style="font-size:15px;"> “Well, mightn’t they pick up little things off the ground? Or find them in your uncle’s pockets?”
“Do you think they will? Mr. Pinckney, you’ve no idea how I want to find the murderer! I never knew before that I had so much revenge in my nature, but I feel now I could devote my whole life, if need be, to tracking down that villain! I loved my uncle almost like a father. Most girls, I suppose, would be so broken up with grief that they couldn’t talk like this, but I seem to find the only comfort in the thought of avenging this horrible deed!”
“Don’t bank on it too much, Miss Trowbridge. They say only one murderer in six is convicted, and in only a small fraction of murders is anybody even suspected of the crime. But this case will be ferreted out, I’m sure, both because of the prominence of your uncle, and the fact that there is money enough to hire the best talent, if desired.”
“Indeed it is desired! I shall, of course, inherit much of my uncle’s fortune, and I would spend every penny rather than fail in the search!”
“You won’t mind my reporting this conversation, will you, Miss Trowbridge? I’m here for a story, you know, – ”
“Oh, must you put me in the paper? Please don’t!”
“I won’t put anything you won’t like. But our readers want you. You know, all the men want now-a-days is a graft yarn, and the women, some inside society gos – information.”
Avice would have made further objection to newspaper publicity, but people began to arrive, and, too, Pinckney was content to leave off conversation at that point.
He was young, and enthusiastic in his chosen career. Moreover, he was canny and clever. He had further chat with Mrs. Black, and he managed to get a few words with the servants. And somehow, by hook or crook, he secured photographs of both women, and of the house, as well as of the victim of the tragedy himself.
Aside from reportorial talent, Pinckney had a taste for detective work. He was, or fancied himself, the stuff of which story-book detectives are made, and he was more than glad to have the press assignment of this case, which might give him wide range for his powers of deduction.
When Judge Hoyt arrived, he at once sought out Avice, and his fine, impassive face grew infinitely gentle as he greeted the sad-eyed girl.
In her black gown, she looked older, and her pale cheeks and drawn countenance told of a sleepless night.
“How are you dear?” asked Hoyt, taking her hands in his. “I’ve been so anxious about you.”
“I’m all right,” and Avice tried to smile bravely. “But I’m glad you’ve come. I feel so alone and responsible – Mr. Pinckney says I have a splendid lawyer – but I don’t see anything for a lawyer to do.”
“There may be. I believe the police have made quite a few discoveries, though I know nothing definite. Of course, all my legal powers are at your disposal, but I too, doubt if the criminal is ever apprehended.”
“Oh, don’t say that! We must find him! You will, won’t you?”
“I’ll do my best Avice. But I am a lawyer, not a detective, you know.”
“But you’re a judge, and you have been district attorney, and you’re the greatest criminal lawyer in the state!”
“Yes, but a criminal lawyer must have a criminal to convict. Rest assured if the criminal is found, he shall have full punishment.”
“Of course, but I want help to find him. I want to employ detectives and – ”
“And so you shall, but wait Avice, until the inquest is over. That may bring developments. I wish I had been here in New York yesterday.”
“What could you have done?”
“Perhaps nothing to prevent or help, but I would have been at your uncle’s office during the day, and I would have known of his plans. Who is this Pinckney you mentioned?”
“A reporter for The Daily Gazette? I didn’t want to see him at first, but I’m glad I did. He’s going to help me detect.”
“Avice, dear, ‘detecting’ as you call it, isn’t a casual thing, to be done by anybody. It’s a trade, a profession – ”
“Yes, I know. But Mr. Pinckney knows something of it, and he is very kind.”
“When a reporter is kind, it’s only for his personal benefit. The moment crime is committed, Avice, the reporters are on the job, and they never let go of it, until all suspects are freed or sentenced. But what they learn by their ‘detection’ is only for their paper; it is rarely given in testimony, or turned to real account.”
“Mr. Pinckney will help me, I’m sure,” Avice persisted. “And besides, he was in college with Mr. Landon, uncle’s nephew out West.”
“Landon? The chap you used to be in love with?” and Judge Hoyt made a wry face.
“In love! Nonsense! I’m as much in love with him now as I ever was.”
“And how much is that?”
“It’s so long since I’ve seen him, I’ve forgotten,” and Avice, who couldn’t help an occasional flash of her innate coquetry, smiled up into the stern face regarding her.
“Beg pardon, Miss Avice,” said Stryker, the butler, coming toward them; “but do you want to be in the drawing-room for the – the inquest, or upstairs?”
“I want to be right near the coroner and the jury. I want to know everything that goes on. Shall we go in there now, Leslie?”
“Yes, in a moment. What do you know of Mr. Trowbridge’s death, Stryker?”
“Me, Judge Hoyt? Nothing, – nothing at all, sir. How should I?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. I merely asked. Where were you yesterday afternoon, Stryker?”
“It was my day off, sir. I was out all afternoon.”
“Oh, all right. Don’t take my question too seriously.” Hoyt spoke kindly, for the butler showed considerable agitation. He started to say something, paused, stammered, and finally burst out with, “I didn’t kill him, Sir!”
“Good Lord, Stryker, nobody thought you did! But don’t show such a scared face to the coroner when he questions you, or he may think all sorts of things.”
“What c – could he think?”
“Nothing that I know of. By the way, Stryker, now that Mr. Trowbridge is gone, you can take out that insurance policy, can’t you?”
“Oh, Mr. Hoyt, don’t speak of such things now!” and the old butler fairly wrung his hands.
“All right, I won’t. But when you want to talk it over, come to me. Is that your Pinckney, Avice, talking to Mrs. Black?”
“Yes; why, he’s interviewing her! See his notebook. She is telling him lots!”
“He’s getting what they call a ‘sob story.’ She’s working on his sympathies by pathetic tales of her loss.
