
+entirely, and the quickest way I could think of was to give her my
+coat and send her home in my taxi.”
+
+“Why did you not go with her?”
+
+“Haven’t I told you I wanted to get rid of her? I didn’t think of
+anything but that for a moment, and then—then something else came over
+me, after she had gone.”
+
+Her tone had changed. It was plain that she was no longer merely
+narrating something; she was living it again. She was again stirred by
+what had stirred her on that fateful night; no eloquence in the world
+could have made her hearers so vividly see what she saw, nor so gravely
+appreciate what she had felt, as the expression which she now wore—a
+terrible, introspective expression, the look of one who lives the past
+over again.
+
+“Sybil Merivale was waiting for him at the top of the little flight
+of steps, and—I had the pistol still in my hand. Even then I was not
+perfectly determined on killing her. I hated her and I feared her, but
+I had not planned anything yet. There was a dark scarf over my arm; I
+slipped that over my head so that it shaded my face from any chance
+light, and I slipped across the few feet of distance and stood just
+below her, close by the steps.
+
+“Then Alan came out of his room. There was no light, for he had had
+them put out, of course, according to Dukane’s directions, for the dark
+scene which was almost on. I stood so near that I could have touched
+him as he went up two steps and stopped, and laughed under his breath
+and spoke to her.”
+
+Again she fought for self-control, and again she won it, though her
+face looked older and harder when she began to speak once more.
+
+“He was trying to make love to her, and she would have nothing to do
+with him.”
+
+“Didn’t that make you hate her less?” queried Lowry, being merely a man.
+
+“It made me hate her more! She was throwing aside something which I
+would have risked anything to get! I went mad for the moment. Then the
+shots began, and it was pitch dark. I—I found myself lifting my hand
+slowly, and pointing it. I knew just where she was standing. It seemed
+to me I could scarcely miss. When I had heard what I thought was the
+fifth shot, I fired. I suppose I was excited and confused, and counted
+wrong. I meant my shot to come at the same time as the last shot; that
+would have given me a longer time to get away. As it was, she screamed,
+and I was sure I had hit her. And I was very glad!
+
+“But I had no time to make sure. There was commotion and confusion, and
+I had to get away. I did not dare to go out through the stage entrance
+where there was a light. I knew my way to the communicating door, and I
+took a chance that the lights would not go up until I was through it. I
+brushed past the man who was supposed to guard it, in the dark, but I
+suppose he was too excited to notice. I got through and ran down past
+the boxes to the front of the house. People were already beginning to
+come out, and there was a lot of confusion. I had my dark scarf over
+my head, so I easily passed for one of the women in the audience who
+had turned faint and wanted air. I walked quietly out of the lobby and
+hailed a taxi. That’s all.”
+
+“What did you do then?”
+
+“I went home—to my hotel. I didn’t go in by the front way, but through
+the side entrance, and slipped into my room without meeting any one. I
+sent out for some chloral, for I knew I could not sleep without it, but
+I would not let my maid see me, for she would have noticed that I was
+without my coat.”
+
+“And the coat?”
+
+“Marita sent it back to me in the morning before Maria came to the
+door. I put it on a chair by the window so that it would seem to have
+been rained on that way. When the boy brought it, it was pouring
+outside, and the wet had soaked through the paper wrapping.”
+
+There was a short silence. The mystery was solved. It was curious to
+think that this small, black-clad figure was the criminal. Yet—when
+one looked deep into Kitty’s eyes, one might discern something of her
+Mexican mother’s temperament and her time-serving father’s selfishness
+which could explain her part in this tragedy.
+
+“And did you still believe that it was Miss Merivale that you had
+killed?” asked Inspector Lowry.
+
+“Yes; I believed it until that man”—again indicating Jim—“came to me in
+the morning and told me of Alan’s death. It was a frightful shock.”
+
+“I should imagine that it might have been,” remarked the inspector
+thoughtfully. “And when did you decide that it was—er—advisable—to get
+rid of him?” pointing to Barrison.
+
+“Yesterday afternoon, when he told me that you were bringing my sister
+back, and that he was going to have an interview in a short time with
+the boy who had done her errands. I knew then that he would soon learn
+too much. It was that boy who brought me the red coat the morning after
+Alan’s death, and I did not want him to talk.”
+
+“But surely you did not think that investigations would stop just
+because you had got Mr. Barrison out of the way?”
+
+She shook her head. “I didn’t reason about it very clearly,” she said.
+“I had been under a good deal of strain, you must remember. All I
+thought of was that he was on my track, and that the sooner I put him
+where he couldn’t harm me, the better for me. So far as any one else
+was concerned, I suppose, if I thought of them at all, I thought that
+it was worth a chance. I’ve got out of some pretty tight places before
+now; I’m always inclined to hope till the last moment.”
+
+“I am afraid, Miss Legaye,” said the inspector seriously, “that you
+have come to that last moment now.”
+
+She glanced at him, and she had never looked more charming. “Sure?” she
+said, in her prettiest, most ingénue way. “I haven’t been before a jury
+yet, you know, and—and men usually like me!”
+
+The inspector was red with indignation. But more than one of the men
+present suppressed a chuckle at his rage and Kitty’s composure.
+
+“Why,” asked Jim, “did you sign Miss Templeton’s name to that decoy
+telegram of yours?”
+
+Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “I certainly couldn’t sign my own, could
+I?” she rejoined calmly. “And she’d been suspected at the beginning.
+She seemed a good one to pick.”
+
+There was not much more to clear up, but Barrison was on the point of
+putting one more question when an officer came in and whispered to the
+inspector.
+
+“Bring them in,” he said at once.
+
+The new arrivals were the Blankleys, accompanied by the detective who
+had found them in Indianapolis. They looked frightened, but Lowry
+quickly relieved their minds and assured them that they would only be
+required as witnesses.
+
+The meeting between the sisters was curious. Seeing them together for
+the first time, Barrison saw the resemblance plainly, though Rita
+looked more Mexican than Kitty, and was, he knew, far the better woman
+of the two.
+
+“Well, Kit?” said she quietly, almost compassionately, but Kitty looked
+straight in front of her, and neither then nor at any other time
+deigned to recognize her existence.
+
+Barrison prompting the inspector, the latter turned to Marita and
+held out the letter which Jim had turned over to him the day before,
+the note which both he and the younger man had accepted as conclusive
+evidence of her guilt.
+
+“Did you write this, Mrs. Blankley?” he asked.
+
+She glanced down the page and nodded. “Certainly,” she responded; “when
+I returned the coat Kitty had lent me.”
+
+When they read it over, they found that its wording was innocent
+enough. It was only Kitty’s evil ingenuity which had twisted it
+deliberately.
+
+“Did you really hate me as much as all that, Kit?” asked Marita, almost
+in wonder, but Kitty said never a word, and did not even look in her
+direction.
+
+A little later, Jim Barrison was bidding Inspector Lowry good-by.
+
+“The inquest is to-day,” remarked the inspector, who was smoking very
+hard and looking very bland and satisfied. “And we won’t have to have
+any ‘person or persons unknown’ verdict this time! Found the murderer
+inside of forty-eight hours! We didn’t do so badly, eh, my boy?”
+
+Barrison dropped his eyes to hide an involuntary twinkle at the “we.”
+
+“Splendid, sir!” he declared cordially. “Good-by! I’m off to make a few
+extra inquiries—of a strictly personal nature.”
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIII
+
+                           THE FALSE GODS GO
+
+
+“Well?” demanded Miss Templeton, at whose apartment Jim Barrison
+presented himself in record time after leaving headquarters. “And is
+the case now closed?”
+
+“Not quite,” said Barrison, putting down his hat and stick deliberately
+and standing facing her.
+
+She was standing, too; and, as she was a tall woman, her eyes were
+not so very much below his own. She was, he thought, most splendidly
+beautiful as she stood there gravely looking at him.
+
+“Not quite,” he repeated, in a voice he had never before permitted
+himself to use in speaking to her. “I want to ask a few more questions,
+please?”
+
+She nodded, still watching him in that deep, intent fashion.
+
+“First,” pursued Jim, trying to speak steadily and to keep to the
+unimportant things, even while his heart was throbbing violently, “why
+did you always suspect Kitty Legaye?”
+
+“Because I had an instinct against her; also because I was sure that
+she knew that man Wrenn. I could tell by the way that they looked at
+each other that they were not strangers, though I never knew them to
+speak to each other. And, you see, I knew that he was connected with
+Alan Mortimer’s old life. The suspicion seemed to slip in naturally.”
+
+“And at any time—at any time, mind you—did you have it in your mind to
+kill Mortimer yourself?”
+
+“Never!” she returned at once, and firmly.
+
+He paused a moment, looking full into the clearest eyes that ever a
+woman had.
+
+“Grace,” he said, calling her so for the first time, “why did you buy
+that revolver?”
+
+She colored painfully, but her eyes met his as truthfully as before.
+“Ah, you knew that!” she said. “I had hoped that you did not. However,
+what can it matter now? I am very much changed since the day I bought
+that revolver. You know that, I think?”
+
+“I know it,” he acknowledged gently.
+
+“I was terribly hurt, terribly outraged, terribly disappointed. You
+must always remember that I am a woman of wild emotions. I felt myself
+flung aside—not only in love, but in my profession. I had lost my part,
+and I had lost the man who, after all, I had believed I loved.”
+
+“And did _you_ want to kill Sybil Merivale, too?”
+
+She stared at him in astonishment. “Kill Sybil Merivale!” she repeated.
+“Why on earth should I? I had nothing against the girl, except that
+I believe I was a little jealous of her youth and freshness just at
+first. No; I had made up my mind to kill myself.”
+
+“Yourself!”
+
+“Yes. Didn’t you guess? I had an idea that you did, and that that was
+one reason for your keeping so near me all that evening in the box.
+I had the insane impulse to kill myself then and there, and spoil
+Alan’s first night!” She laughed a little, though shakily, at the
+recollection. “It was ridiculous, melodramatic, anything you like, but
+women have done such things, and—and I’m afraid I am rather that sort.
+I meant to do it, anyway.”
+
+“And—why didn’t you? You had the revolver; I felt it in your bag on the
+back of the chair. Why didn’t you?”
+
+He had not known that a woman’s eyes could hold so much light.
+
+“You know,” she said softly and soberly. “You were there. You had come
+into my life. The false gods go when the gods arrive!”
+
+There was a long stillness between them, in which neither of them
+stirred, nor took their eyes away.
+
+“You—love me?” Jim said, in a queer voice.
+
+“Yes.”
+
+When he let her leave his arms, it was only that he might look again
+into her eyes and touch that wonderful golden hair, now loose and soft
+about her face.
+
+“It—it isn’t dyed!” she said hastily. “I did make up, but my hair was
+always that color—truly!”
+
+“Oh, my dear, my dear!” he laughed, though with tears and tenderness
+behind the laughter. “What do I care whether it is dyed or not? It’s
+just a part of you.”
+
+A little later a whimsical idea came to him.
+
+“You know,” he said, “the inspector said to me yesterday that in
+drawing in our nets we sometimes found that we had captured some birds
+that we had never expected. I didn’t know how right he was, for—we two
+seem to have caught the Blue Bird of Happiness, after all!”
+
+“And I am sure,” said Grace Templeton solemnly, “that no one ever
+really caught it before!”
+
+                                THE END.
+
+
+             ———————————————— End of Book ————————————————
+
+
+                     Transcriber’s Note (continued)
+
+Errors in punctuation and simple typos have been corrected without note.
+Variations in spelling, hyphenation, accents, etc., have been left as
+they appear in the original publication unless as stated in the following:
+
+  Page 17 – “Miss Lagaye” changed to “Miss Legaye” (I’ve been out of work
+             since March, Miss Legaye.)
+  Page 29 – “unforgetable” changed to “unforgettable” (A passionate,
+             unforgettable woman)
+  Page 41 – “crispy” changed to “crisply” (crisply waving locks)
+  Page 45 – “playright” changed to “playwright” (sighed the discouraged
+             playwright)
+  Page 53 – “coldbloodedly” changed to “cold-bloodedly” (as cold-bloodedly
+             as did Dukane)
+  Page 76 – “well-simulated” changed to “well-stimulated” (much
+             well-stimulated curiosity)
+  Page 115 – “stagedoor” changed to “stage door” (your stage door keeper)
+  Page 196 – “coldblooded” changed to “cold-blooded” (her cold-blooded
+              dismissal)
+  Page 197 – “feeing” changed to “feeling” (from feeling guilty)
+  Page 198 – “imperturably” changed to “imperturbably” (remarked the
+              inspector imperturbably)
+  Page 305 – “not” changed to “nor” (would ever forget it—nor the
+              enchanting picture)
+
+
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76659 ***
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+<p class="noindent center TN-style-1 bold">Transcriber’s Note</p>
+
+<p class="noindent center TN-style-1">The cover image was restored by Thiers Halliwell and is granted to the public domain.</p>
+
+<hr class="r10">
+
+<p class="noindent center TN-style-1">See the <a class="underline" href="#TN">end</a>
+of this document for details of corrections and other changes.</p>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p class="noindent center bold p4 b4" style="font-size: 160%;">THE SEVENTH SHOT</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+<h1>THE SEVENTH SHOT</h1>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center bold p2 b3" style="font-size: 120%;"><i>A Detective Story</i></p>
+
+<p class="noindent center bold b4"><span style="font-size: 80%;">BY</span><br>
+<span style="font-size: 120%;">Harry Coverdale</span></p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe06">
+  <a rel="nofollow" href="images/title-page-image.jpg">
+    <img class="w100" src="images/title-page-image.jpg" alt="">
+  </a>
+</figure>
+
+<p class="noindent center bold p3"><span style="font-size: 100%;">CHELSEA HOUSE</span><br>
+79 Seventh Avenue&#x2003;&#x2003;New York City</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p class="noindent center p4"><span style="font-size: 80%;">Copyright, 1924</span><br>
+<span style="font-size: 90%;">By CHELSEA HOUSE</span></p>
+<p class="noindent center">&#x2014;&#x2014;</p>
+<p class="noindent center b4"><span style="font-size: 80%;">The Seventh Shot</span></p>
+
+<p class="noindent center p4"><span style="font-size: 90%;">(Printed in the United States of America)</span></p>
+
+<p class="noindent center" style="font-size: 90%;">All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign<br>
+languages, including the Scandinavian.
+</p>
+</div>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2>
+</div>
+
+<table class="toc">
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr x-small">CHAPTER</td>
+    <td class="tdl x-small">&nbsp;</td>
+    <td class="tdr x-small">PAGE</td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">I.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;“<span class="smcap">Brook Trout For Two</span>”</td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">11</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">II.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Woman in Purple</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">24</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">III.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The “Tag”</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">36</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">IV.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Letter of Warning</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">51</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">V.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Miss Templeton</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">63</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">VI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Divided Danger</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">72</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">VII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Dark Scene</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">80</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">VIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Awaiting the Police</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">96</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">IX.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Reconstructing the Crime</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">103</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">X.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Facts and Fancies</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">112</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">In the Star Dressing Room</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">123</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Two Doorways</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">131</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Initial</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">142</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XIV.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">A Tip—and an Invitation</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">150</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XV.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">A Morning Call</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">156</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XVI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">A Scarlet Evening Coat</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">163</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XVII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Blind Trails</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">168</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XVIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Miss Templeton at Home</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">179</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XIX.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Glimmers in the Darkness</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">190</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XX.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Checking Up</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">197</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Tony’s Report</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">206</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">“Rita the Daredevil”</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">215</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">’Twixt the Cup and the Lip&#x2003;&#x2003;</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">223</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXIV.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">What Sybil Had Hidden</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">229</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXV.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">New Developments</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">242</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXVI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Wrenn’s Story</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">248</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXVII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">An Incriminating Letter</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">263</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXVIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">A Strange Summons</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">271</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXIX.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Through the Night</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">279</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXX.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Whisper in the Dark</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">284</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXXI.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">Tony Does His Bit</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">292</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXXII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The Lost Clew</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">302</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td class="tdr">XXXIII.</td>
+    <td class="tdh">&#x2003;<span class="smcap">The False Gods Go</span></td>
+    <td class="tdr"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">315</a></td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<p class="noindent center bold p4" style="font-size: 200%;">THE SEVENTH SHOT</p>
+
+<figure class="figcenter illowe02">
+  <a rel="nofollow" href="images/pg-11-image.jpg">
+    <img class="w100" src="images/pg-11-image.jpg" alt="">
+  </a>
+</figure>
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">“BROOK TROUT FOR TWO”</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">IT was twelve o’clock—a hot, sunny noon in the
+latter part of August. Broadway blazed with the
+last fiery effort of the passing summer; there was a
+steady stream of humanity pouring up and down on
+either side of the clanging cars, and occasionally
+swirling between them. In spite of the temperature,
+New York was as fervently busy as usual, especially
+here on what is affectionately known as the Rialto.
+For in nearly every theater in the Forties rehearsals
+had begun, and those actors who were not already
+employed were frantically hunting jobs. Gone the
+brief weeks in which they had forgotten calcium and
+make-up boxes; it was nearly September—time to
+work.</p>
+
+<p>Chorus girls, half dead from three hours of ceaseless
+dancing, came hurrying from stage doors, wiping
+their dripping faces and talking shrilly of new
+steps, tired legs, and the brutalities of their stage
+managers. “Principals,” in scarcely less haste, repaired
+to one of the big restaurants for a cold buffet
+lunch, wearing the blank, concentrated expression
+that is born of trying to memorize lines or to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[12]</span>
+estimate the cost of new costumes. Clean-shaven
+young men, all dressed precisely alike, forgathered
+on street corners or plunged pallidly into cafés.
+Shabby little actresses, out of work and wearing
+their best clothes of last year, scurried anxiously
+from agent to agent.</p>
+
+<p>A few stars sank wearily into touring cars or
+limousines and flew homeward for an hour and a
+half of rest and refreshment before the long, grinding,
+sweltering afternoon. Stage managers, with
+scripts sticking out of their pockets and a grim and
+absent glare in their eyes, strode along, mentally
+blue-penciling the prompt book and cursing the company.
+Authors crept miserably away to eat without
+appetite and wonder if there would be any play at
+all left by the date of the opening. In short,
+theatrical Broadway was at one of its most vigorous
+seasons of activity, and to walk along it was
+like turning the pages of a dramatic newspaper.</p>
+
+<p>At the side door of one of the big, cool, luxurious
+hotels extensively patronized by the profession when
+it has enough money in its pockets, two young
+women nearly ran into each other, laughed, and exchanged
+greetings:</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye! How nice to see you again!”</p>
+
+<p>“It has been ages, hasn’t it? Are you lunching
+here, too, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+
+<p>“I hardly know,” returned the younger and taller
+girl, adding, with a frank laugh: “I was wondering
+whether it would be too sinfully extravagant
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[13]</span>
+to blow myself to a gilt-edged meal all alone. However,
+I believe I had about succumbed to temptation;
+I have a manager to see this afternoon, and I
+really think I should fortify myself.”</p>
+
+<p>“Lunch with me,” suggested Kitty Legaye. “I
+hate my own society, and I am all alone.”</p>
+
+<p>“For a wonder!” laughed the other. “Yes, I’d
+love to, if you’ll let it be Dutch. I’ve been up and
+down a thousand pairs of stairs this morning, and
+I’m nearly dead.”</p>
+
+<p>They went together into one of the most comfortable
+dining rooms in the city. They chose a little
+table so placed that an electric fan, artificially hidden
+behind flowering plants, swept it with a very
+fair imitation of aromatic summer winds.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Legaye, who always knew exactly what she
+wanted, waved aside the menu proffered by the
+waiter and rapidly ordered: “Brook trout in aspic
+for two. I’ll tell you the rest later.”</p>
+
+<p>Then she tossed off her fur neckpiece and turned
+to the other girl.</p>
+
+<p>“I never asked you if you liked trout!” she exclaimed,
+in a sweet, rather high voice which her
+admirers called “larklike.” “Now, that’s so like me!
+Do you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Very much,” said her companion, smiling. “I
+don’t often get it, though. You are looking awfully
+well, Miss Legaye!”</p>
+
+<p>“I am always well,” replied Kitty Legaye.</p>
+
+<p>She was an exceedingly pretty woman, already
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[14]</span>
+in her early thirties, but even by daylight she did
+not look more than twenty-five. On the stage, with
+the glamour of rouge and footlights to enhance her
+naturally youthful appearance, she passed easily for
+a girl in her teens. Very small, very dainty, with
+the clear, ivory-white skin which keeps its freshness
+so well, big dark eyes, brown curls, and a very
+red, tiny, full mouth, she still made an enchanting
+ingénue and captivated every one who saw her.</p>
+
+<p>To-day she was entirely charming in one of the
+innocently sophisticated frocks she particularly loved
+to wear—a creation of black and white, most daring
+in effect, though demurely simple in cut. Always
+pale by nature, she was doubly so now from fatigue
+and heat, yet she still looked young and lovely, and
+her smile had the irresistible and infectious quality
+of a child’s.</p>
+
+<p>If at times her eye grew a bit cynical or her
+pretty mouth a trifle hard, such slips in self-control
+occurred seldom. As a rule she kept a rigid guard
+upon herself and her expressions, not only because
+an obviously ugly mood or reflection made her look
+older, but because, if permitted to become a habit,
+it would be perilously and permanently aging.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty Legaye was too truly clever not to know
+that her one valuable asset, both as an actress and
+a woman, was her quality—or illusion—of youth.
+When she lost that, she shrewdly judged, she
+would lose everything. She was not a sufficiently
+brilliant actress to continue successfully in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[15]</span>
+character work after her looks had gone. And so far as
+her personal and private life was concerned she
+had lived too selfishly to have made a very cozy
+human place for herself in the world.</p>
+
+<p>Not that she was a disagreeable or an unkind
+woman; she could even be generous on occasion,
+and she was almost always pleasant to her associates;
+but the spirit of calculation which she
+strove so hard to keep out of her face had left its
+mark upon her life. She had few close friends,
+though she liked many persons and many persons
+liked her. She had long since drifted away from
+her own people, and she had never been willing to
+give up her independence for the sake of any man.
+So, in spite of a great number of admirers and a remarkably
+handsome salary, her existence seemed
+just a little barren and chilly sometimes.</p>
+
+<p>We have said that she never had been willing to
+give up her independence. That had been true all
+her life until now. To-day she was considering just
+that proposition. Did she care enough, at last, to
+marry? Love—she had had no small measure of
+that all her life, for Kitty was by way of being
+temperamental; but marriage! That was another
+and a vastly more serious matter.</p>
+
+<p>She looked almost wistfully across the table at
+Sibyl Merivale. For a moment she had an unaccountable
+impulse to confide in her. She wished
+she knew her well enough. She looked, Kitty
+thought, like the sort of girl who would understand
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[16]</span>
+about this sort of thing—loving enough to get
+married, and—and all that.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil was as unlike Miss Legaye as she well could
+be. She was tall, and built strongly though slenderly,
+like a young Artemis, and her eyes were very
+clear and starry and blue. Her hair was of that
+rare and delicious shade known as <i lang="fr">blonde cendrée</i>,
+and the silvery, ashen nimbus about her face made
+her brown eyebrows and lashes effective. Her skin
+was very fair, and her color came and went sensitively.
+She was not a beauty; her nose was decidedly
+<i lang="fr">retroussé</i>, and her mouth too large. But
+she was unquestionably sweet and wholesome and
+attractive, and her lovely forehead and the splendid
+breadth between her eyes suggested both character
+and intelligence.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty looked disapprovingly at the dust-colored
+linen dress she wore; it was far too close to the
+tint of her hair to be becoming. Blondes, thought
+Kitty, could wear almost any color on the face of the
+earth except—just that! However, she felt rather
+pleased than otherwise that Miss Merivale was not
+looking her best. When she appeared in public with
+another woman, she was well satisfied to have the
+other woman badly dressed. She herself never was.</p>
+
+<p>Both women were honestly and healthily hungry,
+and talked very little until they were half through
+the trout. Then they met each other’s eyes and
+laughed a little.</p>
+
+<p>“Thank goodness you don’t pretend not to have
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[17]</span>
+an appetite, like most girls!” said Miss Legaye.
+“I’m starved, and not a bit ashamed of it! Boned
+squab, after this, waiter, and romaine salad.”</p>
+
+<p>“If you let me eat so much I shall be dull and
+stupid,” declared Sybil. “And I want to be extra
+brilliant to talk to my manager. I simply have to
+hypnotize him into engaging me!”</p>
+
+<p>“Who is he?”</p>
+
+<p>“Altheimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“Altheimer! You aren’t going into musical comedy,
+surely?”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil flushed a bit and bent over her plate to hide
+her discomfort.</p>
+
+<p>“I—I’m going into anything I can get,” she answered
+in a low voice. Then she smiled and went
+on more bravely: “I’ve been out of work since
+March, Miss Legaye. Beggars can’t be choosers.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, dear—how horrid!” Miss Legaye felt sincerely
+sympathetic—for the moment. “It’s a thousand
+pities that you have to go into one of the Altheimer
+shows. You can really act, and there—well,
+of course, he doesn’t care about whether you
+can act or not; he’ll take you for your figure.” And
+she looked the other girl over candidly.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil flushed again, but answered promptly: “I
+think he has some sort of part for me—a real part.
+He knows I don’t sing or dance. You are rehearsing,
+aren’t you, Miss Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; with Alan Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“I wish you’d tell me what you think of him!”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[18]</span>
+said Sybil, with interest. “He’s such a mystery to
+every one. His first play, isn’t it? As a star, I
+mean.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; Dukane is trying an experiment—starring
+an unknown actor in a Broadway production. Pretty
+daring, isn’t it? But Dukane doesn’t make many
+mistakes. He knows Alan Mortimer will make good.
+He’s got a lot of personality, and he’s extremely attractive,
+I think. I—saw a good deal of him down
+at Nantucket during the summer.”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty Legaye never blushed, but there was a certain
+soft hesitancy about the way in which she
+uttered the simple words that was, for her, the
+equivalent of a blush. Sybil, noting it, privately
+concluded that there had been something like a romance
+“down at Nantucket during the summer.”</p>
+
+<p>Being a nice girl, and a tactful one, she said
+gently:</p>
+
+<p>“Is it a good play, do you think?”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Legaye shrugged her shoulders carelessly;
+the moment of sentiment had passed.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s melodrama,” she rejoined; “the wildest sort.
+‘Boots and Saddles’ is the name, and it’s by Carlton;
+now you know.”</p>
+
+<p>They both laughed. Carlton was a playwright of
+fluent and flexible talent, who made it his business
+always to know the public pulse.</p>
+
+<p>“What time is your appointment with Altheimer?”</p>
+
+<p>“Quarter past one.”</p>
+
+<p>“What an ungodly hour! Doesn’t the man ever
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[19]</span>
+eat? But finish your lunch comfortably; if you’re
+late he’ll appreciate you all the more. Besides——”</p>
+
+<p>She paused, regarding the girl cautiously and
+critically; and that evanescently calculating look
+drifted across her face for the space of a breath.</p>
+
+<p>“Besides what?” demanded Sybil. “If I lose that
+part, I’ll sue you for a job! Besides what?”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty, for all her pretty, impulsive ways, rarely
+did things without consideration; so it was with
+quite slow deliberation that she answered Sybil’s
+question with another:</p>
+
+<p>“Would you like to come with Alan Mortimer?”</p>
+
+<p>“Mercy!” The girl put down her knife and
+fork and stared with huge blue eyes. “Do you
+mean to say that there’s a part open—after rehearsing
+ten days?”</p>
+
+<p>“How do you know how long we’ve been rehearsing?”
+queried the older woman.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil grew delicately pink. “I know a man in
+the company,” she confessed, laughing shyly.
+“Norman Crane—oh, he’s only got a little bit of a
+part; perhaps you haven’t noticed him, even. It’s
+a big company, isn’t it? But he’s quite keen
+about your play.”</p>
+
+<p>“Norman Crane?” repeated the other thoughtfully.
+“Why, yes, I know him. A tall, clean-looking
+fellow with reddish hair and a nice laugh?”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s Norman! He isn’t a great actor, but—he’s
+quite a dear.”</p>
+
+<p>Miss Legaye nodded slowly, still regarding her.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[20]</span>
+The notion which had come to her a minute before
+seemed to her more and more markedly a good
+notion, a wise notion—nay, even possibly an inspired
+notion! Mortimer’s leading woman, Grace
+Templeton, was a brilliant blonde with Isoldelike
+emotions, and Kitty had loathed and feared her
+from the first, for the new star swung in an orbit
+that was somewhat willful and eccentric, to say
+the very least of it, and his taste in feminine beauty
+was unprejudiced by a bias toward any special
+type.</p>
+
+<p>For a long time Kitty had yearned to get rid of
+Miss Templeton. If the thing could possibly be
+managed, here was a girl of undoubted talent—she
+had seen her act and knew that she had twice the
+ability of the average young player—presentable,
+but not too radiantly pretty, and proper and conventional
+and all that—not at all the sort of girl
+who would be likely to have an affair with the star.
+And then, if she was interested in young Crane,
+why, it would be altogether perfect!</p>
+
+<p>“So you know Norman Crane,” she said. “Then
+if you did come into the company, that would make
+it particularly nice for you, wouldn’t it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes,” the girl returned, frankly enough.
+“We’re quite good friends, though I don’t see much
+of him these days. We used to play together in
+stock out West two years ago; we were both most
+awful duffers at acting.”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty Legaye nodded as though fairly well satisfied.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[21]</span>
+It was on the tip of her tongue to say that
+she would try to get Sybil a small part in the
+play, with the chance to understudy Miss Templeton—it
+was all she could even partially promise
+until she had conferred with Dukane and Mortimer—when
+her attention was sharply distracted by the
+sight of two men who had just entered the room
+and who were looking about them in choice of a
+table. She uttered a quick exclamation, as quickly
+suppressed.</p>
+
+<p>“Look at those two men standing near the
+door!” she said. “There, close to the buffet. What
+do you think of them? Do tell me: I’ve a reason
+for asking.”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil’s eyes followed hers.</p>
+
+<p>The two men were both noticeable, but one of
+them was so striking in appearance that one hardly
+had eyes for any one else near by. He was a very
+tall, very broad, very conspicuous type of man.
+Everything about him was superlative—even the
+air of brooding ill temper which for the moment
+he seemed to wear. He was exceedingly dark,
+with swarthy coloring, coal-black hair, thick and
+tumbled, and deeply set black eyes. His features
+were strong and heavy, but well shaped. Indeed,
+he was in his general effect unquestionably handsome,
+and the impression which he made was
+one not lightly to be felt nor quickly to be forgotten.</p>
+
+<p>“Well?” insisted Miss Legaye impatiently, as Sybil
+did not immediately speak. “I asked you what
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[22]</span>
+you thought of him.” This time she did not say
+“them,” but Sybil did not notice the altered word.</p>
+
+<p>The girl continued to look at the tall, dark man
+as though she were mesmerized, and when she
+spoke it was in a curious, detached tone, as she
+might have spoken if she were thinking aloud.</p>
+
+<p>“He is a very strange man,” she said. “He
+does not belong here in a Broadway restaurant.
+He should be somewhere where things are wild
+and wonderful and free—and perhaps rather terrible.
+I think he belongs in—is it Egypt? He
+would be quite splendid in Egypt. Or—the
+prairies——” She spoke dreamily as she stared
+at him.</p>
+
+<p>“You look as though he were a ghost, not a man!”
+exclaimed Kitty, with a laugh. “I must tell him
+what you said——”</p>
+
+<p>“Tell him?” repeated Sybil, rousing herself. “You
+know him, then?”</p>
+
+<p>“My dear child,” said Kitty Legaye, “that is Alan
+Mortimer!”</p>
+
+<p>At the same moment Mortimer caught sight of
+her and strode toward her, passing between the
+fragile little luncheon tables with the energy of a
+whirlwind.</p>
+
+<p>“Guess what has happened now!” he exclaimed
+in a deep but singularly clear and beautifully
+pitched voice. “Dukane has fired Templeton, and
+apparently I open little more than two weeks from
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[23]</span>
+to-night without a leading woman! What do you
+know about that!”</p>
+
+<p>“Without a leading woman? No, you don’t,
+either,” promptly rejoined Kitty, the inspired. She
+always liked a neat climax for a scene, especially
+when she could supply it herself. “I’ve just picked
+out Miss Merivale to play <i>Lucille</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>Breathless and amazed, Sybil looked up to meet
+his eyes. They were dark and piercing. At first
+she thought only of that, and of their fire and
+beauty. Then something obscurely evil seemed for
+a transient second to look out of them. “What an
+awful man!” she said to herself. But he was holding
+out his hand.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you think of that all by yourself, Kit?”
+he said. A faint but rather attractive smile lightening
+his moody eyes. “How do you do—Lucille?
+You may consider the engagement—ah—confirmed.”</p>
+
+<p>But Sybil, as she drew her hand away, felt
+vaguely frightened—she could not have told why.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE WOMAN IN PURPLE</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">MORTIMER had been drinking, else he would
+never have assumed the entire responsibility
+of engaging Sybil Merivale for the leading part in
+his play. When sober, he had a very wholesome
+respect for Dukane, the producing manager who
+had discovered him and who was “backing him
+blind” to the tune of many thousands of dollars.
+But when he had even a little too much to drink,
+the man’s whole personality and viewpoint underwent
+a metamorphosis. He became arrogant, self-assertive,
+unmanageable. Eventually it was this,
+as even his friends and adherents were wont to
+prophesy, which would be the means of his downfall.</p>
+
+<p>Now, though Dukane himself stood at his elbow,
+the actor, with a swagger which he had too much
+sense to use on the stage or when he was entirely
+himself, cried:</p>
+
+<p>“Let us sit down here with you, Kitty, and
+we’ll drink the health of the new <i>Lucille</i>.” Kitty
+smiled indulgently as she watched him seat himself
+and give a whispered order to the waiter which
+presently resulted in the party being served with
+high balls. Meanwhile, as Dukane also sat down,
+Kitty introduced him to Sybil.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[25]</span></p>
+<p>Dukane was short and squarely built, with gray
+hair and steely eyes, a face as smooth and bland
+as a baby’s, and an air so gentle and unassuming
+that his occasional bursts of biting sarcasm came
+upon his victims as a shock. His gaze, clear yet
+inscrutable, swept Sybil Merivale in the moment
+taken up by his introduction to her. He was
+used to thus rapidly appraising the material presented
+him.</p>
+
+<p>He was inclined to approve of her appearance.
+She was not startlingly beautiful, but the hair
+was unusual and would light up well. She carried
+her head properly, too, and her low-voiced “How
+do you do, Mr. Dukane!” was quite nicely pitched.
+It would be worth while hearing her read the part,
+at any rate. For once Mortimer had not too crassly
+put his foot in it, as he was apt to do after four
+or five high balls.</p>
+
+<p>That the actor had taken a good deal too much
+upon himself in practically engaging Miss Merivale
+without even consulting his superior troubled Dukane
+not a whit. He was not a little man, and he
+did not have to bluster in order to assert his
+authority. His actors and actresses were to him
+so many indifferently controlled children. When
+they said or did absurd things, he usually let
+them rave. If they really became troublesome or
+impertinent—as Miss Templeton had been that morning—he
+discharged them with the utmost urbanity
+and firmness.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[26]</span></p>
+<p>He sat down and quietly told the waiter to
+bring him cold meat and coffee, while Mortimer
+ordered more high balls. “Miss Merivale can come
+back with us and read the part in the last act,”
+Dukane said, sipping his coffee. “I shan’t ask the
+company to go through the early part of the
+play again to-day. In any case”—and he smiled
+at the girl pleasantly—“in any case, Miss Merivale
+will look the part.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s more than Templeton ever did!” exclaimed
+Kitty Legaye, with open spite.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane smiled once more. “Miss Templeton,”
+he said, “is rather too—er—sophisticated to play
+<i>Lucille</i>. She is growing out of those very girlish
+leading parts.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why don’t you say,” interposed Kitty sharply,
+“that she’s too old? She is—and, what’s more,
+she looks it!”</p>
+
+<p>“She’s a ripping handsome woman, all the same,”
+declared Alan Mortimer, scowling into his half-emptied
+glass.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty bit her lip. “Of course <em>you</em> would be sorry
+to see her go!” she began.</p>
+
+<p>“Who said I was sorry?” demanded the actor
+rather rudely. “I am not; I’m glad. She was
+getting to be a nuisance——” He checked himself,
+a glimmer of something like shame saving him
+in time. He turned to Sybil Merivale, and there
+was a warm light in his black eyes as he added:
+“I’m growing more glad every minute.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[27]</span></p>
+<p>Sybil was uncomfortable. She hated this man
+and feared him; she hated the tone of the talk,
+the atmosphere of the table. She had a violent
+instinct of repugnance when she thought of joining
+the company. And yet—and yet a leading part,
+and on Broadway, and under Dukane! She could
+not, she dared not lose so wonderful a chance.
+Her big blue eyes were eager and troubled both
+at once.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane watched the play of expression in her
+sensitive face. “Mobile mouth—quick emotions—excellent
+eyes.” He went over these assets mentally.
+Aloud he said, in the nice, impersonally
+friendly tone with which he won people whenever
+he had the fancy: “You need only read the part,
+you know, Miss Merivale. You’re not committed
+to anything.”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil looked at him gratefully; he seemed to
+read her thoughts. All at once, with a surge
+back of her usual gay courage, she cried, laughing:</p>
+
+<p>“Committed! I only wish I were—or, rather,
+that <em>you</em> were, Mr. Dukane!”</p>
+
+<p>“What’s that?” exclaimed Mortimer, a little
+thickly. “’Course he’s committed! You’re under
+contract, Miss—Miss M-Merivale. Word as good
+as his bond—eh, Dukane?”</p>
+
+<p>He was deeply flushed and his eyes glittered.
+In his excitement Sybil found him detestable.
+Fancy having to play opposite that!</p>
+
+<p>“Suppose you eat something,” suggested Dukane,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[28]</span>
+pushing a plate with a piece of cold beef on it
+in his direction. “Oh, yes, you do want it; you’ve
+had a hard morning. Eat it, there’s a good fellow.”</p>
+
+<p>“A-all right,” muttered Mortimer, attacking the
+beef somewhat unsteadily. “Must keep up m’ strength, I s’pose.”</p>
+
+<p>A waiter leaned down to him and murmured
+something in French.</p>
+
+<p>“Eh?” said Mortimer. “Come again, George.
+Try Spanish; I know the greaser lingo a bit.”</p>
+
+<p>The waiter spoke again in halting English. The
+others could hardly help hearing part of what he
+said. It concerned a “lady in mauve—table by the
+window—just a minute, monsieur.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, damn!” ejaculated Alan Mortimer, and immediately
+directed an apologetic murmur toward
+Sybil. He got up, and walking with surprising
+steadiness and that lithe, animal grace so characteristic
+of him, made his way toward a table
+where a woman sat waiting with an expectant face.</p>
+
+<p>“Grace Templeton!” exclaimed Kitty under her
+breath. Her brown eyes snapped angrily. “I didn’t
+see her before—did you, Mr. Dukane?”</p>
+
+<p>“I saw her when I first came in,” answered the
+manager quietly. “That hair is so conspicuous.
+Really I think she should begin to confine herself
+to adventuress parts. She is no longer the romantic
+type.”</p>
+
+<p>“<em>And</em> the dress!” Kitty shivered with a delicate
+suggestion of jarred nerves or outraged taste.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[29]</span></p>
+<p>Dukane dropped his eyes to hide the twinkle
+in them. It was true that even in that lunch-time
+Broadway assemblage, in which brilliant color
+combinations in the way both of hair and of
+garments proclaimed right and left the daring and
+the resourcefulness of womankind, Miss Templeton
+was a unique figure. Her hair was of a magnificent
+metallic gold, and a certain smoldering fire in her
+black-fringed gray eyes and a general impression
+she gave of violent and but half-controlled emotions
+saved her beauty from being merely cheap and
+artificial and made it vivid and compelling. A
+passionate, unforgettable woman, and her gown,
+sensational as it was, somehow expressed her.</p>
+
+<p>The French waiter had drawn upon his fund
+of native tact in calling it mauve. It was, as a
+matter of fact, a sharp and thunderous purple—the
+sort of color which is only permissible in
+stained glass or an illuminated tenth century
+missal. It was a superb shade, but utterly impossible
+for any sort of modern clothes. It blazed
+insolently against the massed greenery of the restaurant
+window. A persistent ray of yellow August
+sunshine, pushing its way past the cunningly contrived
+leafy screen, fell full upon it and upon the
+burnished golden hair above it. In that celestial
+spotlight Miss Templeton was almost too dazzling
+for unshaded mortal eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Now, as she sat looking up at Mortimer, who
+stood beside her table, her expression was in keeping
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[30]</span>
+with the gown and the hair. It was violent,
+conspicuous, crudely intense. Alan Mortimer’s expression,
+in its way, was as violent as hers. They
+looked, the two of them, as though they could
+have torn each other’s eyes out with fierce and
+complete satisfaction.</p>
+
+<p>“Am I very late, Mr. Dukane?” said an agreeably
+pitched voice just behind Sybil.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane started and raised his eyes. His face
+brightened.</p>
+
+<p>“Barrison, my dear fellow, I am glad you came!
+Do you know, you were so late that I had almost
+forgotten you! Miss Legaye, let me present Mr.
+Barrison; Miss Merivale, Mr. Barrison.”</p>
+
+<p>The newcomer smiled and sat down at the already
+crowded little table.</p>
+
+<p>“If you say you had forgotten me,” he protested,
+“I shall think you did not really need me
+at all, and that would be a hard blow to my
+vanity.”</p>
+
+<p>“Nonsense!” said Dukane. “Nothing could touch
+the vanity of a dyed-in-the-wool detective. What
+are you going to have, Barrison?”</p>
+
+<p>“I have lunched, thanks. If that is coffee—yes,
+I will have a demi-tasse. I thought Mr. Mortimer
+was to be with you, Mr. Dukane.”</p>
+
+<p>“He is talking to Miss Templeton over there.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison’s eyes darted quickly to the other table.
+“Your leading woman, is she not?”</p>
+
+<p>“She was,” said Dukane calmly. “At present
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[31]</span>
+we are not sure whether we have any leading
+woman or not—are we, Miss Merivale?” And he
+looked at her kindly.</p>
+
+<p>“And, what is more,” said Kitty Legaye irritably,
+“we shall never find out at this rate. Do
+you people realize”—she glanced at a tiny gold
+wrist watch—“that it is nearly two, and that our
+rehearsal——”</p>
+
+<p>“Nearly two!” Sybil’s exclamation was one of
+real dismay. “And my engagement with Mr.
+Altheimer——Oh!”</p>
+
+<p>“Altheimer, eh?” Dukane looked at her with
+fresh interest. Whether a manager wants an
+actress or not, it always makes him prick up his
+ears to hear of another who may want her. “Telephone
+him that you have been asked to rehearse
+for me to-day, and that”—he paused, considering—“that
+you personally look upon your contract as
+very nearly signed.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, Mr. Dukane!” Sybil flushed brilliantly.
+At that moment she forgot her dread of being in
+Mortimer’s company; she was conscious of pure
+joy and of nothing else.</p>
+
+<p>“There—run along and phone him. You understand,”
+he added cautiously, “I’m not really dependable.
+If you are very bad, I shall say I never
+thought of engaging you.”</p>
+
+<p>“I won’t be,” she laughed valiantly, and sped
+away in the direction of the telephone booths.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane turned to watch the way she walked.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[32]</span>
+In a second he nodded. “Can hurry without
+scampering,” he murmured critically, “and doesn’t
+swing her arms about. H’m! Yes, yes; very good.”</p>
+
+<p>“What do you really think of her?” asked Kitty,
+leaning forward. “You know she is my discovery.”</p>
+
+<p>“My dear girl, who am I, a mere worm of a
+manager, to say? I haven’t seen her work yet.
+She has carriage and a voice, but she may lose
+her head on the stage and she may read <i>Lucille</i>
+as though she were reciting the multiplication table.
+I should say she was intelligent, but one never
+knows. I engaged a woman once who was all
+dignity and fine forehead and bumps of perception
+and the manner born and all the rest of it; and
+when it came to her big scene, she chewed gum
+and giggled. I am too old ever to know anything
+definitely. We must wait and see.”</p>
+
+<p>“She is charming to look at,” Barrison ventured.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, you think so?” said the manager quickly.
+“I am inclined to like her looks myself. And
+she has youth—youth!” He shook his head half
+wistfully. “Here comes Mortimer back again,
+and in a worse temper, by the powers, than when
+he went!”</p>
+
+<p>The actor was evidently in a black mood. He
+made no reference to the woman he had just left,
+but stood like an incarnate thundercloud beside his
+empty chair and addressed the others in a voice
+that was distinctly surly in spite of its naturally
+melodious inflections:</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[33]</span></p>
+<p>“What are we waiting for, anyway? Hello, Barrison!
+Let’s get back to rehearsal.”</p>
+
+<p>“My own idea exactly,” said Dukane. “As soon
+as Miss Merivale returns——Ah, here she comes!
+Waiter——”</p>
+
+<p>“This is my party,” remonstrated Kitty.</p>
+
+<p>“Rubbish! I feed my flock. Barrison, you are
+of the flock, too, for the occasion. How do you
+like being associated with the profession?”</p>
+
+<p>The young detective laughed. Dukane looked at
+him with friendliness. The manager was a man
+who liked excellence of all kinds, even when it was
+out of his line. Barrison’s connection with the
+forthcoming play, “Boots and Saddles,” was a purely
+technical one. A vital point in the drama was
+the identification of a young soldier by his finger
+prints. Dukane never permitted the critics, professional
+or amateur, to catch him at a disadvantage
+in details of this kind. He knew Barrison
+slightly, having met him at the Lambs’ Club, and
+found him an agreeable fellow and a gentleman,
+as well as an acknowledged expert in his profession.
+So he had asked him to show the exact
+Bertillon procedure, that there might be no awkwardness
+or crudity in the development of the
+stage situation.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison himself was much entertained by this
+fleeting association with the seductive and mysterious
+world “behind the scenes.” His busy life
+left him small time for amusement, and for that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[34]</span>
+reason he was the more interested when he came
+upon a bit of professional work which was two
+thirds play.</p>
+
+<p>He was a quiet-seeming chap, with innocent blue
+eyes, a lazy, pleasant manner, and a very disconcerting
+speed of action on occasion. His superiors
+said that half of his undoubted success came from
+his unexpectedness. It is certain that no one,
+on meeting him casually and socially, would ever
+have suspected that he was one of the most redoubtable,
+keen-brained, and steel-nerved detectives
+in all New York.</p>
+
+<p>The bill was paid, and every one was standing
+as Sybil came back. She was a little breathless
+and flushed, and Dukane, with a new note of approbation
+on his mental tablets, got a very good
+idea of what she would look like with a bit of
+make-up.</p>
+
+<p>“I told Mr. Altheimer,” she cried eagerly. “And
+he was quite cross—yes, really <em>quite</em> cross! I was
+ever so flattered. I don’t believe he wanted me
+one bit till he thought there was a chance of Mr.
+Dukane’s wanting me.” She laughed joyously.</p>
+
+<p>“Very likely, very likely,” Dukane murmured.
+“Why—what is the matter, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+
+<p>For the pretty color had faded from Sybil’s sensitive face.
+Her big blue eyes looked suddenly dark
+and distressed. “What is the matter?” the manager
+repeated, watching her closely.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[35]</span></p>
+<p>She pulled herself together and managed a
+tremulous smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Some one is walking over my grave,” she said
+lightly.</p>
+
+<p>But as she turned to leave the dining room with
+the rest, she could not help another backward
+glance at the brilliant figure in purple with the
+golden sunbeam across her golden hair, and the
+odd look which had just terrified her.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, accustomed to noticing everything, followed
+her gaze, and, seeing the expression on Miss
+Templeton’s face, drew his lips into a noiseless
+whistle. For there was murder in that look; Jim
+Barrison had seen it before on other faces, and
+he knew it by sight.</p>
+
+<p>As for Sybil, the memory of the woman in purple
+haunted her all the way to the theater—the woman
+in purple with the black-fringed eyes full of living,
+blazing, elemental hate.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE “TAG”</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">THE stage entrance of the Mirror Theater was
+on a sort of court or alley which ran at right
+angles from one of the side streets near Times
+Square. A high iron gateway which barred it
+except during theatrical working hours stood half
+open, and the little party made their way over
+the stone flags in the cool gloom cast by the
+shadow of the theater itself and the neighboring
+buildings—restaurants, offices, and shops. It looked
+really mysterious in its sudden dusk, after the midday
+glare of the open street.</p>
+
+<p>“Do you know,” said Jim Barrison, “this is the
+first time I have ever gone into a theater by
+the stage door!”</p>
+
+<p>“What a record!” laughed Miss Legaye. She
+was in excellent spirits, and inclined to flirt discreetly
+with the good-looking and well-mannered
+detective. “And so you never had a stage-door
+craze in all your properly conducted life! Don’t
+you think it’s high time you re—no, it isn’t reformed
+I mean, but the reverse of reformed. Anyway,
+you should make up for lost time, Mr.
+Barrison. Ah, Roberts! I suppose you thought
+we were never coming. Every one else here?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[37]</span></p>
+<p>She was speaking to the stage doorkeeper, a
+thickset man of middle age, with a stolid face
+that lighted up somewhat as she addressed him.
+He did not answer, but beamed vacuously at her.
+She was always charming to him, and he adored
+her.</p>
+
+<p>They went on into the theater. Barrison was
+taken in tow by Dukane. “Hello, Willie! Mr.
