The Crooked Cross

by

Charles J. Dutton

Contents

To my wife

Laura

who gave me the idea which

underlies this plot

Chapter I.
An Invitation to Dinner

As a rule the first of June always found Bartley out of the city. With the coming of the first days of spring, he would begin to grow restless. One would find upon the large rosewood desk in his library various fishing flies, and maps showing far-off lakes and streams. For a while he would even drop his books and pamphlets which told of the 18th century of France, and pore over various guides of the woods and mountains; and then when June arrived, we would take the big car and go wandering forth in search of rest.

But the first of June had come and gone, and it was now the middle of the month. What was worse, there did not seem to be the slightest chance that we could get away for many weeks to come. Down in the Court House a sensational murder trial was slowly dragging itself out to a conclusion—a conclusion not yet in sight. It was this trial which was keeping us in the city, for Bartley's testimony was the hope upon which the defense leaned for an acquittal.

The stay in the city might have been endured if it had not been for the weather. For over a week we had sweltered under the warmest heat spell of many a year. Each morning I rose with but one thought in my mind—that there would be a breeze. But every day the thermometer went a few degrees higher than the day before—while each evening the list of those overcome by the heat grew larger. Bartley, far more of a philosopher than myself, at my constant complaint that it was warm, suggested that I follow the example of Trouble, our Airedale, who retired each morning to the cellar to spend the day.

One evening toward the end of the third week in June I entered Bartley's house in Gramercy Square long after our usual dinner hour. Going to the dining room, I found that Bartley had eaten several hours before. Rance, our old colored man, served me with the air of one who felt insulted over the fact my delay had caused his well-cooked dinner to grow cold. It was not until I was drinking my coffee that he unbent so far as to inform me that Bartley wished to see me in the library.

Bartley's library had once been called the most distinctive room in the city. When he had remodeled the house, he had torn away all the partitions to make one huge room. It ran across the entire front of the house, and had one of the largest fireplaces I have ever seen. The walls were covered with French prints—not copies, but the rare originals of the eighteenth century. Boucher, Fragonard, and their contemporaries covered three of the walls, while the fourth was left for the Belgian—Rops—whose devilish suggestiveness leered at one in over sixty etchings.

Below the etchings ran the bookcases, filled with the books which Bartley loved; not ordinary books, but the rare things upon crime and science, philosophy and psychology—the cream of a lifetime of collecting. And then came the long rows of thin volumes, with their dark red covers—the most extensive collection in the country, of the rare pamphlets and memoirs of the years before the French Revolution.

Bartley was seated by his large rosewood desk, whose surface was covered with books and papers. He even looked cool in his white silk suit, and he smiled when I mentioned the heat. With that he went back to the book he was reading, while I picked up the evening paper and went over to an easy chair. There was nothing of importance in the paper, though the murder trial filled many columns—columns of the usual sob stuff, but with little information. In disgust, I threw the paper aside just as Bartley spoke.

“Pelt,” he said, “I received a letter this morning from Carter. He is very eager to have us come up and visit him.”

I was rather surprised at this, for I had thought Carter was on the other side of the water. Seeing my astonishment, Bartley continued:

“George writes me that his chief has given him the summer to rest in. He is at the old home, and wants us to spend part of the summer with him.”

Carter's father had made a fortune out of some so-called cure for rheumatism. It is much to be doubted if it ever cured any one, but it did result in George receiving a large sum of money when his father died. But money meant little to Carter, while adventure promised a great deal more. In some manner, Carter got into the Secret Service, where he surprised those who looked upon him as being only a rich man's son, by becoming the best man his chief had. Though there was at least fifteen years of difference in their ages, Bartley and he were the warmest of friends. I was thinking of this as Bartley's voice interrupted my thoughts.

“I have been thinking, Pelt, that there is not the slightest reason in the world for your staying in the city. I can not get away until after I have testified in the trial; and the way it looks now, only the Lord Himself knows when that will be. But it is absurd for you to stay in the city while it is so warm. Why don't you take the small car and the dog and go to Carter's? I will come as soon as I can.”

Carter's home was in what has often been called the most beautiful village in the state of New York. It lay under the shadow of a range of hills, with a lake at the front door. And the lawn of Carter's house fronted the lake. But though the suggestion appealed to me, still I did not like the idea of leaving Bartley alone in the city; I said as much, only to have him retort:

“That's foolish, Pelt. Your hanging around here can do no good. And there is another reason why I want you to go up. Carter writes me that James Ranville is his guest; and I want you to meet him.”

Seeing my blank look, he enlightened me. Ranville, it seemed, was an inspector from Scotland Yard who was visiting in America. During the war he and Carter had worked together on several cases, and he had crossed the ocean to visit his friend. Bartley informed me that Ranville was one of the best men Scotland Yard had, and urged strongly that I follow his suggestion and run up to Carter's. And so, though I protested rather keenly that I did not wish to run away, at last I agreed to go the next morning; and when I said this, he returned to his book.

Four o'clock the next afternoon found me driving down the wide, tree-lined street of Carter's town. It had been an easy drive across the central part of the state, though Trouble, the Airedale, protested several times that he thought we had driven far enough. The last seventy-five miles—miles which led through peaceful valleys and along the side of shady mountains—had passed quickly. Though it was warm, yet from the hills had come a slight breeze, and the air was heavy with the scent of the fields and woods.

As I drove slowly down the main street, I could see that the village was a wealthy one, and quite a summer place. White, colonial houses in the midst of wide lawns were set far back from the street. The streets were lined with huge elm trees, whose branches met in a green arch above my head. The cars that I passed were expensive ones, and the few people I saw looked as though they not only had plenty of leisure, but all the money they could use.

Carter's place was down by the lake, and the directions which Bartley had given me were so complete that I had no trouble in finding it. A green hedge hid the lawn from the street, and large trees shaded the house—a house whose red-shingled top I could see ahead of me. I turned in the drive which ran between two rows of roses—roses red as flame in the summer sun—and stopped the car in front of the house. It fronted a lawn which ended at the lake. As the car stopped, a man ran down the steps to greet me; it was Carter.

Any one who saw him would have decided that he had never done a stroke of work in his life. His silk suit was of wonderful texture. The fit was that which only the most expensive tailor can give, and the tie which floated in the breeze was very far from being sedate. His whole appearance was that of a young man who found life very good, and the task of spending his money rather easy. The blond hair was closely cut, and the little mustache gave him rather an affected look. No one seeing Carter for the first time would have guessed his reputation in the Secret Service.

He greeted me with evident pleasure and then asked in surprise where Bartley might be, expressing his regrets when I told him why I had come alone. Then, telling me to leave my things in the car and that his man would take them to my room, he whistled to the dog and we went to the veranda. It ran across the front of the house—a veranda with easy chairs and bright porch hammocks. Here he proposed that I rest until he had brought me out a drink, and with that he went into the house.

For a while I studied the view before me. A few yards away the green grass of the lawn ended at the waters of the lake. It was not a small lake, and I judged it must be several miles to the other shore. Far away I could see the mountains, their summits dark and cool against the blue sky. Under the slight breeze the waters of the lake lapped the shore with a gentle murmur, and the sound of the exhaust of a motor boat came faintly to my ears. Not only was it beautiful but also restful, and I gave a contended grin as I thought of the hot city I had left.

Carter returned in a few moments with a tray—a tray which had three tall glasses in which ice tinkled with a pleasing sound. He was not alone, for with him was a tall man whom I judged must have been around forty-five—a man who carried himself with an air of distinction, and whose hair had begun to turn white. When they reached my side, Carter introduced him as his friend Ranville, the inspector from Scotland Yard.

