"Miss Garth?" I said, knowing now for certain it was she, as in looking up I had recognised the face seen outside Sing Sing prison. How she had recognised me would have been a puzzle, had I not conceitedly deduced that Maida had annexed a photograph given by me to Roger. But it was not important to solve this puzzle. "Miss Garth?" I repeated, raising my voice over the music.
No reply: and a prickling cold as the touch of icicles shivered through my veins as I laid a hand on the grey-clad arm. It was responseless like her lips, and sick at heart I raised the limp figure in the chair. The head in its long veil and close-fitting bonnet lolled aside, and there was no consciousness in the half-open eyes. The girl had fallen into a dead faint, or—she had been murdered, I could guess by whom. But selfishly, my first thought was not for her. It was for the promised letter, and in her lap half concealed by the folds of her grey cloak—I found it: a blank envelope, unsealed, but evidently containing a sheet or two of paper.
"Thank God it's not been stolen!" I muttered, and pocketing the envelope turned my thoughts to the thing which must next be done.
No wound was visible, not even a drop of blood to cover a pinprick: but I could feel no beating of the heart; and the swift vanishing of the man in chain armour was ominous. I realised that, if the girl had died by violence, I might come under suspicion, unless I could quickly prove innocence. Needing my liberty in order to protect Maida, I could run no risk of losing it, and I realised that with Lady Mary Proudfit lay my best hope. There wasn't a minute to waste; and without a glance at the letter I was dying to read, I peered through the sparkling of ribbon confetti and rose petals. What a mockery the brilliance was, and the gay ragtime melody in the musicians' gallery next door! Yet the bright veil had its uses. It was like a screen of shattered crystal hiding the tragedy in Box 18.
Lady Mary, as I hoped, sat where I'd left her. I beckoned. Surprised, but evidently pleased, she spoke to her companion, a British financier on government business in New York. Instantly they began to thread their way through the crowd, and less than five minutes brought them to the box.
"This lady had important news for me," I explained, "news of a dear friend she has been nursing. It was as important for others that the news shouldn't reach my ears. I fear there's been foul play, and I want a doctor. Everything must be done quietly—and the girl can't be left alone. But the police must be called, if she turns out to be dead, and——"
"Oh, I can bear witness that her head dropped suddenly on her arm, while that man in chain armour bent over her—before you even left me. He was in fearful haste to get away!" Lady Mary interrupted.
"Hello, what's this!" exclaimed the financial magnate, Sir Felix Gottschild, stooping to drag from under a chair, pushed against the wall, a peculiar bundle. "Here is chain armour—a whole suit, rolled up and tucked under the chair! By Jove, it tells a tale—what? You'll be all right, whatever happens, Lord John. We'll stop till you get back."
I waited for no more, but went down to inform one of the men keeping the ballroom door what had happened. The police and a doctor were 'phoned for, and arrived with almost magical promptness. The gold tissue curtains were quietly drawn across Box 18 while two "plain clothes" men took note of what Lady Mary Proudfit and I had to tell, and the doctor probed the mystery of Anne Garth's condition. He was soon able to pronounce her dead, but it was not till later that he discovered the prick of a hypodermic syringe at the base of the brain. The girl had been killed as sick dogs are suppressed with an injection of strychnine. Pre-occupied as I was with my own affairs, I could not help remarking the doctor's emotion. He was a young man, and at the time I credited him with unusual sensitiveness and sympathy: but when I learned that his name was Doran I was less sure that he deserved credit. Poetic justice had gone out of its way to avenge Anne Garth by ordering this coincidence.
I told what I knew of the girl, beginning with the day I saw her leave Sing Sing prison with the directress of the Grey Sisterhood, and going on to the episode of the note dropped, weighted with a rose. I had reason to emphasise Anne Garth's connection with the Sisterhood, hoping to fasten suspicion upon it, and secure aid more powerful than mine—that of the police—for Maida. I described the tall Harlequin who had passed me in the corridor as I hurried toward Box 18, and urged my theory that the murderer of Anne Garth had worn this disguise under his chain armour. With the help of a confederate (the Columbine) waiting in an adjoining box, he could have made the change, and so escaped without drawing attention. I did not hesitate to suggest, also, that the man was Doctor Rameses, the hypnotist: but the police of New York had come to consider me mad on the subject of Rameses and the Grey Sisterhood. I was assured that enquiries would be made: and they were made. It was ascertained that Doctor Rameses had accepted Mrs. Gorst's invitation, but at the last moment had telegraphed that an attack of "grippe" had laid him low. Another alibi as usual! It was proved (to the satisfaction of the police) that he had not left his house that night. The disjointed diary of Anne Garth contained no names, and was not even an accusation, still less a proof of evil intent on the part of any member of the Grey Sisterhood.