THE CAT’S PAW

BY

NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

AUTHOR OF “THE RED SEAL,” “THE UNSEEN EAR,”
“THE TREVOR CASE,” “THE MOVING FINGER,” ETC.

D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK :: 1922 :: LONDON

COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1922, by Street and Smith
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

THE CAT’S PAW
THE UNSEEN EAR
THE THREE STRINGS
THE MOVING FINGER
THE NAMELESS MAN
THE OFFICIAL CHAPERON
THE LOST DESPATCH
THE RED SEAL
I SPY
C. O. D.
THE MAN INSIDE
THE TREVOR CASE

DROPPING THE CAT, SHE SPRANG TO HER FEET WITH A SLIGHT CRY

[page [27]]

TO
EDNA LEIGHTON TYLER
THIS YARN IS AFFECTIONATELY
INSCRIBED IN TOKEN
OF A FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP

THE CAT’S PAW

CHAPTER I
KITTY!

Miss Susan Baird let her gaze rest on her companion in speculative silence. Apparently, her last jibe had failed of its mark, judging from the man’s unchanged expression. With a vexed sigh she proceeded to pour out another cup of tea.

They were an oddly matched pair. Miss Baird, still erect in spite of her seventy years, her small slight figure tucked into one corner of the carved, throne-shaped chair which was her habitual seat when in her library, appeared dwarfed in comparison with the broad-shouldered, powerfully built man who faced her across the tea table.

“So you wish to marry my niece, Kitty,” she remarked. “You!” And she broke into shrill laughter.

Her companion flushed hotly. Her ridicule cut deeper than had any of her previous comments.

“I intend to marry her,” he answered, and the stubborn determination of his tone matched his set features.

“So!” Miss Baird shrugged her thin shoulders. “You forget, my friend, that until Kitty is twenty-five years of age, I am her legal guardian, and that she is absolutely dependent upon me.”

“You give her a home and let her work that she may contribute to your support,” he retorted.

At his words her eyes blazed in fury and her talonlike fingers fumbled in the silver bowl for the few pieces of sugar it contained.

“I am her only blood relation. It is fitting and proper that she aid me in my old age,” she exclaimed. “My poverty,” she paused, and a certain dignity crept into both voice and manner, “is my misfortune.”

“And Kitty,” he began, but got no further.

“We will not discuss Kitty,” she announced with finality. “Wait,” as he started to interrupt her. “Such discussion is totally unnecessary, for Kitty will never marry you.”

“Why not?”

“For two excellent reasons.” She spoke with deliberation. “Kitty shall not marry a poor man, nor shall she marry a man with an hereditary taint.”

The man regarded her steadfastly across the table, his strong capable hands still holding the peach which he had been peeling. The silence lengthened, but neither seemed inclined to break it. Suddenly, the man laid down the peach and taking out his handkerchief, passed it across his lips; then, still in silence, he picked up the fruit knife, cut the peach in two and, placing the fruit in front of Miss Baird, rose and left the library.

In the outer hall he paused long enough to pick up his hat and gloves from the table where he had placed them upon his arrival some time before. He had opened the front door and was about to step outside when it occurred to him to light a cigarette. To do so, he released his hold on the front door. His cigarette was just commencing to draw nicely when a current of air from an opened window across the hall blew the door, which he had left ajar, shut with a resounding bang.

As the noise vibrated through the silent house, the man glanced nervously over his shoulder. Evidently, it had not disturbed Miss Baird or the other inmates of her household, for no one appeared in the hall. He once more started to approach the front door when he heard, through the portières in front of the entrance to the library, Miss Baird’s voice raised in anger.

“Kitty!” she called. “Kitty!”

As the name echoed through the silent hall, it gave place to a scream of such intensity, such horror that the man drew back aghast. It was some minutes before he moved. With faltering footsteps he retraced his way into the library and paused by the tea table.

Miss Susan Baird still sat in her throne-shaped chair, but the light fell full on her glazing eyes and distorted features.

Slowly, reluctantly, the man bent nearer and forced himself to place his hand upon her wrist. He could feel no pulse. When he stood erect a moment later, his forehead was beaded with perspiration. Dazedly, he glanced about the library—he and the dead woman were its only occupants.

Again he compelled himself to gaze at her, and subconsciously took note of her poor and patched attire. The incongruity of her string of pearls and the diamond rings upon her fingers impressed him even in the presence of death.

Step by step he retreated backward across the room, his glance roaming upward toward the gallery which circled the library and the short staircase leading to it, but always his eyes returned to that still and lonely figure by the tea table.

A few minutes later the faint sound of the front door being closed disturbed a large ball of fur. A gray Angora cat jumped from its hiding place and, with its back arched in fright, scampered through the portières, and fled along the hall and up the staircase to the attic.

CHAPTER II
THE SUMMONS

The broad streets of Washington City presented a lively scene as Dr. Leonard McLean drove his car with increasing slowness down Connecticut Avenue, crowded with government employees hastening to their offices. The congestion was even greater than usual owing to the downpour of rain as the drenched pedestrians swarmed around the street car stops in their endeavor to board cars, already packed to their limit, and arrive promptly at nine o’clock at their various destinations.

McLean slowed down to a stop within the fifteen feet limit prescribed by law, as the street car ahead of him halted to take on passengers, and watched with interest the futile efforts of the conductor to prevent the desperate rush made by both men and women to get through the car door at the same time. Suddenly, McLean discerned a familiar face in the crowd before him and sounded his horn. The unexpected “honk” created confusion among those unable to find even clinging room, and the conductor, taking advantage of the diversion, signaled to the motorman and the car sped onward.

“Hey, Leigh!” hailed McLean. “Leigh Wallace!”

Major Wallace glanced around and with a wave of his hand McLean indicated the vacant seat in his roadster.

“Hop in!” he exclaimed, as Wallace hurried across the intervening space between the car and the curbstone. “I’ll give you a lift downtown,” and, hardly waiting for Wallace to seat himself and close the door, the busy surgeon released the clutch and the roadster sped down Connecticut Avenue.

It was not until they were clear of traffic and were approaching the intersection of Twenty-first Street and Massachusetts Avenue that McLean realized his companion had not returned his greeting or addressed a word to him since entering the car. Turning his head, he eyed him unobtrusively. Wallace sat moodily staring ahead; his big frame, slumped in the easiest posture, seemed to fill the broad seat of the Packard. McLean took silent note of Wallace’s expression and the unhealthy pallor of his skin.

“Get any sleep last night?” he asked.

“Not much.” Wallace drew out a leather wallet from an inside pocket and produced a prescription. “The druggist refused to fill this again; said I had to get another prescription. Beastly rot,” he complained. “Cost me a bad night.”

The surgeon ran his eye over the prescription before pocketing it.

“It’s a narcotic,” he explained. “The druggists are not allowed to refill. Next time you want one come to me. How long is it since you left Walter Reed Hospital, Leigh?”

“Two months ago,” was the laconic rejoinder. Wallace removed his hat and passed his hand over his short-clipped hair. “I hope to report for duty soon.”

“Good!” McLean slowed down to make the turn from Twenty-first Street into Massachusetts Avenue and as they drove westward Major Wallace for the first time took notice of the direction in which they were heading and that they were no longer on Connecticut Avenue.

“Aren’t you going to your office, McLean?” he inquired.

“Not immediately. I have a professional call to make first. Are you in a hurry?”

The question seemed superfluous and McLean smiled as he put it. The major’s apathetic manner and relaxed figure could not be associated with haste.

“No,” Wallace answered. “I promised to stop in and see Charles Craige some time this morning; he’s attending to some legal business for me. Otherwise I have nothing to do. This killing time gets on my nerves—look at that, now,” and he held up a hand that was not quite steady. “Take me on as chauffeur, McLean. I understand an engine; shell-shock hasn’t knocked that out of my head.”

“Your head’s all right, old man. I told you that when you were my patient at Walter Reed,” responded McLean cheerily. “A few weeks more and—” He stopped speaking as they crossed the Q Street bridge into Georgetown, then, stepping on the accelerator, he raced the car up the steeply graded street and drew up in front of a high terrace.

“Hello, are you going to ‘Rose Hill’?” demanded Wallace, wakened from his lethargy by the stopping of the car. He had apparently been unaware that McLean had left his last sentence unfinished. “Who is ill?”

“I don’t know.” McLean leaned back to pick up his instrument bag which he carried in the compartment behind his seat. “My servant called to me just as I was leaving home that I had been telephoned to come over here at once. I didn’t catch all she said. I suppose Kitty Baird is ill. That girl is a bundle of nerves.”

Wallace clambered out of the car so that his more nimble companion would not have to climb over his long legs in getting out. As McLean turned to close the door of his car, Wallace’s hand descended heavily upon his shoulder.

“What—who—who’s that standing in the Baird’s doorway?” he gasped. “A policeman?”

McLean swung around and glanced up at the house. A long flight of stone steps led up to the front door and a landing marked each break in the terrace whereon grew rosebushes. It was the picturesque garden which gave its name to the fine old mansion—Rose Hill. The mansion had been built in colonial times when the surrounding land, on which stood modern houses and the present-day streets, had been part of the “plantation” owned by General Josiah Baird of Revolutionary fame. The hand of progress had left the mansion perched high above the graded street, but it had not touched its fine air of repose, nor diminished the beauty of its classic Greek architecture.

Standing under the fanlight over the doorway was the burly form of a blue-coated policeman.

“Yes, that’s one of the ‘City’s finest,’” he laughed. “What of it?” he added, observing his companion’s agitation in astonishment. “The policeman is probably taking the census; one called on me last Saturday.”

Wallace swallowed hard. “That’s it,” he mumbled, rather than spoke. “You’ve hit it.”

McLean, conscious of the bleak wind which accompanied the driving rain, stopped to open the door of his roadster.

“Wait in the car, Leigh; I won’t be long.” Not pausing to see if his suggestion was followed, McLean hurried up the steps.

Wallace plucked at the collar of his overcoat and opened it with nervous fingers, mechanically closed the car door, and then with slow reluctant feet followed McLean toward the mansion. He was breathing heavily when he gained the surgeon’s side, and the latter’s surprised exclamation at sight of him was checked by the policeman who had advanced a few steps to meet the two men.

“Dr. McLean?” he asked, and as the surgeon nodded, added, “Step inside, Sir.” He touched his hat respectfully. “Is this gentleman with you, Doctor?”

“Why, certainly.” McLean glanced inquiringly at the policeman; the latter’s manner indicated suppressed excitement. “What’s to pay, Officer?”

“They’ll tell you inside,” waving his hand toward the open door. “The coroner’s there.”

“Coroner!” McLean’s bag nearly slipped from his hand; but before he could question the policeman further, his name was called from the back of the hall and he hurried inside the house. Coroner Penfield stood by the portières in front of the library door.

“I am glad you could get here so promptly, McLean,” he said. “Come in,” and he drew the portières to one side. McLean entered the library hastily and continued to advance with his usual brisk tread until he caught sight of a huddled figure in the throne-shaped chair.

“Good God!” he ejaculated and retreated a few steps. Recovering his usual calm poise he walked around the tea table and examined the body. When he straightened up and turned around, he found Coroner Penfield’s attention was centered on Major Leigh Wallace.

Wallace had followed McLean across the threshold of the library only, and stood with his back braced against the doorjamb while his eyes mutely scrutinized every movement made by the surgeon.

“Well?” he questioned, and McLean’s stare grew intensified. If he had not seen Wallace’s lips move he would never have recognized his voice. With difficulty Wallace enunciated his words. “Well—what—what is it?”

“It’s a case of—”

“Sudden death.” Coroner Penfield completed McLean’s sentence.

In the silence that followed, a man who had been leaning over the railing of the gallery which circled the library, watching them, walked over to the stairs and came slowly down. At sound of his footsteps McLean glanced up and recognized Inspector Mitchell of the Central Office. He bowed courteously to the surgeon before addressing the coroner.

“If it is all right, Dr. Penfield, we’ll have the body removed,” he said. “My men are here.”

“Certainly. Call them.” Penfield turned to McLean. “I wanted you to be present as I understand you attended Miss Susan Baird.”

“Yes, I have been her family physician for years.” McLean spoke with an effort, his thoughts centered on one idea. “Where is Miss Baird’s niece, Miss Kitty Baird?”

His question went unanswered. Apparently Coroner Penfield and Inspector Mitchell failed to hear him as they busied themselves in superintending the removal of the body. McLean, after watching them for some seconds, walked over to Wallace. The latter took no notice of him whatever, his eyes remaining always on the tea table. McLean scanned his drawn face and listened to his labored breathing with growing concern. Whirling around, he opened his bag, took out a flask, detached its silver cup and poured out a liberal allowance of whisky, then, darting out of the library, he returned an instant later with some water in a glass. Slightly diluting the whisky, he thrust the cup against Wallace’s white lips.

“Drink that,” he ordered, and Wallace followed his peremptory command. “Now, sit down,” and he half-pushed, half-supported him to a large leather covered lounge.

“I—I,” protested Wallace. “I’m a bit undone, McLean,” and he raised miserable, apologetic eyes to his friend.

“Sure, it’s enough to bowl any one over,” McLean acknowledged, with a sympathetic pat. “Even the strongest—”

“Which I am not,” supplemented Wallace. The powerful stimulant was taking effect, and he spoke with more composure. “Have you—can you—” he hesitated, and cast a sidelong glance at McLean. “Can you learn any details about Miss Baird and how she came to be lying in that chair?” It was impossible for him to suppress a shudder as he indicated the empty throne-shaped chair. “She was dead, wasn’t she?”

“As dead as a door nail.” His question was answered by Inspector Mitchell, who had returned in time to catch their last few remarks. “Can you give me any facts about Miss Baird, Doctor McLean?”

“Only that she was a lifelong resident of Georgetown and a well-known character—known for her eccentricities, that is,” responded McLean. “Her death has come as a great shock to Major Wallace and to me, Inspector.”

“When did you see her last?” inquired Mitchell. His question was addressed to both men, but it was McLean who answered it after a moment’s thought.

“She was in my office on Friday.”

“Was she ill?”

“No. For a woman of her age she was remarkably free from organic trouble,” replied McLean. “In fact, she did not come to consult me about herself at all, but to ask for a tonic for her niece. By the way, where is Miss Kitty Baird?”

At the question Wallace raised his head and eyed the surgeon intently for a second, then dropped his eyes as the other felt his gaze and turned toward him.

“Where is Miss Kitty Baird?” Mitchell repeated the surgeon’s question. “Blessed if I know.”

“What!” McLean started from the chair where he had seated himself a moment before. “Do you mean to say that Miss Kitty Baird is not in her bedroom?”

“I do.” Mitchell shook a puzzled head. “And she isn’t in any part of the house. My men and I have searched it thoroughly. We found only the dead woman in the house and a live Angora cat.”

McLean stared at the inspector in dumbfounded amazement. A gurgling sound from the sofa caused him to look at Wallace. The major, with purpling face, was struggling to undo his collar.

“Air! Air!” he gasped, and before the surgeon could spring to his aid, he sank back unconscious against the sofa pillows.

CHAPTER III
DETAILS

Inspector Mitchell and Dr. McLean watched the taxicab, in which rode Major Leigh Wallace and Coroner Penfield, until it passed out of sight on its way to Washington, before reëntering the Baird mansion.

“Major Wallace seems in bad shape,” commented Mitchell, as they crossed the hall toward the library. “I thought you would never bring him back to consciousness, Doctor.”

“This library wasn’t a pleasant sight for well man to encounter, Mitchell, let alone a man in the major’s condition,” replied McLean. “The results of shell-shock do not exactly prepare a man for this—” and with a wave of his hand the surgeon indicated the tea table and the throne-shaped chair where Miss Baird’s body had lain on their entrance three quarters of an hour before.

“Eh, yes; but I should have thought the major’s experiences overseas would have accustomed him to gruesome scenes.” Mitchell paused in front of the portières and adjusted them carefully so that they completely covered the doorway.

“Walking into a room and finding a friend lying dead is a shock, regardless of any past experience,” responded McLean dryly.

“Did Major Wallace know Miss Baird well?” inquired Mitchell.

“Know her well?” repeated McLean. “Yes, and her niece, Kitty Baird, even better, if rumor speaks truly.”

A certain inflection in the surgeon’s voice caused Mitchell to eye him sharply, but McLean’s attention was entirely centered on the tea table before which he was standing, and he appeared unaware of the inspector’s scrutiny.

“Exactly what do you mean, Doctor?” asked the latter. “Your words would imply—”

“Nothing—except that rumor has it that Leigh Wallace and Kitty Baird are engaged to be married.” McLean balanced one hand on a chair and tipped it back and forth.

“And what is your personal opinion, Doctor?” asked Mitchell shrewdly.

