lest their misdemeanor should be discovered, that they haven’t a very clear recollection of what happened. At least the girl hasn’t, and as you may remember the valet was decidedly nervous and uncertain of his facts when he gave his own testimony. Besides telling an up and down lie as to his whereabouts that evening.”
“That’s all so,” said the detective, musingly. “They’re both servants. They had both been doing wrong and were both fearful of discovery. But all that would not cause them to invent this story of the maid’s about seeing Mrs. Van Wyck coming from the study. Now if, as I think, Carstairs was mixed up in the matter, may it not be that it was because she feared for her son’s safety that Mrs. Carstairs sent the girl, Jeannette, away?”
I pondered on this. I knew how Mrs. Carstairs idolized her son. I knew she had been out early that next morning endeavoring to obliterate the wheel tracks of the new car, which might tell the tale of his wrong-doing. And knowing Jeannette’s hysterical nature, the housekeeper might very easily have felt afraid that the maid’s evidence would lead to suspicion of her son and so she sent the girl away. It all looked plausible, so plausible that my fears for Anne grew deeper, and the future looked very black indeed.
“If my theory is right,” Markham went on, “that there is collusion between Mrs. Van Wyck and the valet, I think the best plan is to question him. I think if sufficiently frightened, he will tell the truth. And now he has no fear of punishment for his stolen ride, he will probably make up some other story and I may yet catch him tripping. But I think this, Mr. Sturgis, I think it is high time we gave all this information to the other members of the family. My way would be, to go straight to Mrs. Van Wyck with the whole story; but if not that, I think at least Miss Van Wyck and her brother, should be told all of this. They are practically my employers and my report is due to them.”
“Give me a little more time,” I begged. “Wait till to-night, won’t you? If I could prove this girl’s story false, how much better not to have insulted Mrs. Van Wyck with a recital of it”
“It seems to me, Mr. Sturgis, that you’re assuming a great deal of responsibility in the matter.”
“But who else is there to take the helm? Morland Van Wyck is not one to deal with such things, and the ladies could not be expected to do so.”
And then as it was tea-time, we joined the others in the music-room.
Of course, since the tragedy, tea had not been served in the study, and the beautiful music-room made an attractive setting for the dainty function.
As was to be expected, there was an air of constraint over us all; and instead of general conversation, we broke up into small groups and conversed in low tones.
As was not unusual, Morland and Barbara were disagreeing on some subject. A few words in their raised voices proved that they were discussing the lost pearls.
Somewhat to my surprise, Mr. Lasseter took part in their argument
“It couldn’t have been a burglar,” Lasseter was saying, “because he would never have stolen that Deed of Gift. That theft proves positively the work of some one interested in behalf of the family. And so Morland, as you can’t believe there were two thieves, I think you must agree that the criminal was some interested party.”
“Are you accusing me?” burst out Morland. “Do you perhaps think that I raised my hand against my own father?”
“I accuse nobody,” said Lasseter, “but I think we ought to make more progress toward discovering the criminal. I cast no implication on Mr. Markham’s work, but I do say that it is a most mysterious case, and perhaps Mr. Markham himself would like it better if he could have some one of his own profession to consult with.”
I was astonished that the secretary should so assert himself, as to make this suggestion, for as a rule, he was rather reticent and non-committal.
Moreover, I knew that the one he had in mind was Fleming Stone.
Morland opposed this idea and said rather angrily that there was no use throwing away any more money on detectives, when the one we had didn’t amount to anything.
I felt decidedly uncomfortable at this, for, if I had not held him back, Mr. Markham would have told the family of his recent discoveries.
The glance that the detective shot at me expressed this thought, and I partly made up my mind that I would tell him to go ahead in his own way.
I left the party and walked out on the terrace alone. It seemed as if I must do something desperate. I had promised Markham that if I discovered nothing about that letter by evening, I would consent to his making the story public. I had vague thoughts of going straight to Anne with it as it would be easier for her to hear about it from me alone than from the detective in the presence of others.
But I couldn’t bring myself to do this.
I tried to think what Fleming Stone would do if he had that letter to puzzle over. And I thought at once, that he would examine it to the minutest detail, even under a lens.
At any rate, it was something to try; so I asked Markham for the letter and he gave it to me unnoticed by anyone else. Remembering that there was a magnifying-glass in the study, I took the letter in there.
Although the scene of the crime the great room was so beautiful that it gave no sense of horror. I crossed the soft Turkish rug to the desk that had been Mr. Van Wyck’s. The lens was there, and I read the letter through it. The magnifying of it told me nothing, but as I reread the terrible lines, I could not believe they were written to Anne in good faith. I believed the letter a forgery of some sort, and I determined to find out.
I had heard Stone say that typewriting was almost as individual as pen-writing. That no two typewriters produced the same script and, indeed, no two operators wrote alike, even on the same machine.
And so I set to work to note any peculiarities I might find in the words or letters.
At the very outset I made a discovery. This was that the typewriting on the envelope and inside the letter were not the same! There could be no doubt that they were not done on the same machine. The ink was the same color, the letters about the same size; but the conformation, though similar, was not identical. I wondered what this could mean, for surely the paper and envelope belonged to each other, and why would anyone write a letter on one typewriter and address it on another?
Spurred on by this discovery I scrutinized still more carefully, and found that in the message the capital “T” was imperfect. A tiny corner of one of its arms failed to print. This was a small thing, but it was a certain thing. The “T” on the envelope was perfectly clear and distinct.
I could find no other discrepancies of this kind, but I was positive that the fact of two typewriters having been used, proved chicanery of some sort.
Then, again, I thought perhaps a letter might print clearly at one time and not at another.
As an experiment I went to the typewriter which stood on a side table in the study, and hastily wrote a few lines. I did not copy the letter or the address, but wrote a familiar quotation of some sort, followed by a whole string of letters at random.
Removing my paper I could scarcely believe my eyes as I looked at it. The capital “T,” in every instance, was imperfect in precisely the same manner as the one in Anne’s letter. There was no doubt of this. I wrote a whole line of “T’s” and it was impossible to make the key print it clearly. I made further examination of my slip of paper, and found that every letter had the same peculiarities as the corresponding letters in the mysterious note. They were infinitesimal peculiarities, but they were indubitable. Whoever wrote that letter to Anne Van Wyck, wrote it on that machine that was now before me and no other! But the envelope was just as certainly not addressed on that particular typewriter!
Now what did this mean, I asked myself. And it was a long time before I could grasp the answer, but it finally came to me in a flash of inspiration!
As I had suspected, the letter was a forgery; it had been written on David Van Wyck’s typewriter by some