often said sharp things, which he forgot as quickly as he uttered them.”
“Yes, he did,” corroborated Avice. “Why, he sometimes scolded me, and soon after was sunny and sweet again. No, I’m sure Uncle Rowland had no real enemies, surely none that would seek his death. And the fact that an Italian woman gave the message proves to my mind that he was struck down by some horrid Italian society, – Black Hand, or whatever they call it.”
“That remains to be seen,” said Berg, with an air of importance. “I shall conduct an inquest tomorrow morning. It is too late to get at it tonight, and too, I want to collect a little more evidence.”
“Where do you get evidence, Mr. Berg?” asked Avice, eager interest and curiosity shining in her brown eyes.
“Wherever I may pick it up. I must question the police further and I must endeavor to trace that telephone call, though that is a hard matter usually. Then, also, I must question all members of this household. As to his habits, I mean, and his whereabouts today. He left home this morning, as usual?”
“Quite as usual,” broke in Mrs. Black, before Avice could reply. “I was probably the one who saw him last as he departed. I went to the door with him, and he, – he kissed me good-by.” Mrs. Black’s handkerchief was pressed into service, but she went on, clearly; “we were to have been married next month. Our engagement had been announced.”
“And you heard nothing from Mr. Trowbridge during the day?”
“No,” said Avice, taking up the tale again; “uncle told me before he left he would be home by five, as I was to help him with his work. He is a naturalist, out of office hours, and I assist with his cataloguing. Then, when he didn’t come at five, I was worried, and I kept on being worried until – until – ” and here the girl broke down and buried her face again in the sofa pillows.
“And you weren’t worried?” asked Coroner Berg, turning his pale blue eyes on the housekeeper.
“No,” and Mrs. Black’s voice was cool and composed; “I supposed he was merely detained by some business matter. I had no reason to fear any harm had come to him.”
“When did you last see him?” went on the coroner, turning to Judge Hoyt.
“Let me see; it was – yes, it was last Friday. I was at his office consulting with him about some business, and promised to report today. But as I was called to Philadelphia today on an important matter, I wrote him that I would come here to this house to see him this evening, and give him the report he wanted.”
“And you went to Philadelphia today?”
“Yes, I left there at three and reached New York at five. I intended coming here this evening, but when Miss Trowbridge telephoned me soon after six, I came right up at once.”
“Well, I think I’ll go now, for I may dig up something of importance at the police station, and I’ll be here tomorrow for the inquest at ten or thereabouts.”
As Coroner Berg left, the men from the undertaker’s arrived, and the trying session with them had to be gone through.
“But I can’t make arrangements about the funeral now,” said poor Avice, breaking down again. “Why, I can’t even realize Uncle Rowly is dead, and – ”
“Never mind, my dear,” said Mrs. Black, “don’t try to. Go to your room now, and leave the funeral matters to me. I will arrange everything, and Judge Hoyt will assist me with his advice.”
“Indeed you won’t,” said Avice, spiritedly: “I suppose I am still my uncle’s niece. And I prefer to be consulted about the last rites for him.”
“Then stay by all means,” and Mrs. Black’s voice was honey-sweet. “I only meant to save you a harrowing experience.” She turned to the suave young man who had with him a book of pictured caskets, and was soon deeply interested in the choice of shape, style and number of handles that seemed to her most desirable.
Avice looked at her with aversion. It seemed to the girl almost ghoulish to show such absorption in a question of the quality of black cloth, or the lettering on the name-plate.
“But it must be decided,” said Mrs. Black. “Of course, we want the best of everything, and it is the last honor we can pay to dear Mr. Trowbridge. You should be very thankful, Avice, that you have me here to assist and advise you. You are too young and inexperienced to attend to these matters. Isn’t that so, Judge Hoyt?”
“It seems so to me, Mrs. Black. These selections must be made, and surely you are showing good taste and judgment.”
“Very well,” returned Avice. “Go on, and get whatever you like. As for me, I’m far more concerned in hunting down my uncle’s murderer. And I doubt if that coroner man will do it. He’s a perfect lump! He’ll never find out anything!”
“Why, Avice,” remonstrated Hoyt, “what could he find out tonight? It is a mysterious affair, and as we here know nothing of the crime, how could Mr. Berg discover anything from us?”
“But he has no brains, no intelligence, no ingenuity!”
“Coroners rarely have. It is their province only to question and learn the circumstances. ‘Sleuthing’ is what you have in mind, and that must be done by detectives.”
“I know it,” cried Avice, eagerly; “that’s what I said at first. Oh, Leslie, won’t you get the very best detectives there are and put them on the case at once?”
“Wait a moment, Avice,” said Mrs. Black, coldly. “I am not sure you are in absolute authority here. I have something to say in the decisions.”
“But surely, Mrs. Black, you want to spare no pains and no expense to learn who killed Uncle Rowly!”
“You talk very glibly of expense, my dear Avice. Until your uncle’s will is read, how do you know who will be in a position to bear these expenses you are so ready to incur?”
Avice looked at the older woman with scorn. “I don’t quite follow you,” she said, slowly; “but surely, whoever inherits my uncle’s fortune, owes first the duty of bringing his murderer to justice!”
Leslie Hoyt looked very grave. “As Mr. Trowbridge’s lawyer,” he said, “I know the contents of the will. It will be read after the funeral. Until then, I am not at liberty to disclose it. I must go now, as I have some investigations to make myself. By the way, Avice, I brought home a Philadelphia afternoon paper, and it contains a glowing account of the début of your friend, Rosalie Banks. But, perhaps, you don’t care to see it, now?”
“Yes, leave it,” said Avice, apathetically; “I am fond of Rosalie and I’d like to look it over.”
Hoyt found the paper where he had left it on the hall table, and gave it to her, and then with a sympathetic, but unobtrusive pressure of her hand, the lawyer went away and the doctor also.
“May I look at that Philadelphia paper a moment?” asked Mrs. Black, “I want to see an advertisement.”
“Certainly, here it is,” and Avice passed it over. “Just think of Rosalie having her coming-out party just now while I’m in such sadness. We were at school together, and though younger than I, she was always one of my favorites.”
“You didn’t care to go to the party?”
“No
