The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shadow in the House, by Sinclair Gluck

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Title: Shadow in the House

Author: Sinclair Gluck

Release Date: December 1, 2021 [EBook #66859]

Language: English

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ***

SHADOW IN THE

HOUSE

BY SINCLAIR GLUCK

- HOUSE OF THE MISSING

- THE WHITE STREAK

- THIEVES’ HONOR

- THE GREEN BLOT

- THE FOUR WINDS

- DRAGON IN HARNESS

- THE DEEPER SCAR

- THE LAST TRAP

- MAN WHO NEVER BLUNDERED

- SHADOW IN THE HOUSE

SHADOW IN THE

HOUSE

By SINCLAIR GLUCK

AUTHOR of

“The Deeper Scar,” “The Four Winds,” “The Green Blot,” “The House of the Missing,” “The Last Trap,” “The Man Who Never Blundered,” “Thieves’ Honor,” etc.

A. L. BURT COMPANY

Publishers     New York

Published by arrangement with Dodd Mead & Company

Printed in U. S. A.

COPYRIGHT, 1929,

BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

PAGE

I

“WE ALL SHOOT”

1

II

THE BLUNTED ARROW

12

III

THE BROKEN ARROW

24

IV

SUSAN HAD HYSTERICS

32

V

“A SOMEWHAT POMPOUS MAN”

41

VI

ALL THE YOUNG PEOPLE

52

VII

THE BUTLER’S SUITE

61

VIII

STIMSON WONDERS TOO

69

IX

“SHOW THE GENTLEMAN OUT”

79

X

“SOLICITOUSLY”

90

XI

THE OLD MAN WHO CALLED

101

XII

THE DECENCY NOT TO INQUIRE

107

XIII

“A BIT OF A RISK”

117

XIV

THE MISSES HARRISON

124

XV

“WITHOUT CONSULTING ANYONE”

132

XVI

A LACE HANDKERCHIEF

141

XVII

“WALK INTO MY PARLOR”

150

XVIII

“NOTHING MUCH ANYHOW!”

160

XIX

WHY MRS. GRAHAM SCREAMED

168

XX

ANOTHER LOCKED DOOR

180

XXI

GRAHAM IS NOT A FOOL

192

XXII

A QUESTION OF ANGLE

206

XXIII

THE WORST POSSIBLE TASTE

217

XXIV

THE SOUND OF RUNNING FEET

232

XXV

BERNARD OFFERS A HINT

244

XXVI

MOTIVE AND METHOD

257

XXVII

“SO HOME AND TO BED”

271

SHADOW IN THE HOUSE

Harrison Residence

Plan of ground floor, garages & environs

CHAPTER I

“WE ALL SHOOT”

ON one side at least, the dinner party had been marked by a sort of ebullient reticence. Landis and Elsa had returned two days since from their honeymoon and were still feeling a little dignified and unique.

Erect and formidable in her stiff chair, Mrs. Paul Bernard appraised the radiance of her niece and found it genuine. Her direct regard swung over upon her recently acquired nephew-in-law. His expression diffused the subdued glow of a vast inner content, whereat she smiled.

Something drew her eyes down the table to her own husband. Her smile faded slowly.

“And now,” Bernard was saying to Landis, “you’re coming back on the job at Headquarters to show up the old rough-and-ready methods of my day. Well, times change!”

“I am, sir! But sarcasm eludes me tonight!”

To their words Mrs. Bernard paid no heed, though she noted the veiled affection in her husband’s voice. His eyes twinkled with amusement. He seemed more animated than usual, yet his change of mood threw into relief something of which she had been only subconsciously aware—a slightly patient droop to his shoulders and to his mouth. Perhaps her effort had been not to see it.

Abruptly, with a novel pang of doubt, she recalled the concluding scene of the case[1] which had brought them all together, a scene wherein she had practically bullied him into an autumnal marriage. Believing her guilty, he had led the hunt away from her and upon himself. She had tried to repay him by giving him her heart and then taking most capable charge of him and his bachelor ineptitudes. She had found him a worthy idol for the deeper, more tranquil devotion of her later years. Intuition had said that he loved her. If he were not content, then intuition had lied and she had taken rather than given.

[1] “The Last Trap,” Dodd, Mead & Co., New York City, N. Y.

Recalling his latest words, she banished her doubts. Of course, he loved her! It was the game that he missed! Paul Bernard, a name familiar and respected in official circles on two continents, had retired. Was ever a famous man content with love alone?

Nor did she blame him—much.

The reunion with Elsa and Landis had been a success. But she smothered a sigh as she gave the signal to rise.

“Come along, Elsa! These two head-hunters want to talk shop. We’ll leave them to steep themselves in crime!”

With a backward glance at her husband she slipped her arm about the girl and led her out of the room.

Bernard and Landis entered the drawing-room and settled themselves in the midst of that surprising conglomeration of savage weapons and hunting trophies with which their hostess had decorated the place. To them appeared Mrs. Bernard’s soft-footed houseboy, Tsu. He set tiny cups of coffee and tall, icy glasses at their elbows and as silently withdrew.

“Pretty decent of you to come back and hobnob with a murderer,” observed Bernard at length.

Landis cocked an ironic eye at him, then shook his head slowly. “Don’t rub it in, sir!”

“Why, you pinned the thing on me and I admitted it! If Charles Carson hadn’t murdered Foot, where would I be today?”

“Where you are, d—n it!”

Landis had flushed a little. “When I offered not to denounce you that day I felt very skilful and very magnanimous. Since then I’ve felt less so, on each count. There wasn’t a link missing in the chain that led to you. You confessed readily—too blamed readily. A man of your character and achievements simply couldn’t commit a cold-blooded murder and try to hide it. I don’t know your motive. But if you know who did murder Carson, for the love of Mike, tell me!”

“What steps will you take?” smiled Bernard. “You’re in harness yet, remember, while I’m out to graze.”

“If you haven’t taken any, I won’t!”

Thereupon, preceded by a brief, slightly apologetic explanation of his own reason for confessing, Bernard named the real murderer of Henry Carson.

Landis was too surprised to offer any immediate comment. Moreover, he was busy with a swift readjustment of the evidence in the light of what he had heard.

At length he laughed. “So simple we never thought of it! Well, I’m glad you didn’t guess either, until you were told. It was a pretty white thing you did.”

Bernard frowned and fumbled with his pipe.

“That heart attack you had on the stairs!” cried Landis suddenly. “It was fake after all!”

“If there’s anything wrong with me,” growled Bernard, “it isn’t my heart!”

There the Carson case reached a final summation.

Now Landis, who had grown very fond of his gruff colleague, had been watching him during dinner. He had found the old detective just a little subdued. Maybe domesticated was the word. Nor had he altogether missed a softening doubt—a trace of worry—in Mrs. Bernard.

With an eye on the face of his host he probed a little, after a fashion of his own.

“Well, marriage is a great institution, sir! And yet, though I’m almost ashamed to admit it, I shan’t be sorry to get back to work!”

Someone with a turn for imagery once compared the look of Bernard to that of a weatherworn and rocky cliff with the sun on it. At this moment a shadow darkened that roughhewn profile as though a cloud were passing overhead. “We’re both lucky—” Bernard declared with slow precision, “luckier and happier than we deserve, young fellow!”

“We certainly are, sir! But then, a man needs his work to round out the picture!”

Bernard frowned and stirred restlessly. He turned his head and caught his guest’s eyes on him. Landis was smiling a little. Bernard thumped back into his chair until it creaked beneath his weight.

“Why, you—you d—d, young billygoat!” he snorted. “Pumping me, were you! That’s what a man gets for crawling on the shelf—rusty wits!”

“I’ll probably need you!” Landis explained blandly. “To me, sir, you’re like a fine, staunch craft in harbor, with the winds of the open sea whispering through the rigging. Says I to myself: if I can just whistle loud enough through that rigging, why maybe he’ll put to sea again! Only don’t tell Mrs. Tall—Mrs. Bernard. Fact is, the real top-notchers are badly needed these days!”

“And you’re the boy to supply the wind,” Bernard growled. “Now it’s flattery, eh?”

With a laugh of acknowledgment entirely unabashed, Landis went off at a tangent. “You see, sir, I’m waiting for one of those cases where a man’s pretty sure but not quite—and where there’s not enough evidence to satisfy the grand jury. Then you’re stuck—”

“Third degree,” growled Bernard.

“Given a clever criminal with no previous record, who won’t scare, where are you? You’re not certain! And remember, sir, there’s no third degree practiced any more!” He cocked a whimsical eye at his host. “So you can’t go too far in that direction!”

Bernard puffed at his pipe. “Bluff!” he suggested. “Traps! Surprises! There’s always a way, or almost always. No matter how hard they try, guilty people can’t always act exactly as they would act if they were innocent!”

“I think I see,” nodded Landis gratefully. “When the case crops up we can dope out a way together, sir.”

This time Bernard laughed. “Is tha-at so? My lad, you’ll have to whistle pretty loud to get this hulk out of harbor. Marion and I are quite contented, thank you!”

“Wouldn’t disturb you for the world!” Landis turned. Tsu, the houseboy, stood in the doorway.

“Mistee Landis,” he intoned, “Headqualtees ling on telephone. Say you please come, chop chop!”

Landis sprang from his chair and disappeared into the hall as the Chinese stepped back. Tsu followed him.

Puffing away at his pipe, Bernard began to smile. Landis had long since won his rather difficult approval. He admired the boy for sacrificing an excellent social position in order to serve society—a society more and more closely beleaguered by the criminal element—in a practical way. He was clever and not too conceited; just lacked experience. When he had that, he would make a name for himself!

Reverting to their conversation just past, Bernard started a trifle and uttered a faint snort.

After a while he heard Landis in the hall calling Elsa. Then the young man appeared in the doorway, an expression of awe on his misleadingly frank countenance.

“Headquarters it was, sir! I’ve got to go. Wow, what a case!”

“All wasted!” snapped Bernard. “You knew the call was coming! Think you can fox me?”

Landis burst out laughing. “Not this call, sir! Mason Rees Harrison—Harrison, the sugar king—was murdered tonight in his own library! It happened at seven-thirty, about the time we sat down to dinner. Somebody out there telephoned Headquarters. The Chief gave me the good word and I’m deputized. My papers are waiting—commission to the case from the local prosecutor!”

“Suppose you can deputize anybody you like?” asked Bernard suspiciously.

“That’s the usual courtesy, I believe.” Landis contrived a tone of silken preoccupation. “On the other hand,” he added suddenly, “no doubt the Chief gave me the job because he knew you’d help. He knows I’m here, you see.”

“Young fox!” Bernard growled.

“My hat! Why the harsh words?”

Both men turned and Bernard heaved himself to his feet. In the doorway stood Elsa and Mrs. Bernard, the one, who had just spoken, radiating force and a blunt sort of charm; the other a little flushed and prettier than ever.

“Harrison the millionaire,” said Landis quickly. “He was shot tonight and I’ve got the case. Of course, I’d like Mr. Bernard to help me, just as he—er—helped with the Carson case.” He smiled engagingly at Mrs. Bernard.

She looked with swift surprise at her husband. After an instant her expression changed and grew subtly questioning. Bernard shook his head.

“He’s trying to drag an old hulk out of harbor, Marion! Nice I’d look, leaving you!”

There was a little pause.

“Do you want to go, Paul?”

He turned away to knock the dottle out of his pipe. “Certainly not, my dear! The boy’s crazy—”

His wife strode forward and put her hands on his shoulders. She was very tall for a woman but he was nearly a head taller and half again as broad in his massive old shoulders. She turned him about and looked up at him.

“If you want to go, go! Hunting man is in your blood just as hunting animals is in mine. Think I care if it’s dangerous? Think I’m the kind of woman to keep a man tied to her apron strings—a man, Paul?” she demanded.

“Humph!” Bernard fumbled with his pipe, dropped it, started to pick it up, changed his mind and kissed her. “Well,” he grumbled, “I might just look the ground over, my dear.”

“You’ll go and do as you please,” said his wife.

Bernard grunted something and stooped for his pipe. Only Landis caught the momentary quiver of Mrs. Bernard’s lips as she turned away. A little remorseful, he looked down at Elsa who had tucked her arm through his. Luckily her youth and optimism, her confidence in him, spared her what he had seen in the older woman’s face. She was pouting a little.

“Back to work so very soon?” she protested.

“’Fraid so, Honey! Worst of it is, I can’t very well take you into town again. This place is an hour’s run from here in the other direction and I’ve got to get out there at once. It isn’t likely we’ll get back tonight.”

“She’ll stay here, of course,” interrupted Mrs. Bernard, and turned to Elsa. “We’ll go pack a bag for the two of them!” She hustled her niece out of the room with her.

The detectives made their journey to the scene of the murder in the car Landis had bought for his honeymoon.

An hour later, they turned into a long upward drive toward a mansion which seemed ready to burst with the light streaming from its many windows. In view of the wealth of the victim, the case might prove delicate to handle. If the local authorities had been willing to send for outside help, it was almost certainly a difficult one.

Landis drew up in front of a deep, brightly lighted veranda, and they mounted three broad steps, passed between two groups of vacant hammocks and wicker chairs and rang the bell. From the veranda the main building ran back, unbroken on the left where the windows looked out upon lawns and trees, broken on the right by a large wing at right angles to it. So much they had seen as they drove up.

The butler admitted them to a tiled vestibule from which doors opened into cloakrooms on either hand. The vestibule was gilded and frescoed to an ornate chilliness, while high, expensive looking vases flanked the entrance to the hall beyond.

At this second doorway they faced a long hall two stories high, surrounded by a second-floor balcony. Straight ahead of them a wide, pseudo-Venetian staircase led up to a landing where it branched left and right to the balcony.

Through open doorways on their left they could see a bit of the over-furnished drawing-room and of the dining-room beyond. On either side of the staircase narrow passages ran back to green baize doors. Midway in the right-hand wall a wide doorway opened into a big room lined with books. On their immediate right a smaller door was closed.

A slow glance registered these details in both their memories. Then they eyed the butler, Landis studying the man’s face while Bernard looked at his hands. These last hung quite naturally and did not tremble. The face, narrow and aquiline, with slightly sunken dark eyes, was unusually handsome. At the moment it was smoothly pale and rigid with aloof dignity.

Bernard looked up.

“You the butler?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Stimson, sir.” The tone was entirely unruffled and distinctly chilly. “Er—Mr. Landis?”

Now Landis had already introduced himself. So the butler was snubbing Bernard! It was a situation not without humor, if Stimson had known. Landis proceeded to tell him.

“I’m Landis, as I believe I mentioned already,” he said. “This is Mr. Bernard—Mr. Paul Bernard—of whom you may have heard, Stimson!”

The man stepped back a pace and bent slightly.

“I have, of course, sir. You’ll pardon me. Your manner was a trifle abrupt and I did not know.”

A most astonishing butler, thought Landis.

If Bernard had any retort to make, it was checked by the sudden opening of the door on their right and the appearance of a youngish man in evening clothes. He closed the door behind him and came forward unsmiling.

“Mr. Landis?” he inquired.

Landis bowed. The young man directed a glance of dismissal at the butler who turned without haste and moved away toward the dining-room.

“This is Mr. ——?” inquired Landis politely.

“My name’s Graham. I’m junior member of the law firm employed by Mr. Harrison. My wife and I have been guests here for a week and I was here tonight when Mr. Harrison was murdered. So I took charge until the police came.” He glanced quickly at Bernard.

Landis introduced them and Graham’s face brightened a little.

“Glad to meet you, sir! If you’re here officially, we’re lucky. Of course, I know your name—”

“And never heard of mine,” Landis smiled. “Well, Mr. Bernard is going to help us!”

Graham’s features relaxed in a smile that betrayed signs of strain. He was of the clear-cut, capable, rather highly strung type of young business man whose good breeding and rigid code of ethics often lead to the law.

“The coroner has been here and gone again,” he explained. “He’s coming back in the morning for the body.”

Landis studied the direct, dark blue eyes.

“Who sent for me?” he inquired.

“I did. The coroner agreed that expert help was advisable and arranged your papers with the local authorities.”

“Why?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“Because the murder looks like an inside job, Mr. Bernard!” Graham smoothed his short brown hair nervously. “But you can judge for yourself, of course.”

“Where’s the body?”

Graham turned and led them through the doorway from which he had emerged. They found themselves in a small, brilliantly lighted reception-room furnished with polished console tables and stiff gold chairs.

Toward the far side of the room, the pale gray carpet bore a large, irregular stain of moisture from which bits of broken glass caught the light. Immediately in front of them a big man lay sprawled on his back, his arms outflung, his feet pointing toward the open door which led into the library. A local policeman stood guard over the body.

Drawing nearer, the detectives saw that the dead face still bore the imprint of emotion. On the gross, slightly sunken features rested the shadow of a furious amazement. The evening clothes had been disarranged and approximately replaced.

“How was he killed?” rumbled Bernard.

“He was shot in the back—with an arrow.”

“An arrow!” Bernard frowned his incredulity.

“Yes. The broken shaft of it is still under him.”

“Has the body been moved then?” asked Landis.

“The doctor examined it and so did the coroner. But they replaced him exactly as they found him. The doctor is still here, waiting for you in the library.”

“He gives this arrow as the cause of death?”

“Yes. There doesn’t seem to be any question about that, Mr. Landis.”

“Do you mean to say that Harrison was shot here in his own house with an arrow, and nobody knows who did it?”

“That’s the strange part of it! There were two women here in this room who saw him fall. But they can’t help us. That’s why I telephoned Headquarters.”

“There must be somebody in the household, or somebody who was here tonight, who knows how to shoot with a bow and arrow!” snapped Bernard. “Nine people out of ten don’t know how—couldn’t shoot straight.”

“We—we all shoot!” said Graham.

CHAPTER II

THE BLUNTED ARROW

IN the rococo reception-room its recent owner still held the center of the stage, that dominance now one of arresting tragedy rather than of personality. He lay flat on his back, limp and motionless, cushioned in the pile of his own rich carpet. The glare of many bulbs from a gilt chandelier betrayed without mercy the heavy, self-indulgent, slightly distorted features. Death had robbed Harrison’s face of its dynamic vitality without lending it the dignity of peace.

Graham’s admission that everyone in the household could shoot with a bow and arrow had brought the eyes of Bernard and Landis from the dead man to the living. Aware of their swift attention, he hastened to explain.

“You see,” he began, “Mr. Harrison has a brother, Joel Harrison, who’s not quite—well—he’s unusual!”

“D’you mean he’s crazy?” suggested Bernard.

“No. He’s absent-minded and rather like a child—a sane child. He’ll devote immense enthusiasm to a fad that most of us would consider unimportant.” Graham smiled. “You’ll find the same identical symptoms in middle-aged golfers who are otherwise quite sane!

“Joel Harrison’s latest craze is archery. While not especially kind to him in other ways, Mr. Harrison must have given him a free hand with money. The house is full of bows and arrows. There are targets indoors and out. The two girls shoot very well and so does Miss Mount, who joins us occasionally. The rest of us have enjoyed the sport for a change and we’re all fair shots by this time, I guess.”

“You think someone in the house killed Harrison?” asked Landis bluntly.

“I’ve no other reason for thinking so. But the situation struck me as complicated and delicate. There are several guests. Harrison is the richest man in the neighborhood. Local respect for him would extend to his household.”

“What’s this stain on the carpet?” inquired Bernard.

“Susan dropped a tray of cocktails there when Mr. Harrison fell. She’s one of the housemaids.”

Bernard kneeled laboriously and sniffed at the patch of moisture. He found a bit of glass, turned it this way and that, then rose with a nod.

“Suppose we look over the ground a little before we see the doctor,” suggested Landis. “By the way, exactly where was Harrison standing when he was shot?”

“In the doorway,” said Graham. “He was coming into this room from the library when he suddenly plunged forward.”

“On his face?”

“I hadn’t thought of that! Perhaps he rolled over.”

“Then his legs wouldn’t point through the doorway as they do! Never mind. The shot came from the library. We’ll have a look at the library, I think.”

He glanced at Bernard who nodded in silence.

Leaving the local policeman on guard over it, they stepped past the body and entered the room from which the arrow had come. It was some fifty feet long, walled high with books, aglare with ceiling lights as well as standard and table lamps. The long inner wall to their left was broken by the double doorway into the hall and then by a fireplace of vast dimensions in which a log fire burned pallidly beneath the blaze of lights. Fireplace and chimney above it jutted into the room. Solid ranks of books lay beyond.

The far end wall was broken in the middle by a door, built to open outward and to the left. This was not quite closed. Against the end wall, square platforms about three feet high flanked a low passage to the door. They were hidden by handsome silk rugs, and from each rose a suit of armor; that to the left, chivalric; the other, Japanese.

The wall to the right held three windows at balanced intervals. Wide and high to light the big apartment in the daytime, the nearest two framed the contrasting darkness of the night outside, while the third showed a glimpse of the lighted wing, for the shades had not been lowered. The bottom sashes were closed. The top ones were down a foot or so, though the October air had grown chilly at twilight.

Opposite the fireplace stood an enormous teakwood desk, its carved dragons supporting a surface of polished black marble. Landis regarded it with awe as the ugliest and clumsiest piece of furniture he had ever seen. A bronze desk-lamp, lighted, disclosed gilded files, papers clipped together, a small hand telephone on its rest and the paraphernalia of a working desk. Much of the other furniture was almost equally heavy and pretentious, if not quite so ugly.

In front of the fire sat a middle-aged man with a short beard and large ears, drumming on the arms of his chair. He stood up as they drew nearer and Graham introduced him as Doctor Stanford from the town a half-mile distant.

The doctor’s rumpled, threadbare suit indicated no stress of calls to make. Impressed by Bernard’s name, he expressed his willingness to wait a little longer. Landis, who had been looking absently about, thanked him and led Bernard and Graham on down the room.

At the far end, the platform on the left supported a suit of golden armor of the solid, tournament type, the breast-plate and closed visor each embossed with a crown. Landis veered toward the other platform on which stood the harness of a Samurai warrior encasing a lay figure. In contrast with the gold on steel opposite, the woven silk of the Japanese armor and its lacquered, overlapping scales of papier-mâché appeared ridiculously light.

Landis was not interested in comparisons. From the shoulders of the Japanese figure hung a quiver containing three arrows, points downward, their projecting shafts fletched with short white feathers. Leaning against the figure, but not attached to it, stood a long, asymmetrical Japanese bow, strung and taut.

From a chair close at hand a police sergeant had come to his feet. Graham introduced him as Sergeant Forbes of the local force. The man saluted and shook hands with both detectives, eyeing Bernard with veiled interest. If he resented this intrusion from city headquarters, his terse, matter-of-fact greeting gave no indication of it.

“Seems a difficult case, Sergeant,” observed Landis cordially. “We’re going to need all the help you can give us.”

Sergeant Forbes flushed a little.

“You can rely on me for that, Lieutenant,” he replied gruffly.

“How long have you been on guard here?”

“I’ve kept that bow under my eye ever since I arrived, about ten minutes after the murder,” answered the sergeant. “Nobody’s touched it since I came.”

Landis turned to Graham.

“It wasn’t strung like that as a rule, I suppose?”

“I’m not sure. But it wasn’t where it is now. Miss Mount says it was slung over the back. She ran in here only a minute or two after Mr. Harrison was shot. She noticed then that it had been moved.”

“Who’s Miss Mount?” inquired Bernard.

“She used to be governess to Mr. Harrison’s two daughters. Now she’s hostess, chaperon and housekeeper, so to speak. She was in the reception-room with Susan when Mr. Harrison fell.”

“Did anyone,” Landis asked, “keep an eye on the bow after Harrison was shot and before the police arrived?”

Graham nodded doubtfully.

“Part of the time. I didn’t get downstairs until eight or ten minutes after Mr. Harrison was murdered. I came in here almost at once and phoned for the doctor and the police from that big desk. While I was sitting there Miss Mount came in and showed me the bow and told me it had been moved. From the desk I could see the bow in one direction and, by turning my head, keep an eye on Mr. Harrison’s body through the doorway. I sat there until the sergeant and the other policeman arrived. There was nobody in the room when I got here. No one who came in after that went near either end of the room up to the time the sergeant took over the job of watching.”

“Barring the doctor,” Sergeant Forbes volunteered, “there’s been nobody in this room since I came.”

“Thanks!” said Landis pleasantly.

“Was this end door usually open or closed?” Bernard asked Graham.

“Miss Mount spoke of that, too. It was open until tonight. I can verify that. I’ve passed it often since I’ve been here and glanced into the library. The door was always back against the wall in the hall.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Bernard thoughtfully. He moved between the suits of armor and pushed the door, his hand close to the hinge, so that it swung slowly open.

Standing in the doorway he faced the middle of a short, wide hall running left and right across the end of the library. To his right the wall containing the doorway in which he stood was, of course, blank. But turning his head to the left he saw that it extended a little beyond the end of the library to contain a green baize, swing door. His sense of topography told him that this door communicated with the front hall on the near side of the main staircase. The end wall to his left had a similar green door at right angles to the other. The end wall to his right was blank. He had expected windows, as it was a continuation of the long outer wall of the library. Evidently the wing lay beyond. The near right-hand corner was occupied by a luxurious couch, behind which rose a marble statue of Cupid and Psyche in a flippant mood.

The other side of the hall contained, from left to right, three wide, shallow, frosted windows set high in the wall and, at the extreme right, a heavy, closed door. Through the windows shone a diffused and greenish light.

Bernard turned to find Graham beside him. Landis had stepped back and they heard him ask the sergeant to stay in the library and watch the Japanese bow. When he rejoined them Bernard pointed away to his left.

“What’s beyond that swing door at the end of the hall there?” he asked Graham.

“That and the swing door on the far side of the main staircase open into the servants’ hall, I believe, although I’ve never been through either.”

Bernard indicated the opposite wall. “What’s back of those windows?” he inquired. “Billiard-room?”

“Yes,” Graham nodded, “through that door.”

Landis had moved away to the left and, after a peep through the little window it contained, had swung open the door at the end of the hall and vanished. Now he reappeared and joined them.

“Butler’s pantry opposite,” he told Bernard. “Kitchen farther back. Narrow hall to the back door. This side of it the cellar stairs go down. Above them and just beyond this door to the right the back stairs go up to the second floor. Just beyond this door on the left is another into the front hall on the far side of the main stairs.”

Bernard grunted an acknowledgment and frowned.

“Billiard-room behind those windows,” he told Landis, abruptly. “Might have a look at it.”

They crossed the hall diagonally and opened the heavy door to find themselves in an oak-paneled room parallel to and of the same length as the hall they had just left. It was pleasantly warm, the air hazy and fragrant with cigarette- and wood-smoke.

Their entrance failed to interrupt a desultory game of billiards being played by two young men in evening clothes. Both looked up. The more slender of the two nodded to Graham, his face in shadow. The other bent over the table, where the shaded lights revealed him as big and blond and good-looking. He finished his shot and made it.

Only the lights above the table were switched on, so that a big log fire at the far end cast dancing shadows on the walls and ceiling. It burned in a fireplace of rough stone flanked by deep leather chairs. The far side wall contained three windows hidden by lowered shades. Low, built-in wooden seats, upholstered with dark green, leather cushions ran along each side of the room, with billiard-racks above them and between the windows.

Another closed door faced the one through which they had entered. A pace or two distant, the middle of the end wall to their right was pierced by a generous archway. Heavy, drawn curtains concealed what lay beyond.

Landis nodded toward the opposite door. “Where does that go?” he asked Graham.

“It opens on a small porch and a flight of steps to the sunken garden. The lower hall of the guest wing lies through the arch here.”

With a humorous glance at his impassive companion Landis parted the curtains and they stepped through to find themselves looking down a long hall at right angles to the library. Landis dropped the curtains behind him. In the billiard-room, the two young men exchanged glances and went on with their game.

The hall which the detectives now faced was richly carpeted. Six doors opened into it, three on the left, one at the end and two on the right. All six were closed.

“Help!” Landis grumbled. “This place is like a hotel! Well, what are all these rooms?”

Graham’s nervous answering smile acknowledged, almost gratefully, this human touch of exasperation.

“They’re bachelor guest rooms,” he explained, “two on each side with a bath between. That door at the end leads outdoors to the garage. We use this hall a lot coming in and out.”

“Anybody using the rooms?” asked Bernard dryly.

“Those two chaps in the billiard-room are quartered here. Russell, the big fellow, has the far room on the right, facing the front of the house. Allen has the far one on the left. The nearer rooms are unoccupied so far as I know.”

“What’s the extra door down there?” Landis cut in.

“I’ve no idea. It might be a linen-closet—”

Landis was off down the hall. He opened the last door on the left, shut it again and groaned as he rejoined them. “Another flight of stairs! Opens into the hall above this one, I suppose?”

“Never knew it was there!” said Graham in surprise. “Come to think of it, I believe there is a third door on the left upstairs. We’re billeted up there. It’s probably meant for the servants.”

Landis nodded absently. “Well,” he said, “suppose we go back and interview that doctor.”

“Just a minute,” rapped Bernard. He walked heavily toward the end of the hall and tried the door there. It was locked, and his big fingers found the key on the inside.

“Thought you used this hall a lot!” he growled as he came back. “It’s only a bit after ten and the door’s locked!”

“That’s funny,” said Graham. “It’s never locked until midnight as a rule—later, if we’re all out.”

“Well, it’s locked now.”

“Wait a minute!” Graham paused to think.

“We all came through that door before dinner tonight,” he declared at last, “that is, the six of us. I dropped behind with my wife. And I held the door open for her! I’m sure of that! Look here, I was the last one through that door before dinner—I mean, when we came home—and I’m certain I didn’t lock it after me!”

“That’s something! Suppose the butler locked it?”

“I don’t know why he should—unless after Mr. Harrison was murdered!”

“The stable door,” said Landis. “Well, that can wait, I guess.” He looked at Bernard. “Nice layout, isn’t it, sir? The wing must connect with the main building upstairs. So there’s at least one route for any person in the house to get from any room in the house to that Japanese bow without being seen from the front hall or the library!”

“Looks that way,” agreed Bernard shortly. “Suppose we have a look at the body now.”

Passing through the billiard-room, Landis tried the door to the sunken garden and found it unlocked. The two players looked up again but made no remark. In the hall beyond, Graham gave vent to a mirthless laugh.

“Of course those fellows wanted to leave after such a tragedy,” he grumbled, “and of course I had to ask them to stay! It’s a pleasant atmosphere here, with everybody suspecting everybody else in the house!”

“Would there be anyone in the billiard-room just at dinner time?” Landis asked him.

“It’s hard to say. Somebody might come down early and play a bit.”

“If they didn’t, it would be just as easy for anybody to get to this end of the library from outside the house altogether! The door into the sunken garden wasn’t locked, unless someone has unlocked it since the murder.”

“It probably wouldn’t be locked before dinner,” Graham told them.

Landis nodded and led his companions into the library where they found Sergeant Forbes still on guard by the Japanese armor and the doctor pacing slowly up and down in front of the fire. Landis paused between the two platforms and stared down the long room toward the doorway where Harrison had been shot. Nothing interrupted his view of it.

Bernard came to a halt, following the glance of the younger man, a half-smile twitching at his grim lips. Graham stopped also and looked from one detective to the other.

Abruptly Landis took out his handkerchief, turned to the Japanese quiver and, without touching them with his hands, carefully withdrew the arrows it contained. He laid them gently across his coat sleeve, examined them at close quarters and beckoned his companions.

The warhead of one of the arrows was badly blunted. At the other end of this arrow a tiny bit of feather had been ripped off close to the shaft and was missing.

Bernard looked and smiled. “Score one to you, perhaps!” he rumbled. “That’s first-class reasoning!”

Landis laid the damaged arrow near the bow and restored the others to the quiver. Then he walked to the big desk, sat down and put through a call to the city. Bernard and Graham joined the doctor by the fire, where they heard Landis urging someone to come at once.

“Look here,” Graham murmured to Bernard, “how in the world could he guess that one of those arrows was blunted? And what does it go to prove?”

“Second question first,” answered Bernard, smiling. “I don’t know what it will prove. As to his guess, it’s a fairly long shot down the room. If anybody planned to shoot Harrison from back there by the door, he might want to make sure he could shoot straight with that bow and one of those arrows. So he might find or make an opportunity to test his skill with them—somewhere else. But an arrow is pretty big to hide successfully. His practice arrow might be missed. Therefore, he might restore it to the quiver and hope no one would notice it. It was good reasoning and probably correct. That arrowhead was blunted recently. It’s still shiny.”

Graham looked his astonishment. “Great guns! I knew you fellows were keen—but—

“On the other hand,” he digressed suddenly, “why should anybody shoot down the whole length of the room at Mr. Harrison? Why not slip in the door there and shoot him at his desk? He was sitting there just before he was killed.”

“How do you know that?”

“Miss Mount came in and spoke to him a few minutes before the gong sounded.”

“We-ell,” drawled Bernard, “a man at a desk and sideways on is no easy target for a fatal shot with an arrow. Perhaps Harrison knew the murderer by sight. If the first arrow merely wounded him—and there’d be no time for a second—he might turn his head and recognize his assailant—from the desk. On the other hand, if Harrison reached the far end of the room and had his back turned, the murderer had a better chance to slip out again unseen, supposing his shot failed to kill. Do you get the idea?”

“Since you’ve explained it, I do,” nodded Graham with a laugh.

Landis hung up the receiver and joined them.

“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Doctor!” he said cheerfully. “Now, let’s have a look at the body.”

CHAPTER III

THE BROKEN ARROW

IN the brightly lighted reception-room the local policeman had helped himself to a chair, a delicate, gilded affair that looked too small and spindling to support his generous bulk. Bolt upright, he maintained an uncomfortable but stolid watch over the body of the dead millionaire.

Doctor Stanford nodded familiarly to the policeman. The other three advanced and stood looking down at the object of his vigil. Landis and Bernard studied the position of the body both physiologically and in relation to the room in which it lay. Graham, beside them, and the doctor, opposite, studied their faces instead, noting the vast difference between them, idly speculating on their relative abilities. Bernard seemed more the type; burly, tenacious and, in spite of his age, distinctly formidable. About Landis, however, young and friendly and sympathetic though he was, there lurked an air of efficiency. They had received proof in the library of his deductive powers.

The doctor’s thoughts so closely paralleled those of Graham that the eyes of the two were drawn to each other and over the body of Harrison they exchanged a fleeting smile.

“He was shot in the doorway and he fell forward into the room.” Bernard was thinking aloud. “Then he ought to be lying on his face. Maybe he rolled over after he fell. Then he ought to be out of line with the door. But here he lies on his back with his legs pointing straight through the doorway toward that lop-eared bow!”

“That needn’t worry us, sir!” Landis looked at Stanford. “Wouldn’t the weight of an arrow driven hard enough to kill him be likely to spin him half-way round as he fell?”

“Almost sure to, striking him to one side as this one did! There’s little doubt that he fell on his back and never rolled at all.”

“Miss Mount saw him,” said Graham. “She can tell us how he fell.”

Landis nodded his thanks. “Describe the wound to us, will you, Doctor?”

“Certainly. The arrow struck and crashed through the fourth rib close to the left scapula, pierced the left lung and the heart and struck the fourth rib near the breastbone, causing a compound fracture there.”

“The same rib in front?” Landis exclaimed. “You mean the arrow was horizontal when it struck him?”

“Oh, no,” Doctor Stanford smiled. “The ribs are a bit higher in the back than they are in front. The arrow was pointing downward—dropping a little.”

“Would you say that it struck him with considerable force?” Landis persisted.

“With terrific force!” retorted the doctor. “Mr. Harrison is deep chested and his bones are heavy and strong. But the arrow went clear through him, breaking one of the heaviest ribs in two places!”

“Then it wasn’t a woman who shot him!” rumbled Bernard. He looked at Graham inquiringly.

“Probably you’re right,” the lawyer admitted. “It isn’t likely that a woman could draw a bow far enough to shoot an arrow that hard.”

Landis moved nearer the dead man’s head, dropped to one knee and looked up at the doctor.

“Graham tells me the broken shaft of the arrow is still under him. I’d like to see it. Help me sit him up, will you? And while we’re at it we might as well have a look at the wound.”

Doctor Stanford kneeled on the far side and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to a sitting position. The movement revealed a small bloodstain, perhaps an inch across, matting the carpet. Bisecting this stain lay the shaft of an arrow, snapped off short and crushed into the thick pile. It looked two feet long or more and had lain parallel with the body, the feathered end of it at the base of the dead man’s spine.

“There’s ten or eleven inches of it still in his body,” the doctor explained.

“Anybody touched this shaft?” inquired Landis.

Graham shook his head.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Not since I have been here, sir,” the policeman volunteered, and Doctor Stanford nodded endorsement.

Landis took one of the feather vanes between finger and thumb, slid the nocked end of the arrow from under Harrison’s body and lifted the shaft clear. Taking care not to let it touch anything, he walked into the library and deposited his deadly trophy beside the blunted arrow over which Sergeant Forbes was standing guard.

When he got back to the reception-room Bernard and Graham had hold of Harrison’s head and the doctor was swiftly stripping the corpse to the waist. Graham’s face was drawn with distaste.

The removal of the dead man’s undershirt revealed a small, clotted wound in the back near the shoulder blade. In front, perhaps two inches on the left side of the breastbone, the hairy chest showed an irregular, raised lump, torn open at the top and dark with blood. Side by side from the top of the lump protruded a blunted metal arrowhead and a thick, jagged splinter of bone. Half an inch of the arrowhead was visible and about an inch of the broken rib. Friction with the clothing had wiped these almost clear of blood.

“Not much question of the cause of death,” commented Landis grimly. “Well, let’s pull out the arrow if we can, Doctor, and keep our exhibits together.”

Presently the doctor held out to him the rest of the arrow—the blunted end and about a foot of shaft—which he had managed to draw from the wound and had wiped clean. Bernard had laid the body down where it had first fallen.

Again Landis traversed the library to leave this bit of splintered evidence with the rest.

“Look here, sir,” he said to Bernard as he re-entered the front room, “I’d like to get the exact line of flight of that arrow, if you’ll lend me a hand.”

Bernard nodded assent and between them they lifted the body of Harrison to its feet, shuffled to the door with it, swung about and held it as nearly as possible erect, a limp and dreadful travesty of drunken somnolence.

“Now, Doctor,” said Landis sharply, “line up the wound if you can and see where it points. He must have been about in this position when he was shot.”

Doctor Stanford faced the body, felt for the wound in the back, took a pencil out of his pocket and held it perpendicularly against that wound so that it showed above the shoulder. Then, with one eye directly above the wound in the chest he squinted past the pencil down the library.

“Just about hits Sergeant Forbes,” he announced. “The arrow entered a trifle from the left and a trifle downward. But there’s no way to tell just how Harrison was facing when he got it.”

“We may be able to find out about that later,” said Landis with a touch of silk in his voice. “That’s all we need, I think. Wonder whether you’d mind dressing the body for the coroner.”

“All right! Lay him on the floor again.”

Landis and Bernard complied without comment. As they rose from their task a figure passing along the hall caught Bernard’s attention.

It was the butler, moving with dignified tread toward the front door. In a moment they heard voices. A short, sandy little man with red eyelids and rumpled hair appeared in the hall doorway and caught sight of Harrison’s body.

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed. “A dreadful business! A dreadful, dreadful business! Now, who—”

“Mr. Brent!” exclaimed Graham.

“Yes, Graham, I’m here! Dreadful! Who are these gentlemen?” With the sudden question Brent drew himself erect and pursed his lips. Both Landis and Bernard noticed that there was more than a hint of force of character about the heavy nose and full chin of the newcomer.

Introductions followed and the detectives learned that Fullerton Brent was the acting senior partner of Cathcart, Brent & Graham, Cathcart having retired. The firm, Brent told them, had handled Harrison’s legal affairs for nearly thirty years, ever since he became a power in the financial world.

“Dreadful,” he repeated at last. “And now, gentlemen, who did it?”

Bernard merely grunted. Landis smiled. “We haven’t been here long and we don’t know yet,” he answered pleasantly. “How did you happen to hear about it, Mr. Brent?”

“Graham telephoned my house. I was out for a stroll at the time but he left word of what had happened and that he was sending to the city for an experienced detective. I live not far from here, down in the town. As soon as I returned and received his message, I came here, post haste.” He turned to eye Graham. “You followed the wise course, young man. No hitch with the local authorities, I take it?”

“No, sir. The coroner agreed that it would be a good plan and arranged the details.”

“By the way, Mr. Brent!” Bernard’s voice had a booming note in it, “now you’re here, do you happen to know whether Harrison changed his will lately?”

The question was totally unexpected and Brent’s expression clearly indicated that he took exception to it. “So far as I know, Mr. Harrison has not changed his will lately!” he snapped. “Why do you ask, Mr.—er—the name, I fear, escapes me.”

“Bernard,” supplied Landis gently. “Mr. Paul Bernard, of whom you may have heard, Mr. Brent!”

Brent had. His tone and manner changed, chameleon-like, from ruffled dignity to genial welcome. “Well, well! Of course, I have! We have a famous man on the case, then—and an able assistant, no doubt!” He nodded shortly at Landis.

“Tut, tut,” said Bernard, with a ghost of a smile. “Landis is in charge and I’m the assistant.” He turned to Graham. “Do you happen to know whether Harrison changed his will within the last two or three weeks?”

“So far as I know, he hasn’t. And one of us would know if he had, of course.”

They were grouped in the doorway between the reception-room and the hall. At this moment Doctor Stanford finished his task and approached them. Brent eyed the man closely, then presented him with a distant nod.

“All right,” said the doctor. “That’s finished. My name’s in the local telephone directory if you want me again. Good night.” He edged through the doorway without looking at Brent and let himself out of the house.

As soon as the front door closed, Brent snorted.

“How did that man get in here?” he demanded.

“Mr. Harrison’s family doctor was on his vacation and Miss Mount suggested Doctor Stanford. She said he had been here before,” answered Graham soothingly.

“Surprised to hear it,” snapped Brent.

“What’s the matter with him?” Landis inquired.

“Rumors, sir! Rumors! One hears that he traffics in liquor prescriptions! It has also been hinted that he misuses his calling in other ways—at a price! However, that is neither here nor there. The man has done his work and gone, I presume—”

“About the question of this will,” interrupted Bernard grimly. “Can you give me the names of the principal heirs, Mr. Brent, and any other large bequests? I’m talking about the will at present in force so far as you know. I suppose you drew it up, didn’t you?”

Wounded, visibly swelling and rather red in the face, Brent contrived to swallow his temper. “I did, sir! And I—I can give you an outline of the will,” he stammered.

Landis felt a touch on his arm and turned to find Graham at his elbow. In the eyes of the young lawyer he saw a twinkle of amusement and a whimsical plea. “Suppose,” Graham suggested at large, “that we all go into the library and sit down? I’d just as soon get away from the sight of Mr. Harrison’s body, myself!”

“Good idea,” said Landis. “What do you say, sir?”

“You’re in charge,” the older detective retorted.

By the time they were settled in front of the fire the metaphorical ice was firm again. Brent explained that the will, in force so far as he knew, left Harrison’s fortune jointly to his two daughters, Isabelle and Anita. It was left to them as a trust until they were twenty-five, at which times they would receive their share of the principal.

“How old are they now?” inquired Bernard.

“Isabelle is twenty-four, I think, and Anita twenty-one or twenty-two. They won’t suffer on the income in the meantime!” Brent concluded with heavy playfulness.

“How large a fortune will it be?” Bernard asked.

“Somewhere in the neighborhood of ten million dollars, I believe.”

“Well, well,” exclaimed Bernard pompously and set Landis to chuckling without sound. “That’s a large sum, Mr. Brent! Any large bequests to be deducted first?”

“There are several other bequests, most of them from two to five thousand dollars to servants and old employees. Mr. Harrison left three larger ones. He left a half-million-dollar life trust to be administered for the benefit of his brother, Joel, a hundred-thousand-dollar life trust for Miss Mount and fifty thousand dollars outright to myself. Graham and I are appointed executors and trustees. He also left Graham, here, ten thousand dollars cash.”

“Thanks,” said Bernard. “You have an excellent memory, Mr. Brent.”

“I hope so! I hope so! And now tell me, gentlemen, have you made any progress in discovering the murderer?”

“Well, Mr. Brent,” said Landis, “Mr. Harrison was murdered with an arrow. There’s nothing as yet to indicate an outside job. Few criminals know how to handle a bow.”

CHAPTER IV

SUSAN HAD HYSTERICS

DEAD silence greeted this unenlightening statement. Brent’s face was a battleground of doubt and annoyance. Landis decided from the look in the elderly lawyer’s eye that he had gone far enough. He turned to Graham.

“Now that we’ve gone over the ground a bit,” he said, “I wish you’d give me a list of the people in the house, will you?”

“Let’s see,” Graham began quickly, “the two girls, Isabelle and Anita—”

“Were they both at home this evening when their father was murdered?” interrupted Bernard.

“Oh, yes. We were all here. It was just at dinner time, you see.”

“All here, eh? All right. Go ahead.”

“Then there’s Mr. Joel Harrison, the brother. At least, I suppose he was in the house at the time. I didn’t see him. Miss Mount was here, of course. So were Mrs. Graham and I, Russell and Allen whom you saw in the billiard-room and Mr. Harrison himself. That covers the family and the guests staying here but not the servants, of course.”

“Is there a Mrs. Harrison?” asked Landis.

“She died many years ago, soon after Anita was born,” Brent volunteered shortly. To observe his junior holding the center of the stage seemed to irk him.

“Thank you,” said Landis. “What about the servants, Mr. Graham?”

The young lawyer was palpably uncomfortable beneath the leaden, red-rimmed stare of his senior. “Why—er—Stimson, the butler, was here, of course. Miss Mount and Susan, one of the housemaids, were in the reception-room. Helen, the other housemaid, was helping my wife. The cook must have been in the kitchen. I don’t know about the chauffeur. Probably he was somewhere about.”

“Is that all the servants?” rumbled Bernard.

“So far as I know. I’ve never seen the cook, though there must be one—and a good one!”

