style="font-size:15px;"> “Would you sit calmly down, and let the murderer go scot-free?”
“Yes, rather than mix in with that awful coroner man, and worse still, detectives!” Mrs. Black brought out the word as if she had said “scorpions.”
Avice was about to make an indignant reply, when the bell rang, and the card was brought in of Mr. Pinckney, a reporter.
“Don’t see him,” said Mrs. Black, looking scornfully at the card.
“Indeed I shall,” and Avice rose determinedly. “Why, if I don’t set him straight, there’s no telling what he’ll print!”
Realizing this, Mrs. Black followed the girl into the library, and together they met the reporter.
“Awfully sorry to intrude,” said a frank-faced, nice-voiced young man. “Often I wish I’d chosen any other career than that of a reporter. Downright good of you to see me, Miss Trowbridge, – isn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Avice, “I am Miss Trowbridge and this is Mrs. Black.”
“What can we tell you?” said Mrs. Black, acknowledging the visitor’s bow, and quickly taking the initiative. “There is so little to tell – ”
“Ah, yes,” and the interrupting Pinckney deliberately turned to Avice. “But you will tell me all you know, won’t you? It’s so annoying to the family to have details made up – and – we must get the news somehow.”
His youthful, almost boyish air pleased Avice, who had thought reporters a crude, rather slangy lot, and she responded at once.
“Indeed I will Mr. Pinckney. It’s horrid to have things told wrongly, especially a thing like this.” Her eyes filled, and the reporter looked down at his still empty notebook.
“But, don’t you see, Miss Trowbridge,” he said, gently “if you tell me the details it might help in unearthing the truth, – for you don’t know who did it, do you?”
“No, we don’t” broke in Eleanor Black; “you’d better not try to talk Avice, dear, you are so unstrung. Let me answer Mr. Pinckney’s questions.”
“I’m not unstrung, Eleanor, at least not so much so that I can’t talk. Mr. Pinckney, if you can be of assistance in any way of solving the mystery of my uncle’s death, I shall be very grateful. The inquest will be held this morning, and I suppose, – I hope that will throw some light on it all. But just now I know of no way to look.”
“Oh of course, it was a highway robber,” said Mrs. Black. “There can be no doubt of it.”
“But is there any proof of it?” and the reporter looked at her inquiringly. “No doubt is not sufficient, proof positive is what we want.”
“Of course, we do,” agreed Avice. “Just think, Mr. Pinckney, we know nothing but that my uncle was stabbed to death in the woods. We don’t even know why he went into the woods. Though that, of course, is probably a simple reason. He was a naturalist and went often on long tramps looking for certain specimens for his collections.”
“Yes, that would explain his being there,” said Pinckney, eagerly. “Did you know he was going?”
“No; on the contrary he said he would be home at five o’clock.”
“He told me he might be home earlier,” said Mrs. Black, looking sorrowful. “I expected him as early as three or four, for we were going out together. You see, Mr. Trowbridge was my fiancé.”
“Ah,” and Pinckney looked at her with increased interest. “Are there other members of this household?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Black. “Just Mr. Trowbridge and myself, and our dear niece, Miss Trowbridge. We were a very happy family, and now – ” Mrs. Black raised her handkerchief to her eyes, “and now, I am all alone.”
“You two will not remain together, then?” the reportorial instinct cropped out.
“We haven’t decided on anything of that sort yet,” broke in Avice. “Eleanor, don’t be ridiculous! Mr. Pinckney is not interested in our domestic arrangements.”
“Indeed I am. The readers of The Gazette are all anxious to know the least details of your life and home.”
“They must be disappointed then,” and Avice’s haughty look forbade further personal questions.
“Tell me more of the – the tragedy, then. Was the weapon found?”
“No, not that I know of,” and Avice looked surprised. “I never thought of it.”
“No, it was not,” affirmed Mrs. Black. “The police were unable to find any weapon.”
“Too bad,” frowned Pinckney; “the dear public loses a thrill.”
“The public? Do they care?” and Avice started.
“Rather! New Yorkers love a murder mystery if there are gruesome elements here and there.”
“All I want is justice,” and Avice’s big, brown eyes turned full on Pinckney’s face. “You know about such things. Do you suppose we can trace the murderer with so little to go on?”
“Can’t tell yet. May be lots of evidence forthcoming at the inquest.”
At this point Mrs. Black was called from the room by a servant, and Pinckney said quickly, “Who is she? and why don’t you like her?”
For some reason, Avice did not resent the man’s directness, and answered, slowly. “She is housekeeper, and was engaged to my uncle. I don’t dislike her, – not altogether.”
“Is she Italian? She looks so.”
“Of Italian descent, yes. Why?”
“Nothing. She’s a stunner for looks, but she’s entirely able to take care of herself. I say, Miss Trowbridge, are you alone, – in this matter, I mean.”
“In a way, I am. There is no one in the house but the housekeeper and myself. But Judge Hoyt, my uncle’s lawyer, looks after all business affairs for us.”
“Judge Hoyt?”
“Yes, Leslie Hoyt.”
“You’re fixed all right that way, then. But I say, Miss Trowbridge, I don’t want you to think me impertinent, but if I can help you at all in looking about, – investigating, you know, – ”
“Do you mean detecting?”
“Yes, in a small way. I’ve opportunities to go into the world and inquire into things that are a sealed book to you. But I suppose you’ll have detectives, and all that. And any way, it’s too soon to think about it. But remember, if you want any sleuthing done, – on the side, in an amateur way I’d be awfully glad to help you out.”
“That’s kind of you Mr. Pinckney, and I’ll be glad to take advantage of your offer. But do you have to put everything in your paper?”
“Just about. Oh, of course, if I unearth anything of importance, – like
