The
TREVOR CASE

“De Morny’s eyes sparkled with anger as he watched”

THE
TREVOR CASE

By Natalie Sumner Lincoln

Author of
“C. O. D.,” “The Man Outside,” Etc.

With Frontispiece by
EDMUND FREDERICK

A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS - - NEW YORK

Published by Arrangement with D. Appleton & Company

Copyright, 1912, by
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

Published February, 1912

Printed in the United States of America

TO THE MEMORY OF
MY DEAR FATHER
AND
TO MY KINDEST CRITIC
MY MOTHER

CONTENTS

THE TREVOR CASE

CHAPTER I
FACE TO FACE

A faint, very faint scratching noise broke the stillness. Then a hand was thrust through the hole in the window pane; deftly the burglar alarm was disconnected, and the fingers fumbled with the catch of the window. The sash was pushed gently up, and a man’s figure was outlined for a second against the star-lit sky as he dropped noiselessly through the window to the stair landing.

For a few moments he crouched behind the heavy curtains, but his entry had been too noiseless to awaken the sleeping household. Gathering courage from the stillness around him, the intruder stole down the steps, through the broad hall, and stopped before a door on his left. Cautiously he turned the knob and entered the room.

He could hear his own breathing in the heavy silence, as he pushed to the door, and then flashed the light of his electric torch on his surroundings. The room, save for the massive office furniture, was empty. Satisfied on that point, the intruder wasted no time, but with noiseless tread and cat-like quickness, he darted across the room to the door of what was apparently a closet. It was not locked, and as it swung back at his touch the front of a large safe was revealed.

Placing his light where it would do the most good, the intruder tried the lock of the safe. Backwards and forwards the wards fell under the skillful fingers of the cracksman. His keen ear, attuned to the work, at last solved the combination. With a sigh of relief he stopped to mop his perspiring face and readjust his mask.

“Lucky for me,” he muttered, “the safe’s an old-fashioned one. As it is, it’s taken three quarters of an hour, and time’s precious.”

The big door moved noiselessly back on its oiled hinges, and the intruder, catching up his electric torch, turned its rays full on the interior of the safe. For one second it burned brilliantly; then went dark in his nerveless hand.

God in Heaven! He was mad! It was some fantasy conjured up by his excited brain. With desperate effort his strong will conquered his shrinking senses. Slowly, slowly the light was raised to that fearful thing which crouched just inside the entrance.

Eye to eye they gazed at each other—the quick and the dead! The intruder’s breath came in panting gasps behind his mask. Again the light went out. In his abject state of terror, instinct did for him what reason could not. His hand groped blindly for the safe door; but not until it closed did he regain his benumbed wits.

Silently, mysteriously as he had come, so he vanished.

CHAPTER II
THE SECRET OF THE SAFE

“Help! Murder! Murder!”

The sinister cry rang through the house.

Seated at the breakfast table, his daughter opposite him, the daily papers at his elbow, the Attorney General, hardly realizing the tragical interruption, sprang from his chair as the cry came nearer and the door burst open admitting his confidential secretary.

“In God’s name, Clark, what is the matter?” he demanded, seizing the distraught man.

“Father, Father, give him time, he is dreadfully upset,” begged Beatrice, coming around the breakfast table and laying a restraining hand on his arm.

Wilkins, the impassive butler, for once shaken out of his calm, hastened to assist his master in helping Alfred Clark to a chair, and then he gave the half-fainting man a stiff drink of whisky.

“It’s the safe, sir,” gasped Clark, struggling to regain his self-control.

“The safe?” questioned the Attorney General.

“Yes; she’s there—dead!”

“She—who?”

“Mrs. Trevor.”

“My wife! Nonsense, man; she is breakfasting in her own room!”

“Beg pardon, sir,” Wilkins interrupted. “Mary has just brought the tray downstairs again. She says she knocked and knocked, and couldn’t get an answer.”

The Attorney General and his daughter exchanged glances. It was impossible to tell which was the paler. Without a word he turned and hastened out of the room. He hardly noticed the excited servants who, attracted by the cry, had already gathered in the spacious hall outside the door of his private office. With swift, decisive step he crossed the room and stood in front of the two opened doors. A cry of unutterable horror escaped him. For one dreadful moment the room swam around him, and there was a roaring in his ears of a thousand Niagaras.

“Father?”

With a violent effort he pulled himself together. “Do not enter,” he said, sternly, to the shrinking girl who had remained by the hall door. “This is no sight for you. Wilkins, send at once for Doctor Davis. Clark, close that door, and see that no one comes in except the doctor. Then telephone the Department that I shall not be there to-day.” His orders were obeyed instantly.

The Attorney General turned back to the safe; to that still figure which was keeping vigil over his belongings. The pitiless light of a sunny morning shone full on the beautiful face. The wonderful Titian hair, her greatest glory, was coiled around the shapely head, and her low-cut evening dress was scarcely disarranged as she crouched on one knee leaning her weight on her left arm, which was pressed against the door-jamb of the safe. Her lips were slightly parted, and her blue eyes were wide open, the pupils much dilated. No need to feel pulse or heart; to the most casual observer it was apparent that she was dead.

His beautiful young wife! Edmund Trevor groaned aloud and buried his face in his hands. Clark watched him for a moment in unhappy silence; then moved quietly over to the window and looked out with unseeing eyes into the garden.

The large mottled brick- and stone-trimmed house was situated on one of Washington’s most fashionable corners, Massachusetts Avenue and Dupont Circle. On being appointed Attorney General, Trevor had taken it on a long lease. He had selected it from the many offered because it was very deep on the 20th Street side, thus allowing the drawing-room, library, and dining-room to open out of each other.

On the right of the large entrance hall was a small reception room, and back of it the big octagonal-shaped room, with its long French windows opening into the enclosed garden, that had appealed to him for his own private use, as a den, or office. And he was particularly pleased with the huge safe, more like a vault, which had been built in one of the large old-fashioned closets by the owner. It had been useful to the Attorney General on many occasions.

The silence was broken by a tap at the door.

“Doctor Davis, sir,” announced Wilkins.

“I came at once,” said the doctor, advancing quickly to the Attorney General’s side. A horrified exclamation escaped him as his eyes fell on the tragic figure, and he recoiled a few steps. Then his professional instincts returned to him, and he made a cursory examination of Mrs. Trevor. As he rose from his knees, the eyes of the two men met. He silently shook his head.

“Life has been extinct for hours,” he said. “Rigor mortis has set in.”

The Attorney General gulped back a sob. Reason had told him the same thing when he first found her; but he had hoped blindly against hope.

“Can she be removed to her room?” he asked, as soon as he could control his voice.

The doctor nodded his acquiescence, and with the assistance of Clark, Wilkins, and the chauffeur, they carried all that was mortal of the beautiful young wife to her chamber.

Shortly afterwards, the Attorney General returned to his office, and together he and Clark went over the contents of the safe. They had just finished their task when Beatrice came into the room.

Beatrice Trevor was a well-known figure in the society life of New York, Paris, and Washington. Taller than most women, with a superb figure, she carried herself with regal grace. She was not, strictly speaking, a beauty; her features were not regular enough. But there were men, and women, too, who were her adoring slaves.

Her mother had died when she was five years old, and up to the time of her eighteenth year she had lived alone with her father. Then he met, wooed, and won the beautiful foreigner, whose butterfly career had come to so untimely an end.

“Father, I must know just what has happened.”

“Why, my dearest—” there was deep tenderness in the Attorney General’s usually impassive voice—“I thought you had been told. Hélène evidently went into the safe to put away her jewelry; and in some mysterious way she must have pulled the heavy door to behind her. Thus locked in, she was smothered. It is terrible—terrible—” His voice shook with the intensity of his emotion. “But—well, Wilkins, what is it?”

“A detective, sir, from headquarters.”

“A detective! What on earth—did you telephone them, Clark?” The secretary shook his head. “No? Well, show him in, Wilkins.”

There was nothing about the man who entered to suggest a detective; he was quietly dressed, middle aged, and carried himself with military erectness. He had spent five years as a member of the Canadian Northwest mounted police, and that service had left its mark in his appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Attorney General.” His bow included all in the room. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but my errand won’t take long.”

“Be seated, Mr. ——”

“Hardy—James Hardy, sir. Just before dawn this morning, O’Grady, who patrols this beat, noticed a man sneak out of your back yard. O’Grady promptly gave chase and caught his man just as he was boarding a train for New York. He took him to the station and had him locked up on suspicion. As the fellow had a full kit of burglar’s tools with him, including mask and sneakers, the Chief sent me round here to ask if you’d been robbed?”

“Oh, no,” replied the Attorney General. “I have just been through my safe and everything is intact. There’s nothing missing in your quarters, Wilkins?” he added, turning to the white-faced butler.

“No, sir; nothing, sir.” Wilkins’ voice trembled, and he looked at the detective with frightened eyes.

“Perhaps he tried, and finding all the windows barred gave it up as a bad job. I am—” continued the Attorney General, but his speech was cut short by the entrance of Doctor Davis.

“I am told there is a detective here.” The Attorney General bowed and motioned to Hardy. “You are properly accredited?” went on the physician. Hardy threw back his coat and displayed his badge. “Have you told him of Mrs. Trevor’s death?”

“No. Why speak of that terrible accident—”

“It was no accident.” The physician’s voice, though low pitched, vibrated with feeling.

The Attorney General half rose from his chair; then sank back again.

“Davis,” he said, almost fiercely, “you know that by some fearful mischance Hélène locked herself in the air-tight safe and was suffocated.”

The detective glanced with quickened interest at the two men.

“On closer examination upstairs,” said the doctor, slowly, “I found a small wound under the left breast. The wound was concealed by the lace bertha of her evening dress. The weapon penetrated to the heart, and she bled internally. Mrs. Trevor was dead before she was put in that safe.”

The detective broke the appalling silence with an exclamation:

“Murdered!”

Without one word Beatrice Trevor fell fainting at her father’s feet.

CHAPTER III
AT THE MACALLISTERS’

Many called, but few were invited to attend Mrs. Van Zandt Macallister’s stately entertainments. Possibly for that reason alone her invitations were eagerly sought and highly prized by social aspirants.

For more years than she cared to remember, official, residential, and diplomatic Washington had gathered on an equal footing in her hospitable mansion on F Street. So strictly did she draw social distinctions that one disgruntled climber spoke of her evening receptions as “Resurrection Parties,” and the name clung. But all Washingtonians took a deep interest in “Madam” Macallister, as they affectionately called her. She was grande dame to her fingertips.

On the occasion of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Middlesex she gave a beautiful wedding breakfast. The wedding was of international importance. The President, his Cabinet, and the Diplomatic Corps were among the guests.

Mrs. Macallister was standing in the drawing-room with her back to the dining-room door talking to the President. As the butler drew apart the folding doors, the long table, covered with massive silver, china, and glass, gave way under the weight. The crash was resounding. The terrified guests glanced at each other. Mrs. Macallister never even turned her head, but went on conversing placidly with the President.

The doors were instantly closed; the guests, taking their cue from their hostess, resumed their light chatter and laughter; and in a remarkably short time the table was cleared and reset, and the breakfast announced. As the President, with a look of deep admiration, offered his arm to Mrs. Macallister, he murmured in her ear:

“‘And mistress of herself though china fall.’”

Washington society had never forgotten the incident.

Mrs. Macallister had rather a caustic tongue, but a warm, generous heart beat under her somewhat frosty exterior. Her charities were never aired in public. Only the clergymen knew how many families she kept supplied with coal in winter and ice in summer. And many an erring sister had cause to bless her name.

Mrs. Macallister glanced impatiently at the clock—twenty minutes past five. She leaned forward and touched the electric bell beside the large open fireplace. There were two things she abominated—to be kept waiting—and midday dinners; the former upset her nerves; the latter her digestion.

“Has Miss Margaret returned?” she asked, as Hurley entered with the tea tray.

Before the butler could answer there was the sound of a quick, light footstep in the hall, and then the portières were pushed aside.

Mrs. Macallister looked approvingly at her granddaughter. Peggy was more like her father’s people, and her grandmother’s heart had warmed to her from the moment the motherless little baby had been placed in her tender care. The young father, never very strong, had not long outlived his girl-wife. Since then Peggy and her grandmother had lived alone in the old-fashioned residence, which her grandfather Macallister had bought years before when coming to live in Washington on the expiration of his third term as Governor of Pennsylvania.

“Well, Granny, am I very late?” giving Mrs. Macallister a warm hug. She had never stood in awe of her formidable grandmother, but with all the passionate feeling of her loving nature, she looked up to and adored her.

“My dear, five o’clock is five o’clock, not twenty minutes past,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, smoothing her silvery hair, which had been decidedly ruffled by Peggy’s precipitancy.

“I declare, Granny, you are as bad as Nana; if it is three minutes past five she says its ‘hard on six o’clock.’ I had an awfully good time at the luncheon, and stayed to talk things over with Maud. She has asked me to be one of her bridesmaids, you know.”

“Did you hear the news there?”

“News? What news?”

“Mrs. Trevor has been murdered!”

“Mrs. Trevor—murdered!” Peggy nearly dropped her teacup on the floor.

“I really wish, Peggy, you would stop your habit of repeating my words. It’s very uncomfortable living with an echo under one’s nose.”

“Oh, Granny, please tell me all about it right away.”

“Well, according to the Evening Star— What is it, Hurley?” as that solemn individual entered the room.

“Mr. Tillinghast, to see you and Miss Margaret, ma’am.”

“Show him in. Now, Peggy, we will probably get the news at first hand. Good evening, Dick.”

The young fellow bowed with old-fashioned courtesy over her beautifully shaped, blue-veined hand. Clean living and plenty of outdoor sports could be read in his clear skin and splendid physique. He was a particular favorite of Mrs. Macallister’s.

“I suppose you are discussing the all-absorbing topic,” he said after greeting Peggy.

“I have been reading this.” Mrs. Macallister held up the paper with its flaring headlines:

MURDER MOST FOUL
MRS. TREVOR KILLED
BY BURGLAR
CRIMINAL IN THE TOILS

“The police acted very promptly, and deserve a lot of praise,” said Dick.

“Well,” remarked Mrs. Macallister, slowly, “they have caught the burglar, but whether he is also the murderer is yet to be proved.”

“That’s true; but there is hardly any doubt. Nothing was stolen, therefore it is a fairly easy deduction that Mrs. Trevor, disturbed by some noise, went down into the office to investigate and was killed. He had the safe already open, stabbed her, then locked her in. Probably his nerve forsook him, and he fled without stopping to steal what he came for.”

“My dear Dick! Your theory might answer if any other woman was in question; but Mrs. Trevor—she wouldn’t have troubled herself if there had been a cloud-burst in the office. She was simply a human mollusk. And as for—” Mrs. Macallister’s feelings were beyond expression.

“I say, aren’t you a little hard on her? I don’t know when I’ve seen a more beautiful woman, and one so popular—”

“With men,” supplemented Mrs. Macallister, dryly.

Dick laughed outright. “Anyway,” he said, “the police have found that the burglar entered the house by the window on the stair landing, which looks out on the roof of the butler’s pantry. It is an easy climb for an active man. All the windows on the first floor are heavily barred. They found one of the small panes of glass had been cut out, and the window unfastened, although closed. I’m afraid our friend, the burglar, will have a hard time proving his innocence.”

“It is terrible, terrible,” groaned Peggy, who had been reading the paper’s account of the tragedy. “I must go at once and leave a note for Beatrice,” and she started to rise.

“Sit still, child; I have just returned from the Trevors, and left your card and mine with messages.”

“Did you see Beatrice, Granny?”

“No, only that odious Alfred Clark. I cannot bear the man, he is so—so specious—” hunting about for a word. “He told me that Beatrice and the Attorney General would see no one.”

“Beatrice must be terribly upset, poor darling.”

“I didn’t know there was much love lost between them?”

“There wasn’t,” confessed Peggy. “Mrs. Trevor was perfectly horrid to her.”

“That’s news to me,” said Dick, helping himself to another sandwich.

“Beatrice is not the kind to air her troubles in public,” answered Peggy, “and she never talked much to me, either; but I couldn’t help noticing lots of things. I’ve got eyes in my head.”

“That you have,” thought Dick, who had long since fallen a victim.

“Why, last night Beatrice and I went to the Bachelors’ together. I stopped for her, and she just broke down and cried right there in the carriage. She had had an awful scene with her stepmother just before I got there. We had to drive around for half an hour before she was composed enough to enter the ballroom.”

“What did they quarrel about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, deeply interested.

“She didn’t tell me.”

“By Jove! what actresses women are,” ejaculated Dick. “I danced with her several times, and I thought she was enjoying herself immensely.”

Peggy sniffed; she had not a high opinion of a mere man’s perceptions; then she qualified her disapproval by a smile which showed each pretty dimple, and sent Dick into the seventh heaven of bliss.

“Of what nationality was Mrs. Trevor?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming out of a brown study.

“She was an Italian,” answered Dick.

“No, Dick, I think you are mistaken. I am sure she was a Spaniard,” declared Peggy. “She spoke Spanish faultlessly.”

Mrs. Macallister shook her head. “That doesn’t prove anything. She spoke French like a Parisian, and also Italian fluently. The only language in which her accent was pronounced was English.”