“How much can you tell us,” queried Bernard, “as to the exact location in the house of all these people at the moment Harrison was shot?”

“Very little, I’m afraid. I was in the bathtub. Miss Mount tells me that she and Susan were in the reception-room when Harrison fell almost at their feet. Mrs. Graham was in her own room because she heard the scream and—”

“What scream?” Landis interrupted.

“Susan screamed when Mr. Harrison fell.”

“I see. Go ahead.”

“Mrs. Graham banged on the bathroom door to tell me that she and Helen had both heard a scream. Helen was with her then.”

“Did you hear the scream?”

“No, I didn’t. I was splashing about and the bathrooms don’t open directly into the hall, so there were two closed doors between.”

“That disposes of five people at least,” said Landis. He turned to Bernard. “Now, if you agree, I’d like to ask Mr. Graham to go back a bit and tell us, so far as he knows of his own observation, what happened this afternoon and evening up to, during, and after the murder.”

Getting a nod from Bernard he eyed Graham inquiringly.

Graham cast one glance at his restive senior and took the plunge.

“Well,” he began, “Mr. Harrison went into town this morning and didn’t get back for lunch. Joel Harrison vanished somewhere and didn’t turn up either. The rest of us had lunch here—seven of us.

“After lunch we hung about for a little while and then the six of us—”

“Six?” interrupted Bernard.

“Yes. Mrs. Graham and I, the two girls, Russell and Allen. Miss Mount had disappeared. The six of us went down to the yacht club for a tea dance. We stayed at the club until after six and got back here about six-thirty or a little later.”

“Where did you all enter the house?” asked Bernard.

“Through that door you found locked.”

“How did you get to your rooms?”

“Along the lower hall of the wing, through the billiard-room and the back hall and through the library to—”

“Through the library?” Landis interrupted.

“Yes. If Mr. Harrison had been there we would have gone round through the swing door into the front hall. But we glanced in, saw that he wasn’t there and—”

“If you glanced in,” said Bernard, “the door from the rear hall into the library must have been open!”

“Yes. It was open.”

“Open at six-thirty,” nodded Bernard. “Was there anybody in the library when you went through?”

“I didn’t see anyone.”

“Did you happen to notice the bow at that time?”

Graham shook his head: “Afraid I didn’t.”

“All right. How did you get to your rooms?”

“We went up the main stairs and through the right angle of hall into the wing.”

“Was there anybody about at that time?” asked Landis.

“I don’t think so. To tell you the truth, I didn’t notice. Mrs. Graham and I were having a bit of a scuffle—”

Here Brent delivered himself of a faint snort.

“Go on,” Landis encouraged with a smile. “How did it happen that with an hour to dress, you were in the tub at seven-thirty?”

Graham hesitated and flushed a little. “The fact is, Ethel and I—Mrs. Graham—got started on a scuffle coming upstairs and we kept it up in her room. Anyhow, when we got tired we talked for a while and then it was a quarter past seven. So I rang for Helen to help Mrs. Graham and raced in to get a bath and change. I had to put the studs in a clean shirt and it was nearly seven-thirty when I got started on my bath. But I had time, because they don’t sit down to dinner here until a quarter to eight. They have cocktails first in the reception-room, so the gong sounds at seven-thirty.”

Landis nodded. “And about seven-thirty Mrs. Graham pounded on the bathroom door?”

“Yes. I was in the tub with the water running. I turned it off and she called to me that she and Helen had both heard a loud scream. I thought it was some lark the girls were having and told her, if she was dressed, to go and see what was going on. She went downstairs. Helen went with her. A few minutes later my wife burst into the bathroom and told me that Mr. Harrison had been shot and Miss Mount wanted me to come down at once and take charge. So I hustled into my clothes and went down.”

Bernard leaned forward in his chair. “Now tell us exactly what you found when you got there!”

“That’s rather difficult,” said Graham. “Almost everyone in the house was either in the reception-room or milling around in the doorway. Susan was whooping and crying, Isabelle had fainted and one of the men, Russell, I think, had picked her up and was trying to get out into the hall with her. I pushed my way into the room and saw Mr. Harrison lying on his back. Miss Mount grabbed my arm, told me that he was dead, she thought, and urged me to tell her what to do. So I—”

“Who was there when you got there, and who wasn’t?” Landis interrupted.

“Well, Miss Mount was there, of course. Russell came out into the hall with Isabelle just before I went in. Allen was there with Anita. The butler was trying to quiet Susan. Helen, the other housemaid, was there, too. Mrs. Graham followed me down. I think that’s all.”

“Which leaves the cook, the chauffeur and Joel Harrison. You didn’t see them there?”

“No, I didn’t. But I didn’t notice particularly. I saw Mr. Harrison’s face and decided Miss Mount was right. I advised her to tell the butler to get Susan out of that and Helen, too. Then I went into the library to look around and my wife came with me. There was no one in here so I sat down at Mr. Harrison’s desk and called the doctor and then the police. I got Stanford’s name from Miss Mount. While I was at the telephone things quieted down a bit and Russell and Allen drifted in.

“As I hung up Miss Mount came in and called my attention to the strung bow and the closed door. She said the two girls had gone to their rooms and the butler had taken the maids to the kitchen. Then Russell and Allen said they’d better go, and I asked them not to leave the house until the police came.”

“They didn’t want to stay,” nodded Bernard.

“They both realized that it was better for no one to leave the house until after the police had been here.”

“Very sensible. Then what happened?”

“Well, Russell and Allen went across the hall to get some dinner and I sent Mrs. Graham with them. Miss Mount stayed and told me that she and Susan had actually seen Mr. Harrison shot. Susan had hysterics, and that delayed Miss Mount, but she ran into the library and switched on the top lights very soon after Mr. Harrison fell. She saw nothing but the strung bow and the closed door. She is sure there was no one there.”

“Did Miss Mount stay there with you?”

“No, I think she went up to look after the two girls. But I sat at the desk until the police came, keeping an eye on the Japanese bow and Mr. Harrison’s body.”

“You’re sure no one touched the body?” asked Landis.

“Practically sure. The room was too full of people for anyone to touch it before I got downstairs. And after I got down I’m quite sure no one touched it until Doctor Stanford arrived. He examined it, of course, but left it as he found it. Then Sergeant Forbes arrived and took charge.”

“What did you do after that, Mr. Graham?”

“I told the sergeant what had happened so far as I knew and showed him the body and the bow. He had telephoned the coroner and said he would be here shortly. I left him talking to Doctor Stanford and went through the main hall to the other hall back of the library and through to the billiard-room. I didn’t want to touch the closed door. There was no sign of anything out of the way. The business was a complete mystery and I decided then to speak to the coroner about telephoning the city for a first-class detective.

“Finally, I crossed the hall and got something to eat. While I was at the table the coroner arrived. I saw him and suggested sending for a Central Office detective. He went over the ground, decided the idea was justified and promised to arrange matters with the local authorities. So I telephoned Mr. Brent’s house and then city headquarters—and here you are!”

“Did the coroner touch the body?” asked Bernard.

“Oh, yes. He talked to the doctor and looked at the body himself. It was he who suggested that the doctor stay until you arrived. But they disturbed the body very little, I believe. You saw Mr. Harrison just as I saw him when I came down before dinner.”

Bernard leaned back in his chair.

“Excellent!” he rumbled. “They say lawyers make poor witnesses. But you’re to be congratulated on a good memory and a clear head!”

Graham smiled mirthlessly.

“The whole thing was so dramatic and terrible that the details are still vivid.”

“But most people would get the details fatally twisted, like Pat!” Bernard chuckled. “By the way, what can you tell us about the appearance of the various persons gathered near the corpse when you came down? Begin with the two young men, Russell and Allen. Were they fully dressed?”

“I think so. Yes, they were. Naturally they were impressed!”

“What about Miss Mount and the other daughter?”

“Both dressed. They were pale, of course, but seemed composed. Miss Mount was as steady as a veteran.”

“What about the butler—Stimson?” asked Landis.

“Don’t think I—yes, I did notice him trying to quiet Susan. He was a bit white but otherwise quite his capable, dignified self.”

“Did you notice anything that struck you as peculiar? Take plenty of time to think, please.”

The long library was silent for a few minutes except for the rustle of the fire.

“Afraid I didn’t,” admitted Graham at last.

“Were any of these library windows open from the bottom when you first came in here?”

“No. I’m sure they weren’t. I looked.”

“Aren’t the shades usually lowered by this time of night?” inquired Bernard.

“Yes. Stimson lowers them and closes the windows while we are at dinner. But tonight the sergeant chased him out and told him not to touch anything. He went in while I was at dinner and came back and told me with some stiffness!”

Landis smiled.

“Weren’t you a bit surprised that Mr. Harrison’s own brother never turned up?” he asked.

“Surprised? Not a bit of it!” chuckled Graham. “When you know him you won’t be surprised at anything he does!”

“By the way,” Bernard interjected, “can you tell us where the various people in the house are lodged—where their rooms are?”

“Some of them. I showed you where Russell and Allen are, at the end of the ground-floor wing. My wife has the end room in the wing on the second floor. She is at the rear, over Allen’s room. My room is the near one at the rear and we share the bathroom between. Miss Mount’s room is opposite mine in the wing. Joel Harrison has the room over the billiard-room on the second floor. The lateral hall at the head of the main staircase makes an “L” around his room to communicate with the hall of the wing. Afraid I haven’t noticed where the girls are, nor Mr. Harrison. The servants’ quarters, I believe, are on the third floor, two flights above us.”

“Miss Mount can tell us the rest. Suppose we send for her?” Landis suggested.

“Good idea,” nodded Bernard. “Would you care to remain during the interview?” he added, to Brent.

“I should, indeed!” Brent’s manner indicated that he fully intended to remain.

“Humph!” said Bernard. Graham rose rather hastily and departed in search of Miss Mount.

Brent glared at Bernard. The glare was returned. So the elderly lawyer lowered his head quickly and began to polish his glasses with vigor. Bernard leaned back in his chair and took out his pipe.

CHAPTER V

“A SOMEWHAT POMPOUS MAN”

WHEN Graham returned with Miss Mount and introduced them to her, Landis rose and acknowledged the honor with his most pleasant manner. Brent and Bernard got more slowly to their feet, Brent contenting himself with a brief bow while Bernard bade her good evening gruffly, his words accompanied by a penetrating regard that contrived to avoid offense.

Miss Mount was of the type described by the Victorians as “a fine figure of a woman.” That is, she was well developed but slender of shoulder and waist. Her skin possessed the smooth rich pallor that can lack color without appearing colorless. She had very handsome, mordant brown eyes and a wealth of dark hair. A firm, immobile mouth and chin and a slightly heavy though well-modeled nose indicated unusual force of character, attesting the message of her eyes. The average person would have guessed her to be in the late thirties. A woman, a lover of women, or an experienced old detective like Bernard would have added five years more and been correct.

The men stood waiting in silence while she sat down at one end of the long couch which faced the fire. Her manner as she crossed her knees and smoothed her unfashionably long skirt indicated entire composure and a certain reserve. Studying her unobtrusively, Landis recalled a beautiful, muscular cougar he had once seen on the limb of a tree, heavy-lidded, relaxed and—highly potential.

“Miss Mount,” he said, “Mr. Graham, here, has told us what he knows of the murder. Mr. Bernard and I would like to have you tell us your impressions, if you please.”

She turned her head slightly to look at him.

“Where would you like me to begin?”

“Where you please! Tell us anything and everything that you consider might be pertinent. Then we can interrupt you when it seems necessary.”

“Very well. Let me see. Mr. Harrison had Harley, our gardener and chauffeur, drive him into town after breakfast this morning. He did not—”

“Just a minute,” Bernard interrupted. “Did he go to town every day?”

“He did not return to lunch,” Miss Mount concluded her sentence. “No, he goes in only once or twice a week since he retired from business.”

“When was that?”

“A little over a year ago.”

“Do you know where he went today?”

Miss Mount hesitated perceptibly. “No, I do not.”

“Can you guess?” Bernard persisted.

“Do you want guesses?”

“I want answers,” he told her quietly.

“I prefer not to guess, Mr. Bernard.”

There was a brief, electric silence into which the modulated voice of Landis smoothly inserted itself. “Please continue your story, Miss Mount,” he requested.

She turned to look at Landis, a faintly speculative gleam in her eyes. He was all courteous attention.

“Very well. After lunch the young people went off in the two roadsters to the yacht club and I occupied myself with household affairs and some sewing.”

“Where was Mr. Harrison’s brother, Joel?” inquired Bernard as quietly as before.

“I believe he was out almost all day. He sometimes goes for long rambles and stays away for lunch.”

Bernard nodded in a slow, noncommittal way.

“Mr. Harrison,” continued Miss Mount, “returned a little after six and went to his room as usual, I suppose.”

“Didn’t you see him?” asked Landis.

“No. I was in my room in the wing. But my windows face the front of the house and I saw Harley drive the town car around to the garage at the end of the wing.”

“What makes you suppose that he went to his room?” asked Bernard bluntly. “Isn’t that a guess?”

Miss Mount smiled a little. “No, it is a deduction and quite an obvious one, Mr. Bernard. Mr. Harrison was a man of extremely regular habits. While in business, and since he retired, it has been his custom to return from town about a quarter past six as he did tonight and go to his room at once. He always bathed and changed for dinner and always took about three-quarters of an hour over it. A little after seven I found him at his desk in the library as usual, dressed for dinner as usual and reading the evening paper as usual.”

Bernard chuckled. “Pray proceed!”

“About six-thirty, I heard the young people come home, which is seldom difficult. I also heard Mr. and Mrs. Graham enter Mr. Graham’s room, across the hall from mine. They were quite—audible.”

“I know,” Graham laughed. “We were scuffling!”

“So I—guessed,” replied Miss Mount impassively.

Landis checked a laugh and refrained from looking at Bernard.

“Please go on,” he suggested.

“About seven I left my room and came down the back stairs to speak to Cook about crisping the salted almonds. Then I came in here to ask Mr. Harrison whether he expected additional guests tomorrow.”

“Why?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“He had neglected to tell me and—additional ordering might have been necessary.”

“Pretty late for that, wasn’t it?”

“The local stores are open until nine on Saturday night, Mr. Bernard. As it happened, it wasn’t necessary.”

“Through which door did you enter the library, Miss Mount?” Landis inquired.

“Through the door at the end there, by the armor.”

“Was it open or closed when you reached it?”

“I’m not certain because I did not notice. Another simple deduction, however, leads me to feel sure that it was open and back against the wall as usual. It was always left open. If it had been closed then, I am quite convinced that I would have noticed it, as I did later.”

“Excellent reasoning,” contributed Bernard. “Open some time after seven, our door was!”

“Thank you,” replied Miss Mount evenly. “I did not remain in the library long. Mr. Harrison seemed tired and out of sorts—”

“You mean he was in a temper?”

“Yes, he was in a temper!”

“Excuse me,” Landis interrupted. “You didn’t close that door at the end of the library after you?”

“No, I did not, Mr. Landis.” She paused a moment. “I then crossed the hall to the dining-room to look at the table. When Susan came through with the cocktail glasses I followed her down the hall to the reception-room—”

“So you didn’t pass through the doorway in which Harrison was shot a few minutes later?” asked Bernard.

“No. I entered the reception-room from the hall. Stimson, the butler, came in with the cocktail shaker, set it down and returned to the dining-room—”

“Do you know that he returned to the dining-room?”

“No, I do not. He went in that direction. When he had gone I told Susan to ring the gong in the hall. She went out and did so. As she came back I noticed that the room felt chilly and moved to close the window.”

“Was it usually closed at that time?”

“No. We have left it open all summer to keep the room aired of the cigar- and cigarette-smoke. The weather has been comparatively warm and I have not yet given the order to close the window before the cocktails are served. I have been closing it when I sent Susan to ring the gong.”

“I see,” said Bernard. “Go on, please.”

“I crossed to the side of the room to lower the window. I was closing it when Mr. Harrison came into the doorway.”

“Do you mean that he paused in the doorway?” asked Landis eagerly.

“Yes. He—usually paused in a doorway.”

Brent had been growing restless. He stirred in his chair and coughed importantly.

“A somewhat pompous man!” he announced. “I often noticed it!”

Landis, who had too vivid a sense of humor for a detective, was seized with a more violent cough. He smothered it and caught an answering gleam in Miss Mount’s dark eyes.

“Beg pardon,” he apologized gravely. “And then?”

Miss Mount’s strong, capable hands closed tightly in her lap, the first sign of emotion she had shown.

“Before my eyes,” she told them in a lower voice, “Mr. Harrison suddenly spun half-way round, flung up his arms and fell heavily into the room on his back. He gave a shout of pain and anger as he fell.”

“Where were you standing when he fell?” asked Bernard.

“I was just closing the window and turned my head.”

“So you could not see down the library?”

“No, I could not. I didn’t try immediately.”

“What did you do?”

“When Mr. Harrison fell, Susan startled me further by screaming at the top of her lungs and dropping the tray of cocktails she was carrying.”

“You poured the cocktails before the guests came down?” inquired Landis.

“We poured them immediately after the gong sounded. Mr. Harrison was a man of extremely regular habits and liked his family and guests to be on time.”

“Fair enough,” Landis smiled. “What did you do?”

“Susan distracted me for an instant. Then I hurried to Mr. Harrison to help him to his feet, thinking that he had tripped in some way. I caught him by one arm and shoulder and lifted him a little. Susan suddenly cried out and pointed and I saw the shaft of the arrow under him. With the shock of that, I let him fall back again and then I noticed that his chest stuck out in a queer way, high up on the left. Susan flattened herself against the wall and went into hysterics, like the little ninny she is.”

“Quite so,” said Landis. “What did you do then?”

“Stimson appeared in the doorway from the hall and at that moment saw Mr. Harrison. He started forward to lift him. But I pointed to Susan and told Stimson, I believe, to close her mouth if he could. I didn’t wait to see what he did, but hurried past Mr. Harrison’s body into the library. A second look at his face made me believe he was dead.”

“What made you think so?” Bernard asked.

“Everything,” replied Miss Mount tartly, “his pallor, his dreadful stillness, the look of rage frozen on his face, the arrow under him—”

“In fact,” said Bernard quietly, “you expected him to be shot about that time and were not surprised.”

Miss Mount’s strong fingers unclenched and clenched again slowly.

“I did not expect him to be shot about that time, Mr. Bernard,” she retorted evenly.

Bernard turned like a flash and unleashed the full volume of his voice.

“About what time did you expect him to be shot?” he thundered.

Miss Mount hesitated, then drew herself up.

“I did not expect him to be shot at all!” she replied. “And if you wish to question me further you will kindly lower your voice and behave as nearly as possible like a gentleman.”

There was so concentrated and biting a resentment in her low tone that Landis studied her with interest.

Bernard smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Direct and to the point,” he observed. “Proceed, please. You ran into the library—”

Again Miss Mount hesitated. But there was something about the big, elderly detective who sat watching her, smiling and unmoved, that demanded the respect of even so vital a personality as hers.

“Yes,” she said stiffly, “I hurried into the library and found it in darkness except for the lamp still burning on Mr. Harrison’s desk. That lighted only a small circle about his desk, so I turned aside to the doorway into the hall and switched on the overhead lights. Then I turned and looked all round the room. But there was no one here!”

“A very plucky thing to do,” commented Bernard.

“I have been with Mr. Harrison for nearly twenty-four years! It was the natural thing to do!”

“Did you notice anything at all?” inquired Landis.

“I did. The first thing I noticed was the door at the end there. It was almost closed. Usually it is open, as I told you a moment ago. I walked straight down the library looking behind the furniture until I came to the armor. I saw no one. But at the end there I noticed the Japanese bow leaning against the Japanese soldier. It has always been hung across his back. So I guessed—that is, I deduced—where the shot had come from. I pushed the door open and looked into the hall. There was no one in sight and the billiard-room windows were dark. I pulled the door nearly shut as I had found it and hurried back to Mr. Harrison.”

“You showed great presence of mind in reclosing the door,” said Bernard. “I suppose you overlooked the fact that your finger-prints on it might overlap and obliterate others?” he inquired curiously.

Miss Mount hesitated.

“I confess that I did!”

“That’s better,” said Bernard obscurely. “Where did you touch the door?”

“I believe I used the knob to open and close it.”

“Do you know whether, when the bow was in its usual place, the string was taut as it is now?” Landis inquired.

“I think not, but I’m not sure. Probably Susan would know. She dusts it every day.”

“Thank you,” nodded Landis. “What happened next?”

“Just as I went back into the reception-room from here, Isabelle Harrison entered it from the hall. She saw her father, ran forward, screamed and dropped in a faint. Susan was still screeching and I tried to quiet her while Stimson stretched Isabelle on her back and went for some water to revive her. As he went out into the hall, Anita passed him, coming in. She was followed within a very short time by Mr. Russell, Ethel Graham with Helen, the housemaid, at her heels and then Mr. Allen—”

“What did they all do? What did Anita Harrison do?” interrupted Bernard.

“During the moment that I noticed her, she simply stood and stared at her father. As to the others, the room was a bedlam with their excited questions and Susan’s whooping laughter. I believe Stimson came back and he and Mr. Russell tried to revive Isabelle, while Mr. Allen tried to lead Anita out of the room. I asked Mrs. Graham to request her husband to come down at once and take charge. It was a good deal of a shock to me.”

“Why did you send for Mr. Graham here? Why not for Harrison’s brother, Joel?” asked Bernard.

Miss Mount smiled tolerantly.

“Mr. Joel would have been totally unsuitable. You will realize that when you know him. As Mr. Harrison’s lawyer, Mr. Graham seemed the most suitable person to take charge.”

“And then?”

“I waited for Mr. Graham. When he came, at his suggestion I had Stimson and Helen Stokes take Susan to the kitchen. Mr. Russell had just carried Isabelle upstairs to her room. Mr. and Mrs. Graham went into the library where he telephoned for the doctor and the police. Mr. Allen and I led Anita to her room and the two men came down again. I went to my bathroom to get a restorative for Isabelle. The water had been of no use. I gave Anita my smelling salts and left Isabelle in her charge—”

“Anita had recovered entirely?” asked Bernard.

“Apparently she had,” answered Miss Mount.

“They were not on the best of terms, she and her father?” Bernard persisted.

Miss Mount gave him a sharp glance.

“They were both strong-willed and were not always on the best of terms.”

“I see the difference,” smiled Bernard. “So you came down again! What did you do then?”

“I went into the library where I found Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen waiting, and Mr. Graham at the telephone. When he hung up I pointed out to him the bow leaning against the Japanese armor and the fact that the door at the end was closed. The other two young men went across the hall for some dinner, and Mr. Graham sent his wife with them. I then described to him what we had seen happen, Susan and I. He said that he would stay there on guard, so I went upstairs to stay with the two girls. Susan had recovered by that time and I had her bring them up some supper and forced them to eat a little. I’ve been with them ever since, that is, until you sent for me just now.”

“How,” inquired Bernard, “did Mr. Graham happen to send for this Doctor Stanford?”

“Doctor Howells, Mr. Harrison’s regular physician, has almost retired and spends much of his time out of town. He is away now on a protracted vacation. When Mr. Graham asked me the name of Mr. Harrison’s doctor, I remembered that Doctor Stanford had once been here and suggested calling him.”

“He came here only once before?” asked Landis.

“Only once.”

“Why did you never send for him again? No need?”

“No. Mr. Harrison quarreled with him that once. Since then, when Doctor Howells is away, Mr. Harrison has gone to Doctor Somerville in the city, or sent for him.”

“What was the quarrel about?” asked Bernard.

Miss Mount’s manner displayed a faint trace of weariness.

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you,” she replied. “Mr. Harrison merely remarked to me that he never wanted to see that—er—doctor in the house again.”

All four men smiled at this descriptive omission.

“By the way,” asked Bernard casually, “where was Joel Harrison all this time?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea! In bed, probably.”

“You mean he stayed in his room at the head of the stairs through all that screaming and never came out into the hall to see what was going on? Does that seem likely?”

Miss Mount loosed a final shaft.

“Apparently, he did, Mr. Bernard,” she replied. “He is not an inquisitive person.”

CHAPTER VI

ALL THE YOUNG PEOPLE

BRENT smiled openly and Graham discreetly at Bernard’s expense. Landis contented himself with an inquiring glance toward his imperturbable friend.

Here was the type of case to arouse every man-hunting instinct in the subtle old detective. Bernard was subtle, far more subtle than his brusque, sometimes overbearing methods seemed to indicate. Of this he had shown ample evidence in the Carson case. No doubt he would give proof of it in this case as well. In the meantime, Landis proposed to give him full share of the road, go his own pace and get there first if he could.

Entirely unruffled, Bernard had not shifted his grim, speculative regard from Miss Mount’s face. She returned it unsmiling, as composed as he.

“Well, Miss Mount,” he growled at last, “that covers what happened, I think. We’re much obliged to you. Now perhaps we ought to have a clear idea of the plan of the house. Suppose you describe the general plan of it.”

“Certainly!” Miss Mount paused a moment to arrange her data. “I’ll describe the main building first. On this floor, the rooms from front to back on the left of the front door are the drawing-room, the dining-room, the butler’s pantry, the kitchen and beyond that a wide back porch.

“From front to back in the center there is the vestibule, the main hall, the main staircase, the back hall which opens upon the same rear porch and the back stairs down to the cellar and up to the second floor.

“On this side of the house from front to back, we have the reception-room where Mr. Harrison was killed, then this library, then the hall beyond the armor there and then the billiard-room. Beyond that lies the sunken garden.

“The plan of the wing is the same on all three floors; a suite of two bedrooms and a bath facing the front of the house and a similar suite facing the rear. The suites are separated by a long hall. At the end of the wing toward the rear, a servants’ staircase and fire escape runs from the ground floor to the third floor. On the second and third floors there is a window at the end of the hall. On this floor there is a door leading out to the garage.”

“Are any of the wing bedrooms occupied on this floor?” inquired Landis.

“Mr. Allen occupies the rear bedroom toward the end of the hall on the ground floor and has the use of the adjoining bath this side of it. Mr. Russell occupies the far front bedroom and uses the adjoining bath. The front and rear bedrooms next the main building are unoccupied.”

Bernard got to his feet and glanced at Landis.

“Believe I’ll have a look at the wing again and get that clear,” he said. “Like to come?”

The others, including Miss Mount, rose to their feet. Landis and Graham prepared to follow Bernard and Miss Mount. Brent glanced at the big desk and moved toward it.

“I’ll stay here,” he said, “and look over Mr. Harrison’s papers. That is my duty as executor—”

“That’s perfectly all right, Mr. Brent,” Landis cut in courteously. “Only please don’t change the position of anything or remove anything until we have examined the desk. There may be something there that will help us.”

“Very well,” retorted Brent testily. “I shall merely arrange the papers—”

Landis shook his head, smiling. “Just what I don’t want you to do, Mr. Brent! But we’ll look the desk over now. Then you may do as you please.”

He caught Bernard’s eye. With a word of apology to Miss Mount, Bernard left her and walked past the ruffled lawyer to the desk, which Landis had already approached.

Each taking an end, they examined the papers and documents on the polished surface and studied the contents of the drawers, while Brent looked on in high dudgeon. They found a few unanswered business letters on top of the desk, drawers full of answered letters in files—and innumerable prospectuses. One drawer contained pipes, tobacco and cigars; another, odds and ends of personal possessions. The center drawer held a huge checkbook and nothing else.

“Who typed his letters for him since he retired?” Bernard demanded suddenly.

Miss Mount smiled a wintry smile.

“Most of his correspondence consisted of writing checks and enclosing them in envelopes,” she said. “He wrote very briefly and in long hand, as a rule. When there was a longer letter or a document to be written, I typed it for him.”

“All right,” nodded Bernard. “Now for the wing.”

“There you are, Mr. Brent,” Landis smiled. “Sorry to delay you!”

Brent became genial.

“Not at all, Mr. Landis! One can only admire a man for doing his duty!” He drew Harrison’s chair to the desk and sat down.

“Thanks,” replied Landis as he joined the others. They passed into the front hall, leaving Brent drumming with his fingers on the edge of the teakwood monstrosity, his eyes lowered.

Miss Mount led the way toward the swing door at the back of the hall. Bernard fell behind the others and waited for Landis to join him, then jerked his head toward the library door. Landis turned and moved back the way he had come, his feet making no sound on the deep hall carpet. When he reached the doorway he took one quick glance around the edge of it. Brent was going methodically through the file of unanswered letters.

Smiling at his own expense, Landis retraced his steps and overtook the others in the billiard-room, where Russell and Allen were still playing a leisurely game.

They passed through the arch into the hall of the wing. Here Bernard turned to Miss Mount.

“Are these near bedrooms unlocked?” he demanded.

“Certainly. Do you wish to inspect them?”

“Wouldn’t mind,” grunted Bernard.

Miss Mount opened the nearest door on their left and pressed the switch just inside. Bernard crossed a corner of the lighted room to the bathroom door, tried it and found it locked, the key under his hand. He turned this and the door opened. The bathroom, used by Allen, was cluttered with discarded underwear and damp towels.

Bernard relocked the door, switched out the light and crossed the hall, where he found the corresponding bathroom door locked on the near side and unbolted on the bathroom side. Russell’s bathroom, also obviously used that evening, was in worse confusion than the other.

Leaving these rooms, as they had found them, and led by Bernard, they retraced their steps to the front hall. Here the older detective turned to Landis.

“If you agree and Miss Mount will be so kind,” he said, “I’d like to get a line on the second floor and the occupants of the bedrooms up there.”

Catching an inconspicuous nod of assent from Landis, Bernard started up the main staircase without waiting for Miss Mount’s views on the subject. With an air of stern determination she mounted rapidly in pursuit, while Landis and Graham brought up the rear.

Half-way up, Miss Mount addressed Bernard’s broad back in a tone electric with displeasure.

“Do you propose to intrude on Mr. Harrison’s bereaved daughters?” she demanded.

“Certainly, if it seems necessary!”

Near the top, the main staircase divided left and right at a landing backed with carved paneling and guarded by a rail above. Beyond this, across the head of the stairs, ran a wide hall similar to the one across the back of the library below. This upper hall, however, extended a little farther to the left. On the right, where it reached the house wall, it was blank like the hall beneath. But on this floor, immediately above the door into the billiard-room, a narrower hall extended back to the rear of the main building. Out of it on the right opened an archway into the hall of the wing, similar to and directly over the archway from the billiard-room. These two second-floor halls formed an “L” in the angle of which were the bedroom and bath assigned to Joel Harrison. Both rooms were exactly over the billiard-room.

The branching stairs from the landing opened upon two balconies running to the front of the house along both sides of the long well of the main hall.

On the landing Bernard stopped and eyed Miss Mount.

“I’d be obliged if you’d describe this floor as you described the one below,” he told her gruffly. “You might mention the occupants of the various rooms as you go along.”

Landis and Graham exchanged expectant glances. But Miss Mount had her formidable temper well in leash. She turned to face the front of the house and pointed to the left.

“That front bedroom over the reception-room is the one Mr. Harrison occupied,” she explained curtly. “Next to it comes Mr. Harrison’s bathroom and the bedroom formerly used by Mrs. Harrison. They are both over the library of course. Mrs. Harrison’s room is unoccupied at present.

“On the right, from front to rear, are Miss Isabelle’s room, then her bath, then a guest room, then the linen room, then another guest room, a bathroom and Miss Anita’s room over the kitchen.”

Miss Mount turned as she indicated these rooms until she was facing the back of the house.

“Across the back from left to right,” she continued, “are the enclosed back stairs, Mr. Joel’s bedroom and his bath. The last door on the left-hand side of the house toward the rear is, of course, that of Miss Anita’s room. The door at the back there, close to it, opens into the back hall and the back stairs, up and down. This door in the middle at the back is that of Mr. Joel’s room. His bathroom to the right has no outlet other than through his bedroom.”

“Very clearly expressed,” said Bernard. “Now, does Anita’s room open into the back hall as well as into this one across the head of the stairs?”

“No, it does not.”

With a nod, Bernard mounted the right-hand flight, crossed a corner of the lateral hall and entered the narrower hall which led to the wing. In the archway he paused.

“As I understand it,” he said, “there are four bedrooms and two baths on this floor of the wing. Mr. and Mrs. Graham have the rear bedrooms and the bath between. You occupy the near front room opposite that of Mr. Graham?”

“That is correct.”

“And have, presumably, the exclusive use of the front bathroom adjoining your room?”

“I have.”

“Then the far front bedroom is unoccupied?”

“No one sleeps there, Mr. Bernard. The room has been turned into a sort of play—a sort of den for Mr. Joel Harrison. He keeps his stamp collection and his personal treasures there and potters about with his experiments.”

“Chemical experiments?”

“Oh, no. He has a workbench in there and sometimes makes things. At the moment his interest is in bows and arrows.”

“Oh!” said Bernard.

“Joel Harrison,” observed Miss Mount evenly, “is as harmless as a sweet-tempered child.”

“Thank you!” Bernard walked down the hall and tried the door of Joel Harrison’s den. It was locked. “I suppose there’s another door through your bathroom?” he asked. “I’d like to see the den.”

“You may come through my bedroom if you wish,” said Miss Mount patiently. “The door from my bathroom to the den is locked on my side, as Mr. Joel has a bathroom of his own adjoining his bedroom.” She opened her door for them.

Her room had an air of spartan simplicity. In the near right-hand corner stood a chest of drawers. Then came a big four-poster, a bedside table and in the right front corner an old easy-chair. Between the two windows stood a small table with a book or two and a vase of field flowers. In the left front corner stood an old typewriter desk of the type in which the machine sinks down to leave a flat top. It was down now and the surface bore a blotting-pad, ink-well, pens and stationery. Next to it came the door to the bathroom, then a dressing table and then, in the near left corner, a smaller door which opened into a clothes-closet.

Miss Mount led them to the bathroom door, passed through and unlocked the door beyond into darkness. In a moment three overhead lights and a hanging lamp with a green glass shade showed them a room packed almost everywhere with a collection of possessions in the wildest disorder. The exception was the workbench against the far wall, at and about which a place had been cleared. The hanging lamp shone down upon this, revealing rows of large and small tools stuck anyhow into racks along the wall, arrows and a bow dumped on the flat surface and in a vise a single unfletched arrow. Near the pile of arrows lay an old pair of soft leather gloves, several finger guards and an arm guard.

On chairs and tables about the rest of the room lay stamp albums and books on stamp collecting; thousands of stamps in envelopes and in heaps; sheets of loose manuscript written in a round, childish hand; boomerangs; an old box-kite; electrical parts of all sorts; clockwork; cross-bows, light and heavy; long bows and short bows, in one piece and spliced; also many lengths and types of arrows.

There were countless other articles, relics of previous fads impossible to catalogue in a brief inspection. If ever the disorder of a room expressed the pathetic, struggling disorder of a man’s mind, this one did.

Landis and Bernard and Graham, too, looked soberly about the silent room. After a moment Bernard spoke for all three.

“Thank you,” he said. “That’s all.”

They returned in silence to the head of the main staircase. Here Landis addressed Miss Mount, who had preserved a stony silence since they left her room.

“We may as well be thorough,” he said. “What about the third floor? Do the servants sleep up there?”

“Yes, all of them. Do you wish to see it?”

“Where are the servants now, Miss Mount?”

“They are all waiting in the kitchen in case you wish to question them.”

“Anything else up there of interest?”

“There is a big play-room where the girls still go sometimes. They were shooting up there on Tuesday, I believe, the day it rained.”

“The girls were?” inquired Bernard.

“All the young people, I believe.”

“I think I’d like to see the third floor, too,” said Landis cheerfully.

CHAPTER VII

THE BUTLER’S SUITE

THERE were no front stairs to the third floor, Miss Mount explained. She led the way to the other end of the hall, toward Anita’s room. Here a door on the right admitted them to a narrow servants’ hall in which they mounted an upward flight to emerge, apparently, upon the back stage of a theatre.

To their left, a row of small dressing-rooms extended toward the front of the house. To their right, a backdrop of unpainted canvas formed, with the rear wall, a narrow passage across the rear of the stage.

Miss Mount closed several switches and led them around the end of the backdrop to show them a small stage proper, brilliantly lighted. Perhaps thirty feet across, it was broken in the middle near the backdrop by the chimney which came up through the house from the billiard-room and Joel Harrison’s bedroom. The attention of the two detectives focussed on a conventional archery target with the usual bull’s-eye and four concentric rings about it. From the center out they were painted gold, red, blue, black and, the outermost, white. The target faced the front of the stage, its back toward the chimney and almost against it. The surface was pitted in a few places where arrows had struck and been withdrawn. There were no indentations in the white outer ring.

After a brief inspection of the target, Landis and Bernard faced about. Beyond the raised edge of the stage a room, well lighted and large enough for a numerous audience, stretched away for at least a hundred feet toward the front of the house. Dozens of rows of folding seats had been stacked against the walls to left and right, leaving the floor space clear. There were flat skylights in the roof but no side windows.

Landis smiled at Miss Mount.

“What are all those doors along the walls down there?”

“The two doors on the left and the two on the right open into trunk-rooms. They contain boxes, old furniture, costumes, scenery and things of that sort.”

“What about those two doors at the far end?” Bernard inquired.

“That is the butler’s suite,” replied Miss Mount. “The door on the left leads to his bedroom, the other to his sitting-room. There is a bathroom between. His windows, of course, open on the front of the house and overlook the drive.”

“What’s the point of telling us that?” demanded Bernard suddenly. “Why drag that in—about the drive?”

A pulse began to throb visibly in Miss Mount’s white, muscular throat. Her face remained impassive.

“I mentioned it in passing,” she answered. “The suite was probably placed there so that if the butler happened to be off duty, he could see from his sitting-room when guests arrived. I believe Stimson kept an eye on the drive for the return of Mr. Harrison, as he usually came downstairs at the same time. I had no wish or motive for ‘dragging it in’! You have a most peculiar way of putting your questions, Mr. Bernard!”

“Humph!”

Landis caught the eye of his colleague, glanced fleetingly at the target and made a very slight movement of his head toward the left of the stage. The cues were so swift and restrained that neither Miss Mount nor Graham noticed them.

Too wise to act on them at once, Bernard looked slowly about the big play-room. At last his attention became fixed on a wide passage which opened off the stage near the front of it, to his left. It crossed down-stage of the dressing-rooms on that side and led into the third-floor hall of the wing. He stared at Miss Mount until her glance met his, then nodded toward the passage, beyond which a single bulb dimly illuminated the hall.

“Servants’ rooms, I suppose, eh?” he growled. “Who occupies them?”

“The design of this floor of the wing is the same as the other floors,” answered Miss Mount stiffly. “There is a suite of two bedrooms and a bath toward the back and a similar suite toward the front. The rear suite is occupied by Harley, the chauffeur, and his wife, the cook. Susan Duckworth, the housemaid, and Helen Stokes, who acts as lady’s maid and housemaid, share the front suite between them.”

“And they’re all down on the first floor,” mused Bernard. “Just show me their rooms, please!”

Miss Mount clenched her hands at her sides and for a moment Landis expected an explosion. At the same time it occurred to him that Bernard, not too obviously, had been leading up to such an explosion. If it came, it might lay bare hidden things.

But Miss Mount controlled her temper and moved toward the passage. Bernard stalked after her, the purposeful grimness of his manner considerably overdone. The old detective was one of those rare souls who keep their humor to themselves on occasion and are quite content to enjoy it alone.

When Miss Mount, as a far from gracious Virgil, and Bernard, overconfident for a Dante, had vanished into the dim regions of the wing, Landis went back to the target and began a deliberate inspection of its surface. Presently he passed around it to examine the chimney, then called to his remaining companion:

“Look here, Graham!”

The young lawyer joined him at once and studied the spot on the brickwork which Landis indicated. Directly behind the target and on a level with the gold bull’s-eye the chimney bore a shallow indentation where some sharp blow had chipped away bits of brick, although the floor around it showed no trace of these chips.

In the center of the indentation there was a bright, metallic mark.

Graham turned back to the target. Through the bull’s-eye, near the edge of the gold, he found the hole which Landis had found. Among a few dents of a similar shape and size this one alone pierced the target.

“Right through and hit the chimney—hard!” Landis observed, “which explains that Japanese arrow down in the library that we found blunted—unless there’s some other perfectly natural explanation of this,” he added with a smile. “Were you up here on Tuesday with the others?”

“Yes. But I’m pretty sure nobody made that hole then. In fact, I’m certain. If one of our arrows had gone clean through the target we would have noticed it!”

“Well, somebody has been shooting pretty hard up here—somebody who could shoot hard! Look at this hole again. It’s sharply elliptical. The Japanese arrowheads are the same shape, like small spearheads. The mark on the chimney would just about fit that blunted arrowhead.”

“Practicing?” ventured the young lawyer in a lower tone. “Practicing! Good Lord, what a ghastly business!”

“Maybe so—which would make it look very much like an inside job, Graham! Who’s the best archer here?”

“Joel Harrison. But he’s out of the question! He wouldn’t hurt a fly! Besides, I doubt if even he could shoot an arrow right through that target.”

“Can you think of anyone else in the house or the neighborhood able to shoot very hard?” Landis asked.

Graham shook his head.

“There isn’t anybody that I know of. What a strange thing! Rather ghastly to think about. I wish this business was over!” He looked at Landis with a sudden speculative interest. “How cynical you fellows must get, running into this sort of thing all the time! My cases are civil ones and some of them are bad enough, though others are just business. But you must find it hard to keep a clear perspective on human nature. Murder is so sordid and so—so damned stupid!”

“Agreed,” Landis smiled. “But there’s a difference between suspecting everyone and condemning everyone unheard! Most of us avoid the last, I guess.”

The sound of voices drew their eyes to the passage through which Miss Mount and Bernard were returning. Landis waited for them to draw nearer, then addressed the angry but stoical hostess of the Harrison ménage:

“Thanks for showing us round, Miss Mount. Now I wonder whether you’d mind waiting here with Mr. Graham for just a minute while we glance through the butler’s suite. We won’t keep you long.”

“Very well,” she answered evenly.

As they walked down the long room toward the front of the house, Landis darted an inquiring glance sideways at his companion. Bernard caught it.

“Nothing of interest,” he rumbled. “Usual servants’ rooms, stuffy and commonplace. Couldn’t search, of course. What about the target?”

“Hole clear through it,” confided Landis in an undertone. “There’s a mark on the chimney beyond like a small caliber bullet. A Japanese arrow, shot very hard, might have made both and got blunted doing it. Get the idea of having a look through the butler’s rooms?”

“I believe so,” retorted Bernard dryly. “But we won’t find anything. Think the man who killed Harrison is a fool?”

“I don’t know yet,” Landis replied in his blandest tone. “But it’s worth looking. Not even excepting Miss Mount, Stimson had the best opportunity for trying out that Japanese bow up here without detection. He belongs up here and he’s in a position to know the exact whereabouts of everyone in the house at a given time.”

“And he probably can’t shoot for nuts,” growled Bernard. “He’d have to get the bow up here, too!”

Landis opened a door, felt for and found the switch. A standard lamp and a desk lamp flashed on together, showing them a pleasant but slightly austere little sitting-room.

Closing the door behind him, Landis made a bee-line for the waste-basket, whereupon Bernard laughed at him. The basket was quite empty. With smooth swiftness they searched the room, looking behind the books, ransacking the desk, probing the back and sides of the sofa and the easy chairs. They found nothing of interest and left everything else as they had found it.

Despite an ironical glance from Bernard, Landis proceeded to the adjacent bathroom and switched on the light.

A brief inspection here led them to the bedroom beyond. Growling a little, Bernard tackled the bureau and then the bed. Landis explored Stimson’s trunk which he found unlocked and then tried the clothes-closet. Here triumph of a sort awaited him. Bernard had just finished smoothing the bedclothes when a muffled exclamation from Landis drew his attention to the clothes-closet. Landis emerged holding aloft a suit of respectable dark gray. On the extended palm of his other hand lay a tiny bit of white feather.

“I was looking for bits of brick and found this, sir! It was in the small pocket of this cutaway. Thought you said we wouldn’t find anything!”

“My poor old rule of thumb!” retorted Bernard with too ready humility. He looked at the bit of feather. “Think it will fit?—Because I don’t!”

“Fit that blunted arrow that’s lost just such a bit? I’ll bet you fifty dollars it will!”

“Not the arrow,” said Bernard, “the case!”

“Of course! Why not?”

“Then I don’t agree!” Bernard chuckled. “If that bit of feather fits the arrow it’s—interesting. In neither event does it prove anything!”

Landis looked a bit nettled.

“Would you mind telling me why not, sir?”

“Not at all!” Bernard was inwardly delighted at getting a rise out of his smooth young confrere. “Either Stimson killed Harrison or he did not kill Harrison! If he did not kill Harrison the bit of feather proves nothing. If he did kill Harrison and left that bit of feather in his pocket then he’s a fool. Now, whatever else he is, Stimson is no fool. Therefore, the bit of feather, while interesting in other ways, proves nothing at all. Get the idea?”

Recognizing suddenly that he was being snubbed for asking Bernard a similar question some moments before, Landis nodded reluctantly and then burst out laughing.

“You’re wiping the floor with everybody tonight, including me,” he chuckled. “But I don’t care—if you solve the case, sir!”

“You don’t say so!” grumbled Bernard. “Good for you youngsters to be taken down a peg now and then!”

Landis tucked the feather into his pocket, opened the door into the big room, paced the length of it and held up the suit for Miss Mount to see. Bernard watched him from the doorway, a sort of grim affection on his formidable old face.

“Can you tell me anything about this?” Landis asked. “It belongs to Stimson, doesn’t it?”

Miss Mount regarded the exhibit with distaste. “Certainly. That is his morning livery which he wears every day.”

“Thanks!” Landis returned to Bernard, feeling a little less sure of himself than his manner betrayed.

He restored the livery to its place in the closet, switched off the bedroom light and again joined Bernard. They marched down the long room and climbed to the stage.

“I think that’s all we want up here,” said Landis. “Now suppose we go down to the library again. I have just a few more questions I’d like to ask you, Miss Mount.”

