a deeper motive and a cleverer villain than any professional burglar!”
IV
A PAPER SNAKE
On the third floor was the bedroom of the maid, Estelle, and before its locked door stood Pauline and Anita, demanding admittance. There was no response from inside, until Pauline said sternly, “Unless you open this door at once, Estelle, the police will force it open.”
The key turned, the door moved slowly ajar, and Estelle’s face appeared, wearing an expression of amazement.
“What is it you say, Miss Pauline? The police? Why?”
The maid was making a very evident effort to appear composed, and was succeeding wonderfully well. Her eyes were reddened with weeping, – a condition which a hasty dabbing of powder had not concealed. She was nervously trembling, but her air of injured innocence, if assumed, was admirable.
“Estelle,” and Pauline loomed tall and magnificent as an accusing angel, “what do you know of your mistress’ death?”
Estelle gave a shriek and threw herself on her bed in apparent hysterics.
“Don’t begin that!” ordered Pauline, “sit up here and tell the truth.”
“But,” and the maid sat up, sobbing, “I know nothing. How can I?”
“Nonsense! You took the tea-tray to her at eight o’clock. What did you see?”
Estelle shrugged her shoulders. “I saw Miss Carrington sitting before her mirror. She, I assumed, was engrossed in reverie, so I set down the tray on a tabouret and departed.”
“You noticed nothing amiss?” said Anita, staring at the girl.
“No; I scarce looked at the lady. She reproved me harshly last night, and I had no wish to annoy her. I set down the tray with haste and silently departed.”
“You set it down? Who, then, overturned it?”
“Overturned? Is it then upset?” Estelle’s manner was the impersonal one of the trained servant, who must show surprise at nothing, but it was a trifle overdone.
“Estelle, stop posing. Wake up to realities. Miss Carrington is dead! Do you hear? Dead!”
“Ah! Mon Dieu! Did it then kill her?” and Estelle’s calm gave way and she screamed and moaned in wild hysterics.
“What can we do with her?” asked Anita, helplessly; “she must know all about the – the – ”
“The murder,” said Pauline calmly. “But she will tell us nothing. It is useless to question her. The Coroner will attend to it, anyway.”
“The Coroner,” and Anita looked frightened. “Will he question all of us?”
“Of course he will. And, Anita,” Pauline whirled on her suddenly, “what are you going to say was the errand that took you to Aunt Lucy’s room after one o’clock last night?”
“I! Nothing of the sort! I was not in her room after we left it together.”
“I saw you. Don’t trouble to deny it,” and Pauline dropped her eyelids as one bored by a conversation.
“You did!” and Anita’s flower face turned rosy pink and her blue eyes blazed with an intensity that Pauline’s dark ones could never match. “Be careful, Pauline Stuart, or I shall tell what I know! You dare to make up such a story! It was I who saw you come from your aunt’s room at a late hour! What have you to say now?”
“Nothing – to you,” and Pauline swept from the room and returned slowly down the stairway to the second floor.
The sight of two police officers in the hall gave her a sudden start. How had they appeared, so soon? And how dreadful to see them in the palatial home that had heretofore housed only gentle-mannered aristocrats and obsequious liveried servants! The men looked ill at ease as they stood against the rich background of tapestry hangings and tropical palms, but their faces showed a stern appreciation of their duty, and they looked at Pauline with deferential but acute scrutiny.
Not noticing them in any way, the girl, her head held high, went straight to her aunt’s room. Sergeant Flake was in charge, and he refused her admission.
“Coroner’s orders, ma’am,” he said; “he’ll be here himself shortly, and then you can see him.”
“Come away, Pauline,” and Haviland appeared and took her by the arm; “where’s Anita?”
“I left her in Estelle’s room. Oh Gray, that girl – ”
“Hush!” and gripping her firmly, Haviland led her to a small sitting room and shut the door. “Now listen, Pauline; mind what I say. Don’t give the least bit of information or express the slightest notion of opinion except to the chief authorities. And not to them until they ask you. This is a terrible affair, and a mighty strange one.”
“Who did it, Gray?”
“Never you mind. Don’t even ask questions. The very walls have ears!”
“Who upset that breakfast tray?”
“Estelle, of course.”
“She says she didn’t.”
“She lies. Everybody will lie; why, Pauline, you must lie yourself.”
“I won’t do it! I have no reason to!”
“You may find that you have. But, at least, Pauline, I beg of you, that you will keep your mouth shut. There will be developments soon, – there must be, – and then we will know what to do.”
The two returned to the boudoir. At first glance it seemed to be full of men. The beautiful room, with its ornate but harmonious furnishings and appointments of the Marie Antoinette period, was occupied with eager representatives of the law and justice hunting for any indication of the ruthless hand that had felled the owner of all that elegance.
Coroner Scofield was receiving the report of Doctor Moore, who had arrived with him.
Dr. Moore agreed with Dr. Stanton that the deceased had been struck with a heavy weapon that had fractured the skull, but he admitted the wounds showed some strange conditions which could only be explained by further investigation.
The Coroner was deep in thought as he studied the face of the dead woman.
“It is most mysterious,” he declared; “that face is almost smiling! it is the face of a happy woman. Clearly, she did not know of her approaching fate.”
“The blow was struck from behind,” informed Dr. Moore.
“Even so, why didn’t she see the approach of the assailant in the mirror? She is looking straight into the large glass, – must have been looking in it at the moment of her death. Why receive that death blow without a tremor of fear or even a glance of startled inquiry?”
Inspector Brunt stood by, gravely, and for the most part silently, watching and listening.
“That might imply,” he said, slowly, “that if she did see the assailant, it was some one she knew, and of whom she had no fear.”
Gray Haviland looked up suddenly. A deep red spread over his face and then, seeing himself narrowly watched by the detectives present, he set his lips firmly together and said no word.
Pauline turned white and trembled, but she too said nothing.
“Why is she sitting in this large easy chair?” went on the Coroner; “Is it not customary for ladies at their dressing tables to use a light side-chair?”
This showed decidedly astute perception, and the Inspector looked interestedly at the chair in question, which he had not especially noticed before.
Being tacitly appealed to by the Coroner’s inquiring eyes, Pauline replied: “It is true that my aunt usually sat at her dressing-table in a small chair, – that one, in fact,” and she pointed to a dainty chair of gilded cane. “I have no idea why she should