Part 2

Pauline well knew that if she left her aunt's roof it meant complete disinheritance, for Lucy Carrington was proud of her beautiful niece, and, too, was fond of her in her own way. But the ungovernable temper of the lady made her home an almost unbearable abiding-place.

Since childhood years Carrington Loria had lived there only during his college vacations; but had been back occasionally for short visits from his now permanent Egyptian occupation. He had always come laden with gifts of Oriental products, and the rooms at Garden Steps showed many rare specimens of cunning handiwork and rich fabrics and embroideries.

To break the awkward pause that followed Miss Carrington's rude speech to Gray Haviland, Pauline picked up an antique scarab from a side table and drew the Count's attention to its inscription.

He expressed a polite interest, but cast furtive glances at his hostess, as if afraid of a further outbreak.

Nor were his fears unjustified. Miss Carrington administered a scathing reproach to Pauline for intruding herself upon the Count's attention, and bade her put aside the scarab and hold her tongue.

"Don't speak to me like that, Aunt Lucy; I am not a child!" And Pauline, unable to control herself longer, faced her angry aunt with an air of righteous wrath.

"I'll speak to you as I choose, miss! It is for you to mend your tone in addressing me! If you don't, you may have cause to regret it. Count Charlier came here to see me, and I refuse to countenance your clumsy attempts to engage his interest in your silly babble!"

"But--I insist--" stammered the greatly embarrassed Count, "allow me, madame, let me say, I call on you all--all----"

"Nothing of the sort!" declared Miss Lucy; "you came, Count, to play bridge with us. Our opponents behaved so rudely and played so badly it was impossible for us to continue the game. Nor can we enjoy music in this inharmonious atmosphere. Let us stroll in the conservatory, you and I."

She rose, trailing her heavy silks and flashing her sparkling jewels, and the Count, a little hesitatingly, followed her. They crossed the great hall, and, going through a reception room and the delightful sun-parlor, came to the warm, heavily-scented conservatory.

"Poor old Charlier!" said Haviland, as the pair disappeared; "he's in for it now! Do you suppose the palms and orchids will bring him up to the scratch? 'Nita, I'll bet you a box of gloves against a box of simple little cigarettes that he doesn't propose to the lady to-night?"

"Done!" cried Miss Frayne, who was sparkling again, now that the dread presence was removed. "I doubt he can help himself. She has him at her mercy. And he's too good-mannered to disappoint her wish."

"He'll propose," said Pauline, with an air of conviction. "He's a typical fortune-hunter, that man. Indeed, I am not sure he's a Count at all. Do you know, Mr. Illsley?"

"I know almost nothing of the man, save that he's a guest of the Frothinghams. That's not entirely in his favor, I think."

"Right you are!" agreed Haviland. "Those people are,--well, they're to be queried. But I say, Polly, if the two do hit it off, it's grinding poverty for us, eh?"

"It may be a blessed relief, Gray. She'll give us something, of course, and send us away from here. I, for one, shouldn't be sorry to go. She is getting too impossible!"

"She is!" put in Anita; "every day she pounds us worse! I'd like to kill her!"

The fierce words and would-be menacing glance of the little blonde beauty were about as convincing as a kitten declaring himself a war lord, and even the stately Pauline smiled at the picture.

"She ought to be killed," declared Haviland, "and I say this dispassionately. I wouldn't do it, because killing is not in my line, but the eternal fitness of things requires her removal to another sphere of usefulness. She makes life a burden to three perfectly good people, and some several servants. Not one would mourn her, and----"

"Oh, stop, Gray!" cried Pauline; "don't talk in that strain! Don't listen to him, Mr. Illsley. He often says such things, but he doesn't mean them. Mr. Haviland loves to talk at random, to make a sensational hearing."

"Nothing of the sort, Polly. I do mean it. Lucy Carrington is a misery dispenser, and such are not wanted in this nice little old world."

"But perhaps," Pauline looked thoughtful, "the fault is in us. We don't like her, and so we see nothing good in what she does. Now, Carrington Loria adores her. She had a letter from him to-day----"

"Yes, Loria adores her!" interrupted Haviland, "because he doesn't live with her! She sends him love-letters and money, and he doesn't know the everlasting torture of living under her roof, year in and year out! But he caught on a little the last time he was here. He said,--well, in his quaint Oriental fashion, he said, 'Gee! she's the limit!' that's what he said."

