be here to-day.”
“Why don’t you want him, Anne?” I asked, in astonishment. “I think it is necessary to have him. The mystery must be cleared up, and, too the missing pearls must be found. Surely a detective could help.”
“Well, then, let him come!” Anne spoke almost pettishly, and I suddenly realized that her composure was forced, and her self-control was beginning to give way.
“I think,” said Archer to me, “that Mrs. Van Wyck’s wishes should be law in this matter.”
“Of course,” I agreed, “but perhaps Mrs. Van Wyck doesn’t realize how customary it is, and how necessary it is to employ a detective in such a case as this.”
“I needn’t see him, need I?” asked Anne, raising imploring eyes to mine.
“No,” I began, when Archer interrupted: “Of course you’ll have to see him, and he’ll ask you all sorts of questions, and tangle you up so that you won’t know what you’re saying.”
As usual, Anne did the unexpected. She suddenly assumed a dignified, even haughty air, and said: “Let him come. Let him question me as much as he likes. I’m not afraid of such questioning! When will he arrive?”
“I don’t know,” said Archer, “probably this afternoon, or perhaps before luncheon. I’m glad you’re getting your nerve back, Anne, for the inquest will be held this afternoon, and you will have to testify. Now don’t let yourself get rattled.”
“I shall not get rattled,” Anne said, slowly. “But, Connie, I don’t want to testify, or whatever you call it. Why should I? I don’t know who killed David, or anything about it.”
“But you will be called on,” said Archer, “and you must keep your head. Don’t break down or anything. Answer the questions directly and shortly, and you’ll soon be let off.”
This was good, sound advice, and I was glad Archer gave it to her. I wished she would look to me more for counsel or help, but she seemed to depend on Archer, as on an old friend. Indeed, after a time, she said, “Run away now, will you, Raymond; I have some things I want to talk over with Connie alone.”
This summary dismissal nearly took my breath away, but I rose and went off nonchalantly, hiding my chagrin as best I could.
Immediately after luncheon the detective came. Mr. Markham was a commonplace-looking man, of a manner somewhat self-assured. He was perhaps even a trifle conceited, but he seemed to have commonsense and a good grasp of the logical. He was quick and alert of manner and went about his work in a systematic and methodical way. The household was divided as to the necessity for his presence. Morland and Barbara seemed to want him, but Anne and Archer refused to see him unless absolutely necessary.
For some reason, Barclay Lasseter appeared deeply incensed at his presence. Indeed, the secretary abruptly took his hat and went home when Mr. Markham arrived, saying he would return for the inquest.
For myself, I listened eagerly to the detective’s opinions. Of course, he was allowed immediate access to the study, and of course, he made a careful examination of the whole room. But he found nothing that would throw any light on the mystery, and I felt a little disappointed at his non-committal attitude. He spent much time examining locks and bolts and inquiring as to keys. But he only proved, what we had known before, that the study was absolutely inaccessible to an intruder. Then, of course, he declared it must have been a suicide. Then, when he was convinced of the utter absence of any weapon, and the practical impossibility of the wound being self-inflicted, he returned to the theory of murder. He was greatly enthused over the mystery of the case and the contradictory evidence.
“If I may say so,” he observed, pompously, “I have been especially fortunate and successful in the criminal cases which I have undertaken. I have the instinct of a sleuth, and I discover clues where none seems to exist. But I never before have had the kind of a case that depends upon proving the presence of an intruder in a locked room. Now, we know that no one could have entered this room and left it, locked as it was. And yet, if not a case of suicide, some one did do so. It is for me to discover how.”
Mr. Markham made this speech with such an air of having made a discovery, that I was not surprised when Morland said, brusquely:
“We knew already, Mr. Markham, that my father’s death was either a suicide or a murder. We knew, too, that this room was so securely barred and bolted that we had to force an entrance. Now we have sent for you to learn if possible the truth of the matter. But what we want, is not the propounding of the problem, but its solution.”
Mr. Markham did not appear at all offended by this, and only said, “Quite so, quite so, Mr. Van Wyck. Now I must remind you that aside from the crime of murder, we have the loss of the pearls to consider. I must not only solve the mystery of your father’s death, but I must recover those valuable gems. Very well. I am not, of course, able to do these things in a moment, but by careful investigation and some shrewd deduction, I hope to succeed, in time.”
“Of course, Mr. Markham,” said Morland, “I didn’t expect results at once. Pursue your own methods and call on any of us for such information or help as you may desire. Pray consider the house at your disposal, interview the servants if you choose, and feel at liberty to do what you will, unquestioned.”
“I shall also,” returned the detective, “expect to be allowed to interview members of the family or guests.”
“That, of course,” said Morland; “but I must ask of you to spare the feelings of the family as far as you possibly can, and to intrude upon the guests as little as may be.”
I was not surprised at this from Morland, for it seemed to me that the detective was of a nature so zealous and so unheedful of others’ feelings, that he might easily prove an annoying interviewer.
Chapter IX.
The Inquest
Luncheon was served informally. The members of the household and the guests drifted in and out of the dining-room, where the footmen served them from a buffet. It chanced that I sat down with Morland and Archer.
We all said little, but though Morland was quiet, it seemed as though we were endeavoring not to talk, though he really wanted to.
“Would you rather we went away?” Archer asked of him; “perhaps you would prefer not to have any guests at present”
“No, no,” said Morland a little irritably. “You two fellows stay on, of course. Perhaps you can help me, and Lord knows I need help. As to the ladies, they must do as they choose. Mrs. Stelton wants to remain; but I fear these awful scenes will prove too much for the nerves of Miss Fordyce. She is so highly strung—”
“These scenes are enough to shake the nerves of anybody,” I put in; “and you know, Morland, without being told, that Archer and I stand ready to help you in any way we can. But I confess I can’t find anything to do by way of assistance.”
“Nor I,” said Archer, “but if our presence here makes it any easier for you, here we stay as long as you wish. At any rate we can meet some of the visitors, and save you or Mrs. Van Wyck that annoyance.”
Of
