Part 4

"I should say, not more'n a minute or so. I was that scared when I heard the sounds, I can't tell about the length of time properly. But it wasn't two minutes, I'm sure, between the studio light going off and me turning it on."

"Would you have turned it on, if Mrs. Faulkner hadn't told you to?"

Blake considered. "I can't say. I think, yes, for I heard that 'Help!' distinctly, for all it was so faint. And I think, if I'd been on my own, I'd 'a' gone ahead. At such times a servant has to use his judgment, sir."

"Right you are, Blake," said Bobsy, who had taken a liking to the footman. "Now, tell us all you know of the whereabouts of every member of the family--of the household."

"I don't know much as to that. You see, I was on the hall, and I could only see those who passed through it."

"Well, go clear back, to dinner time, and enumerate them."

"Before dinner, everybody was in the Drawing Room, that's over the dining room, at the East end of the house. Then they all came down the grand staircase to dinner, and of course I saw them then. After dinner, the ladies had their coffee on the Terrace and the gentlemen stayed at the table. Then, when the men came out of the dining room, they pretty much scattered all over the house. Everybody was in the studio at one time, and then some went to the Billiard Room or in this Reception Room we're now in, or up to the Drawing Room. Then, about eleven, Mr. and Mrs. Truxton went home, and I showed them out. And Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth were in the hall at the same time. But after the Truxtons went, Mrs. Faulkner and Mr. Wadsworth went up to the Drawing Room. You see,--er----"

"What, Blake?"

"Well, if I may say it, sir, he's--er--sweet on her, and they two went off by themselves."

"I see," and Bobsy smiled. "Now, as to the other ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon?"

"Of those I know nothing, for they didn't come around where I was."

"Nor any of the men?"

"No, sir. Well, then, next, Mr. Wadsworth, he came down, and I let him out. He says, 'Good night, Blake,' sort of gay like, and I thought perhaps Mrs. Faulkner had smiled on his suit, sir."

"Very likely. And then, Mrs. Faulkner came down?"

"Yes, but you see, just the moment before, I had heard this queer noise in the studio, and I was listening at the crack of the door. I meant no harm, and no curiosity,--but Mrs. Faulkner came in sight of me just then, and she spoke to me. Then, the lights went out----"

"Why, you said they were out before the lady spoke to you."

"Oh, yes, that's right, they were. Well, it's small wonder I get mixed up. They were, sir, because I told Mrs. Faulkner they were, and she said it wasn't my place to comment on that. And she was right, it wasn't my place, to be sure; but I was worried, that's what I was, worried, and then we both heard the cry of 'Help!' and she told me to turn on the studio lights and I did."

"Do they all obey one switch?"

"Yes, sir, that is, there's one main key right at the door jamb that controls all. So when I turned it on, the whole room was ablaze."

"And of course, you couldn't help seeing the exact state of things. Well, Blake, which lady do you think did it?"

"Oh, sir," and Blake's solemn face grew a shade more so, "I couldn't say. I'm sure I don't know. But, it must have been one of them, there's no getting around that. When I saw the three, as you might say, almost in a row, and the two ladies, sir, both near to Mr. Stannard, sir, and both looking--oh, I can't describe how they looked! Why if they were both guilty they couldn't have looked different."

"They weren't both guilty!" cried Roberts. "It couldn't have been collusion, eh, Steele?"

"Nonsense, of course not," returned Captain Steele; "one stabbed him, and the other came in at the sound of his voice. The terror and shock of the culprit and that of the innocent one would both be manifested by the same expressions of horror and fright."

"I believe that," said Bobsy, after a minute's thought. "Now, Blake, as to the actual means of getting in and out of that studio. Let's go in there."

It was rather early in the morning and the members of the household were as yet in their rooms. It was not the intention of the Police to intrude upon them until after the funeral, but it was desirable to make certain inquiries and investigations while the matter was fresh in the minds of the servants.

Roberts intended to interview others of them afterward, but just now Blake was proving so satisfactory that he continued to keep him by.

