“The simple facts are plainly seen,” was the reply. “Some one standing in front of Mr. Stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed him with the etching needle. The instrument penetrated his flesh, just above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular vein and causing almost instant death.”
“Could it not have been a suicide?”
“Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not have managed that thrust, and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But the Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corroborate my statement. It is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself, no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim.”
“But, if I may ask, sir,” said Miller, respectfully, “how could a murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? While Mr. Stannard could have stabbed himself in the dark.”
“Those points are outside my jurisdiction,” returned the Doctor, looking grave. “The Coroner and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give the answers to your perfectly logical queries.”
And then the men from Police Headquarters arrived.
II
Where They Stood
The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner’s Folly, of all places in the world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard’s position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.
But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always introduced the girl as her friend.
The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs. Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.