The Paternoster Ruby

by Charles Edmonds Walk

Diagram of second floor

One leaning over the balustrade at the top looked down upon the ascending stairs, the balcony midway up, and a good portion of the spacious hall below. The lateral hall gave access to all the rooms on the second floor.

An examination of the appended plan, although drawn from memory and by fingers to which such a task is strange, will give a better idea of the locus criminis than any amount of verbal description alone can accomplish. So the reader, if he will consult the chart from time to time as the narrative proceeds, will escape much confusion in his attempts to follow the movements of the different actors.

Arriving at the head of the stairs, I first gave my attention to the étagère. This piece of furniture was simply a pedestal of shelves, without sides, front, or back, so that to tilt it in any direction far out of the perpendicular would mean to spill its burden of old newspapers and periodicals.

Maybe it would have been convenient in a music-room, but situated where it was it was certainly in the way of anybody using the stairs. If a person unfamiliar with the house should ascend the stairs in the dark, the instant he turned at the top he must almost inevitably collide with it—a circumstance which I was to have brought home to me a few nights later, with consequences which missed being fatal by only the slenderest of margins. But after all, I concluded, if a stranger missed it only by a miracle it might have served a double purpose here; no one slept in the second story, ordinarily, and it would make a good burglar alarm, as well as a repository for the iron candlestick and the sea-shell match receptacle.

From the point where it now leaned against the balusters back to the lateral corridor or hall, there were many little details to arrest and stimulate my curiosity. The carpet between these two points plainly showed signs of a recent struggle, and at the western vortex of the angle formed by the balustrade surrounding the stair-well, innumerable drops of congealed paraffin were scattered widely over the floor.

And the railing itself also held a record. Stout as were the uprights sustaining it, it had received the impact of a body sufficiently heavy to throw it askew. At this point on the railing there was a deep triangular dent, destined to assume a high place in solving the problem of Felix Page's murder.

When I stood directly in front of the bath room door, I could look down over the balustrade to the landing—the body had been removed to a more suitable place—and I could also see the front door and most of the first-floor hall.

A dozen or so feet west of the stair-well two doors opened upon the lateral passage. They were directly opposite each other; the front room having been the one occupied by Maillot the previous night, while the other was Burke's.

Now as I allowed my glance to rove along the dim-lighted hall in the direction of the two bed-chambers, it was at once arrested by some small—and at the distance, indistinguishable—object lying in the centre of the floor a few feet beyond the two doors. I went and picked it up.

It was the shabby leather jewel-case.

But now it bore many indications of extremely rough usage. It was not only open, but empty; the lid was bent, twisted out of shape, and hanging precariously by one damaged hinge. The leather was freshly torn and scratched, while the inner lining of faded blue satin had been slit in a number of places. I contrived after some manipulation to get the box into a semblance of its former shape, and then slipped it into a pocket of my coat.

Neither Maillot's room nor Burke's revealed anything of much consequence. In the former I noted the open wardrobe door, and, owing to its position relative to the bed, was obliged to admit the likelihood of Maillot's accident. In the other room, in a small leather satchel, were the papers by which Burke accounted for his presence. They were of no interest to me. I turned them over to Mr. White, who, with the other gentlemen, was just departing.

With a feeling of lively anticipation, I entered the bath room. I had not forgotten that this room alone had been designated by a distinguishing mark on the chart which I had found while following the mysterious footprints. But I discovered nothing to justify my hopes. The place was monotonously like other bath rooms in which I had been. I gave it an exceptionally thorough overhauling, then went carefully over it once more—even resorting to my magnifying-glass from time to time—but all to no purpose; the room was discouragingly wanting in anything that might be regarded as a clew.

In the end I fell to musing over a bar of common laundry soap on the stationary wash-stand. It was impossible not to contrast this humble detergent—for it was of a bigness and coarse yellowness to suggest the largest possible quantity for the smallest possible price—with the dead man's wealth, and to wonder a little at such petty economies as were signified by it, by the paraffin candles, the absence of servants, and by some other details of the ménage which perhaps I have already mentioned.