The lady inclined her head and started for the stairs. Over her shoulder she uttered a single cool inquiry:

“Did you enjoy the view of the drive?”

“Delightful!” replied Landis gratefully.

CHAPTER VIII

STIMSON WONDERS TOO

THEY had reached the second floor and were preparing to descend the main staircase when Bernard, who led the van, turned back suddenly to confront Miss Mount.

“By the way, was Joel Harrison in the house when his brother was murdered?” he growled.

“I don’t know. Probably he was in bed, as I told you.”

“Then why didn’t you send for him to take charge of matters instead of for Graham here?”

“Because Mr. Joel is dreamy, absent-minded and quite incapable of handling a situation requiring the care and foresight that this one required,” said Miss Mount sharply.

Bernard rapped another question at her:

“Where is he now?”

“Well! In his bed, I suppose!”

“Just make sure of that, will you?”

She crossed the hall, knocked on Joel’s door and opened it. After a moment she rejoined them.

“Yes, he went to bed, as he often does, very early. There’s a tray in his room and he says Cook sent him up his supper. He is reading.”

“You mean he often goes to bed before dinner and has a tray brought to his room?” Bernard persisted.

“Yes.”

“What’s the idea of that?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Bernard smiled slightly.

“Why does he eat in his room instead of with the family?”

“He rises early and likes to go to bed early.”

Bernard looked at his watch.

“It’s after ten now,” he said, “and you say he is reading. So he wasn’t too sleepy to come down to dinner at seven-forty-five!”

“Sometimes it is sheer absent-mindedness,” explained Miss Mount, compressing her lips. “He may go to his room and start dressing for dinner, forget what he is doing and find himself undressed and in bed. Then, no doubt, he considers it hardly worth while getting up again.”

Landis and Graham smiled at this. Bernard merely nodded, still eyeing Miss Mount.

“You say ‘sometimes,’” he pointed out. “What about the other times he stayed in his room? Were there any other reasons?”

“At other times,” she answered slowly, “he may have preferred to stay in his own room because his brother, whom he seemed to irritate, was apt to be rather sharp with him when they were together, Mr. Bernard.”

“I thought so!” snapped Bernard. He turned to Graham. “Have you seen them together?”

“Yes, once or twice.”

“How did Harrison treat Joel on those occasions?”

“Mr. Harrison mocked and made fun of him most unpleasantly. I thought his treatment of his brother distinctly brutal. But Mr. Joel took it very well. He seemed hurt and bewildered but I never saw him lose his temper.”

Bernard turned back to Miss Mount.

“Is that what you call ‘rather sharp’?” he asked curiously.

“Sometimes Mr. Harrison was more than sharp,” she admitted. “‘Uncle Joel’ was a great disappointment to his brother who wanted him to be equally successful. But Uncle Joel bore no malice and forgot sharp words almost as soon as they were uttered.”

“You two seem to agree on that,” said Bernard.

“Why did you think Mr. Harrison was disagreeable to his brother?” asked Miss Mount. “Has anyone else said so?”

“Who would be likely to say so, Miss Mount?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea, Mr. Bernard!”

Now Bernard studied her face intently and openly, answering her question in an absent voice:

“No one told me. Harrison was usually at home for dinner. Joel stayed away from that meal. Harrison was a brute. It’s in his face. From what you’ve said of Joel he would be the ideal victim for a bully. The deduction is a simple one.”

Waiting for something, he hardly knew what perhaps, Bernard watched a slow flush stain Miss Mount’s white neck.

“By the way,” said Landis after a moment, “has Mr. Harrison quarreled with anyone else in the household, especially of late?”

Miss Mount drew herself up, rather like a stag at bay in the old-fashioned steel engravings.

“I myself had a heated argument with Mr. Harrison Thursday evening, Mr. Landis. As usual he lost his temper and made a great deal of noise. No doubt someone will mention it.”

“Is that why you mention it?” asked Landis with a smile.

Miss Mount permitted herself a faint display of amusement.

“Naturally,” she replied.

“What was the argument about?”

“I would prefer not to say. It has nothing to do with the case.”

“We’ll judge of that,” snapped Bernard.

“In this instance, I will judge of it,” retorted Miss Mount coolly. “It was a purely personal matter.” She steeled herself visibly for a thunderous and threatening reply. Bernard merely studied her with speculative eyes.

“Who else did Harrison quarrel with?” he asked.

The question was a surprise. Miss Mount hesitated. “He—seldom argued with the servants,” she said.

All three men smiled at this, each in his fashion.

“Aside from the servants?” Landis inquired.

“I think, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to sit down,” said Miss Mount. “Shall we go down to the library?”

“I beg your pardon,” said Landis contritely. “How stupid to keep you talking here until you—almost—run out of evasive answers!” He smiled at her pleasantly.

Miss Mount gave him a sharp, surprised look, turned on her heel and led the way down to the library.

As soon as they were seated Landis took up the burden of questions, for Bernard appeared content to listen now.

“You were going to tell us, Miss Mount, who it was that Mr. Harrison quarreled with aside from Joel Harrison, yourself and the servants.”

“Was I?”

“I hope so, Miss Mount. A court-room is such a stuffy, public place to be questioned. We’ll have to have the answers now or there—all of them!”

Miss Mount glanced at Brent. He had risen from the desk to greet them, had joined them and now sat with his finger-tips together, looking more like a stage lawyer than a real one. He repulsed her glance with frowning gravity. She turned back to Landis, a gleam in her eyes.

“During the past week,” she said, “Mr. Harrison also had something in the nature of a quarrel, I believe, with Mr. Allen, a guest who is staying in the house.”

“About what did they quarrel, Miss Mount?”

“As it happens, I know what they quarreled about, if it could be called a quarrel. Mr. Harrison told me. But I consider it only fair to the young man for you to ask him the subject they discussed.”

“It was a personal subject purely?”

Miss Mount inclined her head.

“The future,” Landis observed judicially, “will tell us whether you are being wise—or very unwise—to make so many evasions at this time, Miss Mount.” Here in spite of himself he glanced at Brent, to receive a bow of weighty endorsement. “We are holding this inquiry,” he resumed, “not with a view of catering to your approval but to get at the facts. Do you still decline to tell us the nature of this—er—misunderstanding?”

“I would rather you asked Mr. Allen himself.”

“Very well. I agree on one condition. When I have obtained his answer you will tell me whether, in your opinion, it is accurate and complete. Do you agree to that?”

“I do,” replied Miss Mount in a slightly stifled voice. “That is, I—I suppose so—”

“That’s settled then,” said Landis and glanced at Bernard. He was just in time to see the expression of impatient disgust on Bernard’s features alter subtly to one of amused approval. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied to know that the pretty little trap he had concealed beneath his slyly humorous pomposity had passed muster with his more experienced colleague. He faced Miss Mount again with an abrupt change of manner.

“Thank you,” he said briskly. “Now we’ll question the servants, I think, and then the household. I want you to ask the butler to step in here in ten minutes. Also, on your way upstairs, ask Mr. Joel Harrison to get dressed and await our summons. Finally, please tell the young ladies that we must question them tonight if it’s humanly possible. We won’t keep them long. You might stay with them, Miss Mount, until we send for them.”

Miss Mount was bristling.

“Do you mean to say that you propose to question those poor girls tonight, immediately after their father’s death?” she demanded.

“I don’t propose to, I’m going to,” said Landis incisively, “unless they are actually too ill to answer questions.” He held Miss Mount’s eyes with a chilling stare. “Mr. Harrison was murdered tonight, in his own house, probably by a member of his household. When death comes to dinner, in the guise of a familiar face, the service must suffer. Every person who was in this house at that time is under suspicion, including yourself. Now please do as I ask.”

Miss Mount looked from face to face about her. On Brent’s she read righteous approval, on Bernard’s a grim endorsement of the stand Landis had taken. Graham looked uncomfortable but failed to meet her eyes.

She rose to her feet and walked out of the room.

The moment she had gone, Brent got up and rubbed his palms together.

“Mr. Landis,” he said, “I am going home satisfied that the case is in most capable hands. Graham, give these gentlemen every assistance in your power!”

“Find anything in the desk?” snapped Bernard.

Startled, Brent stiffened and shook his head.

“I found nothing of moment—nothing other than business papers.”

“You didn’t disturb or remove anything whatever?”

“I did not!” crowed the little man.

“All right. Good night, Mr. Brent.”

“Mr. Landis,” said Brent stiffly. “I—er—bid you good night!”

“By the way,” said Landis, “you might leave me your address here in town before you go.”

“Why, yes—certainly! Here’s my card!”

“Thank you. Good night, Mr. Brent,” said Landis.

“Good night, to you. ’Night, Graham!” Brent ambled to the door whence was wafted back to them, explosive but muffled, a single word: “Insufferable!”

After a moment they heard the front door slam behind him and Bernard smiled a little.

Negligently holding the card by its edges between finger and thumb, Landis looked uncertainly at Graham. The young lawyer caught the glance and instantly translated it.

“Want me to go?” he asked.

Landis hesitated.

“Fact is,” he smiled, “the servants will speak more freely if there are as few people as possible present. Mrs. Graham must be a little frightened still. How would it be if you stayed with her until we want her? For we’ll probably have to question her, too.”

“Maybe she is!” exclaimed Graham ruefully. “Anyhow I’ll look her up and wait for you to send for us.”

When he had gone, Landis took an envelope from his pocket and carefully placed in it the card Brent had given him. Bernard nodded curt approval. From another pocket Landis removed the bit of feather he had found in Stimson’s room. Bernard rose to his feet and they walked down the library toward the Japanese armor.

With a nod to Sergeant Forbes, Landis bent over the blunted arrow. A moment later he restored the bit of feather to his pocket and smiled at Bernard.

“She fits!” he said.

“I expected it would!” growled Bernard. “I liked that check on Allen and Miss Mount and getting Brent’s finger-prints better. But the feather may be useful.”

“In a case of this kind,” said Landis with mock pomposity, “we’re in the position of a man cast up on a desert island. Anything may be useful.”

“Insufferable!” quoted Bernard tolerantly.

They were walking back to the fire when Stimson appeared in the doorway. Landis invited him to have a seat, which he somewhat stiffly accepted. Bernard hunched himself down in his chair and stared at the butler.

“We’d like you to tell us, please, whether you happened to lock the door at the end of the wing on this floor this evening,” said Landis.

“No, sir, I did not. I never lock it until midnight or later.”

Landis studied the man sitting stiff and motionless across the fire. He could read nothing in the attentive, somberly handsome features, not even wariness.

“Thanks. Did you close the door there at the end of the library any time this evening?”

“No, sir.”

Landis jerked his head back toward the Japanese armor, which Stimson faced.

“That Japanese bow is strung and leaning against the armor now,” he said. “Was that its usual position, Stimson?”

“I think not, sir. I believe it hung across the back of the figure, with the—string in front.”

“It was strung then? The string was taut?”

“I think not, sir. The bow looks an entirely different shape now. My impression is that it was bent the other way, so that the horns—the tips, that is—bent toward the string instead of away from it as they do now.”

“We’ll test that later,” nodded Landis. “Very observant of you to notice it. I wonder whether you ever noticed the number of arrows in the quiver?”

“I believe there were four or five, sir.”

“I see. You’re not sure. Now, when was the last time, before the murder, that you noticed the bow and arrows?”

Stimson looked down and aslant, reflectively.

“Sorry, sir, but I can’t be sure,” he admitted at last. “Not for three or four days at least.”

“So you definitely did not notice it unstrung any time today?”

“No, sir, I did not.”

“Who else comes in here frequently?”

“Susan comes in to dust every day. Mr. Harrison was in here almost every night, before and usually after dinner. The others seldom used this room.”

“But you come in here frequently yourself?”

“Twice a day, sir,” Stimson admitted. “In the morning to raise the shades and lower the windows; in the evening during dinner to lock the windows and lower the shades. Tonight the sergeant told me to leave them as they were.”

“Stimson,” snapped Bernard suddenly, “who killed Mr. Harrison?”

The butler hesitated an instant, then replied calmly, without raising his voice: “I don’t know, Mr. Bernard.”

“But you suspect somebody!”

“No, sir. I have no reason to suspect anyone—no theory of the crime.” About Stimson’s amendment there seemed a faint trace of irony.

“I wonder!”

“I wonder, too, sir!”

“What do you mean by that?” Bernard growled.

“Why, I wonder who killed Mr. Harrison!” said Stimson in surprise.

CHAPTER IX

“SHOW THE GENTLEMAN OUT”

INSTEAD of replying to this veiled and rather insolent defense, Bernard chose to hold his peace. He remained hunched down in his chair and resumed his unwavering stare at the butler. Stimson continued to support it with unruffled and somber equanimity.

Landis picked up the thread of his questioning:

“Have you seen that Japanese bow anywhere else at all except there at the end of the library, Stimson?”

“No, sir.”

“At any time?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen anyone near it or touching it in this room, or appearing interested in it?”

“Late one evening ten days ago or more, Mr. Joel examined it. I believe he strung it. But Mr. Harrison came in and requested him to replace it and he did so.”

“No one else?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you seen or heard anyone shooting on the third floor with a bow and arrow at any time recently?”

“Early this week the young ladies and gentlemen were shooting up there—the day it rained. That was Tuesday. I know of no other occasion.”

“Do you happen to know whether it was a new or a used target they set up on the third floor on Tuesday?”

“It was a new one. I helped Mr. Joel carry it up.”

Landis turned to Bernard.

“The shot I spoke of upstairs was fired after the others. It has pushed the material of the target into an old dent. If the target was new, then that arrow was fired since Tuesday.”

In the middle of his speech he glanced at Stimson. The butler remained politely attentive.

“Pardon, sir. Do you mean the hole that passes entirely through the target?”

Landis managed to conceal his surprise.

“Yes. Do you know anything about it, Stimson?”

“No, sir. I happened to notice it and was astonished. The target is quite thick.”

“When did you notice it?” asked Landis quickly.

“Last night, sir, just before I came down to lay out Mr. Harrison’s evening things. About six that would be.”

“How did you happen to notice it, Stimson?”

“One of the lights shone through it on the floor, sir. I noticed that and looked to see where it came from.”

“What were you doing near the target?” asked Bernard.

“I pass it on my way to the back stairs, sir.”

“Yes,” said Landis. “I see. Now, Stimson, please tell us what you can about what happened just before and just after the murder tonight. I want to know where you were from six o’clock on and what you know about the location of the other members of the household from that time until seven-thirty.”

The butler leaned back in his chair and folded his arms.

“I was reading in my sitting-room this afternoon. It was just six when I laid my book aside and changed into my evening clothes for dinner. About six-fifteen I came down to Mr. Harrison’s room to lay out his things as usual.”

“What route did you follow?” inquired Bernard.

“I came down the back stairs, through the front hall on the second floor and along the balcony on this side to his room, which is above the room where he died.”

“All right. Go on.”

“I had just finished laying out his things when Mr. Harrison returned. I ran his bath and came down to this floor to select the necessary silver for dinner.”

“See anybody besides Mr. Harrison during that time?”

“No, sir; no one. I was still in the pantry when I heard the young ladies and their guests return.”

“Heard them?” snapped Bernard.

“Yes, sir. The door from the butler’s pantry into the back hall was open.”

“You didn’t see them?” asked Landis.

“No, sir. The swing door from the back hall into the hall beyond prevented my seeing them.”

“Where had they been, do you know?”

“They spoke of a dance at the yacht club and the young ladies arranged to drive them all in their two cars.”

“When did you hear this?” asked Bernard.

“At luncheon, sir, today.”

“Was everyone at home for lunch today?”

“Mr. Harrison was in town and Mr. Joel did not come in for luncheon. The others were here.”

“Oh! Where was Mr. Joel this noon?”

“I don’t know, sir. I haven’t seen him since breakfast.”

“Did you happen to hear him come home tonight?”

“No, sir. I did not.”

“Through what door did the girls and the others enter the house tonight?”

“Through the door at the end of the wing, I suppose, or the door into the billiard-room from the sunken garden. I heard them come into the large rear hall and thence into the front hall. That’s as I judged by ear, sir.”

“Couldn’t they have come into the back hall from the library?” asked Landis.

“Hardly, sir. That would mean they entered the house through the front door. I would have heard them through the dining-room. And that would be a long way round, sir.”

“Why, so it would,” said Landis. “Now what did you gather from what you heard? Who came first and so on?”

“I believe the two young ladies came in first with Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen. Miss Isabelle and Miss Anita went through to the front hall and up the front stairs. The young gentlemen came with them as far as the hall and then, I think, turned back to their rooms in the wing. A moment or so later I heard Mr. and Mrs. Graham come in and follow the young ladies upstairs. They were quite animated.”

“And after that, Stimson?” asked Landis.

“I was in and out between the kitchen, the pantry and the dining-room until just before seven-thirty, when Susan took in the cocktail glasses. I followed her with the cocktails.”

“Wait a bit,” Bernard interjected. “Tell us who you saw or heard anywhere in the house during that time.”

“Well, sir, Mabel Harley, our cook, was in the kitchen when I came downstairs and remained there all through. Susan Duckworth was in the kitchen, too, when I came down. She always helps with the dinner. Helen Stokes came down and remained in the kitchen until Mr. Graham’s bell rang. Helen answered it and I did not see her again until after the murder.”

“She remained to help Mrs. Graham dress quickly?”

“So I believe, sir. Of course Harley, our chauffeur, entered the house during that time, too.”

“At what time? Do you know, Stimson?”

“I believe he came into the kitchen about seven o’clock, sir. He was on his way to his room to wash up.”

“Took him from six-twenty to seven to put the car away, did it?” growled Bernard.

“Hardly, sir,” said the butler, unruffled. “As a rule I believe he wipes off the big car as soon as he gets home in the evening, in case it might be wanted after dinner. He acts as gardener too, since Mr. Harrison has been going in to town so seldom. He may have set the sprinklers or something of the sort, before he came in.”

Bernard nodded.

“See anyone else at all?”

“I think not, sir.” The butler paused reflectively, then shook his head. “No one except Miss Anita.”

“You mean you saw Anita Harrison between six-thirty and seven-thirty, Stimson?” Landis asked.

“Why yes, sir, a few minutes after Harley came in—”

“Exactly what time did you see her?” snapped Bernard.

“I did not happen to look at a clock,” retorted the butler evenly. “It was about seven-five or seven-ten, I should judge. She came down the back stairs and went through toward the billiard-room. Sometimes she knocks the balls about in there until the gong sounds, if she is down early.”

Bernard sat up.

“Except Miss Anita!” he thundered. “So it doesn’t strike you as important that she should be in the billiard-room, so close to the library, when her father was shot from that end of the library, eh?”

“I don’t remember your requesting me to tell you what I considered important, sir,” the butler replied.

Bernard studied the man for a moment, his face expressionless.

“Then you do consider it important?”

Into Stimson’s impassive countenance came a look of reserved respect, as though deep called to deep.

“That would depend, sir,” he said, “on whether Miss Anita actually went to the billiard-room. I only saw her go in that direction. If she did go to the billiard-room, it would depend, also, on how long she stayed there, I should suppose, sir.”

“Excellent reasoning,” Bernard complimented him dryly. “But I want to know where she did go and where she was until seven-thirty.”

“That I don’t know, sir.”

Bernard nodded and looked at Landis, who again took up the thread of questioning.

“You saw no one else, Stimson, up to the time you took in the cocktails?” he asked.

“Of course Miss Mount was in and out of the kitchen and dining-room as usual.”

“Oh, she was!”

“Yes, sir.”

“All right. Tell us what happened after you entered the room where Harrison now lies.”

“I found Miss Mount in the reception-room, sir, set down the cocktail shaker, mentioned to her that dinner was ready and returned through the front hall to the dining-room when the gong sounded. Satisfied with the table, sir, I started for the pantry when I heard a very loud shriek. I hurried into the hall. There I heard Susan Duckworth’s voice. She was crying, ‘Oh! Oh! Oh!’ and sounded hysterical. My first thought was that she had hurt herself and I hurried into the reception-room to find Mr. Harrison on his back on the floor and Miss Mount bending over him. I started forward to help Mr. Harrison up, but Miss Mount indicated Susan and asked me to quiet her. Then she hurried into the library here. I shook Susan by the arm in the hope of bringing her to her senses. But it was of no avail. Mr. Harrison was not a pleasant sight.”

“Did you do anything else or see anyone just then?”

“No, sir. I saw no one except Susan. Then Miss Isabelle ran in and saw her father. She shrieked and fell in a faint. I left Susan and hurried to help Miss Isabelle. Miss Mount returned and sent me for some water and a napkin to bring Miss Isabelle back to her senses. As I entered the front hall Miss Anita hurried up and passed me.”

“Did you see her face?”

“Yes, sir, for an instant.”

“How did she look?” asked Landis quietly.

Stimson hesitated.

“She looked anxious and excited. I suppose the screaming startled her severely.”

“From what direction was she coming?”

“From the front stairs, I thought.”

“I see. Then what?”

“I came back with a wet napkin and some water and found Mr. Russell with Miss Isabelle. We tried to revive her, but in vain. Finally he picked her up and carried her upstairs, I believe.”

“Who was in the front room at that time, Stimson?”

“Miss Anita and Mr. Allen. Mrs. Graham and Helen Stokes were there and Miss Mount. I think that’s all, except, of course, Miss Isabelle and Mr. Russell.”

“What did you do after Russell took Isabelle Harrison up to her room, Stimson?”

“I went back to try and quiet Susan who was still carrying on. Then Mr. Graham came in, Miss Mount explained matters to him and at his suggestion she asked me to take Susan and Helen Stokes to the kitchen, where Cook and I brought Susan round.” Stimson smiled slightly. “Cook pinched her, I believe,” he added.

“Where were you and what else did you see up to the time we arrived tonight?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“I stayed in the kitchen for some time. There were three trays to go upstairs, for the two young ladies and Miss Mount. A little later I tried to close the windows in the library but the sergeant refused me admittance. I also kept going to the front door to admit the police, the doctor and the coroner. In the meantime we were serving dinner to Mrs. Graham and Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen, which kept me busy.”

“When did Mr. Graham eat his dinner?”

“He had something in the dining-room, sir, after the others had finished.”

“He was pretty busy, too,” smiled Landis. “Has Harrison quarreled with anyone recently, Stimson?”

The butler hesitated.

“He was rather given to quarreling, though not with the domestic staff as a rule.”

“Tell us the most recent instance, will you?”

“Three or four days ago, Wednesday, I believe, I happened to hear Mr. Harrison’s voice raised. The bell rang and I hurried into the library to find Mr. Harrison at his desk and Mr. Allen standing. Mr. Harrison—”

“How did they look!” snapped Bernard.

“Mr. Harrison was red in the face but he was laughing in a way. Mr. Allen looked a bit pale, I thought.”

“Did Allen look angry?”

“Well, he didn’t look pleased, sir.”

“Don’t quibble!” growled Bernard. “Was he angry?”

“I think he was, sir, though he did not show it to any great extent. Mr. Harrison said: ‘Show the gentleman out, Stimson!’ I said: ‘Out of the house, sir?’ Then Mr. Harrison laughed again and said: ‘No, no, out of the room, Stimson. Mr. Allen is welcome to stay here as long as he likes!’”

“You mean he became cordial suddenly?”

“No, sir. I didn’t like the way he said it and I do not think Mr. Allen liked it. But he went quietly out of the library without saying anything further.”

“You didn’t hear him say anything at all, then?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you know what they were quarreling about?”

“No, sir. I did not catch Mr. Harrison’s words.”

“Any other quarrels, Stimson?” inquired Bernard.

“No, sir. Nothing that could apply.”

Bernard frowned.

“Don’t leave out anything!” he ordered. “We’ll judge of whether it applies or not.”

Stimson stirred uneasily, the first sign of discomfort that he had shown.

“Well, sir, Miss Mount was away from the house all day Thursday and returned about seven, looking very tired. When I brought the cocktails into the reception-room that night about seven-thirty I heard Mr. Harrison shouting at her in the library. The end door was closed and I neither listened nor caught what he said. Then Miss Mount came into the front room looking very much upset and I hastened to pour her a cocktail. That was all, sir.”

“What makes you so sure that doesn’t apply?”

“Miss Mount has been a member of the household for many years; longer than I have. I came here ten years ago. There have been other high words more than once between him and Miss Mount. As these were nothing unusual I judged they had nothing to do with the case, sir.”

“Seems reasonable. Have you seen them together since that quarrel at all?” Landis inquired.

Stimson thought a moment.

“No, sir, I don’t believe I have happened to see them together, except at meals, when he sat at the head of the table and she at the foot.”

“Did they appear on good terms at meals, afterwards?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice, sir. They did not appear on bad terms, at all events.”

“You were fond of Harrison? His death upset you?” suggested Bernard benignly.

Stimson compressed his lips.

“It was a shock to me!”

“Nothing more than a shock?” Bernard persisted.

“Mr. Harrison was a generous employer. But he was not a gentleman likely to endear himself to those about him, sir.”

Bernard’s face softened and grew very kind.

“In fact, you hated him, eh?”

The butler’s dark eyes did not waver. Both Landis and Bernard saw the smoldering fire that crept into them.

“Yes, sir,” Stimson nodded slowly, “I did.”

“So you shot him,” murmured Bernard.

Stimson shook his head as slowly. “No, sir. I did not shoot him,” he replied.

“But you know who did!” thundered Bernard.

“No, I do not, sir!”

Again Bernard’s tone changed.

“Who else hated him then, Stimson?” he asked gently.

“That I don’t know, sir. He was not popular among the domestic staff. But I hardly think the others disliked him as much as I did.”

“What about Harley, the chauffeur?”

“Harley is a fine fellow, sir. He has a more forgiving nature than mine. Mr. Harrison irritated and angered him often. But he is well paid and soon forgot.”

“Which leaves you with the strongest motive to kill him,” Bernard pointed out.

“Possibly it does, sir. But I did not kill him,” replied the butler quietly.

CHAPTER X

“SOLICITOUSLY”

AFTER the butler’s denial of guilt in deed, whatever his thought, neither detective spoke for a moment. At length Landis rose to his feet and nodded to Stimson.

“Step this way, will you?” he requested.

Stimson got up with composure and followed his guide toward the sergeant of police.

“Sergeant Forbes,” said Landis, “we are questioning the household one by one. I believe it would be a good idea, after we finish with each, if he or she stayed at this end of the room under your eyes. You understand, don’t you!”

“I do, sir. I’ll see they don’t communicate!”

Landis turned to the butler.

“Wait here, please.”

Stimson sat down without a word.

By the fire, Landis expressed his reaction to the recent interview.

“Psychologically,” he murmured to Bernard, “that was a convincing proof of innocence!” Observing a smile about his companion’s mouth, he added: “either that, or it was a wonderful piece of acting!”

“Motive and opportunity!” replied Bernard quietly. “He hated Harrison. He had plenty of time and opportunity to leave the butler’s pantry, enter the hall back there and shoot Harrison with the Japanese bow. He knew Harrison’s ways, had plenty of chance to study a way to kill him, knew that everyone else here shoots, too, while nobody knows that he can, probably. And who had a better chance to fix that bow in advance? Just let us get one water-tight scrap of evidence! Well, suppose we ring and tackle the next one!”

The next one was Susan Duckworth, for she answered the bell. Landis conducted her across the hall to the drawing-room which proved untenanted. Bernard followed them.

Susan was a pretty girl, of a blue-eyed, pink-and-white type more decorative than efficient. Her cheeks still showed traces of tears and her eyes of nervous excitement.

“Sit down, will you, Susan?” said Landis kindly. “We won’t keep you long. We won’t shout at you either!”

Susan obeyed.

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir!”

“Now,” he began, “did you dust the library today?”

“Yes, sir, this morning.”

“There’s a Japanese bow at the end of the library. Was it in its usual place when you dusted, Susan?”

“You mean that crooked-looking bow and string that belongs to that creepy figure all covered with scales, sir?”

“Yes, Susan. Was that bow in its usual place?”

“No, sir. Somebody’d moved it. It’s been across the back of that creature before. This morning it was on one end and leaning up against it, sort of.”

“Did you speak of the change to anyone?”

Susan began to wring her hands.

“No, sir!” she gasped. “I didn’t know it was any harm! I thought Mr. Joel had been at it. Oh, sir, it wasn’t my fault!”

“What wasn’t your fault?” inquired Bernard crisply.

Susan turned, wide-eyed.

“If Mr. Harrison was sh-shot with it, sir!” she answered her older inquisitor.

“What made you think Mr. Joel had been at it?”

“Nothing, sir, except the butler mentioned he had been at it once before. Mr. Stimson was speaking of the way Mr. Harrison got mad at Mr. Joel for touching it, sir.”

“When did Stimson speak of that, Susan?”

“Oh, some time ago, sir. Only I remembered it this morning when I saw it had been moved.”

“What makes you think Mr. Harrison was shot with that bow?” inquired Bernard.

“Why, sir, you’ve been asking me about it!”

“Fair enough,” smiled Landis. “Now, Susan, there’s a door at the end of the wing leading out to the garage. Did you lock that door any time this afternoon or this evening?”

“I, lock it, sir? I haven’t touched it!”

“All right. Now several of the household were shooting on the third floor last Tuesday, Susan. Have you heard or seen anyone shooting up there since Tuesday?”

Susan shook her head blankly.

“No, sir!”

“Have you seen that Japanese bow anywhere else in the house except there in the library where it belongs?”

“Why, no, sir!”

“You haven’t seen it lying about or seen anyone carrying it, Susan?”

“No, sir. I’m sure I haven’t!”

“Have you seen anyone touching it in the library?”

“Nobody touches it but me and Mr. Joel once!”

“Did you ever notice how many arrows there were with the bow in the library?”

“Arrows, sir? No, sir, I never noticed.”

“Did you happen to close the door from the library into the back hall any time this afternoon or evening?”

“I’m quite sure I didn’t, sir!” declared Susan.

“Have you seen anyone except the household around the house today, Susan?”

“No, sir. I haven’t.”

“What time did you come down to the kitchen tonight?”

“About six, sir, to help Cook.”

“See anyone about on the way downstairs?”

“No, sir.”

“All right. Now from six o’clock until you took in the cocktails, tell us everybody you saw and where they were.”

Susan looked from one detective to the other.

“Oh, I don’t want to get anybody into trouble!” she wailed.

“Why should you?” inquired Landis. “You didn’t see anything suspicious, did you?”

“Oh, no, sir! Of course I didn’t!”

“All right. Just tell us who you saw.”

“Well, sir, Cook was in the kitchen when I came down. Then Mr. Stimson came down and went through to the pantry. I went through to help him set the table and when I came back Helen was rolling the butter pats. Just then Mr. Harley, the chauffeur, stuck his head in the kitchen and said something to me. He’s always teasing!” Susan tossed her head slightly at this point. “I went back with the butter and finished setting the table. Then I came out to the kitchen and put the rolls in the oven for Cook. Helen wasn’t there any more. And then I took the cocktail glasses into the reception-room, sir.”

“You didn’t see anyone else, Susan?”

“Well, sir, Miss Anita came down the back stairs and went through to the billiard-room.”

“What time was that, Susan?”

“I never noticed, sir!”

“Well, about what time then?”

“It must have been about seven o’clock, sir.”

“Who else did you see, Susan? Think carefully please.”

Susan obeyed.

“Only Miss Mount, sir,” she declared at last. “She came down to the kitchen to speak to Cook. She was in the dining-room to look at the table. When I came through with the cocktail glasses she followed me down the hall to the front room. And then, sir, the thing happened!”

“Didn’t Stimson come in with the cocktails first and didn’t you pour them out, Susan?”

“Yes, sir. We poured them out at the table by the window and I was bringing some of them back on a tray to stand near the hall door with them when Mr. Harrison came into the doorway from the library.”

“Where was Miss Mount then and where was Stimson?”

“Mr. Stimson had gone back to the dining-room and Miss Mount was just closing the side window.”

“Well, exactly what happened?”

“All of a sudden Mr. Harrison turned round and fell. He gave a kind of shout. I screamed and dropped the cocktails and Miss Mount ran to him and lifted him. Then I saw the arrow under him and I just lost my wits.”

“When did you regain them, Susan?” asked Landis.

“I was in the kitchen and somebody was pinching me!”

“Excellent,” said Landis obscurely. “I suppose you don’t remember what happened between, do you?”

“No, sir. I just wasn’t myself!”

“Thank you, Susan.” Landis glanced at Bernard who shook his head. “All right, now step this way, please.”

Susan followed him timidly out of the room. He left her in the sergeant’s charge with orders not to talk, found his way to the kitchen and asked Helen Stokes to stay there and wait his summons. The cook he brought with him to the drawing-room where Bernard was waiting.

Mabel Harley was a stoutish, capable-looking woman with a kind face and steady, rather faded blue eyes. She looked worried and anxious. Landis soon set her at her ease.

Questions similar to those asked Susan developed that Cook had been in the kitchen from a quarter to six until long after the murder. During that time she had seen, in the order named, Mr. Joel, who came in the back door and went up the back stairs; Susan; Stimson; Helen; her own husband; and Miss Mount who came down the back way to speak about the salted almonds. Harley had just stuck his head in and Miss Mount had been in the kitchen for only a minute or so. Helen had gone up to Mrs. Graham about a quarter past seven. Mr. Stimson and Susan were in and out.

She had never seen the Japanese bow in the library nor anywhere else, had heard or seen no one shooting on the third floor except on Tuesday, had not closed the back door of the library nor locked the door at the end of the wing. She had seen no stranger about the premises and had no idea who killed her employer.

Landis harked back a little.

“What time did Mr. Joel come in the back door?” he asked.

“A little before six, I think, sir. He stopped at the kitchen door and said he was tired and was going to bed.”

“Something on his mind, perhaps,” Bernard suggested.

“Maybe he had, sir,” agreed the cook innocently. “I knew he’d forget all about his dinner so I sent Susan up with a tray for him.”

“What time was that, Cook?” asked Landis.

“Just before dinner, sir. About seven-twenty maybe.”

“Where was he then and what was he doing?”

“Susan would know, sir.”

“Thank you, Cook. That’s all then.”

Mabel Harley started and looked from one to the other.

“You surely don’t think poor Mr. Joel had anything to do with the tragedy! He wouldn’t harm a kitten!”

“Mr. Harrison,” grunted Bernard experimentally, “was no kitten, however.”

“Oh, sir, he didn’t! He couldn’t—”

“Come along, Cook,” said Landis kindly and led her, anxious and questioning, to the library. Susan he recalled to the drawing-room where he asked her to sit down.

She obeyed reluctantly, her hands clasped on her breast in obvious trepidation.

“Now, Susan,” said Landis, “why didn’t you tell us that you saw Mr. Joel just before dinner?”

“Oh, sir! I forgot!”

“You did see him, then?”

“Yes, sir! I took up his tray.”

“What time was that and what was he doing?”

“It was just before dinner, sir. Mr. Joel was in bed, reading. I set the tray on the table by the bed. He thanked me and went back to his book.”

“You took his tray up the back stairs, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir.”

“See anyone at all on your way up or down, Susan?”

“No, sir, I didn’t. I didn’t see anyone at all!”

“Thank you, Susan.”

Landis took her back to the library, rang for Helen Stokes and when she appeared, led her into the drawing-room.

Helen proved a more sophisticated and self-possessed type of girl than Susan. She had brown hair, brown eyes, a trim figure and a slightly provocative glance. She took the chair he offered her and faced them with composure.

They questioned her jointly. She had nothing to tell them about the Japanese bow, anyone shooting alone on the third floor, the door at the end of the wing or the door at the back of the library. She had seen no stranger about the premises and had no idea who could have killed her employer. Nor did she seem particularly upset over his death.

Up to seven-fifteen she verified the stories told by the other servants. Then she went upstairs in answer to the bell in Mr. Graham’s room.

“See anyone on your way up?” asked Bernard.

“No, sir. The back stairs and the second-floor halls were quite deserted.”

“Tell us exactly what happened, so far as you know it,” Landis requested, “from the time you entered Mrs. Graham’s room until after the murder, will you, Helen?”

“I’ll do my best, sir! I found Mrs. Graham in a fine flurry, trying to change for dinner and do her hair and so on. She ran into the bathroom to wash while I got out the dress she wanted and the shoes and stockings to go with it.” Helen smiled reminiscently. “Mr. Graham was partly undressed and he was fumbling and swearing over the studs in a clean shirt, I think. The two doors were open between. When he finished that he came into the bathroom and started the bath water. Mrs. Graham came into her room and closed the door. I was finishing her hair when we heard a dreadful scream. Mrs. Graham ran and knocked on the bathroom door and called to her husband. He was splashing about and did not hear her at first, then he shut off the water and asked her what she wanted. She told him about the scream and he told her if she was dressed to go see what it was. He wasn’t alarmed the way we were, but then, he hadn’t heard it.”

“Yes, go on,” said Landis patiently.

“Mrs. Graham finished putting on her dress and we went down the front stairs together. She was frightened and asked me to go with her. We heard Susan carrying on in the reception-room and hurried there. Then we saw poor Mr. Harrison on the floor, Susan in hysterics, Miss Isabelle flat on her back with Mr. Russell bending over her solicitously—”

“You got that out of a book,” said Bernard in a hollow rumble.

Helen started, bridled a little and then laughed.

“Maybe I did, sir! But it’s true!”

“Who else was there?” asked Landis quietly.

“Miss Anita was staring at her father. She looked white and distressed. Presently Mr. Allen hurried in and went to her side—”

“—solicitously,” grumbled Bernard.

Helen laughed and Landis smiled.

“Go on,” he said.

“Then Miss Mount asked Mrs. Graham to go up and call her husband down and she went. I stayed and tried to help with Susan. Mr. Stimson was back with some water and they were working over Miss Isabelle but without success. At last Mr. Russell picked her up in his arms and carried her up to her room. After that Mr. Graham came downstairs with Mrs. Graham and then Mr. Stimson and I took Susan to the kitchen and brought her round.”

“By pinching her?” asked Landis.

Helen showed them a heartless dimple.

“I believe she was pinched, sir! It seemed to work.”

“And after that, Helen?”

“I was busy fixing trays for Miss Mount and the two young ladies and helping Mr. Stimson serve dinner to Mrs. Graham and Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen. Of course we had our own dinner to eat. I’ve been in the kitchen ever since until you sent for me just now.”

“Who cleaned up the broken cocktail glasses in the reception-room?” growled Bernard suddenly.

“Mr. Stimson, sir. Susan wasn’t fit for it with the body lying there and all. She would have gone off again.”

“When did he clean up, do you know?”

“As soon as Susan came to her senses.”

“Was that before the police arrived?”

“Oh, yes, sir. It was before he started serving dinner to Mrs. Graham and the two young gentlemen.”

“Ever hear your employer quarreling with anyone?”

Helen stared, then laughed.

“Plenty of times, sir! He quarreled with almost everyone. Once he bumped into me in the hall and swore at me. I gave him notice at once. So then he tried to kiss me and I slapped his face.”

“You’re still here,” observed Landis.

Helen dimpled faintly.

“Yes, sir, we understood each other after that. He never bothered me again.”

“I understand,” said Landis, “that he seldom had any words with the—er—domestic staff, Helen.”

“He didn’t, sir. Susan was afraid of him but I don’t believe he bothered her—much.”

Landis ignored this inviting topic.

“He quarreled with members of the household though?”

“Oh, yes, sir. He quarreled and argued and jumped on Miss Anita and Miss Mount and his brother, sir, but mostly Mr. Joel. He was always at his brother.”

“Anyone else, Helen?”

The girl thought a moment, tucking away a strand of pretty hair.

“Well, he had a row with a Doctor Stanford, I heard. But I don’t know what it was about. And on Saturday I happened to hear him shouting at Mr. Brent, sir.”

“You mean today?” snapped Bernard.

“No, sir, last Saturday. Mr. Brent was here over the week-end and they talked business in the library a good part of Saturday. Susan couldn’t get in there to dust.”

“What did they do on Sunday?” Bernard asked.

“Let me see, sir.” Helen paused thoughtfully. “I believe Mr. Brent was out shooting with some of the others in the afternoon and Mr. Harrison took Mrs. Graham for a ride.”

“You don’t say so!” grumbled Bernard.

CHAPTER XI

THE OLD MAN WHO CALLED

A FEW more questions indicated that Helen had no further useful knowledge to impart. Landis took her to the library and went to the kitchen, returning with James Harley, the chauffeur-gardener.

Harley was a rugged, red-haired man of middle age who looked as if he possessed a sense of humor. Landis invited him to be seated and asked him to tell them where he had been and what he had seen since his return from town.

“Well, sir,” he began in a rich voice, “I brought the boss home about a quarter past six and dropped him at the front door. I drove round and put the car away and went and turned on the sprinklers in the sunken garden, for it’s been a bit dry and Mr. Harrison was fussy about his chrysanthemums. Then I went back to the garage and wiped off the car. When I’d done that job and tightened the fanbelt a bit, I came back to the sunken garden, turned off the sprinklers again and came in the back door to the kitchen—”

“What time was that, Harley?” asked Bernard.

“About seven. Maybe a bit after, sir.”

“All right. You went to the kitchen—?”

“I just stuck my head in, said ‘Hello’ to my wife and cracked a joke with Susan. Then I went upstairs to clean up. I took my time over it and knew nothing about the murder until I came downstairs about eight.”

“Any idea who killed Harrison?” asked Landis.

“No, sir, I haven’t.”

“Can you remember exactly where you drove him during the last week, Harley?” Bernard cut in.

“Let’s see, sir. Last Sunday I drove him and Mrs. Graham to the yacht club. He took her for a sail and I drove them back in time for dinner. On Monday I drove him and Mr. Graham into town and dropped them at their offices. About four I went into town again, picked up Mr. Harrison, stopped for Mr. Graham at his office and drove them out here.”

“Did their relations seem amicable?” inquired Landis.

Harley looked slightly puzzled.

“You mean, were they friendly, sir? Why, as friendly as the Boss ever was with anybody, sir! He was a tartar!”

“Harrison quarrel much with you, Harley?”

“He bawled me out now and then, sir.”

“Where else did you drive him this week?”

“No place until today. This morning I drove him to the Long Island Station—The Pennsylvania—and left him there. He told me to stop at his office for him at five.”

“Did you notice anything unusual in his manner?”

“He was in a devil of a temper, sir.”

“When you came into the house tonight,” said Bernard, “you didn’t happen to come in the door at the end of the wing, lock it behind you, go through the billiard-room into the sunken garden and then in the back door, did you?” The old detective’s voice had the purring smoothness of a high-priced car such as Harley drove.

The chauffeur’s reaction argued him both intelligent and hot-tempered.

“No, sir, I did not come in the door at the end of the wing!” he grated. “Nor I didn’t shoot the Boss and sneak out through the billiard-room, either!”

“You’re in a great hurry to defend yourself,” said Bernard curiously. “We haven’t accused you—yet!”

“It sounded that way, sir!”

“Perhaps you’ve been questioned before?”

“Suppose you’ve been looking up my record,” Harley answered bitterly. “I was a bit wild as a kid but it was just bad luck my bein’ mixed up with that business. I had nothing to do with it.”

“We haven’t looked up your record,” said Landis in his friendly way. “You might as well save us time and tell us about it, Harley. What business was it?”

The chauffeur looked from one to the other suspiciously.

“You don’t know?” he demanded.

They shook their heads, watching him.

“That’s one on me, then,” he admitted. “It was the Marlow case, nine years ago. I was dead drunk and somebody shoved me in the room with Marlow. He was all cut to ribbons and they tried to pin it on me. Wish I knew who did it!”

Bernard nodded.

“I remember. Chicago, wasn’t it? So you’re—let me see—you’re Wheeler, eh?”

“Yes, sir, I’m Wheeler,” said the chauffeur grimly.

There was a short silence between them, the man with a record doggedly silent while the two detectives studied him.

“Well, Harley,” said Bernard at last, “did you see anyone at all about the premises while you were cleaning the car or when you came into the house?”

Harley reddened with gratitude.

“I didn’t, sir! I didn’t see a soul,” he answered.

“By the way, if you caught the man who killed Marlow, what would you do with him?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“I’d turn him up, sir! But—By G-d, I’d beat him up first!”

“You haven’t any suspicion of who killed Harrison?”

Harley shook his head.

“I’ve no idea, sir.”

“All right.” Bernard looked at Landis.

“That’s all, Harley. Much obliged.” Landis rose and led the man to the library where he left him with the others. On the way out again he turned suddenly and called.

“Step this way again, will you, Stimson?”

Harley’s eyes followed them as they left the room together.

Seated in the drawing-room, it was Landis who took up the task of questioning.

“Stimson,” he began with brusque friendliness, “I understand from Harley that Harrison was in a devil of a temper this morning when he went to town. Do you know why?”

“Why he was in a temper? I don’t, sir!”

“Did you notice it?”

“Not specially, sir. It wasn’t anything new.”

“Know of any letter that might have upset him?”

“I don’t, sir. He was just as bad last night.”

“He was, eh? Any idea what upset him, Stimson?”

“I haven’t, sir, unless it might be the old man who called yesterday evening. That seemed to annoy him.”

“You’re not very communicative,” Landis smiled. “Who was the old man and what did he want?”

“He wouldn’t tell me his name, sir. He was a ragged, surly old customer and said Mr. Harrison would see him, name or no name. He seemed harmless, though.”

“Go on,” said Landis patiently, “tell us all about him, man! Mr. Harrison’s been murdered, you know!”

“Yes, sir,” admitted the butler. “Well, this old chap rang the bell and asked for ‘Harrison.’ I asked him if he meant Mr. Harrison and he shot me a look and said that was just who he meant. I asked his name and he said not to mind about that but to tell my boss that an old man who had done him a service wanted to see him.”

“Did you take that message to Mr. Harrison?”

“Yes, sir. I left the old boy in the vestibule and told Mr. Harrison in the library. This was before dinner. Mr. Harrison told me to clear out and went into the hall. I returned to the dining-room. A minute later I heard the front door slam and Mr. Harrison came in again looking angry. He was red as a bull.”

