nothing," said Fleming Stone, "but it must be investigated. Where, in the studio, was the glass?"
"On the marble hearthstone," said I.
"Where it might easily have been broken off the pin by a boot heel, or other means. But we must not assume more than the evidence clearly indicates. Tell me more of young Lawrence. Was he what is known as a ladies' man? Would he be likely to take bunches of violets to his feminine friends?"
"I know the man very slightly," I answered, "but I should judge him to be rather attentive to the fair sex. Indeed, I know that the day before yesterday he escorted a young lady to a matinée, and that night he dined and spent the evening at the home of the same girl."
"Do you know this young lady?" he asked.
"I know her name," I replied. "It is Miss Waring, and she lives in Sixtieth Street."
"And your own home is in Sixty-second Street?"
"Yes. If necessary, I can telephone to my sister, and she will ask Miss Pembroke for Miss Waring's address."
"Do so," said Fleming Stone; and I knew from the gravity of his expression that he was rapidly constructing a serious case against somebody.
I obtained the desired information over the telephone, and then, with Fleming Stone, boarded a car going uptown. Though still pleasant-mannered and responsive, Stone seemed disinclined to talk, so the journey was made almost in silence.
When we reached Miss Waring's, Mr. Stone sent up his card, asking her to grant him an interview as soon as possible.
In a few moments Millicent Waring appeared. She was a dainty little blonde, with what is known as a society manner, though not marked by foolish affectation.
Fleming Stone introduced himself and then introduced me, in a pleasant way, and with a politeness that would have been admired by the most punctilious of critics.
"Pray do not be alarmed, Miss Waring," he began, "at the legal aspect of your callers."
"Not at all," said the girl, smiling prettily. "I am pleased to meet one of whom I have always stood in awe, and to discover that in appearance, at least, he is not a bit awe-inspiring."
Whether Miss Waring was always so self-poised and at her ease, or whether it was Fleming Stone's magnetic manner that made her appear so, I did not know, but the two were soon chatting like old friends. My part, apparently, was merely that of a listener, and I was well content that it should be so.
"You know Mr. Lawrence?" Mr. Stone was saying. "Mr. George Lawrence?"
"Oh, yes," said the girl; "and I have read in the paper of a dreadful tragedy in his family."
"Yes; his uncle, I believe. You have seen Mr. Lawrence recently, Miss Waring?"
"Last Wednesday I went with him to a matinée. After the theatre he brought me back here. Then he went home, but he came back here to dinner and spent the evening."
"At what time did he leave?"
"At eleven o'clock precisely."
"How do you know the time so accurately?"
"Because as he came to say good-night I was standing near the mantel, where there is a small French clock. It struck the hour, and I remember his remarking on the sweet tone of the chime, and he counted the strokes to eleven. He then went away at once."
"You mean he left the drawing-room?"
"Yes; and a moment later I saw him pass through the hall, and he nodded in at me as he passed the drawing-room door on his way out. Why are you asking me all this? But I suppose it is part of the red tape in connection with the dreadful affair."
"Is Mr. Lawrence a particular friend of yours? You must pardon the question, Miss Waring, but you also must answer it." Fleming Stone's smile robbed the words of any hint of rudeness.
"Oh, dear, no!" said Miss Waring, laughing gaily; "that is, I like him, you know, and he's awfully kind and polite to me, but he's merely an acquaintance."
"Did you go anywhere on your way to and from the theatre?"
"No, I think not—oh, yes, we did, too; just before we went into the theatre Mr. Lawrence insisted on stopping at the florist's for some violets. He said no matinée girl was complete without a bunch of violets."
"And did you pin them on your gown?" asked Stone, as if in a most casual way.
"No, indeed," said Miss Waring; "I never do that. It spoils a nice gown to pin flowers on it."
"And what did you do with the pin?"
"What pin?"
"The pin that a florist always gives you with violets."
"Oh, yes, those purple-headed pins. Why, I don't know what I did do with it." The girl's pretty brow wrinkled in her endeavor to remember, and then cleared as she said: "Oh, yes, it comes back to me now! When I said I wouldn't use it, lest the flowers should spoil my gown, I handed it to Mr. Lawrence, and he stuck it in his coat lapel—underneath, you know—for, he said, perhaps I might change my mind. But, of course, I didn't, and I'm sure I don't know what became of the pin. Do you want one? I have dozens of them up-stairs."
"No," said Fleming Stone; "and I don't think we need encroach further on your time, Miss Waring. I thank you for your goodness in seeing us, and I would like to ask you to say nothing about this interview for twenty-four hours. After that you need not consider it confidential."
I believe Fleming Stone's manner would have wheedled a promise out of the Egyptian Sphinx, and I was not in the least surprised to hear Miss Waring agree to his stipulations.
When we again reached the street Fleming Stone observed: "Without going so far as to designate our attitude toward George Lawrence by the word 'suspicion,' we must admit that the young man had a motive, and, that there is evidence whether true or not, to indicate his having had in his possession a weapon at least similar to the one used."
The doubt I had felt all along of Lawrence was, of course, strengthened by Miss Waring's disclosures; but to have George accused was only one degree less awful than to have suspicion cast on Janet. And, too, notwithstanding the strange and somewhat complicated evidence of the violet pin, Lawrence had told me he had a perfect alibi. And then, besides this, how could he have gained entrance to the apartment at the dead of night, unless Janet had let him in? I could not bring up this last point, lest Fleming Stone should immediately deduce Janet's complicity; but I would learn how he proposed to prove George's guilt when George was able to prove his presence at another place at the time of the fatal deed.
"But," I said, "evidence is of little use so far as Mr. Lawrence is concerned, for he has a perfect alibi."
Chapter XXIII.
Lawrence's Statement
To my surprise, instead of seeming baffled by my statement, Fleming Stone gave me a quizzical glance.
"A perfect alibi?" he repeated. "How do you know?"
"He told me so," I said confidently.
"Why did he tell you that? Did he expect to be accused?"
"No," I replied; "I do not think he did. You know, Mr. Stone, I never met young Lawrence till since this affair; but, unless I am no judge of human nature, he is a frank, honest sort of chap, with a whole lot of common sense, and he said to his cousin, in my presence, that in the course of legal proceedings he might easily be called upon to give an account of his own movements the night of the murder, but that he was prepared to prove a perfect alibi. Therefore, you see, we cannot suspect him, notwithstanding the coincidence of the violet-colored glass."
"He can prove a perfect alibi," again repeated Fleming Stone, and again that strange little gleam of satisfaction