I recalled, with a smile, that Burke had smelled of laundry soap, and that on the wash-stand in Maillot's room there had been no soap at all. Well, there are some queer ways of utilizing wealth; but I contend that, of all of them, to deny oneself the commonest comforts of existence is the queerest and the hardest to understand. A philosophy of living is involved utterly incomprehensible to me.

Passing through the bath room, I emerged upon the landing of the rear stairs. Across the landing was another small room, which contained, besides a dust-mantled sewing-machine, nothing but some broken and worn-out furniture.

I followed the stairway to the bottom, and about half-way down found a bit of flattened paraffin about the size of my thumb nail.

After re-ascending these stairs I stood once more looking idly down over the balustrade, going over in my mind the parts of the puzzle which had been set for me to bring together into an intelligible and perfectly rounded whole, and wondering what I would succeed in making of it all. For a while I was aware of a strange lack of confidence in myself, of a feeling of uncertainty. Had I been negligent in not arresting both Maillot and Burke? It seemed the simplest and most direct method of proceeding; it would be no difficult matter to fasten the crime on one or the other, or both of them; why should I go behind the few plain details which lay so invitingly before me?

Perhaps the intrusion of a pair of blue eyes into the midst of my cogitations had much to do with my irresolution. Somehow I was extremely desirous of winning their approval. The possibility that I might win more did not enter my thoughts, because, I reflected rather dismally, the owner of the blue eyes moved in a sphere in which I had neither part nor parcel.

Still, my determination to solve the mystery of Felix Page's death was inextricably interwoven with another determination to win one final friendly, commendatory look—perhaps a word or two, or even a warm hand-clasp—from Miss Genevieve Cooper.

How was I to do that? By fastening an odious crime upon her cousin's lover? I shrank from such an alternative. Heaven grant that so far I had not reasoned falsely.

It may seem a poor business thus to mix sentiment with one's humdrum daily affairs; but—well, and so it is. After mature reflection, I can think of but one extenuating plea: I was only twenty-six at the time.

Up to the present it had been difficult to ascribe to each circumstance its own proper value; but now they were beginning to shape themselves into some semblance of order, and for the first time a fairly complete concept of the tragedy's enactment irresistibly presented itself to me.

The antecedent circumstances leading up to the crime, however, were largely conjectural, although they were pretty strongly suggested by the details of the struggle itself. I was thus enabled to supply the missing portions with more or less plausibility. Here, then, is the way I reconstructed the night's occurrences in this house—the fatal sequence of events which began when Felix Page bade Maillot good-night, culminated in the older man's death, and ended with the flight of the murderer. You will perceive that the four "Chinese" had no place in it; I could find none for them.

After Mr. Page and Maillot separated, for some reason the former had not retired. I took it as being more than likely that he had returned to the library, where presently he fell into a doze before the dying fire. But, no, first of all he went to the safe to dispose of the box containing the ruby; after that he returned to the library. While he nodded over the fire the thief stole to the safe, opened it with the combination, and took not only the ruby, but everything else the strong-box contained.

But cautious as the thief is, some disturbing noise penetrates to the sleeper's consciousness; in fancy we may see the old man—fox, pirate of the pit, as he had been called—starting broad awake, fearless, every faculty alert and strained to catch the betraying sounds.

In a moment he bestirs himself to ascertain what is afoot in his house at so unseemly an hour. Noiselessly he enters the hall from the library, in time to behold the marauder—by the latter's own candle flame, I was positive—ascending the front stairs.

And here the tragic episode departs from all precedent; at this stage it assumes its baffling aspects. If the thief had not been a member of the household—even but a temporary member—why should he have gone up the stairs instead of leaving the house by the nearest way? And again, why should Mr. Page have followed the thief so stealthily if he had not recognized him?

But the master of the house steals on up the stairs behind the other. At about the time he arrives at the head of the stairs the thief vanishes: else why did Mr. Page pause to light the candle in the iron candlestick which stood upon the étagère?

Fatal move, that! In some manner the étagère is knocked forward against the balustrade; the thief is alarmed, although some door must have closed behind him. And now the old gentleman is facing no longer a thief merely, but a man with murder in his heart.

