The Paternoster Ruby

by Charles Edmonds Walk

"I 'll shoot," she announced in a tense tone, "so help me, I 'll shoot."

For a moment we confronted each other, I utterly nonplussed, every line of the girl's figure breathing relentless determination.

"Miss Fluette," I tried to reason with her, "you are beside yourself. Pray don't do anything you 'll regret."

But she stopped me. Her voice was harsh and strained.

"Get up out of that chair. Do as I say."

Should I continue to humor her?—for further parleying was wholly out of the question. And if I wrote anything at all, it would doubtless have to pass her critical inspection—and also into her possession—before she would yield an inch.

I had to decide quickly. I started to shake my head, and bang!—the pistol blazed right into my face.

Heaven knows where the bullet went; I only know that it missed me. Next instant I was too busy to think about how narrow had been my escape. I sprang up agilely enough now, and was only just in time to catch the drooping figure before it fell. As I passed a supporting arm round her, her hair tumbled about her face and over her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, her brow was gathered in a frown, her lips were pinched and livid.

I acted rapidly. She had not fainted—was not wholly unconscious—for she was still putting forth a feeble effort to help herself. I eased her into the chair, behind which she had been standing and into which she now sank limp and silent. Her chin fell forward upon her bosom, and now and then her shoulders rose in a racking, gasping sob.

She let the still smoking pistol drop into my hand. Somewhere below I could hear Genevieve calling wildly and some one pounding away upon a door.

Next I got the keys from Miss Belle's yielding fingers, and soon had the door to the room open. The cries and pounding had ceased, and I surmised that the troop of maids and other servants chattering on the lower stairs and in the second story hall had been attracted to their source. Then a hope came to me that the shot had passed unnoticed.

Well, it transpired that Genevieve was locked in a room on the second floor, much to the amazement of the servants, none of whom, I was thankful to learn, had heard the shot. Genevieve had, though, or I was very much mistaken in the cause of her vigorous effort to attract attention and her present frenzied appeals for some one to break down the door.

"Oh, please, please, don't wait for the key," she was importuning them. "Break in the door—only hurry!"

"Everything's all right, Miss Cooper," I called. A little cry of relief came from beyond the closed portal. "I have the key," I added.

The second key which Miss Fluette had held was the one, and I had the bolt shot in a jiffy. Genevieve ran straight to me and threw herself into my arms.

Whatever it was she meant to say in her first overjoyed transport, remained unsaid; for I unceremoniously clapped a hand over her mouth, picked her up and carried her bodily back into the room, and slammed the door upon the gaping servants.

"They don't know," I said. "Go up-stairs to Belle; she has fainted. The explosion was accidental, and no one was hurt." I was still holding her close in my arms. "God bless you!" I whispered at her ear. And then—

Well, even the exigencies of a memoir do not require that I should set down what occurred then. Genevieve, her cheeks aflame, broke from my embrace and ran out of the room. I heard her light steps upon the stairs, and then the door to the room which had come near being the scene of a tragedy, opened and closed.

CHAPTER XX

GENEVIEVE'S MISSION

Almost at once a summons came from the up-stairs room for Miss Belle's maid. The rest of the servants were dismissed, and Genevieve signalled over the balusters for me to wait.

A very old man, cheerfully garrulous, who announced that he was the butler, took me downstairs.

"The drawing-room—living-room—or if you're of a mind to smoke, sir, Mr. Fluette's study." He indicated each of the rooms mentioned with a little flourish of the hand.

Although I am not a smoker, the word "study" arrested my attention. I indicated my preference. The old man instantly clapped a hand to one ear, and, leaning toward me, shouted into my face, "Hey?" So I decided the matter for myself by striding down the hall to where a door stood invitingly open.

Now perhaps you may consider it to have been the first duty of a traditional detective to take advantage of this opportunity, and perhaps you may be right. However, I believe I can assert, with some measure of authority, that a man in my profession may be a man of principle and honor and still succeed. I believe I may go even further: honest, straightforward conduct and upright dealing, by winning the confidence and respect of those with whom he holds intercourse, will carry a detective farther along the road to success in a given undertaking than any other means he may adopt. Honesty, in my calling as in all others, is the best policy.

But there are certain subtle impressions, often difficult to define, which are more potent than foot-prints and thumb-marks. A man's words, for example, are often of far less importance than his manner of uttering them. A man's personality is the stamp by which he declares his status among his fellows, and everybody is entitled to scan it that he may weigh and consider and judge. Hence a man's surroundings bear a thousand tokens of his character; for him to try to obliterate them, to keep them hid, is not to be frank and open, and that in itself invites suspicion.

My sole object in entering Alfred Fluette's study, therefore, was prompted by a hope that I might absorb something of its atmosphere. I did not know the man. Here was the place where he spent his leisure hours, where he unbent and became his normal self. It were indeed strange if I failed to gain some concept of his character.

I leaned against a window-casing, and surveyed the room with much interest. From the appearance of the books on the shelves—they were worn from use, but their coating of dust evidenced neglect—I gathered the idea that the master of the house had once been a bookish man, but that of late he had grown away from such pursuits. Here and there on the wide-topped writing-table were letters and papers in neat piles, while other letters and papers were heaped up and scattered about in the most careless disorder. The ink-well and blotting-pad were scrupulously tidy, but he never troubled to clean his pens after using them, or even to place them in the pen receiver.

To me, all this argued a man whose moral forces were undergoing a slow but certain deterioration; and with a man in Alfred Fluette's position, and with his responsibilities, the possibilities were manifold and ominous. His conscience still had a voice to raise in protest against meddling with his niece's heritage; but he remained deaf to the voice. He could stoop to villainy; but he was not so callous to wrongdoing but that the stooping hurt. Alfred Fluette needed a jolt—somebody to bring him up with a short turn—and I resolved, having the means, to be the one to do it.

As my glance roved hither and thither about the room, it was suddenly arrested and held.

On the writing-table, among a thousand and one odds and ends, was a memorandum calendar. It was in nowise different from scores of other calendars; the date displayed was to-day's, and in the blank space below, written in a large, firm handy appeared a notation.

But this memorandum contained a most peculiar word. Somehow, as my eye encountered it, a thrill ran through me. I could not define it; the thrill was without perceptible meaning, but I felt that the odd word should tell me something. The word was so odd, in fact, that I feared I could not remember it. So I copied it upon the back of an envelope, thus:

TSHEN-BYO-YEN.

Immediately under it had been written: "10 o'clock."

Further speculation on the matter was interrupted by Genevieve coming down-stairs. I stepped into the hall when I heard her, and she at once joined me. We went into the living-room.

Her beautiful eyes were round with wonder, her sweet face filled with concern; but before I entered into any explanations, I turned to her and held out my arms.

"First," I whispered, "I want to know whether it is real."

She caught her breath sharply; the color came quickly to her cheeks, a tender light to the blue eyes. She put her hands confidently into mine.

"What has happened to you?" she asked, standing away from me and staring with perplexed solicitude at the testimony of Stodger's barbarous surgery. I had forgotten all about the red-hot poker.

"A mere scratch—a nothing," I made light of it. "I 'll tell you all about it when the time comes. There are too many other things to be disposed of first."

