The Marathon Mystery Part 3

PART III
THE AFFAIR OF THE NECKLACE

​

The Pier on Great South Bay in a Storm.

 

CHAPTER I

The Delroys

ALTHOUGH Richard Delroy was known among his more familiar associates as Dickie, he was not, as that diminutive might seem to indicate, merely a good fellow and man about town. It is true that his wealth was great, and that he had never settled down to that steady struggle for money which had marked his father’s career, and which many persons seem to think the only fitting employment for a man in his position. He had concluded, wisely perhaps, that he had enough, and thereupon proceeded to an intelligent enjoyment of it.

He had an office in the Wall Street district, where he spent some hours daily in interested contemplation of the world’s markets and pregnant talks with investors, promoters, and beggars of various denominations. He had a fondness for books and art, finer and deeper than a mere mania for purchasing rare editions and unique masterpieces; he was a member of the Citizens’ Union and contributed freely to every effort to suppress political graft and corruption; he was vice-chairman of the University Settlement Society, and belonged to many other politico-evangelical organisations. He had built two or three model tenements, after that voyage of discovery among the slums of London, which had also resulted, as we have seen, in his meeting the woman who became his wife.

​Among these varied occupations, he managed to pass his time pleasantly and at the same time not unprofitably. In a word, if he did nothing very good, neither did he do anything very bad-indeed, he averaged up considerably better than most men of his class-and it may be added, as a positive virtue, that he had married for love and continued to regard his wife with an affection somewhat unusual in its intensity.

A great many people wondered why he had married Edith Croydon, but they were mostly those who had never met her. She would be called attractive rather than beautiful, with a quiet charm of manner which was felt most intensely in the privacy of her own home. She was quite the opposite of vivacious, yet there was about her no appearance of sadness, and her smile, when it came, was the sweeter and more welcome because long delayed. She gave one a certain sense of valuing it, of not wasting it. Certainly, she succeeded in making her husband an entirely happy man, which is, perhaps, the highest praise that can be given a wife. It is almost needless to add that she thoroughly sympathised with him in his experiments for the betterment of the condition of the poor, and that her marriage had not interfered with her own active work in the same direction.

Her sister was cast in a different mould. Her beauty won an instant appreciation. Six years younger than Mrs. Delroy, Miss Croydon was of that striking, decisive type of brunette which takes a man’s heart by storm. One would never think of her as anything but daring and self-reliant—audacious, even—ready for any emergency and willing to meet it ​squarely, open-eyed. A man, looking at her, would feel rising in his breast not that instinct of protection which most women awaken, but rather that instinct of the conqueror which is, perhaps, our heritage from the Vikings.

It was to Richard Delroy that Tremaine had applied for assistance in promoting the Martinique railroad. How he gained an introduction, I do not know—perhaps from some uncritical man in the Street; but gain it he did, and he used the opportunity to good advantage. I can easily imagine the perfection of wizardry he brought to bear upon Delroy—the persuasive eloquence, the irresistible fascination. In the end, he succeeded not only in persuading Delroy of the perfect feasibility of the scheme, but in gaining admission to Delroy’s family.

It had been achieved in this wise:

They were discussing the railroad enterprise one afternoon, and finally the talk wandered to art and then to music. Delroy was delighted to find his companion a connoisseur of delicate perception and apparently wide experience.

“I suppose you’ve been attending the opera?” he inquired, finally.

“Oh, certainly; always when there is something I care especially to hear.”

“De Reszke and Melba are on to-night.”

“I intend to be there,” said Tremaine instantly, no doubt guessing at what would follow.

“Then come up to our box,” said Delroy. “We’ll be glad to have you.”

“I shall be very glad to come.”

​The words were spoken evenly, quietly, without any indication of that deep burst of triumph which glowed within him; for it was a triumph—a veritable one—one for which many men and most women would have made any sacrifice. He controlled himself admirably, too, at the opera and it was not until the end of the second act that he sought the box. He entered quietly and the introductions were accomplished in a moment. Besides Delroy and his wife, Miss Croydon and Drysdale were present. Their reception of him, it must be added, was somewhat icy, but this he did not seem to notice.

It was not to be denied that he added greatly to the life of the party; his comment was so apt, so brilliant, so illuminating, yet not in the least self-assured. Drysdale fell under the spell at once, and even the women, who naturally looked somewhat askance at the intruder—who, indeed, had greeted him with glances almost of repugnance—in the end yielded to it.

During a pause in the conversation, Delroy’s glance happened to fall upon the superb necklace of pearls which encircled his wife’s throat.

“Why, see there, Edith,” he cried, “how those pearls have changed. They seem absolutely lifeless.”

Mrs. Delroy picked up a strand with trembling fingers and looked at it.

“So they do,” she agreed, a little hoarsely. “That’s queer. They’ve changed since I put them on.”

“There’s a superstition, you know,” remarked Drysdale, “that pearls somehow possess an acute sympathy with their owner. When some disaster is about to happen, they grow dull, just as these have done.”

​“Oh, nonsense, Jack!” protested Delroy. “Stop your croaking. Do you want to frighten Edith?”

“I’m not so easily frightened,” said Mrs. Delroy, smiling at her husband, though Drysdale fancied she had grown a little pale, and bit his tongue for his thoughtless remark.

“Fortunately,” said Tremaine suavely, “the defect is one which is very easily remedied. A few days’ bath in salt water will restore their brilliancy.”

“Well,” asked Delroy, in some amusement, “where did you run across that bit of information?”

Tremaine laughed.

“I’m almost ashamed to tell. I got it first in a newspaper story about the Empress of Austria. She had a necklace of pearls that turned dull, and she sent them down to the Mediterranean to be immersed.”

“What made them turn dull?” Drysdale inquired.

“No one knew,” answered Tremaine with seeming carelessness. “It was just before the Empress was assassinated.”

A moment’s painful silence followed the words.

“It may have been only a newspaper yarn,” said Delroy, at last. “We’ve outgrown the superstitions of the Middle Ages.”

“Very possibly,” assented Tremaine; “still it might be worth asking some jeweller about. Mrs. Delroy’s necklace is worth saving,” and he examined it with the glance of a connoisseur.

It invited examination, for it was almost unique in its perfection. It had been Delroy’s one great extravagance. He had spent many years collecting the stones, which were of a beautiful iridescence and per​fectly matched, and they had formed his wedding gift to his wife. The value of the separate stones was not less than a hundred thousand dollars; their value combined in the necklace could be only a matter of conjecture.

“Yes,” agreed Drysdale, with a little laugh, “it certainly is. You’d better take it down to Tiffany, Dickie.”

“I will,” said Delroy. “And don’t think anything-more about it, Edith.”

“I won’t,” she answered, still smiling, her eyes unnaturally bright. “But it’s very close in here; I should like a glass of water.”

The water was procured in a moment. Drysdale, blaming himself more and more, was relieved to see her colour return. She soon seemed quite herself again; the talk turned to other things. And once again Tremaine showed his perfect self-control-he did not linger unduly, he did not give them a chance to grow accustomed to him, much less to grow tired of him. He had not the faintest air of being an intruder; he seemed completely at home; and when he left the box, the men, at least, were sorry he had gone, and said so. He was that wholly admirable thing—a guest whose departure one watches with regret.

That box party was the wedge which enabled Tremaine to enter the Delroy circle; a privilege which he cultivated with such consummate tact that he was soon accepted everywhere at his face value. His success was assured from the start, for he brought to palates jaded by over-feeding a new and exquisite tang; he ​was fresh and unusual, amid a surfeit of stale and commonplace—he was relished to the uttermost.

It appeared, however, that the press of social duties and the trying spring weather were proving too much for Mrs. Delroy’s strength, which was never great, and which had been especially taxed, this season, by the introduction of her sister to New York society. Even the comparative quiet of the Lenten season failed to restore her, and the resumption of the social whirl after Easter moved Delroy to protest.

“You’re going it too hard, Edith,” he remarked. “You need a rest and a change of air; so do I, though perhaps I don’t look it. Suppose we go down to Edgemere for a week or two.”

“Would you like to go?” she asked eagerly. “Thank you, dear. I do feel the need of it.”

“Then I’ll wire at once to Thomas to get the house ready. Shall we say next Saturday?”

“That will do nicely.”

“I suppose we’d better have Jack down to look after Grace?”

“By all means—and you’d better have a friend or two—I don’t want you to get bored.”

“Oh, I shan’t get bored—besides, I can run into town occasionally. But perhaps I will invite two or three of the fellows down for a few days. I’ll think about it,” and he hurried away to set the preparations astir.

It was not till the evening before their departure that he referred to the matter again.

“Jack’s coming with us,” he said, “and, by the way, Edith, I’ve asked Tremaine to come down to-morrow ​and stay the week. I want to perfect our plans for that railroad project; and, besides, he’s about the most fascinating fellow ever met.”

“Yes,” she agreed, with a strained little laugh, “he’s very fascinating.”

CHAPTER II

The Gauntlet

EDGEMERE was a beautiful estate overlooking Great South Bay, just east of Babylon. Across the waters of the bay, the low dunes of Fire Island were visible, with the lighthouse pointing upward its white finger of warning. To east and west low, wooded islets closed in the horizon, while to the north, the tall trees of a broad stretch of woodland looked down upon the house. A pretty boathouse and pier adorned the beach and there was every other device of bowling-alley, gymnasium, tennis-court, and what not that could add to the amusement of summer sojourners. There were many pretty walks among the trees, many fragrant nooks where nature’s sway had not been disputed; but perhaps the most attractive corner of the place was the walk beyond the bowling-alley, beneath a graceful pergola, covered with vines in summer, leading to a shady bower commanding a wide view of the bay, from which a terraced walk descended to the water.