Which door had it been: Maillot's, or Burke's, or yet some other door?

Once more we are given a strong indication that Felix Page knew the man, for he and the assassin in limine do not immediately close in combat. Not yet. Some words certainly pass. The taper in the heavy iron candlestick must burn long enough to account not only for the drops of paraffin scattered about over the floor, but those that ran like congealing tears down the side.

I could fancy the outraged and mystified old gentleman demanding an explanation, and before long exploding with wrath, the thief standing hopelessly convicted—caught "with the goods."

Suddenly the struggle is precipitated by the infuriated householder endeavoring to recover his property. We may safely assume that it was by no gentle means that he sought to do this, and at once the battle wages to and fro between the head of the stairs and the lateral passage, quite up to the bath room door. The thief is striving to retain the leather box, the other to wrest it from him.

It is pretty certain, too, that the old gentleman hastily put down the iron candlestick before he grasped the box—on the floor, somewhere near the western angle of the balustrade—and in the end, as the combat in one of its uncertain revolutions sweeps past it, the thief frees himself with a desperate effort, snatches it from the floor, and becomes an assassin in actu.

The dull impact of the blow, as the scene is blinded by sudden darkness; the crash of the body against the railing; the dominant jar when the body strikes upon the landing below—and the dark deed is accomplished.

What next follows?

Panic on the part of the murderer, we may be sure, as he stands one second in a stupor of horror at what he has done; then he must have flown—whither?

It is at this juncture that Alexander Burke steps into the hall, and beholds nothing in the light of his own candle. It is at this point that Royal Maillot springs from his bed, collides with the open wardrobe door, and straightway forgets the tumult in his own physical suffering, until Burke raps upon his door. And it is at this point that, unless there was some third person in the house, either one or the other of these two young men has deliberately lied. In turning them both loose I trusted to convict the guilty man by his own conduct. It will develop how far my course was justified.

The mute but vivid testimony would seem to lead, step by step and with irresistible logic, straight to the private secretary—had it not been for two circumstances which placed him once for all beyond the possibility of having been the person who struck the blow.

First, he would have been but as a babe in Felix Page's powerful grasp; there would have been no struggle at all.

Second, the fellow was an arrant coward, and he would never have offered the least resistance unless convinced that he was in imminent peril of his life—which was improbable.

The rear stairway was associated with the thought of Burke's cowardice, for he had chosen that way to accompany Stodger: whose shoe-sole had left the flattened fragment of paraffin there?

For some time I had been alone in the house—save, of course, for the still, sheeted form. The place was as silent as any tomb. Then of a sudden a sound smote upon my ear that brought me in a flash to attention.

There is a certain fascination about a door slowly opening in a house which you suppose to be empty. Until you have found out the cause you ascribe it to anything from ghosts to Bengal tigers, and even then may be sure of a surprise. The invisible agency may turn out to be only the wind or a wandering cat. But it makes no difference what starts the door to swinging open; the bald fact of its doing so when by all known laws it should remain firmly shut, is per se potent enough, or hypnotic enough,—or whatever influence it is that it exerts,—to root you at once to the spot until the Unseen declares itself. In truth, an opening door is pregnant with such infinite possibilities.

It was with some such sort of suspended animation that I stared down over the balustrade and waited, my look glued upon the front door. It swung inward with a slowness inexpressibly aggravating. And then I recoiled with a little cry.

Miss Genevieve Cooper was standing in the lower hall, pale and trembling, and darting quick nervous glances in every direction.

CHAPTER XI

A PACT

At my involuntary expression of amazement, Miss Cooper looked up, and our eyes met. Her charming face immediately broke into a smile; her fears seemed to fall away from her like the dissolving of a sun-smitten mist.

"Mr. Swift!" she exclaimed under her breath. Her voice expressed relief. And, too, she spoke as if there might be others in the house whom her errand did not in the least concern. "I 'm so glad! I was afraid I should not find you here."

