to recall those steps—or rather your impression of them. Would you say they were the steps of a man or a woman?”
An added pallor overspread the girl’s face; and her frightened eyes ran over all the occupants of the room. Her breathing, I noticed, had quickened; and twice she parted her lips as if to speak, but checked herself each time. At last she said in a low tremulous voice:
“I don’t know—I haven’t the slightest idea.”
A short, high-strung laugh, bitter and sneering, burst from Sibella; and all eyes were turned in amazed attention in her direction. She stood rigidly at the foot of the bed, her face flushed, her hands tightly clinched at her side.
“Why don’t you tell them you recognized my footsteps?” she demanded of her sister in biting tones. “You had every intention of doing so. Haven’t you got courage enough left to lie—you sobbing little cat?”
Ada caught her breath and seemed to draw herself nearer to the doctor, who gave Sibella a stern, admonitory look.
“Oh, I say, Sib! Hold your tongue.” It was Chester who broke the startled silence that followed the outbreak.
Sibella shrugged her shoulders and walked to the window; and Vance again turned his attention to the girl on the bed, continuing his questioning as if nothing had happened.
“There’s one more point, Miss Greene.” His tone was even gentler than before. “When you groped your way across the room toward the switch, at what point did you come in contact with the unseen person?”
“About half-way to the door—just beyond that centre-table.”
“You say a hand touched you. But how did it touch you? Did it shove you, or try to take hold of you?”
She shook her head vaguely.
“Not exactly. I don’t know how to explain it, but I seemed to walk into the hand, as though it were outstretched—reaching for me.”
“Would you say it was a large hand or a small one? Did you, for instance, get the impression of strength?”
There was another silence. Again the girl’s respiration quickened, and she cast a frightened glance at Sibella, who stood staring out into the black, swinging branches of the trees in the side yard.
“I don’t know—oh, I don’t know!” Her words were like a stifled cry of anguish. “I didn’t notice. It was all so sudden—so horrible.”
“But try to think,” urged Vance’s low, insistent voice. “Surely you got some impression. Was it a man’s hand, or a woman’s?”
Sibella now came swiftly to the bed, her cheeks very pale, her eyes blazing. For a moment she glared at the stricken girl; then she turned resolutely to Vance.
“You asked me down-stairs if I had any idea as to who might have done the shooting. I didn’t answer you then, but I’ll answer you now. I’ll tell you who’s guilty!” She jerked her head toward the bed, and pointed a quivering finger at the still figure lying there. “There’s the guilty one—that snivelling little outsider, that sweet angelic little snake in the grass!”
So incredible, so unexpected, was this accusation that for a time no one in the room spoke. A groan burst from Ada’s lips, and she clutched at the doctor’s hand with a spasmodic movement of despair.
“Oh, Sibella—how could you!” she breathed.
Von Blon had stiffened, and an angry light came into his eyes. But before he could speak Sibella was rushing on with her illogical, astounding indictment.
“Oh, she’s the one who did it! And she’s deceiving you just as she’s always tried to deceive the rest of us. She hates us—she’s hated us ever since father brought her into this house. She resents us—the things we have, the very blood in our veins. Heaven knows what blood’s in hers. She hates us because she isn’t our equal. She’d gladly see us all murdered. She killed Julia first, because Julia ran the house and saw to it that she did something to earn her livelihood. She despises us; and she planned to get rid of us.”
The girl on the bed looked piteously from one to the other of us. There was no resentment in her eyes; she appeared stunned and unbelieving, as if she doubted the reality of what she had heard.
“Most interestin’,” drawled Vance. It was his ironic tone, more than the words themselves, that focussed all eyes on him. He had been watching Sibella during her tirade, and his gaze was still on her.
“You seriously accuse your sister of doing the shooting?” He spoke now in a pleasant, almost friendly, voice.
“I do!” she declared brazenly. “She hates us all.”
“As far as that goes,” smiled Vance, “I haven’t noticed a superabundance of love and affection in any of the Greene family.” His tone was without offense. “And do you base your accusation on anything specific, Miss Greene?”
“Isn’t it specific enough that she wants us all out of the way, that she thinks she would have everything—ease, luxury, freedom—if there wasn’t any one else to inherit the Greene money?”
“Hardly specific enough to warrant a direct accusation of so heinous a character.—And by the by, Miss Greene, just how would you explain the method of the crime if called as a witness in a court of law? You couldn’t altogether ignore the fact that Miss Ada herself was shot in the back, don’t y’ know?”
For the first time the sheer impossibility of the accusation seemed to strike Sibella. She became sullen; and her mouth settled into a contour of angry bafflement.
“As I told you once before, I’m not a policewoman,” she retorted. “Crime isn’t my specialty.”
“Nor logic either apparently.” A whimsical note crept into Vance’s voice. “But perhaps I misinterpret your accusation. Did you mean to imply that Miss Ada shot your sister Julia, and that some one else—party or parties unknown, I believe the phrase is—shot Miss Ada immediately afterward—in a spirit of vengeance, perhaps? A crime à quatre mains, so to speak?”
Sibella’s confusion was obvious, but her stubborn wrath had in no wise abated.
“Well, if that was the way it happened,” she countered malevolently, “it’s a rotten shame they didn’t do the job better.”
“The blunder may at least prove unfortunate for somebody,” suggested Vance pointedly. “Still, I hardly think we can seriously entertain the double-culprit theory. Both of your sisters, d’ ye see, were shot with the same gun—a .32 revolver—within a few minutes of each other. I’m afraid that we’ll have to be content with one guilty person.”
Sibella’s manner suddenly became sly and calculating.
“What kind of a gun was yours, Chet?” she asked her brother.
“Oh, it was a .32, all right—an old Smith & Wesson revolver.” Chester was painfully ill at ease.
“Was it, indeed? Well, that’s that.” She turned her back on us and went again to the window.
The tension in the room slackened, and Von