“Beatrice told me her maiden name was de Beaupré, so perhaps she was of French descent,” continued Peggy. “Mr. Trevor met her in London. They were married six weeks later very quietly, and Beatrice was not told of the affair until after the ceremony.”

“Indeed!” Mrs. Macallister smiled grimly. “Marry in haste, repent at leisure.”

“But being a lawyer perhaps he just naturally pressed his suit quickly,” interrupted Dick, man-like, standing up for his sex. “I’d do the same, if you gave me half a chance,” he added in an ardent aside to Peggy, whose only answer was a vivid blush.

“Don’t talk to me of lawyers,” retorted Mrs. Macallister, who had unpleasant recollections of a bitter lawsuit with one of her relatives. “Their ways are past finding out. But I really must discover who Mrs. Trevor was before her marriage.”

“Why, Granny, I have just told you she was Mademoiselle de Beaupré.”

“The only de Beaupré I have ever heard of, Peggy, is Anne de Beaupré. And I imagine it is a far cry from Sainte Anne to Hélène whose very name suggests sulphur. Must you go?” she asked, as Dick rose.

“Yes. I have a special story to send on to the Philadelphia papers. If I hear any further details of the murder, I’ll drop in and tell you.”

“Thanks; but I have decided to attend the inquest, which the papers say will be held at the Trevors’.”

“Granny!” cried Peggy, in a tone of horror.

“Tut, child, of course I am going. I dearly love a mystery; besides, the world and his wife will be there.”

“And so will I,” added Dick, as he bowed himself out.

CHAPTER IV
THE INQUEST

The dastardly murder created a tremendous sensation not only in Washington, but in every State of the Union as well. The Trevors were bombarded with telegrams and special delivery letters, and their house besieged by reporters.

Mrs. Macallister was right; all fashionable society turned out to attend the inquest, and fought and struggled for admittance, rubbing shoulders with the denizens of Southeast Washington and Anacostia as they pushed their way into the Trevor mansion.

The inquest was to be held in the library, the suite of rooms, comprising parlor, library and dining-room, having been thrown open to accommodate the public. A rope had been stretched in front of the office door and across the square staircase to keep the crowd within bounds. Uniformed policemen stationed in the wide hall warned those whose curiosity caused them to linger about the room where the tragedy occurred, to “move on.”

Mrs. Macallister, true to her word, had arrived early, and she and Peggy had been given seats in the library. As she glanced about her, she caught the eye of Senator Phillips, who instantly rose and joined her.

“This is a terrible affair,” said the Senator, after they had exchanged greetings. “Beautiful Mrs. Trevor—so young—so fascinating!”

“It is indeed dreadful,” agreed Mrs. Macallister, with a slight shiver. “The idea of any woman coming to such an end makes my blood run cold. I cannot sleep at night thinking of it. Have you seen the Attorney General?”

“Yes. He sent for me; we were college chums, you know. I never saw such self-control. He is bearing up most bravely under the fearful shock.”

In the meantime, Peggy, sick at heart, was looking about her and thinking of the many handsome dinners, luncheons, and receptions she had attended in the Trevors’ beautiful home. When all was said and done, Mrs. Trevor had been an ideal hostess; for besides beauty, she had tact and social perception, and, therefore, had always steered clear of the social pitfalls which lie in wait for the feet of the unwary in Washington’s complex society. Only the night before the murder, Mrs. Trevor had given a large theater and supper party, and Peggy remembered that she had never seen her hostess appear more animated or more beautiful; and now—“In the midst of life we are in death”; the solemn words recurred to Peggy as she watched the coroner and the jury file into the room and seat themselves around the large table which had been brought in for their use.

To one side, representatives of the Associated Press and the local papers were busy with pad and pencil. Among the latter Peggy recognized Dick Tillinghast. Some telepathy seemed to tell him of her presence, for he turned and his eyes lighted with pleasure as he bowed gravely to her and Mrs. Macallister.

Senator Phillips and Mrs. Macallister were intently scanning the jury. They realized how much might depend upon their intelligence and good judgment. In this case the jurymen had apparently been selected from a higher stratum of life than usual, and Senator Phillips sighed with relief as he pointed to the men sitting at the end of the long table.

“Why did the Lord ever make four such ugly men?” he asked Mrs. Macallister, in a whisper.

“To show His power,” she answered, quickly.

All further remarks were cut short by Coroner Wilson swearing in the jury. Their foreman was then elected. All the witnesses were waiting in the small reception room to the right of the front door. Policemen guarded each entrance.

“Have you viewed the scene of the tragedy, and the body of the victim?” asked the coroner.

“We have, sir,” answered the foreman.

Then the coroner in a few words briefly stated the occasion for the hearing. The first witness summoned was Doctor Davis. After being duly sworn, he seated himself in the witness chair facing the jury. In a few clear words he stated that he had been telephoned for by Wilkins, and had come at once. On his arrival he had been shown into the private office.

“Please state to the jury the exact position in which you found Mrs. Trevor.”

“Mrs. Trevor was crouching on one knee directly inside the safe, with her left hand pressing against the door-jamb, so—” and he illustrated his statement. “From the condition of her body I judged she had been dead about eight or nine hours. The pupils of her open eyes were very much dilated.”

One of the jurymen leaned forward and opened his lips as if to speak, then drew back. The coroner noticed his hesitancy.

“Do you wish to question the witness?” he asked.

“I—I,” he was obviously confused by the attention drawn to him. “Doctor, I always thought that when people died their eyes shut up.”

“On the contrary,” answered Doctor Davis, dryly. “Their eyes usually have to be closed by the undertaker.”

“Did you order the body removed, Doctor?” asked the coroner, resuming the examination.

“Yes. I thought that Mrs. Trevor had been asphyxiated in the air-tight safe. It was not until her clothes had been removed that I discovered the small wound a little to one side under her left breast. At the post-mortem we found no other cause for death, Mrs. Trevor having been perfectly sound physically and mentally.”

“Were there no blood stains?”

“None. The weapon, which pierced the heart, was broken off in the wound preventing any outward flow of blood. She bled internally. Death was probably instantaneous.”

“Have you the weapon?”

“Yes. I probed the wound in the presence of the deputy-coroner and Doctor Wells. Here it is.”

There was instant craning of necks to see the small object which Doctor Davis took out of his pocket. It was a piece of sharp-pointed steel about four inches long. The coroner passed it over to the jury, then continued his questions.

“Could the wound have been self-inflicted?”

“Impossible, unless the victim was left-handed.”

“Now, Doctor, what kind of a weapon do you think this point belongs to?”

“Well—” the doctor hesitated a moment—“I don’t think it could be called a weapon in the usual sense of the word. To me it looks like the end of a hat-pin.”

His words caused a genuine sensation. A hat-pin! Men and women looked at each other. What a weapon for a burglar to use!

“Could so frail an article as a hat-pin penetrate through dress, corset and underclothes?” asked the coroner, incredulously.

“Mrs. Trevor wore no corsets. In place of them she had on an elastic girdle which fitted perfectly her slender, supple figure.”

The coroner asked a few more questions, then the doctor was dismissed. The next to take the stand was the deputy-coroner. His testimony simply corroborated that of Doctor Davis in every particular. As he left the witness chair, the clerk summoned Alfred Clark.

“Your name?” asked the coroner, after the usual preliminaries had been gone through with.

“Alfred Lindsay Clark.”

“Occupation?”

“Confidential secretary to the Attorney General.”

“How long have you been in his employ?”

“Eleven months.”

“And before that time?”

“I was a clerk in the Department of Justice for over two years, in fact, ever since I have resided in this city.”

“Then you are not a native of Washington?”

“No. My father was in the Consular Service. At the time of my birth, he was vice consul at Naples, and I was born in that city. I lived abroad until two years and a half ago.”

“You were the first to find Mrs. Trevor, were you not?”

“Yes. I always reach here at eight o’clock to sort and arrange the mail for the Attorney General. He breakfasts at that time, and usually joins me in the private office twenty minutes later. At five minutes of nine we leave for the Department. This is the everyday routine—” he hesitated.

“And yesterday, Mr. Clark?”

“I arrived a few minutes earlier than usual, as there were some notes which I had to transcribe before the Attorney General left for the Department. I went immediately to the office.”

“Did you notice any signs of confusion, or unusual disturbance in the room?”

“No. Everything was apparently just as I had left it the night before. I started to typewrite my notes but had not proceeded very far when I found I needed to refer to some papers which were in the safe. So I went....”

“One moment. You know the combination?”

“Certainly. It is one of my duties to open the safe every morning, and lock it the last thing at night.”

“Did you find the safe just the same as when you left the night before?”

“Exactly the same. Apparently the lock had not been tampered with.”

“Proceed.”

Clark spoke with a visible effort. “I unlocked the safe and pulled open the door and found—” his voice broke. “At first I could not believe the evidences of my senses. I put out my hand and touched Mrs. Trevor. Then, and then only, did I appreciate that she was dead. In unspeakable horror I ran out of the room to summon aid.”

“What led you to think she was murdered? Doctor Davis did not know it until much later.”

“I beg your pardon. I had no idea Mrs. Trevor was murdered.”

“Then, why did you cry ‘Murder’ as you ran along?”

“I have no recollection of raising such a cry. But I was half out of my senses with the shock, and did not know what I was doing.”

Clark’s handsome face had turned a shade paler, and he moistened his lips nervously. Mrs. Macallister noticed his agitation, and gave vent to her feelings by pinching Peggy’s arm.

“Was Mrs. Trevor facing you?”

“Yes. She was crouching on one knee, her left hand extended.”

“Could two people stand in the safe at the same time.”

“Side by side, yes; but not one in front of the other. The safe, which really resembles a small vault, is shallow but wide. The back of it is filled with filing cases. In fact, Mrs. Trevor’s body was wedged in between the cases and the narrow door-jamb. It was probably owing to this that she remained in such a peculiar position.”

“Was her head sunk forward on her breast?”

“No; on the contrary, it was thrown back and she was looking up, so that I, standing, looked directly down into her eyes.”

“Did you touch or move anything in the vault before summoning aid?”

There was a barely perceptible pause before the secretary answered.

“No, sir; nothing.”

“Did you see much of Mrs. Trevor?”

“No. She came but seldom to the office during the day.”

“Do you mean that it was her habit to go there often at night?”

“As to that, I cannot say, because I am not with the Attorney General at night unless some special work has to be done.”

At that moment a note was handed to the coroner. He read it twice; then addressed the secretary, saying:

“I think that is all just now.”

Clark bowed and retired. Coroner Wilson turned and addressed the jury.

“I have just received a note from the Chief of Police. He says that his prisoner, the burglar who was captured after leaving these premises, has asked to be allowed to make a statement before this jury. Therefore he has been sent here under guard. Up to the present time he has stubbornly refused to answer any questions, although every influence has been brought to hear to make him speak. I expected to call him later, anyway.”

The coroner’s remarks were interrupted by the entrance of the guard with their prisoner. He was of medium height, and insignificant enough in appearance save for his small, piercing blue eyes. His abundant red hair was plastered down on his round, bullet-shaped head, and his numerous freckles showed up plainly against the pallor of his face.

“Swear the prisoner,” ordered the coroner.

The clerk rose and stepped up to the man. “Place your hand on this book and say after me: ‘I, John Smith—’”

“Hold on; my name’s William Nelson. T’other one I just used to blind the cops, see?”

“I, William Nelson, do solemnly swear—” The singsong voice of the clerk, and the heavier bass of the prisoner seemed interminable to Peggy, whose nerves were getting beyond her control. She wished he would get through his confession quickly. It was awful sitting in callous judgment on a human being, no matter how guilty he might be.

“Now, William Nelson, alias John Smith,” said the coroner, sternly, “I am told you have volunteered to confess—”

“Nix, no confession,” interrupted Nelson. “Just an account of how I came to get mixed up in this deal.”

“Well, remember you are on oath, and that every word will be used against you.”

The prisoner nodded, cleared his throat, then spoke clearly and with deliberation.

“I came to Washington just to get certain papers. We knew those papers were kept in the Attorney General’s private safe. I used to be a messenger at the Department of Justice, and knew this house well, as I often brought papers to the Attorney General in his private office here. I had my kit with me, and broke in by way of the window over the pantry. The safe is an old one, and I found the combination easy. But, though I crack safes—by God! I am no murderer! When I opened that door I found the lady there—dead!” The man rose. “I know no more than you who killed her, so help me God!”

Nelson’s deep voice, vibrating with intense feeling, carried conviction. There was no doubting the effect his words had upon the jury and the spectators.

“I ain’t no coward, but the sight of that figure crouching there, and I looking down into her dead eyes, struck cold to my marrow bones. I ain’t been able to sleep since,” and the prisoner’s hand shook as he wiped the beads of perspiration off his forehead.

“Quite a dramatic story,” said the coroner, dryly. “And the proof?”

The prisoner struck the table fiercely with his clenched hand.

“Go ask the men who hired me to come here and steal the papers showing the attitude the Attorney General and the Department of Justice would take against the Fairbanks railroad combine. Ask those who wanted to get the news first, before it was given out to the public.”

“Do you think they would incriminate themselves by admitting such a rascally piece of business?”

“Perhaps not,” sullenly, “but I’ll make them.”

“Secondly, the motive of your presence here does not clear you of the suspicion of being the murderer. Did you get the papers?”

“No. When I saw that dead body I stopped for nothing. You don’t believe me, but I’ve told you God’s truth. I don’t mind doing time for house-breaking; but I ain’t hankering for the electric chair.”

The coroner rose abruptly and signaled to the guards.

“You will be summoned again, Nelson,” he said, and as the guards closed about the prisoner, he announced that the hearing was adjourned until one o’clock that afternoon.

CHAPTER V
THE SIGNET RING

Excitement ran high among the spectators as they crowded into the rooms a few minutes before one o’clock. The burglar’s story had impressed them by its sincerity. But, if he was innocent, who could be the criminal?

“Nelson knew how to play on people’s emotions and made up a plausible tale; but as the coroner says, he has given no proof to back his statement that Mrs. Trevor was killed before he entered the house,” said Philip White, in answer to one of Peggy’s questions. She and her grandmother were occupying their old seats in the library, and Dick Tillinghast and White had just joined them. Philip White, who stood at the head of the district bar, was not one to form opinions hastily. Therefore, he was usually listened to. He was a warm friend of the Attorney General’s, and had been a frequent visitor at his house.

“No, Miss Peggy,” he went on, “the fellow’s just a clever criminal.”

“I rather believe in him,” said Peggy, stoutly. “He didn’t have to tell what he knew.”

“That’s just it—it was a neat play to the galleries. He would have been summoned before the jury anyway, and his story dragged from him piece by piece. He hoped it would tell in his favor if he volunteered and gave a dramatic account of what occurred that night.”

“Where did he get his information about the papers being in the safe?” queried Mrs. Macallister, who had been an interested listener.

“Probably there is some leak in the Department of Justice.”

The low hum of voices ceased as the coroner’s clerk rose and called the Attorney General to the stand.

Many a sympathetic eye followed his tall, erect figure, as he passed quietly through the room. Edmund Trevor had won distinction early in life by his unremitting labor and ability. A New Yorker born and bred, he had given up a large law practice to accept the President’s tender of the portfolio of Attorney General. His devotion to his beautiful wife, some twenty years his junior, had been often commented upon by their friends. While not, strictly speaking, a handsome man, his dark hair, silvering at the temples, his fine eyes and firm mouth gave him an air of distinction. He was very popular with both men and women, as his courtly manner and kind heart gained him a warm place in their regard. To-day sorrow and fatigue were visible on his face. He looked careworn and troubled.

After he had answered the usual questions as to his age, full name, and length of residence in Washington, the coroner turned directly to him.

“How old was Mrs. Trevor, and where was she born?” he asked.

“Thirty years old. She was born in Paris, France.”

“Where did you first meet her?”

“In London at a ball given by the American Ambassador three years ago.”

“When and where were you married?”

“We were married on the eleventh of June of the same year, at St. George’s, Hanover Square.”

The coroner’s manner was very sympathetic, as he said:

“Now, Mr. Attorney General, will you kindly tell the jury of your movements on Wednesday night, last.”

“Certainly. I did not dine at home, as I had to attend the annual banquet given by the Yale alumni, at which I was to be one of the speakers. Just before leaving the house, I joined my wife and daughter in the dining-room. Mrs. Trevor told me that, as she had a bad nervous headache, she had decided not to go to the Bachelors’ Cotillion, but instead she was going to retire early. My daughter Beatrice had, therefore, arranged to go to the ball with her friend, Miss Macallister, who was to call for her at ten o’clock.

“My motor was announced, and as I kissed my wife, she asked me not to disturb her on my return, as she wanted to get a good night’s sleep. That was the last time I saw her alive—” His voice quivered with emotion, but in a few seconds he resumed: “On my return, about midnight, I went directly upstairs. Seeing no light in my wife’s room, which is separated from mine by a large dressing room, I retired.”

“Did you hear no noises during the night; no cries; no person moving about?”

“No. I am always a heavy sleeper, besides which I had had a very fatiguing day; a Cabinet meeting in the morning; and I had also been detained at the Department by pressure of business until six o’clock that evening.”

“Were your doors and windows securely fastened?”