"But—you have been wounded," she persisted, now thoroughly alarmed. And so I had to tell her about the night's adventure, which I did, for the most part shamefacedly enough.

It was a delight to watch the different expressions flit across her lovely countenance, to see them mingle and blend and give way to others—wonder, amazement, awe, horror, terror—I can't begin to name them all. A score of times she interrupted me, but it was always a welcome interruption.

"Stodger 's a trump," I concluded. "Think of him jumping up from a sound sleep and throwing himself into the thick of the fray, without one second's hesitation."

"Y-e-s," she agreed, but there was no enthusiasm in her tone. Then she turned warmly upon me.

"I 'm thinking, though, that you 've been gifted with mighty little sense, Knowles Swift, to have acted so recklessly. The very idea of a sane man creeping through that dark hall and up those dark stairs, and plunging into he knew not what!" She eyed me severely.

"But I did know," I protested meekly. "It was the étagère"

There was a solemn rebuke in the slow shaking of her head. "A man swears so," she sighed, "when he does anything awkward, like that."

I remained discreetly silent.

However, she was too much exercised over my "wound"—as she persisted in calling the scratch on my cheek—and the loss of the ruby to encourage any levity. Honestly, at that moment I cared not a whit for the ruby. Besides, there were consolations which I need not record. It was real—very, very real; and I was the happiest man in the world.

Genevieve was also curious to learn—and very naturally so—what had transpired between Belle and me.

"How is she now?" I parried. I had concluded that when Miss Belle was again her normal self, she would rather have our little episode forgotten.

"Calm as a graven image," was the reply. Grief and anxiety trembled in Genevieve's voice. "But it is a stony, deathlike sort of calm that gives me the creeps. The poor girl is distracted. She wants to be alone; she sent me to you."

"She sent you," said I, with quick interest. This struck me as being rather curious.

"Oh, I know Belle," said Genevieve. "She probably said some very bitter things to you; now she 's sorry."

I trusted that the impulsive young lady was experiencing some pangs of remorse; but before I confided anything, I learned how Genevieve came to be locked in Belle's room.

Early in the morning Belle had grown quite tranquil, but insisted upon talking. To humor and soothe her, Genevieve, during their talk, asserted that I could be depended upon to save Royal. She also mentioned that I was expected to call.

After breakfast Genevieve had fallen asleep, through sheer weariness. Belle must have risen cautiously, determined to treat with me herself. Her impulsive decision was manifestly arrived at after I rang the bell, because she had had no time to dress.

Soon after, Genevieve had awakened with a start, to find herself locked in and the bell-button dug out of its socket. She could not summon the servants without creating an uproar. She soon surmised something of what Belle had in mind, but never, until she heard the muffled report of the pistol, had she dreamed that the frenzied girl contemplated anything so desperate and rash.

Well, I softened the matter as much as I could for Miss Belle, making it very clear that I realized from the start that she was not responsible, and that I had been most of the time engaged in calming her and trying to persuade her to return to her room. I even stretched a point about the shooting; I feared that Genevieve would never forgive her for that. I said it had occurred—without intent—while I was struggling with her; which, after all, was perhaps not far from the truth.

"Why should Miss Belle have any reason for despising Alexander Burke?" I asked during our conference, for the girl's patent abhorrence of the fellow stuck in my mind.

Genevieve's expression became all at once very grave. For a moment she sat silent, toying with a plait of her skirt; then she looked up at me, saying soberly:

"It is one of the things that I shouldn't talk about. Still—I don't know," she faltered. "It is Burke alone who has roused her resentment." Then she decided.

"I will tell you this much: She overheard a conversation between him and her father. It filled her with loathing for the fellow—that and—and something else."

"I shall not try to force your confidence, my dear girl," I said. "Tell me only what you think you ought."

"Belle trusts me implicitly," she said simply.

"And I want her to continue to. The something else that makes her loathe him—are you free to speak of that?"

"It's nothing; it's ridiculous." She laughed nervously. "He has tried to make love to her. Ugh!" She shuddered at the idea.

"The dickens he has!"

Such a thought had never entered my head; it was impossible to imagine that slippery rascal in the role of an ardent lover. His blood was as cold as a fish's. But now I understood the fellow's animus toward Maillot; his hatred was inspired by jealousy. Belle had never spoken of the matter to Maillot—mortification was potent to hold this confidence in check—but he had instinctively distrusted and disliked Burke in return.

I could not bring myself to confide in my lovely coadjutor my convictions respecting her uncle. I learned that he had left the house that morning at an hour unusually early for him, and I thought at once of the queer memorandum on his calendar. He was still very much worried, declared Genevieve, and when at home kept more and more to himself as time went by. Mrs. Fluette was asleep after the night's ordeal with her daughter.

"If Royal were free to come after her," said Genevieve, not without some bitterness, "he could carry Belle away this very minute; there would be nobody to say him nay. Poor boy!"

"It is more than likely that he shall soon," I offered in dubious comfort. And then we got down to the purpose of my call.

"Do you know where your aunt and uncle were married?" I asked.

"Yes. It was in a little town in Ohio—"

"Merton," said I.

"That's it! But how did you know?"

I smiled at her surprise. "It's Felix Page's birth-place; the rest was inference."

She waited with ill-concealed curiosity for what was to follow. I found it necessary to hold her hands—both of them—while I told her.

"Would you mind making a journey there?—at once—to-day?"

Her eyes opened wide; even her sweet lips parted; but she waited.

And now I found it really essential to put my arm around her and draw her to me—she was too agitated to hear otherwise what I had to say. I hastened to explain how impossible it was for me to leave the city just at the time, what with my anxiety to recover the ruby and the necessity of keeping in close touch with Burke.

"I require only one more piece to complete the answer to our riddle," I affirmed,—I really thought so at the time,—"and you can get it for me. Don't bother your aunt; she will keep back all essentials, anyway. Your uncle and aunt and Felix Page all came from the same town, and there you can find plenty of old gossips who can—they 'll be only too willing to—give you all the information you want. They 'll give you more; but we can winnow the wheat from the chaff after you get back. Do you feel equal to such an undertaking?"

The proposal appeared to overcome her. She considered for a time, then turned to me, her eyes dancing, her cheeks flushed.

"Yes," she said, with bated breath. "I can't do Belle any good; she only wants to be alone. What do you want me to do?"

"Dig up every scrap of family history that you can—the Pages', the Fluettes', and the Coopers'; especially as they affect one another. Being a Cooper yourself, the task should be easy for you; you are compiling a family-tree, you know."

Genevieve gave me a sly look, and retorted:

"'When first we practise to deceive'—"

"Oh, no," I assured her. "If you do your work thoroughly, you certainly will have a complete family-tree. So there 's no deception about it."

Well, it was finally settled that she would go, and that she would report the result of her journey to me as soon as possible.

She then elicited a confession of my inability to solve the cipher—which confession was yielded up to the accompaniment of an exceedingly sour smile.

"That old house is a hoodoo," I said bitterly. "I have failed in everything I ever undertook inside its walls. The rest of the chase will be pursued on the outside."

"And you did n't even find the little daisy what-you-may-call-'ems—the originals, I mean?" She meant the crazy designs on the cipher.

