to me out on the terrace,—nor yet what Mrs. Carstairs had said, as she so suddenly appeared and disappeared.
And if Archer had any secret information he was equally determined not to confide in me.
We told each other of our intention to remain at Buttonwood Terrace for a few days after the funeral, in the hope of being of some assistance to the family. If to both of us, “the family” was merely a euphemism for Anne Van Wyck, neither of us said so.
The talk turned again to Mr. Markham, and I compared him to Fleming Stone.
“Why,” said I, “Stone would have found the criminal by this time, I’m sure.”
“How?” asked Archer; “there are no clues.”
“But there is mystery. I once heard Fleming Stone say that mystery in a case always spurred and enthused him. I wish the Van Wycks would engage him.”
“I thought somebody said he had gone West,” returned Archer, moodily, blowing smoke rings into the air.
“Yes, when he was here yesterday, he said he was to start at once. But if Markham doesn’t do something soon, I shall advise employing Stone. It’s all very well to say Markham must have more time, and all that, but I know what a value Stone places on looking into things before the clues have been destroyed. As you very well know, Archer, he really deduced a lot of truths from that foolish fan business, yesterday, and you must admit he’s unusually clever in that way.”
“I never denied it; I think he is a wonderful detective. But isn’t he very expensive?”
“He is, I believe; but the Van Wycks are rich, and they ought to have the best possible expert advice in this matter.”
While I was speaking, Morland came into the room. The young fellow looked worn and tired, but he had his customary belligerent air, as he flung himself astride of a chair and glared at us over its back.
“I suppose we are rich, but I don’t mean to throw money away on spectacular detectives! I heard what you were saying, Sturgis, and I think it’s tommyrot to get in that omniscient sleuth you’re talking about. My father was killed by somebody. I’m sure I don’t know who did it, but if Markham can’t find out, nobody can. I don’t mean by that, that I consider Markham such a great detective; but I mean, that I think the case is one that can never be solved,—and perhaps it’s just as well that it shouldn’t be.”
Young Van Wyck sighed deeply, and then frowned, as he went on: “I suppose I’m master here now, in a way. I don’t mean to question my stepmother’s position or authority, but I’m the man of the house, and my wishes ought to have some weight. Especially, as Mrs. Van Wyck declines to take any part in the settlement of questions that arise.”
“Don’t you think,” I ventured, “that the services of a good detective are really necessary?”
“No!” Morland thundered; “not since that stiletto business! Good Heavens, man! Do you want to run down that clue?”
Archer looked at the speaker as if he would jump at his throat. “You mean to say—” he blazed, and then stopped, unable to voice his own meaning.
I felt equally incensed, and thought it better to speak plainly.
“Morland,” I said, “I wish you’d state in plain terms what you do think.”
“I don’t think anything! and if I did I shouldn’t say it! but you must see, both of you, what it all means. And I want to shield Anne in every way I can. Oh, let’s not even speak of it,—it drives me crazy to think about it!”
The boy’s face,—for Morland was really not much more than a boy,—was pathetic. He was afraid to face the conclusions which the finding of that stiletto must lead to.
Not so, Archer. The older man was quiet and composed as he said, straightforwardly: “Nothing can be gained by shirking the issue. If we refuse to consider the case, others will do so. Don’t you think it’s wiser to learn all we can ourselves, and be ready to meet any detective on his own ground? Now look here, Morland, if you are really anxious to shield Mrs. Van Wyck from suspicion, the best way to go about it is to face that stiletto business and run it to earth. I don’t believe there’s anything in it.”
“I wish I could think so,” and Morland’s eyes showed a gleam of hope. “But you fellows don’t know how Anne hated the governor.”
“Hush!” said Archer, sternly; “don’t say such things as that!”
“But it’s true,” Morland insisted, doggedly. “You fellows don’t know anything about it. At first, they got along pretty well, but lately,—well, it wasn’t all Anne’s fault; Dad certainly made it hard for her, with his domineering ways and unjust rules. But Anne tantalized him, too. And lately they had a lot of quarrelling over those pearls. Now I’m terribly fond of Anne,—perhaps more so than I ought to be,—but I can’t help seeing things as they are. Why, it was a crisis! Last night the governor was going to give away an enormous sum of money. And, whether he intended to give the pearls too, I don’t know; but he told Anne that he did.”
Morland ceased speaking, and indeed no more words were needed. Whatever the facts, he had set forth a theory that was at least plausible.
I wouldn’t believe a word of it; my heart refused to harbor the faintest suspicion of Anne,—but I knew it was only my heart that refused. My brain saw clearly the logic and truth of what Morland had said, and, too, my brain refused to forget Anne’s words, “I’m capable of crime.”
And so, with my heart and brain in dire conflict, I couldn’t speak.
But Archer spoke. In a cold even cutting voice, he said: “You are of course entitled to jump to a conclusion if you wish. You are of course at liberty to put the worst possible construction on the evidence of the stiletto. But would you mind informing us how, in your opinion, Mrs. Van Wyck accomplished the diabolical act which you attribute to her, and left the study locked on the inside?”
Morland passed his hand wearily over his brow. “I don’t know,” he said; “nobody knows. But you must admit that whoever did the diabolical deed, managed in some way to leave the study door locked.”
“Then until you can discover how that was done,” Archer went on, “I think it will be wise for you to refrain from making accusations. I’m an older man than you are, Morland, and I think I have a right to call you down, when you pursue such a dangerous course. Even though you feel sure your suspicions are correct, I beg of you do not shout them from the housetop.”
“I’m not—” began Morland, but I interrupted. “The very fact that the study was left locked, so positively points to suicide that I think it would be better to let it go at that. Why not call off the detectives and insist upon a verdict of suicide. The fact that the weapon is missing is no more inexplicable, if as much so, as how the murderer escaped.”
“I’m sure I’m willing to let it go at that,” said Morland, who was now pacing up and down the room with his hands in his pockets. “I’d be glad to stop investigations at once, but I doubt if that’s possible.”
“And then there’s Carstairs,” said Archer; “that chap certainly has a guilty conscience, if anybody ever had. If investigation must be made, can’t it be turned in his direction? If he’s innocent, it can do no harm; and if he’s