Ranville was not the usual blond Saxon, nor for that matter did his speech have much of an English accent. A glance at his well-knit frame and his brick-red face told that he spent much of his time in the open air. He took my hand with a firm clasp and expressed his regrets that Bartley had been unable to come with me. There was something very likable about the man, and there were the little lines around his lips which showed that he had a sense of humor.

Sinking into our chairs, we slowly sipped our highballs, talking of this and that. The dog, glad at his release from the car, wandered about the yard, only to plunge at last into the waters of the lake. Then, as there came a long silence, Carter said:

“I will take you up to your room, Pelt. We are going out to dinner to-night. That is one reason I am sorry Bartley is not here.”

I turned an inquiring glance in his direction, and he gave a grin as he replied:

“You are going to meet a real highbrow for once, Pelt. We dine with Professor Henry Warren. You know this town is his birthplace.”

Though like every person who had read the newspapers during the last few months I knew of Henry Warren, I was rather surprised to hear we were to dine with him. Warren had just returned to America after a two years' absence in China. For many weeks before his return the papers had been asking if he were still alive. For months nothing had been heard from his expedition, and his sudden arrival in Hong Kong, after it had been announced that he had been killed by outlaws, had created some excitement.

But it was something else which had caused the name of Warren to go upon the front pages of every newspaper in the world. Not only was he one of the greatest scientists in America, but he was considered our leading authority upon evolution and the origin of man. The world had been startled by a statement he made upon his arrival in Hong Kong: That he had made discoveries which settled for all time the question of the origin of man; but what these discoveries were no one knew, for the scientist had refused to give even a hint. Instead he had simply announced that he would say nothing more until he had time to complete the manuscript of his book.

Carter must have been thinking the same thing that I had been running over in my mind, for there came his laughing voice:

“They say he discovered the missing link or something of that kind.”

“They made a big fuss over the cable reports of his discovery in our London papers,” was Ranville's comment. “What sort of a chap is he?”

Carter lighted a cigarette and laughed as he answered.

“Well, to start with, Warren is not at all the usual college professor. He has all kinds of money, and his teaching at Harvard is simply a hobby. Most of his time he spends in exploration in various parts of the world. He has been everywhere. But this place happens to be his old home, and he has a big summer estate here. Just now he is writing his book upon whatever it was he found in China.”

“They tell me that he has a rather touchy disposition,” was my retort.

“Well,” drawled Carter, “I doubt if Warren knows what the word ‘fear’ means. And all his life he has had his own way. He doesn't like many people, saying that they bore him because they know nothing. He can overlook anything but ignorance and stupidity. But it's my idea that when you meet him to-night, you will like him.”

With that he gave a glance at his watch and, rising, said that it was time to dress for dinner. Showing me to my room, he told me we would not have to wear our evening clothes, and asked that I be ready in thirty minutes. As he left the room, I went to the windows and glanced without. At my feet lay the lake, and for a moment I watched the sun as it played upon the distant hills. Then my eyes fell upon the Airedale, asleep under a tree by the water's edge.

When I went downstairs after my bath, I had to wait a few moments for Carter and his friend. Going out into the yard, I placed the car in the garage, and though the dog protested a little, left him with the machine. Starting to stroll rather aimlessly around the grounds, which covered several acres, I was hailed in the end by Carter, who wanted to know where I had been hiding.

As we left the yard, he informed us that we would walk to Warren's, which he said was only a little more than a mile away. We went down the wide street—a street with large summer homes. Homes, set in the midst of great lawns, which were hidden from our sight by the tall hedges which enclosed the grounds. Not only did the street speak of wealth, but also of age, for most of the homes were the large colonial homes of a remote day. Far in the distance I could see the white steeples of the churches which peered above the tall elms.

A few moments later we followed a winding road which ran along the bank of the lake. Here the lawns had given place to extensive summer estates, and the houses were set far back from the road. The road ended before a stone wall—a wall at least ten feet high, which Carter told us surrounded Warren's estate. We passed through the iron gate to go up a driveway. A driveway lined on each side by a high box hedge, and which ended some yards away at a rambling white house. At the door of the house we waited for some one to answer the bell.

For some reason we had a long wait, and Carter had to ring the bell several times before the door was opened. When it was thrown aside, a woman, whom I judged must be the housekeeper, looked at us in a questioning manner. Carter mentioned that we were invited to dinner, and then, after remarking that she knew this, she rather nervously opened the door wider and asked us to come in. Taking us down a long hall, she showed us into the living room and left.

It was an enormous room. The floor was covered with valuable rugs. Etchings and pictures, which Warren had picked up in all parts of the world, were on the walls. Cabinets which were filled with priceless china, and curios of all sorts were on every side of us. It was an odd sort of a room, partly because of the great confusion it was in. It almost looked as if the explorer had simply thrown into the one room all the things which he had picked up in his travels.

But it was an interesting room because of the things it contained. Ranville smiled a happy little smile as he went from one article to another. The various curios so interested us that we forgot the passing of time and almost an hour passed before it dawned upon us that we had been alone in the room a long time. Then all at once Carter gave a glance at his watch and uttered a low exclamation of surprise.

“Do you know what time it is?” he asked.

Without waiting for a reply he went on: “It's now eight o'clock, and Warren said the dinner was to be at seven. It's odd he has kept us waiting as long as this.”

There was nothing we could say, and no one spoke. Again we turned to the curios in the cabinets, but as the moments passed and there was no sign of either our host or his housekeeper, we began to look at one another. It seemed very strange to be invited to dinner and not have our host welcome us. And we had seen no signs of him. There was not a sound in the house, and if it had not been that the housekeeper had let us in, we might have thought we were alone. And then, just as we began to wonder what we had better do, the housekeeper came into the room.

It needed but a glance at her flushed face to tell that not only was she nervous, but also rather perplexed. She was a rather large woman with a determined face—a face which now looked very troubled. She must have known Carter, for she came across the room to his side and said:

“Mr. Carter, my dinner has been waiting since seven o'clock. But Mr. Warren is not in the house.”

He made the usual reply that one would make at such a remark, only to have the woman say:

“He cannot have been delayed, for I know where he is.”

I saw a keen look come into Ranville's eyes as he turned to look at the woman. She stood before us twisting the corner of her apron with nervous fingers. But it was Carter who asked:

“You know where he is?”

The housekeeper hesitated for a second, then replied:

“Yes. He is in his library. You know, Mr. Carter, that his study and library is in that stone building on the hill. He spends his afternoons there writing on his new book. I know he went there this afternoon. And—” the voice trailed off into silence.

“And what?” came Ranville's low voice.

The woman raised her head and her eyes swept over the three of us. There was not only a look of anxiety in them but, I thought, also a trace of fear. But why there should be the last I failed to understand. But fear there was. She started to speak, hesitated a second, as if she did not wish to put into words what was in her mind, and then suddenly said in a voice which shook a little:

“Only—I don't know what to say. I have called up his library a dozen times, and he does not answer. I went down to the building and called his name, but no answer. Then I tried the door, and it was locked—and he never locks the door when he is working. Then I pounded on the door, but still no one said anything in reply. And—” Once again came silence, and the look of fear crept again across her face. She gave us one bewildered appealing look and wailed:

“He ought to be in his library. I know he was there, but he won't answer the phone, and he did not come to the door. And when I knocked I thought—” For a moment she paused again.

For some reason none of us spoke. Our eyes were upon the frightened face of the woman, whose nervous fingers were never still. And then all at once she lifted her head and completed the sentence.

“And when I knocked at the door, I thought I heard something move inside the library.”

Chapter II.
The Crooked Cross

There fell a silence for a moment—a silence in which the housekeeper moved nervously over to a near-by chair. Carter's air of boredom had vanished, and a quick look passed between his English friend and himself; a glance which held until the English police officer slowly nodded his head. Then came Carter's cool voice, with the suggestion that we might go to the summer house and see if Warren was there.