"I did not."

Genevieve laughed.

"Wait till I get back. I mean to have a try at our cryptograph. If the daisies are in the old Page place, I 'll find them."

"They 're there, all right. I 'm sure you 're welcome to try—if you 'll let me assist in the search."

She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. "Hmf! A lot of assistance I can look for from you." Her tone was emphatically disparaging. "No, I 'll find them by myself. But I 'd be afraid to stay—for long—alone in that empty house."

I cared not in what capacity I served, just so I might be with her.

After making me promise that I would have the scratch on my face attended to at once, she sent me away.

I had not proceeded far toward town when I discovered that somebody was dogging my steps.

CHAPTER XXI

SHADOWS

It required some little time for me to determine that my shadow was one of the "Japanese"; for it was a most intangible and elusive shadow. Whatever else I might think of these worthies, I could not deny that their ability to hang on a man's trail, and at the same time keep themselves well-nigh invisible, amounted positively to genius. With all my doubling back and lurking in doorways around corners, the fellow never came up to where I could get a good view of him.

Of course it occurred to me that here was a chance to attempt a capture. But was it? The fellow was so slippery and artful that I risked a greater chance of losing him altogether. And then, to capture one of the quintet—or whatever their number might be—would more likely than not merely serve as a warning for the ring-leader of the crowd. Doubtless I could drag nothing at all from the fellow, even though I did succeed in laying hands upon him. If he had been set to watch me he would continue to do so unless I scared him away. I resolved to let him alone for the time being; but the first thing I did after reaching Dr. De Breen's offices was to ring up headquarters and request the Captain to send a man to get on my shadow's trail.

The doctor gave me a bad half-hour. The instant he was through I hurried to a window to learn how events were progressing in the street. Before I had time to ascertain whether my shadow was still on duty, or whether the Central Office man had showed up, my whole attention was absorbed by the appearance of two familiar figures on the opposite side. They were Mr. Fluette and Alexander Burke, walking along together in the most intimate manner imaginable.

I glanced at my watch; it still lacked a minute or two of ten, the hour Mr. Fluette had jotted on his calendar along with the extraordinary memorandum. Inasmuch as he and his strangely chosen companion were moving rapidly, it was a reasonable assumption that he was even then on his way to keep his engagement.

For a moment I stood irresolute. I was very anxious to follow the twain to the rendezvous, while at the same time I did not want to lose my shadow. I glanced eagerly up and down the street, studying the hurrying crowd on the walk, but could not see him anywhere. Then I hurried out to the elevator, and within the next minute was dropped to the ground floor.

I was obliged to walk fast to get within range of Fluette and Burke again—not an easy thing to do among the crowd—but still I could see nothing of my headquarters man, nor of the Jap. And right then I perceived the last mentioned. He had manifestly only at that instant caught up with the speculator and his companion—though why I had failed to see him before I can't imagine—and he was evidently addressing one or the other, or both of them.

It seemed to me that the fellow was trying to make his presence as inconspicuous as possible. He strode stolidly along, close behind them, looking into the shop windows and apparently not noticing the two men at all. Yet I knew that he was talking to them. I could tell by the surprised way with which both Fluette and Burke swung round and stared at him.

I quickened my steps. Yes, the Oriental was talking, and talking volubly. And, if I might judge by the consternation and anger reflected in the faces of his two auditors, his message was anything but welcome. That is to say, Alfred Fluette's strong features showed these emotions, while, as always, it was difficult to read what was going on behind Burke's impassive mask. Still it was pretty plain that the secretary was utterly at his wits'-end.

At last the three stopped at a corner, where they moved up close to the building to avoid the rush of pedestrians. I dared not draw near enough to hope to hear any of their conversation; I could do no more than watch from a distance, trusting to their absorption to keep them oblivious of my proximity.

Both were now excitedly questioning the Jap, who seemed to be wholly unmoved by their agitation. Presently Fluette turned angrily upon Burke. From his manner it was not difficult to imagine that he was soundly berating the secretary, who, whenever he could make himself heard, was just as plainly attempting to present some extenuating argument.

The entire episode was perplexing enough, but what immediately ensued caught me unawares. Without the least warning the trio separated, each hurrying away in a different direction. At this critical juncture a voice said, right at my ear:

"Shall I stick to Burke?—or follow one of the others?"

I jerked my head round to confront Fanshawe, the man detailed to keep Burke under surveillance. I had not observed him before—not surprising, since he had just caught up with me—but I welcomed his presence now.

"Stay with your own man," I shot at him, and turned to look for the Jap. He was gone.

To make the account of this discomfiting episode as brief as possible, I shall say, merely, that out of the three men whom we were watching, two of them walked away from under our very noses without our having the slightest idea in which direction they went. How did they do it? The momentary diversion occasioned by Fanshawe's arrival, the brief distraction of our attention, had been sufficient. He lost track of Burke, and I never had so much as another glimpse of the Jap.

We had the assistance of another headquarters man, too. The one for which I had telephoned showed up immediately after Fanshawe addressed me. The last-named skurried away to find Burke, while Pennington, my other colleague, and I devoted our efforts to catching the Jap.

"One of those Japs has been shadowing me all morning, Pennington," I advised him. "He 's as shifty and evasive as a fox. Fall half a block behind me, and if he shows up again give me a signal and close in. I want him."

But he did n't show up.

It was humiliating to be outwitted by the Oriental—it was the second time for me, too; it would be calamitous to lose Burke. The day dragged along, and when each succeeding minute brought no news of him my anxiety increased by leaps and bounds. Before nightfall, every available man in the department was scouring the city for the ex-secretary.

Subsequent events, however, showed that we might have spared ourselves all the trouble and worry; for one more pertinacious even than Fanshawe clung to Alexander Burke's heels all that day and night.

I found time during my purposeless running to and fro to learn that Alfred Fluette had arrived at his brokers' offices in Quincy Street shortly after ten, where he remained until the Board of Trade closed, and that Genevieve had left on an afternoon train for a brief visit with relatives in Merton, Ohio. Fluette had failed in his engagement; Genevieve had kept hers.

Some time after dark I boarded a Sheridan Park car, and rode out to the Page place; I don't now know why, unless it was because of the disastrous turn affairs had taken, and that I hoped, in this dismal, dispiriting environment, to find a balm for my depressed feelings.

It was only that morning, in the midst of a blinding snow-storm, thoroughly disheartened by the loss of the ruby, that Stodger and I had left the old house; but as I approached it that night, it bore every appearance of having been abandoned for years instead of only a few hours. No smoke curled from the chimneys; no light gleamed at any of the windows. In its white setting of snow, it loomed silent and spectral.

In the afternoon I had turned the keys over to Mr. Page's lawyer, and how I hoped to effect an entrance—if I had any such intention at all—I have long since forgotten. It may have been because it was here that I first met Genevieve, that I came mooning through the cold and snow. She was gone upon a journey; I knew that I could not see her for days; and perhaps I thought to find some companionship in the more intimate associations clustered about the dreary spot. At any rate, here I was. And I saw nothing else for me to do than to turn round and go back to town again.

