frankly bored by the belated search, let Greenleaf lead the way.
"I went up to the sanitarium late last night," the chief told him, "and had a long talk with Miss Hardesty. She says the man she saw night before last was right here, just a few yards from this Number Seven sleeping porch; and, it seemed to her, he made straight for the board fence. We'll follow in his footsteps. That will take up to the fence in the middle of the rear line of Number Seven's lot."
He was following this route as he talked, Bristow limping a few yards behind him.
Greenleaf overlooked nothing. The lot had been cleared of last winter's leaves, and the search was comparatively simple, but, if he saw even so much as a small stick on either side of him, he turned it over. They were soon at the fence, about twenty yards from the sleeping porch.
"There's not a trace—not a trace of anything, chief," said Bristow, leaning one elbow on the top board of the fence.
Greenleaf, however, was not to be discouraged. After he had walked around again and again in ever-widening circles, he stopped and thought.
"If that nigger was running away and trying to make good time," he exclaimed, suddenly inspired, "he didn't jump the fence in the middle there, where you are. He took a line slanting down toward that negro settlement. The chances are he went over the fence down at that corner."
He pointed to the southeastern corner back of No. 5 and, with his eyes on the ground, began to work toward it.
Barely a yard from the corner, he stooped down swiftly, picked up something and turned joyfully toward Bristow, who still leaned against the fence.
"Look here! Look here, Mr. Bristow," he called, hurrying across to him.
Bristow examined the object Greenleaf had found. It consisted of six links of a gold chain, three of the links very small and of plain gold, the other alternating three links being larger and chased with a fine, exquisite design of laurel leaves, the leaves so small as to be barely distinguishable to the naked eye.
The lame man shared the chief's excitement.
"By George! You've got something worth while. I should say so!"
"What do you make of it?" asked Greenleaf, eager and pleased. "It must have belonged to Mrs. Withers, don't you think?"
"There's one way to find out," Bristow answered, looking at his watch. It was half-past eight o'clock. "Let's go and ask Withers."
They went around to the front of No. 5.
"One of the end links is broken," Bristow said as they ascended the steps. "My guess is that this is a part of the necklace Mrs. Withers wore when she was killed. You remember the mark on the back of her neck. It might have been made by the jerk that would have been required to break these links."
Miss Kelly, answering their ring, told them Mr. Withers had gone to the railroad station to meet Mr. Braceway.
"Then, too," she added, "Miss Fulton's father is due on the nine o'clock train. Mr. Withers may stop down town to meet him."
"I'd forgotten about that," said Bristow. "We'll have to ask your help." He handed her the fragment of chain. "Will you be so kind as to take that back to Miss Fulton and ask her whether she recognizes it, whether she can identify it?"
Miss Kelly complied with the request at once.
She returned in a few moments.
"Miss Fulton," she reported, handing the links back to Bristow, "says this is a part of the chain Mrs. Withers wore round her neck night before last. She wore a lavalliere; it had two emeralds and eighteen rather small diamonds."
"Good!" exclaimed Greenleaf, glancing at the lame man. "I guess that fixes Perry."
"Undoubtedly," Bristow assented; and spoke to Miss Kelly: "I beg your pardon, but is Miss Fulton up this morning, or will she be up later?"
"She's dressing now. She wants to be up to meet her father."
"In that case, I'll wait until later. What I would like to have is a complete, detailed description of all of Mrs. Withers' jewelry. I wish you'd mention that to her, will you?"
Greenleaf was anxious to return to his office.
"This last piece of evidence," he said, "ought to go to the coroner's jury. It clinches the case against Perry. Here's the whole business in a nutshell: the buttons missing from his blouse, one found in Number Five, the other in your bungalow; Miss Hardesty's having seen him the night of the murder; the ease with which he undoubtedly got the kitchen key from Lucy Thomas; the imprint of his rubber-soled shoe on the porch; the finding of this piece of gold chain; and his failure to establish an alibi. It's more than enough to have him held for the grand jury—it's murder in the first degree."
Bristow went back to his porch. Looking down to his left and through the trees, he commanded a view of Freeman Avenue.
"When I see an automobile flash past that spot," he decided, "I'll hurry down to Number Five. I want to be there to witness the meeting between Miss Fulton and her father. It may be possible that, when this scandal—whatever it was—was about to break concerning Mrs. Withers, this family was lucky enough to have a negro hauled up as the murderer. In any event, it's up to me to keep track of the relations between Fulton, his daughter, Withers, and Morley. The psychology of the situation now is as important as any material evidence."
He did not have long to wait. At a quarter past nine he caught a glimpse of a big car speeding out Freeman Avenue. He sprang to his feet, hurried down to No. 5, rang the bell, and was inside the living room by the time the machine had climbed up Manniston Road and deposited in front of the door its one passenger. He was a man of sixty-five or sixty-seven years of age, very white of hair, very erect of figure.
Bristow did not have time or need to formulate an excuse for his presence before Mr. Fulton rushed up the steps to meet Maria. As she came from the direction of the bedrooms to greet him, her expression had in it reluctance, timidity even.
The father and daughter met in the centre of the living room. Bristow, stationed near the corner by the door, could see their faces. He watched them with attention strained to the utmost.
In the eyes of Maria there was a great fear mingled with a look of pleading. The old man's face was deep-lined; under his eyes were dark pouches; and his lips were tightly compressed, as if he sought to prevent his bursting into condemnation.
With a little catch in her voice, Maria cried out, "Father!" and stood watching him.
For a moment the old man's eyes were dreary with accusation. Bristow had never seen an emotion mirrored so clearly, so indisputably, in anybody's eyes. It was a speaking, thundering light, he thought.
The father, without opening his mouth, plainly said to the girl:
"At last, you've killed her! It's all your fault. You've killed her."
Bristow read that as easily as if it had been held before him in printed words. So, apparently, did Miss Fulton. The pleading expression left her face, and, in place of it, was only a flourishing, lively fear.
But Fulton put out his arms and gathered her into them, took