Carter must have known the way, for as we came out of the house to the lawn, he turned to follow a graveled path which led away to the right. It ran between two high box hedges, so high that we could not see over them. Then it passed through an old-fashioned garden, only in the end to run in a winding fashion up a small hill—a hill covered with many trees, and which had upon it a stone building.

When the housekeeper had spoken of the summer house, I had pictured the usual small wooden building; but the place we were approaching was not of wood, nor for that matter was it small. Instead of being what I had expected, it was one of those curious eight-sided buildings which you find once in a while in central New York. And it was the size of the usual small house.

It stood upon the very top of the hill, with a small but very well kept lawn before it. Ivy climbed over its sides, and a small piazza was directly in front of us. When we went upon the veranda, I saw that it gave the best view that I had seen during the day. The lake lay only a few hundred feet away, seemingly at our very feet. Far away the mountains faded away in the growing darkness; but we gave but a glance at the view, turning to the door before us.

It had been a rather warm day, and for that matter it was still warm; but the great oak door in front of us was closed, and the near-by window, which was set very high, was closed also. There was no bell, though upon the door was the most curious knocker that I had ever seen. I raised the copper devil's head which formed the knocker and let it fall. Then we waited for some one to respond.

We knocked again and again, and even shouted. But no reply came from within. Without a word Carter made a gesture, and we followed him around the eight sides of the building. On each side was a large window, but placed about eight feet above the ground; windows with small panes of leaded glass, so high that one could not look within; and windows which were shut. In the rear we found another door, also locked, and though we knocked upon it, it was of no avail.

Back again at the veranda, we stood a moment in thought. After all, there did not seem to be anything else we could do. That Warren was not in his library was, of course, the only logical thing to believe. If he had been, he would not have had the doors and the windows locked upon such a warm evening. The odd thing was that we should be invited to dinner and no host appeared to receive us.

I suggested to Carter that we had better return to the house, and then go home. He listened a moment, gave one reflective glance at the lake, and then turned to look at the closed door before us. Then, with a slight frown on his face, he said:

“Perhaps you're right, Pelt. Yet it's very queer that Warren invited us to dinner and left us in the lurch like this. He must have gone away.”

“Carter,” came Ranville's voice, “is Warren the sort of man who would invite a guest to dinner and then run off without a word?”

His friend shook his head. “Far from it; of course, Warren does just about as he pleases. But he was very urgent about our coming. Still, he was writing his account of his discoveries in China in his library, and he might have forgotten the passing of time.”

“Maybe,” drawled Ranville, “but then when it began to grow dark he would know it was late. And besides, that building is locked. The door is closed, the windows down. He would not work in the dark without lights, and it is dark now.”

“That is all true,” was Carter's retort. “But what would you do? We cannot smash a man's door down simply because he did not turn up to meet his dinner guests. We had better go back to the house.”

But when we reached the house, it was only to find the same situation as when we left. Not only had the owner not returned, but the housekeeper, who met us at the front door, was even more excited than before. Her round face was flushed, and when she led us into the living room, her fingers shook so much that it was a second or so before she could turn on all the lights.

Carter told her that we had been to the summer house, but had seen or heard nothing of Warren. He added that the doors and windows were closed. Then he laughed and said there was no doubt Mr. Warren had been called to town, and had forgotten all about the fact we were to have been his guests. He no sooner stopped speaking, when the woman started, and there was no question that she placed very little faith in what Carter had said.

She told us that if Mr. Warren had gone to town, he would have come to the house for his coat. He worked in a light summer suit, which he never wore to town. And the coat of the suit was hanging on a rack in the hall. Not only that, he never walked if he could ride. And his two cars were in the garage. And then came the statement which surprised us. She paused for a moment, only to suddenly cry:

“I am afraid of that Chinaman.”

There came a startled look from Ranville, and he asked in a surprised voice: “What Chinaman?”

In a voice which showed all the distrust and fear that country women have of foreigners she replied:

“There was a Chinaman who came to the door before six o'clock. He asked for Mr. Warren, and I showed him how to get to the library. He wore a white suit and spoke English pretty good. But I did not like his face; and ever since he came here I have been afraid—”

She paused, her face twitching with emotion, then said:

“As Mr. Warren had not come back to the house, I went to the library just before you came. I knocked and knocked on the door. But no one answered. I had called up on the 'phone, but there was no reply. And when I knocked, or just before I knocked the first time, I thought I heard some one inside. But after I had pounded on the door there was not a sound.”

Suddenly her voice broke and, giving us an appealing look, she asked if we would not go back to the library and break open one of the windows, so we could get within. There was no doubt she was afraid something had happened to Warren. When she finished speaking, there was just one response. It came from Ranville.

“I think we better do as she says, Carter,” was all he said.

At these words the woman ran from the room, returning in a moment with two flashlights, which she gave us. She half started to follow us from the piazza, and then, as if thinking better of her resolution, stopped by the door. As we went down the steps to the ground, our last sight was the housekeeper, standing in the open door with the light from the hall streaming out into the night.

It was now dark. As we retraced our steps, the high hedges on each side of the path caused the walk to appear like a black tunnel. Above our heads we could catch a glimpse of the stars, and could hear the faint rustle of the branches of the trees. For some reason no one spoke, nor for that matter did we hurry.

Climbing the slight hill, we approached the building, which loomed a dark mass before us. On the veranda we paused for a second, and then the darkness was split by the sudden ray from Carter's flashlight. We tried the door again, but it was still locked, and there came no response to our knock. The window was six or seven feet above our heads, and to reach it some one would have to do a little climbing.

As I was the lightest, they proposed to lift me from the floor to the ledge of the window. If I found it was locked, I was to break the glass, lift the window, and climb into the room. Ranville gave me his hand, and I reached the sill. Balancing myself on the narrow ledge, I tried to peer into the room, but it was a dense black shadow of gloom. Nothing could be distinguished, and though I waited a second, the only sound to come to my ears was the wind in the branches of the near-by trees.

Trying the window, I found it locked. Then Carter reached up to me the second flashlight, and without turning it on I broke the glass with the heavy end. The glass fell with a tinkling sound to the floor, and slipping my hand through the hole, I turned the catch and lifted the window. As I did this, I dropped the flashlight, which fell with a thud within the room. Hesitating a second, I dropped into the library and fumbled on the floor for the flashlight.

I found it without any trouble and, putting on the catch, played the light hastily around the room. Just what I expected to see I cannot say; but the brief sweep which I made over the floor and the walls revealed nothing. The room evidently took in the entire house, and the walls showed only long lines of books, and a gallery which ran around the eight sides. In the center was a large desk, the surface littered with books and papers. But of Warren there was not a trace.

Turning the light to the door, I found the spring lock was on. It took but a second to fling the door open, and Carter and Ranville slipped within. The same question was on both faces, and I slowly shook my head in reply. Carter's first words were for me to find the switch for the lights. The button was near the door, and, pressing it, the room in an instant was a blaze of light.

The room was octagonal in shape, with a window placed high on each of the sides. The wall space was filled with bookcases, and there must have been many thousand volumes. A gallery at a height of around twelve feet ran completely around the room. Even this was filled with books. The furniture was simple. Near the door stood a safe, and there were a number of stands in various corners. But in the center of the room was the largest desk I had ever seen—a huge affair made out of an old-fashioned square piano—with its surface littered with books and papers. Near it stood a typewriter stand, with the machine uncovered. And then, suddenly, we saw something else—something which drove all other thoughts from our minds. Peering from behind the desk was a foot—a foot which did not move.

We must have seen it at the same moment, for Carter's hand gripped my arm, and for a second we stood silent. Then without a word slowly we went across the floor, knowing what we would find. Though we were sure what was behind the desk, yet it came as a shock. For there, lying on his back upon the floor—with both arms outstretched from the body—lay a man. A man to whom the dinner waiting in the big house would never matter; and it needed but a glance to know that death had come suddenly—and violently.