However, I started to enter the gate. Next instant I stopped short. The snow bore other tracks besides Stodger's and mine—tracks pointing toward the house instead of away from it. They were fresh, made since the snow ceased.

I advanced a little farther into the yard, where the tracks had not been obliterated by pedestrians on the sidewalk, and soon comprehended that they had been made by two men. Were they in the house now? And if so, who were they? What errand could be so pressing that it would bring anybody here on such a night?

My indifference and discouragement fell away from me in a flash. Cautiously I followed the trail up to the front steps, where at first I fancied it disappeared upon the porch. Still I could not see a glint of light, nor did the most attentive harkening favor me with the slightest sound.

It occurred to me while I stood pondering on the porch that, after all, Mr. White—Felix Page's lawyer—might have been responsible for the tracks in the snow. It was possible that he had sent somebody to look after the place; a caretaker, perhaps, who would stay here until a disposition could be made of the property.

But this idea no sooner occurred than it was dismissed. All at once I noticed that one pair of foot-prints, instead of mounting the porch steps, had turned to one side. They led off to the east, and disappeared round the wing in that direction. The two persons had not come in company; the first, I presently concluded, had carried a key, and the second had been following him. There were no retreating impresses to indicate that either had departed.

I tiptoed to the front door and turned the knob. The door did not yield. Then for the first time I recalled the window which our housebreakers had forced the night before; unless the latch had been repaired during the day, it would be an easy matter to gain access to the dining-room, which was located in the western wing.

Now it was the eastern wing or gable which sheltered the library, the conservatory, and Mr. Page's bedroom, and it was thither the second man's foot-prints led. I followed them round the corner of the house.

From their appearance it was easy to trace all the mysterious intruder's movements. Evidently after the door had closed behind the first arrival, Number Two had stood for some time at the east end of the porch. Then he had moved toward the same end of the house, pausing at every window and trying the sash to ascertain whether it was fastened. Turning at the corner, he had proceeded along the side of the house, still testing the windows and bestowing particular attention upon the glass conservatory. This was true of every window as far as the bedroom, at least; beyond that I did not explore. Just as I drew opposite the first of the bedroom windows I came to an abrupt halt.

There was a light in the room.

Nor was this all. Some person was in the room, too, and by the silhouette on the blind I could see that he was industriously applying himself to some task, the nature of which I could not determine. The longer I watched the shadow on the blind, the more puzzled I grew. I could imagine no occupation that would account for such singular actions.

The shadow was a man's; I could distinguish that much. He appeared to be bending over something, while his hands flew hither and thither, as if they were performing a quick-step upon a piano. But no sound of music came from the lighted room.

It would be impossible to say how long I stood there, the snow nearly to my knees, fascinated by the remarkable antics of that shadow. Then of a sudden the hands ceased flying. The man straightened and became motionless, as if startled by some unexpected sound.

Well, perhaps within the next second he knew what had alarmed him; I 'm sure that I did not. The shadow flashed away from the blind. Then my scalp tingled and the blood seemed to freeze in my veins.

From within the room there came a most unearthly cry. It was weird, terrifying, utterly unlike anything I had ever heard—save once. For it was a repetition of the wild, inhuman note that had thrilled me when I first dashed open the bath room door the previous night.

The terrible cry was not immediately repeated, but for a while the utmost confusion prevailed within. I could hear furniture knocked and slammed about, a tumult of stamping, scraping feet, and once—for the briefest moment—another shadow was projected upon the blind.

It was a hideous, squat, dwarfish shadow. Two long gorilla-like arms were upraised in an abandonment of fury. Then came that awful, blood-curdling scream again, and the shadow's owner seemed to plunge headlong forward.

Another crash followed. The light was suddenly blotted out. The silence was once more absolute.

CHAPTER XXII

ASHES OF OLD ROMANCE

It was Friday afternoon when Genevieve started on her mission; the following Wednesday morning I received a telegram from her announcing that she would be home that same afternoon. The interim was so uneventful that my note-book mentions only two incidents as being worthy of preservation.

Late Friday night the welcome news came to headquarters that Alexander Burke had been found. He appeared at his lodgings shortly before midnight, looking wretchedly ill and exhausted. Saturday morning a physician was called in, and the whilom secretary was not able to appear upon the streets again until Tuesday. Then it was observed that a change had come over the man. His impassivity had been penetrated at last; it could no longer hide a nervousness and apprehension which kept his head perpetually pivoting in backward glances across his shoulder.

I smiled with satisfaction when Fanshawe told me this.

"Stay with him," I said; "it makes no difference whether or not he knows that you are always close behind him. In fact, I want him to know it; I want to break that man, and I will."

The other incident referred to was a meeting I succeeded in securing between Maillot and Miss Belle—memorable for me as being the first occasion upon which I was favored with a glimpse of Mrs. Fluette.

Sunday afternoon mother and daughter drove up to headquarters in the family carriage. Although the girl had been tactful enough to eschew a heavy veil and sombre apparel, it was plain to be seen that the event was almost too great an ordeal for even her proud and dauntless spirit.

Belle descended from the carriage hesitantly, and then stood looking about with an air of such helpless terror that I approached—I had previously resolved to keep myself effaced during the visit—and conducted her into the Captain's private office, where Maillot was waiting. She gave me an embarrassed, beseeching glance, and murmured a barely audible "Thank you." No more was said. She faltered an instant on the threshold, then, sobbing, rushed in. I made haste to close the door and rejoin Mrs. Fluette.

This lady was slight and frail, with hair as white as snow, and about her there hung an intangible something which gave me the impression that she was a woman who had suffered much. Although I strove to speak cheerfully of the prospects of Maillot's early release, her manner was quite discouraging to all my overtures. When she spoke at all it was only in the faintest of monosyllables—usually with her eyes avoiding mine. She looked at me, when at all, shyly, started at every unusual sound, and trembled during the whole time she sat in the Captain's big easy-chair.

At the end of the allotted half-hour—I was n't very particular over the number of minutes—Mrs. Fluette's increasing nervousness and impatience moved me to rap upon the private-room door. Belle emerged, her cheeks white and her eyes swollen with weeping. The poor girl pressed my hand when I helped her into the carriage—clung to it despairingly, to be exact—and the tears again gushed to her eyes.

"This is killing me!" she moaned. "Oh, it is! it is! I can't stand it much longer."

"Courage, Miss Fluette," I undertoned assuasively. "Everything is working for the best, believe me."

Ah, but was it? I could not say the words with much assurance. They drove away, two sad, harassed women.

Touching again upon Wednesday afternoon, I was pretty sure that the Fluette carriage would meet Genevieve at the station—very likely with Belle, or possibly Mrs. Fluette. In anticipation of this contingency I had sent a note to the house with the request that she find an excuse to meet me at the earliest possible moment, for I was all impatience to hear her report.

But Genevieve had anticipated also. She arrived armed with a commission from the Ohio cousin, the performance of which would brook no delay. So I had a minute alone with her downtown. She had been thoughtful enough to record a detailed statement of her investigations; it lies before me now as I write; and I shall condense from it those portions that are essential to advancing this chronicle.

