For a moment, as we retraced our steps down-stairs, I attempted, briefly, a résumé of the case so far, beginning with the death of Maddox, and down to the attack on Hastings and then on myself. As I viewed the chief actors and their motives, I found that they fell into two groups. By the death of Maddox, Shelby might profit, as might his sister, Frances. On the other hand were to be considered the motives of jealousy and revenge, such as might actuate Irene Maddox and Paquita. Then, too, there was always the possibility of something deeper lying back of it all, as Burke had hinted—an international complication over the telautomaton, the wonderful war engine which was soon likely to be the most valuable piece of property controlled by the family. Into such calculations even Mito, and perhaps Sanchez, might fit, as indeed might any of the others.
It was indeed a perplexing case, and I knew that Kennedy himself had not yet begun to get at the bottom of it, for the simple reason that when in doubt Kennedy would never talk. His silence was eloquent of the mystery that shrouded the curious sequence of events. At a loss for a means by which to piece together the real underlying story, I could do nothing but follow Kennedy blindly, trusting in his strange ability to arrive at the truth.
“One thing is certain,” remarked Kennedy, evidently sensing that I was trying my utmost to arrive at some reasonable explanation of the events, “and that is that this hotel is a very jungle of gossip—sharper than a serpent’s tooth. In my opinion, none of us will be safe until the fangs of this creature, whoever it may be, are drawn. However, we’ll never arrive anywhere by trying merely to reason it out. This is a case that needs more facts—facts—facts.”
Following out his own line of thought, Craig decided to return down-stairs to the seat of operations, perhaps in the hope of running across Hastings, who might have something to add. Hastings was not about, either. We were entirely thrown upon our own resources. If we were ever to discover the truth, we knew that it would be by our own work, not by the assistance of any of them.
Attempts to locate Hastings quickly demonstrated that we could not depend on him. Having worked secretly, there seemed to be little else to do now but to come out into the open and play the game manfully.
“What was the matter?” inquired Riley, as Kennedy and I sauntered into the lobby of the Harbor House in such a way that we would appear not to be following anybody.
“Why?” asked Kennedy.
“First it was Paquita,” continued Riley. “She bounced into the hotel, her face flushed and her eyes flashing. She was as mad as a hornet at something. Sanchez met her. Why, I thought she’d bite his head off! And he, poor shrimp, took it as meekly as if he were the rug under her feet. I don’t know what she said, but she went directly to her room. He has been about, somewhere. I don’t see him now. I guess he thought she was too worked up to stay up there. But I haven’t seen her come down.”
“Shelby must have been telling her some plain truth,” said Craig, laconically.
“Shelby?” echoed Riley. “Why, it wasn’t five minutes afterward that Winifred Walcott came through, as pale as a ghost. She passed Irene Maddox, but they scarcely spoke. Looked as if she had been crying. What’s the matter with them? Are they a bunch of nuts?”