“Wilkins attends to that. I did not put up the night-latch on the front door because I knew Beatrice had to come in with her latch key.”

“How did you find the house lighted on your return?”

“Why, as is usual at that time of night when we are not entertaining. All the rooms were in darkness; the only lights being in the front and upper halls—they were turned down low.”

“In regard to Wilkins—”

“I would trust him as I would myself,” interrupted the Attorney General. “He has lived first with my father and then with me for over twenty years.”

“And your other servants?”

“I have every confidence in them. The cook, second man, and chambermaids have been in my employ for at least five years.”

“And Mrs. Trevor’s personal maid?”

“Came with her from England three years ago.”

“Were you not surprised when Mrs. Trevor did not breakfast with you the next morning?”

“No. My wife was not an early riser. She always had a French breakfast served in her room. Unless she called to me to enter, as I went downstairs, I often did not see her until luncheon.”

“Was Mrs. Trevor left-handed?”

The Attorney General looked at the coroner in surprise.

“She was, sir,” he answered.

“Have you formed any theory as to who perpetrated this foul murder?”

“I think the burglar, Nelson, guilty.”

“Was Mrs. Trevor on good terms with everyone of your household?”

The witness’ face changed, ever so slightly.

“To the best of my knowledge, she was,” was the quiet reply.

“Then that is all. Stay just a moment,” as the Attorney General rose. “Will you kindly describe what took place on the discovery of Mrs. Trevor’s body?”

In a concise manner the Attorney General gave the details of that trying scene. He was then excused.

His place was taken by Wilkins, who in a few words confirmed the Attorney General’s statement that he had served the Trevor family, as butler, for nearly twenty-one years.

“Did you securely close the house for the night on Wednesday, Wilkins?”

“Yes, sir; I did, sir. I bolted every door and window, sir.”

“Are you positive, Wilkins?”

“Absolutely positive, sir.”

“Did anyone call at the house after dinner that night to see either of the ladies?”

“No, sir, no one; except Miss Macallister came in her carriage to take Miss Beatrice to the ball.”

“At what time did they finish dinner?”

“About twenty minutes past eight, sir. The hall clock was striking the half hour as I carried the coffee into the library. Mrs. Trevor was there, and she told me that Miss Beatrice had gone upstairs to dress, so I left her cup on the table, sir.”

“At what time did you go to bed?”

“I went up a few minutes after ten o’clock, sir. All the other servants had gone upstairs before me.”

“Was that their usual hour for retiring?”

“No, sir. You see, sir, Mrs. Trevor gave a very large supper party for Madame Bernhardt on Tuesday night. The guests didn’t leave until nearly four o’clock Wednesday morning. We were all dead tired from the extra work and no sleep, so Mrs. Trevor told me in the library that night, sir, that I was to tell the others to go to bed as soon as their work was done, and that I needn’t wait up, nor her maid either, as she would undress herself.”

“Was that the last time you saw Mrs. Trevor alive?”

“Yes, sir; the last time I saw her.”

There was a peculiar inflection in Wilkins’ usually quiet monotone that caught the coroner’s attention.

“What do you mean, Wilkins?”

“I didn’t see her again, sir.”

“Well, I’ll change my question. Did you hear her afterwards?”

“Yes, sir,” reluctantly.

“When?”

“Why, sir, the door bell rang about a quarter to ten. It was a messenger boy with a telegram for the Attorney General. I signed for it, and walked over towards the library intending to hand it to Mrs. Trevor. The door was partly open, sir, and I heard the ladies—”

“Ladies! What ladies?”

“Mrs. Trevor and Miss Beatrice, sir. I recognized their voices.”

“Could you hear what they were saying?”

“Perfectly, sir; but indeed I didn’t listen intentionally, sir. The carpet deadened my footsteps; besides, they were too excited to hear me.”

“Were they quarreling?”

“I—I—”

“Remember, Wilkins, you are on oath to tell the truth, the whole truth.”

“Yes, sir.” The unhappy man glanced appealingly at the jury, but found no help there. They were all waiting expectantly for what was to follow. “I only caught a few words, sir. Miss Beatrice said: ‘And your price?’ ‘You know it,’ answered Mrs. Trevor. She said it in a voice that seemed to infuriate Miss Beatrice, who cried out: ‘You devil, get out of my way, or I may forget myself and strike you.’”

Everyone in the over-crowded rooms felt the shock of the testimony.

“What happened next?”

“Just then the front door bell rang loudly. Putting the telegram on the hall table, I went to answer it, and found Mrs. Macallister’s footman waiting in the vestibule. I started to tell Miss Beatrice, but at that moment she walked out of the library, with her cloak over her arm. When I helped her on with it she was trembling from head to foot.”

“What became of Mrs. Trevor?”

“I don’t know, sir. After the carriage drove off, I went first into the private office to fasten the windows, and from there into the other rooms. I think Mrs. Trevor must have gone upstairs when I was in the parlor. I went to bed very soon after.”

“Were you disturbed in the night?”

“No, sir. The servants’ quarters are all on the fourth floor. The house is well built and the walls are very thick. We couldn’t hear any sound up there, except the bells in the corridor, and they did not ring at all.”

“How did you find everything when you came down the next morning?”

“Every window was locked on the ground floor, and the night-latch was up on the front door, sir. The window on the stairway by which the burglar entered is covered by heavy curtains; and as it was closed, I never noticed it was unfastened until after the detective’s arrival.”

“Did you enter the private office?”

“Yes, sir; nothing had been disturbed.”

“No sign of a struggle?”

“No, sir. Every chair and rug was in its place.”

“That’s all; you can go now,” said the coroner, after a moment’s silence. Wilkins heaved a sigh of relief, as he hastened out of the room.

Interest was at fever heat among the spectators. For once Mrs. Macallister was too shocked by the trend of suspicion to voice her feelings to Peggy.

Apparently the least concerned person in the room was Beatrice Trevor, who had entered in answer to the clerk’s summons. Lack of sleep and anxiety had left their mark on the girl’s finely cut features, but there was no trace of fear in her large, candid eyes, which were turned inquiringly on the coroner.

Peggy’s heart was hot within her. How dare these people insinuate that Beatrice, her dear, dear friend, was guilty of murder. The idea was too preposterous!

Even the coroner was struck by the young girl’s poise and dignity, and his manner was very gentle as he said:

“Miss Trevor, I have just a few questions to ask you. At what hour did you return from the ball?”

“We left the New Willard at a quarter to three, and reached here about fifteen minutes later.”

“Did you encounter anyone as you entered?”

“No.”

“Was the house dark?”

“Yes; except for the light in the hall.”

“Did you go directly to your room?”

“Yes. I put up the night-latch, turned out the light, and went to my room at once.”

“When did you last see your stepmother?”

“In the library, before the carriage came for me.”

“Miss Trevor”—the coroner fumbled with his watch chain—“what did you and Mrs. Trevor quarrel about that night?”

The question struck home. Beatrice reeled in her seat.

“What did you say?” she stammered.

The coroner repeated his question. With a visible effort, Beatrice regained her self-control.

“That is a matter between my stepmother and myself. I decline to discuss it with anyone.”

“But you must, Miss Trevor.”

“I will not. Our quarrel had nothing whatever to do with Mrs. Trevor’s death.”

“I am the best judge of that,” retorted Coroner Wilson, but Beatrice remained obstinately silent.

“Come, Miss Trevor, can you not see that you are injuring yourself by this refusal. People will jump to but one conclusion. For your own sake, I beg you to tell us what your quarrel was about.”

“I decline to answer.”

The coroner shrugged his shoulders. He had warned her; he could do no more.

“Very well, Miss Trevor. You may retire.”

With pale, set lips and flashing eyes, Beatrice swept from the room.

For a few minutes the coroner looked over his papers, then he beckoned to his clerk. The next instant, Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon had been called to the stand. There was a gasp of amazement from the fashionable spectators. How came Donald Gordon to be mixed up in this affair?

But none was more surprised than Donald Gordon himself. He had been subpœnaed as a witness that morning, to his great disgust, as he had orders to accompany the President to New York on the afternoon train. He reported the subpœna to his superiors, and another aide had been detailed to attend the President in his place.

Gordon had an enviable record as an officer in the United States navy. He had served bravely under Admiral Dewey at Manila, and had on several occasions received special commendation from Congress. Good-looking, in a big, fine way, he was immensely popular in the service, and also with his many civilian friends.

“Mr. Gordon,” said the coroner, after he had been duly sworn, “I wish to ask if this is your property.” As he spoke, he held up a heavy gold signet ring.

Absolute incredulity was plainly written on Gordon’s face, as he leaned over and took the ring.

“Yes,” he said, turning it over, “yes. It is my class ring. My initials and the date of my graduation from the Naval Academy are engraved on the inside.” Then his voice deepened. “How came you to have this ring in your possession?”

“It was found”—the coroner paused impressively—“it was found tightly clasped in Mrs. Trevor’s right hand.”

In stupefied silence, Gordon gazed at the coroner, while the meaning of his words slowly took form in his brain. Then he leaped to his feet.

“You lie—damn you—you lie!” he cried, fiercely.

CHAPTER VI
THE VERDICT

So totally unexpected had been the dénouement that for a few seconds the spectators sat stunned; then pandemonium broke loose. It was only after the coroner threatened to clear the rooms that quiet was restored.

“Such violence is unnecessary,” said he, addressing Gordon.

“I—I—beg pardon,” the young officer spoke with an effort. “Your statement was so utterly unbelievable, so astounding that I forgot myself.”

“It is absolutely true, and can be proved by Doctor Davis and Detective Hardy, who was present when the doctor found the ring. Mrs. Trevor’s hand was so tightly clenched that he had to exert his strength to force it open. Can you explain its presence there?”

He gazed intently at Gordon, but the latter had his emotions under control, and his face was expressionless, as he answered with perfect composure:

“I cannot, sir.”

“Where were you on Wednesday night, last?”

“I dined at the Metropolitan Club with Lieutenant James Raymond. We went later to the Bachelors’ Cotillion.”

The coroner held a whispered conversation with his clerk, then turned to the witness.

“Will you kindly withdraw to the waiting room, Mr. Gordon; but don’t leave the house, as I wish to call you again to the stand.”

Gordon nodded silently to Dick Tillinghast and several other friends as he left the room.

The next witness was Lieutenant Raymond. His testimony was very brief. Yes, he and Lieutenant-Commander Gordon had dined together on Wednesday night. They had left the Club about half past nine as he, Raymond, was a member of the Committee and had to go early to the New Willard. No, Mr. Gordon did not accompany him to the hotel; but had left him at the corner of 17th and H Streets, saying he had to return to his rooms at the Benedict, but would go to the dance later on. Gordon did not enter the ballroom until just after supper, which was served at midnight.

“Are you positive of that?” asked the coroner.

“Absolutely positive, because I had to get a temporary partner for Miss Underhill, who was to have danced the cotillion with Mr. Gordon.”

“How long a time would it take for Mr. Gordon to go from 17th and H Streets to his apartment?”

“About five minutes.”

“And how long would it take him to get from his apartment at the Benedict to the New Willard?”

“Seven minutes if he went in the cars, and fifteen minutes if he walked.”

Lieutenant Raymond was then excused, and after his departure Detective Hardy was called to the witness chair. He gave a brief résumé of all that took place after the murder was discovered.

“Did you find any trace of the end of the weapon?” asked the coroner.

“No, sir. I turned the whole place inside out, but could find nothing. The only clue I had to go upon was the ring which we found in Mrs. Trevor’s hand. I saw at a glance that it was a naval class ring, so I at once went to the Navy Department. There I looked through the register of Annapolis graduates, and found that two men in that class had the two initials ‘D. G.’—Donald Gordon and Daniel Green. The latter is stationed at Mare Island, California. That eliminated him, so I went to Mr. Gordon’s quarters at the Benedict Apartment House.” He paused.

“Go on,” ordered the coroner. “Tell your story in your own way.”

The jury to a man were leaning across the table, regarding the detective with deep interest.

“The janitor there is a friend of mine, so he let me into Mr. Gordon’s apartment, which is on the second floor, with his pass key. I searched his rooms thoroughly, but could find nothing. Then I went through his personal belongings. In the inner pocket of his overcoat, I found a few pieces of a torn note.

“It didn’t take me long to fit the words together. I then pasted them all on a sheet of note paper. Here, you can see for yourselves.”

He drew out his pocketbook as he spoke, and removed from it a sheet of paper on which were pasted scraps torn in different shapes, and handed it to the coroner. After one startled glance, the coroner read the contents aloud.

“Come—Wedn—half—elev—must—you—for—leav—New Yor—

“Hélène de—T—”

Without a word of comment, the coroner handed the paper to the jurymen, who eagerly scanned it.

“Have you any further evidence to give to the jury?”

“No, sir.”

“That is all, then, Hardy. You are excused. Bayne,” to his clerk, “recall Mr. Gordon.”

Gordon was walking impatiently up and down the smaller room, eager to be gone, and he answered the summons with alacrity.

“Mr. Gordon, where were you between the hours of nine thirty P.M. and midnight on Wednesday last?”

“I decline to state.”

“Tut! We know you called to see Mrs. Trevor at eleven thirty that night.”

“Indeed, and may I ask who your informant is?”

The coroner paid no attention to the interruption, but went steadily on with his examination.

“Did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”

Silence.

The coroner repeated his question.

Still no reply.

“Come, sir; you must answer. Yes, or no?”

Gordon stirred uneasily in his chair. “I was in my rooms at the Benedict until I left to go to the ball,” he said.

“Was anyone with you?”

“No.”

“Did anyone see you leave the Benedict?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Then he added quickly, “At least, there may have been some of the other tenants around, or perhaps the janitor; I never noticed in my hurry.”

“Mr. Gordon—” the coroner’s manner was abrupt and stern—“do you see these pieces?” He took up the sheet from the table. “They are apparently torn from a letter of Mrs. Trevor’s to you, making an appointment to see you here on Wednesday night at eleven thirty. These scraps were found in your overcoat pocket. Again I ask, did Mrs. Trevor admit you?”

Gordon glanced at the sheet and recognized the handwriting. His mouth closed in a hard line, and he grew perceptibly paler. He straightened his broad shoulders, and faced the jury squarely, saying:

“I refuse to incriminate myself.”

In the dead silence the scratching of the stenographer’s pen could be heard plainly.

“You may retire,” said the coroner.

With perfect self-possession, Gordon left the room.

The coroner’s summing up of the case was short and to the point. As soon as he finished, the jury left the room to deliberate.

The hands of the ormolu clock on the mantel had gone five times around its dial, but there was no thinning out of the crowd. The majority of the spectators had attended the inquest out of friendship for the Trevors, others had been brought there by morbid curiosity; but none had expected such an outcome to the investigation. Now, in silence and nervous apprehension they waited for the return of the jury. The tension was snapped by their reappearance. The coroner rose and addressed them.

“Gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?”

“The jury find,” answered the foreman, “that Mrs. Hélène de Beaupré Trevor came to her death on the night of Wednesday, February 3rd, 19—, in the City of Washington, District of Columbia, from a wound inflicted by Lieutenant-Commander Donald Gordon.”

CHAPTER VII
WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS

Tramp, tramp, back and forth, back and forth, went the restless footsteps. Would she never tire? Would she never stop? Alfred Clark bent lower until his eye was on a level with the keyhole of the closed library door. Suddenly the gong over the front door rang loudly. With a smothered exclamation, Clark glided quickly across the wide hall and entered the private office just as Wilkins came out of the dining-room.

“Good afternoon, Wilkins. Can I see Miss Beatrice?” Peggy’s fresh young voice sounded cheerily in Wilkins’ ears. During the last week he had had a surfeit of horrors and unmitigated gloom.

“Yes, Miss Margaret, she is expecting you. Will you please walk into the drawing-room, and I will tell her you have come.”

Peggy had only time to straighten one refractory curl which would trail down on her forehead. It had been the cause of much mental anguish in childish days because everyone dinned into her ears, “There was a little girl, and she had a little curl.” Consequently she always took care to tuck that particular lock carefully out of sight. As she turned from the mirror, Beatrice came in through the communicating doors leading to the library.

“My dearest, how good it is to see you again,” exclaimed Peggy, giving her a warm kiss and hug.

“It is, indeed,” and Beatrice’s sad face brightened, as she affectionately returned the embrace.

“I have been here several times since the funeral, Beatrice.”

“I know, dear, and it did my heart good to know you were thinking of me. I feel so alone, so utterly alone.” Beatrice stopped to control her voice, and Peggy, with loving sympathy, threw her arm about her shoulders.

They made a charming foil sitting side by side on the divan, one so dark in her stately beauty, the other so fair and winsome, their faces seen first in shadow then in light as the fickle wood fire flickered to and fro on the wide hearth.

“There, I did not intend to allude to the terrible happenings. Since the funeral, which was private, I have tried not to let my mind dwell on the tragedy. Otherwise I think I should go mad. I cannot, cannot speak of it even to you, dearest.” Her hands twitched spasmodically, and she bit her lips to hide their trembling. Regaining her composure by a desperate effort, she signed to Wilkins to move the tea table nearer the fire. “Two lumps and lemon, Peggy?”

“Yes, please, and very weak.”

“It was dear of you to come out in this snow storm.”

