French concluded as the taxi turned into Drury Road, deep in Shore Oaks.
"Stop at the Vandervere entrance," he directed the driver, and the cab rolled on for several hundred yards more and came to a halt before the entrance to the stone wall that surrounded the mansion.
French got out, told the driver to wait, and walked through the heavy, iron-grille gate that stood half open. He went along a wide flagstone walk for about thirty yards, climbed steps up a slight terrace and stood in the rain on a small concrete porch. He rapped on the huge oak door several times with the metal rapper, and waited.
Presently the door opened, and a very tall butler dressed in a black tie and coat confronted French. His hair was extremely white, and his face was even whiter. It seemed to French that the man had the most death-like appearance of anyone he had ever seen.
But it wasn't so much the paleness of the man's skin, nor the solemnity of his appearance, as it was the gash in his forehead that amazed French. It was a deep, jagged cut, from which a thin trickle of blood had run down the man's temple and caked there. Apparently it caused no pain, although it looked painful enough and was sorely in need of dressing.
The butler looked down a long, thin nose, and his deep-set gray eyes bored into French.
"Yes?" he queried.
"I'd like to see Judson Vandervere, please," French answered.
"Who shall I say is calling?"
"French. David French. Perhaps he won't recognize the name. I'd like to see him for a short while on a business call."
The man hesitated, then: "Oh, I see. You're a newspaperman. I'm sorry. Mister Vandervere never gives interviews to the press."
French suddenly felt cold all over. He had known it would be hard, but he had to see Vandervere. For a moment he started to protest, but decided: "What's the use?" Then he turned to go.
The door was almost closed behind him when he heard a youthful voice call out from inside:
"Who is it, Felton? Why don't you show them in?"
"It's a reporter, sir," French heard Felton reply. "I didn't think you'd care to see him."
"Oh, yes, by all means. Show him in. It's about time I let the public in on my goings-on."
French, so happy that he trembled, turned and strode through the great door as Felton, the ghost-like butler, holding out his hand for the reporter's hat and coat, opened it wide to receive him.
Inside he came face to face with a young man whom he took to be Vandervere. The man was small in stature and had an old-looking face, even whiter than the butler's skin. His head was twisted to one side, and he kept rubbing the side of his neck with his palm.
"I'm Jud Vandervere," he said. "Sit down and tell me what it is you want. Perhaps I can give you a little help anyway. I'm awfully tired. Had quite a shake-up in the auto a few hours ago. Cut Felton up a bit, as you probably noticed, and twisted my neck pretty badly."
French sat down in an immense sofa, made a few brief remarks about automobile accidents in general, and got out his notebook.
"I suppose you'll want to know all about my wild life," Vandervere remarked casually. "How many cars I've wrecked; how many times I've been