+Barrison, this is Mr. Coster, my stage manager,
+and I am inclined to dislike him, he knows so
+much more than I do. Mr. Barrison is a detective,
+and has come to help us with those finger-print
+scenes, Willie.”</p>
+
+<p>“Pleased to meet you,” said Willie, absently
+offering a limp, damp hand. “Gov’nor, is it true
+you’ve canned G. T.?”</p>
+
+<p>“Quite true,” said Dukane cheerfully. “Let
+me present you to Miss Merivale. She will rehearse
+<i>Lucille</i>.”</p>
+
+<p>“Lord!” groaned Willie, who was hot and tired
+and disposed to waste no time on tact. “About
+two weeks before——”</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer lurched forward. “Say!” he began
+belligerently. “She’s my leading lady—see? Any
+one who doesn’t like——”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, go ’way and take a nap!” interrupted Willie,
+without heat. He was no respecter of persons.
+“So <em>that’s</em> it! All right, gov’nor. I’m glad to see
+any sort of a <i>Lucille</i> show up, anyhow. Even if
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[38]</span>
+she’s bad, she’ll be better than nothing. No offense,
+Miss Merivale.”</p>
+
+<p>“I quite understand,” said Sybil, so sweetly that
+Willie turned all the way round to look her over
+once more with his pale, anxious eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“Come on, folks; they’re all waiting,” he said,
+and led the way onto the big, bare stage.</p>
+
+<p>Willie Coster was a small, nervous man with
+a cynical pose and the heart of a child. His scant
+hair was sandy, and his features unbeautiful, but
+he was a good, clever, and hard-working little chap,
+and even the companies he trained were fond of
+him. He constantly and loudly proclaimed his disgust
+with all humanity, especially the humanity of
+the theaters; but he was usually broke because
+he hated to refuse a “touch,” and every one on
+earth called him Willie.</p>
+
+<p>He was a remarkable stage manager. He was a
+true artist, was Willie Coster, and he poured his
+soul into his work. After every first night he got
+profoundly drunk and stayed so for a week. Otherwise,
+he explained quite seriously—and as every
+one, including Dukane, could quite believe—he
+would have collapsed from nervous strain.</p>
+
+<p>Only a few electric lights had been turned on.
+The stage looked dim and dingy, and the auditorium
+was a vast abyss of unfathomable blackness. Close
+to the edge of the stage, where the unlighted electric
+footlights made a dully beaded curve, stood a small
+table littered with the four acts of the play and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[39]</span>
+some loose sheets of manuscript, presided over by a
+slim little youth who was Coster’s assistant. This
+was the prompt table, whence rehearsals were,
+technically speaking, conducted. As a matter of
+fact, Willie Coster never stayed there more than two
+minutes at a time.</p>
+
+<p>The company had already assembled. They
+looked hot, resentful, and apprehensive. They
+stood around in small groups, fanning themselves
+with newspapers and handkerchiefs, and making
+pessimistic conjectures as to what was going to
+happen next.</p>
+
+<p>Every one knew that something had gone wrong
+between Templeton and the management, and collectively
+they could not make up their minds
+whether they were glad or sorry. She had been
+the leading woman of the show, and every one felt
+a trifle nervous until reassured that another lead
+would be forthcoming.</p>
+
+<p>It was Claire McAllister, one of the “extra ladies,”
+who first recognized Sybil.</p>
+
+<p>“Gee, ain’t that the Merivale girl?” she exclaimed
+to the young man who played a junior
+officer in one very small scene. “I saw her in a
+real part once, and she got away with it in good
+shape, too.”</p>
+
+<p>The young man to whom she spoke looked up,
+startled, and then sprang forward eagerly, his eyes
+glowing.</p>
+
+<p>“Sybil!” he cried gladly.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[40]</span></p>
+<p>She turned quickly, and, laughing and flushing
+in her beautiful frank way, held out both her
+hands to him.</p>
+
+<p>“Isn’t it luck, Norman?” she exclaimed gleefully.
+“I’m to have a chance at <i>Lucille</i>!”</p>
+
+<p>Alan Mortimer had scarcely opened his lips since
+leaving the restaurant. Now, with a very lowering
+look, he swung his tall figure forward, confronting
+Norman Crane.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t think I remember you,” he remarked,
+with an insulting inflection. “Not in the cast, are
+you?”</p>
+
+<p>Norman, flushing scarlet, started to retort angrily,
+but Dukane stopped him with a calm hand upon
+his arm.</p>
+
+<p>“All right, all right, my boy,” he said evenly.
+“You’re in the cast, all right; but—come, come!
+We are rehearsing a play to-day, and not discussing
+personalities.”</p>
+
+<p>In some occult fashion he contrived to convey
+his meaning to young Crane. It was not the
+smallest of Dukane’s undoubted and unique talents;
+he knew how to appeal directly and forcibly to a
+human consciousness without putting the thing into
+words. Crane, who was extraordinarily sensitive,
+understood instantly that the manager wished to
+excuse Mortimer on the grounds of his condition,
+and that he put it up to the younger man to
+drop the issue. Wherefore, Crane nodded quietly
+and stepped back without a word.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[41]</span></p>
+<p>It is proverbial that red hair goes with a peppery
+disposition. Norman Crane’s short, crisply waving
+locks were not precisely red, and his temper was
+not too savage, but there was a generous touch
+of fire in both. His hair was a ruddy auburn,
+and there was in his personality a warmth and
+glow which could be genial or fierce, according
+to provocation or occasion. He was a lovable lad,
+young even for his twenty-three years, with a clean
+ardor about him that was very attractive, especially
+to older and more sophisticated persons. Norman
+Crane was in all ways a fine fellow, as fine for
+a man as Sybil Merivale was for a woman. They
+were the same age, buoyant, clear-eyed young
+people, touched both alike with the spark of pure
+passion and the distinction of honest bravery.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane was too truly artistic not to appreciate
+sentiment; in his business he had both to appraise
+and exploit it. And as he saw the two standing
+together he experienced a distinct sensation of pleasure.
+They were so obviously made for each other,
+and were both such splendid specimens of youth,
+spirit, and wholesome charm. He determined mentally
+to cast them opposite each other some day,
+for they made a delightful picture. Not yet; but
+in a few years——</p>
+
+<p>The managerial calculations came to an abrupt
+end as he chanced to catch sight of Alan Mortimer’s
+face.</p>
+
+<p>Intense emotion is not generally to be despised
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[42]</span>
+by a manager when he beholds it mirrored in an
+actor’s face, but this passion was a bit too naked
+and brutal, and it was decidedly out of place at a
+rehearsal. The man could be charming when he
+liked, but to-day the strings of his self-restraint
+were unkeyed. His face had become loose in line;
+his eyes smoldered beneath lowered lids. Dukane
+saw clearly revealed in that look what he had
+already begun to suspect—a sudden, fierce passion
+for Sybil Merivale.</p>
+
+<p>This sort of thing was nothing new for Mortimer.
+He was a man who attracted many types of women—some
+of them inexplicably, as it seemed to male
+onlookers—and whose loves were as fiery and as
+fleeting as falling stars. He had made love both to
+Kitty Legaye and Grace Templeton, playing them
+against each other not so much with skill as with
+a cavalier and amused mercilessness which might
+well have passed for skill. Now he was tired of
+the game, and, in a temporarily demoralized condition,
+was as so much tinder awaiting a new
+match.</p>
+
+<p>Then the youth and freshness of the girl unquestionably
+attracted him. Alan Mortimer was in
+his late thirties and had lived hard and fast. Like
+most men of his kind, he was willing enough to
+dally by the wayside with the more sophisticated
+women; but it was youth that pulled him hardest—girlhood,
+unspoiled and delicate. Dukane, more than
+a bit of a philosopher, speculated for a passing
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[43]</span>
+minute as to whether it was the inextinguishable
+urge toward purity and decency even in a rotten
+temperament, or merely the brutish wish that that
+which he intended to corrupt should be as nearly
+incorruptible as possible.</p>
+
+<p>But the manager permitted himself little meditation
+on the subject. He had no wish that others
+should surprise that expression upon the countenance
+of his new star.</p>
+
+<p>“Last act!” he called sharply.</p>
+
+<p>Willie Coster glanced at him in surprise. It
+was unusual for the “governor” to take an active
+hand in conducting rehearsals.</p>
+
+<p>“How about Miss Merivale?” he said. “Isn’t
+she to read <i>Lucille</i>?”</p>
+
+<p>“Here is the part.” Dukane took it from his
+pocket and dropped it on the prompt table. “Miss
+Templeton—er—turned it in this noon.” He suppressed
+a smile as he recalled the vigor with
+which Grace Templeton had thrown the little blue-bound
+booklet at him across his desk. He added:
+“Let Miss Merivale take the complete script home
+with her to-night; that will give her the best idea
+of the character.” For Dukane, unlike most of
+his trade, believed in letting his people use as
+much brain as God had given them in studying
+their rôles.</p>
+
+<p>“Then we start at the beginning of Act Four,”
+said Coster. “Here’s the part, Miss Merivale. Just
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[44]</span>
+read it through for this rehearsal, and get a line
+on the business and where you stand. Everybody,
+please! Miss Merivale, you’re not on till Mr.
+Mortimer’s line, ‘The girl I would give my life for.’
+Then you enter up stage, right. Ready, Mr.
+Mortimer?”</p>
+
+<p>The company breathed one deep, unanimous sigh
+of relief. They had feared that the advent of a
+new <i>Lucille</i> would mean going back and doing
+the whole morning’s work over again. But Dukane
+was—yes, he really <em>was</em> almost human—for a
+manager!</p>
+
+<p>There were three other persons who had seen
+Mortimer’s self-betraying look as his eyes rested
+on Sybil Merivale’s eager young beauty. One was
+Norman Crane, one was Kitty Legaye, and one
+was the detective, Jim Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison’s eyes met those of Dukane for a moment,
+and he had a shrewd idea that the manager
+was telegraphing him a sort of message. He resolved
+to hang around as long as he could and
+get a word alone with Dukane after rehearsal
+was over.</p>
+
+<p>At this point John Carlton, the author, arrived.
+He was a dark, haggard young man, but, though
+looking thoroughly subdued after a fortnight under
+the managerial blue pencil, he quite brightened
+up on being introduced to Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Thankful, no end,” he muttered in a hasty
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[45]</span>
+aside. “Was afraid they’d cut out the whole
+finger-print business.”</p>
+
+<p>“Cut it! Why? No good?”</p>
+
+<p>“Too good!” sighed the discouraged playwright.
+He had, however, hauled a lagging sense of humor
+out of the ordeal, for shortly after, he went with
+Barrison to sit in a box in the dark auditorium,
+and evolved epigrams of cynic derision as he
+watched the rehearsal of his play. Barrison found
+him not half a bad fellow, and before the hot
+afternoon wore itself out, they had grown quite
+friendly.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison’s own part in the rehearsal was soon
+disposed of. After he had explained the way the
+police detect finger prints upon objects that seem
+innocent of the smallest impression, and illustrated
+on a page of paper, a tumbler, and the surface
+of the table, his work was over for the day.
+Mortimer promised to practice a bit, that the effect
+might be quite technical and expert-looking. Barrison
+was to come to another rehearsal in a few
+days and see how it looked. Then the detective
+found himself free to enjoy the rest of the rehearsal,
+such as it was.</p>
+
+<p>“Which won’t be much,” Carlton warned him.
+“This is just a running over of lines for the
+company, and to start Miss Merivale off. Nobody
+will do any acting.”</p>
+
+<p>“The last act ought to be the most important,
+I should think,” said Barrison.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[46]</span></p>
+<p>“Oh, well, so far as action and hullabaloo goes—shots
+and soldiers and that sort of thing. But
+it’s a one-man play, anyway, and I’ve had to make
+that last act a regular monologue. It’s all Mortimer.
+He’s A1, too, when he cares to take the
+trouble. Drunk now, of course, but he’s no fool.
+He’ll keep sober for the opening, and if the women
+don’t go dippy over his looks and his voice and
+his love-making, I miss my guess. Now, watch—this
+is going to be one of the exciting scenes in
+the play, so far as action goes. Pure melodrama,
+but the real thing, if I say it as shouldn’t—girl
+in the power of a gang of ruffians, spies and so
+forth. Night—dark scene, you know—a really
+dark scene, with all the lights out, front and
+back. Pitch black. Just a bit of a wait to get
+people jumpy, and then the shots.”</p>
+
+<p>Willie Coster cried out: “Hold the suspense,
+folks! No one move. Lights are out now.” He
+waited while ten could be counted; then deliberately
+began to strike the table with his fist. “One—two——”</p>
+
+<p>“Those are supposed to be shots,” explained
+Carlton.</p>
+
+<p>“Three—four—five—six——”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s enough!” interposed Dukane. “The women
+don’t like shooting, anyway.”</p>
+
+<p>“All right. Six shots, Mortimer. Now you’re
+coming on, carrying <i>Lucille</i>—never mind the business.
+Miss Merivale, read your line: ‘Thank God,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[47]</span>
+it’s you—in time!’ Right! All the rest of you—<em>hurry
+up</em>! You’re carrying torches, you boobs;
+don’t you know by this time what you do during
+the rescue? Oh; for the love of——”</p>
+
+<p>He began to tell the company what he thought
+of it collectively and individually, and Carlton
+turned to Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“All over but the shouting—and the love scene.
+Mortimer can do that in great form, but you’ll
+get no idea of it to-day, of course. He isn’t
+even trying.”</p>
+
+<p>“He’s a good bit soberer than he was, though,”
+said Barrison, who was watching the star carefully.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I’m inclined to think he is. Maybe he’ll
+wake up and do his tricks, but you never can
+tell with him. There go the extras off; it’s the
+love scene now.”</p>
+
+<p>The last scene in the play was a short, sentimental
+dialogue between <i>Tarrant</i>, the hero, and
+<i>Lucille</i>. Sybil read her lines from the part; Mortimer
+knew his, but recited them without interest
+or expression, giving her her cues almost mechanically,
+though his eyes never left her face,
+and as they played on toward the “curtain,” he
+began to move nearer to her.</p>
+
+<p>“A little more down front, <i>Lucille</i>” said Coster
+from the prompt table. “<i>Tarrant</i> is watching you,
+and we want his full face. All right; that’s it.
+Go on, <i>Tarrant</i>——”</p>
+
+<p>“‘What do you suppose all this counts for
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[48]</span>
+with me,’” said Mortimer, speaking slowly and
+with more feeling than he had used that afternoon.
+“‘What does it all amount to, if I have not the
+greatest reward of all—<i>Lucille</i>?’”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, listening to the sudden passion vibrating
+in the genuinely splendid voice, thought
+he could begin to understand something of the
+man’s magnetism. If he really tried, he could
+make a tremendous effect.</p>
+
+<p>“‘But the honors that have been heaped upon
+you!’” read Sybil, her eyes bent earnestly upon the
+page before her. “‘Your success, your achievements,
+your——’” She stopped.</p>
+
+<p>“Catch her up quicker, Mortimer!” exclaimed
+Coster. “We don’t want a wait here, for Heaven’s
+sake! Speak on ‘your success, your’—speak on
+‘your.’ Now, once more, Miss Merivale!”</p>
+
+<p>“‘Your success,’” read Sybil again, “‘your
+achievements, your——’”</p>
+
+<p>“‘Honors! Success! Achievements!’” Mortimer’s
+tone was ringing and heartfelt. “‘What do they
+mean to me, <i>Lucille</i>—without you? They are so
+many empty cups; only you can fill them with the
+wine of life and love——’”</p>
+
+<p>“Noah’s-ark stuff,” murmured Carlton. “Likewise
+Third Avenue melodrama. But it’ll all go if he
+does it like that!”</p>
+
+<p>“‘Lucille—speak to me——’”</p>
+
+<p>“‘You are one who has much to be thankful
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[49]</span>
+for, much to be proud of! Your medal of honor—surely
+that means something to you?’”</p>
+
+<p>“‘Ah, yes! I am proud of it—the gift of my
+country! But it is given to the soldier. The man
+still waits for his prize! There is only one decoration
+which I want in all this life, <i>Lucille</i>, only
+one——’”</p>
+
+<p>“<em>And</em> so forth—all right!” said Willie, closing
+the manuscript; for the final line of the play, the
+“tag,” as it is called, is never given at rehearsals.</p>
+
+<p>But Mortimer appeared to have forgotten this
+ancient superstition of the theater—seemed, indeed,
+to have forgotten everything and everybody save
+Sybil and the opportunity given him by the situation.</p>
+
+<p>He caught the girl in his arms and delivered
+the closing line in a voice that was broken with
+passion:</p>
+
+<p>“‘The decoration that I want is your love,
+<i>Lucille</i>—your kiss!’”</p>
+
+<p>And he pressed his lips upon hers.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil wrenched herself free, flaming with indignation.
+Crane, very white, started forward. Mortimer,
+white also, but with a very slight, very
+insolent smile, wheeled to meet him. But Dukane,
+moving with incredible swiftness, stood between
+them. His face was rather stern, but his voice
+was as level and equable as ever as he said
+quietly:</p>
+
+<p>“All right, all right—it is the business of the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[50]</span>
+piece. But just a bit premature, Mortimer, don’t
+you think? Suppose we let Miss Merivale get
+her lines first? There will be plenty of time to
+work up the action later. Rehearsal dismissed,
+Willie. Have every one here at nine sharp to-morrow.
+What’s the matter with <em>you</em>?”</p>
+
+<p>For Willie Coster was sitting, pale and furious,
+by the prompt table, swearing under his breath
+with a lurid eloquence which would have astonished
+any one who did not know him of old.</p>
+
+<p>“Damn him!” he ended up, after he had exhausted
+his more picturesque and spectacular vocabulary.
+“He’s said the tag, gov’nor—he’s spoken
+the tag—and queered our show!”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, rot, Willie!” said Dukane impatiently.
+“You’re too old a bird to believe in fairy tales
+of that sort!”</p>
+
+<p>But Willie shook his sandy, half-bald head and
+swore a little more, though more sorrowfully now.</p>
+
+<p>“You mark my words, there’ll never be any luck
+for this show,” he declared solemnly. “Never any
+luck! And when we open, gov’nor, you just remember
+what I said to-day!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE LETTER OF WARNING</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">BUT isn’t it very early to stop rehearsal?” asked
+Barrison of John Carlton.</p>
+
+<p>“Of course it is. They ought to have gone over
+the whole act again, and lots of the scenes several
+times. That rescue stuff was rotten! But it’s an
+off day. Something’s wrong; I’m not sure what,
+though I <em>think</em> I know. Oh, well, it’s all in the
+day’s work. Wait till you’ve seen as many of
+your plays produced as I have!”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s as mysterious to me as one of the lost arts
+of Egypt. I couldn’t think out a scene to save
+my neck.”</p>
+
+<p>“And yet,” said John Carlton reflectively, “a
+detective gets an immense amount of raw dramatic
+material in his business. He must. Now, right
+here in our own little happy family circle”—he
+waved an arm toward the stage—“there’s drama to
+burn! Can’t you see it—or are you fellows trained
+only to detect crime?”</p>
+
+<p>“How do you mean—drama?” queried Barrison,
+seeking safety in vagueness.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” said Carlton, reaching for his hat and
+stick, “it strikes me that your well-beloved and
+highly valuable central planet draws drama as
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[52]</span>
+molasses draws flies. Pardon the homely simile,
+but, like most geniuses, I was reared in Indiana.”</p>
+
+<p>“He’s a queer sort of chap,” said Jim, looking
+at the tall actor as he stood talking to Dukane,
+his heavy, handsome profile clearly outlined against
+an electric light.</p>
+
+<p>“Queer? He’s a first-class mystery. ‘He came
+like water, and like wind he goes’—though I hope
+he’ll prove a bit more stable as a dramatic investment.
+Seriously, no one knows anything about him.
+He’s Western, I believe, and I suppose Dukane
+fell over him some dark night when he was out
+prospecting for obscure and undiscovered genius.”</p>
+
+<p>“He’s good looking.”</p>
+
+<p>“My son,” said Carlton, whose familiarity and
+colloquialism were in striking contrast to the grandiloquent
+lines he gave his characters to speak, “wait
+till you see him in khaki, with the foots half up
+and a little incidental music on the violins going on!
+Manly beauty is not a hobby of mine, but I’ve had
+experience with matinée idols, and I bet that Mortimer
+is there with the goods. What are you
+laughing at?”</p>
+
+<p>“The difference between your stage dialogue and
+your ordinary conversation.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, well, I can’t help talking slang, and I
+don’t know how to write it so that it sounds like
+anything but the talk of a tough bunch in a corner
+joint.” He stopped abruptly at the entrance to
+the box and said, as though acting on impulse:</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[53]</span></p>
+<p>“See here, speaking of Mortimer, did you ever see
+a three-ring circus?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. I always found it very confusing.”</p>
+
+<p>“Me, too. Mortimer doesn’t. He likes it. Takes
+three at least to make him feel homelike and jolly.
+He’s been—between ourselves—the temperamental
+lover with Grace Templeton, and the prospective
+fiancé with Miss Legaye; at least, that’s how I
+dope it out; and now it looks as though he was
+going to be the bold, bad kidnaper with this
+charming child just arrived in our midst. What do
+you think, from what you’ve seen to-day?”</p>
+
+<p>“He hasn’t been himself to-day,” answered Barrison.
+“And, anyhow, there can’t be a three-ring
+circus with one of the three features absent. Miss
+Templeton, I understand, is not to be counted any
+longer.”</p>
+
+<p>He spoke with rather forced lightness. He
+disliked bringing women into conversation. He
+did Carlton the justice, however, to see that it was
+not a vulgar predilection for gossip which centralized
+his interest in the three who had received
+Mortimer’s attention. Obviously he looked upon
+them as cold-bloodedly as did Dukane; they were
+part of his stock in trade, his “shop.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not to be counted any longer! Isn’t she just?
+If you’d ever seen the lady you’d know that you
+couldn’t lose her just by dismissing her.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison had seen her, but he said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>“However,” went on the author, leading the way
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[54]</span>
+out of the box and through the communicating
+door between the front and back of the house,
+“it’s none of my business—though I’ll admit it
+entertains me, intrigues me, if you like. I <em>can</em>
+talk something besides slang. I’m nothing but a
+poor rat of an author, but if I were a grand and
+glorious detective with an idle hour or so to put
+in, I’d watch that combination. I’m too poor and
+too honest to afford hunches, as a rule, but I’ve
+got one now, and it’s to the effect that there’ll
+be more melodrama behind the scenes in ‘Boots
+and Saddles’ than there ever will be in the show
+itself!”</p>
+
+<p>Though Barrison said nothing in reply, he privately
+agreed with the playwright. Nothing very
+startling had happened, to be sure, yet he was
+acutely conscious of something threatening or at
+least electric in the air—a tension made up of a
+dozen small trifles which might or might not be
+important. It would be difficult to analyze the
+impression made upon him, but he would have
+had to be much less susceptible to atmosphere than
+he was not to have felt that the actors in this new
+production were playing parts other than those
+given them by Carlton, and that they stood in
+rather singular and interesting relation to each
+other.</p>
+
+<p>Mortimer infatuated with Sybil Merivale; Kitty
+Legaye, he strongly suspected, in love with Mortimer;
+Crane wildly and youthfully jealous; Miss
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[55]</span>
+Templeton in the dangerous mood of a woman
+scorned and an actress supplanted! It looked like
+the makings of a very neat little drama, as John
+Carlton had had the wit to see.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, however, was still inclined to look upon
+the whole affair as something of a farce; it was
+diverting, but not absorbing. There was nothing
+about it, as yet, to quicken his professional interest.
+He did, to be sure, recall Grace Templeton’s wicked
+look in the restaurant, and had a passing doubt
+as to what she was likely to do next; but he
+brushed it away lightly enough, reminding himself
+that players were emotional creatures and that they
+probably took it out in intensity of temperament—and
+temper! They were not nearly so likely actually
+to commit any desperate deeds as those who
+outwardly or habitually were more calm and conservative.</p>
+
+<p>But something happened at the stage door which
+disturbed this viewpoint.</p>
+
+<p>When they crossed the stage the company was
+scattering right and left. Miss Legaye was just departing,
+looking manifestly out of sorts; Sybil and
+young Crane were talking together with radiant
+faces and evident oblivion of their whereabouts;
+Mortimer was nowhere to be seen. Carlton had
+stopped to speak to Willie Coster, so Barrison made
+his way out alone.</p>
+
+<p>He found Dukane standing by the “cage”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[56]</span>
+occupied by the doorkeeper, with an envelope in his
+hand.</p>
+
+<p>“When did this come, Roberts?” he said.</p>
+
+<p>“About twenty minutes ago, sir. You told me
+not to interrupt rehearsals, and the boy said
+there was no answer.”</p>
+
+<p>“A messenger boy?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, sir—just a ragamuffin. Looked like he
+might be a newsboy, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane stood looking at the envelope a moment
+in silence; then he turned to Barrison with a
+smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Funny thing, psychology!” he said. “I haven’t
+a reason on earth for supposing this to be any
+more important than any of the rest of Alan Mortimer’s
+notes—the saints know he gets enough of
+them!—and yet I have a feeling in my bones that
+there’s something quite unpleasant inside this envelope.
+Here, Mortimer, a note for you.”</p>
+
+<p>The actor came around the corner from a corridor
+leading past a row of dressing rooms, and they
+could see him thrust something into his coat pocket.</p>
+
+<p>“Went to his dressing room for a drink,” said
+Barrison to himself. Indeed, he thought he could
+see the silver top of a protruding flask.</p>
+
+<p>“Note for me? Let’s have it.”</p>
+
+<p>He took it, stared at the superscription with a
+growing frown, and then crumpled it up without
+opening it.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[57]</span></p>
+<p>“Wrenn!” he exclaimed in a tone of ungoverned
+rage. “Where’s Wrenn? Did he bring me this?”</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn?” repeated Dukane, surprised. “You
+mean your valet? Why, no; he isn’t here. A boy
+brought it. Why don’t you read it? You don’t
+seem to like the handwriting.”</p>
+
+<p>With a muttered oath, the actor tore open the
+envelope and read what was written on the inclosed
+sheet of paper. Then, with a face convulsed and
+distorted with fury, he flung it from him as he
+might have flung a scorpion that had tried to bite
+him.</p>
+
+<p>“Threats!” he exclaimed savagely. “Threats!
+May Heaven curse any one who threatens me!
+Threats!”</p>
+
+<p>He seemed incapable of further articulation,
+and strode past them out of the stage door. Barrison
+could see that he was the type of man who
+can become literally blind and dazed with anger.
+Mentally the detective decided that such uncontrolled
+and elemental temperaments belonged properly
+behind bars; certainly they had no place in a
+world of convention and self-restraint.</p>
+
+<p>Quietly Dukane picked up both letter and envelope,
+and, after reading what was written on
+them, passed them to Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“When I have a lunatic to dry nurse,” he observed
+grimly, “I have no scruples in examining
+the stuff that is put in his feeding bottles. Take
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[58]</span>
+a look at this communication, Barrison. I’ll admit
+I’m glad that I don’t get such things myself.”</p>
+
+<p>Jim glanced down the page of letter paper. On
+it, in scrawling handwriting, was written:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>You cannot always escape the consequences of your
+wickedness and cruelty—don’t think it! Just now your
+future looks bright and successful, but you cannot be sure.
+You are about to open in a new play, and you expect to
+win fame and riches. But God does not forget, though He
+seems to. God does punish people, even at the last moment.
+I should think you would be afraid that lightning
+would strike the theater, or that a worse fate would overtake
+you. Remember, Alan, the wages of sin; remember
+what they are. Who are you to hope to escape? I bid
+you farewell, <em>until the opening night</em>!</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>The last four words were heavily underlined.
+There was no signature.</p>
+
+<p>“What do you make of it?” asked Dukane.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s from a woman, of course. Quite an ordinary
+threatening letter. We handle hundreds of them,
+and most of them come to nothing at all.”</p>
+
+<p>“Possibly,” said Dukane thoughtfully. “And yet
+I don’t feel like ignoring it entirely. Not on
+Mortimer’s own account, you understand. He’s
+not the type of fellow I admire, and I don’t doubt
+he richly deserves any punishment that may be in
+store for him. But he’s my star, and if anything
+happens to him I stand to lose more money than I
+feel like affording in these hard times.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[59]</span></p>
+<p>“I can have a couple of men detailed to keep
+an eye on him,” suggested Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane shook his head. “He’d find it out and
+be furious,” he returned. “Whatever else he is,
+he’s no coward, and he detests having his personal
+affairs interfered with. Hello! What is it you
+want?”</p>
+
+<p>The thin, gaunt, white-haired man whom he
+addressed was standing, hat in hand, in the alley
+just outside the stage door, and he was evidently
+waiting to speak to the manager.</p>
+
+<p>“If you please, sir,” he began, half apologetically,
+“Mr. Mortimer told me to——”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re Mortimer’s man, aren’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir; I’m Wrenn. I came down in the car
+for Mr. Mortimer, sir. He—he seemed a bit upset-like
+this morning.” His faded old eyes looked appealingly
+at the manager.</p>
+
+<p>“He did,” assented that gentleman dryly. “You
+take very good care of Mr. Mortimer, Wrenn,” he
+added, in a kinder tone. “I’ve often noticed it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you, sir. I try——”</p>
+
+<p>“He sent you back for something?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.” The old servant was clearly anxious
+and ill at ease, and the answer came falteringly:
+“A—a letter, sir, that he forgot——”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison had already thrust that letter into his
+own pocket. He knew that Dukane would prefer
+him not to produce it. As a specimen of handwriting
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[60]</span>
+it was worth keeping, in case of possible
+emergencies in the future.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane affected to hunt about on the floor.</p>
+
+<p>“Here is the envelope,” he said, giving it to the
+valet. “I don’t see any letter. Mr. Mortimer must
+have put it in his pocket; indeed, I think I saw
+him do so. He seemed a good deal excited, and
+probably doesn’t remember.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir, but——” Wrenn still hesitated.</p>
+
+<p>“That’s all. Go back to your master and say the
+letter is nowhere to be found. Tell him I said so.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>Unwillingly Wrenn walked away.</p>
+
+<p>“A decent old chap,” commented Dukane, looking
+after him. “I can’t understand why he sticks
+to that ill-tempered rake, but he seems devoted to
+him.”</p>
+
+<p>They went out together, and saw Wrenn say
+something at the window of the great purring
+limousine that was waiting in the street at the
+end of the court. After a minute he got in, and
+the car moved off immediately.</p>
+
+<p>“No,” said the manager, as though there had
+been no interruption to his talk with Barrison, “I
+hardly think that we’d better have him shadowed,
+even for his own protection. I think that the
+writer of that note means to save her—er—sensational
+effect for the first night, don’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” admitted the detective, “it would be like
+a revengeful woman to wait until a spectacular
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[61]</span>
+occasion of that sort if she meant to start something.
+Particularly”—he spoke more slowly—“if she happened
+to be a theatrical woman herself.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, yes,” said Dukane calmly. “Especially if
+she happened to be a theatrical woman herself.”</p>
+
+<p>He was silent for a long minute as they walked
+toward Broadway. Then, as he stopped to light a
+cigar, he said:</p>
+
+<p>“Every woman is a theatrical woman in that
+sense. My dear fellow, women are the real dramatists
+of this world. If a man wants to do a
+thing—rob a bank, or elope with his friend’s wife,
+or commit a murder, or anything like that—he goes
+ahead and does it as expeditiously and as inconspicuously
+as possible. But a woman invariably
+wants to set the stage. A woman must have invented
+rope ladders, suicide pacts, poisoned wine
+cups, and the farewell letter to the husband. Next
+to staging a love scene, a woman loves to stage a
+death scene—whether it’s murder, suicide, tuberculosis,
+or a broken heart. Would any man in
+<i>Mimi’s</i> situation have let himself be <em>dragged</em> back
+to die in the arms of his lost love? Hardly! He’d
+crawl into a hole or go to a hospital.”</p>
+
+<p>“It was a man who wrote the story of <i>Mimi</i>,” Barrison
+reminded him.</p>
+
+<p>“A man who, being French, knew all about
+women. Yes, I think we can safely leave our precautions
+until September the fifteenth. Just the
+same, Barrison, I shall be just as well pleased if
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[62]</span>
+you’ll manage to drop in at rehearsals fairly often
+during the next fortnight. There might be developments.
+I’ll leave word with Roberts in the morning
+that you are to come in when you like.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison promised, and left him at the corner of
+Broadway.</p>
+
+<p>As he walked back to his own rooms, Dukane’s
+words lingered in his memory:</p>
+
+<p>“Women are the real dramatists of this world!”</p>
+
+<p>He thought of the same phrase that evening when,
+while he was in the middle of his after-dinner
+brandy and cigar, his Japanese servant announced:</p>
+
+<p>“A lady on business. Very important.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison started up, hardly able to believe his
+eyes. The woman who stood at his door was Miss
+Templeton!</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">MISS TEMPLETON</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">SHE was in full evening dress, with her splendid
+shoulders and arms bare, and her brilliant hair
+uncovered and elaborately dressed. Her tightly
+clinging gown was black, embroidered in an orchid
+design of rose color and gold. A long black lace
+scarf, thrown over one arm, was her only apology
+for a wrap. She was just then, as Barrison was
+obliged to confess to himself, one of the handsomest
+women he had ever seen in his life. He realized
+now that she was younger than he had thought.</p>
+
+<p>Also she looked far less artificial and flamboyant
+than she had looked at luncheon. Jim’s orange-shaded
+reading lamp was kinder to her than that
+intrusively glaring sunbeam had been. There was
+even a softness and a dignity about her, he thought.
+Perhaps, though, it was merely a pose, put on for
+the occasion as she had put on her dinner dress.</p>
+
+<p>Moving slowly and with a very real grace, she
+came a few steps into the room and inclined her
+handsome head very slightly.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison?”</p>
+
+<p>He bowed and drew a high-backed, brocaded
+chair into a more inviting position. “Won’t you sit
+down?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[64]</span></p>
+<p>“Thank you. I am Grace Templeton.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know,” he said, smiling courteously. “I feel
+enormously honored.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, yes. You saw me at lunch to-day.”</p>
+
+<p>“I have seen you before.”</p>
+
+<p>“Really!” Her eyes lit up with genuine pleasure.
+She was inordinately vain of her stage reputation.
+She thrilled to the admiration of her anonymous
+audiences. Jim, looking at her, marveled at that
+imperishable thirst for adulation which, gratified,
+could bring a woman joy at such a moment. For
+he felt sure that it was no ordinary crisis which
+had brought Miss Templeton to consult him that
+night.</p>
+
+<p>She sank into the chair he proffered, and the
+high, square back made a fine frame for the gilded
+perfection of her hair. He thought, quite coolly,
+that no one ever had a whiter throat or more exquisitely
+formed arms and wrists. Her manner was
+admirable; not a trace now of that primitive and
+untamed ferocity of mood which had blazed in her
+whole face and figure not so many hours before.</p>
+
+<p>She was very beautiful, very sedate, very self-contained.
+Barrison was able to admire her frankly—but
+never for a second did he lift the vigilance of
+the watch he had determined to keep upon her. In
+his own mind he marked her “dangerous”—and not
+the less so because just at present she was behaving
+so extremely, so unbelievably well.</p>
+
+<p>“You are surprised to see me here, Mr. Barrison,”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[65]</span>
+she said, making it a statement rather than a
+question.</p>
+
+<p>“I confess that I am.”</p>
+
+<p>“I wanted your help, and—when I want a thing I
+ask for it.”</p>
+
+<p>She paused a moment, looking at him steadily.
+“Won’t you please sit down yourself?” she said.
+“And move your lamp. I like to see the face of the
+person I am talking to.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison did what she wished silently. In half a
+minute more they confronted each other across the
+library table, with the reading light set somewhat
+aside. Miss Templeton drew a deep breath and
+leaned forward with her lovely arms upon the
+table.</p>
+
+<p>“When I heard that you were to be called in as
+an expert to help in—our—play”—she paused, with
+a faint smile that was rather touching—“you see,
+it <em>was</em> ‘our play’ then—I made up my mind to consult
+you. For I was troubled even then. But the
+best laid schemes——” She broke off, with a little
+gesture that somehow made her look younger. “Oh,
+well—I found myself, in an hour, in a minute, in a
+position I was not used to: I was dismissed!” She
+made him feel the outrageousness of this.</p>
+
+<p>“My mind was naturally disturbed,” she went on.
+“It is a shocking thing, Mr. Barrison, to find yourself
+cast adrift when you have been counting on a
+thing, believing in it——”</p>
+
+<p>“I should scarcely have thought that it would be
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[66]</span>
+so awful,” Jim ventured, “for you, who surely need
+not remain in such a predicament any longer than
+you care to.”</p>
+
+<p>She flashed him a grateful glance. “That is nice
+of you. But I truly think that it is worse in a case
+like mine. One grows accustomed to things. It is
+somewhat appalling to find oneself without them,
+to find them snatched away before one’s eyes. You
+see, I have never been ‘fired’ before.” She uttered
+the last words with a surprisingly nice laugh. “It
+was rather terrible, truly. I asked Alan Mortimer
+to-day who you were,” she said quietly. “When I
+knew, I determined that I would come to see you.”</p>
+
+<p>“And so——” he suggested encouragingly.</p>
+
+<p>She was, if this were cleverness, much too clever
+to change her gentle, rather grave attitude. “And
+so,” she said, as she leaned upon the table, “I have
+come to speak to you of the things which a woman
+does not speak of as a rule.”</p>
+
+<p>Jim Barrison was slightly alarmed. “But why
+come to me?” he protested, though not too discourteously.
+“We are strangers, and—surely you do
+not need a detective in your trouble, whatever it is?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why not?” she demanded swiftly. “In your
+career, Mr. Barrison, have you never found yourself
+close to the big issues of life, the deep and tragic
+things? Does not the detective’s profession show
+him the most emotional and terrible and human conditions
+in all the world? It is as a detective that I
+want you to help me, Mr. Barrison.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[67]</span></p>
+<p>“I—I shall be only too glad,” stammered Barrison,
+with a full-grown premonition of trouble. He
+wished the woman had been less subtle; he had no
+mind to have his sympathies involved.</p>
+
+<p>She seemed to guess at something of his worry,
+for she lifted her black-fringed eyes to his and
+laughed—not gayly, but sadly. “It’s all said very
+quickly,” she told him. “Alan Mortimer used to be
+in love with me; he is not now.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison found himself dumb. What on earth
+could a man say to a woman under such circumstances?
+He was no ladies’ man, and such homely
+sympathy as he had sometimes had to proffer to
+women in distress seemed highly out of place here.
+Miss Templeton, in her beauty and her strangeness,
+struck him as belonging to a class in herself. Resourceful
+as he was, he had not the right word just
+then. She did not appear to miss it, though. She
+went on, almost at once, with the kind of mournful
+calmness which nearly always wins masculine approbation:</p>
+
+<p>“Understand, there was no question of marriage.
+I do not claim anything at all except that—he did
+care for me.” She put her hand to her throat as if
+she found it difficult to continue, and added proudly:
+“I am the sort of woman, Mr. Barrison, who demands
+nothing of a man—except love. I believed
+that he gave me that. There were other women;
+there was one woman especially. She wanted him
+to marry her. She did not love him, as I understand
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[68]</span>
+love, but she did want to marry him. She
+had lived a selfish, restless life for a good many
+years—she is as old as I, though no one knows it—but
+she had never settled down. She is the type that
+eventually settles down; I am not. She wants to be
+protected and supported; I don’t. She is a born
+parasite—what we call a grafter; I am <em>not</em>. Perhaps
+you can guess whom I mean.”</p>
+
+<p>“Perhaps I can,” conceded Barrison, remembering
+what Carlton had said about Kitty Legaye and Alan
+Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” She smiled faintly. “Very well. Here am
+I, flung aside from my part—and from him. She
+is left in possession, so to speak. That is almost
+enough to send a woman’s small world into chaos, is
+it not? But there was something more left for me
+to endure. Another woman came into the little play
+that I thought was fully—too fully—cast. I don’t
+mean Mr. Carlton’s play; I mean the one that goes
+on night and day as long as men and women have
+red blood in their veins and say what they feel
+instead of what is written in their parts! Another
+woman was engaged—or practically engaged—to
+take my place.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I know. Miss Merivale.”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Merivale.” She repeated the name slowly
+and without heat. “She is fresh and young and
+charming. I do not hate her as I do the other, but
+I am more afraid of her. She is just what he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[69]</span>
+cannot find in the rest of us. She will win him.
+Yes, I know quite well that she will win him.”</p>
+
+<p>“But I don’t think she wants to win him,” said
+Barrison, recollecting the scene in which the “tag”
+had been prematurely spoken. He had a mental picture
+of Sybil, scarlet of cheek and indignant of
+eyes, shrinking from Mortimer’s kiss.</p>
+
+<p>But Miss Templeton looked at him almost scornfully.</p>
+
+<p>“He can make her want to,” she declared positively.
+“Don’t contradict me, because I know!”
+Miss Templeton paused a moment and then continued:
+“Mr. Barrison, do not detectives occasionally
+undertake the sort of work that necessitates their
+following a person and—reporting on what he does—that
+sort of thing?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Miss Templeton.”</p>
+
+<p>“And would you undertake work of that kind?”
+Her fine eyes pleaded eloquently.</p>
+
+<p>“No, Miss Templeton; I’m afraid not.”</p>
+
+<p>“But why not? You’ve said detectives do it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Plenty of them.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you mind telling me, then, why not?”</p>
+
+<p>Jim hesitated; then he decided to be frank. “You
+see,” he said gently, “I don’t do this entirely as a
+means of livelihood.”</p>
+
+<p>“You mean you’re an amateur, not a professional?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am a professional. But, since I can pick and
+choose to a certain extent, I usually choose such
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[70]</span>
+cases as strike me as most useful and most interesting.”</p>
+
+<p>“And my case doesn’t strike you as either?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t see yet that you have a case, Miss Templeton.
+I don’t see what there is for a detective
+to do.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I’ll explain. I want you to follow—shadow,
+do you call it?—Mr. Mortimer every day
+and every night. I want to know what he does,
+whom he sees, where he goes. I will pay—anything——”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison put up his hand to check her. “Yes, I
+know,” he said quietly. “I quite understood what
+you wanted me to do. But your determination, or
+whim, or whatever we may call it, does not constitute
+a case.”</p>
+
+<p>“I can make you see why. I can tell you the reasons——”</p>
+
+<p>“I’m afraid that I don’t want to hear them, Miss
+Templeton. I simply can’t do what you ask me to.
+I’m sorry. There are detectives who will; you’d
+better go to them. I don’t like cases of that sort,
+and I don’t take them. Again—I’m sorry. Try not
+to think me too rude and ungracious.”</p>
+
+<p>She sat with down-bent head, and he could not
+see her face. He felt unaccountably sorry, as he
+had told her he felt. He could not have felt more
+grieved if he had hurt some one who had trusted
+him.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[71]</span></p>
+<p>Suddenly she flung up her head, and there was
+another look on her face—a harder, older look.</p>
+
+<p>“All right,” she said, in a metallic tone, “you
+won’t help me. I’m sure I don’t know why I should
+help you. But—if you won’t shadow Alan Mortimer
+these next two weeks, you take a tip from me:
+Shadow Kitty Legaye.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE DIVIDED DANGER</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">AS she swept to the door, her golden head held
+high, her black scarf floating from one round
+white arm, she encountered a newcomer, one Tony
+Clay.</p>
+
+<p>“Beg pardon!” he gasped, standing aside.</p>
+
+<p>He was a cherubic, round-faced cub detective
+whom Barrison liked and helped along when he
+could—a nice lad, though a bit callow as yet.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Templeton’s trailing scarf caught in a chair
+and Tony hastened to extricate it. Feeling profoundly
+but unreasonably reluctant, Barrison made
+the introductions:</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Templeton, may I present Mr. Clay? He
+will put you in a taxi—won’t you, Tony?”</p>
+
+<p>“Rather!” breathed the patently enraptured
+Tony.</p>
+
+<p>“My car is waiting,” Miss Templeton said sweetly.
+“I shall be so glad if Mr. Clay will see me safely as
+far as that.”</p>
+
+<p>Five minutes later Tony Clay returned, with sparkling
+eyes and a delirious flow of language:</p>
+
+<p>“I say, Jim, where did you—how did she happen
+to——Oh, gee! Some people have all the luck!
+Isn’t she a peach? Isn’t she a wonder? Isn’t she
+just the——”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[73]</span></p>
+<p>“Have a brandy and soda, Tony, and shut up,”
+said Barrison, rather wearily. He was feeling a bit
+let down, for Miss Templeton was not a restful person
+to talk to, nor yet to hear talk for any long
+period.</p>
+
+<p>But Tony raved on. “She reminds me,” he babbled
+happily, “of some glorious, golden lioness——”</p>
+
+<p>“Fine for you!” murmured Barrison, burying himself
+in a particularly potent drink.</p>
+
+<p>Long after Tony Clay had gone, Jim sat scowling
+at the cigarettes which he lighted from one another
+with scarcely an interval, and at the brandy and
+soda of which he consumed more than what he usually
+considered a fair allowance. Both as a man
+and a detective he admired Miss Templeton.</p>
+
+<p>He wished he had seen her handwriting and
+could compare it with the note which he still kept
+put away in a locked cabinet where he cached his
+special treasures. He wondered if——</p>
+
+<p>But her suggestion as to Kitty Legaye, inspired
+by jealousy as it was, was not without value. On
+the face of it, it seemed far-fetched, or would have
+to a less seasoned experience; but Jim Barrison had
+forgotten what it was to feel surprise at anything.
+Stranger things—much, much stranger things—had
+turned out to be quite ordinary and natural occurrences.</p>
+
+<p>There are, as Barrison knew, many varieties of
+the female of the species; he had come up against
+a goodly number of them, and could guess what the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[74]</span>
+different sorts would do in given extremities. And
+he knew that in the whole wild lot there is none
+wilder, none more secret, none more relentless, none
+more unexpected and inexplicable, than she who has
+counted on snatching respectability and domesticity
+at the eleventh hour and been disappointed. If Kitty
+Legaye had really expected to marry Alan Mortimer,
+and if he was getting ready to throw her over for a
+perfectly new, strange young girl, then one need
+not be astonished at anything.</p>
+
+<p>Yet, little Miss Legaye seemed a steady bit of humanity,
+not emotional or hysterical in the least.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, hang it all!” he muttered resentfully, as he
+turned out his light at least two hours later than
+was his habit. “I wish women had never learned
+to write—or to talk! It would simplify life
+greatly.”</p>
+
+<p>Then he fell asleep and dreamed queer dreams in
+which Grace Templeton, Kitty Legaye and Sybil
+Merivale chased each other round and round, quarreling
+for possession of the anonymous note which
+for some reason the old man Wrenn was holding
+high above his head in the center of the group. As
+the three women chased each other in the dream,
+Jim grew dizzier and dizzier, and finally woke up
+abruptly, feeling breathless and bewildered, with
+Tara, the Jap, standing beside him.</p>
+
+<p>“Honorable sir did having extreme bad dreams!”
+explained Tara, with some severity of manner.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison answered meekly and lay down again to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[75]</span>
+fall only half asleep this time and toss restlessly until
+morning.</p>
+
+<p>He kept his word to Dukane and attended rehearsals
+with religious regularity, though what technical
+use he had was exhausted after a few days.
+He found himself becoming more and more interested
+in the play—or, rather, in the actors who were
+appearing in it. Their personalities became more
+and more vivid to him; their relations more and
+more complex.</p>
+
+<p>Not the least curious of the conditions which he
+began to note as he grew to feel more at home
+behind the scenes was the strange, almost psychic
+influence which Mortimer appeared to have over Sybil
+Merivale. Almost one might have believed that
+he hypnotized her; only there was nothing about him
+that suggested abnormal spiritual powers, and the
+girl herself was neither morbid nor weak.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, now at liberty to roam about “behind”
+as he willed, overheard Miss Merivale one day talking
+to Claire McAllister, the extra woman.</p>
+
+<p>“Say, I heard him ordering you about to-day as
+if he had a mortgage on you,” said Claire, who was
+practical and pugnacious. “What do you let him
+play the grand mogul with you for?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t believe I can make you understand,” said
+Sybil, breathing quickly, “but I don’t seem able to
+disobey him. When he looks at me I—it sometimes
+seems as if I couldn’t think quite straight.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[76]</span></p>
+<p>“D’you mean,” demanded Claire McAllister
+sharply, “that you’re in love with him?”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil flushed indignantly. “That’s just what I do
+not mean!” she exclaimed. “Can’t you see the difference?
+I—I hate him, I tell you! It’s something
+outside that, but—but it frightens me. Sometimes
+it seems, when I meet his eyes, that I can’t
+move—that he can make me do what he likes.” She
+shivered and hid her face in her hands. “It’s <em>that</em>
+which makes me so frightened,” she whispered in a
+broken way.</p>
+
+<p>The extra girl regarded her curiously, then
+hunched her shoulders in the way of extra girls
+when they wish to indicate a shrug of indifference.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” she remarked cheerily, “when little Morty
+takes the last high fall, we’ll look round to see if
+there wasn’t a certain lady handy to give him the
+extra shove.”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil turned on her quickly. “What do you
+mean?” she cried. “What do you mean by that?”</p>
+
+<p>Miss McAllister stared in surprise. “Sa-ay!” she
+remonstrated. “I was just kiddin’! Say, you didn’t
+suppose I thought you were goin’ to murder the
+guy, did you?”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil was rather white. “Awfully silly of me!”