It was essentially a summer play-house, and yet John Drysdale, looking through the blurred glass of the carriage that had brought him from the station through the sudden April shower, saw in the light streaming redly from the windows a warmth of welcome that summer could not show. A pile of logs was blazing ​in the hall fire-place, but he paused only for a moment to get off the outdoor chill, and then ran up to his room to dress for dinner. He knew the customs of the house and he hoped for a reward if he dressed promptly.

Nor was he disappointed, for when he came down the stair some fifteen minutes later, he saw standing before the fire a regal figure. He paused a moment to contemplate it—the white shoulders rising from a gown of rich, dark red, the poise of the head with its black coiffure, the grace of the arm hanging idly by her side…

She was gazing intently into the fire, deep in thought, and for an instant she did not hear him. Then she turned with that rare smile which a woman of ardent temperament gives to only one man in the world.

“I heard you drive up,” she said; “I thought you might remember our old habit.”

“As if I could forget it! Do you know,” and he held her at arm’s length to look at her, “you take my breath away. But then, you always do. My luck seems too completely, supremely perfect to be true.”

Her colour deepened a little under his gaze, but her eyes did not waver.

“I don’t want you to live in a state of perpetual breathlessness,” she said.

“Oh, you don’t know what a delightful state it is. There’s nothing in my appearance to cause palpitation of the heart. Just a moment ago, when I came to the turn of the stair and looked down and saw you standing here, do you know I was appalled at the ​sheer wonder of the thing. ‘She is mine,’ I said to myself, ‘She is mine,’ and yet I couldn’t quite believe it—it seemed too stupendous, too utterly absurd. What have I done to deserve you?”

There was something very touching in the sincerity of the frank, boyish face. She answered with a pressure of the hand which said more than many words.

“I feel a good deal as that page felt,” he went on, after a moment, “who looked up at Kate the Queen. ‘She never could be wronged, be poor,’ he sighed, ‘need him to help her.’”

“And yet in the end she did need him, didn’t she? Perhaps,” and her face changed and she looked away into the fire again, “perhaps I may need you—may have to ask a great sacrifice of you——”

“Ask it,” he said eagerly. “Ask anything but that I give you up.”

“I have already asked one thing,” she said slowly, looking at him with a face very gentle. “No little thing—your trust—your confidence, your——”

“You had no need to ask it,” and he caught her hands again. “It was yours already.”

“And will be mine always?”

“Can you doubt it?”

“No—and I shall be glad to remember it.”

“Not long ago,” he said, looking at her, “a friend of mine gave me some good advice.”

“Which was?”

“That I be happy in having you, without conditions; that I try to live up to you and be worthy of you; that I try to do something worth while for your sake.”

​She had listened with raised brows.

“I didn’t know I was a subject of discussion——”

“You’re not—but you sent me to him——”

“Oh—Mr. Godfrey!” A little cloud came upon her face; she opened her lips to say something more, but a step sounded on the stair and Tremaine came slowly down. There was a look on his face not pleasant to see, but he had banished all trace of it as he came forward to greet them.

When the men joined the women after dinner, they found Miss Croydon sitting at the piano idly touching the keys. Tremaine went to her with a directness that argued purpose. She looked up, expecting perhaps to see Drysdale; her eyes narrowed and hardened as they met Tremaine’s.

“I’ve been wanting to ask you to sing,” he said, apparently not noticing her change of expression, “but feared you might think me bold. You see, I am taking the bull by the horns. Some instinct told me””

“The instinct is wrong,” she interrupted, dropping her eyes to the keyboard. “I do not sing.”

“No? Then I shall miss a great pleasure which I had promised myself. You have a singing voice.”

There was a penetrating fascination about the man which compelled her to lift her eyes to his. He was smiling, radiant, triumphant, as a general, confident of victory, just swinging into battle. She shivered slightly, as he bent closer and added something in a tone of voice too low to be heard by the others in the room.

​She flushed and her fingers crashed out an indignant chord of protest. Drysdale, drawn by some compelling uneasiness, approached them. Tremaine had been turning over the music as he talked; his ears, sensitive as a cat’s, caught the sound of Drysdale’s footsteps.

“Shall we try this one?” he asked aloud, and placed a sheet on the rack before her.

Without answering, she swept into the prelude.

“‘You’ll love me yet!—and I can tarry
Your love’s protracted growing;
June reared that bunch of flowers you carry
From seeds of April’s sowing.’”…

His voice was an admirable tenor, and he sang the lines with a meaning and expression that brought the warm blood to her cheek. When it was done, he acknowledged the applause with a little bow, casting at Drysdale a glance at once triumphant and ironic. And in that instant, Drysdale knew that the song had not been chosen by chance—that Tremaine had paused to listen at the stair-head. A sudden abyss yawned before him—here was a rival who would pause at nothing; who already had about him a certain air of victory. Drysdale clenched his teeth with a quick breath; well, he would make the fight of his life to keep what he had won!

“More, more!” clamoured Delroy. “You could make your fortune as a stage lover, Tremaine.”

“Ah, there is a difference between the sham and the true!” said Tremaine, in a tone full of meaning. “You are an excellent accompanist, Miss Croydon; ​you know how to humour the singer, and I need a lot of humouring.”

“Will you give them an encore?” she asked, disregarding the compliment.

“Let me see.” He was looking at her with eyes wonderfully bright. “There is a simple little melody they sing at St. Pierre at the time of the Carnival. I think you could accompany it,” and he hummed the air. “Splendid! That is it. You will think the words pretty. I’ll sing them as they were written, not as the Creoles have changed them.

“‘Petits amoureux aux plumes,
Enfants d’un brillant séjour,
Vous ignorez l’amertume,
Vous parlez souvent d’amour:
Vous méprisez la dorure,
Les salons, et les bijoux;
Vous chérissez la Nature,
"Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!’”

“Go on, go on; don’t stop!” cried Delroy. “There must be another verse. It wouldn’t be a French song if there wasn’t.”

“There is,” and Tremaine laughed; “as usual, one that points a moral. I hadn’t intended to sing it—but-with your permission, Miss Croydon.”

She nodded, as she ran lightly through a little improvised interlude. Drysdale, from the other end of the piano, wondered how Delroy could suddenly develop such poor taste. Tremaine glanced at him, as he began the second verse; then he turned his eyes upon Miss Croydon, smiling.

​

“‘Voyez là bas, dans cette église,
Aupres d’un confessional,
Le prétre, qui veut faire croire à Lise,
Qu’un baiser est un grand mal;
Pour prouver à la mignonne
Qu’un baiser bien fait, bien doux,
N’a jamais damné personne,
Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous!’”

“Capital!” cried Delroy. “What next? Come—the third verse!”

But Miss Croydon rose abruptly from the piano.

“No,” she said; “I protest. I’ve no doubt it goes from bad to worse! I’m afraid to listen!”

“You are wrong, Miss Croydon,” said Tremaine, smiling full into her eyes. “You do me an injustice. I assure you there is no third verse,” and he joined the Delroys where they sat before the fire.

CHAPTER III

A Crossing of Swords

WHEN Drysdale opened his window next morning, he found the sun shining from a sky unclouded and the air warm with the promise of spring. It called him in a way not to be resisted and he stepped out on the little balcony which ran beneath the window; then he caught the odour of a cigarette, and turned to see Tremaine smiling at him.

“Good-morning!” cried Tremaine. “A beautiful morning, isn’t it? Won’t you join me?”

It was impossible to refuse him; but Drysdale had no thought of refusal—he rather welcomed the opportunity to cross swords with his rival, to test his skill, to find out in how far that air of triumph was justified by the strength behind it. So he took the little cylinder of paper as he returned the greeting, and sat down on the sill of his window.

“But how grey the sea is,” continued Tremaine. “It is not so in the tropics—it is blue—oh, such a blue!”

“You seem to be an early riser,” observed Drysdale, who had thought to find himself the first astir.

“It is a habit one learns at St. Pierre. The dawn is, there, the only pleasant portion of the day—one rises to burn incense to it.”

“You have lived long at St. Pierre?”

​“Nearly four years.”

“And before that?”

Drysdale felt the baldness of the question, and knew that he was not proceeding as deftly as he should, that he was fencing clumsily; but opposed to this was a burning desire to know more about this man, to probe into his past. Not by the quiver of a lash did Tremaine indicate that he found the question either strange or unwelcome.

“Ah, I have been a wanderer,” he answered readily, and with apparent frankness. “I have lived in many countries and I have met many people—at Paris, at St. Petersburg, at London, even at Stamboul. And you, Mr. Drysdale?”

There was something subtly ironic in the tone—a shade of veiled contempt—that brought a flush to the other’s face.

“Yes, you have guessed it,” he said; “I’ve lived only in New York.”

The merest flicker of amusement flashed across Tremaine’s lips and they finished their cigarettes in silence. Tremaine’s suavity seemed to have come suddenly to an end. He no longer attempted to disregard the barrier that had arisen between them, or explain away that swift glance of the night before. They went down together to breakfast, presently; but only Delroy joined them there, and it was not an especially pleasant meal, despite the bright sun at the windows and Tremaine’s imperturbable good humour. As they arose from table, that gentleman announced his intention of going for a walk about the grounds, and Drysdale carried Delroy off to the library.

​“Now, Dickie,” he began resolutely, as soon as they were seated, “I’m going to quarrel with you. You’re not careful enough of your family. Who is this Tremaine, anyway?”

Delroy regarded the questioner with a long stare of astonishment.

