back homeward, "I'm going to work upon this line. I'm going to look for clues; real, material, tangible clues, such as criminals invariably leave behind them."
"Do!" cried Kitty. "And I'll help you. I know we can find something."
"You see," went on Fessenden, his enthusiasm kindling from hers, "the actual stage of the tragedy is so restricted. Whatever we find must be in the Van Norman house."
"Yes, and probably in the library."
"Or the hall," he supplemented.
"What kind of a thing do you expect to find?"
"I don't know, I'm sure. In the Sherlock Holmes stories it's usually cigar ashes or something like that. Oh, pshaw! I don't suppose we'll find anything."
"I think in detective stories everything is found out by footprints. I never saw anything like the obliging way in which people make footprints for detectives."
"And how absurd it is!" commented Rob. "I don't believe footprints are ever made clearly enough to deduce the rest of the man from."
"Well, you see, in detective stories, there's always that 'light snow which had fallen late the night before.'"
"Yes," said Fessenden, laughing at her cleverness, "and there's always some minor character who chances to time that snow exactly, and who knows when it began and when it stopped."
"Yes, and then the principal characters carefully plant their footprints, going and returning—overlapping, you know—and so Mr. Smarty-Cat Detective deduces the whole story."
"But we've no footprints to help us."
"No, we couldn't have, in the house."
"But if it was Schuyler—"
"Well, even if,—he couldn't make footprints without that convenient 'light snow' and there isn't any."
"And besides, Schuyler didn't do it."
"No, I know he didn't. But you're going to assume that, you know, in order to detect the real criminal."
"Yes, I know I said so; but I don't believe that game will work, after all."
"I don't believe you're much of a detective, any way," said Kitty, so frankly that Fessenden agreed.
"I don't believe I am," he said honestly. "With the time, place, and number of people so limited, it ought to be easy to solve this mystery at once."
"I think it's just those very conditions that make it so hard," said Kitty, sighing.
And so completely under her spell was Fessenden by this time that he emphatically agreed with her.
When they reached the Van Norman house they found it had assumed the hollow, breathless air that invades a house where death is present.
All traces of decoration had been removed from the drawing-room, and it, like the library, had been restored to its usual immaculate order. The scent of flowers, however, was all through the atmosphere, and a feeling of oppression hovered about like a heavy cloud.
Involuntarily Kitty slipped her hand in Rob's as they entered.
Fessenden, too, felt the gloom of the place, but he had made up his mind to do some practical work, and detaining Harris, who had opened the door for them, he said at once, "I want you to open the blinds for a time in all the rooms downstairs. Miss French and I are about to make a search, and, unless necessary, let no one interrupt us."
"Very good, sir," said the impassive Harris, who was becoming accustomed to sudden and unexpected orders.
They had chosen their time well for the search, and were not interrupted. Most of the members of the household were in their own rooms; and there happened to be no callers who entered the house.
Molly Gardner had gone away early that morning. She had declared that if she stayed longer she should be downright ill, and, after vainly trying to persuade Kitty to go with her, had returned alone to New York.
Tom Willard and Lawyer Peabody were in Madeleine's sitting-room, going over the papers in her desk, in a general attempt to learn anything of her affairs that might be important to know. They had desired Miss Dupuy's presence and assistance, but that young woman refused to go to them, saying she was still too indisposed, and remained, under care of Marie, in her own room.
Fessenden suggested that Kitty should make search in the library while he did the same in the drawing-room; and that afterward they should change places.
Kitty shivered a little as she went into the room that had been the scene of the tragedy, but she was really anxious to assist Fessenden, and also she wanted to do anything, however insignificant, that would help in the least toward avenging poof Maddy's death.
And yet it was seemingly a hopeless task. Though she carefully and systematically scrutinized walls, rugs and furniture, not a clue could she find.
She was on her hands and knees under a table when Tom Willard came into the room.
"What are you doing?" he said, unable to repress a smile as Kitty, with her curly hair a bit dishevelled, came scrambling out.
"Hunting for clues," she said briefly.
"There are no clues," said Tom gravely. "It's the most inexplicable affair all 'round."
"Then you have no suspicion of any one?"
"My dear Miss French," said Tom, looking at her kindly, as one might at a child, but speaking decidedly; "don't let the amusement of amateur detective work lead you into making unnecessary trouble for people. If detective work is to be done, leave it to experienced and professional hands. A girl hunting for broken sleeve-links or shreds of clothing is foolishly theatrical."
Willard's grave but gentle voice made Kitty think that she and Fessenden were acting childishly, but after Tom, who had come on an errand, had left the room, Kitty confided to herself that she would rather act foolishly at Rob Fessenden's bidding than to follow the wise advice of any other man.
This was saying a good deal, but as she said it only to herself, she felt sure her confidence would not be betrayed.
Not half an hour had elapsed when Kitty appeared at the drawing-room door with a discontented face, and said, "There's positively nothing in the library that doesn't belong there. It has been thoroughly swept, and though there may have been many clues, they've all been swept and dusted away."
"Same here," said Fessenden dejectedly. "However, let's change rooms, so we can both feel sure." Then Kitty searched the drawing-room, and Rob the library, and they both scrutinized every inch of the hall.
"I didn't find so much as a thread," said Kitty, as they sat down on a great carved seat in the hall to compare notes.
"I didn't either," said Rob, "with one insignificant exception; in the drawing-room I found this, but it doesn't mean anything."
As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny globule of a silver color.
"What is it?" asked Kitty, taking it with her finger-tips from the palm of his hand.
"It's a cachou."
"And what in the world is a cachou? What is it for?"
"Why, it's a little confection filled with a sort of spice. Some men use them after smoking, to eradicate the odor of tobacco."
"Eat them, do you mean? Are they good to eat?" and impulsive Kitty was about to pop the tiny thing into her mouth, when Rob caught her hand.
"Don't!" he cried. "That's my only clue, after all this search, and it may be of importance." He rescued the cachou from Kitty's fingers, and then, slipping it into his pocket, he continued to hold the hand from which he had taken it.
And then, somehow, detective work seemed for a moment to lose its intense interest, and Rob and Kitty talked of other things.
Suddenly Kitty said: "Tom Willard thinks we're foolish to hunt for clues."
"I think he's