_The_
  THIRTEENTH LETTER




  THE
  THIRTEENTH LETTER

  By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN

  AUTHOR OF

  "The Cat's Paw," "The Meredith Mystery," "The Red
  Seal," "The Unseen Ear," etc.

  A. L. BURT COMPANY
  Publishers      New York
  Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company
  Printed in U. S. A.




  COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY
  D. APPLETON AND COMPANY

  Copyright, 1923, 1924, by The Constructive Publishing Corporation

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA




  TO

  HARRIET BROWNSON HUSSEY
  The _Thirteenth Letter_ is affectionately
  inscribed in memory of many happy
  hours together




  The author desires to express to
  ALAIN CAMPBELL WHITE
  of LITCHFIELD, CONNECTICUT,
  her sincere appreciation of his
  cleverly devised stamp code utilized
  in _The Thirteenth Letter_.




CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                              PAGE

      I. THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT           1
     II. CAUGHT IN THE WEB              13
    III. COMPLICATIONS                  23
     IV. THE BLACK CREST                38
      V. SHERIFF TRENHOLM ASKS
         QUESTIONS                      55
     VI. THE THIRD HAND                 68
    VII. CURIOUS QUESTIONS AND EVASIVE
         ANSWERS                        81
   VIII. BLACKMAIL                      95
     IX. THE DENIAL                    106
      X. SKIRMISHING                   119
     XI. THE FOLDED NOTE               132
    XII. THE HUMAN EYE                 146
   XIII. THE SPIDER AND THE FLY        160
    XIV. THE WILL OF HATE              175
     XV. THREE BEEHIVES                188
    XVI. THE THIRTEENTH LETTER         205
   XVII. CHERCHEZ LA FEMME             221
  XVIII. THE DEATH CLUTCH              234
    XIX. WHICH?                        252
     XX. THE RULING PASSION            271




_The_ THIRTEENTH LETTER




CHAPTER I

THE EVENTS OF A NIGHT


THE white-capped nurse dropped the curtains in place so that they
completely shut out the night and equally prevented any ray of
artificial light penetrating the outer darkness. Her eyes, blinded by
her steadfast gaze into the whirling snow storm, were slow in adjusting
themselves to the lamp lighted room and for some minutes she saw as in
a blur the spare form of the physician standing by her patient's bed.
Doctor Roberts turned at her approach and removed his finger from about
the man's wrist. He met her glance with a negative shake of his head as
he replaced his watch.

"Abbott!" he called softly, bending over the patient: "Rouse yourself
and take some nourishment. You will never get your strength back if you
don't eat."

Slowly, languidly Abbott's dark eyes opened and regarded the two
figures by his bedside. They lingered in some curiosity on the trim
figure of the trained nurse and then passed on to the physician.

"I'll eat later," he mumbled. "Leave me alone, now,"--and the heavy
lids closed again over the eyes under which dark circles of pain
testified to hours of suffering.

"Very well." Doctor Roberts spoke more crisply. "Miss Ward will be
here to look after you. You must do what she says. I'll see you in the
morning. Good night."

His remark met with no response, and picking up his bag Roberts started
from the room. At the door he paused and motioned to Miss Ward to
follow him. Stopping long enough to arrange Abbott's pillow in a more
comfortable position, the nurse went into the hall, only to find that
Doctor Roberts was halfway down the staircase. With a doubtful look
behind her, Miss Ward ran lightly down into the lower hall which,
lighted only by oil lamps, was long and rambling and used as a living
room. Doctor Roberts walked over to a table and put down his bag.

"I am glad that you are here, Miss Ward," he began, courteously.
"I feared the storm would detain you. You have not nursed for me
before?"--with an inquisitive glance at the pretty woman before him.

"No, Doctor." Miss Ward's tapering fingers pressed out a crease in her
starched gown. "This is my first case since my arrival in Washington."

"Oh! You are a graduate nurse?"

"Yes. I trained in New York." Her hazel eyes met his steadily. "They
told me at the hospital of the urgency of this case and I took a taxi
out here."

"Quite right. Add all your expenses to your bill," directed Roberts.
"Paul Abbott has ample means. He should be in a hospital."

"But his condition, doctor."

Roberts nodded. "That is out of the question," he agreed, "_now_.
Had his caretaker sent for me in time I would have had Mr. Abbott
moved from this God-forsaken location to the city. As it is"--he
pulled himself up short--"we must do the best we can ten miles from
civilization." His smile vanished as quickly as it had come. "I am no
lover of the country in the dead of winter. What time did you get here?"

"An hour ago. Have you any orders, doctor?"

"You can give him a dose of this through the night"--taking out a small
phial and handing it to her--"the directions are on the bottle. It is
essential that Mr. Abbott have sleep; if necessary, give him this by
hypodermic." And he handed her two pellets.

"What stimulation do you wish me to use in case of sudden collapse?"
Miss Ward asked as Roberts picked up his bag and walked toward the
front door.

"Strychnine, twentieth of a grain," brusquely, as the hall clock chimed
ten, but his hurried exit was checked by a further question.

"Has Mr. Abbott any family to be notified in case his condition becomes
dangerous?" asked Miss Ward.

"No immediate relations." Doctor Roberts was manifestly impatient
to be off. "There's a girl--Betty Carter--but I'm not sure that the
engagement isn't broken. Good night." The high wind drove the snow,
which had drifted up on the broad veranda, in whirling gusts through
the front door and half blinded Roberts as he held it partly open. With
a muttered oath he dashed outside to his automobile, parked under the
shelter of the _porte cochère_.

Miss Ward heard the whir of the starting motor, the grinding of weed
chains and the shifting of gears before she closed the outer vestibule
door. It was with a sense of reluctance that she turned back into the
silent house. The storm and her surroundings oppressed her.

The old homestead, turned from a large-sized, roomy farmhouse into a
hunting lodge, with its wide entrance hall converted into a living
room from which ran numerous twisting passages, was a gloomy place in
winter. Through darkened doorways Miss Ward obtained a vague impression
of larger rooms beyond which she judged to be library, dining room, and
possibly a sunparlor.

Paul Mason Abbott, Senior, had prospered in his real estate business,
and had acquired, in one of his deals, the country property, twenty
miles from Washington, the National Capital, which, with a substantial
fortune, he had bequeathed to his only son, Paul. The latter's career
as a promising young architect had been interrupted by the World War.
Paul had borne his share of the fighting, returning to his home with
health shattered and a morbid desire to live alone.

He had closed his bachelor apartment in Washington in the early spring
and spent the following months motoring about the country. Just before
Christmas he had appeared unexpectedly at Abbott's Lodge and announced
that he would reside there indefinitely. Corbin, the caretaker, had
given him but a taciturn welcome, and neither he nor his wife had done
more than provide Abbott with three meals a day and such heat as was
absolutely necessary to warm the house.

Miriam Ward felt that even Corbin's presence, disagreeable as she had
found the caretaker in her one interview with him upon her arrival,
was preferable to the grotesque shadows made by the furniture as she
hurried across the living room and up the staircase to her patient.
Paul Abbott paid no attention to her as she moved about making her
preparations for a long night's vigil.

Abbott's bedroom stretched across one wing of the house. Miss Ward was
conscious of a touch of envy as she subconsciously took note of the
lovely old pieces of mahogany with which the room was furnished--the
highboy with its highly polished brass handles, the fine old bureau
with its quaint mirror hanging above it; the antique desk in one corner
and last, but not least, the carved four-post bedstead with its canopy
and its long curtains. The handsome rugs on the floor deadened her
footsteps as she moved about, and it was with a sense of shock that she
heard the grandfather clock in the hall chime the hour of midnight. The
sudden sound in the utter stillness aroused Paul Abbott as he seemed
about to drop off to sleep and he lifted his head. Instantly Miss Ward
was by his side, but he pushed away the glass of milk she offered him.

"Has she come?" he asked eagerly.

"She? Who?"

"Betty."

Miss Ward shook her head. Then observing his feverish condition more
closely, she hastened to say soothingly: "She will probably be here as
soon as the storm lets up."

Abbott looked at her appealingly. Thrusting his fingers inside the
pocket of his pajamas he drew out a crumpled piece of paper.

"Betty wrote that she would be here to-night," he protested. "And you
must let her in--you must--"

"Surely." Miss Ward again offered the rejected glass of milk. "Drink
this," she coaxed, and obedient to the stronger will Abbott took a few
swallows and then pushed the glass away. His head slipped back upon the
pillow and Miss Ward deftly arranged the curtain of the four-poster so
that it sheltered his eyes from the light of the wood fire burning on
the hearth at the opposite end of the bedroom.

An hour later she was about to replenish the wood for the third time
when a distant peal of a door bell caused her to drop the kindling with
unexpected suddenness in the center of the hot ashes. As the sparks
flew upward, she heard Abbott call out and turned toward the bed.

"It's Betty!" he exclaimed, with a feeble wave of his hand.
"Go--go--let her in."

"I will, but don't excite yourself," she cautioned. "Lie down on your
pillows, Mr. Abbott, and keep yourself covered," drawing the eiderdown
quilt over his shoulders as she spoke.

Another, and more imperative peal of the bell caused her to hasten
across the bedroom and into the hall. She peered ahead expectantly as
she went down the staircase, hoping for a glimpse of the caretaker,
Corbin. Evidently the bell had not disturbed his slumbers, for she
could distinguish no one approaching in the semi-darkness. Unfamiliar
as she was with her surroundings it took Miss Ward several minutes to
let down the night latch and turn the old-fashioned key in the lock of
the vestibule door. As she swung the latter open she was pushed back
and two figures stepped across the threshold, closing the door behind
them. The first, a tall slender girl, her handsome fur coat covered
with snow, stopped halfway to the staircase and addressed Miss Ward.

"Where is Mr. Abbott?" she demanded. "And why have you kept us waiting
so long?"

"I presume the caretaker is still asleep," replied the nurse.
"Otherwise the door would have been opened more promptly. Mr. Abbott is
ill in bed. Very ill," she added, meeting the girl's imperious glance
with a steady gaze. "This is no hour for visitors for a sick man."

"Oh, the hour!" The girl turned disdainfully away. "I must see Mr.
Abbott; it is imperative. You are the nurse?" with a questioning glance
at her white uniform.

"Yes, and as such in charge of the sick room," crisply. "I cannot
permit--"

"Just a moment," broke in the girl's companion, who, until that
instant, had busied himself with closing both the vestibule and inner
front door. As he stepped closer and unbuttoned his heavy overcoat Miss
Ward caught a glimpse of his clerical dress. "This is Miss Elizabeth
Carter, Mr. Abbott's fiancée, and I am Dr. Nash of Washington. Miss
Carter received word that Mr. Abbott is alarmingly ill--"

"With small hope for his recovery." The words escaped Betty Carter
through quivering lips, and looking closely at her, Miss Ward
discovered her eyelashes wet with tears. "Don't keep us standing here
when time is so precious," and turning she ran up the staircase,
followed by the clergyman and Miss Ward.

An odd sound far down the corridor caused the nurse to hesitate before
accompanying the others into the sick room, and for several seconds she
stood poised outside the door, her head bent in a listening attitude.
The sound, whatever it was, and Miss Ward could have sworn it was a
faint whimper, was not repeated. She was thankful to turn from the
contemplation of the dark, winding corridor to the companionship of her
patient and his two belated visitors.

Dr. Nash had paused by the solitary lamp, but his efforts to induce it
to burn more brightly resulted in extinguishing it entirely, leaving
the bedroom illuminated by the firelight only. He turned at Miss Ward's
approach and addressed her in a low voice.

"Get the lamp from downstairs," he whispered. "This one is burned out."

Betty Carter, paying no attention to the others, halted by the bedside
just as Miss Ward started for the door.

"I've come, Paul," Miss Ward heard her say as she darted out of the
room. "I am here to keep my word. Dr. Nash is with me."

Miss Ward's mystification lent wings to her feet, but when she made the
turn of the last landing of the staircase her foot slipped on some snow
left on the hardwood by the clergyman's rubbers, and she went headlong
to the floor. Considerably shaken by her fall, it was some moments
before she could pull herself together and get to her feet. Taking up
the lamp with a hand not quite steady, she walked upstairs. As she
entered the bedroom she saw Betty Carter standing apparently just where
she had left her and Doctor Nash closing his prayerbook.

"... I pronounce you man and wife." The solemn words rang their meaning
into Miss Ward's ears as she took in the significance of the scene.
"Come, Betty, we have no time to linger," and stepping forward, Doctor
Nash laid his hand on the girl's arm.

With a gesture as if awakening from a dream, Betty Carter raised her
head and faced Miss Ward. The nurse almost cried out as she met the
full gaze of her tragic eyes.

"Surely you are not going?" she exclaimed. "Now--after--?"

"Yes." Betty's beauty was of an unusual type and Miss Ward's heart gave
a sympathetic throb as she came under the magnetism of her personality.
"We--I will be back," and before Miss Ward could gasp out a question,
she hurried swiftly from the room, the clergyman at her heels.

Her mind in a daze, Miss Ward stood in the doorway of the bedroom
holding the lighted lamp so that they might see their way to the
staircase, but her half-formed intention of carrying the lamp to the
head of the stairs altered when she saw that the clergyman was provided
with a powerful pocket searchlight. She stood where she was until she
heard the front door close with a distinct slam, then went thoughtfully
into the bedroom.

Placing the lamp on a small table by the side of the bed, she drew back
the curtain of the four-poster and looked down at the sick man. He lay
partly on one side, his eyes closed, and one hand tightly clenching the
eiderdown quilt. For one long minute Miss Ward regarded him, her senses
reeling.

The man lying in the bed was not her patient.




CHAPTER II

CAUGHT IN THE WEB


A LONG-DRAWN sigh cut the stillness. Slowly Miriam Ward raised her
head and struggled to a more upright position. Her limbs felt stiff
and cramped and she moved with difficulty. Without comprehension she
watched a beam of light creep from underneath a window curtain and
extend across the floor, its radiance widening as the sun rose higher
in the heavens. The current of air from the opened window blowing
indirectly upon her overcame her sense of suffocation, but her wild
stare about the bedroom did not bring recollection in its train. The
first thing to fix her attention was the fireplace and the darkened
hearth--no heat was given out by the dead embers. Suddenly conscious of
the chill atmosphere, she involuntarily grasped her dress and dragged
it closer about her neck. The touch of the starched linen caused her to
glance downward. She was wearing her uniform, therefore she was on duty!

Miriam Ward's dulled wits slowly adjusted themselves. She had reported
for duty at the Registry; a call had come--from where? To attend whom?
Roberts? No, that was the name of the physician. Ah, she had it--Paul
Abbott. The chord of memory was touched at last and the events of the
night crowded upon her. The man in the bed--

Stiffly Miriam scrambled to her feet and made a few halting steps to
the bedside. It took all her will-power to pull aside the bed curtains
and glance down. Paul Abbott lay partly turned upon his side, his fine
profile outlined against the white pillowcase, and his right hand just
showing outside the eiderdown quilt.

Miriam's hand tightened its grasp on the curtain and she leaned weakly
against the side of the bed; but for its support her trembling knees
would have given way under her. She had been the victim of a nightmare!
The midnight visit of Betty Carter and the clergyman, the substitution
of a stranger for her patient--all had been a hallucination conjured up
by a too vivid imagination. She had slept on duty. That, in itself, was
an unpardonable offense.

Raising her arm she glanced at her wrist watch--the hands registered
a quarter past eight. Then nearly nine hours had passed and she had
lain asleep. A wave of color suffused her white face and she grew hot
and cold by turns. Her heart was beating with suffocating rapidity as
she hurried to the windows and drew aside the long, heavy curtains and
pulled up the Holland shades. The storm of the night before was over
and the winter sunshine brought a touch of warmth to the room and a
sense of comfort.

A glance at the fireplace convinced Miriam that it would require both
time and fresh kindling wood to start a fire. It could wait until she
had summoned the caretaker; the room was not so cold now that she had
closed the window.

Retracing her footsteps she again paused by the bed and gazed at her
patient. He still lay on his side, motionless. Miriam Ward caught her
breath--motionless, aye, too motionless. A certain rigidity, a waxen
pallor, indistinguishable in her first glimpse of him in the darkened
room, held her eyes, trained to detect the slightest alteration in a
patient's condition. Her hand sought his wrist, then his heart, then
dropped limply to her side. Paul Abbott lay dead before her.

Her low cry was smothered in the bed curtain, which she pressed
against her mouth, and for a moment she swayed dizzily upon her feet.
Paul Abbott had died while she lay asleep within a few feet of his
bed. Overwhelming remorse deadened every other feeling and held her
spellbound. Fully five minutes elapsed before a sense of duty aroused
her to action.

Wheeling around, Miriam staggered rather than walked to the telephone
standing on Abbott's desk. She had jotted down Doctor Roberts' 'phone
call the night before, but it took her several seconds to get the
central at Washington, and still others passed before a man's voice
told her that the physician was out making his morning rounds. At her
urgent request the servant promised to locate Doctor Roberts and send
him at once to Abbott's Lodge.

As Miriam replaced the receiver on its hook she was conscious of a
feeling of deadly nausea and she stumbled as she walked across the
room and into the hall. She must have aid. Her repeated calls brought
no response. What had become of the caretaker and his wife? A noise of
some one moving in the hall below caused her to run down the staircase
to the lower landing.

"Here--here, this way!" she gasped, and saw vaguely outlined a woman's
terrified face in front of her while the sound of a heavy tread coming
down the staircase echoed in her ears. "Mr. Abbott--I--" Voice and
strength failed her simultaneously, and before any one could reach her
she lay in a crumpled heap on the landing, unconscious of the loud
ringing of the gong over the front door.

It was approaching noon when a timid knock at her bedroom door brought
Miriam Ward into the corridor and face to face with the caretaker's
wife.

"If you please, Miss, the doctor says do you feel better?" The question
came in a gasp, characteristic of Martha Corbin. A gray ghost of
a woman, timid to the verge of cowardice, she seldom spoke unless
addressed.

"Much better," replied the trained nurse. "Where is Doctor Roberts?"

"In there," with a jerk of her thumb over her shoulder. "He wants to
see ye."

"Very well." Miriam Ward closed her bedroom door with a firm hand. She
had regained some hold upon her composure as her attacks of nausea
ceased and the throbbing in her head lessened. Doctor Roberts had left
her two hours before with the admonition to remain in bed until he saw
her again, but her anxiety of mind had prevented her following his
directions. She paused involuntarily outside of Paul Abbott's bedroom,
then, gathering courage, she stepped inside. Doctor Roberts turned at
the sound of her approach and put down the telephone instrument.

"So you are up," he said gruffly. "Well, how are you? Feeling stronger?"

"Yes; thank you, Doctor." In spite of her determined effort to keep
her voice expressionless, Miriam was conscious that it was not quite
steady. "I--oh, Doctor, I don't know what to say." Her pent-up emotion
was gaining the upper hand. "How to tell you--"

"What?" as she paused.

"That--that--I slept on duty."

Doctor Roberts eyed her steadily for what seemed an interminable
minute. "So that was it," he remarked dryly. "Well, what then?"

The nurse's pallor was intensified, but her eyes did not falter in
their direct gaze.

"I was asleep when Mr. Abbott died," she admitted, her hands clenching
themselves in the pockets of her uniform.

Doctor Roberts' stare grew prolonged. "And this was your first case in
Washington?" he asked, with marked emphasis.

"Yes." Miriam Ward moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue.

"Hardly a successful début," commented Roberts. His glance strayed
beyond the nurse to a man standing in the shadow of a window curtain.
"Give Miss Ward a chair, Alan."

Somewhat startled by the presence of a third person, Miriam accepted
the proffered seat with relief; she was weaker than she had at first
realized.

"Miss Ward," continued Doctor Roberts, "this is Mr. Alan Mason, of the
Washington _Post_. He arrived here in time to carry you to your bedroom
and then summoned me."

Miriam glanced upward and encountered the gaze of a pair of deep blue
eyes fixed upon her in concern.

"You should not have gotten up," Alan declared, and the human sympathy
in his voice brought a lump in her throat. She saw his clear-cut
features, wavy dark hair, and whimsical mouth through a mist which she
strove to wink away. "I'm afraid you have overdone things a bit."

Miriam shook her head. "I could not rest in my bedroom," she said.
"There must be something that I can do, Doctor Roberts; unless you
distrust me too much." Her voice shook with feeling, and she paused
abruptly, unable to go on.

The two men exchanged glances, then Roberts rose. "There, there!" he
exclaimed, a trifle awkwardly. "Just take things quietly, Miss Ward,
while Alan asks you a few questions. It is his business, you know."

"Just so." Alan Mason nodded reassuringly. "I'm a reporter and also a
cousin of Paul's; in fact, his nearest relative. How did Paul seem last
night--before you fell asleep?"

"He--" Her pause was infinitesimal. "He appeared much excited, even
irrational, but at times his mind was perfectly clear. He took a little
nourishment." She stopped and passed one hand before her eyes. Her
dreams still haunted her. Could she truthfully say where imagination
had dovetailed with reality? Was Betty Carter's visit, her marriage to
Paul Abbott but a figment of her overcharged brain? Would her hearers
think her a lunatic as well as criminally negligent if she went into
details?

Doctor Roberts broke the pause. "I have looked over your chart," he
stated, "and find that the last entry was made soon after midnight. You
made no record of any marked change in his condition."

Miriam swallowed hard. "The collapse must have come suddenly," she
said. "At what time do you think he died?"

Roberts eyed her in silence for a minute. "Come over to the bed," he
directed, and not waiting for her, turned on his heel.

The long side curtains of the four-post bedstead were stretched across
it, and as Miriam laid her hand on one of them to draw it aside, Alan
Mason checked her.

"I found this wad of cotton under the bed," he began. "Had you any
occasion last night to use chloroform?"

"No." Miriam looked at him in startled wonder. "No."

"Then," Roberts scanned her closely, "how comes it that you, a trained
nurse, are unaware that you were chloroformed?"

Slowly Miriam took in the meaning of his words. "Chloroformed?" she
gasped. "_I?_"

It was Alan Mason who answered and not Doctor Roberts. "I detected the
odor of chloroform when I carried you to your bedroom," he said. "So
then I came in here--found my cousin, Paul, dead--and this cotton under
the bed."

Miriam stared at her companions in dumbfounded silence for a moment.
"My attack of nausea--" she faltered.

"Was the result of the chloroform," declared Doctor Roberts. His voice
deepened. "We also detected its odor about Paul Abbott."

"Good God!" Miriam drew back. "Was Mr. Abbott anesthetized?"

Roberts' gaze never left her face in the lengthened pause.

"In Heaven's name, why don't you answer?" Miriam looked piteously from
one man to the other. "Was Mr. Abbott chloroformed?"

"No," replied Roberts. "He was stabbed in the back."

Dragging aside the curtains, Miriam gazed in horror at the bed. The
bedclothes had been pulled back and Paul Abbott lay upon his face.
Under his left shoulder blade was a dark and sinister bloodstain.




CHAPTER III

COMPLICATIONS


ALAN MASON stopped his restless pacing back and forth and looked at his
watch--two o'clock. Surely, the autopsy must be over! He had waited
for what appeared an interminable time for the County coroner, his
assistant and Doctor Roberts to join him in the living room as they
had promised. The afternoon papers would soon be off the press and
distributed to the public; it would not be long before the reporters
from the other local papers and even the representatives of the great
news services located in the National Capital would be at Abbott's
Lodge in search of the sensational. And they would find it! Alan's
lips were compressed in a hard line. Only six months before he and his
cousin, Paul Abbott, had been the closest of "buddies," then had come
the estrangement and now death.

Paul had been a social favorite, liked by one and all, and while he
had absented himself from Washington during the past year, his tragic
death would come as a great shock to his many friends. And Betty
Carter--what of her? Alan raised his hands to his temples and brushed
his unruly hair upward until it stood on end. The action did not bring
any solution of his problems, and with a groan he resumed his restless
walk about the living room.

In remodeling the house, Paul Abbott, Senior, had thrown several small
rooms into one, also taking down the partitions which inclosed the
old-fashioned square staircase, and made the whole into a combination
of hallway and living room. He had shown excellent taste in furnishing
the old house, using in most instances the mahogany which had been in
the family for generations, and when necessary to purchase other pieces
of furniture he had hunted in highways and byways for genuine antiques.

But Alan was in no frame of mind to appreciate rare pieces of
Hepplewhite, Sheraton, and Chippendale. Tired of the monotony of his
surroundings, he strolled into the dining room and walked moodily
across it, intending to pour out a glass of water from a carafe on
the sideboard. The room was square in shape, with two bow windows and
a door leading into a sunparlor which, in summer, the elder Abbott
had used as a breakfast room, as the large pantry gave access into it
as well as into the regular dining room. From where he stood by the
sideboard, Alan could overlook, through one of the bow windows, the
garden entrance to the sunparlor. The snow had formed in high drifts,
covering completely the rosebushes which, as he recollected, surrounded
a plot of grass in the center of which stood an old sundial. It also
was blanketed in snow.

As he gazed idly out of the window, Alan saw the door of the sunparlor
swing slowly outward. The piled-up snow caused it to jam and he watched
with some amusement the efforts of Corbin, the caretaker, to squeeze
his portly frame through the partly open door. Once outside Corbin
used his snow shovel with vigorous strokes until he had cleared the
topmost step. Closing the door to the sunparlor, he leaned his shovel
against it, took out his pipe, lighted it, tossed away the match, and
drawing on his woolen mitts, he wiped the snow from one of the panes
of window glass. Pausing deliberately he glanced about him, and then,
cupping his hands, he pressed them against the window and peered inside
the sunparlor. Something furtive in the man's action claimed Alan's
attention, and he drew back into the protection of the window curtain.
The precaution was unnecessary. Corbin straightened up and without a
glance at the dining room window, took from his pocket a small metal
case. Whatever its contents it drew a smile so evil that Alan stared
at the man aghast. He had not been prepossessed in the man's favor on
the few occasions when visiting Paul Abbott, Senior, and his son before
the war, and had wondered at Paul retaining him in his employ after his
father's death.

Returning the case to his pocket, Corbin cleaned the snow from the
remaining steps and commenced to shovel a path toward the kitchen. He
had almost completed the distance when he paused, stared thoughtfully
around him, and then walked back to the sunparlor, clambered
cumbersomely up the steps to the door and again peered inside. Fully
two minutes passed before he stepped down and walked along the shoveled
path.

His curiosity piqued by the man's behavior, Alan waited until Corbin
had disappeared from sight, then, turning on his heel, he entered
the sunparlor. Evidently Paul had used the room as a lounge, for
the wicker furniture, with its attractive cretonne covering, looked
homelike and comfortable. Magazines, several books, and a smoking set
were on the nearest table, while flower boxes on two sides of the
sunparlor added a touch of the tropics, with their hothouse plants.
Alan walked past a wicker sofa and several wing chairs grouped at one
end and halted abruptly at sight of Miriam Ward lying asleep in one of
the long lounging chairs. She had not heard him enter, for she slept
on--the deep sleep, as Alan judged from her heavy breathing, of utter
exhaustion.

Alan turned and stared about the sunparlor. Except for himself and the
trained nurse, the room was empty. What then had absorbed Corbin's
attention? Could it have been Miss Ward? He easily detected the
particular pane of glass through which the caretaker had peered so
intently. Miss Ward was seated directly in its line of vision. What was
there about the nurse to make Corbin evince such interest in her?

Alan drew a step closer and stared at the sleeping girl with critical
eyes. A little above the medium height of women, slender, well
proportioned, her small feet shod in perfectly fitting low white
shoes, which showed a very pretty ankle, she lay snuggled down in
the cushions. He noted the clear olive of her skin, the deep dimple,
almost a cleft, in her chin, the long, heavy lashes, the delicate arch
of her finely marked eyebrows, and the soft and abundant hair, which
she wore low on her forehead. He judged her to be not over twenty-six
and wondered at the pathetic droop of her small mouth. Even in repose
there was a suggestion of sadness, of hidden tragedy in her face which,
recalling the beauty of her dark eyes, rekindled the interest he had
felt in Miriam Ward at their first meeting.

His impulse to awaken her was checked by the thought that she needed
the nap--probably the first sound sleep that she had had since coming
on the case. It would be cruel to awaken her unnecessarily. Turning
about he tiptoed back into the dining room. The sound of his name being
softly called caused him to hasten into the living room. Looking up
the staircase he saw Doctor Roberts leaning over the banisters and
beckoning to him. Taking the stairs two at a time, Alan was by his side
in an instant.

"Well," he asked breathlessly. "What news? Have you performed the
autopsy?"

"Yes. Come into Paul's bedroom," and as he spoke Roberts led the way
across the hall.

Two men were in the bedroom and they both glanced around at the opening
of the door. The County Coroner, Doctor James Dixon, Alan knew but
slightly; the other, Guy Trenholm, had been his companion on many a
hunting trip in the past. Trenholm was of giant stature, with the arms
and brawn of the prize ring. There was a certain look in his gray eyes,
however, which indicated power of mind as well as physical strength.
The son of the town drunkard, Trenholm had spent the first twenty years
of his life doing odd chores for the farmers thereabouts and gaining a
checkered education, finally acquiring enough money to see him through
four years at the University of Maryland. He had been one of the first
to enlist upon the entrance of the United States into the World War
and at its close had returned to Upper Marlboro with an established
record as a "first class fighting man." For nearly a year he had held
the office of county sheriff. He greeted Alan with a silent nod and a
handclasp, the strength of which made the latter wince.

"Hello, Mason!" exclaimed Coroner Dixon, hustling forward. "I'd no idea
you were in these parts again. Your cousin's death is most distressing."

"And a great shock," added Alan soberly. "I was very fond of Paul. We
were pals, you know."

"I understood that you two had quarreled," broke in Roberts, then
observing Alan's frown, he added hastily: "Forgive me, I did not mean
to hurt you by alluding to a painful incident."

"Whatever my feeling in the past, I can harbor no resentment now,"
retorted Alan, his quick temper ruffled by Roberts' mention of an
unhappy memory. "Well, gentlemen, what is the result of the autopsy?"

"Are you asking as a newspaper man or as next of kin?" inquired Coroner
Dixon, regarding Alan's flushed countenance attentively.

"As Paul's cousin," quickly. "Whatever you tell me I will consider
strictly confidential."

"In that case,"--Dixon selected a chair--"we held the autopsy in a
spare bedroom at the back of the house," observing Alan's eyes stray
toward the four-post bedstead, the curtains of which still remained
drawn. "The undertaker and his assistants are there now." He sat
back and regarded Alan. "We can consult together here without being
disturbed. As you know, Mr. Abbott had been ill for several days with
an attack of bronchitis and threatened pneumonia; this, coupled with
heart complications, made his condition very serious."

"But did either cause his death?" asked Alan.

"No," responded the coroner. "We probed the wound in his back and
found that the weapon had penetrated the left lung. In his weakened
condition, death must have been instantaneous."

Alan drew a long breath. "So the wound really was fatal!" he exclaimed.
"The lack of much blood led me to believe that possibly the weapon had
not struck a vital point."

"The hemorrhage was internal." Coroner Dixon's expression grew more
serious. "There is no doubt, Mason, but that your cousin was murdered."

Alan passed his hand across his eyes. "My God!" he groaned. "Who
harbored such animosity against Paul and how was the murder committed?"

"That is what we have to find out," cut in Sheriff Trenholm. "Where is
the nurse who was with Mr. Abbott last night, Doctor Roberts?"

"In her room, I presume--"

"No, she is asleep downstairs," interrupted Alan hastily. "Shall I call
her?" A nod from Trenholm was his only answer, and Alan hurried from
the room, but at the head of the staircase he caught a glimpse of a
white skirt disappearing around the further corner of the hall and he
changed his direction. He caught up with Miriam Ward just as she was
turning the knob of a closed door, a number of towels in her left hand.

"You are wanted by the coroner," he explained, as she stopped at sight
of him.

Miriam grew a shade paler. "Very well," she replied, "But first--" she
handed the towels to the undertaker and closed the door again. "Where
is the coroner, Mr. Mason?"

"In my cousin's old bedroom." Alan suited his long stride to her
shorter one. "I hope you feel a bit rested," glancing down at her
with some concern, but it was doubtful if she heard his remark, her
attention being centered on a figure coming up the staircase. Alan
stopped short as he recognized the newcomer and his face grew stern.

"Betty!" he exclaimed.

She stared at him for a long moment, then without a word of any kind
she walked by them and through the bedroom door near which Doctor
Roberts was standing, waiting to greet her. Without halting Betty made
at once for the four-post bedstead.

"Wait, Betty!" Alan had gained her side and laid a compelling hand on
her arm. "Paul is not there."

Betty regarded him in utter silence, then faced about and looked at the
small group in the bedroom.

"Paul is dead--dead!" she spoke with great difficulty, one hand
plucking always at the collar of her fur coat. "You shall not keep
me from him. You--" for a second her blazing eyes scanned Sheriff
Trenholm--"you dare not."

"Hush, Betty!" Roberts took the overwrought girl's hand in his. "You
shall see Paul later, dear, that I promise you. Sit down and calm
yourself."

"I have your word?" Betty's great eyes never left Roberts. "I shall see
Paul?"

"Yes. There, sit down," as Miriam Ward pulled forward a chair.

"Perhaps the young lady had better withdraw to another room," suggested
Coroner Dixon. "We are about to start an investigation--"

"An investigation?" Betty's high-pitched voice, carrying a warning note
of approaching hysteria to Miriam Ward's watchful ears, reached to the
hall beyond and a figure crouching near the bedroom door, which had
been inadvertently left open a few inches, leaned forward, the better
to catch what was transpiring in the room. "What do you mean, sir?"

Coroner Dixon contemplated her for a second in silence. Betty's unusual
beauty generally commanded attention, but something in her expression
focused the Coroner's regard rather than her good looks, marred as they
were by deep circles under her eyes and haggard lines about her mouth.
He answered her question with another.

"Your name, madam?" he asked. "And your relation to the dead man?"

"This is Miss Betty Carter," broke in Doctor Roberts. "Mr. Abbott's
fiancée."

"Is it so?" Coroner Dixon's interest quickened. "Then Mr. Abbott--"

"Was very dear to me." Betty's tone had grown husky. "I must know all
about his death." Her gaze swept Guy Trenholm, standing somewhat in the
background. "It is my right."

Coroner Dixon turned and glanced in doubt at Trenholm. At the latter's
reassuring nod he faced about.

"Very well, Miss Carter," he began. "Since you insist I will tell you
what we have learned." He cleared his voice before continuing. "Judging
by the condition of the body, Mr. Abbott died between one-thirty this
morning and three o'clock. He was stabbed."

"Stabbed!" With a convulsive movement Betty gained her feet, her face
deadly white. "_Stabbed!_"

Doctor Roberts laid a soothing hand on hers. "Be quiet, Betty," he
cautioned. "Or you will have to go and lie down."

She shook off his hand. "Go on," she directed, and the urgency of her
tone caused Dixon to speak more rapidly.

"Mr. Abbott was stabbed in the back," he stated. "We know no more than
that, at present."

Without taking her gaze from the coroner, Betty resumed her seat. Then
she turned to Roberts. "I heard yesterday that Paul was very ill, and
that you were attending him professionally. Were you with him last
night?"

"Yes; until Miss Ward came and then I put her in charge of the case,"
replied Roberts. "She can tell you what happened after my departure."

Miriam Ward faced their concentrated regard with outward composure.
Caught by chance in the web of circumstance, she was keenly alive to
her unhappy share in the tragic occurrences of the night before. Having
a high regard for her profession and throwing her heart and soul into
her work she felt, however little she had been to blame, that the
stigma of neglect of a patient would be laid at her door.

"Before leaving, Doctor Roberts gave me full instructions," she began.
"And I carried them out. My chart shows that--"

"But your last entry was made shortly after midnight," pointed out
Sheriff Trenholm, picking up the chart from the table at his elbow.
"Why was that, Miss Ward?"

"I was interrupted by the arrival of Miss Carter," she replied, and
the unexpected answer brought a startled exclamation from three of her
companions; then their gaze left the nurse and centered on Betty. The
latter raised her eyes and regarded the trained nurse. If chiseled
from marble, her white face could not have been more devoid of human
expression.

"God bless my soul!" ejaculated Doctor Roberts. "What were you doing
here, Betty?"

The girl paid not the slightest attention to him; instead she addressed
Miriam, and the others were startled at her tone.

"Go on with your story," she said. "Speak quickly," with a glance at
her wrist watch. "Time is passing."

"Miss Carter was accompanied by a clergyman." Miriam spoke more slowly,
weighing her words. "I--I"--she hesitated for a brief moment--"I cannot
recall his name--"

"Continue," directed Dixon, as she paused. "Did Miss Carter and her
companion see Mr. Abbott?"

"I think they did;" she hesitated. "I feel sure they did--"

"Why are you in doubt about it?" demanded Trenholm quickly. "Weren't
you in the room with them?"

Miriam shook her head. "Not all the time," she admitted. "The clergyman
sent me downstairs to get a lamp as the one in this room had burned
out. When I came back--"

"Yes--what then?" Sheriff Trenholm could not restrain his impatience at
her slow speech.

"The clergyman had just completed the marriage service."

Her words created a sensation. Doctor Roberts' eyes fairly started
from his head, and Alan Mason's excited ejaculation drowned Dixon's
more softly spoken exclamation. Only Guy Trenholm gave no voice to
his feelings. With eyes fixed steadfastly upon Betty, he remained as
emotionless apparently as she.

"What transpired next?" inquired Dixon.

"They left," tersely. Miriam's heart was beating quickly, and her cold
fingers were playing a devil's tattoo on the arm of her chair. Before
she could say more, Betty leaned forward and held up her hand.

"Just a moment!" She spoke slowly, distinctly. "What were you, a
trained nurse, doing when your patient was stabbed to death?"

Miriam whitened, but faced her questioner with quiet courage.

"I was lying near the bed unconscious," she admitted, "having been
chloroformed."

Betty rose to her feet. "I have heard that a person under the influence
of chloroform or ether is subject to hallucinations," she said. "I
prefer to believe that than to think you are demented."

"Demented!" Miriam sprang up, her eyes flashing with indignation.

Betty addressed Sheriff Trenholm directly, ignoring the others.
"The nurse is either demented or drawing upon her imagination," she
declared. "I was not here last night." She faced Miriam and her glance
was impersonal, unfaltering. "Nor have I ever seen you before."




CHAPTER IV

THE BLACK CREST


MARTHA CORBIN laid down the brass fire tongs and turned to
look at the wood-basket by the hearth. The logs were both long and
heavy. Before attempting to lift one her attention was caught by the
sound of a familiar lagging footstep going in the direction of the back
hall.

"You, Charlie," she called, shrilly. "Come 'ere and fix this fire."

A snarl was his only response, and a second later a door banged shut
behind her amiable spouse. Martha's thin lips compressed into a hard
line. Stooping over she tugged and pulled at the topmost log and
finally lifted it up. She let it fall in the center of the burning
wood and then rested one hand against the stone chimney to get her
breath. It was some seconds before she felt able to take up the hearth
brush and sweep the ashes back under the andirons. That successfully
accomplished she dropped on one knee and held her chilled hands up to
the blaze. She was grateful for the heat.

As she crouched there the firelight, which alone illuminated the
living room at Abbott's Lodge, cast fantastic shadows on her
face, exaggerating her fixed expression to one of almost fierce
determination. Still in her early forties, Martha Corbin had once been
extremely pretty, but ill health had destroyed her good looks and
whitened her hair, which, worn straight back, intensified the gray
pallor of her appearance.

Her prolonged stare at the fire wavered finally, caught by a piece of
white paper protruding from a crack in the tiled hearth. One end was
singed, but it had fallen on the outer edge of the bed of hot ashes
and escaped entire destruction. Reaching down she picked up the piece
and turned it over. It was evidently the upper right-hand corner of an
envelope, for the flap still bore traces of glue as well as a perfectly
formed black seal--the wax unbroken except at the edges. Martha had no
chance to read the printed lines on the reverse of the paper.

"What have ye there?" demanded Corbin over her shoulder and seized her
roughly.

With surprising swiftness she broke from his grasp and got to her feet.

"A bit of torn paper," she replied; "from the scrap basket, there,"
touching it with her foot. "I was emptying it in the fire."