“Why, he’s a mighty pleasant fellow who’s putting through——”

“I know all that,” interrupted the other, a little rudely. “But who is he? Where did he come from?”

“He came from St. Pierre——”

“Dickie,” said Drysdale impressively, “you’re too easy. You think all men are honest. Have you seen his credentials? Who stands for him?”

Delroy jumped up impatiently.

“See here, Jack,” he demanded, “what is it you’re driving at?”

“I’m trying to point out to you that you’ve taken Tremaine to your bosom a little too hastily,” answered Drysdale bluntly.

Delroy flushed with annoyance.

“Mr. Tremaine,” he said with emphasis, “is one of the most cultured and charming men I ever met. He came to me on a matter of business; I found that we had many tastes in common, and I have enjoyed his society immensely.”

“That’s all right, Dickie. I’ve no objection to your enjoying his society as much as you like. But you oughtn’t to bring him here.”

“Why?” demanded Delroy.

“Because,” answered Drysdale hotly, “he’s making ​love to Grace. Didn’t you see him last night at the piano, when——”

Delroy, who had been listening open-mouthed, burst into a sudden roar of laughter. Drysdale stopped, looked at him, then turned and left the room.

Tremaine seemed to enjoy his walk; at least, he did not return to the house until nearly the hour for luncheon. At that meal, the women joined them, and a drive was planned for the afternoon, which ended at the vesper service at the little chapel at Babylon. For some reason, the drive had not been a success; a certain constraint seemed to have fallen upon the party, a feeling of unrest, of uneasiness, which sent them severally to their rooms as soon as they reached the house.

Drysdale did not proceed to dress immediately. Instead, he sat moodily down and stared out into the darkness. He could see the flare of light which streamed from his neighbour’s windows—what was there about him that repelled while it attracted? What had he meant by that glance of disdain? Drysdale flushed hotly at thought of it. It had been so quick, so elusive, that at the instant he had not caught its full mining, its almost insolent triumph. Triumph? And was there cause for that? Did that explain Grace’s indifference during the drive? Was that why she sat beside him silent, distraught? Was she thinking of Tremaine? Or was she waiting for him before the fire…

He sprang to his feet, switched on the lights, and began hastily to dress.

​What instinct was it that told him to set his foot lightly on the stair, or was it only that he hoped to look down upon her for a moment, unseen? The sound of voices reached him, and leaning over, he saw two figures standing before the fire which the evening chill had rendered necessary-Miss Croydon and Tremaine. He started abruptly to descend, when he caught a sentence that made him pause.

“I’m not in the least like that,” Tremaine was saying, and though the voice was carefully repressed, it had in it a ring of savage earnestness. “In your heart you know it, or you wouldn’t stand there listening. I have come to you at once, boldly, because I’m sure that I shall win. He is not worthy of you—in your heart you know that, also. He cannot hold you; he is too weak; I shall wrench you away! You’re not the woman to be tied to a gilded mediocrity. You have fire—ah! I have studied you—you need a larger outlook upon life. You’ve been kept in a cage—you’ve never had a chance to be yourself. Here, you will never have the chance—with me, it would be different. You do not know how different! At Paris, at Vienna, at Rome——”

She had been leaning away from him, staring into the fire, as though charmed into silence by this impetuous eloquence. Now, she stood erect and looked at him.

“What you are proposing to me is infamous,” she said, through clenched teeth.

“It is not in the least infamous,” he retorted coolly. “I am offering you the future I know you sigh for. It is a future that I sigh for, too; that I have sighed ​for from the first moment I saw you, and which I am going to make come true. Together, we will conquer the world. As my wife——”

“Your wife?” There was scorn, anger, fear in the words, and in the glance she cast at him.

“Certainly—my wife,” he repeated, with emphasis. “If I should prove to you——”

She stopped him by an imperative gesture.

“You go too far,” she said. “There is a limit to what even I will endure. Do not push me too far; do not rely too much upon my forbearance. A man capable of any crime——”

He held her by the motion of a finger.

“Is a man who appeals to you,” he concluded. “To be capable of any crime, and yet to commit none, is a virtue——”

“To commit none!” she echoed scornfully.

He looked at her without the flicker of a lash.

“To commit none, yes—your own conscience acquits me,” he repeated steadily. “But I would pause at none to gain possession of you. Look at me—do you doubt it?”

She looked at him with a little shiver.

“No,” she said.

“Is there any other man you know who can say as much?”

She wrested her eyes away from his and turned again to the fire.

“You strangely mistake me,” she said in a cold voice. “You are reading your own nature into me. I would ask no man to commit a crime for my sake—I should abhor the man who did.”

​He did not answer, but stood looking at her with a gaze which seemed to envelop her, to pierce her through and through. Drysdale felt the perspiration start across his forehead; he wished to cry out, but could not…

A door at the farther end of the hall opened and Delroy came in. The bonds loosened and Drysdale fled back to his room. He needed to compose himself.

Mrs. Delroy did not come down to dinner, pleading a headache, and after the meal was over, Delroy carried Tremaine off to the library for a last talk over the details of the railroad enterprise. They intended going into New York in the morning for an interview with certain capitalists that would be crucial, and they needed to arrange their plan of attack.

Drysdale, left to himself, threw away his cigar and went straightway to seek Grace Croydon. He found her sitting before the fire in the hall, gazing into it, her head in her hands. She did not hear his approach, and for a moment, as he gazed down at her, he doubted whether he had really witnessed that strange interview of an hour before. Had he not rather dreamed it? Was it not merely a wild imagining? He passed his hand before his eyes and dropped into the chair beside her.

She started at the sound, turned, saw him, and smiled. But it was not the smile that had greeted him the night before; it was not from the heart; it did not reveal, it dissembled. He saw the change and trembled as he guessed its meaning. Then he put hesitation behind him.

​“Grace,” he said gently, “as I was coming down to dinner tonight, I happened to see you and Tremaine standing here together, and, without intending to, I overheard a sentence which stopped me up there at the turn of the stair.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark with apprehension.

“You mean that you listened?” she asked.

“After that first sentence, it seemed to me that I had a right to listen.”

Her lips were curling in scorn, her eyes were burning through him.

“Oh, a right!”

“Yes, a right,” he repeated boldly. “No man should be permitted to talk to you as he talked. Why, he insulted you, he threatened you-Heaven knows what outrage he was ready to commit. Why did you permit it?”

She turned away from him and her arms dropped wearily by her sides.

“Your proper course is to inform Delroy,” he continued doggedly, braving the certainty of offending her. “Or, better still, I will, and then kick that scoundrel out. I’ve already had one quarrel with Dickie about him.”

“Have you?” she asked listlessly.

“Yes, I distrust him. Why did you permit him to talk to you the way he did?”

“I can’t tell you,” she answered hoarsely.

“But I have a right to know.”

“Yes, I suppose you have. Why not break it off? Then you won’t need to worry about me any more.”

​He started from his chair at the words, but controlled himself and sat down again.

“Do you mean that you want to break it off?” he demanded, in a quivering voice. “Do you mean that you can possibly care for that——”

She turned upon him with blazing eyes.

“Do you insult me, too?”

For an instant he sat motionless as stone; then he fell at her knees and caught her hands and covered them with kisses.

“Forgive me!” he cried. “Forgive me! It was unworthy. But, oh, Grace, give me a word—just a word—tell me——”

“Listen,” she said, bending over him, instantly moved, instantly tender; “you told me last night that you trusted me.”

“I do with my whole soul.”

“And Kate the Queen needs you, as she said she would. Only I must have time to think; to straighten out the tangle. Tomorrow I will tell you—to-morrow night-till then——”

He seized her and drew her down to him and kissed her on the lips.

“I’ve never doubted you,” he said. “And I’ll fight the battle of my life before I give you up.”

At the farther end of the hall, a door closed very, very softly.

CHAPTER IV

Cut and Thrust

JOHN DRYSDALE accompanied the other men to town in the morning, not that he cared to be with either of them, for his indignation at what he considered Delroy’s laxness had not in the least diminished, and his distrust of Tremaine had grown stronger with the passing hours; but the prospect of a day alone in the house was intolerable, and he felt that Grace Croydon would wish to avoid him till the hour of explanation was at hand.

Indeed, the sudden antagonism he had developed toward Delroy would have suggested a permanent return to town had not a point of honour, as it were, compelled him to stay. He could not, at this moment, desert Grace Croydon to the machinations of Tremaine; he must save her if he could, not only for his own sake, but for hers.

It was this gloomy meditation which occupied him on the trip in to the city, for his companions, immersed in the details of the day’s business, left him severely to himself. He bade them goodbye at the ferry, and, in a sort of desperation, went down to the Record office and asked for Godfrey. He felt that he was being swept into waters beyond his depth, that he needed a strong, cool hand to pluck him back to safety; but he found that Godfrey was out of town.

​Delroy and Tremaine went at once to the Wall Street office where the conference concerning the railroad was to take place. Memories of that conference still survive in the Street; wild legends concerning it—how a company of conservative, cold-blooded, steel-gutted capitalists were worked upon, bamboozled, hypnotised, wrought up to enthusiasm over a project which was proved, by the subsequent reports of engineers, to be about as practicable as a bridge to the moon. Even yet, the glamour of that meeting endures with some of the investors who were present, and they are still convinced that a railroad in Martinique would pay a fabulous return. Tremaine set for the Street a new standard of “smoothness,” and one which has never been approached.

The conference was over by noon, and Tremaine announced his intention of returning to Edgemere by the first train.

“I’m feeling a little worn out by the morning’s exertions,” he explained, and he really looked it. “When are you coming out?”