+she apologized. “Only—sometimes I’ve felt as
+though——And it sounded awful, coming from
+some one else like that.”</p>
+
+<p>“Sometimes felt—what?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[77]</span></p>
+<p>“As though—I almost—could!” She turned
+abruptly and walked away.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, standing leaning against a piece of
+scenery, felt a hand upon his arm. He looked
+around into the agitated face of Norman Crane.</p>
+
+<p>The boy had heard just what he himself had
+heard, and the effect thereof was written large upon
+his handsome, honest young countenance.</p>
+
+<p>“Think of her—think of Sybil up against that!”
+he whispered huskily. “And me able to do nothing!
+Oh, it’s too unspeakably rotten, that’s what it is!
+If I could just wring that bounder’s neck, and be
+done with it——”</p>
+
+<p>“Look here!” said Jim Barrison, losing his cast-iron,
+chain-held patience at last. “There are about
+a dozen people already who want to murder Alan
+Mortimer. I’m getting to want to myself! For the
+love of Heaven, give a poor detective a rest and
+don’t suggest any one else; I’m getting dizzy!”</p>
+
+<p>Norman stared at him and edged away.</p>
+
+<p>“Does that fellow drink?” he asked Carlton, a few
+minutes later.</p>
+
+<p>“I hope so,” said the author absently, rumpling
+his hair with one hand while he wrote on a scrap of
+copy paper. “Mortimer has waited until now to
+have the last scene lengthened. Maledictions upon
+him! May his next reincarnation be that of a humpbacked
+goat!”</p>
+
+<p>Crane left him still murmuring strange imprecations.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[78]</span></p>
+<p>Barrison went home, divided between annoyance
+and amusement at the promiscuous hate Mortimer
+had aroused. He was unquestionably the most unpopular
+man he had ever heard of; yet he was sometimes
+charming, as Barrison had already seen. Several
+times at rehearsal, when he deliberately had
+chosen to exert his power of magnetism, the detective,
+critical observer as he was, could not fail to
+note how successful he was. His charm was something
+radiant and irresistible, and he could project it
+at will, just as some women can. A singular and a
+dangerous man, Jim decided. Such individuals always
+made trouble for themselves and for others.
+The theater was becoming rather electric in atmosphere,
+and Barrison was glad to get home. But his
+troubles were not over yet—even for that day!</p>
+
+<p>Just as he was sitting down to dinner Tony Clay
+appeared, looking hot and unhappy.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello, Tony! Have you eaten?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony nodded in a most dispirited fashion. His
+friend watched him a moment, and then said
+kindly:</p>
+
+<p>“Go ahead; what’s the trouble?”</p>
+
+<p>The young fellow looked uncomfortable. “Nothing,”
+he began; “that is——Oh, hang it all! I
+can’t lie to you. I’m upset, Jim!”</p>
+
+<p>“No!” said Barrison, with a smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Jim,” Tony went on, rather desperately, “do you
+believe that there ever are occasions when it is
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[79]</span>
+permissible to give a client away? To a colleague, I
+mean. Do you?”</p>
+
+<p>“You just bet your life I do!” said Jim emphatically.
+He put down his knife and fork and
+eyed his young friend with kindling interest. “Go
+on, kid, and tell me all about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well”—poor Tony looked profoundly miserable—“you
+know—that is of course you don’t know—but—Miss
+Templeton engaged me to shadow Alan
+Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“I knew that as soon as you did,” remarked Jim.</p>
+
+<p>Tony opened his round eyes till each of them
+made a complete O.</p>
+
+<p>“The devil you did!” he ejaculated, somewhat
+chagrined. “Well, she did engage me, and I
+shadowed away to the best of my ability. But now—Jim,
+I’m up against something too big for me,
+and I’ve brought it to you.”</p>
+
+<p>He looked pale and shaken, and Barrison said
+good-humoredly:</p>
+
+<p>“Go to it, Tony. I’ll help you if I can.”</p>
+
+<p>“Jim!” Tony Clay faced him desperately. “I
+think you ought to know that Miss Templeton has
+it in for Mortimer——”</p>
+
+<p>“I do know it, lad.”</p>
+
+<p>“And that—she bought a revolver to-day at the
+pawnshop near Thirty-ninth Street. I saw her.
+I suppose she got a permit somehow. But I hope
+I’ll never again see any one look the way she did
+when she came out with the parcel!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE DARK SCENE</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">IT was a little after eight in the evening of September
+the fifteenth—the opening night of “Boots and
+Saddles” at the Mirror Theater.</p>
+
+<p>Already the house was filling up. From his seat
+on the aisle half a dozen rows back, Jim Barrison
+saw that it was going to be a typical first-night audience.
+As this was a comparatively early opening,
+there were a goodly number of theatrical people
+present, and practically every one in the social
+world who had already returned to town was to be
+seen. Max Dukane’s productions were justly celebrated
+all over the country, and Carlton was a popular
+playwright. Then there was much well-stimulated
+curiosity in regard to Alan Mortimer. Dukane’s
+press agent had done his work admirably, and
+the mystery surrounding the handsome new light
+in the dramatic heavens had been so artistically exploited
+as to pique the interest even of jaded
+theatergoers.</p>
+
+<p>It was an oppressively hot evening, though September
+was so far advanced. All the electric fans
+in the world could not keep the theater cool and
+airy. To Barrison the air was suffocating. The
+gayly dressed people crowded down into neat rows;
+the hurrying, perspiring ushers in overheavy livery;
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[81]</span>
+the big asbestos curtain that shut them all into a
+simmering inclosure—these things in combination
+were strangely oppressive, even in a sense imprisoning.
+Moreover, he was not free from a half-sincere,
+half-humorous sense of apprehension.
+Hardly anything so definite, so full-fledged, or so
+grave; but undoubtedly a mental tension of sorts
+which would not readily conform to a perfunctory
+festal spirit.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane, for all his coolness and poise, had insisted
+on taking the warning letter seriously—at
+least to the extent of taking every conceivable precaution
+against danger, of arranging every possible
+protection for Mortimer. It was understood that,
+while Jim Barrison had his allotted seat in the front
+of the house, he would spend most of the evening
+back of the scenes. Tony Clay was also on duty.
+There was a husky young guard on the communicating
+door which was back of the right-hand boxes
+and opened on the world behind. No one was to be
+allowed to pass through that door that night but
+Dukane, Barrison, and his assistant. Roberts, at the
+stage door, had been similarly cautioned to let no
+one enter the theater on any pretext whatsoever
+after the members of the company had come for the
+performance.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison thought Dukane’s precautions rather exaggerated.
+He did not really think personally that
+any peril threatened Alan Mortimer that night.
+Murderers did not, as a rule, send word in advance
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[82]</span>
+what they mean to do. Still, such things had happened
+in his experience, and it was no harm to make
+sure. As for Miss Templeton and the revolver—well,
+that looked a bit more serious. He had not
+told Dukane of Tony’s confidential information, but
+he raked the many-hued audience with his sharp
+gaze, trying to see if the erstwhile leading woman
+was present. So far there was no sign of her. He
+was even inclined to treat Tony’s fears as somewhat
+hysterical. It will be recalled that Miss Templeton
+had made rather a good impression upon the
+detective, who was only human, after all, and prone
+to err like other mortals.</p>
+
+<p>The truth was that the whole situation struck him
+as a little too melodramatic to be plausible. He was
+suffering from the disadvantages of being a bit too
+cool and superior in view, a bit too well-balanced, a
+bit too much the practical sleuth regarding theatrical
+heroics with a pleasantly skeptical eye. Nevertheless,
+cavalierly as he was disposed to treat them, he
+thought that it was possible that these many concessions
+to a possible gravity of situation, a more
+or less apocryphal danger, did add to the feeling of
+oppression which held him. It really seemed hard
+to breathe, and it was difficult even for his trained
+judgment to determine just how much of the sensation
+was physical and how much psychological.</p>
+
+<p>At all events it was a very close, sultry night. As
+people came in and took their seats there were constant
+comments on the weather.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[83]</span></p>
+<p>“Humidity—just humidity!” pompously declared
+a man next Jim, one of those most trying wiseacres
+who know everything. “You’ll see it will rain before
+the evening is over.”</p>
+
+<p>“There’s not a breath stirring outside,” said the
+girl who was with him, fanning herself. “I wish
+we were sitting near an electric fan.”</p>
+
+<p>The asbestos drop had gone up, and the orchestra
+began to play music specially written for the piece.
+It drowned the chatter of the well-dressed, expectant
+crowd. But the overture was short, and the
+lights all over the house soon began to go down
+in the almost imperceptibly gradual fashion affected
+by Max Dukane in his big productions. When the
+other instruments had dwindled to a mere mist of
+retreating sound, one high, silver-clear bugle played
+the regimental call, “Boots and Saddles,” as a cue
+for the rise of the curtain upon the first act.</p>
+
+<p>But Barrison was not looking at the stage. Before
+the last lights had gone out in the front of the house
+he had caught sight of a woman who had just entered
+the right-hand stage box. She stood for a
+moment looking out over the audience before she
+slipped out of her gorgeous gold-embroidered evening
+cloak and took her seat.</p>
+
+<p>“Look!” exclaimed the girl to the pompous man—and,
+though she spoke in an undertone, it was
+an undertone pregnant with sharp interest, almost
+excitement. “Look! There’s Gracie Templeton, who
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[84]</span>
+started rehearsing with this show and got fired.
+They say she had quite an affair with Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not much distinction in that,” remarked the man.
+“He’s crazy about women.”</p>
+
+<p>“Not much distinction either way,” said the
+woman lightly and heartlessly. “Grace has played
+about with ever so many men. But she isn’t altogether
+a bad sort, you know, and this Mortimer man
+seems to have the power to make women care for
+him awfully.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do you know him?” demanded her escort jealously.</p>
+
+<p>“Not I!” She laughed. “But seriously, Dicky, I
+shouldn’t think she’d want to come to-night and see
+him playing with another woman.”</p>
+
+<p>“Maybe she means to pull a Booth-and-Lincoln
+stunt,” suggested the pompous man. “She’s fixed
+just right for it if she does.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, don’t! It’s horrible just to think of! You’re
+so cold-blooded, Dicky! Hush! The play’s beginning.
+I do like military shows, don’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison did not wait to see the opening of the
+piece. He had seen it once at dress rehearsal, and,
+anyway, he had other fish to fry. He slid out of his
+seat swiftly and almost unnoticeably and made his
+way without waste of time up the aisle and around
+in discreetly tempered darkness to the stage box
+which held Miss Grace Templeton.</p>
+
+<p>As he passed between the box curtains and came
+up behind her, she did not hear him, and he stood
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[85]</span>
+still for a moment before making any move which
+would reveal his presence. In that moment he had
+noticed that she was dressed entirely in black,
+that melancholy rather than passion was the mood
+which held her, and that she was watching the
+stage less with eagerness than with a wistful, weary
+sort of attention. She leaned back in her chair, and
+her hands lay loosely folded in her lap. There was
+about her none of the tension, none of the excitement,
+either manifest or suppressed, that accompanies
+a desperate resolve.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison felt the momentary chill of foreboding,
+which certainly had crept up his spine, pass into a
+warmer and more peaceful sentiment of pity. He
+slipped into a chair just behind her without her
+having detected him. This, too, was reassuring.
+People with guilt, even prospective guilt, upon their
+consciences were always alert to interruption and
+possible suspicion. She was looking fixedly at the
+stage where Mortimer was now making his first
+entrance.</p>
+
+<p>He was a splendid-looking creature behind the
+footlights. Barrison had been obliged to admit it
+at dress rehearsal; he admitted it once more unreservedly
+now. Whatever there was in his composition
+of coarseness or ugliness, of cruelty, unscrupulousness,
+or violence, was somehow softened—no,
+softened was not quite the word, since his
+stage presence was consistently and notably virile;
+but certainly uplifted and tinged with glamour and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[86]</span>
+colorful charm. Every one else in the company
+paled and thinned before him.</p>
+
+<p>“A great performance, is it not?”</p>
+
+<p>Jim spoke the words very gently into her ear, and
+then waited for the inevitable start. Strangely
+enough, in spite of the suddenness of the remark,
+she barely stirred from the still pose she had
+adopted. Dreamily she answered him, though without
+pause:</p>
+
+<p>“There is no one like him.”</p>
+
+<p>Then all at once she seemed to wake, to grow
+alive again, and to realize that she was actually talking
+to a real person and not to a visionary companion.
+She turned, with a startled face.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison! I thought I was quite alone, and—what
+did I say, I wonder? I felt as though I
+were half asleep!”</p>
+
+<p>“You voiced my thoughts; Mortimer is in splendid
+form, isn’t he?”</p>
+
+<p>She nodded. “I never saw him to better advantage,”
+she said, speaking slowly and evidently
+weighing each word. “Watch him now, Mr. Barrison,
+in his scene with <i>Lucille</i>. So much restraint,
+yet so much feeling! Yes, a superb impersonation!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison looked curiously at the woman who
+spoke with so much discrimination. Was she really
+capable of being impersonal, disinterested? Yes, he
+believed that she was. A certain glow of returning
+confidence swept his heart; it was surely not she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[87]</span>
+whom he had to fear—if, indeed, there were any
+one. He made up his mind to take a look at what
+was taking place behind the scenes, and rose to his
+feet, resting his hand lightly, almost caressingly,
+on the back of Miss Templeton’s chair.</p>
+
+<p>“Good-by, until later,” he murmured. “I am going
+back to pay my respects to Dukane.”</p>
+
+<p>And as he spoke, his fingers closed upon the
+beaded satin bag which she had hung upon the back
+of her chair. Something uncompromisingly hard
+met his sensitive and intelligent touch. Instantly he
+withdrew his hand as though it had met with
+fire. There was a pistol in that pretty reticule; so
+much he was sure of.</p>
+
+<p>A moment later he tapped lightly on the communicating
+door, and, meeting the eyes of the suspicious
+young giant on guard there, and speedily
+satisfying him as to his reliability, passed through
+into the strange, bizarre world of scenery and
+grease paint and spotlights with which he had lately
+become so familiar.</p>
+
+<p>“Remember,” he said to the blue-capped lad with
+the six inches of muscle and the truculent tendency,
+who stood as sentinel at that most critical passageway,
+“no one—no one, Lynch—is to go through this
+door to-night. Understand?”</p>
+
+<p>“Right, sir!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison made his way through a labyrinth of
+sets to where Dukane, against all precedent, was
+standing watching the performance from the wings.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[88]</span></p>
+<p>“You ought to be in front,” the detective told him
+reprovingly.</p>
+
+<p>“Indeed!” Dukane looked at him with tired scorn.
+Then he fished a paper out of his waistcoat pocket.
+“Read this. It came this afternoon.”</p>
+
+<p>The new letter of warning ran:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>No man can run more than a certain course. When you
+look with love at the woman who claims your attention
+to-night, do you not think what might happen if a ghost
+appeared at your feast? You have called me wild and
+visionary in the past. Will you call me that when this
+night is over?</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Having read it and noted that the writing was the
+same as the previous one, Jim asked: “Have you
+shown this to Mortimer?”</p>
+
+<p>“Am I an idiot?” demanded Dukane pertinently.
+“No, my prince of detectives, I have not. I have
+troubles enough without putting my star on the
+rampage. Just the same, I think it is as well to be
+prepared for anything and everything. What do you
+think?”</p>
+
+<p>Unwillingly Barrison told him that he was not
+entirely happy in his mind concerning Miss Templeton.
+He asked minutely as to where Mortimer was
+going to stand during various parts of the play,
+notably during the dark scene in the last act. That,
+to his mind, offered rather too tempting a field for
+uncontrolled temperaments.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” said Dukane once more, looking at him.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[89]</span>
+“You have found out something, eh? Well, no matter.
+Whether you suspect something or not, you are
+going to help, you are going to be on guard. Miss
+Templeton, now—do you think it would be a good
+thing for you to go and spend the evening with her
+in her box?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison did not think quite that, but he consented
+to retire to Miss Templeton’s box for at least
+two acts. The which he did, feeling most nervous
+all the time, as though he ought to be somewhere
+else. Miss Templeton was most agreeable as a companion,
+and most calm. Once in a while his eyes
+would become glued to the beaded bag hanging on
+the back of her chair. Just before the last act he
+fled, and sent Tony Clay to take his place on a pretext.
+He did not think he could stand it any
+longer.</p>
+
+<p>Behind, he found a curious excitement prevailing.
+No one had been told anything or warned in any
+way, yet a subtle undercurrent of suspense was
+strongly to be felt. There is no stranger phenomenon
+than this psychic transmission of emotion without
+speech. To-night, behind the scenes at the Mirror
+Theater, the whole company seemed waiting for
+something.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil Merivale seemed particularly nervous.</p>
+
+<p>“I can’t think what has got into me!” she said
+with rather a shaky little laugh. “I wasn’t nearly
+so upset at the beginning of the play, and usually
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[90]</span>
+one gets steadier toward the end of a first night.
+I’m doing all right, am I not?”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re splendid!” Kitty Legaye said cordially.
+“I’m proud of you! You have no change here, have
+you?”</p>
+
+<p>“No; I’m supposed to be still in this white frock,
+locked up in the power of the border desperadoes.”</p>
+
+<p>“And I, praise Heaven, am through!”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty did sound profoundly grateful for the fact.
+Barrison thought she looked very tired and that her
+eyes were rather unhappy. She had played her
+part brilliantly and gayly, appearing, as usual, a
+fresh and adorable young girl. Now, seen at close
+range, she looked both weary and dispirited under
+the powder and grease paint.</p>
+
+<p>“I’m awfully fagged!” she confessed. “And my
+head is splitting. I think I’ll just sneak home.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, but Mr. Dukane will be wild!” exclaimed
+Sybil in protest. “Isn’t it a fad of his always to
+have the principals wait for the curtain calls, no
+matter when they’ve finished?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, stuff! We’re through with the regulation
+business, all of us bowing prettily after the third
+act, and Jack Carlton trying to make a speech that
+isn’t unintelligible with slang! That’s enough and
+to spare for one night. And I really feel wretched.
+Like the Snark, I shall slowly and silently vanish
+away! I call upon you, good people, to cover my
+exit.”</p>
+
+<p>She slipped into her dressing room, and a moment
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[91]</span>
+later the dresser, Parry, whose services were shared
+by her and Sybil, came out. She was a fat, pasty
+woman whose long life spent in the wardrobe rooms
+and dressing rooms of theaters seemed to have made
+her pallid with a cellarlike pallor.</p>
+
+<p>She disappeared around the corner that led to the
+stage door, and in a minute or so returned. As she
+opened Kitty’s door and entered, Barrison heard her
+say:</p>
+
+<p>“All right, Miss Legaye; Roberts is sending for a
+taxi.”</p>
+
+<p>Of the dressing rooms Kitty’s was the farthest
+back, Sybil’s next, and Mortimer’s—the star room—so
+far down as to be adjoining the property room,
+which was close to what is professionally known as
+“the first entrance.” There Willie Coster and his
+assistant ruled, supreme gods, over the electric
+switchboard. The passage to the stage door ran at
+right angles to the row of dressing rooms, so that
+any one coming in or out at the former would not be
+visible to any one standing near one of the rooms,
+unless he or she turned the corner made by the star
+dressing room. This particular point—the turning
+near Mortimer’s door—was further masked by the
+iron skeleton staircase which started near Sybil’s
+room and ran upward in a sharp slant to the second
+tier of dressing rooms where the small fry of the
+company and the extras dressed.</p>
+
+<p>It is rather important to understand this general
+plan. Make a note, also, that Mortimer’s big
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[92]</span>
+entrance in the “dark scene,” or, rather, at the close
+of it, must be made up a short flight of steps; that
+the scene was what is called a “box set”—a solid,
+four-walled inclosure; that it was but a step from
+the door of his own dressing room, and that the spot
+where he had to stand waiting for his entrance cue
+was in direct line, from one angle, with the stage
+door, and from another with the door communicating
+with the front of the house. This wait would
+be a fairly long one, since, when the dark scene was
+on, no lights of any sort would be permitted save
+perhaps the merest glimmer to avoid accidents. The
+actors were all expected to leave their lighted dressing
+rooms and have their doors closed before the
+melodramatic crash upon the stage told them that
+the property lantern had been duly smashed and
+that blackness must henceforth prevail until the
+“rescue.”</p>
+
+<p>“All ready?” came Willie Coster’s anxious voice.
+“The act is on. Miss Merivale, don’t stumble on
+those steps when you are trying to escape. You
+nearly twisted your ankle the other night. This is a
+rotten thing to stage. Lucky Carlton made it about
+as short as he possibly could. Playing a whole act
+practically in the dark! Fred, put that light out
+over there; it might cast a shadow.”</p>
+
+<p>“’Tain’t the dark scene yet!” growled the
+harassed sceneshifter addressed. He put it out,
+however.</p>
+
+<p>“My cue in a moment!” whispered Sybil. “I must
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[93]</span>
+run! Where are my two deep-dyed ruffians who
+drag me on?”</p>
+
+<p>“Present!” said one of them, Norman Crane,
+laughing under his breath.</p>
+
+<p>They hurried down to their entrance, where the
+other “deep-dyed ruffian” awaited them.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty Legaye, in a vivid scarlet satin evening coat,
+stole cautiously out of her dressing room.</p>
+
+<p>“Shut that door!” commanded Willie in a sharp
+undertone. “No lights, Miss Legaye!”</p>
+
+<p>Parry closed it immediately.</p>
+
+<p>“And now, Mortimer!” added the stage manager
+in an exasperated mutter. “Of course he’ll let it go
+until the last moment, and then breeze out like a
+hurricane with his dressing-room door wide open
+and enough light to——What is it?” And he
+turned to hear a hasty question from his assistant.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty came close to Barrison and whispered beseechingly:</p>
+
+<p>“Do, please, tell Mr. Dukane that I only went
+home because I really did feel ill. It’s—it’s been
+quite a hard evening for me.” Her brown eyes
+looked large and rather piteous.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was sorry for her. She seemed such a
+plucky little creature, and so glitteringly, valiantly
+gay. Her red wrap all at once struck him as symbolic
+of the little woman herself. She was defiantly
+bright, like the coat. If her heart ached as
+well as her head, if she really was disappointed,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[94]</span>
+hurt, unhappy—why, neither she nor the scarlet
+coat proposed to be anything but gay!</p>
+
+<p>She waved her hand and tiptoed lightly away in
+the direction of the stage door. Barrison turned to
+look through a crack onto the stage. They were almost—yes,
+they were actually ready for the dark
+scene.</p>
+
+<p>In another moment the lantern crashed upon the
+floor. There were shouts from the performers, and
+audible gasps from the audience. For a full half
+minute not a light showed anywhere in the house.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison felt oddly uncomfortable. The confusion,
+the noises from the stage, the inky blackness,
+all combined to arouse and increase that troubled,
+suffocating feeling of which he had been conscious
+earlier in the evening. The dark seemed full of
+curious sounds that were not all associated with the
+play. He almost felt his hair rise.</p>
+
+<p>A single one-candle electric bulb was turned on
+somewhere. Its rays only made the darkness more
+visible, rendered it more ghostly.</p>
+
+<p>A hand grasped his arm.</p>
+
+<p>“I thought—I saw a woman pass!” murmured
+Dukane’s voice. “Hello! There goes Mortimer to
+his entrance. He’s all right so far, anyway.” The
+actor’s huge bulk and characteristic swagger were
+just visible in the dimness as he left his room, closing
+the door behind him at once. “Barrison, like a
+good fellow, go out to Roberts and find out if any
+one has tried to come in to-night.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[95]</span></p>
+<p>Dukane’s tone was strangely urgent, and Barrison
+groped his way to the stage door.</p>
+
+<p>The old doorkeeper, when questioned, shook his
+head.</p>
+
+<p>“No one’s passed here since seven o’clock,” he declared
+emphatically. “No one except Miss Legaye,
+just a minute ago.”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re sure?”</p>
+
+<p>“Sure!” exclaimed the man, misunderstanding
+him. “I guess there ain’t any two ladies with a
+coat the color of that one! I see it at dress rehearsal,
+and it sure woke me up. I like lively
+things, I does; pity there ain’t more ladies wears
+’em.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison laughed.</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I know Miss Legaye
+went out; but you’re sure no one came in?”</p>
+
+<p>“I tell you, no one’s gone by here since——”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison did not wait for a repetition of his asseverations,
+but went back toward the stage. The
+“rescue scene” was just beginning. Willie Coster,
+a faint silhouette against the one dim bulb, was
+conducting the shots like the leader of an orchestra:</p>
+
+<p>“One! Two! Three! Four! Five! Six!”</p>
+
+<p>The six shots rang out with precision and thrilling
+resonance. And then Jim Barrison grew icy cold
+from head to foot.</p>
+
+<p>For there came a seventh shot.</p>
+
+<p>And it was followed by the wild and terrifying
+sound of a woman’s scream.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VIII">CHAPTER VIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">AWAITING THE POLICE</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">THAT scream echoed across the blackness. There
+was a smell of gunpowder in the air. It
+seemed an interminably long time before the lights
+flared up, and the big curtain was rung down. At
+last it formed a wall between the people on the stage
+and the people in the audience, all about equally excited
+by this time.</p>
+
+<p>“What is it—oh, what is it that’s happened?”
+gasped Claire McAllister.</p>
+
+<p>Other women in the company echoed the bewildered
+and frightened cry. Panic was loose
+among them—panic and that horror of the unknown
+and uncomprehended which is the worst of all horrors.
+“What is it?” ran the quivering question from
+mouth to mouth like wind in the grass.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison and Dukane knew what had happened
+even before, with one accord, they dashed to the
+little flight of steps where Mortimer must have been
+waiting for his entrance cue. One look was enough.
+Then the manager’s voice, clear and authoritative,
+rang out:</p>
+
+<p>“Quiet there, every one. Mr. Mortimer has been
+shot.”</p>
+
+<p>And swiftly upon the startling statement came
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[97]</span>
+Barrison’s command, given with professional sharpness:</p>
+
+<p>“Nobody is to leave the theater, please, until the
+police have been here!”</p>
+
+<p>Shuddering and silent now, the men and women
+drew back as though the quiet figure upon the floor
+were a living menace, instead of something which
+never again could commit an action of help or of
+harm.</p>
+
+<p>Alan Mortimer must have died instantly.</p>
+
+<p>He lay at the foot of the steps, with his painted
+face upturned to the blaze of the glaring electric
+lights, and an ugly crimson patch of moisture upon
+the front of his khaki uniform. There was something
+indescribably ghastly in the sight of the
+make-up upon that dead countenance.</p>
+
+<p>Old Wrenn, the valet, was kneeling at the side of
+his dead master, trying to close the eyes with his
+shaking, wrinkled fingers, and making no attempt
+to hide the tears that rolled silently down his
+cheeks. But, after one look into the stony, painted
+face of the murdered man, Jim Barrison turned his
+attention elsewhere.</p>
+
+<p>At the head of the four little steps stood Sybil
+Merivale, in the white costume of <i>Lucille</i>, as motionless
+as if she were frozen, with her hands locked
+together. No ice maiden could have been more still,
+and there was a chill horror in her look.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Merivale,” said Barrison quickly, “you were
+standing there when he was shot?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[98]</span></p>
+<p>Slowly she bent her head in assent, and seemed
+to be trying to speak, but no sound came from her
+ashen lips.</p>
+
+<p>“Was it you who screamed?”</p>
+
+<p>“I—think so.” She spoke with obvious difficulty.
+“I was frightened. I think—I screamed. I don’t
+know.”</p>
+
+<p>Then every one who was watching started and
+suppressed the shock they felt; for she had moved
+her hands at last—the hands which had been so
+convulsively clasped before her. And on her white
+frock was a long splash of scarlet. One of the slim
+hands, as every one could see, was dyed the same
+sinister hue.</p>
+
+<p>She raised it, and looked at it, with her eyes dilating
+strangely.</p>
+
+<p>“His blood!” she murmured, in a barely audible
+voice.</p>
+
+<p>Dukane had sent Willie Coster out before the curtain
+to disperse the audience. The police had been
+sent for; the doors were guarded. Some of the girls
+in the company were sobbing. Only Sybil Merivale
+preserved that attitude of awful calm. She seemed
+unable to move of her own volition, and remained
+blind and deaf to every effort to help her down the
+four steps.</p>
+
+<p>It was young Norman Crane, finally, who took
+her hand in both his, and gently made her descend.
+Then, as she stood there, looking like a pale ghost
+in her white dress with the rather dull make-up
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[99]</span>
+that the scene had demanded, the boy put his arm
+gently around her.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s all right, dear,” he said tenderly. “Don’t
+look so wild, Sybil. Of course, it was a shock to
+you, but you must rouse yourself now.” He looked
+at Barrison as he spoke, and the detective thought
+that there was a touch of defiance in his tone as he
+emphasized the words, “Of course it was a shock to
+you.” He seemed anxious to establish definitely
+this fact.</p>
+
+<p>Jim quite understood and sympathized with him.
+That Sybil had had anything to do with Mortimer’s
+death the detective did not for a moment believe,
+but her position was certainly an equivocal one.
+This young actor was clearly in love with her, and
+the situation must be an agonizing one for him.</p>
+
+<p>In confirmation of his conclusions, Barrison heard
+Crane say to Dukane:</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Merivale and I are engaged to be married,
+sir. She is very much upset, as you see. Will you
+let me take her to her dressing room?”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane looked doubtfully at Barrison, who shook
+his head.</p>
+
+<p>“I shall be very grateful if Miss Merivale will
+stay where she is until the police come,” he said
+courteously, but firmly. “You might see if you can’t
+find her a chair.” For he had no desire to let a
+witness out of his sight at this stage of the game.</p>
+
+<p>Norman Crane flushed under his make-up. “I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[100]</span>
+think you are going rather far!” he exclaimed hotly.
+“Surely you don’t think——”</p>
+
+<p>“I think,” said Barrison, deliberately cutting him
+short, “that you had better get the chair, and—has
+any one any brandy? Miss Merivale looks very bad
+indeed.”</p>
+
+<p>Old Wrenn spoke in a tremulous voice. “There
+is some in his—in the dressing room, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>He went off and brought it, then stood once more
+beside the body, wiping his shriveled old cheeks.
+Barrison, seeing his evident and genuine grief, made
+a mental chalk mark to the credit of Alan Mortimer.
+There must have been some good in the man,
+some element of the kind and the lovable, to have
+won the devotion of this old servant.</p>
+
+<p>Crane held the brandy to Sybil’s lips, and she
+drank a little mechanically. After a moment or so,
+her eyes became less strained, her whole expression
+more natural, and instead of the frozen blankness
+which had been in her face before, there now
+dawned a more living and at the same time an inexplicable
+fear. She looked up at the face of her
+young lover with a sort of sharp question in her
+blue eyes, a look which puzzled Jim Barrison as he
+caught it. What was it that she was mutely asking
+him? What was it that she was afraid of?</p>
+
+<p>It had been scarcely five minutes since Mortimer’s
+murder, yet already it seemed a long time.
+They all felt as though that still figure on the floor
+had been there for hours. Dukane would have had
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[101]</span>
+the dead man moved to his dressing room, but Barrison
+insisted that everything should be left as it
+was. It was just then that he espied a small object
+glittering on the floor just beyond the steps. He
+stooped, picked it up, and put it in his pocket. As
+he turned he saw, to his surprise, Tony Clay approaching.</p>
+
+<p>The older detective stared and frowned.</p>
+
+<p>“Where is Miss Templeton?” he demanded
+sharply. “I told you to stay with her whatever
+happened. Where is she?”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s what I want to know,” said Tony. “She’s
+gone!”</p>
+
+<p>“Gone! When did she go?”</p>
+
+<p>“Just before the dark scene. She felt faint and
+sent me for a glass of water. Before I got back,
+all that row on the stage started, and when the
+lights were turned on again, she’d gone; that’s all.”</p>
+
+<p>“All!” groaned Barrison despairingly. “Tony, you
+fool! You fool! Well, it’s too late to mend matters
+now.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did anything happen, after all?” asked Tony,
+with round eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison stood aside and let him see Mortimer’s
+dead body, which had been hidden from his view
+by the little group around Sybil.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, Heaven!” gasped Tony, horror-stricken.
+“Then you don’t think she—Miss Templeton—did it?
+Why, Jim, she couldn’t—there wasn’t time!”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t think so myself. But it’s not our business
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[102]</span>
+to do any thinking at all—just yet. This can be a
+lesson to you, Tony. When you’re watching a person,
+<em>watch ’em</em>!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I think it can be a lesson to you, too!” said
+Tony unexpectedly. “You’ve been acting all along
+as though this affair were a movie scenario, that
+you thought was entertaining, but not a bit serious,
+and——”</p>
+
+<p>Jim Barrison flushed deeply and miserably. “I
+know it, Tony,” he said, in a very grave voice.
+“Don’t make any mistake about it; I’m getting mine!
+I’ll never forgive myself as long as I live.”</p>
+
+<p>Willie Coster came up to them. He was paler and
+wilder-eyed than ever, and his scant red hair stood
+stiffly erect. Poor Willie! In all his long years of
+nightmarish first nights, this was the worst. Any
+one who knew him could read in his eyes the agonized
+determination to go and get drunk as soon as
+he possibly could.</p>
+
+<p>“The police inspector has come,” he said, in a low
+tone. “And, say, when you get to sifting things
+down, I’ve something to say myself.”</p>
+
+<p>“You have! You know who fired the seventh
+shot?”</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t say that. But if you’ll ask me some
+questions by and by, I may have something to tell
+you.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IX">CHAPTER IX</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">RECONSTRUCTING THE CRIME</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">INSPECTOR LOWRY was an old friend of Barrison’s,
+though, like most of the regular force,
+inclined to treat the younger man as a dilettante
+rather than an astute professional. However, he
+was quite ready to include Jim in the investigation
+which he set about making without loss of time.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry was a big, raw-boned man of middle age,
+with a peculiarly soft, amiable voice, and a habit
+of looking at almost any point on earth save the
+face of the person to whom he was speaking.
+This seemingly indifferent manner gave him an
+enormous advantage over any luckless soul whom
+he chanced to be examining, for when he shot
+the question which was of all questions the most
+vital and the most important, he would suddenly
+open his eyes and turn their piercing gaze full
+upon his victim. That unfortunate, having by
+that time relaxed his self-guard, would be apt to
+betray his innermost emotions under the unexpected
+gaze.</p>
+
+<p>Naturally, the first thing to do was to get Sybil
+Merivale’s story.</p>
+
+<p>His manner to the girl was not unkindly. She
+was a piteous figure enough, as she sat drooping
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[104]</span>in the chair they had brought her, trying to keep
+her eyes from turning, with a dreadful fascination,
+to the spatter of red upon the steps so near her.
+Norman Crane stood at her side, with the air of
+defying the universe, if it were necessary, for
+her protection. Once in a while she would look
+up at him, and always with that subtle expression
+of apprehension and uncertainty which Barrison
+found so hard to read.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss—ah—Merivale? Quite so, quite so. Miss
+Merivale, if you feel strong enough, I should be
+glad if you would tell us what you know about
+the shooting.” The inspector’s voice was mild as
+honey, and his glance wandered about this queer,
+shadowy world behind the scenes. It is doubtful
+if he had ever made an investigation in such surroundings.
+To see him, one would have said that
+he was interested in everything except in Sybil
+Merivale and what she had to tell.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know anything about it,” she answered
+simply.</p>
+
+<p>“But you were quite close to him when he was
+shot, were you not?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.” She shuddered, and looked down at the
+stain of blood upon her dress. “He was just
+taking me up in his arms to carry me on——”</p>
+
+<p>“That was in the—ah—action of the play?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. After the six shots, I heard another, and
+felt him stagger. I slipped to the floor, and he
+fell at once. He put out his hand to catch at the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[105]</span>scenery.” She pointed to the canvas door of the
+stage set which still stood open. “I felt something
+warm on my hand.” She closed her eyes as though
+the remembrance made her faint. “Then he—he
+fell backward down the steps. That’s all.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, yes.” The inspector thought for a moment,
+and then he said to Dukane: “Would it be possible
+for every one to go to the places they occupied at
+the moment of the shooting? I am assuming that
+every one is here who was here then?”</p>
+
+<p>“Every one; so far as I know, no one has been
+allowed to leave the theater. Willie, tell them to
+take their places.”</p>
+
+<p>Willie caused a rather ghastly sensation when
+he called out: “Everybody, please! On the stage,
+every one who is in the last act!”</p>
+
+<p>There was a murmur among the actors.</p>
+
+<p>“Good Lord!” muttered Claire McAllister. “They
+ain’t goin’ to rehearse us <em>now</em>, are they?”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane explained, and with all the lights blazing,
+the players took the positions they had occupied at
+the beginning of the dark scene. Stage carpenters
+and sceneshifters did the same; also Willie and
+his assistant, even Dukane and Barrison. The
+woman Parry and old Wrenn went into the dressing
+rooms, where they had been, and closed the doors.
+Sybil Merivale mounted the little flight of steps
+and stood at the top, looking through the open
+door onto the stage.</p>
+
+<p>“Is that just the way you stood?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[106]</span></p>
+<p>Every one answered “yes” to this question.</p>
+
+<p>One or two things became apparent by this plan,
+which rather surprised Barrison. He had not, for
+one thing, realized how close Willie Coster stood
+to the place where Mortimer fell. Yet, of course,
+he should have expected it. It was, as a matter
+of fact, Willie who directed the six shots, which
+were supposed to come from the point back of
+<i>Tarrant’s</i> entrance. There were, as it turned out,
+at least three persons who were so close as to
+have been material witnesses had there been any
+light: Willie, the man who fired the shots and
+had charge of other off-stage effects, and—Norman
+Crane.</p>
+
+<p>Crane took up his position immediately inside
+the box set, close to the doorway.</p>
+
+<p>“Is that where you stood?” asked Lowry.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. I played the part of a Mexican desperado,
+and was supposed to be on guard at the door
+leading down into the cellar, which was the stage.”</p>
+
+<p>“The door was open, as it is now?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you could have seen through it anything
+that happened on the steps off stage?”</p>
+
+<p>“I could have if there had been light enough.”</p>
+
+<p>“As it was, you didn’t see anything?”</p>
+
+<p>“No.”</p>
+
+<p>“Didn’t hear anything?”</p>
+
+<p>The young man seemed to pause for just a
+moment before he said “No,” to this question also.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[107]</span>If the inspector noticed his hesitation, he did not
+appear to do so. He began to talk in an undertone
+to one of the men who had come with him.</p>
+
+<p>John Carlton had been sending in frantic messages
+ever since the tragedy, begging to be permitted
+to come behind, but the allied powers there
+agreed that there were enough people marooned as it
+was. There was nothing to be gained by adding another,
+and one whom it would probably be unnecessary
+either to hold or to bind with nervousness and
+disappointment.</p>
+
+<p>In an undertone, Dukane said to Jim Barrison:
+“I thought they always sent for a doctor first of
+all? Why isn’t there one here?”</p>
+
+<p>“There is,” returned Jim, in the same tone.
+“He’s over there with the two policemen and the
+plain-clothes man who came in with Lowry—the
+little, old fellow with spectacles. Lowry’ll call on
+him again in a moment; he examined the body and
+pronounced life extinct. That was all that was
+absolutely necessary. Lowry has his own way of
+doing things, and he’s supreme in his department.
+He’s ‘reconstructing the crime’ just now.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, indeed, was listening with gradually
+increasing interest. This method which was being
+employed by Inspector Lowry, sometimes known
+as the “reconstruction-of-the-crime” method, was
+rather old-fashioned, and many younger and more
+modern men preferred the more scientific, analytical,
+and deductive ways of solving mysteries. Yet
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[108]</span>there was something distinctly fascinating, even
+illuminating, about the inspector’s simple, sure-fire
+fashion of setting his stage and perhaps his trap
+at one and the same time. Barrison felt his own
+veins tingle with the leap of his roused blood.</p>
+
+<p>“Barrison,” said Lowry pleasantly, “just go up
+there on those steps, and be Mortimer for a
+minute. So!” The younger man obeyed with
+alacrity. “Miss Merivale, was that about where
+he stood?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“And you are sure that you yourself were just
+where you are now?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Just there, you know. Not more to the right?”</p>
+
+<p>She glanced at him with faint wonder.</p>
+
+<p>“I think I may have been a little more to the
+right,” she said. “That is, to your right, and my
+left. But I don’t see why you thought so—and it
+doesn’t matter, does it?”</p>
+
+<p>“And you, Mr. Crane,” pursued the inspector,
+paying no attention to her last words, “you are
+absolutely certain of where you stood?”</p>
+
+<p>“Absolutely.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, yes, quite so; quite so!” murmured Lowry,
+looking dreamily into space. Suddenly he faced
+about and said sharply: “Mr. Crane, will you
+kindly lift your right hand and point it at Mr.
+Barrison? Just so; exactly! At that range, you
+could hardly have missed him.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[109]</span></p>
+<p>Norman Crane clenched his fists in a white heat
+of indignation. “You dare to imply——”</p>
+
+<p>“Only what your fiancée has already been fearing,”
+said the inspector calmly, “that your position
+in this matter is, to say the least, not less unpleasant
+than hers. You were, as is evident, only
+a few feet away from the man.”</p>
+
+<p>Crane started to speak, but checked himself.
+Barrison thought he knew what he would have
+said; or, if he was not going to say it, he should
+have, for the direction of the bullet was a thing
+which ought to be easily determined. But something
+prevented the young actor from uttering
+anything resembling a protest; it was simple to
+see what it was.</p>
+
+<p>Sybil Merivale, however unwillingly or unconsciously,
+had given color to suspicion against him
+by the low, heart-broken sobbing into which she
+had broken at the bare suggestion.</p>
+
+<p>After one quick look at the obvious distress of
+the young girl whom he loved so well, Norman
+Crane suddenly changed his antagonistic attitude.
+He faced the detectives quietly, and said to them,
+in a manner that was not without dignity:</p>
+
+<p>“Very well. I admit that it looks bad for me.
+I suppose that is enough? If you feel that you
+have any case at all against me, I shall make no
+trouble. Do you mean to arrest me?”</p>
+
+<p>The inspector looked at him rather more directly
+than was his wont, and also longer.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[110]</span></p>
+<p>At last he allowed himself to smile, and though
+he was known to be a hard man with even possible
+criminals, the smile was singularly pleasant just
+then.</p>
+
+<p>“Bless you,” he remarked tranquilly, “that’s all
+a matter for our medical friends to settle! If the
+bullet entered the body at a certain angle and a
+certain range, it will let you out.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then all this,” exclaimed Crane angrily—it was
+so like a boy to be most enraged when most relieved—“all
+this is waste of time—pure theatrics?”</p>
+
+<p>But at this point Willie Coster interfered. “Say,
+Mr. Inspector,” he said, awkwardly but determinedly,
+“I’m not crazy about a spotlight on
+myself, but just here there’s something I ought to
+say. I was pretty close by, myself, you understand.”</p>
+
+<p>“Exactly where you are now?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. And until the lantern was broken in the
+scrap scene, there was a little light shining through
+that door from the stage. See?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes!” It was not only the representatives of the
+law who listened eagerly now. “Go on, man, go on!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well”—Willie hesitated, gulped, and plunged
+ahead—“I saw a woman’s shadow on the wall,
+and she had something in her hand. That’s all I
+wanted to say.”</p>
+
+<p>“Something in her——A revolver?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[111]</span></p>
+<p>“Would you be prepared to—ah—say that you
+recognized the shadow?”</p>
+
+<p>“I would not. One woman’s shadow’s much like
+another, so far as I can see; and the women, too,
+for that matter! I never troubled to tell ’em apart!”</p>
+
+<p>“And you won’t even express a—ah—an impression
+as to whether what this shadow woman
+held was a weapon or not?”</p>
+
+<p>“No!” snapped Willie impatiently. “Why should
+I? I didn’t think about it at the time. I was
+waiting to time those shots. All I know is that it
+was a woman, and that she was holding something.
+She had something in her hand.”</p>
+
+<p>“I’d give something if I had it in mine!” muttered
+the inspector fervently, more fervently than
+he usually permitted himself to speak when on a
+case.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison put his hand in his pocket and drew
+out the thing which he had found in the shadow
+of the miniature stairway. He thought it the
+proper time to hand it over, and he said:</p>
+
+<p>“I think you have it now, Lowry! The barrel
+was still warm when I picked it up a few minutes
+after the murder.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_X">CHAPTER X</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">FACTS AND FANCIES</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">A SHORT while later the inspector addressed
+them mildly:</p>
+
+<p>“I very often get a great deal of blame because
+I won’t do things in a regulation way. But, even
+while I get the blame, I also get the results—sometimes,
+not always.” The inspector looked around
+him thoughtfully, and repeated: “Not always. As
+most people know, the first thing we must do in
+locating a crime is to find out who could have
+done it; next, who wanted to do it. The opportunity
+is valueless without the wish; the wish is
+not enough without the opportunity. But, of the
+two essential points, the opportunity is the big
+thing. For instance, some one standing in Miss
+Merivale’s position—I mean, of course, her physical
+position—might have that opportunity. It also
+seems to me that some one standing on the stage
+level, on the right of the steps, and reaching
+upward, would have practically the same opportunity.”</p>
+
+<p>He took the little pistol and balanced it lightly
+in his big hand. Then he walked over to the
+point at which the weapon had been found at
+the side of the steps which was farthest from
+the front.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[113]</span></p>
+<p>He raised his arm and pointed at Barrison, who
+still stood where Mortimer had been standing.</p>
+
+<p>“You see,” he said, “it could have been done
+this way. The bullet would have entered the
+body under the right arm as he picked Miss
+Merivale up, supposing her story to have been true.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then,” exclaimed Norman Crane eagerly, “that
+eliminates both Miss Merivale and myself from
+the suspects!”</p>
+
+<p>“It surely eliminates you,” rejoined the police
+officer calmly, “because you couldn’t have thrown
+this gun through the door so that it fell where it
+did fall, unless you were a particularly skillful
+baseball pitcher; and then you couldn’t! But,
+as for Miss Merivale—Miss Merivale, we will suppose
+that you are going to shoot this man; please
+consider Mr. Barrison in that light. He is taller
+than you; the weapon you use may be held close
+to your side to avoid detection.”</p>
+
+<p>“I had no weapon!” she flashed.</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally not, naturally not!” agreed the inspector,
+with a pacific wave of his hand. “But
+you might have had, you know——”</p>
+
+<p>“How could——”</p>
+
+<p>“Pouf, pouf, my dear Miss Merivale! How you
+carried it—or, rather, could have carried it, is a
+secondary matter. I never saw a woman’s costume
+yet in which she could not secrete anything
+she wanted. Your dress is one of the very modern,
+extra loose coat affairs; there are a hundred ways
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[114]</span>in which you <em>could</em> have secreted anything you
+wished. I didn’t say you had; I merely said that
+you were foolish to say it was impossible. As I
+was saying, if you did happen to have a pistol
+and did happen to shoot it off at Mr. Mortimer,
+the angle would be very much the same as that
+taken by the bullet of some one standing somewhat
+below and reaching upward as far as they could.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh!” cried Sybil breathlessly. “You forget—he
+would have been shot squarely in front, if I
+had done it—or Norman!”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes?” said Lowry, pleasantly attentive.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes!” she reminded him. “He was facing
+me.”</p>
+
+<p>“We have only your word,” said the officer gently.</p>
+
+<p>“I——” began Norman Crane impulsively, then
+stopped in discomfort. He recalled that he had
+sworn not to have seen anything through the open
+door.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry, on the other hand, restrained himself
+from reminding him that his testimony under the
+circumstances would be rather worse than nothing.
+To cover up any awkwardness, he went on: “Without
+any discourtesy to you, we are bound to
+consider any and all possibilities.”</p>
+
+<p>“But,” protested Norman Crane, “you said all
+that would be settled by the doctors!”</p>
+
+<p>“I said your part of it would be; not, necessarily,
+Miss Merivale’s. Doctor Colton?”</p>
+
+<p>The little man with spectacles stepped forward,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[115]</span>and, after a brief interchange of words with the
+inspector, bent over the body of Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry turned to Dukane. “I should like to
+have the murdered man carried in somewhere, just
+as soon as the medical examiner arrives and sees
+it. The dressing room? Is that the closest? Quite
+so—quite so! That will do excellently. Very
+near, isn’t it? Quite convenient.” His eye measured
+the distance between the door of the room
+and the spot where the murder had taken place.
+“Just a moment first, though. I want to——Oh,
+here’s the medical examiner now. In a minute
+I think you may dismiss your people, most of
+them, that is. We shall know where to reach
+them, if necessary, eh?”</p>
+
+<p>“Of course—at any time.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then they may all go—except Miss Merivale,
+and—let me see—the man who was on guard
+at the door between the front and back. And
+your stage door keeper; I shall want to speak to
+him a bit later. But the rest—what do you call
+them—supers?”</p>
+
+<p>“Extras. I may dismiss the extras?”</p>
+
+<p>“I think so. They were all on the stage, or upstairs
+in the upper tier of rooms, weren’t they?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then I doubt if we want them——”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison, though unwillingly, was obliged to whisper
+that Claire McAllister should be held. He
+knew that she was bound to talk sooner or later
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[116]</span>about Sybil’s attitude toward the dead man, and
+he felt that it might as well be sooner as later.
