the governor was going to give away an enormous sum of money. And, whether he intended to give the pearls too, I don’t know; but he told Anne that he did.”
Morland ceased speaking, and indeed no more words were needed. Whatever the facts, he had set forth a theory that was at least plausible.
I wouldn’t believe a word of it; my heart refused to harbor the faintest suspicion of Anne,—but I knew it was only my heart that refused. My brain saw clearly the logic and truth of what Morland had said, and, too, my brain refused to forget Anne’s words, “I’m capable of crime.”
And so, with my heart and brain in dire conflict, I couldn’t speak.
But Archer spoke. In a cold even cutting voice, he said: “You are of course entitled to jump to a conclusion if you wish. You are of course at liberty to put the worst possible construction on the evidence of the stiletto. But would you mind informing us how, in your opinion, Mrs. Van Wyck accomplished the diabolical act which you attribute to her, and left the study locked on the inside?”
Morland passed his hand wearily over his brow. “I don’t know,” he said; “nobody knows. But you must admit that whoever did the diabolical deed, managed in some way to leave the study door locked.”
“Then until you can discover how that was done,” Archer went on, “I think it will be wise for you to refrain from making accusations. I’m an older man than you are, Morland, and I think I have a right to call you down, when you pursue such a dangerous course. Even though you feel sure your suspicions are correct, I beg of you do not shout them from the housetop.”
“I’m not—” began Morland, but I interrupted. “The very fact that the study was left locked, so positively points to suicide that I think it would be better to let it go at that. Why not call off the detectives and insist upon a verdict of suicide. The fact that the weapon is missing is no more inexplicable, if as much so, as how the murderer escaped.”
“I’m sure I’m willing to let it go at that,” said Morland, who was now pacing up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’d be glad to stop investigations at once, but I doubt if that’s possible.”
“And then there’s Carstairs,” said Archer; “that chap certainly has a guilty conscience, if anybody ever had. If investigation must be made, can’t it be turned in his direction? If he’s innocent, it can do no harm; and if he’s implicated, we ought to know it. You see he knew both he and his mother would get big benefit from the death of his master.”
“At any rate, Morland,” I said, rather crossly, for my nerves were on edge, “do keep your mouth shut about your suspicions. And if you’re head of the house, and if your influence counts for anything, for heaven’s sake direct the trend of investigation toward suicide or Carstairs or a burglar, or anybody but Anne!”
“That’s well enough to say, but I’m confronted by new suspicions all the time. I have to look over my father’s papers of course, and I have already found enormous bills of Anne’s,—still unpaid.”
“Recent bills?” asked Archer.
“Fairly so. Within a few months. I’ve only looked over the papers in the safe, so far. Those on the desk I’m going to tackle to-morrow. Of course they will be the most recent bills. But I daresay there’ll be plenty of them. I suppose all beautiful women are extravagant.”
“At any rate, Mrs. Van Wyck has money enough now to pay her own bills,” I suggested, a little shortly, for I thought Morland unduly interested in the particular matter of Anne’s extravagance.
“That’s true,” said Morland, and turning on his heel, he strode out of the room.
Archer and I were silent after young Van Wyck left us, and it was but a few moments before my companion threw his half-smoked cigar into the fireplace and announced abruptly, “I think I’ll turn in.”
“I’m going up, too,” I said, rather relieved that no further conversation was begun.
I followed Archer up the small side staircase, which led directly to our quarters, more conveniently than the grand staircase opposite.
Archer’s room chanced to be directly over David Van Wyck’s bedroom, while mine was over Anne’s. There were one or two rooms between, I believe, but I don’t know who occupied them.
We paused for a brief word of good-night at the head of the stairs, and then turned our opposite ways. I heard Archer’s door close as I was about to open my own, when I suddenly bethought myself that I had meant to ask him what he thought about those contradictory stories of Morland and Lasseter, as to which had been left alone with Mr. Van Wyck the night before. It seemed to me that a good deal might hinge on that question, and I wanted Archer’s opinion. I didn’t altogether like Archer, but I was just enough to know that it was largely due to my jealousy of his friendship for Anne, and in spite of this I had great regard for his opinions, as I had usually found them logical and right-minded. I turned back and walked along the corridor. It was but a moment since we had parted, and I assumed he could not yet be disrobing.
I tapped lightly at his bedroom door, but he didn’t answer, so I tapped again.
Receiving no response, I was a little surprised, but I figured that he thought it was some one else, and not wanting any further discussion that night, he was pretending to be asleep.
So I tapped again, saying in a low tone, “It’s Sturgis; let me in a minute, will you?”
Still, he didn’t answer, and in a moment of irritation at his silence, I turned the doorknob.
The door opened, and as the room was brilliantly lighted, I stepped inside. I didn’t see Archer, but across the room a door was opened into a bathroom, and I assumed he was in there.
“Beg pardon, Archer,” I called out, “but I do want to see you a minute, if I may.”
Still there was no reply, and feeling that the strangeness of the situation justified it, I went to the bathroom door and looked in. The light was turned on, but there was no one in the bathroom. I was bewildered, for I knew that Archer had come in, and I could not imagine what had become of him. There was a door at the farther end of the bathroom and involuntarily I opened it. However, it was only a clothes-closet, of good size, but as it contained only a few garments, I closed the door again and returned to Archer’s bedroom. As he couldn’t have jumped out of the window, it naturally followed that he had left his room and gone downstairs again, while I had stood for a moment in front of my own bedroom door. It didn’t seem possible, for the hall was brightly lighted, and I was sure I should have seen or heard him had he passed so near me. I spoke aloud, “Archer,” I said, “are you under the bed? or where? If you are, come out!”
Again I called his name a trifle louder, and then went out of his room into the hall, closing the door behind me. I walked slowly along toward my own room, pausing at the staircase to look down. At that very moment I heard the click of Archer’s door, and turning, I saw him.
“Did you want me, Sturgis?” he inquired. “Was that you calling?”
I went slowly back and entered his room, and he closed the door behind us.
“Where were you?” I said, staring around curiously.
“Where was I, when?” he returned, with a slight smile.
“When I was in here a moment ago? I tapped three times and you didn’t answer, so I took the liberty of entering, and you weren’t here.”
“Oh, I was in the bathroom,” he said lightly; “what is it you want? Cigarettes?”
“But you weren’t in the bathroom, for I looked in there,” I persisted, ignoring his question.
He looked at me curiously. “You did!” he exclaimed. “Well I chanced to be in the clothes-closet of the bathroom. It’s rather large for the limited wardrobe I brought with me, and I expect I got lost in its depths.”
“But you weren’t