to have lost.
"Did Mr. Philip Maxwell ever write letters in this room?" asked Mr. Stone.
"Sometimes he did," I replied, "but more often he wrote down in his uncle's study."
"But he might have opened letters and read them here?"
"Yes; he used this desk a great deal."
"Where are the papers from the waste-baskets thrown?"
"I don't know, Mr. Stone; but the servants can tell you. Shall I call the maid who attends to the cleaning of this room?"
"I wish you would do so; then we will consider this consultation at an end. I have no wish to be unduly secret about my plans, but I must work uninterruptedly to-day, for I think developments will come thick and fast."
Mr. Hunt and I left the library, and I at once sent the maid to Mr. Stone as he had requested.
Less than fifteen minutes later, I saw him coming up from the cellar.
Seeing that I was alone, he said:
"I found a paper that is a most important link in our chain. Will you look at it a moment?"
He drew from his pocket a paper which had evidently been smoothed out after being much crumpled, and turned down the top of the sheet so that I did not see the address. "That is Mr. Philip Maxwell's handwriting, is it not?" he said.
"Yes," I replied, and in Phil's well-known characters I read:
At last I have discovered the truth, and it has broken my heart. Even now I could not believe it, but your—
The writing stopped abruptly, and the letter had evidently been thrown aside unfinished. I restrained my intense curiosity, and did not ask to see the name at the head of the letter, but apparently Fleming Stone divined my thoughts.
"You will know only too soon," he said with that sad note in his voice that always thrilled me. "Now I am going to see Miss Leslie."
The doctor had permitted a short interview, and I learned afterward from Edith Whiting, that though Mildred had dreaded it, she was at once put at her ease by Mr. Stone's gentleness, and gave a brief but coherent account of the affair.
It was shortly before noon that I went for a walk with Irene Gardiner. As we went away, I saw Mr. Stone and Miss Miranda Maxwell in the music-room. Miss Maxwell was knitting some fleecy white-wool thing, and though she looked sad she was calm and unexcited. They seemed to be chatting cosily, and yet I felt sure that Fleming Stone was learning some details about Philip's life or character which he considered important.
I sighed to think that the net was certainly closing in around somebody, and the amazing part was that I had not the remotest idea toward whom Fleming Stone's suspicions were directed.
Miss Gardiner and I walked down the path to the river. As was inevitable, we talked only of the all-absorbing topic, and especially of Fleming Stone.
"Isn't he wonderful?" she exclaimed. "He is certainly the ideal detective."
"He is in his methods and his intellect," I said, "but his personal appearance is far from my preconceived notions of the regulation detective. I had always imagined them grim and sinister. This man is not only affable but positively sunny."
"He is fascinating!" declared Irene. "I have never met any one who seemed so attractive at first sight."
I quite agreed with her, but I was suddenly conscious of an absurd pang of jealousy. I was beginning to think that Irene Gardiner was pretty nearly necessary to the happiness of my life, and this avowed interest of hers in another man spurred me to a sudden conclusion that I cared for her very much indeed.
But this was no time or place to tell her so. At the Maxwells' invitation she had decided to remain at Maxwell Chimneys with the Whitings until Mildred was able to travel to New York. Dr. Sheldon had said that the journey might safely be taken about the middle of the following week. I had made my plans to go at the same time, but in view of the rapid developments of the past two days I had unmade those plans and had made no others.
"Doesn't it seem strange," said Irene, "that you and I were talking about crime and criminals on the way down here last week? How little we thought that we were coming straight to a tragedy."
"It is a tragedy," I said, "and it may prove even more of a one than we yet know. Irene, if Gilbert didn't shoot Philip, have you any idea who did?"
"No," she said, looking at me with a candor in her eyes which left no room for doubt. "No, I have not the faintest idea. And yet I cannot believe Gilbert did it. I never liked him, but he does not seem to me capable of crime."
"And yet you hold the theory that, given an opportunity, we are all capable of crime."
"I know I said that," said Irene thoughtfully. "And it does seem true in theory, but it is hard to believe it in an individual case."
"I am sure Gilbert was not the criminal," I said, "but my certainty is based on something quite apart from the question of his capability in the way of committing crime.
"First, I was convinced of his innocence by his own attitude. A simple assertion might be false, but Gilbert's look and voice and manner told far more than his words. No criminal could have acted as he did.
"Even his scornful indifference to the fact of his arrest carried conviction of his innocence. But aside from all that, Fleming Stone says he knows that Gilbert is not guilty, and moreover he knows who is."
"He knows who is!" exclaimed Irene. "Who can it be?"
"I don't know; but I am sure from what Mr. Stone says it is some one whom we all know, and whose conviction will not only surprise but sadden us."
"Do you suppose," said Irene slowly, her great eyes wide with horror, "that it could have been Mildred after all?"
So this strange girl had dared to put into words a thought which I had tried hard to keep out of my mind.
"Don't!" said I, "I cannot think of it!"
"But her whole story about the intruder may have been a fabrication."
"Don't," I said again, "such remarks are unworthy of you—are unworthy of any woman."
"You always misunderstand me," said Irene impatiently. "I don't mean it the way you think I do. If I could see Mildred myself, I would talk to her in the same way. There is no harm in asking a frank question."
"Then," I said abruptly. "I will ask you one. What did you mean last Monday night when you told me that if I wouldn't interfere between Philip and Mildred you would take matters into your own hands?"
"I am not at all offended by your question," said Irene, looking me straight in the eyes, "neither do I assume that, because you ask it, you think that I meant anything desperate. I meant only what I said—that if you wouldn't advise Philip Maxwell not to be infatuated by such a foolish, artful little coquette as Mildred Leslie, then I would warn him myself."
"Since we are speaking frankly, I must admit that it would seem to me unwarranted interference on your part."
"I suppose I am peculiar," said Irene with a sigh, "but it doesn't seem that way to me. However, this is a question capable of much discussion. Suppose we leave its consideration for some other time, and return to the house now."
We walked back, chatting in a lighter vein, and somehow my heart sank when I saw Fleming Stone sitting alone on the veranda. It may have been imagination, or perhaps intuition, but as soon as I saw him, I felt a conviction that he had accomplished his work, and that we would soon know the result.
"I've been waiting for you," he said, as I went toward him. Irene went into the house, and Mr. Stone continued. "I have discovered everything, and I want you to be prepared for a sad revelation."
"Did you learn anything from your interview with Miss Leslie?" I asked impulsively.
"Nothing more than I knew before I saw her," he replied, and his inscrutable face gave me no glimmer of information.