“Puf! I don’t care that for a storm.” Peggy snapped her fingers derisively. “I had been in all day and was longing for fresh air when you telephoned me. And the walk up here did me no end of good. I always eat too much at Granny’s lunches.”

“Tell me who were there?”

“Oh! just the Topic Club. One of the members gave out at the eleventh hour, and Granny asked me to take her place.”

“It must have been interesting,” ejaculated Beatrice.

The Topic Club, composed of eleven witty women, was a time-honored institution in the Capital. It met once a month at the different members’ houses. Each hostess was always allowed to ask one of her friends to make the twelfth guest, an invitation eagerly sought for. The topic to be discussed was written on the back of the place cards.

“What was the topic this time, Peggy?”

“‘What does a woman remember longest?’ May I have some more hot water, my tea is a little too strong?”

“And what answer did they find for it?” asked Beatrice, taking up the hot water kettle as Peggy held out her cup.

“Why, they decided that no woman ever forgets ‘the man who has once loved her.’ My gracious, Beatrice, look out!” as a few drops of boiling water went splashing over her fingers.

“Oh, Peggy, did I scald you?”

“Not very much,” groaned Peggy, putting her injured finger in her mouth, that human receptacle for all things—good and bad.

“I am so sorry, dear. Tell me, did you hear anything exciting at luncheon?”

“Nothing in particular.” Peggy could not tell her that the chief topic at the table had been the Trevor murder, so she rattled on: “People say that divorce proceedings are pending in the Van Auken family. You know their home is called ‘the house of a thousand scandals.’ But the latest news is that Martha Underhill’s engagement to Bobby Crane has been broken off.”

“Why?” asked Beatrice, her curiosity excited.

“Well, they quarreled about Donald Gordon—” Beatrice’s convulsive start brought Peggy up short. As usual her thoughtless tongue had gotten her into hot water. To hesitate would be but to make a bad matter worse, so she went bravely on: “Bobby is desperately jealous, and simply hates to have Martha even look at any other man. So he was simply raging when she told him she intended dancing the last Bachelors’ with Mr. Gordon, who is an old friend of hers. Bobby was very nasty about it. Yesterday when we were all walking up Connecticut Avenue from St. John’s, Martha remarked how mortified she had been at being left without a partner during the first part of the cotillion.

“‘Serves you jolly well right,’ snapped Bobby. ‘That’s what comes of dancing with a murderer!’”

“Oh, the coward!” exclaimed Beatrice. “The coward!”

“That’s what we all thought, and I left Martha telling Bobby what she thought of him. Result—the broken engagement. As to Mr. Gordon, we all believe in his innocence,” declared Peggy, stoutly.

“It is not the first time a Court of Justice has blundered,” agreed Beatrice, wearily, and she brushed her soft hair off her hot forehead.

“The idea of suspecting Mr. Gordon,” went on Peggy, heatedly. “He is so chivalrous; so tender in his manner to all women! What matter if he is a bit of a flirt—”

Beatrice moved uneasily in her chair.

“How is Mrs. Macallister?” she asked abruptly.

“Very well, and enjoying herself immensely at present. She is having an out and out row with the Commissioners of the District. Major Stone applied to them for permission to cut an entrance to the alley through Granny’s rose garden. My, she was mad!” and Peggy smiled broadly at the recollection.

“I don’t wonder,” exclaimed Beatrice. “Why, Peggy, it would be a perfect shame. Mrs. Macallister’s garden is one of the beauties of Washington.”

“It would be beastly. You see, Granny owns nearly half the square between 19th and 20th on F Street. To prevent apartment houses going up, she wanted to buy the whole block. But the owners, finding she wanted the real estate, asked her an exorbitant price, which Granny naturally refused to pay. Now, I suppose to get back at her, old Major Stone insists that the alley, which already has two entrances, must have a third.

“So yesterday, Granny and I went to call on Major Cochrane, the new Engineer Commissioner, in the District Building. He didn’t know us from Adam, and didn’t seem able to get a clear idea of our errand. Finally, he asked Granny:

“‘Do I understand you came here to get an alley put through?’

“‘No,’ replied Granny, with her blandest smile, ‘I came to get an ally.’ And she did, too,” laughed Peggy. “Before we left she had won him, body and soul, over to her cause.”

“I prophesy Mrs. Macallister wins. Must you go, dear,” as Peggy started gathering her wraps together.

“It’s getting late, and I am far, far from home; besides which, I am dining with the Van Winkles, and afterwards going to the Charity Ball. So I have a busy night ahead of me. But I hate to leave you, dearie, all by yourself. Won’t you come down and visit us? We’d love to have you. Indeed, it is not good for you to stay shut up here by yourself—” Peggy came to a breathless pause.

There were tears in Beatrice’s eyes as she bent and kissed the soft, rosy cheek. What it cost her to stay in that house, none would ever know. She shook her head.

“It is like you to ask me, Peggy darling, but I cannot leave Father. He needs me now.”

The slight emphasis was lost on Peggy, who was busy adjusting her furs. With a searching glance around the dimly lighted room, Beatrice drew a small, flat box from her dainty work bag, and going close to Peggy whispered:

“I am surrounded by prying eyes. You, and you only, can I trust. In the name of our long friendship, and for the sake of the old school days I beg, I entreat you, Peggy, to take this box and keep it for me!”

“Indeed I will!” Peggy’s whisper was reassuring in its vehemence. “No one shall ever see or know of it.” As she spoke, she thrust it in her large muff. “Remember, Beatrice, Granny and I are always your devoted, loyal friends. Do not hesitate to let us help you.”

Beatrice’s only answer was to fold Peggy in a passionate embrace. Then, as the latter left the room, she threw herself on the divan, her slender form racked with sobs.

As Peggy crossed the square hall on her way to the front door, she came face to face with the Attorney General’s secretary. Alfred Clark, who was putting on his overcoat, greeted her effusively.

“Oh, good afternoon,” she replied, a trifle coldly; for his obsequious manner always grated on her.

“Can I see you home?” asked Clark, eagerly, opening the front door as he spoke.

“You are very kind, but I am going to catch the car at the corner, and I wouldn’t think of taking you so far out of your way.”

“On the contrary, it is right in the direction I am going,” rejoined Clark, helping Peggy down the slippery steps. “I was so sorry not to see you when I called last Sunday,” he continued, as they turned to walk in the direction of Connecticut Avenue. “I thought you always stayed at home that day?”

“I usually do; but last Sunday I went down to the station to see a friend off, so missed all my callers. Gracious! there’s our car. Do stop it.”

Obediently Clark ran ahead and signalled the motorman to wait until Peggy could get there. But once inside the car they had no further chance for conversation, for Clark, jostled by the crowd, was obliged to stand some distance from Peggy, who had been given a seat further up. On transferring to the G Street herdic they found they had that antiquated vehicle entirely to themselves.

“How do you think Miss Trevor is looking?” inquired Clark, after he had stuffed the transfers into the change box by the driver’s seat.

“She seems utterly used up, poor dear,” answered Peggy, soberly. “I am afraid the strain is telling on her more than she will admit.”

“You are right, Miss Macallister; and something should be done about it.” Clark spoke with so much feeling that she glanced at him with deepened interest. “Her father is so absorbed in his grief that he never notices his daughter’s condition.”

“It is a shame,” agreed Peggy, “and yet, not surprising. He was perfectly devoted to Mrs. Trevor, and Senator Phillips says he is heartbroken by her tragic death.”

“That is no excuse for neglecting the living. Mr. Trevor owes much to his daughter’s affection.” Peggy did not see the quickly suppressed sneer that distorted Clark’s handsome features. “Miss Trevor acts as if she had something preying on her mind, don’t you think so?”

Peggy clutched the box secreted so carefully inside her muff in sudden panic. What did the man’s insinuation mean?

“No,” she answered tartly. “I think her nervous, over-wrought condition is simply due to the tragedy, and its attending mystery.”

“Mystery?” echoed Clark. “Why, all that has been cleared up by Gordon’s arrest.”

“Indeed it has not,” indignantly declared Peggy. “I don’t for a moment believe him guilty. I think he is the victim of circumstantial evidence.” Her rapid speech was interrupted by their arrival at her street corner, and she did not finish her sentence until they stood in the vestibule of the Macallister mansion. “In the first place, Mr. Clark,” she continued, “where would you find a motive for such a crime?”

“In Gordon’s past, Miss Macallister.” And, as Hurley opened the front door, “Good night; thanks so much for allowing me to escort you home.”

He ran down the steps and walked rapidly up the street before the astonished girl could frame another sentence.

CHAPTER VIII
THE CHALLENGE

Just before midnight the Charity Ball, given annually for the benefit of the Children’s Hospital, was at its height. The long ballroom at the New Willard was almost too crowded for comfort, at least so thought the dancing contingent.

“Come on over here out of the crowd, Peggy,” and Dick Tillinghast pointed to one of the deep window recesses. It looked cool and comfortable after the heat of the room, and with a sigh of relief Peggy sank back in its kindly shelter. She was beginning to feel weary, having danced every encore and extra.

“Now, I call this jolly,” went on Dick, fanning her vigorously. “Peggy—you wretch—you have been flirting outrageously with little de Morny all the evening.”

“The Count is very agreeable,” answered Peggy, demurely. “Besides, I was giving him lessons in English.”

Dick snorted. “You may call it what you like; but the Count is in dead earnest.”

“Really, Mr. Tillinghast—” Peggy’s head went up. Dick, seeing the light of combat in her eyes, hastened to interrupt her.

“Now, Peggy—please. You’ve been perfectly beastly to me all the evening; never even saved me a dance, and I had to steal this one.”

“It is customary to ask for them,” frigidly.

“It wasn’t my fault. I was detained at the office, as you know perfectly well. It wasn’t kind, Peggy, indeed it wasn’t.”

Dick’s voice expressed more bitterness than the occasion warranted. Swiftly Peggy’s kind heart relented.

“I didn’t keep a dance, Dick, because,” she lowered her voice, “I—I—thought you would prefer to take me out to supper.”

“You darling!” Dick leaned impulsively nearer; then cursed inwardly as Tom Blake’s stout form stopped before them.

“Well, you two look very ‘comfy’; may I join you?” The chair, which Peggy pushed toward him creaked under his weight. “This is a bully alcove; you are in the crowd and yet not of it. Hello, de Morny, come and sit with us. Miss Macallister was just asking for you,” and he winked at Dick.

De Morny was walking past, vainly searching for Peggy, and he accepted the invitation with alacrity. He had met her early in the season. Her sunny disposition and fascinating personality had made instant appeal to the Frenchman’s volatile nature. Wherever Peggy went, de Morny was sure to follow, much to Dick’s silent fury.

Their mutual friends had not been slow to grasp the situation, and many were the conjectures as to which man would win the little flirt, and, incidentally, the Macallister millions. The money consideration did not enter altogether into de Morny’s calculations, for contrary to the usual order of things, he was wealthy. Belonging to the old nobility of France, he was a most desirable parti, and had often been relentlessly pursued by mothers with marriageable daughters on their hands.

But many times Dick cursed Peggy’s prospective inheritance. Without a penny except his salary, it was bitter indeed to the proud fellow to feel that he was looked upon as a fortune hunter. They had been boy and girl sweethearts when their parents had lived next door to each other until the crash came. His father gave up home and personal belongings to meet his creditors, dying shortly after, and Dick had been thrown on his own resources during his freshman year at Harvard. It was simply another case of from shirt sleeves to shirt sleeves in three generations, no uncommon occurrence in America.

“Mademoiselle,” said the Frenchman, bowing before Peggy, “have I zer permission to present to you mon ami, Count de Smirnoff.” He beckoned to a tall stranger who had stopped just outside the alcove when de Morny joined the little group. “And to you, also, Monsieur Blake, and Monsieur Tillinghast.”

Count de Smirnoff acknowledged the introductions most courteously, and then, to Dick’s secret annoyance, promptly appropriated the chair nearest Peggy and devoted himself to her.

“Will you look at Mrs. Wheeler,” whispered Tom Blake to his companions. “Solomon in all his glory couldn’t touch her.”

Mrs. Wheeler was dazzling to behold. Dressed in scarlet and gold, with diamonds in front of her, diamonds on top of her, she easily out-diamonded every woman present. The crowd parted to make way for her as she moved slowly, very slowly up the long room. With the Vice-President on one side of her and the British Ambassador on the other, the apotheosis of the house of Wheeler was reached.

Dick drew a long breath after they had passed. “My eyes actually hurt from such illumination. Why, oh, why does Washington accept such people?”

“Because she possesses the Golden Key which unlocks most doors in democratic America,” answered Tom, dryly. “She wined and dined herself into our midst, and now—” he paused dramatically—“she draws the line on the Army and Navy people here, because her calling list is already so large!”

“How’s poor Gordon?” he asked, suddenly, a few minutes later.

“He refuses to see anyone, or talk,” answered Dick.

“Poor devil! What made him do such a mad action?”

“I don’t believe he is guilty,” said Dick, slowly. “He isn’t that sort. He wouldn’t kill a man in cold blood, let alone strike a woman.”

“I agree with you, Dick. There has been some dreadful mistake,” chimed in Peggy.

“Is it the Trevor murder of which you speak?” asked de Smirnoff. He spoke English perfectly, but for a slight accent.

“Yes, Monsieur. Even the District Attorney thinks someone has blundered; he is furious because the coroner’s jury brought in that verdict against Gordon.”

“Oh, well, he’ll have a chance to clear himself before the Grand Jury two weeks from now. After all, Dick, he virtually admitted he was guilty.”

“I don’t see it that way,” answered Dick, obstinately.

“Well, I hope he can prove an alibi. But if he does it will go hard with Beatrice Trevor. Suspicion already points to her.”

“Oh! no, no!” cried Peggy, in horror, and she looked appealingly at Dick.

“I’m afraid so,” he said, sorrowfully, answering her unspoken thought. “You see, it’s very obvious that she has some secret to conceal.”

Peggy actually jumped as her mind flew to the box which was at that moment safely hidden in the secret drawer of her bureau. Beatrice guilty—never—never—she put the thought from her, but it would return.

“You mustn’t say such things,” she said, angry with herself for her disloyal thoughts, and her face paled perceptibly.

“I am sorry I spoke in that way,” replied Dick. “I had forgotten for the moment that she is your greatest friend. Indeed, Peggy, I meant no offense. You know I would do anything for you, anything.”

“So would we all, Miss Peggy,” exclaimed Tom, and de Morny, but half understanding the rapidly spoken English, nodded his head back and forth like a china mandarin.

“Then,” said Peggy, “find the real murderer of Mrs. Trevor. That,” loyally, “would clear my friends from suspicion. And I will give you”—unconsciously her eyes sought Dick’s and the look in them made his heart throb with hope; then she glanced quickly at Count de Morny, and his heart sank with sickening dread—“unto the half of my kingdom.”

“I accept the challenge,” he said, gravely, and he raised her hand to his lips; while Tom, in a few sentences, explained the wager to the two foreigners.

“To find ze murderer? But ze police have done zat, Mademoiselle,” de Morny ejaculated.

“No, no; they have only arrested a man on suspicion. Miss Peggy thinks the murderer is still at large.”

“As Mademoiselle sinks, so sinks I,” answered the Count gallantly.

“It appears to me that the police acted with great discretion,” said de Smirnoff, who had been an interested listener. “But they do not make the most of their opportunities.”

“In what way, Count?” asked Dick.

“In regard to the burglar, Monsieur. Since my arrival here I have read with deep interest all the newspaper accounts of the tragedy. Frankly, I had not expected to find such a cause celebre in the Capital of this great country. It occurs to me that the burglar has not told all he knows.”

“Since telling his story at the inquest he refuses to talk.”

De Smirnoff shrugged his shoulders. “In my country he would be made to talk. The secret police of Russia, Monsieur, can extract information from the most unwilling of witnesses.”

“You really think Nelson is keeping something back?” asked Tom, incredulously. “Why, the poor devil is only too anxious to clear himself. Surely, if he knew he would not hesitate to tell the whole truth?”

“It is difficult to say, Monsieur. He may have been bribed to hold his tongue; money can do much these days. Again, fear of the murderer may force him to silence.”

“That’s true, too; yet fear of the gallows would make most people talk.”

“Ah, but he does not stand in very much danger there, for has not another man already been arrested, charged with the crime? No, no, depend upon it, he is holding something back.”

“What, for instance?” inquired Dick, eagerly.

“The weapon,” suggested de Smirnoff. “It is quite within the possible that he found it. According to his testimony, he was the first to find the body. Now, he may be keeping back this information so as to be able to blackmail the murderer when his sentence for house-breaking is over. Apparently, he is a clever crook, and undoubtedly knows how best to look after his own interests.”

CHAPTER IX
“MAIN 6”

Buzz—buzz—sounded the alarm. Dick stirred, shivered slightly, and sat up.

“May the devil fly away with you!” he muttered, addressing the clock. “I wish to thunder I could go to bed as sleepy as I wake up,” stretching himself, and vividly recollecting how many hours he had lain awake thinking of Peggy. His thoughts turned quickly to her challenge; with a bound he was out of bed; no time for loitering now—too much was at stake.

