affair has got on everybody’s nerves.”
The girl gave him a grateful glance, and seemed to relax under his ministrations.
After a moment he straightened up and looked at Markham.
“I hope you gentlemen are through—for to-day, at least.”
Both Vance and Markham had risen, and Heath and I had followed suit; but at that moment Sibella strode toward us again.
“Wait!” she commanded imperiously. “I’ve just thought of something. Chet’s revolver! I know where it went.—She took it.” Again she pointed accusingly at Ada. “I saw her in Chet’s room the other day, and I wondered then why she was snooping about there.” She gave Vance a triumphant leer. “That’s specific, isn’t it?”
“What day was this, Miss Greene?” As before, his calmness seemed to counteract the effect of her venom.
“What day? I don’t remember exactly. Last week some time.”
“The day you were looking for your emerald pin, perhaps?”
Sibella hesitated; then said angrily: “I don’t recall. Why should I remember the exact time? All I know is that, as I was passing down the hall, I glanced into Chet’s room—the door was half open—and I saw her in there . . . by the desk.”
“And was it so unusual to see Miss Ada in your brother’s room?” Vance spoke without any particular interest.
“She never goes into any of our rooms,” declared Sibella. “Except Rex’s, sometimes. Julia told her long ago to keep out of them.”
Ada gave her sister a look of infinite entreaty.
“Oh, Sibella,” she moaned; “what have I ever done to make you dislike me so?”
“What have you done!” The other’s voice was harsh and strident, and a look almost demoniacal smouldered in her levelled eyes. “Everything! Nothing! Oh, you’re clever—with your quiet, sneaky ways, and your patient, hangdog look, and your goody-goody manner. But you don’t pull the wool over my eyes. You’ve been hating all of us ever since you came here. And you’ve been waiting for the chance to kill us, planning and scheming—you vile little——”
“Sibella!” It was Von Blon’s voice that, like the lash of a whip, cut in on this unreasoned tirade. “That will be enough!” He moved forward, and glanced menacingly into the girl’s eyes. I was almost as astonished at his attitude as I had been at her wild words. There was a curious intimacy in his manner—an implication of familiarity which struck me as unusual even for a family physician of his long and friendly standing. Vance noticed it too, for his eyebrows went up slightly and he watched the scene with intense interest.
“You’ve become hysterical,” Von Blon said, without lowering his minatory gaze. “You don’t realize what you’ve been saying.”
I felt he would have expressed himself far more forcibly if strangers had not been present. But his words had their effect. Sibella dropped her eyes, and a sudden change came over her. She covered her face with her hands, and her whole body shook with sobs.
“I’m—sorry. I was mad—and silly—to say such things.”
“You’d better take Sibella to her room, Chester.” Von Blon had resumed his professional tone. “This business has been too much for her.”
The girl turned without another word and went out, followed by Chester.
“These modern women—all nerves,” Von Blon commented laconically. Then he placed his hand on Ada’s forehead. “Now, young lady, I’m going to give you something to make you sleep after all this excitement.”
He had scarcely opened his medicine-case to prepare the draught when a shrill, complaining voice drifted clearly to us from the next room; and for the first time I noticed that the door of the little dressing-room which communicated with Mrs. Greene’s quarters was slightly ajar.
“What’s all the trouble now? Hasn’t there been enough disturbance already without these noisy scenes in my very ear? But it doesn’t matter, of course, how much I suffer. . . . Nurse! Shut those doors into Ada’s room. You had no business to leave them open when you knew I was trying to get a little rest. You did it on purpose to annoy me. . . . And nurse! Tell the doctor I must see him before he goes. I have those stabbing pains in my spine again. But who thinks about me, lying here paralyzed——?”
The doors were closed softly, and the fretful voice was cut off from us.
“She could have had the doors closed a long time ago if she’d really wanted them closed,” said Ada wearily, a look of distress on her drawn white face. Why, Doctor Von, does she always pretend that every one deliberately makes her suffer?”
Von Blon sighed. “I’ve told you, Ada, that you mustn’t take your mother’s tantrums too seriously. Her irritability and complaining are part of her disease.”
We bade the girl good-by, and the doctor walked with us into the hall.
“I’m afraid you didn’t learn much,” he remarked, almost apologetically. “It’s most unfortunate Ada didn’t get a look at her assailant.” He addressed himself to Heath. “Did you, by the way, look in the dining-room wall-safe to make sure nothing was missing? You know, there’s one there behind the big niello over the mantel.”
“One of the first places we inspected.” The Sergeant’s voice was a bit disdainful. “And that reminds me, doc: I want to send a man up in the morning to look for finger-prints in Miss Ada’s room.”
Von Blon agreed amiably, and held out his hand to Markham.
“And if there’s any way I can be of service to you or the police,” he added pleasantly, “please call on me. I’ll be only too glad to help. I don’t see just what I can do, but one never knows.”
Markham thanked him, and we descended to the lower hall. Sproot was waiting to help us with our coats, and a moment later we were in the District Attorney’s car ploughing our way through the snow-drifts.
CHAPTER VII
VANCE ARGUES THE CASE
(Tuesday, November 9; 5 p. m.)
It was nearly five o’clock when we reached the Criminal Courts Building. Swacker had lit the old bronze-and-china chandelier of Markham’s private office, and an atmosphere of eerie gloom pervaded the room.
“Not a nice family, Markham old dear,” sighed Vance, lying back in one of the deep leather-upholstered chairs. “Decidedly not a nice family. A family run to seed, its old vigor vitiated. If the heredit’ry sires of the contempor’ry Greenes could rise from their sepulchres and look in upon their present progeny, my word! what a jolly good shock they’d have! . . . Funny thing how these old families degenerate under the environment of ease and idleness. There are the Wittelsbachs, and the Romanoffs, and the Julian-Claudian house, and the Abbassid dynasty—all examples of phyletic disintegration. . . . And it’s