The idea of her wanting to find me for any reason was distinctly pleasing. I 'm afraid I appeared for the moment a trifle foolish; I was tongue-tied, at any rate.

"May I come up?" she went on brightly. "Or will you come down?"

She was so pretty standing there and looking up at me, so everything that a dainty, refined little lady should be, that I could have remained indefinitely watching her.

But I 'm glad to say that I did not. I found my tongue by and by, and voiced some inane remark to the effect that she might most assuredly "come up," if she had the least inclination to do so, but, on the other hand, that I was more than willing to "come down." Which I did, when she made known her choice by sitting down in the settle Stodger and I had occupied some hours earlier.

But I moved down the steps deep in meditation. Great as had been my surprise when the opening front door disclosed Miss Cooper, I was not long in surmising why she had come, and I was more than a trifle reluctant to discuss the brutal details of the tragedy with a lady so obviously gentle and refined. The subject was so utterly foreign to anything within her experience that I felt she could harken to and review the different aspects of the crime only with shuddering aversion. But, dear me, how incapable is any man of estimating a woman's fortitude!

While I descended to her, she continued to talk—the merest bit flurried, perhaps, but with a direct, fearless glance which the dullest comprehension must have understood.

"I suppose I should have rapped," she was saying; "but who was here to open the door? Poor Mr. Page! Poor man! How terrible it is!"

She was a little awed, and seemed glad when at last I stood confronting her.

As if it were the most natural thing in the world to do, she made room on the settle for me to sit beside her. I did so, awkwardly enough. There was not the slightest trace of coquetry in her conduct, she was entirely free from the least indication of affectation, and I could not do otherwise than meet her in the same spirit, although I apprehended some difficult moments before our colloquy should be finished. Her errand must indeed be urgent that she should alone brave this house of death.

After a minute of hesitation on her part, during which she sat with downcast eyes while I took a base advantage of the opportunity to drink in her loveliness, she abruptly faced me. Her countenance reflected an expression of determination, tempered by the wistfulness of uncertainty and doubt.

"Mr. Swift," she began, in a straightforward manner, "it was simply impossible for me not to have sought you out—if not here, then at the police station, or wherever it is you make your headquarters."

I remarked that a message would have brought me speedily to her.

"Oh, no!" in quick protestation. "There is no place where we could have been private—to-day. And, besides, I would n't have put you to so much trouble."

"Trouble!" I interrupted. "I would have been only too glad."

She smiled at my warmth, proceeding:

"Anyhow, I succeeded in finding you alone; now tell me—truly—am I bothering you?"

"Truly, you are not bothering me in the least. I can fancy nothing nicer than sitting just like this and talking—with you. It's so—so—"

"Comfy?"—archly.

"Exactly. But that's a woman's word; I never would have thought of it."

The handsome eyes flashed a look at me which made me hastily revise my opinion that she was entirely free from any trace of coquetry.

"I did n't come here to listen to nice things," she said, smiling into my eyes; "I 'm awfully serious."

And, in very truth, she straightway grew grave. She drew a long breath, and sat suddenly more upright, questioning me with a look. Such fine, honest eyes!

Her first spoken interrogation was direct enough, in all conscience; while I was expecting some such inquisition, I was by no means prepared with an immediate answer.

"I want to know, Mr. Swift,—is it going to appear that Royal Maillot murdered his uncle?"

She spoke very quietly, but, too, very earnestly. Murder is an ugly word; I marvelled that she did not shrink from it.

"Why are you so anxious to know, Miss Cooper?" I temporized—"out of friendship for Mr. Maillot?"

"No," frankly meeting my intent look, "though that would be a sufficient reason." She paused a moment, biting her under lip in the intensity of her musing. Then,—

"Mr. Swift, I 'm going to be perfectly candid with you; I 'm going to lay bare my mind—and my feelings. I pray that you will do the same by me. Am I presuming too much?"

Lay bare my feelings—great heavens! She would have thought me crazy. In a sense, Torquemada himself could scarcely have made me more uncomfortable; but I would not have had that delightful tête-à-tête broken in upon for anything in the world.