"And didn't the sheriff say you wasn't to touch nothing?" She met his
alarmed look with a timid shrug of her shoulders. "Have ye no sense at
all?"

Martha favored him with a blank stare as she stood twisting her hands
in her apron.

"I had to build up the fire," she mumbled. "'Twas only an old newspaper
and such like rubbish."

"Ye hadn't oughter touched it," he growled. "Suppose Sheriff Trenholm
or one of his men ask for the basket?"

"Well, here 'tis." With a swift glance about them, she darted over to
a chair and taking up a newspaper lying upon it, crumpled it up and
thrust it into the scrap basket. Hurrying to the mahogany desk she
jerked open one of the drawers and drew out a bundle of letters and
tossed it into the basket also.

"Have a care, Martha!" exclaimed Corbin, who had followed her rapid
movements in startled silence. "There's to be a search and everything
in Abbott's Lodge examined by the sheriff."

"He'll find the newspaper and the letters in the scrap basket as easy
as if they were on the chair or in the drawer," she remarked, smiling
shrewdly. "'Twon't matter _where_ they find 'em." She smoothed down the
torn hem of her large apron and drew closer to her husband. "What do ye
'spose he done with it?"

"Sh!" He clapped his scarred hand across her lips. "Hold your tongue,
woman. They'll hear, mebbe."

"Nobody to hear," she replied tersely, drawing away from him. "Mr. Alan
is seeing Coroner Dixon off and Miss Betty Carter is still upstairs in
the room with _him_!" She shivered. "Ain't it _awful_ the way she's
taking on?"

Corbin nodded, half absently, his eyes intent on scanning the living
room and its staircase at its other end.

"Surprising, after we know what happened," he admitted, speaking in
little more than a whisper. "But, recollect, Martha, 'tain't up to us
to _talk_. If ye do"--His look caused her to catch her breath. "Well,
ye know what's coming to ye. Ye understand"--and he seized her arm and
turned it until she winced with pain.

"Leave me be!" She winced again as Corbin, with a final twist, released
her arm. "You've no call to handle me so."

Corbin's only answer was a vicious scowl and Martha shrank back, one
hand to her trembling lips.

"I don't need to speak twice," he commented. "_You_ know me."

She nodded dumbly as she retreated behind a chair.

"Did ye hear when the nurse was leaving?" she asked.

The question went unanswered as Corbin, his attention attracted by
voices on the floor above, slipped noiselessly down the passageway
through which he had entered some minutes earlier unseen by his wife.
Left to her own devices, Martha picked up a box of matches and lighted
one of the lamps. She had succeeded in adjusting the wick when she
looked up and caught sight of Betty Carter regarding her from the lower
landing of the staircase.

"Light the others," Betty directed. "All of them--every
one"--indicating with a wave of her hand the standing lamp at the
foot of the stairs and several reading lamps placed on small tables
near comfortable lounging chairs where Paul Abbott and his guests
had been wont to pass the long winter evenings. Betty waited on the
stair landing until her peremptory order had been carried out, then
slowly approached the fireplace. She turned back on reaching there and
addressed Martha.

"Take my coat," she said, extending it. "And my hat"--She removed it as
she spoke. "And prepare a bedroom for me."

"A what, Miss?"

"A bedroom. I propose staying here to-night."

Martha gazed at her as if she had not heard aright. "Here, Miss?" she
faltered. "Here?"

"Certainly." Betty regarded the frightened woman more attentively.
"Do as I tell you." Her sharp tone aroused Martha from her startled
contemplation of her. "You can take my hat and coat upstairs as you go
and hang them in the bedroom closet. Come, what's the matter with you?"

"Nothing, Miss, nothing." Martha reached out a reluctant hand and took
the proffered coat and hat, then without further word she hastened up
the staircase. So great was her speed that she stumbled breathlessly
into a bedroom halfway down the corridor of the second floor, the door
of which stood partly open.

Miriam Ward turned at her unceremonious entrance and regarded her in
astonishment.

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed at the woman's pallor. "Are you ill?"

Martha shook her head as she advanced to the closet and, opening the
door, disappeared inside, to reappear the next instant, empty-handed.

"No, ma'am, I ain't ill," she volunteered, resting one hand on the
chair-back. "But I think she are."

"She? Who?"

"Miss Betty Carter." Martha breathed more easily. "She says she is
going to stay here all night."

Miriam stared at the woman. "Well, what of it?" she asked. "Why
shouldn't she stay if she wishes to?"

"All by her lonesome and Mr. Paul lying here dead!" Martha's voice of
disapproval registered a higher key than her usual monotone. "Who is
going to watch after her? That is," catching herself up, "look after
her?"

"You, I suppose," replied Miriam. "Are you not accustomed to doing the
housework?"

"Sure." Martha's voice grew more natural. "And Mr. Paul always said I
was a prime cook. Say, Miss Ward, ye ain't going, are ye?"

"Very shortly, yes." Miriam Ward returned to the table on which
stood her leather bag which she had been packing when interrupted by
Martha, and laid in it her neatly folded white uniform. The metal
case containing hypodermic syringe, thermometer, and small phials of
stimulants was next tucked carefully inside, and then Miriam closed and
locked the bag. "Have you seen Doctor Roberts recently?"

Martha shook her head. "He is still about the place with Mr. Alan,"
she responded. She cocked an inquisitive eye at Miriam and took in
appraisingly her trim, well-cut wool house gown. She had a dim,
preconceived notion that all nurses were dowdy, and to find Miriam
a becomingly dressed, extremely pretty, well-bred young woman was a
distinct novelty. "Are ye going into Washington with Doctor Roberts?"

"Yes. He asked me to wait for him." Miriam was conscious of a feeling
of repulsion under the steady stare of Martha's oddly matched eyes--the
iris of one was a pale blue, while the other was a deep brown. "I have
not slept in the bed, Martha; so it is not necessary for you to remake
it"--as the housekeeper laid her hand on the white counterpane. "But
perhaps it would be just as well to have your husband bring up more
wood. The room is a trifle chilly."

"There's some in the wood box in the hall; I'll get it"--and before
Miriam could utter a remonstrance, Martha had hurried away. She was
back again in an instant, her arms full of small blocks of cord wood.
Not waiting for Miriam's quickly proffered assistance, she let them
fall clumsily on the hearth, and then gazed aghast at a long rent in
her apron in which still hung a sliver of wood. Her name, called with
loud insistence in her husband's unmistakable accents, caused her to
start violently. Pausing only long enough to untie her apron and toss
it aside, she hurried from the room, jostling Miriam in her haste to be
gone.

Miriam stood in thought for a few seconds, then moved over to the pier
glass and put on her hat. She regretted having accepted Doctor Roberts'
invitation to drive to the city with him. Had she followed her own
inclination, she would have ordered a taxicab immediately after her
scene with Betty Carter and departed. But, confused by Betty's, to her,
incomprehensible behavior, she had listened to Coroner Dixon's urgent
request that she remain a few hours longer at Abbott's lodge, until, as
he expressed it, Betty had had time to pull herself together. Coroner
Dixon hinted that hysteria explained her conduct. Miriam's expression
grew more thoughtful. The shock of finding her lover dead might account
for much, but was that _alone_ responsible for Betty's denial of her
midnight visit to Abbott's Lodge?

Sheriff Trenholm had summed up the situation in one brief
sentence--"It's one girl's word against the other."

And she, "the other girl," was unknown and without money, while Betty
had hosts of friends and an assured position in the world!

If she could only recall the name of the clergyman who had accompanied
Betty! He would substantiate her statement. But try as she did to
clearly remember each event of the night, his name eluded her.
Undoubtedly the chloroform, with which she had been anesthetized, had
much to do with her loss of memory. With proper rest, its effects would
undoubtedly wear off; until then--

Miriam fingered the string of blue beads, which she was wearing,
nervously. Neither Coroner Dixon nor Sheriff Trenholm had given her an
inkling as to whether they really placed faith in her statement. They
had listened with deep interest and without comment. In the face of
their silence, she had hesitated to tell them of finding a strange man
and not her patient in Abbott's bed just before she lost consciousness.
With no proof to offer them, she feared the hard-headed Sheriff would
consider her demented indeed.

Turning from the mirror, Miriam walked across the bedroom toward the
chair on which she had laid her coat and inadvertently trod on Martha's
discarded apron. As she lifted it up, intending to put it on the chair,
a piece of paper rolled out of a rip in the hem of the apron and fell
at her feet. Instinctively Miriam stooped over and picked up the paper,
but instead of laying it down on top of the apron, she continued to
hold it in front of her, her eyes caught by a black seal. The wax
impression of the crest was distinct and unmistakable. With a sharp
intake of her breath, Miriam turned over the half burned envelope. The
Canadian postage was intact, but the name of the person to whom the
envelope had been addressed was entirely burned away.

Miriam continued to regard the piece of envelope with fixed intentness.
Slowly she deciphered the blurred postmark--it bore a recent date, of
that she was positive--but then, how came the black crest upon any
letter? Who dared to use it? Miriam was conscious of a feeling of icy
coldness not due to the temperature of the room.

An authoritative tap on her door brought the red blood to her white
cheeks with a rush and as Alan Mason looked inside the room at her
low-voiced, "Come in," he was struck by her air of distinction and the
direct gaze of her hazel eyes, which were her chief beauty.

"Doctor Roberts is about to leave," he said. "Let me carry your bag,"
as she made a motion toward it, "and your coat." Not listening to her
murmured protest, he gathered up her things and waited for her to
precede him through the doorway.

Miriam's hesitation was imperceptible. Opening her handbag she dropped
the half burned envelope inside it, then composedly walked down the
corridor. At the head of the staircase she paused and addressed her
companion.

"Have they made any plans for the funeral?" she asked.

"It is postponed until after the preliminary hearing of the inquest,"
Alan replied, keeping his voice lowered.

"And has that been called?"

He nodded. "For to-morrow morning, I understand. There is some
technicality which is causing unexpected delay." They were almost at
the bottom of the stairs when he caught sight of Betty Carter standing
in front of the fireplace talking to Doctor Roberts. Alan ceased
speaking with such abruptness that he drew an inquiring glance from
Miriam, of which he was totally unaware. Doctor Roberts gave her no
time for thought, however. Coming hastily forward, he reached her side
in time to help her on with her coat.

"I am sorry to have kept you waiting," he said. "But there were certain
matters.... Bless my soul, Alan, more reporters!" as the gong over the
front door sounded with startling suddenness. "Betty, my dear," turning
to address the silent girl by the fireplace, "you had better disappear
if you don't wish to be interviewed."

"I'll see them; don't worry," exclaimed Alan, as he swung open the
front door. But instead of the anticipated reporters, he was confronted
by a small familiar figure bundled up in expensive furs. "Mrs. Nash!"

"Just so!" Mrs. Nash lowered the high collar of her coat as she came
further into the living room, and collapsed in the nearest chair. "Let
me get my breath. Dear me, I'm half frozen!" and she chafed one cold
hand over the other. "Come here, Betty, and help me off with these
things."

"Why, Aunt Dora!" Betty hastened to her side. "How imprudent of you to
come all the way out here! You will surely be ill."

"I haven't a doubt of it," declared Mrs. Nash, through chattering
teeth. "I got out of a sick bed to come here, and Pierre, the wretch,
ran out of gasoline a mile away and I had to walk through the snow or
sit in the car and freeze to death. Good gracious, Alan! don't stand
there looking at me; get me something warm to drink. I am having a
chill."

"A hot water bag, also," added Doctor Roberts, hastening to her
assistance as Mrs. Nash struggled out of her coat.

"I can find whisky more easily than the latter," answered Alan, and
sped for the dining room. Miriam Ward was close behind him and helped
him pour out a generous allowance from the carefully concealed decanter.

"I saw a hot water bag hanging in your cousin's bathroom," she said. "I
will get it and have it filled if you will give this stimulant to Mrs.
Nash." She paused by the door. "Is Mrs. Nash's husband a clergyman?"

"Yes. Why?" glancing keenly at her flushed cheeks.

"Nothing--that is," avoiding his gaze. "Don't keep Mrs. Nash waiting,"
as she hurried away with a fast beating heart. She had recalled the
name of Betty's companion on her midnight visit to Paul Abbott--Doctor
Nash.

Mrs. Nash accepted the proffered whisky with relief. "I need a bracer,"
she admitted. "Indeed, Betty, the shocking news of poor Paul's untimely
death bowled me over; and then to be told that you had raced out here
in a hired taxi, without either your uncle or me,--it--it--took my
breath away." A shiver which she could not check shook her from head to
foot and Doctor Roberts helped her to a couch, while Betty brought a
heavy laprobe and threw it over her aunt. As she turned away Mrs. Nash
caught Doctor Roberts' coat sleeve and motioned to him to bend down.

"Is it really true," she questioned him in a whisper, "that Paul has
been murdered?"

"Yes. Hush, no details now," as Miriam approached the couch. He
addressed her in his customary tone of voice. "Ah, a hot water bag;
just the thing. You are fortunate, Mrs. Nash, in having a trained nurse
right here at your elbow."

"Thank you!" Mrs. Nash's piercing black eyes took in Miriam's
appearance in a pronounced stare. She permitted Miriam to make herself
more comfortable, before addressing her again. "Have you been nursing
Mr. Abbott?"

"Yes." Miriam stepped back from the couch and turned to Doctor Roberts.
"I think I had better telephone for a taxi."

"And my aunt can return to Washington with you," broke in Betty Carter
as she joined the small group. "It will be an excellent arrangement."

"I make my own plans, thank you," retorted Mrs. Nash, whose high color
betokened a touch of temper. "Do you suppose that with this attack of
flu I can venture out of doors again?"

"You don't mean to say you propose to spend the night here?" asked
Alan, returning in time to hear her last remark.

"Certainly. My husband and I have been frequent visitors, and I know
there are plenty of bedrooms."

"But, my dear Aunt, suppose you get sick?" Betty gazed at her in utter
disapproval.

"I am sick already," declared Mrs. Nash. "Chills and fever--where's
your thermometer, Doctor?"

Roberts looked grave as he prepared the small instrument for her.

"Your niece is right," he said. "This country place is isolated
from Washington in winter, and with illness--" he paused to put the
thermometer in Mrs. Nash's mouth; then he addressed Betty. "I think you
also had better change your plan, and return to Washington."

"I am the best judge of what I should do," she huffed and turned away.
Roberts eyed her in speculative silence as he took out his fountain pen
and wrote a prescription.

Alan, who had been watching Betty also, turned to Miriam. "Where
can the coroner reach you?" he asked. "You have not given me your
address? Or let me have your bill?" he added, lowering his voice to a
confidential pitch.

Miriam colored warmly; the commercial side of her profession always
embarrassed her. "I was engaged for an eighteen-hour duty," she
stammered. "I suppose the charge is seven dollars."

Alan drew out his wallet and pressed some bills into her hand. "And
your address?" he asked eagerly.

"You can always reach me through Central Registry," and with a nod of
gratitude she passed him to go to the telephone.

From her couch, Mrs. Nash watched her opportunity. With a gesture of
surprising quickness she removed the thermometer from her mouth and
tucked it unseen against the hot water bottle. When Doctor Roberts
closed his notebook and turned back to her, the thermometer was once
again held firmly between her lips. He took it out, looked at it twice,
and then at Mrs. Nash's scarlet countenance.

"Miss Ward," he called, and his voice was grave. "Don't order a taxi--I
think that you had better remain and prepare a bedroom for Mrs. Nash,"
and then, in an undertone, as Miriam gained his side, "it will never do
to take Mrs. Nash out in this weather--her temperature reads 103°."




CHAPTER V

SHERIFF TRENHOLM ASKS QUESTIONS


A DISTINCT and unmistakable snore from the bed caused Miriam to
approach her patient. Mrs. Nash, her head unevenly balanced between
two pillows, was at last asleep. To place her in a more comfortable
position would undoubtedly awaken her, and Miriam backed away on tiptoe
from the bedside. She had spent three weary hours at Mrs. Nash's beck
and call; she had run every conceivable errand the sick woman's fancy
had dictated, had prepared her for bed, and finally induced her, on
threat of departure, to swallow the medicine prescribed by Doctor
Roberts.

Martha's scanty wardrobe could not provide clothing for Mrs. Nash,
and the housekeeper had been dispatched to Upper Marlboro, the county
seat, in the Nash limousine which had finally put in an appearance, to
purchase such necessities as the country stores could supply. Betty
Carter had taken little part in the discussion, contenting herself
with the request that Martha buy a wrapper, bedroom slippers, and a
night dress and bring them at once to her room, whereupon she had gone
upstairs and locked her door. Martha had carried her dinner to her upon
her return from the shopping expedition.

Miriam had been too intent upon her professional duties to pay much
attention to the other members of the small party, but she had gathered
from Martha's remarks that Alan Mason and Doctor Roberts had left for
Upper Marlboro in the latter's car shortly after dinner. Martha, with
a sidelong glance which Miriam was beginning to associate with the
housekeeper's personality, had overheard Alan tell her husband that he
would return in time to "sit up with Mr. Paul."

"Ain't it awful, Ma'am--Miss, to think of that poor gentleman lying
in t'other room dead," she went on, with a shiver. "And him so sot on
getting well. Poor Mr. Paul!" And she wiped away a few tears with the
hem of her clean apron. "He won't rest easy in his grave."

The housekeeper's words recurred to Miriam as her gaze, which had been
wandering about the room, rested on a small, black-bordered sketch of
what appeared to be a group of neglected graves. The picture was well
executed, but Miriam wondered at its selection for a decoration in a
bedroom. From the drawing Miriam's eyes wandered to several paintings
on the wall, and, from the likeness of one of the portraits to Paul
Abbott, she judged it to be that of his father. Evidently the room
given to Mrs. Nash had once been occupied by the elder Abbott, whether
as bedroom or sitting room was hard to say, for the remainder of the
pictures on the wall were hunting scenes and, except for the bedstead,
the rest of the furniture was such as is found in a man's "den."

Miriam selected the most comfortable of the easy-chairs and, taking
care to make no noise, pushed it around so that from its depths she
could have an unobstructed view of her patient. Her fatigued muscles
relaxed as she sank back in the chair, but her brain--ah, it was on
fire! For a moment she looked with envy at the slumbering woman. If she
could only sleep as soundly with no visions of the past to disturb her!
The present was bad enough in all conscience--who could have murdered
Paul Abbott and what possible motive could have inspired the crime?

The cautious turning of the door knob and the slow opening of the door
caused her to bend forward in her chair. Sheriff Trenholm leaned inside
the door and, catching sight of Miriam, raised a beckoning finger, and
then placed it against his lips, enjoining silence.

Miriam's rubber-soled shoes made no noise on the hardwood floor and she
gained the hall door without disturbing her patient.

"What is it?" she asked, stepping partly into the hall, down which the
sheriff had retreated a few paces.

"I'd like to have a talk with you," he replied. "Just quietly, by
ourselves."

"But my patient!" she exclaimed.

"She is asleep, isn't she?"

"Yes, but--" She came further into the hall so as to speak more
emphatically and yet not awaken Mrs. Nash. "I am on night duty. I
cannot leave my patient alone."

"You don't have to; Mrs. Corbin will stay with her, and call you if
there is the slightest need for your presence." Sheriff Trenholm moved
to one side and Miriam caught a glimpse beyond him of Martha loitering
by the door to Paul Abbott's old bedroom. "Come, Miss Ward, you will
only be across the corridor from Mrs. Nash; and it is essential
that I see you to-night." His voice deepened and his hand, as if by
accident, pulled back his coat so that the badge of authority on his
vest was visible. "I'll relieve you of any responsibility should Mrs.
Nash question your absence," he added. "Go in, Mrs. Corbin," as the
housekeeper, who had drawn nearer, paused undecidedly.

Miriam stepped back into the bedroom. Mrs. Nash was still asleep--there
was really nothing left for her to do but obey the sheriff. She turned
to Martha, standing timidly half in and half out of the room.

"Sit over in that chair," she directed softly, indicating the one she
had occupied a moment before. "If Mrs. Nash grows restless in her sleep
or wakens, come at once for me."

"Yes, Ma'am--Miss." Martha found it difficult to decide on her mode of
address so far as the nurse was concerned, and compromised the matter
by jumbling the titles together. "Don't ye be afeared; I'll call ye."

Sheriff Trenholm was standing in the center of Abbott's old bedroom
staring at the windows, the curtains of which were drawn. He turned
around at Miriam's entrance and, stepping behind her, closed the hall
door.

"I don't wish our talk to be interrupted," he said by way of
explanation. "Now, Miss Ward, exactly what occurred here last night?"

Miriam studied the man in front of her in silence. There was something
big and fine about Guy Trenholm--an air of candor, of strength--that
impressed her, but an inborn caution, a streak inherited from some
dour Scottish ancestor, kept back the words on her tongue. Suppose the
sheriff was setting a trap for her?

"Will I be called as a witness at the inquest?" she asked.

"Sure."

"Then why question me now?"

His smile was friendly as he pulled forward a chair and stood resting
one hand on it. "The inquest may be delayed a few days," he explained.
"There is a conflict of authority as to jurisdiction"--he paused, then
added more briskly: "Is the furniture in this room placed as it was
last night?"

Miriam stared about her before answering. "It is just the same," she
said.

"And the windows?"

"Two were open." She crossed the room and laid her hand on a tall
mahogany screen. "I placed this here so that the air would not blow
directly on Mr. Abbott and arranged the curtains at that window so as
to protect him also."

Trenholm walked by her and, raising the window nearest the four-post
bedstead, looked outside. "It gives on the roof of the verandah," he
said, drawing in his head. "An easy climb from the ground for an agile
man. It is a reasonable hypothesis that the murderer gained entrance
that way."

"Wouldn't he have left tracks in the snow?" she broke in quickly.

"He probably did, but there was a second fall of snow about five this
morning which obliterated all marks." The sheriff closed the window.
"This screen made an admirable hiding place, I have no doubt. He
probably sprang from behind it and chloroformed you."

Miriam shivered. "When I came to myself this morning I was lying just
about here"--she pointed with her foot to a spot midway between the bed
and the screen.

"And you detected no sound--no odd noises when the murderer entered the
room?" questioned Trenholm and his gaze never left her face.

"I heard nothing to make me suspect that any one was in the room except
Mr. Abbott and me," she stated. "You recollect that I was absent
several times; once when I went downstairs to admit Miss Betty Carter
and her companion," she hesitated. "And when I went to the head of the
staircase at their departure." Again she hesitated. "I also left the
room on an errand while they were here."

Trenholm eyed her oddly. "What was the errand and who sent you on it?"

"The lamp went out and the clergyman asked me to get one from
downstairs," she explained, tersely.

He considered her statements for several moments, then nodded his
head thoughtfully. "The man probably selected one of the times when
Paul was left alone--preferably the last occasion, for then there was
less danger of detection. You were chloroformed immediately upon your
return?"

"Y-yes. I lost consciousness--I--" Her hesitation caught his attention.
"It is all very confused; I cannot think clearly."

"Brace up!" His tone, though kindly, was firm, and Miriam checked her
inclination to cry--she was utterly weary and her head ached with
memories which would not down. "Now," he added as she bit her lip and
winked back the tears. "Are you positive you heard no one talking to
Mr. Abbott?"

"Except Miss Carter."

"Well, aside from her," with patient persistence.

Miriam shook her head. "I can swear that I heard no one converse with
Mr. Abbott except Doctor Roberts and Miss Carter."

"There was no murmur of voices as you lost consciousness?"

"I heard none."

"Strange!" mused Trenholm. "Why did not Paul Abbott cry out when you
were chloroformed? He was conscious last night--?"

"Oh, yes, although occasionally irrational." She glanced up at the
sheriff and then toward the bed. "Possibly he was killed before I
returned."

"That may be." Trenholm tugged at his mustache. "Was Mr. Abbott in a
condition to get up?"

"He might have, with assistance," cautiously.

He regarded her in silence, then nodded his head. "That is what Doctor
Roberts told me." Again he stroked his mustache. "Have you examined the
bed since the body was removed?"

"No."

"Then look here." He walked with her to the four-post bedstead and drew
aside the curtains. The blankets and top sheet were neatly pulled back,
leaving exposed the under sheet, while the pillows lay as Miriam had
last seen them. "Do you notice that there are no marks of blood, except
this small stain," motioning toward a spot near the head of the bed.

Miriam bent over the bedclothes and then looked up at the sheriff.

"I found Mr. Abbott lying partly on his left side--"

"He wasn't stabbed in that position," declared Trenholm vehemently. "It
would have been a physical impossibility--"

"Unless the murderer stood facing him as he lay in bed and, reaching
over Mr. Abbott's shoulder, stabbed him in the back," suggested Miriam.

Trenholm looked doubtful. "That is possible but not probable," he
retorted. "And it is not borne out by facts. If he was killed in bed,
the sheets would have been stained with blood."

His remark was caught by Alan Mason as the latter stepped inside the
bedroom. At the sound of his entrance, Trenholm wheeled around and his
frown at the interruption gave place to a pleased smile. Alan bowed to
Miriam before addressing the sheriff.

"Coroner Dixon told me that the wound bled internally," he pointed out.
"Wouldn't that explain the comparatively stainless condition of the
sheets?"

"Not to my way of thinking," declared the sheriff. He frowned again.
"No, I don't believe Paul was killed in that bed."

"Do you mean that the murderer lifted Paul out of bed, killed him,
and then put him back in bed?" Alan smiled in derision as he put the
question. "Come, that's absurd."

"Wait!" Miriam drew a step nearer Alan. His presence gave her courage.
There was something indefinable about Alan Mason which, for want of a
better word, she recognized as caste. His consideration in having a
dinner tray sent to Mrs. Nash's door had kept her from a supperless
vigil in the sick room and it was but one of many small acts of
courtesy. "There is something I must tell you."

"Yes? Go on, Miss Ward." Sheriff Trenholm brought her a chair. "Sit
down, you must be worn out."

Mechanically she seated herself. "I wanted to tell you this afternoon,"
she continued, struggling to steady her voice. She felt strangely
nervous. Surely the curtains of the four-post bedstead were moving? She
looked hard at them, then averted her gaze. Pshaw, nerves must not get
the best of her. "But Miss Carter insisted that I was demented."

Alan changed his weight from one foot to the other as he leaned against
the table. "Miss Carter appeared hardly accountable for her behavior,"
he began. "I think that we can safely say that, eh, Guy?"

Sheriff Trenholm did not at once reply. With head bent he studied the
pattern of the rug upon which they were standing, and when he looked up
his expression was inscrutable.

"Miss Carter will be questioned further," he said noncommittally. "Go
ahead, Miss Ward."

Miriam Ward moistened her dry lips. Would they believe her, or would
she simply involve herself more deeply in the mystery by making
statements which she could not prove?

"When I came back after Miss Carter's departure with her companion,"
she spoke slowly, almost haltingly, and to one of the men watching her,
she appeared more like an animated waxen figure than a human being,
"I put down the lamp and walked over to this bed. The curtains were
adjusted about as they are now." Miriam paused and pointed toward them.
"I drew them aside and looked down--a strange man lay in the bed."

With one accord the two men advanced to her side. "Where was Paul?"
demanded Alan and the sheriff almost in the same breath.

"I do not know," replied Miriam. "The shock of not seeing my patient
was so great I felt myself reeling backwards--and knew no more."

Guy Trenholm and Alan exchanged glances. "And the murderer's
confederate seized that moment to chloroform you!" ejaculated Alan.

"Confederate? You are traveling fast, Alan, my boy," exclaimed
Trenholm. "Why couldn't the man in the bed have sprung up as Miss Ward
toppled over and chloroformed her as she lay on the floor in a fainting
condition?"

"That is possible," agreed Alan. "What did the man look like, Miss
Ward?"

Miriam's gaze shifted dumbly from one to the other of her companions.
She had dreaded the question. "His eyes were closed and except that he
wore a beard and his hair was dark, I cannot tell you what he looked
like," she stammered. "The room was dimly lighted. I saw the man but
for an instant, and then lost consciousness."

Sheriff Trenholm regarded her in steadfast silence. It was Alan who
broke the prolonged pause.

"Would you know the man if you saw him again?" he asked and Miriam was
grateful that no note of doubt had crept into his voice.

"I am sure I would," she answered swiftly.

"Then, don't worry." Alan's smile was very engaging. His eyes swept a
searching glance about the big bedroom. "How was the man dressed?"

Miriam shook her head. "I have no idea. The bedclothes were pulled
up about his shoulders to his chin." She hesitated. "I only caught a
glimpse of his profile."




CHAPTER VI

THE THIRD HAND


THE minutes dragged interminably to Martha Corbin and she wished most
devoutly that she had gone to her room before Guy Trenholm had found
her in the kitchen. The sheriff was not a man to disobey, and at his
peremptory direction she had at once accompanied him upstairs to find
Miriam Ward. But she had not bargained on having to take the nurse's
place in Mrs. Nash's bedroom. Illness in any form terrified her,
and only the knowledge that Miriam was across the hall kept her in
her chair. At first she had not been uncomfortable, but as Miriam's
absence grew prolonged, the housekeeper found it impossible to keep
still. Her twitching fingers fumbled with the arms of the tufted chair
until she had loosened four or five upholstery buttons and pulled off
several inches of braid. Bouncing to her feet she looked at Mrs. Nash,
then, convinced that she was still asleep, she tiptoed over to the
old-fashioned bureau at the opposite end of the room.

Martha studied her reflection in the mirror above the bureau for fully
five minutes. Displeased with her slovenly appearance, she let down her
hair and, picking up the comb and hair-brush which Miriam had loaned to
Mrs. Nash earlier in the evening, she tried several ways of dressing
her hair. Mrs. Nash's gold vanity case next attracted her attention and
at least ten minutes were consumed in applying first rouge and then
powder. Finally she stood back to note the effect upon her complexion.
A slow smile of satisfaction stole across her face, and, without the
slightest compunction, she transferred a large gob of the rouge to a
piece of tissue paper and, folding it many times, stuffed it inside her
dress, for future use.

Tiring of staring at her own countenance, Martha went over to a large
bow window and, leaning on the ledge, peered out into the darkness.
Familiar as she was with the location of the bedroom, she knew the
direction in which she was gazing, but it was impossible for her to
distinguish even an outline of the large modern garage which had been
built in the rear of the house some years previously. Corbin had told
her that he would return from a trip to Upper Marlboro before ten
o'clock, but that she was not to wait up for him as he would occupy one
of the servants' bedrooms in the garage, the other having been prepared
for Pierre, Mrs. Nash's chauffeur.

The weather had moderated with the suddenness which characterizes
the disconcerting alterations in temperature in the vicinity of the
District of Columbia and southern Maryland. The drip, drip, drip of
the thawing snow on the eaves of the house came distinctly to Martha
through the half-open window, while the heavy mist, rising from the
Patuxent River, on the banks of which the estate of Abbott's Lodge
bordered, but made the outer darkness more impenetrable.

With a slight shiver, Martha faced about, thankful for the
companionable warmth of the carefully shaded light in the bedroom. It
was no night for any one to be out, and for the matter of that, it was
time that a hard-working woman was allowed to go to bed. Martha's lips
quivered as her grievance increased in importance the more she dwelt
upon it. Was she never to be considered? Well, she would go. What was
Mrs. Nash to her? The master was dead--

"Paul!"

The name, pronounced with startling distinctness by Mrs. Nash, caused
Martha to clutch the window curtains in sudden fright. In the silence
that followed she gathered courage to draw closer to the bed. Mrs.
Nash lay with eyes tightly closed and Martha judged from her slow and
regular breathing that she was still asleep. A hasty glance about the
room convinced her that she and Mrs. Nash were alone. Martha crossed
herself devoutly just as the sick woman spoke again.

"Paul, can you hear me?" she asked.

Martha's shaking knees carried her only a few inches from the bed,
and then curiosity overcame her terror. Mrs. Nash was talking in her
sleep. With extreme caution she got down on her hands and knees and
crept to the side of the bed. For fully fifteen minutes she crouched
there, but Mrs. Nash did not speak again. Slowly and with great pains
Martha straightened up sufficiently to get a good look at Mrs. Nash.
She had not altered her position and lay with eyes still closed. With
the determination of a weak and obstinate nature, Martha decided to
remain where she was, and cast about for a satisfactory explanation of
her position by the bed should Miriam Ward return. She was laboriously
thinking one up when her eyes were attracted by the constant movement
of a hand on the pillow. Martha wished most heartily that Mrs. Nash
would keep still, and she almost gave tongue to her thoughts; but
speech was arrested by the sudden realization that both of Mrs. Nash's
hands lay perfectly quiet on the counterpane.

With eyes distended to twice their natural size, Martha watched the
third hand slip under the pillow and then out again. As it approached
the throat of the sleeping woman, she saw clearly the long, sensitive
fingers and the heavy signet ring--

Martha's frayed nerves gave way. Her mouth dropped open and sheer
terror gave strength to the shriek which broke from her. When Miriam
raced into the room she found her a crumpled, unconscious heap in the
center of the floor and Mrs. Nash sitting up in bed regarding her with
ashen face.

"Is she dead?" she gasped.

"No; just a faint." Miriam's calm tones belied her feelings; she was
almost as startled as Mrs. Nash. "Please lie down again, Mrs. Nash,
and keep yourself covered; otherwise you will take cold." She paused
by the bedside long enough to pull up the bedclothes and make Mrs.
Nash comfortable, then hurried to her emergency kit and from it took
a little aromatic spirits of ammonia. Martha revived quickly under
the restorative. Later she staggered to her feet and, with Miriam's
assistance, took a few halting steps toward the hall door. She stopped
abruptly on the threshold at sight of Sheriff Trenholm and Alan waiting
anxiously in the hall.

"What has happened?" asked Trenholm. "Is Mrs. Nash worse?"

"No," replied Miriam. "I am not sure what occurred. Martha refuses to
tell me. Perhaps if you question her--"

"I felt fainty, like," broke in Martha with marked haste. She avoided
looking at the two men. "Please, Miss--Ma'am, take me to my room."

Trenholm read Miriam's hesitation aright. "Go and stay with Mrs. Nash,
Alan," he directed, "until Miss Ward returns. Now, Martha," and before
the startled housekeeper could protest, he picked her up in his arms
and started down the hall. Pausing only long enough to take a bottle of
medicine and a glass, Miriam hurried after the sheriff, as Alan went in
to speak to Mrs. Nash.

The suite of rooms, comprising sitting room, bedroom and bath, which
Corbin and his wife occupied, was at one end of the winding corridor
and off a landing halfway up a flight of steps leading to the garret.
Miriam took note of the comfortable furniture in the bedroom as she
assisted Martha out of her clothes and into bed. The housekeeper was
taciturn to the point of sullenness, and Miriam finally forbore to
address her.

"Drink this," she handed a glass to Martha as she spoke. "It is a
harmless sedative; don't be alarmed," observing the woman's expression.
"You will feel better in the morning."

"Will it make me sleep?" asked Martha, huddling down under the blankets.

"Yes." Miriam halted by the door. "Is there anything more I can do for
you?"

"No." Martha remembered her manners and her face emerged from under the
blankets. "Thank you, Ma'am--Miss. Jest blow out the lamp as you go
along."

Miriam hesitated. "You are not afraid to stay in the dark?"

"No, Ma'am--Miss. Good night."

Miriam echoed the words as she carried out Martha's wishes, then
closing the door softly she went thoughtfully down the corridor. She
had almost reached Mrs. Nash's door when Trenholm called her name
softly and joined her a moment later.

"Did you learn anything from the housekeeper?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Martha hardly spoke." Miriam paused. "Her
condition may be due to hysteria."

Trenholm studied her expression. "But you don't think so--"

She looked straight at him. "No. I believe the woman was almost
paralyzed with fright."

Trenholm remained silent for a few seconds, then roused himself.

"You may be right," he said. "I hope Mrs. Nash suffers no ill effects
from her rude awakening. A moment, Miss Ward," as Miriam laid her hand
on Mrs. Nash's bedroom door. "Please tell Mr. Mason that I will remain
with Abbott's body. If you," he lowered his voice almost to a whisper,
"if you need me, you will find me there," and turning he went down the
corridor.

Alan Mason rose at Miriam's approach and relinquished his seat by the
bedside, with a relieved air.

"Mrs. Nash _will_ talk," he remarked, "although I tried to monopolize
the conversation in the hope of making her sleepy. Is there anything
more I can do?" His question was intended for Miriam but Mrs. Nash
answered it.

"Close the door behind you," she said tartly, and Alan colored as he
met Miriam's dark eyes, with a faint quizzical gleam in them.

"Sheriff Trenholm is with the body," she murmured, as he passed her on
his way out of the room. "Good night."

"What did you say?" demanded Mrs. Nash, raising herself on her elbow.

Miriam bent over her and straightened the pillows with a practiced
hand. "Isn't that more comfortable?" she asked, as Mrs. Nash sank back
with a sigh. "It is time for your medicine," glancing, as she spoke,
at her wrist watch. "Just a second," and moving swiftly over to the
table, she prepared it and then returned to the bed. She expected
some difficulty in persuading Mrs. Nash to take it, but to her secret
surprise the latter swallowed it without a murmur, but with a wry face.

"Roberts never prescribed an agreeable dose," she commented, after
sipping a glass of water. "Sit by me, Miss Ward, I want to ask you some
questions."

"Not to-night," Miriam's charming smile softened her refusal. "You must
go to sleep."

"With that howl still ringing in my ears!" Mrs. Nash's shudder was
no affectation, but a true indication of her state of mind. "What
possessed the woman?"

"Hysterics," briefly. "Now, Mrs. Nash, you really must close your eyes."

"In a minute. Sit down just a second." Mrs. Nash's tone could be
coaxing when she wished. "I'll do whatever you say if you will answer a
few questions."

"I can't promise."

"Now, don't be obstinate." Mrs. Nash glanced at her shrewdly. "If you
irritate me, I'll not sleep at all," and she squared her shoulders with
an air of determination which made Miriam's heart sink. She knew, none
better, that often temper and temperature went hand and hand in the
sick room. Humoring a patient was occasionally a short cut to health as
well as peace.

"What is it you wish to know?" she asked, sitting down.

Mrs. Nash smiled, well pleased with having gained her point.

"What killed Paul?" she asked, and at Miriam's frown, added hastily:
"There is nothing in that question to send my temperature skyward. Was
he poisoned?"

"No; stabbed." Miriam met her piercing black eyes steadily, while
wondering at the concentration of her regard. Mrs. Nash sat bolt
upright.

"Was the knife left in the body?" she demanded.

"No."

"Have they found it?"

"No." Miriam hastened to supplement her second monosyllable with a
further statement as she saw another question trembling on Mrs. Nash's
lips. "The weapon has not been found _yet_."

"Then how do they know that he was stabbed?" persisted Mrs. Nash.

"By the nature of the wound," replied Miriam. "Sheriff Trenholm told me
just now that the autopsy proved Mr. Abbott died from what is known as
a punctured wound."

"And what is that precisely?"

"Why, the weapon used left a fusiform or spindle-shaped wound," she
added, observing Mrs. Nash's blank expression. "Now, please lie down
again, for that is the last question I am going to answer to-night,"
and the gentle firmness of her voice convinced Mrs. Nash that she meant
what she said. But before she settled back on the pillows she looked
around at her nurse.

"Was my niece talking to Guy Trenholm in the hall before you came in
here a second time?" she inquired.

Miriam shook her head in the negative. "Not to my knowledge. I have not
seen Miss Carter since dinner."

Mrs. Nash grunted as she turned over on her side. "Well, if Betty slept
through Martha's dreadful scream she rivals the seven sleepers," she
commented and closed her eyes.

It was after three o'clock when Miriam threw back the blanket which
she had wrapped around herself and rose softly from the chair by the
bedside. Mrs. Nash had been asleep for fully two hours. Miriam was
thoroughly chilled and she chafed one hand over the other as she walked
noiselessly up and down the bedroom, hoping to stimulate circulation.
She stopped finally by the table where stood the lamp and laid her
hands on its glass globe. As she stood warming them by the heat from
the lamp, she observed a bowl of nuts pushed toward the back of the
table. Her vigil had sharpened her appetite, and she had regretted
several times that she had neglected to ask Martha for a night lunch.