"Well, she is," pouted Anita. "I can't do a thing to suit her. To-day I wrote a letter over six times before she was satisfied. And every change she wanted made was so foolish she wanted it changed back again. She nearly drove me crazy!"

"But I have to put up with her morning, noon, and night," sighed Pauline. "You have your hours off, Anita, but I never do. She even wakens me in the night to read to her, or to help her plan her new gowns."

"It is awfully hard for you," began Mr. Illsley, and then all stopped short, for the object of their discussion returned to the room.

It was plain to be seen Miss Carrington was in a state of suppressed excitement. She giggled almost hysterically, and tapped the Count playfully on the arm with her fan, as she bade him say good-night and go.

The interested ones watching her could not learn whether the Count had declared himself or not. The presumption was negative, for, had he done so, surely Miss Carrington would have told the good news.

Charlier himself was distinctly non-committal. Debonair as always, he made his adieux, no more demonstrative to his hostess than to the others, and went away. Illsley followed, and the household dispersed. The clock struck midnight as the ladies went upstairs.

Following custom, they all three went to Miss Lucy's boudoir. It was by way of reporting for to-morrow's orders, and was a duty never neglected.

The exquisite apartment, from which opened the bedroom and bath, was softly lighted and fragrant with flowers.

"How do you like Count Henri Charlier?" Miss Carrington quickly demanded of her satellites.

"Charming," said the voluble Anita. "Just a typical French nobleman, isn't he? And how he adores our Lady Lucy!"

The whole speech rang false, but the vanity of the lady addressed swallowed it as truest sincerity. "Yes," she returned, "he is infatuated, I have reason to think. But--we shall see what we shall see! Curb your impatience, girls! You shall know all in due time."

"Can I do anything for you, Auntie, to-night or to-morrow?" asked Pauline, and, though she tried to speak with enthusiasm, her tone did sound perfunctory.

"Not if you offer in that manner," and Miss Carrington looked at her niece coldly. "One would think, Pauline, that it must be an irksome task to do the smallest favor for your aunt and benefactor! Do you feel no pleasure in doing what trifles you can for one who does everything for you?"

"I would feel a pleasure, Aunt Lucy, if you were kinder to me. But----"

"Kinder!" shrieked her aunt; "kinder! Girl, have you taken leave of your senses? I give you a home, fine dresses, money, everything you can want, and you ask me to be kinder to you! Go! never let me see you again, after that speech!"

"Oh, auntie, don't! I didn't mean----"

"You didn't mean to exasperate me beyond endurance? No, of course you meant to stop short of that! But you have done it. I mean this, Pauline: to-morrow you go elsewhere to live. No longer will I give a home to such a monster of ingratitude!"

"But, Miss Carrington"--and Anita Frayne's soft voice implored gently----"don't be hasty. Pauline didn't mean----"

"What!" and Lucy Carrington turned on her, "you take her part? Then you go, too! I want no ingrates here. Leave me, both of you. This night is your last beneath this roof! You are two unworthy girls, to scorn and slight the hand that has fed and clothed you and given you luxury and comfort such as you will never see again! Go, I've done with you! Send me Estelle. She, at least, has some small affection for me."

The two girls left the room. The scene was not without precedent. Before this they had been ordered to leave the house forever, but always forgiveness and reinstatement had followed. This time, however, the Lady Lucy had been rather more in earnest, and the girls looked at each other uncertainly as they turned toward their rooms.

Anita summoned Estelle, the French maid, and then told her to hasten immediately to Miss Carrington.

"Don't undress me," said the mistress as the maid appeared; "I'm not retiring at once. Get me out of this gown and give me a negligée and slippers."

"Yes, mademoiselle," and Estelle deftly obeyed orders and brought a white boudoir gown edged with swans-down.

"Not that!" cried Miss Carrington. "Bring the gold-embroidered one,--the Oriental."

"Ah, the green one, from Monsieur Loria?"

"Yes, the one my nephew sent me at Christmas time. My, but it's handsome, isn't it, Estelle?"

"Gorgeous!" declared the maid, and she spoke truly. Young Loria knew his aunt's taste, and he had sent her a typical Egyptian robe, of pale green silk, heavy with gold embroideries. In it Miss Carrington looked like one attired for a masquerade.

