though his sharp blue eyes showed that he had understood what they said.
“The case is most mysterious,” he declared; “and I think it wiser to have no further discussion or investigation until I can hold the inquest and hear definite testimony. The facts of the absolutely inaccessible room and the entire absence of the fatal weapon are so irreconcilable, that I confess I am baffled. I think the only course to pursue, is to engage the services of a clever and experienced detective.”
“There is no occasion for such a thing,” said Mrs. Carstairs, quite as if she were in authority; “I object to it very decidedly.”
The coroner looked at her appraisingly, and then turned to Morland Van Wyck. Though he said no word, it was quite evident he was inquiring from whom he should take orders. My liking for Mr. Mellen deepened. He showed brains and commonsense, two qualities not always found together, and not universally the attributes of coroners.
“Your opinion is not wanted, Mrs. Carstairs,” Morland said pettishly, but I noticed he did not look at her. “I, too, think we should have a detective. What do you say, Barbara?”
Miss Van Wyck hesitated. “I hate the publicity of it,” she said; “but I think we ought to find the pearls.”
I looked at her in surprise. Were her thoughts all for the jewels, and had she no desire to find and bring to justice the murderer of her father? Then I remembered that her theory was, that David Van Wyck had secreted the pearls and then killed himself.
“Not only the pearls,” Morland was saying; “we must lay bare the whole mystery. I cannot live, not knowing how my father met his death. If some villain killed him, the murderer must be brought to justice.”
Morland strode up and down the room as he talked, and I thought I had never seen him look more manly. I felt a new respect for him, and a willingness to help him in any way I might.
“Of course,” Morland went on, “we must not make definite arrangements without consulting my Mrs. Van Wyck. It is for her to say whether we shall engage a detective.” He flashed a defiant glance at Mrs. Carstairs, as he spoke, but it did not ruffle the calm of that self-reliant personage.
Barbara went away to confer with Anne on the subject, and soon returned saying that her stepmother expressed entire indifference in the matter. She was perfectly willing that the detective should be engaged, if Barbara and Morland wished it.
“Do you know of a good detective, Mr. Mellen?” I asked, while my thoughts flew to Fleming Stone and his marvellous ability. But that great detective was far away, and so, unavailable.
“I know of none in Crescent Falls Village,” returned the coroner, “but I can send for a very good man from the city. His name is Markham, and I have reason to know he is exceedingly clever and successful; and though not a low-priced man, his fees are not exorbitant.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mellen,” said Barbara, simply; “that is the kind of man I should like to investigate this case. I am sure I am correct in my beliefs, and I think a detective can find the pearls for us. There is no other crime to be discovered.”
“That is what I think!” And moved by a sympathy of opinions, Mrs. Carstairs glided up to Barbara and took her hands. But she found herself coldly repulsed, as Miss Van Wyck said curtly, “Do you?” And drawing her hands from the clasp of the housekeeper, she moved slowly toward the door, with a backward glance at the still figure of her father.
And then came the undertaker and his men, and the coroner dismissed all of us, except Doctor Mason.
As we all walked silently through the corridor, Morland and Barbara turned aside into Anne’s room. I asked them to assure Mrs. Van Wyck of my sympathy, and to tell her how glad I would be if I might do anything for her. The message sounded perfunctory, but I think I had never said sincerer words.
The rest of us went various ways, Archer going off to his own room, and Mrs. Carstairs toward the servants’ wing.
I went to the library, and after a short time, Morland joined me there.
“How is Mrs. Van Wyck?” I inquired.
“She’s composed,” he answered briefly; “but exhausted from the shock. She is entirely unable to discuss details of arrangements, and says for Barbara and myself to manage things as we choose. She sends thanks for your kind message, and hopes to see you later in the day.”
My heart gave a throb at this, for though I was longing to see Anne, I wanted the suggestion to come from her.
“Then of course you will take complete authority,” I said to Morland, who sat on the edge of a table, moodily swinging one foot back and forth.
“Yes,” he said angrily, “if I can circumvent that Carstairs woman.”
I had resolved to be very discreet on this subject, so I only said, “She is a strange personality.”
“She’s a serpent!” Morland muttered, and just then Mrs. Stelton and Miss Fordyce appeared at the doorway.
“Mayn’t we come in?” begged Mrs. Stelton, in her pouting, childish way; “we’re so frightened and lonesome!”
Beth Fordyce said nothing, but her big blue eyes were full of tears, as she looked at Morland.
“Certainly,” I said, rising; “please come in and talk to me.”
The latter speech seemed necessary, for at their entrance, Morland walked out of the room without a word.
“Poor Mr. Morland,” said Mrs. Stelton, wringing her little hands, fussily; “I am so sorry for him! I wish I could comfort him.”
“I think he likes best to be let alone,” I said; “aside from his natural sorrow, he is suddenly loaded with grave responsibilities; enough to overwhelm any man.”
“They will not overwhelm him.” It was Miss Fordyce who spoke, and her eyes had the far-away look that always showed in them when her mood was occult. “I shall care for his spirit, and sustain him in his hour—”
“Now, Beth, let up on that rubbish!” And Mrs. Stelton was so in earnest, that she forgot to flutter. “You tell Mr. Sturgis what you have to tell him.”
“I’ve nothing to tell,” and Miss Fordyce looked positively dreamy.
“Yes, you have!” and Mrs. Stelton took her arm and shook her slightly. “Wake up, now, and stop your nonsense! Tell Mr. Sturgis what you saw last night”
“Was it a vision?” I asked, resigning myself to one of her usual psychic experiences.
“I did have a vision—” the girl began, but Mrs. Stelton interrupted her again.
“Never mind your vision,—stick to plain facts! You tell Mr. Sturgis the story, just exactly as you told it to me!”
“What is it?” I asked, interested now, and hoping it might be something of real importance. “Please tell me at once, Miss Fordyce, for some one may come in here at any moment.”
As she frequently did, Miss Fordyce changed her manner suddenly, and spoke with alert energy.
“It’s
