utter faith in you, and because of that faith I shall probe this whole mystery to its furthest depths. I shall learn the truth, the whole truth, and then, Anne, when it is the proper time, I shall claim you, and you will give yourself to me!”
I have wondered since how I had the courage to make these statements, for Anne gave me no encouragement. She merely stared at me, her dark eyes seeming to burn like coals of fire in her white face. But as I finished she gave a little despairing sob, and said pitifully, “Oh, Raymond, you don’t know, you don’t know!”
And then Beth Fordyce came up to the gallery, and both Anne and I controlled ourselves sufficiently to speak casually, as we all continued our search. The gallery was six feet wide and extended across the whole end of the room, except for a space of about four feet from either side-wall. It rested on six enormously heavy brackets, and its railing, about three feet high, was also heavy and elaborate. Miss Fordyce looked over the railing in despair. “We never can look into every cranny of those brackets,” she said.
“We can do it by ladders from below,” I returned; “but I will say that I never saw any room so marvellously well provided with hiding-places.”
Anne stood at the end of the gallery, but not the staircase end, and looked at the great cartouche that formed the corner of the cornice, but which was so massive that its lower end was on a level with the gallery.
“I can’t reach it,” she said, stretching out her hand toward its plaster scroll-work; “but the pearls could be in any of those gilded crevices.”
“And there are four of those great ornaments in the room,” said I, looking hopelessly around at the cornice. “But if Mr. Van Wyck secreted his jewels in one of them, he must have had a long ladder; and where is the ladder?”
“He might have had a rope-ladder,” suggested Mrs. Stelton, looking self-conscious, as if she had voiced a brilliant idea.
“But, even so, it must be somewhere, and we have found nothing of the sort,” I said.
Well, the search lasted all the morning, without the least result. And, to my surprise, after luncheon Mr. Markham proposed that we should search the other rooms of the house. “I have my own reasons for this,” he declared, and as this was the first time I had known him to assume the mysterious air which is part of the stock in trade of every self-respecting detective, I began to hope his reasons might be sound ones.
No one was enthusiastic about a further search, but all agreed to it, except Anne. She declared that the privacy of her own rooms should not be invaded, and she refused to allow search to be made in them.
At this, I saw Archer look at her intently; I saw Anne flush with anger and dismay; and I saw Mr. Markham alertly observing both.
“It is a mere matter of form, Mrs. Van Wyck,” he said; “but I must insist upon it. And of course you must see that to close your rooms to our search would look—” He hesitated; even he could not voice the implication he was about to make, in the face of Anne’s scorn.
“That will do,” she said coldly, and at once led the way to her own apartments.
Her bedroom, dressing-room, and bathroom were subjected to a search, but, on the part of most of us, it was perfunctory and superficial. Except the detective, not one of us was willing to open the cupboards, boxes, or bureau-drawers. But Mr. Markham darted here and there, opening drawers, boxes, and baskets, one after another. I chanced to be sitting by a table on which was a gilded Florentine chest, which was locked. Markham demanded the key, and Anne gave it to him. But the chest was entirely empty, save for several old photographs carelessly flung in.
Disappointed, the detective stared thoughtfully about the room.
“You must understand, Mrs. Van Wyck,” he said smoothly, “that we have no suspicion, but at the same time we must make this search a thorough one. And I think we have examined everything except the book-shelves. I must ask now that the books be taken down.”
The book-shelves, which were built against the wall, covered nearly all one side of the room. At Mr. Markham’s orders, the books were taken down, three or four at a time, and returned to their places; but, although there was plenty of space behind them, no pearls were discovered.
“Shall we open each book?” inquired Mr. Archer sarcastically.
“No,” said the detective shortly. “Pearls could not be placed in a book, but they could easily be hidden behind them, and I must do my duty.”
The others had helped with the book-shelf performance, but I had stayed near Anne. She was trembling like a leaf. If she had hidden the pearls behind the books, and feared their discovery, she could not have been more nervously agitated. I noticed, too, that Archer was watching her closely, even while he was busily engaged in taking down and putting back the volumes.
In an effort to distract Anne’s attention, and perhaps to calm her unrest, I said, “How did you like the vase I brought you?” and I glanced at it where it stood on a small side table.
“It is beautiful!” she said, and she thanked me with her eyes. “I have never seen a more exquisite piece of Venetian glass. But so very fragile! I would not let any one but myself touch it to unpack it; and even then I was afraid it would break while I was disengaging it from its wrappings. I was frightened, Raymond, lest Mr. Van Wyck should see it. He was so absurdly jealous that it would have made him very angry. But now it doesn’t matter.” Her lip quivered, and a strange look came into her eyes, but I was positive it was not regret that she no longer had to endure her husband’s jealousy.
At last Markham declared himself satisfied that the pearls were not in Anne’s apartments, and, followed by his assistants, he went to search David Van Wyck’s rooms. And from there the search continued all over the rest of the rooms; and it was well on toward sundown before he was ready to declare himself satisfied that the pearls were not hidden in any part of the house.
“And so,” said Mr. Markham, with an air of finality, “we may be sure that Mr. Van Wyck did not hide the pearls, nor are they in the possession of any member of this household. This, I think, proves that the robbery was committed by an intruder, who also killed Mr. Van Wyck. The mystery of how the burglar entered, and what weapon he used, will, I fear, never be solved.”
“And the missing deed?” asked Archer.
“That is another mystery that seems inexplicable. Of course the fortune now remains in possession of the family, and will be disposed of according to the terms of Mr. Van Wyck’s will.”
The will, as everybody knew, left David Van Wyck’s three heirs each in possession of one-third of his fortune. The pearls were not mentioned in the will, although Anne claimed he had verbally given them to her. Both Barbara and Morland disputed her ownership of them, but as the pearls were gone, it made little difference whose they were.
“I can’t help thinking, Mr. Markham,” I said, “that we have all reached the end of our ingenuity. But I also think that the problem ought not to be given up, and that it is now time to call in a more expert investigator. I propose, therefore, that we send for Fleming Stone, and put the matter in his hands.”
“Oh, that wonderful Mr. Stone!” exclaimed Mrs. Stelton, clapping her hands in her foolish way. “Send for him, do! He can tell us everything!”
“I, for one, do not wish him sent for,” said Anne, in a most positive manner.
“Nor I,” said Barbara, for once agreeing with her step-mother.
“I don’t think we need him,” said Morland thoughtfully. “What could he find out more than we have?”
“We haven’t found out anything,” I retorted. “And he would explain everything in a short time.”
“Is he, then, omniscient?” said Mr. Markham, with a decided sneer.
“He is very nearly so in matters of detective work,” I returned gravely. “If Mrs. Van Wyck does not wish to employ him, I will do so myself; as I