"Shall I take down mademoiselle's hair?" asked Estelle, lingering.

"No. I want to be alone. I will read awhile. You need not return. I will do for myself."

"There is your glass of milk, ma'mzelle, on the bed-table."

"Silly! I suppose I can see it for myself."

"Yes, ma'am. And you will have your tea at eight in the morning?"

"Of course, my tea at eight. As always. You might remember that much yourself. But nobody remembers things for _my_ comfort."

"Pardon, but sometimes it is eight, and, again, it must be half-past."

"Eight! Now, will you go? You are most exasperating! Why do you stand there like a gibbering idiot?"

"The jewels, mademoiselle; the pearls? Shall I not put them in safety?"

"No! I will put them in the safe myself. Where is the key?"

"There, mademoiselle, on your dresser. But if I might----"

"You mayn't do anything except to get out and stay out! Do you hear? Shall I never be obeyed?"

"Yes, mademoiselle; good-night."

The soft tone was fully belied by the evil glare of the French girl's eyes, but that was not seen by Miss Lucy Carrington.

III THE TRAGEDY

The house faced the east, and, built on an English model, was far wider than deep. A broad hall ran through the centre from front to back, and on either side there were successive rooms whose windows looked out on equally beautiful scenes, both front and back. On the right of the hall, as one entered, was the long living room, and beyond it, the library and music room. The other side of the hall was a reception room, opening into the sun parlor, and on to the conservatory, and back of these, the dining room and smaller breakfast room.

Breakfast was served at nine, and the members of the family were usually all present. Miss Carrington, herself, made a point of being on time partly from habit, and also because it gave her opportunity to chide those who were late.

When she was not in her place, on the morning after the stormy bridge game, Pauline expressed surprise, and Haviland echoed her words.

But Anita said scornfully, "She went to bed in an awful tantrum and probably didn't sleep well."

Miss Frayne was looking her prettiest, and her roseleaf face with its fluffy golden halo, was like a Greuze picture. She wore a frivolous little house gown of blue crêpe de chine that just matched her forget-me-not eyes. Not especially appropriate garb for a secretary, but Miss Carrington preferred her household to be well-dressed, and really commanded pretty tints and fabrics for the two girls. Pauline was in white serge, of rather severe cut, but which suited her as no frills and flounces could. Her black hair was smoothly parted and coiled low over her ears, and her clear ivory-tinted skin was flushed faintly pink from the glow of the big, crackling wood fire.

"It's most unusual," went on Pauline, after a few moments more had passed, and the Lady Lucy had not appeared. "I'm going up to see if she is ill,--or----"

"Or merely in a tantrum extraordinary!" said Anita, her blue eyes full of laughing disrespect for her employer.

"'Nita," said Haviland, as Pauline disappeared, "hold your breakfast napkin up in front of your face, quick!"

"Why?" said the girl, wonderingly, as she did his bidding.

"Because, if you hadn't, I should have flown at you and kissed you! And I mustn't now, for Haskins is approaching with muffins."

Down came the shielding napkin and only the arrival of the muffin-laden Haskins saved the lovely laughing face from Haviland's impetuous caress.

The old butler fussed about, and several minutes passed, when Pauline called from above stairs, "Gray! Come here, at once!"

"Desperate case!" and Haviland rose, and unhurriedly left the room, pinching Anita's little ear as he passed her.

Another moment and Miss Frayne heard an exclamation from Haviland that made her rise from the table and go flying upstairs herself.

The door of Miss Lucy's boudoir was open, and entering, she saw Pauline and Haviland with horror-stricken faces, gazing at a terrible sight.

Miss Lucy Carrington, seated before her dressing-table, her face white and ghastly, her large eyes staring wide--staring horribly,--but, without doubt, unseeing. Nor was this all of the strangeness of the sight. She was robed in an embroidered Oriental-looking gown, and wore many jewels. Her red-dyed hair, dressed elaborately, as she had worn it the night before, was still crowned with the enormous comb of carved tortoise-shell, but the comb was broken to bits. One portion, still standing upright, rose above the disordered coiffure, but the rest, in broken scraps, lay scattered over the puffs of hair,--over the white hands clasped in her lap,--and on the floor at her feet.

"What does it mean?" whispered Anita, shuddering, "is she--is she dead?"