As Ranville's eyes and mine met, they framed the same question. It was Carter who spoke the two words:

“It's Warren.”

The scientist was a man of about fifty, and perhaps a little over that age. The face was self-willed, and the lines around the distorted lips were stern. Though past middle life, his hair was a dense black, without a sign of gray, and there was not a white hair in the close-cropped mustache. One could tell by his figure that he had been a man of the strongest physique. He was dressed in a light summer suit, without a coat, and upon the white shirt, just over the heart, was a crimson stain.

Carter dropped on his knees and made a hasty examination. In a second he turned and pointed with his finger at the dark stain upon the white shirt. Then as he straightened up we saw something else—something we had overlooked. It was a sheet of paper. Evidently it had fallen off the body, though perhaps it had been placed by its side. A piece of bond paper with but five letters—large letters, evidently written with a hurried hand, the beginning of an incompleted word:

—ANANI—

There had been little conversation, for we were too upset by what we had found. But the piece of paper puzzled us. That Warren had been stabbed there was no doubt; but what the paper meant we could not tell. The letters seemed to mean nothing, and we were not sure that they had anything to do with the crime. For a moment we puzzled over it, and then my eyes wandered again to the still figure upon the floor. As I glanced at it, I gave a sudden start and dropped to my knees for a closer look. And then—then, after one glance, I gave a startled cry.

For there upon the forehead of the murdered man were two faint lines—lines now swollen and red. Not very long lines, nor for that matter very noticeable, but lines which I could not understand. There upon the forehead of the famous scientist were two faint lines cut into the skin. A cross—the lines of which had just been made. Cut faintly, I judged, with a knife. A cross—the lines now red and swollen, and a crooked cross at that.

Chapter III.
The Broken Bookcase

At my cry of astonishment Carter and Ranville had turned in surprise. I simply pointed to the forehead of the murdered man, and they bent forward for a closer look. I saw a startled expression sweep over the Englishman's face, and he slowly shook his head. It was Carter who broke the silence, speaking to no one in particular.

“Do you think that was made by the murderer?”

“There is not the slightest doubt of it,” was Ranville's quick retort. “That man has not been dead over two hours, and the cut itself is not any older.”

I cast a hurried glance at the grewsome lines of the red cross and gave a little shiver as I asked:

“But what under heavens can it mean; why should there be a mutilation of that kind?”

Carter simply shook his head, and it was the Scotland Yard Inspector who replied:

“We do not know, of course. I have seen a good many murdered people in my time, but as a rule the murderer had never marked his victim. Once in a while you will run into a murder which was committed by a woman—committed in a fit of frenzy. Sometimes in such a case they mark up their victims. But of course we know nothing of this crime. What the motive was we do not know. How he was killed is rather easy to understand—a long thin knife or dagger.”

The body lay upon the floor near the desk, but about two feet behind it. The position was such that any one coming into the building by the front door would have been unable to see it. Save for the crimson spot upon the shirt and the faint cross upon the forehead, there were no signs of violence.

But the position in which the body lay was rather odd. The man lay flat upon his back, the staring eyes fixed upon the ceiling. But both arms were outstretched as far as they could reach. It was this that puzzled me. I knew it was impossible that the man could have fallen in the position in which he was. Some one must have arranged the body after the crime—but why?

Behind the desk was the chair in which the scientist must have sat while at work. Near it, on the left, was another chair, back of the typewriting stand. And on the other side of the desk, very close to it, was a third chair. The surface of the desk was covered with papers and pamphlets. A small heap of manuscript was piled in an orderly manner in the very center. But of any weapon there was not a sign.

I was just starting to comment upon this when I observed that Ranville was carefully studying the position of the chairs. In a moment he went around the desk, studying the place where a chair stood. Then he turned to us.

“I have an idea I can reconstruct the murder. See the three chairs? There is no trouble about the two on your side of the desk; one was where Warren sat when at work, the other was for his secretary. But this chair on my side of the desk tells us a good deal.”

I cast an inquiring gaze at the chair, a tall antique piece of furniture, while Ranville continued:

“In a room as large as this you will not as a rule find a chair pulled up to a desk, across from which a man is working. But if some one comes in, the natural thing is to bring a chair near the desk, to be as close to the man you are talking to as you can. Now there are other chairs in the room across the desk from where Warren sat; but they are all rather far away. All but that one, and I am pretty sure the murderer sat there.”

When he mentioned it, I noticed for the first time that there were a number of other chairs across from us. Some were near the wall, and one in front of the safe; but the chair he was speaking of stood but two feet from the desk. Seeing we did not speak, he went on:

“What happened, I think, was this. The murderer sat in this chair talking to Warren. I have an idea it was some one he knew. Though I do not know his habits, yet I doubt if Warren would spend much time while at work with any one he did not know. The papers said he was rushing his book. Maybe there were some words passed, maybe not. But then, suddenly, Warren was killed.”

“Why suddenly?” came Carter's dry question.

“Warren seems to have been a man of strong physical development. There is no evidence of any struggle. In a fight I judge he could have held his own with any one. So if there was no struggle, it follows he was killed suddenly. I judge whoever sat in that chair must have risen—perhaps said he was going—strolled to Warren's side and suddenly stabbed him.”

I again turned my eyes to the figure upon the floor, and again the outstretched arms puzzled me.

“But he never fell to the floor in that position,” I said.

“He never did,” was the reply. “The body was arranged in that position, and the cut on his forehead was made after he was dead.”

“But why?” asked Carter.

“God knows!” was the retort. “But then, Carter, this is not our show anyway.”

Carter gave a sudden start, saying slowly: “You are right. I will call up our chief of police. He will get a mighty big shock, for there has not been a murder in this town in years. And then”—he paused—“then I'd better call the housekeeper and break the news to her.”

There was a telephone in the building near the door. After several attempts Carter got the housekeeper and told her that she had better come to the summer house. Then he held a short conversation with the police station, after which he returned to our side.

“While we are waiting for the police, we had better look this place over,” he said.

As I have mentioned, the building was an odd one with eight sides and only one story. There was a window at each side, placed rather high, and the space between the windows was filled with bookcases. All these cases had glass doors, some of which were open, while others we found locked. The books in the cases were mostly upon science and anthropology—the library of a professional scientist. It was not until we reached the further side of the room that we found anything out of the way. But there we found one of the bookcases with the glass in the locked door smashed into hundreds of pieces—pieces which lay upon the rug at our feet.

Behind the broken glass were seven book shelves with books packed tightly together. They were mostly bound in a uniform red morocco, small volumes, not very thick nor very tall. Only in the third shelf was there a gap, and there several books seemed to be missing.

And the books themselves turned out to be a rather curious collection, yet when one remembered Warren's profession, perhaps they were not so out of place as I first thought. The word “erotic” describes them best, though several went beyond that. Why a scientist should wish to have upon his shelf “The Perfumed Garden,” “The Ananga Ranga,” “Aretino” and others one could understand. But there were certain other things in the case which seemed out of place.

Side by side with the classics of the underworld of literature stood the witty and immoral romances of the eighteenth century of France. But there were a few modern books, decidedly pornographic in type, which flanked the more classical ones. An odd collection at the best, worth a good deal of money, it is true. But the oddest thing to explain was why some one had broken the glass to get at the contents of the case.

The Englishman gave a low whistle, and I saw his eyebrows raise. Reaching in his hand, it came forth with a volume. It stood on the shelf which had the empty space, the one where, if the broken gap told the truth, several books were missing. He turned the leaves slowly, shrugged his shoulders at several of the engravings, and then without a word handed the book to me. It was the first volume of De Sade's “Justine,” the first edition with the illustrations. I remembered once hearing Bartley say that it was the worst book ever written and very difficult to secure. In turn, without speaking, I handed the thin volume to Carter just as Ranville expressed what was in his mind.