In the early '50's Clara Cooper was the belle of the village of Merton. Wooers were many, but favors were few and grudgingly bestowed; and in time all the suitors withdrew, leaving the field clear to Alfred Fluette and Felix Page.

The Coopers and the Fluettes represented the wealth and aristocracy of the community, while Felix Page was a poor, struggling young man whose only advantages and prospects for the future lay in his indomitable pluck and a resolution that was ready to ride roughshod over all opposition.

And Clara favored the poor young man. He went forth from Merton resolved to wrest a fortune from the world and lay it at his sweetheart's feet. She promised to wait for him until he returned with the fulfilment of his ambitious aims.

Alas, though, for the fiery Felix: she was not of a very resolute character, being easily influenced by her sterner parents, whose patrician eyes looked askance upon the presumptuous lover's claims. Besides, Felix was absent—supposedly engaged in his laudable enterprise of wresting a fortune from the world—while Alfred, handsome, polished of manner, patient and persistently attentive, was ever at her elbow.

Then, too, there was Miss Clara's family, to the last one of them espousing Alfred's cause. In the end the girl allowed herself to drift with the current. Felix would have accomplished more to his purpose had he remained at home and married Clara, and then gone after the fortune. At any rate, after one or two letters from Felix, which glowed with hope and boundless zeal, she ceased to hear from him. Doubtless he had come to realize that the wresting operation demanded all his powers; but his silence was easily made to appear of more significance than it deserved. It was construed—for Miss Clara, not by her—as indisputable evidence of forgetfulness. Within the year she married Alfred Fluette.

Six years passed. Alfred Fluette had migrated with his bride to the city. Then Felix Page returned triumphant to Merton. His triumph, however, was short-lived. He was well on the road, even then, to his subsequent commercial success; a good deal of the wresting had been accomplished; but the girl he had steadfastly loved, whom he had never for one instant put out of his thoughts, had married his rival.

To get together most of her report Genevieve had been obliged to labor patiently and painstakingly; when it came to the events associated with Felix Page's return to his birth-place, her task was suddenly transformed from one of gleaning to another equally arduous, of selecting from the plethora of material at her disposal.

One gathers the idea, after reading it all, that his rage was that of a cave-man who returns from the day's hunt to find that his home in the hillside cliff has been despoiled. One thing stands out clear and unmistakable; from that hour his life was embittered, his character warped with the shattering of his ideals. He registered a solemn vow of vengeance against Alfred Fluette, then disappeared.

So much for this portion of the report. Nothing in the subsequent relations of the two men was now obscure.

And here, too, we are given a new light upon Alexander Burke, oiling door-hinges that he might the better spy upon his employer, patiently working out the combination of the hidden safe and running to Alfred Fluette with the old love-letters and mementos—for a price, of course,—playing the vindictiveness of the one against the hatred and fear of the other, and scrupling not to gain profit for himself whenever and wherever he might.

But it is proverbial that a woman invariably reserves the most interesting and important item for the postscript. And it was so with Genevieve's report. I quote the concluding paragraphs in toto.

On the very first day of my arrival, and from the very first person to whom I confided the nature of my errand, I received the surprising intelligence that I was not the first to pursue similar inquiries in Merton. Said my informant: "Why, there was a man here two or three weeks ago, trying to find out all he could about the Pages and the Coopers and the Fluettes. Has some one of them died and left a lot of money?"

I did not think so much of it the first time, but when my second victim told me the same thing, I sat up and began to take notice. Then I extended my inquiries so as to cover my mysterious predecessor.

I soon found out that he had ingratiated himself with everybody in Merton who could give him a scrap of information, and that his inquiries were all directed to one end; namely, the family histories of the Pages, the Coopers, and the Fluettes.

Then, from all the people I could find who had seen and talked to this man, I obtained a description of his appearance and (where they were remembered) his personal peculiarities. One description photographed him for me:

"A tall, lean, lanky feller—real sandy—hair, eyes, eyelashes, eyebrows—no, he did n't have no eyebrows; but all the rest was the same light yaller color. He was pale and sickly lookin'—poor man!—and you could n't tell what he was a-lookin' at when he talked to a body. Any kin o' yourn?"

Who was my mysterious predecessor in the field, if he were not Alexander Burke?

Who, indeed!

CHAPTER XXIII

BURKE UNBOSOMS

Eight o'clock Thursday morning: an hour before, Fanshawe had heard with a sigh of relief that I would take his place that morning. I had since been kicking my heels opposite the rooming house where Alexander Burke had his lodgings.

At the hour mentioned Burke appeared. I retreated into a sheltering doorway, and watched him.

He stood for a moment upon the top step, darting quick glances up and down the street, and intently scanning the few pedestrians who were abroad at the time. Then he came rapidly down the steps, and turned toward the city.

The snow muffled my tread, and he did n't hear my approach—did n't know of my presence until I tapped him upon the shoulder.

"Mr. Burke," said I, "I want you."

With a quick intake of breath, which sounded like the hiss of a snake, he slewed round and fixed me with his expressionless eyes. Also—to complete the simile—his head reared back, like a snake's when it is about to strike. I don't believe that I ever before found such a keen pleasure in arresting a man.

"Want me!" he gasped. "What for?"

"Yes, you." I could not entirely hide my satisfaction. "And because you have reached the end of your rope. I don't intend to stand here and argue about it, either."

In a moment the man was calm—all except his gloved hands. A man's hands will, nine times out of ten, betray him in spite of himself. Burke's fingers were twitching, and folding and unfolding without cessation.

"Swift," he whispered vindictively, "you 'll regret this—so help me God, you will. Curse you! Why do you persecute me? I 'll go with you—of course I shall; how can I help myself when I 'm at the mercy of a brute of a giant, like you?"

"Then shut up, and come along. I 'll just keep a hand under your arm until we get to headquarters.… Never mind!" as he made a move to unbutton his overcoat. "It's cold enough to keep covered." I had struck down the stealthy hand with considerable vigor, and he winced with pain. The pale eyes flashed a malignant look at me, and straightway became inscrutable again.

Not another word was said until we stood before the clerk at the Central Office. The matter-of-fact way in which he picked up a pen and poised it over the police docket, the callous indifference with which he inquired the prisoner's name and the nature of the charge, made Burke flinch for the first time.

"Wait, Johnson!" I said suddenly to the clerk, as if on second thought. "I don't believe I 'll docket this man yet; I want to keep the pinch quiet for a while."

The game was familiar to Johnson; he laid aside the pen as indifferently as he had taken it up, and returned to his interrupted perusal of the morning paper.

"You come with me," I said to Burke.

I conducted him to the little room behind the Captain's private office—scene of many a heart-to-heart conference—and pushed him toward one of the two chairs which constituted the room's sole furnishing. It was a dim, silent, disheartening place, and I was resolved to have no mercy upon the man whom at last I had succeeded in getting into a position where I could handle him.

"Burke," I began, "I 'm not going to mince matters or stand for any quibbling or lying. I have you right where I want you, and whatever leniency you may receive will depend entirely upon your frankness. This is your chance—the last one."

No doubt my expression and manner were grim, I meant them to be and there was no doubt that my obvious confidence in my position impressed the ex-secretary; for the fingers grew more agile, and he licked his dry lips again and again.