"Yes," answered Haviland, briefly. He stood, hands in pockets, gazing at the startling figure.

"Who?--What?----" Anita's eyes riveted themselves on something else.

Around the neck of Miss Lucy was,--yes, it _was_--a snake!

With a low scream, Anita flung herself into Haviland's arms, but he put her gently away from him.

Aghast at this repulse, Anita put her hand across her eyes and turned to leave the room.

"Mind where you go, 'Nita!" called out Haviland, and the girl stopped just in time to save herself from stepping into a mass of _débris_.

"Why!" she cried, "why, it's Miss Lucy's tray!"

It was. The silver tray that had held the breakfast tea was on the floor, and near it a jumbled heap of silver and broken china that had once been a costly Sevres set. Dainty white serviettes were stained with the spilled tea and a huge wet spot was near the overturned silver teapot.

Hastily Anita ran from the room, but she sank down on a couch in the hall just outside the door, utterly unable to go further.

Fascinated by the beady eyes of the green snake, Pauline stared at it, with clenched hands. Haviland stepped nearer and lightly touched it.

"Is it--is it alive?" gasped Pauline.

"It's paper," replied Haviland quietly. "A paper snake, a toy,--you know."

"But who put it there? Aunt Lucy is deathly afraid of snakes! Did fright kill her? Gray, is she--murdered?"

"Yes, Pauline, she has been killed. But could it be--fright? Impossible!"

"Not for her! You don't know her horror of snakes. Why, going through the Japanese department of a shop, I've seen her turn white and fairly fly from the counter where those paper things were displayed."

"But what else killed her? There is no wound, no shot, no blood."

"Get the doctor, Gray! Don't wait a minute. Telephone at once."

"He can do nothing, Pauline. She is dead." Haviland spoke like a man in a daze.

"But no matter, we must call him. Shall I?"

"No, I will."

"Go into her bedroom,--use that telephone by her bedside."

Obediently, Haviland went on to the adjoining room, the soft rugs giving forth no sound of his footfalls.

The door was ajar, and as he opened it, he called, "Come here, Pauline; look, the night lights are burning, and the bed untouched. She hasn't been to bed at all."

"Of course she hasn't. She has her hair as it was last evening. But her comb is broken."

"Broken! It's smashed! It's in tiny bits! She has been hit on the head,--don't touch her, Pauline! You mustn't! I'll call Dr. Stanton. You go out of the room. Go and find Anita."

But Pauline staid. Turning her back to the still figure in the chair, she gazed curiously at the upset tray on the floor. She stooped, when Haviland's voice came sharply from the next room. "Don't touch a thing, Pauline!" he cried, as he held his hand over the transmitter.

She looked up, and then as she saw him turn back to speak into the instrument, she stooped swiftly and picking up something from the floor she hurried from the room.

She found Anita on the couch in the hall, and speaking somewhat sharply, Pauline said, "Where's Estelle?"

"Mercy! I don't know!" and Anita's blue eyes stared coldly. "How should I know anything about Estelle?"

"But she must have brought that tray an hour ago. Did she upset it, or who?"

"Pauline, why do you act as if I knew anything about this matter. Is it because _you_ do?"

The blue eyes, cold like steel, and the dark ones, flashing fire from their shadows, looked steadily at each other.

Gray Haviland came hurriedly out to the hall.

"The doctor will be here at once," he said; "and he will call the coroner."

"Coroner!" screamed Anita; and ran away to her own room.

"Let her alone," said Pauline, contemptuously; "but Gray, we must nerve ourselves up to this thing. Don't you think we ought to--to put away the jewels? It's wrong to let any one come into a room where a fortune in jewels is displayed like that."

"But Doctor Stanton said to touch nothing,--nothing at all. You see, Pauline, in a murder case,----"

"Oh, I know; 'nothing disturbed till the Coroner comes,' and all that. But this is different, Gray. Doctor Stanton didn't know there are two hundred thousand dollars' worth of jewelry on that--that--on her."

"How do you know so exactly?"

"I'm not exact, but she has told me times enough that the rope of pearls cost one hundred thousand, and that corsage ornament she is wearing and her rings and ear-rings are easily worth the same sum. I tell you there will be policemen here, and it isn't right to throw temptation in their way."

"Besides," and Anita's voice spoke again as she reappeared in the doorway, "besides, Pauline, they are all yours now, and you should be careful of them!"