“That's not only a pretty rare book, but it is also a rather rotten one. It looks very much as if some one smashed the glass in this case to get at the books. What they took I cannot tell, though it might be the other volumes of that ‘Justine.’ I cannot understand why any murderer should want the books. Besides, it's the French edition, and not every chap reads French, you know.”

We agreed to this, and placed the book back in the case. Then climbing a narrow winding stairs, we went up to the gallery. It ran around the entire length of the room—a narrow gallery, built evidently to give more space for books. The walls were lined with books, thousands of them, of every kind. But there were no doors or glass before the cases in the gallery.

Nothing had been disturbed so far as we could see. I glanced over the rail to the floor below, giving a shudder as my eyes fell upon the still figure by the desk—the figure with the outstretched arms.

Leaving the gallery, we tried the rear door, finding as we expected that it was locked. As both doors had a spring lock, it would have been only necessary for the murderer to close them when he went out. But why the windows were down, and also locked, puzzled us. It had been a warm day, and it hardly seemed possible that Warren had worked in a room without any fresh air. We were commenting on this when there came a voice from the front door, and two men stepped into the room.

One was a very short man with a vivid red face, and I could tell by his blue uniform that it was the chief of police. He was very warm, as if he had been hurrying, and there was a questioning look in the glance he gave us. He had a rather kindly face, though it was not an over-intelligent one, and I decided that he did not fancy the task before him. The young man with him he introduced as the coroner, a young man named Hasty.

The chief held a short conversation with Carter and then went over to the desk. He came to a sudden halt by the body, and I saw the look of dismay which swept over his face. Even the doctor seemed shocked, but went about his examination at once. When he had finished, he rose to answer the eager questions of the chief.

He informed us the man had been dead several hours, and that he had been stabbed. The blow had evidently reached the heart, and the scientist must have died at once. The faint cross on the forehead he could not explain, but he agreed that it had been made after death.

“But,” came the heavy voice of the chief, “why should any one wish to kill Warren? There are very few people in the town that know him. Though this is his birthplace, he has been away so long that he has hardly any friends here. He never cared to bother much with people.”

He paused to throw a curious look around the room.

“If he was stabbed, where is the weapon?”

We assured him that we had seen no signs of a weapon, though we had looked the building over. Carter said he agreed with the chief regarding Warren's acquaintance in the town. There was no doubt he was their most distinguished citizen, but he had been away so many years that few knew him. But why he had been murdered, or by whom, there was not the slightest kind of a clew.

The police chief listened, his face growing very long as Carter went on. Like most police chiefs in small places, his work was the usual small town routine. Confronted with a murder, and one as mysterious as now before him, he did not know what to do. And as he gave a glance at the body on the floor, I knew that he was much perplexed.

As Carter and the chief started a low conversation, Ranville and I went to the desk. No one had looked at the papers on its surface, and as we started to glance through them, we found just about what we had expected. The greater part of them were notes, and as I read a sentence or two, I could see that they dealt with Warren's two years' stay in the heart of China. Many of them had crude drawings of bones and fossils. But the handwriting was rather bad, and I did not bother to read more than a few lines.

There were a number of books upon the desk, but they were mostly scientific works of reference. One red-covered volume turned out to be a popular mystery story, and beside it stood one of the adventure story magazines. A number of typewritten sheets, evidently corrected work of his secretary were near the edge of the desk, the pages filled with corrections in red ink. But there was nothing of importance, only the natural data of a scientist who was writing an account of his last expedition.

Just as I was about to turn away from the desk, my eyes fell upon a piece of paper which was peering out from under the typewritten manuscript. I pulled it forth to see what it might be. It was part of a typewritten letter dated the day before, but with no address or signature. There could not have been a signature, for the lower half of the letter was missing. The sheet was torn across as if some one had wished to destroy the signature. It read:

“Tuesday.

“Mr. Henry Warren,

“My dear Professor,

“I will call upon you to-morrow around five o'clock. I feel sure you can spare me a few moments. If I can only make you see how great a thing you can do for humanity, I am sure you will take my viewpoint. The consequences of the step you are taking are so momentous that unless—”

And there the letter ended, for the rest of the sheet had been torn off.

It was a curious sort of a letter, and seemed to contain a warning of some sort. It was written upon a typewriter whose ribbon was far from clean. Not only did it contain a warning, but it seemed to me there was a threat in the words. But more important than anything else was the statement that the writer would call upon Warren. As it had been written the day before, Warren must have seen the person only an hour before he died.

Without a word I handed the letter to Ranville and watched his face as he read. When he came to the end, I saw his eyebrows raise a little, and he turned to me.

“This looks important, Pelt. Any signs of the missing portion of the sheet?”

I shook my head, and we both turned to the desk. We went through every paper, lifting them from each other, and even turning the pages of the books. But we found nothing. Then we turned our attention to the wastebasket, turning the contents upon a small rug. But the basket contained only the discarded notes which had been thrown aside and a few matches. The missing half of the letter we did not find.

As we paused, I noticed that the chief and Carter were before the bookcase—the bookcase with the broken glass. Ranville placed the letter in his pocket and said: “What do you make of it?”

I told him what I thought, that it contained both a warning and a threat, and then said that it looked as if the missing part had been taken in order to destroy the signature.

“True enough,” came the drawling answer. “But why did they not take the entire letter? Why destroy half of it and leave the other? If the whole note had been taken we would never have known anything about it. To take but half seems a very illogical thing to do.”

Hearing our voices, Carter and the chief came to the desk and asked what we had found. Ranville handed him the letter, and after they had both looked at it the chief held it a long while in his hand. His face was a study, and he slowly shook his head. He might have spoken if Carter had not said:

“The chief agrees with me that the murder of Professor Warren is going to make a great deal of comment. He will have the inquest to-morrow, and hopes before then to have something to go on. As it stands now all we know is that Warren was murdered, but nothing else. The—”

There came a commotion at the door, and we turned, only to see the housekeeper rush into the building. Her face was red as if she had been running, but why she had taken so long to come to the library after Carter called up I could not tell. For a second she leaned against the door as if out of breath, and then gave a quick glance around the room. In her eyes was terror, and the glance at length rested upon Carter. With one step in his direction, she gasped in a trembling voice so low that we could barely hear her:

“Mr. Warren—is—is he dead?”

Carter nodded, and again the woman's eyes swept the room. This time they went slowly as if seeking for something, and as if afraid of what she might find. Suddenly she stiffened into attention as her glance fell upon the foot of the dead man, which could be seen around the desk. Then slowly, a step at a time, she crossed the floor to a place beyond the desk. There she stood, silently looking down at the still figure of her employer. The red had faded from her cheeks, and her face was a dull white. Slowly she turned, her eyes asking the question before her lips spoke:

“Was he murdered?” came the quivering voice.

“Yes,” some one said.

For a moment she did not speak. Again her eyes came back to the silent figure. For an instant as her lips moved I thought she would speak, but she gave a shudder and shut them tightly. But the flush had come back to her face, and when she turned toward us, I could see the veins in her forehead throb. And then suddenly, in a shrill voice which rang through the room, she shrieked: “I knew it, I knew it. It's that secretary. I knew that girl would—”

But the sentence was not completed. As the shrill voice rose higher and higher, her hands began to beat the air; the voice died away in her throat as if suddenly cut off. Then with a little gasp she staggered a second and fell fainting to the floor.

