the room. I believe I never was so glad to see any one in my life, and feeling now that they were better alone, I left them.
Chapter VI.
“He Shot Me!”
I went next to the music-room, where Lord Clarence was dismissing the guests who, less than a half-hour before, had been so hilarious.
The Earl acted like a splendid fellow, and his cool head and capable management proved to be just what was needed for the sorry situation.
In a short time nearly all the guests had gone. Gilbert Crane remained, and Mr. Hunt, who was a sort of society detective, asked to be allowed to stay. The coroner arrived just then, and learning in a few words the facts of the case, he advised Hunt to stay, for a time, at least.
Miss Lathrop, a trained nurse, who had been sent for by Dr. Sheldon, also came, and she was taken at once to Mildred's apartment.
"Mysterious case," said the coroner, after a long look at the room and its contents. "Might be an attempt at double suicide, or suicide and murder."
"Or double murder," said Mr. Hunt.
The coroner gave him a quick glance.
"We must work on evidence," he said, "not imagination."
"What evidences do you see?" asked Gilbert Crane.
"Very little, I confess," replied the coroner, who was a frank, straightforward sort of a man, and whose name, as I afterward learned, was Billings.
"But," he went on, "when a gentleman is found dead, and a wounded lady near-by, with a pistol in her hand, it doesn't require an unusual intellect to deduce that she probably shot him. Unless, as I said, it is a double suicide, and he shot himself first, and then she shot herself."
"Is Philip's wound one that could have been self-inflicted?" I asked.
"Without a doubt," replied Mr. Billings. "He is shot directly through the heart, and that could have been done by himself or another."
"But of course we shall have medical evidence as to that."
"How about the powder marks?" asked the quiet voice of Mr. Hunt, who was already examining the room and taking notes.
"It is difficult to judge," answered Mr. Billings. "The shot went through both coat and waistcoat, and while the powder marks would seem to prove that the shot was fired from a distance of three or four feet, yet I cannot say so positively."
I felt a certain relief at this, for while it was bad enough to think of poor Philip shooting himself, somehow it was worse to imagine Mildred shooting him.
Soon Dr. Burton came into the library. He talked with Mr. Hunt and Mr. Billings, and then said:
"As soon as you have completed all necessary investigations, Dr. Sheldon requests that the body shall be removed to Mr. Philip Maxwell's room and laid upon the bed, in order that it may seem less shocking to his aunt and uncle."
I liked this young doctor. He had Dr. Sheldon's clean-cut, assured ways, but he spoke and moved with rather more grace and gentleness.
Dr. Sheldon had been a guest at the dance, which was fortunate, as it may have been the means of saving Mildred's life. But Dr. Burton looked as if he were not at all inclined toward gayeties. Serious, grave, he gave Dr. Sheldon's message, and then turned away, knowing he could do nothing more.
The coroner agreed to his suggestions, and later, I saw Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda go together to the room that had always been Philip's.
As I look back upon that night now, it seems to me like a horrible dream—so many people coming and going, the servants beside themselves with grief and fright, and the dreadful facts themselves so mysterious and so difficult to realize.
It seemed impossible that Philip could be dead—merry, light-hearted Phil, who, except for the last week or so, had always been so gay and joyous.
And Mildred Leslie's life hung in the balance.
Dr. Burton's news of her had been this: she had been shot in the right shoulder, and the wound was dangerous but not necessarily fatal.
Partially paralyzed by the shot, or perhaps only fainting from fright, she had fallen to the floor, and struck her temple as she fell, presumably against the corner of the table near which she stood.
It was this blow which had made her unconscious, and which had left its mark in a huge, swollen discoloration on her fair brow.
She had as yet uttered no word, for she had been placed as soon as possible under the influence of ether, while the doctors probed for the bullet.
It had been successfully extracted, and was now in Dr. Sheldon's possession.
Dr. Burton thought that Miss Leslie would soon regain consciousness, but deemed it exceedingly unwise to question her, or excite her in any way for some time to come. Indeed, he said he was sure Dr. Sheldon would allow no one to see her for several days except the nurse, and possibly her sister.
At last Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda were persuaded to retire, and the rest of us were advised to do so.
But Gilbert Crane announced his intention of staying at the house all night. He said some one should be in general charge, and as Philip's best friend he considered he had the right to assume such a position. He established himself in Mr. Maxwell's study, and told the servants and the doctors to call on him in any emergency.
Seeing that Mr. Hunt sat down there too, with the evident intention of discussing the affair, I delayed my retiring and joined them.
Lord Clarence looked in, and seemed to hesitate to intrude.
"Come in," I said; "as one of the house guests you surely have a right."
He came in, and almost immediately after, Mrs. Whiting and Irene came, and we went over and over the mysterious details.
"What were Mr. Philip Maxwell's sentiments toward Miss Leslie?" inquired the detective.
No one seemed inclined to reply, and as I thought it my duty to shed all the light possible on the case, I said:
"I have good reason to believe that, at or about the time of his death, Mr. Maxwell was asking Miss Leslie to marry him."
"Did she favor his suit?" pursued Mr. Hunt.
"No," broke in Irene, "she did not. She told me so only this morning."
"But that would be no reason for her shooting him and then shooting herself," wailed Edith Whiting. "Oh, I am sure Mildred never did it. Or, at least, not intentionally.
"I've reasoned it all out, and I think he must have been showing her his pistol, or explaining it to her, and it went off accidentally, and then, in her grief and fright, she turned the weapon on herself."
"Was it Philip's pistol?" asked Irene.
"Yes," said the detective, "that is, it had P. M. engraved on the handle."
"Oh, it was Phil's pistol," said Gilbert Crane. "I know it well. And he always keeps it in the top drawer of that big table-desk they were standing by."
"How do you know they were standing by it?" This question came from the Earl, who, though he had not spoken before, had been intently listening, and who now spoke in a curt, sharp voice, almost as if he were making an accusation.
"Because," said Gilbert quietly, "there were no chairs near the desk. They both fell near the desk. Philip could not have walked a step after that shot through his heart, and Mildred must have been standing near the desk to fall and hit her head on it. Am I clear?"
"Perfectly," said the Englishman, but his voice sounded ironical.
"Mildred never shot Philip intentionally," reiterated Mrs. Whiting. "She is a rattle-pated girl—a