behind the books, and feared their discovery, she could not have been more nervously agitated. I noticed, too, that Archer was watching her closely, even while he was busily engaged in taking down and putting back the volumes.
In an effort to distract Anne’s attention, and perhaps to calm her unrest, I said, “How did you like the vase I brought you?” and I glanced at it where it stood on a small side table.
“It is beautiful!” she said, and she thanked me with her eyes. “I have never seen a more exquisite piece of Venetian glass. But so very fragile! I would not let any one but myself touch it to unpack it; and even then I was afraid it would break while I was disengaging it from its wrappings. I was frightened, Raymond, lest Mr. Van Wyck should see it. He was so absurdly jealous that it would have made him very angry. But now it doesn’t matter.” Her lip quivered, and a strange look came into her eyes, but I was positive it was not regret that she no longer had to endure her husband’s jealousy.
At last Markham declared himself satisfied that the pearls were not in Anne’s apartments, and, followed by his assistants, he went to search David Van Wyck’s rooms. And from there the search continued all over the rest of the rooms; and it was well on toward sundown before he was ready to declare himself satisfied that the pearls were not hidden in any part of the house.
“And so,” said Mr. Markham, with an air of finality, “we may be sure that Mr. Van Wyck did not hide the pearls, nor are they in the possession of any member of this household. This, I think, proves that the robbery was committed by an intruder, who also killed Mr. Van Wyck. The mystery of how the burglar entered, and what weapon he used, will, I fear, never be solved.”
“And the missing deed?” asked Archer.
“That is another mystery that seems inexplicable. Of course the fortune now remains in possession of the family, and will be disposed of according to the terms of Mr. Van Wyck’s will.”
The will, as everybody knew, left David Van Wyck’s three heirs each in possession of one-third of his fortune. The pearls were not mentioned in the will, although Anne claimed he had verbally given them to her. Both Barbara and Morland disputed her ownership of them, but as the pearls were gone, it made little difference whose they were.
“I can’t help thinking, Mr. Markham,” I said, “that we have all reached the end of our ingenuity. But I also think that the problem ought not to be given up, and that it is now time to call in a more expert investigator. I propose, therefore, that we send for Fleming Stone, and put the matter in his hands.”
“Oh, that wonderful Mr. Stone!” exclaimed Mrs. Stelton, clapping her hands in her foolish way. “Send for him, do! He can tell us everything!”
“I, for one, do not wish him sent for,” said Anne, in a most positive manner.
“Nor I,” said Barbara, for once agreeing with her step-mother.
“I don’t think we need him,” said Morland thoughtfully. “What could he find out more than we have?”
“We haven’t found out anything,” I retorted. “And he would explain everything in a short time.”
“Is he, then, omniscient?” said Mr. Markham, with a decided sneer.
“He is very nearly so in matters of detective work,” I returned gravely. “If Mrs. Van Wyck does not wish to employ him, I will do so myself; as I am quite willing to admit that I have a strong desire to solve the mysteries of David Van Wyck’s death and of the stolen jewels and missing deed.”
We discussed at some length the question of sending for Fleming Stone, but so strong was the opposition of the Van Wycks, of the detective, and of Condron Archer, that I forbore to insist, and the matter was left unsettled.
But later I discussed it alone with Archer. “Don’t do it,” he said to me earnestly. “Don’t you see that to get Stone here might implicate Anne?”
“Why,” said I, in surprise, “my motive in getting him would be to prove Anne’s innocence!”
“Then, if you want to prove Anne Van Wyck innocent, or even to continue to think her so, don’t send for Stone;” and with these words, Archer turned on his heel and left me.
I went to the study, hoping to find Morland there, and to persuade him to agree to my views. But there was no one in the study except the secretary.
“Mr. Lasseter,” I said, “as man to man, won’t you explain to me why you and Morland persist in those conflicting stories?”
“My story is the true one,” said Lasseter, looking me squarely in the eye. “When I left the room that night, Morland sat here”—indicating a large carved seat near the fireplace—“and Mr. Van Wyck was at his desk. It all occurred as I related at the inquest. And, Mr. Sturgis, I will tell you what I have not told any one else. After going out of the door, I went around the study and half way down the front path to the road. Then, on an impulse which I cannot explain, I turned back and went and looked in at the study window—not the door, but the window at the farther end. And I distinctly saw Morland bending over his father’s desk. Of course at that time I had no thought of tragedy, and I hoped that father and son would make up their quarrel then and there. I merely glanced in, and, turning away again, went straight home.”
“Why didn’t you tell of this at the inquest?”
“Because, though it would, in a way, prove my story, in the face of the tragedy I feared it might make things look black for Morland.”
“You don’t suspect him of—of any wrongdoing!”
“No, I can’t. But it is all mysterious, and I agree with you in wishing that we could have the great Fleming Stone look into it.”
“Why, I thought you didn’t want him!”
“Personally I do; but since Miss Van Wyck is so opposed to the idea, I should rather defer to her wishes than insist upon my own.”
“Oh, I see; I didn’t understand before.”
“Yes,” said Lasseter frankly; “although we’re not formally engaged, I hope to make Barbara Van Wyck my wife; and so, you see, I cannot endorse a course of action to which she is so definitely opposed.”
This was true enough, and I told him so. I couldn’t help liking Lasseter, and some things about him which I had thought strange were explained by what he had just told me.
From him I went straight to Morland. “Tell me,” I said to him, in a confidential way, “why did you and Lasseter contradict each other at the inquest?”
“I wondered you didn’t ask me that long ago,” he said, seeming not at all offended. “You see, it is this way. I was sitting on that old bench by the fireplace. But it is in a dark corner, and I was in a shadow; for after the committee left we had turned off some of the lights, and the shaded desk-light and the firelight made pretty much all the illumination there was. I was tired and discouraged with the whole matter, and I left the room quietly, just before twelve, without even saying good-night. Father and Lasseter were talking, and I don’t believe they heard me go. So when Lasseter said good-night to me, as he says he did, he really thought I was there; and if Father spoke to me, why, he must have thought so, too.”
This was all plausible enough, and the young man’s frank manner convinced me of its truth. But