In the studio, both Steele and Roberts examined carefully the marks on the West window casing.

"Idiot boy!" exclaimed Bobsy. "To think he could fool us into believing this was professional work!"

"It shows a leaping mind on his part, to fly round here and fix it up so quickly," said Steele, a bit admiringly.

"That's what Mr. Barry has, sir, the leaping mind," observed Blake, as if pleased with the phrase. "Often he jumps to a conclusion or decision that his father'd take hours to reach."

"Mr. Stannard was slow, then?"

"Not to say slow, in some things. He was like lightning at his work. But as to a matter, now, that he didn't want to bother about, he would put it off or dawdle about it, something awful."

"And you see," Bobsy went on, "there are only three doors and three windows in the place. Now we have accounted for----"

"What's the gallery for?" asked Steele, gazing up at the gilded iron scrollwork of the little balcony.

"Just for ornament, sir," Blake returned. "And I've heard Mr. Stannard say, it was necessary, to break up that wall. You see, the ceiling is some twenty feet high, and no windows on that side, being next the main house."

"It's all one house,--there's no division?"

"No real division, sir, but this end,--the studio and Billiard Room on this floor, and the rooms directly above,--are all Mr. Stannard's own, and in a way separate from the rest of the house."

"His sleeping room is above the studio?"

"Yes, sir; and his bath and dressing-room and den. Mrs. Stannard's rooms are next, over the Reception Room, and all the other bedrooms are over the dining room end, and in the third story."

"Listen," impatiently cut in Bobsy. "There are six ways of getting in and out. Now nobody could have entered at the hall door where you were, Blake?"

"Oh, no, sir. I was there all the evening, and the hall lighted as bright as day."

"All right. That's one off. Now we'll go round the room. The North window is out of the question, eh?"

"Yes, sir," said Blake, as the query was to him. "It only opens in those high, upper sections, by cords, don't you see?"

Blake showed the contrivance that opened and shut the upper panes, and it was clear to be seen that there was no possibility of entrance that way.

"Next is the West window," Bobsy went on, "and that's settled by a glance. Why, look at the chalk dust on the floor. How could any one walk through that and leave no track?"

This was unanswerable, so they went on to the door to the Billiard Room.

"This is where Mrs. Stannard came in. No other person could have entered this door unless she had seen him. Now, we come to the East window. This was open, I am told, but the wire fly-screen makes it safe. Also, Mr. Courtenay sat on a lawn bench, looking this way, when the light went out. Had a person climbed in at this window before that he must have seen him."

"He couldn't climb in, sir, 'count of the screen," said Blake. "It's not a movable screen. We put them up for the season, and take them down the middle of October. They all come down next week."

"This door, the last," and Bobsy paused at the door to the Terrace, "is the one at which Miss Vernon entered. If any one else had come in here she would have seen him. That completes our circuit. No one could have gained access to this room except the ones under consideration. Now we are faced by the fact that one of those two women committed the murder, and it's up to us to decide which one."

"There's the fireplace," suggested Steele.

"There was a fire there that night," Blake asserted. "That is, there had been, for the evening was a little chilly, and too, Mrs. Stannard is fond of an open fire. It was burned out when--when it all happened, but the embers were smouldering when I came into the room. And no one could come down the chimney, anyway. It's a crooked flue, and it's full of soot beside."

"No one ever comes down a chimney," said Roberts, "but it's always well to look into it." He peered up into the blackness, but the even coat of soot showed no scratches or marks.

"Then there's no ingress other than those we've noted," Steele mused. "There's no skylight, no cupboards, no doors up in that balcony place," he ran up and across it, as he spoke, tapping on the wainscoated wall. "Solid," he said, as he came down the other little stair. "Now, is there any trap door?"

They lifted rugs and hammered on the floor but the oak was an unmarred surface, and no opening was there of any sort.

"I wanted to be sure," said Roberts, as, a little shamefacedly he pounded on the floorboards around the West window. "Now, I am sure. We have only the two doors to deal with. The door from the Terrace and the one from the studio. Let's look at them both."