Some hours later Dick was staring moodily at the snow and slush in front of the District building on Pennsylvania Avenue. So far, he had been unsuccessful. Gordon had refused to be interviewed by him, now he was in search of Detective Hardy. Muttering uncomplimentary remarks about the offenders who allowed the streets in Washington to get in such a fearful condition, he waded ankle deep through the melting snow to the sidewalk, and almost into the arms of the very man he was looking for.

“Hello, Mr. Tillinghast, how are you?” exclaimed Hardy, recovering his balance as he slipped on the icy pavement. “What brings you down to these diggings?”

“You,” answered Dick, briefly. “I’m assigned to cover the Trevor murder, as you know, and I’m looking for more material.”

“Gwan,” chuckled Hardy. “Your paper has already spread itself some on that line. In fact, it’s said just a leetle too much,” remembering the furore Gordon’s arrest had made, and the attendant abuse heaped on the detective force for not making more headway with the case.

“Pshaw! Hardy, you know the paper has to cater to the public, and Washington has gone wild over the murder. I’ve had to write columns and give ’em all sorts of theories, but none hold water.”

“’Course not. We’ve got the guilty man under lock and key.”

“Hum! Found the weapon yet?”

A look of chagrin crossed Hardy’s face. “Naw, damn it!” he growled. “Mr. Gordon sure hid it safely; threw it down an open street sewer most likely.”

“How about Nelson?”

“Nelson? Oh! he’s doing time for house-breaking; so we’ve got him dead to rights if we find he’s wanted for the murder. Sorry, sir,” glancing as he spoke at the clock over the City Post Office, “but I’ve got to beat it quick.” Then, lowering his voice, “I’ve a bit of news which may surprise some folks. Come round in a day or two and I’ll let you in on it.”

“Here, wait,” shouted Dick, making a futile dive for Hardy’s coat as he swung himself aboard a south-bound car.

“What are you wasting so much energy for, Dick?” asked a hearty voice at his elbow. Dick swung around with a jump.

“Why, where in —— did you drop from?” he gasped, hardly able to credit his senses as the newcomer seized his hand and wrung it vigorously.

“Just arrived via Panama,” explained General Long. “Let’s get on the sidewalk, Dick. I didn’t come to Washington to be knocked down by a dray horse,” and he dragged his still bewildered friend to the curb. “Come into the Willard and lunch with me. I’m half dead with hunger.”

“Now,” said Dick, after they had done justice to the Martinis, “give an account of yourself, past, present and future.”

“Past—Philippines; present—here; future—God knows!” General Long sighed as he helped Dick and himself to the tempting dish in front of him. “It’s good to taste Christian cooking once again. Don’t insult good food by hurrying too much, Dick; take your time. At present I’ve come here on waiting orders.”

Dick inwardly wondered what necessity had induced the War Department to send for Chester Long. A man of exceptional executive ability and personal bravery, he had been rapidly advanced over the heads of older officers, to their unspeakable rage, until finally he had been appointed second in command in the Philippines. He had made a record for himself out there, and Dick was astounded that his recall should have been kept so profound a secret.

“How did you slip away without the papers getting on?” he asked.

“Orders from the Department hushed things up pretty well, and then I traveled incog. The why and the wherefore, I may—guess—” he smiled quietly. “Now, Dick, give an account of yourself.”

It did not take long in the telling, as the two friends had never completely lost sight of each other, and mutual friends had kept them in touch with their doings. General Long was Dick’s senior by some fifteen years, but since the days of the Spanish war in Cuba, where Dick was sent as war correspondent, they had been sworn allies.

“I’m dreadfully shocked about the Trevor murder,” said Long, after Dick had finished speaking of himself. “The papers are filled with it. Gordon is the last person I’d think capable of so dastardly a crime. While at Annapolis, where he was a three-striper, he was voted the most popular man, and the one most likely to succeed. He never lied, and he never went back on a friend. Since his graduation his record in the Service has been fine, fine. And now, to have such a charge against him! How have the mighty fallen! Poor Gordon—poor devil!”

“Things look pretty black for him,” admitted Dick. “But still the evidence is not absolutely conclusive, simply circumstantial.”

“In what way?”

“In the first place no weapon has been found in his possession. Secondly, the absolute lack of motive.”

Long twirled his wine glass about in his fingers.

“Is there none?” he asked, finally.

“Apparently none. After years of absence Gordon came to Washington on receiving his appointment as aide to the President one month ago. He never went to the Trevors much. In fact, he and Mrs. Trevor were total strangers. They met first at a theater party I gave, which Mrs. Trevor chaperoned, on the night of Gordon’s arrival in town. You know he and I went to Lawrenceville together.”

Long glanced around the half empty café; their table was in the farther corner, and their waiter had departed after removing the dessert and putting the liqueur and coffee before them. There was no chance of their conversation being overheard, but Long motioned to Dick to pull his chair closer, as he said in a low voice:

“I’ve always had great respect for your discretion, Dick; therefore, I’m going to confide in you. You can use your judgment about speaking of what I tell you now.

“Some four years ago or more, I was military attaché at the Court of St. James. One day I ran across Don Gordon in Hyde Park. He told me he was there on leave visiting his sister, Lady Dorchester. I didn’t see much of him because his entire time was taken up with paying desperate attention to—Hélène de Beaupré.”

“What!” shouted Dick, starting up in his intense surprise.

“Hush, man,” said Long, sternly. “You are attracting attention.” Dick, much abashed, subsided into his chair. “I can swear to what I am saying, because at that time Hélène de Beaupré was the rage in London. Men and women raved about her, and she was received everywhere. Gordon lost his head over her, he was madly infatuated with her beauty; whether his affection was returned, I know not.” Long shrugged his shoulders.

“Just about that time I was relieved from duty in London, and in the rush of departure forgot all about Gordon and his affairs. But one day on shipboard Alfred Clark told me that he had seen Gordon and Hélène de Beaupré applying at the Home Office for a special license to marry at once.”

Dick looked at his friend too dazed to speak. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he muttered.

For a few minutes they sat regarding each other in puzzled silence. Then Dick roused himself to ask: “Is the Alfred Clark of whom you speak the man who is now secretary to the Attorney General?”

“Is he tall, well-built, handsome, with a peculiar scar on his temple?”

“You have described the man to a dot. Looks like a Gypsy?” Long nodded in acquiescence. “He goes out here a great deal; sort of insinuates himself into people’s good graces. I never liked him—too much of a beauty man to suit me. What was he doing in England?”

“He stopped there from Italy on his way to the States. At that time his father had plenty of money, and Alfred did nothing but travel about at his own sweet will. The crash came just afterwards, and then he had to get to work.”

“It must have been a bitter pill for him to swallow, poor devil. I’ve gone through a somewhat similar experience,” and Dick sighed sympathetically. “Strange that Mrs. Trevor, Gordon and Clark should all be here at the same time!”

“Fate plays strange tricks,” agreed Long. “I heard nothing further about these three people until I read of the Trevor tragedy. How did Gordon and Mrs. Trevor look, Dick, when you introduced them?”

“I don’t know,” confessed Dick. “Gordon didn’t appear until about the middle of the first act; the box was in semi-darkness. I introduced him to all my friends as he was the stranger, and I remember hearing Mrs. Trevor say she was ‘delighted to meet him.’ I took it for granted she didn’t know him.”

Long shook his head. “It’s a black business, Dick, whichever way you look at it. If she jilted Gordon and married Trevor, it might be a reason for the crime; or if Gordon really married her first, then there is a still greater motive for the murder.”

“Bigamy?” ejaculated Dick.

“Perhaps. Gordon is poor—Trevor rich; apparently the balance dipped in the latter’s favor. It is not the first time souls have been bought and honor lost by the desire for filthy lucre. Mind you, Dick, this last is all surmise. I may be entirely wrong. You can use the information I have given you if you think best; and I’ll be here if you want to consult me about it.”

“Which way are you going?” asked Dick.

“To the War Department, and you—?”

“To the office. I’ll drop in and see you sometime to-morrow. It’s bully having you back again, old man. So long,” and with a parting hand shake the two friends parted.

Dick was very tired when he reached his home in Georgetown that night. His landlady heard his key turn in the lock and came out in the hall to meet him.

Mrs. Brisbane, “befo’ de wah,” had not known what it was to put on her own silk stockings; now, she took “paying guests.” Her husband and brothers had died for “The Cause”; her property near Charleston, South Carolina, had been totally destroyed during the horrors of the Reconstruction period. She had come to Washington, that Mecca for unemployed gentlewomen, in hopes of adding to her slender income. For years she had been employed in the Post Office Department, as a handwriting expert. Then suddenly her eyesight failed her; and broken in health and hopes, she and her young granddaughter kept the wolf from the door and a roof over their heads as best they could.

Dick was devoted to Mrs. Brisbane. Her gentle dignity and indomitable pluck in the face of every misfortune had won his admiration and respect. He had lived with them for over three years, and was looked upon as one of the family.

“You are late, Dick,” she said. “Have you had a busy day?”

“Yes, Mrs. Brisbane,” he answered, “and I’m dog tired, having been on the dead jump ever since I left here this morning.”

“Not too tired to come into the dining-room and help us celebrate my seventieth birthday, I hope?”

Dick looked reproachfully at her. “And you never told me! I don’t think that’s fair. Am I not one of the family? Yes— Then I claim a relative’s privilege.”

Mrs. Brisbane beamed upon him. “You extravagant boy! That’s just why I did not tell you. I hope you are not too exhausted to enjoy a glass of eggnog?”

“What a question! You know I would walk miles to get a taste of your eggnog. There’s nothing like it, this side of Heaven.”

“Heaven is not usually associated with eggnog,” laughed Nancy Pelham, a pretty young girl of sixteen. “And Granny’s brew is apt to lead one in the opposite direction.”

“Tut! Child. As Pa once said, eggnog was invented especially for God’s po’ creatures in their moments of tribulation. It puts new heart in most everyone, even a po’ Yankee.”

Dick laughed. “You are a pretty good hater, Mrs. Brisbane,” he said, helping himself to the frothy beverage.

“I reckon I’ve got cause.” Mrs. Brisbane’s drawl was delicious. “An’ I’m from Charleston, Dick, don’t forget that. Why, one of my nieces never knew until she got to New York that ‘damn Yankee’ was two words.”

“Granny, Granny,” remonstrated Nancy. “Dick’s a good Northerner by birth, and we mustn’t wave the bloody shirt.”

“Nonsense,” said Dick, hastily. “I love to fight our battles over with Mrs. Brisbane. What a beautiful punch bowl that is?” he added, enthusiastically.

“Isn’t it? It was given to Granny’s father, General Pinckney, by Mr. Calhoun.”

“It is the only piece of silver saved from the wreck,” said Mrs. Brisbane, sadly. “I could not part with it for old associations’ sake. Everything else of value, silver and jewelry, was sold long ago. How many distinguished men have drunk out of that bowl!” she sighed involuntarily. “Heigh oh! It is not good to reminisce. But I’ll never forget, Dick, one dinner I attended here.

“It was before I secured my place in the Post Office, and I was visiting some Washington friends. They took me to a dinner given by Mr. and Mrs. John Thompson, who were new-comers. They had struck ‘ile’ and were entertaining lavishly that winter. Imagine my feelings when I saw them using my entire silver service, even to the small silver!

“I recognized our coat-of-arms, as well as the pattern of the silver. They passed it off as family heirlooms! I found out later that they had spent months collecting the pieces from different second-hand dealers in antiques. I would not have minded so much if they had not been so palpably nouveaux riches. It seemed a sacrilege! Why, they hardly knew the uses of some of the pieces.”

Dick leaned over and patted her hand sympathetically.

“‘Heaven sends almonds to those who have no teeth,’” he quoted. “Now, I wonder if you can tell me anything about Texas?” he added, suddenly.

“Texas!” exclaimed Mrs. Brisbane. “Not much; I’ve never been there myself, but I have been told that only men and mules can live in that State. The climate usually kills all the women.”

“It isn’t Texas in general I am interested in,” chuckled Dick, “but the Gordons.”

“The Gordons are Georgians, Dick.”

“Not Donald Gordon, he was born in Texas.”

“Now, I do recollect that Major Gordon moved to Texas just after the wah. I believe he married a Galveston woman; and then went into politics.”

“Whatever the cause,” said Dick, his eyes twinkling, “he represented Texas in the Senate for years; finally died in Washington, and is interred in the Congressional Burying Ground here. Now, Mrs. Brisbane, can you tell me anything about them?”

“Not a thing, Dick, except that Senator Gordon was a man of very high temper; he nearly killed a soldier once for disobeying orders. Why do you ask?”

“I know,” broke in Nancy. She had been an interested listener, and had also seen that Dick’s glass was never empty. “It has something to do with the Trevor murder.”

“Yes,” acknowledged Dick, gravely. “I am doing my best to prove Gordon’s innocence; and, hang it all! every shred of evidence I turn up, is against him.”

“It was a shocking murder of a defenseless woman. I do not believe a Gordon could have done it,” declared Mrs. Brisbane.

“And yet—”

“Listen to me a moment, Dick,” Nancy tapped the table in her earnestness. “Perhaps I can help you. That Wednesday was my night shift at the North Exchange.” Nancy was temporarily working as a central in the Chesapeake and Potomac Telephone Company until she had taken her Civil Service examination for a Government position. “Well, about fifteen minutes after two that morning a call came for the Trevors’ house.”

“What? Really?”

“Yes. I don’t mean the regular house telephone, but for the Attorney General’s private wire in his private office.”

“What!” Dick’s voice grew in volume as his astonishment increased. “Are you sure, Nancy?”

“Absolutely positive. You know the number of the telephone in the Attorney General’s private office at his home is not listed in the regular book, as is his house wire. His private telephone is ‘North—123’; I remember it because it is so easy; and the other is ‘North—6795.’”

“But as to the time, Nancy?”

“I am certain about that, too. It was very quiet in the Exchange, and when the call came I nearly jumped out of my skin. I looked at the big wall clock directly opposite, and I saw it was fifteen minutes past two.”

“Nancy, you are a wonder—a brick. But why didn’t you come forward and give your evidence at the inquest?”

“Oh, I couldn’t, Dick,” the young girl colored painfully. “I went to work at the Exchange because we are so frightfully poor; but I—I—just couldn’t face the notoriety which I feared I would be dragged into. Then again, it might not have anything to do with the terrible affair.”

“Do?” echoed Dick; his tone was eloquent. “Was the telephone answered?”

“Yes, at once.”

“Now, do you happen to know where the call came from?”

“Yes. It was—‘Main 6.’”

Dick gazed at her too spellbound for words.

Main 6—The White House!

CHAPTER X
CAUGHT ON THE WIRES

Dick was up betimes the next morning, stopping only long enough to swallow a cup of coffee and a plate of oatmeal. Then calling a cheery good-by to Mrs. Brisbane, he banged out of the front door and down the steps in such haste that he collided violently with “Uncle” Andy Jackson, the Brisbane factotum, who was busy shoveling the snow off the steps.

“Laws, Marse Dick,” groaned Uncle Andy, picking himself up carefully. “’Pears like yo’ am in a hurry.”

“Awfully sorry, Uncle,” said Dick, helping the old man to his feet. “Here,” thrusting some loose change into the ready palm, “buy some liniment for the bruises. Whew! I didn’t realize it snowed so much last night.”

As far as the eye could see the large, old-fashioned gardens, which surround the old houses in Georgetown, were covered with banks of snow, an unusual sight in the Capital City. In some places the drifts were waist high.

“Plenty mo’ snow fo’ ole Andy to shovel,” grumbled the old man, who dearly loved the sound of his own voice, and seized every opportunity to talk to Dick, whom he especially admired because he belonged to “de quality.” “’Pears like de sky am a-tryin’ ter whitewash dis hyer wicked city. Las’ night, sah, I went to hear de Reverend Jedediah Hamilton. He sho’ am a powerful preacher. He says Satan am a-knocking at de gates ob Washington; dat it am a whitened sepulcher; an’ dat we all am a-gwine ter perdition. Hadn’t yo’ better git religion, Marse Dick?”

“Oh, I’m not worrying just now, Uncle. You see, my brother John is a minister of the Gospel, and I guess he’ll intercede for me.”

“’Twon’t do, Marse Dick; de Good Book it say: ‘Every man shall bear his own burden and every tongue shall stand on its own bottom.’”

Dick waved his hand in farewell as he plunged through the drifts to cross the street. Uncle Andy watched the tall, athletic figure out of sight; then shook his head solemnly.

“’Pears like Marse Dick am pas’ prayin’ fo’,” he muttered. Then, hearing Mrs. Brisbane’s frantic calls for him, he shouted: “Comin’, ole Miss, comin’.”

The street cars were blocked by the heavy fall of snow, so Dick had to walk from Georgetown to the Star Building, a distance of nearly two miles, consequently he was late. But after the first rush of work was over, he stole a moment to call up the White House, and asked the names of the night watchmen who were on duty in the Executive Offices on that fatal Wednesday.

“Wait a moment,” answered the White House central, “and I’ll find out. Hello—the men were Charlie Flynn and Tom Murray.”

“Much obliged,” called Dick, as he rang off. Luck was certainly with him at last. He had greatly feared that he would not get any information in regard to the mysterious telephone call without a great deal of difficulty and delay, for “mum” was the word with all the White House employés.

