“What was it that lay on the floor, Mrs. Drukker?”
With difficulty the woman rose and, bracing herself for a moment at the foot of the bed, went to the dressing-table. Pulling out a small drawer she reached inside and fumbled among its contents. Then she extended her open hand to us. On the palm lay a small chessman—ebony black against the whiteness of her skin. It was the bishop!
CHAPTER XIII.
In the Bishop’s Shadow
(Tuesday, April 12; 11 a. m.)
Vance took the bishop from Mrs. Drukker and slipped it into his coat pocket.
“It would be dangerous, madam,” he said, with impressive solemnity, “if what happened here last night became known. Should the person who played this joke on you find out that you had informed the police, other attempts to frighten you might be made. Therefore, not one word of what you have told us must pass your lips.”
“May I not even tell Adolph?” the woman asked distractedly.
“No one! You must maintain a complete silence, even in the presence of your son.”
I could not understand Vance’s emphasis on this point; but before many days had passed it was all too clear to me. The reason for his advice was revealed with tragic force; and I realized that even at the time of Mrs. Drukker’s disclosure his penetrating mind had worked out an uncannily accurate ratiocination, and foreseen certain possibilities unsuspected by the rest of us.
We took our leave a few moments later, and descended the rear stairs. The staircase made a sharp turn to the right at a landing eight or ten steps below the second floor, and led into a small dark passageway with two doors—one on the left, opening into the kitchen, and another, diagonally opposite, giving on the screen porch.