of calmness, though I felt sure that her turbulent spirit was far from placid.
"Sit down, Miss Gardiner," said Hunt kindly. "I wish to ask you a few questions."
Irene sat down, and with an air both haughty and dignified awaited the detective's next words. Had it not been for her restless, troubled eyes, she would have deceived me into thinking her assumed indifference real.
"In your testimony, Miss Gardiner," began Mr. Hunt, "you declared that you did not leave the spot where you were sitting, on the east end of the balcony, the night of the murder, until you came into the house at about half past ten. Are you still prepared to swear to this statement?"
"Why should I not be, Mr. Hunt?" said Irene, but her lips grew white, and her voice trembled.
"You might have since recollected that you did go around to the west side, if only for a moment."
"I have no recollections that cause me to change my sworn statement in any way," declared Irene.
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper and her eyes refused to meet mine.
Mr. Hunt continued:
"Were you around on the west side, near the library window, at any time during the evening—earlier, perhaps, than the time you spent sitting alone on the east side?"
"No," said Irene, and this time her voice was stronger and her whole air more decided, as she looked the detective straight in the eye. "I was not on the west balcony earlier in the evening. I was not there at all!"
The last sentence came with a desperate burst of emphasis, that somehow did not carry conviction. For some reason the girl was under a severe tension, and I couldn't help thinking there was danger of her physical collapse.
"Then," said Mr. Hunt, suddenly producing the black spangles—"then may I ask, Miss Gardiner, how these chanced to be found in the library, and on the library window-shutter?"
Irene Gardiner gave a low cry, and hiding her face in her hands, seemed in immediate danger of the collapse I had feared.
"Miss Gardiner," I said, for though her actions were inexplicable, I was still deeply under the spell of her fascination, and greatly desired to help her—"Miss Gardiner, let me advise you, as a friend, to tell your story frankly and truthfully. I am sure it will be better for all concerned."
Raising her head, Irene Gardiner flashed a look at me so full of faith and gratitude, that, assured of her complete innocence, I determined to become her strong ally.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, "I would be so glad to tell the truth! I swore to a falsehood from a sense of duty to another."
"It is always a mistaken sense of duty that leads to false swearing," said Mr. Hunt.
"I believe that is so," said Irene earnestly, "but I had no one to advise me and I thought I was doing right. The truth is, then, that I did go around to the west end of the balcony, and that I did look in at the library window."
"At what time was this?" asked Mr. Hunt.
"I don't know," said Irene, "but it was just before Mr. Judson came, and about ten minutes later Mr. King came to me on the front balcony, and told me what had happened."
"What did you see in the library?" asked Mr. Hunt.
"Must I tell that?"
"You must."
"Then I saw Philip lying on the floor, and Mildred fallen to the floor also. But she was partly hidden by the desk."
"Is that all you saw?" asked Mr. Hunt, looking at her intently. "Was there no one else in the room?"
"Must I tell that?" asked Irene again, with an appealing glance at me.
"Yes," said Mr. Hunt sternly, "much may depend on your telling the absolute truth."
"Then," said Irene, "I saw Mr. Crane placing a pistol in Mildred's hand."
"Wait," said I, "was this occurring just as you arrived at the window?"
"Yes."
"Then," I went on, "you cannot swear that he was placing the pistol in her hand. He might have been taking it away from her, or attempting to do so."
"I never thought of that," said Irene, an expression of relief lighting up her face.
"Even so," said Mr. Hunt, "he should have told of the incident in his own testimony. What did you do next, Miss Gardiner?"
"I went away at once. I went to the east side of the veranda. I was so mystified and horrified by what I had just seen that I flung myself into a chair and cried. I was still crying when, soon after, Mr. Judson came in search of me. And I was still crying when Mr. King came later to tell me what had happened."
"She was," I said, "and crying so violently that I was alarmed. But as Miss Maxwell appeared almost immediately, I left the two ladies to look after each other."
"And had it not been for the incriminating spangles, did you not intend to correct your misstatement?" said Mr. Hunt, looking at her severely.
"No," said Irene, and her manner now was frank and self-assured, "for I felt sure Mr. Crane had done nothing wrong, and I did not wish to attract any unfounded suspicions toward him."
"A suspicion that is really unfounded can do no one any harm," said Mr. Hunt, who seemed to be in a mood for oracular utterances.
"I am glad," said Irene simply, "for I would not wish any harm to come to Mr. Crane through my testimony."
"That is as it may be," said Mr. Hunt, and the interview was at an end.
Although Irene's evidence had placed Gilbert in a doubtful position, I was not yet willing to believe the man guilty, or even that he was implicated in the crime.
Indeed, I was for going straight to him, and asking him for the explanation which I felt sure he could give.
But Mr. Hunt did not agree with me. He was in the grasp of a new theory, and therefore subject to the temptation which too often assails a detective, to make the facts coincide with it.
"No," he said, "don't let us go ahead too rapidly. Let us formulate a definite proposition, and then see if we are warranted in assuming it to be a true one. In the first place, whoever killed Philip Maxwell must have had a strong personal motive for the deed.
"There is no reason to suspect an ordinary burglar, for there is nothing whatever to indicate burglary in the whole affair. If Philip Maxwell had any personal enemies, the fact is not known to us. Even his uncle is unaware of the existence of any such.
"The only man we know of who might have had an ill-feeling toward Philip Maxwell—mind, I say, might have had—is Gilbert Crane. We know that an antagonism existed between the two men on account of Miss Leslie. While it would not seem to us that this antagonism was sufficient to develop a crime, yet parallel cases are not unknown. Gilbert Crane is a man of deep passions, fiery temper, and uncontrollable impulses.
"He is erratic, eccentric, and, while I do not wish to judge him too harshly, I must admit he seems to be of the stuff of which villains are made."
"But none of this is definitely incriminating," I said, appalled at the sudden directness of Hunt's attack.
"No," he replied, "and that is why I'm not willing to proceed as if it were, or as if I so considered it."
"It is absurd anyway," I said almost angrily, "for you know that he was in the billiard-room at exactly ten o'clock. I saw him there myself. And according to Miss Maxwell, the shots were fired at ten o'clock."
"Yes, according to Miss Maxwell. But it has occurred to me that hers is the only evidence that the shots were fired at ten o'clock, and we are by no means certain that her clock or watch was exactly right."
"The clock in the study was right," I said doggedly, "it always is. Mr. Maxwell is very particular about that."
"Yes, but ladies are not apt to be so exact with their timepieces. At any rate,