McLean hesitated. “I am not quite so certain,” he admitted. “Three months ago I believed Wallace and Kitty were engaged; then—”

“Yes?—” as McLean paused once more in his speech.

“Then Kitty met Edward Rodgers of San Francisco,” McLean smiled. “It’s a toss-up which man wins.”

“So.” The inspector considered a moment. “So Miss Baird is still willing to take a chance on marrying Major Wallace, is she?”

“What d’ye mean?” McLean’s abstracted manner disappeared instantly.

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly like my daughter to marry him,” retorted Mitchell. “Not after seeing his condition here to-day. I haven’t much medical knowledge—”

“Quite so.” The surgeon’s dry tone caused Mitchell to redden. “I can assure you, Mitchell, that Major Wallace’s ill-health is but temporary.”

“Is it?” Mitchell eyed him reflectively, then as an idea occurred to him his expression altered. “By Jove! Perhaps it wasn’t the sight of Miss Baird lying there dead which knocked him out, but the absence of her niece, Miss Kitty Baird.”

McLean let the chair, which he had been balancing on two legs, go slowly back to its proper position.

“It is just possible that you are right,” he agreed. “Kitty Baird’s absence has alarmed me also.”

“Is that so? You kept mighty calm about it,” grumbled Mitchell. McLean was not evincing much interest. “Possibly you don’t realize that Miss Baird did not die a natural death.”

McLean smiled ironically. “You pay me a poor compliment,” he said. “I only made a superficial examination of her body, but it assured me that a—” he hesitated for a brief second, “that a tragedy had occurred.”

“Tragedy!” In fine scorn. “Why mince words? Say murder.”

“No.” McLean spoke with provoking deliberation. “Suicide.”

“Suicide!” echoed the inspector. “Bah! Look at this room.”

Obediently McLean glanced about the library. It was a large room, almost square in shape, two stories in height with an arched roof containing a stained glass skylight. It was paneled in Flemish oak; and oak bookcases, with sliding glass doors, filled most of the wall space, while a gallery, on a level with the second story, circled the library. Access to the gallery was gained from the library by a flight of circular steps near the huge brick chimney which stood at the farther end of the room. Bookcases, similar in type to those on the main floor of the library, were in the gallery, and McLean scarcely glanced upward; instead, his eyes roved over the worn furniture with its shabby upholstery, the faded rugs on the hardwood floor, until finally his gaze rested on the tea table. Given to observation of little things, he noticed the spotless condition of the tea cloth and the neat darns in one corner. Inspector Mitchell observed his silent contemplation of the tea table.

“Evidently Miss Baird was enjoying a cup of tea,” he remarked. “See, her cup is half full.”

“Have you analyzed its contents?” asked McLean.

“Not yet.” Mitchell moved impatiently. “Give us time, Doctor. It won’t take long to locate the criminal. He is sure to have left a clue behind him among the tea things.”

“You will insist on murder!” McLean shrugged his shoulders. “I see only one cup of tea,” pointing to the table. “A teapot—is it empty?” He stretched out his hand to pick it up, but Mitchell checked him with an imperative gesture.

“Don’t handle anything, Sir,” he cautioned. “We are making tests for finger prints.”

“Quite right.” McLean’s hand dropped to his side. “Well, murder presupposes the presence of some one beside the victim. I see only one teacup, one plate with two sandwiches and a piece of cake, another plate with a half-eaten peach. Not a very bountiful repast. Now, while Miss Baird was poor, she was hospitable, inspector; had any one been here, her visitor would have been provided with a cup of tea at least.”

“Perhaps—but suppose she wasn’t aware of the, er, visitor’s presence?” asked Mitchell.

McLean eyed him in silence for a second. “Have you found any indication of another’s presence?” he questioned. “Any clues?”

“Nothing worth mentioning now,” responded Mitchell, evasively. “Can you give me the name of an intimate friend to whom Miss Baird may have gone?”

“Why, certainly; there’s—let me see—” McLean pulled himself up short. Who were Kitty Baird’s intimate friends—her girl friends? He could enumerate dozens of men whose admiration for her was sincere and unconcealed, but when it came to the girls in their set—pshaw! women were cats! Kitty’s popularity had not endeared her to her own sex.

“You might try Mrs. Amos Parsons,” he suggested, and pointed to the telephone table in a corner of the library. “Kitty is her private secretary. No, wait,” as Mitchell snatched up the telephone book and hastily turned its well-thumbed pages. “She may be with her cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Ben Potter. Here, I’ll look up their number for you.”

Mitchell hung up the receiver in disgust a minute later. “Central declares no one answers,” he explained. “Who shall we try next? Mrs. Parsons, did you say?” This time he was more successful in getting the number desired, but the reply to his question was unsatisfactory. “The butler declares Miss Baird hasn’t been there since yesterday,” he told his companion. “Mrs. Parsons is not at home.”

McLean’s expression had grown serious. “We had better communicate with Charles Craige,” he said. “Craige has handled Miss Baird’s affairs for years, lawyer, agent, and all that. He may aid us in locating Kitty.” Then with a touch of impatience, “Don’t stop to look up the number of his law office—it is Main 3300.”

As Inspector Mitchell turned again to the telephone, McLean rose and slowly paced back and forth the length of the library. His familiarity with the furnishings and the contents of the bookcases—his taste in literature having coincided with that of Colonel Baird, who spent the last years of his life squandering a depleted fortune to gratify his craving as a collector—caused him to pay little attention to his surroundings, and he walked with head bent, his thoughts with the dead woman upstairs.

Was Inspector Mitchell right—could it have been murder? Who would have reason to harm so feeble an old lady? What motive could have inspired such a senseless crime? Robbery—bah, thieves would not kill to secure books and knickknacks of doubtful value.

But then what motive could have prompted suicide? Why should a woman so near the grave take her own life? Miss Baird had abhorred illness in any form; she had always had a healthy distaste for invalidism, and little patience with neurotic friends.

Miss Susan Baird, of all persons, to be found dead—possibly murdered! McLean took out his handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. For the first time he grew conscious of the closeness of the atmosphere, of the musty smell which dampness sometimes engenders. Instinctively, he stopped in front of a side door which opened on a “stoop” leading to the garden which extended to the back of the house. The door resisted his attempts to open it, and he felt for the key. It was not in the lock.

McLean stared at the door in some surprise. It was the only one in the house fitted with a modern lock, and it had always been Miss Baird’s custom to leave the key in the lock. The locks of the other doors were hand-wrought before the Revolution and massive in size. It had been Miss Baird’s fad never to have them modernized. One of her few extravagances, if it could be called such, had been to employ a grandson of old “Oscar,” their colored factotum, to keep the copper highly burnished and shining with its old-time, slave-day luster. The great fireplaces were lined with copper and Miss Baird was never happier than when able to contemplate her grotesque reflection in the walls of the fireplace in her library.

McLean had been a frequent visitor at the Baird mansion, but never before had he seen the key removed from the side door of the library. With a puzzled frown he reached up and pulled back the copper latch which released the upper half of the door—built in the style of the “Dutch” door—and pulled it back. The fresh air, laden as it was with dampness, was refreshing. The rain had slackened, and seeing there was no danger of it splashing inside the library, he pulled the half door still further open. Turning about, he found Inspector Mitchell at his elbow.

“I caught Mr. Craige,” he announced. “He is coming right over.” Then with a complete change of tone. “How did you open the upper half of this door?”

“By pushing the catch, so—” and McLean demonstrated.

“Hump!” Inspector Mitchell moved the catch back and forth. “I see, there’s a knack about it; it baffled me when I tried to open it. I have the key of the lower door,” and he drew it out of his pocket.

“Why did you take it out of the lock?”

“Because—” Inspector Mitchell’s answer was interrupted by the sudden rush of feet across the outer hall. The portières were thrust aside and a girl dashed into the library followed by a man.

Utterly oblivious of the inspector’s presence, she sped across the room to McLean.

“Oh, Doctor, is it true?” she gasped, incoherently. “Is Aunt Susan—has she—” She faltered and McLean caught her outstretched hands and drew her into a chair.

“Yes,” he said, and his quiet, controlled tone brought some measure of relief to the overwrought girl. “Your aunt is dead.”

Kitty Baird’s head dropped forward and rested on her cupped hands, and tears forced their way through her fingers. At the sound of her weeping, a seven-toed Angora cat stole out from behind a piece of furniture and pattered across the floor. With a flying leap she seated herself in Kitty’s lap and brushed her head against the girl’s hands. Kitty looked down, caught the soft body in her arms and held the cat tightly to her.

“Mouchette, Mouchette,” she moaned. “Aunty’s gone—gone,” and she buried her face in the long fur. Gradually, her sobs grew less, and McLean, observing that she was regaining some hold on her composure, withdrew to the other end of the library where Inspector Mitchell was holding a low-toned conversation with Charles Craige.

“I am glad you are here, Craige,” McLean said, keeping his voice lowered. “This is the devil of a mess.”

The lawyer’s handsome face expressed grave concern. “So I judge from what Inspector Mitchell told me on the telephone and what he has just said.” He moved so as to catch a better view of the library. “Where have you taken Miss Baird?”

“To her bedroom,” replied Mitchell. “The autopsy will be held this afternoon probably.”

He had not troubled to lower his rather strident voice and his words reached Kitty’s ears. Dropping the cat, she sprang to her feet with a slight cry.

“Autopsy?” she exclaimed. “No, not that!” And she put up her hand as if to ward off a blow.

“Why not?” demanded Mitchell, and as Kitty hesitated, McLean spoke quickly.

“It is customary in cases of sudden death, Kitty, to hold autopsies,” he explained. “Your aunt was found dead in this room—”

“Here!” Kitty looked about with a shudder. “I did not realize—Mr. Craige only told me—we met at the door,” she pulled herself up short, waited a moment, then continued with more composure. “I understood that aunty had died suddenly. It has been a great shock,” she looked piteously from one to the other. “I have lived with aunty ever since I can remember—and now to be without her!” She again paused to steady her voice. “Oh, it seems impossible that she is dead; she was so alive—so anxious to live.”

Inspector Mitchell cocked an eager eye at McLean.

“So she wanted to live, Miss,” he commented. “Never expressed any wish to end her life, did she, Miss Baird?”

“Never!” Kitty stared at him in astonishment. “What put such an idea into your head?”

“It wasn’t ever in my head,” Mitchell retorted. “Dr. McLean is responsible for the theory.”

Kitty turned and looked directly at McLean. Tears were still very near the deep blue eyes, and her cheeks had lost their wonted color, but as she faced the three men they were conscious of her beauty. Slightly above medium height, she looked taller owing to her straight and graceful carriage. McLean sighed involuntarily. He dreaded a scene.

“Why, Doctor, what made you think Aunt Susan wished to die?” Kitty’s voice rose. “You told me only last week that she was in excellent health.”

“So I did.” McLean spoke in haste. “Your aunt was in good health, Kitty; but, eh, the circumstances of her death—”

Kitty’s eyes widened. “The circumstances of her death,” she repeated slowly, and paused as if seeking a word, “were they not—natural?”

“No, Miss Baird, they were not,” broke in Inspector Mitchell, anxious to have the floor. “We found your aunt dead in this library about two hours ago. Dr. McLean examined her body; he can tell you from what she died.”

Kitty looked in mute question at McLean while her trembling hands plucked aimlessly at her damp handkerchief. The surgeon impulsively put his arm about her shoulder before speaking.

“Your aunt died from a dose of poison,” he stated slowly.

“Poison!” Kitty reeled and but for McLean’s strong arm would have fallen. Dumbly, she stared at the three men. “Aunt Susan poisoned! By whom?”

“We do not know that—yet,” replied Mitchell, and the tone of his voice chilled Kitty. It was some seconds before she could speak.

“What poisoned her?” she asked.

“The exact nature of the poison will be determined by the autopsy,” broke in McLean. “The coroner’s examination of the body and mine were superficial, but it did establish the fact that your aunt had swallowed poison.” He caught the terror which flashed into Kitty’s eyes, and added impulsively, “Miss Baird, in a moment of insanity, may have committed suicide.”

“There you go again, Doctor.” Mitchell laughed shortly. “Now, Miss Baird, where did you spend last night?”

“With my cousin, Nina Potter, and her husband, at their apartment in Sixteenth Street,” Kitty spoke mechanically. Turning about she walked stiffly over to a chair and sank into it. She wondered if her companions were aware of her trembling knees.

“Kitty,” Charles Craige’s charmingly modulated voice sounded soothingly to her overwrought nerves. “I would have prepared you for this had I known,” he hesitated, “these details. But Inspector Mitchell only telephoned to me that your aunt was dead, and it was not until we both came in that I learned, as you have, of the tragedy. I grieve with you, dear child; your aunt was my good friend for many years.”

Kitty looked up at him gratefully. She was very fond of her handsome godfather. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I feel stunned.” She pressed her fingers against her temples. “Oh, poor aunty—to die here alone! Why, why didn’t I get up early and come here at once without waiting for breakfast? I might have saved her.”

McLean moved uneasily and exchanged glances with Mitchell.

“Don’t reproach yourself, Kitty,” he begged. “Your presence here this morning would not have saved your aunt,” and as she looked at him in astonishment, he added more slowly, “judging from the condition of the body, your aunt died fully twenty hours ago.”

Charles Craig broke the silence. “Twenty hours ago,” he repeated. “That would be yesterday—”

“Sunday afternoon, to be exact,” stated Inspector Mitchell. “When did you leave here, Miss Baird?”

“Yesterday afternoon, about three o’clock; no, nearly four,” Kitty corrected herself with a haste not lost upon the inspector.

“And when did you last see your aunt alive?” he questioned.

“About that time.” Kitty’s foot tapped restlessly against the rug. “She was in her bedroom, and I called to her as I went down the staircase.”

“What did you say to her?” Mitchell was taking mental note of Kitty’s well-groomed appearance and her nervous handling of her handkerchief.

“I told her not to sit up late.” Kitty did not meet the inspector’s eyes. “Aunt Susan seldom went to bed before one or two o’clock in the morning; she claimed it rested her to sit up and read in the library.”

“Were the servants here when you left the house?” asked Mitchell.

“Servants?” A ghost of a smile touched Kitty’s lips. “Aunty would not employ any one but old Oscar. He never comes until about seven in the morning, and leaves immediately after dinner.”

“And was it your custom to leave your aunt alone in the house at night?” Mitchell was blind to the heavy frown with which McLean listened to his continued questioning of Kitty. The surgeon guessed the tension she was under and dreaded a breakdown.

“Occasionally, yes.” Observing Mitchell’s expression, Kitty added hastily, “Why not? Aunt Susan feared no one.”

“And she was murdered.” Inspector Mitchell eyed her keenly; then glanced at his companions—both men were watching Kitty.

“Or killed herself—” Kitty spoke with an effort. “How did you learn of my aunt’s death?”

Inspector Mitchell seemed not to hear the question and Kitty repeated it more peremptorily.

“We received a telephone message, at Headquarters,” he stated finally. “I was in the office at the time and came over to investigate.” He paused dramatically. “We found your aunt sitting dead in that chair.” He walked over and touched the throne-shaped chair. Kitty did not follow him except with her eyes.

“How did you get in?” asked Craige, walking toward him.

“We found the key of the front door in the lock on the outside,” replied Mitchell.

“What!” Kitty sprang to her feet.

“Odd, wasn’t it?” Mitchell was watching her closely.

“Very,” briefly. Kitty paused in thought. “What was the nature of the message you received over the telephone, Inspector?”

“To come at once to ‘Rose Hill,’” Mitchell spoke with impressiveness. “That a crime had been committed.”

“Good heavens!” Kitty took a step in his direction, but before she could speak again, Mitchell held up his hand for silence.

“Did I understand, Miss Baird, that you and your aunt occupied this house alone at night?” he asked.

“We did.”

“And you left here between three and four o’clock on Sunday—yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“And the last time you saw your aunt she was alive?”

“Yes.”

“Do you employ a female servant?”

“No.”

Inspector Mitchell regarded the girl in silence. She bore his scrutiny with outward composure.

“Miss Baird,” he spoke slowly, weighing his words. “I took the message over the telephone to come at once to ‘Rose Hill’—that a crime had been committed here. The message was given by a woman.”

Kitty stared at him uncomprehendingly, dumbly; then, before they could detain her, she fled from the library and rushing upstairs, dashed into her room, locked the door, and flung herself face downward on the bed.

CHAPTER IV
SUICIDE?

The reception was in full swing and Mrs. Amos Parsons contemplated her crowded drawing room in a spirit of happy self-congratulation. She had just welcomed a newly accredited ambassador and introduced a Cabinet officer to the ambassador’s charming wife and she felt that her feet were at last securely placed upon the ladder of success. The scene was typical of the national Capital. The World War had rudely interrupted the “calling” days of the hostesses of Washington, but with the advent of peace a return had been made to old customs, and “teas” were again taking their accepted place in the social calendar.