"I realized this morning," she proceeded, after I had clumsily begged her to, "that Royal is in a desperate plight, though why or how he came to be I can't understand.

"I realized, too, that the story he told will appear incredible—even ridiculous—to anybody who does not know him. I do know him"—I could well believe that!—"and for that reason, nothing short of an admission of guilt from him would cause me to consider him as a participant—in any capacity, Mr. Swift—in last night's tragedy."

"Your loyalty does you credit," I murmured, for lack of anything better to say.

"Loyalty?" she cried, with emotion. "Oh, Mr. Swift! That's not the word! It's not loyalty that moves me to speak in Royal's behalf, although I would do much for him in any case. But—Belle—"

She was stopped by a sudden accession of feeling, and I tried to inject into my demeanor the encouragement she quite plainly needed.

"Before you go on," I quietly observed, "I will say that Mr. Maillot impressed me very favorably."

"Yes," quickly; "I also perceived that. It was that circumstance which finally overcame my reluctance to intrude upon you. You were greatly puzzled, though, baffled, by his extraordinary story."

"Not baffled, I trust," I said.

"Well, no; perhaps not baffled. But the extravagant recital that fell from his lips must have seemed to you fantastically improbable.

"It is chiefly for Belle Fluette's sake, however," she pursued, "that I want to learn—oh, everything about this dreadful affair—all the little details. I want to enlist your sympathies for Royal; not against him."

It was a relief when she grouped her desire for information into this vague generalization; I could see my way as long as she was not too specific. But some further intimate knowledge respecting this pretty young lady was imminently in store for me.

"Miss Cooper," said I, "I am against no man—except the guilty one; and even he, in a measure, has my sympathy."

"Then"—she was suddenly breathless—"in your estimation. Royal is not the—the—not the guilty—"

My smile checked her. Alas, I was not to escape.

"You read a meaning into my speech that was not in my mind," I said—and immediately regretted it. Her countenance at once reflected a deep concern.

"Please, please, Mr. Swift, don't be inscrutable with me," she pleaded.

I thrilled at the wistful light in her handsome blue eyes, and I looked longingly at the wavy brown tresses and at the scarlet lips, now eagerly parted and revealing a glimpse of pearly perfection beyond. Such delectable realities were quite unknown in my lonely life, and before them the image of Miss Fluette's more highly colored and aggressive beauty faded away to a mere blur.

"Miss Cooper," I rejoined, with perhaps unnecessary warmth, "heaven forbid that I should not be frank with you. The truth is, I 'm sorely perplexed. It did not require this appeal from you to spur me on to find a way for Mr. Maillot out of his predicament, for undeniably—whether by his own fault or by accident—he 's in a very serious one. Maybe, if you will state more definitely just what you want to know, I can then tell you."

The expressive eyes thanked me, then suddenly twinkled with a gleam of humor.

"Even a mere man," she sagely remarked, "could not have remained blind to the fact that Belle and Royal—foolish children!—are awfully fond of each other."

"Your assumption of mature wisdom is eminently becoming," said I, "because it is so apparent."

"My!" she retorted. "I really believe you improve with acquaintance."

"Thanks," I said; "I need encouragement."

"On the contrary," she said coolly, "I think a snubbing is what you need."

I dodged. "Yes," said I, "I could not help noticing that their affection is—er—rather immoderate."

Instantly a tiny line appeared between her brows; she was all seriousness again.

"There you have my interest in this matter—my reason for meddling," she informed me. "Belle's welfare means a great deal to me; just how much you can perhaps best understand after hearing a bit of my history. Have you the patience?"

What a question! Lucky it was for me this day that I could combine business with the delight of revelling in this agreeable tête-à-tête. It was lucky, in truth, for all who were being drawn into the web of the Page affair. For if the two had not fitted so smoothly together, the interests of the Central Office would have been forgotten.

She colored prettily at the ardor of my gaze—it was of no use; I could n't help it—but save for the circumstance that she temporarily averted her look from mine, went steadily ahead with what she had to say.