Stepping out onto the beautiful covered Terrace, the men paused to take in the glories of the scene. The splendid lawns sloping down to even more splendid gardens were the plan of an artist and a Nature lover both. The October foliage was alight and aglow, and the Autumn flowers were masses of gorgeous bloom. But after a whiff or two of the sunlit morning air, they returned to their quest.

"On this terrace Miss Vernon and Barry Stannard sat until after eleven," Roberts said; "I got that from young Stannard himself."

"Don't put too much faith in those people's ideas of time," warned Steele. "He may think it was after eleven and it may have been much earlier."

"You're right, there. Well, anyway, he sat here with her, in the dark,--he told me he had turned off the Terrace light,--and then he went off to give the dogs some exercise. I believe they go for a trot every night, don't they, Blake?"

"Yes, sir; Mr. Barry almost always romps about with the dogs of an evening."

"Well, that leaves Miss Vernon alone here for an indefinite--I mean, an indeterminate time. Now, why doesn't Mr. Courtenay see her, as he sits on that lawn seat yonder?"

"Too dark," said Steele, laconically.

"That's right. She was back, we'll say, under the Terrace roof, and the night was dark. Moreover, the Studio was brightly lighted, also the Billiard Room, which threw the Terrace even more in shadow. Well, then,--I'm sort of reconstructing this,--Miss Vernon sat here, until, _as she says_, she heard the noise in the studio."

"Or saw the light go out," and Steele shook his head. "Nobody seems to know which happened first, the sudden darkness in there or the queer sound."

"No one knows, except the murderer," said Roberts, seriously. "The murderer knows, because he--or she--turned off the light, but the others, who are innocent, are uncertain about it, as one always is about a moment of unexpected action."

"That's it," and Steele looked at the detective in admiration. "Mighty few can give a clear account of sudden happenings, unless it's a cut and dried account."

"And yet--" Bobsy frowned, "you know both Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard became confused about the lights."

"That's because they both tried to copycat the footman's story. You see, the one who really killed Stannard, did shut off the lights, and when she tells her story, and has to stick to it, she gets mixed up about the sound and the lights, because she was in the studio all the time, and not where she says she was, at all. Then, on the other hand, the other of the two, being innocent, gets confused, because she really can't tell just how things did happen."

"Sound enough. Now let's go to the Billiard Room."

Crossing the studio again, they entered the Billiard Room, a large apartment with seats round the walls and the table in the centre.

Cue racks and much smoking and other masculine paraphernalia were all about. There were a skylight of stained glass and a few high side windows. An outside door was on the South side.

"Here Mr. Courtenay left Mrs. Stannard, at much the same time Barry left the girl," Roberts said. "So you see, Steele, their chances are equal."

"Chances of what?"

"I mean chances to go into the studio, unobserved of anybody, commit the deed, turn off the lights, and then, either return to the spot she came from or to remain in the room until the other entered. It _must_ have been that way, for there's no other way for it to be."

"All right; now, what about Mrs. Stannard's story of overhearing the stuff her husband said to the girl?"

"Probably true, but if he said that to Miss Vernon and Mrs. Stannard overheard it, she _might_ have run in and found the dead man, or she _might_ have run in and stabbed the living man."

"In the dark?"

"Perhaps so. She knew where every bit of furniture was. But isn't it quite as likely that the girl did the stabbing?"

"That wax baby?"

"She isn't the baby she looks! Always distrust a blonde."

"But such a blonde!"

"Distrust them in proportion to their blondeness, then. But we've learned all we can here. Back to think it over, and puzzle it out."

VI Mrs. Faulkner's Account

Now, although the residents of the aristocratic Rensselaer Park were willing, and even preferred to accept the burglar theory, rather than have more shocking revelations, the newspaper reading public was avid for sensation, and dissatisfied at the failure of the police to arrest anybody, even the hypothetical burglar.

Owing to the prominence of the victim, both socially and in the art world, a great hue and cry was raised for vengeance where vengeance was due. All sorts of theories were propounded by all sorts of people and interest increased rather than dwindled as no definite progress was reported.