"What am I charged with?" he demanded, in a shaking voice.

"Nothing, as yet," I returned cheerfully. "You doubtless noticed that I dispensed with that little formality. Do you know what that means? Just this: no one knows you are here; there is a certain small cell below stairs, dark as Egypt, provided expressly for recalcitrant individuals. You could lie there for a year, and nobody be a whit the wiser. I, for one, wouldn't care how long you stayed."

"Swift," the fellow stammered, "this—this is outrageous!"

"Perhaps," agreed I, carelessly, surveying him with a narrowed look. "I 'm not here to excuse police methods; they 're not very gentle, I 'll admit; but when we deal with crooks we 're obliged to hand them the only treatment they 're amenable to.

"Burke, you can't excite one bit of pity or sympathy in me for you, for I know you to be a cold-blooded, treacherous scoundrel, and whatever you have coming to you is only what you deserve. I 'm fixed to put you through as a principal in the murder of Page—sit down!" I thundered at him, for he had started to rise from his seat. He dropped back limply. "You wait till I 'm through. Your chance is coming in just about a minute. I promise not to interrupt—as long as you tell a straightforward story.

"As I said," I went on, "I 'm prepared to put you through as one of the principals; the bare fact of your arrest should be enough to convince you of my readiness.

"However, while I have n't any desire to spare you, we are in the habit of trading leniency to a rascal who is willing to turn State's evidence. It's a plain business proposition."

I imagined that he perked up a bit at this.

"Ah, then you are not so sure," he seemed to muse; "you would have me convict myself for your precious benefit."

"Maybe you can judge better before I have finished," returned I, unmoved. "You need not tell me anything about yourself, but I do need a few facts to complete my case against the others who were involved in this crime. It's up to you."

I retreated a step, folded my arms, and stood watching him—and waiting. I knew that he could n't tell the truth without filling in the gaps in his own case. I never am deterred by any compunction over the methods I am sometimes obliged to use to make an individual, whom I know deserves no consideration, speak. With a knave like Burke I would as lief resort to thumb-screws, the boot, the rack, or even to choking the words from him, as to trust to persuasion alone. To tell the truth, my preference lies with the means first enumerated: they are much more prompt and direct. The worst indictment that one may bring against the old-time torture is that it was not applied with judgment and discrimination, nor always confined to legitimate ends. I fear that I shock you. But I am not by any means a cruel, blood-thirsty person. I merely speak from long years of experience. Whenever I hear a misguided soul deploring the so-called "third degree"—why, I have something in pickle for him.

This, however, is not the place to open the pickle-jar.

Perhaps, though, Burke's suffering was as poignant as if his ordeal were physical. How restlessly the man's slender, bloodless fingers curled and uncurled! Still, his self-control was wonderful; his white face remained indecipherable, the pale eyes stared at me unblinkingly and without mirroring a single emotion that I could discern. Then the change came so quickly that it almost caught me off my guard.

One hand shot to his bosom. When it re-appeared something flashed dully in the dim light. At the same time, with a cat-like spring, he was out of his chair and upon me.

I concentrated all my attention upon the hand that held the murderous knife. I caught it as it lunged at me; then, with a quick twist, I bent it backward and behind him, until he groaned with pain. The long-bladed knife clattered to the floor, and I shoved him roughly away from me. Then I picked up the weapon.

The fellow acted for all the world like a whipped and cowed panther. He brought up violently against the wall, where, in a stooping posture, he commenced running to and fro the width of the room, spitting and snarling venomously. The pale eyes were no longer blank. The pupils had widened, and the look of them was deadly.

I smiled with quiet satisfaction, for I knew that Burke was—as we specify it in police parlance—"coming through."

After a while he quieted, and at last stood panting in the corner farthest away from me. I pointed to the chair.

"Sit down," I said, precisely as if he had n't tried his best to murder me but a minute before.

He moved slowly—fearfully—toward the chair, and sank into it. His head was dropped forward, his shoulders were bowed, and the fingers were no longer restless. All the man's defences were at last down.

"Now, then, Burke," I went on calmly, "I suppose we are ready to get down to business?"

He muttered inaudibly, without raising his head.

"What's that?"—sharply,

"You devil!" he whispered.

"Yes, yes, I know. I 've heard that from you before. I don't care to hear it again." I advanced and stood threateningly over him.

"Look at me," I sternly commanded.

Slowly he raised his head until his eyes met mine. The pallid mask was pinched, and it wore a look of torment.

"Once for all, Burke, are you going to speak?" I suppose the quietness with which I uttered it was ominous to the wretch. "Or will I be obliged to drag you to that cell of which I spoke?"

With a quick gesture, he outspread his arms.

"Enough, Swift, enough!" he cried, in a hoarse, distressed voice. "I know when I 'm beaten; I 'll give up. What do you want?"

"Good," without alteration of tone or manner. "Let's go to a pleasanter place." And we went into the Captain's private room, where a stenographer sat concealed by a screen.

Burke dropped into a chair. I thrust my hands into my coat pockets, and as I slowly paced to and fro, addressed him.

"I 'll tell my story. When I 'm wrong you may correct me. See that you do it, too, because you won't know when I 'm testing you or when I am really ignorant of the facts. You see how much I trust you, Mr. Burke.

"To begin at the beginning, your first treacherous act toward your employer was when you determined to steal the Paternoster ruby, and started in to hunt for it. You had your work all cut out for you, too, Burke; Felix Page was no fool; he would n't trust the safekeeping of so valuable an object even to his confidential clerk, nor could that clerk search for it with impunity.

"You 've been gifted with the same brand of patience, though, Burke, that keeps a cat glued to a rat-hole for hours upon end; you bided your time. And you never let an opportunity slip by you, either.

"Felix Page was in the habit of talking to himself—a trait not uncommon to people who live much to themselves—so you oiled the door-hinges in order that you might steal upon him undetected, from any part of the house, and listen to his self-communings. No wonder, when you talked with me, that you were fearful of the curtained alcove!

"But I 'll be brief. By and by you learned of the hidden safe; then—still with infinite patience—you set about trying to discover its combination. You succeeded."

I halted abruptly in front of him.

"Burke, the opening of that safe door was a revelation; it offered new possibilities which must have overwhelmed you. What did you think when your eyes first fell upon those old love mementos from Clara Cooper to Felix Page? Don't look astonished so soon; wait till I 'm done. I 'll have no difficulty convincing you that my case against you is pretty complete.

"But your find was extremely aggravating, for you were afraid to make use of it. Without doubt, Alfred Fluette would give a pretty penny to get them from Felix Page. But you lacked sand to brave Page's wrath.

"Then what did you do?" I paused to eye him a moment. "Why, you went down to Merton and dug up all the old family skeletons. Now you were surer of your ground; you were ready to levy tribute—blackmail—not from Page, though, because he would have promptly kicked you out—but again your nerve failed you. That's where you have fallen down, Burke, all the way through. You carried a letter or two to Fluette to prove your claims; then, before their loss was discovered, you brought them back again, and replaced them in the safe. Oh, that old man, in his lifetime, inspired a wholesome fear of him in your soul."

