her.
But I wrote nothing of all this to Stone. I told him the simple facts of the case as I knew them; I told him the indications and evidences as I knew them; and I must admit that it did seem a tangle. I felt that we had been either stupid or inefficient in our endeavors to unravel the mystery; for they certainly had led nowhere. All suspicion of any person fell to the ground before the undeniable fact of that sealed room. And all suspicion of suicide fell to the ground in the absence of any weapon. Truly it was a case worthy of Fleming Stone’s attention, and I hoped with all my heart he would take it up.
With the thought of helping him to understand it all, I wrote him everything we had done. I told of Jeannette’s disappearance, of the hidden stiletto, and of her subsequent explanation. I told him of our exhaustive search for the pearls, and I told him, too, though I hated to, how nervous and agitated Anne was when we searched her book-shelves. And then I told him, though I fully realized that all these things pointed in one direction, of the last words David Van Wyck said to his wife as he left the drawing-room. How he had told her he was going to give away the pearls she looked upon as her own, and how he had said, “Now don’t you wish I were dead?” I admitted to him that Anne was very strongly opposed to the munificent gift her husband had intended making, but stated also that the disappearance of the deed was quite as favorable to the wishes of the two stepchildren as to those of the wife.
I told Fleming Stone all this, and I told him, too, that I believed Anne Van Wyck innocent; but for this belief I could give no reason.
That letter went off Wednesday night. I sent it to the permanent address in New York which Stone had given me, though of course I had no means of knowing whether he was there or not.
But by good fortune he was in New York, and he replied to my letter at once, so that late Thursday afternoon I received his reply.
To my satisfaction, he declared himself willing to undertake the case, and incidentally complimented me on the clearness of my account and the definiteness of my written details. He said he would arrive Friday morning, and he begged me to keep the room from being disturbed any further. “Though, I dare say,” he wrote, “that by this time all possible clues are removed or destroyed through ignorance or carelessness. However, lock up the room at once, and let no one enter it until I get there.”
This instruction was scarcely necessary, for the study had had few occupants since the tragedy. Everybody avoided the place, and the servants could scarcely be induced to enter it. I knew it had not been swept or dusted since the fatal night, and I hoped that Stone’s marvellous powers could find clues where we had seen none. To be sure, we had searched it thoroughly for the pearls, and no one of us had then found anything in the way of evidence. But we were not trained observers, and I had great hopes of Stone’s wizardry.
After dinner, I walked on the terrace with Anne. I had announced at the dinner-table that I had written for Fleming Stone, and that I had done this with Morland’s consent.
I glanced at Morland as I said this, but he made no response beyond a slight affirmative nod. There was a silence after my announcement, and then Mrs. Stelton began to babble, and Beth Fordyce began a rapturous eulogy of Fleming Stone and his work. But the others said nothing, either for or against the coming of the detective.
As we walked on the terrace, I tried to draw Anne out on the subject. But she only said wearily, “It doesn’t matter. It would have to come out some time, I suppose. Shall you mind, Raymond, when your friend Stone proves me a criminal?”
“I don’t think he will do that, Anne,” I said very gently, for I couldn’t think it; and yet her despairing tone alarmed me more than if she had been angry or deeply disturbed.
And then the others joined us, and the conversation became general. But, seemingly by tacit consent, the subject of the crime or the coming of the new detective was not touched upon. Even Mrs. Stelton seemed to feel the restraint that was upon us all, and for once refrained from making her usual flippant and ill-timed observations. The party broke up early, and we all went to our rooms. The men did not congregate in the smoking-room as usual, but parted on the landing with brief good-nights.
I, for one, felt heavy of heart. Anne’s definite speech had frightened me, and I wondered if in sending for Stone I had precipitated the very calamity I wished to avert. But it was too late now for regret. I had put the matter in other hands, and I must abide by the consequences. And yet though I could still hope for Anne’s innocence, though my heart still whispered, “Anybody but Anne!” I was far from having the same confidence that I had felt earlier in the day.
The next morning Fleming Stone came. The moment I saw him, I was glad I had summoned him. He looked so strong, so capable, and so resourceful, that I knew instinctively he would reach the truth. And, after all, it was the truth we wanted—or ought to want.
We congregated in the drawing-room to meet him, and his reception was more like that of an honored guest than an official detective. He greeted each one individually and with the utmost cordiality and kindness. But after a few polite commonplaces of conversation, he rose alertly and declared himself ready to begin the business in hand.
“I assume I have the freedom of the house,” he said, turning to Anne, who responded merely by a bow.
She was frightened, I could see that, and yet there was nothing in Fleming Stone’s manner to inspire alarm. Indeed, he looked at her with an intent admiration, as he had done on his former visit, and I realized that he would give her every possible benefit of doubt
“I shall go to the study first,” he said, “and I should like to be accompanied only by Mr. Sturgis and Mr. Markham. After my investigations there, I may want to ask some questions of the rest of you.”
I wanted to feel that Stone was taking me with him because I might be of some assistance, but this vain hope was quickly shattered.
“I want you with me, Mr. Sturgis,” he said, as we entered the study and he closed the door, “first, because you are my employer; and also because you are the only one of this household who cannot possibly be implicated in this crime.”
I suppose I looked my amazement, for he went on, “That does not mean that all the rest are implicated, but you are the only one who I know is not.”
“How do you know that, Mr. Stone?”
“First, from the letter you wrote me, which leaves you free of suspicion, while it leaves every one else open to the possibility of it. Second, because you had no motive for the deed.”
“But I—”
“You needn’t finish; I know you are deeply attracted to Mrs. Van Wyck, but you would not murder her husband in order to win her, and then send for me to come out here to discover the criminal!”
“No, I wouldn’t,” I replied, almost smiling at the way he put it. “And now, Mr. Stone, if I can help you in any way, I shall be only too glad.”
“I think I shall not require help, thank you; I ask only freedom from interruption, and, possibly, answers to occasional questions.”
If the words were a trifle curt, the tone was not at all so, and I willingly sat down, content to watch the great man at his work.
Mr. Markham, also, watched Stone intently, and even offered suggestions now and then. But these, Stone dismissed with a mere word or two,—often with only a wave of his hand.
As I had surmised he would do, he scrutinized every part of the room; at first with sweeping glances, and then focussing his attention on various details. I had told him in my letter of the security with which the room was locked and bolted on the inside, and he examined all the fastenings of doors and windows with utmost care and interest.
“I think I can safely say,” he remarked, “that I have never seen a room apparently so absolutely impossible of ingress. And yet some one entered and left while it was thus bolted and barred.”
“It was not a suicide, then?”
“Certainly not. It was a case of wilful murder.”
“Committed