“That all you know about the old man?”

“No, sir. I think not. Just before Susan sounded the gong the telephone rang and I went to answer it in the hall. I heard a voice on the wire that sounded like the same old man. He said: ‘I want to speak to Mrs. Graham!’ Before I could answer I heard Mr. Harrison bellowing a reply and the crash of a receiver. So I hung up also. Mr. Harrison had answered the call from the extension on his desk.”

“He was expecting the call, eh?”

“I couldn’t be sure of that, sir.”

“But it sounded that way?”

“Perhaps so, sir,” replied the butler cautiously.

Bernard snorted.

“Well, what did Harrison say?”

“All I heard was: ‘—away from here! I’ll see you tomorrow, damn your dirty hide!’”

“What did you gather from that?” Landis asked. “Did Mr. Harrison’s tone indicate impatience, real anger, apprehension, perhaps?”

“Real anger, I should say, sir.”

“Why didn’t you tell us about the old man when we questioned you before?”

Stimson hesitated a moment.

“Well, sir,” he replied at length, “you asked me only about what happened this evening. And Mr. Bernard’s manner toward me led me to think that to volunteer information might be misunderstood.”

“How, misunderstood?” asked Bernard quietly.

“You might suppose that I was trying to lead you away by introducing a—a species of red herring, sir!”

Bernard nodded.

“Very intelligent of you, Stimson.”

The butler offered no response.

“Thanks, Stimson. That’s all for just now.”

Landis rose and led the way back to the library.

CHAPTER XII

THE DECENCY NOT TO INQUIRE

WHEN Stimson had resumed his seat at the end of the library, Landis recalled the policeman from the reception-room and set him on guard over the Japanese bow and arrows and over the servants. He posted the sergeant by the fire, a position from which he could watch the body of Harrison and prevent conversation among the guests and members of the household after the detectives had talked to them. Landis proposed to question them in turn, sending them into the library one at a time.

With the sergeant at his new post, Landis mounted to the second floor wing and knocked on Graham’s door. Graham himself opened it to disclose his wife in the background. Landis looked at her with interest, in time to catch a fading glimpse of the intimate hilarity common to happy newlyweds.

“We’d like a few words with Mrs. Graham,” he explained. “Won’t keep her long.”

“Here she is,” said Graham. “Detective-Lieutenant Landis, Ethel. Want to question her here?” he asked Landis.

“Down in the drawing-room, if you please. Mr. Bernard is waiting for us there.”

She was a pretty and prettily rounded little person with soft brown hair, hazel eyes and more than a hint of character in her smooth young face.

“I’ll come at once,” she smiled. “Can Ray come, too?”

“Downstairs with us, of course! But I think we’ll demand an interview alone with you! We won’t bite. And you may be able to concentrate and remember little points better without—er—distracting influences.”

Mrs. Graham laughed without self-consciousness and blushed a little, as though ingenuous simplicity peeped through a social sophistication but lately acquired.

“All right—if you won’t bite,” she smiled. More soberly she added: “I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about this awful tragedy.”

“Then we won’t keep you long!”

They dropped Graham at the library door and went on to the drawing-room. Bernard rose until their attractive young witness had settled herself in a chair. While Landis put the questions he sat watching her absently. Once or twice she smiled at him. Young things always took to Bernard because they like kindness, strength and simplicity of character and, above all, reserve.

She told them that she had not locked the door at the end of the wing and that she had been in her room from about half past six until after the gong rang. At a quarter past seven her husband had sent for Helen Stokes to help her dress.

“Just after the gong rang,” Bernard interjected, “you heard a scream, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. Bernard. We both heard it, Helen Stokes and I. It startled us.”

She went on to tell them how she had hurried downstairs with Helen and come up again to summon her husband. He was in the bathroom drying himself and had dressed quickly and gone down to take charge. She had waited and gone down with him. She had seen no one in the halls on her way back and forth.

Landis asked her about the library door. She was sure it had been open and back against the wall when she and her husband passed through the library on their way to their rooms. As to the Japanese bow she had never noticed it, either in the library or anywhere else in the house.

The rest of Mrs. Graham’s account merely verified that of the others. After dinner in the dining-room she had gone back to her room to wait for her husband who had joined her there a few minutes ago.

“Let’s go back a bit,” Bernard rumbled. “Didn’t you go for a ride and a sail with Harrison last Sunday?”

“Yes, I did,” she admitted in surprise.

“Was he nice to you?”

“Yes, very!”

“Not too nice, Mrs. Graham?”

She shook her head.

“Not at all! To tell you the truth I was a little afraid he might be. But he was just nice and very interesting about all sorts of things.”

“He didn’t tell you anything that might give us a clue to his murderer, did he?”

“He—he just talked about his early days—” she stammered, “—about pioneering and mining and newspaper work. What—what could he tell me?”

Bernard smiled.

“An enemy?”

“No. He didn’t say anything about having an enemy!”

“I suppose you have no idea who killed him?”

“Why, no, Mr. Bernard! How should I? It couldn’t have been anyone in the house, of course.”

“No?” Bernard inquired.

This time she looked frightened.

“You don’t mean you think it was somebody in the house!”

“No,” lied the old detective gallantly, “we don’t. We want to know what you think, d’you see? Did anyone telephone you here at the house yesterday or today?”

She shook her head in bewilderment.

“No one.”

“Then do you know of any middle-aged to elderly man who might try to telephone to you here?”

Ethel Graham laughed mischievously.

“I was on the stage for a while in New York,” she explained. “One way and another I met rather a lot of middle-aged to elderly men who might try to telephone me—if they knew my married name.”

“This was no tired business man,” interrupted Landis with a smile. “It was rather a ragged old fellow, I believe.”

“Ragged? Someone did try to telephone me—?”

From surprise her eyes widened to swift alarm.

“Goodness, it might have been my father!” she cried.

“What is his name and where does he live?”

“His name is Hiram Cuddy and he lives on a farm on Long Island, near Great Neck. But I don’t think he could have telephoned me! I don’t think he knows where I am!”

“You live in town, don’t you? Couldn’t he learn it from a servant at your home?”

“I—I don’t think he knows my address at all!”

Both detectives looked puzzled—and receptive.

Ethel Graham spread her small hands in a gesture individual and rather endearing.

“You see,” she explained diffidently, “I ran away from home! That was three years ago and I haven’t heard from either of my parents since.”

Bernard frowned.

“Why not?” he demanded. “Didn’t you write or go to see them?”

She shook her head.

“It sounds awful, I know. But I wasn’t a bit happy at home!”

“They were old-fashioned and you wanted gayety?”

“It wasn’t that! Home was sordid and terribly depressing. No matter what I did I couldn’t seem to make them really like me! That’s why I ran away at last!”

Ethel Graham’s eyes clouded and saddened with unhappy memories, a most convincing endorsement of her words.

“So your maiden name was Cuddy?” asked Landis.

“Yes. I changed it to Craig when I got to New York.”

“Thanks,” said Bernard gruffly. “Now, between the time you went to your room and the scream you heard, did you see anyone about the house at all?”

“I never left our rooms, Mr. Bernard! So I saw nobody except Ray and Helen Stokes.”

“Did you happen to overhear any quarrels between Mr. Harrison and anyone at all?”

“No, I didn’t. Sometimes he was pretty harsh to his brother at the table. They didn’t exactly quarrel because Mr. Joel Harrison always tried to laugh it off.”

Each detective waited for the other to go on with further questions. Finally Landis rose to his feet.

“That’s all, Mrs. Graham. Thanks a lot. I’ll take you back to your husband.”

With a smile at Bernard, a smile that held just a touch of wistfulness as though entreating his good opinion of her, she rose with graceful ease and preceded Landis into the hall. He followed her to the library and in the doorway beckoned to Graham.

In the drawing-room, Landis waved Graham to a chair.

“I’ve a couple of questions I forgot to ask you,” he said. “One of ’em is: have you seen that Japanese bow anywhere else about the house during the past week, or seen anyone near it?”

“No, I haven’t, Mr. Landis. I would have told you.”

Landis nodded.

“I just wanted to make sure. Well, do you know of anyone doing any shooting on the third floor since last Tuesday—anyone at all?”

“I don’t believe anyone has been shooting up there since Tuesday. You mean that hole in the target we found?”

“Yes. It was made since Tuesday, not before.”

“Then I don’t know who could have made it!”

“All right. Have you heard any rows between Harrison and anyone at all since you’ve been here? They may be just as important indirectly as directly.”

Graham sat in silence for a moment, thinking.

“Last Sunday night,” he told them suddenly, “Mr. Harrison called me into the library. While we were talking, Anita came in and said something to him in an undertone. I did not hear what she said but her father lashed out at her aloud: ‘I like him, all right,’ he shouted, ‘but he’s not for you, see?’”

“Did you gather who he meant?”

“Yes. They were talking about Allen. There wasn’t much reserve on either side and I was damned uncomfortable. Anita called her father a brute and he called her a fool and she flung out in a rage.”

“What did Harrison say about Allen?” asked Bernard.

Graham flinched a little.

“Good Lord, I don’t want to go into that, Mr. Bernard!”

“We’re not going to talk about it,” Landis smiled. “But we ought to know, I think.”

“He acted as if he thought Allen was a—well, a fortune hunter. Millionaires are apt to get that way,” answered Graham after a moment.

“Anita was defending Allen, of course. Did you gather that she is in love with him, Graham?”

“I really couldn’t say.” Graham’s voice had an edge.

“Come, come,” said Landis with an unruffled smile, “we’re not scandal-mongering. It may be important.”

“Well, Anita was—defending him—rather warmly.”

“Let it go at that, then! What did Harrison want to talk to you about?”

“A subject purely personal to me. I’ll tell you if you insist. But I’d a great deal rather not.”

Bernard uttered a faint snort.

“Another personal matter! Do you realize, Graham, that Harrison was murdered here tonight? This is no game of twenty questions, man!”

“I know it isn’t,” said Graham in sudden exasperation. “But our talk had nothing to do with the murder!” His tone changed. “Look here, I could have told you our talk was about business but I told you the truth. Now, if you insist on details, damn it, I’ll be strongly tempted to lie to you!” He laughed with a touch of appeal. “Nobody heard us and nobody would be any the wiser!”

“All right,” said Landis quickly, “let it go. Come on back to the library while we talk to the others.”

Leaving the young lawyer, ruffled and a bit nervous, under the watchful eye of Sergeant Forbes, Landis went to the billiard-room. Russell and Allen had abandoned their game and were sitting in front of the fire. He asked for a word with Russell and conducted him back to the drawing-room.

The young man sat down in a leisurely way and faced his two inquisitors with a lazy smile while they looked him over. He was a fine specimen of the Nordic physique, big, broad-shouldered, and muscular, with a head of light, half-tamed hair. Behind the lazy, deep-set blue eyes lurked intelligence and good humor, also a capacity for sudden anger.

He broke the brief silence with a question, his tone conveying a hint of lazy insolence. “Do I pass?”

“You’re a friend of the family?” inquired Landis.

“A particular friend, gentlemen.”

“Meaning—?”

“—that Isabelle and I are engaged.”

“What is your full name and where do you live?”

The suave courtesy with which Landis spoke, the grim amusement on Bernard’s face were having their effect. Russell answered with a shade less assurance.

“Hobart Clark Russell,” he told them and added his address in Westchester.

Landis repeated his usual questions without success. Russell had not locked the door at the end of the wing, nor closed the rear door of the library that evening. He had never noticed the bow in the library, seldom entered that room. Nor had he seen the Japanese bow away from its usual place.

He had overheard no quarrels between Harrison and anyone else in the house, though he said Harrison jumped on his brother at meals, the only time they saw each other. Finally, he had noticed no one and nothing suspicious about the house or grounds and had no idea who killed Harrison.

“Where were you and what were you doing after six o’clock tonight?” asked Landis.

“At six I was driving home in Anita’s car with Graham as well. We got back about half past and I went to my room—”

“You came in the house at the end of the wing, I think,” said Landis. “Did you go straight to your room or come through the billiard-room and turn back?”

“The latter. Allen and I followed the girls through to the hall before we went back to our rooms.”

“Was the library door closed at that time?”

“I didn’t notice. Don’t believe it was, though. But I think it was closed later, after the murder.”

“Go on, please,” Landis requested.

“Well, I stayed in my room, bathing and dressing until the gong rang. Then I heard a girl scream and I went through to the main building to see what was up.”

“You came through the billiard-room. Was there anyone there, Mr. Russell?”

“No. The room was deserted. In the hall beyond I saw that the library door was closed so I went through the swing door into the front hall and along that to the front room. I could hear a girl carrying on up there. It was Susan.”

“Did you hear anyone pass your door—pass along the hall of the wing—between six-thirty and seven-thirty?”

“No, don’t believe I did.”

“What did you find in the front room when you got there?” Landis continued.

“Well, let’s see. Miss Mount was there. Susan was in hysterics. Isabelle lay on the floor in a faint. And—Anita was there, too, staring down at her father. Then Mrs. Graham and Helen, the other maid, turned up, and Allen, I guess. The butler was back and we were trying to revive Isabelle by this time. Finally I carried her up to her room, came down to tell Graham I’d go and, when he insisted we wait for the police, I went across the hall for some dinner. Then Allen and I went to the billiard-room and here I am. That’s all.”

“Isabelle Harrison,” said Bernard suddenly, “will be a wealthy heiress—now. She’ll be a great catch, eh?”

“Just what did you mean by that?” Russell asked.

“It ought to be clear to you,” grunted Bernard.

Russell’s eyes were dangerous.

“Well, it isn’t!”

“I mean,” said Bernard, “that Harrison’s murder will make you a rich man! Is that clear enough for you?”

Landis gathered his muscles to leap between. But Russell controlled himself.

“It’s too damned clear,” he panted.

“And it’s true, eh?” inquired Bernard. “Cut out the play-acting and let’s have your answer!”

The formidable glare of his old eyes met the furious threat in those of Russell. Dominated in spite of himself, the younger man slowly leaned back in his chair.

“Isabelle and I are engaged,” he admitted huskily. “No doubt she will be well off now. I’ve had the decency not to inquire. If you’re accusing me of the murder, say so! Otherwise, keep your damned insinuations to yourself!”

Bernard smiled a little.

“If we do run you in you’d better learn to control your temper, young man. You can go.”

Russell got lithely to his feet.

“You’ve got gall enough,” he scowled, “for a dozen cheap detectives!”

“Step into the library,” said Landis patiently.

Russell hesitated, swung about and stalked into the other room, where he dropped into a chair near Mrs. Graham.

CHAPTER XIII

“A BIT OF A RISK”

LEAVING Russell in the library, Landis went back to the billiard-room where he found Allen in an easy chair smoking and looking thoughtfully into the fire.

Allen rose at once and followed him to the drawing-room, sat down with a slight smile and eyed the two detectives inquiringly. They studied him in silence for a few seconds as they had studied Russell.

He was of an entirely different type. Though tall, like Russell, he was slender and wiry rather than muscular. His hair was very dark. His eyes were quick and sharp and almost black. A small black moustache shadowed his small firm mouth. He bore himself with an easy grace and had the smooth brown skin of excellent health. In manner and appearance Allen conveyed the correct and sophisticated nonchalance of a popular young bachelor. There was nothing in his face or pose to indicate the trend of his thoughts.

He gave them his name as Frederick Allen and stated his address in New York. Anita Harrison and he were old friends, hence his presence in the house, he explained.

Landis asked much the same questions he had asked the others. Allen could not tell them who had locked the door at the end of the wing or closed the door into the library. He had noticed the Japanese bow, but only in its place across the back of the lay figure. He endorsed Russell’s statement that they had followed the girls through the billiard-room to the hall, then turned back to their rooms. He had not noticed the library door at that time nor seen anything at all suspicious about the house or in the grounds that day.

At this point Allen crossed his knees and leaned back. Looking down, Landis noticed a rim of wet earth about the heel of his dress shoe. He pointed at it.

“You’ve been outdoors since dinner, eh?” he inquired.

Allen glanced down but did not look up again at once. At length he raised his eyes and nodded.

“Yes, I took a stroll in the sunken garden while you were talking to Russell. Didn’t realize the ground was so wet.”

“Without a coat? It’s distinctly chilly tonight!”

“Oh, I don’t catch cold at all easily.”

“A bit of a risk, however,” said Landis ambiguously.

Allen contented himself with a nod and a shrug. Bernard remained studiously silent.

“You went to your room to dress about six-thirty,” said Landis. “When did you leave it again?”

“I was in my room or my bathroom until some time after the gong rang.”

“Did you see or hear anyone passing along the wing hall during that time, Mr. Allen?”

“I did not.” The answer was emphatic.

“I see. You are very sure of that, eh?”

Allen’s black eyes bored into the blue ones of his questioner for a moment.

“Oh, yes. I’m quite sure!”

“Do you happen to know of any quarrel between Harrison and anyone else, lately?”

“He—he rowed with a lot of people, I fancy.”

“Can you give us a specific instance—or several?”

“He rowed with his brother at meals, shouted at Miss Mount now and then, rowed both his daughters, too.”

“I see. Did you have a row with him yourself?”

Allen laughed.

“Yes, I believe I did, come to think of it. He was a bit of a tartar, you know.”

“What was your quarrel about, Mr. Allen?”

“It was hardly a quarrel—just a few words. I happened to need some ready money for margin and asked him for a small loan. Harrison refused me with quite unnecessary emphasis. In fact, I told him so. That was all.”

“Did you hear Susan scream tonight when Harrison was murdered?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“Of course I did. Who could help hearing it?”

“Where were you at the time you heard the scream?”

“Let’s see. I believe I was in the bathroom.”

“Was the door open into your bedroom at that time?”

Allen looked surprised.

“Why? Why do you ask?”

Bernard smiled slightly and waited.

“I believe it was,” Allen laughed.

“If you heard the scream, why were you so much later than the others to investigate it, Mr. Allen?”

“Why, I suppose I lack curiosity!”

“You were dressed at the time, then?”

Allen hesitated perceptibly.

“Nearly so,” he answered at last. “I don’t remember exactly.”

“If you were nearly dressed and you lack all curiosity,” purred Bernard, “why did you investigate the scream at all—so much later than the others, Mr. Allen?”

Again Allen laughed.

“I believe I was hungry!”

There was a challenging, debonair charm about him of which both detectives were conscious.

“Was there anyone in the billiard-room when you came through it because you were hungry?” Bernard inquired politely.

“No, it was deserted.”

“Did you go through the library to the front room?”

Allen shook his head.

“The door into the rear hall was closed at that time. I went through the front hall.”

“Who did you find in the reception-room?”

“The entire household, except Joel Harrison! I tried to get Anita to come away and finally led her up to her room. After that I found Graham in the library and told him I was leaving. He asked me to stay, so Russell and I had dinner with Mrs. Graham. Then we went to the billiard-room and stayed there.”

“Except for your walk,” nodded Bernard.

“Except for my walk in the garden,” Allen laughed.

“What is your theory of the murder, Mr. Allen?”

“My theory? I suppose that someone got into the house and shot Harrison from the far end of the library.”

“Why ‘got into the house,’ Mr. Allen?” Bernard pounced. “Why not someone in the house?”

“A man like Harrison must have made many enemies,” answered their witness in surprise. “I don’t suppose there’s anyone here sufficiently furious at him to kill him!”

“How could anyone get into the house from outside?”

Allen stared and shrugged faintly, smiling at them.

“It seems to me that that’s up to you! But the murderer could have come through the sunken garden and the billiard-room and escaped again the same way, if he happened to know the house.”

“Why so he could,” said Landis pleasantly, “if he knew where the bow was and where Harrison was and how to string the bow and then how to shoot it, Mr. Allen.”

“That’s quite a lot of ‘ifs’ I’ll admit! But I don’t see who else could have killed him!”

Landis glanced at Bernard and when the older detective made no sign, rose slowly to his feet.

“All right,” he said. “We’re much obliged to you. Now we’ll ask you to wait in the library.”

This time Bernard followed into the hall and waited for Landis to rejoin him. With one accord they turned toward the back of the house. Nor was a word spoken between them until they had gained the billiard-room and shut the door. Then Landis eyed his colleague with a whimsical smile.

“And now,” he observed, “we have one liar at least!”

“How do you figure that out?” demanded Bernard.

“Of course you don’t know, so I’ll explain,” chuckled Landis. “Graham, whose word we have no reason to doubt, has told us that Anita had a row with Harrison over Allen. We can be pretty sure that Allen heard about that row afterwards, from Anita. If he wants to marry her, the last thing he would do would be to try to borrow money from her father. Therefore, he lied about the subject of his row with Harrison!”

“Then what was the subject of his row with Harrison?” inquired Bernard with mock humility.

“You know as well as I do!” Landis retorted. “He wanted to get the old man’s reaction before he eloped with Anita—and he got it! Now what do you think of this stroll in the sunken garden that he told us about?”

“What do you think about it?” chuckled Bernard.

“I have a theory and I’m going to test it.”

“The back stairs?” Bernard suggested mildly.

Landis stared at him.

“Might as well stop trying to steal a march on you!” he grumbled. With a laugh of good fellowship he retraced his steps, returned presently with Harley, accompanied the chauffeur to the garage and came back with a torch. He sent Harley back to the library. He and Bernard passed through the billiard-room into the sunken garden which Harley had watered that evening.

The house enclosed the garden on two sides, the billiard-room behind them and the wing to their right. It was enclosed on the other sides by a high brick wall. This was pierced by an arched opening opposite the billiard-room door. A rambling path joined the two.

Landis followed the path, keeping his torch low. In a moment he found a muddy patch where the path dipped slightly and near the edge of it the imprint of a heel.

Now he strode through the arched doorway to the path beyond, turned to the left and made for the kitchen steps, Bernard at his heels. With the aid of his torch he picked up, on the second step, a moist heel-print. He glanced triumphantly at Bernard, whose bending face was visible in the refracted rays of the torch. Bernard felt rather than saw the glance and chuckled.

“Well, what about the back stairs?”

“Some people are hard to please,” said Landis thoughtfully. But he entered the back door, turned to the back stairs and began to study the treads carefully.

Half way to the second floor he pounced upon and showed Bernard a fragment of wet mud, irregular on three sides, smooth and flat and slightly concave on the fourth, as though the pile of the carpet had forced it from the front of a heel.

He found another trace higher up. But on the second flight there was no mud at all.

Somewhere in the back regions a bell was ringing. Landis hurriedly retraced his steps to the front hall, followed by Bernard. Here Landis paused to whisper to his companion.

“Allen had to see Anita to make their stories agree,” he hazarded. “That’s pretty plain.”

“Or Isabelle or Miss Mount or Joel Harrison—for some other reason!” teased Bernard. “Either Harley or Joel may have left those traces, don’t forget! You can’t be sure until you measure them!”

“Huh! Allen sneaked up to talk to someone, while we were questioning Russell!”

“Maybe!”

The local policeman lumbered out of the library, at the orders of Sergeant Forbes, to answer the bell. The door opened to admit a man with a camera, a tripod and a suitcase. Landis advanced to meet him, held a brief consultation in an undertone and led him into the library. They came out together, the new arrival carrying the Japanese bow, the blunted arrow and the shaft of the broken arrow which had pierced the quiet body in the front room. Bearing them in a gingerly fashion he vanished into the dining-room opposite. Landis rejoined Bernard.

“Finger-print expert,” he explained. “When we’ve seen the girls and Joel and cleared the library, he’ll examine the armor and the door and take photographs. Now what?”

“Anita Harrison!” Bernard suggested grimly.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MISSES HARRISON

LANDIS walked to the hanging Japanese gongs and tapped a scale on their inverted bowls, his touch soft and funereal to suit the occasion. The door of Isabelle Harrison’s bedroom opened and Miss Mount appeared upon the balcony above. At the same moment Anita Harrison opened her door and they saw her near the head of the stairs.

Bernard, a great believer in first impressions, took stock of Anita. Miss Mount ignored him and addressed Landis.

“You wanted me?” she inquired evenly.

“We’d like a few words with one of the young ladies, please. Sorry it’s necessary. We won’t keep her long.”

“This is Miss Anita Harrison,” said Miss Mount.

The girl swung around the stairhead and swiftly descended, her short skirt fluttering about her pretty knees. Half way down she slackened to a more dignified pace, her attractive dark eyes on Landis. At the foot she halted and looked up from one to the other, a hint of feminine challenge in her manner.

“Well?” she asked.

“We’ll invite you into your own drawing-room,” said Landis pleasantly.

Anita flashed a glance at him and entered the library, swaying her slim body just a trifle more than seemed necessary. She selected a comfortable chair and crossed her legs, making it almost impossible not to observe that her green chiffon stockings were rolled above her knees. As they found places facing her she brushed her skirt down a little and leaned back with a smile of faint amusement.

Though they knew her to be over twenty-one, she seemed the very latest in flappers, alluringly pretty, a little hard, scantily and revealingly clad in a low-cut evening dress of clinging green satin, bobbed and skilfully made up and with all the calculated daring of her type.

Unimpressed, though willing to let her think otherwise, Landis studied her intently. Back of her surface charm he saw that her features were a trifle heavy and would probably grow heavier. Behind her challenging manner he sensed a trace of nervousness. He stole a swift glance at Bernard to find him studying Anita’s hands. At the same instant she looked from Landis to his companion and with a little moue of annoyance snatched her hands behind her. But Landis had time to see that the slim, beautifully manicured fingers were trembling.

“Well?” she demanded petulantly, “did you call me down here to stare at me? Of course I’m frightened—with Dad and everything! Of course my hands are shaking!”

“Of course,” Landis agreed gently. “Miss Harrison, did you lock the door at the end of the wing tonight?”

Her dark eyes widened.

“Did I—No! Certainly not!”

“Did you close the door at the back of the library?”

“No, I didn’t!”

“Was that door closed when you came home this afternoon?”

“I think so, I didn’t really notice.”

“You’ve noticed the Japanese bow at the end of the library, haven’t you?”

“No!—I mean, yes, of course I have!”

“Have you seen it anywhere else in the house lately?”

“No, I haven’t, Mr. ——”

“Landis. Have you seen or heard anyone shooting with a bow and arrow on the third floor since last Tuesday?”

“No, Mr. Landis, I haven’t,” she answered readily, her manner calming a little.

“Have you the faintest idea who murdered your father?” he persisted monotonously.

“Of—of course not! How could I?”

“Will you be kind enough to tell us where you were from six-thirty this evening until after the murder?”

“You don’t suspect me, do you?”

“It’s rather important, Miss Harrison.”

“Well, then, I was in my room!”

“The entire time?”

“Yes. I didn’t go downstairs until I heard Susan scream. I came down right behind my sister.”

“So you can’t tell us anything about the movements of others in the household?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Landis,” she smiled.

“But you heard Susan scream and went downstairs?”

“I’ve just told you so.”

“Where were you when you heard Susan scream?”

“I—why, I was in my bedroom, of course!”

“How did you get downstairs when you heard the scream?”

“Well, really! Down the front staircase, of course!”

Landis rose abruptly.

“Now perhaps you won’t mind taking a seat in the library for a few moments?”

She stared up at him with wide eyes.

“Is that all?”

“Were you expecting more?”

“N-no. Of course not!” She slid to her feet and went swaying lightly into the library to join the others, Landis at her heels.

Leaving her there, he returned to the hall and struck another summons on the lacquered gongs. As promptly as before, Miss Mount appeared on the balcony above.

“Is Miss Isabelle Harrison well enough to give us a moment or two?” he inquired.

“I suppose it is quite necessary?”

“I’m afraid it is, Miss Mount.”

“Very well. I’ll send her down.”

Isabelle, when she had joined them in the drawing-room, proved a strong contrast to her sister. She was heavier and neither so pretty nor so graceful. She had blue eyes and reddish hair like her father and the same selfish, self-indulgent look about her mouth, somewhat modified by her sex. Youth, however, lent her a certain voluminous and healthy appeal, of which a daring black evening gown made the most, in contrast with her smooth white skin. She sat down helplessly and faced them with swollen, lackluster eyes, now dry of tears.

Landis proceeded to put to her exactly the same questions he had asked her sister.

She had not locked the door at the end of the wing nor closed the door into the library. She had not noticed the library door when she came in that evening but felt sure it had been open as usual or she would have noticed it. She knew nothing about the Japanese bow, had not seen anything nor anyone strange about the house recently, had no idea who killed her poor daddy. Some outside enemy, she supposed.

“Why someone from outside?” asked Landis again.

“Well, nobody in the house could have done it.”

“Why not, Miss Harrison?”

“I—I don’t know. Only it seems so absurd!”

Landis asked his usual question as to her whereabouts between six-thirty and seven-thirty that evening. She had been in her bath or her bedroom the entire time.

“What did you do when you heard Susan scream?”

“I ran to my door and peeked out. I hadn’t any dress on. Susan was carrying on downstairs and—”

“Did you see anyone when you peeked out?”

“I—I think so! Yes, Uncle Joel was wandering around in his dressing-gown!”

“Wandering around where, Miss Harrison?”

She started a little.

“He—he came out of his room and knocked on ’Nita’s door. He’s crazy about ’Nita.”

“Did you see anyone else?” asked Landis quickly.

“I saw Stimson. He came out of the dining-room and hurried along the hall toward the front.”

“Anyone else?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

“What became of your uncle?”

“I turned back to put on my dress and see what had happened. When I came out on the balcony again, Uncle Joel was wandering back toward his own room. He went in and shut the door and I hurried downstairs. When I got to the foot I heard somebody behind me and looked back. It was ’Nita running down after me. But I didn’t wait for her.”

“She was coming from her room, I suppose?”

“I suppose so. Why, no, she wasn’t! She was coming down the other flight, the one toward the wing. It would be absurd for her to come that way from her room, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose it would,” Bernard admitted. “Do you know of anyone having quarreled with your father recently?”

Isabelle’s eyes filled with slow tears.

“Everybody quarreled with him! He was r-rather absurd about some things! I had a row with him myself just lately. I wish I hadn’t!”

“What was your quarrel about?”

“What was our quarrel about?” The girl regarded them with sudden, clumsy hauteur. “I don’t think that concerns you in the least!”

“Oh, but it does,” Landis seconded.

“I—I don’t see why I should tell you!”

“Anything you tell us,” Landis explained with grandeur, “is, so far as possible, strictly confidential!”

Isabelle looked relieved.

“Well, in that case, we had a row over Hobart. We’re engaged, you see,” she eyed them to observe the effect of this. They nodded politely. “Yes. We’re engaged. But Daddy wanted Hobart to go to work and of course Hobart wasn’t in any hurry. We’re having too good a time together! Isn’t it absurd? Why should he work? There’s plenty of money for us both!”

“Why, I suppose there is,” Landis admitted. “Thank you, Miss Harrison. Now would you mind waiting for a moment in the library with the others?” He rose as he spoke.

She got up, too, staring at him with round eyes.

“No, I’ll wait,” she said.

Landis stood aside for her, conscious that Bernard had come to his feet as though something had stung him. Perhaps on that account he addressed Isabelle with a faint drawl in his voice.

“By the way, Miss Harrison, I don’t see why you should quarrel with your father over that! Mr. Russell didn’t want to work and that was that, wasn’t it?”

She turned back to him with a sort of heavy archness that was rather pathetic.

“Oh, no, it wasn’t!” she said. “You see, we want to get married this winter. But Daddy wouldn’t let us get married at all until Hobart got a job. He has tried, poor boy! But it seems as if there’s a conspiracy against him! He can’t find anything!”

“Of course! I understand. Thank you very much!”

While Isabelle moved into the hall, Landis paused to fling at Bernard a droll, challenging glance, a glance not untinged with compunction. The answer was a faint and comprehending snort. They fell into step behind Isabelle.

“You might give me a chance to finish my questions!”

Bernard chuckled.

“There’s no knowing what blunders you youngsters will make,” he rumbled, sotto voce.

They reached the library door in time to see Isabelle join a stiff and wooden company. At sight of them Anita jumped to her feet, her dark eyes sparkling with anger.

“Would you mind telling me,” she demanded of Landis, “how long you propose to keep us here?”

“Not a moment longer than is necessary!” Landis broke off at a touch on his arm. Bernard nodded toward the finger-print expert just emerging from the dining-room.

“Just a minute, please, Miss Harrison,” said Landis. He turned calmly to face the expert while Anita waited, fuming, and tapping a small foot on the polished floor.

“There’s not a sign of a finger-print on the bow nor the arrows either, Lieutenant,” the man announced. “Looks as if they’ve been carefully wiped. There ought to be some finger-prints on almost any hard surface in a house.”

“Too bad,” nodded Landis. “Well, see what you can find on the armor and on the door at the end of the library here. You can have the place to yourself now.”

“Very good. You want pictures, too, don’t you?”

“Yes. I want the armor with the bow as we found it, the entire library from that end of the room and the reception-room with Harrison’s body. But those can wait a bit.”

He turned to Anita with a ready smile.

“I’m mighty sorry to keep you so long,” he said. “But it won’t be necessary any longer.” He raised his voice to include the others. “That’s all, thanks. But we’d be obliged if you’d keep away from the hall at the back of the library here.”

Isabelle and her guests arose with a murmur of voices, imitated a moment later by the servants, in silence. Some of these started for the door at the back and Landis called to them: “This way, please!”

The two detectives and the expert stood aside. Anita Harrison swept out first. The others filed out in her wake, the women with celerity, the men more slowly. In a moment they had scattered and vanished, the servants toward the kitchen. Anita and the Grahams went upstairs. Isabelle, Russell and Allen entered the drawing-room.

Of them all, only Anita looked back just before she disappeared toward her room.

CHAPTER XV

“WITHOUT CONSULTING ANYONE”

WHILE the expert examined the armor and then the door for finger-prints, Landis went into the hall and once again sounded the gong. Miss Mount appeared as promptly as before. He asked her to come downstairs for a few minutes. When she consented he returned to the library and posted Sergeant Forbes in the hall to watch Joel Harrison’s door. The policeman he sent back into the reception-room.

When Miss Mount appeared he led her to a chair and sat down facing her. “Sorry to bother you again, Miss Mount. But we want you to verify Allen’s statement as to his quarrel with Mr. Harrison. Did Allen’s disagreement with Harrison involve the question of his marrying Anita?”

Miss Mount relaxed a little.

“Mr. Harrison said that Mr. Allen had asked his permission to marry Anita and he had refused point-blank.”

“Allen didn’t tell us why,” hinted Landis.

“Mr. Harrison had little faith in human nature. I believe he regarded Mr. Allen as a fortune hunter.”

“What is your own opinion, Miss Mount?”

“On that subject I have none, Mr. Landis.”

“Thanks,” replied Landis dryly. “Didn’t Mr. Harrison also threaten the young people in some way?”

“He did. He told Mr. Allen that if they married without his consent he would cut Anita off without a penny.”

“That was rather strong, wasn’t it? How did it happen that Allen stayed in the house after that?”

“I suppose Mr. Allen stayed on to be near Anita and possibly in the hope that Mr. Harrison might relent. It was like his peculiar humor to tell Mr. Allen that he was welcome to remain as a guest so long as he chose.”

“Harrison liked to gloat, did he?” inquired Bernard.

“It’s possible,” replied Miss Mount in a dry tone.

At this moment the expert appeared, to interrupt their conversation.

“By the way, Lieutenant—”

“Yes, Thorpe? Find anything?” asked Landis.

“Nothing at all on the armor. It’s been wiped clean and quite recently, I think. Dusting might account for that. The door’s a bit better. I found blurred prints of three small fingers on the far side of the jamb and a thumb on the near side. There are distinct, slightly larger finger-prints on the inside knob.”

“The ones on the knob were made by Miss Mount here,” Landis explained. “Have you got impressions of both sets?”

“Can’t get them very well. I’ll have to photograph them. I’ve dusted them all with powder, though.”

“Take an impression of Miss Mount’s finger-prints and check them with the ones on the knob. I want a clear impression or print of the others if you can get it, Thorpe!”

Miss Mount submitted, passively pressing her finger-tips on the expert’s inky pad and then on paper. Thorpe took the impressions to the end of the library, studied them and the door knob with a magnifying glass and came back to the fire.

“The prints on the knob were made by the lady,” he said. “I’ll get the three views you want first and then the blurred finger-prints. They’ll need a special lens.”

Landis nodded the man away and rose to his feet.

“Thanks, Miss Mount. Please ask Mr. Joel Harrison to get into something and come down to the library as quickly as possible. Please say nothing else to him whatever.”

Miss Mount stood up, flung him a glance out of dark eyes that sparkled dangerously and moved out of the room.

For the first view, that of the full length of the library, Thorpe wanted the room empty. So Landis and Bernard left it for the hall. Presently Thorpe called to them and they returned to find him adjusting his camera to photograph the armor. They were just sitting down by the fire again when a tall, angular individual in a dressing-gown, his white hair on end so that he looked like a cockatoo, moved into the doorway from the hall and stood staring at them.

“You requested that I come down here?” he asked in a reedy voice. “It seems very strange to me.”

“Come in and sit down!” ordered Bernard.

Spurred by the note of command, Joel Harrison obeyed, settled his bony length in a chair and began to stare into the flames. Bernard and Landis sat motionless, watching him curiously. The dead man’s brother appeared to have forgotten entirely that he was not alone.

Suddenly Landis remembered the sergeant still on duty in the hall. He went out, suggested that he join the policeman in the reception-room and returned to the library fire. As he drew near, Joel Harrison glanced up at him in surprise.

“How do you do?” he said with some formality.

“Very well indeed, thank you,” replied Landis as he sat down. “How are you, Mr. Harrison?”

“Oh, quite well. I’m always well!”

Landis nodded and let the conversation lapse, watching the old fellow intently. In spite of many wrinkles, the long, lean face had something of the child, or rather, something of extreme youth in it. Landis then and afterwards thought of Joel Harrison in terms of a bird or an animal rather than as a human being. Everything about the man, his sudden silences, his relaxed immobility, his dreamy or bird-like glances, belonged to the woodland rather than to civilized mankind. Remembering the dead man’s face it was difficult to imagine the two brothers getting on together.

“Mr. Harrison,” he began at last, “did you lock the door at the end of the wing on this floor tonight?”

Joel turned his head slowly.

“Why, no. Stimson takes care of that sort of thing,” he explained.

For the last time, Landis embarked upon his list of questions. Joel Harrison answered them clearly but slowly and with a sort of absent, equable courtesy. He had not closed the library door or seen any stranger about the place lately. He understood that his brother had been hurt but had not been told, as yet, who did it.

Thoroughly puzzled as to the extent of the man’s mentality, Landis tried a new tack.

“Mr. Harrison,” he said, “we’d both be interested to hear how you spent your day today?”

“I’ll tell you with pleasure,” answered Joel politely. “I walked about my brother’s extensive grounds or sat in quiet contemplation. What a lucky fellow he is to preserve so much of nature from contamination, gentlemen!”

“You took your lunch with you?”

“Oh, yes. I was away almost all day and did not return until evening began to close in.”

“What time did you return, Mr. Harrison?”

“I have no idea. It’s no matter anyway.”

“Can you tell us through what door you entered the house when you came home?”

This question seemed to catch Joel’s full attention. He looked at Landis.

“I cannot see how that is of the slightest importance!” he replied.

“It is important!” snapped Bernard. “We want to know and we want to know at once, Harrison!”

Joel shook his head helplessly.

“I really can’t remember. I think I came in the kitchen door and went up the back stairs to my room, but I’m not entirely sure.”

“I understand,” said Landis, “that you are interested in shooting with bows and arrows, eh?”

This time, to their amazement, Joel obviously found cause for offense.

“Pardon me! I am interested in archery!”

“I suppose then that you have noticed the Japanese bow at the end of the room here?”

“I have, of course, seen and handled the long bow there. The design ruins it for distance.”

“Was it usually strung?”

Joel was roused at last. He turned on Landis a glance of protesting rebuke.

“Strung? There is no such word in archery, sir! If you mean bent, that is, the bowcord in its nocks, then it was not! No one with any respect for a bow would leave it in that condition!”

The effect of this dignified pronouncement was somewhat marred by the sudden explosion of Thorpe’s flashlight. At the glare and puff of it, Joel crouched and turned his head with the swiftness of an animal.

“What is that?” he exclaimed.

“Nothing. He’s taking photographs.” Landis paused to nod at the expert as he carried his camera and flashpan past them toward the reception-room. Then he turned back to Joel.

“Can you tell us how many arrows the quiver contained?”

“It’s of no consequence and I have no idea,” answered Joel with a touch of impatience. “They are self-arrows, round steeled and with swine-back vanes, white-webbed. They are V-nocked and have short shaftments. I judge they are sheaf arrows as they have iron piles.”

“Would you be kind enough to tell us your movements since you entered the house this evening?”

Once roused, however, Joel was not so easily calmed.

“I cannot see how my movements are of any importance to my brother’s guests!” he retorted distantly.

“Oh, but they are,” said Landis. “We are not exactly guests; we are detectives. And your brother is dead!”

Joel frowned.

“Yes,” he admitted. “I was told something of the sort. It is a great pity, gentlemen. But my poor brother was always headstrong—very, very headstrong! I have no doubt that he died without—er—consulting anyone!”

At this moment they caught the light of Thorpe’s flash from the little reception-room. Again Joel turned his head in swift alarm. A moment later the expert came back into the library and started to prepare his camera to photograph the finger-prints. Joel seemed to connect the man with the flash for he relaxed in evident relief.

Bernard had been fuming inwardly for some time.

“Harrison!” he snapped. “Where did you go and what did you do from the time you entered this house tonight?”

Joel became instantly submissive.

“I went to my room and remained there,” he answered quickly. “Cook sent me up my dinner. I read a book.”

“Did you hear a scream?” Bernard demanded.

“Oh, yes! I did!”

“Well, what did you do about it?”

“I thought at first it might be Mrs. Graham screaming again. Then I thought of Anita. She is good to me. I went to her room to see if she was all right. But she failed to answer my knock. So I returned to my bed and my book.”

“You made no attempt to investigate further?”

“No. I went back to my book.” Joel glanced about the library and began to look puzzled and annoyed. “Excuse me,” he diverged, “I don’t wish to seem discourteous or inhospitable. But it seems strange that you should ask me to rise and come downstairs after I was in bed. Would it not have been possible for you to call tomorrow?”

Humor deserted Landis, giving place to a shadow of pity.

“You know,” he said quietly, “we owe you an apology about that. But now we’re here, we may as well have a chat, Mr. Harrison. You just said that you thought the scream you heard might be Mrs. Graham again. Has she screamed before?”

“Yes. She screamed a few nights ago. Miss Mount told me it was she when I inquired.”

“When was it that she screamed, do you know?”

“A few nights ago. I believe it was Wednesday as I was in my bath. Wednesday and Saturday are my bath nights.”

“Have you ever used the Japanese bow?” asked Landis.

“I bent it one day. My brother asked me not to use it so I refrained.”

“Ever try the arrows?” asked Bernard suddenly.

“No, sir. We have plenty of others in the lockers.”

“Where are the lockers?”

“Why, in the billiard-room!”

“Have you done any firing with bows and arrows on the third floor?” Landis inquired.

Joel winced.

“Firing!” he exclaimed. “There is no way to ‘fire’ a bow! One speaks of drawing and letting fly. Pardon me, but one doesn’t like to make mistakes.”

“Of course not! Well, then, have you done any letting fly with bows and arrows on the third floor?”

“Early this week we were practicing up there. The young people lost interest too soon, I consider.”

“That was on Tuesday,” said Landis. “Have you done any shooting up there since Tuesday, Mr. Harrison?”

Joel shook his head.

“No. It was not necessary. The weather has been fine. Of course one prefers butt-shooting for the added hazard due to windage in the open.”

“All right, Mr. Harrison. We’re enormously obliged to you. Now I suggest you go back to your bed and your book. If we need anything more, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

Joel rose obediently and started out of the room, paused to bow a courteous good night and vanished.

At precisely that same moment, Thorpe came hurrying along the library to Landis.

“Look here, Lieutenant,” he exclaimed. “This is an amazing thing! While I was taking those photographs, somebody has wiped the blurred finger-prints off the door!”

Landis leapt from his chair and strode to the end of the library. Finger-prints, picked out with white chalk, were plainly visible on the knob of the half-closed door. But the woodwork was smooth and unmarked.

He hurried into the hall to look at the other side. Door-knob and door-edge bore no traces of chalk. He looked swiftly about the deserted hall. At the end of it nearest the swinging doors and the butler’s pantry, something tiny and crumpled and white caught his eye. He ran to it and picked it up, carrying it back to Bernard in the library. It was a woman’s lace handkerchief. Landis explained swiftly where he had found it. He carried it to the desk lamp where they studied it together. The crumpled folds were ridged with white chalk. In one corner they found the initials: “I. H.”

CHAPTER XVI

A LACE HANDKERCHIEF

LANDIS and Bernard were rather worse than disgusted. To date it was a case almost without a clue, except the small, blurred finger-prints on the door. Now those were gone. It was humanly natural for both of them to glare at Thorpe as though the fault were his. The ill humor of Landis broke in laughter. A certain perfumed lace handkerchief remained to them and might easily prove of greater use than blurred finger-prints.

“It’s bad luck and my mistake, Thorpe,” he admitted. “There’s nothing else you can do just now. If anything further turns up I’ll send for you. In the meantime, print two positives of each of those pictures.”

They helped him collect his paraphernalia and Landis escorted him to the front door and let him out. Returning, he stuck his head into the drawing-room, where Russell, Allen and Isabelle were bidding their heads off at cut-throat bridge.

“We’ve finished at the end of the library,” he observed, “so don’t let us keep you up. Only the library and the reception-room are out of bounds now.”

The two men nodded shortly. Isabelle presented him with an expansive smile that seemed peculiarly meaningless.

Bernard was waiting by the library fire.

“I think,” said he, “that you might send for three local men to relieve Forbes and his man. I’d station one to watch the body and two to patrol the grounds.”

With a nod, Landis went to the telephone and put through the necessary call. Then he returned to the fire.