"I have been an orphan ever since I can remember, though my father and mother are not even memories. They fell victims to yellow fever in New Orleans before I was two years old. Uncle Alfred took me at once into his household, which has been my home all of my life that I know anything about.

"I am two years older than Belle, but reared together as we have been, we are more nearly sisters than cousins. Indeed, I even believe that we are closer together than most sisters; we love each other very, very dearly.

"You can see, then, how anything affecting her will equally affect me. Belle has been gently nurtured; she is a proud, high-spirited, intrepid girl, but of a delicate organism that would break beneath the shock of Royal Maillot being stigmatized by such a crime. I tremble to think of it!"

Her look was again bent upon me, with utmost gravity now, and her voice broke a little as she concluded:

"Can you comprehend my anxiety, Mr. Swift? Can't you see that I would make any sacrifice to forestall such a dreadful chance?"

In spite of her reserved nature and admirable habit of self-control, it was easy to see that she was deeply affected; she was, indeed, torn by conflicting doubts and anxieties; and I became meditative and, for her sake, exceedingly desirous of lightening the burden of her worry.

That very beautiful and very wilful young lady, her cousin, would never have made such an appeal to me. I did not care to conjecture the way in which she, long before this stage of the conversation, would have been expressing her indignation and withering me with her scorn and contempt.

"Miss Cooper," said I at length, "assume for just a moment that Mr. Maillot is guilty: would you counsel me, for the reasons you have stated, to turn aside from my duty and permit him to go unpunished?"

She caught her breath sharply. Her lips went suddenly white, and her look became a trifle wild. I watched her keenly.

"Mr. Swift!" she presently whispered, in dismay. "How unfair!"

"I do not mean to be unfair," I tried to make clear; but she cut me short.

"Are you trying to prepare me for—for the worst?"

"Gracious, no!" I expostulated, with an embarrassed laugh. "But I should like to have you answer my question."

"It is hideous even to assume such a thing," she very soberly made answer; "but if such were actually the case, I—I—"

"Well?" I prompted curiously, when she paused and pressed a hand to her throat.

Of a sudden the lovely eyes were brimming with tears. She timidly laid a hand upon my arm.

"You don't think he 's guilty, do you?" she murmured distressfully. It wrung my heart.

"Don't—please don't," I said hastily. "Here is my honest opinion, Miss Cooper: whatever that young man has done to involve himself in this affair, I am sure that he is no deliberate, cold-blooded assassin; my judgment of his character could not be so far at fault.

"For the same reason I am strongly inclined to believe his story, preposterous as it appears standing alone. I don't mind admitting—to you, Miss Cooper—that I 'm looking beyond him for the guilty man."

She drew a long breath of relief and clasped her hands in her lap. But how little did either of us realize that we had disposed of one difficult situation only to turn round and find ourselves face to face with another. My candor, to which she had made such a powerful appeal, soon led to an impasse; one that neither of us was in the least prepared for.

"Of course," she said presently, in a low voice, "I would not utter a word or lift a finger to influence you from what you regard as your duty. If your assumption were true, why, I would be with Belle, doing all that lies within my humble power to comfort her."

She leaned toward me impulsively, her face all at once bright and animated.

"Mr. Swift," she began, and stopped amid sudden confusion.

"Tell me, Miss Cooper," I encouraged her.

"Oh, I can't—I should not," she said, blushing.

Her blushes signified a deal to me, for I harbored an idea that she was not given to betraying her feelings so vividly. I was curious.

"The first impulse was the best, I 'm sure," I urged.

"It was merely a flitting thought," she responded, her repose still shaken; "it was purely out of absent-mindedness that I came so near to voicing it. It was nothing, believe me. There—it is gone!"

"Which is to be deplored," I soberly returned. "I attach considerable importance to your thoughts. Besides, you opened this conversation with an assurance of frankness. Perhaps—so far—I have n't been as frank as I might; but it's simply because I have not yet found words to tell you all you want to know."

At once she stripped the occasion of its seriousness.

"Dear me!" she laughed, "you are a diplomat, too; how alluringly you persuade one to talk! Very well. If the impertinence of my poor little idea will not drive you to changing your opinion, I will put it into words."