Reaching over she pulled the bowl toward her and took up one of the
walnuts and the nut cracker. As the instrument crunched over the
nut, it sounded in the stillness like a miniature firecracker and
she paused, and looked over her shoulder in alarm at her patient.
Apparently the noise had not disturbed Mrs. Nash, for she slept
peacefully on. Several tempting pieces of the nut meat stuck in the
shell and not daring to use the nut cracker again, she started to take
up the nut pick lying in the bowl. For fully five seconds she stood
staring at it, her hand poised in mid-air; then with one hurried,
comprehensive look about the room and at her sleeping patient, she
picked up the bowl and sped into the hall, her flying footsteps
deadened by the strip of carpet which ran its length, and brought up
breathless by the sofa on which Sheriff Trenholm had thrown himself,
fully dressed, a short time before.

"Look!" she exclaimed, keeping her voice lowered in spite of her
excitement, and she pointed to the nut pick. It was of finest steel,
about eight inches long, with a straight, sharp point and sharpened
fluted edges running along its sides. From point to handle it was
stained a dull red.

"Blood!" The word escaped Guy Trenholm in little more than a whisper,
and simultaneously they turned to the undertaker's couch near the
center of the room on which lay all that was mortal of Paul Abbott.

"The wound was spindle-shaped," Miriam added in a voice not quite
steady, and Trenholm bowed his head.

"You have found the weapon, undoubtedly," he said. "Thank you."




CHAPTER VII

CURIOUS QUESTIONS AND EVASIVE ANSWERS


DOCTOR ROBERTS laid down his stethoscope and frowned as he gazed at
Mrs. Nash, lying back on her pillow, both eyes closed, and breathing
rapidly. Leaning forward he picked up her chart and read Miriam's
notations on it with a wrinkled brow.

"You must stay in bed another day," he said finally. "The flu is
treacherous."

Mrs. Nash's eyes slowly opened and regarded him steadily. "What's the
matter with your medicines?" she demanded. "Why am I not better?"

"Don't be so impatient." He evaded a direct reply. "Where is Miss Ward?"

"Asleep, I presume. She went to her room after giving me my breakfast
this morning." Mrs. Nash sat up a little straighter. "Where did you
find such a pretty woman?"

"She came from the Central Registry; I know no more than that." Roberts
looked at her inquiringly. "You find her competent and intelligent?"

"As nurses go." Mrs. Nash sniffed. An argument with Miriam that
morning, in which she had come off second best, still rankled. "I admit
that she is nicer in the sick room than my niece Betty."

"Has Betty been with you this morning?"

"Yes," grimly. "She was worse than useless. Well," regarding Roberts
attentively, "why, do you look at me like that?"

"Betty is hardly herself, Mrs. Nash, since the tragedy of yesterday."

Mrs. Nash did not give him time to complete his sentence. "So you, too,
think Betty is crushed? Well, so she is--on some one else."

"My dear Mrs. Nash!"

Mrs. Nash smiled tolerantly and swiftly changed the subject.

"Who were all those people tramping by my door a short time ago?" she
asked.

"The coroner's jury," responded Roberts, putting his stethoscope and
sphygmomanometer in his bag.

"Oh!" Mrs. Nash sat upright; her cheeks a brighter pink. "Is the
inquest being held here?"

"Not now. It met, was sworn in, and viewed the body," replied Roberts
concisely. "And then Coroner Dixon asked for a postponement--"

"Why, for goodness' sakes!" demanded Mrs. Nash. "Doesn't the man wish
to catch Paul's murderer?"

"Of course he does!" Roberts was conscious of a feeling of irritation;
Mrs. Nash's interminable questions were getting on his nerves. "Sheriff
Trenholm wished more time before presenting the case, and the inquest
is held over for a few days."

"Does that mean that the burial has to be postponed?" she asked.

Roberts shook his head. "The body will be removed to the vault at the
cemetery," he answered. "I do not know what arrangements Alan Mason has
made, further than that. Now, Mrs. Nash, you must not excite yourself,"
observing her flushed appearance with concern. "Please lie down."

Mrs. Nash subsided among the pillows, of which she had collected four,
arranged entirely to her liking after earnest effort on Martha's part
to carry out her orders.

"Will you do me a favor, Doctor?" she asked as he rose and stood, bag
in hand. "Please give this note to Pierre, my chauffeur, and tell him
to drive into Washington and give it to my husband. Pierre is to return
here immediately with every article listed in the note. If I must stay
here, I will at least be comfortable."

Roberts took the proffered note. "I will run in and see you to-night
before returning to Washington," he volunteered. "Sheriff Trenholm has
asked me to dine with him."

Mrs. Nash raised her head. "I recall Paul's father speaking to me some
years ago about a young man in whom he was interested. His name was Guy
Trenholm."

"It is the same person," declared Roberts. "Trenholm owes much to
Abbott's generosity; he practically educated him. Now, Mrs. Nash, be
sure and take the medicine prescribed, and, above all, mind what the
nurse tells you." He chuckled at her disgusted expression and, with a
graceful bow, left the room.

But Roberts had ceased smiling when he went down the staircase and out
of the house. Mrs. Nash's condition puzzled him. He had been her family
physician ever since her father, Owen Carter, the senior Congressman
from his state, had taken up his residence in Washington. A woman
spoiled, self-willed, she had held undisputed sway in her father's
household, while her frail mother had been content with the role of
invalid. Mrs. Nash had allowed her eccentricities to grow upon her and
Washington society had enjoyed many a quiet laugh at her expense. Her
social position, her wealth, as well as her undoubted good looks and
her quick wit, made her a welcome visitor. Rumors of her approaching
marriage with this dignitary and that had been frequently circulated,
in spite of her declaration that she preferred to be an old maid.
Her marriage, therefore, to the Reverend Alexander Nash had proved
something of a sensation in their small world. That her ambitions had
been satisfied on becoming the wife of an unknown Doctor of Divinity,
her friends and acquaintances found hard to believe.

Roberts went down the path immersed in thought. In a telephone talk
that morning, Representative Carter had expressed great anxiety about
his daughter's condition and begged the doctor to see her again and
curb her imprudent tendencies to neglect her health. Thereupon Roberts
had turned over his patients in Washington to his assistant and motored
out to Abbott's Lodge. A cause for wonderment, which persisted even
after his talk with Mrs. Nash, was why her father had shown such
anxiety about her and not her husband.

Roberts was still pondering deeply when he reached the garage and
Pierre's respectful, "_Bonjour_, Monsieur," brought him back to his
errand.

"Morning, Pierre," he replied. "Mrs. Nash wishes you to run into
Washington with this note for her husband."

Pierre wiped his fingers on some waste and taking the white envelope
gingerly, tucked it in the pocket of his jumper.

"Yes, Monsieur, and when shall I start?"

"Now, I suppose. Have you lunched?"

"Mrs. Corbin gave me some sandwiches and tea." Pierre picked up his
chamois and can of metal polish. "That car of yours, Monsieur, it is
good, but it has a slapping piston."

"Impossible!" Roberts went over to his roadster and lifted the hood.
The car was a new investment and his pride. "It was the pump you heard,
Pierre, and not a piston."

"Perhaps, Monsieur," Pierre's shrug was characteristic. "Allow me," and
with a quick turn of his supple wrists, he fastened the hood back in
place. "But when you next start your engine, listen well."

"Thanks, I will," Roberts started to enter his car when the chauffeur
addressed him again, somewhat diffidently.

"Please, Monsieur, is Madame very ill?" he asked.

"She fears she has the flu," replied Roberts. "But there is nothing
alarming about her condition, Pierre."

"Is she better than last night?"

"Yes." At the servant's persistency Roberts closed the door of his car
without entering it and regarded the little chauffeur keenly. A thought
struck him. There was a perceptible pause before he again spoke. "When
did Doctor Nash return to Washington?"

"Monday night we got in, Monsieur." Pierre paused to calculate on his
fingers. "That is, Tuesday morning."

"Ah, then you came down on a night train from New York?"

"But, no, Monsieur. Doctor Nash and Miss Carter leave me on the train
at Baltimore on Monday afternoon, and the doctor he reach home on
Tuesday morning."

Roberts' glance at Pierre became a stare. "And Miss Carter?" he
questioned quickly.

A shrug of Pierre's shoulders was most expressive. "I know nothing,
Monsieur. I leave the house early to go to the garage and put Madame's
car in order." Swiftly he changed the subject. "Does Madame wish me to
come back from Washington to-night?"

"Yes, and I imagine from what she said, that Mrs. Nash will be
impatient for your return," replied Roberts, going toward the door.
"Report to the nurse when you reach here."

"_Oui_, Monsieur." Pierre touched his forehead with his finger, then as
Roberts disappeared up the walk he turned and stared at his reflection
in the polished surface of the Rolls-Royce. His little pig eyes were
keenly alert and he flecked an infinitesimal speck of dirt from the car
door before turning away and going to his room on the floor above.

"I am to see the nurse," he muttered below his breath. "_Eh
bien_--perhaps!"

Most of the snow had melted in the sudden thaw of the night before and
a comparatively mild temperature and brilliant sunlight tempted Roberts
to stay out of doors. Turning about he strode briskly away from the
house. He had traversed half the distance to the Patuxent River when he
caught sight of a woman approaching along the path. Her quick, buoyant
step and fine carriage first attracted his attention, and as she drew
nearer he recognized Miriam Ward. At sight of him she hastened her
footsteps.

"Good afternoon, Doctor," she exclaimed. "Have you seen Mrs. Nash?"

"I have just come from her bedroom," he answered. "When do you go on
duty, Miss Ward?"

"This evening," Miriam responded. "I left her after breakfast. Mrs.
Nash prefers to have me do night duty. How did you find her?"

"Her general condition is better, but frankly, there are certain
symptoms that puzzle me," admitted Roberts. "I noticed by your chart
that she had a subnormal temperature this morning. Her temperature is
still down, her pulse sluggish, and respiration rapid."

"She insists that she has the flu," Miriam pointed out. "But the
symptoms are contradictory."

"True." Roberts adjusted his eyeglasses. "That is what puzzles me. I
have made a careful examination and find both lungs are clear. I feel
that I have not located the real trouble."

"You don't consider her able to sit up out of bed?" questioned Miriam.
"I ask because she insists upon doing so."

"Most certainly not," promptly. "The old house is full of draughts
and improperly heated, and there might be danger of pneumonia in her
run-down condition. I left a few directions on the chart for you,"
added Roberts; then as Miriam, with a slight bow, started to walk
past him toward the house, he detained her with a gesture. "Was the
clergyman, who accompanied Miss Carter on Monday night to Abbott's sick
room, her aunt's husband, the Reverend Doctor Nash?"

At the direct question Miriam's color rose. "I am not sure of the
relationship," she replied. "But to the best of my recollection, he
certainly mentioned that his name was Nash."

In silence Roberts fingered his hat which he had not replaced on his
head since stopping to speak to Miriam.

"And Betty Carter denied that she had visited Paul," he muttered. "It
is most singular!"

He echoed Miriam's thoughts, but she forbore to comment. Taking a mere
acquaintance into her confidence was foreign to her reserved nature.
Suddenly Roberts turned to her, his fine eyes twinkling with one of his
rare smiles.

"I admire your discretion," he said. "If I can be of any service at any
time call upon me," and with a friendly wave of his hand, he continued
his interrupted stroll toward the river.

As Miriam approached the house she walked more slowly. Her hour in the
fresh, invigorating air had done her more good than any tonic, and her
long, uninterrupted sleep that morning had refreshed her. It was her
first walk about the grounds since coming to Abbott's Lodge, and she
had admired the scenery and well-kept appearance of the estate. For
the first time she realized the size of the house as she went around
the path that skirted it; it was far larger than she had supposed.
Entering through the sunparlor, she halted in the dining room at sight
of Sheriff Trenholm conversing with Charles Corbin, the caretaker.

Trenholm's attention was diverted from Corbin by the nurse's arrival,
and the caretaker seized the chance to edge his portly form nearer the
pantry door. He stopped abruptly as the sheriff's hawklike gaze turned
swiftly back to him, and rubbed the back of his hand across his dry
lips.

"Don't go, Miss Ward," exclaimed Trenholm. "You have come most
opportunely. Exactly where did you find the bowl of nuts last night?"

"Standing on the small lamp table in the room now occupied by Mrs.
Nash," she replied. "It was pushed back against the wall."

"When did you take that nut dish there, Corbin?" Trenholm stepped
closer as he put the question and the caretaker wriggled his shoulders
against the wall; the support brought back his lost sense of security.
He had no love for the sheriff of the county.

"Mr. Abbott brought the nuts in some time last week," he retorted. "I
disremember the exact day, but he poured them in a bowl that usually
sits over yonder on the sideboard, and he took it away--I don't know
where."

"Think again, Corbin," cautioned Trenholm as the man moved uneasily.
"When did you last see that bowl and the nut pick?"

"I told you I can't think of the exact day," was the surly reply. An
idea occurred to him and his parchment-like face brightened. "I'll get
Martha; she'll know."

"Wait!" Trenholm's voice rang out clearly and Corbin stopped where he
was. "I'll talk to your wife later. Who used Mrs. Nash's bedroom?"

"It was Mr. Abbott's bedroom, and after his death it was closed,"
answered Corbin. "But lately Mr. Paul has used it as a sitting room. He
told Martha it made him feel that his father was nearby and he wasn't
so lonesome."

Trenholm viewed the caretaker in silence for a moment. "So Mr. Paul
used to sit there, did he?" he asked, and Corbin contented himself with
a sullen nod of his closely shaven, bullet-shaped head. "And when were
you last in the room?"

"This morning." Corbin dropped his eyes that Trenholm might not read
their expression of relief at the change in the trend of his questions.
"I went in to make up the fire for Mrs. Nash. There's the telephone,
sir."

"I'll answer it," and turning on his heel Trenholm hastened into the
living room and over to the telephone.

In an instant Corbin was gone and Miriam almost rubbed her eyes, so
swift were his movements and so noiseless. Pausing long enough to pour
herself out a glass of water and drink it, she followed Trenholm into
the living room. The sheriff was still at the telephone and she walked
over to Paul Abbott's desk and sat down before it, intending to wait
until Trenholm was disengaged.

Miriam was idly playing with one of the silver desk ornaments when she
saw a package of envelopes lying on the edge of an open leather bag,
which stood on a stool by the desk. Near at hand was an empty scrap
basket. Again Miriam's gaze sought the envelopes. They were oddly
familiar. Stooping forward she took up the package and fingered them.
In quality of paper, in quantity of stamps, they matched the half-burnt
envelope which she had picked up in her bedroom twenty-four hours
before. Her envelope was securely locked in her grip, but she vividly
remembered the Canadian postage stamps, orange in color and five in
number.

Miriam looked across the room at Guy Trenholm. He was still talking at
the telephone with his back turned to her. She was oblivious of the
fact that she was distinctly visible to him in the mirror hanging just
before him on the wall.

Miriam studied the handwriting on the topmost envelope--it bore Paul
Abbott's name and address. Swiftly she examined the address on each
envelope--it was the same--then counted them--eleven in all. Miriam's
thoughts reverted to the black crest on her torn envelope. She turned
over the eleven envelopes--the flap on each was missing.

"Miss Ward." Betty Carter's voice just over her shoulder made her start
violently. "Will you go to my aunt at once; she needs you."

"Certainly." Miriam was conscious of Betty's cold regard; but there
was no hurry discernible in her movements as she replaced the rubber
band around the envelopes and laid them back on the top of the open
bag, which, she noticed for the first time, bore, stamped upon it, Guy
Trenholm's initials.




CHAPTER VIII

BLACKMAIL


BETTY CARTER watched Miriam disappear up the staircase before she
moved. Crossing the living room she stopped in front of the fire and
warmed her hands, then sitting down she toyed idly with a string of
pearls about her neck.

"Still conscious of your pearls?" asked Guy Trenholm. He had followed
her across the room and paused in front of her.

Betty crimsoned from neck to brow and her eyes flamed with wrath.

"If you can't refrain from insults, don't address me," she said.

It was Trenholm's turn to color. "You misunderstood me," he exclaimed.
"Seeing you playing with your pearls reminded me of your inordinate
fondness for jewelry when in Paris."

"Inordinate fondness," echoed Betty, and her delicately arched eyebrows
rose in displeasure. "Your explanation is in as questionable taste as
your first remark."

Trenholm shrugged his shoulders. "If you take offense so easily, we'll
change the subject," he said. "Where were you off to so early this
morning?"

She looked at him without speaking and Trenholm occupied the time in
lighting a cigarette, after first asking her permission, which was
given with a nod of her head.

When she finally spoke it was to ask a question and not to answer his.

"I cannot understand," she began, "why a man of your capabilities
accepted the office of sheriff. Have you no ambition to make good in
the future?"

"The future?" his smile was bitter. "The future can take care of
itself. What concerns me is the present. Where did Pierre take you in
your aunt's car before breakfast this morning?"

Her lips curled in a disdainful smile. "If you wish to know, why not
question Pierre?"

"Because I prefer to come to you rather than ask a servant," he stated
quietly. "Take your time, I'll wait for an answer," and he dropped into
a chair by the side of the big sofa on which she was sitting.

"I see, patience is a virtue with you," she remarked. "Is it, by
chance, your only virtue?"

He shrugged his broad shoulders. "Time will tell." A glint of humor lit
his deep-set eyes. She met his look for a second, then glanced away.

Through the drifting smoke of his cigarette Trenholm studied her
intently; her beauty was undeniable and of an unusual type. He sighed.
Was the droop at the corners of her mouth indicative of deceit? Was it
in her to play straight?

Betty moved restlessly, suddenly conscious of his prolonged scrutiny.
"Suppose I tell you that I went to early church in Upper Marlboro," she
said suddenly.

"On Wednesday?"

"Certainly. One can pray on any day."

"And not necessarily in a church."

Betty snuggled down more comfortably among the cushions, but one hand,
tucked carefully out of sight, was tightly clenched. "So you still
sneer at religion," she commented softly.

Trenholm shook his head. "I would never scoff did I for one instant
believe that true religion has a part in your life." At his answer
her eyes sparkled with anger, but she masked her feelings under an
ingratiating smile.

"You have changed, Guy Trenholm, since the old days in France," she
remarked, and her voice held an undertone of feeling he failed to
understand.

"For the worse?" he asked quickly.

"Perhaps." She lapsed into silence, which he did not care to break. His
air of strength, of self-sufficiency, irritated her and she watched
him covertly while pretending to be absorbed in thought. Even her
fastidious taste could find no fault with his well-tailored riding suit
and leather boots. She grudgingly admitted to herself that the years
had brought improvement in raiment if not in manners. Whatever else he
became, he would never be metamorphosed into a society man. No social
badinage would cover his thoughts; he would say what he had to say with
sledge-hammer effect whatever the occasion. Betty's heavy sigh was
audible and he glanced at her inquiringly.

"Strange, is it not," he began, as she remained silent, "that you and
Alan and I should be thrown together as we were in France during the
War, and that we should meet under Paul's roof."

"Not so very remarkable," she objected. "We have seen each other
frequently during the past five years."

Trenholm threw his cigarette into the fire and leaned forward.

"What motive inspired Paul's murder?" he asked.

His question robbed her cheeks of color. "Why ask me that?" she
demanded. "Why should I know more than another?"

"Because Paul loved you."

Her lips twitched and her eyes grew dim. She put up her hand as if
to ward off a blow. "Don't!" She recovered her poise, shaken for a
fraction of a second. "I refuse to discuss Paul's death with you, of
all men."

Trenholm considered her, slowly, carefully, as he leaned back in his
chair. "Other men loved you," he said softly. "I, for one."

"In Paris?"

"Yes," quietly. He pressed his lips together. "Calf love--I got over
it."

Betty laughed not quite steadily. "You are to be congratulated." She
spoke with a mockery and malice so neatly balanced that for a swift
second he failed to reply.

"I recovered," he stated, more forcefully. "Others didn't." His glance
held hers. "Paul is dead, but Alan Mason still lives in his fool's
paradise."

With one spring she gained her feet and faced him, trembling with rage
and excitement.

"After all, Guy Trenholm, the role of sheriff becomes you," she said,
and the scorn in her voice stung him. "Water seeks its own level." She
turned away, snatched her coat from a chair where she had left it that
morning and swung out of the door.

Trenholm sat where he was for fully five minutes after the front door
had closed behind Betty. When he rose he was still frowning. Going over
to his bag he tossed the package of letters inside, snapped the bag to,
locked it, and taking up his cap went in search of Martha Corbin.

Betty was unconscious of the distance she walked or the direction she
took. She was grateful for the cool breeze that fanned her hot cheeks.
Seldom had she felt in such a fever; her throat was dry--parched. She
paused long enough to wipe tiny beads of moisture from her forehead
with an already damp handkerchief. She had spent the night in choking
back sobs which racked her slender body. Toward morning she had slept
fitfully from pure exhaustion. Only a relentless purpose spurred her to
get up, regardless of the early hour, a purpose frustrated by--

Betty drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. She stopped and
gazed about for a familiar landmark. She knew the countryside fairly
well, and it did not take her long to locate the road which led to
Upper Marlboro. She found it drier walking on its crest and trudged
slowly along, keeping a wary eye out for automobiles which would make
necessary a hasty run for the side of the road. She judged that she
had covered about half the distance when, in passing a wood which she
remembered was located on Abbott's property, she saw a man running
through the trees in her direction. Something furtive in his movements
as he dodged among the leafless trees and bushes caused her heart
to beat more rapidly, and she cast a glance behind her. No vehicle,
horse-drawn or motor-driven, was in sight. Betty faltered and came to
a stop, then, throwing off her unreasoning fear, she hurried forward,
glancing neither to the right nor the left.

Betty had passed the wood and was breathing more easily when she
detected the sound of following footsteps and she heard her name called
once, and then again with more insistence. She kept straight ahead, for
if recollection did not play her false, a farmhouse was around the next
bend in the road. She had almost gained the turn, when a man's shadow
was thrown on the snow just in front of her, and facing to her left she
found Charles Corbin, the caretaker, at her side.

"Excuse me, Miss Betty," he said, with a tug at the visor of his cap.
"I thought ye heard me coming."

Betty's feeling of relief found vent in a slight laugh. "Dear me,
Corbin; I wish I had recognized you sooner. Why, I was actually running
away from you."

Corbin's parchment-like face opened in an expansive grin which showed
his yellow teeth. "Running away, was you, Miss Betty?" His voice
dropped to a confidential pitch. "Take it from me, don't ye do it."

Betty ceased laughing with startling abruptness and stared at him.

"What are you talking about, Corbin?" she demanded.

His right eye opened and closed in a most expressive wink. "I want to
speak to ye, Miss Betty, confidential like."

"Well?" she drew back and looked at him in dawning comprehension. "Are
you drunk?"

"No; I never touch liquor." He slipped his hand inside his tightly
buttoned coat and drew out a woman's silk scarf and held it just beyond
her reach.

"Where did you get that?" she cried.

"Where ye dropped it the morning of Mr. Paul's murder." As he spoke he
shook out the scarf. "The blood's still on it," and he leered at her as
she raised her eyes and looked at him. It was some seconds before she
spoke, and her voice was not quite natural.

"Well, what's your price?" she asked.

Corbin licked his lips. "How much ye got with ye?" he demanded.

From an inside pocket she drew out a bill folder containing "A.B.A."
travelers' checks. Only one was left, but tucked behind it were two
yellow-back Treasury notes.

"I can give you a check for fifty dollars or these two twenty-dollar
bills," she explained.

"I'll take the money--on account."

The look she gave him was expressive of her feelings, but wasted on
Corbin. "Very well," she said. "Hand me the scarf."

"Oh, no." He held it behind him. "Not till I get five hundred dollars."

"Five hundred dollars!"

"Sure--that's what Sheriff Trenholm will give for it and, eh, other
information."

Betty threw back her head and eyed him defiantly. "If you go to the
sheriff he will give you what every blackmailer deserves--nothing." And
she replaced the bills in the check folder. Corbin eyed the vanishing
money in alarm.

"Don't be in a hurry!" he exclaimed. "I am a poor man. I'll take the
money--and your word for the rest." His fingers closed greedily over
the Treasury notes as he relinquished the scarf. With a mumbled word,
of which Betty was oblivious, he hastened back the way he had come.

Betty stood where she was in indecision. Finally she turned and watched
Corbin reënter the woods. Convinced that he was not likely to return
she continued on her way toward Upper Marlboro, the scarf safely tucked
inside the pocket of her fur coat. She had gone some little distance
when she came to an open field and saw, close to the road, in a slight
hollow, a huge boulder from which the snow had melted, leaving exposed
the dry rock.

Betty's hesitation was brief. Climbing the fence, she turned her back
on the road and placing the scarf on the rock she drew out a silver
match box. The first match failed to light, with the second she was
more successful, and three minutes later the scarf was a smoldering
heap of ashes. Drawing in her breath she blew them off the rock, and
with a lighter heart, regained the road just in time to recognize her
aunt's Rolls-Royce approaching, Pierre at the wheel. The recognition
was mutual and the powerful car came to a stop. Before the little
chauffeur could climb out of his seat the limousine door was swung open
and Doctor Nash sprang to Betty's side, and assisted her into the car.

"Upon my word, Betty!" he exclaimed, at her wet boots. "You are most
imprudent!"

"As usual." A sigh accompanied the words and Doctor Nash turned and
scanned her closely. Her brilliant color and the sparkle of her
eyes accentuated the haggard lines caused by harassing thoughts and
sleepless nights, but did not detract from her beauty. Nash's critical
expression softened and Betty, quick to read his thoughts, laid her
hand in his. "I need your help."

"You can count on me, Betty, always." Nash spoke with warmth and
Betty's color deepened. She paused, however, before addressing him
again.

"Promise me," she began, sinking her voice so that he had to bend
nearer to catch what she said. "Promise me not to admit to Sheriff
Trenholm that you and I were at Abbott's Lodge on Monday night."

Nash straightened up with a jerk. "Betty!"

"Please!" Betty's soft voice was pathos itself. There was silence in
the limousine and Pierre dropped his eyes from the vision mirror in
which were plainly outlined the likenesses of his two passengers in
time to turn into the driveway to Abbott's Lodge and stop under the
_porte cochère_.

Nash sighed deeply. "Does your aunt know?"

Betty shook her head. "No one must know," she protested vehemently.
"_No one._" She looked at him and the wistful, pleading appeal in her
lovely eyes stirred him out of himself.

His low but fervid "Betty" reached not only her ears, but Alan Mason's,
who stood by the door of the car, held open by the attentive Pierre.

Alan broke the pause. "I'm glad you've come, Nash," he said. "Your wife
is worse."




CHAPTER IX

THE DENIAL


DOCTOR ROBERTS removed his fingers from Mrs. Nash's wrist, after taking
her pulse, and then bowed gravely to her husband.

"Your wife has rallied and we can safely leave her with the nurse," he
said. "Come, Nash, you must be very weary after your anxious night,"
and laying his hand persuasively on his companion's shoulder he gently
pushed him toward the hall door, then turned back to speak to Miriam.
"I will be downstairs in the living room if you need me."

Miriam, in the act of preparing Mrs. Nash's medicine, did not answer.
Going over to the bed she aroused the drowsy woman, helped her to a
sitting position and held the medicine glass to her lips. Mrs. Nash
drank slowly, and then settled back with a low sigh. Miriam busied
herself about the bedroom for ten minutes before returning to the chair
by the bed and found her patient regarding her steadfastly.

"When did my husband get here?" she asked.

"Around six o'clock yesterday afternoon," replied Miriam.

"I do not remember." Mrs. Nash passed her hand before her eyes. "He
came while I was unconscious--?"

"Yes. Now, Mrs. Nash, don't talk--"

"Was he with me all night?" Paying no attention to Miriam, she
struggled up on her elbow as she put the question.

"He was in and out of the room most of the night," Miriam bent over and
adjusted the bedclothes. "Doctor Roberts was here also."

Mrs. Nash was silent for some little time, her eyes roving about the
big room, into which the daylight was stealing through the partly open
windows; finally she gazed again at her nurse.

"I wasn't so ill that I could not appreciate what you did for me," she
said, and Miriam was surprised at the amount of feeling in her voice.
"I shan't forget it, my dear."

"Indeed, Mrs. Nash, you must not excite yourself," Miriam protested,
coloring warmly at her praise. "Please lie down again and try to sleep."

"How about you?" with a keen glance at her. "Have you had any sleep?
Ah, I can see you haven't, so don't lie." The injunction slipped out
with Mrs. Nash's customary abruptness and Miriam could not forbear a
smile. Undoubtedly Mrs. Nash was recovering. "Go and lie down on that
cot which I had Martha bring here yesterday afternoon for you. Don't
be afraid"--with a fleeting smile--"I'll make my wants known." And
considering the argument settled Mrs. Nash turned to a more comfortable
position and closed her eyes.

Without moving Miriam considered her in silence. It was only when she
heard Mrs. Nash's regular breathing and realized that she had fallen
into peaceful slumber that she walked over to the cot and, drawing back
the heavy blanket, threw herself, dressed as she was, down upon it.
Her head had hardly touched the pillow before she was sound asleep. An
hour passed and she still slept on, totally unaware that some one had
stealthily entered the room.

Mrs. Nash stirred, opened her eyes and sat up. What was the noise which
had awakened her? Her eyes darted about the room as she turned her head
from side to side, and she bent this way and that to get a better view
of each piece of furniture. A gentle snore from Miriam suggested a
solution--had a louder snore aroused her? Mrs. Nash lay back among the
pillows, but she did not close her eyes.

It was close upon eight o'clock when Miriam awoke and, refreshed by her
long nap, sprang up, to find Mrs. Nash's bright black eyes regarding
her with an expression she could not fathom.

The desultory conversation about the breakfast table ceased altogether
with the departure into the pantry of Anna, the capable daughter of a
neighboring farmer, whom Martha had secured to aid her in caring for
the guests at Abbott's Lodge. She had often assisted Martha when Paul
Abbott and his father had entertained parties in the hunting season
and her familiarity with the household arrangements made her presence
invaluable at the moment to the overworked housekeeper, whose duties
had multiplied with the alarming illness of Mrs. Nash.

Doctor Roberts and Alan Mason had eaten with relish Martha's buckwheat
cakes and country sausage, but Alexander Nash scarcely tasted a
mouthful of the appetizing breakfast, contenting himself with several
cups of black coffee.

"Must you return to Washington, Roberts?" he asked, pushing aside his
plate.

"Yes; I must be at Garfield by noon for an important operation."
Roberts paused to light a cigar handed to him by Alan. "There is every
reason to believe that Mrs. Nash will continue to improve."

Nash looked moodily at the unused knife which he was balancing between
his fingers. "Is there any country doctor in the neighborhood, Alan,
whom we could call on in an emergency?" he asked.

"I suppose so," Alan stopped to knock the ashes from his cigar into his
coffee cup. "I'll get in touch with Trenholm and ask him."

"Hold on," exclaimed Roberts, as Alan pushed back his chair,
preparatory to rising. "I don't know, Nash, how competent the country
doctors are, but you can safely trust Miss Ward should another crisis
arise."

"The nurse?" The question was put by Nash with raised eyebrows, and
Roberts frowned. He did not relish the clergyman's tone.

"The nurse," he repeated, with dry emphasis. "But for her keeping her
wits about her Mrs. Nash would have died yesterday afternoon, before I
could get to her."

"What was the cause of my wife's critical condition?" asked Nash. "You
have never told me."

"Heart collapse," tersely. "Miss Ward's prompt use of camphorated oil,
administered hypodermically, brought her around, however, and her
clever nursing has aided materially in her recovery from the attack.
Come, Nash, don't be so downhearted; you can place every confidence in
Miss Ward."

Nash laid down his napkin. "I'll be more easy in my mind if you will
return," he admitted. "Miss Ward is undoubtedly clever, but, at that,
only a nurse--"

"A damned fine looking one!" ejaculated Alan, emerging from behind
a screen of tobacco smoke. "Come, Nash, why have you taken such a
prejudice against her?"

Nash glanced angrily at the younger man, but refrained from a direct
answer.

"Suppose we drop the discussion," he said. "I will be greatly obliged,
Roberts, if you will promise to get back later to-day."

"I will try," was Roberts' noncommittal reply. "It depends upon how I
find my patients and my assistant's report whether I can spend to-night
here. I will run up now and see Mrs. Nash," and not waiting to hear
anything further, he left the dining room.

As Roberts reached the second floor, Miriam rose from her seat in the
alcove, where she had been eating her breakfast, and accompanied him
into the sick room. Mrs. Nash, with Martha sitting watchfully by the
bed, was dozing, and Roberts refrained from arousing her. Once again in
the hall he paused to speak to Miriam before going down the stairs.

"Keep up the same treatment," he directed. "Do not let her exert
herself in any way, and no excitement, mind--"

Miriam hesitated. "Is she to see any one?" she asked.

"I leave that to your discretion." He paused for thought. "Don't permit
any discussion--any arguments." He came back a step. "I wouldn't let
her mind dwell too much on Mr. Abbott's murder, and discourage her from
talking about it."

"I do, Doctor." Miriam looked down the empty hall, and then back at
Roberts. "Don't you think you had better get a second nurse?"

"That's not necessary now," exclaimed Roberts. "In fact, two nurses
would alarm Mrs. Nash unduly about her condition. You are getting some
sleep, aren't you?"

"Yes. I'm supposed to be off duty now, but I don't like to leave her."

"Oh, have Martha alternate with Miss Carter in the sick room; they
can call you if she has another attack." He noticed her change in
expression, and, struck by an idea, asked in a lower voice: "Are Mrs.
Nash and her niece on good terms?"

"Why, yes," glancing at him in surprise, and Roberts looked sharply at
her.

"Sure?"

"Certainly; I have seen nothing to make me think otherwise," with more
insistence, as he still looked dubious.

"Where is Miss Carter now?"

"Breakfasting in her room, Martha told me. She has volunteered to spend
the morning with her aunt, and--"

"Then you must go to your room and rest." Roberts started down the
staircase. "I have promised Nash to return to-night. If an emergency
arises, you have my telephone number," and the busy physician hurried
away just as Martha appeared in Mrs. Nash's doorway.

"Please, Miss--Ma'am," she came further into the hall at sight of
Miriam. "Mrs. Nash is sleeping nicely. Can I get Miss Betty to come to
her aunt?"

"Surely, Martha," but the housekeeper still hung back, instead of going
on her errand, and she added, "What is it?"

Martha came nearer and lowered her voice.

"Before she fell asleep she said to tell you to ask her husband to
send for her maid, Somers, to come and help take care of her," and her
message delivered in one breathless sentence, Martha went down the hall
to Betty's bedroom.

Miriam went thoughtfully over to the alcove and arranged the soiled
dishes on her breakfast tray while she considered Mrs. Nash's message.
If Somers was the right kind of person she would be invaluable.
Martha's white face, and nervous, excitable manner pointed inevitably
to one conclusion--Martha's usefulness as a nurse's aid would soon be
a thing of the past, indeed, if indications could be depended upon,
she might become a patient herself; for to Miriam's practiced eye, the
housekeeper was on the verge of a nervous collapse.

From where she stood in the window, Miriam caught sight of Alan talking
to Doctor Nash in the driveway which led to the garage. Apparently
Alan spoke rapidly, with quick jerky movements of his hands, while
the clergyman contented himself with a nod of his head now and then;
suddenly Alan whirled around and went in the direction of the garage.
Nash, left to himself, stood still for a minute, then commenced pacing
slowly up and down, each turn bringing him nearer the house. Miriam's
eyes brightened. Here was her opportunity to deliver Mrs. Nash's
message and to talk to Nash undisturbed. Since his arrival in the sick
room the night before she had had no chance to speak to him, other than
brief statements as to his wife's condition. But she had recognized him
instantly upon his entrance as Betty Carter's companion on Monday night.

Leaving the breakfast tray for Martha to take to the pantry, Miriam
ran lightly down the staircase and out of the front door. The driveway
was entirely clear of snow and at the sound of Miriam's tread on the
gravel, Nash looked over his shoulder and halted abruptly.

"Does my wife need me?" he asked. "I'll go to her at once."

"No, wait." Miriam, to her surprise, was breathing rapidly, and
paused to recover herself. What was there about this middle-aged man
confronting her to make her nervous? A certain hardness about the
clean-shaven, handsome mouth, a drooping lid which partly covered one
of his blue eyes--no, they did not account for her instinctive dread of
the clergyman. She caught Nash's surprise at her continued silence and
spoke in haste to cover her embarrassment. "Miss Carter is with your
wife."

"Ah, then you are out for a walk. Pardon me for detaining you," and
Nash raised his hat, intending to move on, but Miriam checked him.

"Just a moment," she exclaimed. "Your wife wishes you to send for
Somers."

"Somers?" questioningly. "Ah, very well. I will go at once and
telephone."

"Again I must detain you." Miriam spoke with assurance. She had caught
sight of Guy Trenholm as he turned the corner of the house and came
toward them. Her eyes brightened. Trenholm had come most opportunely.
Unconscious of her added color, she turned to the silent man regarding
her, as Trenholm paused by her side.

"Doctor Nash," she began, "I have told Sheriff Trenholm of Miss
Carter's visit to Mr. Paul Abbott on Monday night just before he was
murdered and that you accompanied her and, in my absence from the sick
room, performed the marriage ceremony. Will you kindly confirm that
statement?"

Alexander Nash eyed her and Trenholm, then his gaze swept upward to a
window of his wife's bedroom where Betty Carter stood looking down at
them. His gaze turned again to Miriam and the silent, attentive sheriff.

"On Monday night?" he asked, and his voice was under admirable control.
"I fail to recall any such occurrence."

Slowly Miriam took in the meaning of his words. Her face flamed
scarlet, then went deadly white.

"You liar! You despicable liar!" she cried, and Trenholm caught her
outflung hand. For one moment they confronted each other, then Nash
broke the tense pause.

"Hysterics," he commented, pursing up his lips. "Can you manage her,
Sheriff, or shall I sent out one of the women?"

Trenholm looked down at Miriam, then across at Nash. "I need no
assistance," he said, and the dryness of his voice was not lost on the
clergyman. "You need not wait."

Miriam tried to free herself from Trenholm's grasp as Nash went inside
the house. Suddenly she ceased struggling and rested limply against him.

"Do you feel better?" he asked, and the human sympathy in his voice
almost broke her down. "Shall I get you a glass of wine?"

"No, thanks. I'll be all right in a minute." Miriam straightened up
as she regained her self-control. She laid one hand over her rapidly
beating heart, but her eyes did not falter in her direct gaze at him.
"I owe you an apology for creating a scene."

Trenholm looked at her long and searchingly. From behind a box hedge
which skirted the walk, Pierre, the chauffeur, watched the tableau. He
was too far away to hear what was said, but the sheriff's expression
provided him with food for thought.

Miriam broke the protracted pause. "Doctor Nash does not speak like an
American," she said. "What is his nationality?"

Trenholm turned to accompany her into the house. They had reached the
veranda before he answered her question.

"Nash is a Canadian," he replied. "Take care--watch that step," as she
stumbled.

Miriam slowly released his strong hand, which she had clutched
instinctively to keep her balance.

"Thanks!" She looked up again and Trenholm noticed the distended pupils
of her eyes. "I shall not trip again."




CHAPTER X

SKIRMISHING


MIRIAM hung up the telephone receiver with a dissatisfied frown. For
the third time her talk with the nurse in Doctor Roberts' office had
been cut off, and her appeal to the local operator at Upper Marlboro
for a clear line had brought no results. Moving away from the telephone
table she stood hesitating in the center of the living room. Should she
go back to her bedroom and lie down again, or go out for a walk? The
latter alternative was the most inviting, although reason told her she
should try to sleep. Sleep! She had tossed and turned on her pillow for
two mortal hours and never closed her eyes. Always before her was the
scene with Alexander Nash and Guy Trenholm. Later, her mind reverted to
Betty Carter's denial of her presence at Abbott's Lodge. Twice she had
been branded a liar--was she to sit down tamely under it?

Miriam ran softly upstairs to her room, her mind made up. Putting on
her coat and hat, she hurried down the hall again, and heard, as she
passed Mrs. Nash's partly open bedroom door, the sound of a male voice
addressing the sick woman. So Doctor Nash was with his wife! Miriam did
not linger.