Chapter IV.
We Discuss the Crime

So unexpected was the woman's action that for a second none of us stirred. It was the doctor who reached her first. The eyes opened with a little flutter, and the color came flooding back into her cheeks. As he placed her in a chair, her hands went out in a confused, questioning gesture, as if seeking aid. Then when she realized what had happened, she cast one horrified look in the direction of the body.

When she was feeling more composed, the chief tried to question her. But she refused to say a word. Before she fainted, in a voice which rang with conviction, she had practically accused the secretary of the murder. Now in a listless tone she refused to say a word, shutting her thin lips in a determined manner. At last, seeing that she did not care to speak, and in fact would not, the chief suggested that the coroner assist her back to the house.

When they had left, he turned with an astonished air to Carter.

“What in the devil did she mean by that crack about the secretary?”

“I don't know,” was his reply. “She seemed to be a bit angry. Who is the secretary anyway?”

“Why it's the former stenographer of Judge Williams. She is as good looking a girl as you will find in many a day. But that housekeeper is crazy if she thinks that girl killed Warren.”

“Well,” came the drawling voice of Ranville, “I know nothing about the girl you speak of; but if I were you, I would look her up.”

A few moments later, concluding that we could do no good if we remained, we left. It was growing late, and the police had much work to do. Besides we were beginning to feel the need of the dinner we had not eaten. We told the chief all we knew, showed him the broken glass in the bookcase, and mentioned what the housekeeper had said regarding the visit of a Chinaman. Last of all we pointed out the faint cross on Warren's forehead. This seemed to impress him more than anything else, and I saw his eyes grow big. Then with Carter's remark, that we would aid him in any manner he wished, we said “good night” and went out.

The stars were bright above our heads, but it was dark at that. The path between the hedges was a dense black line, and the trees loomed in a somber manner above us. Reaching the lawn before the house, we saw that the building was a blaze of lights, though we glimpsed no one. We did not turn to the house, but instead passed through the iron gateway and out to the road.

No one spoke, and I judged that none of us felt like speaking. As we went along, I thought of the famous scientist, who only a few short weeks before had been hailed in every paper of the world. There had been many wild guesses made as to what he found, more so after he had said that the question of man's origin was forever settled. What he had found no one knew, and he refused to say, simply stating that it would all come out in his book. And then the whole controversy burst into flame.

This was caused by the theological argument which was raging over evolution. The controversy had increased after Warren's statement. Back and forth flew the arguments. The scientists contented themselves by saying that every intelligent person believed in evolution, and that if Warren said he had found the final proof that settled it. His reputation and word was enough for the men of science. On the other hand, theologians and demagogues who knew nothing about science cried long and loud that Warren could not have found any proofs of evolution, for, as they said, evolution was not a fact.

In all this controversy—one which filled many pages of the papers—Warren bore no part. As soon as he arrived in America, he had gone directly to his home and made the announcement that he would have his manuscript ready as soon as possible. Only one statement he gave the papers—it was to repeat what he had said before: that he had found the final proofs. The proofs which settled for all time the question of man's origin. After that he was silent. And now he was murdered, and I pictured the papers when they heard of his death.

And then I began to wonder why he should have been killed. A man of his decided personality must, of course, have made enemies. I puzzled over the man from China, who the housekeeper said had come to the house. I played with this thought for a while, only to decide that perhaps it was better to stop wondering about the case until I had more facts to puzzle over. And by the time we came in sight of Carter's home the only thing I was thinking about was something to eat.

The tall grandfather's clock was striking eleven as we entered the living room. With the remark that we must be hungry, Carter went out into the kitchen saying he would see if the cook had left anything in the ice box. Ranville and myself dropped into the nearest chairs. I was too tired to talk, and the experiences of the last few hours had not been pleasant. But to look at the Scotland Yard Inspector one would never have guessed that anything had taken place. The fine face of the Englishman was as peaceful and contented as if he had just returned from a wedding—instead of a murder. He lay back in his chair, his eyes half closed, watching the curling smoke of his cigarette.

Carter's voice hailed us from the kitchen, and we rose and joined him. Upon the white enameled table was a cold chicken, three bottles of ale, and some rye bread. We pulled our chairs to the table and set to work. When the chicken had become but a memory, Carter rummaged in the ice box and found a pie—a pie of which we did not leave a crumb.

The lunch over, we went out on the large veranda; the night was cool, with a slight breeze, and down at the edge of the lawn we could hear the water lapping on the shore. As Carter handed me a cigar, I happened to think of Trouble, locked in the garage, and went down to rescue him. He greeted me with a loud bark, but at my command followed to the piazza and dropped by the side of my chair. For a while nothing was said, and in the darkness I watched the glowing tips of my friends' cigars. It was Carter who broke the silence, saying to no one in particular:

“Well—what do you think about the murder?”

Ranville's drawling voice came floating from his chair, and his tone was serious:

“It looks to me, Carter, as if we had stumbled upon what will prove one of the most perplexing murder mysteries we have ever seen. There are some very curious things about this affair; and it's my idea it's going to prove rather difficult to solve.”

“It will cause a sensation all right,” was the reply. “You know for weeks Warren's name has been on the front pages of the papers. First there came the accounts of his trip to China. When he did not return at the time expected, the papers began to say his expedition was lost. Then the outlaw war broke in China, and it was thought he was killed; and when he suddenly made his appearance, he certainly got a lot of publicity.”

As he paused, I added my bit. I reminded them that his statement that he had settled the question of evolution had made more comment than anything else.

“That's right,” replied the Englishman. “Even in London the old Times gave a good many columns to that feature. But as he refused to say what it was he had found, the whole affair led to some little controversy.”

“You have had a good deal of experience in murder cases in your Scotland Yard work,” I said to the Inspector. “What do you think was back of Warren's death?”

Ranville was silent a while, replying at last:

“That is the question. It is pretty hard to say from what we found to-night, just what could be the motive. Men are murdered as a rule for three reasons—robbery, revenge, or, say, in a sudden passion. Now it does not look like robbery, for we saw no signs of anything being taken. That is, unless we figure the murderer broke the glass of the bookcase and took a book. But that seems hardly reasonable.”

“Still some one did take a book or two from that case,” was my retort.

“Perhaps. Of course Warren might have broken the glass himself by accident. Then again, though I do not know much about books, I do know a bit about that kind of literature. Once in a while we clean up some book dealers who put it out in London. And I know this. None of that stuff sells at a very high figure. It's rare, of course, mostly because it's sold under cover. But a few pounds would buy anything in that case. It does not seem reasonable to start out by assuming he was murdered for a book of that class.”

“Well, let's put that out of the question and say revenge,” suggested Carter.

“That would look more reasonable,” Ranville commented. “A man of Warren's type would, of course, have made enemies. And the two odd things about the murder—the position in which we found the body and the cross on the forehead—seem to suggest revenge. You cannot tell what he might have done while he was in China. He may have made enemies there.”

“That suggests the Chinaman who the housekeeper says came to the house about six,” was my remark.

“Maybe and maybe not,” was Ranville's quick retort. “I admit that six o'clock is pretty near the time Warren was killed. Also, why a Chinaman should wish to see him is something which must be looked into. But I have had a good deal of experience with criminal Chinese in our Limehouse section of London. They are capable of the most devilish torture, the weirdest kinds of murder. But I fail to remember a single case where they ever marked their victim after death. And no Chinaman, it seems to me, would ever mark his victim with a cross. Of course, once in a while you run into one who goes wild, and there is no telling what he might do. But as a rule, though they will in seeking revenge impose the most cruel tortures on some of their victims, they do not as a rule mark them after death.”

“Disfigurement after a killing is often the work of a frenzied woman,” was Carter's shrewd remark.

“That's true, Carter. Women, far more than men, are apt not to be satisfied with murder alone. When a woman in a sudden passion kills a man, she often, while the rage is on her, goes further.”

