shrugged her shoulders—it was not altogether a natural gesture.
“On duty to-night,” she answered.
Her best friend paused for a moment.
“Come over and join our party, both of you,” she said. “Dicky Pennell’s here and Gracie Marsh—just landed. They’d love to meet you.”
Letty shook her head slowly. There was a look in her face which even her best friend did not understand.
“I’m afraid that we can’t do that,” she said. “I am Mr. Abbott’s guest.”
“And to-night,” Austen Abbott intervened, looking up at the woman who stood between them, “I am not disposed to share Miss Shaw with anybody.”
Her best friend could do no more than shake her head and go away. The two were left alone for the rest of the evening. When they departed together, people who knew felt that a whiff of tragedy had passed through the room. Nobody understood—or pretended to understand. Even before her engagement, Letty had never been known to sup alone with a man. That she should do so now, and with this particular man, was preposterous!
“Something will come of it,” her best friend murmured, sadly, as she watched Austen Abbott help his companion on with her cloak.
Something did!
Peter Ruff rose at his accustomed time the following morning, and attired himself, if possible, with more than his usual care. He wore the grey suit which he had carefully put out the night before, but he hesitated long between the rival appeals of a red tie with white spots and a plain mauve one. He finally chose the latter, finding that it harmonised more satisfactorily with his socks, and after a final survey of himself in the looking-glass, he entered the next room, where his coffee was set out upon a small round table near the fire, together with his letters and newspapers.
Peter Ruff was, after all, like the rest of us, a creature of habit. He made an invariable rule of glancing through the newspapers before he paid any regard at all to his letters or his breakfast. In the absence of anything of a particularly sensational character, he then opened his letters in leisurely fashion, and went back afterwards to the newspaper as he finished his meal. This morning, however, both his breakfast and letters remained for some time untouched. The first paragraph which caught his eye as he shook open the Daily Telegraph was sufficiently absorbing. There it was in great black type:
TERRIBLE TRAGEDY IN THE FLAT OF A WELL-KNOWN ACTRESS!
AUSTEN ABBOTT SHOT DEAD!
ARREST OF CAPTAIN SOTHERST
Beyond the inevitable shock which is always associated with the taking of life, and the unusual position of the people concerned in it, there was little in the brief account of the incident to excite the imagination. A policeman on the pavement outside the flat in which Miss Shaw and her mother lived fancied that he heard, about two o’clock in the morning, the report of a revolver shot. As nothing further transpired, and as the sound was very indistinct, he did not at once enter the building, but kept it, so far as possible, under observation. About twenty minutes later, a young gentleman in evening dress came out into the street, and the policeman noticed at once that he was carrying a small revolver, which he attempted to conceal. The constable thereupon whistled for his sergeant, and accompanied by the young gentleman—who made no effort to escape—ascended to Miss Shaw’s rooms, where the body of Austen Abbott was discovered lying upon the threshold of the sitting room with a small bullet mark through the forehead. The inmates of the house were aroused and a doctor sent for. The deceased man was identified as Austen Abbott—a well-known actor—and the man under arrest gave his name at once as Captain the Honourable Brian Sotherst. Peter Ruff sighed as he laid down the paper. The case seemed to him perfectly clear, and his sympathies were altogether with the young officer who had taken the law into his own hands. He knew nothing of Miss Letty Shaw, and, consequently, did her, perhaps, less than justice in his thoughts. Of Austen Abbott, on the other hand, he knew a great deal—and nothing of good. It was absurd, after all, that any one should be punished for killing such a brute!
He descended, a few minutes later, to his office, and found Miss Brown busy arranging a bowl of violets upon his desk.
“Isn’t it horrible?” she cried, as he entered, carrying a bundle of papers under his arm. “I never have had such a shock!”
“Do you know any of them, then?” Peter Ruff asked, straightening his tie in the mirror.
“Of course!” she answered. “Why, I was in the same company as Letty Shaw for a year. I was at the Milan, too, last night. Letty was there having supper alone with Austen Abbott. We all said that there’d be trouble, but of course we never dreamed of this! Isn’t there any chance for him, Peter? Can’t he get off?”
Peter Ruff shook his head.
“I’m afraid not,” he answered. “They may be able to bring evidence of a quarrel and reduce it to manslaughter, but what you’ve just told me about this supper party makes it all the worse. It will come out in the evidence, of course.”
“Captain Sotherst is such a dear,” Miss Brown declared, “and so good-looking! And as for that brute Austen Abbott, he ought to have been shot long ago!”
Peter Ruff seated himself before his desk and hitched up his trousers at the knees.
“No doubt you are right, Violet,” he said, “but people go about these things so foolishly. To me it is simply exasperating to reflect how little use is made of persons such as myself, whose profession in life it is to arrange these little matters. Take the present case, for example. Captain Sotherst had only to lay these facts before me, and Austen Abbott was a ruined man. I could have arranged the affair for him in half-a-dozen different ways. Whereas now it must be a life for a life—the life of an honest young English gentleman for that of a creature who should have been kicked out of the world as vermin! … I have some letters give you, Violet, if you please.”
She swung round in her chair reluctantly.
“I can’t help thinking of that poor young fellow,” she said, with a sigh.
“Sentiment after office hours, if you please!” said Peter.
Then there came a knock at the door.
His visitor lifted her veil, and Peter Ruff recognized her immediately.
“What can I do for you, Lady Mary?” he asked.
She saw the recognition in his eyes even before he spoke, and wondered at it.
“You know me?” she exclaimed.
“I know most people,” he answered, drily; “it is part of my profession.”
“Tell me—you are Mr. Peter Ruff,” she said, “the famous specialist in the detection of crime? You know that Brian Sotherst is my brother?”
“Yes,” he said, “I know it! I am sorry—very sorry, indeed.”
He handed her a chair. She seated herself with a little tightening of the lips.
“I want more than sympathy from you, Mr. Ruff,” she warned him. “I want your help.”
“It
