mean to kill her, but I’ve just as much right to quote your foolish words as you have to quote hers.”
“Nonsense!” said Haviland; “let up, Polly! You two are always at each other! As there is no question as to who killed poor Miss Lucy, why rake up our foolish words spoken under the intense provocation of her exhibition of temper, – which was specially trying last night. Inspector, can we tell you anything more of importance?”
So far the Inspector had been almost silent, and appeared to be learning some points from the conversation not addressed to him. Now, he changed his manner, and began briskly to ask questions.
“This glove,” he said, holding it out, “was, as you know, found clasped in her hand. Is it yours, Mr. Haviland?”
“No,” said the young man, as, after a close examination of the glove he handed it back; “no, it is a size smaller than I wear, and it is of a different make from mine.”
“Have you any idea whose it can be? It is highly improbable the burglar left it.”
“I’ve no idea,” and Haviland shrugged his shoulders. “But if it was not left by the intruder, where could it possibly have come from? It is a man’s glove.”
“Could it be one of Cousin Carr’s?” said Pauline. “Aunt Lucy was awfully fond of anything of his. She kept one of his caps in her drawer for months, after he left the last time.”
“No,” replied Haviland; “it isn’t Loria’s. He wears larger gloves than I do. My theory points to a sort of gentleman burglar, a ‘Raffles,’ you know, and I think he talked with Miss Lucy, before he struck that blow, and disarmed her mind of fear.”
“What an extraordinary idea!” and Pauline looked thoughtful.
“But how else explain the glove?”
“And the snake? Did your gentleman burglar persuade her to wear that paper thing? Never! Gray, you’re absurd!”
“Another thing,” went on Inspector Brunt, returning the glove to his roomy pocket-book; “In the bedroom we noticed a glass of milk and beside it an empty plate. Was it the lady’s habit to have a night lunch?”
“Yes,” said Anita; “but she rarely ate it. In case of insomnia, she had ready a light repast, but she almost never touched it.”
“The glass of milk is still untouched,” said Brunt, “but the plate is empty. What did it contain?”
“A sandwich, I think,” said Anita. “That is what Estelle usually prepared for her. She will know, – Estelle, the maid.”
“Miss Carrington’s lady’s maid?”
“Yes; though not hers exclusively. She was expected to act as maid for Miss Stuart and myself also, at such times as Miss Carrington didn’t require her services.”
“And she, then, brought the breakfast tray, that is upset on the floor?”
“Yes; Miss Lucy always had an early cup of tea, before she dressed for breakfast with the family.”
“And the maid took it to her this morning? Did she not then discover the – the tragedy?”
“She says not!” cried Pauline; “but I’m sure she did! She says she saw Miss Lucy at the mirror, and thinking her engrossed, merely left the tray on the tabouret and went away.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Haviland; “What does Estelle mean by such lies? Of course she saw Miss Carrington’s strange appearance, of course she was frightened out of her wits, and of course she dropped the tray and ran. But why not say so? And why not give an immediate alarm? She took that tray, probably, about eight. Pauline went up at nine. What was Estelle doing all that time? Why didn’t she go in to dress Miss Carrington? I tell you, Mr. Inspector, there’s a lot of queer work to be explained, and with all due respect to the force, I’m pretty sure you’ll need expert service if you’re going to get anywhere. And I’m sure, too, that if we can get word to Carrington Loria and back, he’ll say spare no trouble or expense to avenge his aunt’s murder. He is equally heir with you, Pauline, and he ought to be consulted.”
“The will hasn’t been read yet,” said Miss Stuart; “we can’t assume anything until that is done.”
“Pshaw! you know perfectly well half of the bulk of the estate is yours and half Carr’s. I have a small slice and Miss Frayne a bit. The older servants have small legacies, and there are a few charities. That, Mr. Brunt, is the gist of the will. Do you not agree with me, that as I was the man of business for the late Miss Carrington, I am justified, in the absence of Mr. Loria, in continuing my services, at least, until we can get definite directions from him?”
“Those matters are outside my province, Mr. Haviland. Miss Carrington’s legal advisers will doubtless come here soon, and such things will be decided by them. Now, here’s another point. I noted in the course of our investigation in the boudoir a quantity of powder fallen on the floor near the dressing table, in such relation to it that it would seem Miss Carrington was using the face powder as she sat there. Was this her habit?”
“Her habit? Yes;” said Anita, “Miss Carrington was in the habit of using face powder, – even cosmetics. It is not strange then, that such a proceeding was part of her night toilette.”
“No, not at all,” agreed Mr. Brunt. “But where the powder was thickest, on the hard floor, near the rug, was a muddled spot, as if some one had wiped out or swept up a mark or print. Can any of you explain this?”
No one spoke, and the stern voice went on. “I remember, Miss Stuart, that you began to say something bearing on this while we were in that room, and you suddenly stopped, appearing confused. I ask you why?”
Pauline hesitated, bit her lip, looked at Gray and then at Anita, and finally said, “I may as well tell. It is nothing. When I went to my aunt’s room, and found what I did find, – I was so excited and nervous I scarce knew what I did. But I remember seeing a footprint in that powder, and in obedience to an impulsive instinct I – I obliterated it.”
“With what?”
“With my handkerchief. I merely slapped at it, and the light powder flew about it.”
“Why did you do this?”
“I don’t know. I had no real reason. I was not thinking of what I was doing.”
“Then you did not have a desire to shield some one from possible suspicion?” The words were shot at her so swiftly that Pauline gasped.
“Suspicion! What do you mean? Was it not the work of a burglar?”
“Was the impression of a foot that you saw, the foot of a man or a woman?”
“How can I tell? It was large, but as it was a bare or stockinged foot I could not judge. Might not the burglar have removed his boots, before entering the room?”
“He might, indeed, and that is just what he did do. For more prints of that stockinged foot have been discovered on the stairs, and there is no doubt that the tracks are those of the assailant of Miss Carrington. With your permission, Miss Stuart, I will now go to interview the servants. May I ask you to await me here, all of you? I shall not be very long.”
As the Inspector and the detectives left the room, Haskins