“It’s a real puzzler,” admitted Bernard slowly. “The murder is something entirely new to my experience—the sort of thing we ought to trace at once—if we knew where to start! What clues we have don’t point in any definite direction.”

“Such as which?”

“Joel and the Japanese bow; Allen’s walk; Anita’s lies about leaving her room; this handkerchief with Isabelle’s initials. What’s she doing now, by the way?”

“Playing bridge with Russell and Allen.”

“And her father dead in the next room! A rum family!”

“Why are those clues indefinite?” Landis persisted.

“Because no woman could have shot that arrow hard enough to go clean through a big man like Harrison. It isn’t likely one of his own daughters shot him, either.”

“What about the men?”

Bernard smiled.

“Got any ideas yourself?”

“I’ll tell ’em presently. What about the men?”

“Well, Joel had a motive if his brother bullied him. But he isn’t the type exactly. There’s plenty of motive for Russell or Allen and plenty of opportunity.”

“They’re the likely ones,” suggested Landis.

“When a rich man is murdered,” grumbled Bernard, “and murdered evidently by somebody in the house, anybody likely to profit is a likely suspect.”

“Stimson hated him!”

“—and admitted it readily!”

“Foxiness!”

“Maybe. There’s Brent, too.”

Landis looked his astonishment.

“He wasn’t here!”

“How do you know that? He lives near by. So does Doctor Stanford!” Bernard shook his head. “We’ll have to wait, young fellow. What about that handkerchief? Going to question Isabelle right away?”

“You mean I ought to wait! Unless a good opportunity turns up, I will wait until she feels more secure or shows signs that she knows she’s lost it.”

“Miss Mount is out of it,” ruminated Bernard. “So is Susan. That cuts it down a bit.”

“Why is Miss Mount out of it?” asked Landis suddenly.

Bernard stared.

“Because we know,” he drawled, “that she was in front of Harrison when he was shot in the back. And she was a long way from that Japanese bow.”

“The construction of which is such that it can’t shoot far—nor, presumably, very hard!” suggested Landis.

“If Joel is right! But Harrison may have fallen on the arrow in such a way as to drive it through his body!”

“The target on the third floor didn’t fall on the arrow and drive it through,” retorted Landis.

Bernard presented him with a glance of grudging approval and a moment later burst out laughing.

“How in the world could Miss Mount do it, when she was in front of him?”

“A fair alibi,” Landis admitted doubtfully. “Perhaps it’s a bit too good.” He shrugged. “I don’t know how she did it—if she did do it. But the person who did it was clever.”

“This case has got you,” smiled Bernard. “I suppose you figure that Miss Mount strangled Harrison with her large and muscular hands, while Susan held him. They stuck the arrow into him afterwards for evidence and Susan had hysterics just to fool us, eh?”

“You go to thunder!”

“For my part,” Bernard continued equably, “I want to know where Miss Mount went on Thursday and why; what made Anita lie to us; whether Harrison went to Long Island today to see Cuddy or somebody else; whether it was Cuddy that telephoned Mrs. Graham; why she screamed Wednesday night and what Miss Mount knows about it. There’s no direct evidence to connect anybody with this murder. We’ve got to go round about for it, young fellow.”

“The whole thing hangs on finding out who practiced up on the third floor since Tuesday, practiced firing that—”

“Shooting that Japanese bow,” Bernard corrected.

“All right, practiced shooting that Japanese bow by himself or herself. That’s the one definite clue.”

“Let’s have a look at the bow,” Bernard suggested.

The finger-print expert had replaced it near the armor. They walked down the library and studied it together.

The Japanese bow was about seven and a half feet long over all, made of three layers of flat bamboo and bound with cane. The shape was peculiar, the grip for the hand being much nearer the lower end than the upper. Thus the lower limb was less than three feet long, the upper limb almost five. The shorter limb was considerably thinner than the longer one.

Clumsily enough, Landis contrived to bend the bow and release the string from the upper nock. Thus relaxed, the flexible bamboo bent the other way, giving the weapon a peculiar appearance, the belly convex where it had been concave, the ends of the limbs concave where they had been convex.

“Stimson was right,” said Landis, pointing. “Seems a noticing sort of chap!”

Bernard grunted assent.

“Wonder whether he’s missed that bit of feather from his pocket!”

“Thought you implied he didn’t know it was there!”

“I’m not implying anything because I don’t know anything,” retorted Bernard irritably.

Landis was studying the arrows, which were fairly heavy and about three feet long.

“Maybe these are steel-swined hog-backs, or whatever Joel calls ’em,” he reflected aloud, “but one of ’em killed Harrison and they’re made for this bow!”

“Which lets out Miss Mount and Susan!”

“I wasn’t seriously considering Miss Mount. It’s only that she has the best alibi. Allen is my pick.”

“Why?”

“I don’t quite know yet.”

“All right,” said Bernard. “Suppose we try our old plan again. We’ll compare notes as we go but follow our own theories. That will give us different angles of approach.”

“Suits me,” nodded Landis. “But first, is it or isn’t it an inside job?”

“I believe it is, though a man could have come through that sunken garden and the billiard-room and passed out the same way, as your friend Allen thoughtfully suggested.”

“If he knew the house and had prepared the bow. That doesn’t help much. Well, what’s your plan, sir?”

“I haven’t any. But I suggest that we nose around here for a bit longer. Something else may turn up.”

“My idea, too,” Landis agreed. “We’ll hang around here tomorrow, see if we can trace Cuddy and get a description of him. Monday morning we’ll attend the inquest together, if you like. Monday afternoon I’m going to look up Cuddy on Long Island and see where he fits in. He’ll need an alibi for seven-thirty this evening or he’s suspect!”

Bernard nodded.

“I’ll stay in the city. I want to look up the records of Allen and Russell—get their financial ratings. I want to know where Harrison went last Monday and today. I’ll have a look at his will, too.”

Catching a movement in the hall, Landis stepped to the doorway. Stimson was in the act of admitting the relief of police, his manner stiff and remote.

Landis told off two men to patrol the grounds, set the third to watch Harrison’s body and was conducting Sergeant Forbes and his man to the front door when Isabelle drifted into the hall from the drawing-room.

He closed the front door on the departing police and turned to her.

“Looking for me?”

“Sort of,” she smiled heavily.

“Come into the library where it’s warmer, won’t you?”

Isabelle followed him and sat down near Bernard. Landis selected a chair facing her.

“What was it?” he asked confidentially.

“It’s funny,” Isabelle exploded, “about ’Nita coming down that right-hand flight of stairs!”

There was a faintly vicious note in her voice.

“It certainly is queer,” admitted Landis.

Isabelle shifted restlessly.

“Where are you going to sleep tonight?” she asked with no great interest.

“Here in the house if it’s convenient.”

“I’ll call Stimson.” She started to rise. Landis checked her with a friendly gesture.

“Now you’re here, you might help us a bit first,” he suggested. “Have you had any other house guests lately?”

“Mr. Brent was here over the last week-end.”

“I suppose he was busy with Mr. Harrison?”

“He was on Saturday. Sunday Uncle Joel hauled him off to shoot at the butts.”

“Suppose your uncle wanted a greenhorn to gloat over!”

“Oh, my, no! Uncle Joel would rather see good shooting. Mr. Brent is a peach of a shot. He and Uncle Joel are regular cronies over archery.”

“Have you lost a handkerchief?” asked Landis.

Isabelle fumbled about and produced one.

“Why, no! I don’t think I have,” she replied.

Landis held out the one he had found in the hall.

“Is this yours?”

Isabelle glanced at it, then stared from one detective to the other.

“It—it’s one of mine,” she stammered. “Where did you find it?”

“We found it in the hall back there, Miss Harrison.”

To their surprise, she looked relieved.

“Oh, yes! I must have dropped it on my way into the house tonight.”

“Then you had it this afternoon?” He held it closer so that she could see it in detail.

“Yes, that’s the one I had today.”

“Why,” inquired Bernard in slow, lugubrious tones, “were you frightened when we first showed it to you? Be careful, Miss Harrison! Only the truth will serve you now!”

Landis assumed his gravest expression, for Isabelle had turned piteous, unintelligent eyes on him.

“I was frightened,” she gasped, “b-because I thought you’d found it in ’Nita’s room and you’d know I’d fibbed!”

“Oh, you weren’t in your room from six-thirty on!” said Bernard ominously. “We suspected as much! When were you in Anita’s room and why?”

“I—I quarreled with my fiancé this afternoon because he flirted with ’Nita! When we got home I went in and had a row with ’Nita about it. But she just laughed at me!” An angry, baffled light shone in Isabelle’s blue eyes. “Some day I’ll—I’ll—” she hesitated.

“You’ll what!”

“I’ll slap her!” cried Isabelle viciously.

A cough attacked Landis. Bernard maintained his gravity.

“What time were you in Anita’s room?”

“About half-past six—or just a minute after.”

“Where else did you go, Miss Harrison? Careful now!”

“I went back to my room and stayed there,” wailed the girl, on the brink of tears.

“And so,” continued Bernard solemnly, “because Anita flirted with your fiancé this afternoon, you wondered whether she was coming from his room when you saw her on the wrong flight of stairs this evening!”

Isabelle’s face flamed with helpless anger and the detectives knew that Bernard’s guess had been correct.

“You have no right to ask me questions like that!” she flared.

“We have every right to know where every member of the household was this evening just before your father was murdered! Be careful that you don’t repeat one word of what you have told us! Now we’ll be glad if you’ll arrange a place for us to sleep. Anywhere will do, Miss Harrison.”

Bernard’s tone was severe. Isabelle, looking harried and uncertain what to do about it, scuttled out in search of Stimson.

Bernard and Landis were given the two spare rooms on the ground floor of the wing. Allen was most cordial about sharing his bathroom with Landis. Bernard took the front room and simply unlocked the door into the bathroom beyond. Russell came through from his bedroom to see what was going on and shrugged his shoulders.

Before he turned in, Landis went to the reception-room and helped the lone policeman there to lift Harrison’s body from the floor and lay it on the couch in the library. Returning to the wing he knocked on Bernard’s door and got the borrowed pyjamas Elsa had packed for him. He exchanged a cheerful one for his companion’s gruff good night and started for his room across the hall, then turned and stuck his head in Bernard’s door again.

“Why,” he demanded, “don’t you leave Isabelle alone and pick on somebody with brains—like me?”

“Huh!” Bernard snorted absently.

“You don’t say so! Well, I guess we will add Brent to our list of possible suspects!”

CHAPTER XVII

“WALK INTO MY PARLOR”

THE beds in the vacant guest-rooms were already made up. Stimson saw to it that the detectives had towels, then went his final rounds with quiet and melancholy dignity.

He left one large globe to light the main hall, a standard lamp switched on in the library for the policeman on guard there and a ceiling light at the head of the stairs. At the end of each hall in the wing a single bulb burned all night as a guide to the fire-escape staircase. Except for these and the bedrooms whose tenants had not yet retired, Stimson left the house in darkness, mounting, somber and noiseless as a shadow, to his own suite on the third floor.

When he had switched on his light and closed the door behind him he went straight to his suit of day livery and felt in the pocket in which Landis had discovered the bit of feather. Finding nothing, he withdrew his hand slowly and stared down at his empty palm with thoughtful eyes.

Fifteen minutes later he had prepared for bed, propped up his pillows and settled himself to read his usual chapter or two before turning out the light.

It was close on midnight when the butler got into bed. Between twelve and twelve-thirty the two policemen patrolling the grounds saw the lights in the various bedrooms wink out, including the glow from Stimson’s window. Indoors, the big house settled gradually to silence.

By a quarter to one the stillness was broken only by an occasional movement from the policeman in the library and a rumble like distant thunder from Bernard’s room.

Here on the ground floor, in the hall of the wing, a bedroom door began to open very slowly, as though left unlatched and stirred mysteriously by the night breeze. Wider and wider it swung, then ceased to move. Into the dimly lighted hall a man’s head and shoulders cautiously protruded. His body appeared. After a moment of hesitation he began to steal along the hall, keeping close to the wall to avoid creaking boards. The curtains that hid the darkened billiard-room parted and closed behind him with a faint rustle. Minutes of cautious advance brought him to the open billiard-room door and the lateral hall beyond, now faintly discernible in the light that escaped through the open door from the library.

He edged along the hall, reached the spot from which he could see the side face and one shoulder of the drowsy policeman, passed on without a sound. Suddenly he began to retrace his steps with even greater care than before.

At the same moment another bedroom door opened in the lower wing hall and another figure crept along the wall toward the billiard-room. This second figure gained the curtains just as the first reëntered the billiard-room from the other hall. There was a tense, motionless silence, a sharply whispered word, then a murmured colloquy, too low to be heard by the policeman nodding in the warmth of the library fire.

A moment later the first figure slipped again into the hall back of the library, won past the peril of the library door and reached the swing door into the servants’ hall. Inch by inch the door was pressed back. The man stole through. Inch by cautious inch the door swung closed again.

For another half hour the house stood mantled in a silence as profound as that which now enshrouded its recent owner in the library. Then the same swing door began to move once more. A figure, slimmer and more delicate than the other, stole silently through into the hall and paused there, listening and staring intently toward the library door.

From the direction of the butler’s pantry behind it came a faint, dull thud. The figure in the lateral hall started violently, then in sudden panic bolted for the door into the billiard-room, only to shrink back with a gasp of dismay as the second figure from the wing blocked that doorway.

In the library, the policeman leapt to his feet and raced for the door at the end. The swing door from the servants’ hall was thrust violently open. Then someone pressed the switch near it and the lateral hall was flooded with light.

The rear door of the library framed the startled policeman. In the billiard-room doorway stood Bernard, blinking in the glare and simply attired in voluminous black and white pyjamas. Just inside the swing door at the end of the hall stood Landis in a similar suit of pyjamas much too large for him, his hand still on the switch. After a glance at each other the men turned their attention upon the fourth person strategically trapped between the three of them. Anita stood there, shrinking a little and inarticulate with panic amazement, her slender figure clad in a gossamer nightgown and a feather-trimmed negligee, her feet in satin slippers.

Although two of the men were prepared and she was not, Anita was the first to speak. She crossed her hands on her slim shoulders and turned a sidelong glance on Landis.

“Oh, please put out the light, won’t you?”

His earlier talk with her and something in her tone now left Landis unconvinced by this attack of maiden modesty. He left the lights on and moved to the library door.

“Thanks,” he said to the policeman. “I’ll take care of this now. Go back to your watch.”

The man reluctantly withdrew into the library, stealing one last glance at Anita’s delectable figure.

“Now, Miss Harrison,” said Landis, “if you’ll step into the billiard-room there, I’ll get you something to put round you. Then I think we’ll have a talk!”

Anita straightened, flung up her head, laughed softly and obeyed, stepping past Bernard with a demure glance. She went swaying lightly past the table and slipped into a chair before the dying fire. Landis forebore to look at her but strode to his room for his overcoat. His glimpse of Anita’s slender, curving outline, distinct through her diaphanous clothing, had startled him as it had startled the policeman. The fact irritated him to real anger, as, regrettably, it had not the policeman.

He returned to find the girl where he had left her and Bernard pacing beside the billiard table. The older man looked at him with grim humor.

“Thought you’d steal a march on me, didn’t you!” he demanded.

“I just wanted to let you rest!” Landis found his temper evaporating. “But your idea of one of us at each bolt hole was better than my attempt to catch her single-handed!”

Thus momentarily ignored, Anita turned her head.

“Well, now that you have caught me, what are you going to do about it?” she inquired impudently. “I was only stealing a march on you both and hunting for clues!”

Bernard turned on his heel and strode to the side of her chair. One hand she had buried behind her, the other arm still hovered across her chest. His big fingers followed the first arm down to the wrist. Here they closed and raised her hidden hand aloft in spite of her little squeal of protest. From her slim clenched fingers he took Isabelle’s lace handkerchief, now a tiny damp ball.

“Found one, didn’t you!” he observed dryly. “And you had time to hide it in the chair, too! Stand up!”

The last two words were delivered in a parade ground bark and the girl found herself on her feet. Landis held out the overcoat and she slipped into it obediently. She looked down at the long sleeves, recovered her poise and sank into the chair again, crossing her bare legs.

The detectives sat down on either side and almost facing her, so that they could watch her expression.

“Now, Miss Harrison,” said Landis quietly, “we want the entire truth from you.”

Anita directed the battery of her eyes on him, knowing him, instinctively, as the more impressionable of the two. “But I’ve told you all I know! What more do you want?”

“This,” snapped Landis, his anger returning. “Why did you close the library door before your father was murdered? Why did you rub out your own finger-prints with Isabelle’s handkerchief? Why did you drop it? Why did you come back for it? Who killed your father?”

“I don’t know who killed him!” she flared.

“Say, young woman,” drawled Bernard, “you’ll tell us all you do know and tell us now! We’ve no time to waste on you. You talk and talk fast or we’ll run you in, see?”

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Wouldn’t we? We’ve two separate witnesses who saw you come down the back stairs this evening after six-thirty. You lied to us about that. We find you after that handkerchief. It’s got chalk on it where you rubbed out your finger-prints. You talk or you’re for it!” He glanced at Landis.

“You bet you are!” the younger man confirmed.

The girl stared from one to the other, shivered and hunched down in the big coat.

“I did come down the back stairs this evening,” she admitted. “I didn’t tell you about it because I was afraid you’d think things!”

“What time was that?” asked Bernard.

“About five or ten minutes past seven.”

“See anything or anyone suspicious?”

“Of course not. I would have told you if I had!”

Anita began to swing her foot, so that her slipper dropped to dangle from her toes.

“You closed the library door!”

“Yes, I did! I peeked in and saw that Dad was there so I pushed it almost shut!”

“Why?”

“Because—because he was so nosey always!”

“I see. Where were you when you heard Susan scream?”

“I was—I was playing billiards, of course.”

“So you ran up the back stairs and down the front to get to the library, eh? Better cover up your legs before you catch cold,” he added dryly. “They don’t interest us.”

Anita sat up quivering, between fright and rage, flung the overcoat across her knees and glared at him.

“You—you growly old beast!” she stammered.

“The truth from beginning to end!” demanded Bernard. “So far it’s been mostly lies. You’ll tell the truth now or in court! You’ll get your picture in the paper anyway. And you won’t like what they’ll do to you in court! The truth!”

“I am telling you the truth!”

Landis leaned wearily back in his chair.

“Look here, Miss Harrison,” he said, “you’re in a bad jam now and getting in deeper every minute. You don’t seem to realize that we’re investigating a murder. We’ve caught you in two lies already. If you don’t tell us the truth now I’ll have you arrested tonight as a material witness. I mean it!”

For the first time Anita began to look frightened.

“What d-do you want to know?” she stammered.

“Why did you close the library door?”

“Because I didn’t want Dad to see me.”

“You had a row with Isabelle tonight because you flirted this afternoon with Russell. Were you going to his room when you closed the library door?”

Anita hesitated, then nodded quickly.

“Were you still there when you heard Susan scream?”

Another nod.

“We were talking.”

“What was Russell doing when Susan screamed?”

“I—I don’t know. We were just talking.”

“While he was taking the leisurely bath he told us about, eh? He was still in the tub when you went to his room.”

Anita jerked her head away.

“Oh, leave me alone!” she cried. “You’re both beasts!”

“Did you kill your father?” demanded Bernard.

“I did not!” she gasped.

“Where were you when you heard Susan scream?”

“I was talking to Hobart, I tell you!”

“What was he doing when you heard Susan scream?”

“He was—he was tying his tie! There!”

Landis rose and made his way through Bernard’s bedroom to Russell’s bedroom, where he switched on the light.

Russell sat up in bed.

“What the hell do you want?”

“What were you doing when you heard Susan scream?” inquired Landis with an inward chuckle.

“You mean you waked me up to ask me that, you and your misfit pyjamas?”

“I did,” said Landis pleasantly. “I’ll keep you awake all night if necessary. What’s the answer?”

Russell measured him for a minute. Landis was entirely cool.

“It’s rather important,” he explained.

“My God, what a pair of detectives! Well, if you must know, I was brushing my hair. Want to know any other little intimate details?”

“You were alone, of course?”

“Well, naturally! Say, what’s the big idea?”

“Good night,” said Landis and departed, chuckling.

He returned to the billiard-room. Anita looked nervously at his face as he took his chair. She had drawn her feet under her and was curled in a little pathetic ball.

“Now, Miss Harrison,” he said, “you weren’t in Russell’s room at all when you heard Susan scream. I’ll give you one more chance. If you don’t tell us the truth this time I’ll arrest you as a material witness! Russell was alone and was brushing his hair when he heard Susan scream.”

“He’d say that,” Anita ventured.

Landis shook his head and started for the door.

“I’ll phone for a patrol wagon,” he said to Bernard. “Better call Miss Mount and have her see that Miss Harrison is dressed when it gets here. Otherwise she’ll go in a blanket!”

“Wait!” cried Anita. As he turned slowly back to the fire she added, sullenly: “I’ll tell you the truth.”

“You’ve wasted enough time about it! Go on, where were you when Susan screamed?”

“I was in Fred’s room, talking to him.”

“Fred Allen?”

She nodded.

“All right,” said Landis. He turned back through the curtains, went into his own room and the adjoining bathroom to Allen’s room beyond, where he switched on the lights. Allen stared up at him drowsily.

“What’s the matter?”

“Want your help,” explained Landis cordially. “Want to know whether you remember exactly where you were when you heard Susan scream tonight?”

“I told you, I think. I was in the bathroom.”

“I remember, now! And the door was open into your bedroom here. Don’t remember exactly what you were doing, do you?”

Allen hesitated.

“I was dressing, I think.”

“Not your evening clothes—in the bathroom?”

“No. I was getting into some clean underwear.”

“Anita Harrison tells us that she was talking to you at the time. Was she in the bedroom or the bathroom?”

Allen jumped out of bed.

“That’s a lie!”

“Step into the billiard-room and hear it from her lips then! Incidentally, unless you want her indicted for murder you’d better admit that she was here—if she was here.”

Allen hesitated, staring at Landis.

“She was here,” he said at last. “What does that prove?”

“Here in your bedroom?”

“Yes. We’re old pals, you know.”

“With you getting into your underwear in the bathroom and the door open between? Very old pals, eh?”

Allen remained silent and motionless, staring at Landis, who sensed that, for all his lesser bulk, the man was far more dangerous at this moment than Russell would ever be.

“What do you mean by that?” asked Allen softly.

Landis turned his back.

“Follow me to the billiard-room, please!” He walked out but heard Allen behind him.

By the time they reached the others Allen had recovered himself. He nodded pleasantly to Bernard and smiled toward Anita, who frowned sulkily in response.

“Now,” said Landis when they were seated, “I want you to advise Miss Harrison to tell us the whole truth about what she did and where she went tonight in the hour before her father was murdered. Otherwise we’re going to lock her up, Allen.”

Allen smiled at Anita.

“I don’t know what the hell you’re doing down here in that rig,” he said, “but you’d better ’fess up, old girl. Tell ’em everything.”

Anita flung him a mutinous glance. But she had a feeling that Landis would keep his threat about the patrol wagon.

With a sudden change of front she leaned her head back and glanced from Landis to Bernard under lowered lashes.

“All right,” she said lightly. “I don’t mind telling you in the least, if you insist on prying!”

“Proceed,” encouraged Bernard dryly.

CHAPTER XVIII

“NOTHING MUCH ANYHOW!”

“WHEN I got home tonight,” began Anita slowly, “I could see that Fred was mad because I’d been flirting with Hobart. As soon as I got to my room Isabelle came in and yelped about it. About five minutes past seven I did come down the back stairs to talk to Fred alone. I closed the door into the library so Dad wouldn’t ask where I was going. Then I went on to Fred’s room and made it up with him.”

“You couldn’t do that later?” Landis inquired.

“I could. But you’re always being interrupted when there’s a crowd of people about. Susan screamed and I got in a sudden panic for fear I might be caught in Fred’s room. I ran to the door at the end of the hall. I must have pulled at it without turning the latch. I thought it was locked and turned the key. Then I couldn’t budge it at all. I remembered afterwards that the key turns the wrong way to lock it.”

“So I noticed,” nodded Bernard.

“Well, then I ran up the stairs at the end of the hall and along the first-floor hall. When I reached the big hall at the top of the stairs I saw Uncle Joel wandering about, so I waited until he went into his room. Then Isabelle came out of her room and I ducked out of sight again. I was just in a panic of being caught in the wing!”

“You didn’t see anyone else; Mrs. Graham and Helen, for instance?” inquired Landis.

“No. The first-floor halls were deserted except for Uncle Joel and Isabelle. Anyhow, when Isabelle was half-way downstairs I ran down after her. But I was dumb enough to take the near flight instead of the other one from my room. She looked back and saw me on it. I suppose the precious darling has pointed that out to you, hasn’t she?”

“I was wondering,” remarked Landis, an ironical inflexion in his voice, “about this handkerchief of your sister’s that you came down to find just now.” He held it up.

“I guess that wasn’t very sensible either,” Anita admitted. “I heard you tell that finger-print man to look for finger-prints on the library door. I knew mine were on it, of course, for I’d just pushed the door shut. As soon as you let us out of the library I ran upstairs to my room for a handkerchief to rub them off with, if I had time—”

“Why didn’t you want us to find them?” asked Bernard.

“Because you might ask me a lot of questions as you have done and find out where I’d been just before dinner. Naturally I didn’t want people to know that I’d been in a man’s room when he was dressing.”

“What made you think you’d have the chance to wipe them off before he found and photographed them?”

“I heard Mr. Landis tell the man to look on the armor. He mentioned that first.”

“I see. Go on! What did you do?”

“The first thing I saw when I got to my room was Isabelle’s handkerchief. I grabbed it and raced down the backstairs. There was nobody in the hall out there. So I scrubbed the door and ran back to the servants’ hall. But I dropped the handkerchief. I hadn’t the nerve to go back for it.”

“You mean you saw that the finger-prints had chalk on them! So you dropped the handkerchief to put the blame of wiping them off on your sister!” accused Bernard.

“I didn’t either! Why, I came down to get it, so she wouldn’t get into trouble! A fat lot she deserves it!”

“Then you did notice the chalk! Otherwise, why should her handkerchief get her into trouble?”

“I didn’t, I tell you! But the handkerchief was near the library door and Dad was shot from there!”

“Why did you tell us you were in your room from six-thirty on? Why did you lie in the first place?”

Anita made a gesture of hopeless impatience.

“Because I didn’t want to tell you where I was!” she cried.

“It’s unfortunate,” said Bernard judicially, “that all this will have to come out, including the fact that you were in Allen’s bedroom when he was half naked in the bathroom adjoining—and the door was open between!”

Anita winced and shrank in her chair, looking at Allen. He nodded to her.

“May as well tell ’em everything, ’Nita,” he said. “Fact is, Mr. Bernard, we’re married—”

At the last word Anita uttered a shriek of protest. Bernard and Landis looked at her swiftly enough to catch the flash of terror in her eyes. But she pulled herself together with an effort, looked down and said nothing.

“Can you prove that?” Bernard asked Allen gruffly.

For answer he left the room, returning with a marriage certificate which he showed them. It contained his name and Anita’s and was signed by a minister in Frederick, Maryland.

“We slipped down there together one week-end, when ’Nita was supposed to be visiting friends in Westchester,” Allen explained. “It’s all in order.”

“Did your father know you were married?”

“Of course he did,” Anita gasped and again they caught a flash of terror in her eyes.

“A poor lie,” said Bernard, watching Allen, “and a dangerous one. If Harrison had known you were married you would have occupied adjoining bedrooms. ‘You slipped down one week-end when Anita was supposed to be visiting friends!’ What’s more, Allen, your quarrel with Harrison was not over a loan but over marrying Anita, here. Anita and Harrison had a row over that last Sunday when Graham was in the room!”

“He didn’t know!” said Allen coolly.

“Miss Harrison,” said Bernard, “every lie you tell just gets you in deeper.” He turned back to Allen. “Now then, when Landis got Russell and left you alone here tonight, you went for a walk in the sunken garden. Where else did you go?”

“Why ask when I’ve already told you?”

“I won’t ask,” growled Bernard. “I’ll tell you! You went round to the kitchen door and up the back stairs to Anita’s room. There you discussed the situation, decided to lie out of it and arranged to make your stories agree.”

“Lie out of what?” demanded Allen.

“Lie out of Anita’s being in your room!”

Allen laughed, ignoring the girl’s strained, white face.

“Yes, Mr. Bernard, I admit it!” he said. “That’s exactly where I went and what I did. I’d do it again, too! We didn’t want it to come out, immediately after Harrison had been murdered, that we were secretly married. And I certainly didn’t want people to know that ’Nita had been in my bedroom like that unless they knew that we were married. Anybody with any respect for his wife’s reputation would do what I did!”

Bernard nodded his big head ominously.

“So far so good,” he growled. “Harrison didn’t know you were married. We know that he wouldn’t let you marry! We know that he swore to cut her off without a cent if she did. He might find out, any day, that you were married! Because of his threat, you and your wife decided that the only thing to do was to put him quietly out of the way before he did find out. So you—”

Allen’s face had gone dead white. Anita was writhing in her chair.

“It isn’t true!” she gasped.

“So you got the bow ready last night,” continued Bernard. “Tonight Anita came down, saw that her father was in the library and came to your room and told you. She closed the door so that he wouldn’t see her, or so that she wouldn’t see him, in view of what you had planned together!”

“It’s all lies!” Anita moaned. “It’s all lies!”

“Go on,” said Allen through stiff lips.

“I’m going to! Anita locked the door at the end of the hall so you wouldn’t be interrupted. She waited in your room while you stole along to the library and slipped in, again closing the door so that nobody passing in the hall would see you. You had the bow and an arrow ready and Harrison never noticed you in the shadow. Then the gong rang. Harrison got up and walked toward the door. You waited until he reached it so that if your arrow didn’t kill him you could slip out into the hall again before he could turn and make sure who you were. But your arrow did kill him!”

“Oh, stop!” Anita shrieked at him. “How can you tell such wicked, brutal lies about us! It isn’t true!”

“Shut up, ’Nita!” said Allen harshly. “Go on, Mr. Bernard. We may as well hear it all.”

“You let fly at him when he was in the doorway! Your arrow killed him. So you replaced the bow, slipped out and raced for your room, which you gained in safety. You sent Anita flying up the end stairs to her room. But she lost her head, knowing what she knew had happened, and came down the wrong flight. And there Isabelle saw her. We know you’re an excellent shot with a bow and arrow, Allen!”

“It’s not true!” wept Anita. “Not a word!”

Allen sat stiffly erect in his chair.

“There’s just one thing wrong with that theory, Mr. Bernard,” he said, “cleverly as you’ve worked it out. It never happened! We’ve told you the exact truth about where we were when Harrison was murdered. You are right about my row with Harrison. I didn’t tell you about it because I saw how black it would make things look against me. But I didn’t shoot Harrison!

“If you advance that theory you’ll disgrace us both and we’ll never live it down. You may put me on trial for the murder. You might even convict me on purely circumstantial evidence. But I didn’t do it. My finger-prints ought to be on the bow and arrow that killed Harrison, oughtn’t they?”

“You wore gloves!”

“I neither wore gloves nor killed Harrison!”

“Oh, you won’t ruin us!” wept Anita. “We didn’t do it! We know n-nothing about the murder—”

“Look here,” Allen interrupted. “You’d rather have the real murderer than a miscarriage of justice for the sake of a conviction, wouldn’t you? You don’t want to ruin two innocent people and let the real murderer escape, do you?”

“Who did kill Harrison?” asked Bernard dryly.

“I haven’t the faintest idea!”

Bernard stared at Allen fixedly, then shrugged his shoulders.

“Mr. Landis is in charge of the case!” he growled.

Landis got up.

“I want you two to go back to your rooms and stay there the rest of the night,” he told them quietly. “We’ll say nothing at the inquest of what you have told us, provided you tell us the exact truth in future. Is that a bargain?”

Anita scrambled from her chair, flung off his overcoat and ran to the door.

“Thank you!” she gasped and vanished.

Allen, on the other hand, showed signs of cracking now that the strain was over. He thrust out his hand.

“It is a bargain!” he gasped. “You’re a white man!”

“So’s Bernard here, if you only knew it,” grumbled Landis. “Good night, Allen.”

When they were alone Bernard chuckled.

“Full of holes, wasn’t it! But I thought we might learn something new.”

“We’ve learned plenty. We know who closed the library door and who locked the door at the end of the wing. Personally, I’m inclined to think we’ve eliminated two possible suspects, though I’m far from sure. What do you think?”

“I’m not sure, either. But you saw the holes.”

Landis nodded, smiling quizzically.

“It’s doubtful whether so young a girl would plan to murder her own father,” he admitted. “If she did make such a plan, she’d be a lot more careful not to let the servants or anyone else see her on her way to help Allen execute it. Her lies were stupid—not carefully planned, as Allen would see to it that they were. Allen’s ready confession of a secret marriage, giving a strong motive for murder under the circumstances, would be the last thing he’d admit—if he killed Harrison. Anything else?”

“The main thing is that Allen is intelligent. But he made no careful preparation to hide Anita’s trail. Above all, he made no attempt to throw suspicion elsewhere.”

“There’s no direct evidence anyhow, sir. They lied! But they were in enough of a jam to make them lie!”

Bernard nodded.

“Come on,” he growled, “let’s go back to bed and get some sleep!”

CHAPTER XIX

WHY MRS. GRAHAM SCREAMED

AFTER breakfast next morning the coroner came to the house for Harrison’s body. Landis had a talk with him in the library, promising him a set of photographs in time for the inquest, then telling him Allen’s and Anita’s story in full and asking permission to withhold it at that runction.

The coroner proved intelligent, reasonable and a gentleman. As Landis and Bernard had the case, he promised to call no more evidence than necessary to establish the facts of the murder.

He departed quietly, taking with him Harrison’s body and the three local policemen to leave a clear field.

Breakfast had been a gloomy meal, household and guests eating in a silence that veiled uneasiness or suspicion, the servants unnatural and morose, Miss Mount red-eyed and taciturn. If the crisis had found her composed and resourceful, evidently night and privacy had brought a softer mood.

With the departure of Harrison’s torn body the atmosphere lightened a little. But Landis was relieved when he left the house to find Bernard quietly smoking his pipe in the sunken garden. Their own position in the household was hardly one to inspire cordiality.

“Hello,” he said, “I’ve been thinking.”

“That’s all right, if you don’t overdo it.”

“I’ve been thinking,” repeated Landis with dignity, “that it might be worth while to find out why Mrs. Graham screamed. It’s funny no one has mentioned it except Joel.”

Bernard puffed at his pipe.

“Get hold of Mrs. Graham and we’ll ask her. Never know when we’ll strike a trail.”

Landis found the Grahams descending the main staircase on their way out for a walk. With a tiny frown and then a laugh, Mrs. Graham accompanied him to the sunken garden.

They found seats in the ornamental summerhouse, from which they could see Graham wandering about the billiard-room.

“Mrs. Graham,” began Landis, “we’ve a funny question to ask you? Did you happen to scream last Wednesday night?”

She stared at him, then gurgled with laughter.

“I’m afraid I did! Though I’d almost forgotten about it.”

“Did someone or something frighten you?”

“Oh, my, no! I burned myself!”

“Oh,” said Landis blankly, “you burned yourself!” He made an effort to show interest. “Curling your hair?”

Ethel Graham laughed gayly.

“No! Thank goodness, it’s naturally curly! I leaned back on Ray’s cigarette.”

“And burned your hand on it?”

Ethel Graham looked slightly embarrassed.

“No. You see, Ray was reading and smoking in bed and I went in to pester him. I sat down on his bed and took his book away. Then I leaned back all of a sudden and his hand was there with his cigarette in it. He wasn’t expecting me to lean back quickly like that. So I burned myself!” She straightened and touched the small of her back reminiscently. “It startled me so and hurt so that I—well, I just yelped!”

“Burned you through your clothes?” exclaimed Landis.

Ethel laughed, flushing a little. “I just had my nightgown on and it wasn’t a very thick one!”

“It would hurt, of course,” said Landis quickly.

“It did—for a while! Ray made a fuss over it and put on a lot of cold cream. He went into my bedroom to get it. But Miss Mount had heard my disgraceful yell and came over to see what was up. Without thinking, I called to her to come in. It hurt so, even then. Ray was terribly embarrassed and went back to his room,” she added with a gurgle of laughter. “So Miss Mount went for some stuff she had and dressed my back for me. She was awfully nice about it. Ever since then we’ve been great friends. I like her a lot.”

“She’s a mighty interesting woman,” admitted Bernard.

“She’s a dear! She’s so interested in you!”

“Interested in me?” demanded Bernard blankly.

Ethel bubbled with light-hearted laughter. “Not you personally! I mean the person who happens to be talking to her. We had a long talk Thursday morning and she asked me all about myself. She knows that it isn’t much fun not having any home of your own. Though of course I’m happy now!”

“I had an idea,” said Bernard casually, “that Miss Mount was in town all day Thursday!”

“So she was. But we had our talk right after breakfast. She asked me into her room. She didn’t go into town until later.”

Bernard smiled.

“What on earth did you two find to talk about?” he demanded.

“Well, I like that! We talked about ourselves, of course! Or rather,” Ethel laughed, “about me! I told her all about being unhappy at home and running away and who my parents were. She knew some Cuddys out near Riverhead but I told her where mine lived and that they couldn’t be the same ones. But she thought they might be relatives and wrote down the address. She was so sweet and sympathetic. She understood why I ran away!” Ethel directed a demure and mischievous glance at Bernard.

“I’m an old fool,” smiled Bernard contritely. It was evident that he had taken a great fancy to Ethel Graham.

“Not a bit of it!” she cried. “I just hoped you—wouldn’t jump to conclusions without understanding!”

“Look here,” he said, “we won’t keep you from your walk a minute longer than we have to. But I would like a word with your husband first—just a word, eh? Will you tell him?”

“Of course.” Ethel jumped to her feet and made for the billiard-room.

When her back was turned, Landis and Bernard exchanged glances.

“Cuddy again!” murmured Landis, as soon as she was out of hearing. “This is getting interesting. Wonder where he fits into this jig-saw puzzle!”

“We’re going to find out!”

Graham came down the steps and in a moment joined them, his smile a trifle perfunctory.

“We’re not going to keep you long,” Landis assured him with a friendly grin. “Remember the night Mrs. Graham burned her back?”

Graham showed his surprise.

“Is there anything you fellows don’t know? You bet I do,” he added warmly.

“Miss Mount dressed the burn, we understand. Did you happen to notice anything peculiar about her manner?”

“No. I ducked out of sight right away, not being dressed. Why in the world should there be anything peculiar—”

“Wait a bit,” Landis smiled. “Do you know of anything peculiar about your wife’s past? I don’t mean personally, of course. I mean her parentage?”

It was obvious that the question upset Graham. His manner grew stiff with indignation. They saw, however, that the question had startled him, too.

“Look here, is it necessary for you gentlemen to—well, to pry into things like that?” he demanded.

“In this case I’m afraid it is, Graham. I’m sorry.”

“Find out then!” Graham was in a sudden rage of hurt pride. “I won’t answer such a question!”

“We’ll try to keep it a secret,” said Landis subtly.

Graham was alert enough to see the implication.

“If there were a secret,” he answered hotly, “it still wouldn’t be mine to tell, would it?”

“Look here, Graham,” ordered Bernard, “Cuddy has cropped up twice in this case already. He was actually here at the house the night before the murder. He may have been here the same night for all we know. And he isn’t at all your wife’s type. We want to know where he fits in.”

Graham shook his head with a doggedness they had not expected in him.

“Ethel’s past has nothing to do with the murder. If you absolutely insist on my telling you what I know, we’ll all three regret it. You can force me to tell you, of course. But I won’t tell you otherwise!”

“All right,” said Bernard suddenly. “We won’t insist! At least, I won’t. That’s twice you’ve refused to answer. You sent for us. But you aren’t exactly helping us, you know!”

“I can’t help it!” Graham retorted obstinately. “You keep asking personal questions that have nothing to do with the case. You don’t have to go prying into a girl’s past, do you?”

“We’re squashed,” interrupted Landis in his friendly way. “Go have your walk, Graham, and cool off!”

Graham stared at him angrily for a moment, then turned on his heel and stalked off in pursuit of his wife.

“Those two,” murmured Landis, “are the only really likeable people in the house, except maybe Miss Mount! Also, I think that Cuddy on Long Island will be an early port of call!”

“You bet he will,” returned Bernard. “In the meantime, suppose we learn what we can about his movements out here!”

Landis went to the garage and discovered that a grateful Harley had done everything except re-upholster his car. They drove first to the local railroad station, where they were lucky enough to find that one of the two porters had seen an old fellow such as they described getting off the six-ten train from New York on Friday night. He looked such a rube that the porter had noticed him. Neither he nor anyone else about the station had seen the same man leave town on Friday night nor seen him on Saturday night.

Luck followed them into the single main street. In the second place they tried which had a public telephone, the woman remembered seeing such an old man on Friday night. She had changed a dollar for him so that he could telephone and he had pored over the change until she was afraid she had given him too much. But she had not seen him on Saturday night.

They returned and put their car in the garage in time to explore the grounds before lunch and to find, some distance back of the house, the open stretch of sward where the archery targets were set up. But neither these nor the grounds yielded anything of moment to their case.

After a taciturn and rather gloomy meal, during which only Ethel Graham and Landis made any effort at sustained conversation, the two detectives set out alone for the inquest. Miss Mount, Stimson and Susan, the only witnesses called, followed in the big car driven by Harley.

The coroner was true to his word and kept the inquest a purely formal and perfunctory affair. The verdict was brought in: “Death due to a wound caused by an arrow discharged by some person or persons unknown.”

The rest of Sunday afternoon and Sunday evening, Landis and Bernard moved unobtrusively and casually about the house. Though subdued by tragedy and more by uneasiness, life in the household pursued a most commonplace course and they learned nothing whatever of interest.

At breakfast on Monday morning, Landis waited until Miss Mount, the two girls and all four guests had come down, then inquired whether it was necessary for any of them to go into New York. Graham volunteered to stay, provided Brent did not need him. Russell and Allen admitted that no pressing business interests demanded their departure. Miss Mount and the two girls had nothing to say. In fact, no one wanted to seem eager to get away from the scene of the crime.

After breakfast the two detectives drove into New York. The funeral had been arranged for the afternoon, to take place from the local undertaking parlor. There was nothing to be gained by attending it and much to be done elsewhere.

On the way in they discussed the case, admitting each to the other that he had no definite theory to pursue, no real working hypothesis. Opportunity and known motive alone considered, the choice seemed to lie between Stimson, Russell and Allen. But to each of these three theories there were psychological factors that made it highly unsatisfactory. In spite of his hatred and the bit of feather, Stimson had been too frank and too calm for a murderer. Allen had been much too careless about admitting his motive. Russell had made no attempt to deny his motive, either. Neither Stimson nor Russell had tripped once. Allen had lied but with an obvious and apparently innocent motive. Landis and Bernard had learned a lot and got—nowhere.

In New York, Landis drove Bernard to the down-town district where Brent had his offices, drove up-town again, parked his car in the vicinity of the Pennsylvania Station and took the first available train for Great Neck, where inquiry at the post office would give him Hiram Cuddy’s address.

They met again at six in a chop-house near Times Square and each admitted that he had had a busy day. Landis was cheerful. Bernard had a grim little smile about his mouth.

“You spill your news first,” said Landis in an undertone, when they had both ordered enormous mutton chops.

Bernard chuckled, though he looked tired.

“It doesn’t sound much, after the places I’ve been and the visits I’ve paid! In the first place, I’ve seen the will. It leaves Miss Mount a hundred thousand, Brent fifty thousand, Graham ten thousand and Stimson five thousand. The other servants get two thousand apiece. There’s a half-million life trust for his brother, Joel.”

“And the rest to the girls. That’s what Brent said.”

“It is,” Bernard admitted, “though he didn’t mention Stimson. The fortune is about two million dollars less than Brent expected—somewhere around eight million in all, which goes to the two girls after the bequests are deducted. But what’s a couple of million dollars!”

“What’s up your sleeve?” demanded Landis.

“Just this. Brent has lost a lot of money lately, backing some sort of patent fuel-saving device. Two million dollars are missing. He admits it. He gets fifty thousand. He is trustee, which means a big percentage on the capital right away and a slice of the income until the money goes to the girls, two and four years hence. Pretty soft for Brent, eh?”

Landis whistled.

“Where was he Saturday night?”

“He was out for a stroll, don’t you remember?”

“Why, bless me, so he was!” said Landis in a very fair imitation of the stout little lawyer’s pompous manner.

“That’s that,” said Bernard. “The rest is interesting, too. I called on an old acquaintance who helps publish a scurrilous little affair called ‘Chitter—Chatter.’ He knows everybody and everything a self-respecting citizen ought not to know. Allen, he says, is a poor but popular young man about town who is credited with the intention of marrying money. This fellow knows about his affair with Anita, though he didn’t mention their marriage—knows that he’s out there now. That’s common gossip, it seems. He’d get that from the papers.”

“Ask him about Russell, too?”

“I did. Russell is supposed to have a reasonable income. His guess was about ten thousand a year. He says Russell lives well beyond it, is known to be entertaining his fiancée lavishly, is supposed to be hard-pressed for cash and is rumored to have raised one fairly large loan at very large interest on the strength of his announced engagement to Isabelle Harrison!”

Landis sat up.

“Damn it, they’ve all got motives!” he groaned. “Maybe the whole household got together and cooked the thing up!”

“Maybe you’re crazy!” grunted Bernard. “What’s your news? What about Cuddy?”

“Did you get any dope on Harrison’s past and where he went on Monday and Saturday?” Landis countered.

“Nothing of much interest. He’s been in a couple of shady deals before he got rich. On Monday he stayed here in town, took two hours for lunch, went back to the office and home at the usual time. Nobody here saw him on Saturday at all.”

“My yarn is longer and more interesting,” said Landis.

“Spin it, then. Every dog barks in his own yard!”