Then, circumstantially, I detailed as a statement of the case, my reconstruction of the tragic night, concluding with his hiding the ruby in the bar of soap. At this point I suddenly wheeled upon him, and asked point-blank:

"Tell me what you were doing in Mr. Page's bedroom Friday night, and what it was that surprised you there?"

He stared at me in amazement. He had been, whilst I was talking, slowly regaining his self-possession—crawling into himself, as it were, and pulling down the blinds; and now, when he spoke, it was with something of his old manner.

"Swift, my biggest blunder was in underestimating your intelligence. I thought I could play hob with you; but I was a fool." His face gave me a certain impression of slyness, which I did n't at all like.

"Careful now," I sharply warned.

He sat silent for a moment, then spoke.

"I 'm not taking any more chances. Swift; don't worry.… What was I doing Friday night? I was hunting for the ruby."

"Look here,"—impatiently. "I thought you had trifled enough."

He raised a protesting hand.

"Let me finish. Friday was the first time since Mr. Page's death that I have managed to shake off the man who has been following me. When I became convinced that I really had succeeded in doing so, I stayed under cover until nightfall; then—well, you yourself have said that I 'm an opportunist. I did n't know the cake of soap had been removed from the bath room; when I discovered it was not there I supposed you had found the ruby's hiding-place, and that you had concealed it elsewhere. I was trying to find it, when—when somebody came in."

"One of the Japanese," I supplied.

"They 're not Japanese," he corrected, with a provoking air of superior knowledge. "They are Burmese."

"Whatever they are, you have been playing them and Fluette against each other. Burke, I suppose you can't help lying; it comes easier for you than telling the truth. You know that those fellows managed to steal the bar of soap—"

"While you were watching it," he interpolated.

"—and," I went on, ignoring the thrust, "they notified you and Fluette of the fact Friday morning."

"Yes," he said slowly, after a pause, "they told us they had secured the bar of soap."

"If that's so," I fixed him with a level look, "why did the intelligence floor you so?"

"You draw your conclusions so admirably that you ought to be able to supply the answer to that question yourself."

"I 'm not here for that purpose,"—curtly. "Come, speak up."

He sat for a long while silent; then,—

"Well," said he, "it would come as a shock to any man to be bluntly told that he had just been deprived of a fortune. Mr. Fluette, confident that he was within a step of securing the stone, blamed me with being the cause of his disappointment."

The fellow's demeanor angered me beyond endurance.

"Burke," I cried heatedly, "do you think you can make me believe that a man of Alfred Fluette's calibre would purchase the Paternoster ruby from you, knowing that it was not yours to sell? Bah!" I was filled with disgust.

"Ah, Swift, Swift," the rogue said, complacently wagging his head at me, "there are some things of which even you are ignorant.

"Here is one of them—listen: the Paternoster ruby was no more Felix Page's than it is yours or mine. It is the property of the king of Burma; it was stolen from him years ago, and the Burmese nobleman who is at present in this country with his retinue—"

"Tshen-byo-yen," I said quietly, and had the satisfaction of beholding Mr. Burke favor me with a startled glance.

"Yes," he pursued, with considerably less assurance, "that's his name."

"And one of the 'retinue,' as you are pleased to call his gang of thugs, is that hideous, misshapen monster that shrieks like a ghoul. I suppose that he too was hunting for the ruby Friday night—after having stolen it the night before." My sarcasm failed to touch Burke. He shuddered, saying:

"The dwarf? He's a mute—Tshen's slave. Tongue 's been torn out. And—truly—believe me; you may easily verify what I say—Tshen is the properly accredited representative of the king of Burma, invested with full power and authority to dispose of the stone. Does the fact that it was stolen from his royal master—that it has for some years been out of the king's possession—in any way lessen or invalidate his right to it? Surely you would not dispute that?"

"I don't propose debating the matter with you." And then I pointed out: "If his claim is good, there are the courts."

Burke's shoulders twitched in a tiny shrug.

"Who can fathom the Oriental mind?" said he, oracularly.

I swung on my heel squarely away from him; I had no more patience for such shuffling with words.

"You come with me," I said curtly; "I 'll at least get you straight on the police docket—since you seem to prefer it to frankness."

He was out of his chair like a flash.

"No—no—no, Swift!" he implored. "I swear I'm telling the truth. Not that I—not that!" He hesitated a second.

"It was n't the ruby that was in the bar of soap"—the words literally dragged from his lips. "I thought it was. But it was only the paste imitation."

CHAPTER XXIV

CONFESSION

I stared at Burke in speechless amazement.

The tremendous possibilities opened up by this revelation left me bewildered. But the wave of joy which suddenly swept over me was unmistakable.

"Then, how—" I began, and stopped.

If I could not understand, it was only too clear that Burke could not tell me what I wanted to know; for it was also plain that he too was utterly at a loss to account for the circumstance. This, then, had been the intelligence imparted by the Burman on Friday morning, which had so upset Fluette and Burke.

But again, why in the first place should Burke have informed the Burmese of the supposed gem's hiding-place? And how could it have been the replica instead of the real stone? The whole thing was fraught with many perplexities; something here, which I could not seize upon, flaunted itself in obscurity, and if I wanted to learn more from Burke it would not do for him to discover how far I was at sea. Was it possible that he still fostered a hope of getting his fingers upon the real gem?

I was again surveying him with a cold, suspicious eye.

"Burke," I said, "just how did you come to put the gem—or the paste replica—in the soap?"

For a long time he sat contemplating his hand, first the back and then the palm, and then closing the fingers and scrutinizing the nails. Finally, with another shrug and a little gesture in which I read resignation, he said:

"I might as well tell it. As you say, I knew the jewel-box—and I honestly thought it contained the ruby—and the Clara Cooper letters were in the safe, and I never had an opportunity to take them till Tuesday night a week ago. The assurance that Page was going to Duluth that night, combined with the backing Tshen would give me, put me in a position where I could take the ruby and defy Page. I was so sure that Page was going to Duluth that night that I arranged a meeting between Fluette and the Burman at Page's house.

"For you surmised correctly when you declared that Fluette would not buy the ruby on the strength of my representations alone. The purpose of that meeting was to convince Fluette of the good faith of Tshen's claim to the stone, whereupon I was to procure it from the safe—the letters, too—and he was to pay over a certain sum of money for them."

"How much?" I bluntly demanded.

"Two hundred thousand dollars."

So this was the reason why Alfred Fluette must needs help himself to Genevieve's patrimony. That rapacious monster, the Wheat Pit, had exhausted all of his legitimate resources, and so mad was his obsession that he scrupled not to steal.

I entertained only hard feelings for him at that moment. He had not bought the ruby, however, and doubtless Genevieve's fortune was still intact.

"Go on," I commanded curtly. "What happened then?"

"Well, Maillot's arrival demoralized everything. Fluette was to come at ten o'clock, and Tshen at ten-thirty. I did n't know what to do. I had no way of getting them word at that time of night, and I soon realized that Page had given over the trip. I contrived, however, to smuggle all of them up to my room, without anybody being the wiser.

"I explained the state of affairs, and assured them that I would fulfil my part of the agreement as soon as Page and Maillot retired and the house grew quiet.

