the shots."
"Oh, I don't think that's so strange," returned Crane. "Mr. Maxwell is quite deaf, and Miss Maxwell is slightly so. And as for the young people, with the music and dancing, they wouldn't be apt to hear them."
"And you came directly down-stairs after coming in from the balcony?" went on Hunt.
"As I reached the top of the stairs, I couldn't help looking toward the library, and as I heard no sounds, though I had been told Philip and Mildred were in there, I glanced in, I suppose from sheer curiosity."
"Who told you they were in there?"
"I did," said I, "or rather, I told Mr. Maxwell, in Mr. Crane's hearing. I saw them there when I went down-stairs. That was, I should think, about half an hour before Mr. Crane gave the alarm."
"Can either of you fix the time of these occurrences?" said Mr. Hunt He was very polite, even deferential in his manner, and I saw no harm in accommodating him.
"I can tell you only this," I said. "After I passed the library, where I both heard and saw Philip and Miss Leslie, I went on down-stairs and looked into Mr. Maxwell's study.
"He asked me to sit down. I did not do so; but after a word or two, I went on through to the billiard-room. I looked at the clock in the study as I passed, and it was exactly ten. I can't say, though, at just what time the general alarm was given; I should think less than a half hour later."
"I can tell you," said Gilbert. "When I concluded to go home, I looked between the portieres into Mr. Maxwell's study, and it was twenty minutes past ten. Mr. Maxwell was nodding over his paper; he is a little deaf, so he probably didn't hear me.
"At any rate, he didn't look up. Then I went immediately up-stairs, and it could not have been more than two minutes before I called Dr. Sheldon."
"All this is of interest, and I thank you," said Detective Hunt. "Though, as you say, since there is no criminal to discover, there is small use of collecting evidence."
"Queer chap, isn't he?" I said to Gilbert, as the detective went away.
"Yes, but I think he's clever."
"I don't; if there were any occasion for detective work on this case, I believe I could give him cards and spades, and then beat him at his own game."
"Perhaps you could," said Gilbert, but he spoke without interest. There was plenty for all to do that day. I had expected to return to New York, but both Mr. Maxwell and Miss Miranda begged me to stay with them till after the funeral. As there was no reason for my immediate presence in the city, I was glad to be of service to my good friends.
I assisted Mr. Maxwell to write letters to the various relatives, and together we looked over poor Philip's effects.
The boy had no business papers to speak of, for he had no money except what was given him by his uncle, and apparently he kept no account of its expenditures.
"I paid all his bills," said Mr. Maxwell, in explanation of this, "and kept the receipts. I allowed Philip such ready cash as he wanted, and, I may say, I never stinted him. Whatever his recent trouble may have been, it could not have arisen from lack of funds."
"Unless he had been speculating privately," I suggested.
"I can't think so," replied his uncle. "Philip wasn't that sort, and, too, had that been the case, we would surely find papers of some sort to show it."
This was true enough, and as Philip's papers consisted entirely of such documents as scented notes addressed in feminine hands, letters from college chums, circulars of outing goods and cigars, and old dance-orders, I agreed that there was no indication of financial trouble.
Mr. Maxwell was very careful and methodical in his search. In a business-like way he went rapidly through the papers, replacing the contents of each pigeon-hole or drawer after rapidly looking them over. He showed no curiosity concerning the social notes or the circulars, but seemed searching for some letter or document that might throw light on Philip's recent despondency.
"It was about two weeks ago that Philip began to act differently," mused Mr. Maxwell, as he scanned the dates on various papers, "but I can find nothing here that would show any reason for it. The poor boy must have had some secret trouble; and doubtless, after all, it was either directly or indirectly concerned with Mildred Leslie."
The old gentleman seemed almost relieved that no letters or documents were found that showed a reason for Philip's trouble. And I could understand this, for surely it was better that a love affair should be the explanation, than some secret and perhaps dishonorable reason.
The desk we had been searching was in Philip's dressing-room, a small room off his bedroom. With the systematic thoroughness that was characteristic of him, Mr. Maxwell opened the drawers of the chiffonier, and examined the contents of a few small cabinets and boxes that stood about. He even glanced over the crumpled papers that were in the waste-basket, and then declared himself satisfied that we could find no written evidence bearing upon the secret of the boy's recent strange behavior.
Mr. Maxwell returned to his study, and I went for a stroll with Irene Gardiner.
The girl looked so pale and wan, that I hoped a brisk walk would do her good.
"Do you believe in the 'accidental' theory?" she asked, as soon as we were started.
"No," I replied. "Philip was too well used to fire-arms to shoot anybody accidentally, or allow any one to shoot him. But I now fully believe in Mr. Maxwell's theory that the boy's brain was temporarily affected, and that he shot himself in a moment of insanity."
"But if he shot himself first, how did he then shoot Mildred?"
"I've puzzled over that, I confess, and I think he shot her first—as I said—not being responsible for his actions. And then, overcome by grief at what he had done, he killed himself in his sudden despair."
"Yes," said Irene. "I suppose that must have been the way of it. But, granting all that, I don't see how Mildred came to have the pistol in her hand."
"Nor I. It is all most mysterious. Let us hope that Mildred will soon recover, and then we will know all."
"Mr. King, I suppose you will think very hardly of me, but I have looked at this matter in all lights, and I want to ask you if this isn't a possible case. Mightn't Philip have shot Mildred, and, since she is not very severely wounded, might she not have then snatched the pistol from him and shot at him in return."
I looked at Miss Gardiner in amazement. I felt horrified that she should imagine this, and yet there was a shadow of plausibility in it.
"It seems almost impossible," I said slowly, "that a wounded girl could have energy enough to secure a pistol and shoot her assailant. And yet, I admit, I can think of no other way to explain Miss Leslie's repeated expressions of grieved amazement that Philip should have shot her."
"You don't think it possible, then, that Mildred may not be as unconscious as she seems, and that she is making this repeated statement for reasons of her own."
"Miss Gardiner!" I exclaimed, now thoroughly aroused, "I am surprised at you. Even if you suspect Miss Leslie of absolute crime, pray give the poor girl the benefit of the doubt until she can defend herself, or—is beyond all need of defense."
"You do me injustice," said Irene, raising her head haughtily. "My logical mind necessitates the consideration of every possible solution of this puzzle. I look upon Mildred impersonally, merely as one of the actors in a tragic drama."
"You have indeed a logical mind," I said coldly, "if you can entirely eliminate the personal element from your estimate of Miss Leslie."
"I see no reason why I should not. I judge her fairly, and without prejudice. But I fail to see why the ravings of a mind affected by the consequences of an anesthetic should be accepted as unquestioned truth."
"On the contrary, the revelations made by a brain just reviving from the unconsciousness produced by ether, are conceded by all medical authorities invariably to be true statements. Many secrets have been revealed