With a laugh, Landis plunged into his story. He had obtained Cuddy’s address and a brief description of him from the post office where he sometimes called for his mail. The station master at Great Neck had sold Cuddy a return trip to New York on Friday morning and seen him depart at once. A porter had seen him come back late that night. No one in town had seen him on Saturday, where he was known in at least one store as a surly and miserly old skinflint.

Landis had taken a taxi in Great Neck and driven inland to the little group of farms of which Hiram Cuddy owned one. Before visiting the man he had learned from local gossip that a woman answering the description of Miss Mount had been looking for Cuddy on Thursday and had been directed to his house. He was known to be at home at the time.

“Score one for you,” said Bernard at this point.

“Wait a bit, there’s more,” said Landis. “The same neighbor told me that she saw a man like Harrison call at Cuddy’s farm about noon, day before yesterday and stay there about half an hour. He came out in a taxi like mine. Afterwards, when I got back to Great Neck, my driver helped me find the other taxi. The other driver verified Harrison’s description, told me that his ‘fare’ seemed to be in a rage on his way to the Cuddy farm and grim enough when he left, though he didn’t haggle over the price of the ride.”

“Good,” nodded Bernard. “But you went to see Cuddy?”

“Of course, sir! He struck me as an ugly, shifty old brute. His wife is as grim and close-mouthed as he is. They’re not Ethel Graham’s type at all. Anyhow, they admitted readily that she was their daughter, adding that she ran away from home three years ago and they’ve washed their hands of her.”

“Get on, man,” chuckled Bernard, as Landis paused. “What about Hiram’s two visitors?”

“He wouldn’t say one word about them, wouldn’t even admit that they’d been there! I passed myself off as a reporter looking for news about the murder and about the guests in the house at the time, so I couldn’t very well press him about Miss Mount and Harrison. But—I did ask him for Ethel Graham’s birth certificate! They told me they’ve lost it. And that’s all they did tell me.”

“But not all you learned?” Bernard demanded.

“Not quite. I went back to my neighbor who’s been there for years. She told me that Ethel, whom she knew and liked, came to the Cuddy farm first as a child about three years old. She’d been there ever since until she ran away. The old girl I talked to was a warm-hearted party and got quite indignant about the way the Cuddys treated Ethel. I didn’t go back to Cuddy. It seemed better not to rouse his suspicions further and much easier to trace Ethel’s real parentage from this end.”

“You mean—Miss Mount?”

Landis nodded.

“It seems likely. Miss Mount and Harrison. Ethel is about twenty-one. Miss Mount has been with Harrison for twenty-three years. And she must have been a beauty as a girl, sir. She’s a beauty now. That theory fits all the facts.”

“Shouldn’t wonder,” agreed Bernard thoughtfully.

They finished their dinner quickly, went down to the Pennsylvania for the car and started their long drive back to Harrison’s home. On the way, each was busy with his own thoughts. As they passed the nearby town and drew close to the house, Bernard cleared his throat and spoke, softly.

“Graham will have to talk now,” he said, “and so will Miss Mount, afterwards! But we’ll keep it all from Ethel Graham if we can.”

Landis ran the car into the untenanted garage and they walked around the house together on the crunching gravel and rang the front door bell, tired but better satisfied.

Stimson answered it with unusual alacrity and they saw at once that a good deal of his poise had deserted him.

“What’s up, Stimson?” Landis inquired.

“Something very serious has happened in your absence, sir!”

“What?” asked Landis sharply. “Has somebody committed suicide?”

“No, sir. But Mr. Graham has been shot with an arrow, sir, in just the same way as Mr. Harrison!”

CHAPTER XX

ANOTHER LOCKED DOOR

PHYSICALLY stunned by surprise, the two detectives stared at Stimson’s lean, dark face, while, with the swiftness of a dream, their trained mentalities passed the whole case in review—to no purpose. In face of the little they had learned, such a second killing seemed utterly meaningless. It supplied no dreadful link, fitted no vacant niche in even the most shadowy of their theories. By slightly different channels they swung to the same mental mooring. First and second killing, if done by the same hand, were the work of an irresponsible madman.

“Where’s the body?” rapped Bernard suddenly.

The butler started.

“Beg pardon, sir! I was not speaking physiologically. I referred to the location of Mr. Graham at the time he was shot—in the door between the library and the front room. Mr. Graham is not dead. He is seriously and painfully wounded.”

“Good!” cried Landis in relief. “Where is he?”

“We put him to bed and the doctor has been here to dress his wound. He has a slight fever and is extremely nervous. He has asked for you both several times.”

“You must know who did it this time!”

“No, sir! There is no clue. It happened at almost exactly the same time as before. The back of the house was unguarded as before, thanks to the removal of the police.”

Catching the note of reproach in Stimson’s voice, Landis glanced at the man sharply.

“And the members of the household?” he inquired with a certain dryness.

“In their rooms as before, sir.”

“You’ve called the local police?”

“No, sir. Both Miss Mount and Mr. Graham preferred to await your return. I phoned for the doctor only.”

Without further parley Landis went to the telephone and summoned Sergeant Forbes and two patrolmen. They waited grimly in the deserted library until the police arrived, posted the sergeant at the rear door of that room and sent the policemen to patrol the grounds. In the meantime they had examined the Japanese bow, which Landis had left unstrung. It was strung again and another Japanese arrow was missing. An inspection under the light showed no trace of finger-prints on bow or quiver. Both shone as though recently polished.

At Stimson’s suggestion they also visited, while they waited, the little reception-room. There were no traces of blood on the door-sill between the two rooms but they found a mark on the front wall of the smaller room to show where the deflected arrow had struck almost broadside on and dropped to the carpet. Even at that angle, the sharp arrowhead had cut a deep gash in the heavy wallpaper and plaster beneath. The arrow, unblunted, lay where it had fallen. Landis picked it up by one vane and carried it to the light. Blood clung to the sharp metal of the long, elliptical head, filmed the shaft and had darkened the feathers. If the shaft had borne finger-prints no trace of them remained.

Landis replaced the arrow where he had found it and with Bernard mounted at once to Graham’s room, leaving the sergeant to keep watch on the ground floor.

They knocked and entered to find Graham sitting up, his flushed face turned eagerly toward the door. They saw that his right arm was tightly bandaged.

“Thank the Lord you’ve come,” he said hoarsely. “The butler came up to tell me you were back. Being the object of an attempted murder is a little out of my line!” He managed a wry smile but it was easy to see that he was feverish and badly shaken by his wound.

“Lie down, old chap,” said Landis soothingly. “Tell us about it if you feel able. Is the wound a bad one?”

“Not at all dangerous, the doctor says. It went through the inner side of my upper arm here and scraped the bone, so it’s fairly painful. But the shock of it upset me a bit.”

“Feel up to telling us about it?”

“You bet I do! I want to get it off my chest before they have another try and get me! Crazy thing is, so far as I know, I haven’t an enemy in the world!”

Landis nodded.

“What happened exactly?”

Graham lay back on his pillow and passed his left hand across his forehead.

“I—they all went to the funeral. Even Ethel went. She and Miss Mount are great friends and Miss Mount urged her to go along and keep her company. I guess Ethel wanted to go anyway because Mr. Harrison was so nice to her.”

The two detectives glanced at each other casually and Bernard smiled at Graham.

“So you stayed at home alone?”

“Entirely alone. All the servants went, too. I sorted what I could find of Harrison’s papers, ready to turn them over to Mr. Brent as senior trustee. I got interested studying that bunch of company prospectuses in his desk. The whole lot of them came home about six and—”

“Including Joel Harrison?” interrupted Bernard.

Graham laughed nervously.

“Oh, yes. He went and came back fuming over the whole business. You never know how he’ll take anything. Ethel and I went up to our rooms. She was tired and nervous after the ordeal. She said the funeral seemed just horrible instead of sad, because Mr. Harrison had been murdered. So I got her to take a nap, dressed for dinner and went down to the library again. I sat down at Harrison’s desk to read prospectuses until the gong sounded—”

“What time did you get down to the library?”

“About seven, I should think.”

“Did you happen to notice the Japanese bow?”

“Yes, I did, before I sat down. Finding the library just as it was Saturday night, shadowy, fire burning and all, I wandered to the end of the room to look at it, as a person will after a tragedy—”

“Of course,” nodded Landis eagerly. “Well?”

“It was just the same—strung and leaning against the armor—”

Landis leaned forward.

“But it wasn’t left strung!” he interrupted sharply. “I unstrung it late Saturday night!”

Graham shuddered.

“Good Lord!” he cried hoarsely. “Whoever did it was waiting in the hall, perhaps! But the door was open. I didn’t see anybody about!”

“You didn’t look, of course,” growled Bernard. “Tell us the rest and don’t worry! They won’t get another crack at you. We’ll see to that!”

“While I was sitting at Harrison’s desk,” said Graham suddenly, “I heard a sound in the formal garden outside the windows. I’m sure of it now! I didn’t pay much attention then. But I did hear footsteps, soft ones, on the gravel just once or twice—at least it sounded like the crunch of gravel under foot.”

“What time was that?” demanded Bernard.

Graham shook his head.

“Ten or fifteen minutes past seven, maybe. I’m not sure.”

“Go on.”

“But that’s all!” retorted Graham. “I didn’t see or hear anything at all! When the gong rang I cleared the desk and walked down the library to the little door just as Harrison did on Saturday night!” Graham writhed nervously under the bedclothes at the recollection. “Just as I got to the doorway into the front room some blind instinct made me swerve aside a little and walk faster. Maybe it was association of ideas. Maybe it was a tiny sound behind me, though I don’t remember hearing a thing. The next instant something hit my right arm. It was just like being punched violently. Only there was a fierce, grinding sort of pain with it. Anyhow, my legs gave out and I spun round and fell at the same moment. I just crumpled in the doorway. The shock or the pain knocked the wits clean out of me. I heard Susan’s scream in a dim sort of way. But I never thought of looking back into the library to see who had shot me!”

“Was there anybody in the front room?” Landis asked.

“Yes. Miss Mount and Susan were there. I believe Miss Mount was over by the window and Susan near her with a tray.”

“What happened then? Did anyone see anything at all?” demanded Bernard in evident exasperation.

Graham shook his head.

“Miss Mount says the way I fell blocked the doorway so she ran round through the hall into the library and switched on the top lights as before. But she saw nothing unusual. She ran to the end of the library and looked into the back hall. It was deserted. Susan was screaming like mad, so she ran into the front room.”

“Can you give us any help at all of your own knowledge? Can’t tell how reliable anyone else is in this case!”

“I can’t! My first clear recollection is coming up the front stairs between Stimson and Russell and being put to bed. Stimson had phoned for the doctor and he came very soon after and dressed my arm. He offered to send me a nurse, but Ethel was awake by that time and insisted on nursing me herself. Doctor Stanford said it would be all right.”

“Have you made any further investigations?”

“I have not!” Graham retorted with emphasis. “I’ve stayed coyly here in my bedroom, wishing to Heaven I had a revolver. I hadn’t any yearning to give anybody a second try at me, thank you!” Graham laughed apologetically. “The pain and shock bowled me over, I guess. It was a narrow escape. Ethel and that lucky swerve of mine just about saved my life!”

“Why Mrs. Graham?” asked Landis quickly. “She was asleep, wasn’t she?”

“No. She was dressing by that time. Stimson or somebody called to her and she ran in. The arrow had cut a big vein and I was bleeding like a stuck pig. Ethel ran across the hall to Miss Mount’s room for bandage, found the door locked and ran back and tore up one of my shirts and tied my arm up tight. I felt pretty faint. So I told them all that I felt nauseated—”

“All who? Who was in the room?” asked Bernard.

“I’m not sure; Russell and Stimson and Ethel of course and three or four more. The two girls were there, I think, and Allen. I don’t remember. Anyway, I had a crawling feeling that any one of them might have shot me, Lord knows why, so I cleared them all out—said I wanted to be alone and rest. I’d have liked to have Ethel stay, but I couldn’t very well insist on being alone and keep her, so I sent her down to get her dinner. I kept her back and told her to tell everybody that I didn’t feel like seeing anybody just then. Frankly, I was in a panic!”

“Then the doctor came up to see you?”

“Yes. Ethel came up with him. She hadn’t been able to eat but she’d stayed away like a darling. She hung around while the doctor dressed my arm, looking like a little ghost. The shock of it, on top of the strain of the funeral, had done her up. I sent her across to Miss Mount for a sleeping powder and then sent her to bed, with her door locked!”

“Thought Miss Mount’s door was locked!” said Bernard.

“Well, she was in her room,” answered Graham a trifle irritably. “She must have unlocked it again.”

“You haven’t had any other visitors?”

“Stimson came up once after the doctor left to clean up a bit and see if there was anything I wanted. But he gave me the creeps, too, and I said I only wanted to know when you got back and to see you at once.”

Landis got up from the edge of the bed on which he had been sitting. “Mighty sorry you’ve had such a bad time of it, Graham,” he said. “Guess we shouldn’t have left the house unguarded. But it’s guarded now. There are three police about. I’ll lend you a revolver, though, if you’re nervous. I’ve got one in our bag.”

“No, I don’t feel so panicky now. Tell you what! Lock my door on the outside and shove the key under it again. I’ll try and get some sleep.” He managed a smile. “Only, I hope to Pete you’ll find out who did it and run him in quick! This is no place for Ethel—or me, either!”

“We’ll do that little thing,” said Landis, “and don’t worry! Nobody will come near you tonight. I’m going to station one of the cops up here in the hall so don’t get nervous if you hear his heavy tread. Good night.”

“Good night,” answered Graham, “and thanks a lot.”

They withdrew, locking the door on the outside and flicking the key under it. Then they went down the front stairs, noticing how the bloodstains on the carpet, thickest outside Graham’s door, dwindled as they descended and ceased altogether just inside the library door, where, presumably, Graham’s clothing had not yet become saturated.

Landis asked Sergeant Forbes to station one of his men outside Graham’s door. Then he and Bernard set about the same procedure as before, questioning the servants first. He found them all gathered in the kitchen which buzzed like a beehive with their chatter.

Harley had been in the garage when the gong rang. He heard Susan scream and ran in through the lower wing hall at once but saw no one at all on the way. He found Miss Mount, Susan and Stimson with Graham and hurried out the front door. He ran around the house at once. But there was no one about.

Susan, still tearful but in possession of her senses, told them that she and Miss Mount had been in the reception-room as usual. She had sounded the gong and gone back. Miss Mount had just begun to close the window and she herself was pouring cocktails when she looked up and saw Mr. Graham in the doorway from the library. Then he had spun half round and fallen in a heap. It was all more than Susan could stand and she was going to give notice.

Stimson could add nothing of importance. He had been in the pantry when Susan screamed and had run into the hall in time to see Miss Mount darting into the library. She switched on the lights and ran to the end. He went to help Mr. Graham if he could. Miss Mount came back. Then the others began to arrive and he and Mr. Russell, finding Mr. Graham alive, had carried him up to his room. Stimson had telephoned at once for a doctor, without waiting for orders from Miss Mount. She was busy with Susan again. He saw no one and nothing suspicious.

The cook and Helen Stokes had been in the kitchen all the time and could not tell the detectives anything at all.

Angry and mystified, betraying the first if not the second, Landis and Bernard continued their inquiries. Miss Mount came downstairs while they were interviewing the servants and they questioned her first. Allen, Russell and the two girls were in the drawing-room. Joel Harrison had gone to bed. They asked Miss Mount into the library as before.

“Please give us a detailed account of your movements since six o’clock and what you saw and heard,” Bernard ordered her rather roughly. “Omit nothing, whether you consider it important or not!”

“Your tone and manner,” replied Miss Mount, with fire in her eye, “are regrettable and entirely unnecessary. As Mr. Landis is in charge of this case, I’ll address my remarks to him, if you don’t mind!”

“Address ’em where you please but address ’em!” growled Bernard.

“I returned from the funeral about six and went to my room for a few minutes to rest and change my dress. I came downstairs again about six-thirty,” Miss Mount told them. “I went for a little stroll in the sunken garden as I often do, then moved about through the kitchen, pantry and dining-room until about seven-twenty, when I went into the library for a word with Mr. Graham. I went on into the reception-room to wait for Susan with the glasses. She brought them a few minutes later. When Stimson brought in the cocktails, left the shaker and returned to the dining-room, I told Susan to ring the gong. She did so and came back. Then I closed the window. I had just closed it when Susan screamed and I turned and saw Mr. Graham fall.”

“What did you do then?” asked Landis quietly.

“Mr. Graham had fallen in the doorway, so I ran around through the hall into the library and switched on the lights as I did Saturday night. The end of the library was deserted and the door was open. I ran to the end. The hall was empty. I came back. Stimson had appeared and was helping Mr. Graham to his feet. The others were gathering so I went into the front room to try and quiet Susan. That is all I know.”

“Why did you lock your door when you came downstairs at six-thirty?” Bernard demanded. “You don’t usually lock your door, do you?”

Miss Mount started very slightly and stared at him.

“I do not! I never lock my door. I did not lock it this evening, Mr. Bernard!”

“A minute or two after Graham was helped upstairs, Mrs. Graham went across the hall to your room to get some bandage. Your door was locked then!”

“I think she must have been mistaken.”

Bernard’s instant retort was delivered with open suspicion.

“I don’t think she was mistaken!”

“You may think what you please!” she snapped.

“Have you any idea,” Landis interjected smoothly, “who tried to murder Graham as they murdered Harrison—and why?”

“I have no idea whatever, Mr. Landis!”

“When did you next go to your room?” he inquired.

“When the doctor came. Ethel—Mrs. Graham asked me to go up with her and I did but the doctor did not seem to want me in the room so I crossed to my own. My door was not locked then! I waited there in case I was wanted and presently Mrs. Graham came over for a sleeping powder, which I gave her.”

“You made no effort to dress Graham’s wound as soon as he was hurt? You remained downstairs?” asked Landis.

“There were plenty of others to look after him!” said Miss Mount sharply. “Stimson is quite capable of such a simple dressing as that, I imagine!”

“What makes you think it was simple?” Bernard shot at her. “You didn’t see the wound, did you?”

“The doctor told me it was only a flesh wound.”

“After he came!” snapped Bernard. “You didn’t know that the wound wasn’t serious, possibly mortal and desperately in need of dressing until the doctor came, did you? Why didn’t you find out?”

“Mr. Graham was able to walk! He had his hand on his arm. It was easy to see that the arrow had pierced him there. A wound in the arm is seldom mortal, Mr. Bernard!”

The two detectives eyed her steadily for a moment.

“Is that all?” she inquired at last.

“That’s all—for the present!” Bernard’s tone was ominous and threatening.

Miss Mount rose and started calmly for the hall.

“You’ll wait in the reception-room, please!” snapped Bernard, “where Harrison was murdered!”

Miss Mount whirled, stared at him furiously for a moment, then turned on her heel and walked into the front room without a word.

CHAPTER XXI

GRAHAM IS NOT A FOOL

LEFT alone, except for a highly intrigued sergeant of police at the end of the library, Landis and Bernard stared at each other with frowning eyes.

“There’s something rotten in Denmark!” Bernard growled.

“Mother-in-law stuff?” hinted Landis. “Natural maternal jealousy? She couldn’t possibly have shot him!” He had lowered his voice so that Sergeant Forbes would not hear.

Bernard heaved about in his chair.

“Lord knows,” he sighed. “Well, let’s quiz the others, especially ‘Uncle Joel’! We may learn something and we can talk it over afterwards.”

“Suppose we have a look around first,” Landis suggested. “We may find something to ask them about.”

Bernard agreed and they walked to the end of the library. Armor, bow and quiver were exactly as they had found them when they first returned. They passed on through the lateral hall to the billiard-room, where they found the door to the sunken garden unlocked. So was the door at the end of the wing hall. They mounted the narrow stairs there and emerged in the hall above, to be instantly challenged by a large policeman. Having quieted him with some asperity, Landis led the way to Miss Mount’s door. It was unlocked and the key was on the inside. Her room seemed undisturbed. The door at the far side of the bathroom was locked, the key on Miss Mount’s side.

The huge, ornate house, where death had once crashed the gate at dinner time and had now tried to do so again, yielded no clue to the man or woman who had guided his dark feet there. The case was tangled, confusing and apparently meaningless. Their mutual sense of frustration amounted to real alarm.

“Come on downstairs again and tackle that bunch,” Bernard growled as they left Miss Mount’s room. “This business has got my goat! It’s the first case I ever saw where nothing fits!”

“It will, though,” answered Landis with an attempt at cheerfulness. “Go ahead. Lead the way.”

They returned to the library and one by one questioned Russell, Allen, Isabelle and Anita in the order named. Bernard was angry. His whip-lash questions left Russell frankly furious, Allen white about the mouth, Isabelle in tears and Anita thoroughly cowed. But he learned nothing. All four declared that they had been in their rooms from six-thirty until seven-thirty when the gong rang and Susan screamed. There was nothing to disprove their statements. Otherwise they had nothing to tell except to verify what the detectives had learned from Graham and Stimson.

Finally, with a courtesy that attempted amends for his companion’s ferocity, Landis dismissed them all and, going to the reception-room, asked Miss Mount to tell Mr. Joel Harrison that they would like to see him at once in the library. He told Miss Mount to go to bed if she liked.

She did not return. It was some time before Joel Harrison put in an appearance. At length his long, clumsy figure, fully dressed and unexpectedly neat, ambled into the doorway from the hall and Landis invited him to be seated. He obeyed, peering at them as a child peers up at a stranger of whose good-will he is not quite sure.

“Now, Mr. Harrison,” Landis began, “we want your help! You went to the funeral this afternoon and came home about six?”

Joel’s face clouded, then suddenly darkened to anger.

“I did, sir! I went to it! I came home precisely at six and went straight to my bed! I tell you frankly,” he went on, his voice rising, “I was nauseated with the heavy odor of the flowers in that closed room, instead of out in God’s open air where they are at home! Ridiculous! Senseless!” he snorted. “Gentlemen, our civilization, as we call it, has much to answer for!”

Landis hesitated, rather at a loss.

“The funeral of your brother—er—affected you, too, no doubt?”

Joel Harrison leaned forward and tapped his questioner on the knee, lowering his voice confidentially.

“There you have it!” he murmured. “I didn’t like to say anything! Miss Mount and Isabelle and little Mrs. Graham were crying! They seemed quite sincere! What a mummery, young man! Between ourselves, I was utterly disgusted! Yes, sir, disgusted!”

“A mummery?” exclaimed Landis. “You consider your brother’s funeral a mummery?”

After one pitying glance, Joel shook his head.

“You, too?” he whispered. “My dear young man, you don’t know my brother! It’s all tomfoolishness! The whole proceeding was nonsense! Mason is away somewhere! Why, don’t you realize that my brother is far too selfish, far too accustomed to having his own way, to allow anyone—anyone—to do away with him?” He leaned back in his chair with the satisfaction of a man who has solved a difficult problem.

“I see your point,” replied Landis. “Perhaps it was kinder to say nothing to the others. But you had some dinner?”

“Naturally! It was served to me after I had gone to bed. Our cook takes care of my modest wants.”

“That was before the gong rang? About seven, eh?”

“Possibly. It’s of no consequence.” Joel obviously was losing interest in the conversation.

“After your dinner was brought up, did you happen to hear any sort of commotion in the house, Mr. Harrison?”

Joel nodded.

“I was eating my dinner and reading when I heard someone screaming with laughter. There seemed to be a good deal of moving about on the stairs and down here. Naturally I paid no attention to it.”

“You didn’t come out to investigate, as you did on Saturday night, when you thought Mrs. Graham or Anita had screamed?”

“Certainly not! That was all foolishness! My dear sir, between ourselves, this entire household appears to have gone quite mad! Take yourselves for example! Who invited you? Where do you come from? We’ve never been introduced! I mean no offense, of course, but there you are!”

“You didn’t come out to investigate!” exclaimed Landis. “In that case, it must have been before the commotion that you locked Miss Mount’s door!”

Joel stared in amazement. His expression changed slowly to one of haughty reproof.

“Is this more nonsense?” he demanded. “I know nothing of Miss Mount’s door! That goes without saying! Let me add, please, that if you have anything of moment to communicate to me I shall be glad to give you an appointment in the morning! Now I must ask you both to withdraw!”

“You locked Miss Mount’s door tonight!” thundered Bernard suddenly. “Don’t try to deny it!”

Instantly Joel’s manner changed. He subsided in his chair like a pricked balloon. His haughty expression vanished to be replaced by one of harassed conciliation. The pathos beneath the humor of his muddled intelligence and quaint changes of mood was nothing to the pathos of this swift submission to a bullying tone. The elderly brother of the strong-willed millionaire cringed like a child and like a child tried to avert calamity by winning forgiveness.

“I apologise!” he exclaimed quickly. “I had no intention to offend. Entirely an oversight—”

“Then you did lock Miss Mount’s door?” snapped Bernard.

“I’m afraid not, sir! If you had given me any idea that such a duty was expected of me I should most certainly have seen to it! Perhaps if I did so now—?” He started to rise.

Hunched down in his chair, Bernard stared up at the old fellow from beneath penthouse brows for a moment, then shook his head slowly.

“If you didn’t lock it before dinner, it’s too late now. There’s nothing to be done,” he explained in a quieter tone.

“Never mind,” said Landis. “We’ll get around that all right. Now you’d better go back to your bed and your book. We’re sorry that we disturbed you. Good night, Mr. Harrison!”

With an air of intense but slightly puzzled relief, Joel bade them good night and straggled loose-jointedly out of the room. They listened until they heard his door close above.

“You don’t think he had anything to do with it?” asked Landis.

“I’m hanged if I know! Either he’s just crazy or he’s cunning and crazy. Or maybe he’s cunning enough to seem crazy! He has the skill and the motive and had the opportunity to kill his brother. He might shoot Graham to draw suspicion from himself, just because he would have no motive there. But that seems pretty far-fetched!”

“Let’s go up and see if Graham is asleep!” suggested Landis soothingly. “If he’s not, we’ll ask him about his wife. He’ll tell us all he knows, now, or I’m a billygoat.”

“Right you are,” agreed Bernard with a sigh.

Graham was very much awake and responded instantly to their gentle knock. As soon as he heard who they were he assured them he could get out of bed and in a moment unlocked and flung open the door. Landis helped him into bed again.

Wincing once or twice he settled himself on his back and looked at his visitors with quizzical irritation. “Do you suppose,” he demanded, “that I can get to sleep with a herd of elephants prowling outside my door? You can’t tell me that one lone flat-footed cop could make all that noise!”

With a remorseful chuckle, Landis swung one of Graham’s bedroom chairs into the hall and requested the policeman to sit down on it instead of tramping up and down. Pleased and slightly astonished, the cop sat down at once. Landis returned to the side of Graham’s bed in time to catch his answer to a question of Bernard’s.

“I know I’ve begged off answering twice. Your two questions involved the same thing. But I’m in no mood now to keep anything to myself any longer. I’ll only ask you to keep absolutely confidential what I’m going to tell you. For I’m morally certain that it can’t affect the case!” He glanced at Landis rather anxiously.

“You know we’ll do that if we can!”

Bernard nodded.

“Unless it does affect the case—and even then if we can!” he agreed.

“All right,” said Graham with a wry smile, “here goes! About five months ago—early in May—Mr. Brent told me that Mr. Harrison had a little highly confidential work he wanted done for him and that he, Mr. Brent, had recommended me for it. Of course, I was delighted, telephoned Mr. Harrison’s secretary, made an appointment and went to see him at his office.

“Mr. Harrison beat about the bush a bit and finally told me that he wanted me to go back to New York, drop everything else and find a young girl named Ethel Cuddy.”

Both detectives nodded with no apparent quickening of interest, though inwardly highly intrigued.

“I suggested a private detective agency,” continued Graham, “and Harrison blew up at once, roaring at me that if he had wanted a private detective he would not have sent for me.

“I kept quiet after that and he went on to say that the girl was the daughter of an old friend who had died insolvent. He had arranged with an old couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Cuddy, to bring her up as their own child. She was three when her father died. He had paid them small monthly sums for years for her education and her keep, as he put it. Recently, by the merest chance, he had read a brief item about an explosion of a still at the Cuddy home in which there was no mention of a daughter. He had investigated on his own hook and discovered that the girl had run away nearly three years before. Now he wanted her found.”

“Or his money back!” suggested Landis irrepressibly.

“He mentioned that,” laughed Graham. “He said he was going to make it hot for the Cuddys one of these days. But the girl had to be found first and he wanted me to find her.”

“Don’t see anything particularly confidential about that—from Harrison’s point of view,” grumbled Bernard.

“He explained that, too! He told me that, so far as he knew, Ethel Cuddy believed herself the daughter of the old couple she ran away from. He didn’t want her undeceived on that point because it might put ideas in her head if she learned that a millionaire was interested in her. Oh, he was quite, quite frank about it.”

“Pleasant character, Harrison,” observed Landis.

“So I thought! Anyhow, he wanted me to find where she was and report her circumstances to him. He did not want me to speak to her or get in touch with her in any way. It was a large order to find one girl in New York. But he offered me a thousand dollars and I undertook the job.”

Graham glanced up at this point to discover that his visitors were both smiling. He stared from one to the other.

“Of course you believed every word of that?” asked Landis. “It’s all so likely!”

“Wait a bit,” Graham frowned. “There’s something coming that’s a million times less likely and quite true!”

“We’ll try to believe you,” Bernard rumbled.

Graham laughed.

“That’s all I ask! Anyhow, I looked and looked and always failed. In the meantime, I’d met, at a friend’s studio, a girl named Ethel Craig. I guess you both know what it’s like when a girl bowls you over. She bowled me over clean! During this time she was trying to get on the stage again, as she was out of a job. I helped her all I could and we got to know each other well. She seemed to like me and one day, after I had been telling her about myself as a fellow will, she confided to me a little of her own early days. She told me that her parents were old and cross, her home environment a sordid and miserable one. They had made her do chores from morning till night and had never shown the slightest affection for her. Instead, their attitude had always been that she was a burden to them.”

Graham paused reminiscently.

“She had run away from home nearly three years before to seek her fortune and had changed her name so that they could not find her and drag her back!”

The two detectives sat forward in their chairs as though suddenly enlightened.

“It was Ethel Cuddy!” cried Landis.

“You’ve stolen my thunder!” Graham complained. “Ethel Cuddy it was! It seemed incredible of course. But with my search always in mind, it leapt to the eye. I wanted to surprise her and tell her what her name had been. But I had to stick to my bargain with Harrison. If I had shown her that I knew, she would have asked a million questions. So I just asked her what her name had been and she told me—Ethel Cuddy!”

“A thousand dollars for two words,” Landis commented. “What did you do about Harrison?”

“I telephoned from New York and came out here to see him. I told him the truth and that he need have no further anxiety about her as I proposed to marry her!”

“What did he say to that?” inquired Bernard.

“At first he was furious. Then he got grim and ugly and told me that I need have no expectations on her behalf just because he had expressed curiosity to know what had become of her. Of course I got up on my ear a bit and told him that such a question didn’t arise, although I expected the sum he had promised me for finding her. He grumbled a bit and gave me a check and that was that.”

“Did you—er—believe Harrison’s account as to her being the daughter of an old friend?” asked Landis tactfully.

Graham frowned.

“I’d fallen in love with her, Landis! Do you suppose I gave or give a damn who her parents were? I have no social aspirations, thank God! Ethel’s breeding and character speak for themselves!”

“You bet they do!” rumbled Bernard.

“But did you guess,” Landis persisted, “that Harrison’s interest in her might be, well, more than friendly?”

“What do you mean by that?” Graham snapped.

“Not what you mean! I mean, did you guess that she might be a—relative of Harrison’s?”

The young lawyer stared at Landis for a moment with angry eyes. Abruptly his expression lightened and he laughed.

“Look here, Mr. Landis, I’m not a fool! Of course I guessed it! That’s why, without his asking it, I volunteered not to speak to her at all of his interest. On the other hand I asked him for permission, after we were married, to bring her out to meet him as a friend and a valued client.”

“What was the idea of that?”

Again Graham stared, this time suspiciously.

“It’s fairly obvious, I should think. You’ve seen Ethel. Nobody could help liking her. Of course I wanted him to see her! Neither of us is over-supplied with money, though I have enough for us both. If Harrison was her—was a relation and grew fond of her, anything he did for her of his own free will was so much the better! On the other hand, in order to avoid even the suspicion of blackmail, I sought for no link between them and stipulated that our visit be after our marriage, when it was up to me to support her anyway.”

“Entirely ethical and extremely considerate,” Landis smiled. “What did he say to that?”

“He looked me up and down for quite a while and I think he saw clear through me. Anyhow he finally nodded and said: ‘All right, come and spend a week here if you like, after you’re married! That’ll save you the cost of a honeymoon!’ So I thanked him and got out!”

“Do you think he still had the idea that you might attempt to blackmail him?” asked Landis.

Graham shook his head.

“I don’t believe so. You see, a lawyer is in a confidential position toward his client anyway and such a thing would be out of the question. Also, I think he was shrewd enough to guess that I wasn’t that sort.”

“Probably he was. We are!” smiled Landis.

Graham thanked him with a nod and a slow flush.

“Anyhow,” he continued hastily, “I didn’t go near him again until Ethel and I were married. We were practically engaged when she told me her real name. We sent him an announcement card and got in exchange an invitation to stay here this week from Isabelle Harrison. I guess you fellows believe that I would have married and did marry Ethel regardless of any expectations or hopes I might have had from Harrison?”

“What difference does that make?” demanded Bernard. “Let your conscience be your guide! Personally, knowing you and Mrs. Graham, I don’t doubt it for a minute!”

“Nor I,” said Landis warmly.

“Thanks! Now, I want to remind you that Ethel knows absolutely nothing about all this. There’s no proof of course. If there should be anything in our guess, I naturally want to save Ethel any pain or—or mortification—”

“Was that why you wouldn’t tell us about her past?”

“Of course! It had nothing to do with the murder, as I told you! But I don’t feel like keeping anything dark after this crack somebody took at killing me. I can only trust to your kindness—”

“To which you can trust!” retorted Landis shortly. “What I want to know is this. Did her meeting Harrison accomplish what you hoped?”

“Of course it did! Or rather,” Graham added with a regretful laugh, “it did and it didn’t. Mr. Harrison was very cool to her when we first came, a week ago Saturday. But on Sunday morning Mr. Brent went off to shoot with Joel Harrison and Ethel, of her own innocent volition, drifted into a long, teasing conversation with Mr. Harrison. You see, she’s been on the stage and she’s learned how to amuse men of his type without losing any of her own dignity. In the afternoon he took her for a drive and a sail and Sunday night he called me into the library.”

“That was when Anita came in and had her row with him, wasn’t it?” Landis asked.

“Yes. She interrupted our talk in the middle. I found Mr. Harrison smoking and apparently in a good humor. He told me to sit down, presented me with a cigar and then said in his blunt way that he liked my attitude and liked my wife. He added that his girls had and would have plenty of money to make fools of themselves. He wound up by telling me that he was going to change his will and make a provision for Ethel in the future as he had provided for her in the past. He proposed to go into town on Monday and take me with him for lunch at the Bankers’ Club. And I gathered that he intended to see Mr. Brent and change his will.”

“But he didn’t do it!” exclaimed Landis.

“I supposed he had, though I didn’t ask him. My senior partner would be apt to say nothing to me about it and I supposed that there was plenty of time anyway. Nobody knew then that he would be dead on Saturday!”

“So he didn’t change it at all, eh? That’s tough.”

“He left me ten thousand dollars. I suppose he postponed doing anything for Ethel. Oh, well,” Graham shrugged, “I’ve enough for us both and now I won’t spend the rest of my life trying to head off her questions as to why he left her some money! But I didn’t want to tell you that conversation in the library either. It would have meant telling you the whole story and involving Ethel’s problematical past.”

“His offer, though, confirmed your natural assumption as to the reason for his interest in your wife!”

“I suppose it did.”

“The chances are,” said Bernard, “that she’ll never have to know if you keep her away from the Cuddys. By the way, to be frank about this thing, did your guess that Harrison might be Mrs. Graham’s father ever afford you an inkling as to who her mother might have been?”

“Good Lord, no! Why should it? Ethel went to the Cuddys, according to Mr. Harrison, when she was only three years old. Her mother might have been anybody. Probably she’s dead. That’s all shrouded in the mists of eighteen years. Ethel is twenty-one now. Some poor little stenographer, probably. Mr. Harrison was hardly a pleasant character.”

Bernard got up. Landis followed suit.

“Well,” said Bernard, “thanks for telling us all about it. Don’t worry. We’ll keep it dark. And don’t worry about this business tonight, either. We’ll see there’s no second attempt on you! Good night.”

“Good night,” said Landis. “Get some sleep now.”

Graham was staring after them. A rather startled expression had crept into his eyes.

“Good night,” he said absently. “Switch out the light, will you? Never mind locking the door unless you think it’s necessary.”

“Not at all, now,” Landis assured him.

They went out quietly, closed the door, nodded to the stiffly seated policeman and descended to the first floor again. Their talk with Graham explained his earlier reticence. It afforded them no direct clue to the solution of the double mystery.

CHAPTER XXII

A QUESTION OF ANGLE

WHEN they reached the lower hall, Bernard went to the library door and looked in. At the far end the faithful sergeant stood on guard. Otherwise the room was deserted.

Landis paused at the foot of the stairs, pulling at his lip in a brown study. Presently an instinct of blind reconnoitering led him to the drawing-room door. Though flooded with light the room had no occupant.

He crossed the hall to find Bernard brooding in front of the library fire. Landis passed on to the end of the room and across the lateral hall to the billiard-room. It was in darkness. Switching on the lights he found it untenanted.

Returning to the library he noticed that, as on Saturday night, the shades had not been drawn down and the windows were still lowered a foot or so from the top. Through the nearest window he could see that Russell’s room was dark. Closer at hand but on the second floor, Miss Mount’s drawn shade revealed a light in her room. He moved nearer the library window and craned his head sideways. All three front windows on the top floor of the wing showed lights. Evidently Helen and Susan had retired to the suite they shared.

Landis had already noticed a push-button on Harrison’s desk. Still in a mood for experiment, he pressed it and caught, in the quiet house, the sound of a distant buzzer somewhere at the back. Rather to his surprise he next heard the muffled impact of a swing door closing. Stimson appeared in the hall doorway, an expression of polite inquiry on his dark, imperturbable visage.

“You rang, sir?”

“Yes, Stimson. Where is everybody, do you know?”

“Miss Mount and Mr. Joel are in their rooms, I believe. The young ladies have gone for a drive in their cars with Mr. Allen and Mr. Russell. The—”

“Oh, they have, have they?” demanded Bernard.

“Yes, sir. The house is not exactly inviting at the present time. Did you wish us all to remain indoors?” His question was addressed to Landis.

Accumulated irritation exploded into anger. For an instant Landis saw red. He smothered his rage and spoke quietly.

“Where did they go, do you know?”

“I don’t, sir. Just for a drive, I think.” Stimson unbent a little. “They gathered in the billiard-room after you questioned them and I brought them a drink there. They were all rather quiet, eyeing each other. These two unexplained attacks have made us all suspicious, sir, of everyone else in the house. After they had had their drinks, Mr. Allen spoke up and said it couldn’t go on. He swore he knew nothing about Mr. Harrison’s murder nor the attempt on Mr. Graham. After that the others all swore the same thing. Then they made up their minds to forget it. Miss Anita suggested a drive and away they went.”

“Thanks, Stimson. What about the rest of the household?”

“The Harleys have gone up to bed, sir. So have Susan and Helen. I remained in the kitchen in case you wanted anything.”

“Very thoughtful of you,” said Landis. “By the way, can you shoot with a bow and arrow?”

“A little, sir,” said Stimson calmly. “Mr. Joel took me out to the butts one afternoon, when the rest of the family was not at home. He showed me how to hold the bow. I seem to have rather a knack for it.”

Bernard reddened with anger, although there was no impudence in the butler’s tone.

“You’re frank about it,” he growled.

“Yes, sir. I have nothing to hide.”

“Not even that bit of feather from the Japanese arrow that killed Harrison?” Bernard snapped. “We found it in the clothes you wore that day!”

Stimson shook his head.

“Not even that, sir! I left it there for you to find—if you looked!”

“Oh, you left it there for us to find, eh?” repeated Bernard with heavy sarcasm. “Then why didn’t you tell us about it—if you thought we’d find it anyway?”

“Why should I incriminate myself, sir? No man is called upon to do that! I found it there the afternoon before the murder and threw it into the waste basket. After the murder I picked it out of the basket and put it back in my pocket, feeling it my duty not to interfere with anything that might be a clue. The rest I left to chance and your search. You might solve the murder without that bit of feather, which might save me unpleasant moments—like the present, sir!”

Landis chuckled suddenly.

“Stimson,” he said, “you’re a great fellow! I believe we shall get on together. Now, as a favor to me, bring that Japanese bow and the remaining arrows up to the third floor. I want to try an experiment.”

Landis led the way to the back stairs, Bernard close at his heels. The butler brought up the rear with the Japanese bow and arrows.

“What’s the idea?” whispered Bernard as they mounted. “Think it won’t pierce the target?”

“I just remembered,” said Landis, lowering his voice, “what Joel Harrison said about the bow, the first time we questioned him. He said, ‘The design ruins it for distance’! Now a bow that won’t shoot far won’t shoot hard either. It seemed so obvious that Harrison was killed with that bow that we hardly questioned it. Wait a minute—” He turned to Stimson.

“Think you can do it?” he asked.

“Hit the target, sir? I think so.”

“No. I don’t mean that.”

“Pierce the target? I doubt it, sir,” said Stimson.

“You ought to be on the force,” chuckled Landis.

When they reached the third floor, he sent the butler to tell the other servants that the detectives were trying an experiment and wished them to remain in their rooms.

When he came back, Stimson took the bow, fitted an arrow to the string, drew it back until the metal head touched the grip and let fly. The arrow flew straight and buried its head in the blue ring. Stimson tried it again, with the same result. The arrow struck and remained quivering. The sharp head penetrated to about two-thirds the thickness of the target.

“That the best you can do?” asked Bernard.

Stimson rubbed his wrist gently.

“Yes, sir. You see that I am drawing the bow to the tip of the arrow. It can’t be drawn farther. One needs a wrist guard and finger guards for this sort of work. I don’t think anyone could shoot any harder with it, sir,” he added, “not even an expert.”

“What do you mean by that last?” Bernard demanded.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the butler innocently.

Leaving Bernard on the third floor, Landis and Stimson descended to the billiard-room. From the lockers they selected the bow which seemed to them both the strongest and took it up to the third floor.

With this, Stimson managed to shoot hard enough so that the point of the Japanese arrow could be felt at the back of the target. He drew a full bow to do it. Inexperienced as they were, the detectives felt justified in believing that the bow could shoot no harder with that arrow. Yet much more force would have been required for the arrow to pass entirely through the target and chip bits of brick from the chimney beyond.

“Stimson,” said Bernard suddenly, “have you got a skeleton key to the various bedrooms in the house?”

“No, sir. I believe Miss Mount has one in her room. She would naturally keep it, sir.”

Bernard stared, then nodded slowly.

“Thank you, Stimson,” said Landis. “Now replace the two bows and the quiver where you found them and wait for us in the kitchen a while longer, if you don’t mind. We may need you again. Much obliged.”

“Certainly, sir!” Stimson moved with dignity to the back stairs. They watched him out of sight. Bernard surprised Landis.

“A queer customer but an honest man,” he said. “There’s venom in our butler. But it’s all for Harrison. He can’t help us much. I’d like to know who planted that bit of feather in his livery. So would he!”

“You believe that?” cried Landis.

“Don’t you?”

“Maybe. Either he’s honest or the cleverest rogue I’ve ever had to corner. He certainly is frank!”

“Come down to Joel’s room,” grunted Bernard. “I’ve got an idea. But I can’t see what good it is!” he added with a rare flash of humor.

They descended to the second floor, saw that there was still a light under Miss Mount’s door and knocked softly. She was fully dressed, although it was close on midnight.

“Sorry to disturb you,” Landis apologised.

“You haven’t disturbed me. I was reading. I thought I’d go in during the night and see how Mr. Graham was resting. A certain amount of fever is to be expected with such a wound.”

Bernard stared at her fixedly.

“There’s a policeman on guard outside Graham’s door,” he said. “Until we find out who attacked Graham, the man will admit nobody who might have done it. We’d like to go through your bathroom, please.”

“I take your point!” Miss Mount permitted herself a slight, amused smile. “Pray make yourselves at home.”

They obeyed her, unlocked the bathroom door into the den and entered, switching on the lights. Bernard closed the door behind them, not too pointedly. Turning, he directed his companion’s attention to a steel arquebus which stood in a corner.

“There you are,” he said. “What about that thing? It looks to me as if it would shoot harder than any bow!”

Landis studied the foot-grip in front, the short, steel bow and the double-handled windlass back of the trigger catch. From this catch to the front of the stock, the distance was far too short to accommodate a three-foot arrow. Nor was there any guide to hold an arrow.

“These cross-bows,” Landis explained, “shoot heavy, short bolts, I think. They called ’em quarrels. The weapons weren’t built for arrows. Don’t believe they’d shoot straight.”

Bernard looked disappointed. His glance roved the walls, to light upon another cross-bow, a wooden one this time, with no foot-grip, a much longer stock, a gut instead of a steel bow-string, a wooden windlass and a deep groove along the top of the stock. Like the other, the bow itself was of steel.

“That would shoot an arrow,” he said. “It has that groove to guide it.”

Landis shook his head.

“Maybe it would shoot one of those Japanese arrows and shoot it hard. But think of the risk of lugging that thing down to the library door! He’d have to lug it back upstairs again, don’t forget, with the house humming about his ears! It isn’t like shooting with a bow that’s already there and stays there!”

“Look here,” growled Bernard, “I never liked that Japanese bow theory! How could a man move around in there, get the bow, fit an arrow to it and wait until Harrison got up, without Harrison seeing him or hearing him or sensing him there? Harrison had his side face to the end of the library, not his back! But to creep up to the door, wait your chance and let fly with that cross-bow from outside the library—that’s different.”