Captain Steele was one of the most able men on the force, and his record for success in murder cases was of the best. His reputation was at stake, and he was working his very hardest in his handling of the present matter. His methods were persistent rather than brilliant, and his slowness was often the despair of quick-witted Robert Roberts.

"Captain," Bobsy would say, "do you see that point?"

"I saw it long ago," would be the exasperating reply.

"Well, what about it?"

"I haven't thought it out yet."

"Well, get busy."

"I am busy," the stolid Captain would answer, and go on about his business.

But the two were staunch friends and allies, and possessed the qualities that enabled them to work side by side without friction.

"You see," said Steele, as they were closeted in the Reception Room, "it's more or less a psychological problem."

They liked this room for their confabs. The small size and convenient location suited their purpose admirably. They could shut its two doors, and be entirely secluded or they could open them and get a general idea of what was going on about the house.

"Snug little box," Bobsy had said, when he first saw it, and the walls and ceiling being all of the same general decoration in red and gold, did give it the effect of a well lined box. It was used by the family for the reception of transient callers, and was more formal than the studio or Billiard Room. The Terrace, too, was used as a living place, in available weather, and even now as the two men were deep in their discussion, there could be seen through the south window some servants arranging a small breakfast table out there.

"Psychology is out of my line," Roberts said, in answer to the Captain's assertion.

"Oh, I don't mean anything scientific. But, it's this way. One of those women is lying and one telling the truth. Now, if we tax them with this, we'll get nothing out of them, for they're both at the edge of a nervous breakdown."

"The innocent one, too?"

"Sure. The guilty one is naturally all wrought up, and the innocent one is so scared at the whole thing that she is all in, too. I think the little peach was in love with the artist; I'm not sure of this, but it doesn't matter, anyway. Also, and incidentally, I think that Courtenay man is very much in love with Mrs. Stannard. Now, all these things are none of our business, unless they help us to form conclusions that are our business. And so, we must be rather more tactful and diplomatic than usual, because of dealing with highstrung and fine-calibred natures."

"A murder doesn't connote a high-calibred nature!"

"It may well do so. A strong impulse of revenge or jealousy could, on occasion, sway the highest mind to the basest deed. Murderers are made, not born, Lombroso to the contrary, notwithstanding. And it is the coincidence of opportunity and motive that makes crime possible to an otherwise great and noble nature."

"I'm not sure I agree to all that, but if the argument is helpful let's use it by all means."

"It is. Now, here's the situation. As near as I can make out, Mr. Stannard was alone in his studio after the Truxton people had gone; the Faulkner lady and her admirer had gone to the Drawing Room, the model was on the Terrace with Barry, and Mrs. Joyce was in the Billiard Room with Courtenay. The trouble is, we don't know how long this interval was. Blake says the Truxtons went at eleven. Well, from eleven, then, till eleven-thirty covers the whole time in question. Between those two moments the crime was led up to and committed."

"Must it have been led up to?"

"Not necessarily, I admit. But suppose, let us say, that soon after eleven, one or other of the two women we're considering, was left alone. Say she came into the studio and had some sort of session with Mr. Stannard that led to the stabbing. Then, say, she turned off the lights, and quickly returned to her post, either in the Billiard Room or on the Terrace, and a moment later, entered again, just as she says she did."

"All right, that goes. Now, which?"

"That's what we must discover by studying the two women, not by hunting clues of a material nature."

"Whichever did it, or whoever did it, had to cross to the other end of the room to turn off the lights, didn't she?"

Captain Steele remembered the switch was near the hall door, and the armchair where Stannard died was at the South end of the room.

"Yes," he agreed, "but that's only a few seconds' work."

"But when she did it, the man was not dead. You know he groaned after the light went out, and later, he spoke."

"Well?"

"Well, can you imagine that little girl having nerve enough for all that? Mrs. Stannard is a much older woman, and a self-possessed one. My opinion leans toward her."

"What about the dying words of the man, and also, what about that letter to the model?"