+Barrison, looking toward the star dressing room,
+saw that the door was a little open, and that old
+Wrenn was standing in the aperture, with an expression
+of intense agitation upon his wrinkled
+face. Whether the look was horror, grief, or fear,
+it would be impossible at that juncture to say.
+Barrison rather believed it was the latter. Though
+of what could that old man be so acutely afraid?</p>
+
+<p>There was another person who was taking an
+exceptional interest in the proceedings, the uniformed
+guard who had been placed on duty at
+the communicating door, the young man whom
+the inspector had said he wished to question later.
+Lowry suddenly turned upon him.</p>
+
+<p>“Is that where you stood at the time of the
+shooting?” he demanded.</p>
+
+<p>The young man started and flushed.</p>
+
+<p>“N-no, sir,” he stammered; “I was over there
+by the door.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then go back there over by the door, and stay
+there until you are told to move.”</p>
+
+<p>The man retreated hastily, looking crestfallen, and
+muttering something under his breath.</p>
+
+<p>Somehow, although the extras had been dismissed,
+and the body was to be removed, Barrison felt
+that Lowry had not yet quite finished with his
+reconstruction work, so scornfully stigmatized by
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[117]</span>young Crane as “theatrics.” His instinct was not
+at fault.</p>
+
+<p>The inspector wheeled very suddenly toward
+Sybil Merivale. “Miss Merivale,” he said, “you
+have already given us some testimony which doubtless
+was unpleasant to give. I am going to beg
+you to be even more generous. You have said
+that you stood there at the head of the steps,
+waiting for your cue. I should like you now to
+be more detailed. You are relating, remember, what
+occurred within the last two minutes of Alan Mortimer’s
+life. There could scarcely be two minutes
+more important, and I must ask you as solemnly
+and urgently as I can to omit nothing that could
+possibly throw any light upon the problem of
+how he met his death. Will you repeat what
+you said before, with any additions that come to
+you as you strain your memory?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t understand,” she faltered wearily. “What
+more is there to tell?”</p>
+
+<p>“Try to remember!” said the inspector.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was convinced that he was bluffing,
+and that he had no idea of anything further that
+the girl could tell, but to his surprise Sybil flushed
+painfully and looked away. The younger detective
+shook his head in silent admiration. The inspector
+might be old-fashioned, but he had his inspirations.</p>
+
+<p>“I was waiting for my cue,” she began, in a
+low voice, “and looking at the stage through the
+open door. I have told you that.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[118]</span></p>
+<p>“What was your cue, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+
+<p>“But you know that—after the lantern was
+broken, there were to be six shots, and he”—she
+would not mention his name—“was to carry me
+on in his arms.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, go on,” said the inspector gently enough.
+“It is true that we have heard this before, Miss
+Merivale, but in my experience even the most honest
+witness—even the most honest witness”—he repeated
+the words with faint emphasis—“seldom
+tells a story precisely the same twice. You were
+standing there——”</p>
+
+<p>“I was standing there, and I heard him come
+up behind me.”</p>
+
+<p>“How did you know it was Mr. Mortimer if
+you were not looking in his direction?”</p>
+
+<p>“I heard him speak.”</p>
+
+<p>“What did he say?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know. He was muttering to himself.
+He seemed horribly angry—upset. I thought——”
+She checked herself.</p>
+
+<p>“What did you think?”</p>
+
+<p>“That—he had been drinking. He—he was—very
+much excited. He kept muttering things
+under his breath, and once he stumbled.”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane interposed. “Mortimer—drank—occasionally;
+but he was cold sober to-night. I know.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” The inspector nodded dreamily. “Then
+it was something else which had upset him; quite
+so. You see, one gets more from the second
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[119]</span>telling than the first. Go on, if you please, Miss
+Merivale. You knew from his voice that he was
+excited. Did he come up onto the steps at once?”</p>
+
+<p>“I—I don’t know.” She looked at him appealingly;
+she seemed honestly confused. “When he
+spoke to me—I should think perhaps he had taken
+a step or so up—I don’t know. I didn’t turn
+round at once.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, he spoke to you. And said—what?”</p>
+
+<p>“Do I have to tell that?” She flushed and then
+paled. “It hasn’t—truly, it hasn’t—anything to do
+with—all this!” she pleaded.</p>
+
+<p>“I’m afraid we will have to be the judge of
+that,” Lowry said, quite gently; Barrison had an
+idea that the old sleuth was truly sorry for the
+girl, but he never willingly left a trail. “What
+did he say?”</p>
+
+<p>“He said—he said: ‘If you knew the state of
+mind I’m in, you’d think I was showing great
+self-control toward you, this minute!’ That’s
+exactly what he said.”</p>
+
+<p>“What did he mean by that?” demanded the
+inspector, surprised and not taking the trouble, for
+once, to hide it.</p>
+
+<p>She was silent.</p>
+
+<p>“I asked you, Miss Merivale, if you have any
+idea what he meant by so peculiar a greeting?
+Can you think of anything in your acquaintance—in
+your relation with him—which might explain it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes!” she said, lifting her head and answering
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[120]</span>boldly. “I know perfectly well what he meant.
+He was excited or probably he would not have
+said it then, for he cared awfully about his profession,
+his work on the stage, and he would
+ordinarily have been thinking most of that, just
+then. But he meant—I am sure he meant that—the
+darkness gave him—opportunities.”</p>
+
+<p>“Opportunities?”</p>
+
+<p>“Opportunities—such as—such as—he had abused
+before.”</p>
+
+<p>There was the pause of a breath.</p>
+
+<p>“You mean,” said Inspector Lowry, “that he had
+forced his attentions upon you in the past?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Against your will? I asked you—against your
+will?”</p>
+
+<p>“I had always refused his attentions,” she answered,
+with hesitation.</p>
+
+<p>The detectives noted the change of phrase as
+she answered, but the inspector made no comment.</p>
+
+<p>“Very well,” he said. “What did you answer
+then? I presume you turned round to face him?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I did.”</p>
+
+<p>“What did you answer?”</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t say anything—then.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah—not then! What did you do, Miss Merivale?
+Did you hear me?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I heard you. I did not do anything. I
+stood still. I was frightened.”</p>
+
+<p>“You stood still, facing him. Could you see him?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[121]</span></p>
+<p>“Yes. He was just below me. I could see him,
+and I thought I heard him laugh in a—a dreadful
+way. He came up two of the steps, and I could
+see his face.”</p>
+
+<p>“It was not the dark scene yet?”</p>
+
+<p>“No; the lantern was not yet out. It was dark,
+but not pitch dark. His face frightened me. He
+had frightened me before.”</p>
+
+<p>“And did Mr. Mortimer speak to you again?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>The answer came in a gasping breath, and Norman
+Crane seemed to echo it unconsciously. He
+was following every syllable that she spoke with
+a terrible attentiveness, and at that last “yes” he
+shuddered and drew his breath quickly. Lowry
+fixed him with that disconcerting, unexpected look
+of his.</p>
+
+<p>“So that was what you heard through the open
+door!” he said, making it a statement, not a query.
+“Well, Miss Merivale, he was coming up the steps
+toward you, and he said——”</p>
+
+<p>“He said, ‘When I pick you up to-night to
+carry you onto the stage—I shall kiss you!’”</p>
+
+<p>The shudder that came with this admission shook
+her. Her eyes turned toward the body which, for
+some reason, had not yet been taken away, and
+in their gaze there was fear and loathing, and—it
+might be—contempt.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” said Inspector Lowry, apparently unsurprised.
+“And what did you answer, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[122]</span></p>
+<p>She hardly seemed to hear. Her eyes were still
+fixed upon that dead face, awful in its paint and
+powder, such a handsome face, lately so full of
+compelling charm, even now a face that one could
+scarcely pass without a second look.</p>
+
+<p>“What did you say, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+
+<p>She paused for only a moment; then, looking
+straight at the inspector, she replied very deliberately
+indeed:</p>
+
+<p>“I said: ‘If you do that—I shall kill you!’”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XI">CHAPTER XI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">IN THE STAR DRESSING ROOM</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">A BRIEF pause followed Sybil’s unexpectedly
+dramatic statement. Then Inspector Lowry
+bowed gravely.</p>
+
+<p>“That is all, Miss Merivale,” he said, without
+looking at her. “We shall not want you for a
+while, though I shall have to speak to you again
+later. I should advise you, as a friend, to go
+to your own dressing room to rest.”</p>
+
+<p>“May I—mayn’t I—go home?” she asked piteously.
+But on such points as these no amount
+of courtesy or human sympathy could make Lowry
+less inexorable.</p>
+
+<p>“Not just yet,” he said calmly. “Later, we shall
+see. Go and rest, my dear young lady. Do go
+and rest!”</p>
+
+<p>Norman Crane started forward to help her, but,
+to every one’s surprise, Claire McAllister, the extra
+woman who had been kept for possibly relevant
+testimony, was before him.</p>
+
+<p>“You come with me, you poor kid!” she exclaimed,
+as tenderly as she possibly could. “I’ll
+see to you. Gee, but this is a bunch of boobs,
+not to see that you’re about as apt to get in
+wrong as a two-months’ one! Come on, deary!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[124]</span></p>
+<p>They vanished within the dressing room wherein
+Sybil had dressed for a possible triumph that
+selfsame evening—hard as it was for any of them
+to believe it. That evening? It might just as
+well have been a month earlier, and even Dukane,
+the imperturbable, was haggard with the strain
+already.</p>
+
+<p>To him Lowry said something in a low voice,
+and the manager turned at once to Mortimer’s
+valet, still standing at the door:</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn, clear the couch in there. We are——”
+He paused, respecting the man’s feelings, and
+ended gently: “We are bringing him in.”</p>
+
+<p>They carried the big, splendidly made form into
+the room which he had left such a short time
+before, in such a high tide of life and strength.
+There was nothing of tragedy in this setting. Barrison
+looked about him curiously, as though he
+were in a queer sort of dream in which all manner
+of incongruities might be expected.</p>
+
+<p>There were brilliant electric bulbs topping and
+framing the glass on the dressing table; Barrison
+knew that actors were obliged to test their make-up
+under various lighting effects, and there was something
+darkly strange in this array of lights still
+ready for a test that could not come again—for
+Mortimer. At that same table, under the same
+bulbs, other stars would put on paint and wigs
+and costumes. This one would do so no more.</p>
+
+<p>In that vivid glare, the litter of the paraphernalia
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[125]</span>of make-up glowed with a somewhat gay, decorative
+effect. Rouge boxes and cold-cream jars and sticks
+of grease paint lay just as he had left them. Evidently
+Mortimer had been “touching up” for the
+last act, and the valet had not yet had time to clear
+up or put away anything.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry’s keen eyes ran over the room, in that
+seemingly cursory but actually minute inspection
+which characterized his methods. There was nothing
+about it unlike other theatrical dressing rooms.
+There was the usual long dresser with its rows of
+brilliant bulbs; there were the clothes hanging on
+the walls; there was the couch—now bearing that
+tragic burden, the magnificent body in khaki—the
+big trunk, the two chairs—the small one by the
+table, and the easy one for rest and visitors. Apparently,
+there was nothing in the room for a
+detective to note, save the dead man, and—here
+the inspector’s glance became more vague, a sure
+sign that he was particularly interested, for he was
+looking at Wrenn.</p>
+
+<p>The old man, in his decent black clothes, was
+standing near the couch; and he was watching
+the intruders with a sort of baleful combination
+of terror and resentment. The fear which he had
+shown in his face when he looked out of the
+dressing-room door a few minutes since, had not
+vanished from it; but to it was added another,
+and a not less violent emotion. He was angry,
+he was on the defensive. He might, for the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[126]</span>moment, have been some cornered animal, frightened,
+but nevertheless about to spring upon his enemy.</p>
+
+<p>It was against Lowry’s principles to ask questions
+at such moments as might be considered
+obvious; so it was Dukane who said, with some
+asperity:</p>
+
+<p>“What’s the matter, Wrenn?”</p>
+
+<p>The old man’s face worked and his voice shook,
+as he returned:</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Dukane, sir—you—you aren’t going to let
+all these people in here, to poke and pry about among
+my poor master’s things? It’s—it’s a wicked shame,
+so it is! I’d never have thought it possible! It’s
+an outrage——”</p>
+
+<p>“You’re crazy, Wrenn!” said Dukane, trying to
+remember the old fellow’s bereavement, and doing
+his best to speak kindly instead of impatiently.
+“These are detectives, officers of the law. They
+are on this case, and they have a perfect right
+to do anything they want to.”</p>
+
+<p>“But, sir”—the old servant was working himself
+up more and more, and his cracked voice was growing
+shrill—“what are they doing here, sir? What
+can they have to do here? Can’t his—his poor
+body rest in peace without a—a lot of policemen
+poking——”</p>
+
+<p>The inspector interrupted him placidly. “Much
+obliged for the suggestion, Wrenn! We might
+not have thought of searching this dressing room,
+but, thanks to you, we certainly will now!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[127]</span></p>
+<p>“Of course,” he said to Barrison later, “we’d
+have had to do it anyway, but I wanted to scare
+that old chap into thinking it was chiefly his doing!”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn gasped. “Oh, sir, oh, Mr. Dukane!” he
+implored. “Can’t he—lie in peace—just for to-night?
+I—I’d like to sit with him to-night, sir.
+Surely there’s no harm?”</p>
+
+<p>“Was he so very kind to you?” said the inspector
+sympathetically.</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn hesitated. “Mostly he was, sir,” he said at
+last, quite simply. And then he added in a queer,
+forlorn way: “I—I’ve been with him a long time,
+you know, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>The detectives, despite Wrenn’s protests, searched
+the room with methodical thoroughness. If there
+was one single thing, no bigger than a pin, which
+ought not, in the nature of things, to be in a dressing
+room of this kind, why, they were there to
+find it.</p>
+
+<p>“But why?” Dukane whispered to Barrison. “Not
+that there is the slightest objection—but what is
+it Lowry expects to find?”</p>
+
+<p>“He doesn’t,” replied Barrison. “He’s from
+Missouri; he wants to be shown. We always
+search the premises, you know——”</p>
+
+<p>“But it wasn’t here he was killed.”</p>
+
+<p>“No; but it was so near here that——Hello!
+They’ve got something!”</p>
+
+<p>He spoke in the tone of suppressed excitement
+that a fox hunter might have used.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[128]</span></p>
+<p>The plain-clothes man with the inspector had
+opened the trunk, and was staring into it with a
+puzzled face. At the same moment, Wrenn emitted
+a low moan, as though, after a struggle, he found
+himself obliged to give up at last. He staggered
+a trifle, and caught at the back of a chair to steady
+himself.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” said the inspector, softly jocose. “Haven’t
+found the murderer in that trunk, have you, Sims?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, sir,” said the officer; but his voice was as
+puzzled as his eyes. “Only this.”</p>
+
+<p>He took something out of the trunk, and held
+it up in the unsparing glare of the dressing-room
+lights. It was assuredly an odd sort of article to
+be found in a man’s theater trunk. For it was a
+piece of filmy white stuff, with lace upon it, badly
+torn.</p>
+
+<p>“A sleeve,” said the inspector, with an obvious
+accent of astonishment. “A woman’s sleeve—let’s
+have a look at it.”</p>
+
+<p>He took it into his own hands. Clearly, it was
+the sleeve and part of the shoulder of a woman’s
+dress or blouse, trimmed with elaborate, but rather
+coarse and cheap lace. On the front, where it
+had evidently been ripped and torn away from
+the original garment, were finger prints, stamped
+in a brownish red.</p>
+
+<p>The inspector’s eyes strayed to the dressing table
+with its array of paints and powders.</p>
+
+<p>“Anything there that will correspond? Barrison,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[129]</span>take a look, while Sims goes through the rest of
+the trunk.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison returned with a jar.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s bolamine,” explained Dukane. “They use
+it for a dark make-up, to suggest tan or sunburn.
+Mortimer would naturally use it in an out-of-door
+part of this sort.”</p>
+
+<p>“On his hands, too?”</p>
+
+<p>“Surely on his hands; only amateurs forget the
+hands.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” said Lowry. “We’ll have the finger prints
+examined and compared with Mortimer’s, though it’s
+scarcely necessary, I imagine. It’s so evident
+that——”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn broke in, almost frantically:</p>
+
+<p>“It’s only a make-up rag, sir! Every one uses
+make-up rags, sir, to wipe the make-up off!”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” said Lowry. “You provided yourself with
+these make-up rags, then?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir!” Wrenn spoke eagerly. “I asked the
+chambermaid at the hotel for some old pieces for
+Mr. Mortimer, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn, don’t be a fool,” said Lowry, speaking
+sharply for the first time. “In the first place—unless
+I am much mistaken—make-up rags are
+used only when the make-up is taken off—right,
+Mr. Dukane?”</p>
+
+<p>The manager nodded.</p>
+
+<p>“And then—why, in that case, was this rag so
+precious that you had to shut it up in a trunk,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[130]</span>before it had been used? For I take it that a
+make-up rag doesn’t show just one or two complete
+sets of finger prints when a man gets through with
+it! It must look something like a rag that’s used
+on brasses or an automobile! Also, I see that
+there are two or three cloths already on the
+dressing table.”</p>
+
+<p>He turned his back on Wrenn, and examined
+the bit of linen that he held, while the other detectives
+held their breath.</p>
+
+<p>“This,” he said at last, “was torn from the
+dress of some woman who was in the dressing
+room to-night, at some time after Mortimer was
+made up.”</p>
+
+<p>He turned to Dukane, with the faintest shrug,
+and said:</p>
+
+<p>“You know, when I tried to reconstruct the crime
+by putting every one in their places—the places
+they had occupied at the time of the shooting—I
+was attempting the impossible. For there evidently
+was some one else here, some one who has
+gone; some one”—his eyes flew suddenly and
+piercingly to Wrenn—“whom this man wishes to
+shield.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XII">CHAPTER XII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE TWO DOORWAYS</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">WHETHER it was strictly correct or not, no
+one was in a position to question, but, anyway,
+Inspector Lowry told Sybil finally to go home
+after leaving her address. A lot of skeleton theories
+had come tumbling down with the discovery that
+another and unknown woman had been present
+in Mortimer’s dressing room that night.</p>
+
+<p>Even Claire McAllister’s testimony—that Miss
+Merivale had told her she sometimes wished she
+could kill their star—fell flat after Sybil’s own
+confession of not only what she had felt, but
+what she had threatened.</p>
+
+<p>The whole business was, as Barrison could see,
+a sickening one for Inspector Lowry. He had
+fallen down right and left; practically speaking, he
+had nothing left now to work on, out of all his
+ingenious work of reconstruction.</p>
+
+<p>Only his examination of the two men on guard
+at the doors had brought out anything clear cut,
+anything on which seriously to work.</p>
+
+<p>First of all, he had questioned Joe Lynch, the
+young fellow whose job it had been to keep
+any one save the detective and the manager from
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[132]</span>passing either way through the communicating
+door.</p>
+
+<p>“Your name is Joe Lynch, you say?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“You have already said that you stood there by
+the communicating door during the dark scene,
+Lynch?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“Just there?”</p>
+
+<p>“As near as I can say, sir, yes. I was close
+up here by the door. My orders was to keep it
+shut except for the detectives or Mr. Dukane.”</p>
+
+<p>“And did you know why?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, how do you mean, sir?”</p>
+
+<p>“Did you understand why the orders were so
+strict to-night of all nights?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, that. Yes, sir; I knew there’d been some
+talk of Mr. Mortimer being in some sort of
+danger.”</p>
+
+<p>“Who told you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, I couldn’t say, sir. I don’t rightly know.
+Them things gets about. Anyhow, I knew that;
+and I was, so to speak, sort o’ set on taking care
+of Mr. Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did you like him, then?”</p>
+
+<p>The young man’s dull eyes opened wide.</p>
+
+<p>“Me, sir?” he said, in surprise. “I never see
+him to talk to. But I was wanting to do my
+part. Mr. Dukane and Mr. Barrison, too, told me
+I was to look sharp. So I did.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[133]</span></p>
+<p>“Ah! You did, eh? You looked sharp, eh?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir.”</p>
+
+<p>“Sure?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes, sir! Course I did! I—I was keen
+on showing I was as quick as the next.”</p>
+
+<p>“Ah! How were you going to show that?”</p>
+
+<p>Young Lynch laughed frankly, yet with a sort
+of embarrassment, too.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, sir, Mr. Dukane, he offered twenty-five
+dollars either to Mr. Roberts or me if we could
+spot any one trying anything suspicious, or anything.”</p>
+
+<p>“<em>Ah!</em>” The inspector’s laconic monosyllable
+sounded a bit sharper than usual. “So that was
+it! Lynch, you were standing there when you
+heard the shot?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir, as near as I can say now, in these
+very tracks.”</p>
+
+<p>The inspector stood beside him and let his eyes
+move slowly from the big door beside them to the
+little flight of steps where the star had met his
+death.</p>
+
+<p>“Mighty narrow way to pass,” he murmured,
+half to himself.</p>
+
+<p>“Sir?” said Lynch respectfully.</p>
+
+<p>The inspector continued to measure distances with
+his eye.</p>
+
+<p>“You see,” he said to Lynch, “if you will draw
+a straight line from here where we stand, past the
+angle of the property-room corner to the entrance
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[134]</span>where Mr. Mortimer was waiting, do you see what
+I mean?”</p>
+
+<p>Lynch looked obediently where he was directed.
+“No, sir,” he said, after he had looked.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry sighed gently. “Not much space to pass
+any one, anyway,” he murmured.</p>
+
+<p>Lynch looked at him, still blankly.</p>
+
+<p>“Lynch,” said the inspector, “if I were in your
+place, and had a chance of making twenty-five dollars
+if I caught any one, and while I was on duty
+like this, and heard a shot——”</p>
+
+<p>He paused, not seeming to look at Lynch, but
+really noting every shadow and light that passed
+over his face.</p>
+
+<p>“If I were, in short, as you had been situated,
+I should have left my post when I heard that shot
+and run forward toward the man I was supposed
+to guard. I think I should have considered it my
+duty.”</p>
+
+<p>“Would you, indeed, sir?” cried young Lynch
+hopefully.</p>
+
+<p>The inspector suddenly looked at him and said
+dryly. “So that’s what you did? Suppose you tell
+me all about it. You heard the shot, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“If you please, sir,” protested the young man
+eagerly and rather unhappily, “it wasn’t the shot;
+leastways, I didn’t know about how many shots
+there’d be. It was the scream. I heard the shots,
+one after the other, and then the scream—a dreadful
+scream, if you please, sir. And, of course,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[135]</span>I thought first of all of Mr. Mortimer, and there
+being danger, and—and all that. And I run forward,
+sir, a few steps, through the dark, wishing
+to be of some use, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“And to get the twenty-five dollars?”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, sir, that perhaps; of course, I’m not saying
+that wasn’t in the back of my mind. But what I
+was thinking of first was that there was trouble,
+and that I might be needed.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s all right; I believe you.” Lowry spoke
+shortly, but not at all unkindly. “The point is
+that, within half a second of the time of the shooting,
+you had left this particular point, and run in
+the direction of the shots. In other words, Lynch,
+this door was unguarded.”</p>
+
+<p>“Unguarded, sir!” Lynch was aghast, and truly
+so. “Unguarded, sir! But I had been at my
+post all the evening! No one had gone in or
+out——”</p>
+
+<p>“No one had gone in or out during the evening,
+I am absolutely convinced. But, after the murder,
+any one who chanced to be there could have gone
+out. Isn’t that so?”</p>
+
+<p>“But——” The young guard’s troubled eyes began
+to measure the distance between the door and
+the stage steps, just as the detectives had done
+before.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah!” said Lowry. “You see why I spoke of the
+narrow passage which would have to be traversed.
+It would be very narrow, indeed. Any one who
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[136]</span>wanted to get from those steps to the communicating
+door would have to pass you at very close quarters,
+Lynch. And yet—the thing could be done. The
+thing could be done. I have not lived so long
+without learning that it is these unlikely, well-nigh
+impossible things that come off in the smoothest
+way of all. All right, Lynch, I’m obliged to you.
+It’s not your fault. You were a bit overzealous,
+but I don’t think we’ll put you in jail for that.
+However you look at it, you’ve shown us one way
+in which the murderer might have escaped.”</p>
+
+<p>He turned and crooked his arm in that of Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Now, we’ll go and interview the stage doorkeeper,”
+he said. Together he and Barrison attacked
+old Roberts, who confronted him at the
+entrance with a look of mingled apprehension and
+bravado. His round, flabby face was rather pale,
+and he gave the impression of a weak old child
+trying to act like a brave man.</p>
+
+<p>“What do you want of me, gentlemen?” he
+demanded, in a tone that broke timidly in spite of
+himself.</p>
+
+<p>They were both very nice to him. In this case,
+Lowry let Barrison do most of the talking, feeling
+that it was a case that required tact. He stood
+back in thoughtful silence while Jim got around
+the old doorkeeper in his very best and most diplomatic
+style with the result that within five minutes
+poor old Roberts was crumpling up in rather a
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[137]</span>piteous fashion, perfectly ready to tell them anything
+and everything he had ever done, said, or
+heard of.</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t mean no harm,” he protested at last,
+with such an attitude of abasement that neither
+Barrison nor, indeed, Lowry had the heart to rub
+it in. “I do hope—oh, I do hope, that you’ll not
+let Mr. Dukane discharge me! I’ve been here a
+good many years, and no one can say as I’ve not
+been faithful. I don’t believe there’s been another
+night in all my life when I’ve left my post.”</p>
+
+<p>“It would have to be to-night!” murmured Lowry.</p>
+
+<p>“It would!” agreed Barrison. “Go on, Roberts.
+No one wants to kill you, and I don’t believe there’s
+the least likelihood of your losing your job. Just
+tell us——”</p>
+
+<p>“You don’t know Mr. Dukane, sir!” Roberts almost
+wept. “He’s strict, sir; very strict! He says a
+thing and you’ve got to do it, no matter what
+happens! <em>I</em> know—haven’t I been working for him
+for twenty years? And now to be fired and
+out——”</p>
+
+<p>“Who said you were going to be fired? Get along,
+Roberts! Tell us what it was that you did.”</p>
+
+<p>“I left the stage door, sir,” said Roberts humbly.</p>
+
+<p>“That we gathered. But why did you leave it,
+and when, and for how long?”</p>
+
+<p>Roberts sniffed and answered in a small stifled
+voice:</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[138]</span></p>
+<p>“As to when I left it, sir—it was when Mrs.
+Parry came to ask me to get a taxi for Miss Legaye.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why didn’t you get a taxi, then—telephone for
+one?”</p>
+
+<p>“I did, sir. I telephoned two places, but there
+wasn’t a single machine in. The starters all said
+the same thing: It looked like rain, and they
+couldn’t guarantee a taxi for an hour yet. I—I
+like Miss Kitty, sir; she’s always kind to me, and
+I didn’t want her to have to wait, ’specially when
+she was sick, as Mrs. Parry said she was. So,
+when I found I couldn’t get one over the wire, I
+went out into the alley to see if I could see one
+passing.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, that doesn’t seem very awful,” said Barrison,
+smiling at him. “Did you get one?”</p>
+
+<p>Poor old Roberts brightened a bit at the kindly inflection.</p>
+
+<p>“I couldn’t see one, sir, not from this door, so I
+went up to the gate at the end of the court, and
+looked up and down the street. And after a minute
+I saw one coming and hailed it, and it stopped. So
+I ran back again; and Miss Legaye was standing
+just outside the stage door, waiting. So I called
+to her ‘All right, Miss Legaye, your taxi’s here!’
+and went on back. She passed me, in her red coat,
+about halfway, and I told her I was sorry to have
+kept her waiting. Then I hurried back here.”</p>
+
+<p>“And you are sure you didn’t pass any one but
+Miss Legaye in the alley, no one coming in?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[139]</span></p>
+<p>The old fellow shook his head. “So far as any
+one going out goes,” he said, “how do I know? My
+eyes are not so young as they were. But coming
+in! Why, I was back here! How could any one
+pass me in the light without my seeing them?”</p>
+
+<p>“But,” suggested Barrison, “while you were down
+at the street signaling the taxi, some one who had
+been hiding in the alley might have slipped in,
+mightn’t they?”</p>
+
+<p>Old Roberts hung his head, and his whole heavy
+body expressed dejection.</p>
+
+<p>“That’s what I keep saying to myself, sir!” he
+whispered. “Not that I think it’s likely—but—my
+eyes aren’t what they once were, and suppose the
+murderer was hiding there, and just waiting for a
+chance to get in?”</p>
+
+<p>“And how long, altogether, were you away?”
+Lowry spoke for the first time.</p>
+
+<p>“That’s easy, sir. I went out a few minutes
+after Mrs. Parry told me to send for the taxi, and I
+had just come back when Mr. Barrison here came
+out to ask me if I’d seen any one pass.”</p>
+
+<p>“That was just before the shooting,” Barrison
+said.</p>
+
+<p>“<em>Before</em> the shooting. And you’re prepared to
+swear, Roberts, that no one came out of the
+theater after that?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am, sir!” The old man’s eyes, dim as they
+were, left no room for doubt; he was speaking the
+truth.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[140]</span></p>
+<p>“All right, Roberts. I’m sure you’ve told the
+truth, and Mr. Dukane shall be told so. I don’t believe
+you’ll lose your job. Just the same, I wish
+you hadn’t gone to hunt taxicabs at that particular
+moment.”</p>
+
+<p>As the two detectives walked away, Lowry said
+under his breath: “We’ve proved that no one left
+the theater by the stage door after the shooting,
+but we’ve proved that they might have done so by
+the communicating door. We’ve proved that Lynch
+was at his post for the whole evening up to the
+shooting, so that no one could have come in by
+that way before then; but, since he left it afterward,
+there is no reason to suppose that that some
+one could not have made their exit that way after
+the crime. In other words, my dear friend and colleague,
+while we can’t prove it, we can find a
+perfectly possible way for the murderer to have entered
+and an equally possible way for him, or her,
+to have departed.”</p>
+
+<p>“You think that—whoever it was—came in while
+Roberts was blundering up or down the alley?”</p>
+
+<p>“I see no other explanation. Barrison, you are
+not officially under me, but I respect your judgment,
+and I like your work. I should be obliged
+if you would take on such branches of this case
+as seem to lie in your way. You have been in it
+since—so to speak—its inception. You should have
+a line on many aspects of it that I couldn’t possibly
+get, coming into it as I must, from a purely and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[141]</span>coldly official standpoint. I’ll expect you to do your
+darnedest on it, and help me in every way you can.
+Right?”</p>
+
+<p>“Right, sir.” The young detective’s tone was full
+of ardor.</p>
+
+<p>“Then good night to you. One moment. Did
+you notice the initial on this pistol, the one you
+picked up?”</p>
+
+<p>He produced it as he spoke.</p>
+
+<p>“No,” said Jim. “I didn’t want any one to see
+it, so tucked it away without a look.”</p>
+
+<p>“Take it along with you,” said Lowry unexpectedly.
+“You may be able to spot the owner.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison seized the tiny weapon with avidity; it
+was too dark where they stood for him to see
+clearly, and he said, with open eagerness:</p>
+
+<p>“What is the initial? That of any of the principals
+in the case?”</p>
+
+<p>“Of two of them,” said the inspector, as he turned
+to round a corner. “It’s M. Good night.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIII">CHAPTER XIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE INITIAL</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">THE inspector’s announcement gave Jim Barrison
+food for thought.</p>
+
+<p>Then why had Lowry let Sybil go with no
+further examination? They would have to establish
+next her possession of a weapon, and the fact that
+she was sufficiently practiced in the use of firearms
+to have hers marked with her initial, and——</p>
+
+<p>But just then he discovered that it had begun to
+rain at last; big drops heralded the storm that had
+been threatening all the evening. Under the circumstances,
+his library at home would be a pleasanter
+place for speculation than the corner of a street.
+He turned up his coat collar and ran for a Sixth
+Avenue car. As he passed the clock outside a jeweler’s
+shop, he saw that it was ten minutes past one
+o’clock, and suddenly he was conscious that he was
+tired. The evening had been a long one, and hard
+on the nerves.</p>
+
+<p>He stood on the back platform, and let the rainy
+winds blow about him. His dinner coat was getting
+noticeably wet, but he wanted to think and
+breathe. How hot the theater had been! The smell
+of a singularly vile cigarette close beside him made
+him turn in a disgusted sort of curiosity to see what
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[143]</span>manner of man could smoke it. It turned out to be
+Willie Coster, who had boarded the car when he
+did.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello!” said Jim. “Didn’t see you before. I
+thought you left the theater before we did.”</p>
+
+<p>“I had,” said Willie, puffing deeply on his rank
+weed. “I stopped at the corner to get this.”</p>
+
+<p>Unblushingly he indicated an object done up in
+brown paper, which he carried under his arm. There
+was not the slightest doubt that it was a bottle of
+quart dimensions. Barrison recalled the legend
+that Coster always got drunk after a first night.
+He could not help smiling at the serious deliberation
+with which he was going about it.</p>
+
+<p>“I see!” he said. “Well, it’s been a pretty trying
+time for you, a thing like this, coming on top of all
+your hard work on the piece. I dare say you feel
+the need of something to brace you.”</p>
+
+<p>Willie shook his head. “That’s a nice way of
+putting it,” he said soberly; “but it won’t wash.
+No, sir; the fact is, I mean to get drunk to-night.
+I never touch anything while I’m working, and
+when my work’s done, I consider I’m entitled to a
+little pleasure.”</p>
+
+<p>“I see,” Barrison said again. “And does getting
+drunk give you a great deal of pleasure?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes!” said Coster gravely. “I’m not a
+drunkard, understand. I don’t go off on bats; <em>that</em>
+wouldn’t give me pleasure. And I can always sober
+up in time for anything special. But I like to go
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[144]</span>quietly home like this and drink—well, say, about
+this bottle to-night, and another to-morrow. Then
+I’ll taper off and quit again. See?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perfectly. If you have to do it, it seems a very
+sensible method. Look here; is there any particular
+hurry about this systematic debauch of yours?”</p>
+
+<p>“Hurry? Oh, no, there’s no hurry. Any time
+will do. Why?”</p>
+
+<p>“Then,” said Barrison, who had an idea, “why not
+come over to my rooms—we’re almost there—and
+have a couple of drinks with me and a bite to eat,
+first? You can go home and get drunk later, you
+know, just as well.”</p>
+
+<p>“Just as well,” said Willie, with surprising acquiescence.
+“I don’t want any drinks, thanks, for I
+only drink alone. But now you mention it, I’m
+hungry.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison knew that he himself was far too tired
+already to lengthen out this night so preposterously,
+but that idea which had so suddenly come to him
+drove all consideration of fatigue from his mind.
+He was a detective, and thought that in the dim
+distance he could see a shadowy trail. In a weird
+case of this sort, anything was worth a chance.</p>
+
+<p>At Barrison’s rooms they found a cold supper
+waiting, and Tara asleep in a chair, contriving
+somehow to look dignified even in slumber.
+There is no dignity like that of a superior Japanese
+servant. He even woke up in a dignified manner,
+and prepared to serve supper. But Barrison sent
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[145]</span>him to bed, and sat down to talk to Willie over cold
+chicken and ham, and macedoine salad. The little
+stage manager ate hungrily, but stubbornly refused
+to drink. He also scorned his host’s expensive
+smokes, preferring his own obnoxious brand.</p>
+
+<p>“Coster,” said Barrison at last, “I want you to
+tell me what you know of Alan Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“What I know! He was the yellowest guy in
+some things that ever——”</p>
+
+<p>“That isn’t just what I meant. I mean—you’ve
+been with Dukane a long time, haven’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Sure thing. I’ve been with the gov’nor five—no,
+six—years.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you must know how he came to take up
+Mortimer. Where did he discover him first? He’s
+a stranger on Broadway.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why don’t you ask the gov’nor about it?” demanded
+Willie shrewdly.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” Jim was obliged to admit, rather uncomfortably,
+“he’s not the sort of man you feel like
+pumping. Of course, Lowry will get it all out of
+him sooner or later, but I’m curious. And I can’t
+see what objection he could have to your——”</p>
+
+<p>“Being pumped,” finished Willie. “Maybe not, but
+I don’t really know much about it, anyway.” His
+eyes strayed wistfully to his brown paper package.
+“See here,” he said, “I’m much obliged for the eats,
+but I guess I’ll be trotting along. I’ve got a very
+pressing engagement!”</p>
+
+<p>“With John Barleycorn?” laughed Barrison. “Oh,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[146]</span>see here, Willie, what’s the difference? If you
+prefer your whisky to mine, I’ll get you a corkscrew,
+and you can just as well start here. Eh?
+Make an exception and have a couple of drinks
+with me, like a good sport.”</p>
+
+<p>He felt slightly ashamed of himself, but he
+prodded his conscience out of the way by telling
+himself that as long as the man was going to get
+drunk anyway, he might just as well——</p>
+
+<p>Willie hesitated and was lost. The first drink he
+poured out made his host gasp; it nearly filled the
+tumbler.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you take it straight, man?” he asked, in a
+tone of awe.</p>
+
+<p>“Certainly I will. I don’t take it for the taste,
+I take it for the effect. The more you take at a
+time, the quicker you get results. What’s the good
+of little dabs of drinks like yours, drowned in soda
+water? When I drink, I drink.”</p>
+
+<p>“I perceive that you do!” murmured Barrison, and
+watched him swallow the entire contents of the
+glass in three gulps. He choked a bit, and accepted
+a drink of water, then leaned back with an expression
+of pure bliss stealing over his face.</p>
+
+<p>“Gee, that was good!” he whispered joyously.
+“Now I’ll have one more in a minute; that will start
+me off comfortably. Then I’ll go home. You
+know,” he added, with that shrewd glance of his,
+“I’m on to your getting me to tank up here; you
+know I’ll talk more. But I’m blessed if I can make
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[147]</span>out what it is you want to know. If there’s any
+dark mystery going, I’m not in it. But you just
+pump ahead.”</p>
+
+<p>He poured out another enormous draft.</p>
+
+<p>“Mortimer used to be in a sort of circus, a wild
+West show, didn’t he?”</p>
+
+<p>Willie grunted assent between swallows. “It was
+a sort of punk third-class show,” he said. “Never
+played big time, just ordinary tanks and wood piles
+out West. They had a string of horses and a few
+cowboys who could do fancy riding; Mortimer was
+one of them. His real name was Morton. The
+gov’nor was waiting to make connections somewhere
+on his way to the coast, and dropped in to
+see one or two of the stunts. This chap was a sort
+of matinée idol wherever he went, and the gov’nor
+spotted him as a drawing card if he ever happened
+on the right part. You know the gov’nor never forgets
+anything, and never overlooks a bet. He took
+the guy’s name and address, and put him away
+in the back of his head somewhere, the way he always
+does. When Carlton came to him with this
+war-play proposition, the gov’nor thought of Morton,
+and wrote him. That’s all I know about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Was Mortimer married?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not that I know of. Not likely—or, rather, it’s
+likely he had half a dozen wives!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was disappointed; he had thought it just
+possible—there was the pistol, marked with M, and
+the unknown woman who had been in the dressing
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[148]</span>room that night. However, Willie was not proving
+much of a help. Barrison yawned and thought of
+bed.</p>
+
+<p>“One more question,” he asked suddenly. “What
+was the name of the show?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t remember. Blinkey’s or Blankey’s, or
+something like that. Blinkey’s Daredevils, I think,
+but I’m not sure. Say, you’d better let me go home
+while I can walk.”</p>
+
+<p>“All right; you go, Willie. Were there any
+women in the show?”</p>
+
+<p>“A couple, I think—yes, I’m sure there were, because
+I remember the gov’nor speaking about a sort
+of riding-and-shooting stunt Mortimer did with some
+girl, a crack shot.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison started. Was that the trail, then?</p>
+
+<p>“Much obliged to you, Willie,” he said carelessly.
+“There wasn’t much to tell, though, was there?
+Why did Dukane keep it all so dark, I wonder? I
+should have thought that would have been good
+advertising, all that cowboy stuff, and the traveling
+show, and the rest of it.”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know why the gov’nor does some things;
+no one does,” said Willie, getting to his feet with
+surprising steadiness, and carefully corking his precious
+bottle. “But he’s never given any of that stuff
+to the press agent, and I’ve a notion he doesn’t want
+it made public. I don’t know why, but I’m pretty
+sure he has some reason for keeping it dark. Now
+you know as much about it as I do, and I’d never
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[149]</span>have told you as much as that if I hadn’t started in
+here!”</p>
+
+<p>While he was wrapping up his bottle, with a
+painstaking deliberation which was, as yet, almost
+the only sign of what he had drunk, Barrison drew
+the little pistol from his pocket and laid it on the
+table. It was almost a toy, and mounted in silver
+gilt, a foolish-looking thing to have done such
+deadly harm. The letter was in heavy raised gold,
+a thick, squarely printed M. In the rays of the
+student lamp it glittered merrily, like the decoration
+on some frivolous trinket.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello!” said Willie Coster, looking dully at it
+from the other side of the table. “So that’s the
+gun that did it? Let’s see the letter.” He swayed
+forward to look closer.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s an M,” said Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“You’re looking at it upside down,” said Willie;
+“or else it’s you that’s drunk and not me. That’s
+a W, man, a W! Good night!”</p>
+
+<p>He ambled toward the door, bearing his package
+clasped to his breast, and disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison seized the pistol and turned it around.
+Willie was right. The initial, seen so, was W!</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIV">CHAPTER XIV</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">A TIP—AND AN INVITATION</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">JIM BARRISON had scarcely grasped this fact
+when the telephone rang. In the dead silence of
+that hour, half after two in the morning, the shrill
+tinkle had a startling effect. Barrison, his fatigue
+forgotten, sprang to the instrument.</p>
+
+<p>It was Tony Clay’s voice that came to him. “I
+want to come up for a minute.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, confound you!” ejaculated the detective irritably.
+“What do you want at this hour? I’ll have
+to come down and let you in; the place is closed.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know it is. That’s why I’m calling up. I’m
+in the drug store at the corner, and I’ll be there as
+soon as you can get downstairs. All right?”</p>
+
+<p>“I suppose so. But I’d like to wring your neck!”</p>
+
+<p>“Welcome to try, old man, just a bit later. So
+long!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison hung up, and tramped downstairs with
+suppressed profanity on his tongue, to let Tony in
+at the front door of the apartment house where he
+roomed. The younger man was already waiting on
+the steps, dripping wet, but whistling softly, rather
+off the key.</p>
+
+<p>“Come in, you blamed night owl!” growled Barrison,
+under his breath. “Don’t slam the door. And
+if you haven’t something worth while to tell me,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[151]</span>after routing me out like this, I’ll wake Tara and
+give him full permission to jujutsu you into Bellevue!
+Come on, and stop whistling.”</p>
+
+<p>Upstairs, Tony demanded Scotch and cigarettes,
+and took off his wet coat.</p>
+
+<p>“Heavens! Does that mean you’re intending to
+<em>stay</em>?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not permanently,” Tony reassured him soothingly.
+“I do manage to arrive at inconvenient times,
+don’t I?”</p>
+
+<p>“You do, you do! Now what is it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” said Tony, settling himself in the chair
+recently vacated by Willie Coster. “I’ve been calling
+on Miss Templeton.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was conscious of a queer little thrill, not
+entirely unpleasant. Truth to tell, he had not been
+able to dismiss a certain vision from his mind,
+through all his practice and professional occupations.
+He could see it now, all in a moment, gold
+hair, dark-fringed eyes, marble-white throat and
+arms, and a mouth that could soften and droop like
+a child’s at the most unexpected moments.</p>
+
+<p>“She’s out of the case, I suppose you know,” he
+said shortly. “Go ahead, though.”</p>
+
+<p>“You see,” said Tony, “when you pitched into
+me like that about her giving me the slip, I was
+sort of sore, but I knew you were right, too. So
+I gave you the slip, in my turn, and chased over to
+her hotel. I wasn’t at all sure she’d see me, but I
+thought I’d try it on anyhow, and she sent down
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[152]</span>word I was to come up. She wore a kimono thing,
+and looked like an angel——” He paused in fatuous
+reflection.</p>
+
+<p>“Get on, you young fool!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison’s tone was the sharper because he himself
+admired Miss Templeton rather more than was
+wholly consistent with the traditions of a cold-blooded
+detective.</p>
+
+<p>So Tony went on: “She seemed to know that there
+had been something wrong at the theater; that impressed
+me at once. The moment I came into the
+room, she said: ‘Something has happened to him?’
+I told her about it, and she just sat for a moment
+or two looking straight in front of her. She looked—strange,
+and awfully white and tired and—sort
+of young. After a while she said: ‘Thank Heaven
+it wasn’t I’—just that way. Then she asked some
+questions——”</p>
+
+<p>“What sort of questions?” interrupted Barrison,
+who was looking at the floor, and had let his cigarette
+go out.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, the usual thing: Who was behind at the
+time, and whether any one was suspected, and—she
+made rather a point of this—where Miss Legaye was
+when it happened.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know; she’s always harped on that.” Barrison
+frowned impatiently, yet he was thinking as hard
+as he knew how to think. “Anything else, Tony?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; she asked me to give you this.”</p>
+
+<p>Tony took a small unsealed envelope out of his
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[153]</span>waistcoat pocket and handed it over. “She said it
+was important,” he added; “that’s why I insisted
+on coming in to-night.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison read his note, and then looked up. “Do
+you know what this is?” he said.</p>
+
+<p>The boy flushed indignantly. “Good heavens,
+Jim!” he exclaimed. “You don’t suppose I read
+other people’s letters? She just gave it to me to
+bring, and I brought it, that’s all.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison smiled at him, with a warm feeling
+round his heart. “That’s all right, Tony,” he said
+kindly, “and you’re all right, too! You’d better look
+at it.” He held it out.</p>
+
+<p>Tony shook his head. “If there’s anything in it
+you want to tell me, fire ahead!” he said stoutly.
+“I—I haven’t any particular reason for seeing it, you
+know.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison understood him, and smiled again. “I’ll
+read it to you, then,” he said, and read:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>“<span class="smcap">My Dear Mr. Barrison</span>: I have just heard, though
+scarcely with surprise, I admit, of Mr. Mortimer’s death.
+It has shocked me very much, I find, even though it was
+the sort of tragedy that was bound to come sooner or later.
+I cannot pretend complete indifference to it, nor yet indifference
+to the conviction of his murderer. I am going to
+assume that you really want any sort of help, from any
+source, in solving this mystery. Though you refused to help
+me once, I am ready to help you now in whatever way I
+can, and I believe that my help may be worth more than
+you are now prepared to see. I knew Alan Mortimer
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[154]</span>rather well; it is possible that I can throw light upon certain
+phases in his life of which you are still ignorant. I
+promise nothing, for I do not yet know how valuable my
+testimony may prove. But—will you lunch with me at
+one o’clock to-morrow—or, rather, to-day—at my hotel?
+And meanwhile, if you will forgive me for reiterating the
+suspicion I once suggested to you, you can hardly do better
+than look up Miss Kitty Legaye, and get her views on the
+murder. Far be it for me to suggest a course of action to
+an expert detective like yourself, but—if Miss Legaye left
+the theater early, she would hardly be likely to learn of the
+tragedy until she got the morning papers. Don’t you think
+that it would be interesting to forestall them, and yourself
+be the one to break the news to her? Just suppose that you
+found it was not precisely ‘news’ after all!</p>
+
+<p>“If I do not hear from you, I shall expect you for luncheon
+at one. Sincerely yours,</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+“<span class="smcap">Grace Templeton</span>.”
+</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Jim Barrison automatically registered the fact that
+the writing was not that of the threatening letters,
+and sat still staring at the sheet after he had read
+it aloud. His brain was in a whirl of excitement.
+The words which he had just read seemed, in the
+very utterance of them, to have taken on a vitality,
+a meaning, that they had not had in the first place.</p>
+
+<p>One could read such a communication in more
+ways than one; at present he could read it only as a
+curious and inscrutable message, or inspiration. He
+could not have said just why it seemed to him so
+important, so imperative. He only knew that the
+phrases of it, simple as they were, seemed to fill the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[155]</span>room and echo from wall to wall. Miss Templeton
+herself might have stood before him; he might have
+been listening to her voice.</p>
+
+<p>Tony Clay, poor lad, was looking troubled,
+huddled there in the big chair on the other side of
+the table. He had forgotten to finish his whisky and
+soda, and was staring at Barrison in a queer, uncomfortable
+way.</p>
+
+<p>“I say, Jim!” he burst out at last, desperate
+through his shyness. “You’re looking not a bit like
+yourself. What’s the matter? That note doesn’t
+sound so very important, now I hear it, and yet, to
+look at you, one would say you’d received a message
+from the tomb.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison laughed. “I haven’t!” he said lightly.
+“But I have received a tip. Just a plain, ordinary,
+every-day sort of tip! And I’m going to follow it,
+too! How much sleep do you need, Tony?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony considered. “Four will do me,” he said judicially.</p>
+
+<p>“You’ll get five. It’s three o’clock now. At eight
+you’ll be ready for business; at eight thirty we’ll be
+at Miss Kitty Legaye’s door. It may be a pipe
+dream, but I’ve taken kindly to the notion of announcing
+the news of Mortimer’s death in person!