“The risk of being caught there!” Landis demurred.

Bernard scratched his head.

“That’s the hell of it! On the other hand, your Japanese bow is definitely out! It couldn’t shoot that hard!”

Landis shrugged his shoulders.

“Maybe somebody had the Japanese bow all wiped and the cross-bow and a Japanese arrow tucked away behind that couch in the hall back of the library. But at that it’s a terrible risk to run. Anybody might have come along through the billiard-room!”

Bernard turned away to the cross-bow, took it down from the wall by the gut bowstring and carried it to the work-bench, where he lit the light. Turn it this way and that as he might, to catch the light, not a finger-mark showed on its polished wooden surface.

“It ought to be covered with finger-prints!” he growled. “There isn’t one! I tell you, this cross-bow shot the Japanese arrow that killed Harrison and the one that almost killed Graham!”

Suddenly he crossed the room, replaced the arquebus on its nail and returned to the workbench. Carelessly flung down at one end of it lay a pair of doeskin gloves. Bernard picked them up and examined them. The finger-tips were worn smooth and polished. The soft leather at the wrist of each glove was torn just below the thumb. The tears were quite recent. Bernard hesitated, stuffed the gloves into his pocket and touched Landis on the arm.

“Come on out of this!” he said.

Highly intrigued, Landis followed him through the bathroom, again apologized to Miss Mount and joined his older companion in the hall.

“What’s the idea?” he asked in a whisper.

“We’re getting warm! These gloves were torn recently, by hands too big for them! The man who handled the cross-bow and the Japanese bow wore gloves! We’re getting warm, Landis!”

“I’ve been hot under the collar for some time,” said Landis dubiously. “Which did he handle?”

“Both! He planted the Japanese bow and used Japanese arrows to fool us. He shot Harrison with the cross-bow!”

“From where?”

“From the library door!”

“Who did?”

“How do I know?” snorted Bernard. “Joel or Russell or Allen or Stimson! Any one of them could have hidden the cross-bow in one of those lockers in the billiard-room or behind that couch in the hall! Any one of them could have got to that library door. We’ll get the method first and then the man—or woman!”

Landis shook his head.

“Joel couldn’t, without coming down the front or the back stairs or going the whole length of both wing halls. In any of those cases somebody would have seen or heard him.”

“That cross-bow killed Harrison,” Bernard declared.

Landis was silent for several minutes. Abruptly he flung up his head and chuckled joyously.

“We’re a pair of fools!” he exclaimed. “Come on down to the library!”

Bernard followed him without demur. When he reached the long room, Landis touched the bell on Harrison’s desk. In a moment the butler appeared from the hall.

“Stimson,” said Landis, “did Mr. Harrison stoop?”

“Why—er—not as a rule, sir!” declared Stimson. “He carried himself quite erect, as I remember.”

Landis looked disappointed.

“What do you mean by ‘not as a rule,’ Stimson? Did he ever stoop?”

“Yes, sir. He was a very tall man and had a habit of stooping as he passed under a chandelier or through a doorway. Why do you ask, if I may inquire, sir?”

“Just curiosity! Thanks very much, Stimson. That’s all for just now.”

The butler bowed and withdrew. Landis waited until his footsteps died away toward the back of the hall. Then he hurried to the quiver which Stimson had restored to its place, drew out an arrow and handed it to Bernard.

“Now come down to this end where Harrison was shot!”

Bernard followed him, puzzled and growling. At the doorway into the reception-room, Landis faced away from the library and stood erect. “Now,” he said, “put the point of the arrow against me where it entered Harrison and at about the same angle, will you, sir? Got it?”

“Of course I’ve got it,” snorted Bernard and prodded him with it. “Great jumping—”

“Wait!” cried Landis. “Now, as I stoop and turn a very little, keep the arrow in the same relative position to my body?”

“It’s done,” said Bernard, “and you’ve got a head on your shoulders, young man!”

“Hold it there, then!” Landis whirled about, sighted along the arrow from point to feather vanes, took it and held it and stepped aside. “Look along it,” he directed in triumph.

Bernard obeyed, the tip of the arrowhead against his nose. Sighting along the shaft toward the nock, his line of vision led straight through the open top of the middle library window to the lower edge of Miss Mount’s drawn shade on the second-floor wing. If her window had been open, the arrow would have pointed backward into her room.

“And there,” said Landis, “endeth our first real clue!”

“The cross-bow it is!” rapped Bernard, “from Miss Mount’s—”

He broke off, turned and for all his weight sprang lightly to the hall doorway. Stimson was just disappearing with lithe speed into the drawing-room opposite. Bernard called him sharply. He reappeared at once.

“You called, sir!”

“Come here! What were you snooping around for, after we sent you back to the kitchen? You killed Harrison and had a try at Graham! We’re sure of it now! You hated Harrison and you shot him!”

Stimson shook his head.

“That is a mistake, sir. I didn’t shoot at either of them,” he answered calmly.

“Then why were you snooping around?” thundered Bernard.

Stimson glanced, with a shadow of a smile, at Landis, who had joined his older companion in the doorway.

“Just curiosity, sir!” he quoted softly.

“Curiosity killed the cat!” suggested Landis.

“Yes, sir. So I believe. I must have made more noise than a cat, however, or Mr. Bernard would not have heard me!”

“You get back to the kitchen and stay there,” ordered Bernard very quietly.

Stimson turned and went.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WORST POSSIBLE TASTE

WHEN the butler’s footsteps had died away to silence, Landis began to chuckle.

“I’ve a lot more respect for Miss Mount and the servants in this house than I have for the family!” he laughed. “Personally, I’m inclined to believe Stimson! I think he’s glad somebody murdered Harrison. But I don’t think he did it. He’s just as curious as we are to find out who did! That planted bit of feather, if it was planted, would make me mighty curious, I know!”

“It doesn’t look as if he did it,” nodded Bernard. “I just wanted to see what he’d say. He has no motive for shooting Graham.”

“Who has?” inquired Landis.

“Nobody that I know of—yet. What next? You’re in charge, you know.”

Landis grew serious and thoughtful.

“I might remind you of one thing. Right after somebody tried to kill Graham, his wife found Miss Mount’s door locked!”

“Joel was in his room or thereabouts on each occasion,” Bernard commented. “But that doesn’t prove much. I suggest that we arrange the lights down here and get a look at the library from Miss Mount’s room. Those young roadsters will be coming home before long.”

Landis switched on the lights in the reception-room. Lights and windows were just as they had been on the night of the murder of Harrison, except that the side window in the reception-room was now closed and had been open then. With a nod to the mystified sergeant, who had been unable to hear what they said, the two detectives mounted the stairs and again knocked on the door of Miss Mount’s bedroom.

They heard the creak of a rocking-chair and the sound of firm footsteps. The door opened to disclose Miss Mount still fully dressed. At sight of them she raised her eyebrows in surprise and displeasure.

“Well, gentlemen, what is it now?”

“The same thing—murder!” snapped Bernard.

“The fact is,” Landis cut in, “we find Mr. Joel Harrison a bit difficult, Miss Mount. One doesn’t like to be harsh with him, you see. Perhaps you’ll question him for us and find out where he was tonight when Mr. Graham was shot and whether he saw or heard anything that might prove enlightening.”

“Question him now? He’s probably asleep!”

“That will mean waking him up then. In a matter so serious for you all, we cannot afford to wait on his convenience.”

Miss Mount stared at Landis for a moment, then advanced into the hall and led the way toward Joel’s door, her lips set in a sort of patient irony. Bernard fell in behind her. Landis brought up the rear.

Both detectives waited while she knocked persistently. At length a sleepy voice bade her enter. She opened the door at that, passed in and closed it behind her in Bernard’s face. With a growl of amusement he waited. Landis turned silently and moved with a long, noiseless stride back to the wing, made a gesture enjoining silence on the gaping policeman and quietly entered Miss Mount’s room, closing the door.

The only light here came from a shaded lamp on the bedside table beyond the big four-poster. Evidently Miss Mount had been reading, for a book lay open and face downward on the bed and the rocking-chair stood close to the table. These details Landis took in at a glance. His interest lay in the left-hand window, the one farther from the main building. As silently as possible he slipped past the foot of the bed, leaned across a jutting corner of the typewriter desk and pulled the shade aside.

Looking downward and to his right he saw all three of the tall library windows clearly outlined against the lighted room beyond. The nearest showed him Harrison’s desk-chair, part of his desk and the hall doorway beyond. Through the upper half of the second window he could see the entire doorway into the reception-room, a foot or so at the bottom of it through the lowered window, the rest above the sash.

From the sill of Miss Mount’s window to the uppermost three-quarters of the reception-room door there was nothing, not even glass, to obstruct his view—nothing, for that matter, to obstruct the flight of an arrow.

He replaced the shade as he had found it, left the room, closing the door behind him, and rejoined Bernard in front of Joel’s door.

After one inquiring glance from Bernard to which he returned a nod of triumph they waited in silence for Miss Mount, listening to the indistinguishable murmur of voices from within.

At length the voices ceased. The door opened to afford them a glimpse of Joel in a white nightshirt, reaching out of bed to snap off the lamp beside it. Darkness engulfed the room and Miss Mount closed the door. She looked from one to the other and smiled very slightly.

“Sorry to keep you waiting!”

Aware that she had an uncanny knack for making all he did seem highly unnecessary, Landis accepted the fact with unruffled amusement and instantly forgot it.

“That doesn’t matter if you’ve learned anything,” he told her quietly.

“I’m afraid I haven’t, though! ‘Uncle Joel’ seems to have remained in his bedroom on both occasions except for his single trip to Anita’s door, when Susan screamed.”

“Is that all he could tell you?”

“All that would interest you, Mr. Landis.”

“Let’s have it all, please,” Bernard cut in wearily.

Miss Mount’s smile deepened a trifle.

“He asked me to say that he considers your inquiries into his movements in the worst possible taste. He does not understand why you were invited here in the first place. That was all he said.”

Bernard grunted, moved across the hall to the rail above the landing and beckoned her after him with a jerk of his head. When she and Landis had joined him there he snapped a question at her, his voice lowered:

“Does Joel always keep the door of his den locked and the key in his pocket?”

“I believe he does, Mr. Bernard.”

“Ever invite anybody in there to see his treasures?”

“Oh, yes, now and then.”

“Who did he invite in there recently?”

“Let me see. I believe he took Mr. Brent in there last Sunday. I heard them talking. Yes—and on Tuesday the girls were in there with Mr. Russell and Mr. Allen after lunch. It was raining that day and afterwards they all went up to the big playroom to shoot. ‘Uncle Joel’ and Stimson carried the target up there.”

“They spent the afternoon shooting on the third floor?” asked Landis casually. There had been comparatively few marks on the target before Stimson tried his hand.

Miss Mount shook her head.

“The shooting degenerated into a romp very soon between the six of them, and ‘Uncle Joel’ came downstairs again in high dudgeon.”

“The six of them?” inquired Bernard.

“Yes, the Grahams had joined the quartette.”

“When?”

“When they all came out of ‘Uncle Joel’s’ room,” Miss Mount explained patiently, “somebody knocked on the Grahams’ door and invited them to go up and shoot, too. I believe it was Isabelle. I heard them all tramp past together.”

“And the next night Mrs. Graham burned her back!” said Bernard suddenly.

Both detectives were aware of a slight stiffening in Miss Mount’s manner. She nodded in silence.

“You went across the hall to investigate, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I heard her scream and knocked on Mr. Graham’s door. The sound came from there.”

“Who invited you in, Miss Mount?”

“Nobody. My knock was not answered, so I opened the door. Then I heard them in Mrs. Graham’s room and called to ask if I could help. Mrs. Graham called to me to go in there. I did so. They were both in their night-clothes. Mr. Graham was embarrassed and left us. Mrs. Graham explained how she had burned herself so I got some salve and dressed her back for her. It was painful but not at all serious.”

“Anything else of interest?” inquired Landis smoothly.

Miss Mount glanced at him and her expression grew curiously wooden.

“I left them and went back to bed,” she replied.

Landis hesitated, decided to say no more and bowed to her.

“Thanks, Miss Mount,” he said. “We won’t disturb you again tonight.”

She bade them good night and moved away toward her room at her usual firm, unhurried pace. Landis and Bernard slowly descended to the ground floor, talking in low voices.

“From her window,” observed Landis, “Miss Mount could see Harrison at his desk through the near library window. She could also see the reception-room door through the middle library window.”

“But she happened to be in the reception-room on both occasions,” Bernard retorted.

“Yes. Closing the window! She has the best alibi of anyone in the house!”

Bernard smiled.

“She couldn’t have shot either Graham or Harrison. Therefore, she’s the one you suspect, eh?”

They had reached the lower hall. Without answering, Landis went to the telephone, found a local directory and called Doctor Stanford. The doctor answered the ring himself.

“This is Landis speaking,” Bernard heard. “You coming to look at Graham’s shoulder in the morning?—What time?—Could you make it seven instead of nine?—I’ll tell you why then. Make it seven sharp, will you?—All right. Good night!”

Landis hung up and rejoined Bernard.

“I’ll tell you what I think in the morning,” he said. “How about bed?”

Amused and in spite of himself a little intrigued, Bernard expressed himself as satisfied to wait. That Landis was hot on some scent or other militated not at all against a pet theory of his own which Bernard was quietly nursing.

They sent Stimson to bed and were getting to bed themselves when they heard the quartette of young people returning. Half an hour later the house settled to repose.

The night was uneventful. Landis woke automatically at six-forty-five and had finished shaving when Stimson knocked on his door to say that the doctor had arrived and was asking for him. Landis suggested that the doctor be asked to come to his room. When Stanford appeared, Landis gave him definite orders in the form of requests. The doctor went upstairs. Landis finished dressing and crossed to Bernard’s room, where he found the older detective just putting on his coat.

They went together to the deserted library. Here the doctor joined them about half an hour later.

“I’ve dressed Graham’s wound,” he said. “It’s doing very nicely. There’s no fever this morning, though he may have a little, later in the day. No need for a nurse.”

“That’s excellent,” replied Landis. “What about Mrs. Graham, Doctor?”

Doctor Stanford looked curiously from one detective to the other.

“She was in bed,” he told them slowly. “I inquired about her burn and asked her to let me see it, explaining that there is always a certain danger of infection. She said it was nothing but finally consented to my looking at it.”

“Well?” Landis spoke dryly to hide his eagerness.

“The burn is near her spine on the small of her back. A little above and to the left of it there is an L-shaped scar, entirely healed, evidently not at all recent but deep and distinct. I asked her about it. She did not even know that it was there. She does not remember having hurt herself there.”

“That’s curious, isn’t it?” said Landis casually. “All right, Doctor. Thank you. There’s nothing to fear from the burn, you say?”

“Nothing at all—from the burn,” replied the doctor.

Landis gave him a sharp glance.

“Very well. That’s all I wanted. Much obliged.”

Doctor Stanford withdrew, casting at Landis a single backward glance of puzzled curiosity.

They waited until Stimson, hovering in the hall, had let the doctor out. Then Landis turned in triumph to Bernard.

“There,” he cried, “is your motive! You see it?”

Bernard laughed.

“Dimly! How do you work it out?”

Landis glanced about to be sure they were alone. The breakfast hour was eight and it still lacked twenty minutes of that time. It was unlikely that household or guests would appear until the gong sounded.

“Suppose we recapitulate!” he smiled. “We know that Mrs. Graham was not a Cuddy. In view of Harrison’s interest in her, she was probably his daughter and illegitimate. Miss Mount has been in the family for nearly twenty-four years. She told us that at the beginning. Ethel Graham was eighteen when she ran away—three years ago. She’s twenty-one now!”

“It’s possible—even probable,” Bernard admitted.

“It’s a logical certainty,” insisted Landis. “Mrs. Graham has an old scar on her back of which she knows nothing. Therefore it probably dates back to her babyhood. Dressing her burn, Miss Mount could hardly fail to see the scar. Next morning she shows an intense interest in Ethel Graham and learns the address of her supposed parents. She lost no time but left the house at once and was away all day. When she came back she had a furious quarrel with Harrison. What more do you want?”

“But the motive?” rapped Bernard.

“Here’s the way I figure it. Harrison had an affair with Miss Mount, who must have been a beautiful girl. Miss Mount naturally went away somewhere to have her daughter. When the child was born, Harrison persuaded Miss Mount to come back, assuring her that the people with whom they left the baby would take good care of it. But probably he foresaw trouble ahead and hired the Cuddys to kidnap the baby when it was three years old. Then he told Miss Mount part of the truth—that the baby had been stolen. But he gave her to understand that he had been unable to find any trace of it. Such a situation fits both their characters. Harrison would be cold-blooded and brutal enough to do that. Miss Mount, if she knew where the child was, would never allow her to grow up among strangers. By the way, don’t forget Miss Mount’s growing and obvious attachment for Ethel Graham, after she saw that scar!”

“Interesting if true,” said Bernard dryly.

“Can you pick a hole in it?”

“Would Harrison run such a risk? Would he invite the girl to the house, knowing that Miss Mount would see her?”

“Where’s your risk?” Landis demanded. “Could Miss Mount recognize a grown woman from her dim recollections of a tiny baby? Probably Harrison knew nothing of that scar. Even if he did, there was less than one chance in a million that Miss Mount would see a part of the girl’s body which would always be covered, no matter what costume she wore. Harrison was sure that Mrs. Graham herself knew nothing of her real antecedents. She thought herself a Cuddy. She could tell Miss Mount all she knew of her own past without betraying Harrison’s secret. Harrison could see no risk!”

“Well, let’s hear Miss Mount’s motive for killing the father of her che-ild,” Bernard suggested.

“I’ve told you! Armed with the Cuddys’ address, Miss Mount goes to Long Island last Thursday, finds them, storms or bluffs or frightens out of them an admission that they kidnapped Ethel when she was three. Then she comes home and accuses Harrison of being a monster of cruelty. He sees the game is up and tries to bluff it out. Just imagine the feelings of a woman with Miss Mount’s temperament and character! Imagine her rage and hatred toward the man who had wilfully robbed her of eighteen years of motherhood, years that could never be recalled!”

“You ought to be writing plays!” declared Bernard.

“You go to blazes! Incidentally, the will left Miss Mount a small fortune. But I don’t think that influenced her. Seriously, doesn’t the business hang together?”

“Why should Harrison have the child kidnapped in the first place?” Bernard inquired gruffly.

“Obvious! It was to avoid trouble. Miss Mount might demand that the baby be kept somewhere near. Or she might leave him and go to her baby. Certainly there would be demands on the child’s behalf—education, position, good schools, personal contact—all dangerous to Harrison, who had a wife and other children to consider. I tell you, there’s not a flaw in it!”

“Except that Miss Mount has a perfect alibi for both Harrison’s murder and the attempt on Graham. Moreover, she had absolutely no motive for shooting Graham!”

“Yes, she has, though it isn’t as strong as the other. Remember, sir, that her only child was betrayed into the hands of strangers, strangers who made her miserable. That knowledge would set Miss Mount beside herself with rage. Eighteen years of starved motherhood! When she does find Ethel it’s too late. She’s married and belongs to someone else. Wouldn’t she hate the man? Outraged mother instinct might go to strange lengths in a woman of Miss Mount’s fiery temperament and force of character. She’s a suppressed wild-cat if I ever saw one!”

Landis caught the dawning smile on Bernard’s lips and hurried on.

“Both men were shot from her room! Is there anybody in the household with as good an opportunity to do that and to arrange the Japanese bow for a red herring? Wouldn’t almost anyone else in the household have realized, as Stimson did, that the Japanese bow was no alibi because it would not shoot so hard? Finally, those gloves of yours! Miss Mount has large hands!”

Bernard grunted.

“You’ve strung together a marvelous theory out of pretty slim material, it seems to me!”

“You don’t believe it, sir?”

“No, I don’t! Because Miss Mount was in the front room on both occasions—not up in her own room with the cross-bow!”

“Right!” Landis snapped at him. “Now, with luck, I’m going ahead and prove to you beyond the shadow of a doubt, how she did it! I haven’t even looked for the proofs yet. But I know I’ll find them there! I’ve felt from the beginning that her reception-room alibi was too blamed good to be accidental! On each occasion she was just closing the window. Strange coincidence! It fits my theory!”

Bernard stared, a speculative alertness in his regard.

“Oh, it does, does it?” he drawled.

Landis jumped to his feet. “Come upstairs and we’ll find out how Graham is getting along!”

Susan was preparing to sound the breakfast gong as they entered the hall. At sight of them she dropped the padded hammer, picked it up again and giggled nervously. Descending the stairs with her usual dignity, Miss Mount shot at Susan a repressive glance and presented the detectives with a detached good morning. She passed them, her manner preoccupied. Bernard and Landis mounted the stairs without glancing round, yet instinctively aware that she had turned to look at them.

They found Graham propped up in bed, enjoying a light breakfast. It was evident that he had recovered from the shock of the night before and found his poise again, for he greeted them eagerly.

“Morning! Any luck?”

“Nothing definite,” replied Landis. “Can’t tell yet. How are you feeling? Better?”

“Yes. It doesn’t bother me much. It was the shock as much as anything. But I got some sleep. By the way, somebody told that doctor about Ethel’s burn and he insisted on looking at it. Rather officious, I thought. He talked about infection.”

Landis nodded without interest.

“I’ve sent your guardian angel down for his breakfast,” he said. “Want us to stay here until he comes back?”

“No need unless you want to.”

“Delighted, of course,” chuckled Landis. “However, you are safe enough. We won’t be gone long.”

Graham shook his head dubiously.

“Wish I could make head or tail of that business last night!” he said. “Daylight would make it seem like a crazy nightmare, if it weren’t for this arm of mine! It’s so blamed puzzling! Never mind!” he waved his hand.

They went out and shut the door. The hall was deserted. Trial of Miss Mount’s door proved it unlocked. They entered quickly and closed it behind them. Landis went to the chest of drawers and began a swift, methodical search of its contents.

“What you looking for, anyway?” demanded Bernard.

“Rope—fine twine or strong thread. Try the bureau!”

“No rabbits?” asked Bernard as he obeyed.

Neither the bureau nor the meticulously tidy drawers of the chiffonier revealed what they sought. Landis hurried to the little table between the windows. The small drawer contained Miss Mount’s sewing things. Among them he found a spool of heavy black thread such as shoemakers use. Most of it had been unwound and clumsily rewound again.

Landis put it in his pocket and turned to the closet. Bernard heard him strike a match and listened to the indeterminate sounds as his companion grubbed about in there. Presently Landis emerged, his face flushed, hanging from his outstretched hand a tangled coil of soft clothes-line. He tossed it to Bernard.

“Hang on to that,” he urged. “There’s something else!”

Half convinced, Bernard stood looking down at the soft rope until Landis returned from his trip through the bathroom, carrying the last cross-bow which they had examined. He watched Landis set it down, clear away the writing material and place the cross-bow on the desk, so that it pointed through the window. Then he moved nearer.

“See these new scratches on the desk?” demanded Landis. “The business end of the stock just fits them! The butt must have been raised on a book or something to get the right aim. That clothes-line was used to lash it down to the desk! And now, look here! The trigger has to be pulled back, of course. So here’s the bathroom doorknob straight behind the bow. Fasten that thread to the trigger, pass it around the doorknob and out the window and—Well, there you are! There’s just one thing lacking, though. If we find that, I’m certain!”

“The other end, eh?” grunted Bernard. “That’s clever work anyway, Landis! I’m proud of you! Now let’s vacate—”

Two minutes of swift, noiseless action and everything they had touched had been restored to its place. They opened the door quietly and moved into the hall. A few seconds after it closed behind them, Susan came running through the curtains from the main building. At sight of them she stopped abruptly.

“Well, what is it?” growled Bernard.

“Oh, sir, aren’t you coming down to breakfast? Miss Mount sent me up to inquire.”

Landis started and instantly suppressed a glance of triumph toward his colleague. He looked at Susan instead.

“Is everybody at breakfast so early?” he asked.

“Yes, sir; everyone but yourselves and Mr. Graham.”

“All right, Susan. Thanks. We’ll be down directly.”

“I’ll tell her, sir.” Susan turned about and departed, with just a flicker of her long eyelashes to indicate to Landis that she was a human girl as well as a maid.

Bernard and Landis turned about, made their way down the little flight of stairs at the end of the hall and passed out the door at the foot, which led from the lower wing hall outdoors to the garage. They followed the path around the wing to the formal garden. Skirting the front of the wing and the side of the main building, it led them past the library windows to the side windows of the reception-room. Their route was invisible from the dining-room, invisible, therefore, to anyone in the house if Susan had told the truth. For Graham’s windows faced the back and all the others were at breakfast in the dining-room or in the back of the house.

Confidently, then, Landis scanned the sashes of the two reception-room windows, for the path led close to them. His inspection was instantly rewarded.

“There!” he cried and pointed.

The gesture was unnecessary. Bernard had already seen, on the lower sash of the window which Miss Mount had closed, a fresh indentation through paint and wood. It was a hole such as a fine nail would make or a heavy thumbtack.

“She was in the habit of closing that window every night,” said Bernard thoughtfully.

“So she said. In my opinion the case is closed, too.”

“The evidence is conclusive enough to put her over the jumps,” admitted Bernard. “But it is conclusive—circumstantially! Now let’s get some breakfast!”

He started around to the wing again, leaving Landis to follow in open and undisguised chagrin.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE SOUND OF RUNNING FEET

THEY were received in the dining-room, where family and guests were still assembled, with a mixture of curiosity and barely civil reserve. Miss Mount saw formally to their wants and Stimson was attentive in his dignified way. Bernard and Landis managed to endure the frost while inwardly amused at the damper their presence placed on conversation. Of them all, only Mrs. Graham had smiled when she said good morning.

The detectives ate their breakfast placidly. Farther advanced with theirs, the others soon withdrew, Anita and the two young men with somewhat pointed abruptness. Left alone with them, Miss Mount at once apologized and departed.

Landis smiled at the butler.

“We can manage nicely, thank you, Stimson.”

The man bowed and vanished into the pantry, a slight smile on his lips.

“Well, what next?” inquired Bernard.

“I’m going to look in on Graham as we promised. Then we’ll—I’ll go after Miss Mount. I want her confession this morning!” It was clear that he did not relish the prospect.

“You might wait a bit for that!”

Landis stared.

“Aren’t you satisfied yet?”

“There’s a string or two to tie! Take those gloves for instance—and the bit of feather in Stimson’s pocket. Think Miss Mount put it there? Does she strike you as that sort of a woman, Landis!”

“But the evidence! Look at it! There’s the cross-bow, the rope that lashed it in place, the scratches it made on her table, the strong thread to run from the trigger out to the nail on the reception-room window, the window lowered just as the arrow that killed Harrison was released. The same window lowered when Graham was shot!”

“It certainly is complete!”

Landis shot a glance at Bernard, caught the twinkle of amusement in his eyes and after a moment of irritation laughed in response.

“All right, sir!” he said. “Be as mysterious as you like! I’m satisfied to follow this up. I’m going to! But there’s one thing to do first. We’d better test that blame cross-bow on the target upstairs with one of those Japanese arrows. If it doesn’t work, my theory goes up in smoke!”

“I’d hate to see that,” said Bernard with puzzling sincerity. “It’ll work!”

Landis crossed to the library and after a word to the sergeant to keep silent about it, abstracted a Japanese arrow and put it under his coat, hiding as much of it as possible. They went through the billiard-room and thence to the stairs at the end of the wing without meeting anyone. In the upper hall the policeman had returned to his post outside Graham’s door. He told them that Mrs. Graham had joined her husband but no one else had entered the wing.

Landis stationed the man at the end of the hall where it gave access to the main building, with orders to allow nobody to enter that way. Then Bernard went into Miss Mount’s room, purloined the cross-bow from Joel’s den and returned to the hall with it. They mounted the staircase at the far end to emerge on the third floor of the wing. There was little danger of meeting servants up here so late in the morning and they were satisfied that no one had seen them on the way.

Five minutes later they retraced their steps, Bernard smiling, Landis triumphant. Although the arrow had protruded a good deal beyond the end of the stock when they fitted it to the cross-bow, it shot true, pierced the target and blunted its point on the chimney beyond. That both murderous arrows had been shot from this cross-bow and from Miss Mount’s room seemed established beyond a reasonable doubt.

The policeman on guard at the end of the second-floor hall assured them that no one had tried to pass that way. Bernard restored the cross-bow to Joel’s den while Landis went down the wing stairs and left the arrow with the other exhibits under the care of Sergeant Forbes. He rejoined Bernard outside Graham’s door and ordered the policeman back to his post there.

“There’s just this about it now,” he whispered. “Since both arrows came from that cross-bow, no woman in the house is eliminated as a possible suspect. But—Miss Mount did it!”

Bernard offered no comment whatever.

“Oh, well,” added Landis irritably. “I’m going in to see Graham, now. Are you coming?”

“Of course I am,” Bernard chuckled.

They found Mrs. Graham perched on her husband’s bed, from which she had removed the breakfast tray. She smiled up at them.

“Want to talk to Ray alone?” she asked.

“We’d like to, if you don’t mind! Won’t be long!”

She went into her own room at once. The intruders found chairs and sat down to face Graham’s inquiring regard.

“Think back, Graham,” said Landis. “Can you remember anything to indicate that a member of this household dislikes you? It doesn’t matter who it is—anybody at all?”

“Dislikes me? I don’t know that anybody likes us especially! Harrison wanted us here and so we’ve been accepted. Since his death we’ve been left pretty well alone by the others. Miss Mount seems to have taken a shine to Ethel. As to the servants, I don’t know why they should dislike us!”

“I don’t mean you both. I mean you, personally.”

“Oh! You mean last night?” Graham thought a moment and shook his head. “We don’t exactly belong here, Ethel and I. But I don’t think anybody particularly dislikes either of us!”

“What about Miss Mount?”

“Do you mean—? Good night! Miss Mount?”

Landis sat back in his chair.

“Here’s what we’ve found,” he said. “You can judge for yourself. Maybe you can help us.”

Methodically he passed in review the chain of evidence he had assembled against Miss Mount, stating only the facts and omitting the question of motive. Graham listened, a shrinking fascination on his sensitive face. When Landis had finished he leaned back on his pillows with an obvious effort at composure.

“But why?” he demanded huskily. “Why should she kill Harrison after all these years? What possible reason could she have for trying to kill me? It’s—it’s unbelievable!”

“Did you know that your wife has a scar on her back?”

Graham frowned.

“I—er—noticed it the night she leaned back on my cigarette. May I ask how you happen to—?”

“I guessed it was there and Doctor Stanford verified my guess, Graham! Now listen! Here’s the rest!”

He plunged into a rehash of the evidence connecting Miss Mount with Ethel Graham and indicating that the two had been cruelly separated by Harrison. He detailed the events of Thursday which led him to believe that Miss Mount had discovered, only that day, the trick played upon her eighteen years before.

“Think of her feelings—her rage and her hatred,” he urged. “More than one woman has taken the law into her own hands for a less cruel outrage upon her maternal instinct!”

Staring from one detective to the other, Graham slowly shook his head.

“It doesn’t seem possible! She seems too entirely trustworthy. Your evidence is amazing. But why should she leave those clues? I’ve wondered, since last night, whether she could be Ethel’s mother. It’s possible. But in that case would she commit a murder—especially when it’s all over and Ethel is happy? That would be a worse crime against Ethel than—the other.”

“There are more bits to consider,” Landis persisted. “Her method leaves her a perfect alibi—to be facing her victim when he is shot in the back. We know that she went to her room immediately after the murder, ostensibly to get a restorative for Isabelle, probably to replace the cross-bow in Joel’s room and wind up her thread. Why shouldn’t she leave the rope and thread in her room? She has a perfect alibi! Why should she ever be suspected? That’s how she’d reason. Now, however, after our questioning and Bernard’s suspicious attitude, she gets nervous this morning and while we are searching her room she sends Susan upstairs to see what we are doing! Luckily, we finished before Susan arrived!”

“Still it doesn’t make sense,” Graham objected. “Why in the world should she try to kill me?”

Landis explained his theory that maternal jealousy was the motive for that. When he had finished Graham looked at Bernard.

“Do you believe that such a motive would influence Miss Mount when she knows that Ethel and I are happy together?” he asked. “It seems highly improbable to me!”

“Leave me out of it!” rumbled Bernard. “This isn’t my show, you know.”

“There’s another interesting little fact,” countered Landis smoothly. “Mrs. Graham found Miss Mount’s door locked last night, right after the attempt on you. Naturally she would lock it until she had a chance to get back to her room and clear away that cross-bow and her thread! Every scrap of evidence fits!”

“Except that scrap of feather in Stimson’s pocket!” chuckled Bernard.

Graham looked at him inquiringly. Landis explained their find and its source.

“Miss Mount could have planted it,” he added, “when she tried the cross-bow, just to confuse the trail. She had more opportunity to move about unobserved than anyone else in the house except Stimson. Why, you heard someone outside the library windows last night! Miss Mount has admitted to us that she was outdoors just before dinner. She was attaching her thread to the reception-room window!”

“It’s all circumstantial,” said Graham. “I doubt whether a jury would convict on it without a confession.”

“It’s a confession we want, of course. But I’ll bet the grand jury will indict her on that evidence! I’m surprised at you fellows! It’s a complete chain of evidence. We found her up and dressed at midnight last night,” added Landis dryly. “She said she was coming over here during the night to see how you were resting, Graham!”

The young lawyer checked an involuntary shudder. “My God! If—if you are right—”

“I’m right!” declared Landis confidently.

Bernard leaned back and drew from his pocket the gloves he had found in Joel’s room. He had rolled them into a loose ball which he tossed in his hand until Graham looked at him with interested inquiry.

“Bernard has some theory about those gloves that he won’t spill,” chuckled Landis. “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s just whetting our curiosity.”

“These gloves,” said Bernard solemnly, “will solve our case for us!”

“That’s a real relief,” retorted Landis with some irony. “Just how do you figure that out?”

“I’ll tell you.” Bernard smiled with irritating slowness. “There were no finger-prints. Therefore, gloves were probably worn by the murderer. If so, why not these, which lay so conveniently at hand near the cross-bow? Well, gloves leave no finger-prints. But old gloves like these, worn smooth inside as well as out may retain distinct finger-prints on the inside of the glove fingers—finger-prints left there by the last wearer who is, let us suppose, the murderer! A murderer is usually in a sweat of nerves and if his fingers were moist that would help, see?”

Graham and Landis stared at him incredulously.

“You really mean there’s anything in that?” demanded Landis.

“We’ll see, anyhow. Early this morning I telephoned for your finger-print expert. They’re Joel’s gloves. If they contain the finger-prints of someone else, Miss Mount, for example, we have a new field for inquiry at least!”

“Such as which, sir?” inquired Landis politely.

Bernard flung him a whimsical frown.

“If the finger-prints of anyone except Joel appear,” he explained, “their owner will have to explain when and how and why she—or he—wore the gloves. If borrowed, did Joel lend them? Get the idea?”

“You’ll have to have everybody’s finger-prints—”

“Exactly! I expect to have a busy morning before that expert turns up! About your Miss Mount theory—”

“In which you take no stock!”

“I was going to say that you ought to follow it up as far as you can at present.”

“How?” asked Landis quickly.

“Well, to test your theory, in which I take at least limited stock, we ought to reproduce conditions as nearly as possible; lash the cross-bow, hitch up the thread, run it out to the reception-room window, pull it nearly taut and then lower the window, don’t you think so?

“I’ll tell you what we’ll do! I’ll pull the thread from the garden and you can watch inside to see where the arrow goes. We can station the police to keep people from blundering in there and getting shot. Of course it ought to be done at lunch or dinner time, when everybody’s in the dining-room. We don’t want to put our murderer wise.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Landis admitted. “If it works, Miss Mount is as good as convicted.”

Bernard nodded. But Graham shrank a little. The cool eagerness of the younger man to hunt down and hang a woman came home to him as an attitude vividly merciless and inhuman. He looked at his companions with new eyes. Landis sensed his change of manner at once and returned his glance inquiringly. For a moment Graham was at a loss. Then memory came to his rescue and he changed the subject abruptly.

“There’s one incident I meant to tell you,” he began hesitantly. “I did a lot of thinking before I got to sleep last night and I remembered this. It isn’t much more than an impression. But the night Harrison was killed, I thought I heard the sound of running feet outside my door. They were swift, light feet—the sort of muffled patter that’s gone almost before your attention can focus on it.”

“From which end of the hall?” asked Bernard sharply.

“From the far end, I thought, though I couldn’t be sure. They sounded as if they were going toward the main building.”

“Before the dinner gong sounded or afterwards?”

“Must have been before, Mr. Bernard. It was before I went into the bathroom and I was in there when the gong sounded, although I didn’t hear it nor Susan’s scream. Anyhow, the patter of feet stopped suddenly and I heard a door close. At least, that was the impression I had.”

Bernard leaned forward.

“Whose door? Where?”

“I couldn’t tell. At the time I hardly thought of it, of course. Took it for granted it was one of the girls. Last night, when I remembered it, I wondered whether I could have heard Isabelle’s or Anita’s door close, so far away in the main building, when my own door was shut. You see, it might have been Miss Mount’s door! The footsteps sounded like a girl, though, which doesn’t make any sense. I suppose the girls were in their rooms. And it wasn’t Miss Mount because she must have been downstairs then. It might have been one of the maids running along the third-floor hall overhead and closing a door up there. Probably it doesn’t mean anything but I thought I’d tell you about it.”

Bernard whistled.

“It may mean more than you think!” he said. He rose ponderously. Landis got up at once. “Anyhow, you were wise to tell us. Thanks! We’ll look in again and keep you posted. In the meantime, don’t worry! We’ll clear up this thing today. I can promise you that.”

Half way to the door Bernard turned his head.

“When we pull off that experiment with the cross-bow at lunch or dinner time we’ll probably have to borrow your guard to make sure nobody gets into the line of fire. There are three doors to the library and reception-room and Landis will be watching the arrow. You won’t mind for those few minutes, will you? You can lock your door on the inside.”

“Oh, no! Don’t worry about me, Mr. Bernard. I’ll be glad to have the mystery solved. The pain in this arm has made me feel confoundedly averse to being shot at again!”

As they left the room, Landis smiled back with real sympathy at the rather wan young lawyer, which served to modify Graham’s opinion of his cold-bloodedness.

Out in the hall the detectives looked at each other.

“Anita!” rumbled Bernard softly. “She told us she ran through the hall after the gong sounded and after Susan screamed! She may have done it, Landis! She knew where Miss Mount would be at that time. Joel had shown her the cross-bow in his den. She had every opportunity!”

“Her own father!”

“There’s everything to hint that she hated him!”

“Did she shoot Graham, too?” Landis demanded.

“Don’t forget that he was in the library Sunday night and overheard her quarrel with her father. Maybe she figured that he knew too much about her affairs. There’s nothing but her word to prove that she was in her room last night, when Graham was shot! Miss Mount was downstairs as before. It’s just a step from Anita’s room to Miss Mount’s, where the shot came from! And this time Graham wasn’t across the hall to hear her running feet!”

“It’s possible,” Landis admitted thoughtfully. “Anything is possible, damn it! Only, in that case, the rope makes no sense, nor the thread!”

“Planted, Landis! Planted afterwards! Anita and Allen may have planned the murder between them. Maybe he told the truth when he said he didn’t shoot Harrison. But he knows who did! He may have suggested the cross-bow scheme, may have tried it out on the third floor and planted the bit of feather on Stimson. When the trail got so hot the other night, they may have taken the precaution to hide the rope and thread in Miss Mount’s room and make that nail-hole in the reception-room window. Everybody knows that she was just lowering that window when Harrison was killed and again when Graham was shot. Anita and Allen strike me as a pretty shrewd pair—plenty shrewd enough to plant misleading clues. The cross-bow would leave marks on Miss Mount’s desk if Anita steadied it on the desk. The marks are in front only. They may have suggested the rope and thread idea. The girl’s a confirmed liar!”

“Her own father!” repeated Landis dubiously.

“Look at her motive! Harrison might discover their marriage any day and cut her out of his will!”

“A brand new theory and about as good as the rest,” commented Landis irritably. “One thing I’m sure of. No murder case proves as confusing and indefinite as this unless there’s a masterly colored tactician somewhere in the wood-pile. But your new theory is no better than the others!”

“Maybe not. Anyhow, suppose you get hold of Anita and put her over the jumps this morning, while I dig up those finger-prints. Take hers while you’re at it.”

“Whose finger-prints are you going to get?”

“Well, you’ll get Anita’s. Miss Mount’s we have already—and Brent’s! I’m going after Russell, Allen, Joel, Isabelle and Stimson. Also and most particularly, I want the impression of Mrs. Graham’s pretty fingers. Sweet little innocent thing, isn’t she, Landis?”

“For the love of Mike! You don’t suspect her!”

Bernard studied him quizzically.

“One never knows!” he said. “Anyhow, I’ll be collecting finger-prints until the expert gets here. If you’ll take my suggestion, you might see whether you can trip Anita as to the time she left Allen’s room and exactly where she was when she heard the scream. She shied at that question before, if you remember.”

“All right,” agreed Landis.

To his surprise, Bernard flung a big arm around his shoulders.

“Look here,” said the older man gruffly. “Don’t get discouraged. You don’t like my theories and I don’t like yours. But that just broadens the field for us both. In the meantime, until we can test your thread and rope and cross-bow theory, we’ll each follow our own lines as we planned and see where we get, eh?”

“Done with you!” said Landis, his good humor restored. As always, there was something contagious about the confidence of his famous colleague.

CHAPTER XXV

BERNARD OFFERS A HINT

LANDIS, who rather prided himself upon his habitual serenity during the course of an investigation, found himself exasperated to a degree that made it increasingly difficult to maintain his customary poise. The circumstantial evidence against Miss Mount was physically without a flaw. Psychologically it did not satisfy him. That the lady possessed a temper was evident. Baited to sudden overwhelming rage she might strike and damn the consequences. As a type to plan and perpetrate a cold-blooded murder she was less convincing.

Inwardly dubious himself, he had been perversely irritated at Bernard’s lack of interest in Miss Mount as the possible criminal. Yet he had acquired an almost reverential confidence in the judgment of the older man. So he relinquished, for the moment at least, his plan to cross-question Miss Mount.

The only alternative was to plow blindly ahead and hope for a scrap of fresh evidence which might point a clearer road. Possibly the gloves might prove something. In the meantime, firmly convinced that Anita had not killed her own father, he decided to question her anyway. There seemed nothing else to do and she might drop a hint that would prove enlightening in some other direction.

He followed Bernard down the main staircase, observing the figure of his colleague with mixed emotions. Bernard’s big body lumbered as he moved, one large hand smoothing the narrow, velvet handrail to steady him. But the generous feet were light and sure as they impressed the rich carpeting. Old as he was, Bernard still conveyed a suggestion of tremendous physical power. Landis fleetingly conjectured that a single wrench of that large hand could tear the handrail from its slim, wrought-iron supports.

A flash of enlightenment read into that conjecture a symbolic meaning. Rich and permanent though it seemed, ethically the house of Harrison was built upon sand. At least some of its inmates despised as well as feared Bernard. Yet the eternal verities hinted that the tide of his sterling qualities was capable of sweeping them and their castle of sand into oblivion.

At the foot of the stairs Bernard halted and turned.

“Suggest you give orders that nobody’s to leave the house today,” he smiled. “After that I want Stimson.”

“I’ll do it, sir,” replied Landis, his tone almost a humble one. “I’ll send the butler to you in the library.”

Bernard flung at him a quick, shrewd glance, then lumbered away, growling under his breath.

Luckily the household had not yet scattered. Landis sought and found Miss Mount in the kitchen and put his command to her in the form of a request. She accepted it with stiff amiability and sent Stimson upstairs to repeat it to Isabelle and Joel. She told Landis that he would find Anita and probably the two young men in the billiard-room.

Landis waited for Stimson’ to return and dispatched him to find Bernard in the library. He made his own way through the ground floor halls and paused in the billiard-room door.

It was a brilliant blue October day. Across the end of the room from him the door into the sunken garden stood open, admitting a shimmering flood of light. His eyes narrowed to meet the glare. Beyond the door, nature lay glittering and alert under the bright blue sky, as though she had gathered herself for one recrudescent blaze of splendor before her winter sleep. A puff of breeze with a sweet, chill tang swept in through the open door and set the smoke-laden atmosphere aswirl.

Landis turned his head. In three deep chairs before a blazing fire, Anita and Russell and Allen lay slumped on their shoulder-blades. Anita, nearest the far windows, he could see in profile. She had turned her head at his appearance and looked lazily away again, brushing her skirt over her knees. The presence of the two men was betrayed by an elbow a-piece, for the backs of their chairs hid the rest of them.

Far from being impressed by their obvious intention to ignore him, Landis felt a touch of contempt at their method of passing such a morning. His lips tightened a little as he approached the fire.

He found a position from which he could look down into their faces and nodded shortly.

“Last night,” he said, “you three went for a drive, I believe. From now on you’ll stay in the house until further orders. Is that clear?”

Russell sat up with a jerk.

“Damn your impudence!” he exploded. “Who the hell do you think you are, anyway?”

Landis met his eyes and held them, then jerked his head toward the door.

“Clear out!” he snapped. “I want to talk to Miss Harrison alone.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Russell sneered. “What if I don’t choose to clear out, as you put it?”

“You’ll do as you’re told and do it quick,” retorted Landis evenly, “or I’ll put you under restraint. Understand?”

Russell stared up at him, his eyes dangerous.

Landis took a step forward.

“Get out!” he snapped, the sum of his accumulated irritation crackling in his voice.

With a sudden, furious oath, Russell yanked himself to his feet, glared an instant and stamped out of the room.

At this point Allen lazily arose.

“Me, too?” he asked plaintively. “Can’t I stay and protect my wife?”

The sly amusement in his tone pricked the bubble of anger under which Landis had momentarily labored.

“You, too,” he nodded. “Go look up Bernard in the library. I think he wants you in there.”

“I hear and obey,” said Allen and took his departure.