“A penny for your thoughts,” said a masculine voice over her shoulder and glancing around Mrs. Parsons found Charles Craige at her elbow.

“You offer a penny too much,” laughed Mrs. Parsons. “They were idle thoughts—”

“About the idle rich.” Craig looked at her with admiration. “Upon my word, Cecilia, you grow prettier every day.”

“Happiness is a great ‘beautifier,’” Mrs. Parsons glanced up at him with a strange, new shyness; then quickly veiled her eyes that he might not read her thoughts too plainly. Under pretense of arranging the bouquet, his gift, which she was carrying, Craige pressed her hand. His marked attention to the fascinating widow had aroused the interest of their circle of friends, and the prospect of the announcement of their engagement had formed the topic of conversation on numerous occasions.

There was a lull in the arrival of guests and Mrs. Parsons imperceptibly edged toward an alcove. Many curious glances were cast in their direction by both men and women who stood chatting in groups about the long drawing room. They made a striking tableau—Mrs. Parsons’ delicate beauty enhanced by a perfectly fitting modish gown, and Charles Craige, standing tall and straight beside her, his iron-grey hair and ruddy complexion adding distinction to his appearance.

“The world and his wife are here this afternoon, Cecilia,” he said. “Your tea is an unqualified success. And every one is lingering,” glancing down the room. “That is a sure sign that they are enjoying themselves.”

“Except Major Wallace.” Mrs. Parsons drew his attention to a man worming his way between the groups of people. “He appears to avoid his friends—there, he has cut Nina Potter dead.”

“What a caddish thing to do!” Craige spoke with warmth as he saw Mrs. Potter shrink back and her half-extended hand drop to her side. Turning quickly, she slipped behind two women and disappeared from their sight. Walking moodily ahead, Leigh Wallace found himself face to face with his hostess and Charles Craige.

“Not leaving so early, surely?” she exclaimed as he put out his hand.

“Yes, I just dropped in for a minute,” Wallace explained, and he made no effort to conceal the indifference of his tone. “I don’t feel very fit this afternoon, so you must excuse me. Good evening, Craige,” and he turned abruptly and left them.

“Of all uncivil people!” observed Mrs. Parsons, much incensed. “That’s the last invitation he gets to my house.”

“He doesn’t look well,” Craige remarked thoughtfully. “I presume he and Kitty Baird have had another quarrel.”

“Well, he has no right to vent his ill-humor on me or my guests.” Mrs. Parsons was not pacified.

“I hope Kitty decides to marry Ted Rogers and not Leigh Wallace.” Craige looked grave. “It would be a far more suitable match, although I understand Rodgers is not wealthy.”

“Mr. Rodgers was here a moment ago.” Mrs. Parsons raised her lorgnette and glanced about her. “He asked particularly for Kitty. Where in the world is she? She was to pour tea for me this afternoon.”

“Have you not heard—”

“Heard?” Attracted by the alteration in Craige’s voice, Mrs. Parsons looked at him. “Heard what?”

“That Kitty’s aunt, Miss Susan Baird, was found dead this morning—”

“Great heavens!” Mrs. Parsons retreated a step in shocked surprise. “Oh, Mrs. Sutherland, so glad to see you. You know Mr. Craige, of course.” As the newcomer and the lawyer exchanged greetings, Mrs. Parsons saw Nina Potter and started toward her, but several guests claimed her attention and when she looked around Nina had vanished.

The room which served Benjamin Potter as a combination workshop and library was at the other end of the apartment which the elderly naturalist had leased upon his marriage to Nina Underwood six months before. The apartment house, one of those erected to meet the demands for housing wealthy war-workers who thronged the national Capital during the winter of 1917-1918, had but one apartment to each floor, and Potter had been gratified by having the best room, from his point of view, set aside for his exclusive use by his bride.

Mrs. Potter had also seen to it that the furniture was of the finest mahogany, the filing and specimen cases of the most approved models, while the leather-seated chairs and lounges added greatly to the comfort of the occupants of the room. No expense had been spared and for the first time in his hard-working, studious life, Ben Potter had found himself surrounded with every comfort which money could purchase.

Potter’s marriage to his pretty stenographer had been a severe shock to several impecunious relatives and a nine days’ wonder to his small world. He had taken the surprised comments and sometimes belated congratulations of both relatives and friends with the same placid good nature which characterized all his actions. Nina, with a tact for which she had not been credited, went out of her way to cultivate his friends, and if she felt the chilly reception accorded her, never by word or manner betrayed the fact.

Seated alone in his room and absorbed in his book, Potter was oblivious of the lengthening shadows and was only recalled to his surroundings by the opening of the door.

“Well, what is it?” he asked testily. “Oh!” At sight of his wife, his expression brightened. “I did not expect you home so soon.”

“Soon?” Nina laughed softly, as she brushed his unruly gray hair back from his forehead. “Have you no idea of the time? It is nearly six o’clock, and you should not be reading with only one light turned on. Doctor McLean must talk to you.”

Potter made a wry face. “I would rather listen to you than any doctor,” he said and pulled forward a chair close to his own. “Tell me, have you had a pleasant time at Mrs. Parsons’ tea?”

“Does one ever have a pleasant time at a tea?” Nina’s gesture was eloquent. “Where are your matches, dear?”—fumbling, as she spoke, with her cigarette case.

Potter frowned slightly as he located a match box under the tumbled papers on his desk and struck a light for her. He had never been able to master his dislike to women smoking, in spite of his staunch belief that his pretty wife was always right in everything she did. Reading his expression like a book, Nina slipped her hand inside his and leaned against his arm.

“It is very lonely going about without you,” she murmured. “I don’t enjoy myself a bit when you remain at home.”

Potter turned and kissed the soft cheek so near his own. “My holiday is over,” he answered, and putting out his foot touched a packing case, its contents partly spread on the floor in an untidy pile. “I cannot neglect my work.”

“You will never be accused of that,” with flattering emphasis. “But, dear, I need—want your society more than these dreadful reptiles,” and she made a slight grimace as she glanced at the bottles containing specimens preserved in alcohol which adorned the shelves of a cabinet near at hand. “I know,” lowering her voice, “I’m selfish—”

“I love your selfishness, dear,” he replied, and held her closely to him just as a tap sounded on the door. “Confound it! Come in.”

The Japanese servant, who answered his command, bowed profoundly, and his calm gaze never flickered at sight of the loverlike attitude of husband and wife.

“You home, Sir?” he asked.

“Yes, of course, I’m home. What of it?” Potter dropped his arm from about his wife’s waist in embarrassment.

“Mr. Rodgers call upon you.” The Japanese spoke without haste. “You see him?”

“Certainly. Bring him here,” and at the words Moto vanished.

“Here?” echoed Nina. “Isn’t it a bit untidy?”

“What of it? He hasn’t come to see us,” he grumbled. “Probably thinks Kitty is here. I don’t approve of Kitty playing fast and loose with those two men.”

“What men?” Nina was not looking at her husband, and missed his keen scrutiny.

“Ted Rodgers and Leigh Wallace,” briefly. “If it goes on much longer, I will speak to Cousin Susan Baird. Hello, what did you do that for?” as the room was suddenly plunged in darkness. A second later the light flashed up.

“I pulled the wrong string,” Nina explained as she lighted both sides of the electric lamp.

Potter paused undecidedly, then rose and, going over to the packing case, tossed excelsior and paper back into it and pushed it behind a screen. When he turned back, he saw Nina deftly rearranging the ornaments and papers on his flat top desk. In silence he watched her graceful movements and the play of the lamplight on her hair which shone like spun gold under its rays. It would have taken a more observant man than her husband to have discovered that nature’s art had been supplemented by the rouge pot. No wrinkles marred the soft pink and white tint of her complexion, and few would have guessed that she had passed her thirtieth birthday.

Looking up, Nina caught her husband’s gaze and flushed faintly.

“I hope Mr. Rodgers won’t stay long,” she began, and checked herself hastily as Moto ushered in their caller. “So very glad to see you, Mr. Rodgers,” she exclaimed, extending her hand, which rested in his for a fraction of a second and was withdrawn.

At the touch of her cold fingers, Rodgers looked intently at her. He still found it hard to realize that the fashionably gowned woman before him was Ben Potter’s wife. Ben a Benedict! The mere idea had provoked a smile, and the announcement of the marriage in cold print had produced a burst of merriment, and the silent hope that Ben had found a motherly soul to run his house for him. Instead of which, with the perversity of Fate, Ben Potter had selected a wife at least fifteen years his junior, who would most certainly enjoy the social life of Washington to the full.

Potter had formed a strong attachment for the younger man when spending a winter in San Francisco three years before and Rodgers had been a frequent visitor since his arrival in Washington. His visits, as Potter shrewdly noted, were generally timed to find Kitty Baird with her cousins, and ended in his escorting her home.

“I missed you both at Mrs. Parsons’ tea, so dropped in for a chat,” Rodgers remarked, accepting a cigar from Potter as Nina perched herself on one end of the lounge. “Why weren’t you there?”

“Nina went,” answered Potter, throwing himself down in his favorite chair. “You don’t catch me at a tea.”

“You were there, Mrs. Potter?” Rodgers spoke in surprise. “I searched for you—”

“It was a frightful jam.” Nina picked up her workbag which she had left on the lounge earlier in the afternoon and unfolded its contents. “I did not stay long.”

“But you heard the news?”

“News?” Potter glanced up, expectantly. The tone in which the question was put arrested his attention which had strayed to his wife. “Was there any special news? Nina, you didn’t tell me.”

“I heard no news in particular.” Nina held a needle and thread nearer the light. “To what do you refer, Mr. Rodgers?”

“To the death of Miss Susan Baird.”

Potter sat bolt upright. His healthy color changed to a sickly white. “Cousin Susan dead? Impossible!”

“It is a fact. Mr. Craige told me—” Rodgers stooped over and picked up the needle which had slipped from Nina’s clutch. “Take care you don’t prick yourself, Mrs. Potter,” he warned, as he placed it in the palm of her hand and noticed the quick, spasmodic movement of her fingers. “The news had just gotten about and every one at the tea was talking of Miss Baird.”

“That’s turning the tables; usually Cousin Susan talked about everybody,” Potter remarked, breaking a slight pause. “Why hasn’t Kitty telephoned us? I am now her nearest living relative.”

“She may have tried to reach us,” suggested his wife. “I don’t suppose Moto answered the telephone in my absence; he hates it. Did you hear it ring, Ben?”

“No,” shortly. “I can’t say I grieve over your news, Ted. I have always resented Cousin Susan’s treatment of Kitty. Made the girl slave for her, the venomous old scandal-monger.”

“Ben!” Nina’s shocked tone caused her husband to pause in his rapid speech. “Did you hear, Mr. Rodgers, the cause of Cousin Susan’s death?”

“Bit her tongue and died from blood-poisoning,” growled Potter, before Rodgers could answer.

“Ben!”

“Well, all right, dear; I’ll say no more. But,” in self-defense, noting Rodgers’ surprise, “I’ve had no cause to love Cousin Susan— I heard her caustic remarks about my marriage. Never mind that now,” with a quick glance at his wife. “Go ahead, Ted, tell us of what Cousin Susan died.”

“The coroner will have to answer that question, Ben.”

“The coroner!” Potter rose to his feet and stared at his guest. “What d’ye mean? Oh, hurry your speech, man; don’t keep us in suspense,” as Rodgers hesitated and eyed Mrs. Potter in some trepidation. Judging from her sudden loss of color, she was about to faint.

“Your cousin was found dead,” he said, and got no further.

“Found dead—where?” demanded Mrs. Potter, breathlessly.

“In her library.”

Potter broke the pause. “Go ahead and tell us what you know, Ted.” He reseated himself. “Give us every detail.”

Rodgers shook his head. “I know very little on the subject,” he said. “I stopped on the way here and telephoned to ‘Rose Hill,’ but could get no response; so I came right here supposing you could tell me further news. I thought Miss Kitty might be with you.”

“We have not seen Kitty since early this morning,” answered Nina. “Who found Cousin Susan?” Rodgers, his ear trained to detect variations in the human voice, observed a faint huskiness in the usual soft tones.

“I do not know, Mrs. Potter,” he said. “Miss Baird was so well-known in Washington that her death was commented on at the tea, and I only heard a garbled account of what occurred. Perhaps there might be something in the evening paper.”

“To be sure.” Potter jumped at the suggestion, and hurrying toward the door, pushed an electric bell. A second later and Moto responded. “The evening paper, quick.”

Moto let his gaze travel around the room, then darting forward he crossed to where the packing case stood partially concealed behind the screen. Delving into its contents, he returned a moment later with a crumpled newspaper and extended it to his master.

“You toss it down, so,” demonstrating, “when I bring it to you, sir,” he explained. “You say, ‘Moto, don’t trouble me, go away,’ and I go.”

“Well, well, Moto, you interrupted me.” Potter’s tone was apologetic. “Much obliged for finding the paper. That is all I wanted.” And Moto slipped away to his pantry in time to hear the buzzer of the front door bell sounding faintly.

Forgetful of all but the paper in his hand, Potter turned it over and searched for the item of news.

“Try the first page,” suggested Rodgers. Potter switched the sheet around and gave vent to a startled exclamation as his eyes fell on the double column heading:

ELDERLY SPINSTER FOUND DEAD
SUICIDE SUSPECTED

“Suicide!” Potter gasped. “Bless my soul! Who would have believed Cousin Susan would kill herself?”

“She didn’t!” The denial rang out clearly from the direction of the door and wheeling around the three occupants of the room saw Kitty Baird confronting them. “Aunt Susan did not commit suicide, Ben; you know she didn’t.”

Potter stared at her long and earnestly. Twice he opened his mouth to speak and closed it again, after a look at Ted Rodgers who, upon Kitty’s entrance, had stopped somewhat in the background so that his face was in shadow.

“I don’t know anything,” Potter said finally. “I haven’t read the paper—”

“The paper has printed lies!” Kitty’s foot came down with an unmistakable stamp, and her eyes sparkled with wrath. “I tell you Aunt Susan did not commit suicide.”

“Yes, dear.” Nina stepped hastily forward and threw her arm protectingly across Kitty’s shoulder. “Come and sit down, and when you are more composed you can tell us of—of the details.” Exerting some strength, she pulled the unwilling girl to the lounge and gently pushed her down upon it. “I am so, so sorry, Kitty. Your aunt—” she stumbled a bit in her speech—“Your aunt’s death is a great shock—”

“To me,” bitterly. “I know many people disliked her. Poor Aunt Susan—” Kitty’s lips trembled. “You need not try to dissemble your feelings, Ben. I know you hated Susan.”

“Oh, come, Kitty; that’s pretty strong language!” Potter flushed angrily. “You are unstrung—where are your smelling salts, Nina?”

“A glass of wine would be better.” Rodgers spoke for the first time, and Kitty looked up in startled surprise. She had been conscious of a third person in the room when she first entered, but, absorbed in her talk with her cousin, had forgotten his presence.

“Where’s my flask?” demanded Potter, considerably shaken out of his habitual calm. “Oh, thank you, my dear,” as Nina snatched it out of one of his desk drawers. “Now, Kitty,” unscrewing the stopper and pouring some cognac into an empty tumbler, which, with a water carafe, stood on his desk. “Drink this; no, I insist—” as she put up her hand in protest. “You will need all your strength—drink every drop.”

Kitty’s eyes sought Rodgers and his quick “Please do” did more to make her drink the cognac than all Potter’s urging. The fiery strength of the old brandy made her catch her breath, but she did not put the tumbler down until she had swallowed its contents. As the stimulant crept through her veins, her head cleared, and the feeling of deadly faintness which had threatened to overcome her several times on her way to her cousin’s apartment, disappeared.

“I will tell you what I know,” she began. “Aunt Susan was found by the police dead in our library. The coroner claims that she had taken poison.”

“Well?” prompted Potter. “Go on.”

“Aunt Susan never swallowed poison—of her own free will.” Kitty turned and gazed at Ted Rodgers. Intently she studied his face, noting his clear-cut features and shapely head. Standing six feet four, he seemed to dwarf Ben Potter. Although the latter was nearly his equal in height, the stoop in his shoulders, which betrayed the hours spent in poring over books, made Potter appear much shorter. Something of his quiet, determined character showed in Rodgers’ firm mouth and handsome eyes, eyes which redeemed the severe lines of his face.

He had fallen madly in love with Kitty and had courted her with the persistency of his faithful nature. Heartsick, craving sympathy, which had brought her to her cousin only to be rebuffed by his reception of the news of her aunt’s death, Kitty turned instinctively to Rodgers.