+Now tumble in on that couch there, and don’t dare
+to speak again until eight in the morning!”</p>
+
+<p>As he fell asleep, he was still repeating the pregnant
+words: “Just suppose that you found it was
+not precisely ‘news’ after all!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XV">CHAPTER XV</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">A MORNING CALL</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">MISS LEGAYE lived at a very smart little hotel
+near Fifth Avenue. It was not one of the
+strictly “theatrical” hostelries, since Kitty had always
+had leanings toward social correctness. But
+the house was patronized by so many actresses of
+exactly the same predilections that it could not help
+being run with an indulgent and sagacious understanding
+of their tastes and peculiarities, and might
+almost as well have been one of the just-off-Broadway
+variety.</p>
+
+<p>When Barrison and Tony Clay presented themselves
+at the “Golden Arms” at twenty minutes after
+eight in the morning, they found the hotel barely
+awake. The clerk who had just come on duty at
+the desk eyed them with surliness and distaste. The
+very electric lights, turned on perforce, because of
+the outrageous dinginess of the morning, seemed to
+glare at them with disfavor. Bell boys looked unrelentingly
+cross; a messenger boy was making his
+exit with as much dripping and mud as he could;
+and a departing patron appeared to be becoming
+quarrelsome over a fifteen-cent overcharge.</p>
+
+<p>“Well?” demanded the clerk. He looked frankly
+ugly; ugly in temper as well as in features. He
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[157]</span>could see that they were not incoming guests, for
+they had no luggage; and it was too early for callers
+of any reputable type. He put them down as a
+breed suspicious, being unknown, of neither fish nor
+fowl variety. “<em>Well?</em>” he repeated urgently.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison produced a card. “We would like to see
+Miss Legaye,” he suggested pleasantly.</p>
+
+<p>As he put down the slip of pasteboard on the desk
+counter, his quick eyes noted a bell boy standing at
+the news stand, taking over an armful of assorted
+morning papers. Obviously, the lad was just going
+up to leave them at the doors of the guests; they
+would have to work quickly, he and Tony, if they
+were to get ahead of them.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye,” repeated the clerk. “Miss Legaye.
+Are you guys dippy? Miss Legaye always leaves
+word that she ain’t at home to no one till after
+twelve o’clock. Now beat it!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison sized up the clerk, and decided on his
+course.</p>
+
+<p>“Say, brother,” he murmured, with a confidential
+accent, “we don’t mean to annoy Miss Legaye; we
+want to give her a boost. Get me? We’re reporters,
+and we’re looking for a first-class story. Say, take
+it from me, she’ll be keen to see us if you’ll just
+phone up!”</p>
+
+<p>The slang won his case. The clerk looked at him
+with more respect.</p>
+
+<p>“Say, you’re talking almost like a human being!”
+he remarked. “Want me to phone up for you, eh?”
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[158]</span>He waited a perceptible space. “Times is hard,” he
+declared, in an airy manner, “and phone calls is
+high. Did I hear you say anything?”</p>
+
+<p>“Maybe not me,” said Barrison, who had laid a
+dollar bill on the desk. “But I’ve known money to
+talk before now.”</p>
+
+<p>The clerk actually chuckled. “You’re on,” he
+said, pocketing the bill with a discreet look around
+the almost deserted office. “I’ll phone up!”</p>
+
+<p>He turned around a minute later to inform Barrison
+that Miss Legaye would see him at once.</p>
+
+<p>A few minutes later they were knocking at the
+door of Kitty Legaye’s apartment. Resting against
+the lintel were half a dozen morning papers; clearly
+she had ordered them ahead, in the expectation of
+criticisms of the first night. The indefatigable bell
+boy had been ahead of them, but there was still time
+to rectify that.</p>
+
+<p>The boy who had piloted them had vanished.
+Barrison picked up the whole bundle, and gave them
+a vigorous swing down the corridor. This had
+barely been accomplished when the door opened,
+and an impeccably attired lady’s maid asked them to
+please come in; Miss Legaye would see them in
+a moment.</p>
+
+<p>Kitty’s parlor was like Kitty herself, discreet, yet
+subtly daring; conventional, yet alluring. She had
+made short work of the regulation hotel furnishings,
+and replaced them with trifles of her own, which
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[159]</span>gave the place a dainty and audacious air calculated
+to pique the interest of almost anybody.</p>
+
+<p>One of the modern dark chintzes had been chosen
+by the little lady for her curtains and furniture
+coverings; she also had dared to put cushions of
+cherry color and of black on the chaise longue, and
+futurist posters in vivid oranges and greens upon
+the innocuous drab wall paper. The extreme
+touches had been made delicately, without vulgarity.
+Barrison, who had rather good taste himself, smiled
+as he read in this butterflylike audacity a sort of
+key to little Miss Kitty’s own personality.</p>
+
+<p>She came in almost immediately, and, though Jim
+had never admired her, he was forced to admit to
+himself at that moment that she was very charming
+and quite appealing.</p>
+
+<p>The creamy pallor which was always so effective
+an asset of hers seemed a bit etherealized this morning,
+whether by a sleepless night or the gray, rainy
+light. Her dark hair was pulled straight back from
+her small face, with a rather sweet absence of
+coquetry; or was it, instead, the very quintessence
+of coquetry, brought to a fine art? Her big brown
+eyes were bigger and browner than ever, and her
+slim, almost childish little figure—which looked so
+adorable always in its young-girl frocks before the
+footlights—looked incomparably adorable in a
+straight, severely cut little white wrapper, like the
+robe of an early martyr.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[160]</span></p>
+<p>She came forward to meet them quickly, but
+quite without embarrassment.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison!” she exclaimed, rather breathlessly.
+“What is it? Of course I said I would see
+you at once. I knew you wouldn’t come without
+some good reason. What do you want of me?”</p>
+
+<p>Her eyes were as clear as the brown pools in a
+spring brook, and Barrison felt suddenly ashamed
+of himself and—almost—wroth with Grace Templeton
+for putting him up to this.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye,” he said, with some hesitation, “I
+am already calling myself all sorts of names for
+having aroused you at this unearthly hour. And
+you were not well, too.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, that headache!” she said. “That is all gone
+now! I got to bed early, and had a really decent
+sleep for once, so I am in good shape this morning!
+But—what <em>did</em> you want to see me about?”</p>
+
+<p>Just as Barrison was trying to find words in
+which to answer her properly, the maid spoke from
+the doorway:</p>
+
+<p>“You told me to take in the papers, miss, but
+there’s none there.”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty turned in astonishment. “Not there! But
+they always leave them at eight, and I particularly
+said that I wanted all of them this morning. That’s
+funny! Never mind; you can go down to the stand
+and get them, and Mr. Barrison can tell me what I
+want to know first of all. Oh, Mr. Barrison, tell me
+about last night! Did it all go off as well as it
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[161]</span>seemed to be going when I left?” She looked with
+honest eagerness into his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison felt most uncomfortable, but he forced
+himself to say steadily: “Have you really not heard
+anything about what happened last night, Miss
+Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>If it were possible to turn paler, she turned paler
+then; and her eyes seemed to darken, as though with
+dread; yet there was nothing in her look but what
+might come from honest fear of the unknown.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison! What is it that you are trying to
+make me think? What do you mean? Oh—<em>oh</em>!”
+She drew in her breath sharply. “Is that what it
+means? Is that what you came here for—to—tell
+me something? Is that it, Mr. Barrison?”</p>
+
+<p>Her eyes pleaded with him, looking earnestly out
+of her little white face. She looked a butterfly no
+longer; rather, a tired and frightened little girl.
+“Won’t you tell me what it all means?” she begged.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye,” Jim said gently, “there was a
+tragedy last night at the theater after you left.”</p>
+
+<p>“A tragedy?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; there was—a murder.”</p>
+
+<p>She stared at him, as though she did not yet
+understand. “A murder?”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye, I see it is a shock to you, but you
+must hear it from some one; you might as well
+hear it from me. Mr. Mortimer was shot last night
+during the last act, and is dead.”</p>
+
+<p>She shrieked—a thin, high, deadly shriek, which
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[162]</span>rang long in the ears of the two men. Her face
+grew smaller, sharper; she beat the air with her
+hands. The maid ran to her.</p>
+
+<p>News? Oh, Heaven, yes! There was no question
+of this being news to her; it was news that was
+coming close to killing her.</p>
+
+<p>“Say that again!” she managed to say, in a slow,
+thick utterance that sounded immeasurably strange
+from her lips. “Alan Mortimer was murdered?
+You said that? You are sure of it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Miss Legaye.”</p>
+
+<p>She flung up her hands wildly, and fainted dead
+away.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVI">CHAPTER XVI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">A SCARLET EVENING COAT</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">IT was a real faint. They had a good bit of difficulty
+in getting her out of it.</p>
+
+<p>There wasn’t much room in Jim Barrison’s mind
+for anything except self-reproach. He <em>knew</em> that
+the tidings of Mortimer’s murder had come upon
+Kitty Legaye like a stroke of lightning. She had
+no more been prepared for it than she would have
+been prepared for the end of the world. He had
+an idea that the end of the world would, as a general
+proposition, have affected her much less. Barrison
+was no new hand, and not too soft-hearted or
+gullible; and he knew that what he had looked upon
+that morning was sheer, absolute shock and grief,
+unlooked for, terrible, devastating.</p>
+
+<p>Poor little Kitty, with all her frivolities, had bigness
+in her. As she struggled back into the gray
+world, she obviously tried to straighten up and
+steady herself. The terror was all the time at the
+back of her brown eyes, but she was doing her best
+to be game, to be, as she herself would have expressed
+it, “a good sport.”</p>
+
+<p>Of course, she wanted particulars, and he gave
+them to her, feeling like a pickpocket all the time.
+Papers were obtained, and she was induced to take
+coffee with brandy in it, and—at last—she broke
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[164]</span>down and cried, which was what every one had
+been praying for since the beginning.</p>
+
+<p>Probably never in his clear-cut, well-established
+career had Jim Barrison experienced what he was
+experiencing now: The sense that he had brought
+unnecessary suffering upon an innocent person, and
+brought it in a peculiarly merciless and unsportsmanlike
+way. He felt savage when he thought of
+that “tip” of Miss Templeton’s—or did he, really?
+He was obliged to confess to himself that, where she
+was concerned, he would be almost sure to discover
+approximately extenuating circumstances!</p>
+
+<p>It was partly to soothe his own aching conscience
+that Jim forced himself to ask a few perfunctory
+questions.</p>
+
+<p>“You don’t mind?” he asked Kitty.</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally I don’t,” she said, trying not to cry,
+and choking down coffee. “You’ve been awfully
+kind, Mr. Barrison. If there’s anything I can do to
+help, please let me. You know”—she looked at him
+in a sudden, piteous way—“I had expected to marry
+Mr. Mortimer. Maybe you can guess what all this
+means to me? Will you tell me what you wanted
+to know?”</p>
+
+<p>“For one thing,” he said, “we want to establish
+as nearly as we can when the murderer—the murderess,
+as we think it was—entered the theater.
+Old Roberts says that he went out through the
+alley to the street to get you a taxi——”</p>
+
+<p>“Dear old thing!” she whispered.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[165]</span></p>
+<p>“Yes; he is a nice old sort. He made it very clear
+that it was only his devotion to you that induced
+him to leave his post. Well, it seems almost certain
+that some one passed him, and perhaps you, in the
+alley last night. You don’t remember seeing even a
+shadow that might be suspicious?”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head thoughtfully.</p>
+
+<p>“No, I don’t,” she said. “But I was in a hurry,
+and wasn’t looking out for anything of that sort.
+Roberts knows I was in a hurry?” She spoke
+quickly.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes. He says you were in a hurry, and not
+feeling well. The point is, did you see anything at
+all on your way to the taxi?”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing. I was only thinking of getting home
+and to bed; it had been a horrid evening.”</p>
+
+<p>Now, of course, the obvious thing for Jim Barrison
+to do then was to take his leave. More, it was
+manifestly the only decent thing for him to do. He
+had proved conclusively that Kitty had not expected
+the news of Mortimer’s murder; in addition,
+she had declared that she had noticed no one on
+her way out to the taxi the night before. On the
+face of it, there was nothing further to be found out
+here. And yet, after he had got to his feet and taken
+up his hat, he lingered. As a matter of fact, he
+never was able, in looking back afterward, to tell
+just what insane impulse made him blurt out suddenly:</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye, you were wearing a red wrap last
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[166]</span>night, weren’t you? Something quite bright,
+scarlet?”</p>
+
+<p>She looked up at him faintly surprised. “Why,
+yes,” she answered, “you saw it yourself, just as I
+was going out.”</p>
+
+<p>Jim hesitated, and then said something still more
+crazy: “Would you—do you very much mind letting
+me see it—now?”</p>
+
+<p>She stared at him in undisguised astonishment.
+“Certainly,” she said, rather blankly. “Celine, will
+you bring my red evening coat, please?”</p>
+
+<p>The maid did so at once; it flamed there in the
+gray light of that rainy morning like some monstrous
+scarlet poppy. Barrison lifted a shimmering,
+brilliant fold, and looked at it.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s a gorgeous color!” he said, rather irrelevantly.</p>
+
+<p>“Scarlet!” whispered Kitty, in a strange tone.
+“And to think I was wearing <em>that</em> last night. I do
+not believe that I shall ever feel like wearing scarlet
+again! You are going, Mr. Barrison?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; you have been very patient with me, and
+very forgiving for having been the bearer of such
+bad news. Good-by. I won’t even try to express
+the sympathy——”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t; I understand. Mr. Barrison, <em>why</em> did you
+want to see this coat?”</p>
+
+<p>“It was just an impulse!” he declared quickly.
+“You forgive me for that, too?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[167]</span></p>
+<p>She bent her head without speaking, and the two
+men went away.</p>
+
+<p>“Tony,” said Jim Barrison, when they were in the
+street once more, facing the wet blast, “it’s no lie
+to say that facts are misleading.”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s no lie to say they very often mislead <em>you</em>!”
+retorted Tony, somewhat acidly. He felt the loss
+of sleep more and more, and was fretful. Also,
+he was hungry. “What wild-goose chase are you
+off on now?”</p>
+
+<p>“None; I’m going round in circles.”</p>
+
+<p>“You said it!”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s a fact,” continued Barrison, unheeding,
+“that the little woman back there was genuinely
+shocked and upset by hearing of Mortimer’s death.”</p>
+
+<p>“Rather!”</p>
+
+<p>“But it is also a fact—also a fact, Tony—that
+that evening coat of hers is damp this morning, and
+it didn’t begin to rain till after midnight!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVII">CHAPTER XVII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">BLIND TRAILS</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">MIND you,” Barrison went on hastily, “there are
+a hundred explanations of a thing like that; it
+isn’t, strictly speaking, evidence at all. Only—I
+couldn’t help noticing! Now, Tony, I want you to go
+home and go to bed—see?”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s lucky you do!” said Tony.</p>
+
+<p>“Shut up! Go to bed and sleep your fool head off;
+and then—get back there to the Golden Arms, and
+find out who saw Miss Legaye come in last night;
+what time it was, whether she seemed excited, and—<em>what
+she wore</em>! That last is the most important.
+Make up to the maid. You can bribe, torture, or
+make love to her; I don’t care which. Only find out
+everything you can. Get me?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony grunted, and departed.</p>
+
+<p>Jim turned his face toward Forty-fourth Street.
+He knew that John Carlton usually breakfasted at
+the Lambs’ Club, and he needed his help. Also, he
+thought tenderly of the prospect of a mixed grill.
+Barrison could get along with very little sleep, when
+he was on a case, but he had to have food. Carlton
+was at breakfast, devouring, with about equally
+divided attention, bacon and eggs and the morning
+papers. He welcomed Jim with much excitement
+and a flood of slang.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[169]</span></p>
+<p>“Well, what do you know about this, Barrison?
+I can’t seem to get a line on myself to-day. Am I
+the whole cheese, or am I an also ran? Do I stack
+up as the one best bet, or do I crawl into a hole
+and pull the hole in after me? Sit down!”</p>
+
+<p>“Talk English!” suggested Barrison good-naturedly
+as he obeyed. “Order me some breakfast, first,
+and then tell me what you’re talking about.”</p>
+
+<p>Carlton, having with difficulty been prevented
+from ordering a meal adequate to the needs of a
+regiment on march, condescended to translate his
+emotions.</p>
+
+<p>“You see, it’s this way,” he explained, munching
+toast and marmalade. “That poor guy going out
+like that—I never liked him, but it was a rotten
+way to finish, and I’d like to broil whoever did it
+alive—leaves me, so to speak, guessing. My play is
+off, for the present anyway, and I’ve been spending
+my royalties already. On the other hand, I’m getting
+some simply priceless advertising! Everybody
+will be after me, I guess, and all the beautiful leading
+men will be thirsting to play the part in which
+poor Mortimer achieved eternal fame by getting
+killed. I may sound flippant, but I’m not; it’s the
+only way I can express myself—except on paper!
+Now, where do I get off? Am I a racing car or a
+flivver?”</p>
+
+<p>“You’ll probably find out soon enough,” Jim told
+him. “Meanwhile, I want your help.”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing doing!” said Carlton energetically.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[170]</span>“Meanwhile, I want yours! I can live just long
+enough for you to drink that cup of coffee without
+talking, but after that it’s only a matter of seconds
+before I cash in, if you don’t tell me everything
+that happened last night. Beastly of you and the
+governor not to let me back, so I could be in on
+what was doing.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison told him what had happened. He was
+not too completely communicative, however; he
+liked the playwright, and had no reason to distrust
+him, but he knew that this case was likely to be
+a big one, and a hard one, and he had no mind
+to take outsiders into his confidence unless it was
+strictly necessary.</p>
+
+<p>“And now,” he said, “I’ve done my part, and, I
+hope, saved you from an early grave shared by the
+cat who died of curiosity. Come across, and do
+yours!”</p>
+
+<p>Carlton grinned. “Talking slang so as to make
+yourself intelligible to my inferior intelligence? All
+right; fire away! What can I do for you?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison told him that he wanted to find out about
+a wild West show called by the name of its manager,
+Blinkey or Blankey.</p>
+
+<p>Carlton scowled at him wonderingly. “Now, what
+sort of a game’s that?” he demanded. “What has a
+wild West show to do with my perfectly good
+play——”</p>
+
+<p>“Never mind. Can you find out for me?”</p>
+
+<p>The writer shook his head.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[171]</span></p>
+<p>“Not in a million years. I don’t know anything
+about the profession except where it happens to hit
+me. Why don’t you tackle the governor? He knows
+everything and everybody.”</p>
+
+<p>“I may yet. But it isn’t anything that really concerns
+him. And I don’t imagine he’s very cheery
+this morning.”</p>
+
+<p>“I believe that little thing! It’s beastly hard
+lines for him! Tell you what I’ll do, Barrison. I’ll
+give you a card to Ted Lucas. He’s a decent sort of
+chap, on the dramatic department of the New York
+<cite>Blaze</cite>. If he can’t help you, maybe there’ll be
+some one in his office who can.”</p>
+
+<p>“Thanks. That’s just what I want.”</p>
+
+<p>Armed with the card, Barrison said good-by and
+departed. He met two or three men whom he knew
+on his way out. One and all were talking about
+the murder. He was not known to have any connection
+with the case, so he escaped being held up
+for particulars, but he heard enough to show him
+that this was going to be the sensation of the whole
+theatrical world.</p>
+
+<p>It was not yet ten o’clock, and Dukane would
+not be in his office, so he went downtown to hunt
+up Ted Lucas in the roaring offices of the <cite>Blaze</cite>.</p>
+
+<p>He had to wait a bit, with the deafening clatter
+of typewriters, and the jangle of telephones beating
+about his ears. Then a keen-faced but very quiet
+young man rather foppishly dressed, and with
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[172]</span>sleek hair which looked as though it had been
+applied with a paint brush, appeared.</p>
+
+<p>“I’m Lucas,” he explained politely. “Wanted to
+see me?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison knew reporters pretty well, and this
+one was typical. The detective wasted as few
+words as possible, but stated what he was after.
+Lucas shook his head doubtfully.</p>
+
+<p>“Never heard of any such show,” he said. “I’ll
+have a look at the files, though. My chief is
+rather a shark for keeping records of past performances.
+Will you look in a bit later—or phone?”</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll phone,” said Barrison, preparing to leave.
+He had not expected any rapid results, yet he felt
+vaguely disappointed. Or was it because he was
+tired? “See here,” he said impulsively. “You
+cover a lot of theatrical assignments, don’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Quite a lot,” said the reporter indifferently,
+eying him.</p>
+
+<p>“Isn’t there anything playing here in town now
+with a—a wild West feature? Anything that includes
+a shooting stunt, or cowboy atmosphere, or—or
+that?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison could not help clinging to that faint
+clew concerning Mortimer’s connection with the
+“daredevil” outfit, out West.</p>
+
+<p>Ted Lucas considered. “Why, no,” he said. “I
+don’t know of any. You wouldn’t mean a single
+act, like Ritz the Daredevil, would you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Ritz the Daredevil!” Barrison leaped at the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[173]</span>name. Of course, it might be nonsense, but there
+was something that looked like just the shadow
+of a coincidence. “Who is she?”</p>
+
+<p>“Just a crack shot, a girl who plays at a bum
+vaudeville theater this week. I don’t know why she
+calls herself a ‘daredevil.’ It isn’t such a daring
+stunt to shoot at a target. But she’s clever with a
+gun, I understand. I’m to ‘cover’ her act to-night.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison thought quickly. It was only the ghost
+of a trail, but——</p>
+
+<p>“You’re going to see her to-night?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. Going to see the show from the front
+and interview her afterward. She’s through with
+her stunt, I hear, about nine thirty. It isn’t a usual
+thing, but Coyne—who owns the theater—has a
+bit of a pull with us; advertising, you know; and
+we usually give one of his acts a write-up every
+week.”</p>
+
+<p>“Might I come along?”</p>
+
+<p>“You? Sure thing! But I warn you, it’ll be
+an awful thing! It’s one of those continuous affairs.
+Well, have it your own way. If you’ll meet me
+at the theater, I can get you in on my pass.
+Eight?”</p>
+
+<p>“Eight it is.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison waited for directions as to the whereabouts
+of Coyne’s Music Hall, of which he had
+never heard, and took his departure. He went
+into a telephone booth to call up Lowry, but found
+that the inspector would not be at his office until
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[174]</span>the afternoon. Then he went uptown again, and,
+taking a deep breath and a big brace with it,
+went to call on Max Dukane.</p>
+
+<p>He had no real reason for dreading an interview
+with him; the manager had always been most
+courteous to him. Yet he did feel a shade of
+apprehension. Something told him that the Dukane
+of yesterday would not be quite the Dukane of
+to-day. And it wasn’t only the tragedy which had
+brought him so much financial loss which was to
+be considered. Ever since Willie Coster had intimated
+that Dukane had a secret reason for keeping
+dark the conditions under which he had come across
+Mortimer, Barrison had felt uneasy in regard to
+him. He had always recognized in the manager a
+man of immense power and authority. If he had
+a sufficient reason, he could guess that he would be
+immensely unscrupulous as well.</p>
+
+<p>However, at a little after half past eleven o’clock,
+he presented himself at the great man’s office.</p>
+
+<p>This time, though there were half a dozen people
+ahead of him, he did not have to wait at all. The
+fact surprised him, but when he had been admitted
+to Dukane’s presence, he understood it better. He
+had been thus speedily summoned in order to be
+the more speedily dismissed.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello, Barrison,” said Dukane crisply. “Anything
+I can do for you?”</p>
+
+<p>He sat at his desk like an iron image; his face
+was hard and cold. He did not look so much
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[175]</span>angry as stern. It was clear that, in his own stony
+fashion, he had flung yesterday into the discard,
+and was not any too pleased to be reminded of it.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was not asked to sit down, so stood
+by the desk, feeling rather like a small boy reporting
+to his teacher.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Mr. Dukane,” he said quietly, “there is.
+I’ve come about the case.”</p>
+
+<p>“Case?”</p>
+
+<p>“The murder of Alan Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane raised his heavy eyebrows. “I am not
+interested in it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Dukane, I can scarcely believe that. Mortimer
+was your star, under your management; I
+should imagine that the disaster to him must concern
+you very closely.”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane laid down a paper cutter which he had
+been holding in his hand.</p>
+
+<p>“Concern me?” he said, in a hard, disagreeable
+tone. “Yes, it does concern me. It concerns me
+to the tune of several thousands of dollars. The
+part was especially worked up for him; there is no
+one available to take it at a moment’s notice. But
+there my concern begins and ends. So far as his
+murderer goes——”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, that is what we are chiefly interested in.”</p>
+
+<p>“<em>I</em> am not interested in it. Mortimer was an
+investment, so far as I was concerned. It is an
+investment which has failed. I have other things
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[176]</span>to think of that seem to me more important—and
+more profitable.”</p>
+
+<p>“But you engaged me, professionally, to——”</p>
+
+<p>“You will receive your check.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison flushed indignantly. “Mr. Dukane! You
+cannot think I meant that. But if you were sufficiently
+interested to engage me——”</p>
+
+<p>Dukane raised his hand and stopped him. “Barrison,”
+he said, in short, clear-cut accents, “let us
+understand each other. I engaged you to keep Alan
+Mortimer alive. Alive, he was worth a good deal
+to me. Dead, he is worth nothing. I was perfectly
+willing to pay to protect my property; but having
+lost it, I wash my hands of the matter.”</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t you really want to see his murderer
+brought to justice?”</p>
+
+<p>“I really care nothing about it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then you are not even willing to help the authorities?”</p>
+
+<p>“Help?” The manager raised his head haughtily,
+and stared at him with cold eyes. “What have I to
+do with it? What should I have to say that could
+help?”</p>
+
+<p>“You might tell us something about Mr. Mortimer’s
+life—something that could point toward a
+possible enemy. You know as well as I do that
+when a man dies under such circumstances, it
+is necessary for the officers engaged on the case
+to know as much of his life and antecedents as
+possible. In this case, no one seems to know
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[177]</span>anything except you, Mr. Dukane. That’s why I am
+obliged to come to you.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know nothing about his life, nor about his
+antecedents. I picked him up in a Western town,
+stranded, after his show had gone to pieces.”</p>
+
+<p>“What was the name of the show?”</p>
+
+<p>“I haven’t the faintest idea. Now, if you will
+be good enough to let me get on with my morning’s
+business——”</p>
+
+<p>“I shall certainly do so,” said Barrison quietly,
+as he turned away. “But I must warn you, Mr.
+Dukane, that I believe you are making a mistake.
+The detective force will find out what they have to
+find out. If you have any reason——”</p>
+
+<p>“Reason?”</p>
+
+<p>“I say, if you have any reason for wanting them
+not to do so, you would do much better to forestall
+them, and give them your help frankly to begin
+with.”</p>
+
+<p>“Is that all?”</p>
+
+<p>“That is quite all, Mr. Dukane.”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well, Barrison. As I say, you will receive
+your check in due time. Barrison——”</p>
+
+<p>The detective turned at the door, and waited for
+him to go on. Dukane was sitting with his head
+somewhat bent; after a moment he lifted it, and
+said, in a gentler tone than he had used before
+during the interview:</p>
+
+<p>“I have given you the impression of being a
+hard man. It is a truthful impression; I am a hard
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[178]</span>man. I should not be where I am to-day, had I
+not been hard, very hard. But if I have spoken
+to you with bitterness, you will remember, please,
+that I feel no bitterness toward you. I like you,
+on the contrary. But in my life there is no place
+for individual likes or dislikes. Long ago, I decided
+to play a great game for great stakes. I have won
+at that game; I shall continue to win. Nothing else
+counts with me; nothing! That is all. Good-by,
+Barrison!”</p>
+
+<p>“Good-by, sir,” the younger man said, and went
+out of the big, rich, inner office, where even the
+noise and bustle of the world came softly, lest
+anything disturb the imperious brain brooding and
+planning at the desk.</p>
+
+<p>It was in a very sober mood that Barrison reached
+Miss Templeton’s hotel at luncheon time, and sent
+up his card.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XVIII">CHAPTER XVIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">MISS TEMPLETON AT HOME</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">I THOUGHT you’d just as lief have lunch up
+here,” said Miss Templeton.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison looked at her as though he had never
+seen her before. Indeed, he was not sure that he
+ever had.</p>
+
+<p>It is an experience not unknown to most of us,
+that of finding ourselves confronting some one or
+something long familiar, as we thought, but presented
+all at once in a new guise. From the first,
+Jim had felt in Miss Templeton a personality deeper
+and truer than would be superficially descried
+through her paint and powder and conspicuous
+dresses. But, so far, his idea of her had had to
+be more or less theoretical and instinctive; he had
+not had very much to go by.</p>
+
+<p>To-day, and for the first time, he saw in the
+flesh the woman whom he had half unconsciously
+idealized in the spirit: a very sweet, rather shy
+woman, whose starry eyes and clear skin looked
+the more strikingly lovely for being, to-day, unassisted
+by artifice.</p>
+
+<p>She wore a nunlike gray frock, and her splendid
+gold hair was simply arranged. It would be hard
+to imagine a greater contrast than that which she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[180]</span>presented with the Woman in Purple of but a
+brief fortnight ago.</p>
+
+<p>Her parlor was a further surprise. Unconsciously,
+he found himself remembering Kitty Legaye’s
+dainty and bizarre apartment, and comparing the
+two. Who would have dreamed that it was in
+such surroundings as these that this woman would
+choose to live?</p>
+
+<p>She had not, like Kitty, transformed her apartment
+with stuffs and ornamentations. Her individuality
+had somehow transfused itself through everything,
+superior to trappings or furnishings. She
+had left the room very much as it must have been
+when she took it. The curtains and the carpets
+were the same that the hotel manager had put
+there; but they seemed somehow of secondary importance.
+On that drab regulation background she
+had contrived to paint herself and what she lived
+for in colors that were, while subdued, unmistakable.
+No one could enter there without knowing
+that he was in the sanctum of a personality.</p>
+
+<p>First and foremost, there were books; books on
+shelves, on the table, books everywhere. And they
+were not best sellers either, if one could judge by
+their plain heavy bindings.</p>
+
+<p>“Italian history,” she said, seeing him glance
+curiously at a title. “I take up wild fads from
+time to time, and read about nothing else until the
+subject is exhausted, or until I am! At present I
+spend my time in the company of the Medici!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[181]</span></p>
+<p>He thought that she was the last woman on
+earth whom he would expect to care for such things,
+but that was to be the least of his surprises. All
+her books sounded one persistent note, romance,
+adventure, a passionate love for and yearning after
+the beautiful, the thrilling, the emotional in life.
+There were books of folklore and legends, medieval
+tales and modern essays on strange, far lands more
+full of color and wonder than ours. There were
+translations from different tongues, there were volumes
+full of Eastern myths, and others of sea
+tales and stories of the vast prairies and the Barbary
+Coast. There was not a single popular novel
+among them all. Every one was a treasure box
+of romance.</p>
+
+<p>The pictures which she had collected to adorn
+her rooms were equally self-revealing. They ranged
+from photographs and engravings to Japanese
+prints; more than one looked as though it had
+come from a colored supplement. Here, again, the
+message was invariably adventurous or romantic.</p>
+
+<p>Miss Templeton smiled as she saw her guest’s
+bewildered look.</p>
+
+<p>“It’s a queer assortment, isn’t it?” she said.
+“But I can’t stand the flat, polite-looking things
+that people pretend to admire. Things have to be
+alive, to <em>call</em> me, somehow!”</p>
+
+<p>All at once, it seemed to Jim that he had the
+keynote to her character. It was vitality. She was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[182]</span>superbly alive—with the vivid faults as well as the
+vivid advantages of intense life.</p>
+
+<p>Luncheon was served at once, and it proved almost
+as cosmopolitan in its items as the rest of
+Miss Templeton’s appurtenances. She had ordered
+soft-shell crabs to begin with, because she said
+that for the first twenty-five years of her life
+she had never had a chance to taste them, and
+now, since she could, she was making up for lost
+time, and ate them every day! With truly feminine
+logic, she had made her next course broiled ham
+and green corn, because she had been brought up
+on them in the Middle West. She had a new
+kind of salad she had recently heard of, solely
+because it <em>was</em> new; and she finished with chocolate
+ice cream for the reason, as she explained, that
+chocolate ice cream had always been her idea of
+a party, and when she wanted to feel very grand,
+she made a point of having it.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was no fool where women were concerned;
+he knew that she was purposely making
+herself attractive to him, and he knew that she
+was sufficiently fascinating to be dangerous. Her
+unexpectedness alone would make her interesting
+to a man of his type. But he could usually keep
+his head; he proposed to keep it now. So far as
+playing the game went, he was not altogether a
+bad hand at it himself, and Miss Templeton, he imagined,
+was not precisely a young or unsophisticated
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[183]</span>village maid. That there was danger merely made
+it the more exhilarating.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison,” she said at last, “of course you
+are asking yourself what it is that I have to tell
+you—why, in short, I asked you to lunch to-day.”</p>
+
+<p>“I am asking myself nothing at the present moment,”
+he returned promptly, “except why, by the
+favor of the gods, I should be playing in such
+extraordinary luck! But, of course, I’ll be interested
+in anything you have to tell me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” she said slowly. “I think you probably
+will be interested. You’ll forgive me if I begin
+with a little—a very little—personal history? It
+won’t be the ‘story of my life,’ don’t be frightened!
+But it’s essential to what I want to tell you afterward.”</p>
+
+<p>“Please tell me anything and everything you care
+to,” he begged her, with the air of grave attention
+which a woman always delights to see in a man
+to whom she is speaking.</p>
+
+<p>She sat, her chin resting on her clasped hands;
+her eyes abstracted, fixed on nothing tangible that
+he could see, as she spoke:</p>
+
+<p>“You understand me a little better now, seeing
+me at home—in as much of a home as I can have—among
+the books and pictures that I love, don’t
+you? Never mind; perhaps you don’t. Though I
+don’t think I’m very hard to understand. I’m just
+a woman who’s always been hunting for something
+that——”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[184]</span></p>
+<p>“The Blue Bird of Happiness?” he suggested
+gently. “You’ve read it, of course?”</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally—and loved it. But—I don’t imagine
+that <em>I</em> could ever find my Blue Bird at home, as
+they did. It would have to be in some very far
+place, I’m sure, only to be won after tremendous
+effort!”</p>
+
+<p>“After all, that Blue Bird they found at home
+flew away as soon as it was found!” he reminded
+her. “I can see that you hear the call of adventure
+more clearly than most people. Have you always
+dreamed of the ‘strange roads?’ Or has it been a
+part of—growing up?”</p>
+
+<p>“You were going to say ‘growing older!’” she
+said, with a faint smile. “I think I’ve always been
+so. I seem always to have been struggling away
+from where I was—rotten, discontented nature,
+isn’t it? Will you hand me those cigarettes,
+please?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison proffered his own case, and she took and
+lighted one with a grave, almost a dreamy air. “You
+see,” she said, “I was brought up in a deadly little
+Illinois town. While I was still practically a baby,
+I got married. He was a vaudeville performer,
+and to me quite a glorious personage. The girls
+I knew thought so, too. He was better looking
+than any drummer who’d been there, and had
+better manners than the clerk at the drug store,
+who was the village beau.”</p>
+
+<p>She spoke calmly, without sentiment, yet she did
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[185]</span>not sound cynical; her manner was too simple for
+that.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I didn’t find the Blue Bird <em>there</em>. I found
+nothing in that marriage with a glimmer of happiness
+in it, until I came in sight of the divorce
+court. That looked to me like the gate of heaven!
+Then I went into the movies.”</p>
+
+<p>“The movies! I never knew that.”</p>
+
+<p>“No, of course not. No one knows it. It’s all
+right to advertise leaving the legitimate stage for
+the screen; but if you’ve come the other way, and
+graduated from the screen to the stage, you’re not
+nearly so likely to tell the press man. Anyway,
+I was in an old-style picture company—I’m talking
+about six years ago—that was working on
+some blood-and-thunder short reels out in Arizona,
+when they hired a bunch of professional cow-punchers
+for some rough Western stuff in a feature
+picture. Alan Mortimer was one of them.”</p>
+
+<p>“Alan Mortimer!”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, or, rather, Morton. He changed his name
+later on.” She looked at him. “Surely you must
+have guessed that I knew him before this engagement—this
+play? How did you suppose that we
+got to be so intimate in two weeks of rehearsals? <em>I</em>
+didn’t spend the summer at Nantucket!”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s where Miss Legaye met him, isn’t it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. She always goes down there, and Dukane
+wanted him to be there while Jack Carlton was—he
+was working on the play, you know. But I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[186]</span>hadn’t maneuvered and worked and planned for
+nothing. I’d got on in my profession, and played
+a few leading parts. I moved heaven and earth
+to get into his company—and I succeeded!”</p>
+
+<p>“You mean—you wanted to see him again?”</p>
+
+<p>Her eyes flashed suddenly. For a second she
+looked fierce and threatening, as she had looked
+that first day in the restaurant.</p>
+
+<p>“Wanted? I had thought of nothing else for five—nearly
+six years! I used to be mad about him,
+you see. He made women feel like that.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know he did.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison spoke naturally enough, but truth to
+tell, he was feeling a bit dazed. The Mortimer
+case was developing in a singular fashion. It was
+like one of those queer little Oriental toys where
+you open box inside box, to find in each case a
+smaller one awaiting you. He wondered whether
+he was ever to get to the end of this affair. The
+further you went in it, the more complicated it
+seemed to get. But she was speaking:</p>
+
+<p>“I was very much in love with him. But I never
+had any illusions as to his real character. He was
+rather a blackguard, in more ways than one. It
+wasn’t only that he treated women badly—or, anyway,
+lightly. He was crooked. I am very sure of
+that. He gambled, and the men in the company
+wouldn’t play with him; they said he didn’t play
+straight. There was one elderly man with a
+daughter, who was his particular crony; they were
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[187]</span>both supposed to be shady in a lot of ways—I
+mean the two men. So far as I know, the girl
+was all right. Evidently they stuck together, too;
+perhaps they had to, knowing too much about each
+other! But I saw the older man at the theater
+two or three times during rehearsals.”</p>
+
+<p>“What did he look like?” demanded Barrison,
+struck with a sudden idea.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, very respectable looking, like so many
+crooks! Elderly, as I say, and thin, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“You surely don’t mean Mortimer’s old valet,
+Wrenn?”</p>
+
+<p>She looked at him in a startled fashion.</p>
+
+<p>“Why, yes, that’s the name. I don’t believe I
+should have remembered it if you hadn’t reminded
+me. The man was Wrenn, I am sure.”</p>
+
+<p>Jim’s pulse was pounding. Light at last, if only
+a glimmer! He was really finding out something
+about Mortimer’s past, really coming upon things
+that might have led up, directly or indirectly, to his
+murder.</p>
+
+<p>“Do you remember anything about the daughter?”
+he asked.</p>
+
+<p>“Not very much. She rode for us in one or two
+scenes, but she was hard to use in the picture.
+I do remember that she was an awfully disagreeable
+sort of girl, and most unpopular. What I
+wanted to tell you particularly was that Mortimer
+had a crooked record behind him, and that at
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[188]</span>least one man near him—this Wrenn—knew it.
+That was one thing. The other——”</p>
+
+<p>But Barrison could not help interrupting.</p>
+
+<p>“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, Miss Templeton!
+This is all tremendously interesting to
+me—more interesting than you can possibly guess!
+It’s just possible that you’ve put me on the clew
+I’ve been looking for. Was there any man in that
+crowd called Blankey, or Blinkey, or anything like
+that?”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head wonderingly.</p>
+
+<p>“Not that I know of,” she said. “But Alan
+had several particular pals, he and Wrenn. One
+of them may have been called that. I don’t know.”</p>
+
+<p>Jim was slightly disappointed, but, after all, he
+had gained a good deal already; he could afford to
+be philosophical and patient.</p>
+
+<p>“And you don’t remember anything about the
+girl at all?” he insisted. “Only that she was disagreeable,
+and could ride?”</p>
+
+<p>“Wait a minute,” said Miss Templeton thoughtfully;
+“I’ve some old snapshots tucked away. There
+ought to be some group with that girl in it.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison smoked three cigarettes in frantic succession
+while she hunted. Finally, she put a little
+kodak photograph in his hand.</p>
+
+<p>“There am I,” she said, “rather in the background,
+dressed up as a beautiful village lass—do
+you see? And that’s Alan. He was handsome,
+wasn’t he?” Her voice was quite steady as she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[189]</span>said it, but it had rather a minor ring. “And there—that
+girl over there in the shirtwaist and habit
+skirt, is Wrenn’s daughter.”</p>
+
+<p>As Barrison looked, he felt as certain as though
+he had seen her with his own eyes, that she—Wrenn’s
+daughter—was the woman who had been
+in Mortimer’s dressing room the night before.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XIX">CHAPTER XIX</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">GLIMMERS IN THE DARKNESS</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">HE raised his eyes to find Miss Templeton regarding
+him from the other side of the table
+with a rather curious expression.</p>
+
+<p>“I had no idea that you would be interested in
+the Wrenn girl,” she said. “I thought that my
+information would point rather toward her father.
+Why are you interested in her?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison hesitated. Charming as he found this
+woman, he had no mind to confide in her just yet.
+He countered with another question, one which
+had, as a matter of fact, trembled on his lips ever
+since he had come into the room. It was an impertinent
+question, and he knew that she would
+have a perfect right to resent it. Yet there was an
+indefinable attitude about her—not familiarity, but
+something suggesting intimacy—when she spoke to
+him, that made him somewhat bolder than his good
+taste could justify.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Templeton,” he said, “you have just told
+me that you cared so much for Alan Mortimer that
+you waited for six years to get in the same company
+with him. I know that only a few days ago
+you were still sufficiently interested in him to
+be——”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[191]</span></p>
+<p>He really did not know how to put it, but she did.</p>
+
+<p>“Jealous?” she suggested promptly, and without
+emotion. “Oh, yes, I was—in a way—insanely
+jealous. You see, it had become an obsession with
+me; I don’t imagine I really loved him any longer,
+but I was being cheated of something I had worked
+for and sacrificed for. Probably, not being a
+woman, you wouldn’t understand.”</p>
+
+<p>“Probably not,” said Jim. “And—will you forgive
+me for adding this?—I understand even less
+your mood to-day. Last night you were deeply
+moved at the play; I saw that. Perhaps”—he
+paused; he did not know whether to speak of the
+revolver or not—“you were even on the verge of—some
+scene—some violent expression of emotion,
+some——”</p>
+
+<p>She glanced at him, startled. “How did you
+know that? But, suppose it were true. Will you
+go on, if you please?”</p>
+
+<p>“No; I am merely offending you.”</p>
+
+<p>“You don’t—offend me.” Her tone was singular.
+“I should really like you to go on. There was
+something else that you did not understand. What
+was it?”</p>
+
+<p>“It is in the present tense,” he answered. “It’s
+something that I cannot understand now. Miss
+Templeton, you have done me the honor of asking
+me here to-day, and of talking to me with a certain
+measure of confidence. You have been most gracious
+and charming, a perfect hostess. I have
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[192]</span>enjoyed myself completely. And yet—last night, the
+man who has occupied your thoughts and, let us
+say, your hopes for years past—was tragically murdered.”</p>
+
+<p>She was silent for a second or two. “Is that
+what you don’t understand?” she demanded
+abruptly.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes. I cannot reconcile the two women I know
+to exist: The angry, passionate, jealous woman
+who looked—excuse me—as though she could have
+done murder herself, a short fortnight ago, and
+the woman who has been talking to me to-day
+about her fruitless quest for the Blue Bird of
+Happiness.”</p>
+
+<p>“I think that is rather stupid of you, then,” she
+answered composedly. “Can’t you see it’s all part
+of the same thing? The quest for love—for the
+unattainable—but, Mr. Barrison, that is something
+else which puzzles you, which, in a way, jars on
+you. I can see it quite well. It is to you a
+strange and rather a horrible thing that I should
+be calm to-day, giving you lunch—and eating it,
+too!—talking of all sorts of things, while he, the
+man I used to be in love with, is lying dead. Isn’t
+that it?”</p>
+
+<p>“That is certainly part of it.”</p>
+
+<p>After a moment, she pushed back her chair and
+rose restlessly.</p>
+
+<p>“No, don’t get up!” she exclaimed, as he, too,
+rose. “Sit still, and let me prowl about as I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[193]</span>choose. I am not used to expressing myself, Mr.
+Barrison, except in my actions. Words always
+bother me, and I never seem able to make myself
+clear in them. Let me see if I can make you
+see this thing, not as I do, but a little less confusedly.
+In the desert, a man sometimes follows
+a mirage for a long time; longs for it, prays for it,
+worships it from afar. He is dying of thirst,
+you see, and his feeling about it is so acute it is
+almost savage. The mirage isn’t real, the water
+that he thinks he sees is just a cloud effect, but
+he wants it, and while he is hunting it, he is not
+entirely sane. One day he finds it is not real. All
+that everlasting journeying for nothing; all that
+thirst for something that never has existed! Men
+do strange things when they find out that the water
+they were traveling toward is nothing but a mirage.
+Some of them kill themselves. But suppose, just
+when that man was losing his reason with the
+disappointment and the weariness—suppose just
+then some traveler, some Good Samaritan, or—just
+a traveler like himself, or—some—never mind!”
+She choked whatever it was that she had meant to
+say. “Suppose, then, some one appears and offers
+him a real gourd of real water! Does he think
+much more about the mirage? He only wonders
+that he ever dreamed and suffered in search for
+it. But—it had taken the sight of the real clear
+water to make him see that the other was just
+a feverish dream.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[194]</span></p>
+<p>She paused in her restless pacing up and down
+the room, and looked at him. “Do you understand
+better now?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” said Barrison flatly. “It is very pretty, and,
+I suppose, symbolic, but I have not the least idea,
+if you will pardon me for saying so, what you are
+driving at.”</p>
+
+<p>“Think it over,” said Miss Templeton, lighting
+another cigarette. “One more touch of symbolism
+for you. Suppose the—traveler—who showed him
+the real gourd of water should spill it, or drink
+it all himself, or—refuse to share it, after all?
+What do you think would be likely to happen
+then?”</p>
+
+<p>“I should think the thirsty man would be quite
+likely to shoot him!” said Jim laughing a little.</p>
+
+<p>She smiled at him. “Ah,” she said, “you see
+you understand more than you pretend. Yes, that’s
+just what might happen——Oh, by the by, Mr.
+Barrison, there was something else that I sent for
+you to say. You know I warned you in regard
+to Kitty Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, but it is out of the question,” said Barrison.
+“I am sure that Mortimer’s murder was
+an overwhelming surprise to her.”</p>
+
+<p>“Maybe so,” she said thoughtfully. “But I am
+sure that, when I rushed out of the theater last
+night in that darkness and confusion, I saw Miss
+Legaye’s face at the window of a taxicab at the
+front of the house.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[195]</span></p>
+<p>“At the front of the house! But that would be
+impossible!”</p>
+
+<p>“I only tell you what I am certain I saw.”</p>
+
+<p>“Would you be prepared to swear that?”</p>
+
+<p>She considered this a moment. “No,” she admitted
+finally. “I would not be prepared to go
+quite as far as that. I felt very sure at the time,
+and I feel almost as sure now. But a glimpse
+like that is sometimes not much to go by. I only
+tell you for what it is worth. And now, Mr.
+Barrison, I have an engagement, and I am going
+to turn you out. You forgive me?”</p>
+
+<p>“I am disposed to forgive you anything,” said
+Jim, with formal gallantry, “after the help you
+have given me—to say nothing of the pleasure I
+have had!”</p>
+
+<p>She made a faint little face at him. “That sounds
+like something on the stage!” she protested. “I
+wish you would think over my—my——”</p>
+
+<p>“Allegory?” he suggested.</p>
+
+<p>“I was going to say my confession. I am sure,
+the more carefully you remember it, the simpler
+it will become. Especially remember your own suggestion
+as to what would happen to the niggardly
+rescuer who might refuse to be a rescuer, after all!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison saw fit to ignore this. He shook hands
+cordially and conventionally.</p>
+
+<p>“Good-by,” he said. “And thanks.”</p>
+
+<p>“Good-by,” she returned briefly.</p>
+
+<p>As he went downstairs, his face was a shade
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[196]</span>hot. There were two reasons for it. For one
+thing, Miss Templeton’s attitude—the allegory of
+the mirage and the gourd of water—what did she
+mean by it? Was it possible that she—that she—Jim
+Barrison was not conceited about women, but
+he could hardly avoid being impressed with a
+subtle flattery in her manner, a flattery dignified
+by what certainly looked like rather touching sincerity.
+And on his part—well, he was not yet
+prepared to tell himself baldly just what he did feel.</p>
+
+<p>Several years ago, Barrison had imagined himself
+in love with a beautiful, heartless girl who
+had baffled him in one of his big cases. She had
+gone out of his life forever, and he had imagined
+himself henceforth immune. Yet this woman, with
+her curious paradoxes of temperament, her extraordinary
+frankness, and her strange reserves, her
+cold-blooded dismissal of a past passion, and her
+emotional yearning for joy and the fullness of
+life—well, he knew in his heart of hearts, whether
+he put it in words or not, that she thrilled him
+as no woman in the world had ever thrilled him yet.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XX">CHAPTER XX</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">CHECKING UP</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">I KNOW that the Wrenn woman probably did it,”
+said Barrison, speaking to Lowry in the inspector’s
+office. “And I’m going to move heaven
+and earth to find her. But I’ve a hunch—a sort of
+theory—that those two women, Miss Templeton and
+Miss Legaye, know more than they’ve told us yet.”</p>
+
+<p>He tried to keep himself from feeling guilty
+when he spoke of Grace Templeton; certainly his
+own reasons for particular interest in her had no
+place in a police investigation, and yet he became
+subtly embarrassed whenever her name came up.</p>
+
+<p>“Never,” said Lowry, smoking his large, black,
+bad cigar, “never have theories. Find out the situation,
+and build your theories into that. You started
+off on the idea that these two women—Templeton
+and Legaye—were mixed up in the business somehow.
