a hasty line and passed it to Mr. Mellen, advising him to ask the valet further questions about the evening before.
The coroner seemed a little at sea in the matter, but he followed my advice.”
“Did you see any of the members of the household on your return last night?”
“N-no—sir.”
Either the man was actually scared out of his wits, or he was concealing something; for a more stammering, frightened witness I never saw.
“Are you sure of this?”
An affirmative nod was the only answer, and the valet’s fingers laced and interlaced until I feared he would injure them.
“The servants,—did you see any of them?”
“Why—yes, sir,” and Carstairs’s eyes rolled wildly, as though he had made a terrifying admission.
“Which ones?”
“Only Jeannette, sir.”
“Where did you see her?”
“In the servants’ dining-room, sir.”
“What was she doing there, at midnight?”
“She was just about to go to attend on Mrs. Van Wyck, sir.”
I saw Jeannette’s white face peeping in from the next room, and she looked about as terrified as the valet himself. In an undertone, I drew Mr. Markham’s attention to this fact, but he seemed to think it unimportant, and said that servants were always rattled at being made publicly conspicuous.
I didn’t entirely agree with him, and I felt fully convinced that Carstairs and Jeannette had knowledge of some sort bearing on the tragedy. I glanced at Anne, and found that she, like Mrs. Carstairs, was simply holding herself together by strong will power.
The others were not so deeply affected. The Van Wyck brother and sister were quiet and composed, though Morland had that same effect of being ready to break out indignantly at any moment. Mrs. Stelton was frankly interested in the proceedings, and showed it in her eager countenance; but Miss Fordyce sat with closed eyes, as if overcome by the whole affair. Archer looked grave, but as he continually glanced toward Anne, I was certain that he felt even more solicitude for her well-being than for the developments of the case.
Apparently the coroner thought the valet’s evidence not of crucial importance, for he concluded by saying:
“Did you see any of the members of the household on your return?”
“None but the servants, sir.”
“You didn’t see Mr. Van Wyck in his room or in his study?”
“No, sir; I did not.”
This answer, at least, was given without hesitation, and, apparently satisfied, the coroner dismissed the witness.
Ranney, the garage mechanician, was next called. His testimony was straightforward, and he was entirely unembarrassed, and indeed seemed almost uninterested.
“Mr. Morland called me,” he said, “and ordered me to pick the lock of the study door. Of course, with my knowledge of mechanics, I could do this; and as it was then bolted, he ordered me to saw out the piece of wood containing the bolt. This I did, and we opened the door.”
“You live in the house?” asked Mr. Mellen.
“No, sir; I live in a cottage near the stables and garage.”
“What time did you retire last night?”
“Early, sir; between nine and ten o’clock.”
“Were you awake at or about midnight?”
Before replying, Ranney gave a long steady glance at Carstairs. The valet returned it with a belligerent stare that seemed to convey a threat. I was surprised at the directness of this glance, after Carstairs’s exhibition of nervousness. Apparently it was entirely intelligible to Ranney, for he set his jaw with grim determination, and proceeded to answer the coroner.
“I was wakeful off and on, all night, sir. I can’t say as I was awake at twelve o’clock, and I can’t say as I wasn’t. I’m a light sleeper, sir.”
“Then you would have heard if anything unusual was taking place?”
“Do you mean here at the house, sir? Because my cottage is too far away for me to hear burglars or anything like that”
“Did you hear or see anything unusual at any time during the night?”
Again Ranney hesitated, again he looked at Carstairs, this time including Mrs. Carstairs in his glance.
To my surprise, while the valet still had a threatening aspect, his mother smiled slightly at Ranney. It was a strange smile, a little coaxing and of a persuasive charm.
I don’t know whether anyone else noticed this by-play, and the detective paid no attention to it whatever, but it interested me. And I thoroughly believed that it was in response to Mrs. Carstairs’s beseeching glance, that Ranney said, firmly:
“No, sir, nothing did I hear or see all night long.”
I didn’t believe him. To me it was a palpable untruth, but I saw a quiet smile of satisfaction on Mrs. Carstairs’s face, and a victorious gleam in the eyes of her son. What it all meant, I didn’t know, and I began to think perhaps I was making too much of it, when suddenly I remembered Miss Fordyce’s account of the motor car and the man she had seen from her window. Could Ranney or Carstairs know anything about this, and did it bear on the mystery? I glanced at Miss Fordyce, but she still sat with closed eyes, and looked like one in a trance. I doubted if she had even heard Ranney’s evidence, or that of the valet.
But I argued to myself that it would be wiser for me to say nothing, and wait until the testimony of Miss Fordyce should be called for; when she would have to tell about the motor car, and I could then see if either of these servants showed any guilty knowledge.
Next came the evidence of the doctor.
He deposed that he had been the Van Wyck family physician for a great many years. He told of being called that morning to Buttonwood Terrace, and of his seeing the body of David Van Wyck. It was his opinion after examination that Mr. Van Wyck’s death occurred about midnight.
“From what cause?” asked the coroner. “I frankly admit,” said Doctor Mason, “that I am puzzled as to the instrument which caused Mr. Van Wyck’s death. I have made an examination of the body, and I find no bullet or shot. I conclude, therefore, that he was stabbed with some sharp, pointed instrument which has left a small circular hole in the clothing and the flesh.”
“Could it have been a hat-pin?” asked the coroner.
“No, it could not,” declared the doctor, a little shortly. “I don’t know why people are so ready to assume a hat-pin. As a matter of fact, a hat-pin is a most impracticable weapon. It would either bend double or break off if used for such a purpose. Nor was it a dagger—of any usual description. A dagger or a knife would leave a slit-like incision,