I waited.

"I wondered," she continued shyly, "supposing I knew every detail of this crime that you know—if I could aid you any. Only in this one particular case," she made haste to add, "because it means so much to me."

My pulses leaped. The idea of having this lovely girl as a coadjutor, to give her sharp wits free play with the harassing minutiae which had not only arisen but were bound to continue to arise as I went deeper into the mystery, was one that filled me with joy.

After all, doubtless I had been unnecessarily considerate of her feelings. Miss Cooper was a gentlewoman, to be sure; but it did not inevitably follow that she was too sensitive to harken to a distasteful topic. I know that my features must have reflected my feelings at this moment, for the color began to grow deeper and deeper in her pretty face, and at last she sprang nervously to her feet.

"It was only a silly impulse," she deplored, in a flustered rejection of the scheme; "it was very stupid of me to express it. Pray forget it.… I—I must go." She darted an uncomfortable glance toward the door.

I did not stir. She was so lovely in her discomposure, so inexpressibly winning, that I sat there with my heart throbbing as it had never throbbed before.

Make her my confidante? Every nerve of my body thrilled at the thought. And the incentive that had prompted the proposal left it shorn of all forwardness or presumption. I appreciated the cause of her agitation; and at last, with an effort, I hid my own emotions behind an appearance of calmness.

"Please sit down again," I entreated. "It is a bargain."

She stood irresolute, poised for flight, yet constrained by a desire to return again to the settle. Her color was still high, her eyes were sparkling, she was breathing fast.

"You would be an invaluable aid," I said simply. "The idea, instead of being impertinent, gratifies me more than I can express; I 'm sometimes very blind, Miss Cooper. And think: you may be the instrument of freeing Mr. Maillot from all suspicion or blame."

Slowly, her eyes shining, she resumed her seat. It was manifest that my regarding the matter so favorably pleased her immensely—doubtless because the potentialities appealed strongly to her curiosity and imagination, aside from any faith she might have entertained in her ability really to assist me. She was collected once more, but alive with enthusiasm.

"Such an alliance," I went on, "will entail many demands upon your time; from now on I shall make no move that we have not threshed out together."

"How lovely!" she murmured, joyfully. "And you will always find me ready."

And then I told her everything there was to tell. I recounted every incident that had befallen me since coming to the house, every fragment of possible evidence that my search had brought to light; to all of which she listened with the closest attention, interrupting only occasionally to elicit more comprehensive information. Verily, how I had misjudged her!

Next I strove to prepare her against the inquest. "It will try your strength to the utmost," said I. "What with Mr. Maillot's injured eye, coupled with the struggle preceding the fight and Burke's inability to have delivered the death-blow himself, you must anticipate the worst."

"Royal may have to go to jail?" she interrupted, in a troubled voice.

"It's not unlikely. If the coroner's jury fastens the crime upon him, the coroner will have no alternative except to hold him for the grand jury. If we could show that a third person was in the house last night, it would help him tremendously.

"But bear in mind, Miss Cooper," I strove earnestly to allay her fears, "that the inquest will be merely a preliminary hearing, of no consequence further than the extent to which it will excite comment and influence public opinion; that's the worst feature of it for an innocent man. Whatever we may succeed in accomplishing will in all probability come after the inquest."

Last of all, I produced the small leather jewel-case, and the visiting-card I had found lying before the concealed safe. She examined the card first, reading aloud the inscription thereon:

"'I pray that you be showered with all the blessings of the season. With love'—"

Her face went suddenly white. The hand holding the card dropped to her lap. She sat bolt upright, and directed at me a look of surprised bewilderment.

"Clara!" she gasped. "Why, that's—"

We both started and looked at the front door.

"Listen!" Miss Cooper whispered.

Light, stealthy footsteps sounded upon the porch. Next instant the knob was being slowly turned by a cautious hand.

CHAPTER XII

THE CIPHER

We sat rigid and breathless, with our eyes glued to the slowly revolving door-knob. At last a faint click announced that the latch was released. Then the door opened a few inches, to reveal the slender figure of Alexander Burke.