“I’m going up to Tiffany’s first,” Delroy answered, “and have a talk with them about my wife’s necklace. I left it with them Saturday. If they advise a sea-bath, I’ll bring it along with me, and we’ll see what virtue there is in the treatment.”

“Perhaps there isn’t any,” said Tremaine; “or it may be that Tiffany has some better method.”

“Well, I’ll know by to-night,” and Delroy held up a beckoning finger to a passing cab. “Good-bye till then.”

When Tremaine reached Edgemere, he made a tour ​of the hall, library, billiard-room, but finding them deserted, at last went slowly up to his own room and remained there for an hour or more. Then he came down and spent the remainder of the afternoon walking thoughtfully about the grounds, smoking innumerable cigarettes. If the object of his early return was another interview with Miss Croydon, as one would naturally suppose, he was disappointed in it, for she, knowing perhaps that he had come back alone, did not leave her apartments.

Delroy and Drysdale returned together on the five-o’clock train, and hurried into the house. They found Tremaine lounging in a great chair in the hall, and if the glance which Drysdale shot at him was electric with suspicion, he had at least self-control enough to restrain any ill-considered or hasty words. But he blamed himself bitterly for not having foreseen the possibility of Tremaine’s early return, the reason for which he guessed at once.

“We’ve just time to make the arrangements before dinner,” said Delroy, and he held up a long morocco case.

“Ah,” and Tremaine rose lazily, “so you’ve brought it? Tiffany advises it, then?”

“Yes—but come into the library and you shall hear. Thomas, ask Mrs. Delroy and Miss Croydon if they will come down to the library for a moment. I want to get the stones in the water at once.”

Drysdale, looking at Tremaine, thought he perceived a sudden flash of triumph in his face, but it was instantly repressed and may have been only fancy. The women joined them in the library almost im​mediately. Delroy unwrapped a bundle and laid it on the table. It was a little cage of fine but exceedingly strong gilt wire, closely meshed.

“My dear,” he began, turning to his wife, “you know I took your necklace to Tiffany’s just before we came out here, and left it for them to examine. They seemed rather puzzled by its condition—rather sceptical about its having changed so suddenly—and they asked me to leave it until to-day. When I went back after it, their expert gave me a long lecture about the action of fatty acids and the danger of leaving pearls shut up in air-tight safe-deposit boxes. I assured him that these hadn’t been shut up—they haven’t, have they, Edith?”

“No, of course not,” answered his wife promptly.

“I thought not, but I doubt if he fully believed me. Finally he said that in a case so unusual as this, it would be well to try the sea-water treatment before proceeding to anything more heroic—peeling, for instance.”

“Not very encouraging,” remarked Drysdale.

“Oh, I didn’t stop there. I drove from Tiffany’s up to that queer little Italian jewel-store—Contiani’s—on Thirty-third Street. Contiani himself was there and he grew quite excited when he saw the stones and heard the story. He said that a sea-bath was unquestionably the best thing for them—in fact, he advised it most strongly. The stones are getting deader and deader, so to speak.”

He took up the case from the table and snapped it open. The necklace lay before them, a dull, clammy white.

​“So it seems that the only thing to be done is to immerse them in their native element for a few days,” he continued; “and the sooner it’s done the better, Contiani says. That’s what I brought this cage for. We’ll put the necklace in it and let it down into the water at the end of the pier.”

“It seems a rather dangerous thing to do,” objected Drysdale. “Why not have a lot of water brought up to the house and immerse them here?”

“Because only living sea water will do; it seems to have no efficacy shut up in a vessel of any kind. I asked about that particularly. Besides, I don’t see that there’ll be any danger—we’re the only ones who know. Still, if Edith objects——”

“Oh, not at all,” said Mrs. Delroy instantly. “I only hope the stones will be restored; I think they’re horrid now,” and she shivered a little as she looked at them.

“I would suggest, nevertheless,” put in Tremaine, “that a guard be stationed at the pier, to prevent any possibility of danger. If you haven’t any servants you can fully trust, we might ourselves take turn about.”

“Nonsense!” protested Delroy quickly. “Do you think I’d impose on you like that?”

“I think Mr. Tremaine’s suggestion a good one, nevertheless,” said Miss Croydon. “A guard could stay in the boathouse for a few days without any great discomfort.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” and Delroy nodded. “Graham and his boy will be just the ones. They can relieve each other, so that the time won’t seem so long.”

​“Yes,” agreed Drysdale, “the Grahams are all right.” Delroy touched the bell.

“Send someone after Graham and his boy, Thomas,” he said. “Bring them here at once.”

“You’re quite certain of them?” asked Tremaine. “It’s rather a big temptation to put in any man’s way.”

Delroy laughed.

“Certain! I should say so. He was an old servant of my father’s, and would as soon think of robbing himself as robbing us. His son’s a chip of the old block. But here they are,” he added, as the door opened and two men came in.

A single glance was enough to convince anyone of their absolute probity. The elder man was perhaps sixty years of age, in the very prime of health and strength, with a weather-beaten countenance surrounded by a grizzled beard; the younger one was about twenty-five. Both showed the clean skin and clear eyes and firm muscles resulting from life in the open air, for they had the care of the acres of lawn and garden and woodland and meadow belonging to the estate.

“We was jest passin’, sir,” began Graham, “when Tummas called us an’ said as how you wanted t’ see us.”

“Yes,” said Delroy, and held up the little cage. “Do you know what this is for?” Graham looked at it stolidly. “No, sir; I don’t,” he said.

“Well, I’ll show you. This string of white stones ​is Mrs. Delroy’s pearl necklace, worth something over a hundred thousand dollars. I put them in this cage, close the lid, and fasten it with these little hooks. Now, Graham, these stones have lost their lustre and sea-water’s the only thing that will restore it. I want you to tie a rope to this cage and lower it into the bay from the end of the pier, securing it, of course, so that it can’t thresh around or break away. It will have to stay there for three or four days, and during that time I’d like you and your boy to sleep at the boathouse and see that nobody meddles with it.”

The two men had listened intently, with serious faces.

“Very well, sir,” said the elder, as Delroy finished, and held out his hand for the cage.

Delroy gave it to him, with a little chuckle of enjoyment.

“You’d better have a gun with you—not that I think there’s any danger——”

“Never fear, sir,” interrupted Graham. “We’ll ’tend t’ all that. Come on, Willum.”

Delroy watched them till the door closed behind them,

“I believe Graham would say ‘Very well, sir,’ in just that tone if I told him to burn the house down,” he remarked. “We’ll go down after dinner and see how he’s arranged things. And now,” he added, “my innards are beginning to clamour vigorously for refreshment.”

Drysdale lost no time in staring out of the window or in unprofitable meditation, for he was determined that Tremaine should have no second opportunity for ​a tête-à-tête with Grace Croydon. Therefore he dressed as rapidly as he could and ran lightly down the stair. But there was no one waiting for him before the fire-place.

He sat down in one of the great chairs, hoping against hope. Perhaps she would come; every moment of silence irked him; he was chafing to tear down the wall of misunderstanding that had risen between them. How could she have permitted Tremaine’s threatening insolence? She was the last woman in the world…

“I think we’re going to have rain,” said a smooth voice, and Drysdale looked up with a start to find Tremaine standing beside him.

Since the night before they had made no pretence of friendship; they instinctively understood each other; and Tremaine’s smile now had a cool impudence very galling. Nevertheless, Drysdale choked back his first angry impulse; he must wait until Grace spoke.

“Do you?” he said carelessly, and turned deliberately away.

Tremaine’s face flushed at the tone and his eyes narrowed like a cat’s; then he, too, sat down and stretched out his legs.

“It’s a great privilege,” he said, “to be admitted thus to a place where life passes so pleasantly.”

“It is,” agreed Drysdale. “I confess, I don’t understand how you obtained it.”

He regretted the words the instant they were spoken; he had no wish to precipitate a quarrel.

Tremaine did not change his careless attitude, but ​he turned upon his companion a gaze that glittered coldly.

“I must tell you,” he said in a voice of steel, “that you have not the manners of a gentleman.”

The words brought Drysdale upright.

“Perhaps not,” he retorted hotly; “but neither have I those of a blackguard. I had the good fortune to overhear the infamous threats you made to Miss Croydon——”

Tremaine laughed a laugh that was more insulting than any words.

“So you’re also an eavesdropper, a listener at doors? That confirms the statement I have already made. You will make me an apology or——”

“Or what?” demanded Drysdale fiercely, rising from his chair with muscles tense.

Tremaine rose, too, deliberately, and faced him with a look so terrible that despite himself he shivered.

“Or take the consequences,” said Tremaine, in a tone all the more threatening because it was very calm.

Drysdale laughed—it cost him something, but he achieved it.

“Very well,” he said contemptuously, “I’ll take the consequences,” and he turned his back upon Tremaine and walked away with an indifference he was very far from feeling.

CHAPTER V

The Blow Falls

DINNER, that night, was anything but a cheerful meal; in fact, it was evident that the house party possessed that fatal bar to success—a spirit of antagonism. Drysdale and Grace Croydon maintained a careful silence, and Mrs. Delroy was so obviously depressed that her husband was alarmed.

“I don’t believe this stay in the country is doing you a bit of good, Edith,” he observed.

She smiled wearily in answer to his anxious look. “I don’t feel very well, tonight,” she said. “I think I shall lie down right after dinner.”

“I would,” he agreed. “You must save yourself all you can. I can’t have you getting ill, you know. If I’d had any sense, I’d have got you away from that New York whirl a month ago.”

