these peculiar tire marks from the dust of the road. And without a doubt, his mother had been engaged in the same work of precaution.
The detective also jumped to these conclusions, and after a few of his questions, in conjunction with the coroner’s inquiries, they forced a confession from the valet.
Carstairs’s manner became sullen as he owned up to his wrongdoing. It seemed that the use of a motor car by any of the servants was a most grave offense in the eyes of David Van Wyck. And especially, to take out the big new touring car was a daring thing to do!
Seeing that the valet was not making a good story of it, his mother cleverly managed the coroner so that she told the story instead. As Ranney had divulged the secret, she admitted that her son had taken out the car the night before. She said that it was wrong, and that she did not excuse him for it; but that since David Van Wyck was no longer here to reprove or punish him, no one else had the right to do so, and that the offense was a thing of the past, and should be forgotten. She admitted that she had heard her son return in the car, and that she was so worried about his wrong deed that she had tried to eliminate any possible proof against him in the matter of the wheel tracks. But, she concluded, this had no bearing on the crime of the night before, as her son had returned about eleven o’clock and had put the car away and had then retired. She overreached herself here, because the valet had previously testified that he came home about midnight, and both Miss Fordyce and Ranney agreed that the big car had arrived at about twelve o’clock.
But when this was put to her, Mrs. Carstairs became excited again, and insisted that the hour of her son’s return was of no consequence, as he had not gone to the study at all and knew nothing of the occurrences there.
“You have no right to suspect him!” she blazed out, finally; “it is wicked for you to do so!”
“We have not said we suspected him, madam,” said the coroner, gravely, “but if we do suspect him, or even feel inclined to investigate his story, it is because he has not been frank in the whole matter, and neither have you. And now I wish to ask you further, did your son know that in the will of Mr. Van Wyck, five thousand dollars was bequeathed to him, and twenty-five thousand to yourself?”
Mrs. Carstairs hesitated.
“It would be wiser for you to tell the truth,” prompted the coroner, “as you know a lack of frankness has not served you well so far. Now answer my questions truly.”
“Yes, we have both known of these facts for some years.”
“That is all, madam,” and to my surprise, Mr. Mellen dismissed the housekeeper without a further word.
I did not quite understand his attitude in the matter, but I had no time to think about it, for I was just then called to the witness stand myself, and asked to give any information I could, that might be of any assistance in solving the mystery.
I had not had time to consider this new phase of the situation that included the valet’s evidence, but I had previously made up my mind what I should say when called upon.
Chapter XIII.
An Adjournment
“I can tell you nothing in the way of facts that you do not already know,” I said, “but I wish to say that I entirely coincide with Miss Van Wyck’s opinion that her father ended his own life. It is not incredible that his very erratic mind gave way at the last. Nor is it surprising that he should destroy the deed and hide the pearls under stress of sudden insanity.”
“And what is your theory regarding the manner of his death?”
“I have no definite theory; but I wish to call attention to the fact that I found several shot on the floor at Mr. Van Wyck’s feet”
My statement produced quite a sensation in the audience; for the suggestion of shot seemed to imply at least a possible method of the crime.
But the detective, Mr. Markham, interrupted me and said quietly: “It is not worth while, Mr. Coroner, to waste time in consideration of the shot. There is a small receptacle on Mr. Van Wyck’s desk, filled with that same shot, used as a pen-cleaner. I observed that the shot found on the floor was the same, as I have no doubt it was spilled by accident”
The Coroner turned to Doctor Mason and inquired if Mr. Van Wyck’s death could have been brought about by shot.
“No,” replied the doctor positively. “I probed the wound and found no bullet or shot. David Van Wyck was stabbed, and the weapon was afterward withdrawn. I cannot subscribe to the icicle theory, though I do not say it would be impossible. But the deceased was most assuredly not shot.”
I felt crestfallen and a little ashamed. For, having picked up the shot, I should have noticed the same among the furnishings of the desk. The coroner asked me only a few more questions, of relative unimportance, and was about to dismiss me when he added, as an afterthought, “When did you last see Mr. Van Wyck alive?”
It was the query I had been dreading. But there was nothing for it except to tell the truth. Involuntarily, I glanced at Anne, but her eyes were cast down, and she paid no heed to me.
“Of course I was with him at dinner,” I said, “and after dinner he left us to go to the study. After that I saw him a moment when from the terrace I glanced in at the study window.”
“You glanced in? For what purpose?”
“No particular purpose. Mrs. Van Wyck and I were strolling by, and merely chanced to look in.”
“What was Mr. Van Wyck doing?”
“Conferring with the committee from the village, I assumed. We could not hear his words, of course, nor did we try to.”
“What was Mr. Van Wyck’s apparent attitude?”
“He seemed to be angry,” I felt myself obliged to say.
“Angry at the gentlemen of the committee?”
I was indeed sorry to give this evidence, but I was forced to do it. To decline to answer would be absurd, and, after all, everybody knew that Morland and his father were at odds in the matter. So I said, “No, he was addressing his son.”
“Ah! And he seemed to be angry?”
“He did.”
“Then, they were quarrelling?”
“As to that, I cannot say. I merely tell you what I saw: that Mr. Van Wyck was addressing his son, and that he had the appearance of being angry.” The coroner excused me then, and, turning to Morland, said directly, “Did you quarrel with your father last evening?”
“I told him what I thought of his procedure,” replied Morland. “I make no secret of the fact that I tried my best to persuade my father not to give away his fortune.”
“And do you persist in your assertion that when you left your father at midnight his secretary was still with him?”
“I do,” said Morland firmly.
“And