+You’ve been chasing ’round, worrying about
+them, to make that idea good. Now, I don’t
+believe either of ’em knows a darned thing about
+it! They may both have been in love with the
+man, but nowadays actresses, with their futures
+ahead, don’t often queer themselves that way. However,
+if there were any evidence against either of
+’em, I’d go after it fast enough. But there isn’t.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[198]</span>In fact, there’s conclusive evidence clearing them
+both. There’s the pistol, for instance. Not one
+initial among the four belonging to the two women
+resembles an M.”</p>
+
+<p>“One moment, inspector!” broke in Barrison.
+“That isn’t an M, it’s a W.”</p>
+
+<p>“Discovered that, eh?” remarked the inspector
+imperturbably. “I wondered if you would. If you’ll
+look at the pistol closely, though, my dear boy,
+you’ll find that the angle at which it is engraved
+is a curious one. It might be either an M or a W.
+It depends on how you look at it. The letter is
+oddly shaped; looked at from different points, it
+makes just as good a W as it does an M, and
+vice versa. Well, the ladies in question have no
+more W’s in their names than they have M’s. Then,
+Miss Templeton could not have got behind the
+scenes in time.”</p>
+
+<p>“I imagine not,” admitted Jim. “Of course, we
+are dealing in what was possible, not likely; the
+door was unguarded just then, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“The door was unguarded after the shot, not
+before.”</p>
+
+<p>“If you believe the man Lynch. But—mind you,
+I suspect her no more than you, but—she was
+familiar with the theater.”</p>
+
+<p>“Familiar—hell! No one’s familiar with any
+place in the pitch dark! And the other woman
+had gone home, hadn’t she?”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye had gone home, as it was generally
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[199]</span>supposed,” said Jim, feeling obliged to register
+conscientiously every passing suspicion of his. “But
+Miss Templeton thinks she saw her near the front
+of the theater just after the tragedy.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, you’ve only got that woman’s word for
+<em>that</em>! Will she swear to it? No? I thought not!
+She’s just talking through her hat, either to queer
+the other, or to make herself interesting to you!
+Say, Barrison, you’re dippy on this thing! I always
+thought you were a pretty snappy detective for a
+young un! Now get rid of your theories, and
+your hunches and your intuitions and your suspicions,
+and check up! That’s what I’ve been doing
+all day, and, take it from me, while it may be
+old-fashioned, it’s the method that gets there nine
+times out of ten. Here goes!”</p>
+
+<p>He took a sheet of paper and made notes, as he
+talked.</p>
+
+<p>“Now that shot, according to the medical report,
+was fired at close range; very close range, indeed.
+The khaki of the man’s uniform was quite a bit
+burned by it. The bullet entered under the right
+arm, so he must have had his arms lifted, either
+to take hold of Miss Merivale, as she said, or for
+some other reason. It entered the body below the
+right armpit, and made a clean drill through the
+right lung at a slightly upward angle. Then it
+lodged in an upper rib just under the right breast.
+That explains the big splotch of blood on the breast.
+It could have been fired from either of two ways.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[200]</span></p>
+<p>He drew a rough diagram on the page before
+him, representing an imaginary, cylindrical man,
+two crosses, and a couple of dotted lines.</p>
+
+<p>“So! If Miss Merivale did it,” he explained,
+pencil in hand, “he’d have to be standing facing
+toward the front of the house, with his arm slightly
+raised, and his right side exposed to her aim.”</p>
+
+<p>“Isn’t that an unlikely attitude, under the circumstances?”</p>
+
+<p>“It is unlikely, but it is perfectly possible. It’s
+only in songs that every little movement has a
+meaning all its own! Do you always have a good
+and logical reason for every motion you make?
+If you do, you’re a freak! The great difficulty
+with most detectives is that they try to get a
+reason and a sequence for everything, as though
+they were putting a puzzle together or writing a
+play. In real life, half the things we do we do
+for no reason at all, or from sheer natural human
+contrariness! However, never mind that. Now,
+if the other woman—the woman we believe was in
+the theater last night—fired the shot, she only had
+to stand in close at the foot of the four-step entrance,
+and reach up. Even if she were a small
+woman, she would be able to place her bullet just
+about where it was found. It’s a toss-up, Barrison.
+Either Miss Merivale fired that shot, or the unknown
+woman did.”</p>
+
+<p>“The unknown woman I don’t consider unknown
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[201]</span>any longer. She is Wrenn’s daughter, without a
+doubt.”</p>
+
+<p>“On Miss Templeton’s testimony? Tut, tut, my
+dear Barrison!”</p>
+
+<p>“But, surely, the unknown woman, if you insist
+on continuing to think her unknown, is the more
+likely bet of the two?”</p>
+
+<p>Inspector Lowry pulled at his cigar, and wrinkled
+his heavy brows.</p>
+
+<p>“Likely! I’m mortally afraid of those ‘likely’
+clews! When a thing looks too blamed ‘likely,’ I
+get scared. Nature and life and crime don’t work
+that way! Besides,” drawled the inspector, “we’ve
+not got her, and we <em>have</em> got the other one! There’s
+everything in possession!”</p>
+
+<p>“But you aren’t going to hold Miss Merivale on
+a mere——”</p>
+
+<p>“Hold your horses, boy! We aren’t holding her
+at all at present. She is as free as air, and will
+continue to be free for quite a while, anyway.
+But she’s being watched, Barrison, my boy, she’s
+being watched every minute. And she’ll go on
+being watched.”</p>
+
+<p>Lowry relighted his defunct cigar.</p>
+
+<p>“Incidentally,” he added, “we’ve got a few fresh
+points on this. You’d be interested in hearing them,
+I suppose?”</p>
+
+<p>“Interested!”</p>
+
+<p>“Very well. For one thing, Mrs. Parry, the
+dresser at the theater, has given us rather an odd
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[202]</span>piece of evidence. She says that a messenger boy
+called at Miss Merivale’s dressing room during the
+evening. She was not in the room at the time,
+but saw him knock, saw him admitted, and saw
+him go away.”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing odd in that, surely—on a first night?”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing at all odd. Mrs. Parry also recalls
+that, when she went in to help Miss Merivale
+for the last act——”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Merivale had no change for the last act.”</p>
+
+<p>“No; so I understand. But she had gone back
+to her dressing room as usual for a few final
+touches. She had to alter her make-up slightly,
+hadn’t she?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; she had to be rather paler in the last
+act.” Barrison was somewhat impressed by Lowry’s
+thorough, even if archaic, way of getting his facts.</p>
+
+<p>“Quite so,” said the inspector equably. “Well,
+Mrs. Parry says that, as she entered the dressing
+room, she saw Miss Merivale walking up and
+down the room, evidently very angry. She had a
+note in her hand, and as she saw the woman, she
+tore it up in a lot of little pieces, and made an
+effort to become composed. Then she went hastily
+over to the dressing table, and caught up something
+that was lying there.”</p>
+
+<p>“Something! What?”</p>
+
+<p>“Mrs. Parry does not know. She knows that it
+was a small object possibly as long as her hand.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[203]</span>She does not vouch for its shape. She just saw
+it in the flash of an eye.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what is Miss Merivale supposed to have
+done with it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Merivale put it, very swiftly indeed, into
+the front of her white gown.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison felt thunderstruck. That pretty, frank-eyed
+girl! Why, the thing was unbelievable! Impetuously
+he said:</p>
+
+<p>“But, as you’ve impressed on me more than once,
+the testimony of a single person can’t be conclusive.
+Suppose——”</p>
+
+<p>“Suppose that testimony is borne out by that of
+others? Miss McAllister remembers Miss Merivale’s
+fingering the buttons on the front of her
+blouse several times, in a nervous way. And two
+of the minor actors in that scene say that she kept
+her hand at her breast when it was not part of
+the business, as though she could not entirely
+forget something she carried there.”</p>
+
+<p>Lowry paused, as though to let these points
+sink into his hearer’s intelligence. Then he continued:</p>
+
+<p>“We found the torn scraps of the note, at least
+enough of them to be able to get quite a fair idea
+of what its purport had been.” Lowry opened the
+drawer of his desk and took out a Manila envelope.
+From it he drew a sheet of paper upon which had
+been pasted a number of words, some of them in
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[204]</span>sequence and some of them detached and far apart.
+He pushed the paper across to Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Have a look,” he said laconically. Barrison
+read:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>How madly—you—you accept—know I may hop—you
+pretend—needn’t expect—scape, you beau—might just as—make
+up—rrender—to-ni——</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>“What do you make of it?” asked Lowry, after
+Barrison had stared at the cryptic mosaic of paper
+scraps for a moment or two.</p>
+
+<p>The younger detective began to fill in and piece
+together. He evolved the logical complete letter:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>You know how madly I love you. If you accept the
+accompanying I know I may hope. Though you pretend,
+you needn’t expect to escape, you beauty. You might just
+as well make up your mind to surrender the battle to-night.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Lowry read it and smiled.</p>
+
+<p>“Quite good,” he pronounced. “Here’s another
+answer.”</p>
+
+<p>And he pushed another sheet toward Jim.</p>
+
+<p>This one read—with the words of the recovered
+scraps underlined—as follows:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>No matter how determinedly, how madly you resist, you
+accept your fate. You know I may hope. You pretend
+courage, but you need not expect to escape, you beautiful
+fiend! You might just as well make up your mind to surrender
+to-night.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Barrison read, and then, with a slight shrug,
+pushed it back toward the older man.</p>
+
+<p>“I see very little difference,” he said.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[205]</span></p>
+<p>“Really? Can’t you see that one is a love letter,
+and one a threat?”</p>
+
+<p>“If you choose to put in phrases like ‘you
+beautiful fiend!’” said Barrison, raising his eyebrows.</p>
+
+<p>Lowry chuckled. “Doesn’t it sound kind of natural?”
+he queried. “Oh, well, maybe I’m behind
+the times! I just tried to make it natural. But
+seriously, Jim, there is a difference, and you’d
+better get on to it quick. That letter—which was
+from Mortimer; I’ve had the handwriting verified—might
+have been a threat to a woman whom he
+was dead set on getting, or a billet-doux to a
+girl he was sweet on, and who was acting shy.
+Isn’t that right?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison frowned over the two epistles.</p>
+
+<p>“You’ve something else up your sleeve,” he declared,
+watching him closely. “I’ve a good mind
+to go and call on Miss Merivale myself.”</p>
+
+<p>“Do!” said Lowry, turning to his desk with the
+air of a man dismissing a lot of troublesome business,
+and glad of it. “You will find that she is
+too ill to see a soul; utterly prostrated since last
+night. Will that hold you for a while, you uppity
+young shrimp?”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXI">CHAPTER XXI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">TONY’S REPORT</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">BARRISON often dined at a chop house in the
+Thirties, near his own rooms. He repaired
+thither to-night, after having telephoned his whereabouts
+to Tony Clay’s boarding house, with a message
+for that youth to come on to join him there
+if he could.</p>
+
+<p>As he sat lingeringly over one of the meals he
+liked best, he endeavored to forget the problems
+which had stabbed at him relentlessly all day. He
+wished that it were only from a professional angle
+that the business worried him; to his own uttermost
+disgust, he found an enormous mass of personal
+worry connected with it. He would like,
+for instance, to have been able to eliminate Miss
+Templeton. Or—would he? He was alarmed to
+find his condition so critical that he was not absolutely
+sure.</p>
+
+<p>He glanced up at last, uncertain whether with
+relief or disgust, to find Tony Clay wending his
+way toward him between tables.</p>
+
+<p>“Hello!” he said, with a very fine show of
+enthusiastic welcome.</p>
+
+<p>Tony bobbed an acknowledgment. When he was
+seated opposite Jim, he growled:</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[207]</span></p>
+<p>
+“How doth the little butterfly<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">Improve each shining hour,</span><br>
+By sending other folks to spy,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">And bring to him more power!</span><br>
+<br>
+“What pretty things he learns to do,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">What merry games he beats!</span><br>
+He lets the other fellow stew,<br>
+<span style="margin-left: 1.0em;">While he sits still and eats!”</span>
+</p>
+
+<p>Barrison could not help laughing, as he greeted
+him:</p>
+
+<p>“What do you suppose I’ve been doing? Sitting
+here ever since we parted? What are you going
+to eat, oh, faithful, good, and seemingly hungry
+servant?”</p>
+
+<p>“I want all the ham and eggs there are in the
+place, and the ham cut thick, and the eggs fried on
+both sides!”</p>
+
+<p>“You half-baked little ass!” remarked Jim affectionately.
+“Give your own order.”</p>
+
+<p>Tony ordered, with a vague yet spectacular carelessness
+which made Barrison roar.</p>
+
+<p>“Not awake yet, Tony?” he queried, when his
+young friend had committed himself to mushrooms
+and guinea hen after the ham and eggs.</p>
+
+<p>“Eh? Sure I’m awake! Say, you didn’t give
+me a job at all, oh, no!”</p>
+
+<p>“The point is, did you get it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Get it? You bet your life I got it. But, Jim,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[208]</span>your hunch about that Golden Arms business was
+punk. There’s nothing doing there.”</p>
+
+<p>“No?” said Barrison. He tried to sound cool and
+casual, but it wasn’t much of a success; he felt
+a bit flat about it all. “Go ahead, Tony; suppose
+you tell me about it, eh?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony nodded, and straightened up at sight of the
+ham and eggs.</p>
+
+<p>“Well; first off you wanted a line on the maid.
+I got that, all right. She was one of those musical-comedy
+sorts. I spotted her from the beginning,
+and I guess you did, too. She wasn’t able to
+get away from her ‘lady’ much, but she was supposed
+to eat like anybody else, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“Tony, if you tell me that you gave up your
+sleep to go and fix her at lunch, and that——”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t, and I didn’t tell you anything. But,
+as a matter of fact, I’d have bust if I hadn’t
+got a chance on this thing, Jim; you know that.
+Maybe I seem a bit slow sometimes, but, take
+it from me, I’m there with the goods when the time
+comes! Anyway, the maid’s story is perfectly
+straight, and I’m certain she’s telling the truth.
+It seems that she isn’t supposed to knock at Miss
+Legaye’s door until half after eleven. She sleeps
+in a room on top of the house, connected by
+telephone, and only comes down at special times,
+or when she’s phoned for. Last night, she didn’t
+expect Miss Legaye in early, so didn’t come downstairs
+to her door till about twenty minutes past
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[209]</span>eleven. It being a first night, she really didn’t
+imagine Miss Legaye would be in much before
+midnight. But at eleven twenty Maria—that’s the
+maid—came and knocked. She saw that the lights
+were turned up inside the room.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Legaye called out to her: ‘Maria, don’t
+bother about me to-night; I’m tired, and I’m going
+to bed right away. Come at about eight to-morrow,
+please.’</p>
+
+<p>“Maria went up to bed then, and didn’t come
+down again until eight, the hour she was expected.
+That was about fifteen minutes before
+you and I turned up this morning.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well?” demanded Barrison, not so much eagerly
+as savagely, for he was hot on what he thought
+to be a trail of some sort, even if not a criminal
+trail. “Well, what else does she say about when
+she came in to Miss Legaye’s rooms this morning?”</p>
+
+<p>“She says that she came to the door and knocked,
+as was always her rule, before using her key.
+She had a key, but was not expected by Miss
+Legaye to use it unless there was no answer.
+This time she didn’t get any answer, so she opened
+the door, and went in.</p>
+
+<p>“She went in to Miss Legaye’s bedroom, and
+found her half awake and half asleep. She said
+she had had a bad night, and had had to take her
+sleeping medicine. She looked pale. Maria says
+that the thing that upset her, Maria, most was
+the sight of Miss Legaye’s fine opera coat on a
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[210]</span>chair near the window, where the rain had made
+it all wet. She said she had barely hung it up,
+and made Miss Legaye comfortable, when we telephoned
+up.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison thought a moment. “That sounds all
+right,” he admitted. “Get ahead, Tony, to the rest
+of your investigation. For, of course, you must
+have got at some one else!”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” said Tony, as he munched fried ham;
+“I got at the night clerk of the Golden Arms.”</p>
+
+<p>“The night clerk? But he wasn’t on duty?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony buttered a piece of bread with a glance
+of scorn. “And would that make him inaccessible
+to <em>you</em>, you pluperfect sleuth?” he demanded caustically.
+“To me it merely meant that I would have
+to dig up his address and call on him when he
+was not on guard, so to speak. He is a very
+nice, pleasant youth. You would not get on with
+him at all; you would hurt his feelings. I have
+feelings of my own, so we were delighted with
+each other! You do neglect your opportunities,
+you know, Jim!”</p>
+
+<p>“Did you find out when Miss Legaye got in last
+night?” asked Barrison, but Tony’s answer was
+disappointing.</p>
+
+<p>“I did not,” he rejoined. “I found that my night
+clerk had not seen Miss Legaye at all last night.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison jumped and stared at him. “Not seen
+her!” ejaculated he.</p>
+
+<p>“No. She had not come through the office at
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[211]</span>all. But he says that she often avoids the crowd
+in the hotel office by going up to her apartment
+by the back way. He says she hates publicity.”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh!” Barrison was thinking. “Is there, then,
+no one who would have seen her, if she came in
+‘the back way,’ and went up to her room?”</p>
+
+<p>“I can’t see how any one could have seen her.
+You see, Jim, it’s this way. In the Golden Arms
+Hotel, there is a side door, which is kept open and
+unguarded until after eleven o’clock at night. Lots
+of people, women especially, who don’t want to
+go through the crowded office at that hour, prefer
+to slip in that way. It’s a regular thing; they all
+do it. As to the elevator boy who——”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I was going to ask about him. Did he
+take her up?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, he didn’t. At that hour of the night, even
+an elevator boy sometimes nods. Anyway, he remembers
+the bell ringing for a long time while he
+was half asleep, and when he got to the lift there
+was no one there. The answer seems obvious.”</p>
+
+<p>“That she walked upstairs, having become tired
+of waiting?”</p>
+
+<p>“I should say so. Especially as she lived only
+one floor up, and often ran up the flight to save
+time!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison thought of this as he drank black coffee.
+“And that is all you found out?” he demanded suddenly,
+raising his head.</p>
+
+<p>“Not at all!” responded Tony cheerfully. “I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[212]</span>found out that the first news the night clerk had
+had of Miss Legaye last night was a telephone message
+from her room at about eleven o’clock.”</p>
+
+<p>“A message? What was it?”</p>
+
+<p>“She said that she had a frightful headache,
+and that she wanted one of the bell boys to go
+out to the drug store for her, and get a medicine
+bottle filled—stuff that she often took when she
+had trouble about sleeping.”</p>
+
+<p>“And then?”</p>
+
+<p>“And then the boy went upstairs, and got the
+empty bottle from her. She was wearing a
+wrapper. He took the bottle out and had it filled.
+That’s all. It establishes the fact that she was in,
+and undressed, at eleven.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison called for the check and paid it; then
+he still knitted his brows over the thing that
+troubled him.</p>
+
+<p>“Tony!” he said suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>“Well?”</p>
+
+<p>“<em>Could</em> she have gotten upstairs into that hotel
+without being seen? I can’t believe it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why not?”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought there were maids or guards on
+every floor.”</p>
+
+<p>“Quite so,” said Tony; “you remind me. There
+is a maid stationed on every floor of all decent
+hotels. There was one on every floor of this.
+But she is human, and therefore she is movable.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[213]</span>This one, on Miss Legaye’s floor, was on duty up
+to twenty minutes to eleven, and she was on duty
+after eleven had struck. In between she had been
+called in to settle some newcomer, an old lady
+who wanted eight hundred and seventy things to
+which she was not entitled. She was away less
+than half an hour, but it was during that time
+that Miss Legaye must have gone to her room.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison still sat looking at his coffee cup in
+a troubled way, and Tony suddenly spoke:</p>
+
+<p>“Jim, that’s a cold trail, a dead one. See? Why
+do you keep tracking back to it? You know, and
+I know, that there’s nothing doing at that end of the
+story. What keeps you nosing around it?”</p>
+
+<p>“I can’t tell you, Tony,” said Barrison, low and
+not too certainly. “It isn’t exactly evidence that
+keeps me following that trail. It’s——”</p>
+
+<p>“Say!” broke in his subordinate sharply. “Shall
+I tell you what it is? It’s that woman—it’s Miss
+Grace Templeton; that’s what it is. You’re dippy
+about her! And because she’s tipped you that
+there’s something queer about Miss Legaye, you
+believe it!”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought you admired Miss Templeton yourself!”
+said Jim Barrison, rallying his forces.</p>
+
+<p>Tony Clay surveyed him in surprise. “Admired
+her?” he exclaimed. “Of course I admire her!
+But that wouldn’t prevent me from doing my bit
+on a case! I wouldn’t let a thing like that
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[214]</span>interfere with me professionally!” He spoke most
+grandiloquently, with a swelling chest.</p>
+
+<p>Jim Barrison looked at him a moment seriously;
+then his face broke into irrepressible smiles.
+“Wouldn’t you?” he queried. “Tony, you’ll be a
+great man one of these days!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXII">CHAPTER XXII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">“RITA THE DAREDEVIL”</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">PROMPTLY at eight o’clock, Barrison presented
+himself at the entrance to Coyne’s Theater,
+where he had agreed to meet Teddy Lucas, of the
+<cite>Blaze</cite>.</p>
+
+<p>The house was of the flagrantly cheap variety,
+to judge by the people then going in. On either
+side of the glaringly illuminated doorway were vivid
+lithographs of ladies with extremely pink cheeks
+and tights, and gorgeously yellow hair and jewelry;
+also, of prodigiously muscled acrobats, performing
+miraculous feats in impossible positions.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison found his own eyes attracted, almost
+at once, by something which stood out, oasislike,
+among the more lurid and obvious sheets; a large
+frame containing three photographs, under the
+plainly printed title: “Rita the Daredevil! Late of
+the World-famous Blankley Daredevils!”</p>
+
+<p>Then this <em>was</em> the girl who had been playing in
+the riding act with Mortimer when Dukane came
+upon him first. Now, if by any chance Jim could
+connect that girl with Wrenn’s disagreeable daughter,
+whom Miss Templeton remembered! He was
+eager for a sight of her. Would that rather dim
+snapshot he had seen prove sufficient to identify
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[216]</span>her? He wondered! None of these pictures looked
+particularly like that nondescript smudge of a
+woman in the corner of the kodak picture which
+had been shown him that day.</p>
+
+<p>He examined them with close interest. One
+was of Rita the Daredevil, sitting a vicious-looking,
+rearing broncho, with a nonchalant air, and huge,
+ornamental spurs; another was of Rita the Daredevil
+firing with a rifle at an apple held up
+by a fat man in evening clothes. The third was,
+presumably, a likeness of Rita the Daredevil herself,
+doing nothing in particular but scowl at the world
+from beneath a picturesque sombrero.</p>
+
+<p>She certainly looked disagreeable enough to justify
+Grace Templeton’s unpleasant recollection of
+her. Of a markedly Spanish type, with the faint
+Indian cast which is so prevalent in South America,
+she was in no sense beguiling or prepossessing.
+It would be hard to vision those glowering black
+eyes soft with any tender emotion; her mouth
+was as hard and as bitter in line as that of some
+fierce yet stoical young savage, brooding over a
+darkly glorious nightmare of revenge.</p>
+
+<p>Fascinated, even while repelled, by the odd, forbidding
+face, Barrison started as he was roused
+from his momentary trance by the cool, rapid tones
+of Teddy Lucas:</p>
+
+<p>“Awfully sorry if you’ve been waiting. I don’t
+imagine we’re late for our act, though. Have
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[217]</span>you a cigarette? We can smoke here. Righto!
+Come along!”</p>
+
+<p>They went in and took the places reserved for
+them in a stage box. Jim was glad to be so
+close to the stage; he wanted to study this woman
+as minutely as he could. As they settled themselves,
+an attendant changed the cards giving the
+names of the acts. With a real thrill Barrison saw
+that they read:</p>
+
+<p>“Rita the Daredevil.”</p>
+
+<p>“Good stuff,” murmured Lucas critically. “They
+don’t say what she does, nor what makes her a
+daredevil. They just say it, and wait for her
+to make good. Of course, she probably won’t.”</p>
+
+<p>He took the evening newspaper from under his
+arm, and on the margin of the first page scribbled
+a short enigmatic note in pencil. On the stage was
+a small table decorated with a .44 rifle and several
+small weapons, a target painted in red and gold
+instead of black and white, and a large mirror.
+Almost immediately Rita the Daredevil made her
+entrance.</p>
+
+<p>She was dressed in the regulation “cowgirl’s” outfit—short
+skirt of khaki, sombrero, heavy leather
+belt, high-laced brown boots, embroidered gauntlets.
+As though to give a touch of daintiness to her
+costume, she wore a thin white shirtwaist, and a
+scarlet tie. Also, the buckle on her belt was of
+gold, and there was a golden ornament in the
+band of her broad felt hat.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[218]</span></p>
+<p>Daintiness, however, seemed out of place. There
+was about the young woman an absence of feminine
+coquetry that set her apart from most vaudeville
+performers. Sometimes she forced a smile, and
+made a little bow to the house, but conciliatory
+measures were plainly foreign to this woman’s
+temperament. She was there to do certain things;
+one would be safe to wager that she would do
+them well.</p>
+
+<p>And she did. She was a marvelous shot, cool,
+and steady; and the men in her audience were
+genuinely enthusiastic. A good many of them
+could appreciate straight and clever shooting when
+they saw it.</p>
+
+<p>She shot bull’s-eyes, tossed glass balls, shot apples
+on the head of her meek partner, the smiling
+man of the photograph; she shot over her shoulder,
+looking in a mirror; she shot, after sighting carefully,
+with her eyes blindfolded; she shot with guns
+of every size and caliber. In everything she did
+was apparent the same crisp, grim efficiency. She
+did not do her work at all gayly, nor as if she
+enjoyed it. There was something resentful about
+her whole personality. Doubtless she grudged the
+entertainment she gave and would have preferred
+to earn her salary, if possible, by making herself
+unpleasant to people, instead of diverting them!</p>
+
+<p>Barrison gave many glances to the man who so
+patiently and self-effacingly assisted her. He was,
+in spite of the professional smile, not a happy-looking
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[219]</span>man. There were moments when, for all
+his creases of flesh, he looked positively haggard,
+and his eyes were very tired. He was a man who
+for some reason lived under a shadow or a burden
+of some sort; and—this belief came suddenly to
+Barrison—she herself suffered from the same handicap.
+These two people were the victims either
+of a heavy trouble, a grievous disappointment, or
+a gnawing wrong. You could see the pinches and
+rakings of suffering in both faces.</p>
+
+<p>The climax of Rita’s act was now pending.
+The partner came down to the footlights, and explained
+that “The Daredevil, whose life had been
+one hourly challenge to such dangers as lesser
+mortals hold in justifiable dread,” would now show
+the ladies and gentlemen how little she cared
+for common risks or common caution. It appeared
+that she wished any one who liked to come and
+examine the pistols she was going to use. It
+was necessary for the audience to understand that
+they were all loaded. Did any one care to examine
+them?</p>
+
+<p>Yes; to Teddy Lucas’ surprise, Barrison did. He
+leaned over the side of the box, and had the
+satisfaction not only of noting that they were all
+loaded, six chambers each, but that each one of
+the three that she intended to use was marked in
+precisely the same way as the one which was
+now locked up in his safe at home.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[220]</span></p>
+<p>“I thought she did the stunt with four,” said Ted,
+arching his eyebrows. “She was advertised to.”</p>
+
+<p>Another point. Until recently, she had done
+her trick with four pistols, all exactly alike. Where
+was the fourth? Jim knew where the fourth was.
+Naturally, there had not been time to have another
+made and marked in precisely the same way.</p>
+
+<p>He handed back the weapons, saw them examined
+by several other curious people, and settled
+back to see what she was going to do with them.</p>
+
+<p>The stunt itself turned out to be disappointing.
+It was a mere juggling trick, the old three-ball
+affair, done with loaded pistols; that was all. To
+be sure, there was a certain amount of risk about
+it, since even a clever shot cannot always be responsible
+for what will happen to a trigger when it is
+caught in the lightning manipulation of juggling.
+But it was not nearly so dangerous as it was
+advertised to be.</p>
+
+<p>“Now, it’s safe to assume,” remarked Teddy languidly,
+in Barrison’s ear, “that she never fired one of
+those things off yet, in that stunt, and never will!”</p>
+
+<p>And then two things happened. It was difficult
+even for Jim Barrison’s trained mind to tell him
+which had happened first. His eyes caught sight of
+some one in the box opposite, a gray-haired, dignified
+figure of middle height, not sitting, but
+standing with his look fixed sternly upon the stage.
+It was Max Dukane, the great manager, and Barrison,
+in a great flash of intuition, knew why he was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[221]</span>there. He had come either to warn or threaten these
+people who knew him since the days when he had
+discovered Mortimer in the show known as Blankley’s
+Daredevils.</p>
+
+<p>And at the selfsame instant, it seemed, the pistols
+which Rita was tossing so composedly and surely,
+experienced a hitch in their methodical orbits. One,
+two, three, they rose and fell, and she caught them
+neatly each time, and sent them whirling as though
+they were tennis balls, instead of loaded guns. But
+something had happened. There was a faint cry,
+Barrison was near enough to hear it. And then a
+shot.</p>
+
+<p>The detective’s hair seemed to rise. It was so
+soon after that other tragedy! Was it possible?
+But nothing had happened, it seemed, except a flesh
+wound for Rita herself. She was holding her hand
+against her arm, and staring in front of her in a
+dazed and frightened way. Her partner was tearing
+away her sleeve to investigate, and the house
+was wildly excited. It was superb advertising, of
+course; only, Barrison knew that it was not advertising.
+She had been frightened by Dukane’s
+sudden appearance, and even her sure hand had
+lost its cunning for a second.</p>
+
+<p>He looked toward the other box sharply, at the
+very moment, as he thought, when Rita had sunk
+down wounded. But even so, he was too late.
+Dukane had gone.</p>
+
+<p>“Shall we go behind now, and have a talk with
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[222]</span>her?” suggested Teddy Lucas, rising. “Really, that
+was quite well staged. Every one will be twice as
+ready to believe her a daredevil after they have
+seen her wounded. Ready?”</p>
+
+<p>They made their way behind.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison’s blood was thrilling with that excitement
+of the chase which keeps a good detective alive
+on this earth, and without which one can scarcely
+imagine him contented.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIII">CHAPTER XXIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">TWIXT THE CUP AND THE LIP</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">RITA received them in her dressing room, which
+was frankly a utilitarian apartment. Since she
+had to share it in turn with other performers, she
+had not much chance to impress her individuality
+upon it. And, for that matter, she was not the type
+of woman, probably, who would have thought it
+worth her while to take the trouble. She scorned
+frivolities.</p>
+
+<p>When they saw her at close range, they were
+both struck by the fact that she was scarcely made
+up at all. Doubtless, if she had taken the trouble,
+she could have softened her face and expression,
+and made herself less hard and repellent. Not that
+she was ugly. She was not; her features were regular
+enough, and her black eyes quite splendid in
+their smoldering sort of way. If she had not bound
+up her hair so tightly, its masses and luster would
+have been a sensation; and her figure was good, in
+a lean, wiry style all its own.</p>
+
+<p>The truth was that she was uncompromising,
+unyielding, ungraceful as she was ungracious.</p>
+
+<p>If Rita had really experienced a shock during her
+act, she certainly had recovered from it, so far as
+the eyes of outsiders could determine.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[224]</span></p>
+<p>After greeting them, she eyed her visitors coldly
+and sharply.</p>
+
+<p>“Wanted to talk to me?” she demanded, in rather
+a metallic voice.</p>
+
+<p>“Please, for the <cite>Blaze</cite>,” said Teddy Lucas, in his
+most insinuating tone.</p>
+
+<p>But Rita the Daredevil shook her head with a
+slight scowl.</p>
+
+<p>“Waste of time,” she stated. “We aren’t playing
+here after next week, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“I beg your pardon!” slid in Teddy smoothly but
+firmly. “You are not playing at this theater, but
+you have time at——”</p>
+
+<p>“I tell you——” she began hotly. But another
+voice made itself heard. It was, as they were somewhat
+surprised to find, the voice of Rita’s subservient
+partner, who had appeared just behind
+them, and who now confronted them with a curious
+little air of authority, in spite of his plump body
+and his very ancient evening dress.</p>
+
+<p>“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he said
+courteously, and made them a bow which was quite
+proper and dignified. It was the bow of—what
+was it? Jim tried to think. Was it the bow of a
+head waiter, or a floorwalker, or—a ringmaster?
+That was it, a ringmaster. This man was used to
+the exacting proprieties of the circus. No one else
+could be so perfect! Instantly, Jim placed him as
+Blankley himself.</p>
+
+<p>“If you will excuse me for interrupting,” he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[225]</span>repeated gently. “Our plans have changed. Vaudeville
+performers live, unfortunately, in a world of
+changes. We had expected to play in and around
+New York for some weeks; our expectations have
+not materialized. We leave New York to-night.”</p>
+
+<p>“To-night!” repeated Teddy Lucas, sitting up and
+opening his eyes. “Isn’t that rather short notice?”</p>
+
+<p>“It is,” said the fat man, and Jim saw his hand
+shake as he raised it to wipe the perspiration from
+his forehead. But he was firm enough, for all that.
+“It is extremely sudden, but—it is—advisable.”</p>
+
+<p>“More advantageous time, I suppose?” said Teddy,
+watching him with seeming indifference.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, yes,” said the fat man eagerly, and his
+hand shook more than ever. “More advantageous
+time! Meanwhile, if you care to interview Mrs.
+Blankley——”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison pricked up his ears. Mrs. Blankley!</p>
+
+<p>“She—I—we would be glad to be mentioned in
+your paper,” went on the fat man hurriedly. “You
+could hardly give your space to a more scintillating—a
+more——”</p>
+
+<p>“Nick,” said Rita the Daredevil shortly, “I don’t
+want to be interviewed. You arranged with Coyne
+for this gentleman to come, representing his paper,
+but I don’t stand for it. You never can get it out
+of your head that we’re not running our own show
+any longer, and that the public doesn’t care a continental
+about us. You keep hanging on to the old
+stuff. You keep thinking that because you used to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[226]</span>be a big noise in your own little gramophone, you’re
+loud enough to take in Broadway nowadays. It
+doesn’t get across, Nick. If these gentlemen want a
+story,” and her voice was keen and bitter, “they’d
+better get after something else.”</p>
+
+<p>“Miss—er—I mean, Mrs. Blankley,” said Teddy,
+“weren’t you hurt, when that bullet exploded to-night?”</p>
+
+<p>She changed color; oh, yes, she did change color.
+But she said with a swiftness that made Jim Barrison
+admire her the more: “That? Oh, that was just
+advertising! Didn’t you guess?”</p>
+
+<p>Teddy Lucas looked at her. “H’m!” he said, deliberating.
+“I confess I did think it was advertising
+at first, but——”</p>
+
+<p>Rita looked strange; for a moment it seemed that
+she was going to strike the newspaper man. Then
+she let her heavy, dark eyes sink, and turned away
+with a muttered remark that none of them could
+catch.</p>
+
+<p>It was Jim’s moment; the only moment that had
+been put straight into his hands that night. He
+seized it boldly. The fat man was talking nervously
+and volubly to the reporter; there was a
+chance.</p>
+
+<p>“Miss Wrenn,” said Jim Barrison deliberately,
+“will you let me talk to you alone?”</p>
+
+<p>He never forgot the look that came into those
+big black eyes, as she raised them then to meet his.
+He could not have told whether it was horror or
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[227]</span>hatred, but he was sure that it was one or the
+other. For a full half minute she stared at him
+so, her face white as chalk. Then she drew a deep
+breath, and took a step back.</p>
+
+<p>“Since I must,” she said, answering his request.
+“But I warn you, it will be to very little purpose—I
+know why you are here. Do you truly think
+that—this—this investigation—is worth your
+while?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know that,” he said steadily, but still in a
+voice that was audible to her alone. “I only know
+that it is necessary; that it is my duty. I know
+that you are the girl I am seeking. Your name is
+Wrenn. Is it not?”</p>
+
+<p>“It is,” she replied. “Marita Wrenn!”</p>
+
+<p>Marita! So the initials were to be explained
+logically after all! M for Marita; W for Wrenn.
+The two engraved in that odd fashion which he
+could quite understand had been of her inspiration.</p>
+
+<p>“Will you believe,” he went on, steadying his
+voice, and keeping all excitement out of it, “that I
+am only trying to get at the facts? That I——”</p>
+
+<p>“Marita!” came the voice of the fat man sharply.
+“This gentleman”—he indicated Lucas—“has asked
+us to take supper with him and his friend. We
+will go?”</p>
+
+<p>“I should be delighted,” she said, in the mechanical
+way, which one felt was her way of accepting
+all pleasures in life, however they came.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[228]</span></p>
+<p>Blankley turned to them with his anxious little
+bow. “If you would pardon us——” he begged.
+“My wife must take off a little make-up, and then—may
+we join you at the stage door?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison hated to let the woman out of his sight,
+but he scarcely knew how to refuse so simple a request.
+He was here as Teddy Lucas’ guest, and
+not in his professional capacity. So the two young
+men went out to the stage door to wait.</p>
+
+<p>They waited until, with a short laugh, the reporter
+showed his watch. Almost sixty minutes had
+gone by.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know just your game, my dear fellow,”
+he said, as he turned away. “But, for my part,
+I think you’ve been jolly well sold!”</p>
+
+<p>“How about you?” said Barrison, raw about his
+part of it, and yearning to be disagreeable.</p>
+
+<p>Lucas laughed. “I’m fixed all right,” he said
+amiably. “I’m going to write a peach of a story
+about the shock which led to the canceling of the
+Blankley engagement!”</p>
+
+<p>“What shock?” asked Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>Lucas looked at him in polite scorn. “My dear
+friend,” he said, in a tired voice, “didn’t you see
+Dukane in the box to-night?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison jumped. “You mean you saw him?” he
+exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>Lucas sighed heavily. “Saw him?” he said. “My
+dear fellow, I’m a reporter!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIV">CHAPTER XXIV</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">WHAT SYBIL HAD HIDDEN</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">JIM BARRISON was dog tired. He felt as though
+the past twenty-four hours had been twenty-four
+months; it scarcely seemed possible that the murder
+had been committed only the night before! Nevertheless,
+weary as he was he called up Lowry and
+told him of his evening’s experience. The inspector
+made some cryptic grunts at the other end of the
+wire, and ended up with a curt “I’ll see about it.
+Good night!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison smiled, but felt slightly annoyed as he
+hung up the receiver. “‘I’ll see about it!’ As
+though he were Providence incarnate, and could
+wind up the moon and stars to go differently if he
+felt like it!”</p>
+
+<p>He was past more than a fleeting flash of resentment,
+however, and lost no time in wending his
+way homeward and to bed. Tara made a dignified
+offering of Scotch and sandwiches, but he waved
+him away sleepily, and tumbled in.</p>
+
+<p>So profound was the slumber into which he immediately
+fell, that the shrill ringing of the telephone
+hardly pierced his rest. If he heard it at
+all, it was only as a component part of his fitful
+dreams.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[230]</span></p>
+<p>The voice which came to Tara over the wire was
+cool and crisp:</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison, please.”</p>
+
+<p>Tara glanced compassionately toward the bedroom
+where his master was already in deep repose.</p>
+
+<p>“No, sir!” he responded, politely but firmly.</p>
+
+<p>“What do you mean—no? Has he gone to bed?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes—please.” Tara was nothing if not deferential.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, get him up. I want to speak to him.”</p>
+
+<p>“Honorably excuse,” said Tara, with an instinctive
+bow to the instrument, “but—I <em>not</em>!”</p>
+
+<p>“You won’t call him?”</p>
+
+<p>“Please—I not!”</p>
+
+<p>The voice at the end of the wire cursed him
+gently, and then continued:</p>
+
+<p>“Well, will you take a message?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes, please—I thank!”</p>
+
+<p>The Jap hastily seized pencil and paper, and,
+after making sundry hieroglyphics in his own language,
+said good night humbly, hung up, and
+translated what he had noted into English. In the
+morning, when he carried coffee in to a refreshed
+but still drowsy Barrison, the message which that
+gentleman read was as follows: “Hon. gent. paper
+man say if you please call. Import.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison knew that this meant Teddy Lucas in all
+probability, but he also knew that it was too early
+to catch him at the newspaper office yet. He ate
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[231]</span>breakfast and hunted through the morning papers
+for matters of interest. In the <cite>Blaze</cite>, he found a
+picturesque little account of the spectacular exit of
+Mr. and Mrs. Blankley. It was toned down, however,
+a good deal, Dukane’s name not being mentioned,
+and nothing more sensational being suggested
+than that “Rita the Daredevil” lost her nerve
+after the narrow escape which had left her in a
+state of collapse when the <cite>Blaze</cite> representative
+was admitted to her presence. Her husband had
+urged her discontinuance of the engagement, et
+cetera. Barrison could not entirely understand, but
+he knew that the ways of newspapers were strange
+and devious. Later he would call up Lucas and find
+out more about it.</p>
+
+<p>It was at this point that his eye caught sight of
+another item on the page given over to dramatic
+news. It was starred in a half column, and was
+headed:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p class="center">
+TRAGIC AND SENSATIONAL ROMANCE OF MISS<br>
+KITTY LEGAYE!<br>
+<br>
+Popular Actress Announces Her Engagement to Star Who<br>
+Was Murdered.<br>
+<br>
+(Interview by Maybelle Montagu.)
+</p>
+
+<p>Miss Kitty Legaye, whose charm and talent have endeared
+her to thousands of the American public, is to-day
+that saddest of figures, a sorrowing woman bereft of the
+man who was to have been her husband. Alan Mortimer,
+whose terrible and mysterious death has stirred the entire
+theatrical world and baffled police headquarters, has left
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[232]</span>behind him a woman whose white face bears the stamp of
+ineffaceable love and endless grief.</p>
+
+<p>In deepest mourning, which enhanced her childlike loveliness,
+the exquisite little actress whose impersonations of
+young girls upon the stage have made her famous all over
+the continent consented to receive the representative of the
+New York <cite>Blaze</cite>. It was with a touching simplicity that
+she said:</p>
+
+<p>“We had intended to postpone the announcement of our
+engagement until later, but he has been taken from me,
+and why keep silent any longer? It is, in a way, a comfort
+to let the world know that we were to have been married—that,
+at least, I have the right to mourn for him!”</p>
+
+<p>Her sweet voice was choked with sobs, and in the eyes
+of even the seasoned interviewer there were tears.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Barrison shook his head, and smiled a wry, cynical
+smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Not so prostrated that she can’t make capital out
+of it!” he commented to himself. “Lost no time, I
+must say. However, it’s no concern of mine.”</p>
+
+<p>Refreshed by his sound sleep, he rushed through
+the process of dressing like a whirlwind, and went
+off to try the doubtful experiment of another call
+upon Mr. Dukane.</p>
+
+<p>But before he went up to the great man’s office,
+he paused to take due thought. After all, was it the
+best thing to do? He considered, and before he had
+decided, the door of the elevator opened, and young
+Norman Crane came out. He looked fresh and
+wholesome as ever, but, Jim thought, a bit anxious.
+He greeted the detective cordially.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[233]</span></p>
+<p>“Hello!” he said. “Beastly mess it all is, isn’t it?
+Were you going up to see the old man? Because
+you won’t. Not unless you’ve an awful drag at
+court! Every one in the world is waiting in the
+outer office, all the poor old ‘Boots-and-Saddles’
+bunch, and everybody in town that’s left over.”</p>
+
+<p>“I hadn’t made up my mind whether I was going
+up or not,” admitted Barrison. “Now I have, I
+think. I’ll walk along with you, if you’ve no objection?”</p>
+
+<p>“Rather not! I’m——” He hesitated. “I’m going
+to inquire for Sybil.”</p>
+
+<p>“How <em>is</em> Miss Merivale? I was sorry to hear that
+she was so ill.”</p>
+
+<p>“Who told you? Oh, it would be Lowry, of
+course! I can’t get used to the idea of having Sybil
+watched and spied on by policemen. Beg pardon!”
+He flushed boyishly. “I don’t mean to be offensive,
+Mr. Barrison, and you never strike me like that
+quite, but—you must know what I mean?”</p>
+
+<p>“Naturally I do,” said Jim, who liked the lad.
+“And, if you don’t mind, I’ll come with you when
+you go to inquire—not in a professional capacity!”
+he added hastily, seeing the glint of suspicion in the
+other’s transparent eyes.</p>
+
+<p>Crane laughed a little awkwardly. “I’d be very
+glad to have you,” he said frankly, “and, for that
+matter, in your professional capacity, too! Mr. Barrison,
+am I right in thinking that—that man suspects
+Sybil?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[234]</span></p>
+<p>“Suspects is rather a plain term and rather a
+strong one. I don’t think he absolutely suspects
+her; but there are things that will need a bit of
+clearing up.”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought so!” The young man’s manner expressed
+a sort of angry triumph. “Now, Mr. Barrison,
+you must come. Sybil must talk to you,
+whether she feels like it or not! You know, the
+whole idea is too absurd——”</p>
+
+<p>“I think it is absurd myself!” said Barrison
+kindly. “But you know it’s just those ridiculous
+things that make such a lot of bother in the world!
+Miss Merivale, I’m convinced, is the last person in
+the world to have committed any sort of a crime.”</p>
+
+<p>“Heavens! I should say so!”</p>
+
+<p>“And yet—what was it that she hid in her dress
+that night?”</p>
+
+<p>Norman stopped and stared at him. “Why should
+you think she hid anything in her dress?” he demanded
+in unfeigned astonishment.</p>
+
+<p>“I’ll tell you by and by,” said Barrison evasively.
+He saw that Crane was really surprised by this,
+and he was debating with himself just how far it
+was politic and wise to go in this direction.</p>
+
+<p>In another few minutes they were at the boarding
+house where Sybil lived—a quiet house in the upper
+Forties, kept by a gentle, gray-haired woman who
+seemed of another day and generation, and who
+called Norman “my dear boy,” with a soft Southern
+drawl.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[235]</span></p>
+<p>Miss Merivale was better, she said; so much so, in
+fact, that she had had her removed into her own
+parlor at the front of the house, where she could
+have more cheerful surroundings and see her
+friends, the sweet lady added, smiling, if she felt
+strong enough. If the gentlemen would take the
+trouble to walk upstairs, she was sure they would
+do Miss Merivale good. She was better, but not so
+bright as one could wish.</p>
+
+<p>The boarding-house keeper and Norman Crane
+ascended first, and shortly after the former came
+back to tell Barrison that they were expecting him,
+if he would go up.</p>
+
+<p>“I thought,” she added softly, “that they would
+want to see each other, and so I had her couch fixed
+in my place, where I can be in and out, so to
+speak. Not that I’d have the time,” she added,
+gently humorous, “but it’s the idea, you know! I’m
+from the So’th, sir, and I have my funny notions
+about the proprieties!”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil, on the landlady’s old-fashioned sofa, looked
+rather pathetically wan, but she made an effort to
+greet Jim with some animation and cordiality. It
+was plain that she was still very shaken and depressed,
+and that her fiancé was much worried about
+her.</p>
+
+<p>She went at once to the matters that were in all
+their minds. It was characteristic of the girl that
+she did not shrink from approaching even the subjects
+responsible for her recent collapse. And she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[236]</span>was very fair to look at, in her soft blue dressing
+gown lying back among the faded chintz cushions,
+with her ash-blond hair in two long braids upon her
+shoulders. Kitty Legaye should have seen her now!</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Barrison,” she said at once, “it is awfully
+good of you to have called. Norman and I know
+that you are here as a friend, and not as an officer
+of the law, and we are both grateful. Mr. Barrison,
+you surely don’t think I had anything to do
+with—with that horror the other night?”</p>
+
+<p>“No, I don’t,” said Barrison, speaking as briefly
+and frankly as she was speaking herself.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, will you tell me on what grounds they are—are
+watching me?”</p>
+
+<p>“You are sure they are?” he said, to gain time.</p>
+
+<p>“Sure! Of course, I am sure! Look at that man
+over there, reading the paper and occasionally glancing
+up at the sky to see if it is going to rain. Isn’t
+he watching this house?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison smiled. “Probably he is,” he admitted.