But Tom Murray had been General Long’s orderly during the campaign in Cuba, and, in fact, owed his present position to the General’s influence. Dick knew where he lived, as Tom had married Peggy Macallister’s maid, Betty; and once when Betty was ill with typhoid fever, Peggy had asked Dick to go with her to Tom’s modest home on Capitol Hill.

Dick hurriedly covered his first assignment, rushed back to the office in time to get his story in the afternoon paper, then tore out again and jumped aboard a Navy Yard car. Twenty minutes later he was beating a hasty tattoo on the Murrays’ front door. Tom himself admitted him.

“Why, Mr. Tillinghast, sir! I’m mighty glad to see you. Won’t you come in?”

Dick stepped into the tiny parlor. “I’ve just stopped by for a moment, Tom. Thought you’d like to know that General Long is in town.”

Tom fell back a step in his astonishment.

“Glory be,” he shouted. “Where is he stopping, sir. That is, if he cares to see me?”

“At the New Willard. He wants to see you to-night.”

Tom’s face fell. “I can’t go, at least not to-night, sir. You see, I’m on night duty at the White House now, sir. I get off at six every morning and sleep until noon. I’m just up now, sir. Do you think the General could see me in the afternoon?”

“Sure; I’ll ask him. By the way, Tom, who answers the White House telephones at night?”

“I do, sir; leastways, I attend to the switch-board in the Executive Offices.”

“Do you happen to recollect what person in the White House called up ‘North—123’ on February third, or rather February fourth, at two fifteen in the morning?”

Tom looked searchingly at his questioner.

“Ought I to answer that question, sir?”

“I think you should. General Long sent me here to ask you.”

“May the good Lord forgive me,” thought Dick, “I know Cheater will back me up.”

Tom’s face cleared. “Then it’s all right, sir. I hesitated to answer you, sir, because—the call came from the President himself.”

For a moment Dick was too aghast to speak. The President! Truly, his investigations were leading him into deep water.

“Are you quite sure, Tom?” he asked, soberly.

“Quite, sir,” with military precision. “I remember the night perfectly, sir. While the White House is often called up at all hours, it ain’t usual for inmates of the household to ring up outside calls after midnight.”

“Had you any trouble getting your party?”

“No, sir. Central was rather slow about answering, but that was the only delay.”

“Thanks, Tom, you’ve helped General Long a lot by telling me all this. Go and see him about six to-night on your way to the White House. You will probably catch him then. Is your wife well?”

“Yes, sir, thank you. Please tell the General I will be at the hotel without fail. Good-by, sir.”

When Dick had departed, Tom walked into his kitchen with a grave face.

“I’m afraid, Betty, I talked too freely with Mr. Tillinghast.”

“Nonsense,” snapped Betty, whose temper was apt to get peppery when she worked over a hot fire. “Master Dick isn’t the sort to get us into trouble.” And that ended the discussion.

Dick plodded along the streets too absorbed in thought to notice the snow and ice. Should he, or should he not? Well, he would try anyway, so quickening his steps he hastened over to the Congressional Library and entered one of the pay-station telephone booths in the building.

“What number, please?” asked Central.

“Main 6.” A few minutes’ wait.

“Drop in your nickel, there’s your party.”

“Hello, White House, I want to speak to Secretary Burton—Hello, Burton, that you? This is Dick Tillinghast talking.”

“Well, Dick, how are you?”

“Oh, so-so. Say, Burton, do you think the President would see me alone for a few minutes?” Dick heard Burton whistle. “I know he is fearfully busy with the arrival of the Grand Duke Sergius, but I swear it’s important—a matter of life and death.”

Burton detected the earnest note in Dick’s voice, and was convinced.

“Hold the wire, old man.”

Dick waited impatiently. So much depended on the answer.

“Hello, Central, don’t cut me off—Burton, that you?”

“Yes. The President says he will see you at ten minutes of five, sharp.”

“Burton, you are a trump. By-by.”

Prompt to the minute, Dick appeared in the waiting room of the Executive Offices. Burton came to the door and beckoned to him.

“In with you,” he whispered. “I sincerely hope your news is of sufficient importance to excuse my sending you in ahead of two irate senators,” and he gave Dick’s broad shoulders an encouraging pat, as the door swung open to admit him to the private office.

Dick had been frequently thrown with the President, having been one of the reporters detailed to accompany him when he toured the country before his election, but he never entered his presence without feeling the force and personality of the great American, who, with unerring hand, was steering the Ship of State through such turbulent waters.

The President straightened his tall, wiry form as Dick advanced to greet him. His large dark eyes, set deep under shaggy eyebrows, gazed rather blankly at Dick for a moment, then lighted with recognition as they shook hands.

“How are you, Mr. Tillinghast? Sit down here.” The President pointed to a large arm chair close beside his desk, then he glanced at the clock. “Burton said you wished to see me alone about a matter of life and death.”

“Well, yes, Mr. President; I put it that way to attract Burton’s attention.” Then, seeing a frown gathering on the rugged, heavily lined face, he hastened to add: “I came to see you about the Trevor murder.”

There was no mistaking the President’s genuine start of surprise.

“To see me! Why?”

“I wanted to ask you, sir, who it was answered the telephone when you called up the Attorney General’s private office on Thursday morning at two fifteen o’clock?”

The President leaned thoughtfully back in his chair and regarded Dick intently. Apparently what he saw in his appearance pleased him, for after a prolonged scrutiny, which Dick bore with what equanimity he could, he reached over and touched his desk bell.

“Is Secretary Bowers still in the White House?” he asked the attendant who answered his summons.

“Yes, Mr. President.”

“My compliments, and ask him to step here.”

Dick waited in silence, a good deal perturbed in spirit. What was to pay? The President had but time to gather up some loose papers and put them in his desk when the door opened and admitted his Secretary of State, James Bowers, a man known throughout the length and breadth of the land as representing all that was best in America and Americans.

“Your attendant caught me just as I was leaving, Mr. President,” he said. “I am entirely at your service,” and he bowed gravely to Dick, who had risen on his entrance.

“I won’t detain you long. You know Mr. Tillinghast?”

“Yes,” smiled the Secretary. “He has interviewed me on many occasions.”

“Then sit here by me.” The President pushed a chair toward him. “Mr. Tillinghast has come to me about the Trevor murder.” The Secretary raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I leave this matter entirely in your hands, Bowers. Use your judgment in the affair. Now, Mr. Tillinghast, tell us how you found out a telephone call came from this office at that particular hour for the Trevor house.”

Quickly Dick told them; and the two men followed each word with deep attention. After Dick ceased speaking, the Secretary sprang from his chair and paced the room rapidly in deep thought.

“Tillinghast,” he said, stopping abruptly, “what I tell you now is strictly confidential. I am not speaking for publication.”

“Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick, quietly, “I give you my word of honor that I shall never make use of what you tell me.”

“Good! On the whole, I am glad you came, because I was just debating whether or not to send for the Chief of Police about this very affair. Have I your permission to speak freely to Tillinghast, Mr. President.”

“You have.”

Secretary Bowers settled himself more comfortably in his chair, cleared his throat, and began:

“On that Wednesday night I came here to have a secret conference about a matter of national importance. The President and I talked until long after midnight. During our discussion we found it necessary to get the Attorney General’s advice on a vital law point. Knowing that Trevor often stays until daylight in his private office, as I do—” a ghost of a smile lighted his lips—“I took the chance of finding him and rang him up there first, intending, if that failed, to call his house ’phone. The President’s voice and mine are much alike, and it is not surprising that Murray thought it was he calling up Mr. Trevor at that hour.”

“And did he answer you?” asked Dick, breathlessly.

“No—a woman did.”

Dick sat back in his chair and gazed hopelessly at the President, and then at the Secretary. Instantly his thoughts flew to Beatrice. Great Heavens! He was almost afraid to ask the next question.

“Did—did you by chance recognize her voice?”

The Secretary hesitated a moment before answering.

“She spoke with a decided foreign accent”—again he hesitated. “I called her ‘Mrs. Trevor.’”

“Mrs. Trevor!” gasped Dick. For once words failed him.

“Let me describe the scene to you exactly,” went on the Secretary. “I waited only a few minutes for the connection, and then I heard the faint click of the receiver being removed from the hook, then a woman’s cultivated voice asked: ‘Who is eet?’ I promptly replied: ‘Can I speak to your husband, Mrs. Trevor?’ She made no answer, but in a second the Attorney General came to the telephone, gave me the desired information, and I rang off.”

In absolute silence the three men faced each other, with bewilderment and doubt written on their countenances. The long pause was broken by the Secretary.

“When I first heard of the tragedy I, like the rest of the world, thought poor Mrs. Trevor had been murdered by the burglar, Nelson. On the day the inquest was held, I received a telegram saying that my wife was dangerously ill with typhoid fever in Cambridge. She had gone there two weeks before to be with our son, who is at Harvard. I dropped everything and hastened at once to her bedside. Until the crisis was over I never left her. And so deep was my anxiety, for the doctors held out little hope that she would recover, that I neglected everything outside the sick room. I left all my business to my private secretary.

“My wife rallied wonderfully after the crisis was passed, and I returned to Washington on last night’s Federal. On the trip down my secretary told me all the developments in the Trevor case. I was simply thunderstruck!”

“In his direct testimony Mr. Trevor denied being in his private office after his return from the banquet; denied having seen his wife again. He undoubtedly perjured himself,” said the President, thoughtfully. “Still, even in the face of such evidence, he may be innocent of the crime. For the time being I shall give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“You are right, and very just, Mr. President,” exclaimed the Secretary. “This phase of the case must be sifted to the bottom in absolute secrecy. It would be ruinous to let the outside world know you even suspect your Attorney General guilty of murder. The effect would be appalling. Now, Tillinghast—” he spoke with greater emphasis—“I know you to be a man of integrity. You have already shown great skill in this affair; therefore, I am going to ask you to go and see the Attorney General as my representative, and ask him for an explanation. Then come and report to me. I could send one of the Secret Service men, but the fewer people involved in this scandal the better.”

“I’ll do my very best, Mr. Secretary, to merit your trust,” said Dick, warmly. “But how am I to reach the Attorney General? He refuses to see any newspaper men.”

“That is easily arranged,” said the Secretary. “May I borrow pen and ink, Mr. President?” drawing some note paper toward him as he spoke. “I’ll write a few lines asking him to see you; that will be all that is necessary.”

Quickly Secretary Bowers’ hand traveled over the paper; then, folding it neatly, he handed the note to Dick, saying:

“Don’t fail us, Tillinghast; remember we depend on your tact and discretion. I would see Trevor myself, but my time is entirely taken up with the Grand Duke Sergius’ presence in the city. He dines with the President to-night, as you doubtless know....”

“Come in,” called the President, as a discreet knock interrupted the Secretary. Burton entered and handed him a note.

“This is marked ‘Immediate and Personal,’ Mr. President. Recognizing the handwriting, I brought it right in.”

As the President tore open the envelope and rapidly read its contents, Secretary Bowers turned to Dick, who was standing by the desk awaiting an opportunity to depart, and said quickly:

“Come and see me at the State Department to-morrow morning at nine o’clock.”

The President signaled to Burton to withdraw; then he looked directly at the Secretary of State and Dick.

“This,” he said, tapping the letter in his hand, “is from Mr. Trevor, tendering me his resignation as my Attorney General on the ground of ill health.”

CHAPTER XI
BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

A loud rat-a-tat-tat startled Dick as he dressed in his room that night. On opening the door, he was much surprised to find General Long standing on the threshold.

“Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” asked Long, smiling at Dick’s amazement. “Your very charming landlady told me I might come right up. By Jove! she has fixed you up in comfort,” and he looked enviously around Dick’s pleasant, home-like room. “This is something like,” sinking luxuriously into a huge lounging chair.

“It’s mighty good of you to look me up so soon, Chester. Sorry I can’t spend the evening with you, but I must hurry along as soon as I am fully dressed,” struggling to tie his cravat as he spoke.

“Don’t mind me. I only dropped in to ask what you did to Tom Murray; he’s in the devil of a flutter for fear he betrayed official secrets.”

“Tom need not worry; he won’t get into trouble. Say, old man, I simply must consult you; but first promise by all that you hold sacred you won’t breathe a word of what I’m telling you.”

“I swear.” Long’s mouth closed like a steel trap. When he spoke in that tone Dick knew he meant what he said.

“The Secretary of State asked me to keep these facts from becoming public; but I know you can be relied on to be ‘mum.’” Dick spoke slowly, weighing each word. “I must have your advice, Chester. Since I saw you last I have received incontestable proof that Trevor did see his wife on his return from the banquet that night, although he testified to the contrary.”

Long whistled. “You think then that he had a hand in the murder?” he asked doubtfully.

“I cannot reach any other conclusion.” Dick stopped a moment to check off his deductions on his fingers. “First, there is the possibility of Gordon’s being Mrs. Trevor’s first husband—anyway, an old lover. Secondly, he certainly was there that night. Probably Trevor returned in time to catch them together.”

“Or perhaps he overheard their conversation, waited until Gordon left, then had it out with his wife,” interjected Long, quickly. “He may have lost his temper—biff! Poor devil!” remorsefully. “We must not judge too hastily, Dick; we don’t know what provocation he had—he may have been insanely jealous, like Othello, for instance.”

“Think of having to go and ask a man why he murdered his wife—oh, Lord!—oh, damn!” Dick’s lamentations changed to maledictions. To emphasize his remarks he had inadvertently used too much strength in forcing his sleeve button through his cuff, and one of the links had broken in his hand. “Here, help yourself to a cigarette,” pushing a box towards Long, “while I mend this confounded button. Why aren’t you dining at the White House to-night?”

“Not sufficiently urged. Nothing under a Major-General was invited to meet his Imperial Highness, the Grand Duke. The Russians are a mighty fine looking race of men, Dick, and the Grand Duke’s staff is no exception to the rule.”

“Is that so? I met a very distinguished looking Russian last night, a Count de Smirnoff. He spoke our language much better than most foreigners.”

“Oh, his nation are all good linguists. Is the Count a member of the Grand Duke’s staff?”

“De Morny didn’t tell me. By the way, we discussed the Trevor murder last night, and Count de Smirnoff suggested that the burglar may have picked up the broken end of the weapon used to kill Mrs. Trevor, and being in no immediate fear of the hangman, is holding it back to use as blackmail when he gets out of jail.”

“That’s not a bad theory,” said Long. “Look into it, Dick. The deeper we get in this affair the more involved it becomes. At present,” rising as he saw Dick pick up his overcoat and hat, “it looks as if the Attorney General were indeed the guilty man. And yet, Dick, if those three people had a scene that night, Gordon, if innocent, must suspect Trevor. Then why doesn’t he speak out and clear himself?”

Dick shook his head despondently. “It’s beyond me,” he groaned. “Come down and see me at the office to-morrow afternoon, Chester.”

“I am sorry, but I can’t; for I have to escort the Grand Duke to Fort Myer. The troops stationed there are to give a special drill in his honor. But you come and dine with me at the Willard, about seven thirty; for I am most anxious to hear the outcome of your interview with Trevor.”

“All right, I’ll be there. Come, hurry up, Chester, I’m behind time.” So saying he hustled Long into his overcoat and out of the house.

Twenty minutes later Dick ran lightly up the Trevor steps in much tribulation of spirit. He heartily wished the night was over.

“Can I see the Attorney General, Wilkins?” he asked, as that functionary opened the door.

“No, sir. He is not at home, sir.”

“Sorry, Wilkins, but I must insist on being admitted. I come from the Secretary of State. Take this note and my card up to the Attorney General and ask if he can see me.”

On entering the drawing-room Dick was surprised to see Alfred Clark lounging comfortably back on the big divan near the fireplace. He glanced up with annoyance at the sound of footsteps; but, recognizing Dick, he came forward with outstretched hand.

“Good evening, Tillinghast,” he said cordially. “I didn’t hear the front bell ring; I must have been dozing.”

“Indeed,” answered Dick. What was it about the fellow he didn’t like? Ah, it came to him as Clark moved forward a chair—it was the Secretary’s air of proprietorship—as if he were host and Dick a tolerated intruder!

“Can I do anything for you to-night, Tillinghast?”

“No, thanks. I called to see the Attorney General.”

“Ah!” Clark’s exclamation and shrug were foreign in their expressiveness. “That is impossible. Mr. Trevor sees no one.”

“I think he will see me,” said Dick, patiently.

“I fear you are mistaken, Tillinghast. The Attorney General denies himself to all callers,” Clark replied suavely. “You will really have to confide your business to me.”

“That is impossible,” replied Dick, shortly.

Clark flushed at his tone, and his eyes flashed.

“You forget, sir, that I am the Attorney General’s confidential secretary, in fact, his representative. I would be perfectly within my rights if I denied you admittance to this house.”

The hot retort on Dick’s lips was checked by Wilkins’ entrance.

“The Attorney General will see you, sir. Please walk into his private office.”

Try as he would, Clark could not prevent a look of deep chagrin crossing his face, and Dick chuckled inwardly as he followed the butler out of the room and across the broad hall. Just before he reached the door leading into the office, he felt his nose twitching, premonitory symptoms of a sneeze, and with hasty fingers he pulled his handkerchief out of his cuff.