“I’m not going to be ill,” she assured him; “I’ll be all right in a day or two.”

As soon as the meal was over, she and her sister disappeared upstairs while the men lighted their cigars and strolled down to the boathouse to view the preparations made by the Grahams for the protection of the necklace. The night was very close, with a promise of rain unmistakable.

They went through the boathouse without finding anyone, but out on the pier beyond old Graham was ​sitting, gazing across the water and smoking an odoriferous pipe. Between his knees he held a Winchester repeater and a revolver-butt stuck from a case at his belt.

Delroy laughed quietly as he looked at him.

“Why, you’re a regular arsenal,” he said. “You’re taking it in earnest for sure.”

“Might as well be on th’ safe side, sir,” responded Graham sententiously.

“And where’s the necklace?”

“Lowered from th’ end of th’ pier, sir.”

“No chance of it getting away?”

“I tied th’ knots, sir.”

“All right—that settles it. You’re not going to sit out here all night, I hope?”

“Willum takes his trick at midnight, sir. He’s gone over t’ th’ house t’ bring a cot an’ some beddin’ down t’ th’ boathouse. We’ll take turn an’ turn about.”

“Well,” said Delroy, turning away, “I see I can sleep without worrying any over the safety of the necklace. If there’s anything you want, Graham, in the way of eatables or drinkables, don’t hesitate to send to the butler for them.”

“Thank ’ee, sir; but I guess we’ll let th’ drinkables alone fer th’ present. We’ll cook our own meals on th’ stove in th’ boathouse.”

“What do you want to do that for?”

“Well,” returned Graham slowly, “then we’ll know that they ain’t nothin’ in them thet hadn’t ought t’ be there.”

Delroy laughed again, long and loud, and even Drysdale smiled.

​“You’ve been reading a dime novel!” cried Delroy, when he had got his breath. “Deadwood Dick—I didn’t think it of you, Graham!”

“I don’t read nothin’, sir, but th’ Noo York Record——”

“It’s the same thing,” Delroy interjected.

“But I don’t believe in takin’ no risks—when you come after th’ necklace, sir, it’s a-goin’ t’ be right here.”

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” his employer assured him. “It would be a mighty desperate thief who’d tackle you. You’re all right, Graham. But I’d go into the boathouse if it rains.”

“I’ll see about it, sir,” said Graham, and refilled his pipe.

As they passed through the boathouse again, they perceived young “Willum” busily engaged in making up his bed on a cot in one corner. Delroy nodded to him and passed on without speaking.

“It’s too nice a night to spend in the house,” said Drysdale, a little abruptly, as they mounted the steps to the door. “I believe I’ll go for a tramp. I’ll take my raincoat, though; then I needn’t hurry back.”

“I didn’t know you were such a lover of nature, Jack,” observed Delroy.

“I’m not; but I feel like tramping tonight.”

Delroy shrugged his shoulders, as Drysdale entered the outer hall with them and took down his raincoat from the rack. Thomas, who was stationed in the vestibule, helped him on with it.

“Good-bye,” he called from the door; “don’t look for me for an hour or two.”

“All right, we won’t worry,” answered Delroy; ​“though, for my part,” he added, as he and Tremaine went on through the hall together, “I prefer a book before the fire. There’s a chill in the air that strikes through one after a while, and Jack’ll soon get enough of it. But I’d better go up and see how my wife’s getting along. You’ll excuse me?”

“Certainly—and stay as long as you like. I’m going to my room presently, myself—I have some letters to write.”

Delroy nodded and went on up the stair. Tremaine sank into one of the chairs before the fire and watched the blazing logs, with an expression intent, alert, as though he were waiting for someone.

A door opened and closed, a light step crossed the hall, a hand was laid upon the chair-back…

“Oh,” said Miss Croydon, “I thought—where is Mr. Drysdale?”

Tremaine arose slowly.

“Drysdale,” he said, with a meaning look which did not escape her. “was unable to resist the charms of the evening. He has gone for a walk. He said he would not be back for a couple of hours. Please sit down.”

It was more of a command than an invitation, and she yielded to it reluctantly.

“I can stay but a moment,” she said. “Edith is not at all well and needs me. Why are you waiting here?”

He pulled a chair close beside her. “I was waiting for you,” he said calmly. “I don’t think you quite realise yet that I am in earnest.”

“To be in earnest would be infamous.”

​“No indeed; not to be in earnest would be infamous. I’m paying you the greatest compliment I’m capable of paying any woman. I ask you to be my wife.”

“Why keep up that mockery?” she demanded scornfully.

“It is not a mockery. The past is dead.”

“It is not dead; you have brought it to life. It is becoming intolerable.”

“I know it; therefore I offer to make it tolerable. I have no wish to persecute anyone.”

“Then why do you?”

“Necessity——”

“Oh, nonsense!”

“Listen,” he said, with sudden intensity leaning toward her and looking in her eyes, “if I can prove to you that the past is really dead—dead past recall—dead past hope of resurrection—will you marry me?”

She looked at him without shrinking.

“No!” she answered.

“I see what it is,” he said between his teeth; “it is not that I do not awaken an answering chord in you—I do—I can see it—we were set apart for each other. It is not that you do not long to break through this silly English cage which has always hedged you about—I remember that you are really French in every drop of your blood. It is this pink-and-white nonentity who stands between us. You’ve fallen in love with his baby face—but it’s not the love of a woman for a man, it’s the love of a mother for her child. That other love you as yet know nothing of—but it shall be my part to teach it you—my privilege—my great mission—and I shall enjoy the fruits of it. Deep in ​your heart you know that the pale feeling you have for this boy is not love—not strong, passionate, mature love—the love that seizes and conquers, that takes one through heaven and through hell. Not many women are capable of such a love—they’re too cold, too selfish. But you’re capable of it, and when it comes to you, as I swear it shall come, you’ll not stop to question the past; you’ll look only toward the future—you’ll not stop to ask what the world thinks; you’ll heed only the longings of your own heart.”

She had sat spell-bound, gazing at him, chained by the sound of his voice, by his vehemence. She roused herself with an effort.

“If I should love,” she said, “I should at least choose a gentleman——”

He interrupted with a dry laugh.

“There spoke the Philistine—the English variety! Your heart wasn’t in it! Let me tell you that you wouldn’t stop to ask what he was—he would be only the man you love. And have you chosen a gentleman? Does a gentleman listen at the turn of the stairs to a conversation not intended for him? He did listen; he told you of his ridiculous doubts of you. What right has he to doubt you, to make conditions, to demand explanations? Explanations from a woman like you!”

“He has a right——”

“He has no right—he’s a beggar at your table! If he can’t hold you, it’s his fault, not yours. And he can’t hold you—he’s too weak every way! Ah, I could hold you!”

“Yes—perhaps even beat me!”

​He looked at her, his eyes agleam.

“Perhaps,” he agreed, his mouth working with eagerness. “Perhaps I should. But if I did, you would stab me in the night.”

He was weaving the spell about her again; she gazed at him, half-fascinated.

“Yes,” she said intensely; “yes—I should like to do it now!”

His eyes flashed with sudden triumph.

“And yet you think yourself in love with Drysdale!” he cried. “Did he ever awaken a wish like that in you?”

“No; thank God!” and she shivered slightly.

He was radiant, assured.

“Nor any other feeling except a baby liking! Yet you yield to his fancied right; you promise to explain to him! It was to do that you came here tonight——”

“Who told you that?”

“He did.”

“Then why isn’t he here?”

“He preferred to commune with nature,” Tremaine answered, in an indescribable tone. “Think of any man preferring nature to you—preferring anything to you—life, honour—anything! Do you know what I’m longing to do? I’m longing to take you in my arms and hold you fast and kiss you on those red lips of yours—kiss you, kiss you——”

He was half out of his chair, leaning over her. Another instant—but his ears caught the opening of a door.

“Here comes Delroy,” he said in another tone, ​rising suddenly, his hands gripped tensely at his sides. “Damn him!”

She lay back in her chair, relaxed suddenly, panting With exhaustion.

“I’ll go,” he added hoarsely. “I can’t keep up the farce of polite conversation—besides I have some letters to write. Good-night.”

For an hour or more, Delroy sat alone before the fire reading. At last he yawned, laid down his book, arose, and walked to the door. The wind was rising; he could hear it roaring in the trees; and every minute a broad flash of lightning illumined the clouds on the horizon.

“There’s a storm coming,” he said to Thomas, who was nodding at his post. “I wonder where the devil Drysdale went? He’d better be getting in pretty soon.”

As though in answer to the thought, a dark figure appeared suddenly on the walk, strode up the steps, and opened the door. It was Drysdale.

He took off his coat, threw it to Thomas, and went on into the inner hall, where he stood rubbing his hands before the fire, with a face so hopeless, fierce, despairing, that Delroy was fairly startled.

“You may go to bed, Thomas,” he said; then he went to Drysdale and laid a hand upon his shoulder. “What’s the matter, Jack?” he asked. “You’re looking regularly done up.”

Drysdale turned with a start.

“Oh, it’s you, is it, Dickie? Where is Grace?”

“Upstairs with my wife.”

​“Where has she been this evening?”

“She’s been down here talking with Tremaine most of the time—but I say—hold on—what ails the fellow?” he demanded, staring after the other as he bounded up the stairs. “Well, that beats me!”

He was still staring, when Tremaine appeared at the landing and came down, a packet of letters in his hand.

“I want to put these in the bag,” he said, “so they’ll get off by the early mail.”

“It’s on the rack out there,” Delroy replied, and the other went past him into the outer hall. He was back in a moment.