+He had noticed the man himself as he came in, but
+he had not imagined that the girl herself knew of
+her situation.</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” she insisted, and a faint spot of feverish
+color came into either cheek, “what is it that they
+expect to find out? What is it? I know that I was
+there, on the scene, but—but—surely that man
+would not have let me go if he had thought I had—done
+it!”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison was convinced of her innocence; but he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[237]</span>was also convinced that the wisest course would be
+to enlighten her as to the points wherein her position
+was open to question by the law. He had hesitated
+because his connection with the case, while
+unofficial, more or less tied his hands; but, after all,
+the inspector had given him leave to use his own
+judgment.</p>
+
+<p>He spoke straightforwardly. “What did you hide
+in your dress, just before the last act, the night
+before last, Miss Merivale?”</p>
+
+<p>She started upright on the couch, and looked at
+him with wide eyes of amazement. “How did you
+know that?” she asked blankly.</p>
+
+<p>“But you didn’t, did you, dear?” struck in Norman
+Crane, taking her hand in his. “What could
+you have put in your dress? It’s absurd, as I told
+Mr. Barrison!”</p>
+
+<p>She thought for a moment, and then said quietly:
+“I put into my dress something that I wanted to
+hide, chiefly from you, Norman. I knew that if you
+saw it, you would be angry.”</p>
+
+<p>Norman Crane looked as though she had struck
+him.</p>
+
+<p>“You did hide something, then?” he exclaimed.</p>
+
+<p>“I certainly did, and would again, under the same
+conditions. Only, I can’t see how any one knew of
+the fact. Who was it, Mr. Barrison?”</p>
+
+<p>“Your dresser, the woman Parry.”</p>
+
+<p>“Of course!” She nodded slowly. “She was always
+a meddlesome old thing! And I know that she
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[238]</span>was consumed with curiosity when I got the package
+and the note that night.”</p>
+
+<p>“The package and the note!” repeated Norman
+Crane. “Sybil, you are crazy! What are you talking
+about?”</p>
+
+<p>“I know what the note was,” put in Barrison,
+smiling at her reassuringly. “At least, I know part
+of it, and I was daring enough to make up the rest
+of it in Lowry’s office last night!”</p>
+
+<p>Sybil looked up at him with a flash of laughter
+in her eyes, though poor Crane was still dazed.</p>
+
+<p>“And what did you make of it?” she asked, in a
+tone that tried for raillery and only achieved a certain
+piteous bravado.</p>
+
+<p>“I made of it a sort of love letter, if you can call
+it so,” said Barrison gently, “which might have accompanied
+a present, something which could be considered
+in the light of a test—no, that is not the
+word, a proof of——”</p>
+
+<p>“A proof,” she broke in passionately, “of my
+willingness to do something, and to be something
+that I could not do and could not be! And you
+made that out of it, with only those torn scraps
+to go by! Oh, you understand. I see that you do
+understand!”</p>
+
+<p>She hid her face in her hands and cried. In a
+moment, however, she put aside her own emotion,
+and explained:</p>
+
+<p>“He—Mr. Mortimer—had tried to make love to me
+many times; you both know that. Norman was
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[239]</span>furious with him, and I was always afraid that
+there would be trouble between them. Of my part
+of it—well, it is much harder to speak. Being men,
+perhaps you will not understand the sort of power
+of fascination that a man can have over a woman,
+even when she does not love him. I shall always
+believe that Alan Mortimer had some hypnotic power—however,
+that is not the point. Though I had always
+repulsed him, he could not help knowing that
+he had influence over me; a man always knows.
+You see, I don’t try to lie; I tell you the truth, even
+though it isn’t a pleasant sort of truth to tell.”</p>
+
+<p>“I know it is most painful to tell,” Barrison said,
+feeling indeed profoundly sorry for her, and most
+respectful of her courage in speaking as she did.
+Norman Crane said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>“That night—the first night,” Sybil went on,
+“Alan Mortimer made it especially—hard for me.
+He had chosen an ornament for me, a splendid jeweled
+thing, but I had refused it several times. That
+night, he sent it to me with a note, and told me
+that he expected me to wear it that evening, after
+the play was over.”</p>
+
+<p>“Have you got it now?” asked Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>She reached out to a small table near by and took
+it from a hand bag. “I have never been separated
+from it,” she said simply. “It is too valuable, and—until
+to-day—I did not know just what to do
+with it.”</p>
+
+<p>In another moment it lay before them—the case
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[240]</span>“as long as a hand,” which Mrs. Parry had seen
+the girl hide in the front of her dress. In yet another
+instant the case was open, and the splendid
+piece of jewelry that was within flashed in the
+morning sunshine. It was a pendant of sapphires
+and diamonds, and it was the sort of thing that
+would be extremely becoming to Sybil Merivale.</p>
+
+<p>Crane suppressed with difficulty a sound of rage
+as he saw it.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison cut it off quickly by saying: “You told
+us you did not know what to do with it until to-day.
+Why to-day?”</p>
+
+<p>“Because”—Sybil took up a morning paper,
+looked at a particular place, and dropped it again—“because
+to-day I know that Miss Legaye was engaged
+to him, and that, therefore, anything that he
+had, when he died, belongs to her. I am going to
+send the pendant to Miss Legaye.”</p>
+
+<p>She closed the case with an air of finality. “Isn’t
+that what I ought to do?” she asked, half anxiously,
+looking from one to the other.</p>
+
+<p>Norman Crane, who had been sitting moodily
+staring at the floor, suddenly lifted his head and
+bent to kiss her hand.</p>
+
+<p>“My darling,” he said honestly and generously, “I
+don’t understand everything you’ve been talking
+about, but I understand that you’re my dear girl—my
+fine girl—always. And—and whatever you say—must
+be right!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[241]</span></p>
+<p>“And you, Mr. Barrison?” she persisted, looking
+at him wistfully, as she left her hand in Norman’s.</p>
+
+<p>Jim rose to go, and, standing, smiled down upon
+her. “I think your notion is an inspiration!” he
+declared. “I would give something to see Miss
+Legaye when she gets that pendant!”</p>
+
+<p>After which he departed, wondering how he was
+going to convince Lowry that the trail to Sybil
+was, professionally speaking, “cold.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXV">CHAPTER XXV</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">NEW DEVELOPMENTS</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">HE telephoned the <cite>Blaze</cite> office, and caught Teddy
+Lucas just as he was starting out on an
+assignment.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, it’s you,” said the reporter. “Wanted to
+tell you something about your friend Rita which
+might be useful in your business. I strolled round
+last night to the furnished rooming house where
+she and her husband hung out, and they never
+went home at all; just beat it to the train, I
+suppose. Their room was just as they’d left it,
+and full of junk. There was a shelf full of old
+photographs, and one of ’em was of two young
+girls, sisters I should say; at least, they were both
+dark. One’s evidently Rita herself, as she may have
+looked ten years ago, and the other, unless I’m
+very much mistaken, is the lady that the sob sisters
+are interviewing this morning!”</p>
+
+<p>“Not Kitty Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s the one. Oh, and I poked about the
+files for you this morning. The Blankley Daredevils
+were a riding and shooting show that did small
+time in the East until a year ago. Then it bust
+up, and the company scattered. Blankley seems
+to have been a crook, for the reason for the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[243]</span>smash-up was that he was arrested and sent to
+jail for six months! Quite a nice, snappy little
+story—what?”</p>
+
+<p>“Are you going to write it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not my line. I’ve turned it over to a chap
+on the news staff!”</p>
+
+<p>“I noticed that you didn’t make much out of
+last night.”</p>
+
+<p>“My editor cut out most of it; thought I was
+giving Coyne’s theater too much advertising. Well,
+that’s all I had to tell.”</p>
+
+<p>“Where is that photograph?”</p>
+
+<p>“I swiped it. Send it up?”</p>
+
+<p>“Please! And I’m no end obliged.”</p>
+
+<p>“That’s all right.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison walked out of the booth more astonished
+than he had ever been in his life. In all the
+speculations he had made in his own mind concerning
+this twisted and unsatisfactory case, it
+had never occurred to him to connect those two
+women. Kitty Legaye and Marita Blankley! He
+recalled the two faces swiftly, and saw that there
+was a faint resemblance, though Rita’s was far the
+harder and more mature. He would not swear that
+she was the older, though; little ladies like Kitty
+rarely looked their age. Kitty and Rita! The
+more he thought of it, the more astounding it
+seemed. Of course, the first thing to do was to
+locate Wrenn. But how? He wondered if Willie
+Coster could help him.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[244]</span></p>
+<p>He got Willie’s address easily enough from the
+theater, and went to call. He found him a little
+wan and puffy-eyed, but quite recovered, and amazingly
+cheerful for a man who has only been sober
+a few hours!</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn?” he repeated. “How should I know?
+He’d scarcely be staying on at Mortimer’s hotel,
+I suppose?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison explained that Mortimer’s rooms and
+effects were in the custody of the police, and
+that the old valet would not be allowed near them in
+any case.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t believe that he’s left town,” Willie
+said, “and I’ll tell you why. He wasn’t at all well
+fixed for money. I don’t believe Mortimer ever
+paid him any wages to speak of; whatever it
+was that held them together, it wasn’t cash. He’s
+touched me more than once, poor old beggar!”</p>
+
+<p>“You! Why you?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know,” said Willie simply. “People
+always do!”</p>
+
+<p>Good little fellow! Of course, people always did.</p>
+
+<p>“And you think he’d come and borrow money
+from you, if he meant to leave town?”</p>
+
+<p>“I’d not be surprised.”</p>
+
+<p>And, as a matter of fact, he did come that very
+day and for that very reason; and Willie, having
+ascertained his address, gave it to Barrison over
+the wire.</p>
+
+<p>“I feel rather rotten about telling you, too,” he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[245]</span>added. “I don’t know what you want him for,
+and the poor old guy is awfully cut up about
+something—scared blue, I should say. Say, Barrison,
+you don’t suspect <em>him</em>, do you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Lord, no! But I think he knows who did it.”</p>
+
+<p>Willie grunted uncomfortably. “Well, treat him
+decently,” he urged.</p>
+
+<p>“I’m not exactly an inquisitor in my methods,
+you know,” Jim told him. “How much money
+did you lend him, Willie?”</p>
+
+<p>“Only a ten spot,” said Willie innocently.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison laughed and said good-by.</p>
+
+<p>Within the hour, he was at the address given
+him by Coster. It proved to be a shabby, dingy
+little lodging house east of Second Avenue, and the
+few men whom the young man met slouching in
+and out were as shabby and dingy as the place,
+and had, he thought, a furtive look. Sized up
+roughly, it had a drably disreputable appearance,
+as though connected with small, sordid crimes and
+the unpicturesque derelicts of the underworld.</p>
+
+<p>In a dreary hall bedroom on the third floor,
+he finally found Wrenn.</p>
+
+<p>The old man opened the door with evident caution
+in response to Barrison’s knock, and when he saw
+the detective, his face became rigid with a terror
+which he did not even attempt to conceal. Mutely,
+he stood back and let the visitor enter, closing
+the door with trembling hands. Then, still speechless,
+he turned and faced him, his anguished eyes
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[246]</span>more eloquent than any words could have been.
+Jim was touched by the man’s misery. He could
+guess something of what he must be suffering on
+his daughter’s account.</p>
+
+<p>“Don’t look like that, Wrenn,” he said kindly.
+“I’ve only come to have a talk with you.”</p>
+
+<p>The old man bent forward with sudden eagerness.
+“Then,” he faltered, “you’ve not come to
+tell me—of—her arrest, sir?”</p>
+
+<p>“No,” said Barrison; “I don’t even know where
+she is. Sit down, man; you look done up.”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn sank onto the bed, and sat there, his
+wrinkled face working with emotion.</p>
+
+<p>“I was afraid you’d arrested her, sir!” he managed
+to say, after a moment, in broken tones.</p>
+
+<p>“You had been expecting that?”</p>
+
+<p>He nodded. “I’ve known that the—the police
+were bound to find out some time that she’d been
+in the theater that night, and I knew what that
+would mean. She <em>would</em> come, though I tried so
+hard to prevent her! She <em>would</em> come!”</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn,” said Barrison deliberately, “it’s a pretty
+tough question to put to you, but—did she shoot
+Mortimer?”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn looked at him with haggard eyes. “Before
+God, Mr. Barrison,” he said earnestly, “I
+don’t know, I don’t know! I didn’t <em>see</em> her shoot
+him, but—I know she meant to.”</p>
+
+<p>“You know that!” exclaimed Barrison.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[247]</span></p>
+<p>“I know that she had threatened him more than
+once, and—it was her pistol. You knew that, sir?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, I knew that. Go on!”</p>
+
+<p>“I’d better tell you the whole story, sir. I’m
+getting old, and it’s weighed on me too long—too
+long! If you don’t mind, sir, I’ll go back
+to the beginning.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVI">CHAPTER XXVI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">WRENN’S STORY</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">I WAS born in the West,” said Wrenn, “and I
+was fairly well educated, but while I was still
+in college—a small, fresh-water university—I got
+into bad company, and was expelled. My people
+disowned me after that, and I drifted into the sort
+of ‘adventurous’ life that attracts so many young
+men. I never really liked the idea of living
+dishonestly, but I didn’t seem good for much else.
+I had not worked hard at college, and I had no
+particular ambitions, one way or another. I suppose
+I was lazy, and I know that I was very weak.
+Eventually I became what you, sir, would call a
+crook, though for a long time I tried to gloss
+it over and pretend it was just taking a chance
+or living by my wits, and the rest of it! Then
+I got more hardened, and admitted even to myself
+that I was no better than the rest of the crowd
+I went with—a cheat, a card sharper, a petty
+criminal. Twice I was in jail for short terms,
+and I don’t think either experience improved me
+much.</p>
+
+<p>“Then I married. She was a high-class Mexican
+girl—very beautiful. She was a Catholic, and had
+an idea of reforming me. So she did, for a short
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[249]</span>time, but the old wild longings came back. I’d
+settled down in a job as foreman on an Arizona
+ranch, and I was working hard and drawing good
+pay. We had two little girls, and things were going
+pretty well. Then my wife died, and I got reckless
+again.</p>
+
+<p>“There was a tough bunch of cow-punchers in
+our outfit, and we got to gambling a lot, and pretty
+soon I found out that it was easier and more exciting
+to win when I played crooked than when I
+played straight. And there were others who felt the
+same way. We formed a sort of combination—a
+gang. And we did very well, indeed.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison sat and stared at the mild, respectable
+old fellow, who so patently and typically looked the
+part of a decent, sober, and trusty servant, and
+tried to visualize him as a bold, bad man of the
+wicked West. But some things are past the powers
+of the human imagination. He thought, with a sort
+of grimly humorous awe, of the strange alchemy
+of time, and shook his head, giving the problem up,
+as have better and wiser men before him.</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn went on with his story:</p>
+
+<p>“My girls were brought up in a rough-and-tumble
+way, I’m afraid. It affected them differently. The
+older Caterina—she was named for her mother—never
+took kindly to it. She was selfish and headstrong—they
+both were, for that matter. But I
+think Marita had more heart. Not that I ever called
+out much affection in either of them!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[250]</span></p>
+<p>He bent his gray head for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>“Anyway, I didn’t give them much of a bringing
+up. Marita knocked about with the boys and
+learned to ride like a puncher herself. But Caterina—Kitty,
+we called her—hated the whole life, and
+when a rich prospector came along, she threw us
+over like a shot and went away with him. She
+was only just eighteen, but she was ambitious already.
+She wanted to get some pleasure out of
+life, as she had said twenty times a day since she
+could speak. I—I shall not mention her name, sir—the
+name which she is known by now, for—you
+would know it.”</p>
+
+<p>It was odd, the way he dropped so constantly
+into the respectful “sir,” and all the air and manner
+of a servant. It was clear that his was one of
+those pliable natures that can be molded by life
+and conditions into almost any shape. His instinct
+of fatherhood, his late-awakened sense of conscience,
+responsibility and compunction, were struggling
+up painfully through the accumulated handicap
+of a lifetime of habit.</p>
+
+<p>“I know her name,” Barrison said quietly. “You
+mean Kitty Legaye, don’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>The start that Wrenn gave now betrayed an even
+livelier terror than had yet moved him.</p>
+
+<p>“I didn’t say it!” he gasped in fright and agitation.
+“I have never said it—never once, through
+all these years! She always made us swear we
+would tell nobody. I don’t know what she would
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[251]</span>do if she thought I had spoken! She was so
+ashamed of us—and I can hardly wonder at that,
+sir. She has done so well herself! Oh, sir, if ever
+it comes up, you—you’ll see that she knows that
+it wasn’t I who told?”</p>
+
+<p>“I certainly will,” said the detective, pitying—though
+with a little contempt—this father’s abject
+fear of his unnatural daughter’s displeasure. “As a
+matter of fact, I found it out by accident. I only
+told you that I knew just now to show you that
+you have nothing to conceal about her. Nor,” he
+added, entirely upon impulse, “about Mr. Dukane!”</p>
+
+<p>This time Wrenn’s jaw dropped, in the intensity
+of his astonishment.</p>
+
+<p>“You—you know about—him—too!” he muttered
+breathlessly. “Is there anything you—do not
+know?”</p>
+
+<p>“Several things, else I should not be here now,”
+rejoined Jim, with an inner thrill of elation over
+the success of his half-random shot. “Suppose you
+go on with your story, and then I shall know
+more.”</p>
+
+<p>The other sighed deeply, and proceeded:</p>
+
+<p>“Since you know so much, sir, there is no sense
+in my hiding anything. Not that I think I should
+have hidden anything, in any case. As I told you,
+I am an old man, and all this has been hard to
+bear. But you don’t want me to tell about my
+feelings, sir; you want the story.</p>
+
+<p>“When Kitty had been gone a year or more,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[252]</span>and Marita was about seventeen, Nicholas Blankley
+came to the town where we lived. It was a little
+Arizona settlement, where I ran a saloon and
+gambling place. Blankley was one of us—I mean
+he was a natural-born crook, but he wasn’t a bad
+sort of fellow at that, if you know what I mean,
+sir. He was a good sport, and square with his
+pals, which is more than can be said for most of
+us! He was in the theatrical line, and had worked
+on all sorts of jobs of that kind—advance man,
+stage manager, all sorts of things. He was interested
+in Rita from the first—saw her possibilities
+as a ‘cowgirl,’ and was fond of her, too—for she
+was young and fresh in those days, and the daring,
+reckless sort that got men. Nick got the daredevil
+name from her; that’s what he used to call her.</p>
+
+<p>“His idea was to start a sort of wild-West show,
+on the cheap; get some down-and-outers who could
+ride and shoot and who wouldn’t want much pay,
+and do short jumps at low prices. We would
+have to carry the horses, but no scenery, and no
+props to speak of, and we could use a big tent
+like the small circus people. It looked like a
+good venture, and I was tired of staying in one
+place. Marita was wild about it from the first.
+So I sold out my business, and we started. We
+made a success of it, though nothing very big,
+and kept at it fifteen years! Fifteen years! It
+seems impossible that it could have been as long
+as that, but it was. In that time Marita married
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[253]</span>Nick, and we ran across Alan Morton—I might as
+well go on calling him Mortimer, though.</p>
+
+<p>“There’s no use pretending that we were running
+our outfit strictly on the straight. We weren’t.
+We were out to get what we could out of the
+public, and we didn’t care much how we did it.
+But we didn’t do anything very bad; I, for one, was
+getting careful as time went on, and Nick had a
+notion of reforming after he married Rita. We did
+run a gambling business in connection with the
+show, and we did cheat a bit, and we did take in
+any sort of thug or gunman or escaped convict who
+had ever learned to ride, and Nick got away with
+a very good thing in phony change at one place.
+Very neat, indeed, it was, and he never had any
+trouble with it, either.”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn spoke of this with a sort of pride which
+made Barrison shake his head again. He was the
+queerest felon with whom the detective had ever
+come in contact.</p>
+
+<p>“But as I say,” resumed Wrenn, “we got along
+all right, and did no great harm for all those years.
+Then we struck Mortimer. He was a bad one—just
+a plain bad one, from the very first.”</p>
+
+<p>“And I always thought you were so fond of him!”
+ejaculated the detective.</p>
+
+<p>“But I was, sir,” said the old man at once. “I
+was very fond of him, indeed! He was a—a very
+lovable person, sir, when he cared to be.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[254]</span></p>
+<p>Barrison, again rendered speechless, simply stared
+at him for a moment or two.</p>
+
+<p>“Go on!” he managed to articulate, after a bit.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, sir, it was this way. Mortimer’s blood
+was younger than ours, and he was more venturesome,
+more energetic, more daring.”</p>
+
+<p>“Like your daughter.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir,” said the ex-gambler, rather sadly.
+“Like her. There was a time when I was afraid
+that she was getting too fond of him—he had such
+a way with women! Wherever he went there was
+trouble, as you might say. He helped the show—put
+new life into it, and he could ride—oh, well,
+no one ever rode better than he did. And you
+know how handsome he was?”</p>
+
+<p>Strangely enough, the old man’s voice choked a
+bit just there.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know why I always felt just the way
+I did about him,” he went on quietly. “He was
+often very rough and careless in his ways, but—but
+I was as fond of him as if he’d been my
+own son—and that, sir, is the gospel truth.</p>
+
+<p>“Mortimer had a scheme to branch out bigger,
+and get a sort of organized company together, with
+capital, and a circus arena somewhere with the
+right sort of scenery and music, and that sort of
+thing. Mr. Dukane had seen our show once, and
+had taken an interest in it—at least, had taken an
+interest in the lad—and Mortimer wrote to him
+for a loan to back the new plan.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[255]</span></p>
+<p>“Wrote Dukane—for a loan?” repeated Jim, in
+admiration.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, he did. I felt just as surprised as you,
+sir, when he told me what he had done. And—to
+this day, I’m not sure whether it was just
+plain, pure nerve on his part, or whether he—he—had
+in mind what the result might be.”</p>
+
+<p>“Result?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.” For the first time the old scapegrace’s
+utterance was slow and troubled—hardly audible.
+He would not meet Barrison’s eyes. What he said
+now seemed to be dragged up from the depths of
+his sinful and unwilling soul.</p>
+
+<p>“You know—you must know, sir,” he said, in
+those new and halting accents, “since you know so
+much—about the deal with Dukane?”</p>
+
+<p>“I know something,” said Jim, truthfully, but
+very cautiously—his heart was beating hard. “I
+know that there was a deal at all events.”</p>
+
+<p>“It—it doesn’t sound very well—put into words,
+does it, sir?” Poor old Wrenn’s tone was tired
+and appealing. “But there! I said I was going
+to make a clean breast of it, and I might as well.
+Dukane and Mortimer fixed it up between themselves——”</p>
+
+<p>“Dukane and Mortimer only?” interrupted Barrison,
+with a sudden intuition.</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn’s poor, weak, tragic eyes met his piteously,
+shifted, and fell.</p>
+
+<p>“Dukane and Mortimer and—I—fixed it up,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[256]</span>sir,” he confessed humbly. “We were to double-cross
+Nick Blankley, and Dukane was to star
+Mortimer.”</p>
+
+<p>“He must have had a pretty high opinion of
+him!” exclaimed Jim Barrison wonderingly, for the
+great manager, while a shrewd gambler, was no
+plunger.</p>
+
+<p>“He knew that he had the makings of a favorite,
+sir; any one could see it. Mr. Dukane wanted
+him the way the owner of a racing stable wants
+a fine horse. He knew there was money in him
+if he was put out right. And Dukane was the man
+to do that. Anyway, that was the idea. They—I
+mean we—were to get Blankley out of the way,
+and Dukane would take care of us afterward.”</p>
+
+<p>“How do you mean get him out of the way?”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, not kill him, sir!” Wrenn’s tone was
+virtuously shocked. “You wouldn’t think that,
+surely? It was just my way of putting it, as it
+were. No; he’d done a number of shady things,
+Nick Blankley had, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“So had you!” interpolated Jim Barrison, rather
+cruelly.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, yes, sir! But we had—if you’ll pardon
+the expression—got away with it.”</p>
+
+<p>There it was, the point of view of the born
+criminal. If you weren’t found out, it was all
+right! Jim looked at the wretched creature before
+him, and mused on man as God made him.</p>
+
+<p>“Well?” he demanded, somewhat impatiently.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[257]</span></p>
+<p>“Mortimer told Dukane something that Blankley
+had done; it wasn’t very much—just a fraud.”</p>
+
+<p>“And Dukane lent himself to this!”</p>
+
+<p>“He’s a business man, sir. He suggested it, I
+believe. At least, Mortimer said so.”</p>
+
+<p>No wonder the manager did not care to talk
+about it!</p>
+
+<p>“Anyway,” continued Wrenn, “it was on Mortimer’s
+testimony that Blankley went to jail.”</p>
+
+<p>“For six months.”</p>
+
+<p>“You know that, sir? But it was eight months.
+He got pardon for good behavior. We”—he stumbled
+over this—“we hadn’t expected it yet a while.”</p>
+
+<p>“Great Scott!” said Barrison, looking at him. “And
+you tell all this! You mean that you double-crossed—betrayed
+your pal, your partner—got him
+out of the way, so that you could be free of him
+while you got rich in the new venture?”</p>
+
+<p>“It—it comes to that, sir; I told you it didn’t
+sound well when you put in into words. But it’s
+the truth, and I don’t care any longer who knows
+it. I’m tired. And, anyway, I think it’s more
+Dukane’s fault than ours.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison thought so, too, but he said nothing,
+only waited in silence.</p>
+
+<p>“I came as Mortimer’s valet because there wasn’t
+much of anything else that I could do, and I swore
+I’d stick to him, and—and he liked me, and wanted
+me round him. And I did stick to him! I was
+fond of him, and I took care of him as well as I
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[258]</span>knew how. No one could have looked out for him
+better—no one, sir!”</p>
+
+<p>“I believe that. It’s queer; but, no matter, I
+believe it! What were you to get out of it?”</p>
+
+<p>“When he made his hit, I was to have ten
+thousand dollars.”</p>
+
+<p>“And what did your daughter—the one married
+to Blankley, whom you had sent to jail—what did
+she say about this pleasant little arrangement?”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn’s head drooped once more.</p>
+
+<p>“Marita was always hard to manage, sir,” he
+said, in a faint voice. “She turned against me—her
+own father, and——”</p>
+
+<p>“I should think she might!”</p>
+
+<p>“And she turned against Mortimer, and against
+Mr. Dukane, who offered her money. She said she
+would wait for Nick to come out of prison, and
+would spend the rest of her life in getting even!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, I sympathize with her!” said Barrison
+sincerely. So that was the meaning of the tragic
+and haggard lines about her mouth and the weary
+look in her eyes.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, Wrenn,” he went on quietly, “I don’t
+know just how the blame is to be divided in all
+this, but I imagine you’ve had almost your share
+of suffering. And Mortimer is done for. Dukane
+will get his eventually. I shall be sorry personally
+if your daughter Marita has to pay the penalty
+for the death of a rotter like the man who died
+the other night. I wish you could tell me
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[259]</span>something about her visit which would make her case
+look a little better.”</p>
+
+<p>Then Wrenn broke down, and, burying his head
+in his hands, cried like a child. He might have
+been a crook, a weakling, neglectful of his children
+through all the days of his life, but he was suffering
+now. His gaunt old body quivered under the
+storm of grief that swept him. In that abasement
+and sorrow it was even possible for Barrison
+to forget the despicable things he had just admitted.
+He was now merely an old man, bitterly punished
+not only for the sins of his youth, but those of his
+age.</p>
+
+<p>“That’s what I keep saying,” he panted at last,
+lifting his swollen eyes to the younger man’s pitying
+gaze. “I keep asking myself if there isn’t
+something that’ll clear her. Though we’ve been
+apart so long, and I was always a bad father to
+her, and a false friend to her husband, it will kill
+me altogether if I find that she is guilty of murder!”</p>
+
+<p>“She wrote those letters—the ones threatening
+Mortimer?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“And she took advantage of the time permitted her
+by the hours of her act at Coyne’s to come to the
+theater that night?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir. Let me tell you just how it was. She
+slipped in while Roberts was out getting the taxi
+for Kitty.” He spoke his daughter’s name shyly
+and with embarrassment. “She came straight into
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[260]</span>the dressing room—though why no one saw her
+I can’t see! She was dressed just as she had
+come from the theater, in a khaki skirt and a
+white waist. And she pulled a pistol out of her
+dress as she came in. I knew the pistol, because
+it was always a fad of hers, in all her stunts,
+to carry guns like that—very small, and very much
+decorated, and with a letter that might be either
+an M or a W, according as you looked at it.</p>
+
+<p>“The moment she and Mortimer saw each other
+they flew out like two wild cats. I’d always tried
+to keep this from happening, because I knew that
+they were both past controlling when their blood
+was up, and they both had a lot to fight for.”</p>
+
+<p>“Both!” repeated Barrison. “I can’t see that.
+Your daughter had something to fight for, because
+of the wrong done to her husband, and incidentally
+to herself. But where was Mortimer’s grievance?”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, sir,” said Wrenn slowly, as though he
+were seriously trying to express something rather
+beyond the intelligence of his hearer, “you see—maybe
+it hasn’t struck you, sir, but, if you’ve risked
+a great deal on a thing, and find that something is
+going to interfere with it, after all, at the last
+moment, you—well, sir, you are apt to lose your
+head over it. Aren’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison laughed a trifle grimly.</p>
+
+<p>“Crooked logic,” he remarked, “but excellent—for
+the crooked kind! So you sympathize with
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[261]</span>Mortimer in his annoyance at seeing your
+daughter?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t sympathize, sir. In a way, I may say
+I understand it. But when she pulled out that
+gun, I fell into a sweat of fear, sir, for I knew
+that she was afraid of nothing, and that if she’d
+said she’d kill him——”</p>
+
+<p>“Never mind how you felt! Tell me what happened!”</p>
+
+<p>Wrenn wiped his forehead. “She went for Mortimer,
+and he got to her first, and caught hold of
+her arms. He was very strong, but she struggled
+like a demon, and every minute I expected one
+of two things to happen, the pistol to go off or
+some one to hear and knock at the door. After,
+I suppose, two or three minutes like that, I pulled
+her away from him—her waist was torn in the
+struggle, you remember.”</p>
+
+<p>“I remember.”</p>
+
+<p>“And I managed to get her out of the door,
+begging her to make a run for the stage entrance
+and to get away if possible without being seen.
+It was nearly dark then, you see—not the regular
+dark scene, but all the lights were being lowered,
+because there was to be so little light on the stage.”</p>
+
+<p>There was silence for a moment, then Wrenn
+went on again: “I’ve wondered, you know, sir,
+several times, whether she and Kitty met that
+night. I’ve—I’ve been afraid of it, I confess, because
+I don’t believe my daughter Kitty would
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[262]</span>feel much sisterly affection for Rita. She might
+even give it away if she had seen her.”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison sat plunged in deep thought for at least
+two minutes, while the shaken and troubled old
+man watched him very anxiously indeed. At last
+he spoke, not ungently:</p>
+
+<p>“Wrenn, will you give me your word that you
+will not leave this place, this address, until I see
+you again?”</p>
+
+<p>He supposed that he was rather mad in asking
+the word of a self-confessed crook like Wrenn, but
+he thought he had got to the end of his tether. At
+any rate, the old man lifted his head with quite an
+influx of pride, as he answered:</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, Mr. Barrison!”</p>
+
+<p>Jim departed, with just one determination in his
+brain—to pay Kitty Legaye a second call as fast as
+a taxi would take him to the Golden Arms!</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVII">CHAPTER XXVII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">AN INCRIMINATING LETTER</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">KITTY looked very pretty and quite pathetic in
+her smartly simple mourning. She saw
+Barrison at once, and received him with a subdued
+cordiality that was the perfection of good taste
+under the circumstances.</p>
+
+<p>“What is it?” she said, in a low voice. There was
+no artificiality about her now; she was disturbed,
+apprehensive. “I know it’s something. Please tell
+me.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, there is something,” he said. “It’s about—your
+sister.”</p>
+
+<p>He could hear her draw in her breath.</p>
+
+<p>“My sister!” she whispered. “Marita! How did
+you know anything about her?”</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t think we need go into an account of
+that,” Jim said steadily. “As it happens, I do know
+quite a good deal about her. I know, for instance,
+that she was in the theater only a little while before
+Alan Mortimer was murdered.”</p>
+
+<p>“You know that!” she exclaimed, in unfeigned
+surprise. “I thought——”</p>
+
+<p>Then she checked herself, but it was too late;
+she saw at once what she had admitted.</p>
+
+<p>“I knew it,” said Barrison, watching her. “The
+question is—how did you know it, Miss Legaye?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[264]</span></p>
+<p>She dropped her eyes and was silent until he
+felt obliged to insist:</p>
+
+<p>“I am afraid I must ask you to tell me about
+it, though I can easily suppose it isn’t very pleasant
+for you.”</p>
+
+<p>“Pleasant!” she flashed out at him then. “Think
+what a position I am in! To lose him—<em>like that</em>—and
+then—to find my own sister mixed up in it!”</p>
+
+<p>“You think she was mixed up in it, then?”</p>
+
+<p>“How on earth do I know?” she cried excitedly.
+“I—I—oh, Mr. Barrison, you aren’t brutal, like
+most detectives; you are a gentleman! Won’t
+you make it a little easier for me? My sister and
+I were never very fond of each other, but I can’t
+be the one to implicate her now. I can’t!”</p>
+
+<p>“It may seem very dreadful to you, of course,
+Miss Legaye. But—how can you keep silent? She
+is already under suspicion. I don’t see how you
+can avoid telling everything you know.”</p>
+
+<p>“I thought—I never dreamed—that it would come
+to this!” she said miserably. “I thought no one
+knew of her being there except myself and—and
+my father.” She seemed to wince as she said the
+word; Jim remembered that Wrenn had said she
+was always ashamed of him. “He did not give you
+this information?”</p>
+
+<p>“He only corroborated what we already knew.
+Now, please, Miss Legaye, for all our sakes, even
+for your sister’s, tell me what you know.”</p>
+
+<p>“For my sister’s?” she repeated.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[265]</span></p>
+<p>“I don’t know what you have to tell; but, seriously,
+one of the reasons why I have come to you
+is that I can’t help hoping that you can supply
+some tiny link of evidence which will help to clear
+her. If you saw her leave the theater, for instance——”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head, with an air of deep depression.</p>
+
+<p>“I did not see her leave the theater,” she said
+quietly. “I did not see her at all.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did not see her! Then how——”</p>
+
+<p>“Wait, Mr. Barrison, and I will tell you. I
+will tell you just exactly what happened, and you
+must believe me, for it is the truth. I did not see
+my sister, but—<em>I heard her voice</em>!”</p>
+
+<p>Now that she had made up her mind to speak,
+the words came in a rush, as though she could
+not talk fast enough, as though she were feverish
+to get the ordeal over with.</p>
+
+<p>“When I left you to go home, I had to pass his—Alan’s—door,
+as you know. Just as I reached
+it, I heard voices inside—not loud, or I suppose
+they would have been stopped by some one, for
+the whole stage was supposed to be quiet while
+the act was on. But there was rather a noisy
+scene going on then—the bandits quarreling among
+themselves over the wine, you remember—and, anyway,
+the voices inside the dressing room could
+only be heard by some one who was standing very
+close to the door. I stopped for a moment,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[266]</span>instinctively at first, and then—I heard my sister’s
+voice, panting and excited!”</p>
+
+<p>All this tallied with Wrenn’s story. “Could you
+hear what she said?” asked Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Only a word or two.”</p>
+
+<p>“What words?”</p>
+
+<p>She flashed him a glance of deep appeal, then
+went hurriedly on:</p>
+
+<p>“I heard her say ‘Coward and cad,’ and—and
+‘You ought to be shot, and you know it!’ That’s
+all.”</p>
+
+<p>All! It was quite enough. Barrison looked
+at her with faint pity, though he had felt at first
+that she was not sincere. She had a way of disarming
+him by unexpected evidence of true feeling
+just when he expected her to play-act. He could
+see that she was finding this pretty hard to tell.</p>
+
+<p>“What did you do, Miss Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>“Do—I? Nothing. What was there for me to
+do? I went home.”</p>
+
+<p>“Didn’t it occur to you to try to see your sister,
+to interfere in what seemed to be such a very violent
+quarrel?”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head vehemently.</p>
+
+<p>“No, it did not. Why should it? My sister
+and I had nothing in common. I had not seen her
+for many years; I—I did not want to see her. For
+the rest—I knew that she hated Alan Mortimer, and
+if she was talking to him at all, it seemed quite
+natural that she should talk to him like that.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[267]</span></p>
+<p>“You did not feel afraid, then—did not look
+on those chance phrases you heard as—well, a
+threat?”</p>
+
+<p>She shuddered. “Oh, no; how could I? I thought
+she was just angry and excited. She always had a
+frightful temper. How could I guess that she
+had—anything else—in her mind?”</p>
+
+<p>“So you went straight home, without waiting?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.” She bent her head, and added, in a low,
+troubled tone: “You will think me very selfish, very
+much a coward, Mr. Barrison, but—those angry
+voices made me want to get away as fast as possible.
+I hate scenes and quarrels and unpleasantness
+of all kinds. I was thankful to get out of
+the theater, and to know that I had not had to
+meet Marita, especially in the mood she was in
+then.”</p>
+
+<p>“I see,” said Barrison, not without sympathy.
+“And is that all—really and absolutely all—that you
+know about the matter?”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty hesitated, and then she lifted her head and
+faced him bravely.</p>
+
+<p>“No,” she said clearly, “it is not all. If you
+will wait a moment, I have something I ought to
+show you.”</p>
+
+<p>She rose and went to a desk, returning with
+an envelope. She sat down again and took a letter
+from this envelope, which she first read herself
+slowly and with a curious air of deliberation. Then
+she held it out to Barrison.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[268]</span></p>
+<p>“I am going to trust you,” she said, meeting his
+eyes proudly, “not to make use of this unless you
+have to. Wait, before you read it! When I knew
+of the horrible thing that had happened at the
+theater that night, I thought of my sister. I—I
+am afraid it is scarcely enough to say that I suspected
+her. I remembered the angry words I had
+heard her say inside the dressing room. I knew
+her ungovernable rages and the bitterness she had
+for Alan. And I knew that she was a wonderful
+shot, and that she had never got out of the habit
+of going armed. I—well, I felt very sure what
+had happened.”</p>
+
+<p>She was breathing quickly, and speaking in a
+hoarse, strained tone.</p>
+
+<p>“I knew that there was more than a chance
+that some one else knew of her presence, and—I
+could not bear to have her arrested. I won’t
+pretend that it was all sisterly affection, but I
+think it was that, too, in a way. I couldn’t forget
+that, after all, we were of the same blood, and
+had been children and young girls together. I—I
+sent her money; I had seen in the paper that she
+and her husband were playing in New York, and
+I sent it to their theater, and with it I sent a
+note, begging her to lose no time in getting out of
+town. Was it—do you think it was very wrong?”
+she asked him rather piteously.</p>
+
+<p>“It was at all events very natural,” Jim
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[269]</span>answered, a little surprised and touched by what she
+had told him. “And may I read this now?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, read it. It is Marita’s answer to me. She
+accepted the money and sent me this letter.”</p>
+
+<p>With an odd movement of weariness and sorrow,
+she turned and laid her hands upon the back of
+her chair, and her face upon them.</p>
+
+<p>The note was in the same scrawling hand that
+had made all the threats against Mortimer, that he
+knew to be that of Marita Blankley. And it ran
+thus:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p><span class="smcap">Kitty</span>: I am glad that you have some feeling as a sister
+left in you. I did not suppose that the day would ever
+come when it would be <em>you</em> who would help me get out
+of trouble! I dare say at that it was only your hatred of
+having our names linked together, or having any one know
+you knew me even! Of course I was a fool to go to the
+theater last night. I might have known what would happen.
+Now I am going to try to forget it all. I shall live
+only for my husband, and we shall get out of town as soon
+as possible! I can trust <em>you</em> not to talk, I know! There
+was never much love lost between us, Kitty. Your sister,</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+<span class="smcap">Marita</span>.
+</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Barrison sat very still after reading this. At
+last he noticed that Kitty had lifted her head and
+was watching him with an anxious face.</p>
+
+<p>“Well?” she demanded.</p>
+
+<p>“You told me not to use this unless it were
+necessary,” said Barrison very gravely. “It is
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[270]</span>necessary now, Miss Legaye. I must take it to
+headquarters at once!”</p>
+
+<p>She gave a little cry.</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, I was afraid—I was afraid!” she exclaimed.
+“You think it—it looks bad for her?”</p>
+
+<p>“I think,” said Jim Barrison, “that it is practically
+conclusive evidence!”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII">CHAPTER XXVIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">A STRANGE SUMMONS</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">IT was barely an hour later, and Lowry and
+Barrison sat together in the inspector’s office.
+Before them lay the letter which Kitty Legaye had
+given Jim, side by side with the threatening letter
+which had come to the Mirror Theater. The handwriting,
+as was to be foreseen, was identical.
+There, too, lay the photograph “swiped” by the
+reporter Lucas, showing the two young faces, so
+easily recognized now as the likenesses of Rita
+Blankley and Kitty. There was the pistol with its
+odd, non-committal initial, which had been identified
+as Rita’s.</p>
+
+<p>A telegram was handed to Lowry, and, after
+reading it, he passed it to Jim. It was signed with
+an initial only, obviously one of the inspector’s
+regular men, and came from Indianapolis. It read:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>Got your friends. All coming back on next train. G.</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>“The Blankleys?” asked Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Sure. They’ll be here to-morrow, and then I
+guess the case’ll be over.”</p>
+
+<p>Just as Barrison was leaving the office, the inspector
+said casually:</p>
+
+<p>“By the bye, Jim—if you want to take a look
+at the place where the Blankleys lived, here’s the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[272]</span>address on a card. I’d like you to go round there
+and have a look. You’re the sort of fellow who
+gets on with people better than the regular
+officers. Will you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Rather!”</p>
+
+<p>Jim went off with his card, wondering just what
+the inspector meant. “The sort of fellow who gets
+on with people!” That sounded as though there
+were people on the premises whom the inspector
+had failed to pump satisfactorily. He decided to
+“take a look” without delay.</p>
+
+<p>It turned out to be quite the usual type of
+furnished rooming house, kept by a faded, whining
+woman, with hair and skin all the same color.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed that she had a boy—thirteen he was,
+though he looked younger. He went to school
+mostly, but he was a good deal more useful when
+he stayed away. “And what was the good of
+schooling to the likes of him?” said she.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison refrained from shaking her till her teeth
+rattled, and soothingly extracted the rest.</p>
+
+<p>Freddy, who appeared to be a sharp youngster
+from what she said, could always turn a pretty
+penny by acting as messenger boy for the “ladies
+and gents” in the house. Some of them were actors;
+more of them were not. It was fairly evident that
+the place was largely patronized by denizens of
+the shady side of society. Before Jim was done
+with the woman, he had ascertained that Freddy
+had more than once acted as messenger for the
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[273]</span>Blankleys, for whom, by the bye, she had a sincere
+respect. She said they were “always refined in
+their ways,” and paid cash.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison remembered that Roberts, the stage doorkeeper,
+had reported that the threatening letters
+had been delivered by a street urchin. He asked
+to see Freddy, but he was at school—for a wonder.
+His mother appeared to resent the fact, and to look
+upon it as so many hours wasted.</p>
+
+<p>She promised that the evening would find him
+free to talk to the gentleman as much as the gentleman
+desired. Barrison had given her a dollar to
+start with, and promised another after he had conferred
+with Freddy.</p>
+
+<p>When he left, he had an unsatisfied instinct that
+he had somehow missed something Lowry had expected
+him to get. The unseen Freddy was in his
+mind as he went uptown—in his mind to such an
+extent that he spoke of him to Tony Clay when
+he met him on Broadway and accepted that youth’s
+urgent pleading to go to a place he knew of where
+they could get a good drink. The boy was in his
+mind when, on coming out of the café, they found
+themselves stormbound by crosstown traffic and
+looking in at the windows of Kitty Legaye’s taxicab.</p>
+
+<p>Her charming, white-skinned face framed in its
+short black veil and black ruff, lighted to intense
+interest as she caught sight of them.</p>
+
+<p>“Have you any news?” she cried, in carefully
+subdued excitement.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[274]</span></p>
+<p>Barrison could not bring himself to tell her that
+the police had caught up with her sister, and that
+she was on her way back to face her accusers.
+Kitty saw his hesitation, and thought it might be
+because Clay was present.</p>
+
+<p>“Let me give you a lift!” she said impulsively.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison accepted, after a second’s cogitation. “Go
+on to my rooms, Tony,” he said. “I’ll be there
+shortly.”</p>
+
+<p>He got into the machine with Miss Legaye, and
+said to her gravely, as they began to move again:</p>
+
+<p>“Tell me, please, Miss Legaye, you had no intercourse
+with your sister since she came to New
+York—I mean until you sent her the money, and
+she answered you?”</p>
+
+<p>“None!” she said quickly and frankly.</p>
+
+<p>“Did your letter come by mail or by a messenger
+boy?”</p>
+
+<p>She started, and looked at him in surprise. “By
+mail,” she replied. “Why?”</p>
+
+<p>“Perfect nonsense,” he said, really feeling that
+the impulse which had made him speak was an
+idle one. “I’ve found a boy who did a lot of
+errands for her, and I wondered if you could
+identify him, that’s all.”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head; though it was getting dusk,
+he could see her dark eyes staring at him.</p>
+
+<p>“I don’t know anything about that,” she said.
+“What sort of a boy, and what do you expect to
+prove by him?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[275]</span></p>
+<p>“He’s merely a witness,” Barrison hastened to
+explain. “You see, the—the letter you let me have
+corresponds exactly in writing to the letters that
+came to Mortimer, threatening him. We think this
+is the boy who carried Mrs. Blankley’s messages
+while she was in New York. That’s all. You see,
+though it’s a small link, it is one that we can’t
+entirely overlook.”</p>
+
+<p>“Have you seen him?” she asked.</p>
+
+<p>“No; I am to see him to-night,” said Barrison.
+“And—Miss Legaye, I must tell you”—he hesitated,
+for he was a kind-hearted fellow—“I ought to warn
+you that you may have an unpleasant ordeal ahead
+of you. Your sister and her husband are—coming
+back to New York.”</p>
+
+<p>She was silent for half a minute.</p>
+
+<p>“Thank you,” she said. “You have been very
+good to—warn me. I don’t think you will ever
+know how glad I am to have met you this afternoon,
+Mr. Barrison.”</p>
+
+<p>He did not pretend to understand her. As they
+had gone several blocks, he said good night with
+more warmth and consideration than he had ever
+expected to feel for Kitty Legaye, and, alighting
+from the taxi, made his way directly to his rooms.</p>
+
+<p>He found Willie Coster awaiting him there, with
+his hair standing on end, and an expression of
+blank and rather appalled astonishment on his mild
+countenance.</p>
+
+<p>“Say!” he cried, as Jim entered. “I went to call
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[276]</span>on the gov’nor this afternoon, and—he’s sailed for
+London to put on three or four plays! And I’m
+out of a job! Now, what do you think of that?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison stood still in the center of the room
+and nodded his head slowly. So Dukane had heard
+the warnings in the air, and had slipped away!
+Well, it was only a matter of time! They had
+nothing criminal against him, but—the story would
+not make a pleasant one, as noised abroad about
+the greatest theatrical manager of America. Eventually,
+it would come out. However, meanwhile
+he had gone. He was sorry for Willie; sorry for
+the hundreds of actors and other employees who
+would suffer. It looked from what Willie had
+to tell that Dukane’s exit had been a complete and
+clean-cut one. He had closed up his office, put
+his road companies in subordinate hands, and—cleared
+out.</p>
+
+<p>“And I—who have been with him all these years—don’t
+even get a company!” complained poor
+Willie.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison remembered what Dukane had said to
+him about not being able to afford to consider any
+man personally. For some reason he had chosen
+to forget Willie Coster, and, true to form, he had
+forgotten him!</p>
+
+<p>Tony Clay came in then. It was half past seven,
+nearly an hour later, when Tara reminded them
+politely of dinner.</p>
+
+<p>“We’ll go out somewhere,” said Jim, rising and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[277]</span>stretching himself. “You two shall be my guests.
+I feel that this case is practically over, and when
+I’m through with a case I feel like Willie after a
+first night—I want to relax. I don’t want—at
+least not necessarily—to get drunk, but I do want
+to——”</p>
+
+<p>Oddly enough, it was Tony Clay who interrupted
+him in a queer, abrupt sort of voice. He sounded
+like a man who hated to speak, but who was driven
+to it in spite of himself.</p>
+
+<p>“Look here, you fellows,” he said, “don’t let’s
+go out for dinner to-night.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why not?” demanded Barrison, in astonishment.
+“I thought you were always on the first call for a
+feed, Tony!”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, well, maybe I am. And—I know you think
+me an awful duffer in lots of ways, Jim, but—I
+have a hunch that perhaps——”</p>
+
+<p>“That what?” demanded Jim, as he paused.</p>
+
+<p>“That something is going to happen!” declared
+Tony defiantly. “Now call me a fool if you like!
+I shan’t mind a bit, because I dare say I am one.
+But that’s my hunch, and I’m going to stick to it.
+I don’t know whether it’s something good or something
+darned bad, but—if something doesn’t turn
+up before another hour’s out, I miss my guess!”</p>
+
+<p>They laughed at him, but they stayed.</p>
+
+<p>“Tony,” said Barrison, after the lights were
+lighted and Tara had gone to prepare dinner, “you
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[278]</span>have something more than a hunch to go on. What
+is it? Out with it!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well,” said Tony unwillingly, “maybe I have
+something, but it’s too vague for me to explain,
+yet. Only—I’d be just as pleased if we three
+stuck together to-night. That’s all.”</p>
+
+<p>The boy spoke earnestly, and Barrison looked at
+him in real wonder.</p>
+
+<p>“Tony,” he said, “if you really know anything——”</p>
+
+<p>The bell rang, and Tara brought in a telegram.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison tore it open and read:</p>
+
+<div class="blockquot">
+<p>Am in danger. Come to me, Ferrati’s road house, two
+miles beyond Claremont, before nine. Come, for Heaven’s
+sake, and mine.</p>
+
+<p class="right">
+G. T.