As she started to close the front door behind her, the telephone bell
rang loudly and she hastily entered the living room. Her unexpected
return was a trifle disconcerting to Pierre, the chauffeur, who had
started from the pantry to answer the telephone. At sight of the nurse
standing with the instrument in her hands, he ducked behind the newel
post and kept carefully out of sight, while listening intently to what
was said.

The call was from the operator at Upper Marlboro, and a second later
Miriam was again speaking to Doctor Roberts' office nurse. This time
there were no interruptions and Miriam's talk with the nurse was clear
and, from her viewpoint, satisfactory. Ten minutes later Miriam was
tramping across Abbott's estate, careless as to the direction she was
taking, providing it led away from the house of mystery.

Pierre slipped from behind the newel post in time to escape Martha as
the latter went about her household work, a reluctant Anna in tow. The
murder of Paul Abbott had created a sensation throughout the county,
and, as the mystery surrounding the case deepened, the old hunting
lodge gained a reputation for ghosts and horrors which kept visitors
at a respectful distance, the morbidly curious only daring to venture
near it in the daytime. Anna had consented to "help out" provided she
did not have to go above the first floor and could be taken home by
Corbin in the Abbott car before nine o'clock in the evening. Pierre's
attentions, as he waited in the pantry, supplied a new thrill, which
the country girl found a pleasant diversion from Martha's sullen
irritability and Corbin's unwholesome leers.

It was approaching the luncheon hour when, from his seat by the kitchen
window, Pierre perceived Alexander Nash and Corbin talking together on
the roadway. Corbin, on his way from the woodshed with a wheelbarrow of
wood, had stopped and set down his barrow at a sign from the clergyman.
From his gesticulations, Pierre gathered that he was indicating the
points of the compass, but the little chauffeur did not wait to see
more. Martha's back was turned as she put several pies in the oven,
and Anna had gone for an instant into the servants' dining room. Like
a flash Pierre was out of the door and up the back staircase to the
second floor. His low knock on Mrs. Nash's door was answered by Betty
Carter.

"_Bonjour_, Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, bowing respectfully. "I came
to inquire for the health of Madame." His voice carried to Mrs. Nash's
sharp ears and she sat up in bed.

"Admit Pierre, Betty," she directed. "I wish to speak to him." At her
imperious tone her niece opened the door still further and Pierre
stepped inside. With a quick click of his heels, he bowed from the
hips, his hands crossed before him, and then advanced.

"Madame is better!" And his respectful tone held a note of genuine
relief. Mrs. Nash was a kind mistress and her servants were devoted to
her. "Ah, Madame, I have been anxious--yes."

"Thanks, Pierre." Mrs. Nash was touched. She had, with Betty's aid,
slipped on a becoming dressing sacque, one of the articles brought from
Washington by her husband the evening before, and her boudoir cap was
attractively arranged. "Have you heard from Somers?"

"Yes, Madame. Doctor Nash directed her to take the afternoon train
for Upper Marlboro, and I will be there to meet her," explained the
chauffeur. He turned to Betty. "Your bag, Mademoiselle, came by express
just now and Corbin has placed it in your room."

Mrs. Nash understood Betty's quickly checked motion toward the hall.

"Run along, Betty, and see to your bag," she said, good-naturedly.
"I don't need you in here every minute, and will ring the bell if
I require anything," touching the brass ornament which Martha had
resurrected from a china cabinet for her use. "Well, Pierre, have you
followed instructions?" she added in a lower key, as Betty vanished out
of sight.

Pierre carefully closed the hall door and then came over to the bed,
and placed a small paper in Mrs. Nash's outstretched hand. Silently she
read the few lines of familiar writing before addressing the expectant
servant.

"Where did you find this?" she asked.

Pierre's smile was illuminating. "Corbin has his price," he admitted.
"What next, Madame?"

Mrs. Nash sat up a trifle straighter and pointed to the bureau.

"You will find a roll of money in the top drawer," she said. "Bring it
over here." Pierre complied with her directions so speedily that she
had but a second in which to secrete the paper. Taking the money from
the chauffeur, she handed him a generous sum. "Be watchful, Pierre,"
she cautioned, as he put back the remainder of the bills in their place
in the drawer. "Overlook nothing."

"_Oui_, Madame." Pierre halted on his way to the hall door, struck by a
sudden idea. "The nurse, Mees Ward--"

"Well, what about her?" as he hesitated.

"She plans to leave to-night."

Mrs. Nash's color changed. "How do you know?" she demanded sharply.

"I heard her telephone to Doctor Roberts to bring another nurse to take
her place." Pierre explained, and then waited respectfully for her to
address him.

Mrs. Nash viewed the chauffeur in silence and then glanced about the
sunny room. It seemed suddenly cold and bare to her. When she spoke her
voice had altered to a shriller key.

"As you go along the hall, Pierre, ask my niece to return," she
directed, and closing her eyes she laid down again, one hand stroking,
as if for companionship, the tongue of the brass bell.

Miriam's walk along the Patuxent River finally brought her to a
bridge connecting the highway, and she paused to rest on its parapet.
It was a rolling country and she had walked up hill and down dale
before striking the river bank. She had put on her high boots for
cross-country walking, but she had not found the ground as soft as she
anticipated, the snow of four days before having entirely vanished
except in a few sheltered nooks and crannies.

The view from the bridge diverted Miriam's thoughts, and she studied
the panorama spread before her with interest. Perched high on a hill
close at hand was a colonial mansion, its white pillars and gabled roof
a fair landmark to be seen for miles, while toward the valley nearer
the river, and obviously on the same estate, was a low building, the
architecture of which suggested a church or chapel.

Miriam was still speculating on her surroundings when she caught sight
of a solitary horseman riding across the fields to her right. The man
rode with the unmistakable seat of an American cavalryman, and horse
and rider seemed one as they cleared the low fences and swung at last
into the highway, headed for the bridge. As he crossed the bridge, Guy
Trenholm checked his horse with such suddenness that a shower of mud
bespattered Miriam, and his first words, instead of greeting, were an
apology.

"Have I ruined your coat?" he asked, in deep contrition, as he sprang
to the ground.

"A whisk-broom will remove the damage," Miriam replied lightly. "No,
please don't try to rub it off!" as Trenholm drew out his handkerchief.
"It must dry first. Where are you going in such a hurry?"

"Not going--returning," he answered. "This is my bailiwick, that--"
pointing in the direction from which he had come--"is Anne Arundel
County, and my jurisdiction ends at the river's bank."

"And you dignify that stream with the title of river?"

"Don't be so scornful," he protested. "To-day it is a stream, but in
the War of 1812 the British men-o'-war sailed up it to this point,
burned down the original colonial homestead yonder," indicating the
mansion Miriam had been admiring, "and sailed away again."

Miriam was paying scant attention to his historical facts, instead she
was considering his previous statement.

"So your jurisdiction ends at the river," she repeated. "And a criminal
has simply to run across the bridge to elude you."

"If he is a fast runner," dryly. Trenholm stroked his horse's soft
nostril, as the chestnut mare rubbed her head against his arm and
nosed in his pocket for the apple and sugar she so dearly loved and
always found. "Also, there's a sheriff in Anne Arundel County. Are you
returning to Abbott's Lodge, or," his eyes twinkled, "thinking of a
sprint across Hills Bridge?"

"My conscience is clear," she replied, "and I am on my way to the
Lodge."

"Then let me show you a short cut," and, taking her consent for
granted, Trenholm led the way off the high road and along a footpath,
his mare walking contentedly along behind them. Miriam, a lover of
horses, stopped every now and then to caress her, unconscious of the
charming picture she made, her mind carefree for the moment, and her
cheeks glowing from her long walk in the wind.

They had gone fully three quarters of the distance to the Lodge when
the footpath took a sudden turn to the right and, crossing a wood,
skirted a small graveyard. The unexpected sight caused Miriam to
start slightly and she took in the air of desolation and the unkept
appearance of the graves with a sense of depression which she strove to
shake off.

"The Masons' family burying ground," explained Trenholm, observing her
change of expression. "It is now part of Abbott's estate. Not a very
cheerful sight, is it?"

Miriam shook her head. "Not very," she echoed, and paused idly to
count the headstones, some still standing upright, while others, badly
chipped and lichen-covered, reclined on the ground. "Twelve," she
announced.

"No, thirteen," added Trenholm, pointing to a grave a little distance
from the others and running obliquely to them.

"Surely, I didn't see that one," she exclaimed. "Why is it placed in
that manner--outside the pale, so to speak?" and she touched a piece of
rusty iron which had once formed the fence around the family plot. A
number of other upright pieces of iron indicated the line it had once
taken.

"It's a suicide's grave," explained Trenholm. "There is an old
superstition among the negroes that such a grave cannot be dug
straight or on line with the others. Shall we walk on, Miss Ward?" and
turning, he whistled to his mare, standing some distance down the path.

They were both rather silent, Miriam, her momentary lapse into her old,
gay self, having dropped back into a depression deeper than before,
while Trenholm watched her with an absorption of which he was totally
unaware.

"I'm afraid you will be late for luncheon," he remarked, happening to
glance at his wrist watch as he put his hand on the bridle rein of the
mare.

"It doesn't matter," she replied absently. "It won't inconvenience
them, for Martha doesn't expect me. I should be asleep, you know."

"You should indeed," he said, and she wondered at his emphatic tone.
"This is no preparation for night duty."

"But I am not going on duty to-night," she broke in. "I'm leaving the
case."

"What?" Trenholm stopped abruptly and eyed her in concern. "Fired?"

"No, indeed!" She flushed hotly. "Do you suppose I can take care of
Mrs. Nash after her husband's treatment of me?"

He did not answer at once. "So you are running away," he commented
softly. "Frankly, I did not expect it of you."

"Mr. Trenholm!"

"Running away," he reiterated, paying not the slightest attention to
her indignant ejaculation. "Running away under fire."

"Nothing of the sort!" she flared back. "Do you suppose I'll stay in
any house where I've twice been called a liar?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to," he retorted, with equal heat. "You cannot
leave Abbott's Lodge, Miss Ward."

"What?" She gazed at him astounded. "Why not?"

"Because you are the last person known to have seen Paul Abbott alive,"
he pointed out slowly. "And your statements regarding the events of
Monday night are unsubstantiated."

Miriam stared at him as if unable to believe her ears. "Do you
insinuate I lied?" she demanded.

Trenholm's hand on his horse's rein tightened until the knuckles shone
white, but his glance did not waver.

"It is not a question of my opinion one way or the other," he said
sternly. "You are our chief witness, and as sheriff of Prince Georges
County, I cannot permit you to leave Abbott's Lodge."

Miriam regarded him intently. "So that is your attitude," she said,
finally. "I am glad to have it defined. You have, at least," with a
ghost of a smile, "been honest with me."

"Thank you!" Trenholm drew a step nearer. "Your reasonable acceptance
of the situation encourages me to ask a personal question."

"Yes?" she prompted, as he paused. "Well?"

"What is your interest in the black seal?"

Miriam stared at him, thunderstruck. "The black seal?" she repeated.

"Yes--the seal which you have traced many times on paper," and from his
coat pocket he drew a number of papers, and held them so that Miriam
could see the drawings she had made at odd moments while in the sick
room. They were cleverly done--distinct and clear in every detail.

Miriam looked first at them and then up at Trenholm, standing silent
and stern by her side.

"Those drawings were in my bag last night," she stammered. "How did you
get them?"

"I examined your bag," calmly.

Her eyes were dark with anger. Twice her voice failed her. "You are
impossible--intolerable--" she gasped, and turning ran toward Abbott's
Lodge, in her blind haste passing Alan Mason without recognition.
The latter stopped and stared after her, then catching sight of Guy
Trenholm standing patiently by his mare, he whistled softly to himself.




CHAPTER XI

THE FOLDED NOTE


THE undertaker's assistant looked in deep embarrassment at Betty Carter
as he remained standing in front of the closed door of the room where
lay Paul Abbott's body.

"I'm sorry, Miss," he said. "Those are the sheriff's orders. No one is
to go into the room now."

"But why?" demanded Betty. "The funeral will be held in half an hour,
and"--her voice quivered--"I want to--to see him before the casket is
closed."

Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other; Betty's distress
disturbed him. "I'm very sorry," he mumbled. "Indeed I am--but it's not
possible. Perhaps," his face brightened as the idea occurred to him,
"perhaps you can see Mr. Trenholm and get his permission. Here he comes
now," as a figure appeared at the far end of the corridor and came
toward them. "Oh, pshaw! it's a woman."

Somers, Mrs. Nash's maid, greeted Betty in a subdued voice. "Please,
Miss Betty," she said. "Where will I find your aunt? The young woman
who let me in declined to come upstairs."

Betty glanced impatiently at the British maid. "Come this way," she
turned as she spoke, then hesitated and addressed Thompson. "If you see
Sheriff Trenholm tell him, please, I must go in this room."

"Yes, Miss," and Thompson, considerably relieved by the maid's
opportune arrival, resumed his slow pacing back and forth before the
door.

The sound of his voice and Betty's had carried inside the bedroom,
but neither of the two men in it paid the slightest attention. The
photographer put up his plates and closed his camera.

"I've taken four views, Mr. Trenholm," he said. "Is that enough?"

Trenholm nodded as he handed the man his flashlight apparatus. "Develop
the plates and let me have the prints as quickly as possible," he
directed. "Do you need any assistance?" as the photographer shouldered
his camera, tripod, and utility box.

"No, thanks." In spite of his haste to be gone, the man was careful to
walk as far from the undertaker's couch with its silent figure as the
limits of the room permitted. "I'll get these to you to-night. Where
shall I send the photographs? Here, or to your home?"

"My home," briefly. Trenholm held open the hall door for him to pass
through, then spoke a few whispered words to Thompson. Ten minutes
later the body of Paul Abbott had been carried downstairs and the
casket closed, while arrangements for the funeral went steadily on.

Trenholm listened impassively to Thompson's flurried delivery of
Betty's message, the latter having forgotten it utterly in his
astonishment at finding Trenholm had been in the bedroom at the time
Betty wished to enter.

"The casket is not to be opened again," the sheriff said sternly.
"Understand, Thompson--under no circumstances is it to be opened," and
turning he mounted the staircase and found Betty standing at the top
landing, waiting for him.

"I heard what you said," she stated. "And would like an explanation of
your extraordinary conduct."

"There is nothing extraordinary about it," Trenholm replied quietly.
"If you really insist upon an explanation--"

"I do," her passion rising.

"Paul died Monday night--this is Thursday," he spoke gravely. "A change
has already set in and it is not possible to keep the casket open
longer."

Betty was thankful for the railing of the stairs to lean against.

"I have never been permitted to be with him--"

"I beg your pardon--you have."

"Never alone." She had turned ghastly in color. "Always you have had
some one stationed in the room."

Trenholm looked at her in growing concern. "Hadn't you better rest?" he
asked. "The funeral will take place in twenty minutes."

Trenholm was doubtful if she heard him, so fixed was her stare. He
turned quickly to see what had focused her attention. Standing by the
newel post was Alexander Nash in earnest conversation with Alan Mason
and a third man, the rector of the Episcopal church at Upper Marlboro.
Trenholm laid his hand on Betty's arm. It was shaken off instantly and
she shot down the hall to her bedroom without further word. Trenholm
stood in thought for several minutes and then joined Alan Mason.

The hands of the grandfather clock in the living room were pointing
to three when the funeral services commenced. Betty, accompanied by
Alexander Nash, was the last to enter and take the seat reserved for
her by Alan Mason's side. A few friends from Washington had motored out
to Abbott's Lodge, while the residents in the vicinity had come in a
body to attend the services.

Upstairs in her bedroom Mrs. Nash motioned to Somers to come to her,
and with reluctance the Englishwoman left her post by the door where
she had been keeping an attentive ear for all that was transpiring
below.

"Help me up," ordered Mrs. Nash, in a tone Somers had learned not to
disregard. "Get my slippers and wrapper." She was panting from her
exertions when she finally reached the hall door, a protesting Somers
struggling to steady her with a feverish grasp of her elbow.

"Tut, be quiet, Somers; I can't hear a word," and Mrs. Nash appeared
in the hall and peered down it. Shifting her husband's cane, which she
had picked up on her way from the room, to the other hand, she rested
her weight on Somers' arm, and went slowly to the top of the staircase.
From there she could hear in the stillness the words of the Episcopal
service. When she raised her head after the final prayer, Somers saw
that her cheeks were wet with tears.

"I'll rest here," she announced, dropping weakly into a chair by the
stairhead. "Oh, it doesn't matter what I'm sitting on," as Somers
attempted to remove several overcoats, evidently the overflow from the
wraps lying in the living room below. "Bring me the small glass of
whisky which Miss Betty poured out before she went downstairs."

In her haste Somers neglected to add any water and Mrs. Nash drank the
whisky neat with a wry face. With the false strength engendered by the
stimulant, she managed to get back to her room and into bed before her
husband came upstairs.

"How are you, dear?" he asked solicitously. "Do you feel stronger?"

"Yes, now that I've taken some whisky," promptly, conscious that
the telltale fumes might betray her activities if questioned on the
subject. "Are the services over?"

He bowed gravely. "Betty and I are just starting for the cemetery."

"Where is Alan Mason?" sharply.

"He is going with us, also Sheriff Trenholm. Is there anything I can do
for you before I leave, Dora?"

"Not a thing, thanks."

Nash looked across the room at Somers; she had her back turned, while
engaged in putting Mrs. Nash's lingerie neatly away in the bureau
drawer. Stooping over, Nash kissed his wife with unwonted tenderness,
then, pressing her hand, hurried away as his name was called by Alan
Mason just outside the bedroom door.

A room had been prepared for Somers halfway down the corridor of the
right-hand wing of the house, and between Mrs. Nash's periods of
dozing the maid succeeded, with Martha Corbin's help, in arranging
her belongings to her satisfaction. Somers' methodical mind would not
permit her to rest until her own room and that of Mrs. Nash were in
apple-pie order. Her trips back and forth took her past Miriam Ward's
bedroom and on her final excursion she stumbled over Martha who, not
expecting Somers to return so quickly, had knelt down and applied her
eye to the keyhole of Miriam's door.

The commotion aroused Miriam from fitful slumber and, springing out
of bed, she threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and looked out
into the corridor. Somers, rising slowly to her feet, was rubbing a
rheumatic knee, while her bewildered eyes followed Martha's fleeing
figure.

"Are you hurt?" asked Miriam, noting with surprise the scattered bundle
on the floor.

"No, Madam," Somers' precision of speech and her rising intonation
clearly denoted her nationality. "A bit shaken," her smile was wintry.
"Excuse me for disturbing you."

"Come inside," suggested Miriam kindly, observing that, in spite of
her disclaimer, the elderly woman was considerably upset. "Don't stoop
over, I will pick up what you dropped. Sit here in this chair," and
Somers, after a feeble protest, did as she was told.

"I don't know where that woman sprung from," she added, after
describing what had happened. "My arms were full of bed linen and I
wasn't looking down. She's a bit uncanny, Miss, don't you think?"

Miriam nodded absently. "Martha is odd," she admitted, as she handed a
small dose of aromatic ammonia to Somers. "Drink this and you will feel
better."

"Thank you, Miss," exclaimed Somers gratefully, then her mind reverted
to Martha. "She wouldn't be so bad, if she wasn't so--so--" casting
about for a proper word to express her opinion--"so creepy; and those
eyes of hers!" with a shudder. "They give me the horrors."

Miriam smiled, not unkindly. Somers was typical of her
class--intelligent, unimaginative, a trifle garrulous and a lover of
routine, with a dislike for anything out of the ordinary. And she had
come to Abbott's Lodge! Miriam's smile deepened. Judging by her own
experiences, the maid was reasonably certain to encounter the unusual
if she remained long in attendance on Mrs. Nash.

Somers' honest, comely face grew troubled and she straightened up with
a jerk. "I must be getting back to Mrs. Nash," she said. "If you don't
mind, Miss, I'll leave the linen here and put it away later in my room."

"How is Mrs. Nash?" asked Miriam, and the maid paused with her hand on
the door.

"She was asleep when I left her," responded Somers. "Excuse me, but
aren't you Miss Ward?"

"Yes."

"I thought so," and Somers nodded sagely. "Mrs. Nash has told me what
you have done for her. She is very fond of you, Miss, and," lowering
her voice, "Mrs. Nash can be a very good friend, as well as"--her voice
sank to an even lower key--"a good hater."

Miriam eyed the maid in some perplexity. Was her snap-judgment wrong
and Somers, instead of a staid, middle-aged Englishwoman, a lover of
romance?

Somers gave her no time for reflection. With a murmured word of thanks
she went into the hall and closed the door. Miriam walked over to her
bureau and consulted her watch--nearly five o'clock. She was in no mood
to return to bed. Pulling her dressing gown around her, she prepared a
hot bath and, half an hour later, refreshed and invigorated, she stood
staring down at her white uniform. Should she put it on, or her house
dress? The nurse, sent out from Washington to relieve her, would surely
get there in time to go on night duty. If Somers had gotten to Abbott's
Lodge so promptly, it would only be a matter of a few hours for the
nurse to report for duty. Miriam laid aside her clean uniform and put
on her house dress. She had completed her toilet when Martha appeared
at the door.

"Please, Miss--Ma'am, Doctor Roberts wishes to see you downstairs,"
she explained, with characteristic haste. "Say, ain't them lovely?"
observing an oddly wrought gold necklace which Miriam slipped inside
her gown. "Rubies, ain't they?"

"No, garnets," shortly. Martha's inordinate curiosity was an unpleasant
feature. "What were you doing at my door a short time ago?"

Martha's hands twisted in and out of her apron. "I stooped down to pick
up a pin and that there clumsy idiot flopped over me," she explained in
an aggrieved tone. "Had no better sense than not to look where she was
going. She skeered me an'--an'--I ran downstairs." Her tone changed.
"Why didn't you come to Mr. Paul's funeral, Miss--Ma'am?" raising her
eyes and lowering them rapidly.

Miriam paid not the slightest attention to the question. Stepping past
the housekeeper she went in search of Doctor Roberts. He was sitting at
the desk in the living room, going over his daybook.

"Good evening, Miss Ward," he exclaimed as she paused in front of him.
"I hope Martha did not disturb you. I told her to wait until later."

"I was all ready to come downstairs," she responded. "When will the new
nurse be here? Or did she come with you?" glancing hopefully about.

"No." Roberts pocketed his daybook and fountain pen. "After your
message came Miss Stockton telephoned to every hospital and the
Registry, and not one had a nurse on call."

Miriam stared at him in dismay. "You couldn't get a nurse?" she gasped.

"No, not for to-night, at least; there's an epidemic of grippe and,
therefore, a shortage of nurses." Roberts looked at Miriam keenly. "Are
you ill, Miss Ward?"

"No; that is"--her bitter disappointment was discernible in her voice.
"I can't go on, Doctor."

Roberts rose and walked past the desk, stopping by her side. "What is
it, Miss Ward?" he asked sympathetically. "What has happened since this
morning?"

She saw his well-cut features, broad brow, and gray hair through a
blur. His concern deepened at sight of her evident unhappiness. "What
can I do for you?" he asked. "Tell me."

Miriam collected her wits. "I--I'll be myself in a minute," she said,
brokenly. "I had hoped to leave the case to-night and was counting on
that. I suppose," looking appealingly at him, "that you won't let me
off."

"You realize Mrs. Nash's condition as well as I," he replied, and
Miriam sighed; she had anticipated such an answer.

"Very well, Doctor. No--" as the scene of the morning rose vividly
before her. "I can't nurse that man's wife!"

"What has Nash to do with it?" asked Roberts, in astonishment.

"He denied that he was here on Monday night with Miss Carter," looking
straight at Roberts, "and, Doctor, he, a minister of the gospel, lied."

"Well, I'll be--" Roberts checked back the oath with an effort. The
silence lengthened as they faced each other. Suddenly the physician
turned and paced rapidly up and down, then paused abruptly. "Miss
Ward," she looked up at the seriousness of his tone, "you are
acquainted with the ethics of our profession. A doctor often becomes
cognizant of conditions in a home of which he cannot speak. Alexander
Nash's conduct," he paused again, "gives rise to doubt, and, it may
be, to investigation. I think," his voice deepened, "that the quicker
we get Mrs. Nash on her feet, the sooner will we arrive at a solution
of--many things."

Miriam drew in a long breath. "You may be right, Doctor," she admitted.
"I'll get into my uniform after dinner."

It was a somber, silent group that drove in the Rolls-Royce from
the country cemetery to Guy Trenholm's bungalow five miles distant
from Upper Marlboro. Pierre followed the sheriff's directions as to
crossroads with indifferent success and Betty finally complained of the
rough going and frequent turns.

Trenholm lifted the speaking tube as they approached a white gate which
opened on a roadway to a picturesque building partly concealed from the
road by a number of trees.

"Stop here, Pierre," he directed, then turned to the silent man by his
side. "I am greatly obliged to you, Doctor Nash, for giving me this
lift. Good evening," and he sprang out of the car before the chauffeur
had brought it to a full stop. Not pausing to exchange a word with Alan
or Betty, aside from a wave of his hat, he strode across the turf. As
he reached his front door he thrust his hand inside his overcoat pocket
for his bunch of keys and pulled them out, and with them a folded piece
of paper.

Trenholm stared at the paper as he thrust the key in his front door,
and before turning it in the lock, paused to unfold the note. The few
lines it bore were unsigned and in an unknown handwriting:

 Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott's death find the
 lost Paltoff jewel.

Trenholm's expression was as blank as the other side of the paper. It
was unaddressed. He reread the note a number of times, then entered his
bungalow. The telephone was in the room he used as library and sitting
room. Hardly noticing the police dogs that fawned upon him at his
entrance, he sat down before the telephone and quickly got his number.

"Hello, constable," he called. "This is Trenholm speaking. Station
a guard over the vault where Abbott lies. What's that?--Oh, just a
precaution, that's all. Good night!" and he hung up the receiver.

Taking out his pipe and tobacco pouch, he stretched his long legs under
the table and sat back, the note in his hand.

"Which one of them," he mused, unaware that he spoke aloud, "slipped
this note in my overcoat pocket?"




CHAPTER XII

THE HUMAN EYE


PABLO, Trenholm's Filipino servant, brought the after-dinner coffee
into the library and withdrew with the swiftness and silence which
characterized his movements.

"Excellent coffee," commented Roberts. He relaxed lazily against the
cushioned sides of the big leather chair in which he was sitting and
stretched his tired muscles. "It's strong and black. Better have some,
Alan."

But Alan Mason declined. "I am too jumpy now," he admitted. "Where the
deuce is Trenholm?"

"In the kitchen talking to some man." The physician put down his
empty coffee cup and filled it again from the silver pot which Pablo
had thoughtfully left on the table, with the sugar and cream. "He'll
be back shortly, I imagine; come and sit down," and with his foot he
pushed around a chair, similar in size to the one he occupied.

Instead of complying with his invitation, Alan walked moodily about the
room, which ran the length of the bungalow. Its ceiling was oak-beamed
and the windows diamond-paned, and its air of comfort was enhanced by
the good taste evidenced in its furnishing. It was typically a man's
room, filled with hunting trophies, smoking paraphernalia, shotgun and
rifle, fishing rods and tackle and curious weapons of a bygone age and
other climes. Mahogany bookshelves lined one wall and Alan stopped and
read the titles of some of the editions.

"Scott, Thackeray, Darwin, Spencer, Dickens, Wells, _et cetera_," he
announced, running his finger along the books. "And blame me, if they
don't look as if he'd read 'em."

Roberts turned his head to observe what Alan was doing. "Trenholm is
one of the best informed men in the country," he remarked dryly. "He is
well read and has a brilliant mind."

"And lives in this God-forsaken part of the country!" Alan shrugged his
shoulders. "There is no accounting for taste."

"Quite so!" Roberts laughed. "But if my memory serves me right, Alan,
you are indigenous to the soil."

"Sure, but my parents had the good sense to move to Washington soon
after I was born," retorted Alan. "We spent only our summers here until
Cousin Paul Abbott bought the old place in a land deal."

"Oh, so Abbott's Lodge is your ancestral homestead?"

Alan nodded. "With many alterations and additions," he said. "I'd
never have known the house when I first went to stay with Paul just
before the War. We were at Lawrenceville together, you know, and then
at Princeton." Alan sighed. "The War changed him a lot," he added
wistfully. "He was a dandy pal--so much pep and devil-may-care spirit
about him."

"When was he shell-shocked?"

"Toward the last." Alan changed the subject with marked abruptness.
"Say, Doctor," he sat down and his voice dropped to a confidential
pitch. "Trenholm does himself mighty well--this most attractive
bungalow, a model farm, and a servant whose cooking is absolutely
faultless. Where does he get the money?"

"His salary--"

Alan laughed mirthlessly. "It wouldn't much more than pay Pablo's
wages," he said. "It takes real money to keep up a place like this."

Roberts lighted a cigar, first offering one to Alan, which the latter
accepted, with a word of thanks.

"I heard some time ago that a rich relation--one of the Trenholms of
South Carolina--died and left Guy a handsome legacy, which he has
augmented by careful investments," he explained.

"Oh!" Alan was having some difficulty in lighting his cigar. "Who told
you that--Trenholm?"

"I believe so. Why?" His question met with no response and Roberts eyed
his companion in speculative silence.

Alan's complexion was not a healthy color, the physician decided in his
own mind, and the unsteadiness of his hand as he strove to hold a match
to his cigar was not lost on Roberts. The older man's expression grew
thoughtful; Alan Mason had changed in the past few days and not for the
best. Roberts had observed his tendency to go off alone for long walks,
and his sudden bursts of talkativeness at the table and his equally
abrupt lapses into long, sullen silence from which no one could arouse
him.

It was in such a fit of depression that Roberts had encountered him
when about to motor over to Trenholm's for dinner, and he had persuaded
Alan to accompany him after the latter had first called up Trenholm
and received a hearty invitation to make one of the party. All through
dinner Alan had chatted on first one topic and then another, the others
seconding his efforts, but the three men with one accord avoided any
reference to the tragedy at Abbott's Lodge or to the funeral which had
taken place that afternoon.

Trenholm found his two guests smoking in silence when he joined them a
few minutes later.

"Sorry to have been so long," he said apologetically, taking up a cup
of coffee, before seating himself on the divan before the open fire.
"There have been a number of petty thefts in the neighborhood, but
I believe we've jailed the right man to-day, from the evidence just
brought to me." He swallowed his coffee and replaced the cup on the
table. "By the way, Roberts, how is Mrs. Nash?"

"Much better this evening," responded Roberts. "If she continues to
show such improvement, she may be able to sit up to-morrow for a time."

"Ah, then Mrs. Nash can soon dispense with the services of a trained
nurse," broke in Alan, with a swift look upward at the clock on the
mantel.

"Perhaps," answered Roberts. "Much depends, however, on what sort of a
night she has."

"Is Miss Ward still on the case?" questioned Trenholm, knocking the
ashes from his pipe before refilling it.

"Yes." Roberts puffed silently at his cigar for a few seconds. "I tried
to get another nurse to relieve her, but none were disengaged."

"So Miss Ward told you she wished to go?" with a quiet persistence
which made Roberts glance at the sheriff in surprise.

"Yes. Why?"

"I wondered if she would attempt to leave after all," responded
Trenholm. "I warned her that she was wanted here until after the
inquest."

"Wanted?" Alan dropped the cigar from his nervous fingers and hastily
stooped to pick it up. When he sat back his face was flushed.
"Wanted--for what?"

"As chief witness. Hello, who's here?"--as the knocker on the front
door sounded in three hurried blows.

Pablo, busy in clearing off the dining room table, scurried into the
hall and the murmur of voices sounded first faintly and then came
distinctly to their ears. The three men gazed blankly at each other as
Pablo pulled back the portières.

"Mees Carter," he announced and discreetly vanished.

"Betty!" Alan was the first on his feet. "Why are you here?"

Betty's glance swept by him to Roberts and then to her host.

"I wish to see you, Guy Trenholm," she said. "Why have you put a guard
around the vault where Paul lies?"

As she came further into the library, the men saw that the hem of her
short walking suit and her high boots were splashed with mud. Trenholm
pulled back a chair and stepped toward her.

"So that his grave will not be molested," he replied quietly. "There
are ghouls who, attracted by the newspaper accounts of Paul's tragic
death, would not hesitate to enter the vault if given an opportunity.
You have been there to-night?"

"That is obvious," with a glance at her muddy condition and the smart
walking stick which she carried. Her hair, naturally curly, showed
under the brim of her sport hat, and her cheeks were rosy from the cold
night air. But to Trenholm's keen vision, there was a strained look
about her eyes, a continuous twitching of her hands which betrayed
nerves keyed to the highest tension. "Doctor Roberts," she turned
impulsively to the older man, ignoring Alan, "has Sheriff Trenholm told
you his theory of the murder?"

Roberts looked from her to Trenholm. "No," he replied, and would have
added more, but Trenholm cut in.

"I have not discussed my theories with any one," he said smoothly. "But
your suggestion is a good one. Sit here," dragging forward a chair,
"and we will talk the situation over. Doctor Roberts, you and Alan--and
perhaps"--his smile was enigmatic. He did not complete his sentence,
but waited patiently for Betty to seat herself.

With a swift glance about her she mastered her hesitation--her
inclination to run away. She had come there with a purpose, and until
that was accomplished--her fingers clenched about her stick; it
required all her self-control not to strike the tall man at her elbow.
He dwarfed her in size, but the smoldering resentment in her eyes
flamed up as he bent toward her.

"Do sit down," repeated Trenholm with gentle insistence. "Take your old
chair, Roberts," and he dropped into one next the physician as Alan and
Betty followed his example. "Now, Miss Carter--" he prompted.

Betty glanced at him for a fraction of a second, then her gaze swept
the library. It was the first time she had ever been in Trenholm's
house. Slowly her eyes traveled about the room, noting each object,
until finally her gaze rested on a large silver frame standing on the
big mahogany table. It was one she had given to Trenholm in Paris.
She caught her breath slightly--the frame was empty. She suddenly
grew conscious of the concentrated regard of her companions and
involuntarily her glance sought Alan, sitting across from her.

"Well, Betty, we are waiting," he exclaimed.

"For the sheriff," she broke in. "Come, sir, do not keep us longer."

Trenholm took out a cigarette case and offered it to Betty, but she
waved it away. "I'll take some coffee," she said. "Thanks, Alan," as he
filled a cup for her. Again she turned to Trenholm. "Go on."

"Suppose we reconstruct the scene on Monday night," began Trenholm
slowly. "Roberts turns Paul over to his trained nurse and leaves.
Corbin and his wife go to bed, and Miss Ward is alone with her
patient...."

"What then?" asked Alan, bending forward, his eyes fastened on Betty,
who sat sipping her coffee. Trenholm answered his question with another.

"What do we know of Miss Ward?" he asked, and Roberts stared at him.

"Know of her?" the physician repeated. "She was sent on the case by
Central Registry."

"And what about her antecedents?" questioned Trenholm. "Where did she
spring from? Is she a Washingtonian?"

"She said not," replied Roberts. "She told me that she had trained in
New York."

"And you know nothing more of her than that?"

"Nothing more."

"You don't even know that she was not acquainted with Paul before."

"What!" Roberts' eyes opened as well as his mouth. "Why--why--they were
strangers."

"Ah, were they?" with quiet emphasis. "Can you prove it?"

Roberts shook his head. "No; but judging from her manner she had never
met Paul before."

"Women are clever actresses," retorted Trenholm. "Well, Miss Ward, who
may or who may not have known Paul before, is the last person known to
have been with him on the night he was murdered--the last person to
have seen him alive!"

"Hold on," the interruption came from Alan. He was not looking at
Betty, but kept his eyes steadfastly lowered, the cigar still in his
hand. "Miss Ward claims that Paul had visitors--"

"And Miss Ward's statements as to their presence have not been
substantiated"--Trenholm paused and Betty could not avoid his
stare--"as yet."

In the lengthening silence Betty's rapid breathing was faintly audible.
She finished her coffee and her hand was quite steady as she set the
cup and saucer down on a stool by her side.

"And your theory is--what?" she asked, raising her eyes to Trenholm's.

"That Miss Ward killed Paul while he slept," replied the sheriff.

Alan drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. "It's a rotten
theory!" he exploded. "Why, Trenholm, I thought you liked Miss Ward?"

Betty shot a swift glance at Trenholm and her figure grew rigid.

"It is not a matter of like or dislike," replied Trenholm quietly.
"It's a question of finding Paul's murderer. You asked me for a
theory--and mine is a reasonable hypothesis."

"Just a moment," broke in Roberts. "Paul was no slight weight. I doubt
if Miss Ward could have lifted him in and out of bed unassisted,
especially putting him back in bed--a dead body is an unwieldy object."

"She could have killed him in bed," replied Trenholm.

"But the other night you pointed out to Miss Ward and me that the lack
of bloodstains on the sheets proved the crime was not committed in the
bed," objected Alan heatedly.

Trenholm eyed him thoughtfully. "You forget Miss Ward is a nurse," he
pointed out slowly. "It would be a simple matter for her to change the
bed linen with the dead man lying in it."

Betty leaned forward in her earnestness. "And what became of the
bloodstained sheets?" she asked.

Trenholm uncrossed his long legs and leaned closer to her chair. "Ask
Corbin," he suggested.

Betty's grasp of her walking stick tightened, and she grew conscious of
the atmosphere of the overheated room. Turning from Trenholm's direct
gaze she saw Alan fumbling with his collar, his face a pasty white, and
she seized her opportunity to divert attention from herself.

"Are you ill, Alan?" she asked, her eyes big with concern. "Doctor,
can't we have some fresh air in the room?"

Roberts threw up the window nearest to him, then went to Alan's aid.
Alan took the flask Trenholm proffered and drank eagerly, putting it
down almost empty.

"I'm better," he announced. "The room's infernally hot. Say, Guy,"
turning impulsively to him, "your theory's no good. What possible
motive could Miss Ward have had to kill Paul?"

"Frankly, I don't know"--there was something disarming about Trenholm's
smile and Alan's anger cooled. "Miss Carter asked for a theory and I
gave her one."

Betty shrugged her shoulders. "Which won't hold water." Her voice
altered and her companions gathered a hint of pent-up passion as she
added, in tones which she strove to steady, "Paul's murder was no
motiveless crime."

"Quite so," agreed Trenholm. "And that motive was what, Miss Carter?"
He waited in vain for an answer, and finally broke the pause. "Paul
apparently had no enemies, and yet he was killed," he said. "Come,
Roberts, you've known and loved the boy for years; you, Alan, were his
first cousin and chum; Miss Carter, his," he paused, and she looked at
him dumbly, "his one love. Among you, can you not tell the motive which
inspired Paul's murder--was it hate, was it revenge, was it greed?"

His deep voice lingered on the last word, then ceased. Roberts had
touched him on the arm. At a sign from the physician Trenholm, without
moving, turned his head and glanced at the open window. The light from
one of the lamps shone directly on the outer blind. It had been turned
a crack and in it peered a human eye.

With a spring which carried him halfway across the room, Trenholm
gained the hall and threw open the front door, his police dogs at
his heels. They swept by him and raced around the house and down the
driveway, the sheriff and Roberts behind them. As the dogs gave tongue,
a strong, powerful voice called Trenholm's name.

"Call off your dogs, Trenholm!" And turning his flashlight on the
newcomer, the sheriff recognized Alexander Nash, the Rolls-Royce
standing down the roadside.

In the library Betty turned aside from her feverish scanning of
Trenholm's papers on the table, to find Alan standing, with his back
partly turned, drinking the remaining whisky out of the flask. Betty
was by his side in an instant.

"Stop, Alan; you mustn't!" she pleaded, real terror in her handsome
eyes. "You promised me--"

Alexander Nash's heavy tread, as he and Roberts entered the room,
caused her to swing swiftly in their direction.

"Your aunt was alarmed by your absence, Betty," explained Nash, and his
voice sounded loudly in the sudden stillness. "She learned of your trip
to the cemetery and sent me to bring you home."




CHAPTER XIII

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY


MIRIAM WARD opened the window a little further and looked out. It was
nearly midnight and the cold, raw breeze was an agreeable contrast to
the atmosphere of the sick room. Mrs. Nash's preparations for the night
were long-drawn-out and Miriam had found her at her worst. In turn she
waxed dictatorial, fault-finding and fretful, and Miriam's stock of
patience was severely taxed. It seemed an interminable time before Mrs.
Nash finally closed her eyes with the avowed intention of taking "forty
winks," and the imperative command that she be awakened the moment her
husband returned.