Landis moved across and stood with his back to the fire, looking down at Anita. She returned his regard admiringly, confident of her own good looks and a becoming sports outfit.

“My, what a forceful personality you have!” she cooed. “I do love it so in a man!”

Landis felt his irritation return. The impudence of her attitude, half teasing, half inviting, left him unmoved. It was the lack of any firm foundation of facts from which to attack her that roused his annoyance. He put a bold face on it.

“Miss Harrison,” he said crisply, “I want to know why you lied to us about the time you left Allen’s room the night your father was murdered. You left it before the gong sounded!”

Obviously startled, she drew in her feet and sat up.

“Why, I didn’t either!” she declared. “I was in my husband’s room when Susan screamed!”

Landis smiled tolerantly.

“More lies, eh? Don’t you realize how foolish you are to lie to me?” He leaned forward abruptly. “You left Allen’s room before the gong sounded. You ran along the upper hall and into Miss Mount’s room before the gong sounded. That much we know! Now, where were you when Susan screamed? Careful! We know that, too!”

“You don’t know anything of the sort! I was there when the gong sounded! I didn’t leave Fred’s room until after Susan screamed. I’ll admit I ran along the hall. But that was after she screamed. Why, you know I came down the near flight after she screamed! Do you think I hung around up there in the wing hall all that time?”

“Not in the wing hall—in Miss Mount’s room!”

“I was not in Miss Mount’s room! What on earth would I be doing there? I never even looked at her door as I passed!”

“You just can’t tell the truth, can you?”

Anita stared up at him.

“What about you?” she flared. “You don’t know that I ran along the hall before Susan screamed—because I didn’t! So you’re telling whoppers yourself! You’re a fine one to throw stones!”

Landis looked down at her inscrutably.

“You propose to stick to your story, eh?” he inquired.

“You bet I do,” she flashed, “because it’s true!”

“You didn’t show any marked respect for veracity the last time we questioned you here, Miss Harrison!”

Anita leaned back in her chair.

“Well,” she murmured, “I just couldn’t bring myself to lie to a man like you any longer! It’s your forceful personality that’s done it!”

Landis felt such an overpowering impulse to slap her that it showed in his eyes. Anita flopped back in her chair and drew up her pretty knees in self-defense.

“Don’t you dare!” she warned, with a quaver of excited laughter.

Disgusted with her and himself as well, Landis turned on his heel and paced the length of the room, at a loss and bitterly aware of it. At length he turned back to her, composed again.

“All right, Miss Harrison,” he said quietly. “If you persist in your story I’ve nothing more to say to you at present. But don’t leave the house, please!”

“I do stick to my story and I won’t leave the house,” replied the girl demurely. “Please walk—do not run—to the nearest exit, Mr. Landis!”

He stared down at her with an open disgust that was not without its effect.

“For a girl whose father has just been murdered,” he said slowly, “you seem somewhat flippant, Miss Harrison. His death may appear to you to be more a gain than a loss. But it isn’t wise to make that fact so obvious!”

Anita’s eyes flew to meet his. “I think you’re a beast!” she flared, “a self-satisfied beast!”

Landis smiled contemptuously.

“I’ll keep my opinion of you politely shrouded in silence,” he retorted. “But I’ll trouble you for your finger-prints!”

He took a personal letter from his pocket, withdrew it from the envelope and held it out to her.

“My—my finger-prints! Why?”

With a gesture of impatience he caught her hand, pressed her four finger-tips and then her thumb on the letter, restored it to its envelope and walked out of the room.

Anita sat rigid for a moment, a prey to rage and fright. Finally she jumped to her feet, ran through the curtains and along the wing hall and pounded on Allen’s door, careless of whether anyone saw her there or not.

Landis found Bernard pacing the library, puffing at his pipe in a brown study and an atmosphere of fine content. He looked up as Landis appeared.

“Get Anita’s finger-prints?” he inquired mildly.

“I did,” snapped Landis. “Did you get the others?”

“I did. Any luck with Anita? I judge not!”

“Not a bit. She swears that she was in Allen’s room when Susan screamed. She’s such a liar that it hardly seemed worth while to question her about last night. I couldn’t shake her story. Maybe she’s telling the truth. In that case, who the hell did run along the hall?”

“You can search me. Isabelle perhaps.”

“Shall we question her?”

Bernard shook his head.

“Not just now, I think. It’s almost lunch time. Let’s go up and see Graham again.”

He led the way up to the wing, Landis trudging doggedly at his heels. At sight of them Graham’s anxious face lightened with a smile.

“Anything new?” he asked.

“Quite a bit, I think,” rumbled Bernard as he sat down. “For one thing, there are at least two distinct finger-prints in those gloves and we’ve got the prints of the rest of the household. I’m not going to risk doing anything to compare them until the expert gets here. He hasn’t shown up yet and I don’t expect him now until after lunch. For another thing, I’ve worked out a brand new theory!”

Landis groaned.

“Another theory!”

“Hold your tongue,” retorted Bernard good-naturedly, unconsciously quoting a favorite affectionate command of his wife’s. “This theory is a dandy!”

“What is it?” inquired Graham.

“It’s just this. Maybe the finger-prints will help us, maybe not. But the gloves are torn and torn recently. If they were used to prevent finger-prints when Harrison was killed and you were shot, they were torn at the wrists because the wearer’s hands were too big for them! That may help us eliminate, at least!”

“Joel—Miss Mount—Russell,” murmured Landis thoughtfully.

“And Brent!” said Bernard. “His hands are surprisingly large!”

“Mr. Brent!” exclaimed Graham. “You don’t mean—”

Bernard shook his head.

“I mean nothing—yet!” he said. “Unfortunately, we can’t have the gloves tried on until the expert has seen the finger-prints. In the meantime, I’m going to put them back in Joel’s den so they won’t be missed. It’s almost lunch time. I propose to pull off our experiment with the cross-bow as soon as everyone is in the dining-room. I’ll have to borrow your guard, Graham. But we won’t keep him more than ten minutes and you can lock your door. As to my theory—” he paused, teasingly.

“Well?” they demanded in unison.

Bernard turned away to Graham’s desk, sat down, found a blank sheet of note paper and a pencil and busied himself at writing for a moment. Then he rose and returned to the bedside, smiling his quizzical smile.

“I’ll just put myself on record for you both,” he said and handed the sheet to Landis.

After reading it eagerly enough, Landis snorted and passed it to Graham.

“Call that a theory?” he queried.

Graham read the scribbled lines more slowly, his brows furrowed by a puzzled frown. Bernard had written:

“Is there anyone in any way connected with this case who might be more cunning and unscrupulous than is apparent, who has no alibi whatever and who could have accomplished the murder so far as knowledge, skill with a bow and opportunity are concerned?”

When he finished reading, Graham looked up.

“Mr. Brent?” he murmured. “Or Joel Harrison?”

Bernard held out his hand for his record and put it in his pocket.

“I didn’t say so,” he denied.

A knock on the bedroom door distracted their attention. In answer to Graham’s summons, Stimson opened the door and stood on the threshold, his eyes on Bernard.

“Mr. Brent has arrived in answer to your call, sir,” he announced. “Will he be staying to lunch, sir? It’s just ready.”

“He will, Stimson,” said Bernard. “Tell him I’d like a word with him after the meal.”

“Very good, sir,” said Stimson and withdrew.

Landis and Graham were staring at each other with a wild surmise that was worthy of stout Cortez. The musical clamor of the gong floated up to them from the hall below. Bernard got briskly to his feet.

“Now for our experiment,” he said. “I’m going to replace these gloves and go down for an arrow. Miss Mount will be in the dining-room by this time.”

“All right,” answered Landis. Graham nodded absently. The mention of Brent’s name seemed to have shocked him into a train of absorbed and startled conjecture.

Outside the door, Bernard ordered the policeman on guard there to follow him down to the library. He led the way along the hall to the wing stairs and thence through the lower wing hall and the billiard-room to the rear library door.

Here he selected an undamaged Japanese arrow from the quiver, explained his wishes to the sergeant and presently retraced his steps to the upper wing hall. He knocked on Miss Mount’s door and getting no answer, entered, laid the arrow on the desk, passed through the bathroom, put the gloves on Joel’s work-bench and after a moment crossed the hall to Graham’s room.

During his absence, Landis had remarked that Bernard loved a mystery as he loved a man-hunt and the two men had smiled at each other. The conversation lapsed after that, but each looked up with a reminiscent smile as Bernard entered.

“All ready,” announced Bernard. “The arrow’s across the hall. Come on, Landis.” To Graham he added: “I’ve borrowed your guard for a bit, so lock your door if you like, though I don’t believe you’re in any danger.”

“I will. But look here, Mr. Bernard, do you think this experiment of yours is safe? This whole business is such a mystery! Drat this arm! I wish I could get up and help!”

“It’s safe enough,” smiled Bernard. “And it’s really necessary. It will reproduce all the stresses and strains on the black thread and prove whether the theory Landis advanced would work out in practice. Don’t you worry about us. You lock your door until we get back and we’ll tell you all about it.”

“All right,” agreed the young lawyer dubiously.

Out in the hall with Graham’s door closed, Landis turned on Bernard.

“Have you traced Brent’s movements the night of the murder?” he demanded.

“Certainly not! But he told us he was out for a stroll at the time, if you remember. He’s hard up and Harrison’s death means a big income to him. Also, Joel showed Brent his treasures a week ago Sunday, including, presumably, the cross-bow. Brent has plenty of motive, no alibi and is a very good shot, Landis. Remember how he hung about that first night when we were questioning Miss Mount? Finally, it’s just possible that Graham knows too much about his financial affairs!”

Landis nodded uncertainly.

“Not much better and no worse than our other theories,” he muttered. “Oh, well, let’s try out the cross-bow, eh?”

They entered Miss Mount’s room and moved quietly through the bathroom into Joel’s den. Five or six minutes later they had wound up the cross-bow, adjusted it to the recent scratches on Miss Mount’s desk, propped up the butt with a book and set the Japanese arrow in the groove of the stock. They sighted along the arrow to find that it pointed straight through the open top of the middle library window and through the reception-room door beyond.

Satisfied on that point, Landis carefully fastened his thread to the trigger, passed it around the knob of the closed bathroom door and holding the thread, dropped the spool out the window into the garden-bed below.

They descended the stairs at the end of the wing, passed out into the grounds, found the spool and carried it to the reception-room window, paying out their thread as they went.

Now Landis, who had carefully tested the pull of the trigger, drew the black thread as taut as he dared and fastened it, with a stout thumbtack, to the lower sash of the window which Miss Mount had closed. The window was open again, the lower sash high above the sill.

“You could simply pull our thread from out here,” he observed to Bernard, “but to prove our theory up to the hilt, the window ought to be actually lowered as Miss Mount lowered it that night.”

“Your theory,” corrected Bernard. “You’re right, of course. I’ll lower the window from here and you can watch from indoors. Never mind about people blundering into the library to get shot. They’re all at lunch and I’ve stationed the policemen out of sight. If someone came nosing about, it might give us a hint and we don’t want our cops in evidence on that account. So you take up your stand in the far corner of the reception-room and keep out of the line of fire. Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll pull down the window!”

Bernard waited, one elbow on the sill, until Landis had passed around through the wing and the library to his post. He took that route to avoid being seen from the dining-room.

“Ready?” called Bernard.

“Shoot!” replied Landis alertly.

With a sudden grin, Bernard raised both his arms, avoiding the thread, put his weight on the sash and pulled the window down with a bang.

From his position in the reception-room, Landis caught a distant and musical twang. To his utter amazement, however, no Japanese arrow flashed through the reception-room doorway. Instead, he was startled by a bellow of rage from outdoors and glancing through the closed window was further amazed to see no sign of Bernard.

With a sense of sickening dread he sprang into the main hall, ran to the front door, flung it open and dashed round the corner of the house.

He was just in time to catch Bernard wallowing on his face in the flower-bed under the window. A moment later his elderly colleague had scrambled to his feet and turned.

“My God, are you hurt?” Landis shouted.

“Not a bit of it! Just dirty!” snapped Bernard. “There’s your arrow! It worked!”

Landis followed his pointing finger. A few feet behind where Bernard had been standing, the arrow had glanced from the stone foundations of the house and buried two feet of its length in the soft, moist earth of the garden-bed.

He looked back at Bernard. The old detective’s face was pale under its accumulated tan and his mouth was grim.

“It just missed you!” cried Landis. “How in hell—”

“Come on!” snapped Bernard. “We’ve got our criminal—and a damned clever one, Landis—too clever, that’s all!”

Momentarily bemused with astonishment, Landis saw that his companion was running heavily toward the door at the end of the wing. He came to himself with a jerk and sprang in pursuit. Bernard had gained the foot of the wing stairs when Landis overtook him. Landis made no attempt to pass but hung on his heels, marveling alike at Bernard’s words and his lumbering speed as he climbed. They burst into the second-floor hall and Bernard pounded away toward Miss Mount’s room. Landis drew level with him but fell back as they reached her door.

Bernard’s massive figure blocked the doorway for an instant, then moved aside to reveal Sergeant Forbes and one of his men half way between the door and the desk. Landis stared at them in amazement.

Gripped firmly between them, erect and pale, stood Graham.

CHAPTER XXVI

MOTIVE AND METHOD

BERNARD was rubbing his hands. He turned on Landis before his younger colleague had fully recovered from his surprise.

“And now to business,” he said. “With your permission, Landis, I propose to have a full confession from Graham. I think I know most of the details but we want a confession.”

White and shaken, Graham was staring at Bernard with hurt amazement.

“You don’t think I have anything to confess!” he gasped.

“I don’t think it! I know it!” snapped Bernard. “We caught you red-handed, my lad!”

“Good God, Bernard! What do you mean? I only slipped across the hall to watch what happened when you pulled your thread! The desk wobbled and I put out my hand to steady it just as the bow twanged. Then these fellows burst from Miss Mount’s clothes-closet and laid hold of me! I can’t believe you mean it! You must be joking—”

“Can’t you?” retorted Bernard. “It’s a grim sort of joke! But we’ll begin at the beginning and lead you up to your confession gently.”

Graham tried to smile.

“Go on with your joke then!” He was recovering his composure. An instant later he lost some of it.

“I will!” Bernard looked down at Graham’s hands which the policemen held in view. Following his glance, Landis saw with a shock that Graham was wearing the famous gloves. Astonishment at the whole situation turned swiftly to regret. He had liked Graham.

“I notice,” said Bernard dryly, “that you went into Joel’s den and put on the gloves before you touched the cross-bow—pardon me—I mean, before you steadied that wobbling desk!” He stepped toward the window and tried to tilt the desk this way and that. “Seems steady enough now, Graham!”

“I thought it moved!” retorted Graham in a strained voice. “I was afraid of the experiment anyway!”

“And the gloves?”

“Great Scott, Mr. Bernard! I simply tried them on!”

“To give us a better set of your finger-prints? The others, of which I have an impression, will do to hang you!”

Wincing a little, Graham drew his hands together, a movement permitted by his captors, and with two quick twitches pulled off the gloves.

“There! I wanted to see how large they were!” The laugh that accompanied his words obviously cost him an effort. “I don’t know why you’re having all this fun at my expense—”

Bernard’s massive shoulders moved under the impetus of a grim and dreadful chuckle.

“You’re game, Graham!” he said.

Abruptly he turned to Landis.

“Stand guard and don’t let anyone in here,” he said, “while I tell you the history of Harrison’s murder. Suspecting everyone, Landis, I’ve suspected Graham from the first! That suspicion grew steadily until the finger-prints gave me my proof! Now for the facts.”

Landis stepped back to the door and turned to watch Graham’s harassed, white face.

“Go on,” he said.

“Some months ago, as Graham told us, Harrison set him to work to find Ethel Cuddy. Graham knew her already, probably knew all about her supposed parents then. But Harrison’s interest and his lame story of a deceased friend as Ethel’s father gave Graham an idea. He thought he saw a way to make a fortune by blackmail, a way that carried no risk. So he went to see the Cuddys. Harrison’s payments to them had ceased. Cuddy is a miser and would sell his best friend for money. Graham bribed out of him the whole story of the kidnapping and where Ethel was born. He traced the records, got a good description of Miss Mount and possibly of Harrison, then married Ethel and got Harrison to invite them out here. Most of that story, except the essential details of his motive, Graham told us himself.”

“Mr. Bernard!” exclaimed Graham. “I told you that in confidence—”

“Shut up! We’ll hear you presently. To resume. No doubt the Cuddys told Graham that Ethel had a scar on her back that would identify her. She had it when they kidnapped her, you see, when she was only three years old. Now Harrison paid for the child’s support before he had the Cuddys kidnap her as well as after. But he wouldn’t dare send such sums in his own name. He had his lawyers do it. The old records of the firm would verify the Cuddys’ statements as to the people who cared for Ethel until she was three. Graham had access to those records.

“From the very beginning I never believed Graham’s story that Harrison offered to leave the girl a part of his fortune. Harrison wasn’t that sort. What happened was that Graham blackmailed him into transferring some two million dollars into a trust fund for the girl. Harrison would receive the income from these securities as long as he lived. Then the income, from an unknown donor, would go to Ethel—and her husband, eh, Graham?”

“My God!” cried the young lawyer. “I don’t know what Harrison may have done about Ethel! I told you that!”

“Not a doubt you covered your tracks there!” snapped Bernard. “Now, then! You justified your blackmail by explaining to Harrison that you were only asking for Ethel her just due as his daughter, legitimate or no. Anyhow, Harrison found himself in a box, with an outraged woman and a public scandal to face. So on Monday, a week ago yesterday, he took you into town, lunched with you, talked it over, went to the bank and arranged the trust fund. He would get the income from it as long as he lived. There was plenty left for Isabelle and Anita. I don’t suppose he cared much what became of the money after he died!

“You may remember, Landis, that Brent told us the estate was two million dollars less than he had supposed. Brent is accurate, I imagine, whatever else he seems.”

“I remember,” nodded Landis soberly. The gloves and Graham’s pallor had already convinced him.

“In return for the trust fund, Graham no doubt promised Harrison to keep the whole thing a secret from his wife and everyone, including, of course, the fact that Miss Mount was the mother. Harrison must have heaved a sigh of relief and decided that he had got off light. For the skeleton in his cupboard was buried under a married name!

“But Harrison was hale and hearty. Probably he’d live another twenty years, years which Graham proposed to enjoy. So early last week our young friend, here, decided to go the whole hog. And he cast about for some safe method to murder Harrison and get the trust fund!”

“Murder him! Good God, Bernard, are you trying to pin this thing on me? You mean to say you’d do a vile, cruel thing like that to save your face—because the case has beaten you?”

Bernard nodded grimly.

“Just so!”

He turned back to Landis.

“The fact that all the household shot with bows and arrows gave him his cue. He planned to shoot Harrison with a bow and arrow in some way. Probably he had noticed the Japanese bow and considered that.

“On Tuesday, Joel asked Russell, Allen and the two girls into his den. He did not include the Grahams. Yet Graham described the den to us that first night, so he must have been in there!

“Shooting up on the third floor that Tuesday afternoon, Joel or somebody probably mentioned cross-bows. Another cue for Graham! In such a weapon he saw a more certain method of killing Harrison. With an ordinary bow he might miss. Within the next twenty-four hours he sneaked into the den, selected that cross-bow, found an opportunity to test it on the third floor with a Japanese arrow, noticed the bit of feather, planted it on Stimson to furnish another misleading clue and so improved on his original idea. But remembering the Japanese bow, he arranged that to look as if it had been used instead.

“Now consider the situation as he considered it. On Sunday night in the library, when Graham was blackmailing Harrison, Anita came in and quarreled with her father about Allen. There he had one person, two in fact, with a motive for murder. Allen’s room was handy to the Japanese bow. Graham’s one mistake was not making sure that the Japanese bow would shoot that hard.”

“You’re mad!” shouted Graham suddenly. Studying him for an instant, Landis saw signs that he was cracking under the strain. Bernard drove smoothly on with his indictment.

“There were other people with possible motives, too. Joel was little more than a half-wit, could shoot well and was mercilessly bullied by his brother. Again, Graham may have overheard enough to know that Russell was sore on Harrison for not letting him marry Isabelle unless and until he went to work. Russell was handy to the Japanese bow also.

“Of course Graham watched Harrison closely, noticed that he stooped when he went through a door and above all, noticed the regularity of his habits in the evening. The household was run like clockwork. So Graham could be sure exactly where most of the inmates would be at the time he planned to kill Harrison. On his visit to Joel’s den, which he could reach only through Miss Mount’s room, he looked out her window and saw a clear path to the reception-room door. Now the really brilliant method came to him. For it permitted him to shoot Harrison from close to his own room and also to work out an alibi that looked perfect—but wasn’t!”

“The bath water running!” Landis exclaimed.

“Exactly! To go back a little, before he murdered Harrison he had another idea. Perhaps Miss Mount would do it for him! So he deliberately burned his wife’s back with his cigarette, close to the scar. Miss Mount heard her scream and came across the hall as he hoped. He left her to find the scar. He knew that she questioned his wife next morning and then was gone all day. He knew, no doubt, that his wife had given her the address of the Cuddys as she told us she had. It was easy to guess that Miss Mount had gone to see them and would learn what he had learned. Her quarrel with Harrison that night satisfied him that she had learned, for the first time, the trick Harrison had played on her.

“So far so good. Graham waited to see whether Miss Mount would do his work for him. But she limited herself to making a fuss of Ethel. So he went ahead with his own plans, content to know that in Miss Mount he had an alternative suspect with an especially strong motive. That’s why he told us as much as he did about Ethel and let us guess that Miss Mount was her mother. He led us up to that very cleverly!

“Now for what actually happened. The night before the murder, Friday night, he got the cross-bow and the gloves from Joel’s room and hid them in his own. During the night he put on the gloves, stole down to the library, detached the Japanese bow from the armor, strung it and left it leaning handy there. He took back with him an unblunted Japanese arrow and hid that in his room as well.

“Saturday night, when they all came home to dress, he delayed his wife and himself by romping with her. Giving their lateness as an excuse, he rang for Helen to help her dress. He wanted Helen as an additional witness to his alibi.

“He went into the bathroom, probably locked the door into his wife’s room and turned on the bathwater. Then he stripped, resumed his coat and trousers and wound up the cross-bow, wiping it clean of finger-prints afterwards.

“Just before it was time for the gong he set up a great splashing in the tub with his hands, so the women would think he was in his bath. He left the water running, hurried into his room and pulled on the gloves, tearing them at the wrists because his hands were wet and the leather stuck to them!” Bernard looked at Landis.

Graham struggled between his captors, his face a mask of bitter fear.

“Lies!” he shouted. “You’re weaving a web of circumstantial evidence around me, as you tried to weave it round Miss Mount! There’s no proof! No proof, I tell you!”

Bernard turned.

“Only the finger-prints, Graham! Distinct and damning in the wet finger-tips!

“To proceed. He opened his door softly, saw that the coast was clear, nipped across to Miss Mount’s room and made sure that her window was open from the bottom as usual. He saw Harrison at his desk. He fitted the Japanese arrow to the cross-bow and waited. The gong rang almost at once. Harrison rose. Graham aimed his cross-bow. Harrison reached the reception-room door and paused there, stooping a little as usual. Graham let fly and without waiting to see the result of his shot, raced back to his room with the cross-bow and gloves. Probably he heard Susan scream as he crossed the hall. But he hid the weapon and the gloves in his room, ran into the bathroom and began splashing the water about as before. It was then that he shut off the tap.”

Graham’s face was ghastly, distorted as though he were undergoing physical torture.

“Lies!” he gasped. “A fabric of clever lies! You have no proof!”

“The rest we know,” continued Bernard calmly. “His wife heard the scream and hammered on the bathroom door. He stopped splashing and asked her what was up. She told him someone screamed and he sent her downstairs to see what had happened. Satisfied that she was going, he ran to his door into the hall and heard his wife and Helen go past on their way downstairs. Then he nipped across the hall and replaced the cross-bow and the gloves in Joel’s room. He was just going or just coming back when he heard Anita running along the hall. He ducked back into Miss Mount’s room or into his own and she ran past without seeing him. She ran downstairs by the near flight. Graham finished and slipped back to his bathroom, satisfied that all was well. He stripped off his coat and trousers and got into the tub. When his wife came up again he was naked, drying himself. A perfect alibi—almost, eh, Graham?”

Now at last Graham snapped.

“It’s a lie!” he screamed, wrenching at his arms to free them. “You’re a liar! I didn’t kill Harrison! I—I was shot myself by the same hand!”

“You bet you were!” retorted Bernard. “You shot yourself, too! It was the cleverest and yet the most foolish thing you did, Graham! But the trail was getting warm. Just before we went into town yesterday I let you see that I was going after Cuddy. You were smart enough to appreciate the risk there. So you shot yourself to mystify us and bolster up your own alibi! It was to be mystery piled on mystery, with you one of the innocent victims! Only—nobody except yourself had any real motive for shooting you, Graham!”

Graham tried to pull himself together.

“I suppose I stood in the library and shot myself from Miss Mount’s window here at the same time!” he gasped. “Don’t try to pin Harrison’s murder on an innocent man just because you’ve failed to find the real murderer!”

“When you shot Harrison,” replied Bernard smoothly, “you saw Miss Mount closing the reception-room window and you realized that she did the same thing every night at the same time. She had a motive already. Why not pin the business definitely on her and thereby close the door forever upon your wife’s unhappy past?”

Graham stared pleadingly at the faces of his other captors but found no response. Landis and the policemen were held spellbound, as much by Bernard’s tremendous personality as by his reasoned, relentless exposure of the motive and the method of the crime.

“You were left alone all day yesterday,” Bernard continued. “You spent your time collecting the rope and thread and preparing the Japanese bow as before. When Miss Mount went downstairs last night you went across to her room and got the cross-bow from Joel’s den as before. You got the gloves as before. But this time you lashed the cross-bow on the desk with your rope, hitched the thread to the trigger, ran it over the doorknob and dropped the spool out the window as we did just now. You went out and locked Miss Mount’s door!

“Mrs. Graham was tired so you got her to lie down. You went down and outdoors, got the spool, tossed it through the library window, made a nail-hole in the reception-room window and went round into the library, ostensibly to resume your work. You picked up the spool in there. When the gong rang you walked to the door as Harrison had done, jerked your thread and at the same time swerved aside. You didn’t swerve quite far enough. Or maybe you were willing to risk a wound to make the business more realistic and thereby save your neck from the noose. Was that it?”

Graham shook his head and tried to speak but in vain.

“You fell in the doorway so that Miss Mount couldn’t get past,” Bernard resumed. “As she ran into the hall, you wound up the broken thread and stowed it in your pocket while she was looking for the murderer.

“Stimson came and took you upstairs. You were sure that Susan would keep Miss Mount busy as before. So you dismissed everybody on a plea of nervousness and nausea, nipped across the hall, unlocked Miss Mount’s door, restored the key to the inside, replaced the cross-bow and the gloves in Joel’s den, planted your thread in her sewing-drawer and your rope in her clothes-closet and went cheerfully back to bed. Later, you were careful to tell us that you heard a noise outside the library windows before you were shot. If we traced the method and found the nail-hole, the rope and the thread, that would pin the murder and the attempted murder on Miss Mount almost past a doubt!”

Graham turned upon Landis eyes that strove to hide stark terror beneath their indignation.

“Do you believe it?” he demanded hoarsely. “Is it probable?”

“Of course it isn’t!” Bernard cut it. “It’s too clever for that. But those finger-prints will hang you!”

“This—this business just now!” shouted Graham suddenly. “Why should I try to kill you?”

“I haven’t said you did!” was the swift retort. “But you came mighty near it! Only, I was expecting you to try, so I dropped flat as I lowered the window and pulled the thread. Now for your motive! I handed you a sheet of paper a little while ago with a lot of indefinite nonsense on it. You suspected I did it to get your finger-prints. You were right. But I wanted you to know that I suspected you. When you warned us—warned Landis in advance—that our experiment was dangerous, I knew that you had fallen into my little trap!

“A clever trap wouldn’t have caught you, Graham. This was so simple and obvious that you fell for it and tried to kill me. I made a point of telling you that everyone would be downstairs, including the policeman we posted to guard you. That left you a clear road to the cross-bow. One little twitch and it would shoot me instead of shooting through the reception-room doorway!”

“What good would that do?” Graham demanded shrilly. “Landis would remain!”

Bernard laughed.

“Landis had fallen for your evidence against Miss Mount and you knew it. You also knew that he had not heard my theory and was still waiting to hear it. If I were killed he never would hear it. You were going to hide the gloves. When he got up here, you’d be back in your bed with your door locked and the gloves would have mysteriously disappeared. There would be no evidence, probably no suspicion against you. Landis could only conclude that the arrow had swerved and your considerate warning was justified. You’d be where you were before I began to suspect you in earnest. That’s the story. The game’s up, Graham!”

The young lawyer started as though fully realizing his position for the first time. Into his eyes, dazed with terror, crept an expression of dreadful certainty. He stared slowly from face to face of his four captors. The two policemen looked puzzled but determined. Bernard’s face was adamant. On the features of Landis alone was there any trace of pity. But Graham read conviction there, too. It was the pity of the living for a man already condemned to death—

Once more he looked at Bernard, staring at him attentively. In the brief silence, the others could hear the catch and sigh of his hurried breathing. They saw that he had begun to tremble. At length he spoke, his voice almost calm, although it shook a little.

“Bernard,” he said, “you’ve woven about me a web of damnably clever circumstantial evidence. For the sake of—of my wife, will you give me one chance to prove you wrong before you charge me with this thing?”

Frowning a little, Bernard returned the stare of his victim. Slowly his brows cleared and he nodded.

“Yes. For the sake of your wife, Graham.”

“Then wind up the cross-bow, get me an arrow from Joel’s den—any arrow—and I’ll prove to you that I couldn’t have shot Harrison!”

Unsmiling, Bernard moved to the desk and complied by winding up the bow. He opened the bathroom door, lifted the black thread and slipping under it, disappeared into the room beyond. After a moment he returned with an arrow. He closed the bathroom door behind him and laid the arrow on the desk, looping the thread over the bathroom doorknob again.

“Your proof, Graham!” he directed quietly.

“Tell them to let go of me. I won’t try to run away!”

Bernard nodded to the sergeant.

“Release his arms, will you? I’ll be responsible for him.”

Sergeant Forbes set free the arm he held. The policeman followed the example of his superior. Landis moved forward uncertainly, puzzled, stirred by some mysterious, subconscious excitement the source of which he could not trace. A quick, warning glance from Bernard brought him to a halt.

For an instant Graham remained where he was, swaying a little, one hand pressed to his wounded arm. Then he moved forward and set the arrow carefully in the groove of the cross-bow. He laid hands on the desk and with a sudden effort drew it back into the room a foot or so. Stooping down, he sighted along the arrow from nock to point and thence out the window.

He rose to his feet again and addressed Bernard.

“Now,” he said quietly, “the arrow points straight through the library window at the reception-room door. But there is no allowance for the drop in its flight!”

Bernard did not smile.

“I understand,” he said.

Graham moved around the desk and bent his knees until his eyes were on a level with the head of the arrow. He sighted along it toward the nock.

“Follow the line of it from this direction,” he continued, “and you will see something that—will—perhaps—surprise you!”

As he spoke he rose a little and his hand darted out to grasp the black thread still trailing past him from the doorknob to the window. Watching him, Landis sprang forward with a shout of warning. His cry was echoed by the vicious twang of the bow and a single, stifled shriek of agony.

Graham bent forward in a dreadful travesty of an obeisance toward his conquerors. He swayed an instant, toppled sideways from behind the desk and lay still, a few feathered inches of the arrow protruding from his chest.

Bernard walked forward and looked down at the slim figure and the colorless, high-bred face. The eyes were closed, the delicate features composed and tranquil.

The old detective turned and they saw that his eyes were bitter with distaste.

“The responsibility for this is mine,” he said huskily. “There lies our confession, Landis.”

CHAPTER XXVII

“SO HOME AND TO BED”

WITH one twitch on a bit of black thread, Graham had made his confession, his atonement and his escape from the law. A few moments later Landis descended to the library, telephoned quietly for an ambulance to come to the door at the end of the wing and rang up the local prosecutor to make an immediate appointment at his home.

He hung up and walked to the hall doorway. Family and guests were still at lunch, for no unusual sound had penetrated from the second-floor wing to the dining-room. Russell and Anita looked up and saw him there but chose to ignore him. Presently Stimson appeared at the far side of the table. Landis caught his eye, beckoned to him and stepped back.

Stimson finished his task of the moment, then crossed the hall and entered the library. Just as he appeared, Bernard came silently through the door at the far end, having descended the wing stairs. Landis eyed the butler’s sombre face.

“Stimson,” he said softly, “please don’t raise your voice. Graham has confessed to the murder of Harrison and has shot himself.”

Stimson’s eyes widened a trifle but that was all.

“He has, sir! I’m sorry to hear that.”

“You’re sorry?” inquired Landis.

“Yes, sir. He was the only gentleman in the house for whom I—but that is neither here nor there now, sir.”

“You don’t seem surprised, Stimson!”

“Not greatly, sir. I thought it possible.”

“You did, eh? Why, Stimson?” Landis felt slightly chagrined.

“He was so perfect, sir. Too good to be true—in a way of speaking. And Mr. Harrison gave him many a black look before he died.”

“You didn’t tell us that, Stimson!”

“No, sir. You didn’t ask.”

“Stimson, you’re a cynic!”

“Possibly, sir. Is there anything I can do?”

Landis nodded, aware that he had been rebuffed.

“You can ask Miss Mount to step in here for a moment. Ask her quietly, please. We don’t want to alarm Mrs. Graham—yet!”

“Very good, sir. I understand.” A wintry smile with just a shade of respect in it crossed the butler’s morose countenance. “Good day to you, gentlemen,” he said and withdrew.

The two man-hunters waited, glancing at each other with a certain discomfort, until Miss Mount appeared in the doorway, advanced a few paces toward them and stopped.

“Well,” she inquired dryly, “what is it, please?”

“It’s Graham,” replied Bernard. “He has confessed, Miss Mount. Now we need your help. Graham shot himself!”

“Confessed! Shot himself! You mean he’s—dead?” the woman whispered. “Oh, God! Poor Ethel!”

Bernard nodded.

“There’ll be an ambulance here at once.” He glanced at Landis and received a gesture of confirmation. “It will stop at the door at the end of the wing. Can you keep Mrs. Graham away from that part of the house? It will be less of a shock to her. She can see him—later.”

Miss Mount’s dark eyes had softened and brimmed with tears. She shook her head to clear them.

“I will,” she assured them. “I—I suppose you want me to break the news to her?”

“Perhaps you can do it more kindly than anyone else,” said Bernard in his gruffest tone. “We’re off now. And the other shadows will lift—in time.”

Miss Mount stared at him through her tears.

“So you have a heart somewhere!” she murmured huskily.

“I can’t afford it,” replied Bernard. “On the other hand, I never suspected you, Miss Mount. As to Mrs. Graham, don’t worry too much. This shock will pass. She has not been married long. And her future is bright.”

“Her—future—?”

“I think you will find that she has a large fortune. Moreover, she has found her mother. Why not tell her so, Miss Mount? She’ll need her mother now. She’s far too sensible to care about the past.”

Miss Mount’s fine eyes never wavered from his, though a slow and painful blush crept up to stain her white face.

“There are times,” said Bernard quietly, “when pride ought to be dumped out the window. This is one of them. We’re going now. Mr. Brent will help you with details. That’s why I telephoned him. Good-by, Miss Mount.”

She brushed the fresh tears from her eyes and held out her hand to him.

“You’re a good man,” she said. “Good-by.”

“Good-by, Miss Mount,” echoed Landis. With an instinctive desire to lighten the tragedy in her eyes he added: “I was the one who suspected you of killing Harrison!”

She turned to look at him, a sudden, still hatred in her glance.

“You thought I would—soil my hands?” she inquired. “Good-by, Mr. Landis!” There was a biting contempt in her quiet tone more startling than a shriek of invective.

On that note they left her. Landis knew that her contempt had not been directed at him. Yet he was rather red about the gills as he followed Bernard through the billiard-room and the wing hall.

“A woman of strong emotions,” murmured Bernard dryly as they stepped outdoors and headed toward the garage.

Harley had their car ready for them and their joint bag stowed away in the back. With Landis at the wheel, they crunched around the house and down the gravel drive, pulling aside near the gate to admit the ambulance. It drove quietly past, for Landis had warned the emergency hospital against a clanging arrival. Outside the grounds he caught a last glimpse of Harrison’s imposing mansion, then turned his car toward the home of the local prosecutor.

That official received them with a great deal of interest, an interest which grew as Landis outlined the case to its sudden and startling conclusion. He complimented them both and made a point of thanking Bernard, of whose past achievements he knew. Landis explained that he would make out his written report at Bernard’s house, sending one copy to his chief in New York and another back to the prosecutor. He proposed to stay with Bernard for a day or two, where both would be available to support the testimony of Sergeant Forbes and his man at the second inquest.

At length they took their leave and headed for home. They made the drive almost in silence, each man busy with his own thoughts and each subdued by the pitiful tragedy of Graham’s crime, which, as always, had punished the innocent as well as the guilty.

They reached Bernard’s house tired and hungry, for they had had no lunch. Mrs. Bernard and Elsa fed and made a fuss of them. Afterwards Bernard went off to his room for a nap while Landis and Elsa took a walk to discuss such matters as may occur to a newly married couple very much in love.

After dinner, however, Bernard outlined the history of the case for the benefit of his wife and her niece.

Landis listened in silence until he had finished. Then he burst out laughing.

“To hear him, you’d think I solved the mystery! I merely floundered about. He pulled off a really brilliant and spectacular series of deductions!”

Bernard shook his head.

“If you hadn’t spotted that line of flight from the library to Miss Mount’s window and so ruled out the Japanese bow, we’d be nowhere!”

“Well, when did you first suspect Graham?”

“Almost from the beginning, Landis. In fact, I acted suspicious of Miss Mount to mislead him. He was such a marvelous actor that I almost lost my suspicion of him. Then he shot himself! There was no motive for anyone to do that, you see, unless he had one!”

“I don’t see how you came to suspect him at all!”

“There were a dozen things, Landis, if you once considered him! In the first place, Graham had what you might call a manufactured alibi. No one actually saw him in the bathroom at the time of the murder. Then he laid just a trifle too much stress on it—not much but enough. No one could tell us that Graham had ever been in Joel’s den. Yet he more or less described it to us when we first questioned him.”

“But that doesn’t prove anything,” said Mrs. Bernard.

“Taken alone, it doesn’t,” her husband admitted with a smile. “But there’s more. Graham never mentioned the fact that Harrison had taken him into town the Monday before. Why should they go to town and spend the day together? Then Harrison’s fortune was two million dollars short of what Brent expected. Where had the money gone? When had it gone? Recently—or Brent would have known of it. Well, Harrison had taken Graham into town with him recently! Moreover, the fact that Miss Mount’s door was locked during the attempt on Graham made me wonder. Would she risk that if she had shot him? And would she leave the cord and thread in her room? Probably they had been planted there by someone else. Why not Graham who was just across the hall?

“Finally, consider those gloves—”

“How did you know the murderer had used them?” interrupted Landis.

“Because they were both torn! Joel was a neat person. He was not likely to tear his gloves at all, certainly not both of them in the same way. And his hands were as large as anybody’s in the household. Then I remembered Graham’s alibi. Wet hands might have torn both gloves at the wrists at the same time. And under the intense excitement and haste of his crime the murderer might not notice what he had done. Both tears were recent, remember. Once focussed on Graham, I set about figuring how he could have done it. I may have been wrong on details here and there but the gist of it was correct. That’s why he killed himself.”

“And you let him,” murmured Landis.

“I did!” Bernard retorted bluntly. “I’m retired now and I can consider the suffering of a convicted criminal’s family. You couldn’t have done it and played fair with your job, Landis! So I did it for you.”

“I’m mighty glad you did, sir!”

Bernard nodded.

“For the rest, Graham obviously lied to us about the exact time that Anita ran along the hall. That business of burning his wife’s back and letting Miss Mount tend her opened up a new angle in the case. Finally, Graham had been afforded such a very tempting opportunity to blackmail Harrison, if our guess about Ethel and Miss Mount was correct.”

“And I missed it all,” Landis mourned. “But there’s another thing I want explained. Why in the Sam Hill did you keep me in the dark right up to the end? Why did you put in all those bits about Joel and Brent and even Mrs. Graham, as though you suspected them?”

Bernard gave vent to a chuckle of teasing laughter.

“My dear fellow, it was essential that Graham be convinced of your innocence so far as he was concerned. I wanted you to play up your Miss Mount theory sincerely. Otherwise, if he thought you suspected him, too, he would never have tried to get rid of me!”

“The idea of letting him!” snapped Mrs. Bernard.

Her husband smiled.

“There was a very slight amount of risk in offering myself to Graham as a target,” he admitted whimsically, “even though I was prepared to fall flat when I pulled the thread. Very dirty I got, too! However, if I had told you my scheme, Landis, there would have been a great argument about it. We would have got nowhere that way!”

“You bet there would have been an argument! Wish I’d had the sense to see what you were doing!”

“I’m glad you hadn’t,” retorted Bernard dryly.

“How did the police get up there?” Landis smiled.

“When I went down for the arrow, I brought them back with me and stationed them in Miss Mount’s clothes-closet.”

Landis nodded.

“There’s one thing more I don’t understand,” he admitted rather hesitantly. “We agreed to share our facts. Yet you failed to tell me that you had discovered that trust fund, sir!”

“I never did discover it. I didn’t look.”

“You didn’t even make inquiries?” demanded Landis.

“To what end?” Bernard’s tone was slightly irritable. “If we failed to discover such a fund, nothing would be accomplished. It would simply mean that we had not tackled the right bank. If we did find it, the fund would merely confirm a theory of which I was already certain. It wouldn’t help convict Graham. You may be sure there will be nothing connected with that fund to indicate that back of it lies Graham’s fine, Italian hand. Until he made the mistake of shooting at himself, and later at me, he pulled off a really perfect crime!”

“But left his finger-prints in those gloves!”

Bernard gave a bark of laughter.

“My dear Landis! There were no finger-prints in those gloves!”

Landis started and stared.

“And—no expert?”

“And no expert,” admitted Bernard. “There was no proof to convict Graham!”

“Well I’ll be—darned!”

Bernard chuckled.

“This was just such a case as we discussed before we started. There was no evidence to convict Graham, so nothing remained but a trap. I played on the theory that a guilty man will see a subtle trap in everything. He saw through my tricky method of getting his finger-prints, though not all the way through it. But he was too alert and too subtle to see the trap I set for him, just because it was so obvious and so clumsy.”

Landis forgot his own discomfiture in open admiration.

“It was a wonderful piece of work, sir!”

Bernard frowned.

“Nonsense! Graham was clever though, and a really gifted actor. Sending for us in the first place was a bold touch. But he knew there was no evidence to convict him. What’s more he was right! Also, consider that attack on me in the garden! If his shot missed, he’d know nothing about it. If it struck and killed me, his position would be just the same. He would know nothing about it but his theory would be that the desk had moved or the arrow had swerved and the whole thing was a most regrettable accident. In fact, he had warned us against the experiment!”

“Not as clever as you were,” Landis retorted. “What a fine detective I turned out to be!”

Bernard laughed.

“You blazed the trail and I skimmed the cream and there’s a mixed metaphor to suit anybody!”

Elsa suddenly stirred in her chair.

“Well, anyhow, I’m glad it’s over,” she sighed.

“As for Mrs. Graham,” Bernard concluded with a sudden change of tone, “she’ll forget. She has her mother and her two million. She’ll soon forget Graham.”

Mrs. Bernard rose briskly to her feet.

“But I won’t!” she snapped. “I knew you’d run risks and probably get your feet wet! Now to bed with you, all of you!”

THE END

Transcriber’s Note:

Hyphenation, punctuation and spelling, including the word “runction” on page 168, have been retained as published in the original publication except as follows:

- Page 105

damn your dirty hide!” changed to

damn your dirty hide!’”

- Page 179

“No, sir.” But Mr. Graham changed to

“No, sir. But Mr. Graham

- Page 211

‘Maybe. Either he’s honest or changed to

“Maybe. Either he’s honest or

- Page 273

she said. “Goodby.” changed to

she said. “Good-by.”

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Table of Contents

The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shadow in the House, by Sinclair Gluck

SHADOW IN THE HOUSE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I “WE ALL SHOOT”

CHAPTER II THE BLUNTED ARROW

CHAPTER III THE BROKEN ARROW

CHAPTER IV SUSAN HAD HYSTERICS

CHAPTER V “A SOMEWHAT POMPOUS MAN”

CHAPTER VI ALL THE YOUNG PEOPLE

CHAPTER VII THE BUTLER’S SUITE

CHAPTER VIII STIMSON WONDERS TOO

CHAPTER IX “SHOW THE GENTLEMAN OUT”

CHAPTER X “SOLICITOUSLY”

CHAPTER XI THE OLD MAN WHO CALLED

CHAPTER XII THE DECENCY NOT TO INQUIRE

CHAPTER XIII “A BIT OF A RISK”

CHAPTER XIV THE MISSES HARRISON

CHAPTER XV “WITHOUT CONSULTING ANYONE”

CHAPTER XVI A LACE HANDKERCHIEF

CHAPTER XVII “WALK INTO MY PARLOR”

CHAPTER XVIII “NOTHING MUCH ANYHOW!”

CHAPTER XIX WHY MRS. GRAHAM SCREAMED

CHAPTER XX ANOTHER LOCKED DOOR

CHAPTER XXI GRAHAM IS NOT A FOOL

CHAPTER XXII A QUESTION OF ANGLE

CHAPTER XXIII THE WORST POSSIBLE TASTE

CHAPTER XXIV THE SOUND OF RUNNING FEET

CHAPTER XXV BERNARD OFFERS A HINT

CHAPTER XXVI MOTIVE AND METHOD

CHAPTER XXVII “SO HOME AND TO BED”

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE