The Corner House

by Fred M. White

"I put that out of my mind because, as I told you before, the main scheme of the tragedy was taken from my skeleton plot. In that plot the cause of all the mischief goes back to hide in the very spot where the mischief was done. Now, in the course of my diplomacy I had to let the Countess know I had discovered that somebody had used my brain for inspiration. Under the circumstances she might not have carried the thing to the end."

"An additional proof of her clever and wonderfully logical mind," said Hetty.

"On the whole you are doing her no more than justice," said Lawrence. "Still, we do know where she is now, and I am going to see her. If she falls into the hands of Prout now, we shall never get her to speak, and therefore we shall have no end of trouble to clear Bruce's name as it should be cleared. I'll just run round and get Charlton to accompany me. And then for a thrilling interview."

Charlton complied without enthusiasm. In a few days he was going to have everything in the Corner House sold, and subsequently dispose of the property altogether. It was a little after four o'clock that he put his key in the latch, and the two entered. A casual glance did not disclose any marks of occupation, but there were traces of food in the kitchen and some utensils had evidently been used.

"Look at the bottom of those saucepans," said Lawrence. "See how they are smoked; at the same time there is no soot on them. Our quarry has not dared to light a fire by reason of the smoke. It is quite plain that Hetty was not mistaken when she said she saw a hand holding a kettle over the gas. And, by Jove, this kettle is warm still!"

For a long time a search of the house disclosed nothing. Up and down they looked, but no trace of Leona Lalage could be found. Under the tiles of the roof was a small closet, and in a vague kind of way Lawrence poked his stick in there. Something soft yielded to his touch.

"Will you kindly step out?" he suggested politely.

A dirty, grimy figure emerged, as unlike the dashing, brilliant Countess Lalage as could be well imagined. Her face was white and drawn, but nothing could dim the fire and flash of those wonderful dark eyes.

Ill and worn as she was she carried herself upright as if her black dress had been a Paris gown. There was a bitter little smile on her face. She was going to make the best fight she could under the circumstances, but she was beaten. She had come to the end of her resources, and nobody knew it better than herself.

"I expected this," she said. "I knew that it must come sooner or later. I am sorry that I cannot receive you in better fashion. Well, you have hunted me down. What do you propose to do now?"