Miriam made herself as comfortable as possible on the window seat,
having carried a sofa pillow with her, and pulling her sweater more
closely over her shoulders, she leaned her head against the wooden sash
and stared out into the night. The stars were out and the moonlight
added beauty to the grounds. It all appeared so calm and peaceful,
so utterly different from the last four hectic days. Miriam sighed
involuntarily and closed her eyes. When she opened them a few minutes
later she saw the powerful headlights of a car coming along the
turnpike. A second later it had swung into the driveway and Miriam
recognized the Rolls-Royce. The front door was toward the other side of
the house, and Miriam lost sight of the car as it circled the approach
to the _porte cochère_. Undoubtedly Doctor Nash had returned.

Miriam's expression hardened. Her outspoken, frank disposition made
it next to impossible for her to cloak her aversion even under the
ordinary courtesies of the sick room. She was commencing to loathe
Doctor Nash; while wondering dimly why two such opposite natures as
Dora Carter and the clergyman had ever fallen in love with each other.
Truly, the marriage market was but a lottery!

Leaving her position by the window, Miriam walked softly over to the
bed. Her patient's deep breathing assured her that Mrs. Nash was
comfortably asleep and Miriam's heart lightened; she would not have to
summon Doctor Nash, for, in spite of his wife's wishes, Miriam did not
propose to awaken her. The closing of a door further down the hall with
a resounding bang brought her hand to her heart and Mrs. Nash's eyes
unclosed in time to notice Miriam's agitation.

"What was that noise?" she demanded. "What has happened to make you so
pale?"

"Nothing--it's the lamplight," Miriam stammered a trifle incoherently.
"A door slammed and startled me."

Mrs. Nash rubbed her eyes and inspected her with interest. Miriam's
trig uniform was becoming.

"Nerves," Mrs. Nash remarked caustically. "Have you seen Doctor Nash?"

"He has just returned and I believe is still downstairs," responded
Miriam. "But, Mrs. Nash, you should not see any one at this hour."

"Tut! My nap has refreshed me, and besides, I am stronger, much
stronger," with emphasis, and she struggled into a sitting position.
"Just throw that bed sacque over my shoulders and ask Doctor Nash to
come here, there's a good child!"

Miriam's hesitation was interrupted by a low tap on the bedroom door,
and walking swiftly over to it she found Doctor Roberts standing in the
hall.

"I am on my way to bed," he said, softly. "How is Mrs. Nash?"

"Her general condition is better now." Miriam slipped outside and held
the door so that their voices would not carry into the bedroom. "But
when I came on duty I found her cyanosed, so I gave her stimulation and
applied heat locally."

Doctor Roberts stroked his chin thoughtfully, then moved toward the
door and Miriam held it open. Mrs. Nash greeted him with a frown.

"Some more horrid medicine," she grumbled. "Well, all paths lead to the
grave."

"A cheerful outlook," smiled Roberts as he took her pulse. "You ought
to be asleep at this hour."

"I never felt more wakeful," and Mrs. Nash's alert look confirmed her
words. "Where have you been all the evening?"

"At Sheriff Trenholm's--Alan Mason and I dined with Trenholm, and your
husband drove us back."

"What was he doing there?" The look which she flashed at him startled
the physician.

"He had come for Betty Carter, having missed her at the cemetery,"
replied Roberts. He was commencing to feel uncomfortable under Mrs.
Nash's steady stare. Quickly he rose to forestall other questions.
"We returned together a few minutes ago. Now, Mrs. Nash, it is after
midnight and you must get to sleep."

"Presently," she retorted. "As you go to your room, Doctor, please ask
Alex to come here. I shall not sleep until I have seen my husband," and
her air of finality closed the discussion. "Good night."

Roberts smiled at her characteristic dismissal. At the door he turned
to Miriam and signed to her to come into the hall.

"Humor her as much as possible," he said. "When she gets her own way,
she'll go to sleep. Her pulse is better and she has no temperature.
I'll send Nash along," and with a friendly smile he hurried downstairs.

Miriam had just given Mrs. Nash a drink of water when the clergyman
came in. Mrs. Nash's sharp, black eyes detected his constrained manner
as he spoke to Miriam and her equally stiff acknowledgment of his
greeting. Turning her back upon Nash, Miriam addressed his wife.

"I will wait in the alcove in the hall until your husband leaves," she
said. "If you wish anything, please let me know."

Nash remained standing until the hall door closed behind Miriam and
then he seated himself in a chair by his wife's bed.

"I am so thankful that you are better, Dora," he said, taking her hand
in both his and raising it to his lips. "So very, very thankful to a
merciful Providence."

"Save some of your thanks for Miss Ward," she remarked dryly. "She gave
Providence a helping hand. By the way, you don't seem to like her."

"My dear Dora!"

"Why not?" she persisted, ignoring his interjection.

Nash sighed. Custom had taught him respect for his wife's tenacity, but
there were times when he wanted to shake her.

"She, eh--reh--has an agreeable personality," he began. "I am grateful
to her for what she has done for you, but I, eh, really, my dear,
haven't given her much thought."

"Oh!" Nash squirmed uneasily under her unswerving gaze. "Oh!" repeated
Mrs. Nash, and her intonation conveyed much or little according to her
husband's perception. "And Betty, where is she?"

The rapid change of topic confused Nash, his slower wits failing to
keep up with his wife's trend of thought. "She is downstairs," he
stated. "That is, I left her there talking to Alan and Roberts."

"She ought to be in bed," declared Mrs. Nash, with ill-concealed
irritability. "Traipsing around the countryside by herself at night.
Did she reach the cemetery?"

"Yes." Nash cleared his throat. "The attendant at the vault told me
that she had gone to Trenholm's, two miles the other side of the
cemetery; so Pierre drove me there and I brought her home."

Mrs. Nash looked down at the old-fashioned, handmade quilt and studied
its pattern and cross stitch intently.

"Betty is a great responsibility," she said, glancing over at her
husband. "Her eccentric conduct, her total lack of thought for others--"

"She is young," broke in Nash with some vehemence and his wife changed
color. "And youth is selfish."

"If that were all--" Mrs. Nash spoke under her breath and her husband
failed to catch what she said. He did not care to break the pause and,
as the silence lengthened, Mrs. Nash's thoughts reverted to the past.

Alexander Nash did not appear a day older than the first time she
had met him in London two years before. The fact that he was again
clean-shaven accounted for his unaltered appearance, his wife decided.
She had never cared for his carefully trimmed beard and mustache which
he had worn until a day or so before. A flood of memories of the days
of their courtship, their marriage in Paris and their happy, happy
honeymoon kept Mrs. Nash silent. A year and six months had passed since
then. Mrs. Nash bit her lip.

"I am a romantic old fool," she admitted, and her usually metallic
tones had softened, holding a depth of feeling which would have
startled her skeptic friends. "Kiss me, Alec."

From where she sat in the hall Miriam caught now and then the sound
of voices from the living room on the floor below, and recognized
Betty's clear tones and Roberts' heavier bass, with now and then a word
from Alan Mason. But from Mrs. Nash's bedroom no sound issued and she
waited patiently in her corner for Doctor Nash to take his departure.
Footsteps on the staircase caused her to draw further back in the
alcove; she was in no mood to talk to any member of the house party
that night. Was "house party" the proper term when tragedy had brought
them together under the same roof? With a shake of her head Miriam
dismissed the question as Betty came up the steps, followed by Roberts.
On reaching the second floor she paused and spoke to the physician.

"I cannot sleep," Miriam heard her say. "Indeed, Doctor, I cannot
sleep, and another night like the last three will drive me to madness.
Can't you give me something to induce sleep?"

Roberts scanned her closely. Betty's broken voice, her quivering lips
which she strove vainly to keep steady, were both unmistakable symptoms
of her overwrought condition. Roberts had marveled at her self-control
during their drive homeward, unexpectedly delayed by a puncture which
had taken Pierre over an hour to repair. Nash's wrath at the chauffeur
for not having a spare tire along had added a picturesque moment to
the monotony of the trip. It was the first time Roberts had seen the
generally self-contained clergyman give way to temper.

"Get ready for bed, Betty," Roberts advised, "and I will ask Miss Ward
to prepare a sedative."

Betty checked him with an expressive gesture. "Can't you give it to
me?" she asked. "I--I dislike to--to ask Miss Ward for--for--to do
anything," she spoke through chattering teeth. "I believe I am having a
chill."

Roberts laid a firm hand on her arm. "Come," he said in tones which his
patients rarely disobeyed. "Go immediately to bed. I will find Miss
Ward to assist you; now, no nonsense," as she paused to voice another
objection. "Go."

Miriam emerged from the alcove as Roberts, after conducting Betty to
her bedroom door, came down the hall.

"Doctor Nash is with his wife," she explained. "I have been sitting
yonder and could not help but overhear your conversation with Miss
Carter."

"She is on the point of a breakdown," Roberts said tersely. "Is your
hypodermic ready for use?"

"Yes, Doctor."

"Then please come to Miss Carter's bedroom: I will meet you there in a
few minutes," and taking her acquiescence for granted Roberts hurried
to his own room where he had left his bag.

Miriam paused in indecision; she had been trained to serve humanity--to
care for the sick and to look after the infirm. Was it obligatory
upon her to minister to Betty now that she was ill? No, a thousand
times, no! From somewhere came the chimes of a clock--one in the
morning--Doctor Roberts was powerless to secure other aid in a sick
room at that hour and twenty miles from Washington. Miriam walked
quietly to her room, where she had her hypodermic syringe, secured it
and went direct to Betty. Alexander Nash would find her if she was
needed by his wife.

Betty looked up at her approach and Miriam was struck by the suffering
in her face. In her haste to undress and get into bed she had scattered
her clothes on the floor and she had kept on her dressing gown.

"It--it's very good of you," she murmured. "I--I--" she paused, at a
loss for words.

"Doctor Roberts will be here in a moment," answered Miriam quietly.
Putting down her hypodermic, she spent the next few minutes arranging
the room and adjusting the windows. Betty never took her eyes from her
and Miriam was thankful when Roberts knocked on the closed door.

Silently Miriam aided him in his examination and her swift deftness won
his admiration. As he took the thermometer from Betty Miriam observed
a gold chain suspended about her neck. She caught Miriam's glance and
drew her dressing gown close about her throat.

Miriam prepared the hypodermic, then paused by Roberts' side. "Will you
give it?" she said simply, holding the instrument toward the physician,
and Roberts grasped her reluctance to administer the opiate.

No one in the room was aware that the door had been cautiously opened
an inch or two and then as quietly closed. Alan Mason reached the
staircase a minute later and stood listening, his head bent. Only the
faint tick-tock of the grandfather clock was to be heard. Convinced
that he was alone in the hall he made his way noiselessly to the door
of the room where Paul Abbott's body had lain until the funeral that
afternoon. The door was locked. Alan drew in his breath sharply,
hitched at his dark sweater, and glanced down at his "sneakers"; then
he crept softly through the darkness of the back hall and disappeared.

Roberts looked over at Miriam and then at Betty as he rose and tiptoed
to the door. "She will be all right, now," he said. "If you have
an opportunity, come in again during the night." He paused and, to
Miriam's surprise, held out his hand. "Thank you. Good night."

Miriam delayed only a few seconds to adjust the light so that it would
not shine directly in Betty's eyes and awaken her, and then she left
the room. She had almost reached her old seat in the alcove, and was
debating in her mind whether or not to go at once into Mrs. Nash's
room, when her patient's door swung open and Doctor Nash appeared in
the hall. He looked relieved to find her there.

"I waited until my wife dropped asleep," he said. "You can go in now,
but pray don't disturb her."

Miriam bit her lip to keep back a heated rejoinder. Instructions in
nursing from members of the patient's family, irrespective as to who
they were, were generally infuriating, but, from Alexander Nash, doubly
so. He evidently expected no answer, for turning abruptly, he sought
his bedroom.

Nash had not only lowered the lamp before leaving his wife, but had
placed a screen about it--however Miriam's familiarity with the room
enabled her to move about without colliding with the furniture. The
cot did not appeal to her--she felt, as she had once expressed it to a
fellow student at the hospital when in training, too "twitchy" to lie
down. Going over to the chair which Nash had occupied, she sat down
in it. It was not the one which customarily stood near the bed, but
another chair, bigger and much lower, and Miriam experienced a sense of
sudden shock as she dropped down further than she had expected.

It was a chair built for a large man and Miriam felt lost in its depths
and squirmed back, hoping to find an easier position, but that made her
stretch her legs before her at an uncomfortable angle. Too tired to get
up, she put her hand behind her and pulled up the seat cushion. As she
did so, she touched a paper--evidently a letter, she judged, as she ran
her fingers over what was unmistakably an envelope with stamps upon it.
Half rising she turned around and bending down saw that a letter was
wedged between the high, tufted cushion and the upholstered back of
the chair. In idle curiosity, Miriam took it up, replaced the cushion,
and carried the letter over to the lamp. The orange Canadian stamps
caught her attention instantly. She turned it over. The black seal was
unbroken, the flap uncut--the letter evidently never had been opened.

Miriam drew a long, long breath. Turning, she gazed at the chair. Its
unwieldy size had induced her to push it behind the bedroom door the
first night of Mrs. Nash's illness, to get it out of the way. Evidently
Doctor Nash had preferred it to the one in which she generally sat, and
had moved it up to the bed. Had he accidentally dropped the letter in
the chair and not perceived it when leaving the darkened room? Miriam
consulted the postmark and then the address. It bore Paul Abbott's name
and was dated January 23, 1923.

Miriam stood in deep thought holding the unopened letter, then she
slipped it inside her uniform, made sure that it was safe, and,
crossing the room, seated herself once more by Mrs. Nash, her mind in a
turmoil.

It was close upon three o'clock in the morning when Mrs. Nash awoke and
called Miriam by name.

"I am so thirsty," she complained, as the girl bent over her. "Couldn't
I have some orange juice?"

"Certainly," and Miriam went over to the table on which she kept her
supplies. The oranges were there, but hunt as she might, she could find
no knife. With a few uncomplimentary comments on Martha's carelessness
in neglecting to bring her one when she carried her night lunch
upstairs, Miriam hastened down to the pantry, after a brief word of
explanation to Mrs. Nash.

Mrs. Nash could see from her position in the bed the hall door which
Miriam had left ajar; from there her gaze shifted to the lighted lamp
at the farther end of the room, and then she closed her eyes. When she
opened them the bedroom was in darkness.

As Mrs. Nash lay speechless with surprise, she grew conscious that some
one beside herself was in the room, and a faint, scraping noise sounded
closer and closer to the bed. Suddenly something soft brushed across
the back of her hand lying on the edge of her bed. Turning her hand
over with lightning speed, her fingers closed spasmodically upon some
object, and a cry escaped her.

Miriam, halfway up the stairs, covered the distance to her bedroom
with flying feet as the low cry came to her ears. She faltered in
consternation at sight of the utter darkness. Mrs. Nash caught sight of
her white uniform as she stood in the doorway, outlined by the light
behind her in the hall.

"Bring in the lamp," she directed, unaware that her voice was hoarse
from excitement, and Miriam obeyed her instantly. When she reached the
bedside, Mrs. Nash was leaning upon her elbow, a false beard suspended
from her hand.

"I almost got him," she exclaimed in triumph, then fainted quietly away.




CHAPTER XIV

THE WILL OF HATE


DOCTOR ROBERTS leaned back in his chair and stared at Guy Trenholm.

"So, Paul, poor lad, was stabbed with that vicious-looking nut pick,"
he exclaimed, pointing to where it lay on the table in the sunparlor of
Abbott's Lodge. "And Mrs. Nash was awakened last night by a disguised
man and succeeded in dragging off his false beard. Upon my word--what
next?"

The two men, with Alan Mason, looking wretchedly ill, making a poor
third in their conversation, were waiting patiently for the arrival
from Washington of the lawyer employed by Paul Abbott, who had
signified his intention of reaching there at ten o'clock. It was then
eleven, as Alan's frequent glances at his watch assured him, and his
nervousness was increasing. He looked up furtively at Roberts at the
latter's question.

"Did Mrs. Nash recognize the man?" he asked.

Roberts shook his head. "She said she was unable to make out if it was
a man or a woman--"

"A woman!" Alan dropped the penknife with which he was fiddling and
half rose. "_A woman?_ Why, that's a man's beard in your hand, Guy."

"But a woman could have disguised herself with it, as well as a man,"
Trenholm said. "Odd, isn't it, that something always happens to Miss
Ward's patients when she is on duty."

"For God's sake, why are you forever picking on her!" Alan dropped back
in his chair and his voice rang out indignantly, reaching the ears of
Betty Carter, who was eating a belated breakfast in the dining room.

Betty's violent start was not lost on Martha, and the housekeeper
decided to remain in the room under pretext of rearranging the silver
in the drawer. But first she handed a plate of toast to Betty and as
the girl took a slice she encountered the unfriendly stare of Martha's
oddly assorted eyes and an involuntary shiver ran down her spine.
Her attention distracted, Betty failed to distinguish any reply to
Alan's fervid question and, not having heard Trenholm's remark which
had called it forth, she was in doubt to whom the "her" referred. Who
was Guy Trenholm "picking on" now? She longed to steal to the closed
portières and overhear what was being said, but Martha's presence kept
her in her seat.

The opiate had given her needed sleep and Betty felt more like her old
self once again. Against the advice of Somers, Mrs. Nash's maid, who
had gone early to inquire how she was, she had insisted upon getting
up and coming downstairs. Somers had regaled her, while in the process
of assisting her to dress, with a dramatic account of Mrs. Nash's
adventures that night--and they lost nothing in the telling. Betty's
rapt attention would have inspired an even less imaginative person
to thrilling heights of fancy. A burst of tears relieved the tension
of Betty's overtaxed nervous system and reduced Somers to contrite
silence. Had not Doctor Roberts as well as Miss Ward cautioned her
not to excite Miss Betty? Somers' confused state of mind was not
lessened by Betty's reception of a piece of news which the maid let
drop incautiously--the expected arrival of Daniel Corcoran, for many
years attorney and close friend of the elder Abbott and the legal
adviser of the latter's son. Betty's feverish desire to dress and have
her breakfast downstairs took away Somers' breath and she retired
thankfully, a short time later, to the comparative tranquillity of Mrs.
Nash's bedroom.

Unaware of Betty's presence in the dining room Roberts and Trenholm
continued their low-voiced conversation.

"Have you made tests for fingerprints on the nut pick, Trenholm?"
inquired Roberts.

The sheriff nodded. "An expert came down from Washington," he answered.
"Aside from the bloodstains, there were no marks upon it. Evidently the
person using it"--Trenholm held up the nut pick in its wrapping of oil
silk as he spoke and then placed it carefully in the inside pocket of
his coat--"wore gloves. As a means of identification the bit of steel
is a failure."

"An ingenious weapon," commented Roberts. "And Paul's pyjamas' jacket
offered no resistance. It would not have required great strength to
drive the pick into a vital part of his body--"

"There you go again," objected Alan, "insinuating the murder was
committed by a woman. Say, you are a great sheriff, you are!" turning
in sudden, unlooked-for wrath to the big man lounging near him. "Why
don't you do something besides loaf around this place? I believe you
were here last night!"

"Was I?" Trenholm's calm smile was provoking in its hint of bored
amusement. Was the sheriff poking fun at him? The thought was
intolerable, and Alan jerked uneasily about and finally rose and
strolled over to one of the glass doors leading to the garden.
"Well, this appears to be the place a sheriff is needed, Alan.
First the cold-blooded murder of a defenseless man," his voice rose
slightly--"then a housebreaker last night--"

"Deuce take it!" Roberts straightened up and laid down his cigar.
"Something must be done, Trenholm; Alan's right. Why not try one of the
well-known detective agencies?"

"Perhaps I may, shortly," Trenholm rejoined in the same unemotional
tones. "I am always open to suggestions. Have you any more, Alan?"

Alan's white cheeks turned a more healthy color and leaving the window
he came closer to Trenholm; stopped, opened his mouth to speak,
hesitated, then moved over to the portières. Parting them slightly he
gazed into the dining room. It was vacant.

"Listen, Guy;" he had regained Trenholm's side and spoke hurriedly,
clipping his words together. "What about Corbin? Have you thought of
him as a--a--possible suspect?"

Trenholm stared up at his agitated questioner for a moment in silence.
"Corbin tells an apparently straight tale, Alan," he replied. "He
declares that after admitting Miss Ward on Monday evening he and Martha
retired to their rooms and slept soundly all night. Their quarters, as
you know, are near the roof and at the back of the house. No ordinary
sound would carry that distance."

"What do you mean by an ordinary sound?" asked Roberts, who was
following the rapid dialogue with deep attention.

"A door bell, for instance," responded Trenholm, with a quick glance at
Alan.

Alan looked away for an instant. "How about a sound _out_ of the
ordinary?" he demanded. "A cry of terror--of horror--wouldn't that
reach them?"

Trenholm shook his head dubiously. "Not with their doors closed. And
Martha substantiates her husband's statement that they are both heavy
sleepers."

"Oh, Martha!" Alan tossed down his hat which he had picked up and held
aimlessly, twirling it back and forth. "I wouldn't believe her on
oath--neither of them, for that matter. Why under heaven Paul kept the
Corbins here after his father's death I cannot imagine."

"Possibly because he deemed them faithful," replied Trenholm dryly.
"You must also recollect that it is difficult to induce servants to
live out here in the country all the year round."

Alan, silenced but not convinced, walked sulkily across the sunparlor
and threw himself into a wicker chair. "The Washington papers are still
featuring the murder," he said, pointing to a newspaper lying on the
floor with a headline running half across the front page. "I'm tired of
heading off the reporters."

"Send them to me," suggested Trenholm.

"You!" disgust spoke in Alan's voice. "They call you the fresh
water clam of Prince Georges County. You've got their goat by your
uncommunicative ways and rotten bad manners."

Trenholm looked across at Roberts. "I don't appear to be popular," he
remarked, a faint twinkle in his eye, and changed the subject. "Will
you throw me that false beard, Doctor?"

Roberts handed it to him. "Any clue in that, Trenholm?" he asked,
watching the sheriff stow it carefully away in his coat pocket.

"Maybe. I've only had it in my possession for the past hour." The
wicker chair in which Trenholm was seated creaked under his weight as
he straightened up from his lounging position, preparatory to rising.
"When can I interview Mrs. Nash, Doctor?"

"This afternoon, I imagine," answered Roberts. "I saw her before
breakfast and she seems none the worse for her fright last night. Her
husband insisted that I remain through the morning, however, in case I
was needed."

Trenholm looked around at Alan. "What has become of Nash?"

"I haven't the faintest idea," roughly. "I keep out of his way."

"Why?" The question shot from Trenholm and Roberts glanced at him, his
interest instantly aroused.

"He's the type I can't stand--oily, unctuous, bah!" Alan's temper had
gained the upper hand. "A pious fraud!"

What reply his companions would have made, he never learned, for at
that moment the portières were pulled aside to admit the lawyer from
Washington.

"Monsieur Cocoron" was the best Pierre could do in pronouncing the
name of Corcoran. The chauffeur had taken it upon himself to usher the
lawyer into the house in the absence of Martha Corbin, the newcomer
having rung the front door bell at the moment Pierre was alone in the
kitchen.

Daniel Corcoran had known Alan Mason since his boyhood, Doctor Roberts
was his family physician, and Guy Trenholm he had met numerous times
when visiting Paul Abbott, Senior. The lawyer's usual cheery smile was
absent as he shook hands with them.

"This is a shocking affair!" he said. "Shocking! Paul was a fine young
man, with a brilliant career ahead of him. I cannot conceive of any
one harboring enmity against him; he was such a likable chap. And to
find him murdered here in his home!" Corcoran shook a bewildered head.
"Have you any clue to his murderer, Trenholm? Any later news than that
published in the morning paper?"

Not only the lawyer waited expectantly for the sheriff's answer; Alan's
eyes were glued to him, and Roberts also was giving him undivided
attention; but Trenholm's expression told them nothing.

"The murder is still shrouded in mystery, Mr. Corcoran," he replied
quietly. "We expected you here for the funeral yesterday."

Corcoran's face clouded over. "I was in Richmond and reached Washington
late in the evening. I telegraphed my clerk to take Paul's will out
of my office vault and bring it to the house this morning. I have it
here," tapping his brief case. He turned to Alan. "Did I understand
correctly from the papers that Mrs. Nash and her niece, Miss Elizabeth
Carter, are staying here?"

"Yes," replied Alan, looking at him in some surprise.

"Very well; then please ask them to be present at the reading of the
will. And, eh," looking about him, "do you prefer to have the reading
take place here?"

Alan hesitated and glanced questioningly at Trenholm. "How about it?"
he asked.

"This is all right," agreed Trenholm. "Will you ask Miss Carter
to join us, Alan? I must speak to one of my men," and the sheriff
unceremoniously opened one of the doors leading into the garden and
walked around the house.

"Don't forget Mrs. Nash," called out Corcoran, as Alan hurried into the
dining room.

"She is ill in bed," hastily broke in Roberts, as Alan paused in
uncertainty at the lawyer's hail.

"Ah, then ask her husband to be present, if he is here," directed
the lawyer. Corcoran moved over to a wicker table and Roberts helped
him remove some magazines and books. Taking up his brief case, the
former unlocked it, drew out a pad of blank paper, a pencil, and an
official-looking document with an imposing seal. Without unfolding it,
he put the document down in front of him and addressed Roberts.

"Paul was a queer character," he admitted. "In many ways a lovable
fellow, with a curious, suspicious streak running through his make-up.
In the last few years he has trusted no one--entirely."

Roberts' expression grew serious. "Cheerful and morose by turns," he
said. "I never knew how I would find him, of late years--happy as a
lark or down in the depths. I attribute it," he lowered his voice, "to
shell-shock."

"It may be," agreed Corcoran. "But you recall his mother. Ah, here is
Miss Carter," as Betty appeared, dressed in black, "and Dr. Nash." The
lawyer shook hands with them gravely. "Now, if you will select chairs
we will go ahead with the reading of Mr. Abbott's will. Alan," as the
latter made a belated appearance, "ask Mr. Trenholm to come back."

Betty had selected a chair near the entrance to the library and out of
the direct sunlight. From where she sat she caught a glimpse through
the portières of Trenholm standing talking to a man. He advanced with
Alan a moment later and entering the sunparlor, closed not only the
portières but the folding doors as well.

Corcoran waited until every one was seated, then took a chair himself,
and, picking up the will, put on his eyeglasses.

"This," he said, holding up the document so all might see the seal, "is
the last will and testament of Paul Mason Abbott, duly executed in my
office on July 23, 1922, six months ago, and witnessed by responsible
persons, whose names are attached hereto." He cleared his throat. "The
will reads as follows:

 "IN THE NAME OF GOD, AMEN. I, Paul Mason Abbott, being of sound mind,
 and residing at Abbott's Lodge, Hills Bridge, Prince Georges County,
 Maryland, do declare this to be my last will and testament.

 "I give and bequeath to Alan Mason, my cousin and only near relation,
 $500 in liberty bonds and the burial ground, known as the Mason Plot,
 adjacent to my estate of Abbott's Lodge.

 "To my good friend and physician, Doctor William Roberts of
 Washington, $5,000. To my neighbor, Guy Trenholm of Upper Marlboro,
 the valuable hunting prints which he so often admired, a sapphire and
 diamond scarf-pin, and $25,000.

 "To Mrs. Nash, for much kindness and hospitality shown me, my silver
 service, bearing the crest of the Abbotts.

 "To Martha and Charles Corbin, for their faithful service to my
 father, I give the sum of $1,000 each, and permission to live, rent
 free, in the gardener's cottage at Abbott's Lodge, for the rest of
 their natural lives.

 "To my fiancée, Miss Elizabeth Carter of Washington, I bequeath
 Abbott's Lodge, and the real and personal estate, not otherwise
 specified, of which I die possessed.

 "Should Miss Carter marry after my death, my special bequest to her
 stands revoked, and Alan Mason will become my residuary legatee,
 provided he is married before my death. If such is not the case,
 then all my property, as above specified, is to revert to the State
 of Maryland and Abbott's Lodge be made a convalescent hospital for
 disabled American soldiers and a fund provided for its upkeep, and
 administered by officials appointed by the Governor of Maryland.

 "I hereby appoint Daniel Corcoran of Washington my executor, and I
 charge him to see that all my just debts are paid out of my estate
 before it is divided.

  "(Signed) PAUL MASON ABBOTT."

             { "John Harbin,
  Witnesses. { Marshall Turner,
             { George Flint."

Absolute silence followed the reading of the will. Corcoran laid it
down and took several papers out of his brief case.

"I have here a complete list of Paul Abbott's real estate holdings,
investments and securities," he stated. "Roughly, his estate is
estimated at a little over one million dollars."

Trenholm broke the thunderstruck silence.

"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, and involuntarily his eyes traveled to
Betty Carter and Alan Mason. The latter was leaning against the door,
looking dazedly at the little lawyer. Betty had risen and Corcoran,
catching her glance, addressed her. He was a trifle confused by her
expression and hastened to adjust his glasses that he might see her
more distinctly.

"Paul Abbott loved you devotedly," he said, "as you can judge from his
will."

"Love?" Betty could hardly articulate; her eyes were dark with passion.
"Love, did you say? That is a will of _hate_," and before any one could
stop her she had flung open the folding doors and darted into the
dining room.




CHAPTER XV

THREE BEEHIVES


MIRIAM looked at her watch--two o'clock. The brilliant sunlight and
the out of doors exerted an appeal she could not resist. Stopping only
long enough to put on her hat and coat, she started down the corridor
and, when passing Mrs. Nash's door, paused irresolutely. Mrs. Nash had
recovered, when she left her at eight o'clock that morning, from her
fright at discovering the disguised man in her room, but Miriam was
troubled about her heart condition. She felt that she should speak to
Somers before she went for her walk. She had told the maid to call her
at any time if she needed assistance. If Mrs. Nash was asleep she could
slip out without disturbing her.

Miriam softly turned the knob of the door and pushed it gently open,
intending to beckon to Somers to come into the hall. She had opened it
but a few inches when she heard Alexander Nash address his wife.

"I have just received a telegram from Canada, Dora," he said, and added
more quickly as his wife looked up, a question on her lips, "from Frank
Chisholm telling me of the sudden death of Boris Zybinn."

Mrs. Nash's reply was unheard by Miriam. She leaned limply against the
doorjamb, her strength stricken from her. Their voices sounded far
distant--unreal. It was fully two minutes before her brain cleared and
she had a realizing sense of what Nash was saying.

"A remarkable will," he commented. "Alan receives practically nothing
from his cousin, while Guy Trenholm is given twenty-five thousand
dollars, a scarf-pin, and those wonderful old hunting prints. It is
really extraordinary."

Miriam waited to hear no more. Closing the door as softly as she had
opened it, she stole back to her room, unlocked her bag, and drew from
it the letter she had found in Mrs. Nash's bedroom the night before.
For a time she stood quite still, balancing the unopened letter in her
hand; once she took up a hairpin, then laid it down, unused. Boris
Zybinn! She shook her head and glanced about as if awakening from a
nightmare.

A sound of voices coming through her open window caused her to look
outside. Anna, her work done for the time being, was, as she expressed
it to Martha later, "joshing" one of the constable's assistants--a
young deputy whose susceptible heart had made him a willing victim to
her wiles. The deputy's presence gave Miriam a sudden idea. Carefully
placing the unopened letter in her hand bag, she went downstairs and
hastened through the dining room, intending to go out of the door of
the sunparlor and from there to the back of the house.

Martha--a rejuvenated Martha--looked up from changing the tablecloth
at her approach, and Miriam, in spite of her absorption in her own
affairs, noticed her changed appearance.

"Have ye heard, Miss--Ma'am," she began incoherently. "Mr. Paul, God
rest his soul, has left me and Charles one thousand dollars each."

"Is that so? I congratulate you, Martha." Miriam shifted her hand bag
and held it more firmly against her. There was an intangible something
about Martha which invited distrust. "Mr. Abbott was most generous."

"Yes Miss--Ma'am; he had call to be," Martha's voice had assumed its
old complaining whine. "Us took good care of him. I don't mind telling
you Miss--Ma'am, that my husband ain't quite satisfied. He wants more."

"Oh!"

"Yes." Martha's grievances were displacing her first feeling of elation
at the, to her, large sum of money. "Charles, he's mad, clean through.
He says he's goin' to Sheriff Trenholm."

"And why to the Sheriff?" questioned Miriam in surprise.

"Oh, he's kinder good at giving advice--when ye got something to tell
him." Martha's slow, expressive wink annoyed Miriam and without paying
further attention to the woman, she went through the sunparlor and
outside the house.

Martha, in no wise disturbed by Miriam's cool reception of her
confidences, went slowly on with her work, her mental process of
"thinking" betrayed by her facial contortions.

The young deputy was just starting his engine when Miriam appeared at
the side of his car.

"Can you tell me where I will find Sheriff Trenholm?" she asked.

Ben Riley touched his hat and a pleased smile stole over his freckled
face. He had admired Miriam at a distance for several days, although
she had been utterly oblivious of his existence. That she might be
under surveillance never entered her head. The indefatigable Martha
had complained to her of the presence about Abbott's Lodge of a number
of deputies, and Riley had been pointed out to her by Somers as one of
them.

"The sheriff's at his home," Riley explained, then, as her face showed
plainly her disappointment, he added, "Can I take a message to him? I'm
on my way there now."

With Miriam to think was to act. It was imperative that she see
Trenholm.

"Can I drive over with you?" she asked, and her charming smile
completed Riley's conquest.

"Yes, Miss Ward," he stammered, with gratifying emphasis, and opened
the door of his roadster. "Hop in."

They had gone half the distance to Upper Marlboro and were about to
turn from the main road to the one leading to Trenholm's bungalow, when
they were passed by Mrs. Nash's Rolls-Royce which continued down the
main road at such a speed that Miriam had only a glimpse of Alexander
Nash seated by the chauffeur. The fur collar of Pierre's heavy
chauffeur's overcoat was turned up about his face and his most intimate
friend would have failed to recognize him as he drove along, under
Nash's instructions, breaking the speed laws of Maryland.

Pablo, the Filipino, answered Miriam's ring of the door bell at the
bungalow with a promptness that suggested that he had observed Riley's
car when it turned into the driveway.

"Come inside, Mees," he said with hospitable intent. "My master will
return in one little moment. He is in de garage and I will go at once
and tell him that you are here. It is cold, yes?" as the rising wind
blew the daily papers off the hall table. He closed the door with
alacrity and led the way into the library. "Sit down, Mees, and be
comfortable."

Miriam hardly noticed his departure. The long drive over had brought
reflection in its train and she was regretting her hasty action. She
glanced about the library, taking in, as Alan had done the night
before, its suggestion of cultivation, its homelike atmosphere. Guy
Trenholm's personality permeated the room. She did not sit down, as
Pablo had suggested, but remained by the table in deep thought, and
Trenholm, about to enter the room, stopped in the doorway and studied
her intently. The proud poise of her head, her becoming toque, her
plain, but well-fitting coat, her vivid coloring, made more brilliant
by her drive in the wind, all were a fitting complement to the setting
in which she stood. Trenholm caught his breath and his heart beat more
quickly, but his expression and voice conveyed no feeling beyond a
courteous welcome as he stepped forward to greet her.

"Won't you sit down?" he asked, pulling forward a chair. "I am sorry to
have kept you waiting. Let me help you with your coat."

Miriam thanked him, then sat down and waited for him to take the chair
opposite hers. As he looked at her inquiringly, she came directly to
the point. Opening her hand bag, she took out the letter bearing the
Canadian postage and held it up.

"I found this letter," she said, "when on duty last night. It was
tucked in one of the chairs in Mrs. Nash's bedroom. I bring it to you
as I found it--unopened."

Trenholm took the letter from her outstretched hand, and turned it over
several times before making any comment.

"And what is there about the letter to have attracted your attention,
Miss Ward?" he finally asked, and wondered at the look in her eyes.

"The seal," she said simply. "It matches this," and she drew out of her
bag the half-burnt envelope and turned it over so that he could view
the flap with its black crest. "It is that crest of which you found
drawings in my bag."

"Yes, I recognize the three beehives," he replied. Leaning back in
his chair he reached over and took up a heavy volume from a smoking
stand where he had flung it earlier that day. "I borrowed this book on
heraldry from the Congressional Library," he explained, and turned the
leaves with lightning rapidity until he found the page he wished. "See,
the three beehives," pointing to a fine colored engraving, "and the
proud motto of the Paltoffs of Russia--'Always without Fear.'"

Miriam stared at the printed page and then at Trenholm, and respect and
admiration were in her glance.

"That was clever of you," she exclaimed. "So you guess--"

"Much," quietly, "except your connection with the Paltoffs."

Miriam looked about the library. There was no likelihood of their
conversation being interrupted.

"Dmitri Paltoff, Grand Maitre de la Cour, married my aunt," she said
simply. "He was the last of his race, and when he was killed, the
right to use that crest died with him. Its use on these envelopes
was consequently a shock, and aroused my keenest interest at once,
for"--she hesitated and spoke more slowly--"this black crest has a
peculiar indentation and varies in no particular from the seal on my
uncle's watch fob, which I saw snatched from his dying grasp by a
Bolshevik in Vladivostok."

Trenholm was regarding her with absorbed interest. "So that was it," he
murmured, then raised his voice slightly. "Do you, by chance, know the
Bolshevik who took the seal?"

"Yes. It was my uncle's secretary, Boris Zybinn." Miriam leaned forward
in her earnestness. "Just before I left Abbott's Lodge, I accidentally
overheard Doctor Nash tell his wife that he had a telegram from Canada
stating that Boris had died suddenly."

Trenholm stared at her a moment. Rising with some abruptness, he went
over to the wall, touched a concealed spring and one of the wooden
panels slid aside and revealed the door of a small safe. When he came
back and resumed his old seat, he carried a package of letters.

"I watched you when you glanced over these letters," he confessed, "in
the hall at Abbott's Lodge. And I have read them a dozen times trying
to find out what there was about them which claimed such interest on
your part."

"I was looking for the black crest," she admitted. "You see the
envelopes are identical with this burnt one," holding it up again. "I
did not open any of the letters. Who wrote them?"

"They are signed by Boris Zybinn," Trenholm opened several and laid
them in her lap. "Do you recognize the handwriting?"

She shook her head. "No. Boris was clever; he might easily have learned
to disguise his writing. He was an excellent linguist, as most Russians
are. What was he doing in Canada?"

"Gentleman farming," answered Trenholm. "He had a place outside of
Toronto and adjoining Doctor Nash's country estate. It was while
visiting Nash that Paul Abbott and he became acquainted."

"And these letters, what are they about?" questioned Miriam eagerly.

"Farming," briefly. "And nothing else. Paul wished to model his place
here after Zybinn's, especially his fruit orchard. I suppose that he
kept them, for reference," and Trenholm tossed the remaining letters on
his desk table which stood almost at Miriam's elbow.

Miriam drew back in bitter disappointment. "And that is all," she
exclaimed. "I have indeed found a mare's nest."

"As far as the letters go," agreed Trenholm, with characteristic
frankness. "But there is another matter of vital importance," he
glanced carefully about the room, sprang up and closed both of the
doors, one of which led into the main hall and the other into a smaller
room, where he generally conducted business. When he came back to
Miriam he moved his chair closer to her side. "You know of the Paltoff
diamond?" he asked.

"Yes. I have heard its history often from my uncle," she replied. "It
was given by one of his ancestors to Peter the Great."

"To purchase royal favor," supplemented Trenholm "And forms one of the
Crown jewels."

"You are wrong," she corrected him swiftly. "It is not a Crown jewel,
but it has always been in the possession of the reigning Czar, handed
down from father to son."

"And where is it now, Miss Ward?" The swift question took her unawares
and she grew pale.

"I do not know," she stated, and her eyes did not falter before his
searching glance. "Frankly, I do not know its present whereabouts."

"There is a rumor that it was smuggled out of Russia." Trenholm never
took his eyes from her. "Can you tell me if that is true?"

She did not at once reply and he did not hurry her. "Why do you ask?"
she demanded finally. "What is your interest in the Paltoff diamond?"