“And that makes one think of what the housekeeper said about the secretary,” was my comment.

There was a moment's silence, broken by Carter's saying:

“I wonder what the housekeeper meant by that remark. She certainly shut up like a clam when we tried to question her. There is something back of it—at least back of the housekeeper's attitude.”

“Well,” came Ranville's voice, “there is one thing sure; I think I am right when I say that whoever killed Warren was some one who knew him. He sat in that chair, the one across from the desk, and I think perhaps I am right when I add that he might have gone to Warren's side to say good-by and then plunged the knife into him. But why he paused to arrange the body on the floor and to make the cross on his forehead I cannot say, but—”

Just what he might have added I do not know. We were interrupted by the dog suddenly rising to his feet and starting to growl. Deep, heavy growls at some object we could not see. Then came the sound of footsteps on the walk, and a deep voice came from the lawn:

“Hearing voices, Mr. Carter, I could not resist stopping.”

As the man came up the steps, I pushed the dog behind my chair, telling him to be quiet. Carter rose and turned on the porch lamp. For a moment the light, after the dense darkness, blinded me. I wondered who could be coming to see Carter at this late hour. It was a very tall and an extremely thin man who accepted the chair which Carter pulled out. A man with a deep lined face and nervous shifting eyes. As he came over to the chair, I saw that he was wearing a clergyman's collar, though he did not look as calm as most of the clergymen I have seen.

He proved to be Carter's next-door neighbor, and he told us he was on his way home when he heard the sound of our voices. As he talked, I could see that he was of a nervous, restless disposition, for his hands were never still, and he moved his feet in an uneasy manner. His voice was rather harsh, though the English he used was perfect.

After the introductions had been acknowledged Carter said:

“Woods is my next-door neighbor. He's been in England, Ranville.”

The clergyman admitted that he had been in England many times. He changed the conversation at once by remarking:

“I have just come from down town, and they are all excited over the murder of Mr. Warren. I did not know Warren very well, but it seems almost incredible a man of his position should have met with such a sudden death. Have they any idea who the guilty person is?”

We all shook our heads, and then Carter went into a brief description of the finding of the body. The eyes of the minister grew larger as he went on, and I saw a horrified look sweep across his face. As I did not know many clergymen, I studied the man before me with interest. It was easy to see that he had a good education, and I wondered why he had buried himself in such a small country town. Long before Carter had finished I had decided that the minister was as nervous a man as I have ever met. His hands were never still, and his eyes were as uneasy as his hands.

He said nothing until Carter mentioned the secretary, and then half rose as he burst forth:

“Why, of all things,” came the rough high-pitched voice, “I know Mr. Warren's secretary very well. She comes to my church. You must know her also—Miss Harlan?” and he turned to Carter.

Carter shook his head; then said he knew her by sight and that was all. He added she was a very fine-looking girl.

“That's very true,” the minister eagerly replied. “She is not only a very fine-looking girl, but a very fine girl in all ways. It's absurd to think she knows anything about Mr. Warren's death. I saw her myself this afternoon.”

The conversation for some reason lagged after this, and after a while the minister gave a glance at his watch, and then with a sudden exclamation rose saying it was late. We said “good night,” and he went down the steps and was lost to sight. After he was out of hearing Ranville asked:

“How long have you taken up with clergymen, Carter?”

His friend laughed. “Oh, I do not know him so very well. He has lived here for some time. It seems that about fifty years ago his grandfather—for some unknown reason—built the church next door. Woods sort of fell into it. He has a good deal of money they say, but very few people ever go to his church. In fact he supports it himself. You see he is about as high church as you can find—all sorts of rituals and that kind of thing. They don't go very well in a place like this. Then again, he is always attacking something.”

“Attacking something; what do you mean?” was Ranville's puzzled question.

Carter laughed. “You do not have very many men of that type in your country. You see, Woods has but one duty in life. It is to try and make the rest of us think and do the things which he believes are right. Every little while he breaks loose—attacks Sunday baseball, dances, auto rides on Sunday. I do not know just how many of those things he is mixed up in. But I do know that he holds office in most of the more rabid reform societies in the state and nation. As he has money and makes heavy contributions, he is sort of a power in some circles. But his church does not amount to much here, mostly because no one goes. Though, after all, it is the most beautiful one we have. He is an odd duck at the best.”

He rose with this and turned off the light, For a while we sat in the darkness smoking, no one speaking. I begun to feel sleepy and wanted to hint that it was time to go to bed. Once in a while the dog at my side gave a little sigh of contentment. And then, just as Carter started to suggest that it was time we retired, Ranville gave a little laugh and said:

“You know I have been thinking about this murder. There is no doubt about the sensation it will make. Your police chief, it seems to me, will have far more on his shoulders than he can manage.”

“For once in your life you spoke the truth,” was Carter's dry comment.

“Righto,” was the cheery response, “and I have been thinking—” and the Englishman paused.

“That's twice you have been thinking, Ranville,” was Carter's reply. “Suppose you tell us what you were thinking about.”

“Just this. Here are the three of us, all engaged in some sort or another of criminal work. You are with the Secret Service, Carter. Pelt is the right-hand man of your big expert, Bartley, and I am with Scotland Yard. Why should we not take a hand in the case?”

“What for?” growled Carter. “Good Lord, man, don't you know this is my first vacation in four years? And it's your first in some time. Of course Pelt here never does much work anyway.”

I started to protest, but Ranville gave me no time to speak.

“Well, Carter,” he said, “I would like to keep close to this affair. It would give me some idea of how you work in this country.”

“Good Lord, Ranville,” protested his friend. “Where do you think you are? This is a small country town. How do you think this will be handled? In England you would call in the Yard, with their fingerprint experts, photographers, microscopes, and with hundreds of men in every part of England working under one department. We have nothing of the kind in this country. If this case is ever solved, it will be by what we call ‘bull luck.’ ”

“True enough,” came the cheerful response. “But this is going to be one of the famous murder cases of the century. You want to remember Warren is one of the best-known scientists in the world. And he was murdered, you know. I thought we might take a little hand in it. Sort of play along, as you say in America, with the police.”

There was a more interested tone in Carter's voice as he asked:

“What do you propose?”

“Just this. Suppose we divide things. Let us start with the visit of the Chinaman. Some one must find out about him. Now I have had extensive dealings with them; suppose I look into that end. You follow what new developments came out at the inquest, for there are always developments at such hearings. You know the chief and can work with him.”

“What shall I look after?” was my eager question.

Carter anticipated his friend by saying:

“You being the youngest, Pelt, and as I once heard John Bartley say—young and romantic—can look into the matter of the secretary. We have been told she is good to look at.”

I started to reply, but Ranville gave me no time.

“Really,” he said, “I am serious. This case is going to be a sensational affair before it is over. And if we all take a hand in it, we can save time. Your police chief will need all the aid he can get before it is over.”

Carter rose to his feet, and his voice came floating down to us out of the darkness.

“Well, I suppose it's all right. But I never knew it to fail. Every time Pelt goes anywhere in the summer he brings a murder. It happened that way last year and the year before. All you have to do is invite Pelt to visit you, and you can be pretty sure some one will be found dead within a few hours after he arrives. Sometimes I even wonder if he kills them himself. But I will agree with you, though I have but one suggestion to make, Ranville—”

“What might that be?” came the question.

“A very simple one. That we go to bed; it is now after one?” And with that he started into the house. A moment later we rose and followed him.

Chapter V.
The Inquest

Ten o'clock the next morning found us crossing the village green. In front of us was the Court House, where the inquest was to be held, its front steps filled with people. Cars were parked along the streets and were arriving every second. There was no doubt the sudden death of Warren had proven to be the greatest sensation of many years and people were coming from all directions to hear what the inquest might bring forth.

