the last word, Stone held out his hand for the paper, and she mutely handed it to him. The rest of us sat spellbound. There was nothing theatrical in the episode, it was the quietest possible procedure, and yet the incident seemed fraught with intense mystery and importance.
Fleming Stone gave the merest glance at the paper, tore it into tiny bits and threw it into the waste-basket.
“Mrs. Carstairs,” he said, and his tone was almost careless; “you wrote that letter yourself on the typewriter in this room. It was cleverly done. You used the blank half of a letter Mrs. Van Wyck had already received and the envelope it came in. You pretended that she had received and read this letter. Now will you tell us just why you did this, or would you prefer to explain it to the coroner later? “
“I didn’t—”
“It is useless to say you didn’t,” interrupted Stone. “The proof is positive. Now I’ll repeat my question of some time ago. Did you wish to incriminate Mrs. Van Wyck merely to divert suspicion from your son, or for any other reason?”
Again anger and rage gleamed from Mrs. Carstairs’ eyes. She was about to burst into a torrent of language, when she controlled herself, glanced at her son, and said in a low, even thrilling tone: “Only to save my son from possible suspicion!”
“Again, you’re telling an untruth, madam,” said Stone, as if it were a matter of no moment. “You are rather expert at it. However, if you’ll take my advice, you will do wisely to adhere to that statement! Let me suggest that you keep your other reason to yourself. You may go.”
For the first time in my experience, I saw Mrs. Carstairs’ face wear a beaten look. She rose from her chair, a vanquished woman. But she had nerve enough to make a slight mocking bow as, accompanied by her son, she left the room.
“The whole matter of that letter means nothing,” said Fleming Stone; “the case is still the deepest mystery to me. I saw at once after I learned Mrs. Carstairs had written that letter, that her prime motive was to save that idolized son of hers from accusation or suspicion. But another reason, was her hatred of Mrs. Van Wyck. I advised her to keep that to herself, and as I imagine she will do so, I doubt if she can do any more harm.”
“How are you sure she wrote the note?” asked Mr. Markham, and I, too, waited with eagerness for the answer.
“It was a random shot,” said Stone, smiling a little; “although it was quite evident how the thing was done. But you remember, I asked you if there were any French people about. As you see, in this letter, the word committee is spelled with one “M.” While that might be a mere verbal error, it gave me the impression that the note was written by a French native. For their word is ‘comite,’ and while the writer of the note is familiar with the English tongue, that is a tricky word for a Frenchman to spell, because of the double letters. However, that proof needed confirmation, so I simply asked the lady to write the note from my dictation; and, if you please, she misspelled ‘committee’ in exactly the same way! Even then, it might have been that the son wrote it,—or any one else, for that matter, but when I declared with conviction that she had written it, she was unable to deny it!”
“It all sounds so simple, now that you explain it,” I said, with a feeling of chagrin that I had not noticed the misspelled word.
“That particular bit of a mystery was simple of solution,” said Stone, “but it helps us not a bit with the main issue.”
At Stone’s request, we went in search of Anne.
We found her in the music-room with Archer. They were in close conversation, and I had no doubt he was urging her again to give him the right to protect her. I knew Archer felt, as I did, that all usual conventions were to be ignored in such circumstances as these we were experiencing.
Fleming Stone spoke directly to Anne, and his calm, pleasant manner seemed to imbue her with an equal quietness of demeanor. She even almost smiled when Stone said, “Please don’t think me over-intrusive, Mrs. Van Wyck, but will you tell me what gown you wore at dinner last Friday evening?”
“Certainly,” said Anne, rising. “If you will come to my room, I will show it to you.”
Although uninvited, Archer and I followed. On reaching Anne’s dressing-room, she took from a wardrobe the beautiful yellow satin gown, which I well remembered, and which now seemed to mock at the sombre black robe she wore.
Stone looked at the gown admiringly, and seemed to show a special interest in the frills and jabots of the bodice. Truly, this man’s ways were past understanding! What clue could he expect to find in this way?
“And when you came to your room that night; did you keep on this gown until you prepared to retire?”
“No,” said Anne, looking at him wonderingly; but even as she looked, her eyes fell before his and she continued in a hesitating way, “No, I changed into a negligee gown.”
“May I see that?” asked Stone pleasantly.
This time, it seemed to me, with reluctance, Anne took from the wardrobe a charming boudoir robe of chiffon and lace. It was decorated with innumerable frills and rosettes, and again Stone seemed eagerly interested in the trimmings. He even picked daintily at some of the bows and ruches, saying lightly, “I am not a connoisseur in ladies’ apparel, but this seems to me an exquisite confection.”
“It is,” replied Anne. “It is Parisian.” But she spoke with a preoccupied air, and I knew she was deeply anxious as to the meaning of all this. She hung the gown back in its place, and then Stone seated himself, after having courteously placed a chair for her.
“I warned you I should ask a few questions, Mrs. Van Wyck,” he began; “so please tell me, first, how you occupied the time before you retired that evening?”
Anne’s embarrassment had vanished, and she looked straight at her questioner as she replied in even tones, “I’m afraid I did nothing worth-while. I wrote one or two notes to friends, glanced through a book about Gardening, tried on a new hat, and then unpacked a glass vase which Mr. Sturgis brought me, because I preferred not to trust that task to a servant.”
“And your maid was here when you finally retired?”
“No, I had dismissed Jeannette earlier, and told her she need not return.”
“And did you leave your rooms late that night?”
“No.”
“Not at all?”
“No.”
But Anne was fast losing control of herself. Her voice trembled, and her large eyes were fixed on Stone’s face. His expression was one of infinite pity, and he said gently, “Please think carefully, and be sure of what you are saying.”
“I am sure,” murmured Anne, and then Archer leaned over and whispered to her. What he said I do not know, but it must have been an accusation of some sort, for Anne turned scarlet and stared at Archer with angry eyes. She glanced at her bookshelves, and then back at Archer and then at Stone, and finally, with a look of pathetic appeal, directly at me.
I knew she was asking my help, but what could I do? In a sudden desperate attempt to relieve her, for at least a moment, I turned the subject, and, touching the beautiful Florentine chest on the table beside me, I drew Stone’s attention to it as a work of art.
“Yes,” he agreed; “it is a fine piece. Worthy of holding the family heirlooms.”
“Instead of which,” I said lightly, “Mrs. Van Wyck uses it merely as a receptacle for old photographs.” Anne’s agitation seemed to be increasing, and, determined to keep Stone from addressing her for a few moments longer, I opened the chest to prove my words. Stone glanced carelessly at the old pictures, faded except round their edges, and then, suddenly rising, he picked up two or three and looked at them intently. A sudden light flashed into his eyes, and, turning to Anne, he said in tones of genuine admiration, “Wonderful, Mrs. Van Wyck! Positively splendid! I congratulate