she went over and sat down by Morland and they conversed in whispers.
Mrs. Carstairs was apparently not at all offended by Barbara’s manner, and placidly continued her role of general director of affairs. She straightened a small rug, emptied an ash tray into a waste basket, and was about to tidy up the desk, when Condron Archer said:
“It would be wiser, Mrs. Carstairs, not to move anything, before the coroner arrives. He must see the room as it is. There may be clues to the—the intruder.”
“There was no intruder,” said the housekeeper, in a tone of quiet assurance. “Mr. Van Wyck died by his own hand.”
But she ceased fussing among the desk appointments, and sat down near the door. She leaned her head back, and closed her eyes, looking the picture of sphinx-like inscrutability.
But she was alert enough to be at the door, as the coroner entered a moment later. She ushered him in, and seemed about to lead him toward the desk, when Doctor Mason rather peremptorily took matters in charge, himself.
The coroner, whose name was Mellen, was a brisk and somewhat aggressive man. He went at once to the body of the dead man and began his examination. He agreed with the doctor that it was difficult to tell what had caused death, except by an autopsy, but he at once began a search for the weapon. At his request, Archer and I joined him, but in the whole great room we could find no pistol nor any instrument of the nature of a stiletto.
“Then, it must be the work of an intruder,” declared the coroner, “who took the weapon away with him.”
“But that’s impossible,” I said; “for this room was absolutely secure in its locks and bolts against any intruder. Nobody could possibly have gotten in.”
“But it is equally impossible that a man could have killed himself and left no trace of the weapon,” said Mr. Mellen doggedly.
“Could he have stabbed or shot himself and then thrown the weapon far from him?” asked Archer, looking deeply thoughtful.
“Death was almost instantaneous,” said Doctor Mason; “but I suppose that by a spasmodic muscular effort he could have done that. However, the relaxed position of his hands and arms does not make it seem probable.”
“But it is the only explanation,” said I eagerly. “Come on, Archer, let us make a more thorough search. Perhaps Mr. Lasseter will help us.”
Barclay Lasseter agreed, though he seemed rather half-hearted about it
Barbara and Morland looked at us, but made no offer of help.
The search was fruitless. Neither floor nor walls showed any bullet holes or powder-marks. There was no weapon to be found; though I produced the few small shot I had found on the floor, they seemed meaningless in the absence of any gun.
“The very absence of a weapon precludes all idea of suicide,” said Coroner Mellen, at last; “and, though I’m not prepared to say how the murderer got in or out of this room, I believe that he did do so, and that David Van Wyck did not die by his own hand. Has anything been stolen?”
Lasseter opened the safe door, and I expressed surprise that it was unlocked.
“Often is,” returned the secretary carelessly. “Most of the valuable things are in inner compartments, with complicated locks of their own. And, too, there never are burglaries in this peaceful village, and a man grows careless. But I can’t see that any securities are missing. All these papers seem undisturbed.”
“The pearls!” cried Morland, starting up suddenly. “Are they there?”
“Here is the box,” said Lasseter, handing a jewel-case to Morland. “Open it yourself.”
Morland opened it and gave a cry of despair, for the satin-lined case was empty.
“The pearls gone!” said Barbara, with an awe-stricken look. “Then, it was a burglar, after all.”
“But it couldn’t be,” I began, when the coroner cut me short.
“If pearls have been stolen, of course it was a burglar,” he said; “and a professional cracksman, if he could get into this room and out again.”
“But he couldn’t!” I declared emphatically, glancing at the windows and doors.
Still the coroner refused to heed me, and said abruptly, “What were they worth?”
“They were practically priceless,” Morland stated. “My father had been collecting and matching them for years. It was a triple necklace composed of three strands of the finest and largest pearls he could procure. One hundred thousand dollars would be a conservative estimate of their value.”
“And a man kept such jewels as that in an unlocked safe?” said the coroner incredulously.
“They must have been there temporarily,” said Morland, as if puzzling the matter out himself. “And, too, I’ve no doubt my father intended to lock the safe before he left the study. But he was murdered first.”
“Have you any theory, Mr. Van Wyck, how a murder could have been effected?”
“No,” said Morland; “I haven’t. I know, even better than the rest of you, how absolutely this room is protected against forcible entrance. And that is one reason why my father was sometimes careless about locking the safe. He knew no one could get into this room from outside. Of course, upon leaving it at night, he always locked the door that communicates with the house, and kept the key himself.”
“There is no duplicate key?” asked Mr. Mellen.
“None,” said Morland positively. Then Barbara Van Wyck made a suggestion. “If Father did—did kill himself,” she said hesitatingly, “possibly he himself had taken the pearls from the case and hidden them.”
I realized at once what she meant. If David Van Wyck had taken his own life, it would have been quite in keeping with his cruel nature to hide the pearls where his family might not easily find them.
Chapter VII.
The Mysterious Motor Car
“No!” cried Mrs. Carstairs, impetuously; “David Van Wyck would not do that!”
“You seem very certain,” said Morland, looking at her coldly.
“I am certain,” she retorted, with a flush of her dark eyes. “Do you suppose I’ve lived under David Van Wyck’s roof all these years, without learning his nature fairly well? He was a hard man and severe,—but he was just, and above such meanness as you ascribe to him.”
“But,” said I, “you have already expressed an opinion that Mr. Van Wyck died by his own hand. Now, if the pearls were stolen by a burglar, it is a strange coincidence that the two crimes should occur the same night.”
Mrs. Carstairs looked at me with her face full of baffled rage. Her theories were indeed at variance. If an intruder took the pearls, undoubtedly David Van Wyck had been murdered. If, on the other hand, he had committed suicide, he would seem to be himself responsible for the disappearance of the jewels.
For a moment Mrs. Carstairs sat motionless, though it was evident her mind was working rapidly. The rest of us sat watching her, and I, at any rate, began to feel a dawning hope that what she might say next would throw a little light on the mystery.
At last she burst out, in a voice low, but tense with feeling: “I am sure David Van Wyck killed himself. I am sure that if before his death he secreted that valuable pearl necklace, he was entirely justified in doing so.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” demanded Archer, angrily.
“I think you all know, without being told,” returned Mrs. Carstairs, and her lips curled unpleasantly.