an ordinary death and burial sad enough, but how much worse with these attendant circumstances.
"Queer, nobody heard the shots," went on Mr. Hunt.
"Did nobody hear them?" I exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that at all."
"And, yet your questions and opinions in the matter seem to imply a detective bent," said he, glancing at me a bit quizzically.
"I do take a great interest in detective work," I replied, "but I feel like Mr. Maxwell in this case. I see no occasion to detect anything beyond what we already know. It seems mysterious, I admit, but we know that one or both of the two victims did the shooting, and truly, to me, it doesn't much matter which."
"It does to me," said Gilbert Crane, who had joined us as we stood by the gate, and had heard my last remark.
"Well," said Mr. Hunt, with what seemed to me like a brutal cheerfulness, "if Miss Leslie gets well, we'll know all about it; and if she doesn't, we'll never know any more than we do now."
"If she fired either ball, she did it accidentally," declared Crane.
"Didn't you hear the shots either?" asked the Earl, turning on him suddenly.
"No," said Gilbert, "and I can't find any one who did hear them."
"But you were first on the scene?"
"Yes, so far as I know."
"How did you happen to go up to the library just then?" asked Hunt.
"I didn't start for the library," said Gilbert slowly. "I was feeling pretty blue and forlorn, and the gay music jarred on me, so I thought I'd go home. I went up-stairs for my banjo, which I had left on the upper front balcony in the afternoon."
"Was there any one on the balcony?" said Hunt, casually.
"I didn't see anybody," said Crane, "though I think I heard voices around the corner. But I didn't notice them; you know the house was full of people."
"I can't understand," pursued the Earl, thoughtfully, "why nobody heard the shots."
"Oh, I don't think that's so strange," returned Crane. "Mr. Maxwell is quite deaf, and Miss Maxwell is slightly so. And as for the young people, with the music and dancing, they wouldn't be apt to hear them."
"And you came directly down-stairs after coming in from the balcony?" went on Hunt.
"As I reached the top of the stairs, I couldn't help looking toward the library, and as I heard no sounds, though I had been told Philip and Mildred were in there, I glanced in, I suppose from sheer curiosity."
"Who told you they were in there?"
"I did," said I, "or rather, I told Mr. Maxwell, in Mr. Crane's hearing. I saw them there when I went down-stairs. That was, I should think, about half an hour before Mr. Crane gave the alarm."
"Can either of you fix the time of these occurrences?" said Mr. Hunt He was very polite, even deferential in his manner, and I saw no harm in accommodating him.
"I can tell you only this," I said. "After I passed the library, where I both heard and saw Philip and Miss Leslie, I went on down-stairs and looked into Mr. Maxwell's study.
"He asked me to sit down. I did not do so; but after a word or two, I went on through to the billiard-room. I looked at the clock in the study as I passed, and it was exactly ten. I can't say, though, at just what time the general alarm was given; I should think less than a half hour later."
"I can tell you," said Gilbert. "When I concluded to go home, I looked between the portieres into Mr. Maxwell's study, and it was twenty minutes past ten. Mr. Maxwell was nodding over his paper; he is a little deaf, so he probably didn't hear me.
"At any rate, he didn't look up. Then I went immediately up-stairs, and it could not have been more than two minutes before I called Dr. Sheldon."
"All this is of interest, and I thank you," said Detective Hunt. "Though, as you say, since there is no criminal to discover, there is small use of collecting evidence."
"Queer chap, isn't he?" I said to Gilbert, as the detective went away.
"Yes, but I think he's clever."
"I don't; if there were any occasion for detective work on this case, I believe I could give him cards and spades, and then beat him at his own game."
"Perhaps you could," said Gilbert, but he spoke without interest. There was plenty for all to do that day. I had expected to return to New York, but both Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda begged me to stay with them till after the funeral. As there was no reason for my immediate presence in the city, I was glad to be of service to my good friends.
I assisted Mr. Maxwell to write letters to the various relatives, and together we looked over poor Philip's effects.
The boy had no business papers to speak of, for he had no money except what was given him by his uncle, and apparently he kept no account of its expenditures.
"I paid all his bills," said Mr. Maxwell, in explanation of this, "and kept the receipts. I allowed Philip such ready cash as he wanted, and, I may say, I never stinted him. Whatever his recent trouble may have been, it could not have arisen from lack of funds."
"Unless he had been speculating privately," I suggested.
"I can't think so," replied his uncle. "Philip wasn't that sort, and, too, had that been the case, we would surely find papers of some sort to show it."
This was true enough, and as Philip's papers consisted entirely of such documents as scented notes addressed in feminine hands, letters from college chums, circulars of outing goods and cigars, and old dance-orders, I agreed that there was no indication of financial trouble.
Mr. Maxwell was very careful and methodical in his search. In a business-like way he went rapidly through the papers, replacing the contents of each pigeon-hole or drawer after rapidly looking them over. He showed no curiosity concerning the social notes or the circulars, but seemed searching for some letter or document that might throw light on Philip's recent despondency.
"It was about two weeks ago that Philip began to act differently," mused Mr. Maxwell, as he scanned the dates on various papers, "but I can find nothing here that would show any reason for it. The poor boy must have had some secret trouble; and doubtless, after all, it was either directly or indirectly concerned with Mildred Leslie."
The old gentleman seemed almost relieved that no letters or documents were found that showed a reason for Philip's trouble. And I could understand this, for surely it was better that a love affair should be the explanation, than some secret and perhaps dishonorable reason.
The desk we had been searching was in Philip's dressing-room, a small room off his bedroom. With the systematic thoroughness that was characteristic of him, Mr. Maxwell opened the drawers of the chiffonier, and examined the contents of a few small cabinets and boxes that stood about. He even glanced over the crumpled papers that were in the waste-basket, and then declared himself satisfied that we could find no written evidence bearing upon the secret of the boy's recent strange behavior.
Mr. Maxwell returned to his study, and I went for a stroll with Irene Gardiner.
The girl looked so pale and wan, that I hoped a brisk walk would do her good.
"Do you believe in the 'accidental' theory?" she asked, as soon as we were started.
"No," I replied. "Philip was too well used to fire-arms to shoot anybody accidentally, or allow any one to shoot him. But I now fully believe in Mr. Maxwell's theory that the boy's brain was temporarily affected, and that he shot himself in a moment of insanity."
"But if he shot himself first, how did he then shoot Mildred?"
"I've puzzled over that, I confess, and I think he shot her first—as I said—not being responsible for his actions. And then, overcome by grief at what he had done, he killed himself in his sudden despair."
"Yes," said Irene. "I suppose that must have been the way of it. But, granting all that,