"Some time after eleven I heard Page and Maillot coming up-stairs. The light was out in my room, and, peering through the crack of my door, I watched Page bid Maillot good-night. The old man was holding a lighted candle in one hand and the small leather box in the other. I know it was the ruby he showed Maillot—"

"I suppose you were in the curtained alcove while he and Maillot were talking," I interrupted.

"Not all the time; I didn't dare be. The old man was as sharp as a fox. He didn't trust anybody.

"However, I carried out my part of the programme, all right; but just as I reached the top of the stairs I felt the magnetism of somebody's presence. I looked back and saw Page—he looked positively diabolical—following me. How he enjoyed catching anybody in such a predicament!"

"And then?"

"Well, then—why, I must have lost my head. I started for my room, but the old man commanded me to stop, and I stopped. People generally did when Page told them to. Fluette heard him and came into the hall to learn what was the matter. Page could not see him then because of the angle in the corridor, and the old man paused by the étagère to light the candle in the iron candlestick.

"After that the old man walked right up to me and held out his hand for the box and the bundle of letters; but before I had time to give them to him, Fluette rushed in between us. His appearance startled the old man so that he recoiled a pace or two. This gave Fluette the opportunity he needed to take the things from me. He smiled at Page, and said:

"'By God, Felix Page, you sha'n't thwart me this time; for once I 've got the upper-hand of you, and I mean to keep it.' Fluette, you see, had put in the time while waiting in my room listening to Tshen's story and examining his credentials.

"That infuriated Page so that he went clear off his head. He set down the iron candlestick upon the floor, and plunged right into Fluette. Quicker than you can think, they were wrestling furiously for the box and the bundle of letters.

"'I ran into my room and told Tshen what was going on. Three of his party were with him, and they were all so excited that I could scarcely do anything with them. Next I ran back into the hall, where the two men were still struggling and threshing about. They saved their breath for their exertions, each trying with might and main to wrest the precious package from the other.

"All at once the jewel-box was wrenched open. The ruby—or what I thought was the ruby—flew out and fell at my feet. I stooped in a flash and picked it up. As I straightened upright, I saw that Page had succeeded in recovering the jewel-case, although Fluette had the letters. With an oath, Page cast the empty box away from him. 'I 'll cut your heart out for that!' he snarled, and started for Fluette. Fluette hastily jabbed the letters into his coat pocket, grabbed up the candlestick and threw it above his head. The light was extinguished, and the candlestick crushed upon Page's head.

"It was an inspiration that made me press the ruby into the soap; I could n't have found a better hiding-place if I had searched the house over."

I was no longer heeding him. The last doubt had been removed. After all, then, Alfred Fluette was the guilty man.

My heart ached for the three women upon whom the blow would fall the hardest. The tangle was unravelling in accord with my theory. I had warned Genevieve of what she might expect—indeed, she had apprehended the probable outcome herself; it had been hopeless to attempt to prepare Belle. But all this failed to relieve the situation any.

However, the ruby presently rose uppermost in my mind, and with it came a conviction that Burke had not told me everything that he might have respecting the gem. If it had not been in the bar of soap, where was it? Then light flashed upon the enigma.

Burke and the Burmese had been afforded more time than I in which to speculate upon the substitution of the false for the genuine stone, and Burke had not gone inconsiderately to the Page place on Friday night, but, quite the reverse, to prosecute a definite plan of search. How near he came to the goal I did n't appreciate till later.

The discovery by the Burmese that the soap contained merely the paste replica, made them suspect Burke of duplicity. Hence, after Fanshawe and I lost them Friday morning, the Burman had continued to dog the ex-secretary until relieved some time during the day by the misshapen dwarf, who, in turn, had followed him to the Page place after nightfall.

The mute—whose ugly visage Genevieve had seen at the alcove curtains—had attacked him, perhaps in the belief that Burke had found the gem, and that he had been deceiving them respecting it.

It was this struggle in the bedroom which had created such a tumult, frightening Burke within an inch of his life, and driving him pellmell away and to his bed, where he had remained until the following Tuesday. Both had utterly vanished by the time I effected an entrance to the house.

"I can truthfully say, Burke," I confided, "that I never underestimated your intelligence. You did not go blindly to the Page place Friday night. You reasoned that, if Mr. Page displayed the genuine ruby to Maillot, and if the jewel-case contained only the replica when you robbed the safe an hour or so later, why, the substitution must have occurred somewhere between the library table, where Maillot and Page had been sitting, and the safe. Consequently you were encouraged by the assurance that the scope of your search would be restricted.

"I believe you argued correctly. And to keep you out of further mischief, or from setting your precious Burmese upon me again, why, you may stay here a while and think over it."

Despite his protestations, when I left headquarters the last glimpse I had of him was through the bars of a cell door.

I went directly to the Fluette residence to inform Genevieve that her apprehensions and uncertainties had at last crystallized into dread reality. I shall not dwell upon this wretched conference; it is quite enough to say that the poor girl was torn with grief, yet not wholly convinced.

"Knowles,"—she was clinging to my arm, her voice hoarse and distressed,—"it is too terrible—too monstrous for belief. I can not do it—can't believe it—unless I hear the words from Uncle Alfred's own lips. He is here now; he did n't go down-town to-day. The horrible charge has been made—confront him with it. He's up-stairs with Aunt Clara."

"Very well," I quietly returned. "You go and ask him, as calmly as possible, to come down to his study. Don't alarm Miss Belle or her mother; it may not be necessary."

Moving blindly toward the stairs, she paused on the first landing and turned to me a tragic face.

"Courage!" I whispered.

Then she found the strength to carry her on to the end of her revulsive errand. I went direct to the study, and waited.

Fluette came in hastily, his manner wild, his face white and haggard. Genevieve, distressed and heart-broken, followed close behind him. She closed the door. The man began speaking at once, incoherently, in a harsh, strident whisper that signified constricted throat muscles.

"So! It's come at last! You—keep it from—from—my God! keep it from my wife and daughter!"

I answered him roughly, in an attempt to keep him from breaking completely down.

"Pull yourself together, man! What sort of way is this to act?" I surveyed his abject figure an instant, then added with some bitterness: "It is not I that you fear, but your own conscience."

I was thinking of the women.

He slumped into a chair, clasped his out-stretched hands upon the writing-table, and allowed his head to droop between his arms. At that moment I heard Belle calling "Papa!" She was running lightly down the stairs. Again she called, and I knew that she was coming swiftly toward the library.

Genevieve made a move as if to bolt the door, but I checked her with a gesture. Of what use would it be to bar the way of her who came so impulsively? The dreadful truth must be broken to her. It was a task that no third person might assume; let her hear it wrung from her father's unwilling lips.

"Papa!" She was approaching quickly. How youthful and self-reliant her voice sounded! The sweet, girlish contralto jarred painfully upon at least two of our tense, waiting group. And Belle continued to advance all unsuspectingly.

"Papa, where are you? Why don't you answer?"

Genevieve ran over to her uncle, and laid one arm across his bowed shoulders.

"Uncle! Uncle!" She shook him, striving in an agitated way to rouse him to a sense of realization. "Uncle! Sit up! Don't go all to pieces, this way! Belle is at the door!"