"This!" Trenholm opened his leather wallet and took from it a folded
note. "Read it."

Slowly Miriam took in the sense of the written sentence:

 Let him who hopes to solve the mystery of Paul Abbott's death find the
 lost Paltoff jewel.

"What!" She half rose from her chair, then dropped back again. Her face
was ghastly and Trenholm watched her in growing concern. "Who wrote
this note?"

"I do not know. I found it in the pocket of my overcoat when I returned
from Paul's funeral." Trenholm paused. "The handwriting is unfamiliar."

He doubted if Miriam heard his last sentence; she kept so quiet, so
immovable. Suddenly she pressed her fingers to her eyes and when
she took them away, the lids were wet. She looked at him long and
searchingly. Could she trust him? She _must_--there was no other course
open to her.

"I will tell you in confidence what I know of the Paltoff diamond," she
said. "But you must pledge me your word not to repeat it."

"I give you my word," Trenholm held out his hand, and as she felt
his strong, steady clasp her heart lightened and her sense of utter
loneliness grew less.

"I will be as brief as possible." She paused to clear her throat of
a suspicious lump. "My father, John Ward of Indianapolis, was in the
Diplomatic service, and stationed for a long time in Russia, where we
lived with my aunt and her husband. After father's death, mother and
I came to New York. She was a great invalid and did not long survive
him." She stumbled in her speech and stopped, and Trenholm gave her a
moment to collect herself.

"Yes?" he prompted gently. "Continue."

"Mother died just before the outbreak of the World War," she went on.
"It was necessary for me to find employment and I decided to become a
nurse. I trained at St. Luke's Hospital and went overseas at once upon
graduation. It would be too long to tell you of my experiences, but
finally I reached Russia and saw service in the hospitals there. Then
came the revolution." She drew in her breath sharply. "God! The horrors
that we lived through--the Bolsheviki were fiends in human form!"

"And the Paltoff diamond?" he asked.

"Oh, the diamond." She collected herself. "My uncle was for years Grand
Master of the Imperial Court and trusted absolutely by the Czar. Just
before he was made prisoner, the Czar took from the hilt of his dress
sword, worn only on state occasions, the Paltoff diamond, and charged
Uncle Dmitri, on his fealty to the Crown, to smuggle it out of Russia,
and raise money upon it so that, should the Imperial family have to
flee, something might be saved for them."

"What happened next?" demanded Trenholm as she paused.

Miriam sighed. "My uncle saw his gallant son crucified before his
eyes; his daughters, taken prisoners with other ladies of the Court,
were transported by steamer to a loathsome prison. Before the vessel
docked they threw themselves into the sea, oh, gladly"--she added,
seeing Trenholm's expression--"for the captain and his crew forced
them to leave their cabin doors unlocked at night." She paused and put
her hands before her eyes. When she looked up, Trenholm saw tragedy
mirrored in their dark depths.

"With other refugees Uncle Dmitri and I finally reached Vladivostok, in
rags and our money gone. Oh, Mr. Trenholm, pray God that you may never
know what starvation is!" She stopped to control her voice. "We lived
in a hovel in the filthiest part of the city. I had lost my passport
or it had been stolen from me. I applied to the American consul--he
promised help but none came."

"Poor girl!" Trenholm took her hand and pressed it warmly. "Would you
rather stop?"

"No. Uncle Dmitri still had the Paltoff diamond and despite our agony
would not part with it. When we dared to talk, for spies were all
around us, we tried to plan to get the jewel safely out of Russia, even
if we ourselves failed to reach the United States." Miriam stopped to
clear her throat, for her voice had grown husky with emotion.

"One morning I was half delirious from hunger and privation, when Uncle
Dmitri came inside the hovel followed by a man," she continued. "He
crawled over to the straw on which I lay and told me that his companion
was an American soldier who had saved his life in a brawl with drunken
peasants. He feared that he had been recognized as Paltoff, the trusted
friend of the Czar."

"I see," broke in Trenholm. "What next?"

"Our plight was desperate and my uncle took the American into his
confidence, and the latter agreed to carry the diamond to the United
States, provided he could smuggle it aboard the transport." She sighed
deeply. "I was too ill to follow all that was said, but uncle took the
diamond from its hiding place and the American sat down near me and
unwound a bandage from about a wound in the calf of his leg. At his
direction I opened the wound, placed the diamond inside it, and, having
a surgeon's field service kit which a doctor, like ourselves a refugee,
had left in the hovel the day before, I sutured the wound and replaced
the bandages."

Trenholm stared at her. "American brains and pluck!" he exclaimed, and
the admiration in his voice brought the swift color to her white cheeks.

"The American had not been gone five minutes before Boris Zybinn came
in, followed by a swarm of the Bolsheviki," she went on, keeping her
voice steady by an effort of will only, as the tragic scene rose
vividly before her. "A whisper had gotten around that Uncle Dmitri had
the Paltoff diamond. They put him to torture and he died as a brave man
should, without fear and without betraying the Czar's trust."

"And you? What did they do to you?" demanded Trenholm, his usually calm
tones betraying interest at fever heat.

"The American consul came in time to save me from all but this."
Drawing back her sleeve she showed a brand burned into the soft white
flesh. "Thank God! I had the strength to tell Boris nothing of the
diamond."

Trenholm leaned forward impulsively. "I'd like to shake hands with
you," he said, and the strong clasp of his fingers made her wince.
There was a brief pause before he asked: "And the name of the American
soldier?"

Miriam drew from around her neck a gold chain from which hung a locket.
Opening it she took out a tiny soiled paper.

"The soldier wrote down his name and address and handed it to Uncle
Dmitri," she explained. "But Boris got there before he could give it to
me and it was torn up--all but this."

Trenholm looked long and carefully at the one letter on the paper.

"'M'," he repeated. "'M'--it is Paul Abbott's peculiar formation of
his middle initial. I have seen it too often to be mistaken. And Paul
Abbott, I know, saw service with the A.E.F. in Vladivostok."




CHAPTER XVI

THE THIRTEENTH LETTER


GUY TRENHOLM raised his head. "May I keep this little paper in my
safe?" he asked, taking it up. "I will return it at any time should you
require it."

Miriam snapped her locket shut and slipped it inside her gown.

"The paper is far safer with you than with me," she replied, and sat
quietly in her chair until Trenholm returned from placing it in a
compartment of his safe. "It is incredible that Paul Abbott should have
been the American soldier to whom Uncle Dmitri intrusted the diamond."

"But not impossible," retorted Trenholm. "And the law of chance brought
you to his bedside just before his death. How was it you failed to
recognize him?"

"I never really saw the American soldier's face." She sat back in a
more comfortable position, conscious, for the first time, of complete
fatigue. Recounting the tragic death of her Russian relatives and
her own suffering, even to Trenholm's sympathetic ears, was a severe
strain. "We had no window in our hovel; only the faint light from a
candle. I believe he wore a beard, but I was too ill to care, at the
moment, what he looked like. My uncle trusted him and that was enough.
Five years have passed since then."

"I understand," exclaimed Trenholm sympathetically, then with a
tenaciousness which was part of the man, he added: "Was there nothing
familiar about Paul's appearance?"

She shook her head. "No. I have no doubt that illness had changed his
appearance, Mr. Trenholm, to some extent. But with the Paltoff diamond
far from my thoughts, and looking upon Mr. Abbott simply as a patient,
if he had seemed even vaguely familiar I would have attributed it to
the same feeling one has in passing a stranger in the street whom one
might have met somewhere. You know the sensation."

Trenholm nodded in agreement. "Have you made no effort to trace the
Paltoff diamond?"

"I was desperately ill for months, Mr. Trenholm; and it was fully a
year before I regained anything like my old strength. There was no one
I could rely upon--no one in whom I had confidence. I tried, however,
to interest one man, a lawyer," her lips tightened, "that experience
taught me a lesson I shall never forget." She turned scarlet and for
the first time dropped her eyes before Trenholm's glance. She missed
the sudden hot wrath which kindled in his eyes; a second later and he
had himself in hand again.

"Can you describe the diamond, Miss Ward?" he asked. "And tell me its
value?"

"It is a diamond of astonishing purity, of about forty-nine carats, and
has an extraordinary play and brilliance," answered Miriam. "Though
much smaller in size than other world-famous diamonds, it is claimed by
experts to be an absolutely flawless gem. I believe it is worth in the
neighborhood of $200,000 and possibly more."

A low whistle escaped Trenholm. "A frightful invitation to crime!" he
ejaculated.

"And Boris Zybinn was in Canada and in communication with Paul Abbott,"
pointed out Miriam slowly. "Mr. Trenholm, I know a little of the evil
accomplished by that renegade Russian. There is some significance in
those letters of his to Mr. Abbott, innocent as they may appear. I will
_never_ believe otherwise!"

Trenholm leaned forward and, picking up the letters, laid them in
Miriam's hands. "Read them over carefully," he begged. "I am open to
conviction. But look here, Miss Ward, why didn't Zybinn come down to
Abbott's Lodge and visit Paul and then steal the diamond? He might have
done that without arousing suspicion. Why write letters about it?"

"Possibly he feared arrest and extradition for a former crime if
he came into the United States," suggested Miriam, and Trenholm
straightened up abruptly.

"There may be something in that idea," he admitted. "Read the letters
aloud, Miss Ward."

Obediently Miriam opened first one and then another. Except for the
precision of the language used, none were out of the ordinary. Each
letter began: "My dear Abbott," and closed with the conventional,
"Yours sincerely," and the signature, "Boris Zybinn." The contents of
each referred only to agriculture. Miriam dropped the last one in her
lap with a despondent gesture; then her expression brightened.

"You haven't looked at the unopened letter," she exclaimed. "See, you
have left it there on the table."

Trenholm picked up the envelope and examined it carefully. "It is just
like the others in appearance," he declared. "It must have come several
days before Paul's murder," examining the postmark. "Corbin, however,
can answer that question."

"I wonder why Mr. Abbott did not read it?"

"Too ill, perhaps--especially if he judged the letter unimportant."

Trenholm hunted about on his table until he found a letter opener and,
using it dextrously, succeeded in raising the flap without breaking the
seal. Taking care not to crease or otherwise mar the envelope, he drew
out the folded sheet and read aloud the brief message it contained:

  SUNNYMEADE FARM
  TORONTO, CANADA
  January 22, 1923

  DEAR ABBOTT:

 Sorry to learn that you are not well. Perhaps a change may do you
 good. Why not run up here for a week or two? I will be very happy to
 put you up if the Nashs are not at their place.

 Chisholm says the two grays are seventeen hands and entirely sound.
 Would advise offer of a thousand for the pair.

  Yours in haste,
  BORIS ZYBINN.

Trenholm tossed down the letter in disgust. "Nothing to that!" he
exclaimed. "They have fine horses in Canada, and Paul purchased several
last year, and sold them at a good figure to one of our neighbors. What
is it, Miss Ward?" observing her changed expression.

Without answering, Miriam pulled her chair around so that she sat
facing the table. Picking up the letters she spread each one, with its
envelope, before her, and slowly counted them.

"Eleven," she explained, "and this burnt envelope is twelve, and this
last letter makes a total of thirteen _unimportant_ letters."

"What then?" asked Trenholm, struck by her manner. Going around the
table he stood looking over her shoulder.

"Have you noticed the postage?" she queried.

"Surely. They are Canadian stamps."

"Isn't postage from Canada three cents for first-class mail?"

"Yes."

"Then why does each letter bear _five one-cent_ stamps?" glancing
swiftly upward. "Boris Zybinn must have known the correct postage
required."

"Perhaps he thought that his letters weighed more than one ounce."

"If so, the postage would have been double, or _six_ cents," she
remarked quickly. "Five cents would not have covered it. Besides, I
don't believe that one of these letters weighs over an ounce."

Trenholm reached over and picked up his letter scales. "Try one," he
suggested, and, as she did so, "Not quite one ounce. Try the next."

Miriam laid each letter on the scales, first putting it back in its
proper envelope; not one was above one ounce in weight!

"They all come under the three-cent postage rate," she exclaimed. "Any
one writing as many as thirteen letters to one correspondent would have
found out that fact, especially a person living in Canada."

Trenholm considered Miriam and then the letters in silence for a
minute. Picking up the thirteenth letter, which Miriam had brought to
him unopened that afternoon, he took out the sheet of paper and held
the envelope up to the light and studied it intently. As he lowered it,
Miriam caught sight of his face and sprang to her feet.

"You have found something?"

"Yes, thanks to your persistency!" And she colored warmly at the
enthusiasm in his voice and manner. "See here!" and Trenholm again
held the envelope up to the light and at an angle so that she could
see it as well as he. "The edges of the stamps appear cut in a wedge
shape in certain places, and there are several pinholes through two
of the stamps. The cuts do not appear to result from the careless
tearing off of the stamps from the sheet, and consequent damage to the
perforations, but are apparently made with scissors."

"You are right," agreed Miriam. "And when the letter has no light
behind it, they do not show at all against the white ground of the
envelope. Is it a code?"

Trenholm twirled his mustache in perplexity. "The cuts appear at
irregular intervals," he replied. "They seem to be hastily made and are
not absolutely uniform. I wonder--" he broke off abruptly, stood in
thought for several seconds, then going over to the book shelves which
lined one of the walls, searched about until he located several books
and carried them back to the table where Miriam stood examining the
thirteenth envelope.

"Strangely enough," he explained, "Paul's father gave me his stamp
collection--a fine one--as Paul never had the craze for collecting
stamps even as a boy, and being a human magpie I keep everything
bestowed upon me," with a quick boyish smile which softened wonderfully
his usually self-repressed expression. "I hope luck is with me and I
still have tucked inside one of these albums a perforation gauge."

"A what?"

"Perforations, Miss Ward, have a definite position on each stamp with
relation to one another, though they may be irregular on two separate
stamps," went on Trenholm. "In other words, the distance between
perforations is always the same, though they may vary a fractional part
of a line in their position at the corners."

"And the gauge," she prompted, as he paused.

"Is used to measure the number of perforations to the inch," Trenholm
spoke slowly, to be sure that she understood his meaning. "By applying
a perforation gauge to the edge of a stamp, if the position of one
perforation is known, that of all the others will be indicated."

Trenholm paused and opened one of the stamp albums. He turned the pages
rapidly, and found the stamp he wanted, but no gauge. Taking up the
other album he shook it over the table. A small shower of loose stamps,
several odd envelopes and a piece of bristol board fell on the table.
With a relieved exclamation, Trenholm clutched the perforation gauge,
brushing the stamps aside.

"Here is a Canadian stamp of the same issue," he said. "Paul wrote me
when he was last in Canada, and I kept the stamp. Let's see--"

Miriam waited with absorbed attention while he applied the gauge to the
stamp. When he looked up his eyes were shining.

"The stamp has exactly fifty-two perforations," he announced. "Can it
be a coincidence or a--"

"A what?"

He looked at her without speaking for a moment. "The number is just
twice that of the letters of the alphabet." Trenholm drew in his
breath. "I have come to your way of thinking, Miss Ward. It must be a
code, and it may be that two alphabets are registered on each stamp,
the cuts corresponding to the letters according to the number of the
particular perforation affected, counting from one corner of the stamp."

Miriam, who had been following his explanation with close attention,
nodded her head wisely.

"I see," she broke in. "That would explain any irregularity in the
cuts, because for coding it would be sufficient to indicate the
perforation intended to be cut, without making a mark of a definite
character, and with this gauge of yours the number of the perforation
which has been cut would be recognized at once."

"Exactly," he answered. "Without a gauge there would be great
difficulty in determining the number of the perforation, because the
cut might seem to create new indentations if carelessly made." Trenholm
stopped and took up the envelope of the thirteenth letter and applied
his gauge to the left-hand stamp, and Miriam, pencil in hand, assisted
him.

Trenholm counted clockwise. "Five perforations are damaged," he
declared, "numbers 8, 20, 23, 27, 30. Now, if the code is based on a
double alphabet, these would become 8, 20, 23, 1, 3, or the letters H,
T, W, A, C. How are the letters to be arranged, Miss Ward?"

She looked at her pad, where she had jotted down the letters as well as
the figures. "There is only one vowel," she said. "It must be one word.
Then why use two alphabets?"

"Possibly because of the accidental chance that the stamp perforations
count up to fifty-two," replied Trenholm. "It would be convenient, in
case of a word with many letters, to prevent destroying the appearance
of the stamp by cutting too many indentations close to one another.
Have you solved the first word?" as she checked an exclamation.

"Yes--'watch.'"

"Good!" Trenholm's eyes were bright with excitement. Looking again at
the first stamp, he noticed that the first, third, and fifth letters
of the words "watch" were indicated on the first alphabet, and the
remaining letters on the second one.

Trenholm held up the envelope to the light again. "See, Miss Ward!" he
exclaimed. "The stamp on the extreme right has only four indentations,
though the left-hand corner has been cut off."

She studied the envelope in silence for a few seconds. "The letters
are G and E in the first alphabet," she pointed out. "They must be the
odd letters of the word coded, and R and V in the second alphabet,
corresponding to the even letters, but I can't make any word out of
them."

"Suppose we call the cut of the left-hand corner of the stamp an A,"
suggested Trenholm. "It may be a quick way to mark an indentation when
a corner square was involved; though better care was used in the A of
the second alphabet in the first stamp examined. What word have you
now, Miss Ward?"

"Grave."

Trenholm stared at her. "Grave," he repeated, then, suppressing
comment, went ahead decoding the message. "This center one appears the
simplest," he said. "Here the perforations cut are numbers 5, 12, 20,
5, 18, 20--odd letters, E, L, T; even letters, E, R, T. Got them down,
Miss Ward?"

"They make the word--letter," briefly, not glancing up. "Go ahead."

"The next letters are E, I, T, for the odd, and E, H, N, R, for the
even." Trenholm laid down his perforation gauge and frowned. "The code
seems to fail here," he grumbled. "It has given four even letters and
only three odd. The other way around would be all right, but it is
impossible to make a word with more even than odd letters."

"Let me see the envelope." Miriam put aside her pencil and carefully
examined the stamps against the light. "Look, Mr. Trenholm, here are
pinholes opposite some of the letters--two opposite the odd T, and one
opposite the even H."

"Probably they stand for repetitions of the same letters, in which
case the letters would be: odd--E, I, T, T, T; even--E, H, H, N, R,"
declared Trenholm. "But they don't make sense." He paused and looked at
the stamps already decoded. "See here, the first letter in each word we
have deciphered is on the side of the stamp which faces the left side
of the envelope."

"Oh, then that accounts for the apparently careless manner in which the
stamps are stuck on the envelope," said Miriam. "The only letter on
the second stamp, which is indicated by a cut in the way you have just
described, is T."

"So our next word begins with T." Trenholm took up a pencil and did
some figuring on Miriam's pad. "With so many T's and H's to use,
suppose we start off with Th," he began, "and the next letter is either
E, I, or T. It must be one of the vowels. No, E is no good." Trenholm
ran his fingers through his hair until it stood upright. "We'll take I,
and here is an R available--by Jove--_thirteenth_!"

"So it is!" Miriam's excitement was rising. "The words we have so far
are, 'watch thirteenth letter----grave.'"

"Now for the last stamp!" Trenholm took up gauge and pencil. "The odd
letters are E, two I's, one indicated by another pinhole, and S. The
even letters are C, D, S, U. The position of the stamp shows that the
first letter is S. Of the four even letters available for the next
position, only the vowel can be used, making Su." Trenholm paused and
wrote rapidly several combinations of the available letters, then
looked up with a low exclamation--"Suicides."

"And the completed message then stands--'Watch thirteenth letter
suicides grave,'" repeated Miriam. "What do you make of it, Mr.
Trenholm?"

"Nothing--now," he admitted frankly. "We know the code. Help me
decipher these other eleven envelopes and the burnt one. Fortunately
the stamps on it are intact."

Half an hour later Miriam and Trenholm sat back in their chairs and
looked at each other. The latter took up one of the pads they had used.

"Here are the thirteen decoded messages, of five words each, concealed
in the stamps on the thirteen envelopes," he stated. "Listen carefully,
Miss Ward, and tell me what you make of them."

  Fear Paul suspicious of Betty.
  Unwise to trust her judgment.
  Judge her influence is waning.
  Is there any other woman?
  Last interview with Paul disastrous.
  He declines to return jewel.
  Do not lose your nerve.
  Believe he can prove nothing.
  Does not guess your motive.
  Situation growing tense; money required.
  Learned hiding place changed often.
  Next time can tell definitely.
  Watch thirteenth letter; suicides grave.

Miriam wrinkled her forehead in deep thought. "For whom were those
messages intended, Mr. Trenholm?" she asked.

"For the man who later killed Paul Abbott," he replied quietly.

"And he--"

"Is some one who was with Paul and had access to his mail, and so
could read the code on these apparently innocent letters." Trenholm
rose suddenly and looked down at her. "It was a devilish scheme and
devilishly carried out."

"By Boris Zybinn's confederate." Miriam also rose. "Have you any idea
who that confederate is?"

Absently Trenholm took up his pipe and fingered it. "Some one who knew
Paul intimately," he said. "And who has been with him during the past
few months, for the dates on these letters cover that period of time.
But as to his identity--the coded messages give no clue."

"That is true," agreed Miriam. "Another question--When he murdered Paul
Abbott did he secure the Paltoff diamond?"

Trenholm had located his tobacco pouch and filled his pipe
mechanically, his thoughts elsewhere.

"Frankly," he said slowly, "I am inclined to think he didn't."




CHAPTER XVII

CHERCHEZ LA FEMME


GUY TRENHOLM helped Miriam into his powerful roadster and then, with
a murmured word of apology, slipped back into his bungalow. Miriam
waited patiently, unmindful of his prolonged absence and thankful for
the opportunity of rest undisturbed. Her ideas were confused--chaotic.
The thirteen messages which she and Trenholm had just decoded were
ringing in her head, but, try as she would, she could think of no
solution to the enigma. The Law of Chance had indeed plunged her into
an impenetrable mystery. Trenholm's voice at her elbow caused her to
start slightly.

"I am extremely sorry to have been so long," he said, taking his place
behind the steering wheel. "Pablo," to the Filipino, who had followed
him from the front door and was clinging frantically to the collars of
the police dogs in his endeavor to keep them out of the car, "let no
one enter the house. If any one calls on the telephone, tell them I am
at Abbott's Lodge."

The next instant the roadster had glided into the highway, and with
Trenholm's impatient foot on the accelerator, was making record time in
its dash for Abbott's Lodge.

Pablo was busy going about his work, whistling shrilly, when a heavy
knock on the side door interrupted him. Answering it, he found a man in
chauffeur's livery just about to implant a heavy kick on the panels by
way of emphasis.

"Your mastair, where is he?" demanded Pierre, and Pablo's back
stiffened at his insolent manner.

"None of your business," he retorted, and slammed the door. The heavy
bombardment of knocks which followed was stopped by Alexander Nash's
appearance on the scene. He had waited in the Nash limousine, but the
sound of conflict stirred him to action. His voice, raised in anger,
caused Pablo to glance through the pantry window, and at sight of the
clergyman, he at once opened the side door.

"What is eet?" he asked blandly, ignoring Pierre utterly. "Did some one
knock?"

"I wish to see Sheriff Trenholm at once," stated the clergyman. "Tell
him that Doctor Nash is here."

"He is away."

"Oh!" Nash looked a trifle nonplussed, then asked briskly, "Where will
I find him?"

Pablo paused, in his turn, for reflection. Trenholm had stated very
clearly that should any one call him by telephone he, Pablo, was to
say that he was to be found at Abbott's Lodge. Trenholm, however, had
specified a telephone call only, and not a caller in person, therefore,
according to Pablo's reasoning, he could not divulge the whereabouts of
his master to Nash.

"He gone out," he replied, assuming a stupid air and lack of English,
which he spoke remarkably well, except for a distinct accent. "No tell
where go."

Nash's disappointment was obvious. "Think again!" he begged, and
jingled some loose coins in his pocket suggestively. But Pablo's total
lack of expression proved more exasperating than enlightening. "Come,
where is the sheriff?"

"I dunno," Pablo shrugged. "Maybe he come back to dinner, maybe not.
Want to wait in your car?"

"No, certainly not." Nash frowned thoughtfully. "Let me use your
telephone a moment," and he held out a bank note.

Pablo backed away. "Sorry, can't use--" He got no further.

Pierre, with a dexterity which Pablo had not anticipated, had slipped
between the Filipino and the open door, and, with a vigorous push, sent
Pablo sprawling. But the latter was too quick for him. With a spring
like a panther, Pablo was on his back and Pierre measured his length on
the ground.

"Stop this unseemly brawling," commanded Nash, looking genuinely
shocked. "Pierre, go at once to my car. As for you," turning to Pablo,
who rose with reluctance and one final kick which sent the chauffeur's
headgear down the path, "I shall report your conduct to Mr. Trenholm."
And he stalked away.

Without giving a thought to Pablo's habit of taking everything he said
literally, Trenholm slackened the roadster's speed when they got within
a mile of Abbott's Lodge.

"Do you see very much of Miss Carter?" he asked.

"No. She is never with Mrs. Nash at night and I am not around the house
in the daytime," replied Miriam. She hesitated perceptibly. "Betty is
the only name given in the messages we decoded. Does it refer to Miss
Carter?"

"To whom else could it refer?" and Miriam was silenced by his tone. She
stole a look at Trenholm. She dared not admit, even to herself, how
frequently her thoughts were centered on the self-contained man by her
side.

"Miss Ward"--Trenholm drove the car to the side of the road and
stopped--"did you catch sight of the man in Mrs. Nash's bedroom early
this morning?"

Her answer was disappointing. "No. I was halfway up the staircase when
I heard her cry out, but when I reached her she was alone in the room,"
she explained. "I had left the hall door partly open and found it
practically in the same position upon my return."

Trenholm considered her answer for a second. When he addressed her
again she was struck by the gravity of his tone.

"Exactly what is the matter with Mrs. Nash?" he inquired. "I am not
asking from idle curiosity, Miss Ward," observing her hesitation, "but
as an officer of the law."

Miriam eyed him in startled wonder. What did his question portend?

"Doctor Roberts told me he felt that he had not located the real
trouble," she replied. "Nor can I give a reason for her, at times,
alarming symptoms."

"Can you not venture an opinion?"

"Mr. Trenholm!"

He turned and his rare smile gave her a ray of comfort and a sense of
security.

"It's unethical, I know," he said. "But you must realize, Miss Ward,
that we are confronted with a dastardly conspiracy, the tentacles of
which reach from Russia to Abbott's Lodge. Can I not count upon your
aid to expose Zybinn's plot?"

"You can." Her voice rang out clearly, and again Trenholm smiled, well
pleased. "I have sometimes thought that Mrs. Nash's condition is due to
a heart depressant--"

"A coal-tar poison," quietly. "And by whom administered?"

Miriam moved unhappily. "I am not in the sickroom at all hours," she
observed dryly. "Miss Carter is there during the day, and Doctor Nash
spends much time with his wife."

Trenholm contemplated her, a gleam of something besides admiration in
his eyes; then shifting his gears and releasing his brake, he drove
onward.

"Do you recall the exact wording of the coded message in the thirteenth
letter?" he asked, after a brief silence.

"Yes. It was: 'Watch thirteenth letter suicides grave,'" she looked at
him inquiringly. "Does the word 'suicide' take the possessive 's', or
is its meaning plural?"

"That remains to be seen." He turned the car into the driveway to
Abbott's Lodge, and before stopping under the _porte cochère_,
addressed her in a voice carefully lowered to reach her ear alone. "Say
nothing of the thirteen letters to _any one_."

"_Of course not!_"

He was quick to detect her hurt tone. "Forgive me," he begged, and his
low, earnest voice impressed her. "I depend on your aid absolutely and
trust you implicitly," then as she flashed a glance upward of glad
relief, he added, "Don't forget those five words, for I firmly believe
that the solution to Paul's mysterious murder rests in the thirteenth
letter." Their approach had been seen from inside the Lodge and Corbin
swung open the door. Trenholm had opportunity for only one hurried
sentence, "The thirteenth letter," he repeated, under his breath, "of
the alphabet is 'M.'"

Corbin favored Miriam with an unpleasant glance as she sped by him into
the house, but touched his forehead, with some show of respect, to
Trenholm.

"Mrs. Nash wishes to see ye," he stated. His shifty eyes fell before
the sheriff's steady gaze. "Can I have a word with ye, sir; me and
Martha--"

"Yes?" inquiringly, as the caretaker paused in uncertainty. "Well?"

Corbin licked his lips. Talking to the sheriff was not quite so easy
a task as he had represented to Martha, and he instantly shifted the
responsibility.

"Martha's dressin' now, sir; but she'll be down d'reckly," he mumbled.
"An' before ye go, sir, please ask for her."

Trenholm took silent note of the man's twitching facial muscles and his
unhealthy pallor.

"Very well," he said. "I will send for Martha. Wait--no, go on,"
as Corbin stopped reluctantly at the first injunction, and, giving
Trenholm no time to reconsider his second order, he disappeared in the
direction of the kitchen.

Trenholm hung up his hat and overcoat in the closet off the living room
in deep thought. He had intended questioning Corbin as to the hours of
receiving mail at Abbott's Lodge, but he shrewdly suspected that Martha
would prove a more reliable source of information, and so dismissed the
caretaker with the question unasked.

Trenholm's low tap on Mrs. Nash's bedroom door brought Somers in
response. On recognizing the sheriff she drew back and held the door
more widely open.

"My mistress is expecting you," she said. "Come in, sir."

It was the first time Mrs. Nash had met Guy Trenholm face to face,
though each had had glimpses of the other during Mrs. Nash's occasional
visits to Abbott's Lodge in the past. Under pretense of much languor,
she was slow in offering him her hand and equally slow in releasing
his. Trenholm's pressure on her icy fingers forced her rings into her
flesh, but aside from a slight, very slight, intake of her breath, she
gave no sign of how much he hurt her.

"Please take that chair," she said, as Somers, obedient to previous
instructions, pushed forward the chair Miriam had occupied the night
before and in which she had found the thirteenth letter. "You will fill
it nicely, Mr. Trenholm; it is made for such big frames as you and my
husband. I feel," she added as he kept a discreet silence, waiting for
her to open the interview, "that you and I should be old acquaintances;
I have heard so many nice things about you from both Paul and his
father."

"Thank you, Mrs. Nash!" Trenholm sat back and eyed her gravely. Her
rouge was cleverly applied and her hair was becomingly dressed. But to
his critical mind there was something unnatural in the high notes of
her voice, in the constant tremble of her hand, which, strive as she
did, she could not control. "I have frequently hoped to meet you, and
frankly"--with a disarming smile--"particularly after your experiences
last night."

"You come directly to the point," she remarked. "I can only tell you
that, after Miss Ward left me, I closed my eyes--for a few minutes
only--and opened them to find the room in darkness, to feel some one
creeping to my bedside, the touch of the beard on my hand--" The shrug
of her shoulders was eloquent. "Have you, Sheriff Trenholm, discovered
the identity of the intruder?"

He shook his head. "I must admit failure," he said. "Give me a little
more time."

She frowned, then smiled, and Trenholm decided that a fiery temper was
kept under iron control. "My husband has gone to employ a celebrated
detective agency to solve the mystery," she stated. "I thought that you
should know and so sent for you."

"Thank you," simply, and settling himself more comfortably in the big
chair Trenholm awaited her next remark.

"You are not exactly loquacious," she commented dryly. "Have you been
told the terms of Paul Abbott's will?"

"Yes. Your niece will inherit a very handsome fortune."

"Provided she remains single the rest of her natural life." Mrs. Nash's
laugh smote unpleasantly on his ear. "Betty is so very young--not yet
out of her twenties. Does wealth compensate, Mr. Trenholm, for a lonely
old age?"

"To some natures it does." Trenholm's voice was softly modulated to
suit a sick room, and Mrs. Nash had to listen attentively to catch
every word he said. "It seems a pity that Paul and Miss Carter were not
married before his death."

Mrs. Nash's eyelids flickered slightly; otherwise she regarded him with
unchanged expression. "It is a pity," she agreed, "in a way. But I have
no doubt that certain terms in Paul's ridiculous will can be set aside."

"Ah, on what grounds?"

"That he was not of sound mind when it was drawn up," quietly. "In view
of the mystery surrounding Paul's shocking murder, Mr. Trenholm, I feel
that you should be informed on certain matters."

"And what are they, Mrs. Nash?" as she paused. Trenholm was giving her
flattering attention and she smiled shrewdly.

"My father had given his consent to Betty's engagement to Paul," she
went on, "when, shortly after, we noticed a change in Paul. His morbid
tendencies became more pronounced and he suffered from the delusion
that people were pursuing him." She looked at Trenholm. "You know the
unfortunate story of his mother?"

"That she died insane, yes."

"My father grew more and more distressed, for Betty is his only
grandchild. At last my husband went to Doctor Roberts and asked him
to join my father's party on our yachting trip to Bermuda, so that he
might have Paul under mental observation." Mrs. Nash paused to clear
her throat. "That was only two months ago."

"And what conclusion did Roberts come to regarding Paul's mental
condition?" questioned Trenholm swiftly.

"Roberts is an old fogy!" For once Mrs. Nash's self-control slipped.
She had herself in hand again before Trenholm could guess the cause
of her emotion. "And his affection for Paul biased his judgment. My
husband would have done better had he employed another physician."

Trenholm scrutinized her intently for several minutes. "And what
connection is there between Paul's mental condition and his murder?" he
asked finally.

"Suicide--"

Trenholm laughed outright. "An utterly unpractical theory, Mrs. Nash,"
he remarked, and the dryness of his tone brought the carmine to her
cheeks under her rouge. "It was physically impossible for Paul to have
stabbed himself." He rose without ceremony and stared openly about the
big bedroom. "I've been in here often when Mr. Abbott, Sr., used it as
a sitting room," he said, "and these are the hunting prints which Paul
left me." He looked down at Mrs. Nash, a faint smile still lingering
about his lips. "I want these prints awfully. Please don't contest
Paul's will," and turning his back upon her, he walked leisurely across
the room and examined them.

Mrs. Nash's emotions were too great to permit her clear vision and
she failed to detect Trenholm when he quietly took down the sketch of
neglected graves which hung where Miriam had seen it during her first
vigil in the sick room. Slipping the small picture inside his pocket,
he strolled back to the bed.

"Good-by, Mrs. Nash," he bowed courteously, then bent further down
until his lips nearly touched her right ear. "I am not much of a
doctor, but I am of the opinion that you can get up."

When Mrs. Nash recovered her breath only Somers was in the bedroom.




CHAPTER XVIII

THE DEATH CLUTCH


MIRIAM did not stay long in her bedroom after leaving Guy Trenholm
in the hall of Abbott's Lodge talking to Corbin. She had thought at
first of lying down for a little while, but she was too restless. A
walk would quiet her nerves, and, if Mrs. Nash had a good night, she
might have an opportunity of relaxing and thereby gain some rest before
morning.

It took Miriam only a few minutes to put on her coat and hat again and,
not bothering to take gloves, she went down the staircase. Mrs. Nash's
door was closed as she passed it and she wondered if Guy Trenholm was
still with her patient. She would have given much to have been present
at the interview. Her thoughts veered back to Trenholm. She must see
him before he left. There was something she must tell him, an idea
which had come to her. Should she stay in? Miriam wavered. If she
waited it would be too late to go out. Ah, she had it! Martha would
give Trenholm a message for her.

Knowing that Martha usually sat in a window nook just between the
pantry and the dining room, Miriam went in that direction but paused
near the dining room table at sight of Betty Carter standing in the
doorway leading to the sunparlor. She doubted if Betty had heard her
approach, for the young girl's attention was riveted on Alan Mason, who
lay asleep in one of the long wicker lounging chairs standing directly
at the entrance to the dining room.

Alan's comely features were free of the haggard lines which had aged
him in the past few days, and his graceful pose in the abandon of sleep
resembled that of a tired boy after a day of play. Evidently his dreams
were happy, for a smile trembled on his lips and he murmured softly,
"Betty!"

Betty Carter's eyes were dimmed with tears and Miriam, glancing at her,
read the carefully guarded secret of her heart. Alan Mason, and not his
dead cousin, was the man she loved. With a swift, graceful movement
Betty stooped down and kissed him on the forehead with a touch so
delicate that it did not awaken the sleeping man. Then, with a gesture
of utter despair, she dropped on her knees in front of a chair and
buried her face in her arms.

Miriam stole softly away, her desire to see Martha forgotten in the
scene she had inadvertently witnessed. It had all happened in a second
of time. There had been no opportunity for her to withdraw, but Miriam
felt self-reproached. Walking rapidly, head down, hands in pockets, she
took no note of her direction, save that she was on a footpath leading
away from Abbott's Lodge, and she honestly tried to banish Betty and
Alan from her thoughts. But one idea persisted and would not down. If
Betty loved Alan, why had she married Paul on Monday night?

A high wind had sprung up and Miriam had forgotten to use hatpins. The
next second she was bareheaded. Her hat, a chic affair of the mushroom
variety, sailed gracefully ahead of her around a curve and then another
and stronger gust of wind carried it into a field on her left. With a
disgusted ejaculation over her stupidity in omitting the pins, Miriam
followed her hat as best she could. She had just retrieved it and
slapped it vigorously on her head, regardless of the angle, when she
espied a couple of cows in the corner of the field. Miriam stopped not
on the order of her going and when she halted she had reached the edge
of a wood. Having a good bump of locality, she recognized, after a
careful glance around, the wood as the one she and Trenholm had walked
through when returning from Hills Bridge.

It was growing dark and Miriam faced in the direction she judged
Abbott's Lodge to be and hurried along the path. In making the next
turn she paused abruptly. To her left lay the graveyard which she had
remarked upon to Trenholm. Its air of desolation was emphasized by the
fading light, and Miriam did not plan to linger as she had done when
Trenholm was with her. But her intention to hurry past the old Mason
burying plot was checked at sight of a man kneeling by a grave and
digging in it with a trowel. Miriam stopped short as the man looked up.
The recognition was mutual.

Corbin rose stiffly to his knees and, bending over, brushed off some
dirt and dry leaves which clung to his trousers.

"How come ye here, Miss?" he demanded suspiciously.

Miriam's first impulse was to decline to answer, but Corbin had stepped
back from the grave and stood almost directly in front of her, blocking
the footpath.

"I am out for a walk," she replied, "and by chance came this way."

"It's lonesome like, for a lady." Corbin hitched himself a trifle
closer, a beam of admiration in his watery eyes, which Miriam found
more objectionable than a glare of rage.

"What are _you_ doing here, Corbin?" she asked, coolly taking the
situation into her hands. "What interests you in these old graves?"

Corbin shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "Getting some ivy,"
he explained. "I wanted to plant some around the garage."

"So you rob a grave--"

Corbin's complexion turned an even more unhealthy color.

"Oh, the old suicide won't miss it," he said coarsely, and hastily
changed the subject. "Funny, weren't it, that Mr. Paul should ha' left
in his will this here graveyard to Mr. Alan, 'cause it belonged to
his ancestors, and never given him nothin' else, 'cept five hundred
dollars."

Miriam was not following closely Corbin's jumbled accounts of the
provisions of Paul's will, which Mr. Corcoran had explained to Martha
and to him at the close of the reading of the will.

"Who lies in this suicide's grave?" she asked suddenly, and the
question took Corbin by surprise.

"Mr. Alan's grandfather."

"And his name?" with a persistence which surprised herself as well as
Corbin.

"'Cordin' to the headstone his name was Mason, too." Talking to an
extremely pretty woman was a novel sensation and Corbin was commencing
to enjoy himself. "There's a saying in these parts that he stole some
money when he was 'zecutor to a friend's will and killed heself when
found out. The niggers buried him, as you see. Mr. Alan ain't got much
call to be proud of his gran'-dad."

"But I don't think he will approve of your digging into his grave,"
Miriam stated quietly, "for ivy."

Corbin's lips curled back viciously over his yellow teeth. "He ain't
goin' to hear of it," his voice grew low and menacing. "Not from you,
anyway."

"Why not?"

He came a step nearer and his breath was unpleasantly close. "I gave
the bloodstained sheet to Sheriff Trenholm," he whispered.

Miriam stared at him, open-eyed. "The bloodstained sheet!" she echoed.
"What are you talking about?"

