doubt your word."
"You need not," said Irene, haughtily. "I have told only the exact truth. If I have concealed this episode, it is only because I didn't wish Mr. Judson's name brought into question at all."
We talked for some time after this, and we all agreed that as Judson was now entirely out of it, we must look in some other direction.
"I don't think Mr. Hunt is doing much," said Whiting, "and I think, Mr. Maxwell, it would be wise to put the whole affair in the hands of the police."
"If you think best," said the old gentleman, hopelessly. "I think myself, that Mr. Hunt is not discovering anything, but that may not be his fault. As I told you, Tom, whatever you and Peter agree upon, I will agree to. But I cannot seem to take any initiative. I am too old, and my deafness stands in my way, when I would question anybody."
"Certainly, Mr. Maxwell," said I, "you could not be expected to take up this matter personally. I'll see Hunt again, and if he agrees, I think we will give it over to the police."
But before I saw Hunt, I determined to do a little more investigating by myself. I went up to the library, hoping that from the scene of the crime I could get some hint of which direction to turn.
Of course, too much time had elapsed to look for further clues, but as I sat there, something brought back to my mind the black spangles I had found that next morning. The maid who had found the Earl's seal must have overlooked the tiny spangles as I found them later. But she might have found others of the same sort when she dusted the room, and I determined to ask her.
I went in search of her, and showing her the spangles I had, I inquired if she had seen any like them in the library the morning she had found the seal. At first she couldn't remember, and then she recollected having picked up two or three near the window.
"Have you any idea," I said, "where they could have come from? Did any of the ladies wear a spangled dress that night?"
"Oh, I know where they have come from," she said, quickly; "they are from the fan of Miss Gardiner."
"How do you know?"
"Because Miss Gardiner carried the black fan that evening. She left it on a seat on the veranda, and I found it and put it again in her room."
"You are certain, Emily, that Miss Gardiner carried the fan that evening?"
"I am sure, Mr. King."
"That is all, Emily, you may go."
Here was something definite. For I remembered distinctly that Miss Gardiner went to her room to get that fan just before she and I walked together on the upper veranda. Then I left her, and she remained up there, and Judson found her there, crying. Meantime, some spangles from that fan had been dropped by the library window! It seemed to me positive proof that Irene had been around there between half past nine and half past ten that night. The more I thought it over the more I was convinced that it must be so. And yet, I did not like to face her with these facts and ask an explanation. But it seemed to me that I must do this, before going any further.
So I went on my very distasteful errand, and found Miss Gardiner in the music-room with Miss Maxwell.
"You know," I said, speaking to the girl, "it is our duty to investigate every possible clue."
"Of course," said Irene, but she trembled nervously and seemed to apprehend some new disclosure.
"Then I will show you these spangles," I said, taking them from my pocketbook, "and ask you if they could have dropped from a fan of yours." Irene looked at them, and said, quietly, "I have a black spangled fan; they may very likely have dropped from it."
"Did you carry it the Monday night that Philip died?"
"I may have done so; I don't remember exactly. Why?"
"Because these spangles were found in the library, the morning after the shooting."
"And you think that turns suspicion toward me?" Irene rose, and stood with flashing eyes, the embodiment of indignation and anger. "You are entirely mistaken, Mr. King, as to your suspicions! They may be spangles from my fan, they may have been dropped in the library; but I was in and out of that room during the early evening, long before the time of the tragedy."
"But you didn't have the fan with you, then," I persisted; "because I remember you went to your room for it, when you and I were together after our dance."
Miss Gardiner turned perfectly white, and swayed as if about to faint. Miss Maxwell sprang to her aid, and putting an arm about her led her from the room.
"I can't have this poor girl tortured, Peter," said the gentle old lady, and they went away leaving me to face a new suspicion that was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.
Chapter XIX.
Red Ink Spots
I resolved to say nothing more about the fan or the spangles to any member of the household, but to lay the case before Hunt, when he came over to the house the next morning.
To my surprise he did not seem at all impressed with the idea of Miss Gardiner being implicated.
"You let your idea of clues run away with you, Mr. King," he said. "To be sure the spangles may point in Miss Gardiner's direction, but she certainly cannot be the intruder who came in the motor coat and cap. Now, it seems to me if we're going to look for our man through any clues, we'd better consider that red ink. When Miss Leslie threw that inkstand, and so much ink was spilled on the rug, it is extremely probable that some also spattered on the coat of the assailant."
"Well, it seems to me," I said, "that that's about the most elusive clue you could think of! We can't possibly, after all these days, trace a motor coat with red ink spots on it."
"He might have taken it to a cleaner's," said Hunt, thoughtfully.
"Then shall we advertise for a cleaner who has had such a job recently?"
But my sarcasm was lost upon Hunt. "I doubt if a cleaner could take out such spots," he went on; "red ink is almost indelible."
"Well, I have little hope of finding these mythical spots on a mythical coat belonging to a mythical man!"
"You're wrong there, for certainly the coat and the man are not mythical. Miss Leslie saw them. Perhaps she can tell us if the red ink spattered him," said Hunt, hopefully.
"She can't tell us anything at present. The doctor won't let her be spoken to on this subject. It seems to me, Hunt, the only thing to do is to call in the police. Of course if they find the man and the coat, some red ink spots on it would go a long way toward proving his guilt. But I'm sure that to find the man will require the skill of the police force, rather than our ineffectual attempts."
"Perhaps you're right," agreed Hunt, "but all the same I shall try to find that coat."
Then Tom Whiting and his wife appeared at the library door.
"We want you, Mr. King, if Mr. Hunt will excuse you," said Edith Whiting, in her pleasant way.
"Certainly," said Mr. Hunt "I am just going home anyway."
"Have you discovered anything new?" asked Tom Whiting.
"We hope to do so," said Mr. Hunt. "I think we are on the right track, though we have not progressed very far, as yet."
"We want you to go with us for a motor ride, Mr. King," said Edith Whiting to me. "Tom insists on my going, and we are taking Irene with us." We started away, but Hunt called me back to whisper a parting message.
"If you find any strangers in automobile togs," he said, "observe carefully whether there are any signs of their having tried to erase red inkspots from the lower fronts of their coats."
"That's the slimmest kind of a slim chance yet," I said, almost smiling at the idea, "but I promise you if I