The mended cuff link broke and made a tinkling noise as it struck on the hearth of the open fireplace; and then, with the evil ingenuity which sometimes possesses inanimate objects, it rolled far out of sight under a suit of chain armor which hung to the left of the chimney. Dick sprang in pursuit; Mrs. Macallister had given the set to him that Christmas, and he was determined not to lose the button. So getting down on hands and knees he groped about until his fingers closed over it again; then rose hurriedly to his feet at the same time thrusting the recovered link into his waistcoat pocket, to find himself face to face with the Attorney General.

“G—good e—evening, Mr. Attorney General,” he stammered, much flustered. “I smashed my cuff link, and was hunting for the thing.” And he exhibited his unfastened cuff to the Attorney General’s amused gaze.

“I am sorry, Tillinghast,” said he. “Wilkins, see if you can help—”

“Oh, I have the link,” broke in Dick, tapping his pocket reassuringly.

“Then let us go into the office. I believe you wish to see me alone. Ah! Clark,” as his secretary came out of the drawing-room, “you need not wait any longer. Stay,” as Clark hastily put on his overcoat with Wilkins’ assistance, “please stop on your way down Connecticut Avenue and send this night letter for me. Good night, my boy.”

“Good night, sir; good night, Tillinghast,” and the door banged to behind his retreating form.

After they were seated in the closed room Dick gazed in shocked surprise at the Attorney General. Never had he seen a man alter so much in so short a time. His hair and mustache were white, deep lines had formed about his mouth and eyes, and the latter had a feverish light in them which worried Dick extremely. For a moment he was at a loss how to explain his errand, but the Attorney General solved the difficulty for him.

“Secretary Bowers in his note tells me that I can trust you absolutely, and that you have confidential news of importance for my ear alone. Is it in regard to my resignation?”

“Well, partly, sir. I was with the President and the Secretary when your letter was delivered. They both wish you to reconsider your decision.”

A shade of annoyance crossed Trevor’s face. “I am afraid that is impossible, Tillinghast. I am an ill man, as you can see. It is physically impossible for me to carry on my work at the Department of Justice.”

“Very true, sir. But could you not take a vacation only? That would set you up wonderfully.”

“My mind is made up,” said Trevor, stubbornly. “I intend to resign.”

“The President told me, Mr. Attorney General, that he could not accept your resignation until—until—”

“Until what?” questioned Trevor, in growing surprise.

Dick, taking his courage in both hands, continued: “Until you explain your presence here with your wife shortly before she was killed.”

“Are you mad?” shouted Trevor. “As I said on the witness stand, I never saw my wife after my return that night—I—”

“One moment, sir. You forget the Secretary himself talked on the telephone to both you and your wife in this room at fifteen minutes past two on Thursday morning.”

The Attorney General grew so ghastly that Dick feared he would collapse in his chair.

“The telephone,” he croaked. “My God! the telephone—I forgot that—” then, in uncontrollable agitation, he sprang to his feet and walked up and down, head bent, eyes on the floor.

Five minutes, ten minutes passed; but the silence between the two men remained unbroken. Dick simply could not speak, he felt as if he were torturing some dumb animal, for the look of agony on Trevor’s face unnerved him. Finally the Attorney General dropped exhausted into his revolving chair.

“Tillinghast,” he said, slowly, “I am miserable—miserable—” His shaking hand played for a second with his watch chain. “I thought that by taking a certain course of action I could prevent knowledge of other matters from becoming known broadcast.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” interrupted Dick, gently. “What you tell me to-night will, as far as I am concerned, be repeated to only one person—the Secretary.”

“Thanks; that assurance makes it easier for me. If I had recollected about the telephone call I would have gone to the President myself; but—” a shrug completed his sentence. “Now, as I understand it, Tillinghast,” he continued, “you three men think I came down here, met my wife, quarreled with her, and killed her.”

“Yes, that’s about it,” admitted Dick, reluctantly.

“It is, I suppose, a natural inference. But the woman whom I was talking to in this room—was not my wife.”

Dick started so violently that he overturned a pile of magazines lying on the desk by his elbow. He was too confused to pick them up, but sat gazing blankly at Trevor. A vulgar intrigue! He had never supposed he was that sort of man.

The Attorney General colored painfully as he read Dick’s thought.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said, harshly. “To explain matters fully I shall have to go back to my marriage to Hélène de Beaupré. We met in London, and I, like many others, fell madly in love with her. She returned my affection, and I persuaded her to marry me at once.

“She has always been a good and loving wife to me. But I found she had one fault; in fact, it became an overwhelming passion—she gambled. It seemed to be some taint in her blood. Again and again I remonstrated with her, but to no purpose. She gambled so persistently, so recklessly, and her losses were so large that, finally, I told her my income was crippled by her extravagance, and that hereafter she would have to live within a certain allowance. She realized at last that I was in earnest, and did her best to comply with my request. Would God I had never made it!” Trevor spoke with passionate feeling. “I might have known that a born gambler can never be cured or kept within bounds.

“Well, to go on with my story, I thought that she had stopped gambling, knowing that she had not overdrawn her allowance, or appealed to me for extra money. But on Monday, February 1st, I went to the Barclays’ about midnight to fetch my wife home from their card party. They play bridge for high stakes in that house, and I had asked my wife to decline the invitation. She refused to do so, however, saying if I would go there for supper she would leave with me immediately afterwards. Knowing that most of the high play took place after midnight, I agreed to do as she requested.

“When I entered the Barclays’ drawing-room the guests were still playing, and I went and stood silently behind my wife’s chair. She was absorbed in the play and did not notice my presence. To my unspeakable horror, I saw her deliberately cheat.

“For a moment the room swam around me, then gathering my wits I looked to see if the other players had also detected her. As my eye traveled around the table, Madame de Berriot raised her head, and I saw by her expression that she also had caught my wife in the act of cheating. For one sickening second I feared she would call everyone’s attention to their table, but to my surprise, she said nothing.

“I got my wife away as quickly as possible, but I was too sick at heart to tell her of my discovery. I walked the floor for the rest of the night wondering what was the best thing for me to do.

“On my arrival at the Department Tuesday morning, I found Madame de Berriot awaiting me in my office. It was not a pleasant interview.” The Attorney General smiled bitterly. “We went over the whole dirty business. She had come there to bleed me, and she did—$10,000 was her price of silence.

“I am a proud man, Tillinghast, and I could not bear to have my wife and my name coupled with dishonor. I—I could not face the scandal that would follow the exposé; therefore, I bought the woman off.

“It was a large sum, and I could not give it to her at a moment’s notice. She was then on her way to Baltimore, but intended to return to Washington late on Wednesday afternoon to get her traps together, as she was leaving here for good Thursday morning on the Colonial Express. She did not wish me to call at the Embassy where she was stopping as it might cause comment; she would not accept a certified check for the same reason.

“My engagements on Wednesday were such that I had no time free. Therefore, in desperation, I suggested she should stop here for the money. I knew my wife and Beatrice intended to go to the Bachelors’, and that they never left a dance until the very end. So it was arranged that she should come here on her way from the ball about two o’clock.

“It was sheer madness to yield to a blackmailer, I know, but, Tillinghast, I was half wild by that time, and lost my head; and bitterly have I rued it since.” Trevor sighed drearily. “I came home that night, as I testified at the inquest, and went directly to my room, tiptoeing past my wife’s door, for I was desperately afraid of awakening her. I threw myself down on the lounge and, overcome by weariness, fell into a troubled sleep.

“Some time later I awoke with a start, struck a match and glanced at the clock; it was just five minutes of two. I raised the shade and looked out of the window. The Embassy was not far away. Suddenly I saw a woman’s figure coming slowly down 20th Street. I watched her cross the street, and then hurried downstairs as noiselessly as I could and admitted her. We went at once to the private office, and there I discovered that I had left my wallet containing the money in my bedroom, and I hastened back upstairs to get it. Just as I was returning the telephone rang. Madame de Berriot, thinking the noise might be overheard, removed the receiver, but instead of putting it on the table answered the call; then beckoned to me. I talked to the Secretary; then rang off. Immediately afterwards I gave Madame de Berriot her money in gold certificates, and escorted her to the door. That is the last I ever saw of her,” he added, leaning wearily back in his chair.

For some minutes Dick sat regarding Trevor in silence. Then he roused himself.

“Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“No; go ahead.”

“Do you think anyone could have been in hiding in this room while you were here?”

“I think not. Madame de Berriot was as nervous as a cat, she kept glancing in every direction.”

“Was the safe open or closed?”

“The outside closet door was closed, so the one to the safe had to be shut.”

“Why did you not keep the $10,000 in the safe?”

“I had forgotten the combination.” Then, as he saw Dick’s look of incredulity, he added: “I never can remember the complicated numbers; so for convenience I wrote the word ‘safe’ and the numbers of the combination down in a small memorandum book when I first took this house. I seldom open the safe as Clark attends to it for me.”

“Why didn’t you ask your secretary for the combination, or look it up in your book?”

“I forgot to ask Clark until after he had gone,” explained the Attorney General patiently, “and when I looked for the book it was not in its place.”

“Indeed. Where do you usually keep it?”

The Attorney General put his hand on the beveled front of his massive, flat-topped desk.

“This looks like a solid piece of mahogany,” he said, “but in fact it is a secret drawer. To unlock it you open this upper left hand drawer as far as it will go. There is a round hole in its back partition, and by putting your hand through it you can touch the spring.” He illustrated his words as he spoke, and the small secret drawer slid noiselessly open. Dick examined the mechanism with care.

“How many people can open this drawer besides yourself?” he asked.

The Attorney General considered a moment before replying.

“I am positive only Mrs. Trevor, my daughter, and myself can do so,” he declared, finally. “My daughter bought the desk at an auction in New York, and gave it to me shortly after we moved here.”

“Did you go immediately upstairs after Madame de Berriot’s departure?” asked Dick, continuing his inquiries.

“I did; going straight to my room. Everything upstairs was perfectly quiet. I went to bed at once, and fell sound asleep shortly after my head touched the pillow.” Then, as Dick rose, he added quickly: “Tell the Secretary everything. Now that I know I may be suspected of murder, I withdraw my resignation. I will stay here and fight it out. Tell him, also—” his voice rang out clearly, impressively—“that, as God is my witness, I know nothing of my wife’s murder!”

CHAPTER XII
BLIND CLEWS

“And what is your opinion, Tillinghast?” asked the Secretary. They were sitting alone the next morning in his private office. He had listened attentively to Dick’s detailed account of his interview with the Attorney General.

“I believe Mr. Trevor’s statement,” he answered, looking squarely at Secretary Bowers.

“And so do I,” heartily agreed the other. “Trevor had to buy Madame de Berriot’s silence. If the scandal had gotten out it would have meant social ostracism, not only for the guilty woman, but for Beatrice Trevor and her father as well. It is another case of the innocent suffering with the guilty. Now, Tillinghast, do you know any facts about Mr. Gordon’s connection with this affair which have not been made public?” Seeing Dick’s hesitancy, he added, “Murders are usually outside my province, I know, but this one touches the President closely; first one of his aides is suspected, then his Attorney General is dragged into the affair. If innocent, they must be cleared as quickly as possible. Come, sir, I must have an answer.”

“You are right, Mr. Secretary,” replied Dick. “I only hesitated fearing I might get Gordon into further trouble.” Then, in a few words, he repeated what General Long had told him.

“Whew!” whistled the Secretary. “That certainly complicates matters. Do you think Trevor knew of Gordon’s former infatuation for his wife?”

“Indeed, sir, I was afraid to speak of Gordon,” confessed Dick. “I didn’t know what effect it might have. Mr. Trevor looked so desperately ill and worn.”

The Secretary nodded comprehendingly. “I am going to send for him to lunch with me to-day to tell him that he must on no account resign just now, and I will try and find out how much he does know of Mrs. Trevor’s old love-affair.” He paused a moment, then resumed: “There are two things which I think have a bearing on this case.”

“What are they, Mr. Secretary?” asked Dick, eagerly.

“First—find out who removed the Attorney General’s memorandum book. Secondly—while everyone has tried to prove who entered the Trevor house, no one has sought to find out when a certain member of the household left there.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Why, what time did the private secretary leave the house, and where did he spend the evening?”

“By Jove! I never thought of him.”

“Look up those two things. I feel sure they will repay you.” Then, as Dick picked up his hat and cane, “Tillinghast, you have acted with great discretion in this affair, and I feel convinced you will carry your investigations to a successful issue. If I can be of service to you at any time, come and see me.”

Thanking the Secretary warmly for his encouraging words, Dick hastened out of the room. At the Star Office, he found a note awaiting him from Peggy. She asked him to come and see her that afternoon and “report progress.”

“‘Report progress,’” groaned poor Dick. “I’m damned if I can. Your Uncle Dudley’s up a tree for sure, Peggy darling, but he’ll do some tall climbing before he gives up, you bet.”

“Say, son, the City Editor wants you P. D. Q.,” called Dan Conner. “Stop mooning and hump yourself.”

Taking the hint, Dick fled upstairs to the city room on the double quick.

“Morning, Dick,” said Colonel Byrd. “Gibson has just sent word that he is sick, so you will have to take his place at the Capitol. Get down there early, as there are some important committee meetings to cover. By the way, any further news about the Trevor murder?”

“Not now, sir. There may be some new developments shortly, though. Can I get off if I hear of anything turning up in that quarter?”

“Sure; drop everything and run. Get your stuff in as quick as you can.” And the busy editor turned back to his desk.

The clock was just striking half past five when Dick, after an eventful day at the Capitol, reached Mrs. Macallister’s hospitable mansion on F Street. The old house with its Colonial architecture looked like a relic of antebellum days, for standing as it did well back from the sidewalk, with two fine old elms on either side of the brick walk, it had an individuality of its own. A central hall ran through it, the drawing-room and dining-room being to the left of the front door, while the large library and billiard room were on the other side. The ceilings were very high, which made the house most comfortable in hot weather. That fact, combined with her beautiful rose garden, induced Mrs. Macallister to stay in the city until July.

True to the traditions of old Washington, Mrs. Macallister kept her “Fridays at Home” from November until June. The fashion of having only four days in a month did not suit her hospitable mind, and those who put first and third Tuesdays, or Wednesdays, as the case might be, on their visiting cards, drove her nearly frantic. “I was always a poor mathematician,” she informed one of her friends. “I know two and two make four, but this dot and carry one business is beyond me.” Therefore, she usually flung the offending pasteboards into the scrap basket and went serenely on her way, returning calls when it suited her pleasure and convenience.

Another innovation to which she seriously objected was having tea served in her drawing-room. Five o’clock tea at home in the bosom of her family was one thing; but having a small tea table, littered with cups and saucers and plates, stuck in one corner with an unhappy matron presiding over it was quite a different matter. Therefore, every Friday the dining-room table was regularly set and covered with tempting dishes of all descriptions; and Peggy poured tea at one end, and one of her numerous friends was always asked to take care of the hot chocolate at the other.

The callers had thinned out by the time Dick arrived, only about a dozen people, mostly men, were sitting comfortably around the table. His heart sank when he saw de Morny in close attendance upon Peggy. To his jealous eyes they appeared to be on very confidential terms indeed, which completed his misery. Mrs. Macallister beckoned to him to sit by her, so, casting a lingering glance at Peggy, he obediently carried his cup and saucer to her side of the table.

“Any further developments in the Trevor murder, Dick?” Mrs. Macallister asked him, after a few minutes’ chat about other matters.

Her words were overheard by a tall, showily dressed woman sitting across the table from them, and she leaned over and joined in the conversation.

“Yes, do tell us, Mr. Tillinghast,” she begged, with an ingratiating smile. Matilda Gleason was one of four sisters who lived in a handsome palace on Columbia Road. It was rumored to have cost in the neighborhood of two hundred thousand dollars; as to the architecture, the Gleasons said it was Early English, but having employed three architects before the house was completed, the effect was more or less startling. It had been nicknamed “Gilded Misery.”

Where the Gleasons had come from was a mooted question, but they had taken a good many staid Washingtonians into camp by the splendor of their entertainments. Mrs. Macallister had never called upon them, but in an unwary moment the chairman of the Board of Lady Managers of the Children’s Hospital had put Miss Gleason on the same committee with Mrs. Macallister, and the former had seized the opportunity to call that afternoon on the pretext of discussing business pertaining to the Hospital.

“Why, no news at all,” answered Dick, cautiously. He knew Miss Gleason’s love of scandal, and that the sisters had been nicknamed “Envy, Hatred, Malice, and All Uncharitableness” by one long-suffering matron, who had been their victim on several occasions.

“When does the case go to the Grand Jury, Dick,” called Peggy, from her end of the table.

“In about ten days, I think.”

“I hope Mr. Gordon’s sentence will be all that the law allows,” said Miss Gleason. It was apparent to everyone where the shoe pinched. All Washington, which in some ways is like an overgrown village, knew of her relentless and unsuccessful pursuit of Gordon during the month that he had been stationed at the White House, and several of the men present, who had suffered from the same cause, smiled to themselves.

“It is not at all certain he committed the crime,” said Mrs. Macallister, freezingly.

“He virtually admitted it,” retorted Miss Gleason.

“We look on a man as innocent until proven guilty, you know, Miss Gleason,” answered Dick, quietly.