“That’s a good evening’s work,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction. “But what’s the matter? You look as though you’d seen a ghost.”

“Drysdale came in just now looking as though he’d seen one, all nerves and raw flesh—and stalked upstairs as mad as a hornet about something.”

“Ah,” said Tremaine, with just the flicker of an eyelash, “and yet one would have thought that a walk through the silence of the night would calm his nerves. There comes the rain!”

There was a hiss, a flash, and a great crash of thunder split the firmament apart and shook the house to its foundations. They could hear the rain dashing in sheets against the windows.

“That’s a storm for sure; listen to the wind. Drysdale got in just in time. But I never saw him like that before; something extraordinary must have happened to him. He’s been out of humour for a day or two. I wonder, now, if he was caught in that steel crash? ​By Jove, I did hear him say that he’d bought a block of stock on margin!”

A gleam of triumph indescribable flashed into Tremaine’s eyes.

“That may explain it,” he said, with studied carelessness.

“Yes--but it doesn’t excuse it. If a man can’t keep his temper when he loses, he hasn’t any business to speculate. Hello, who’s that?”

Someone was pounding at the outer door. Delroy strode to it and threw back the bolt. It flew open and young Graham staggered rather than walked into the hall, hatless, coatless, soaked with rain, his eyes staring, his face rigid with horror.

“Good God, man; what is it?” cried Delroy.

He opened his mouth; but only a low rumbling came from his throat.

“Come!” cried Delroy sharply. “Be a man! What is it?”

By a mighty effort, Graham pulled himself together.

“Father’s killed!” he whispered hoarsely.

CHAPTER VI

The Mystery at the Pier

FOR a moment, no one spoke. Only the boy’s laboured breathing broke the stillness; he was shivering convulsively, clutching at the hat-rack for support.

“It was the lightning, I suppose,” said Tremaine, at last, in a suppressed voice. “I knew that bolt struck somewhere near. The pier would naturally be a dangerous place.”

“I told him not to stay there,” broke in Delroy angrily. “There was no sense in it. Was it the lightning?” he demanded, wheeling on the boy.

“No,” he gasped, “it’s murder.”

“What!” cried Delroy incredulously.

“Lightnin’ don’t cave a man’s head in, does it?” asked the boy doggedly.

Delroy grabbed a raincoat from the rack and Tremaine caught up another. Across the lawn they sped, under the trees, down to the water-front, with young Graham stumbling blindly along behind. The little white boathouse gleamed vivid in the glare of the lightning. They entered and paused uncertainly in the gloom.

“Where is he?” asked Delroy.

“Out there on th’ pier,” answered Graham brokenly, “Out there where they struck him down.”

​“Get a light here and we’ll bring him in. Come on, Tremaine”.

At the pier-end lay a dark, huddled figure. A lightning-flash disclosed the staring eyes, the bloodstained face.

“Good God!” cried Delroy, and the horror of it seemed to strike through him, to palsy him.

Tremaine knelt down beside the body and lifted a limp wrist. He held it a moment, then laid it gently down.

“He’s quite dead,” he said, and stood quickly erect again, with a shudder he could not wholly repress.

Delroy, swallowing hard, gripped back his self-control.

“We can’t leave him out here,” he said; “perhaps there’s a spark of life. You take the legs; I’ll take the head.”

It was a heavy load and they staggered under it. From the boathouse a light flashed out, and in a moment young Graham came hurrying out to them and helped them forward, sobbing drily.

They laid their burden on the cot which the son had occupied and stood for a moment looking down at it. The boy seemed on the verge of collapse; his lips were drawn, his teeth chattering; the horrible sobbing did not stop. Delroy turned to him sharply.

“William,” he said, “I want you to show yourself a man. A good deal depends on you. Remember that-remember, too, that with your help, we’re going to catch the scoundrel who did this.”

The boy straightened up with a groan of agony,

​“That’s what I want!” he cried. “That’s all I ask!”

“That’s what we want, too,” and Delroy laid a calming hand upon his arm. “Now go up to the house and rouse Thomas, but don’t alarm anyone else. Get him to telephone at once to Babylon for Doctor Wise and for the coroner, and tell them both to get out here as quickly as they can. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Graham, and disappeared in the outer darkness.

For some moments, the two men stood looking down at the body without speaking. Then Delroy stooped and touched lightly the bloody forehead.

“See,” he said, “his head has been beaten in.”

“Yes,” nodded Tremaine, “the murderer struck boldly from the front—he didn’t think it necessary to steal up behind.”

“But why didn’t Graham defend himself? He was armed. Why did he let him get so near?”

“There’s only one possible explanation of that,” said Tremaine drily, “supposing, of course, that Graham didn’t fall asleep. He knew the man and thought him a friend. Perhaps they were even talking together at the time the blow was struck.”

Delroy’s face turned livid and great beads of sweat broke out across his forehead.

“That would explain it, certainly,” he agreed hoarsely, “for there isn’t the least likelihood that Graham was asleep. But it’s too horrible, too fiendish; I can’t believe it.”

Tremaine turned away to the window without answering, and stood there rolling a cigarette between his ​fingers and staring out across the water. The storm had passed, but by the broad bands of light which flashed incessantly along the horizon, he could see the waves still tossing wildly in the bay. He lighted the cigarette with one long inhalation, and stood there smoking it, his back to the room and its dreadful occupant. Delroy sat limply down upon a chair and buried his head in his hands.

Presently there came the sound of footsteps on the walk, the door opened, and young Graham and Thomas came in.

“Doctor Wise promised t’ come at once, sir,” said the latter to Delroy, his voice dropped instinctively to a hoarse whisper. “He said he’d bring the coroner with him.”

Delroy nodded without looking up.

“Anything else I can do, sir?” asked Thomas, with one horrified glance at the still form on the cot.

“Yes; go back to the house and bring down some whiskey and half a dozen glasses.”

“Very well, sir,” and Thomas hurried away. He was back in a surprisingly few minutes.

“Give Mr. Tremaine a glass,” said Delroy. “Tremaine,” he called, “take a bumper, or you’ll be catching cold,” and he himself brimmed a glass and drained it at a draught. Tremaine took his more slowly.

“You, too, William,” said Delroy. “Here, you need it.”

The boy, who had been standing beside the cot, his hands clasping and unclasping convulsively, took the glass mechanically and swallowed its contents.

Thomas carried the tray to the farthest corner and ​sat down. Seeing that no one noticed him, he filled a glass for himself with a trembling hand.

Ten, twenty, thirty minutes passed—thirty centuries during which no one spoke. Then they heard the swift clatter of a horse’s hoofs, the whir of wheels, and a buggy pulled up before the door. Thomas had it open on the instant and two men walked in.

“What is it, Delroy?” asked one of them. “Nothing serious I—ah!” he added, as his eyes fell upon the cot.

He went to it quickly, the other following; touched the hideous wounds, looked into the eyes, felt the temples.

“He’s dead,” he said, at last; “has been dead two or three hours, I should say. His skull is crushed—fairly beaten in. It’s your gardener, Graham, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Delroy answered.

The doctor stepped back.

“I turn the case over to you, Heffelbower,” he said. “It’s in your province now. Mr. Delroy, this is Mr. Heffelbower, the coroner.”

Heffelbower bowed. He was a little, stout man, bald-headed and with wide-open blue eyes that stared like a doll’s. Primarily, he was a saloon keeper, but had been elected coroner as a reward for his valuable services to his party. He possessed a certain native shrewdness which fitted him to some extent for the office; also a lack of nerves and a familiarity with crime which might often be of service.

“I presume,” he began slowly, “t’at t’is man wasn’t killed here in his bed?”

“No,” said Delroy, “we found him lying out on ​the pier yonder. We thought it only common humanity to bring him in, since there might have been a spark of life left.”

“Oh, of course,” agreed the coroner, instantly, visibly impressed by Delroy’s presence. “T’at was right. Who found t’e body?”

“His son, there,” and Delroy indicated young Graham by a gesture.

The coroner turned toward him; it was easy to see that he had a high opinion of his own ability as a cross-examiner and detector of crime. He wasn’t actually smiling, but his round face was shining with satisfaction. Babylon and the neighbouring villages are quiet places, and this was Heffelbower’s first important case since his election. He would show his constituents how wise their choice had been.

“My dear sir,” he began, evidently proud of his command of language, the result of many years of saloon debates, and speaking with distressing care but with a racial inability to conquer the “th,” “I know such a recital will be painful to you—most painful—but I must hear from you just how t’e discovery was made. You will naturally be more anxious t’an anyone to bring to justice t’e scoundrel who committed t’is crime, so please give us all t’e details possible. T’en I will know how to proceed.”

From the moment of his entrance, Tremaine had been contemplating the coroner with half-closed eyes; now, he turned back to the window with a little contemptuous smile.

“I’ll tell everything I know, sir,” said William, coming forward eagerly. “I went up t’ th’ house about ​nine o’clock and brought this cot down, intendin’ t’ turn in here an relieve father at midnight. Father was settin’ out there on the pier a-smokin’ his pipe when I turned in. I went t’ sleep almost as soon as I touched th’ piller. I don’t know how long it was, but after a while I kind o’ woke up an’ heard voices a-talkin’ out there on th’ pier. I got up an’ looked out th’ winder an’ purty soon I saw it was Mr. Drysdale with father.”

“Drysdale? Who’s he?” asked the coroner.

“He’s a friend of mine,” spoke up Delroy quickly. “An old friend. He’s staying here at the house with us. In fact, he’s to marry my wife’s sister.”

The coroner bowed.

“Very well,” he said, turning back to Graham, “you may continue.”