The tone more than the words conveyed a veiled insolence, and Pauline accepted it for such. With a sudden determined movement, she went swiftly to her aunt's side, and unfastened the long rope of pearls, the wonderful glittering sunburst, and a large diamond and emerald crescent that held together the glistening silk folds. The rings and ear-rings she could not bring herself to touch.

"It is only _right_," she contended, as if trying to persuade herself, "these are too valuable to risk; no one could fail to be tempted by them."

"Why don't you finish your task?" said Anita, smiling unpleasantly, "why leave so much?"

"No one would attempt to take the rings or ear-rings," said Pauline, steadily, "and that scarab bracelet is not of great value."

"I thought that was a most valuable antique that her nephew sent her."

"She thought so, too," said Pauline, carelessly, "but Carr told me it was an imitation. Not one expert in a hundred can tell the difference, anyway."

As Pauline placed the mass of gems in the safe, the doctor came. "What does it mean?" cried the bewildered man, coming into the room. "Miss Carrington----"

Words failed him as he saw the astounding sight. For surely, no one had ever before seen a murdered woman, sitting before her dressing-table, staring but smiling, and garbed as for a fancy-dress ball!

Doctor Stanton touched the icy-cold hand, felt for the silent heart, and then turned his attention to the disheveled hair and broken comb.

"Fractured skull," he said, as his skilled fingers thridded the auburn tresses. "Killed by a sudden, swift blow on the head with a heavy, blunt,--no, with a soft weapon; a black-jack or sandbag."

"A burglar!" exclaimed Pauline.

"Of course; who else would deal such a blow? It was powerful,--dealt by a strong arm--it has driven bits of this broken shell stuff into the brain. But it was the force of the concussion that killed her. Here is a deep dent,--and yet.--Tell me the circumstances. Why is she rigged out like this?"

"I've no idea," answered Pauline, taking the initiative. "When I left her last night, she had on an evening gown. But this negligée is not unusual; it is one of her favorites. Though why she has on that spangled scarf, I can't imagine."

"She seems to have been posing before the mirror, rather than engaged in making a toilette." Dr. Stanton was a pompous middle-aged man of fussy manner. He did not again touch the body, but he stepped about, noting the strange conditions and commenting on them. "This paper snake,--tight round her neck! What does that mean?"

"What _can_ it mean?" returned Pauline. "She had an intense hatred,--even _fear_ of snakes; I've never seen it before. Could it have been placed there to frighten her to death?"

"No; she didn't die of fright. See, her expression is placid,--even smiling. But the shattered comb and dented skull have but one explanation,--a stunning blow. Did she have on the comb last evening?"

"Yes; it is a favorite one with her. An heirloom, from a Colonial ancestor. It encircled the entire back of her head, when whole."

"At what time was she killed?" asked Gray Haviland. He had stood, till now, a silent listener to the conversation between Pauline and the Doctor.

"Oh, many hours ago," returned Stanton; "six or eight at least. Evidently she was preparing for bed, and trying the effect of some new finery."

"Those things are not new," put in Anita; "she has had them all a long time. But she must have been admiring herself, for when we found her she had on all her finest jewels."

"What?" cried Dr. Stanton; "where are they?"

"I took most of them off," replied Pauline, quietly, "and put them in the safe. If the police people must come, I am not willing to have a fortune in jewels here to tempt their cupidity. And I have a right. It is no secret that my cousin Carrington and I are her heirs. But that snake perplexes me beyond all else. If you knew her aversion to them,--even pictured ones----"

"I do know it," returned the doctor; "I have often heard her say so. Ah," as he stepped carefully about, "she _was_ adorning herself; see, here is powder scattered on the floor. She used this powder-puff, shaking it over the rug and floor."

"I saw that the first thing!" cried Pauline, excitedly; "and there was a----" she stopped, looking in amazement at the white dust on the floor. For where she had seen a distinct footprint, as of a stockinged foot, there was now merely a blurred whirl! Some one had obliterated that footprint!

"A what?" asked the doctor, sharply.

"Nothing. A--a lot of powder spilled,--I was going to say."

Gray Haviland looked at her. "Tell the truth, Pauline," he said.

"I have," she replied, with a calm quite equalling his own. "Must we have the Coroner, Dr. Stanton?"