of tragedies in isolated country cottages came into my mind, and, in the damp cool basement air, I shivered.
The policeman glanced doubtfully at me. “I hate to alarm you unnecessarily, but, frankly, I don’t like the look of this. You are a little far from town—or neighbors.” He hesitated before he added, “Our case isn’t over, you know. Mrs. Coatesnash may be dead but—” and his tone was grim “—there are others who aren’t.”
“Those ‘others’,” said Jack, “have nothing to fear from Lola and me. Why should we have anything to fear from them?”
“The murderer of Hiram Darnley, Mr. Storm, may fear you have information which—in fact—you don’t possess. The black-faced man may fear the same. That’s frankly a guess. I don’t need to guess that someone tried to force this door which leads upstairs to the floor where you and your wife lay sleeping. The scratches are plainly visible.”
I rose with decision. “That settles it. We move to the Inn this afternoon.”
Harkway was obviously pleased, but I could see Jack wasn’t. We went upstairs, however, and I actually started to pack. Harkway sat on the bed while Jack paced the room.
“Has it occurred to you,” Jack said at length, “that by moving into town we might be playing into the murderer’s hands? Doing exactly what he planned for us to do?”
“I don’t get your meaning,” said Harkway, puzzled.
“Why couldn’t last night’s affair have been planned with the deliberate intent of driving us to town? Say someone had some—some use for the cottage. Then certainly it would be to that person’s advantage to force Lola and me out of it. What better way than by frightening us until we left of our own accord?”
“But what possible use,” said I, bewildered, “could anyone have for the cottage? It’s just a house.”
“Put your imagination to work, Lola. Do a little guessing. How’s this for a guess? Something is hidden in the cottage, something quite small probably, something valuable either to the murderer or his accomplices. But the murderer (we will call last night’s visitor the murderer for convenience) doesn’t know the exact location of the—the object.”
“If there is an object,” I said tartly.
“Let him finish, Mrs. Storm,” said Harkway and to my dismay I saw that he was impressed.
“I’m finished. I was only suggesting that if someone had a reason for wanting to search the cottage, a thorough search would be impossible unless it were unoccupied. It would take days to give this place a complete work-over. Lola and I hardly touched the cellar.”
“But that’s only a notion of yours,” I wailed. “A crazy notion and I’m packed to leave.”
Jack ignored my outburst, and said to Harkway, “What’s your advice in the matter?”
“I hardly know what to say. Certainly you’ve built up a pretty convincing case for sticking around to see what will happen next.” The young policeman turned to me. “Maybe we’d better leave it up to the lady.”
“The lady,” I said, “is going to town.”
Jack gave me the look reserved for those occasions when I let him down. I went on packing. Once you weaken with him you’re gone, and I was determined to spare us both another night in the cottage.
“I never thought,” Jack said, “you’d turn tail and run from phantoms, Lola. My guess is that last night’s visitor was only Silas.”
“Now you’re wrong.” Harkway permitted himself a short laugh. “Silas didn’t stir from the Lodge last night. Blair spent the night on the hill, caught himself a fine spring cold and nothing else. Apparently he’d have done better to put in his time down here.”
“Well,” Jack said philosophically, “it was just an idea I had, and the best of us can’t be always right.”
Again a pointed glance was directed at me. My determination to quit the cottage wavered. Was Jack’s interpretation of the broken window correct? By packing my bags and preparing to flee to town was I following a cunning plan laid down for me by someone unknown?
Harkway crushed out his cigarette and rose. “If you young folks are ready I’ll pilot you in to town.”
Jack turned. “Are you ready. Lola?”
“Not quite,” I said snappishly. “What’s the hurry? We’ve got the afternoon.”
Harkway moved toward the door. “In that case I’ll run along. I’ll give you a ring tonight.” He looked questioningly from Jack to me. “I suppose I can reach you at the Inn?”
Neither of us replied. We trailed him to the hot sunshiny lawn where he paused to examine the footprints and to cover the clearest specimen with a handkerchief, which he weighted with four small stones. “I’ll send Blair around to take a plaster-of-Paris cast.”
He spoke absently and without much interest. I stared at the footprints, distinct and well defined in the soft turf bordering the drive. “I should think the prints might be valuable. They are so dear.”
“That’s the trouble with them, Mrs. Storm. I’m afraid they’re too clear.” He smiled at my surprise. “Either your marauder was incredibly bold or—and this seems more likely—those footprints were meant to be seen.”
As he mounted his motorcycle a familiar automobile came up the road, turned into the drive, and Annabelle Bayne got out. She was pale beneath her rouge, and seemed very much excited. She said at once. “Have you seen the papers? Did you know that Luella Coatesnash was dead?”
“We knew,” I replied.
“I can hardly believe it yet.” Annabelle touched a handkerchief to her eyes, but the eyes were dry. The gesture was unpleasantly theatrical. It seemed to me that Annabelle was reacting to the death of an old dear friend with histrionics instead of honest feeling. Jack glanced at me in a puzzled way. I was puzzled, too. I felt quite sure that Annabelle hadn’t come to the cottage to discuss the news which had been blazoned in the morning papers. My belief was confirmed, when she turned and said to Harkway, “I see you’re leaving. Please don’t let me delay you.”
She spoke in the cool remote way she reserved for those she considered her inferiors. Harkway was not abnormally sensitive, but he caught on. He flushed but stood his ground. “I’d like to know, Miss Bayne. Have you a theory for the suicide?” She shook her head. Again she touched the handkerchief to her eyes. “Luella never seemed to me the type of person who would kill herself.”
“Then,” said Harkway baldly, “you don’t consider it an admission of a guilty connection with Hiram Darnley’s murder?” There was a flash of hostility in Annabelle’s gaze. “Certainly not! My opinion would be that the police authorities have driven an innocent and unfortunate old woman to her death.”
For a moment I was afraid Harkway intended to argue the point, but he only shrugged and started a second time to leave. Jack abruptly suggested a stirrup-cup. He went into the house, and I guided my antipathetic guests into the chairs beneath the apple tree. For several minutes I carried on a single-handed conversation; then Jack came out and handed drinks around. The liquor didn’t help. More awkward minutes passed. Annabelle was patiently waiting for Harkway to depart, and he exhibited no signs of haste.
Finally, suddenly, she said, “Lola, I’d like to talk to you.” Jack smiled blandly. “Why not here? We like your company.” Annabelle bit her lip. She stared across the sunlit open field toward the narrow band of woods. Smoke climbed from the Olmstead chimney and made a pattern against the sky.
She looked surprised. “I hadn’t heard the Olmsteads had opened their place. They seldom come so early.”
“I saw Olmstead downtown this morning,” Harkway said. “Buying paint.”
I wasn’t especially