We pushed our way through the crowd on the Court House steps and into the building. The inquest was to be held on the second floor, and the steps leading to the room were crowded. I doubt if we would have been able to get through the people if it had not been for one of the village policemen, who, recognizing Carter, managed to get us to the second floor. And even here the hallway was filled. When we succeeded in getting into the court room, it was to find people standing along the walls.

In some manner the chief recognized us in the crowd and beckoned for us to come to the front of the room. After much pushing, we reached the rail which divided the spectators from the space reserved for the court officials. Behind it we found three chairs had been reserved for us. Behind the desk where the judge sat when Court was in session was the coroner, who gave us a half smile of greeting. The chief came over to our side, and in reply to a question from Carter, if he had discovered anything new, shook his head.

The court room was packed to overflowing—an uneasy mass of men, whose eyes showed the excitement they were under. Over the room hung the low murmur of whispers, and the few women in the place gazed eagerly around.

Though all space was taken, and people were even standing two deep along the walls, yet at the door late arrivals were trying to crowd their way into the room. The murder had brought them out—that strange streak of cruelty or morbidness which is in so many people. I saw Ranville give the place a curious look, and knew that he was thinking of similar scenes in England.

The sheriff, a tall, heavy-set man, rose and announced that no more people would be allowed in the room and requested that those present be silent while the inquest was on. And then, within the next ten minutes, the jury was chosen. It took but a little time to secure them, for they simply called twelve men—men who filed into the jury box with a very serious air, and men who also seemed secretly well pleased at the place of importance which was given.

In rapid succession Carter, Ranville and myself went on the stand and told the story of our finding of the body. Ranville's announcement that he was an Inspector of Scotland Yard created a good deal of comment, and I heard whispers go around the room. But our testimony was of little importance, for we had nothing new that we could tell. When I stepped down from the stand, the coroner looked at the papers on his desk, then motioned to the chief and after a moment's whispered conversation called the name of the housekeeper, Mrs. Lawrence.

The housekeeper went slowly to the chair and seated herself with a tired air. For some reason she was wearing black, and her red face was stern as she turned to face the coroner. She was far from being a good-looking woman, and I judged as I looked at her that she had a temper. The mouth was small, and the narrow lips were set in a stern thin line. Ranville gave her one look and leaned over me to say: “She has got her back up over something.”

Her first statements had to do with Warren's household. She had been his housekeeper for some years, living in the house when he was out of the country. I judged she thought that her long years of service had given her a place of authority, for she spoke as if she had complete reign over the household. When he returned from China, she had secured a cook and a maid and there was also a man working around the grounds. She told us it was Warren's practice to work in his library during the afternoon and that he had dinner about seven o'clock.

“Did he work there alone?” asked the coroner.

“Oh, no; his secretary, Florence Harlan, was there with him.”

She paused a moment and then went on to say that she understood that Mr. Warren was writing a book, though she was not sure. All visitors to the house afternoons were told to go to the library. There had not, however, been many people to see him the last few days.

“Now,” came the coroner's voice. “Suppose you tell us just what you were doing yesterday afternoon.”

“Well,” answered the woman, “Mr. Warren had told me Mr. Carter and two friends were coming to dinner. I arranged the dinner with the cook and spent part of the afternoon getting the dining room ready. About seven o'clock Mr. Carter came with his friends. I was getting rather worried then.”

“What were you worried over?”

She was silent for a moment, then went on. “Mr. Warren had not come to the house. He always stopped working about six and dressed for dinner. But when it got after six, I called the library. In fact, I called it on the phone several times, but I received no reply. Then I went out of the house, and, going to the library, knocked on the door. No one answered. But—” She paused.

A murmur started around the room as they waited for her next words. She paused and continued:

“But I thought I heard a sound in the library.”

“What do you mean by a sound?” was the question.

She hesitated as if not sure of her words, then said:

“It's hard to say. It was just as I started to reach my hand for the knocker upon the door. A sound hard to describe, like a chair being pushed across the floor, or like glass breaking; I am not sure.”

I gave a quick glance at Ranville, who sat with his head on one side looking at the witness. His face was calm, yet there was an interested look in his eyes. Like breaking glass the woman had said, and I thought of the broken door of the bookcase. I remembered that both Carter and his friend had thought it absurd that the murderer should have had anything to do with the broken door of the bookcase. But at the woman's words I began to wonder if they were right.

“What did you do after you heard this noise?”

“It was hardly what you would call a noise,” retorted the woman. “It was very faint, but I thought I heard something. I knocked on the door then, but no one answered. The door was locked.”

“Was it Mr. Warren's habit to have his door locked when working in his library?” asked the coroner.

“I never knew him to lock it, sir. It was a fairly warm day, and Mr. Warren since he has been in China and South America liked plenty of heat.”

The coroner glanced at some notes he had, then asked:

“Did any one come to the house during the afternoon—any one who wanted to see Mr. Warren?”

The woman's voice was eager as she replied: “Yes, sir, a Chinaman.”

The room stirred as one person and I could see the people bend forward for the next question.

“What did you mean by your last answer?”

“Just a little before six the door bell rang. When I went to the door there was a Chinaman there. He wore a white suit and asked for Mr. Warren. I told him where the library was and showed him how to get there. He thanked me and went up the walk to the building.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No, sir, I did not see him again. I never saw him before for that matter. He did not give any name.”

To my great surprise the chief and the coroner held a brief conversation, talking in a very low tone. When it was over the woman was excused. What surprised me was that she had not been asked about her statement in the library regarding the secretary. Then, in a sudden frenzy, she had almost accused the girl of murdering the scientist. The chief had heard what she said and the doctor who was the coroner had heard it, but they had not asked her a single question. And I wondered.

Then the doctor made a short statement, saying that Warren had been killed by either a dagger or a thin knife. The blow had struck the heart and he had died at once. The explanation was made in short, concise sentences without the usual medical terminology. He closed by saying that he must have been dead around two hours when he saw him. As that was some time after eight Warren had been killed between six and half past.

The next witness proved to be the man that worked around Warren's place. The gardener was the usual type of a workman, rather dull, with a heavy, uninteresting face. He announced somewhat loudly that he knew nothing about the murder and said that he had not known that his master was dead until he heard the news in the village late in the evening. When asked about the Chinaman, he replied that he had not seen him. Most of the afternoon he had been working in the garden, which, I judged from his testimony, was so placed that he could not see the library. It seemed as if his testimony was to be of no importance when, just after he had been excused, the coroner called him back to ask if he had seen any one around the library.

He stumbled back into his seat and thought a moment, then said:

“Can't say that I did. But when I was going to the house after the six o'clock whistle blew, I saw something. Don't think it is of any importance.”

“What was it?” was the question.

“Well,” came the slow reply, “I came down by the library, and I seen a rowboat going round the bend of the point. Did not see the person in it because the boat was just getting out of sight.”

The coroner suggested he could not swear that the boat had come from Warren's shore, and was surprised by having the man say he was pretty sure it had. But why he was sure of this he was unable to say, and though the doctor pressed him to explain, he could not. He left the stand having given, as far as I could see, no evidence of any importance.

Again the coroner and the chief held a short conversation. Then the doctor surprised us by saying that the inquest would be adjourned until after lunch. As it was only eleven-thirty this seemed rather odd, for there was still time to hear another witness. As it was, the morning session had been of little value. Nothing had been brought out that we did not know, and the testimony of the gardener regarding the row boat seemed of little worth. He was not sure the boat had come from Warren's shore line.

The crowd filed out with a great deal of noise. They seemed to be a bit disappointed. There had been no spectacular revelations, nothing sensational. Just the bald recital of the murder and nothing more. One could tell by their talk, and the shaking of heads, that the inquest had not proven what they expected. And after they had all gone out we went to the car and drove back to Carter's for an early lunch.