"The sheet off Mr. Paul's bed after he was murdered," with a slow,
knowing wink, which sent the hot blood to her cheeks. Her color ebbed
as quickly as it had come, leaving her deadly pale. "The sheriff was
mighty curious to know if I had shown you where to get clean linen for
the bed when you fust come. Don't worry," observing her expression and
misinterpreting it. "I didn't give him no direct answer."

"What!" Corbin drew back at the force of her exclamation. "Why didn't
you tell him _at once_ that you showed me the linen closet?"

He leered at her. "There wasn't any call for me to give you
away--then"--he supplemented.

Miriam missed the last word. Her eyes were blazing with indignation.

"And so you let Mr. Trenholm infer--"

"What he pleased--yes, Miss!"

Miriam's small hands were clenched. "You contemptible cur!" she cried,
and would have added more but wrath choked her utterance.

"Here, Miss, don't you be so handy with misnamin' me," protested
Corbin. "I've got feelin's like other fellows and I done ye a good
turn."

"By concealing the truth!" scornfully. "You are not only a knave,
Corbin, but a fool!"

"Am I?" Corbin's slow smile sent a shiver down her back in spite of her
hot anger. "Come, Miss, there ain't no use o' you an' me fussin'. I'll
stand yer friend, if ye'll just give me a little snow"--he came nearer
and brushed her shoulder with his hand--"just a little snow."

Miriam stared at Corbin. Was the man demented? Her eyes left his face
and fell on his hand as he stood stroking her coat. It was a remarkably
small hand for a man, well-shaped, the long, creeping fingers stained
with soil from the grave. The seal ring on his third finger caught on a
button as she sprang back.

"Don't touch me!"

Corbin paid not the slightest attention to her command. His eyes aflame
with desire, he stepped after Miriam and caught her hand, fawning upon
her--

"You're a nurse, Miss," he whined. "Gimme a deck to-night." He saw her
expression of dawning comprehension and clung to her hand more tightly
than before.

Miriam wrenched her hand free. At last she understood--Corbin was a
cocaine addict. For the first time she felt a twinge of fear as her
glance swept the lonely countryside. Of all the demoralizing drugs,
cocaine was the worst--whisky raised to its nth power was pap compared
to it.

"I have none, Corbin," she said, hiding her abhorrence of the man under
a brusque manner. "We nurses are no longer permitted to keep a supply
of narcotics on hand."

"Doctor Roberts will let ye have a shot," eagerly. "Ye need never tell
him it's for me."

"Go to him yourself."

Corbin stared at her for a long moment, his bloodshot eyes taking in
her beauty appraisingly. The collar of her coat had turned back and he
caught a glimpse of a gold chain. Martha had told him of rubies which
she had seen around the nurse's neck.

"I'll take care o' Roberts," he said thickly. "But me an' you are goin'
to come to an understandin' right now. Hand over that gold chain. Ye
won't!--then, by God--"

Miriam had read the look in his eyes in time to spring aside and avoid
his clutching fingers. Far more agile than her adversary, she eluded
his attempt to trip her and, fear lending wings to her feet, she raced
madly toward Abbott's Lodge.

Corbin's heart hammered and thumped as he strove to overtake her. He
was in no physical trim and, as Miriam left the footpath and took to
the fields, he sank down by the roadside, panting from his exertions.
As he rested his brain cleared and he cursed aloud as he realized the
folly of his act. In his mad craving for cocaine he had betrayed his
precious secret to Miriam. And she would tell. Corbin ground his teeth
in rage, then his face cleared. Only Miriam knew--so far. When he got
up and limped toward Abbott's Lodge, his lips wrinkled in a low and
vicious smile.

Finally convinced that she had outdistanced Corbin, Miriam dropped back
to a walk. Considerably shaken by the fright he had given her, it took
her some little time to stop looking over her shoulder to see if the
caretaker was still following her. Then her thoughts switched around
to Guy Trenholm and the bloodstained sheet, and her recent terror was
forgotten. Had Corbin, by his evasive answers to the sheriff's question
about the sheet, made Trenholm believe that she was implicated in Paul
Abbott's murder? She recalled vividly his persistent questions at his
bungalow that afternoon as to whether or not she had recognized Paul
as the American soldier to whom her uncle had intrusted the Paltoff
diamond.

Could it be that Trenholm suspected her of having recognized Paul and
seized the opportunity of being alone with her patient to kill him and
recover the Paltoff diamond?

The thought was torment! Miriam brushed her hair back from her
forehead. She was suddenly blinded by tears, and paused in uncertainty,
unable to go on. In that moment she realized what Guy Trenholm
had grown to be to her. Love--had she given her love to a man
unasked--unsought? Her face flamed scarlet. Had romance come into her
life only to be bitter-sweet? She bowed her head in her hands and the
old, familiar prayer, which had sustained her through the horrors
of war and Russian revolution, again passed her lips: "God, give me
strength!"

When Miriam approached the entrance of Abbott's Lodge she was once more
calm and collected. As she stepped inside the house she was met by
Martha.

"You are wanted upstairs in Mr. Paul's old bedroom," the housekeeper
stated. "They are waitin' for ye," and giving Miriam no chance to find
out who "they" were, she retreated to her kitchen, in time to meet her
husband slinking in the back door.

Considerably mystified by the message, Miriam went first to her
bedroom, tossed off her hat and coat, and then paused long enough to
arrange her hair deftly, which had escaped from her hair net when her
hat blew off. Miriam had not been in Paul's old bedroom since her
interview with Trenholm the night after the murder. The door had always
been closed and, never having tried to enter it, she was not aware
that, by the sheriff's orders, it had been kept locked. However, she
found it not only unlocked, but wide open when she reached there, and,
without knocking, she stepped inside the room.

Seated near the table were Betty Carter and Guy Trenholm, and, by their
attitude, she judged that they were awaiting her in growing impatience.
Miriam's heart beat a trifle faster as she met Trenholm's straight
gaze, but her manner was entirely natural and composed.

"You sent for me?" she asked, addressing him rather than Betty.

It was Betty who answered as Trenholm rose and placed a chair for
Miriam and, from a motive which Miriam failed to guess and Trenholm
himself to analyze, stood by her side, his eyes watching every play of
emotion in Betty's beautiful face.

"I sent for you, Miss Ward," Betty stated, "and for Sheriff Trenholm,
because I wished to see him in your presence," she faltered and grew
paler. "It was before him that I flatly contradicted your statement
that I was here in this room with Paul on Monday night. I wish to
withdraw that denial."

The room swam around Miriam. It was the last sentence she expected from
Betty. She had exonerated her and before Guy Trenholm. He would know
that she had not lied. She stole a look at him. Trenholm's attention
was entirely centered on Betty and his expression was difficult to
decipher.

"Your motive for denying your presence here, Miss Carter?" he asked,
and she winced at his tone and the formality of his address. Her
woman's intuition told her that she could not sway him by feminine
wiles as in the old days in Paris. He had developed from a shy country
boy into a man, stern perhaps, but just, resourceful and strong. "What
was your motive?" he asked again, with more emphasis, as she kept
silent.

"The danger of being arrested for Paul's murder," she said, and this
time it was Trenholm's turn to feel astonishment, mingled with a
reluctant admiration. Betty, with characteristic courage, was taking
the ground from under his feet.

"And your reason for such a fear?" he questioned swiftly.

"My marriage to Paul under such peculiar circumstances and my immediate
departure, which occurred," she added, addressing Miriam, whom surprise
had kept silent, "judging from your testimony, just before Paul was
killed."

"Your departure just _before_ he was killed is the very point which
clears you of all suspicion," declared Trenholm dryly, and Betty
changed color. "Come, Miss Carter, what has Paul's will to do with your
sudden admission of your marriage to him?"

"Mr. Trenholm!"

"Please--no heroics!" holding up an authoritative hand. "Let us have
the truth at last, Miss Carter."

Betty's eyes blazed at him wrathfully. "It is your privilege to insult
a woman, I presume--one of your prequisites as sheriff of the County."

Trenholm smiled. "Put it that way, if you wish," he said, in entire
good nature. "By the terms of Paul's will you inherit nothing if you
marry after his death; but, as his widow, the law allows you one third
of his estate, irrespective of any will," he paused--"or any marriage
thereafter."

Betty rose and dropped him a curtsy, and Miriam, watching her with a
critic's eye, saw no tremor in hands or lips and no evasive glance.
"You make me out a very clever woman," Betty said. "I thank you."

Trenholm bowed. "There is only one flaw in your reasoning," he said.
"You did not marry Paul Abbott."

Betty stared at him, astounded. "Are you mad!" she gasped. "Why, Miss
Ward witnessed the marriage!"

"I beg pardon, but I was not in the room," interrupted Miriam. "Doctor
Nash sent me to get a lamp and I returned just as he completed the
marriage ceremony."

Betty surveyed them both scornfully. "What is this--collusion?" she
demanded.

"No, just statements of facts," retorted Trenholm. "When Miss Ward
returned to this room after seeing you depart, she went over to the bed
and found, not Paul, but a stranger lying there."

Betty sank back in her chair. Her face was ghastly. There was no
make-believe in her emotion and her half-fainting condition was
genuine. With a word of explanation, Miriam bolted out of the room, to
return a second later with smelling salts. Betty accepted them with a
broken word of thanks.

"I don't understand," she began, glancing piteously from one to the
other. "You found a strange man in Paul's bed just after I left?"

"Yes," replied Miriam, quietly. "It was a great shock and I fainted,
and in that condition was chloroformed. When I revived I found Mr.
Abbott lying dead in that bed."

As in a daze, Betty raised her hands and pressed them to her throbbing
temples.

"You mean that some man got in this room while Miss Ward was in the
hall with the lighted lamp, showing Uncle Alexander and me the way
downstairs, threw Paul out of bed, and took his place?" she asked. "And
being detected by Miss Ward, chloroformed her, and then murdered Paul?"

"You have described the scene very admirably," stated Trenholm, slowly,
"except in one particular. The man assumed Paul's place in the bed when
Miss Ward went downstairs to the door to admit you and Doctor Nash."

"Impossible!" Betty's eyes were half starting from her head. "Why, I
stood near the bed--"

"Exactly where?" broke in Trenholm. "Show me."

Betty rose and walked over to the bed and paused by it. "When I came,
I stopped here," she explained. "I did not move, did I, Miss Ward?"
glancing appealingly at Miriam.

"No," quickly.

"And how were the curtains of the four-poster draped?" asked Trenholm.

Miriam quickly arranged them to the best of her recollection.

"Then, Miss Carter, you did not have a good view of the man in the bed?"

"But it _was_ Paul," she protested. "I knew his voice."

"Voices can be imitated," Trenholm spoke slowly. "And a poor imitation
would have passed muster in your state of excitement. You were
expecting to find Paul there--and you were not critical."

"But I tell you I saw his face."

"How much of it?"

"His dark hair, his general contour--oh, pshaw, his beard--"

"Did you see his eyes?" asked Trenholm. "Did you lean over and kiss
him?"

Betty flushed crimson, from throat to brow. "He kept his eyes
closed--sick men do that"--with a defiant glance at Miriam as if
challenging her to contradict her statement. "I, eh, I didn't kiss Paul
because--because--" her voice died away and rose again. "He was ill
and--eh--"

"And you loved another man!" Trenholm's tone cut like a whiplash, and
she swayed upon her feet. "Come, confess that you consented to marry
Paul because he promised you the Paltoff diamond."

Three times Betty strove to speak. "You are the devil incarnate!" she
gasped. "I tell you I married Paul!" Her clenched fist struck the
bedstead a sharp blow. "See, look here," and from around her neck she
dragged off a gold chain which she had worn concealed underneath her
gown. From it was suspended a heavy gold ring.

"You knew Paul intimately, Guy Trenholm. Do you recognize this ring?"

He took it from her hand and Miriam moved closer to his side and
examined it intently. It bore only a large and beautifully carved "M"
upon it. Trenholm dropped it in Miriam's hand and she was astonished at
the ring's weight and its massive size.

"You know the ring's history, but Miss Ward does not," went on Betty,
as Trenholm kept silent. "This ring was Paul's fetish--he was intensely
superstitious. He declared that it would never leave his possession
until he placed it on my finger." She drew in her breath. "Paul made
that statement in your presence, Guy Trenholm, and in mine, and he
placed that ring on my finger during the marriage service on Monday
night."

From his leather wallet Trenholm drew a number of photographs and
selected one.

"This photograph," he said, holding it so that both girls could see
it, "was taken of Paul as he lay on the undertaker's couch in the room
down the hall, and just before he was placed in the casket. You will
see that he is still wearing his seal ring--in fact, his finger was so
firmly bent to hold it upon his hand that we would have had to break
the bone to take it off. His ring, Miss Carter, is buried with him."

Betty stared dumbly at him. Suddenly her strength deserted her, and
before Miriam could catch her she fell in a crumpled heap at their feet.




CHAPTER XIX

WHICH?


TRENHOLM'S noiseless pacing back and forth before Betty Carter's
bedroom door gave no evidence of the impatience consuming him. Miriam
Ward had promised to join him the instant she was able to leave Betty.
He had carried the unconscious girl to her room and then gone in search
of Doctor Roberts, only to be told by Anna, who in her capacity of
temporary maid was setting the dinner table, that Roberts and Alan
Mason had gone for a motor ride in the former's car earlier in the
afternoon.

Trenholm's restless walk drew him further and further from Betty's
room and when he finally paused he found he was standing in front of
the closed door where Paul Abbott's body had lain until the funeral. A
hasty search in his pockets produced the key of the room and a second
later he was inside it.

Trenholm took the pains to relock the door from the inside and to hang
his handkerchief securely over the door knob, thereby obstructing
Corbin's view of the interior of the room. The caretaker had watched
the sheriff from a respectful distance and, on seeing him enter and
close the door, he had stolen down the hall and, first poking out the
key in the lock with a slender steel instrument, he applied his eye
to the keyhole, and saw nothing. With a grunt indicative of acute
disappointment, Corbin slipped up to his living quarters in pursuit of
his helpmate, Martha.

When Trenholm reappeared in the hall his face was set and stern. He
paused, after locking the door again and pocketing the key, to wipe
tiny drops of moisture from his forehead. Were his theories entirely
wrong? No, he would stake his reputation that he was right, in spite of
his last discovery.

"Mr. Trenholm!" Miriam touched him on the arm and aroused him from his
abstraction, an abstraction so profound that he had never heard her
approach. "Miss Carter has revived and is resting quietly. I think it
is safe to leave her."

"Good!" Trenholm's relief was unmistakable and sincere. "Where are you
going?"

"Downstairs to see if Doctor Roberts has returned," she said, as he
walked with her. She looked up at him impulsively. "Miss Carter is
suffering horribly--"

"I thought you said that she was improving," halting abruptly on the
landing of the staircase.

"I mean mental agony. Mr. Trenholm, can't you help her?"

"And _you_ ask that?" The light in his eyes caused her to catch her
breath sharply, then her heart raced on. "Come, you have never told
me whom you think guilty of Paul's murder?" He led the way into the
sunparlor, where Anna had lighted two of the lamps before returning to
the kitchen. Trenholm adjusted the Holland shades and curtains before
the windows to his satisfaction, then sat down near Miriam.

She stared at him thoughtfully before speaking. "I learned only a few
hours ago of the bloodstained sheet," she said, "and that Corbin was so
treacherous as to let you infer--"

He interrupted her hastily. "My inferences or deductions cleared you
of any complicity in the crime," his clear, strong voice and charming
smile dispelled her agonizing suspense. "I never doubted you, Miss
Ward, _never_. Although the exigencies of the case may have led me to
imply otherwise, I never lost faith in your integrity--your honor--your
splendid courage--"

"Ahem!"

Trenholm and Miriam, who had sat enthralled drinking in his words and
the message which his eyes spoke more eloquently than human lips, both
looked up to find Alexander Nash standing in the doorway contemplating
them.

"I drove over to see you, Trenholm, but that rascally servant of yours
refused to tell me where you were to be found," explained Nash. "I then
drove to Upper Marlboro and the constable finally 'allowed' you might
be here. Such crass stupidity has cost me valuable time!" And Nash, the
usually polished, suave clergyman as known in Washington and Toronto
church circles, flung himself into a chair near Miriam, his face like a
thundercloud.

"Why the excitement?" asked Trenholm, regarding him keenly.

"I have a confession to make." Nash took out his large silk
handkerchief and dabbed his forehead. "No, don't go, Miss Ward--this
interview holds as much interest for you as it does for the sheriff.
It was in his presence that I told you that I failed to recall certain
incidents of Monday night--"

"Whereby you lied," pointed out Miriam coolly, and noted with relish
Nash's apoplectic complexion.

"You use a harsh term, Miss Ward," he objected. "My statement was,
strictly speaking, an evasion--I did not deny that the incidents took
place--simply that I did not recall them."

"Oh, come to the point!" Trenholm's tone was not complimentary, and
Nash squirmed in his chair.

"Miss Carter and I were here on Monday night," he began. "And I did
perform the marriage service--uniting Paul and Betty in holy wedlock."

Nash's statement did not create the excitement he had anticipated and
he looked from one to the other of his companions in intense surprise.

"Did you talk with Paul?" asked Trenholm quickly.

"No--not directly. Betty told him of my presence. I stood a little
distance from the bed"--he cleared his throat. "Illness is upsetting
to me. I--eh--have a peculiar dread of--eh--disease. Paul made the
necessary responses--after he was--eh--duly prompted."

"I see!" Trenholm was watching the agitated clergyman with
disconcerting attention. "And what was your motive in denying your
visit to Paul on Monday night?"

"Betty met me on my way here Tuesday afternoon and asked me not to tell
of it"--Nash started up heatedly. "Why are you glaring at me in that
offensive manner, Mr. Trenholm?"

"Is your first name Adam?" asked the sheriff dryly.

"No, Alexander," with indignant emphasis. "I see no occasion for
levity, Mr. Trenholm. My wife is devoted to her niece and so am I. I
agreed to carry out Betty's wishes, blindly it may be, and perhaps
foolishly, but my motive was to protect her good name."

"Explain your meaning." Trenholm was thoroughly awake at last, and the
clergyman could not complain of not creating a sensation.

"Betty received a special letter from Paul just before our departure
from Toronto, telling of his illness and begging her to hurry to him,"
went on Nash. "He feared that he might not recover and desired her
to marry him. Betty was frightfully upset, and on our approach to
Baltimore asked that we leave the train there and catch the last train
out for Upper Marlboro. We did so, and on reaching there I secured a
Buick touring car from the local livery--" Trenholm nodded his head.

"I know that," he said. "Get on with your story."

Nash favored him with a frown. "I drove Betty out here. We left the
house, as Miss Ward knows, before Paul's murder." He paused to clear
his throat again. "I helped Betty into the back seat, as the curtains
were up and she was more protected there, and, as the starter did not
work, spent some few minutes cranking the car. Without addressing Betty
again I headed the car for Washington and it was not until we were
nearly at Anacostia that I discovered I was alone in the car."

"What became of Miss Carter?" demanded Trenholm, as Nash came to a
dramatic pause.

"I presume she left the car when I was stooping over cranking it,"
explained Nash. "She had arranged the heavy laprobes so that they gave
the appearance of some one seated there." Nash waited for comment from
his companions, but none forthcoming, he added, a trifle pettishly,
"Betty's disappearance was a great shock, but I continued on my way to
Washington, wondering what I should do. Then came the news of Paul's
murder and I was positively staggered. And to be greeted before I
reached Abbott's Lodge with Betty's piteous plea that I say nothing of
our visit here on Monday night--why, it threw me entirely off my feet.
For the sake of Betty--for the fair name of my wife's family--to save
them from scandal--I kept silent."

"And what has caused you to break that silence?" questioned Trenholm.

"Only to you," in alarm, "and to Miss Ward. I must ask you to pledge
your word not to speak of it outside."

"And why have you told us?"

"Because you are investigating Paul's murder and I feel that you should
know all the facts of the case." Nash sighed. "I learned only this
morning from a reliable source that Betty spent Monday night wandering
about Abbott's Lodge and in the garage. She walked to Upper Marlboro in
time to catch the milk train for Washington."

"Who told you this, Doctor Nash?" asked Trenholm sternly. "I insist
upon an answer."

"Well, perhaps you should know--" somewhat doubtfully. "Corbin."

Trenholm sat back and contemplated the clergyman. "Corbin," he
repeated. "Thank you, Doctor Nash," as the latter rose. "How is your
wife?"

"Not so well." Nash's face clouded over. "I am going to stop and see
her now," he said, and with a polite bow to Miriam, he left them.

Trenholm waited until he was sure Nash had had time to reach the second
floor before addressing Miriam.

"You don't admire our reverend friend?" he asked, noting with secret
amusement her wrathful expression.

"I think he is horrid!" she ejaculated. "So--so slimy. And Mrs. Nash
is so straightforward and absolutely sincere." Hastily she changed the
subject. "How did that last code message read?"

Trenholm looked carefully around before answering her, to be sure they
were alone, then approaching close to her side, whispered it in her ear.

"'Watch thirteenth letter. Suicides grave.'"

"It sounds like gibberish," she murmured. "Do you still think it refers
to the thirteenth letter of the alphabet?"

"I do," firmly. "And quite appropriately so," he went on slowly, "when
it commences such words as morphine, murder, madness--"

"And Mason," she completed, quietly. "But, Mr. Trenholm, it's a poor
rule that doesn't work both ways--"

"What do you mean?" as she paused.

"Counting the alphabet from A to M is thirteen," she said. "But
counting from M to A the thirteenth letter is _A_." She looked at him
queerly. "_Alexander_ Nash."

"Why not Alan Mason--counting _both_ ways his initials make the number
thirteen?" Trenholm stuffed his hands into his pockets and gazed at her
tall, shapely figure, her clear, olive skin, and her great beautiful
eyes, and was conscious of an accelerated pulse. He came a step closer.
"I have learned that Alan was on the troopship from Vladivostok with
his cousin Paul."

She started and stared at him aghast. "I can't believe Mr. Mason had
a hand in the murder," she declared vehemently. "Call it instinct--or
what you will--I believe absolutely that Mr. Abbott's murder was
planned and carried out by Boris Zybinn, and I cannot forget that
Alexander Nash was Zybinn's neighbor in Toronto. Tell me," she came
closer to his side, "has Doctor Nash a parish in Washington?"

"No--nor in Toronto." Trenholm stroked his chin reflectively. "I
understand that he was a man of considerable means before he married
Representative Carter's daughter--and that in spite of the difference
in their ages, it was a love match, pure and simple. I think Paul told
me that Doctor Nash had retired from the ministry."

"O-o-h!" Miriam's exclamation was long-drawn out and Trenholm stared.
She gave him no opportunity to question her further. "To go back to
the coded message," she began, "have you thought the words 'suicides
grave' have any connection with the Mason plot out yonder and the poor
suicide--that makes the thirteenth grave--as you pointed out the other
day, in that neglected family cemetery?"

Trenholm looked at her keenly. "Time will show," he replied, and
wondered at her disappointment. "Why do you ask?"

"I walked by the graveyard just now," she said hurriedly, "and was
amazed to see--"

"Excuse me, Miss--Ma'am"--Martha's complaining voice caused Miriam to
jump--startled by the woman's proximity. "Dinner will be ready in a
minute. I've just telled the folks upstairs, and thought mebbe you'd
like to know. There's a couple o' boys outside inquirin' for ye,
Sheriff," and, her message delivered, Martha took herself off.

Trenholm caught up with her before she reached the kitchen, and drew
her to one side.

"Martha!" His low stern voice sent a shiver down the woman's back, and
the pressure of his hand on her arm tightened. "When did this letter
reach Mr. Paul?" and he held before her the thirteenth letter. "No
lies, now. I want the truth."

"Yes, sir," Martha's quavering tones did not belie her feelings.
"Please, sir, that there letter with them queer stamps come the morning
Mr. Paul was killed, sir."

"No go, Martha," Trenholm shook her slightly. "The postmark shows this
letter should have reached Upper Marlboro last week."

"I ain't sayin' it didn't," she whined. "But by mistake it was put in
Anna's father's box by the carrier; an' havin' sickness in the family,
Anna only brought it up on Monday mornin'. I took it from her, sir, and
went right up to the room where Mr. Paul was talkin' to Mr. Alan--an'
laid it on the table."

"Mr. Alan!" Trenholm strove to keep his voice lowered. "Was he here
then?"

"Yes, sir. Mr. Paul sent for him," she looked up craftily. "He stayed
'round most of the day until 'bout time the doctor was to come, and
then he cleared out." She raised herself on tiptoe and whispered as he
bent down to hear her better. "Corbin wa'n't here then. He'd kill me
if he knew I was keepin' anythin' from him. But Mr. Alan," her voice
held unexpected, unmistakable pathos, "years back, he beat Corbin for
mishandlin' me, and I ain't never forgot how good he was."

"Hush!" Trenholm took out his handkerchief and handed it to her.
"Dry your eyes, Martha; and say nothing about Mr. Alan or this
letter"--returning it to his pocket. "Remember I trust you."

Martha drew a long, long breath. Trenholm was treating her like a human
being. Gratitude, mingled with a return of self-respect, caused her to
raise his hand to her lips, then, in frantic bashfulness, she slipped
back into the dining room, upsetting Anna in her hurried entrance.

Trenholm paused in deep thought, then, going through the side door,
joined the three deputies who were anxiously awaiting him. His concise
directions were listened to with the respect which Trenholm inspired
among those who worked with and for him.

"You understand," he said finally, and the men nodded as they stood
grouped about him. "Riley, go to the telegraph office and await the
answers to the messages I have sent and bring them to me. Do not
permit them to telephone any message to me; there is too much danger
of 'listening in.' Now, be off," and Trenholm again entered Abbott's
Lodge, but by the front door.

Trenholm's entrance went unnoticed by Doctor Roberts and Alan Mason,
who were chatting with Miriam, while Alexander Nash stood moodily
contemplating the blazing logs on the hearth at the further end of the
living room, deaf alike to his companions and Anna's announcement that
dinner was served.

With old-fashioned courtesy, Roberts offered his arm to Miriam, then
paused abruptly as footsteps on the staircase caused him to glance
upward.

"God bless my soul!" he ejaculated in complete surprise.

Coming down the staircase, with the assistance of a flurried Somers,
was Mrs. Nash. She had donned a pretty negligée, and the excitement
and her exertions combined had brought the color to her face. Miriam
hastened to Somers' assistance and Roberts was immediately behind her.

"This is most imprudent, Mrs. Nash!" he exclaimed sternly. "In your
condition--"

"Poof!" Mrs. Nash snapped her fingers. "I am getting on famously. Don't
be pessimistic, Doctor; instead, you should congratulate me upon my
recovery. Thank you, my dear," as Miriam helped her toward the dining
room. "Come here, Alexander, and give me your arm."

At sound of her voice, the clergyman wheeled around and stepped
backward with such suddenness that he walked on the fire tongs and
fender.

"Dora--here! Have you taken leave of your senses?" he demanded.

"I seem the only one to have retained my senses," she retorted tartly.
"Miss Ward, you were always assuring me I was not very ill, but judging
from Doctor Roberts' conduct and my husband's, they must have thought
me at the point of death."

Nash collected his scattered wits and came forward. "I suppose you
will have your way, though the skies fall," he said resignedly. "But I
should have thought, my dear, that poor Zybinn's sudden death through
imprudent neglect of his health would have warned you to be careful."

What rejoinder Mrs. Nash made was lost by Trenholm, who had stood out
of sight behind the grandfather clock watching the scene. He waited
until, judging from the sounds that came from the other room, they were
seated around the dinner table, and then, taking care to make no noise,
he ran lightly up the staircase and darted into Mrs. Nash's bedroom.

Before going to her supper, Somers had aired the room and remade the
bed, and Trenholm's electric torch showed everything in order. First
convincing himself that he was the only person in the bedroom, he went
over to the wall and taking from his pocket the pen and ink drawing
which he had carried away almost under Mrs. Nash's nose, he hung it
back in its place.

Trenholm laid down his torch on a convenient chair and drew out the
thirteenth letter. He had inserted a little paste under the flap before
leaving his bungalow, and to all intents and purposes the envelope
looked as if it never had been opened. Holding it in his hand, he
scanned the bedroom eagerly and spied a dustpan and brush which Somers
had carelessly forgotten and left standing by the bureau. Trenholm
slipped over to it and laid the envelope on the small pile of trash in
the pan. When he had arranged it to his liking, the envelope looked as
if it had been brushed up with the rest of the trash, but the Canadian
stamps were plainly in view.

Trenholm stood up and, taking his torch with him, tiptoed to the hall
door which he had left open as he had found it. A glance outside showed
that the hall was empty. Looking about the bedroom, Trenholm noticed a
screen which Somers had brought into the bedroom and stood between Mrs.
Nash and an open window. It would make an excellent hiding place. Like
a flash he was behind it. From where he crouched, he had an excellent
view of the open door and the entire bedroom. Trenholm drew a long
breath--the stage was set, and he had staked all on the fall of the
dice!

Half an hour passed and he was commencing to worry when a light
footfall came down the hall and he heard Betty Carter exclaim at sight
of the darkened room.

"Somers!" she called, very softly. Getting no reply, she peered
into the room and then very cautiously came inside it. A startled
exclamation, quickly suppressed, escaped her at sight of the empty bed,
and she drew back and glanced hastily over her shoulder. Gathering
courage from the continued stillness, she went over to the bureau and
fumbled in one of the drawers. Something fell from her hand--from
Trenholm's position he could not see what, and he dared not move--and
she struck a match. Shielding it in her hand, she stooped over. She
remained so long in that position that Trenholm grew alarmed; then,
with a swiftness and stealth which left him breathless, she was gone.

Had Betty taken the thirteenth letter? Trenholm was on edge, but,
before he dared venture out, another figure stood in the doorway,
and by the light from the hall lamp, he recognized Miriam. Without
hesitation she went at once to the bureau and opening the second drawer
took out one of Mrs. Nash's scarfs. Would she see the envelope and,
thinking it had accidentally fallen in the dustpan, pick it up? Or was
it not there for her to pick up? Trenholm heaved a sigh of thankfulness
when Miriam turned and went into the hall.

A stealthy step inside the bedroom a few seconds later caused Trenholm
again to draw back into the shelter of the screen in time to miss being
seen by Corbin. The caretaker had advanced only a few paces when a hand
was laid on his shoulder and he was jerked back.

"_Sacré Dieu!_ What do you in my mistress' bedroom, _cochon_?" hissed
Pierre in his ear. What answer the terrified man would have made was
checked by Alexander Nash's voice in the hall.

"Pierre, bring the car around!" Nash failed to see the two men,
chauffeur and caretaker, steal out of his wife's doorway, for he turned
at the moment to address Alan Mason--only to find that the young man
had disappeared. Nash hesitated for a fraction of a second, then
tiptoed down the hall.

Trenholm's sensitive ears caught the creak of a floor board, and the
faint "seep--seep" of something being dragged across the floor. A
flood of light from an electric torch half blinded him, accustomed
to the almost total darkness of the room, and he rubbed his eyes to
clear his vision, just as the light was focused full upon the dustpan.
The thirteenth letter stood out in bold relief. The light was dimmed
instantly and again Trenholm caught the sound of something creeping
across the floor.

The light flared up again with unexpected swiftness and Trenholm saw
a shapeless figure, its head and shoulders enveloped in some black
garment, squatting over the dustpan. The torch lay at rest by it, and
Trenholm had a glimpse of long, slender fingers holding the letter as
he crept from behind the screen and as noiseless as the shadows about
him, reached the kneeling figure. The stamped envelope was held in one
hand and in the other was a perforation gauge--

With lightning swiftness Trenholm snapped the handcuffs on the two
upraised wrists. With a sweep of his arm, he drew back the black,
shroudlike garment, as he cried:

"In the name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Paul
Abbott"--Trenholm's voice died away at sight of the distorted, ghastly
face confronting him, then rose in horror--"Doctor Roberts."




CHAPTER XX

THE RULING PASSION


BETTY CARTER, too unhappy to keep to her room, where she had found bed
intolerable after recovering from her faint, was the first to hear
Roberts' frantic cries for mercy as Trenholm got him upon his feet and
half dragged, half lifted his prisoner into a chair. She stood aghast
in the doorway of Mrs. Nash's bedroom until pushed further inside
by Alan Mason and Doctor Nash, who had paused to pick up a lighted
lamp and carried it with him. Mrs. Nash, leaning heavily on Miriam's
arm, was likewise not slow in reaching her room, while Martha was
only restrained from racing upstairs also by a terrified Anna, whose
detaining clutch she could not loosen.

"Good God!" Alan dashed to Trenholm's side as Roberts, his paroxysm
over, sank weakly back in his chair and covered his face with his
manacled hands. "What is the meaning of this, Guy?"

"Doctor Roberts murdered Paul Abbott," stated Trenholm, and his
announcement created a profound sensation.

Mrs. Nash dropped into the nearest seat, for once bereft of speech,
while Alan, his face transfigured, stumbled over to Betty, and
kneeling, pressed her hand to his lips.

"Betty, my darling!" he exclaimed incoherently. "I knew that you were
here on Monday night, and then you denied your visit. Corbin told me
that you had bribed him into giving up your bloodstained scarf. God
forgive me! I was afraid that you had killed Paul."

"Do not reproach yourself too much," she said, and her soft, clear
voice held its old accustomed thrill. Unmindful of the presence of the
others, she drew him to his feet and his arms encircled her. "I did you
a greater wrong, Alan, when I married Paul, while my heart was given to
you."

"But you did not marry Paul--you married me," declared Alan, and but
for his supporting arm Betty would have fallen.

"You--she married you!" Mrs. Nash was getting her fill of excitement.
With eyes half starting from her head, she gazed at her niece and Alan.
"You--Alan"--while her husband feebly echoed her words.

"Yes"--facing their concentrated regard with head thrown back, his
face alight with hope and love, Alan's voice rang out clearly. "Paul
sent for me and I spent Monday morning with him. Just before I left
came your telegram, Betty, saying that you and Nash were on your way
here and that you would marry him. It was a frightful shock, and for
hours I wandered about the countryside, keeping out of people's way.
I determined to see Paul again and tell him of my passionate love for
you, Betty--" he sighed. "I must have been a bit mad--"

Betty pressed his hand. "Go on," she begged; "don't stop."

"I reached here after midnight and knocked on the side door, but could
not arouse Corbin," continued Alan. "Paul and I had often entered the
house in the old days when he had forgotten his doorkey, by climbing up
to the veranda roof and entering a window of his room. As I reached his
window, which was conveniently open, I heard the front door bell ring
loudly. I judged it was Betty arriving with Doctor Nash and, pausing to
take off my muddy shoes and overcoat, I left them outside on the roof,
and then dropped inside the bedroom and rushed over to speak to Paul.
The bed was empty."

"Great heavens!" Miriam stared, astounded, at Alan. "Where was Mr.
Abbott?"

"I don't know," admitted Alan. "At the time I supposed he was out in
the hall, as I could hear voices. When they came closer I climbed into
the empty bed, to avoid being seen, and pulled the bedclothes up over
me. I couldn't face Betty and Paul in their, what I supposed to be,
hour of happiness. I was horrified when Betty and Nash came directly
into the bedroom, and I suddenly realized that they took me for Paul."

"Were you wearing a false beard?" asked Trenholm.

"No, not a false one. I had let my beard grow for the past two weeks,"
explained Alan, "and shaved it off on Tuesday morning. To go back
to the scene in the bedroom--the lamp had gone out, and except for
the firelight the room was dark, and I prayed that Betty would leave
without recognizing me. Before I could collect my senses, Doctor Nash
read the marriage service--"

"And you made the responses?"

"Yes; the doctor prompted me." Alan flushed hotly, then paled. "I think
I was mad that night. My voice is like Paul's."

"It was your greatest point of resemblance," commented Trenholm, "and
the recollection of it finally gave me the key to the situation."

Alan turned to Miriam and spoke with honest contrition. "I didn't
know that Paul had a nurse," he said. "You weren't here in the
morning. I was still lying in Paul's bed, trying dazedly to plan
something--anything--when I heard some one return and walk swiftly
to the bed. I heard your outcry and the sound of your fall, and," in
shame-faced honesty, "I bolted out of the window, gathered up my hat,
coat and shoes, and fled."

"Just a moment," broke in Trenholm. "How about the ring you gave Miss
Carter?"

Alan eyed him in surprise. "Oh, the ring?" he echoed. "Paul gave it to
me Monday morning--that was why I happened to have it about me."

"And why did Paul give you a ring which he valued with almost
superstitious fervor?" inquired Trenholm.

"It wasn't his original ring, but an exact replica which, Paul told me
on Monday, he had had made for me. The original ring was a gold coin of
the First century of the Christian era and belonged to my grandfather,
another Alan Mason--"

"The suicide?"

Alan winced slightly as he bowed. "I don't know Paul's motive in having
the ring copied for me--he often did freakish, unaccountable things."

His remarks were checked by an exclamation from Roberts, who had
regained some semblance of self-control while listening to Alan.

"There was no accounting for what Paul would do," he stated, and all
eyes turned to him, partly in curiosity, but more in unconcealed
horror. "I may as well make my confession now as later," he sighed.
"After I left Abbott's Lodge I motored to Upper Marlboro, deciding,
as it was such a bad night, that I would remain at the hotel. It was
before midnight when Corbin came in and told me that a letter had come
that day from Canada from Zybinn and that he had taken it, with other
papers, to the room Paul used as a sitting room. I gave Corbin his
customary bribe--"

"Cocaine," interposed Miriam quickly, and Roberts nodded.

"I took Corbin's key to the front door," he went on, speaking with more
of an effort, "and came back to find the letter which," turning with a
scowl to Trenholm, "with your infernal astuteness, you divined bore a
stamp code. You planted that letter and this trap--"

"I did," admitted Trenholm quietly. "I realized that the thirteenth
letter had not been read either by Paul or the person for whom the code
was intended. Knowing that attempts had been made to steal something
from this room, I judged that the letter had been lost here, and
so"--with a quiet smile at Mrs. Nash--"I arranged to have the room
vacated for an hour or two. I knew whoever would attempt to steal that
letter had killed Paul."

"But why?" demanded Doctor Nash.

"Because the stamp code tells where Paul had secreted the Paltoff
diamond."

"It does!" Roberts was on his feet; his features distorted. "Good God!
to think that I failed by so short a margin."

"Sit down!" directed Trenholm, with a significant pressure on the
physician's shoulder. "What did you do, Roberts, when you reached
Abbott's Lodge on Monday night?"

"I stole softly up here." Roberts moistened his parched lips. "I found
the letter which Corbin had placed on the table and took up the nut
pick, intending to open the envelope, take out the letter and leave
it, and study the stamp code at my leisure at the hotel. A noise at my
elbow caused me to glance around--Paul was standing at my side."

"Well--what next?" prompted Trenholm, as Roberts ceased speaking.

"My face must have betrayed me," he continued, a second later. "Paul's
unexpected appearance shocked me out of my self-control. He turned, I
suppose to call for help, and I drove the nut pick into his back."

There was a pause which none cared to break. Roberts wiped some
perspiration from his forehead and then spoke more rapidly.

"I stood gazing down at the dead man, for I had turned out the lamp
which I had lighted only a second before, and waited in the dark, my
brain whirling. Paul had left the door partly open and I not only
heard but saw Betty and Nash and Miss Ward enter Paul's bedroom. Every
instant I expected to hear an outcry when they discovered Paul was not
in the bed. The suspense was something frightful"--his voice shook, and
he steadied it with an effort. "Peering out from behind the door I saw
Nash and Betty leave, and Miss Ward return to Paul's bedroom. There
followed a slight cry, a heavy fall, and then silence. I waited for a
second or two, then crept across the hall and into the bedroom. Miss
Ward was lying in a faint on the floor, and Paul's bed was empty."

"So, fearing she would revive too soon, you chloroformed her and
carried Paul's dead body into the room and put it into his bed,"
completed Trenholm, as Roberts broke down, unable to go on. "How did
you lose the letter?"