“Won’t you help me prove that Aunt Susan did not commit suicide?” she asked.

As he studied the upturned face, the deep blue eyes, made more brilliant by the tears she had shed that morning, and noted the forlorn droop of her shoulders, Rodgers’ decision was taken.

“I will do anything for you—anything,” he promised, his deep voice vibrating with feeling.

“Then find the murderer of Aunt Susan,” she cried.

“How—what?” Potter looked at her aghast. “What makes you think Cousin Susan was murdered?”

“My intuition,” promptly. “Oh, you may jeer, but it was no case of suicide. Aunt Susan did not court death—she feared it.”

CHAPTER V
AT THE MORGUE

Coroner Penfield adjusted his glasses and gazed at the six men who composed the jury, as they filed into their places, and then turned to look at the spectators assembled in the room reserved for the coroner’s inquests at the District of Columbia Morgue. Not only Washington society was taking a deep interest in the inquiry into the death of Miss Susan Baird, but many other citizens of the national Capital, to whom the name of Baird meant nothing, and who had been unacquainted with the spinster in her lifetime. Every seat was taken in the large square room, and from his position on the elevated platform, where stood tables and chairs for the coroner, his assistant, the reporters, and the witnesses, Coroner Penfield saw Dr. Leonard McLean conversing with Inspector Mitchell of the Central Office.

The hands of the wall clock were within five minutes of ten, the hour at which the inquest had been called, on Tuesday morning, when the outer door opened and Ted Rodgers stepped inside the room, followed a second later by Benjamin Potter. Observing two unoccupied seats on the second row they crossed the room, exchanging, as they did so, low-spoken greetings with friends and acquaintances who had come early to secure the most advantageous seats.

The swearing in of the jury by the Morgue Master required but a short time. Clearing his throat, Coroner Penfield outlined the reason for the inquest, and asked the jury if they had inspected the body of the dead woman.

“We have,” responded the foreman, and Penfield turned to the Morgue Master, who occupied a chair at the foot of the platform.

“Call the first witness,” he directed. “Inspector Mitchell.”

Hat in hand, the Inspector advanced to the steps and mounted to the witness chair, and was duly sworn by the Morgue Master. In businesslike tones he answered the coroner’s quickly put questions as to his identity and length of service on the Metropolitan Police Force and Detective Bureau.

“Did you find Miss Baird’s body?” asked the coroner.

“I did, Sir.”

“When?”

“Yesterday, Monday morning, when summoned to her home in Georgetown.”

“How did the summons reach you?”

“By telephone.” Mitchell hesitated, and the coroner waited for him to continue before putting another question. “The message was to go at once to ‘Rose Hill,’ that a crime had been committed there.”

“Did the person talking on the telephone give his name?”

“No, Sir.”

“Did you ask his name?”

“I did, but she rang off instead of answering.”

“She?” inquiringly.

“I took the voice to be that of a woman,” explained Mitchell cautiously.

“Are you not certain that it was a woman speaking?”

“To the best of my belief it was.” Mitchell paused. “I am sure it was a woman’s voice.”

“Have you tried to trace the call?”

“Yes,” somewhat glumly. “But Central had no record of it.”

“Then it did not come over a public telephone?”

“No, Sir.”

“Was it on a limited service wire?”

“No. Central declares not,” responded Mitchell. “She insists that it must have been sent by some one using unlimited service.”

Penfield paused to jot down a note on his memorandum pad before again questioning the inspector.

“At what hour did the telephone call reach you?”

“At eight minutes past eight o’clock yesterday morning. I was in Police Headquarters and took the message myself,” tersely.

“At what hour did you reach Miss Baird’s home?”

“Fifteen minutes later. I took O’Bryan, a plain clothes man, and Patrolman Myers with me.”

“Tell us what you found when you reached the Baird house,” Coroner Penfield directed, settling back in his chair. Conscious that he had the undivided attention of every one in the crowded room, Mitchell spoke with slow impressiveness.

“We went up the front steps of the house and rang the bell; not getting any response we rang several times. I was just thinking that we had better try the back entrance when O’Bryan saw the key in the front door—”

“Wait.” Penfield held up his hand. “Do I understand that the key to the front door was left in the lock on the outside in plain view of every passer-by?”

“It wasn’t exactly in plain view,” protested Mitchell. “We didn’t see it at once, and the sidewalk is some distance from the house, which stands on a high terrace. Passers-by could not see the key in the lock unless they ran up the steps and stood in the vestibule of the front door.”

“Was the door locked?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Was it a spring lock?”

“No, Sir.” Mitchell drew an old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and handed it to the coroner. “That lock, Sir, was made by hand many years ago. It’s the kind that if you lock the door, either from the inside or the outside, the door could not be opened unless you had the key to unlock it.”

“Then, Inspector, some person, on leaving the Baird house, locked the door on the outside, and thereby locked in any person or persons who might have been in the house at that time?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Ump!” Penfield picked up the brass key and handed it to the foreman of the jury. “Did you find finger marks on the key?” he asked.

“No, not one.” Mitchell hesitated. “Whoever handled the key wore gloves.”

“Very likely.” Penfield spoke more briskly. “What did you discover inside the house, Inspector?”

“We found no one in the hall; so we walked into the parlor which is on the right of the front door. No one was there, so we kept on through the door opening into the rear hall, and from there walked into the library.” Mitchell paused dramatically. “There we found Miss Baird’s dead body lying huddled up in a big chair in front of her tea table.”

“Had she been taking tea?”

“Yes, judging from the plate of sandwiches and cakes, and her nearly empty teacup.” Mitchell explained in detail. “There was a plate in front of her on which lay a half-eaten peach.”

“Was there evidence to show that some one had been having tea with Miss Baird?” inquired Penfield.

“Only one cup and saucer and plate had been used, Sir.”

“And the chairs, how were they placed?”

“About as usual, I imagine.” Mitchell looked a trifle worried. “There was no chair drawn up to the tea table, if you mean that. Only Miss Baird’s chair stood close by it.”

“What did you do upon the discovery of Miss Baird’s body?” asked Penfield, after a pause.

“Made sure that she was dead and not in need of a physician, then sent O’Bryan to telephone to the coroner, while Myers and I searched the house,” replied Mitchell.

“Did you find any one in the house?”

“No, Sir. It was empty, except for the dead woman and a cat.”

The inspector’s reply caused a stir of interest, and one juror started to address him, then, conscious of attracting attention, decided not to speak.

“Did you find the windows and doors locked?” inquired Penfield, after a second’s thought.

“Yes; that is, those on the first floor and in the basement were locked,” explained Mitchell. “The windows on the second and third floors were unlocked, but closed. Sunday was a cold day,” he added.

“In your opinion, Mitchell, could the house have been entered from the second story?” asked Penfield.

The inspector considered the question before answering. “No, Sir, not without a ladder, and we found none on the premises. The house sets back in its own grounds, so to speak, and the neighboring houses are quite far away. There is no party wall, and no porch roof to aid a housebreaker.”

“That is all for the present, Inspector. As you go out, ask O’Bryan to come here.”

The plain clothes officer kept them waiting only a brief second. His testimony simply corroborated that of his superior officer, and Patrolman Myers, who followed him, added nothing of interest. Upon his departure from the platform, his place was taken by an old negro, who, with some difficulty, mounted the steps and hobbled across the platform to the witness chair.

“What is your name?” asked Coroner Penfield, who had waited in some impatience while the witness was being sworn.

“Oscar, Sah, please, Sah.”

“Oscar what?”

“Oscar Benjamin De Cassenove Jackson, Sah.”

“Well, Oscar, are you acquainted with the nature of an oath?”

“Laws, Sah, ain’t I been married mos’ forty years? My wife, she’s kinda handy wif her tongue,” and Oscar smiled, deprecatingly.

“I am not alluding to swearing,” exclaimed Penfield. “I mean the sort of oath requiring you to tell the truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Laws, Sah, I tells de truf every day o’ my life,” replied Oscar with some indignation. “’Tain’t no occasion to tell me that.”

“Very well.” Penfield spoke with sternness. “Remember, you are under oath to tell only the truth. When did you last see Miss Susan Baird alive?”

Oscar blinked at the abruptness of the question. “Sunday mawning, Sah, when I was servin’ dinner at one o’clock.”

“Did she appear to be in good spirits?” asked Penfield. “In good health—” he added, noting Oscar’s mystified expression.

“Yessir. She ate real hearty, and when I went in de lib’ry after dinner, she was jes’ as peaceful an’ ca’m, a-sittin’ in that great easy chair o’ hers as if she never had had no words with Miss Kitty.”

“Oh, so Miss Baird had words with Miss Kitty—and who might Miss Kitty be?”

A startled look flitted across Ted Rodgers’ face, to be gone the next instant. He had followed the testimony of each witness with undivided attention, answering only in monosyllables the muttered remarks made to him occasionally by Ben Potter, whose expression of boredom had given place to more lively interest at sight of Oscar on his way to the witness chair.

“Who am Miss Kitty?” asked Oscar in scandalized surprise. “Why, Miss Baird’s niece. They live together, leastwise they did ’till yesterday. Poor ole Miss, she didn’t mean no harm—”

“No harm to whom?” questioned Penfield swiftly.

“To Miss Kitty. She jes’ said she wouldn’t have no such carrying-on,” explained Oscar.

“To what did she refer?”

Oscar favored the coroner with a blank stare. “I dunno, Sah. That’s all o’ de conversation that I overheard.”

Penfield regarded him attentively, but the old man’s gaze did not waver, and after a moment he resumed his examination.

“How long have you worked for Miss Baird?”

“’Most twenty years, Sah.”

“And what did you do for her?”

“I cooked, waited on de table, tended de fires and de garden, cleaned de house, an’ run errands,” ended Oscar with a flourish, and Penfield had difficulty in suppressing a smile. Oscar’s rheumatic legs did not suggest an agile errand boy.

“Who were the other servants?”

“Weren’t none,” tersely. “Miss Baird, she wouldn’t keep no yeller help, so Mandy, my wife, washed de clothes, an’ I done de rest.”

“Did you and Mandy sleep in Miss Baird’s house?”

“No, Sah. We lives in our own house, two blocks away.”

“What were your working hours?”

“Hey?” Oscar stroked his wooly head reflectively. “’Most all day,” he volunteered finally. “Mandy had one o’ her spells yesterday mawnin’ an’ I had ter get a doctah fo’ her, an’ that’s why I never reached Miss Baird’s ’til ’bout noon.”

“I see.” Penfield sat back in his chair and fumbled with his watch charm. Oscar as a witness was a disappointment, whatever his accomplishments as an all-round servant. “At what hour did you leave Miss Baird’s on Sunday?”

“’Bout half-past two,” answered Oscar, after due thought.

“And whom did you leave in the house?”

“Miss Baird and her niece, Miss Kitty.”

“No one else—no visitor?”

“No, Sah.”

“Think again, Oscar. Remember, you are under oath. Did either Miss Baird or Miss Kitty Baird have callers before you left on Sunday afternoon?”

“No, Sah, they did not, not while I was there.”

Penfield pushed back his chair and rose. “That will do, Oscar, you are excused. Hume,” to the Morgue Master. “Call Miss Katrina Baird.”

CHAPTER VI
TESTIMONY

There was craning of necks and bending of heads as the Morgue Master opened the door leading to the room where the witnesses waited to be called, and every eye was focussed on Kitty Baird as she stepped into the court room.

“Don’t look so startled, Kitty,” whispered Dr. Leonard McLean in her ear. He had retained his seat by the door, expecting to leave at any moment. “This inquest is only a legal formality.”

“But these people—the publicity,” she faltered.

“Move on, Miss, move on,” directed Hume, the Morgue Master. “You can’t talk to the witnesses, Doctor. This way, Miss,” and interposing his thickset, stocky figure between Leonard and Kitty, he followed her to the platform and administered the oath: “To tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Kitty sat down in the witness chair with a feeling of thankfulness. The space between it and the door through which she had entered had seemed an endless distance as she traversed it. Coroner Penfield swung his chair around so as to obtain a better view of her.

“Your full name?” he asked.

“Katrina Baird.” Her low voice barely reached the jurors, and Penfield smiled at her encouragingly.

“Please speak louder,” he suggested. “Were you related to Miss Susan Baird?”

“Yes; she was my aunt,” Kitty’s voice gained in strength as her confidence returned. “My father, Judge George Baird, was her only brother.”

“You made your home in Georgetown with your aunt?”

“Yes, ever since the death of my parents.”

“And who else resided with your aunt?”

“No one.”

“No servants?”

“No. Our only servant, Oscar, never slept in the house.”

“Did your aunt ever employ another servant?”

“No.”

“No chambermaid?”

“No.” Kitty’s flush was becoming to her, the coroner decided. The added color brought out the blue of her eyes and softened the haggard lines which had come overnight. “My aunt could not afford to employ two servants, so we looked after the house, Oscar doing the heavy work. He was always faithful and kind.”

“And devoted to your aunt?” with a quick look at her.

“Yes, certainly,” she responded, calmly.

There was a brief pause before Penfield again addressed her, and Kitty, her first nervous dread of facing the crowded court room a thing of the past, allowed her gaze to wander about the room. It was with a sharp stab of pain that she recognized more than one familiar face among the spectators. Could it be that men and women whom her aunt had counted among her friends and whom she had entertained in her limited way had come to the inquest from curiosity? Kitty shivered, the idea shocked her.

“Did you spend last Sunday at home, Miss Baird?” asked Penfield.

“No, not the entire day,” she replied. “I left there about three o’clock in the afternoon to go to my cousin, Mrs. Benjamin Potter, at whose apartment I was to spend the night.”

“Was it your custom to leave your aunt alone in the house at night?”

“Not a custom, certainly; but I did occasionally stay overnight with friends or with my cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Potter, in Washington,” Kitty explained. “Aunt Susan was never afraid of being left alone in the house. And, of course, I was at my work all through the day.”

“And what is your work, Miss Baird?”

“I am employed as a social secretary by Mrs. Amos Parsons,” she replied, concisely. “I am with her from nine in the morning until four in the afternoon.”

“Only on week days?”

“Yes. I have Sunday to myself.”

“And how did you spend last Sunday, Miss Baird?”

“I went to church in the morning.”

“Alone?”

“No. Major Leigh Wallace accompanied me.”

“Did Major Wallace return to your house with you?”

“No.”

The curtly spoken monosyllable brought a sharp glance from the coroner, of which she appeared unaware.

“At what hour did you reach your house, Miss Baird?” he asked.

“After church—” she considered a moment. “To be exact, about a quarter of one.”

“Did you and your aunt lunch alone?”

“Yes. We had no guests,” briefly.

“And what did you do after luncheon?”

“It wasn’t luncheon, it was dinner,” she explained. “I went upstairs almost immediately after it was served, and changed my dress preparatory to going out.”

“When did you last see your aunt alive?” asked Penfield.

“As I was leaving the house,” Kitty spoke more hurriedly, “I looked into her bedroom and called out ‘Good-by!’”

“Miss Baird,” Penfield let his eyeglasses dangle from their ribbon and stood up. “Was your aunt expecting guests at tea on Sunday afternoon?”

“I am sure she was not,” she replied. “Aunt Susan always asked me to arrange the tea table if she had invited any of her friends to come and see her. She was, eh, formal and insisted that her guests be given tea when they called.”

“Was it your aunt’s custom to drink tea every afternoon whether she had guests or not?”

“Oh, yes. She had a spirit lamp and a tea caddy in the library, and made tea for herself,” Kitty responded. “But if any friends were coming she insisted always that the table be especially arranged—sandwiches—and all that,” a trifle vaguely. Kitty was growing tired of answering questions which appeared to lead nowhere.

Coroner Penfield picked up several sheets of paper and thumbed them over until he came to a penciled memorandum.

“There were two sandwiches and some peaches on the tea table in front of your aunt,” he remarked. “Who prepared those sandwiches?”

For the second time Kitty colored hotly. “The sandwiches were left over from some I made on Saturday when Aunt Susan entertained Mrs. Amos Parsons at tea.”

“And the peaches—” questioned Penfield.

“I don’t know where Aunt Susan got the peaches,” she said, with a quick shrug of her shoulders. “Probably Oscar brought them to her on Sunday morning when I was out. He knew her fondness for them.”

“Did you not always know what supplies you had in your larder?”

“Why, no.” With a lift of her eyebrows. “Oscar did the marketing.”

Penfield laid down the papers in his hand. “Was your aunt in her normal health on Sunday?” he asked.

“Apparently so; I never observed any change in her.”

“Had she complained of illness recently?”

“No. On the contrary, she seemed brighter and more cheerful during the past ten days,” Kitty answered.

“Was she ever despondent?”

“No,” promptly. “She always looked on the bright side of things. I—” with a fleeting smile—“I was the pessimist of the family.”

“I see.” Coroner Penfield regarded her thoughtfully. She looked barely out of her ‘teens,’ and hers was certainly not the face of a pessimist—youth, good health, and good looks did not conspire to a gloomy outlook on life. “Who were your aunt’s intimate friends?”

“Do you mean women of her own age?”

“Yes; of her age, and also of yours.”

Kitty debated the question thoughtfully before answering it. “Not many of Aunt Susan’s old friends are alive,” she said. “Aunty had just passed her seventieth birthday. She liked all my friends.”

“All?”

“Yes.” Kitty regarded him steadfastly. She had noted the emphasis on the word “all.” A moment passed before the coroner addressed her again.

“Miss Baird, have you unlimited telephone service?”

“Why, yes.” Kitty’s tone expressed surprise. “We have always had unlimited service.”

Penfield paused and wrote a few lines on his memorandum pad. When he spoke, his voice had gained an added seriousness.

“Were you and your aunt always on the best of terms?” he asked.

Kitty sat erect and her hands dropped on the arms of her chair.

“Your question is impertinent,” she said cuttingly, and, in spite of himself, Penfield flushed.

“I insist upon an answer,” he retorted. “A truthful answer.”

“Dr. Penfield!” Kitty rose.

“Be seated, Madam. A witness cannot leave until dismissed by the coroner.” Penfield spoke with unwonted severity. “I will change my question. What did you and Miss Baird quarrel about on Sunday?”

“Quarrel?”

“Yes, Madam, quarrel. Your servant, Oscar, overheard you.”

Kitty’s bright color had flown. With eyes expressing her scorn, she threw back her head defiantly.

“Ask Oscar,” she suggested. “Servants’ gossip may prove diverting—whether truthful or not.”

Penfield watched her for an intolerable moment. Kitty’s breath was coming unevenly when he finally spoke.

“You are excused, Miss Baird,” he stated briefly, and turned to the Morgue Master. “Summon Mrs. Benjamin Potter, Hume,” he directed.

Kitty’s sudden dismissal by the coroner was a shock to the reporters as well as to the spectators, and they watched her leave the room with undisguised curiosity and disappointment. Were they to be cheated out of a sensational scene? Why had not Coroner Penfield pressed home his question?

Nina Potter’s entrance cut short speculation and the reporters watched her take her place in the witness chair with renewed hope. Her self-possessed air was a surprise to Ted Rodgers, who secretly considered her a bundle of nerves. She looked extremely pretty and Coroner Penfield watched her admiringly as the oath was being administered. From his seat on the second row, Ben Potter leaned against Rodgers, regardless of the latter’s discomfort, in his endeavor to get an uninterrupted view of his wife.

“Mrs. Potter,” Coroner Penfield had again resumed his seat. “What relation are you to Miss Katrina Baird?”

“No relation, except by marriage.” Her voice, though low, held a carrying quality, and reached the ears of all in the room. “My husband is her second cousin.”

“Have you known her long?”

“Since my marriage to her cousin, six months ago,” briefly.

“Did you know her aunt, Miss Susan Baird?”

“Oh, yes, very well. We frequently took Sunday dinner with them.”

“Did you ever hear Miss Susan Baird express a dislike for any particular person?”

Nina shook her head, while a faint smile drew down the corners of her pretty mouth. “Miss Susan disliked a great many people,” she said. “Me, among them. In fact, I never heard her make a complimentary remark about any one.”

Penfield looked taken aback. “Miss Baird was eccentric, was she not?”

“Yes, not to say odd.”

“Exactly what do you mean?”

Nina raised her eyebrows and pursed up her mouth before answering.

“If Miss Baird was calling upon friends and liked the tea cakes, she would open her bag and pour the cakes into it,” she explained. “If she was shopping downtown and grew weary, she would look about and if she saw a motor car belonging to any of her friends waiting at the curb, she would inform the chauffeur he was to take her home. And—” Mrs. Potter’s smile was most engaging, “Miss Baird always got her own way.”

“Until her death—” dryly. “It looked as if some one balked her there.”

“Yes—and who was that some one?” questioned Mrs. Potter sweetly.

Coroner Penfield concealed his annoyance under a pretense of hunting for a pencil among the papers on his table. While listening intently to the dialogue between Penfield and Mrs. Potter, Ted Rodgers had grown aware that Ben Potter was gnawing his nails. Rodgers loathed small noises. He was about to remonstrate when Potter leaned back and whispered in his ear:

“I always told you Nina was clever; bless her heart!”

Rodgers attempted no reply as he waited for Coroner Penfield’s next question.

“Did Miss Kitty Baird spend Sunday night at your apartment, Mrs. Potter?” asked Penfield.

“She did,” with quiet emphasis. “She came in time to help me serve tea in my husband’s studio, stayed to dinner, and retired early. We had breakfast at nine o’clock, after which she returned to Georgetown.”

“That is all, Mrs. Potter, thank you,” and Penfield assisted her down the steps, then turned aside to speak to Hume. “Recall Oscar Jackson,” he said.

Mrs. Potter had almost reached the door when it opened to admit Major Leigh Wallace. He failed to see her in his hurry to secure a seat vacated by an elderly woman who was just leaving and brushed by without greeting. Nina’s pretty color had vanished when she reached her motor parked near the Morgue. She did not start the engine, however, upon entering the car but sat waiting with untiring patience for the inquest to adjourn.

Nina’s exit from the court room had been closely watched by two pairs of eyes. When Rodgers turned to speak to Potter, he found him sitting well back in his chair, and his whole attention centered on Major Leigh Wallace. The latter, entirely oblivious of the identity of the men and women about him, sat regarding the coroner and the jury while his restless fingers rolled a swagger stick held upright between the palms of his hands.

Coroner Penfield hardly allowed the old negro servant time to take his seat again in the witness chair, before addressing him.

“What were Miss Baird and her niece, Miss Kitty, quarreling about on Sunday?” he asked.

“W-w-what yo’ ax?” Oscar’s breath, such as he had left after his exertions in reaching the platform, deserted him, and he stared in dumb surprise at the coroner.

“You have testified that you overheard Miss Baird and her niece quarreling,” Penfield spoke slowly and with emphasis. “What were they quarreling about? Come,” as the old man remained silent. “We are awaiting your answer.”

“Yessir.” Oscar ducked his head, and the whites of his eyes showed plainly as he rolled them in fright, first toward the jury and then toward the coroner. “Yessir, ’twarn’t much of a fuss; leastways, it might o’ been wuss, but Miss Kitty, she done jes’ walk upstairs.”

“What was it about?” insisted Penfield.

“Well ’er,” Oscar fingered his worn cap nervously. “Miss Susan, she didn’t think much of some of Miss Kitty’s beaux—jes’ didn’t want her to get married nohow—’specially that there Major Wallace. An’ she ups an’ tells Miss Kitty she mus’ get rid o’ him, or she would—”

“Would what—?”

“Git rid o’ him,” explained Oscar. “Miss Susan jes’ despised him, even if he did lay himself out to please her.”

“Was Major Wallace there on Sunday?” inquired the coroner.

“No, Sah.” With vigorous emphasis. “The Major ain’t been there for mos’ two weeks. Miss Susan and him had words.”

“Ah, indeed. When?”

“’Bout two weeks ago, p’r’aps longer. Major Wallace kep’ callin’, an’ Miss Susan up an’ tole him Miss Kitty couldn’t be bothered with his company.” Oscar came to a breathless pause. He had caught sight of a man leaving his seat and recognized Major Leigh Wallace. The next second the door had opened and closed behind Wallace’s retreating figure.

Penfield’s stern voice recalled Oscar’s wandering wits.

“Did you do the marketing on Saturday, Oscar?” he asked.

“Yes, Sah.” Oscar spoke more cheerfully at the change of the topic.

“Did you buy some peaches for Miss Baird?”

“Deed, I didn’t, Sah. Miss Susan hadn’t no money to buy peaches at dis time o’ year,” Oscar’s voice expressed astonishment. “Dis hyar month am March.”

“We have them from California.” Penfield was growing impatient, and his manner stiffened as he faced the old negro. “Who purchased the peaches which Miss Baird was eating just before she died?”

“I dunno, Sah; honest to God, I dunno.” Oscar shook a puzzled head. “I was flabbergasted to see them peaches on the tea table. They weren’t in the house when I was gettin’ dinner, an’ they weren’t there when I left after servin’ dinner.”

“Is that so?” Penfield stared at Oscar. The black face of the negro was as shiny as a billiard ball and about as expressionless. “That is all, Oscar, you may retire.”

Hardly waiting for the servant to descend the steps, Penfield turned to the deputy coroner whose busy pen had been transcribing the notes of the inquest.

“Dr. Fisher, take the stand,” he directed, and waited in silence while he was being sworn.

“You performed the autopsy, Doctor?” he asked.

“I did, Sir, in the presence of the Morgue Master and Dr. Leonard McLean,” responded the deputy coroner.

“State the results of the autopsy.”

“We found on investigation of the gastric contents that death was due to prussic acid, the most active of poisons,” Fisher replied, with blunt directness. “There was no other cause of death, as from the condition of her body, we found Miss Baird, in spite of her age, did not suffer from any organic disease.”

The silence lengthened in the court room. Penfield did not seem in haste to put the next question and the suspense deepened.

“Can you estimate how long a time must have elapsed between Miss Baird taking the poison and her death?” he asked finally.

“Between two and five minutes, judging from the amount of poison in her system,” responded Fisher.

“Can you tell us how the poison was administered, Doctor?” questioned Penfield. “Did you analyze the contents of the tea pot and cup?”

“Yes. No trace of poison was in either the cup or the teapot.” Fisher spoke with deliberation, conscious that his words were listened to with breathless interest. “There was on her plate a half-eaten peach on which still remained enough poison to kill several persons.”

Penfield broke the tense pause.

“Have you any idea, Doctor, how the poison got on the peach?”

“On examination we found that drops of prussic acid still remained on the fruit knife used to cut the peach.” Fisher hesitated a brief instant, then continued, “The poison had been put on one side of the knife-blade only.”

“You mean—”

“That whoever ate the other portion of the peach was not poisoned.”

CHAPTER VII
MRS. PARSONS HAS CALLERS

CORONER’S INQUEST RETURNS
OPEN VERDICT
Miss Susan Baird Killed by Party or
Parties Unknown

Mrs. Amos Parsons laid down her evening newspaper and stared at her own reflection in the upright, silver-framed mirror standing on the table by her side. So absorbing were her thoughts that she did not observe a velvet-footed servant remove the tea tray and carry off the soiled cups and saucers. The French clock on the high mantel of the drawing room had ticked away fully ten minutes before she stirred. With an indolent gesture of her hands, eminently characteristic, she dropped them in her lap and let her body relax against the tufted chair back. Her mirror told her that she needed rest; the deep shadows under her eyes and her unusual pallor both emphasized the same story. She was very, very weary.

“Beg pardon, Madam.” The velvet-footed butler was back in the room again, silver salver in hand. “A gentleman to see you.”

Mrs. Parsons picked up the small visiting card and adjusting her lorgnette, inspected the engraved lettering it bore.

MR. BENJAMIN POTTER
Cosmos Club

“Where is Mr. Potter?” she asked.

“In the reception room downstairs, madam. He said he was in a great hurry, Madam,” as she remained silent. “He asked particularly to see you.”

“Very well; show him up. Wait—” as the servant started for the doorway. “Bring Mr. Potter upstairs in the lift.”

“Very good, Madam,” and, a second later, Mrs. Parsons was alone in her drawing room.

Leaning forward, she looked about the beautifully furnished room, then, convinced that she was its only occupant, she opened her vanity case and selecting a lip-stick, applied it, and added a touch of rouge. Lastly a powder-puff removed all outward traces of restless hours and weary waiting. She had just time to slip the puff and lip-stick inside her vanity box before the portières parted and Ben Potter hastened into the room. He stopped his rapid stride on catching sight of her and advanced more leisurely.

“Good evening, Cecilia,” he said, and paused in front of her.

She appeared not to see his half-extended hand, as she laid down her cigarette.

“Ah, Ben,” she remarked dryly. “I see that you still believe in the efficacy of a bribe.”

“If it is big enough,” composedly. “Your servant said you had denied yourself to callers so—voilà tout.”

“And why this desire to see me?”

Potter did not reply at once; instead, he scrutinized her intently. She was well worth a second glance. Her type of face belonged to the Eighteenth Century, and as she sat in her high-backed chair, her prematurely grey hair, artistically arranged, in pretty contrast to her delicately arched eyebrows, she resembled a French marquise of the court of Louis XIV. She bore Potter’s penetrating gaze with undisturbed composure. He was the first to shift his glance.

“Suppose I take a chair and we talk things over,” he suggested. “You are not very cordial-to-night.”

Mrs. Parsons smiled ironically. “Take a chair by all means; that one by the door looks substantial. Now,” as he dragged it over and placed it directly in front of her. “I will repeat my question—why do you wish to see me?”

“You ask that—and a newspaper by your side!” Potter pointed contemptuously at the paper lying on the floor. “Have you seen Kitty Baird since the inquest?”

Mrs. Parsons shook her head. “There was hardly time for her to get here; besides she must be very weary, not to say—unstrung.” She held out her cigarette case, but Potter waved it away, making no effort politely to restrain his impatience. “So dear Miss Susan Baird was poisoned after all.”

“And why ‘after all’?” swiftly. “Why ‘dear Miss Susan’?”

A shrug of her shapely shoulders answered him. “You are always so intense, Ben,” she remarked. “Why not ‘dear Miss Susan’? Had you any reason to dislike your cousin?”

“Had any one any reason to like her?” he asked gruffly. “You don’t need to be told that.” His smile had little mirth in it. “The poor soul is dead—murdered.” He looked at her queerly. “How much does Kitty see of Major Leigh Wallace?”

Mrs. Parsons selected another cigarette with care. “So that is the reason I am honored by a visit from you.” Tossing back her head, she inspected him from head to foot. “How am I qualified to answer your question? I am not Kitty’s guardian.”

“No, but you are her employer,” with quiet emphasis. “And Major Wallace is a frequent caller here.”

“Is he?” Her smile was enigmatical. “May I ask the reason of your sudden interest in Major Wallace?”

Potter colored hotly. “That is my affair,” he retorted. “Were you at the Baird inquest this morning?”

“No.”

“Have you read the newspaper account of it?”

“Yes.”

“And what is your opinion?”

She shook her head. “I have formed none.”

“Oh, come!” Potter smiled skeptically, then frowned. “Kitty must be safeguarded,” he announced with gruff abruptness.

“From Major Wallace?—”

“Perhaps—”

She considered him a moment in silence. Potter’s big frame did not show to best advantage in his sack suit which betrayed the need of sponging and pressing. The naturalist seldom gave a thought to his personal appearance.

“How is your wife?” she asked.

Potter started a trifle at the abrupt question.

“Quite well,” he replied. “But a bit fagged after the inquest. She was one of the witnesses, you know.”

“And you—”

“I was not called by the coroner,” shortly. “Ted Rodgers and I sat together in the court room. He’s a good chap, Ted—promised Kitty to help trace her aunt’s murderer.”

The pupils of Mrs. Parsons’ eyes contracted. “I did not realize that they were on such terms of intimacy,” she remarked, and her voice had grown sharper. “Do you think Mr. Rodgers will have a difficult task?”

Potter ran his fingers through his untidy grey hair. “That remains to be seen,” he replied. “So far, all that we know is that my cousin, Miss Susan Baird, was poisoned with prussic acid.”

“Is that all the police know?” she questioned rapidly.

He did not answer immediately, his attention apparently centered on the newspaper which lay folded so that the headlines were in view:

Coroner’s Inquest Returns Open Verdict

“It is all that the police will admit knowing,” he said at last. “I must remind you that you have not answered my question: how often does Kitty see Major Wallace?”

“I am unable to tell you.” There was a touch of insolence in her manner and his eyes sparkled with anger. “I do not keep tab on Kitty—” their glances crossed—“and I don’t intend to.”

Potter hesitated a second, then rose. “It was good of you to see me,” he announced. His tone was perfunctory. “My interest in Kitty prompted the visit.” He stooped over and picked up a glove which had slipped from his restless fingers to the floor. “Good-by. Don’t trouble to ring for James; I know my way out.”

But Mrs. Parsons was already half across the room and her finger touched the electric button with some force. James was a trifle out of breath when he reached them.

“Take Mr. Potter down in the lift,” she directed. “Good evening, Ben,” and with a slight, graceful gesture, she dismissed him.

Once more back in her chair Mrs. Parsons settled down in comfort and permitted her thoughts to wander far afield. It was not often that she allowed herself to dwell on the past.

“So Ted Rodgers is taking a hand in the game,” she murmured, unconscious that she spoke aloud. “And Ben Potter is interested in—Kitty.” Putting back her head, she laughed heartily. She was still chuckling to herself when James, the butler, came in to announce dinner.

Dinner with Mrs. Parsons was a formal affair even when alone, and she looked with approval at the spotless linen, the burnished silver, and glittering glass. She thoroughly appreciated her butler’s taste in table decoration. Domestic troubles, which vexed other women, never touched her household. She had one theory which she always put into practice—to pay her servants just a little more than her neighbors gave their domestics, and it was seldom that they left her employ.

Washington society had found that Mrs. Parsons was wealthy enough to indulge in her whims, and, bringing, as she did, letters of introduction from far-off California to influential residents of the national Capital, she had been entertained at houses to which newcomers frequently waited for years to gain the entrée. Well gowned, handsome rather than pretty, quick of wit, Mrs. Parsons soon attained a place for herself in the kaleidoscopic life of the cosmopolitan city, and, giving up her suite of rooms at the New Willard had, three months before, purchased a house on fashionable Wyoming Avenue.

On taking possession of what she termed her maisonnette, Mrs. Parsons decided that she had need of a social secretary. Kitty Baird had been highly recommended for the post by Charles Craige, and, after much urging on the part of both Mrs. Parsons and her godfather, Kitty had resigned her clerkship in the Department of State, which she had held during the World War, and taken up her secretarial duties.

And Kitty had been of genuine aid to her employer, as Mrs. Parsons acknowledged to herself if to no one else—she was chary of spoken praise. Kitty had not only an accurate knowledge of social life in Washington, having enjoyed belleship since her first “tea dance” at Rauscher’s which one of her aunt’s old friends had given in her honor, but possessed unbounded tact and a kindly heart. Her aunt, Miss Susan Baird, had seen to it that she was well educated and thoroughly grounded in French and German. Having a natural gift for languages, Kitty had put her early training to good account in her war work as a translator and code expert.

To James’ secret distress, Mrs. Parsons partook but indifferently of the deliciously cooked dinner, even refusing dessert which, to his mind, was inexplicable.

“Has Miss Kitty Baird telephoned at any time to-day?” she asked, laying down her napkin.

“No, Madam.” James concealed his surprise. It was not like Mrs. Parsons to repeat herself, and to his best recollection, and he had a good memory, she had asked that same question at least a dozen times. “Will you have coffee served in the drawing room, Madam?”

“I don’t care for coffee to-night, thanks.” Mrs. Parsons picked up her scarf and rose. “Tell Anton that if any one calls this evening, I am at home.”

“Very good, Madam,” and James held back the portières for her as she left the room.

Mrs. Parsons did not return to the drawing room: instead she made her way to the “den” at the end of the hall, a pretty square room, which served as a lounge and library. Once there she paused by the telephone stand and laid her hand on the instrument.

“West, 789.” She was forced to repeat the number several times before Central got it correctly.

There was a brief wait, then came the answer, “Line disconnected, ma’am,” and she heard Central ring off. Mrs. Parsons put down the instrument in bewildered surprise. “Why had Kitty Baird’s telephone been disconnected?” She was still considering the puzzle as she rearranged some “bridesmaids’ roses” in a vase. By it lay a note in Charles Craige’s fine penmanship. Picking up the note, Mrs. Parsons read it for perhaps the twentieth time.

It ran:

My precious Cecelia:

I am disconsolate that I cannot dine with you to-night. I have promised to see Kitty—poor girl, she needs all the sympathy and help we can give her. Miss me just a little and I shall be contented. My thoughts are with you always.

Ever faithfully,

Charles Craige.

“Beg pardon, Madam.” James the obsequious stood in the room, card tray in hand. “Major Leigh Wallace is waiting for you in the drawing room.”

Mrs. Parsons folded the note and slipped it inside her knitting bag. “Ask Major Wallace to come here,” she said, pausing to switch on a floor lamp, the light from which cast a becoming glow on her as she selected a chair beside it, and took up her embroidery.

“Ah, Leigh, good evening,” she exclaimed a moment later as the young officer stood by her. “Have you come to make your peace with me?”

“In what way have I offended?” Wallace asked.

“You were so rude to one of my guests at my tea yesterday.” Mrs. Parsons watched him as he made himself comfortable in a dainty settee under the lamp.

“Rude to one of your guests? Impossible!” ejaculated Wallace in surprise. “To whom do you refer?”

“Nina Potter.” Mrs. Parsons had not taken her eyes off him, and she caught the sudden shifting of his gaze. “Why are you and she no longer friendly?”

“You are mistaken.” Wallace spoke stiffly. “We are—I am still a great admirer of hers—”

“And Kitty—”

Wallace flushed to the roots of his sandy hair. “Kitty never had very much use for me,” he admitted, rather bitterly. “She—she—seems to be tired—”

“Of being a cat’s paw?”

“Mrs. Parsons!” Wallace was on his feet, his eyes snapping with anger.

“Don’t go,” Mrs. Parsons’ smile was ingratiating. “Forgive me if I blunder, Leigh. Sometimes an outsider sees most of the game. Will you take a friendly piece of advice—”

“Surely,” but Wallace was slow in reseating himself.

“Then avoid Ben Potter.” Mrs. Parsons picked up her neglected embroidery, and did not trouble to glance at her guest.

Wallace’s attempt at a laugh was something of a failure. “I saw Potter an hour ago at the club,” he volunteered. “He told me that he and his wife were leaving for New York to-night.”

“Indeed.” Mrs. Parsons held her needle nearer the light and threaded it with deft fingers. “Is Kitty Baird going with them?”

“I believe not.” Wallace moved a trifle and shaded his face with his hand. “I’ve just come from ‘Rose Hill.’”

“And how is Kitty? Did you see her?” Mrs. Parsons spoke with such rapidity that her questions ran together.

“No.” Wallace compressed his lips. “She sent down word that she begged to be excused.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Parsons lowered her embroidery and regarded her companion. He looked wretchedly ill, and the haggard lines were deeper than ever. For a man of his height and breadth of shoulder, he seemed to have shrunken, for his clothes appeared to hang upon him. Dwelling on his ill-health would not tend to lessen Wallace’s nervous condition, and Mrs. Parsons omitted personalities. “Were you at the Baird inquest?” she inquired.

“Yes, that is, I got there late—” stumbling somewhat in his speech. “Why don’t you go and see Kitty, Cecelia? That house of hers is sort of ghastly—”

“For any one who suffers from nerves,” she put in, and he flushed at the irony of her tone, “Kitty has plenty of courage. I—” she smiled. “I am inclined to think that Kitty has inherited some of her aunt’s prejudices—”

“She couldn’t inherit any likes—that abominable aunt of hers hated everybody.” Wallace spoke with such bitter feeling that Mrs. Parsons restrained a smile with difficulty.

“Poor Kitty,” her tone was full of sympathy. “I am glad she has Ted Rodgers to lean on.”

Wallace flushed angrily. “He’s the one who has made all the trouble,” he began. “If it hadn’t been for his—”

“What?” as Wallace came to an abrupt halt.

“Oh, nothing.” Wallace beat the devil’s tattoo on the chair arm. “I must be going, Cecelia. It’s a beastly bore having to turn in early, but I must obey the doctor’s orders.”

“You certainly should take better care of yourself.” Mrs. Parsons walked with Wallace to the door of the room. The house was an English basement in design, and as they came to the top of the flight of steps leading to the ground floor, Wallace held out his hand. It felt feverish to the touch and Mrs. Parsons regarded him with growing concern. “Stop and see Dr. McLean on your way home,” she advised.

“I’m all right.” Wallace laughed recklessly. “Don’t worry, I take a lot of killing. Good night.” And, squeezing her hand until the pressure forced her rings into the tender skin, he released it and ran down the steps.

Mrs. Parsons lingered long enough to hear James assisting Wallace into his overcoat and then went thoughtfully into her drawing room. The footman had left one of the window shades up and Mrs. Parsons paused to pull it down. The street was well lighted from the electric lamp opposite her doorway, and, as she stood idly looking out of the window, she saw Major Leigh Wallace start to cross the street, hesitate at the curb, turn to his left and walk eastward. He had gone but a short distance when Mrs. Parsons saw a man slip out from the doorway of the next house and start down the street after Wallace. Halfway down the block Wallace crossed the street and without glancing backward continued on his way, his shadow at his heels.

Mrs. Parsons watched them out of sight, her eyes big with suppressed excitement. When she finally pulled down the window shade her hand was not quite steady.

CHAPTER VIII
THE CASE OF THE GILA MONSTER

Unaware that he had a place in Mrs. Parsons’ meditations as well as in her conversation with Major Leigh Wallace, Ted Rogers parked his car near the entrance to “Rose Hill.” His ring at the front door bell was answered by Mandy, the ebony shadow of Oscar, her husband.

“Kin yo’ see Miss Kitty?” She repeated the question after him. “Why, I ’spect yo’ kin, Mister Rodgers. Jes’ step inside, Sah, an’ I’ll go find Miss Kitty.”

Closing the front door and putting up the night latch with much jingling, Mandy led Rodgers down the hall to the entrance of the library.

“The lamps am lighted in hyar,” she said by way of explanation. “Ole Miss never used to let Miss Kitty have a light in de odder rooms on dis flo’, cept when Oscar was a-servin’ dinner. An’ we all got so we jes’ never thought o’ carryin’ a lamp into de parlor. Make yo’self comfortable, Sah, I’ll tell Miss Kitty an’ she’ll be down terec’ly.”

With a word of thanks Rodgers passed the old servant and entered the library. The light from the two oil lamps was supplemented by a cheerful fire in the brick chimney at the farther end of the room, and its cheerful glow did much to dispel the dreary atmosphere which prevailed.

Rodgers did not at once sit down. Instead he paused in the center of the library and gravely regarded the tea table and the throne-shaped chair where he had frequently seen Miss Susan Baird sitting when entertaining guests at tea. He had a retentive memory, and as his eyes roved about the library, he pieced out the scene of the discovery of the dead woman as described on the witness stand by Inspector Mitchell.

As far as Rodgers could judge, no change had been made in the room, except in the arrangement of the tea table. The soiled dishes and tea cups had been removed, the tea service cleaned and put back, and the fruit dish, of Royal Dresden china of ancient pattern, was empty. Forgetful of the passing time, he wandered about examining with keen attention the fine oil paintings of dead and gone Bairds, the camels’ hair shawls which had been converted into portières, the Persian rugs on the hardwood floor. What matter that all showed traces of wear and tear? The room was cleanliness personified.

Genteel poverty—his surroundings cried of it. Rodgers thought, with a tightening of his heart-strings, of Kitty’s brave endeavor to keep up the old home and provide her aunt with every comfort within her means. And her aunt had been murdered. Murdered! He shook his head in bewilderment. What possible motive could have inspired such a crime? Who would murder a poverty-stricken old woman? Avarice—where was the gain? Revenge—for what? Hate—why hate a feeble old woman? There remained robbery as a possible motive. Could it be that?

Rodgers crossed over to the “Dutch” door and examined it with interest. Neither its lock nor its solid panels gave indication of having been forced open. From the door his attention passed to the three small windows, placed just under the flooring of the gallery; they appeared tightly closed and resisted his efforts to move them. The library gained its chief light in the daytime from the skylight and the windows opening upon the gallery.

Turning around, Rodgers stood hesitating, his head slightly bent to catch the faintest sound. He had heard, some moments before, Mandy’s halting footsteps as she came limping down the staircase, then along the hall to the basement stairs, and the shutting of the door after her descending figure. He looked at his watch; ten minutes had elapsed since his arrival and still Kitty had not appeared. Surely she would have sent word by Mandy if she had not wished him to wait? He took from his pocket a crumpled note and smoothed it out. The act had become a habit. He did not need to read the few lines penned on the paper—he knew them by heart.

Come to-night. I must see you. K. B.

He had obeyed the summons eagerly. Kitty had asked him to find out who killed her aunt. And the inquest had brought out what?—that Miss Susan Baird had come to her death through poison administered by a party or parties unknown. It had also disclosed the fact that the last person to see Miss Susan alive was Kitty Baird, and Oscar had testified that aunt and niece had quarreled that fatal Sunday afternoon—over Major Leigh Wallace. Rodgers whitened at the thought. Were Kitty and Wallace really engaged, as he had been given to understand by no less a person than Ben Potter? If so, he cut a sorry figure dancing attendance upon Kitty. She had grown to be all in all to him. It was a case of the moth and the candle. Rodgers smiled wryly; he could not tear himself away, even if he would, and she had asked him to aid her! Rodgers squared his shoulders. As soon as the mystery of Miss Susan Baird’s death was solved, he would leave Washington and give Wallace a clear field. Kitty was entitled to happiness.

Tired of inaction, harassed by his thought, Rodgers tramped about the room and finally paused in front of the fireplace. Mouchette, Kitty’s Angora cat, rolled over at his approach and yawned sleepily. She had awakened at his entrance, but the comfort of an excellent dinner and the heat of the fire had proven too strong to keep her awake, and she had curled up again and gone to sleep.

The hearth was set far back and two benches were framed on either hand by the walls of the chimney. They looked inviting, and, after giving Mouchette a final pat, Rodgers dropped down on one of the benches, his broad back braced across the corner of the wall, while his long legs were stretched out toward the fire burning so briskly on the hearth. He watched the play of the firelight with unconscious intensity, his mind picturing Kitty’s alluring personality. A log broke and as the burning embers struck the hearth, sparks flew out and upward. One landed on the bench on which Rodgers was sitting and he leaned forward to knock it back upon the hearth. As his hand struck the bench a glancing blow, he felt the wood give and the next instant he was gazing into a small hole.

Rodgers stared at it in deep surprise. Bending closer he saw that he must have touched a concealed spring which released the trap-door. It was not a large cavity into which he peered, hardly a foot deep and about six inches square, or so he judged in the fitful glow of the fire. He sat for a moment perfectly still, then drawing out his matchbox, struck a light and held it carefully so that its rays fell directly into the small hole. It was empty except for a medium-sized brass key to which was tied a small tag. Bending nearer, he made out the scrawled lines with some difficulty:

This key unlocks the inside drawer of the highboy in the blue room on the fourth floor.

A bell reverberating through the silent house caused Rodgers to spring up and look into the hall, in time to see Mandy emerge from behind the door leading to the basement stairs and make her way to the front of the house. A murmur of voices reached Rodgers, then a firm tread sounded down the uncarpeted hall, and parting the portières Charles Craige walked into the library.

“Hello, Rodgers,” he exclaimed in hearty greeting. “Mandy told me that you were here. Have you seen Kitty?”

“Not yet.” Rodgers shook Craige’s hand with vigor. He had grown to like and admire the brilliant lawyer whose many acts of kindness had added to the enjoyment of his visit. Besides, and Rodgers’ eyes glowed, was he not Kitty’s godfather!

“Trust Kitty to keep a man waiting,” and Craige smiled as he spoke, then grew grave. “This is a devilish bad business—not to say shocking. Poor Susan—the last person in the world whose death would have been of benefit to any one, and yet she was murdered.”

“If we are to believe the medical evidence, yes,” replied Rodgers. “Poison can be administered with murderous intent, but we must also remember that it can be taken with the intent to commit suicide.”

“True.” Craige chose a seat at some distance from the throne-shaped chair. “But I cannot associate either murder or suicide with Susan. I tell you, Rodgers, Susan had an intense desire to live, and I can conceive of no one wishing for her death sufficiently to face the gallows.”

“But the fact remains that she either did away with herself or was cold-bloodedly murdered,” retorted Rodgers.

Craige nodded his head moodily. “If murder, it was cold-blooded, premeditated murder,” he agreed. “Hush, here comes Kitty.”

A door had opened on the gallery and Kitty appeared from her bedroom, stood for a moment hesitating, then hurrying forward she almost ran down the short flight of steps to the library. She paused by the newel post as both men advanced to meet her.

“I am so glad you are here,” she exclaimed, extending her hands impulsively to each. “It has been so dreadful—alone.”

Craige laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder and patted her gently as he kissed her. “We understand,” he said. “Now, what can we do for you?”

Rodgers, who still held Kitty’s hand in both of his, released it reluctantly. He was slow of speech, but his eyes, meeting Kitty’s gaze, conveyed a message all their own. As Kitty preceded them across the library, a warm blush mantled her cheeks.

“Sit here, Miss Baird.” Rodgers placed a chair for her near the chimney while Craige pulled forward two others. Grateful for the warmth from the fire, for her bedroom was insufficiently heated, Kitty stretched out her hands to the blaze.

“Why is your telephone disconnected, Kitty?” asked Craige, after a brief silence which neither Kitty or Rodgers made any attempt to break.

“We were deluged with calls,” she explained. “Especially the newspaper reporters.” She shivered slightly. “They gave Mandy no rest.”

“But to cut yourself off from your friends, Kitty, was that wise?” chided Craige gently. “No one could reach you—I tried and failed.”

“It did not stop your coming over to ask for me,” she put in gratefully. “Ben and Nina Potter stopped for a second before dinner. They left for New York to-night.”

“Indeed?” Craige frowned. “They should have remained here with you,” noting with concern the dark shadows under her eyes and the forlorn droop to her usually erect shoulders. “You must not stay here alone.”

“But I am not alone,” she protested. “Dear, faithful Mandy is with me.”

Craige shook his head, unsatisfied. “Mandy is an ignorant colored woman, old at that,” he remarked. “You must have companionship—woman’s companionship of your own class. Why not ask Cecilia Parsons?”

“Oh, I would not think of asking her,” Kitty objected quickly. “She is so—so sensitive, so—” hunting about for the proper word. “Oh, the house, all this—would get frightfully on her nerves.”

At mention of Mrs. Parsons’ name, Rodgers glanced from one to the other, finally letting his gaze rest on the lawyer’s kindly, clever face. He had heard the rumor connecting the pretty widow’s name with Charles Craige, and that reports of their engagement persisted, in spite of Mrs. Parsons’ laughing denial and Craige’s skillfully evasive answers to all questions on the subject.

“As you please, Kitty,” replied Craige. “But I think that you are wrong not to ask Mrs. Parsons. She would not hesitate to tell you if she did not wish to come. She is frankness itself.”

Kitty raised her eyebrows and a ghost of a smile crossed her lips. “Mrs. Parsons is always most kind,” she remarked, “but I prefer not to tax her friendship.”

The look Craige cast in her direction was a bit sharp, and with some abruptness he changed the subject.

“Were you wise to have your aunt’s body put in the vault this afternoon, Kitty?” he asked. “Did you not overtax your strength? You look so utterly weary.”

“I am stronger than I appear.” Kitty passed her hand across her eyes. “I could see no object in waiting. Coroner Penfield suggested that we have simple funeral ceremonies immediately after the inquest. I tried to get word to you, but failed. It was but prolonging the agony to wait—” with a catch in her throat, “there was nothing to be gained by waiting. It would not bring her back. Oh, poor Aunt Susan!” And bowing her head Kitty gave vent to the tears she had held back for many, many hours.

Rodgers watched her in unhappy silence. Could he find nothing to say—do nothing to comfort her? He half rose impulsively to his feet—caught Craige’s eye and sat down again. Craige leaned forward and put his arms about the weeping girl and soothed her with loving words. When she grew more composed, he rose and paced up and down the library.

“Had I not better call Mandy and let her put you to bed, Kitty?” he asked, stopping by her chair. “You can see us to-morrow when you are more composed.”

“No, wait.” Kitty sat up and attempted to smile. “I am all right, now. Is it true, as the papers said, that Aunt Susan died from poison placed on a peach she was eating?”

“If we are to believe the medical evidence, yes. Chemical tests proved that prussic acid still remained on one side of the blade of the fruit knife used to cut the peach.”

Kitty shuddered. “Who could have planned so diabolical a murder?” she demanded.

“That is for us to find out.” Kitty looked up quickly at sound of Rodgers’ clear voice. “Tell me, Miss Baird, have you no idea where the peaches came from?”

“Not the slightest,” she shook her head. “I am positive there were no peaches in the house when I left here Sunday afternoon. They are very expensive at this season of the year and,” with downright frankness, “we could not afford to buy them, although Aunt Susan was inordinately fond of them.”

“Some one must have sent the peaches who was aware of your aunt’s liking for the fruit,” Craige remarked thoughtfully. “Had she spoken of peaches to any of your friends lately?”

“Friends!” Kitty looked at him with dawning horror. “You don’t think—you don’t mean that a friend killed Aunt Susan?” She thrust out her hands as if warding off some frightful nightmare. “No, no. It was a housebreaker—a common, ordinary housebreaker.”

“It may have been a housebreaker,” agreed Rodgers, soothingly. “But it was one with the knowledge that the flavor of a peach would disguise the taste of prussic acid.”

“Kitty,” Craige spoke with deep seriousness. “You must realize that this murder of your aunt was a deliberately planned crime. Burglars don’t go around carrying bottles of prussic acid in their pockets. Also, there is one point of especial significance—but one side of the knife-blade had poison on it.”

“You mean—?” She questioned him with frightened eyes.

“That some one whom your aunt knew must have been taking tea with her, and in administering the poison saw to it that his side of the peach was harmless,” Craige responded.

Kitty looked at the two men dumbly. Craige had put into words what she had dimly realized.

“It is dreadful!” she gasped. “What possible motive could have inspired her murder?”

Craige looked at Rodgers, then drawing out his leather wallet he selected a newspaper clipping and ran his eyes down the printed column.

“Tell us, Kitty,” and his voice was coaxing. “Is it true that you and your aunt quarreled on Sunday as Oscar testified?”

Kitty blanched and her eyes shifted from Rodgers to the glowing embers on the hearth.

“It wasn’t a quarrel,” she declared faintly. “Aunt Susan and I had a few words—”

“Yes,” prompted Craige. “A few words about what?”

“About money matters.” Kitty did not look at either man. Rodgers’ heart sank. Oscar had also testified that the quarrel was about Major Leigh Wallace. Could it be that Kitty was prevaricating? He put the thought from him. Oscar must have lied.

“About money matters,” Craig repeated, returning the clipping and wallet to his pocket. “Then why did you not tell that to Coroner Penfield when he questioned you in the witness stand?”

“It wasn’t his business—it had nothing to do with Aunt Susan’s death,” she stated incoherently. “And,” with a slow, painful blush, “our poverty, our painful economies were bad enough without discussing them in public.”

“Oh!” Craige cast a doubtful look at Rodgers, but the latter’s expressionless face gave the keen-witted lawyer no clue as to his opinion of Kitty’s statement. “Kitty, were you your aunt’s nearest relative?”

“Yes. Ben Potter is a second cousin, I believe.” Kitty paused. “Ben has not been here very much lately.”

“Since his marriage, you mean?” asked Craige.

Kitty glanced up and then away. “Yes. Aunt Susan poked fun at him at the time of his marriage, said she did not care for ‘poor whites,’ and Ben was very angry.”

“Was there ever an open quarrel?”

“Oh, no. Outwardly, they were good friends; and they dined here usually once a month,” Kitty explained. “But relations were strained a little bit.”

“Could you not make Ben and Nina a visit when they return from New York?” asked Craige.

“I can, if I wish,” with quick resentment. “But I prefer to stay in this house.”

“Just a moment, Kitty,” Craige held up a cautioning hand. “This house belonged to your aunt, did it not?”

“Yes. But I—” she hesitated. “I ran the house with the money I earned. I can still do that.”

“True, if the house is left to you.” Kitty stared at her godfather aghast. “Did your aunt leave her will in your care?”

“No.”

“Did she ever speak to you of a will?”

“No; she never mentioned the subject.”

Craige looked at her thoughtfully. “It may be that your aunt made no will,” he said finally. “I transacted such legal matters as she brought to me, but I never drew up a will.”

“But as Miss Baird is her aunt’s nearest living relative, would she not inherit her aunt’s property?” asked Rodgers.

“Possibly; but Ben Potter may claim his share of the estate,” the lawyer pointed out.

“Estate!” broke in Kitty with a nervous laugh. “Poor Aunt Susan had only this house and its dilapidated furniture. Ben is welcome to his share.”

“Just a moment,” Craige interrupted in his turn. “Your aunt must have left a will or some legal document regarding the disposal of her property. She had a great habit of tucking her papers away. You recollect our search for the tax receipts, Kitty?”

Kitty’s face brightened into one of her mischievous smiles, while her eyes twinkled.

“Aunt Susan was secretive,” she acknowledged. “It was a case of searching for lump sugar even, when she was in the mood for hiding things.”

“Hiding!” Rodgers rose to his feet and his eyes sought the bench where he had found the trap-door. “Come here, Miss Baird,” and he beckoned them to approach. “I opened that by accident just before Mr. Craige arrived—see.”

Kitty slipped her hand inside the cavity and drew out the key.

“I remember the trap-door,” she said. “If you press on a spring concealed in one of the boards, the door drops inward. But what does this tag mean?” and they read the words aloud:

This key unlocks the inside drawer of the highboy in the blue room on the fourth floor.

“Let us go and see what it means,” suggested Rodgers, and Craige nodded his agreement.

“Lead the way, Kitty,” he added. “Do you need a lamp?”

“There is a candlestick outside my bedroom door, and we can light the gas jets as we go through the halls,” she replied.

Pausing only long enough to pick up several small match boxes, she led the way out of the library and up the long staircase. A light was burning dimly in the first hall and Rodgers turned it up before following Kitty and her godfather to the next story. From there they hurried to the fourth floor, Kitty’s candle but intensifying the darkness.

The stuffy atmosphere of a room long unused greeted them as they entered a large square room facing the front of the house. With the aid of her candle, Kitty located the one gas jet and by its feeble rays they looked about them. The room evidently obtained its name from its faded blue wall paper. The old four-post bed and the massive mahogany furniture belonged to another and richer generation, but Rodgers had no time to investigate its beauties, his attention being focussed on a highboy standing near one of the windows. Kitty again read the message on the tag before approaching the highboy.

“The inside drawer,” she repeated. “What does she mean?”

For answer Rodgers pulled open the nearest drawer. It was filled with old finery, and after tumbling its contents about, Kitty closed it.

“Try the next,” suggested Craige. The second drawer proved equally unproductive of result, and it was with growing discouragement that they went through the next three and found them also uninteresting. On pulling out the last drawer Kitty found it arranged as a writing desk.

“I have seen this kind before,” Rodgers felt along the front of the drawer; there was a faint click and the front woodwork swung aside, disclosing an inside drawer.

Kitty slipped the key she was carrying into the lock. It turned with a slight squeaking sound, showing the need of oil, and Kitty drew open the drawer. Inside it lay another brass key also tagged.

“What does it say?” she asked as Rodgers picked it up.

He read:

This key unlocks the lower left hand drawer of the sideboard in the dining room.

“Is that your aunt’s handwriting?”

“Yes.” Kitty looked as mystified as she felt. “Shall we go downstairs and look in the sideboard?”

“Of course.” As he spoke, Craige started for the door. It took them but a few minutes to reach the dining room, and it was with a sense of rising excitement that Kitty unlocked the “lower left hand drawer” of the sideboard.

“Good gracious! Another key!” she gasped, and held it up so that both men could read the tag tied to it.

The message ran:

This key unlocks the linen trunk in the attic.

“Upon my word your aunt outdid herself!” exclaimed Craige. “Come, Kitty, as long as we have started this investigation, we must complete it.”

Not having anticipated having to return to the top of the house, Rodgers had carefully put out all the lights, and relighting the gas jets delayed them somewhat. Kitty’s candle had almost burned itself out when they entered the cold and unfriendly attic. No gas pipes had been placed there, and Rodgers was thankful that his electric torch, which he carried when motoring at night, was in his pocket. By its rays Kitty recognized the old-fashioned brass-bound hair trunk in which her aunt had kept some precious pieces of hand woven linen.

Crouching down on the floor with Rodgers holding his torch so that she could see the best, Kitty turned the key in the lock and threw back the lid of the trunk. On the spotless white linen lay a small brass key with a tag twice its size. The message it bore read:

This key unlocks the case of the Gila monster.

“The case of the Gila monster,” repeated Rodgers. “What did your aunt mean?”

“I know!” Kitty clapped her hands. “Ben Potter spent the summer with Aunt Susan two years ago and he left one of his cases here. It contains the plaster cast of a Gila monster.”

“And where is the case?” asked Craige.

“In the library.”

“Then let us go there at once. You will catch cold up in this icy place, Kitty.” Observing that she was shivering, Craige closed the trunk with a resounding bang, drew out the key, and preceded them out of the attic.

Back in the library again, Kitty walked over to a Japanese screen, which cut off one corner of the room, and pushing it aside, disclosed a low oak case on which rested a glass box. Inside the box lay the cast of a Gila monster. The poisonous lizard looked so alive that Rodgers was startled for a moment. Bending closer, he viewed its wedge-shaped head and black and yellow mottled body with deep interest.

“So that is the end of our search!” Kitty laughed ruefully. “Aunt Susan had a remarkable sense of humor.”

“Wait a bit,” exclaimed Rodgers. “Why not unlock the case?”

“If you wish—” Kitty inserted the key in the lock and pulled down the glass door of the box, and she and her companions stared silently at the monster. Suddenly, Rodgers leaned forward and picked up the plaster cast. An exclamation broke from Craige.

“Papers at last!” he shouted. “Look, Kitty—Rodgers—” and as Rodgers removed the cast entirely out of the glass case, they saw that a part of the flooring of the box, which was built to resemble a sandy desert, came with the lizard, leaving a cavity, or false bottom, in which lay some documents. Gathering them up, Craige walked over to the nearest lamp and drawing up a chair sat down.

“With your permission, Kitty,” he said. “These papers are not sealed—shall I open them?”

“Certainly.”

Craige pulled out a short half sheet of foolscap from the first envelope and read its contents aloud:

Know all present that I, Susan Baird, spinster, of Washington, D. C., being of sound mind, do give and devise to my niece, Katrina Baird, all I may die possessed of, real or personal property. This is a special bequest in view of her efforts to support me.

A list of my property and a key to my safe deposit boxes in the bank, certificates of ownership, etc., are placed here with this, my last will and testament.

Signed in the presence of:
Josiah Wilkins, Martha Hammond, and James Duncan, June 20, 1918.

Susan Baird.

Kitty and Rodgers stared at each other as Craige, laying aside the will, rapidly opened the three other documents and examined them. Kitty drew a long, long breath.

“So I get the old house after all,” she said softly.

“You get far more than that, Kitty,” Craige laid down the documents. “From these statements and certificates I find that your aunt owned many valuable stocks and bonds.” He looked at the surprised girl for a moment, then added: “She has left you a fortune.”

CHAPTER IX
MRS. PARSONS ASKS QUESTIONS

Washington society, or such portions of it as had known Miss Susan Baird in her lifetime, was agog over the latest development in the Baird tragedy; while Washingtonians personally unacquainted with the spinster were equally interested from motives of curiosity in the filing of her will. And all Washington, figuratively speaking, rubbed its eyes and read the newspapers assiduously, without, however, gaining much satisfaction. News from Police Headquarters was scant, and reporters resorted to theories in place of facts in trying to solve the murder of the “Miser of Rose Hill.” Miss Susan Baird, in death, had emerged from the obscurity which had shrouded her in life.

Inspector Mitchell leaned forward in his chair, rested his elbows on the highly polished mahogany table-top and contemplated Mrs. Parsons with speculative interest. Three quarters of an hour before he had received a telephone message requesting him to call upon her on, as her servant had stated, urgent business. He had spent ten minutes in conversation with Mrs. Parsons and had not received the faintest inkling as to why she wished to see him.

“May I ask, Madam,” he began with direct bluntness, “what it is that you wish to see me about?”

Mrs. Parsons looked across the “den” to make sure that the door was closed. Satisfied on that point, she turned her attention to the inspector.

“I am anxious to have your bureau undertake a certain investigation for me,” she said. “I will gladly meet all expenses, no matter how large they may be.”

“Just a moment,” broke in Mitchell. “Do you mean a private investigation?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” somewhat doubtfully. “You might term it that. I want certain information about a—a person’s past career—”

She stopped as Mitchell shook his head.

“We are public officials, Madam, employed by the District Government,” he explained. “What you require is a private detective.”

“But are they not untrustworthy?” she questioned. “I was told they very often sold you out to the person you wished watched.”

“There are crooks in all trades, Madam,” replied Mitchell. “There are also honest men. You are not obliged to pick a crooked detective to work for you.”

“That is just it— Can you recommend a trustworthy person to—to—”

“To what, Madam?” as she came to a stammering halt.

“To learn certain facts in a person’s life.” She plucked nervously at her handkerchief as she waited for his answer.

“You will have to be more explicit, Madam,” he said gravely. “Whose past life do you wish investigated and why?”

Mrs. Parsons paused in indecision; then with an air of perfect candor addressed the impatient inspector.

“Of course you will respect my confidence,” she began. Mitchell nodded. “There is a certain man in Washington who has gained a welcome in the most exclusive homes,” she paused. “I believe him to be an adventurer.”

“Come, Mrs. Parsons, that is not being very explicit,” remonstrated Mitchell. “To whom are you alluding?”

“A man calling himself Edward Rodgers.”

Mitchell sat back and regarded her in unconcealed surprise.

“Edward Rodgers,” he echoed. “You surely do not mean Edward Rodgers, the handwriting expert?”

“I do.” His profound astonishment was a sap to her vanity, and she could not restrain a smile. It vanished suddenly as a thought recurred to her. “You have promised, Inspector, not to repeat what I tell you. I depend upon you to keep your word.”

“Of course.” Mitchell reddened. “I don’t break confidences, Madam. But you have said too much not to say more. What are your reasons for claiming that Edward Rodgers is an adventurer?”

Mrs. Parsons did not reply at once and Mitchell studied her with covert interest. She was dressed in exquisite taste and the delicate rose-tint of her complexion had been applied with such consummate skill that even the uncompromising glare of a March morning betrayed no signs of make-up to the sharp eyes of her visitor. Mitchell had always been more or less susceptible to women’s wiles, and his stiff official manner had thawed perceptibly when she had welcomed him with a cordiality very gratifying to his amour propre.

“Some years ago,” Mrs. Parsons spoke in so low a tone that Mitchell was obliged to lean forward to catch what she said. “My husband, then a practicing attorney in San Francisco, had a client, Jacob Brown, a man of supposed wealth and standing in the community. Gradually, I do not know why, certain business transactions in which Brown was involved became questionable, but it was not until the Holt will case—”

“The Holt will case!” Inspector Mitchell drew back sharply. “Hah! Jake Brown—‘Gentleman Jake?’”

“Yes, just so.” She looked at him admiringly. “You have an excellent memory, Inspector.”

“Where crime is concerned,” he admitted, with a touch of pride. “Let me see, Gentleman Jake was one of the beneficiaries in Colonel Holt’s will at a time when his financial affairs were in bad shape—”

“In fact, Gentleman Jake was a ruined man—” she supplemented softly.

“Exactly.” Mitchell warmed to his subject. “And according to the will, Colonel Holt left him a hundred thousand dollars. Then along came a nephew who dug up another will and claimed that the one leaving the legacy to Gentleman Jake was a clever forgery.”

“And the nephew won his case through the expert testimony of Edward Rodgers, handwriting expert,” added Mrs. Parsons. “Gentleman Jake was sent to the penitentiary and—”

“Died before his term was up,” Mitchell completed the sentence for her.

“But before he died he sent for my husband,” Mrs. Parsons paused, then spoke more rapidly. “Jake Brown trusted my husband: he had stood by him and aided in his defense. On his death-bed Jake confessed—”

“That his Holt will was a forgery,” interrupted Mitchell, pleased that he could again piece out her story and thereby prove his recollection of the case.

“That was his public confession,” Mrs. Parsons lowered her voice. “What he told my husband under pledge of secrecy was that the second will was also a forgery.”

“Second will?” sharply. “You mean the will produced by the nephew?”

“Exactly so.”

“Well, good gracious!” Mitchell rubbed his head, perplexed in mind. “Why wasn’t it proven a forgery then?”

“Because its legality was never questioned. You will recall that Colonel Holt’s nephew produced letters and documents to prove his claim, and—” with a quiet smile—“every one’s attention was centered on Jake Brown and the will he fostered. Jake knew his will was a forgery and his entire effort was to evade the law. It was not until he was serving his sentence that Jake’s suspicions were aroused, and it was one of his fellow convicts who gave him the tip.”

“And what was the tip?” asked Mitchell, as she paused.

“That Edward Rodgers turned his expert knowledge of handwriting and his skillful penmanship to good account—” calmly.

“You mean—”

“Jake told my husband that Edward Rodgers examined the spurious will when it was first offered for probate and discovered that it was a forgery. Keeping his knowledge to himself, Mr. Rodgers communicated with Colonel Holt’s nephew and, for a consideration, drew up the will leaving all Colonel Holt’s fortune to the nephew—”

“Oh, come,” Mitchell’s smile was skeptical. “The nephew, as next of kin, would have inherited the property when the first will was proven a forgery; for in that event Colonel Holt died intestate.”

“But there was another relative who should have shared Colonel Holt’s fortune in case the Colonel died without leaving a will,” she explained.

“Oh!”

“Thus, to inherit his uncle’s wealth the nephew had to produce a will in his favor,” she went on. “It was clever to present a second spurious will under the protection, you might say, of a detected forged will around which interest centered. As far as I know, the second will was so cleverly drawn that it never aroused suspicion.”

“And thus the nephew inherited his uncle’s money.” Mitchell stroked his chin thoughtfully. “What was Gentleman Jake’s object in telling this—” he hesitated, torn between a sense of politeness and unbelief, “this story to your husband?”

“Jake said that he confided in him hoping that Mr. Parsons could catch Edward Rodgers tripping some day and send him to the ‘pen,’” she replied.

“Did your husband place any faith in Jake’s yarn?” he asked. “A cornered crook, like a cornered cat, will fight—and lie.”

“On his death-bed?” She shook her head. “I think not. What had Jake to gain then?”

“Well, did your husband take any steps in exposing the second will?” asked Mitchell.

“My husband,” her expression altered to one of deep sadness, “was killed in an automobile accident shortly after.”

“Oh,” Mitchell coughed slightly to cover his embarrassment. “Oh.”

“Amos often discussed his cases with me,” she added. “And Gentleman Jake’s statements had aroused him to an unusual degree. He was thunderstruck at the effrontery of the crime and at its cleverness.”

“It was a clever scheme,” acknowledged Mitchell, “and probably succeeded through its very boldness. But, pardon me, Madam, you have brought forward no proof to substantiate your story.”

“I am coming to that.” Mrs. Parsons rose and walking over to a closet, beckoned to the inspector. Opening the door, she knelt down before a small safe used to hold her table silver. From one of its compartments she took out a worn envelope.

“I forgot to tell you,” she stated, shutting the door of the safe, “that the fellow convict who gave the tip to Gentleman Jake was up for burglary. Some time previous to his arrest he had entered Edward Rodgers’ apartment in San Francisco and, among other things, stolen these papers. He sent them to my husband when released from the ‘pen.’ See for yourself,” and she handed the envelope to Mitchell.

Returning to his old seat, Inspector Mitchell shook the contents of the envelope on the table, then laying it down he picked up a yellowish paper, which bore the signature: “John Holt” written over and over. The reverse was a letter in a stiff, Spencerian handwriting:

Dear Rodgers:

Call at my office to-morrow. I plan to destroy my last will, and would like you to locate my nephew, Leigh Wallace, for me.

Yours,

John Holt.

Without comment Mitchell laid aside the letter and picked up another paper. It bore the same signature, traced in varying forms of completeness, and in one corner the name, “Leigh Wallace,” was repeated again and again. The third and last paper was in the stiff handwriting of the letter signed by John Holt, and read:

I, John Holt, being in good health and of sound mind, do hereby revoke all other instruments and do declare this to be my last will and testament. I give and bequeath to my nephew, Leigh Wallace—

The remainder of the page was blank except for a large smudge of ink.

Inspector Mitchell laid the three sheets of paper side by side and examined them with care.

“Leigh Wallace,” he said smilingly. “Is he any relation to the Major Leigh Wallace over whom Miss Baird and her niece, Miss Kitty, are said by Oscar to have quarreled on Sunday shortly before Miss Baird’s murder?”

“He is the same man.” Mrs. Parsons pushed aside the vase of flowers standing on the table so that she could obtain an unobstructed view of Mitchell and the papers lying in front of him. “Strange, is it not, that Major Leigh Wallace and Edward Rodgers should both be in Washington and both interested in the Baird murder?”

“Why strange?” Inspector Mitchell was not to be drawn. “All Washington is interested in Miss Susan Baird’s death.”

“But not with such a personal interest.” Mrs. Parsons’ voice was honey sweet. “Edward Rodgers has promised to aid in tracing her murderer. Also, Colonel Holt was Kitty Baird’s uncle.”

“What—then she is the other relative you alluded to—?”

“Yes.” She paused. “Colonel Holt died intestate and his property should have been divided equally between his nearest of kin, Kitty Baird, and her cousin, Leigh Wallace.”

“But the forged will gave the entire fortune to Wallace,” Mitchell spoke slowly.

“Which he has squandered,” she added. “Leigh Wallace is cursed with an inherited vice—a craze for gambling.”

Inspector Mitchell raised his head and regarded Mrs. Parsons. The silence lasted fully a minute, then picking up the three papers he replaced them in the worn envelope and pocketed it.

“You have given me valuable information,” he said, rising. “It will not be necessary to call in a private detective. Good morning, Mrs. Parsons.”

CHAPTER X
RUMORS

The clerks in the outer office of “Craige and Lewis, Attorneys” looked up as the hall door opened with an unmistakable wrench and Ben Potter precipitated himself into the room. He brought up with some abruptness before the chief clerk’s desk.

“Take my card at once to Mr. Craige,” he directed. “Tell him I’m in the devil’s hurry—late for an appointment now. Thank you,” as an office boy hurried forward with a chair. “I prefer to stand.”

The chief clerk, with one look at Potter’s determined expression, decided it was best to swallow his dignity and execute Potter’s peremptory request. He returned with unusual speed from the inner office.

“Mr. Craige will see you at once, Sir,” he announced, holding the door open for Potter and swinging it to behind him with a sharp bang, as a slight vent to his ruffled feelings.

Potter had crossed the room before he realized that he and Craige, who had risen at his entrance, were not alone. His angry frown gave way to a smile when the third man turned more fully toward him and he recognized Edward Rodgers.

“Hello, Ted, I’m glad you are here,” he exclaimed as Craige pulled another chair for his guest before resuming his seat. Potter sat down heavily and tossed his hat and cane on the desk. “Say, Craige, what the deuce does this mean?” and unfolding a newspaper, which he had held tightly clenched in his left hand, he pointed to a column of news, under the heading:

Miss Susan Baird Wills Fortune to Niece

“It means what it says,” explained Craige. “Miss Susan Baird left Kitty an heiress.”

Potter’s prominent pale blue eyes were opened to their widest extent. “C-c-cousin S-s-susan!” he stuttered. “That forlorn old pauper left a fortune! Why, Craige, I fully expected to be called on to pay her funeral expenses. You mean to tell me, in all earnestness, that Cousin Susan had any money—”

“She did not have ‘any money,’ she had a large fortune,” declared Craige, laughing outright at Potter’s ludicrous expression of bewilderment.

“Then I am to understand that this newspaper is correct in its statements?” Potter asked.

“You are—” Craige leaned over and looked at the date on the newspaper. “You are a bit behind-hand, Ben. That paper of yours is a day old.”

“Well, I’ve only just seen it,” Potter’s tone had grown querulous. “I had to run on to New York night before last—the night of the inquest, to be exact, and Nina and I only got in this morning, having taken the midnight train. This paper was the first I opened when we reached home, and its account of Cousin Susan’s will astounded me.”

“It took our breath away also,” admitted Craige. “Rodgers was with us when we found the will; in fact it was through his agency that it was found at all.”

Potter swung around so hastily in his endeavor to face Rodgers that he knocked his cane off the desk.

“How’d you know there was a will?” he demanded. “Oh, never mind about the cane; let it stay on the floor.”

“Rodgers had no knowledge of the will’s existence any more than the rest of us,” declared Craige before Rodgers, who had stooped to pick up Potter’s cane, had a chance to answer the latter’s question. “He happened to open a trap-door to a hiding place in which lay directions, written by Susan Baird, telling us where to find her papers.”

Potter stared at his companions in unbounded astonishment. It was some moments before he collected his wits sufficiently to ask a question.

“Where,” he began, “and how, in the name of God, did Cousin Susan acquire her wealth?”

Craige shook a bewildered head. “I cannot answer that question,” he admitted. “It is one that has puzzled me hourly since the finding of her will and the discovery of her investments.”

“They are all genuine?”

“Absolutely; gilt edged, most of them.” Again Craige shook his head. “Miss Susan showed rare judgment in her investments, rare even in an experienced man of business, and in a woman who posed as a pauper—good Lord!” He raised his hands and dropped them with an expressive gesture. “In all my legal experience the whole affair, her death, her wealth—is the most remarkable.”

“Considering them together, does not her wealth suggest a motive for her death?” asked Rodgers, breaking his long silence.

“But who knew that she was wealthy?” demanded Potter. “Was ever a secret so well kept?” He stopped abruptly as a thought occurred to him and his expression altered. “How about Kitty? Was she in the dark, too, or was she aware that her aunt owned a large fortune?”

“She was entirely ignorant of it.” Rodgers spoke with marked emphasis, and Potter favored him with a heavy scowl. “Kitty Baird had no idea that her aunt was anything but the pauper she pretended to be. On that I’ll stake my reputation.”

Potter’s scowl gave away to an expression of doubt.

“It’s odd, in fact, it’s damned odd!” he exploded. “Kitty lived with her aunt, lived alone with her. How could she help but know of her aunt’s financial affairs?”

“Suppose you question Kitty,” suggested Craige, with a swift glance at Rodger’s lowering countenance. “The girl, in my opinion, knew absolutely nothing about her aunt’s hoarded wealth—for it was hoarded, hoarded even from her, her only living relative.”

“Hold on there, I’m a relative, also,” objected Potter. “She and my father were second cousins. By the way,” with a complete change of tone, “was there any mention of me in the will?”

“There was not.” At Craige’s curt reply Potter frowned again.

“So she left me out of it, did she?” He shrugged his shoulders with well-simulated indifference. “Did Cousin Susan name an executor and did she leave her fortune to Kitty in trust, or give it to her outright?”

“She left it to Kitty without reservations,” replied Craige. “Kitty applied to the Court to appoint me co-executor with herself, and the court has granted her request and permitted us to-day to take out letters of administration.”

“Is that so.” Potter reached for his hat and buttoned up his overcoat which he had kept on during the interview. “Do I understand, Ted, that you are seriously trying to solve the mystery of Cousin Susan’s murder?”

“I am.”

Potter rose. His usual genial manner was absent and also his ready smile.

“Has it occurred to you, Ted,” he said, and his voice was rasping; “that the person to benefit by Cousin Susan’s death is the one person known to have quarreled with her during the afternoon of the day in which she was murdered?”

“What d’ye mean?” Rodgers was on his feet, advancing toward the naturalist.

“I mean,” Potter spoke with deliberation, his eyes not dropping before Rodgers’ furious gaze. “I mean that Kitty first quarreled with her aunt and now most opportunely inherits her fortune—so that she can marry Leigh Wallace, who can’t afford to marry a poor girl.”

Rodgers’ powerful grip on Potter’s throat was loosened by Craige.

“Stop this quarreling!” commanded the lawyer. “Stop it, I say,” and he shook Rodgers vehemently as he backed him away from Potter. “Go, Ben; I’ll join you later.”

Craige did not release his hold on Rodgers until Potter, still gasping from his encounter with the former, reeled out of the office.

“What has come over you, Rodgers?” he asked, letting go his hold so suddenly that Rodgers staggered backward. “Why did you fly at Potter in that manner?”

“The dirty blackguard!” Rodgers actually stammered in his rage. “Didn’t you hear him? Why, he had the audacity to infer that because old Oscar overheard a wordy row between Kitty and her aunt, that Kitty killed the old lady and so inherited her fortune—to marry—” he choked. “Why, damn it! There are a dozen men who would marry Kitty if she hadn’t a cent in the world—I’m—” his face paled, “I’m one of them.”

Craige looked at him with admiring approval. “I like your loyalty,” he exclaimed. “As for Potter—” he struck his desk with his clenched fist. “Potter has grown insufferable. Matrimony doesn’t appear to agree with him.” He stepped back to his desk and picked up his brief case. When he turned again to Rodgers, who stood waiting by the door, the gravity of his manner struck the younger man. “There is no use blinding ourselves to the situation, Rodgers,” he said. “It is up to us to solve the mystery of Susan Baird’s death. If we don’t,” he paused, “Kitty may find herself in a most unpleasant predicament.”

“The mystery is going to be solved—and quickly,” Rodgers checked his hasty speech. “Are you on your way to the Court House, Mr. Craige?”

“Yes.” Craige followed Rodgers through the outer office, pausing only long enough to be assisted into his overcoat by an attentive office boy, and joined him at the elevator. “Don’t let Potter worry you, Rodgers; give him time to cool off. I imagine the news that Susan Baird was a wealthy woman, and that she never left him a red cent is responsible for his irritability. You know Ben is rather inclined to love money.”

“Hm, yes. I can well believe that he is blood-kin in that respect to Miss Susan Baird,” and Rodgers, his temper somewhat restored, waved a friendly hand to Craige as they left the elevator and went their several ways.