+</p>
+</div>
+
+<p>Barrison gazed at the words in dazed stillness
+for a moment; then seized his hat.</p>
+
+<p>“Stop, Jim!” cried Tony urgently. “You must
+tell us—you must tell me—what is the matter?”</p>
+
+<p>Barrison shook his head as he dashed to the
+door.</p>
+
+<p>“I can’t tell any one anything!” he cried, as he
+went. “I am needed. Isn’t that enough for any
+man?”</p>
+
+<p>He was gone, and the door had slammed after
+him.</p>
+
+<p>Tony quickly picked up the telegram which had
+fluttered to the floor. “Didn’t I warn him?” he
+muttered.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXIX">CHAPTER XXIX</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THROUGH THE NIGHT</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">ON—on through the blue dusk of the September
+evening.</p>
+
+<p>Now that he found himself actually in the touring
+car that he had so impetuously engaged, Jim
+Barrison found his chaotic thoughts settling into
+some sort of approximate order, if not of repose.
+He began to analyze himself and this strange ride
+through the night.</p>
+
+<p>He knew that suddenly he had forgotten the
+habit and the prompting of years; the caution that
+usually made him project himself into a possible
+future and meet it intelligently; the restraint and
+sensible skepticism which had always made him
+consider risks and appraise them, even while being
+quite as willing to take them as any other brave
+man. He knew that he had in a single moment
+forgotten all the training and the custom of his
+mature lifetime, because a woman had asked him
+to come to her!</p>
+
+<p>A woman? That would not have been enough,
+he knew, in any other case. He was as chivalrous
+and as plucky as most men—a gallant gentleman
+in all ways; but his discretion would have aided
+his valor in any ordinary enterprise. As it was—he
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[280]</span>had been deaf and blind to any and all promptings
+save those that pounded in his ardent pulse.
+And all because a woman had sent for him! A
+woman? Say, rather, the woman! The one
+woman in the world who could so move him,
+change him, separate him from himself!</p>
+
+<p>For the first time, but with characteristic honesty
+and thoroughness, Jim Barrison acknowledged to
+his own heart that he loved Grace Templeton.</p>
+
+<p>He loved her, and he was going to her. The
+fact that she wanted him was enough. It was
+strange—some day when he was sane, perhaps,
+he would see how strange.</p>
+
+<p>The chauffeur slowed up and turned to say over
+his shoulder:</p>
+
+<p>“I guess it’s here, sir. There’s a sign that says
+Fer—something, and that’s a road house in there,
+all right! Shall I drive in, sir?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; go ahead.”</p>
+
+<p>The big car crept in slowly around the curving
+drive toward the low row of not too brilliant
+lights, for this road house was set far back from
+prying eyes. There were a few trees in front,
+too, which further enhanced the illusion of privacy.
+Barrison could not help noticing that, unlike most
+road houses, this one seemed bare of patrons for
+the nonce. There was not another automobile to be
+seen anywhere about.</p>
+
+<p>He had heard of Ferrati’s before. It was one
+of those discreet little out-of-town places, far away
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[281]</span>from the main road, hidden by trees, vines, and
+shrubbery, and known only to a certain selection
+among the elect. Whatever its true character, it
+masqueraded as modestly as a courtesan behind a
+cap and veil. Proper to the last degree was Ferrati’s;
+any one could go there. The tone was
+scrupulously correct—if you frequented its main
+rooms. And the authorities saw nothing wrong
+with it. Ferrati himself saw to that!</p>
+
+<p>But there were stories—Barrison had heard a
+few of them—which suggested that the resort, like
+some people, had a side not generally known to
+the public. It was even said that it was a headquarters
+for a certain blackmailing concern much
+wanted by the police; that all manner of underworld
+celebrities could be sure of a haven there
+in off hours, and that the bartender was nearly as
+skillful at knock-out drops as he was at mixed
+drinks.</p>
+
+<p>How, Jim asked himself, had Grace Templeton
+ever got into these surroundings? Of course he
+sensed something queer about it all, and he could
+not help wondering despairingly whether that unquenchable
+thirst for adventure to which she had
+borne witness had been the means of bringing her
+inadvertently into such an unsavory neighborhood.</p>
+
+<p>He did not dismiss the car, but told the man to
+wait, and, running up the short flight of steps
+at the front door, asked the rather seedy-looking
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[282]</span>maître d’hôtel, or whatever he was, for Miss Templeton.</p>
+
+<p>The man did not seem to understand him, but a
+second individual, who was clearly his superior in
+position, made his appearance, and greeted Barrison
+politely and with some air of authority.</p>
+
+<p>“Is your name Ferrati?”</p>
+
+<p>“Giovanni Ferrati, if the signor pleases.” He
+bowed, but Barrison had the impression that the
+man was watching him. He was dark and foreign
+looking, with a face like a rat.</p>
+
+<p>“The signor wished——”</p>
+
+<p>“I am to meet Miss Templeton here,” said Barrison
+shortly.</p>
+
+<p>The rat-faced one’s expression cleared from a
+dubious look to delighted relief. So far as he was
+able, he beamed upon the newcomer.</p>
+
+<p>“Ah, that is well! If the signor would come
+this way——”</p>
+
+<p>Jim followed where he led, with an unaccountable
+sense of distrust and discomfort gaining place
+in his breast. For the first time, a genuine doubt
+assailed him. Suppose it were a trick, a trap?
+Nothing since he had first entered this “joint,” as he
+savagely termed it to himself, had put him in any
+way at his ease. And at last he was conscious
+of a well-developed instinct of suspicion. It was
+not only what he had known before—that Grace
+was in trouble; it was a conviction that the whole
+situation was an impossible one—false, dangerous,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[283]</span>utterly unlike what he had been expecting. Suppose—he
+hardly dared to put his thoughts into
+words. He only knew that he found his environment
+singularly menacing. He could not tell what
+it was that was in the air, but it was something
+wicked and deadly. He wished that he had waited
+long enough to verify that telegram! If Grace
+Templeton had <em>not</em> sent it——</p>
+
+<p>“This way, signor, if you please!” said the rat-faced
+man called Ferrati.</p>
+
+<p>At the end of a dim and unsavory corridor, he
+turned the knob of a door.</p>
+
+<p>“The lady awaits you, signor!” he said, with a
+remarkably unpleasant smile.</p>
+
+<p>The room within was highly lighted, as Jim
+Barrison could see, even through the small space
+where it was held open by Ferrati. He walked
+in promptly.</p>
+
+<p>On the instant, the lights were switched out—at
+the very second of his entrance. He could see
+nothing now; it was pitch dark.</p>
+
+<p>Mingled with his rage was a perfectly human
+mental comment: “You idiot; it serves you right!”</p>
+
+<p>For of course he was in a trap—a nice, neat
+trap, such as any baby might have walked into!</p>
+
+<p>The door closed behind him quickly, and something
+straightway clicked.</p>
+
+<p>He was locked into this mysterious room in this
+strange and murderous resort, and the darkness
+about him was that of the grave.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXX">CHAPTER XXX</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE WHISPER IN THE DARK</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">DARKNESS is a very strange thing. It is probably
+as strong and mysterious an agent when
+it comes to transmuting—and to deceiving—as
+anything on this earth. Nothing known to man is
+the same in the dark as at another time, and under
+the light.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed to Jim Barrison that a series of pictures
+were being painted upon that cruel, that
+unfeeling, darkness. He had never, perhaps, been
+so close to himself before. The possibilities of
+human pain had certainly never been so apparent
+to the eyes of his mind. For suddenly, and with
+terrible clearness, he recalled his conversation with
+Grace Templeton, and seemed again to hear her
+say:</p>
+
+<p>“Suppose the traveler who showed him the real
+gourd of water should refuse to share it, after all?
+What do you think would be likely to happen
+then?”</p>
+
+<p>And once more he could hear himself reply:</p>
+
+<p>“I should think the thirsty man would be quite
+likely to shoot him!”</p>
+
+<p>And then—then—what was it she had said, with
+that enigmatical smile of hers?</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[285]</span></p>
+<p>“Yes, that’s just what might happen!”</p>
+
+<p><em>Yes, that’s just what might happen!</em> She had
+said that. How much had she meant by it, and
+how much had she meant it? He did not know.
+But, though he was not willing to apply it too
+closely as a key to his present position, he could
+not bring it to mind without a strange chill. For,
+if there were women of that kind, he was sure that
+she—lovely and idealistic as she was—was one of
+them.</p>
+
+<p>He stood still, perfectly still, straining his ears,
+since it would have been utterly vain to have
+strained his eyes. For a time he even heard nothing.
+Yet he was poignantly conscious of another
+presence there—whose?</p>
+
+<p>He was afraid to permit himself much in the
+way of conjecture; that sharp and taunting memory
+was still too fresh with him. He would rather
+a thousand times over that he had been tricked and
+trapped by some desperate criminal determined to
+torture him to death than that <em>she</em> should have
+thus deliberately led him here, should have thus
+cruelly traded upon her certain knowledge of his
+interest in her! The thing would not bear thinking
+of; it could not be!</p>
+
+<p>He scarcely breathed as he stood there, motionless,
+waiting for that other’s first movement. He
+was so tensely alert that it seemed strange to
+him that the other could even breathe without his
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[286]</span>hearing it. He wished for a revolver, and cursed
+himself for the precipitancy which had carried him
+off without it.</p>
+
+<p>And then he heard—what he had dreaded most
+of all to hear—the faint, almost imperceptible rustle
+of a woman’s dress!</p>
+
+<p>It was the veriest ghost of a rustle, as though
+the very lightest and thinnest of fabrics had been
+stirred as delicately as possible.</p>
+
+<p>But—it <em>was</em> a woman, then!</p>
+
+<p>“Who is it?” he demanded, and his voice to his
+own ears seemed to resound like an experimental
+shout in one of the world’s famous echoing caverns.</p>
+
+<p>And the answer came in a whisper—a woman’s
+whisper:</p>
+
+<p>“Hush!”</p>
+
+<p>Then there was a long, blank, awful silence,
+and then the rustle once again. And again that
+sibilant breath voiced:</p>
+
+<p>“Can you tell where I am standing?”</p>
+
+<p>“Who are you?” Barrison repeated, though dropping
+his own voice somewhat.</p>
+
+<p>“Please don’t speak so loud!” He could barely
+hear the words. “I am Grace Templeton—surely
+you know?”</p>
+
+<p>“Why are you whispering?”</p>
+
+<p>“Because we may be overheard. Because there
+is danger, very great danger!”</p>
+
+<p>“Danger—from whom?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[287]</span></p>
+<p>“Come closer, please! I am so afraid they will
+hear! Can’t you place me at all? If you are
+still at the door—are you?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>“Then come forward to the right, only a few
+steps, and then wait.”</p>
+
+<p>Now it has already been pointed out in these
+pages that the dark is paramountly deceptive. Barrison
+could not accurately locate the woman who
+was whispering to him; neither could he entirely
+identify the voice itself. If you will try the experiment
+of asking a number of different people
+to assemble in pitch darkness and each whisper the
+same thing, you will probably find that it is painfully
+easy to mistake your bitterest enemy for
+your very nearest and dearest friend. Jim Barrison
+had no soul thrill, nor any other sort of
+evidence, to assure him that the woman in the
+dark room was Grace Templeton; on the other
+hand, there was nothing to prove her any one else.</p>
+
+<p>And yet—and yet—he had a curious, creeping
+feeling of dread and suspicion. He did not trust
+this unknown, unidentified, whispering voice in the
+darkness.</p>
+
+<p>It came again then, like the very darkness itself
+made audible; insistent, soft, yet indefinitely sinister:</p>
+
+<p>“Come! Come here to me! Only a few steps forward
+and just a little to the right.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[288]</span></p>
+<p>Barrison took one single step forward, and then
+stopped suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>He did not know what stopped him. He only
+knew that he <em>was</em> stopped, as effectually and as
+imperatively as if some one in supreme authority
+had put out a stern, restraining hand before him.</p>
+
+<p>And then, all at once, something happened—one
+of those tiny things that sometimes carry such
+huge results on their filmy wings. The whisper
+came again, more urgently this time:</p>
+
+<p>“Aren’t you going to come to me, when I’m in
+danger?”</p>
+
+<p>When people are born in the West, they carry
+certain things away from it with them, and it
+matters not how long they are gone nor in what
+far parts they choose to roam, they never get rid of
+those special gifts of their native soil. One is the
+slightly emphasized “r” of ordinary speech. No
+Easterner can correctly mimic it; no Westerner can
+ever get away from it except when painstakingly
+acting, and endeavoring to forget that to which
+he was born. The two r’s in the one brief
+sentence were of the nature to brand any one
+as a Westerner. And Barrison knew that Grace
+Templeton had never spoken with the ghost of such
+an accent in her life. Who was it whom he had
+heard speak recently who did accentuate her r’s
+like that? Marita did! And one other—though
+much more delicately and——</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[289]</span></p>
+<p>He remembered, with a throb of excited pleasure
+on dismissing a hideous suspicion from his
+mind, and on entering normally into the joys of
+chance and danger, that he had one weapon which
+might turn out to be exceedingly useful in his
+present predicament. He had come away without
+his gun, but he had with him the tiny pocket
+lamp, the electric torch of small dimensions but
+great power, which had been the joy of his life
+ever since it had been given him. Like all nice
+men, he was a child in his infatuated love of new
+toys!</p>
+
+<p>He drew the little cylinder from his coat pocket
+cautiously, and, with the same exultant feeling
+that an aviator doubtless knows when he drops a
+bomb on a munitions factory, he flashed it.</p>
+
+<p>The result was surprising.</p>
+
+<p>Straight in front of him was a square, black
+hole in the floor. If he had taken that step forward
+and to the right which she had urged, he would
+have gone headlong to practically certain death.
+The human brain, being quicker than anything else
+in the universe, reminded him that there had been
+some unexplained disappearances in this neighborhood.
+But he was now chiefly concerned in finding
+out who the woman was. Before he could flash
+his light in her face she had flung herself upon
+him.</p>
+
+<p>There was no more pretense about her. She
+was grimly, fiercely determined to force him
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[290]</span>toward that wicked, black hole into eternity. Not
+a single word did she utter; she did not even call
+for assistance, though, since the people in this
+house were her friends or tools, she might well
+have done so. She seemed consumed by one single,
+burning desire: to thrust him with her own hands
+into the pit.</p>
+
+<p>Never had Jim struggled against such ferocity of
+purpose. She was like a demon rather than a
+woman, in the way she writhed between his hands,
+and forced her limited strength against his trained
+muscles in the bold and frantic effort to annihilate
+him. And, in that dense blackness, it was a toss-up
+as to who would win. The woman herself might
+easily have gone headlong into the very trap she
+had planned for him. But she did not seem to
+think or to care for that; her whole force of
+being was centered, it seemed, in the one sole
+purpose of his destruction.</p>
+
+<p>At that furious, struggling moment, Barrison became
+convinced of an odd thing. He was perfectly
+certain, against all the testimony of all the world,
+that the woman who fought him so murderously
+was not only the woman who had planned his own
+death that night, but also the criminal for whom
+they were so assiduously seeking. He was sure
+that his hands at that very minute grasped the
+person who had killed Alan Mortimer.</p>
+
+<p>It seemed to last forever, that silent, breathless
+struggle in the dark. But finally he got her hands
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[291]</span>pinioned behind her in one of his, and deliberately,
+though with a beating heart, raised his electric
+torch and flashed it full in her face.</p>
+
+<p>Mutinous, defiant, almost mad with rage for the
+moment, the dark eyes of Kitty Legaye blazed back
+at him.</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXI">CHAPTER XXXI</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">TONY DOES HIS BIT</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">THINGS happened very rapidly in Jim Barrison’s
+rooms after he had made his hasty departure.
+Tony Clay stood for a moment, holding the telegram
+in his hand; and then, tossing it to Willie Coster, he
+made a jump for the telephone. There he called
+Spring 3100, and, getting his number, demanded Inspector
+Lowry in a voice that might have been the
+president’s for authority, and a Bloomingdale inmate’s
+for agitation.</p>
+
+<p>“Now, now,” came the deep, official tones from
+the other end of the wire; “hold your horses, my
+friend! Is it an accident or a murder?”</p>
+
+<p>“It’s probably both,” stormed Tony.</p>
+
+<p>He had the inspector on the wire, and was pouring
+out his tale, trying his best to keep himself coherent
+with the ever-present picture in his brain of
+Jim in trouble. Tony was not one of the most inspired
+of detectives, but he was as good a friend
+as ever a man had, and he loved Jim.</p>
+
+<p>It happened that Lowry had a weakness for
+Jim himself. Also, the story told by Tony was,
+though wild, certainly one to make any police official
+sit up and take notice. Ferrati’s, as has already
+been suggested, was not looked upon favorably by
+the police.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[293]</span></p>
+<p>He told Tony Clay that he would come up to
+Ferrati’s himself with a couple of men.</p>
+
+<p>“And we’ll stop for you,” he said, meaning to be
+most kind and condescending.</p>
+
+<p>Tony retorted hotly: “I’m leaving for Ferrati’s
+now! I can’t wait for the police department to
+wake up!”</p>
+
+<p>He hung up viciously and turned to face Willie
+Coster, also Tara, who, though less demonstrative
+than these Occidentals, was clearly about as anxious
+as either of them.</p>
+
+<p>“Tara, get a taxi!” said Tony briefly.</p>
+
+<p>“Immediate, honorable sir!”</p>
+
+<p>Tara’s alacrity was rather pathetic. Willie Coster
+looked after him with a kindly nod.</p>
+
+<p>“D’you know,” he remarked, in a low tone, “that
+Jap is just as keen to help Barrison as we are.
+You’ll find when we start out after him he won’t
+let himself be left behind.”</p>
+
+<p>Tony turned to scowl at him in bewilderment.</p>
+
+<p>“When ‘we’ start out after him!” he repeated.
+“You aren’t expecting to spring anything of that
+sort, are you?”</p>
+
+<p>Willie Coster looked at him a moment only. Then
+his small, pinched face blazed suddenly into fiery
+red.</p>
+
+<p>“Say,” he snapped, “do you think you’re the only
+he-man on the premises? And do you suppose that
+no one else is capable of a friendly feeling for Barrison,
+and a natural wish to help him out of a mess,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[294]</span>except just your blessed self? Because, if that’s
+what you think, you forget it—quick!”</p>
+
+<p>Tony felt abject, and would have apologized, too,
+but a snorting arose in the street below them, and
+Tara announced the taxi which, in some inscrutable
+way, he had maneuvered there in more than record
+time.</p>
+
+<p>Tony recalled what Willie Coster had said.</p>
+
+<p>“Tara,” he said abruptly, “you are fond of Mr.
+Barrison, I know.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes, sir,” Tara said.</p>
+
+<p>“We think Mr. Barrison is in danger. We are
+going to see what we can do for him. Now remember,
+there isn’t a reason in the world why you
+should come too, only——”</p>
+
+<p>The Jap spoke in his elaborately polite way:</p>
+
+<p>“Honorably pardon, sir! There is reason.”</p>
+
+<p>“But——” Tony was beginning, but he never
+finished. He saw the reason too plainly. Tara, like
+himself and like Willie, was too fond of Barrison to
+stay away. That was reason enough.</p>
+
+<p>“All right, Tara, you come along!” he said, turning
+away. And his voice might have been a bit
+husky.</p>
+
+<p>“Where, first?” said Coster, as they entered the
+taxicab. And there were three of them, too!</p>
+
+<p>Tony gave the name of the hotel where Miss Templeton
+lived, which was not so far away. Once
+there, he left his companions in the taxi and went
+up alone to interview the lady. In his hand, tightly
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[295]</span>crumpled with the vehemence of his intense feeling,
+he kept the telegram which had come for Jim Barrison,
+signed with her initials.</p>
+
+<p>He penciled a note to Miss Templeton which made
+her send for him as soon as she received it.</p>
+
+<p>They knew each other, but she was so excited
+that she did hardly more than acknowledge his
+hasty bow.</p>
+
+<p>“Mr. Clay,” she exclaimed, “what does it all
+mean? I know you would not have sent me this
+message without a reason! You say: ‘Mr. Barrison
+is in grave danger because of you. Will you
+help me to save him?’” She confronted Tony
+with pale cheeks and wide eyes. “Now, Mr. Clay,
+you know that such a thing is impossible! How
+could Mr. Barrison be in danger on my account
+without my knowing it? And I swear to you
+that I can think of nothing in all the world which
+could subject him to danger—because of me! Nevertheless,
+I cannot let a thing like this go—no
+woman could! If there is danger to Mr. Barrison, I
+should know it! If it is, in some way, connected
+with me, I should know it all the more, and care
+about it all the more! What is it?” Suddenly she
+dropped the rather haughty air which she had assumed
+and clasped her hands like a frightened child.
+“Oh, Mr. Clay, you know that I would do anything
+to help him! What is it? What is it?”</p>
+
+<p>By way of answer, Tony handed her the telegram.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[296]</span></p>
+<p>After she had read it, she held it in rigid fingers
+for a moment; it seemed they were not able to drop
+it. She looked at Tony Clay.</p>
+
+<p>“And, receiving this,” she murmured faintly, “he—went?”</p>
+
+<p>“He went,” answered the young man, “so fast
+that we could not stop him; though I, for one,
+suspected something shady, and had warned him
+he must be on his guard.”</p>
+
+<p>It is probable that in all his life Tony Clay never
+understood the look that flamed in the woman’s face
+before him now. In that strange combination of
+emotions was pain and fear, but there was also joy
+and triumph.</p>
+
+<p>“So he cared like that!” she murmured.</p>
+
+<p>And then, before Tony Clay could even be sure
+that she had uttered the words, she had changed
+again to a practical and utilitarian person. She
+seized a long raincoat from the back of a chair and
+said immediately:</p>
+
+<p>“I am ready. Shall we go?”</p>
+
+<p>Tony glowered at her. Another one? Aloud he
+remarked:</p>
+
+<p>“If you will merely testify that you did not send
+that telegram——”</p>
+
+<p>She looked as though she would have liked to
+slap him in her exasperation.</p>
+
+<p>“Of course I didn’t!” she raged. “But what
+has that to do with this situation? I thought you
+said he was—in danger?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[297]</span></p>
+<p>“I am afraid he is. Very well, ma’am; if you
+must come, you must. We have rather a larger
+crowd than I had expected at first.”</p>
+
+<p>It was impossible for him to avoid an injured
+tone.</p>
+
+<p>However they felt about it, Miss Templeton went
+with them. When the light of passing street lamps
+fell upon her face, it had the look of an avenging
+angel.</p>
+
+<p>On the way, she insisted that Tony should tell
+them what had made him suspicious as to danger
+awaiting Barrison that night. And after a little
+hesitation he told—this:</p>
+
+<p>“You know Jim had put me onto the Legaye end
+of the case—had suggested my talking to the maid,
+and all that. Well, I did it, and, as a matter of fact,
+I got in deeper than I expected to.” He looked at
+each of them defiantly, but no one seemed disposed
+to sit in judgment, so he continued: “Maria—she’s
+quite a nice girl, too, and don’t let anybody forget
+it—told me to-day that her lady was terrifically
+upset about something.”</p>
+
+<p>“When was that?” demanded Coster.</p>
+
+<p>“Late in the afternoon, just before I came to dinner—to
+the dinner that didn’t come off. Jim and I
+parted when he took a ride in Miss Legaye’s taxi,
+and he left me to come on to join him alone.”</p>
+
+<p>“Did you come straight on?”</p>
+
+<p>“Yes,” said Tony, “I did. But something
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[298]</span>happened on the way, and that has given me the clew
+to—to—what’s taking us out here.”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, tell it, for Heaven’s sake!”</p>
+
+<p>“Well, it seems,” said Tony unwillingly, yet with
+the evident realization that he was doing the right
+thing, “it seems that Miss Legaye was in the habit
+of going shopping with her maid—Maria—and of
+dropping her when she was tired—I mean when
+Miss Legaye was tired, not Maria—and leaving her
+to come on with packages and so on. She had done
+that to-day. Just after she and Jim Barrison had
+gone on, I met Maria, and I stayed with her, too”—defiantly—“until
+after the time I should have been
+at Jim’s rooms!”</p>
+
+<p>“Not very long, was it?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not more than half an hour, I’m sure.”</p>
+
+<p>“And in that time, what could have happened
+that——”</p>
+
+<p>“Nothing happened. Nothing could have happened.
+It was only that—that——” Tony swallowed
+hard, and then went on courageously: “She
+asked me when her mistress had gone home, and I
+told her just a few minutes before. Then she said
+she must telephone her, if we were to have a moment
+together. She said that she could easily make
+out an excuse. And, though I had no—no particular
+interest in Maria,” faltered poor Tony unhappily,
+“I couldn’t see what I could do to get out
+of that! And—and she did telephone, and when
+she came back from telephoning,” he said, speaking
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[299]</span>carefully, and evidently trying his best to make the
+thing sound as commonplace as possible, “she told
+me that her mistress had just come in, and that
+she was so excited she could scarcely speak, and
+she wanted Maria at once, and that she had told
+Maria that if ever she had cared anything about
+her, she must be prepared to stand by her now—and
+to hurry—hurry—hurry—hurry! That’s what
+poor Maria kept repeating to herself. And that’s
+what I had in my mind when I went into Jim’s
+rooms, for it was the last thing in my mind.</p>
+
+<p>“I was afraid then and there of Miss Legaye’s
+doing something—queer—but before I had a chance
+to tell Jim what I thought—that message came, and
+he was off!”</p>
+
+<p>Almost directly they were at Ferrati’s and confronting
+Ferrati himself, who looked alarmed at the
+sight of these visitors.</p>
+
+<p>It required small astuteness to see that his party
+was an unexpected one, and that the unexpectedness
+was only rivaled by the lack of welcome.</p>
+
+<p>Finding that ordinary and moderately courteous
+inquiries were only met with extreme haziness of
+perception, Tony saw that he would have to push
+his way in.</p>
+
+<p>He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Willie
+Coster expected the same result; also that Tara
+looked mildly pleased. Doubtless he was pondering
+enjoyably upon jujutsu and what it could accomplish.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_300">[300]</span>Considered collectively, the party was not
+one to be ignored.</p>
+
+<p>As though to put an exclamation point after the
+sound sense of the rest, Miss Templeton, who had
+been extremely quiet through it all, suddenly drew
+out a revolver from the pocket of her raincoat.
+Tony thrilled, for it was the one that he had seen
+her buy.</p>
+
+<p>“Before we fight our way in,” she said amiably
+enough, “suppose we try just walking in? I
+don’t believe that these poor creatures will make
+much trouble.”</p>
+
+<p>She smiled, not too pleasantly, at the poor
+creatures.</p>
+
+<p>But they did!</p>
+
+<p>They made so much trouble that it took the lot of
+them fifteen minutes to get to that dark inner room
+where Jim Barrison was imprisoned. By that time
+Lowry and three good men had arrived in a racing
+car, and by the same time, Tony Clay had been put
+out of business by two of Ferrati’s “huskies.”</p>
+
+<p>“Never mind about me!” he had implored them.
+“Get Jim out!”</p>
+
+<p>They did. And they found Jim blinking at them
+out of that awesome darkness, holding Kitty in an
+iron grip. He was rather white, but he tried to
+smile.</p>
+
+<p>“Suppose you take her?” was his first utterance.
+“She’s one handful.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_301">[301]</span></p>
+<p>Kitty, once in the hands of the officers, shrugged
+her shoulders and changed her tune.</p>
+
+<p>“What a lot of fools you are!” she exclaimed
+contemptuously. “You had the clew in your hands
+a dozen times over! It was only to-day that this
+fellow got onto it, though, and so”—again she
+shrugged her shoulders—“I had to finish him, if I
+could, hadn’t I?”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXII">CHAPTER XXXII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE LOST CLEW</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">FERRATI was the selfsame man who had first induced
+Kitty to run away from her home, her
+father, and her sister. As she had progressed, she
+had grown away from him and his evil influences;
+but, as often happens in a situation of this sort,
+when she found herself in trouble of a criminal
+nature, she had gravitated most naturally back to
+the man who, she was sure, could help her out of
+her problem.</p>
+
+<p>Face to face with each other in the inspector’s
+own office, neither Kitty nor Ferrati had the nerve
+to hold out; between them, as a matter of fact, they
+cleared up sundry police mysteries which had worried
+the heads and irritated the underlings for
+months past.</p>
+
+<p>The trap set for Jim Barrison elucidated a good
+many mysteries and showed the way in which
+several rich men had disappeared from the face of
+the earth. The trapdoor was not in any sense a
+secret one; it had been seen by half a dozen policemen
+during the energetic investigations of Ferrati
+and his establishment which had gone on from time
+to time ever since it had become generally known
+that men who subsequently disappeared had been
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_303">[303]</span>“last seen dining at Ferrati’s.” But the explanation
+had been so simple and there had been so little attempt,
+seemingly, at subterfuge or evasion, that the
+law had been put off the scent so far as that trapdoor
+was concerned.</p>
+
+<p>The room in which it was situated was a kind of
+pantry, and directly under it was a part of the
+cellar. Like many restaurant keepers, he had
+bought an old country house and made it over into a
+resort. Thrifty Italian that he was, he had made
+as few and as inexpensive alterations as possible in
+the actual structure of the building, and had found
+it cheaper to put in a trapdoor and a ladder than to
+build a complete staircase reaching to his cellar.
+This was the explanation that he gave the police,
+and it was probably true, and was assuredly logical.</p>
+
+<p>What became apparent now, however, was that
+the trapdoor had served other ends than that of
+legitimate café service. What could be easier than
+to inveigle a man into the room and get rid of him
+through the cellar door? As for the disposal of
+the body, that, too, was quaintly provided for and
+covered by Ferrati’s business. Every morning, just
+at dawn, the restaurant garbage was carted away.
+It was not difficult to carry other and more ghastly
+things away at the same time; and the road is lonely
+at that hour. A couple of discreet henchmen could
+quite easily drop something over the cliffs in the
+direction of the river. But, after all, this was a
+secondary matter for the moment.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_304">[304]</span></p>
+<p>The great thing was that they knew now who
+had fired the seventh shot. It only remained to find
+out how it had been done, for even after Kitty had
+admitted it, the thing seemed impossible from the
+facts which they had securely established.</p>
+
+<p>She did not in the least mind telling them about
+it. She told her story with simplicity and directness.
+In her curious, calculating little head there
+was not the slightest trace of regret or remorse for
+what she had done. Barrison, watching her, remembered
+his talk with Wrenn, and seemed to descry in
+the daughter the same strange bias he had noted
+in the father; the same profound selfishness, the
+same complete absence of conscience where her own
+wrongdoing was concerned. It also appeared clear
+that only one person had ever sincerely touched the
+heart of either of them, and that was the man who
+was dead.</p>
+
+<p>There was one thing that Kitty did truly grieve
+for, and that was Mortimer’s death. Whether it
+was because she had loved him, or because in losing
+him, she had lost the chance of marrying and so
+squaring her somewhat twisted and clouded past,
+would never be known to any one but herself. That
+she did grieve, however odd it might appear, was
+certain.</p>
+
+<p>The detectives exchanged glances of wonder as
+they realized how simple the case had been from
+the very first, once given the clew. As for the
+clew itself, Barrison had had it once, but had lost
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_305">[305]</span>it. It was, as he had at one time suspected, that
+red evening coat. It had left the theater exactly
+when it was supposed to have left; only—it was
+not Kitty who had worn it!</p>
+
+<p>It was the morning after the episode at Ferrati’s,
+and Lowry was holding an informal inquiry. None
+of them who were present would ever forget it—nor
+the enchanting picture which the self-confessed
+murderess presented as she sat there with a poise
+that her situation could not impair, looking exquisite
+in the swathing black which she wore for the man
+whom she had herself killed!</p>
+
+<p>Inspector Lowry was, for once in his life, totally
+at a loss, absolutely nonplused. To Barrison, and
+the other men who knew him well, his blank amazement
+in the face of the phenomenon represented by
+Kitty Legaye was, to say the least of it, entertaining.</p>
+
+<p>At last he remarked, still staring at her as though
+hypnotized: “It is a most remarkable case! Miss
+Legaye, if you feel the loss of this man so deeply—and
+I am convinced that you do, in spite of the
+paradox it presents—why, if you don’t mind, did
+you shoot him?”</p>
+
+<p>She flashed him a scornful glance. “Shoot him!”
+she repeated vehemently. “You surely don’t suppose
+for one moment that I meant to shoot him?”</p>
+
+<p>“But——” the inspector was beginning.</p>
+
+<p>“Shoot <em>him</em>!” she rushed on, with a different emphasis.
+“Of course I didn’t! It is the sorrow of
+my life that it turned out in that horrible manner.
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_306">[306]</span>No; it was that Merivale woman whom I meant
+to shoot! He was making love to her, and I
+couldn’t stand it! I aimed at her, but—but—I suppose
+he was closer to her than I thought, and—it
+happened!”</p>
+
+<p>She bit her lips and clenched her small hands.
+They could all see that it was only with the greatest
+difficulty and by the most tremendous effort that
+she was able to control the frenzy of her rage and
+despair over that fatal mischance.</p>
+
+<p>“At that, I hadn’t planned to kill even her,” she
+went on, after a moment or two. “Not then, at any
+rate. But when the opportunity came, sent straight
+from heaven as it seemed,” said this astounding,
+moralless woman most earnestly, “I simply could
+not help it.”</p>
+
+<p>“Suppose you tell us what actually happened.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why not, now? What I told him”—she looked
+at Jim Barrison—“was all quite true up to the point
+where I stopped at Alan’s door and heard my sister’s
+voice. The rest, of course, was different.
+What I really did then was to wait, listening to the
+struggle and quarrel inside until I could make out
+that my—my father was succeeding in separating
+them. The door opened and Marita almost staggered
+out, with her waist all torn and her hair half
+down. She looked dreadful, and I was so afraid
+some one would see her.</p>
+
+<p>“At the same second I saw the pistol lying just inside
+the door. Alan said: ‘Shut that door!’ Neither
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_307">[307]</span>he nor my father had seen me. I bent down quickly
+and, reaching in, picked up the pistol. The next
+second my father had shut the door very quietly
+and quickly, for no lights were to be shown in the
+theater.</p>
+
+<p>“I still had no real intention of using the thing
+that night. I just picked it up, acting on an impulse.
+Besides, I didn’t think that my sister was in any
+state to handle it then; so I kept it, and did not
+give it to her. Then I pulled off my evening coat
+and made Marita put it on.”</p>
+
+<p>“One moment, with Inspector Lowry’s permission,”
+Barrison interrupted. “All that must have
+taken time, Miss Legaye, and there were people all
+around you. I myself was only a short distance
+away.”</p>
+
+<p>“You were standing up stage,” she informed him
+tranquilly, “and the stairway going to the second
+tier of dressing rooms masked Alan’s door from
+where you were. As for the time, it took scarcely
+a minute; it happened like lightning. Such things
+take time to tell about, but not to do.”</p>
+
+<p>“And in giving your sister your wrap, you were
+trying to shield her, and were moved by sisterly affection?”
+suggested the inspector sympathetically.</p>
+
+<p>“Indeed I was not!” snapped Kitty resentfully.
+“I never had the least affection for my sister! I
+was moved by the fear of a lot of talk and scandal.
+I wanted to get her out of the theater, and out of my
+life entirely, and the quickest way I could think of
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_308">[308]</span>was to give her my coat and send her home in my
+taxi.”</p>
+
+<p>“Why did you not go with her?”</p>
+
+<p>“Haven’t I told you I wanted to get rid of her?
+I didn’t think of anything but that for a moment,
+and then—then something else came over me, after
+she had gone.”</p>
+
+<p>Her tone had changed. It was plain that she was
+no longer merely narrating something; she was living
+it again. She was again stirred by what had
+stirred her on that fateful night; no eloquence in
+the world could have made her hearers so vividly
+see what she saw, nor so gravely appreciate what
+she had felt, as the expression which she now wore—a
+terrible, introspective expression, the look of one
+who lives the past over again.</p>
+
+<p>“Sybil Merivale was waiting for him at the top of
+the little flight of steps, and—I had the pistol still in
+my hand. Even then I was not perfectly determined
+on killing her. I hated her and I feared her, but I
+had not planned anything yet. There was a dark
+scarf over my arm; I slipped that over my head
+so that it shaded my face from any chance light, and
+I slipped across the few feet of distance and stood
+just below her, close by the steps.</p>
+
+<p>“Then Alan came out of his room. There was no
+light, for he had had them put out, of course, according
+to Dukane’s directions, for the dark scene
+which was almost on. I stood so near that I could
+have touched him as he went up two steps and
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_309">[309]</span>stopped, and laughed under his breath and spoke to
+her.”</p>
+
+<p>Again she fought for self-control, and again she
+won it, though her face looked older and harder
+when she began to speak once more.</p>
+
+<p>“He was trying to make love to her, and she
+would have nothing to do with him.”</p>
+
+<p>“Didn’t that make you hate her less?” queried
+Lowry, being merely a man.</p>
+
+<p>“It made me hate her more! She was throwing
+aside something which I would have risked anything
+to get! I went mad for the moment. Then
+the shots began, and it was pitch dark. I—I found
+myself lifting my hand slowly, and pointing it. I
+knew just where she was standing. It seemed to
+me I could scarcely miss. When I had heard what
+I thought was the fifth shot, I fired. I suppose I
+was excited and confused, and counted wrong. I
+meant my shot to come at the same time as the last
+shot; that would have given me a longer time to get
+away. As it was, she screamed, and I was sure
+I had hit her. And I was very glad!</p>
+
+<p>“But I had no time to make sure. There was
+commotion and confusion, and I had to get away.
+I did not dare to go out through the stage entrance
+where there was a light. I knew my way to the
+communicating door, and I took a chance that the
+lights would not go up until I was through it. I
+brushed past the man who was supposed to guard
+it, in the dark, but I suppose he was too excited to
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_310">[310]</span>notice. I got through and ran down past the boxes
+to the front of the house. People were already beginning
+to come out, and there was a lot of confusion.
+I had my dark scarf over my head, so I
+easily passed for one of the women in the audience
+who had turned faint and wanted air. I walked
+quietly out of the lobby and hailed a taxi. That’s
+all.”</p>
+
+<p>“What did you do then?”</p>
+
+<p>“I went home—to my hotel. I didn’t go in by the
+front way, but through the side entrance, and
+slipped into my room without meeting any one. I
+sent out for some chloral, for I knew I could not
+sleep without it, but I would not let my maid see
+me, for she would have noticed that I was without
+my coat.”</p>
+
+<p>“And the coat?”</p>
+
+<p>“Marita sent it back to me in the morning before
+Maria came to the door. I put it on a chair by the
+window so that it would seem to have been rained
+on that way. When the boy brought it, it was pouring
+outside, and the wet had soaked through the
+paper wrapping.”</p>
+
+<p>There was a short silence. The mystery was
+solved. It was curious to think that this small,
+black-clad figure was the criminal. Yet—when one
+looked deep into Kitty’s eyes, one might discern
+something of her Mexican mother’s temperament and
+her time-serving father’s selfishness which could explain
+her part in this tragedy.</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_311">[311]</span></p>
+<p>“And did you still believe that it was Miss Merivale
+that you had killed?” asked Inspector Lowry.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes; I believed it until that man”—again indicating
+Jim—“came to me in the morning and told
+me of Alan’s death. It was a frightful shock.”</p>
+
+<p>“I should imagine that it might have been,” remarked
+the inspector thoughtfully. “And when did
+you decide that it was—er—advisable—to get rid of
+him?” pointing to Barrison.</p>
+
+<p>“Yesterday afternoon, when he told me that you
+were bringing my sister back, and that he was going
+to have an interview in a short time with the
+boy who had done her errands. I knew then that he
+would soon learn too much. It was that boy who
+brought me the red coat the morning after Alan’s
+death, and I did not want him to talk.”</p>
+
+<p>“But surely you did not think that investigations
+would stop just because you had got Mr. Barrison
+out of the way?”</p>
+
+<p>She shook her head. “I didn’t reason about it
+very clearly,” she said. “I had been under a good
+deal of strain, you must remember. All I thought
+of was that he was on my track, and that the
+sooner I put him where he couldn’t harm me, the
+better for me. So far as any one else was concerned,
+I suppose, if I thought of them at all, I
+thought that it was worth a chance. I’ve got out
+of some pretty tight places before now; I’m always
+inclined to hope till the last moment.”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_312">[312]</span></p>
+<p>“I am afraid, Miss Legaye,” said the inspector
+seriously, “that you have come to that last moment
+now.”</p>
+
+<p>She glanced at him, and she had never looked
+more charming. “Sure?” she said, in her prettiest,
+most ingénue way. “I haven’t been before a jury
+yet, you know, and—and men usually like me!”</p>
+
+<p>The inspector was red with indignation. But
+more than one of the men present suppressed a
+chuckle at his rage and Kitty’s composure.</p>
+
+<p>“Why,” asked Jim, “did you sign Miss Templeton’s
+name to that decoy telegram of yours?”</p>
+
+<p>Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “I certainly
+couldn’t sign my own, could I?” she rejoined calmly.
+“And she’d been suspected at the beginning. She
+seemed a good one to pick.”</p>
+
+<p>There was not much more to clear up, but Barrison
+was on the point of putting one more question
+when an officer came in and whispered to the
+inspector.</p>
+
+<p>“Bring them in,” he said at once.</p>
+
+<p>The new arrivals were the Blankleys, accompanied
+by the detective who had found them in Indianapolis.
+They looked frightened, but Lowry quickly relieved
+their minds and assured them that they would only
+be required as witnesses.</p>
+
+<p>The meeting between the sisters was curious.
+Seeing them together for the first time, Barrison
+saw the resemblance plainly, though Rita looked
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_313">[313]</span>more Mexican than Kitty, and was, he knew, far
+the better woman of the two.</p>
+
+<p>“Well, Kit?” said she quietly, almost compassionately,
+but Kitty looked straight in front of her, and
+neither then nor at any other time deigned to recognize
+her existence.</p>
+
+<p>Barrison prompting the inspector, the latter turned
+to Marita and held out the letter which Jim had
+turned over to him the day before, the note which
+both he and the younger man had accepted as conclusive
+evidence of her guilt.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you write this, Mrs. Blankley?” he asked.</p>
+
+<p>She glanced down the page and nodded. “Certainly,”
+she responded; “when I returned the coat
+Kitty had lent me.”</p>
+
+<p>When they read it over, they found that its wording
+was innocent enough. It was only Kitty’s evil
+ingenuity which had twisted it deliberately.</p>
+
+<p>“Did you really hate me as much as all that,
+Kit?” asked Marita, almost in wonder, but Kitty
+said never a word, and did not even look in her direction.</p>
+
+<p>A little later, Jim Barrison was bidding Inspector
+Lowry good-by.</p>
+
+<p>“The inquest is to-day,” remarked the inspector,
+who was smoking very hard and looking very bland
+and satisfied. “And we won’t have to have any ‘person
+or persons unknown’ verdict this time! Found
+the murderer inside of forty-eight hours! We didn’t
+do so badly, eh, my boy?”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_314">[314]</span></p>
+<p>Barrison dropped his eyes to hide an involuntary
+twinkle at the “we.”</p>
+
+<p>“Splendid, sir!” he declared cordially. “Good-by!
+I’m off to make a few extra inquiries—of a strictly
+personal nature.”</p>
+
+<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop">
+<div class="chapter">
+
+<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII">CHAPTER XXXIII</h2>
+</div>
+
+<p class="noindent center small b2"><span class="smcap">THE FALSE GODS GO</span></p>
+
+<p class="drop-cap">WELL?” demanded Miss Templeton, at whose
+apartment Jim Barrison presented himself in
+record time after leaving headquarters. “And is
+the case now closed?”</p>
+
+<p>“Not quite,” said Barrison, putting down his hat
+and stick deliberately and standing facing her.</p>
+
+<p>She was standing, too; and, as she was a tall
+woman, her eyes were not so very much below his
+own. She was, he thought, most splendidly beautiful
+as she stood there gravely looking at him.</p>
+
+<p>“Not quite,” he repeated, in a voice he had never
+before permitted himself to use in speaking to her.
+“I want to ask a few more questions, please?”</p>
+
+<p>She nodded, still watching him in that deep, intent
+fashion.</p>
+
+<p>“First,” pursued Jim, trying to speak steadily and
+to keep to the unimportant things, even while his
+heart was throbbing violently, “why did you always
+suspect Kitty Legaye?”</p>
+
+<p>“Because I had an instinct against her; also because
+I was sure that she knew that man Wrenn.
+I could tell by the way that they looked at each
+other that they were not strangers, though I never
+knew them to speak to each other. And, you see,
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_316">[316]</span>I knew that he was connected with Alan Mortimer’s
+old life. The suspicion seemed to slip in naturally.”</p>
+
+<p>“And at any time—at any time, mind you—did
+you have it in your mind to kill Mortimer yourself?”</p>
+
+<p>“Never!” she returned at once, and firmly.</p>
+
+<p>He paused a moment, looking full into the clearest
+eyes that ever a woman had.</p>
+
+<p>“Grace,” he said, calling her so for the first time,
+“why did you buy that revolver?”</p>
+
+<p>She colored painfully, but her eyes met his as
+truthfully as before. “Ah, you knew that!” she said.
+“I had hoped that you did not. However, what can
+it matter now? I am very much changed since the
+day I bought that revolver. You know that, I
+think?”</p>
+
+<p>“I know it,” he acknowledged gently.</p>
+
+<p>“I was terribly hurt, terribly outraged, terribly
+disappointed. You must always remember that I
+am a woman of wild emotions. I felt myself flung
+aside—not only in love, but in my profession. I had
+lost my part, and I had lost the man who, after all,
+I had believed I loved.”</p>
+
+<p>“And did <em>you</em> want to kill Sybil Merivale, too?”</p>
+
+<p>She stared at him in astonishment. “Kill Sybil
+Merivale!” she repeated. “Why on earth should I?
+I had nothing against the girl, except that I believe
+I was a little jealous of her youth and freshness
+just at first. No; I had made up my mind to kill
+myself.”</p>
+
+<p>“Yourself!”</p>
+<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_317">[317]</span></p>
+<p>“Yes. Didn’t you guess? I had an idea that you
+did, and that that was one reason for your keeping
+so near me all that evening in the box. I had the
+insane impulse to kill myself then and there, and
+spoil Alan’s first night!” She laughed a little,
+though shakily, at the recollection. “It was ridiculous,
+melodramatic, anything you like, but
+women have done such things, and—and I’m afraid
+I am rather that sort. I meant to do it, anyway.”</p>
+
+<p>“And—why didn’t you? You had the revolver; I
+felt it in your bag on the back of the chair. Why
+didn’t you?”</p>
+
+<p>He had not known that a woman’s eyes could
+hold so much light.</p>
+
+<p>“You know,” she said softly and soberly. “You
+were there. You had come into my life. The false
+gods go when the gods arrive!”</p>
+
+<p>There was a long stillness between them, in which
+neither of them stirred, nor took their eyes away.</p>
+
+<p>“You—love me?” Jim said, in a queer voice.</p>
+
+<p>“Yes.”</p>
+
+<p>When he let her leave his arms, it was only that
+he might look again into her eyes and touch that
+wonderful golden hair, now loose and soft about
+her face.</p>
+
+<p>“It—it isn’t dyed!” she said hastily. “I did make
+up, but my hair was always that color—truly!”</p>
+
+<p>“Oh, my dear, my dear!” he laughed, though with
+tears and tenderness behind the laughter. “What
+<span class="pagenum" id="Page_318">[318]</span>do I care whether it is dyed or not? It’s just a
+part of you.”</p>
+
+<p>A little later a whimsical idea came to him.</p>
+
+<p>“You know,” he said, “the inspector said to me
+yesterday that in drawing in our nets we sometimes
+found that we had captured some birds that we had
+never expected. I didn’t know how right he was,
+for—we two seem to have caught the Blue Bird of
+Happiness, after all!”</p>
+
+<p>“And I am sure,” said Grace Templeton solemnly,
+“that no one ever really caught it before!”</p>
+
+<p class="center">
+THE END.
+</p>
+
+<hr class="end-of-book x-ebookmaker-drop">
+
+<div class="transnote-end chapter p4">
+
+<p class="noindent center bold TN-style-1"><a id="TN"></a>Transcriber’s Note (continued)</p>
+
+<p class="TN-style-1">Errors in punctuation and simple typos have been corrected without note.
+Variations in spelling, hyphenation, accents, etc., have been left as
+they appear in the original publication unless as stated in the following:</p>
+
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 17 – “Miss Lagaye” changed to “Miss Legaye” (I’ve been out of work since March, Miss Legaye.)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 29 – “unforgetable” changed to “unforgettable” (A passionate, unforgettable woman)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 41 – “crispy” changed to “crisply” (crisply waving locks)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 45 – “playright” changed to “playwright” (sighed the discouraged playwright)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 53 – “coldbloodedly” changed to “cold-bloodedly” (as cold-bloodedly as did Dukane)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 76 – “well-simulated” changed to “well-stimulated” (much well-stimulated curiosity)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 115 – “stagedoor” changed to “stage door” (your stage door keeper)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 196 – “coldblooded” changed to “cold-blooded” (her cold-blooded dismissal)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 197 – “feeing” changed to “feeling” (from feeling guilty)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 198 – “imperturably” changed to “imperturbably” (remarked the inspector imperturbably)</p>
+<p class="TN-style-2">Page 305 – “not” changed to “nor” (would ever forget it—nor the enchanting picture)</p>
+
+<p class="TN-style-1 p2"><a class="underline" href="#top">Back to top</a></p>
+</div>
+
+<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76659 ***</div>
+</body>
+</html>
+
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+Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for eBook #76659
+(https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/76659)