“Well, if he isn’t guilty, who is?” asked Miss Gleason.

“The burglar,” promptly chimed in Peggy.

“Nonsense, my dear; why should such a person use a hat-pin when he had his revolver, and where would he get such a thing?”

For a moment Peggy was at a loss for a reply. She had the same doubt herself, but she was determined not to give in to Miss Gleason, “horrid old cat.” Count de Morny, all unconsciously, came to her rescue. The other guests were silently listening to the discussion.

“I sink Madame Trevor haf stick herself wiz ze pin,” he volunteered, struggling with the langue terrible, which he had never been able to master. “But yes, Monsieur,” catching Dick’s incredulous stare, “did not ze doctaire say it was possible for one who was left handed to strike herself the blow?”

“How do you know Mrs. Trevor was left handed?” demanded Miss Gleason loudly.

“I haf played ze cards wiz her most often,” answered de Morny, simply.

“But why should Mrs. Trevor commit suicide?” asked Dick, unbelievingly.

De Morny shrugged his shoulders, and answered his question with another: “Why should Monsieur Gordon kill her?”

“That’s right,” declared Captain McLane, of the U.S. Marine Corps. “Why should he? I served three years on board the same cruiser with Donald Gordon, and there isn’t a more honorable, lovable fellow in the Service. It is absolutely unbelievable that he could perpetrate so ghastly a crime.”

As Dick looked across at Peggy he caught Count de Smirnoff’s eye. The Russian was sitting between his hostess and Miss Gleason. For the first time he joined in the conversation.

“Your theory is weak, Henri,” he said, mildly. “Why should a young and beautiful woman, who enjoys health, wealth, and a happy home, kill herself?”

“You nevaire can tell about ze ladies,” retorted de Morny, obstinately. “Zey are—what you say—‘a law unto themselves, and easily wrought-over and deviled up. Zey make trifles into mountains.”

“Granting that Mrs. Trevor might have had a motive for suicide,” said Dick, smiling at the excited Frenchman, “it was utterly impossible for a dead woman to lock herself in the safe.”

“Could she not have killed herself in the safe after shutting the door?” inquired de Smirnoff.

Dick shook his head. “Possibly you do not recollect that witnesses testified at the inquest that her left arm was pressed tightly against the door-jamb, supporting her weight.”

“She might have fallen forward into that position.”

“I hardly think it likely. Mr. Clark, who was the first inmate of the household to find Mrs. Trevor, testified that her body was literally wedged into the safe.”

“You have but his word for it.”

A peculiar tone in the speaker’s voice caused Dick to glance sharply at him, but he learned nothing from the Russian’s face. It was expressionless. Before Dick could pursue his questions, Miss Gleason threw herself into the conversation.

“How is that dear Mr. Clark bearing up under this terrible tragedy?” she asked, addressing Peggy directly.

“He looked very well the last time I saw him,” said the latter, a twinkle of mischief in her deep blue eyes.

“I am so glad to hear it. You know, dear Mrs. Macallister, he is such a delightful man to have around. He always looks after one so attentively. I never want for anything when he is in the room; and then he is so handsome, so cultivated! It is a dreadful blow having him in mourning.”

“I wasn’t aware he is in mourning,” said Peggy, surprised. “Has he lost a relative?”

“Oh, no. But of course he will accept no invitations now, on account of his engagement to Beatrice Trevor.”

“What!” Peggy nearly overturned the urn in her excitement. “Miss Gleason, you are entirely mistaken. Beatrice never was engaged to Mr. Clark.”

“Indeed? Mrs. Trevor led me to suppose otherwise. From what she said I gathered the engagement was to be announced shortly. It is not surprising I thought it a love match,” she continued, catching a glimpse of Peggy’s indignant expression. “He is desperately attentive to her, and I see them together all the time.”

“Speaking of seeing people,” broke in Captain McLane, “have you seen Bertie Lee since he and his wife returned from their honeymoon? He came into the club the other night looking absolutely woe-begone.”

“He did, indeed,” laughed Dick. “I couldn’t help thinking of the lines:

‘“When I think on what I are

And what I uster was

I feel I threw myself away

Without sufficient cos!”’”

“They suit him to a ‘T,’” agreed McLane, helping himself to a glass of cherry bounce.

“You know the Courtland Browns, do you not, Mrs. Macallister,” asked Miss Gleason, pulling on her gloves preparatory to departing. “I hear they are going to air their marital troubles in court, but it’s a long story, and I must go. Good-by, dear Mrs. Macallister, such a delightful afternoon. Good-by, everybody, don’t get up?” She waved her hand to them all and tripped out of the room.

“‘The wicked flee when no man pursueth,’” quoted Mrs. Macallister, a naughty twinkle in her eye.

“Have you heard of the dinner the Gleasons gave at which they separated the goats from the sheep?” asked Captain McLane. “They served Veuve Cliquot at one table, and American champagne at the other.”

“Oh, why do we put up with such ill-bred behavior?” cried Peggy, impulsively.

“My dear, you are wrong,” said Mrs. Macallister. “The Gleasons belong to a large class who show ‘the unconscious insolence of conscious wealth,’ as one of our statesmen aptly puts it.”

“Miss Gleason is very highly colored for a woman of her years,” said de Smirnoff, gravely.

“Highly colored!” exclaimed Mrs. Macallister. “It’s a wonder she doesn’t die of painter’s colic. Must you go?” as her guests rose from the table, and she walked with them into the drawing-room.

It was some few minutes before the other callers started on their way, and Dick listened with what patience he could muster to their interminable good-bys. But Peggy soon joined him in the drawing-room.

“Now, sir, give an account of yourself,” she said, with mock severity. “You haven’t been near me since the ball—” a sudden recollection caused her to blush hotly, and Dick thought what a lovely, dainty bit of femininity she was. Her shimmering crêpe de chine Princess dress of sapphire blue showed up her blonde beauty in a way to tantalize any man, let alone poor Dick, who was already hopelessly in the toils.

Dick promptly lost his head. “Peggy,” he stammered. “Dearest—be—”

“What are you two talking about?” asked Mrs. Macallister, coming suddenly back into the room.

“Er—nothing,” gasped Dick, who had a wholesome dread of incurring her displeasure. Having a very modest opinion of himself, he feared she would bitterly oppose his suit. “I was just going to ask Peggy about Alfred Clark and Beatrice Trevor. Was there ever anything between them, Peggy?”

“Well, really, Dick!—”

“I know, Peggy, I know you won’t break a confidence; but indeed it is important that I know.”

Peggy debated for a moment while Mrs Macallister looked thoughtfully at them. What were those two young people up to? It behooved her to find out.

“Then, I think I’d better tell you, Dick; particularly as I’m not breaking any confidence. Alfred Clark is devoted to Beatrice, and I overheard him making desperate love to her at their house on Tuesday night, or rather Wednesday morning. I was searching for Beatrice to say good-by and walked in upon them in the private office. You know it was a very large party, and the entire first floor was thrown open to accommodate the guests. Beatrice seemed glad of the interruption, but Mr. Clark looked as black as a thunder cloud. I rather enjoyed his discomfiture,” and Peggy laughed at the recollection. “One gets so tired of his perpetual smile.”

“Do you think Miss Trevor returns his affection?”

Peggy looked troubled. “Beatrice is very reserved,” she said. “She seldom speaks of men’s attentions to her, even to me, her best friend. If you had asked me that question a month ago I would have said positively, ‘No’—but lately, Beatrice, without actually encouraging Mr. Clark, has allowed him to be with her more than formally.”

“Then you think—?”

“I don’t know what I think,” pettishly.

“Was this supper given the night before the murder?”

“Yes. Madame Bernhardt was the guest of honor.”

“Was Gordon there by chance?”

“Oh, yes. He took me out to supper and was just as jolly and nice as he could be.”

“I am sorry to interrupt you young people,” called Mrs. Macallister from the doorway. She had strolled out into the hall to speak to her maid. “But I must remind Peggy that she has to dress for a dinner at the Pattersons’.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Dick, in dismay, glancing at his watch. “I had no idea it was so late. Do forgive me, Mrs. Macallister, for staying so long.”

“I will, provided you promise to come and dine with us on Wednesday next, at eight o’clock.”

Peggy’s eyes seconded the invitation, and Dick accepted so joyfully that Mrs. Macallister’s eyes danced wickedly. “Count de Smirnoff is very agreeable,” she said, as Peggy left the room, “and I am indebted to Count de Morny for bringing him to see me. They had been to the drill at Fort Myer, and the Russian gave a most entertaining account of it. It is a relief to talk to him after struggling with Count de Morny’s broken English.”

“It is indeed,” agreed Dick, heartily. “Poor de Morny certainly murders the King’s English.”

“I asked Count de Smirnoff to call again,” pursued Mrs. Macallister. “I like him, and we have many mutual friends.”

“How long is he going to be here?”

“Until the Grand Duke returns to New York. Good night, Dick; come and see us soon again.”

CHAPTER XIII
THE THREAT

On that same afternoon Beatrice sat in the library gazing with troubled eyes at a letter lying open in her lap. Suddenly she tore it into shreds and flung the pieces into the open fire.

“How dare he?” she exclaimed aloud.

“Beg pardon, Miss Beatrice,” said Wilkins, patiently. He had already addressed her three times.

“What is it?” asked Beatrice, for the first time aware of his presence.

“Detective Hardy is at the telephone, miss. He wishes to know if you can see him this afternoon.”

“No, I cannot.” She shivered slightly. “Tell him, Wilkins, that I am lying down, but that I will see him to-morrow about this time. I am not at home to anyone to-day.”

“Very good, miss.”

Just as Wilkins hung up the telephone receiver, the front bell rang so loudly that in the library Beatrice paused in her rapid pacing back and forth to listen. She heard voices raised in a heated altercation. “Some more reporters,” she thought, shrugging her shoulders nervously. She threw herself on the lounge and took up her embroidery.

“Well, here I am,” said a heavy bass voice from the doorway. Beatrice glanced up in surprise, and saw Mrs. Curtis, wife of the Secretary of War, standing on the threshold. Wilkins’ flushed and unhappy countenance could be seen over her shoulder. It was not often that he was out-maneuvered as a watch-dog. “Your servant said you were out, but I knew he was lying, so just walked right by him. I simply had to see you, Beatrice,” kissing her affectionately.

“And I’m very glad to see you, Mrs. Curtis,” answered Beatrice, warmly, as she helped her off with her wraps.

“Joe said you wouldn’t want to see me,” went on Mrs. Curtis, picking out a comfortable chair and seating her two hundred odd pounds in it very gingerly. “Joe also said I must not allude to your troubles—Mercy on us!”—greatly embarrassed—“well, the murder’s out—good gracious!”

Her consternation was so ludicrous that Beatrice smiled as she pulled a chair forward. Mrs. Curtis’ faculty for making “breaks” was well known among her friends.

Short of stature, her weight made her waddle when she walked, and no art of any dressmaker could give her a waist line. Boasting as she did of a long line of ancestors, whose names were illustrious in American history, she considered she could do as she pleased, live where she pleased, and associate with whom she pleased. Her manners could not always be relied on; they were apt to vary with the state of her digestion. Abrupt and often overbearing at times, she had, however, two traits of character shared by few—loyalty and the courage of her convictions.

She had always been fond of Beatrice, and some recent gossip about the Trevors coming to her ears that afternoon had made her very angry. She championed their cause at once, to the consternation of the two worthy women who, having repeated the gossip, wilted under her indignant glance. Hence the determined assault on the Trevors’ front door.

“Tea!” she exclaimed, overhearing Beatrice’s order to Wilkins. “My dear, don’t have it on my account. I detest the stuff. A glass of sherry and a biscuit will do me more good than anything else you can offer.”

“How is the Secretary?” asked Beatrice, placing the decanter and biscuits which had been quickly forthcoming, before her guest.

“Very well, barring an attack of gout. I told him it was a case of suppressed kicking against the powers that be on Capitol Hill. I met your father on the street this morning. He looks dreadfully, poor man. Is there any truth in this rumor of his resigning?” casting a keen glance at the unconscious girl.

“No truth at all,” Beatrice answered emphatically. “We may both go to Atlantic City for a week, but that is the only time father will be away from his office until June. I can’t imagine how such a report started.”

“Washington is a hotbed of rumors always,” retorted Mrs. Curtis. “What people don’t know, they make up. But I did not come here to talk about my neighbors’ shortcomings, but to ask if you won’t go motoring with me as soon as the condition of the streets permits. You need to be out in the fresh air,” and she patted Beatrice’s thin cheeks. The somber black garb enhanced her pallor, but for all that Mrs. Curtis decided in her own mind that she had seldom seen her look more lovely. “If that man has been playing fast and loose with her affections,” she thought, “I’ll—I’ll give him a piece of my mind.” It was no idle threat. Those who had experienced a piece of her gray matter would rather have faced a Gatling gun; at least, the end came swiftly.

“I’d love to go with you, Mrs. Curtis.”

“Good. And you’ll come back and dine with us?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t like to, just yet, because of our deep—” for the life of her she could not say grief—“mourning,” she supplemented.

“Tut! No one stops to think of that, nowadays.” Suddenly realizing that she might be treading on rather painful ground for Beatrice, Mrs. Curtis pulled herself up short. “I’ll take another glass of sherry after all, for I am simply exhausted. Ever since three o’clock I’ve done nothing but peddle cards from house to house.”

“Done what?” asked Beatrice, in blank amazement.

“Peddle cards—visiting cards. I have a calling list as long as the Washington Monument. It’s perfectly fearful. First they call; you call; they call, and so it goes, back and forth, battledore and shuttlecock.”

“It is a treadmill,” agreed Beatrice, laughing. “It is a pity someone doesn’t open a clearing house for callers, it would simplify matters, particularly for the official set.”

“The habit is just as bad among the Cave Dwellers (old Washingtonians),” she explained in parenthesis. “They even make tea calls! I work like a slavey, and yet it’s all I can do to make my bread and butter ones. By the way, did you go to the Constables’ dinner dance two weeks ago?”

“No,” answered Beatrice, interested. “I heard it was a feast.”

“A feast? It was a feed! One hundred and fifty dinner guests, and fifty extra couples for the cotillion afterwards. The favors were beautiful, so beautiful that there was great rivalry to get them, and later in the evening it was noised around that the souvenir favors were twenty dollar gold pieces. Anyway, that particular favor was given out in cardboard boxes, and none of the men would give them away to a girl until they investigated them first for fear they wouldn’t get one in return.”

“What were they?” asked Beatrice, greatly diverted.

“Oh, pieces of handsome jewelry. By the way, I saw Margaret Macallister there flirting outrageously. That nice Mr. Tillinghast is very attentive to her.”

“He has been in love with her for years. But Peggy flouts him, as she does all the rest.”

“To take up with a broken stick in the end, I suppose. Well, it’s a pity young Tillinghast is wasting his time. Mrs. Macallister would never consent to her marrying a poor man when a title is in sight.”

“You are wrong, Mrs. Curtis,” said Beatrice, politely but positively. “Mrs. Macallister is a woman of the world, not a worldly woman. She is devoted to her granddaughter, and would not let money considerations interfere with Peggy’s future happiness.”

“Still, my dear, Count de Morny is a matrimonial prize. Perhaps he will win her after all, the diplomats have such charming, delightful manners—a great contrast to our men.”

“Quite true, Mrs. Curtis; but personally give me an American every time. Our men may not know parlor tricks, but they are tender, loyal and brave.” Beatrice spoke with unwonted feeling.

“Hoity-toity, child, don’t get so excited. I meant no particular criticism of our men. Haven’t I a dear old bear at home, whom I’d positively hate if he wasn’t an American. Mercy on us, it’s nearly six o’clock, I must run along. Good-by, my dear,” kissing Beatrice with unusual tenderness. “Keep a good heart.” And she bustled out of the house.

Beatrice walked rather slowly back to the library. She was deeply touched as well as surprised by Mrs. Curtis’ blunt kindness. “From those we expect the least, we get the most,” she thought bitterly, while gathering up her workbag preparatory to going to her room.

“May I come in for a moment?” asked a voice from the doorway. Beatrice glanced with some astonishment at the speaker, and answered quietly:

“Why, certainly, Mr. Clark.”

“Your father has just telephoned that he is detained at the White House, and will not be back until late.” He stopped speaking, and fingered the table ornaments; then burst out: “Miss Beatrice, why do you not take better care of yourself?”

Beatrice flushed. “I am stronger than I look. You must not always judge by appearances.”

Clark shook his head. “It does not require much intelligence to see that you are nearly worn out. Why,” leaning a little closer, “your eyes are actually red from crying.”

“You are not very complimentary,” said Beatrice, vexedly, biting her lip, “and,” drawing herself up, “just a trifle personal.”

“You mean familiar?”

Beatrice made no answer.

“Well, I plead guilty. Do not be angry with me. I am only personal because I cannot bear to see you ill—suffering.”

“Indeed, Mr. Clark, you are mistaken,” she answered lightly. “There is nothing whatever the matter with me, except the physical exhaustion which naturally follows such a tragedy. A good sleep would be my best tonic. I am going upstairs now to rest before dinner. Ring for Wilkins if you wish anything.”

As she moved towards the door Clark put out his hands beseechingly.