"I don't know--it is the one confused incident of the night," replied
Roberts, after some hesitation. "The letter must have flown out of
my hand as I struck at Paul." Roberts sighed heavily. "It happened
that Paul fell on some soiled sheets which Martha had thrown on the
floor, intending to take away the next morning. I used the sheets and
a woman's scarf to staunch the flow of blood and gave them, with my
driving gloves, which I had not removed, to Corbin to destroy. There
was nothing to indicate that Paul had been in this bedroom, nothing to
link me with the crime." Roberts sighed again. "Then an overwhelming
terror and an unspeakable horror of what I had done drove me out of the
house and I did not come again into this bedroom to make a search for
the letter. The next morning Alan and Trenholm and the coroner gave me
no time alone, and then came Mrs. Nash and she was put in here--and
with her awake in the daytime and Miss Ward on duty at night"--Roberts'
gesture was eloquent as he looked at Trenholm. "Well, you beat me. But
I'd like to know where you found the letter and how you discovered the
code."

"Miss Ward did both," replied Trenholm as they looked at him. "She
found the letter in that chair," pointing to it, "tucked under the
upholstery and the seat cushion where it evidently had fallen; and
she suspected that a code was concealed in the peculiar use of five
one-cent Canadian stamps, in place of the regular three-cent postage,
on thirteen letters. We deciphered the code--and this message:--"

"Well?" questioned Roberts eagerly, as he paused. "What?"

"'Watch thirteenth letter suicides grave,'" repeated Trenholm, and his
listeners gazed at him blankly. Turning abruptly to Betty, he addressed
her. "Did you take some photographs of this house a little while ago,
and one of this room?"

"Why, yes," she exclaimed. "Just before I went to Canada, and Mr.
Zybinn developed the negatives for me. He was a paralytic, and while
unable to walk, dabbled in photography. He had some enlargements made
of my kodak films."

"And one of this room?" quickly.

"Yes. He said it was a remarkably good interior and made me describe
all the objects in it--"

"Especially this"--going over to the wall, Trenholm took down a picture
and held it in plain view. He stopped as the constable and Riley came
into the bedroom, the latter with a sheaf of telegrams in his hand.
"Ah, Constable, you are just in time--this picture was made by Paul's
mother, who was an artist of some ability. She modeled it after those
quaint Swiss paintings of a cemetery with a church in the background,
in which a _real_ clock was put in the tower. In this picture of the
Masons' neglected burying ground, Mrs. Abbott etched in the background
a church tower and _placed in the tower this antique watch_."

Trenholm turned the picture around and pointed to a watch, a tiny
affair, which was firmly held in the canvas by a clever contrivance.
He drew out the watch with a careful hand, the others watching him
breathlessly.

"The first word of the code is 'watch.' Here it is," Trenholm held up
the antique watch. "The next two words, 'thirteenth letter,' which is
'M', you will find is the initial engraved on the back of the watch;
and the last two words, 'suicide's grave,' exemplified by this picture
of Colonel Mason's grave." Trenholm turned to Betty and asked: "Did you
not tell Zybinn that you chanced to see Paul remove the works from this
watch?"

"Yes," she admitted. "Zybinn asked me if the watch was too old to keep
accurate time and I told him Paul had taken it apart."

"So that was it," and Trenholm nodded. "Paul removed the works from the
watch because he evidently judged it to be an admirable hiding place
for--"

"The Paltoff diamond!" shouted Roberts.

For answer Trenholm opened the watch. Inside the round hollow lay a wad
of cotton--and on top of it the lost jewel.

They gathered about the table, even Roberts, forgetful for a brief
second that he was handcuffed, and gazed at the beautiful gem, dazzled
by its luster and purity.

Trenholm was the first to speak. "Paul knew little rest after the
Paltoff diamond was intrusted to his care. He was constantly haunted by
a morbid fear of losing it or of being robbed of it, so that he could
never be induced to exhibit it."

"He showed it to Betty and to me," declared Mrs. Nash, breaking her
long silence. "And swore us to absolute secrecy. I greatly feared,"
she added, "that Betty was in some way mixed up in the tragedy
and my husband's extraordinary denial of their presence here on
Monday, when Pierre had brought me Betty's telegram to Paul, fed my
imagination--and--and--I dropped that note to you, Mr. Trenholm, and--"
not meeting her husband's reproachful glance, but looking instead at
Miriam--"I took surreptitious doses of phenacetin and accidentally
overdid it and nearly killed myself, but," with a return of her old
arrogant air, "I was determined to find out what was going on in this
house, whatever the consequences."

"I see," Trenholm concealed a smile, and then grew grave. "The usual
ill-luck, apparently inseparable from the possession of great diamonds,
has overtaken Paul," he said sorrowfully. "He remained true to his
trust and never parted with the jewel. Miss Ward," with an abruptness
which startled her from her study of Roberts, whose eyes had never left
the diamond, "your uncle, M. Paltoff, gave the gem to Paul--they are
both dead--what do you wish done with it?"

She could not prevent a shudder. "I cannot take it," she protested.
"Can you not turn it over to the Department of State and let the
Government decide as to its disposition?"

"An excellent suggestion." Trenholm, after replacing the diamond in
its hiding place, secreted the watch carefully in an inside pocket.
"Stand back, Roberts," as the physician made an effort to wrench it
from him. "You will go with the constable and Riley, but first," his
voice deepened, "how was it that you, supposedly a reputable physician
and a man of honor, joined Zybinn in his endeavor to steal the Paltoff
diamond?"

Roberts turned sullenly, the veneer gone; and a criminal, crafty and
sinister-eyed, faced them.

"I am a drug addict," he admitted. "I became so two years ago after a
nervous breakdown. I was ship's surgeon on the transport with Paul. He
sent for me and I removed the diamond from the wound in his leg. I was
straight then. My practice had fallen off; I was, in fact, a ruined man
when, on a visit to Doctor Nash, I met Zybinn. He wormed Paul's secret
out of me, and promised, if I would steal the jewel, to give me half
the value of the diamond. I knew he had money, for he had deposited a
large fortune in a bank in Toronto before fleeing from Russia after
a quarrel with Lenin. Zybinn pointed out that the diamond was too
celebrated to be negotiable in the usual channels, and that, cut into
smaller stones, it would lose most of its value, and so I agreed to his
terms."

"And why the stamp code?" asked Trenholm, as Roberts came to an abrupt
halt.

"Doctor Nash had employed me to travel with Paul and keep him under
observation, and it was thought wiser for Zybinn not to communicate
directly with me," Roberts turned to Miriam. "A glass of water,
please." Riley got it for him, before Miriam could move, from the
pitcher placed for Mrs. Nash's use on the bedstand.

Roberts looked over at Betty, a malignant grin distorting his face.

"Zybinn used you as a cat's paw," he said. "Through you he gained an
intimate knowledge of Paul's habits, his mode of life, and, using his
remarkable powers of deduction, twice located the hiding place of the
diamond--in each instance too late, for Paul's capricious habits, his
secretiveness, yes," with grudging admiration, "his cleverness balked
us. And so did you," wheeling on Mrs. Nash with a suddenness which made
her jump. "I tried to secure the thirteenth letter on Tuesday night,
but Martha detected me, and last night you pulled off my disguise."

"Why did you risk discovery?" asked Mrs. Nash. "Why not have
telegraphed to Zybinn for the message on his last letter?"

"I telephoned from Washington on Tuesday and was told he had died from
apoplexy on Monday afternoon--his third stroke," added Roberts. "That
message on his letter to Paul was Zybinn's last word to me. He thought
I was still here at Abbott's Lodge."

"Just a moment," broke in Trenholm. "Why did Zybinn use the words
'thirteenth letter' to designate the initial 'M' on the back of the
watch?"

"Because in devising our code we failed to make provision for
indicating an initial, expecting never to use one." Roberts chafed one
cold hand over the other. "Had I decoded Zybinn's last message, I'd
have gotten his meaning, however, for that little sketch is the only
painting by Paul's mother on the premises and always cherished by her
son. He invariably spoke of the sketch as 'The Suicide's Grave.'"

"I told Zybinn that," admitted Betty. "Great heavens! how I played into
his hands--"

"Just so!" agreed Roberts with sneering emphasis. He straightened up,
swayed slightly and recovered his balance with an effort. "Come,"
addressing Trenholm, "I can stand no more."

The constable was by his side and Riley at his heels instantly. "We'll
take him to Upper Marlboro, sir," the former stated, and at a nod
from Trenholm, Roberts, with eyes averted from his former friends,
left the room, the black shroudlike cloth still thrown about his
shoulders--typical in its vague outlines of the shadowed and complex
nature of the man.

Mrs. Nash's overcharged feelings found relief in tears. "There," she
exclaimed, as her distracted husband held a glass of water and Miriam
the smelling salts. "I'll be myself in a minute. Betty, come and tell
me why you remained here, instead of returning to Washington with your
uncle, and why you lied about your visit to Paul."

Betty cleared her throat. "You were partly responsible--"

"I?" her aunt regarded her in astonishment.

"Yes. After leaving the house I remembered my promise to Uncle
Alexander to telephone you why we were detained, and while he was
cranking the car, I jumped out and rang the bell. No one came and I
waited and rang again. Looking around I saw that Uncle had driven off.
I tried to overtake him and failed, so spent the night here in Paul's
garage, the door being unlocked. Martha found me there in the morning
and gave me some breakfast. She told me Paul had been murdered. It was
a frightful shock!" Betty drew in her breath. "And I lost my head and
ran away; and, to make bad matters worse, denied my visit here." She
turned impulsively to Alan.

"You will never know the suffering I have endured since Monday," she
said, and her voice quivered with emotion. She read his expression, and
a look of hope, of joy, flashed up in her face. "Am I forgiven?"

Alan's arms were around her, his lips against hers. "You are loved," he
whispered. "Does not that cover all?" and he led her from the room.

Martha intercepted Miriam as she was on her way to her own room an hour
later.

"He's waiting downstairs," she said, pointing in the direction of the
living room.

"He?--Who?"

"Mr. Trenholm." And Martha who, since Corbin's arrest for complicity in
Paul's murder and for having narcotics concealed in his cache in the
suicide's grave, had kept carefully hidden in the kitchen closet, stole
softly to bed.

Trenholm dropped the paper he was reading as Miriam paused in front of
him, and sprang to his feet.

"I hoped that you would come," he said. "Betty and Alan are in the
sunparlor. In our talk they have cleared up the last threads of the
mystery. It seems that Betty's telegram to Paul was telephoned out from
Upper Marlboro and Alan wrote it down on a slip of paper and gave it to
him. It was to secure that paper, Betty thinking it a regular telegraph
blank, that they both tried to search this house and my bungalow."

"Mr. Abbott had a paper in his hand when he told me that Miss Carter
would be here," broke in Miriam.

"Ah, then he must have carried it with him into the sitting room, and
dropped it on the way there," replied Trenholm. "Pierre found it and
took it to Mrs. Nash."

A ghost of a smile hovered about Miriam's lips. "I cannot help but like
Mrs. Nash," she confessed, then changed the subject swiftly. "What took
Mr. Abbott into the sitting room when I went downstairs to admit Miss
Carter and Doctor Nash?"

Trenholm shook his head. "We will never know, but I imagine it was some
sixth sense which warned him of danger to the diamond--the gem seemed
to exert a remarkable influence over him. Poor Paul!" Trenholm sighed.
"His extraordinary will-power triumphed over physical disability and
gave him strength to reach the sitting room."

Miriam's eyes filled with tears. "I cannot shake off a sense of
responsibility for the tragedy--"

"Nonsense!" Trenholm spoke with the vehemence characteristic of him.
"Never think that."

Miriam's smile did not dispel the shadow which saddened her expression.

"It is good-by, Mr. Trenholm," she said, holding out her hand. "I leave
for Washington early to-morrow."

Trenholm's hand closed over hers with a pressure that hurt.

"Good-by," he repeated mechanically. "No, I can't let you go out of my
life; for you have become all in all to me." As he met the gaze of her
lovely eyes, his set speech, which he had rehearsed again and again
while waiting to see her, flew out of his mind.

"Miriam, I have only love to offer--" His clear voice faltered. For a
second they gazed steadfastly at each other, and the old, old story
which never grows old was told again as Trenholm clasped Miriam to his
heart and her lips met his in unconditional surrender.


THE END




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  =Affinities and Other Stories.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =After House, The.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Against the Winds.= Kate Jordan.
  =Alcatraz.= Max Brand.
  =Alias Richard Power.= William Allison.
  =All the Way by Water.= Elizabeth Stancy Payne.
  =Amateur Gentleman, The.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Amateur Inn, The.= Albert Payson Terhune.
  =Anna the Adventuress.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Anne's House of Dreams.= L. M. Montgomery.
  =Anybody But Anne.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Are All Men Alike, and The Lost Titian.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Around Old Chester.= Margaret Deland.
  =Arrant Rover, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Athalie.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =At the Mercy of Tiberius.= Augusta Evans Wilson.
  =At Sight of Gold.= Cynthia Lombardi.
  =Auction Block, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Aunt Jane of Kentucky.= Eliza C. Hall.
  =Awakening of Helena Ritchie.= Margaret Deland.

  =Bab: a Sub-Deb.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Bar 20.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Bar 20 Days.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Bar 20 Three.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Barrier, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Bars of Iron, The.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Bat Wing.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Beasts of Tarzan, The.= Edgar Rice Burroughs.
  =Beautiful and Damned, The.= F. Scott Fitzgerald.
  =Beauty.= Rupert Hughes.
  =Behind Locked Doors.= Ernest M. Poate.
  =Bella Donna.= Robert Hichens. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Beloved Traitor, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Beloved Vagabond, The.= Wm. J. Locke.
  =Beloved Woman, The.= Kathleen Norris.
  =Beltane the Smith.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Betrayal, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Beyond the Frontier.= Randall Parrish.
  =Big Timber.= Bertrand W. Sinclair.
  =Black Bartlemy's Treasure.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Black Buttes.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Black Cæesar's Clan.= Albert Payson Terhune.
  =Black Gold.= Albert Payson Terhune.
  =Black Is White.= George Barr McCutcheon.
  =Black Oxen.= Gertrude Atherton. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Blue Circle, The.= Elizabeth Jordan.
  =Bob, Son of Battle.= Alfred Olivant.
  =Box With Broken Seals, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Brandon of the Engineers.= Harold Bindloss.
  =Breaking Point, The.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Bridge of Kisses.= Berta Ruck.
  =Bring Me His Ears.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Broad Highway, The.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Broken Barriers.= Meredith Nicholson.
  =Brown Study, The.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Buck Peters, Ranchman.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Bush-Rancher, The.= Harold Bindloss.

  =Cabbages and Kings.= O. Henry.
  =Cabin Fever.= B. M. Bower.
  =Calling of Dan Matthews, The.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Cape Cod Stories.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Cap'n Dan's Daughter.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Cap'n Eri.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Cap'n Warren's Wards.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Carnac's Folly.= Gilbert Parker.
  =Cat's Paw, The.= Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
  =Cattle.= Winnifred Eaton.
  =Certain People of Importance.= Kathleen Norris.
  =Chief Legatee, The.= Anna Katharine Green.
  =Cinema Murder, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =City of Lilies, The.= Anthony Pryde and R. K. Weeheo.
  =City of Peril, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Clipped Wings.= Rupert Hughes.
  =Clue of the New Pin, The.= Edgar Wallace.
  =Colorado Jim.= George Goodchild.
  =Coming of Cassidy, The.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Coming of the Law, The.= Chas. A. Seltzer.
  =Communicating Door, The.= Wadsworth Camp.
  =Comrades of Peril.= Randall Parrish.
  =Conquest of Canaan, The.= Booth Tarkington.
  =Contraband.= Clarence Budington Kelland.
  =Court of Inquiry, A.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Crimson Blotter, The.= Isabel Ostrander.
  =Crimson Gardenia The, and Other Tales of Adventure.= Rex Beach.
  =Crimson Tide, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Cross Currents.= Author of "Pollyanna."
  =Cross Pull, The.= Hal G. Evarts.
  =Cry in the Wilderness, A.= Mary E. Waller.
  =Cry of Youth, A.= Cynthia Lombardi.
  =Cup of Fury, The.= Rupert Hughes.
  =Curious Quest, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Curved Blades, The.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Cytherea.= Joseph Hergesheimer.

  =Damsel in Distress, A.= Pelham G. Wodehouse.
  =Dancing Star, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Danger and Other Stories.= A. Conan Doyle.
  =Dark Hollow.= Anna Katharine Green.
  =Daughter Pays, The.= Mrs. Baillie Reynolds.
  =Depot Master, The.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Desert Healer, The.= E. M. Hull.
  =Destroying Angel, The.= Louis Joseph Vance. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Devil's Paw, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Diamond Thieves, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Disturbing Charm, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Donnegan.= George Owen Baxter.
  =Door of Dread, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Doors of the Night.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Dope.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Double Traitor, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Dust of the Desert.= Robert Welles Ritchie.

  =Empty Hands.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Empty Pockets.= Rupert Hughes.
  =Empty Sack, The.= Basil King.
  =Enchanted Canyon.= Honoré Willsie.
  =Enemies of Women.= V. B. Ibanez. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Eris.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Erskine Dale, Pioneer.= John Fox, Jr.
  =Evil Shepherd, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Extricating Obadiah.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Eye of Zeitoon, The.= Talbot Mundy.
  =Eyes of the Blind.= Arthur Somers Roche.
  =Eyes of the World.= Harold Bell Wright.

  =Fair Harbor.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Family.= Wayland Wells Williams.
  =Fathoms Deep.= Elizabeth Stancy Payne.
  =Feast of the Lanterns.= Louise Gordon Miln.
  =Fighting Chance, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Fighting Shepherdess, The.= Caroline Lockhart.
  =Financier, The.= Theodore Dreiser.
  =Fire Tongue.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Flaming Jewel, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Flowing Gold.= Rex Beach.
  =Forbidden Trail, The.= Honoré Willsie.
  =Forfeit, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Four Million, The.= O. Henry.
  =Foursquare.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Four Stragglers, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Free Range Lanning.= George Owen Baxter.
  =From Now On.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Fur Bringers, The.= Hulbert Footner.
  =Further Adventures of Jimmie Dale.= Frank E. Packard.

  =Galusha the Magnificent.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Gaspards of Pine Croft, The.= Ralph Connor.
  =Gay Year, The.= Dorothy Speare.
  =Gift of the Desert.= Randall Parrish.
  =Girl in the Mirror, The.= Elizabeth Jordan.
  =Girl from Kellers, The.= Harold Bindloss.
  =Girl Philippa, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Girls at His Billet, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Glory Rides the Range.= Ethel and James Dorrance.
  =God's Country and the Woman.= James Oliver Curwood.
  =God's Good Man.= Marie Corelli.
  =Going Some.= Rex Beach.
  =Gold Girl, The.= James B. Hendryx.
  =Gold-Killer.= John Prosper.
  =Golden Scorpion, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Golden Slipper, The.= Anna Katherine Green.
  =Golden Woman, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Gray Phantom, The.= Herman Landon.
  =Gray Phantom's Return, The.= Herman Landon.
  =Great Impersonation, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim,
  =Great Prince Shan, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Greater Love Hath No Man.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Green Eyes of Bast, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Green Goddess, The.= Louise Jordan Miln, (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Greyfriars Bobby.= Eleanor Atkinson.
  =Gun Brand, The.= James B. Hendryx.
  =Gun Runner, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Guns of the Gods.= Talbot Mundy.

  =Hand of Fu-Manchu, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Hand of Peril, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Harbor Road, The.= Sara Ware Bassett.
  =Harriet and the Piper.= Kathleen Norris.
  =Havoc.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Head of the House of Coombe, The.= Frances Hodgson Burnett.
  =Heart of the Desert, The.= Honoré Willsie.
  =Heart of the Hills, The.= John Fox, Jr.
  =Heart of the Range, The.= William Patterson White.
  =Heart of the Sunset.= Rex Beach.
  =Heart of Unaga, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Helen of the Old House.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Hidden Places, The.= Bertrand W. Sinclair.
  =Hidden Trails.= William Patterson White.
  =Hillman, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Hira Singh.= Talbot Mundy.
  =His Last Bow.= A. Conan Doyle.
  =His Official Fiancee.= Berta Ruck.
  =Homeland.= Margaret Hill McCarter.
  =Homestead Ranch.= Elizabeth G. Young.
  =Honor of the Big Snows.= James Oliver Curwood.
  =Hopalong Cassidy.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Hound from the North, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =House of the Whispering Pines, The.= Anna Katharine Green.
  =Humoresque.= Fannie Hurst.

  =Illustrious Prince, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =In Another Girl's Shoes.= Berta Ruck.
  =Indifference of Juliet, The.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Infelice.= Augusta Evans Wilson.
  =Initials Only.= Anna Katharine Green.
  =Innocent.= Marie Corelli.
  =Innocent Adventuress, The.= Mary Hastings Bradley.
  =Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =In the Brooding Wild.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =In the Onyx Lobby.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Iron Trail, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Iron Woman, The.= Margaret Deland.
  =Ishmael.= (Ill.) Mrs. Southworth.
  =Isle of Retribution.= Edison Marshall.
  =I've Married Marjorie.= Margaret Widdemer.
  =Ivory Trail, The.= Talbot Mundy.

  =Jacob's Ladder.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Jean of the Lazy A.= B. M. Bower.
  =Jeanne of the Marshes.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Jeeves.= P. G. Wodehouse.
  =Jimmie Dale and the Phantom Clew.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Johnny Nelson.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Joseph Greer and His Daughter.= Henry Kitchell Webster.
  =Judith of the Godless Valley.= Honoré Willsie.

  =Keeper of the Door, The.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Keith of the Border.= Randall Parrish.
  =Kent Knowles: Quahaug.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Kilmeny of the Orchard.= L. M. Montgomery.
  =Kingdom of the Blind, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =King of Kearsarge.= Arthur O. Friel.
  =King of the Khyber Rifles.= Talbot Mundy.
  =King Spruce.= Holman Day.
  =Knave of Diamonds, The.= Ethel M. Dell.

  =Land-Girl's Love Story, A.= Berta Ruck.
  =Land of Strong Men, The.= A. M. Chisholm.
  =Laramie Holds the Range.= Frank H. Spearman.
  =Last Trail, The.= Zane Grey.
  =Laughing Bill Hyde.= Rex Beach.
  =Laughing Girl, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Law Breakers, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Law of the Gun, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Leavenworth Case, The.= Anna Katherine Green. (Photoplay Edition).
  =Light That Failed, The.= Rudyard Kipling. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Lighted Way, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Lin McLean.= Owen Wister.
  =Lister's Great Adventure.= Harold Bindloss.
  =Little Moment of Happiness, The.= Clarence Budington Kelland.
  =Little Red Foot, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Little Warrior, The.= Pelham Grenville Wodehouse.
  =Lonely Warrior, The.= Claude C. Washburn.
  =Lonesome Land.= B. M. Bower.
  =Lone Wolf, The.= Louis Joseph Vance.
  =Long Live the King.= Mary Roberts Rinehart. (Photoplay Edition).
  =Lost Ambassador.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Lost Discovery, The.= Baillie Reynolds.
  =Lost Prince, The.= Frances Hodgson Burnett.
  =Lost World, The.= A. Conan Doyle.
  =Luck of the Kid, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Lucretia Lombard.= Kathleen Norris.
  =Luminous Face, The.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Lydia of the Pines.= Honoré Willsie.
  =Lynch Lawyers.= William Patterson White.

  =McCarty Incog.= Isabel Ostrander.
  =Major, The.= Ralph Connor.
  =Maker of History, A.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Malefactor, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Man and Maid.= Elinor Glyn.
  =Man from Bar 20, The.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Man from the Bitter Roots, The.= Caroline Lockhart.
  =Man in the Moonlight, The.= Rupert S. Holland.
  =Man in the Twilight, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Man Killers, The.= Dane Coolidge.
  =Man Who Couldn't Sleep, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Man's Country.= Peter Clark Macfarlane.
  =Marqueray's Duel.= Anthony Pryde.
  =Martin Conisby's Vengeance.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Mary-Gusta.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Mary Wollaston.= Henry Kitchell Webster.
  =Mason of Bar X Ranch.= H. Bennett.
  =Master of Man.= Hall Caine.
  =Master Mummer, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes.= A Conan Doyle.
  =Men Who Wrought, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Meredith Mystery, The.= Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
  =Midnight of the Ranges.= George Gilbert.
  =Mine with the Iron Door, The.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Mischief Maker, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Missioner, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Miss Million's Maid.= Berta Ruck.
  =Money, Love and Kate.= Eleanor H. Porter.
  =Money Master, The.= Gilbert Parker.
  =Money Moon, The.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Moonlit Way, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =More Limehouse Nights.= Thomas Burke.
  =More Tish.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Moreton Mystery, The.= Elizabeth Dejeans.
  =Mr. and Mrs. Sen.= Louise Jordan Miln.
  =Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Mr. Pratt.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Mr. Pratt's Patients.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Mrs. Red Pepper.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Mr. Wu.= Louise Jordan Miln.
  =My Lady of the North.= Randall Parrish.
  =My Lady of the South.= Randall Parish.
  =Mystery Girl, The.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Mystery of the Hasty Arrow, The.= Anna K. Green.
  =Mystery of the Silver Dagger, The.= Randall Parrish.

  =Nameless River.= Vingie E. Roe.
  =Ne'er-Do-Well, The.= Rex Beach. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Net, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Never Fail Blake.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Next Corner, The.= Kate Jordan.
  =Nightfall.= Anthony Pryde.
  =Night Horseman, The.= Max Brand.
  =Night of the Wedding, The.= C. N. and A. M. Williamson.
  =Night Operator, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Night Riders, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Nine Unknown, The.= Talbot Mundy.
  =Nobody's Man.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =No Defence.= Gilbert Parker.
  =North.= James B. Hendryx.

  =Obstacle Race, The.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Odds.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Old Misery.= Hugh Pendexter.
  =Omoo.= Herman Melville.
  =One Thing Is Certain.= Sophie Kerr.
  =One-Way Trail, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Ordeal of Honor, An.= Anthony Pryde.
  =Outlaw, The.= Jackson Gregory.
  =Owner of the Lazy D.= William Patterson White.

  =Panelled Room, The.= Rupert Sargent Holland.
  =Paradise Bend.= William Patterson White.
  =Pardners.= Rex Beach.
  =Partners of the Tide.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Patricia Brent, Spinster.= Anonymous.
  =Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The.= Ralph Connor.
  =Paul Anthony, Christian.= Hiram W. Hayes.
  =Pawned.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Pawns Count, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Pay Gravel.= Hugh Pendexter.
  =Peacemakers, The.= Hiram W. Hayes.
  =Peregrine's Progress.= Jeffery Farnol.
  =Peter Ruff and the Double Four.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Phantom Wires.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Pointed Tower, The.= Vance Thompson.
  =Pollyanna; "The Glad Book."= Eleanor H. Porter. (Lim. Ed.).
     Trade Mark--Trade-Mark.
  =Poor Man's Rock.= Bertrand W. Sinclair.
  =Poor Wise Man, A.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Poisoned Paradise, The.= Robert W. Service. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Portygee, The.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Possession.= Olive Wadsley.
  =Postmaster, The.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Prairie Child, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Prairie Flowers.= James B. Hendryx.
  =Prairie Mother, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Prairie Wife, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Pretender, The.= Robert W. Service.
  =Prince of Sinners, A.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Prodigal Daughters, The.= Joseph Hocking. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Prodigal Son.= Hall Caine. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Profiteers, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Promise, The.= J. B. Hendryx.
  =Public Square, The.= Will Levington Comfort.
  =Purple Mask, The.= Louise Jordan Miln.
  =Purple Pearl, The.= Anthony Pryde.

  =Quemado.= William West Winter.
  =Quest of the Sacred Slipper, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Quill's Window.= George Barr McCutcheon.

  =Rainbow's End, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Rainbow Valley.= L. M. Montgomery.
  =Ramshackle House.= Hulbert Footner.
  =Ranch at the Wolverine, The.= B. M. Bower.
  =Ranching for Sylvia.= Harold Bindloss.
  =Rangy Pete.= Guy Morton.
  =Raspberry Jam.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Reclaimers, The.= Margaret Hill McCarter.
  =Re-Creation of Brian Kent, The.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Red and Black.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Red Pepper Burns.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Red Pepper's Patients.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Red Seal, The.= Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
  =Restless Sex, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Return of Dr. Fu-Manchu, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Return of Frank Clamart, The.= Henry C. Rowland.
  =Return of Tarzan, The.= Edgar Rice Burroughs.
  =Riddle of the Frozen Flame, The.= M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.
  =Riddle of the Mysterious Light, The.= M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.
  =Riddle of the Purple Emperor, The.= M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.
  =Riddle of the Spinning Wheel, The.= M. E. and T. W. Hanshew.
  =Rider of the Golden Bar, The.= William Patterson White.
  =Rider of the King Log, The.= Holman Day.
  =Rider o' the Stars.= R. J. Horton.
  =Riders of the Silences.= John Frederick.
  =Rilla of Ingleside.= L. M. Montgomery.
  =Rimrock Trail.= J. Allan Dunn.
  =Rise of Roscoe Paine, The.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =River Trail, The.= Laurie Y. Erskine.
  =Robin.= Frances Hodgson Burnett.
  =Rocks of Valpre, The.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Rogues of the North.= Albert M. Treynor.
  =Romance of a Million Dollars, The.= Elizabeth Dejeans.
  =Rosa Mundi.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Rose of Santa Fe, The.= Edwin L. Sabin.
  =Round the Corner in Gay Street.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Round-Up, The.= Oscar J. Friend.
  =Rung Ho!= Talbot Mundy.
  =Rustler of Wind River, The.= G. W. Ogden.

  =St. Elmo.= (Ill. Ed.) Augusta J. Evans.
  =Sand.= Olive Wadsley.
  =Scarlet Iris, The.= Vance Thompson.
  =Scattergood Baines.= Clarence Budington Kelland.
  =Second Violin, The.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Secret Power, The.= Marie Corelli.
  =Self-Raised.= (Ill.). Mrs. Southworth.
  =Settling of the Sage.= Hal G. Evarts.
  =Seven Ages of Woman, The.= Compton Mackenzie.
  =Seven Darlings, The.= Gouverneur Morris.
  =Seventh Man, The.= Max Brand.
  =Shadow of the East, The.= E. M. Hull. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Shadow on the Glass, The.= Charles J. Dutton.
  =Shavings.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Sheik, The.= E. M. Hull.
  =Sheila of Big Wreck Cove.= James H. Cooper.
  =Shepherd of the Hills, The.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Shepherds of the Wild.= Edison Marshall.
  =Sheriff of Dyke Hole, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Sherry.= George Barr McCutcheon.
  =Shoe-Bar Stratton.= Joseph B. Ames.
  =Sight Unseen, and The Confession.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Silver Horde, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Silver Poppy, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Singing Bone, The.= R. Austin Freeman.
  =Singing Wells, The.= Roland Pertwee.
  =Sinister Mark, The.= Lee Thayer.
  =Sin That Was His, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Sir or Madam.= Berta Ruck.
  =Sisters-in-Law.= Gertrude Atherton.
  =Sky Line of Spruce.= Edison Marshall.
  =Slayer of Souls, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Smiles: A Rose of the Cumberlands.= Eliot H. Robinson.
  =Snowdrift.= James B. Hendryx.
  =Snowshoe Trail, The.= Edison Marshall.
  =Son of His Father, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Son of Tarzan, The.= Edgar Rice Burroughs.
  =Souls for Sale.= Rupert Hughes. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Speckled Bird, A.= Augusta Evans Wilson.
  =Spirit of the Border, The.= Zane Grey. (New Edition).
  =Spirit-of-Iron.= Harwood Steele.
  =Spoilers, The.= Rex Beach. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Spoilers of the Valley, The.= Robert Watson.
  =Star Dust.= Fannie Hurst.
  =Steele of the Royal Mounted.= James Oliver Curwood.
  =Step on the Stair, The.= Anna Katherine Green.
  =Still Jim.= Honoré Willsie.
  =Story of Foss River Ranch, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Story of Marco, The.= Eleanor H. Porter.
  =Strange Case of Cavendish, The.= Randall Parrish.
  =Strawberry Acres.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Strength of the Pines, The.= Edison Marshall.
  =Subconscious Courtship, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Substitute Millionaire, The.= Hulbert Footner.
  =Sudden Jim.= Clarence B. Kelland.
  =Sweethearts Unmet.= Berta Ruck.
  =Sweet Stranger.= Berta Ruck.

  =Tales of Chinatown.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Tales of Secret Egypt.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Tales of Sherlock Holmes.= A. Conan Doyle.
  =Talkers, The.= Robert W. Chambers.
  =Talisman, The.= Sir Walter Scott. (Photoplay Ed.).
   Screened as Richard the Lion Hearted.
  =Taming of Zenas Henry, The.= Sara Ware Bassett.
  =Tarzan of the Apes.= Edgar Rice Burroughs.
  =Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar.= Edgar Rice Burroughs.
  =Tattooed Arm, The.= Isabel Ostrander.
  =Tempting of Tavernake, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Tess of the D'Urbervilles.= Thomas Hardy. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Tex.= Clarence E. Mulford.
  =Texan, The.= James B. Hendryx.
  =Thankful's Inheritance.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =That Affair at "The Cedars."= Lee Thayer.
  =That Printer of Udell's.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Their Yesterdays.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Thief of Bagdad, The.= Achmed Abdullah. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Thieves' Wit.= Hulbert Footner.
  =Thirteenth Commandment, The.= Rupert Hughes.
  =This Side of Paradise.= F. Scott Fitzgerald.
  =Thoroughbred, The.= Henry Kitchell Webster.
  =Thread of Flame, The.= Basil King.
  =Three Black Bags.= Marion Polk Angelloti.
  =Three Men and a Maid.= P. G. Wodehouse.
  =Three Musketeers, The.= Alexander Dumas.
  =Three of Hearts, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Through the Shadows with O. Henry.= Al. Jennings.
  =Thunderbolt, The.= Clyde Perrin.
  =Timber.= Harold Titus.
  =Timber Pirate.= Charles Christopher Jenkins.
  =Tish.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =To Him That Hath.= Ralph Connor.
  =Toilers of the Sea, The.= Victor Hugo. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Toll of the Sands.= Paul Delaney.
  =Trail of the Axe, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Trailin'.= Max Brand.
  =Trail to Yesterday, The.= Chas. A. Seltzer.
  =Treasure of Heaven, The.= Marie Corelli.
  =Trigger of Conscience, The.= Robert Orr Chipperfield.
  =Triumph of John Kars, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Triumph of the Scarlet Pimpernel, The.= Baroness Orczy.
  =Trodden Gold.= Howard Vincent O'Brien.
  =Trooper O'Neill.= George Goodchild.
  =Trouble at the Pinelands, The.= Ernest M. Porter.
  =T. Tembarom.= Frances Hodgson Burnett.
  =Tumbleweeds.= Hal G. Evarts.
  =Turn of the Tide.= Eleanor H. Porter.
  =Twenty-fourth of June.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Twins of Suffering Creek, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Two-Gun Man, The.= Chas. A. Seltzer.
  =Two-Gun Man, The.= Robert Ames Bennet.
  =Two-Gun Sue.= Douglas Grant.
  =Typee.= Herman Melville.
  =Tyrrel of the Cow Country.= Robert Ames Bennet.

  =Under Handicap.= Jackson Gregory.
  =Under the Country Sky.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Uneasy Street.= Arthur Somers Roche.
  =Unlatched Door, The.= Lee Thayer.
  =Unpardonable Sin, The.= Major Rupert Hughes.
  =Unseen Ear, The.= Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
  =Untamed, The.= Max Brand.
  =Up and Coming.= Nalbro Bartley.
  =Up From Slavery.= Booker T. Washington.
  =Ursula Trent.= W. L. George.

  =Valiants of Virginia, The.= Hallie Erminie Rives.
  =Valley of Content, The.= Blanche Upright.
  =Valley of Fear, The.= Sir A. Conan Doyle.
  =Valley of Gold, The.= David Howarth.
  =Valley of the Sun, The.= William M. McCoy.
  =Vandemark's Folly.= Herbert Quick.
  =Vanguards of the Plains.= Margaret Hill McCarter.
  =Vanished Messenger, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =Vanishing of Betty Varian, The.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Vanity Fair.= Wm. M. Thackeray. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =Vashti.= Augusta Evans Wilson.
  =Viola Gwyn.= George Barr McCutcheon.
  =Virginia of Elk Creek Valley.= Mary Ellen Chase.
  =Virtuous Wives.= Owen Johnson.
  =Voice of the Pack, The.= Edison Marshall.

  =Wagon Wheel, The.= William Patterson White.
  =Wall Between, The.= Sara Ware Bassett.
  =Wall of Men, A.= Margaret Hill McCarter.
  =Wasted Generation, The.= Owen Johnson.
  =Watchers of the Plains, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Way of an Eagle, The.= Ethel M. Dell.
  =Way of the Strong, The.= Ridgwell Cullum.
  =Way of These Women, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.
  =We Can't Have Everything.= Major Rupert Hughes.
  =Weavers, The.= Gilbert Parker.
  =West Broadway.= Nina Wilcox Putnam.
  =West Wind Drift.= George Barr McCutcheon.
  =What's the World Coming To?= Rupert Hughes.
  =What Will People Say?= Rupert Hughes.
  =Wheels Within Wheels.= Carolyn Wells.
  =Whelps of the Wolf, The.= George Marsh.
  =When a Man's a Man.= Harold Bell Wright. (Photoplay Ed.).
  =When Egypt Went Broke.= Holman Day.
  =Where the Sun Swings North.= Barnett Willoughby.
  =Where There's a Will.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Whispering Sage.= Henry Sinclair Drago and Joseph Noel.
  =White Jacket.= Herman Melville.
  =White Moll, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Why Not.= Margaret Widdemer.
  =Window at the White Cat, The.= Mary Roberts Rinehart.
  =Winds of Chance, The.= Rex Beach.
  =Winds of the World, The.= Talbot Mundy.
  =Wine of Life, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Winning of Barbara Worth, The.= Harold Bell Wright.
  =Winning the Wilderness.= Margaret Hill McCarter.
  =Wire Devils, The.= Frank L. Packard.
  =Wire Tappers, The.= Arthur Stringer.
  =Wishing Ring Man, The.= Margaret Widdemer.
  =With Juliet in England.= Grace S. Richmond.
  =Within These Walls.= Rupert Hughes.
  =Wolfville.= Alfred Henry Lewis.
  =Woman from "Outside," The.= Hulbert Footner.
  =Woman Gives, The.= Owen Johnson.
  =Woman Haters, The.= Joseph C. Lincoln.
  =Woman of Knockaloe, The.= Hall Caine.
  =Woman Thou Gavest Me, The.= Hall Caine.
  =Woodcarver of 'Lympus, The.= Mary E. Waller.
  =Wooing of Rosamond Fayre, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Wrong Mr. Right, The.= Berta Ruck.

  =Year of Delight.= Margaret Widdemer.
  =Years for Rachel, The.= Berta Ruck.
  =Yellow Claw, The.= Sax Rohmer.
  =Yellow Horde, The.= Hal G. Evarts.
  =You're Only Young Once.= Margaret Widdemer.

  =Zeppelin's Passenger, The.= E. Phillips Oppenheim.




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

Words that were italicized in the original paper book are noted by an
underscore (_) before and after; words that were typeset in bold font
are noted by a equal sign (=) before and after.

Dumfounded on page 21 has been corrected to dumbfounded.

Bed clothes on pages 63 and 77 have been rendered as bedcloths, in
keeping with other usage in the text.

Dosing, on page 111 has been corrected to dozing.

A full stop on page 219 has been corrected to a semi-colon.

Dining-room, on pages 151 and 235, has been corrected to two words in
keeping with other uses in the book.

Superstitition on page 128 has been changed to superstition.

Parchmentlike page 187 has been changed to parchment-like to
regularize hyphenation.

A period on in the last sentence on page 174 to correct punctuation.

The hyphen in half-burned on page 48 has been removed, to regularize
use across the text.

The hyphen in porte-cochère on page 4 has been removed, to regularize
use across the text.

The hyphens in out-of-doors on page 188 have been removed, to regularize
use across the text.

The hyphen in fire-tongs on page 265 has been removed, to regularize
use across the text.

An an on page 207 has been corrected to remove the second an.

Archaic and variant spellings have been retained.

All other hyphenation and capitalization have been retained as typeset.