“Well,” went on the young fellow, “as soon as I saw it was Mr. Drysdale, I knowed it was all right, so I went back to bed ag’in. An’ I didn’t know nothin’ more till a great clap o’ thunder nearly took th’ roof off th’ house. I set up in bed, but I couldn’t seem t’ git awake fer a minute, my head was whirlin’ so. Then I got on my feet an’ looked out th’ winder an’ jest then it lightened ag’in an’ I seen father layin’ there——”

He stopped with a sob that shook him through and through.

“That will do for t’e present,” said the coroner kindly. “It seems rather extraordinary,” he added, turning to Delroy, “t’at t’is man should have sat out t’ere in t’e rain at t’at time of night. Was he fishing?”

​Delroy sprang to his feet with a sudden start.

“Fishing?” he cried. “No! I’d forgotten. He was guarding my wife’s necklace.”

He threw open the door and ran out on the pier, the others following. At the extreme end a rope was dangling in the water. He reached over and pulled it up. The wire cage was flapping open. The necklace had disappeared.

CHAPTER VII

A Tigbtening Coil

THE horizon was grey with the coming dawn, but it was still too dark on the pier to see anything distinctly, so they went slowly back together to the boathouse.

“Was t’e necklace a valuable one?” asked the coroner, as he closed the door.

“It was worth over a hundred thousand dollars,” answered Delroy, and explained briefly the purpose of the immersion.

“How many persons were aware of your intention to put it in t’e water out here?” asked Heffelbower, when he had finished.

Delroy hesitated.

“So far as I know,” he answered slowly, at last, “only myself, my wife, her sister, Miss Croydon, Drysdale, Tremaine, and the two Grahams.”

“Tremaine?” repeated the coroner. “I don’t t’ink you have mentioned him.”

“Oh, I forgot to introduce you. This is Mr. Tremaine, Mr. Heffelbower, a friend of mine, who is staying with me.”

The coroner bowed, but he shot Tremaine a sharp glance which did not escape Delroy’s notice.

“You will understand, Mr. Heffelbower,” he added quickly, “I believe the crime was committed by some​one else—I’m sure none of these could have committed it.”

“Ah,” said the coroner blandly, “t’en t’ey were all in t’e house, I suppose?”

“I can answer positively that my wife, Miss Croydon, and Mr. Tremaine were in the house the entire evening.”

“And Mr. Drysdale?”

“Drysdale went out for a walk.”

“A long one?”

“He was gone two or three hours.”

“Iss he in t’e habit of walking after night?”

“No,” answered Delroy slowly, “I can’t say that he is.”

“Did you see him when he came in?”

“Yes—I was looking out the window at the storm.”

“Did he appear as usual?” Again Delroy hesitated.

“I see, of course,” he said, at last, “what you’re aiming at; but I’m sure that Drysdale can explain his absence, as well as everything that happened during it. I therefore answer candidly that he did not appear as usual; he seemed excited and depressed. He left me in a fit of anger and went to his room.”

“Wit’out explaining his action?”

“Yes—he made no effort to explain it.”

“Did any explanation occur to you?”

“I thought perhaps he was worrying over losses incurred in speculation.”

“Ah!—he has incurred such losses, t’en?”

​“I do not know positively,” said Delroy, a little impatiently. “I merely suspect so.”

“Iss Mr. Drysdale still in his room?”

“Yes, I suppose so. I haven’t seen him since he went up to it.”

“Mr. Tremaine was wit’ you at t’e time Mr. Graham burst in and announced t’e murder?”

“Yes, we were in the hall talking together.”

“What time was it?”

“Nearly one o’clock, I should say.”

“T’ank you,” and Heffelbower turned back to make a more detailed examination of the body. “Doctor Wise,” he asked, after a moment, “from which direction should you say t’ese blows were struck?”

“From directly in front,” answered the doctor promptly.

“But I see he has a pistol at his belt. Why did he not tefend himself? Why should he allow himself to be beaten down?”

“That question also occurred to me,” observed Delroy. “Mr. Tremaine suggested that it was because Graham thought his murderer a friend and anticipated no assault. So he allowed him to approach unchallenged, and was wholly unprepared for the treacherous attack.”

The coroner looked at Tremaine again with a glance in which suspicion had changed to admiration.

“T’at iss, indeed, a very probable explanation,” he said. “In fact, I haven’t t’e least doubt it iss t’e true one. Graham would not have allowed a stranger to approach him; but if he had come on, Graham would have prepared for t’e attack and would have given a ​good account of himself. He seems a fery powerful man.”

As he spoke, he lifted one of the muscular hands; then, with a little exclamation of surprise, he bent and examined it more closely.

“Come nearer, gentlemen,” he said, his face flushed with excitement. “I want you to witness t’at he has somet’ing between his fingers.”

They stooped and looked as he indicated. They could see that the hand clasped tightly some small, dark object.

“Let us see what it is,” Heffelbower continued, and bent back the stiffening fingers.

The object fell out into his hand. He held it up in the glare of the light so that all might see. It was a button with a little shred of cloth attached.

“If we can find t’e garment t’at t’is came from,” said the coroner triumphantly, turning it over and looking at it, “we shall probably find t’e murderer. It iss a good clew.”

He placed the button carefully in his pocket-book and turned to the window.

“I t’ink it iss light enough,” he said, “to take a look at t’e scene of t’e crime. I shall t’en return to Babylon——”

“I have thought,” remarked Delroy, “of calling in a New York detective. Should you object——”

“Not in t’e least,” Heffelbower broke in. “I shall welcome eferyt’ing t’at will assist in bringing t’e guilty person to justice. Only,” he added pompously, “wit’ t’e clews which I already possess, and wit’ t’e ot’ers which I expect to find, I believe it will be unnecessary. ​T’e guilty man will not escape, I’ll promise you t’at, Mr. Delroy,” and he opened the door and stepped out upon the pier.

Dawn was in the sky, a clear, warm, joyous dawn. In tree and bush and hedge the birds were welcoming it. All nature was rejoicing, quite indifferent to the human tragedy which had marked the night.

They went together down the pier to the spot where Graham had fallen. The rain had washed away nearly all the bloodstains. His rifle lay on the pier beside the chair in which he had been sitting. The chair was overturned.

“But t’e wind may have done t’at,” said the coroner, when Delroy pointed out that the overturned chair suggested a struggle. “Or maybe he knocked it over when he fell. Let’s have a look at t’at little cage.”

He pulled up the rope. The lid of the cage was open, but it did not seem to be injured.

“Maybe t’e waves proke it open,” suggested Heffelbower.

“They couldn’t have done that,” objected Delroy. “See—here’s how it fastened.”

He closed the lid and snapped into place three small but very strong hooks, which locked automatically.

“The only thing that could open it,” he added, “was a human hand.”

“And an intelligent one, at t’at,” concluded the coroner. “It would be very hard to find t’ose little hooks in t’e dark, unless one knowed just where t’ey were.”

​“Yes,” admitted Delroy. “That’s true.”

Heffelbower opened his lips to say something more; then changed his mind, closed them, and turned away with a significant smile. He examined the knots in the rope, the pier, the waters of the bay, on which, just beyond the pier, a small boat was riding at anchor.

“T’e boat iss yours, I suppose, Mr. Delroy?” he asked.

“Yes—it has been there ready for use since Saturday.”

As he spoke, a gust of wind swung the boat in towards them.

Young Graham, who was standing on the extreme edge of the pier, glanced down into it, and uttered a sudden exclamation.

“What’s that?” he cried, with arm outstretched.

The others followed the gesture, but a second gust swung the boat away.

“What was it?” asked the coroner.

Without answering, Graham sprang into the water, and with a few strokes reached the boat. He climbed into it and untied it from the buoy. Then, at the instant another gust of wind came from the ocean, he released his hold. The boat was swept against the pier; he fended her off with the boathook and made fast.

“This is what I meant,” he said, and pointed to a pistol lying at his feet.

They stared down at it, amazed. It was the coroner who spoke first.

“Pass it up,” he said.

He turned it over carefully in his hand, It was a ​fine type of the Smith & Wesson. It was fully loaded; none of the chambers had been discharged.

“Ah,” he said, “see t’ere,” and he pointed to a clot of blood on the butt. “T’e butt iss very heavy,” he added, turning it up. “And see—here are some initials—J. T. D. Whose are t’ey?”

“They are John Tolbert Drysdale’s,” answered Delroy in a low voice.

CHAPTER VIII

The Hand of the Law

FOR a full moment the coroner stood looking down at the pistol in his hand without speaking, but his face hardened and grew stern, so far as lay in the power of a countenance so rubicund.

“I t’ink I shall have to see Mr. Drysdale before I go back to Babylon,” he said. “But first, let us try to account for t’e presence of t’is pistol in t’at boat.”

“How can it be accounted for?” demanded Delroy impatiently. “Good God! I tell you Jack Drysdale never killed that man. Perhaps he was boating yesterday—no, he was in New York yesterday—well, Sunday, then, and had the pistol with him and left it in the boat by mistake. How else could it have got there? The murderer wouldn’t have put it there.”

“Nobody’s used th’ boat, sir,” said William.

“How do you know t’at?” asked the coroner sharply.

“Because, sir, I tied it t’ the buoy, an’ I know my knot. It’s th’ same one I jest unfastened.”

“You mean that boat hasn’t been away from the buoy since you tied it there?” asked Delroy.

“Jest that, sir.”

“Then how did the revolver get in it?” Delroy and Heffelbower looked at each other help​lessly. Tremaine was rolling another cigarette, and the coroner, glancing at him, noted the meaning smile which passed across his lips.

“Have you a t’eory, Mr. Tremaine?” he questioned respectfully. “I should be fery glad to hear it, iff you have.”

“Why, yes,” answered Tremaine slowly, “a possible explanation occurs to me. However, it’s only a theory, and so may be worth nothing, but it seems to me that after committing a crime like that, the murderer would seek instantly to dispose of the weapon with which it was committed. What better hiding-place could he ask than the waters of the bay? He would hurl the pistol far out—only, by a strange chance, instead of falling into the water, it fell into the boat.” Of course, he added, in another tone, “I fully agree with Mr. Delroy that Mr. Drysdale could not have committed the crime. The pistol no doubt passed from his possession some time ago. He can explain that.”

Heffelbower nodded with open admiration.

“Yes,” he said; “I’ll ask him about it. I’m sure your t’eory iss t’e correct one, Mr. Tremaine. I present you my compliments. You yourself did not leave t’e house yesterday evening?”

“Mr. Delroy can tell you.”

“No,” answered Delroy, “Mr. Tremaine did not leave the house yesterday evening.”

“Nobody went out except Mr. Drysdale,” spoke up Thomas. “I was in th’ vestibule till nearly midnight, when Mr. Delroy told me t’ go to bed.”

“You saw Mr. Drysdale come in?”

​“Yes, sir; and I never saw anybody so worked up an’ nervous-like.”

“Do you remember what outer garment he wore?”

“He wore his raincoat, sir; I helped him on an’ off with it.”

“Where are t’e raincoats kept?”

“They usually hang on the rack in th’ vestibule, sir. That’s Mr. Drysdale’s coat that Mr. Delroy has on now.”

“Yes,” said Delroy, looking down at it; “I didn’t notice; I snatched it down in such a hurry——”

He stopped, staring down at the coat, his face suddenly livid.

The others followed his glance.

The top button of the coat was missing. It had evidently been wrenched away with violence, for the cloth was badly torn.

Amid a silence strained, absolute, the coroner took from his pocket-book the button he had found in Graham’s hand.

“I believe Mr. Drysdale will find it difficult to explain t’is, gentlemen,” he said, his face glowing more and more, and he held against the place the button he had found.

It fitted it exactly; the button matched the others on the coat; the shred of cloth was of the same colour and material as the remainder of the garment. It was a proof there could be no disputing.

Heffelbower slowly replaced the button in his pocket-book.

“May I trouble you to take off t’e coat, Mr. Delroy?” he said; and when Delroy complied, he threw ​it over his arm. “T’ere’s just one more question,” he added. “I suppose Mr. Drysdale’s financial condition iss good?”

“Why, yes,” answered Delroy. “I have always so considered it.”

There was a hesitation in his manner which Heffelbower noticed.

“You mean you do not so consider it at t’is moment? Don’t try to shield him, Mr. Delroy. Iff he iss innocent he will have no difficulty in proving it; if he iss guilty, he should be punished.”

“Well, then,” said Delroy, with a kind of desperate calm, “I’ve already told you that I heard he’d been speculating in steel. There was a crash, Saturday, you know; but for how much he was caught, or whether he was caught at all, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him about that.”

“T’ank you for your frankness,” said the coroner. “Frankness never yet hurt an innocent man. I t’ink t’at iss all we can do here. Let us go up to t’e house and have a talk with Mr. Drysdale.”

They followed him in silence from the boathouse and up the broad gravel path. Thomas opened the door for them.

“Shall I have Drysdale called down?” asked Delroy, as they stepped inside.

“No,” said the coroner. “I’d prefer to see him in his room.”

“Very well,” the other acquiesced, and led the way through the still-deserted hall and up the stair.

At the top, Tremaine turned to the coroner.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll go on to my ​room. I’m feeling pretty well used up. My room is right here next to Mr. Drysdale’s. If you want me, you can call me.”

“Certainly, sir,” agreed Heffelbower instantly. “And let me t’ank you again for your fery faluable suggestions.”

“Oh, not at all,” returned Tremaine, and entered his room.

The others went on to the next door. Delroy knocked.

“Who’s there?” queried Drysdale’s voice.

“Open up, Jack,” called Delroy. “We’ve got to see you on some rather important business.”

“Important business!” Drysdale repeated, and they heard him cross the room. Then the door was flung open. “Come in—why, what the deuce is all this about, Dickie?”

“Come in and shut the door, Jack,” replied Delroy quietly. “This gentleman is Coroner Heffelbower, of Babylon. He wishes to ask you a few questions.”

Drysdale answered with a stare of amazement, but he stood aside and let them pass into the room.

“Why, what’s all this, Jack?” asked Delroy, looking about at the disorder.

Drysdale closed the door and turned toward him rather sheepishly.

“Fact is, I was packing, Dickie,” he said. “I’ve got to go back to New York to-day, to look after some investments. I’d like to stay, old man, but I really can’t——”

​Something in the faces of his auditors stopped him, and he changed colour.

“What do you fellows want, anyway?” he demanded hotly.

“Sit down, Mr. Drysdale,” said the coroner solemnly, himself taking a chair. “Our business may take some little time. You own a revolver, I believe.”

“Yes,” said Jack, “a Smith & Wesson. I was just looking for it. When I opened my trunk just now, I missed it.”

“How long has it been since you saw it?”

“I can’t say—two or three days, perhaps.”

“You kept it in your trunk?”

“Yes.”

“And the trunk was locked?”

“Yes—that is, generally.”

“Was it locked last night?”

“Yes—that is, I don’t know—I’m not certain. Why?”

“Did you have your revolver last night?”

“No, I haven’t seen it for a day or two, I tell you.”

“Iss t’is your revolver?” asked the coroner, producing the weapon.

Drysdale took it and looked at it with an air of astonishment.

“Why, yes,” he said. “Where did you get it?”

“And iss t’is your raincoat?”

“Yes-but what——”

“You wore it when you went out last night?”

“Yes-but I insist——”

“Mr. Drysdale,” asked the coroner sternly, “for ​what purpose did you go out last night, and where did you go?”

Drysdale sprang to his feet, his face red with anger.

“Why, you infernal busy-body!” he cried. “It’s none of your business.”

“T’en you refuse to answer?”

“I most certainly do, and I think you’d better go back to Babylon.”

“I shall go back in due time, Mr. Drysdale,” retorted the coroner in a cool voice, holding up his hand. “Perhaps you have, as yet, not heard of t’e murder committed here last night and of t’e robbery which accompanied it?”

Drysdale paled suddenly, his hands were trembling…

“Murder!” he repeated blankly. “Robbery!”

“Precisely. Graham t’e gardener was murdered last night and Mrs. Delroy’s pearl necklace stolen. You were t’e only person who left t’e house. Your revolver was found beside him. T’is button, torn from your coat, was found in his hand. I hope you will now perceive t’e wisdom of giving us a tetailed account of your movements while you were away from t’e house.”

Drysdale had listened with a growing pallor. When the coroner finished, he was fairly livid, and he passed his hand helplessly before his eyes. But he did not speak.

“Well?” asked Heffelbower impatiently, after a moment.

Drysdale took down his hand and steadied himself against the back of his chair.

“I have nothing to say,” he murmured hoarsely.

​The coroner stared in astonishment.

“You don’t mean——”

“I mean that I have nothing to say,” repeated Drysdale, this time in a firmer tone.

“Oh, come, Jack,” burst out Delroy, “don’t be so obstinate. Tell us where you were. Of course I know you didn’t murder Graham.”

“Thank you, Dickie,” and Drysdale looked at him gratefully. “I didn’t do it; I’m ready to swear that by any oath you please. But I can’t tell you or anybody where I was.”

“Don’t let any little secret stand in the way,” protested Delroy. “This isn’t the time——”

“I can’t tell,” repeated Drysdale firmly.

“Do you persist in t’at decision?” asked the coroner sharply.

“I certainly do.”

“T’en,” said Heffelbower, rising in his turn, “in t’e name of t’e law, I shall haf to arrest you. Please finish your dressing.”

“Very well,” returned Drysdale composedly, and set about his toilet, while Delroy watched him in a kind of dazed perplexity. It took but a few moments. “I’m ready,” he said.

“Jack!” cried Delroy again, but the other stopped him with a gesture.

“Don’t worry, Dickie,” he said. “I didn’t do it. They can’t convict me. I’m not in the least afraid.”

Heffelbower took the key from the door and transferred it to the outside.

“I’ll haf to lock up t’is room,” he said. “It will haf to be searched.”

​Delroy nodded his consent and the little procession passed out into the hall.

Suddenly from the farther end came the swish of skirts and Grace Croydon appeared, radiant as the new day. She paused in astonishment as she saw the group, then she came forward. Her eyes went anxiously from face to face.

“What is it, Richard?” she asked. “What has happened?”

Delroy laughed a mirthless laugh.

“Enough and to spare,” he answered. “They’re arresting Jack, here, for murder.”

“For murder!” she breathed, and caught at the balustrade. “Oh, surely, you’re joking!”

“Jack seems to think it’s a joke,” he retorted bitterly.

“Oh, why did you kill him?” she cried, turning upon her lover. “Why did you not wait——”

“Kill him!” echoed Delroy. “But he didn’t, Grace! How can you think such a thing? He could clear himself by telling where he was last night, and he refuses to do it Maybe he’ll tell you.”

She turned her searching eyes to her lover’s face.

“Where were you last night, Jack?” she asked. “You’ll tell me, won’t you?”

“Tell you?” he sneered, his eyes blazing with savage anger. “Where was I? You ask me that?”

And with a gesture of fierce contempt, he went on down the stair.

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article  Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.