"There's too much evidence instead of not enough! But before we sift it out, which we can do elsewhere, let's try to learn something more from the people here."

"Servants or the others?"

"The others, if possible. If not, then some servants beside Blake."

The breakfast table on the Terrace had been visited only by Mrs. Faulkner and Barry Stannard. The other ladies had not appeared. The two had quite evidently finished, as the men could see from their lace curtained window, and Roberts proposed they request an interview with one or both of them.

Somewhat to their surprise, the request was graciously granted. Mrs. Faulkner said she should be rather glad of an opportunity to learn what the police had done or were thinking of doing, and Barry seemed anxious to discuss matters also.

But even before they began, Barry was called away on some errand, and Mrs. Faulkner was their only source of information.

Bobsy Roberts was disappointed, for he wanted to talk with a member of the immediate family, but Captain Steele saw a chance to learn something personal of the two women he wished to study.

"You must know, Mrs. Faulkner," began Steele, "that the two women found in the room, near the dying man, are naturally under grave suspicion of guilt. Can you tell us anything that will help clear the innocent or indicate the criminal?"

Beatrice looked at him a moment, before she spoke. She also glanced at Bobsy Roberts, and then, in a low, calm voice she replied: "I think I must remind you that these two women are my dear friends. I have known Mrs. Stannard for years, and Miss Vernon, though a recent acquaintance, is very dear to me. They are both fine, noble women, utterly incapable of the crime, even under deepest provocation. Therefore I do not admit, even to myself, that the circumstances implicate either of them, although they may seem to do so. With this declaration of my attitude in the matter, I will answer any questions that I can, but I will not agree that your theory is the right one."

"Then, who did kill Mr. Stannard?"

"That I cannot say. But in absence of any real evidence against Mrs. Stannard or Miss Vernon, it must seem to have been an intruder of some sort. Though it may not be known how he entered, it is far more easy to believe that he did gain an entrance, than to believe crime of either of those two."

It was plain to be seen Mrs. Faulkner was determined to stand by her friends through thick and thin. So Bobsy started on another tack. "Will you tell us then something of the personal relations of this household? Was Mr. Stannard in love with his pretty model?"

"I think he was," Beatrice rejoined, as if the matter were of no great import, "but Mr. Stannard was the type of man known as a 'lady-killer.' He adored all beautiful women, and was what may be called 'in love' with many. His nature was so volatile and so impressionable, that his love affairs were frequent and ephemeral."

"Mrs. Stannard made no objection to this?"

"I think these queries are unnecessarily personal, but I see, so far, no harm in replying. Mrs. Stannard knew so well her husband's temperament and disposition, that usually she laughed at his sudden adorations, knowing that he tired of them very quickly. The Stannards were a model and a modern couple. They never stooped to petty jealousies or bickerings, and had wide tolerance for each other's actions."

"Mrs. Stannard is his second wife, is she not?"

"Yes, they were married something more than two years ago."

"And Mrs. Stannard had other suitors, who were disappointed at her marriage?"

"That is usually true of any beautiful woman."

"But in her case you know of instances?" Bobsy smiled pleasantly.

"Naturally, as I know her so well."

"And is Mr. Courtenay one of them?"

"Mr. Courtenay was one of her devoted admirers, and since the marriage he has been a friend warmly welcomed here by both Mr. and Mrs. Stannard. No breath of reproach may be brought against Joyce Stannard or Eugene Courtenay. Of this I can assure you."

"And the young lady,--is Barry Stannard a suitor of hers?"

Beatrice's face clouded a little. "Yes; you cannot help seeing that, so I will tell you that he is madly in love with Miss Vernon, but his father strongly objected to the match, and threatened to disinherit Barry if he persisted in his attentions to the girl. I tell you this, because I prefer you to hear the truth from me, rather than a string of garbled gossip."

"And young Stannard persisted?"

"I think so. It was love at first sight on both sides, and Miss Vernon is a very lovely girl,--of quite as lovely a nature as her pure sweet face indicates."

"Might not Mr. Stannard's objection to his son's suit have been prompted by his own admiration for the lovely nature?"