The Man Inside (Smith's Magazine serial)/Part 2

by Natalie Sumner Lincoln

(Part II)

SYNOPSIS OF PRECEDING CHAPTERS.^[1]

Cynthia Carew, just returned from a brilliant ball in Washington, is prostrated with shock and grief upon the discovery of the old butler, Joshua, that her carriage escort has been the dead body of her distinguished uncle, Senator James Carew, who has been apparently stabbed with a small desk file. Suspicion is first cast upon the coachman, Hamilton, who is arrested. The other members of the dead senator's household are his widowed sister, Mrs. Winthrop, and her stepson, Philip Winthrop, who has acted as secretary to Senator Carew. The latter is a dissipated, hot-tempered, young man, and is suspected of some knowledge of the crime. Eleanor Thornton, Cynthia's closest friend, with her maid, Annette, comes to stay with Cynthia until after the funeral, She induces her uncle, Col. Dana Thornton, a well-known lawyer, to represent Mrs. Winthrop's investigation into the crime. The detective, Brett, working on the case, is assisted by Douglas Hunter, a young friend of Senator Carew's just returned from official service in Japan. He is much interested in Eleanor Thornton. In an interview with the secretary of state and Secretary Wyndham of the Navy, he divulges important news concerning recent movements of Japan's navy, and learns that the plans of two new American dreadnaughts have been stolen that morning from Secretary Wyndham's desk, probably by a mysterious Spaniard who had forced his way into the office, and collapsed in a fit upon learning of Senator Carew's death. Senator Carew had been secretary of the foreign relations committee; international complications seem imminent, and in someway to account for his murder.

 

Chapter XI.

A Council of War.

PHILIP WINTHROP moved restlessly in bed, then lay still, for a feeling of deadly nausea almost overcame him. Half an hour passed, and, feeling better, he raised his hand and felt his throbbing temples. Wearily he tried to collect his ideas, but all appeared confused.

What was it that he had promised? Slowly his torpid conscience awoke. “For value received”—the phrase held a double meaning that penetrated even his dulled senses. He could not afford to lie there like a bump on a log any longer. He opened his eyes; apparently it was late, for the room was in total darkness, save for a streak of light that came from the half-open hall door.

With an effort, Philip raised himself on his elbow, and glanced about him, but even that slight exertion was too much in his weakened state, and, with a groan, he slid back on the pillows. For some seconds he lay without moving, but the yellow patch of light troubled him, and he rolled over on his side, facing the wall. He struggled apathetically to piece together the occurrences of the past few days. Suddenly he caught the sound of a light step, and the swish of skirts approaching his bed.

The next instant a glass was thrust under his nose and placed gently against his mouth. He raised his hand, and pushed the glass away from him. “G'way,” he stammered faintly. “Leave me 'lone!”

Apparently no attention was paid to his request, for the glass was again placed at his lips. Again he tried to thrust it from him, but his feeble efforts made no impression against the strong wrist. His resistance lasted only a few minutes, then his weaker will surrendered to the stronger, and he sipped the medicine obediently, after which the glass was withdrawn.

 

Downstairs in the library, three men sat smoking around the large desk table.

“I am glad you could join us to-night, Colonel Thornton,” said Brett, as he placed one of the ash trays conveniently near the lawyer. “Three heads are better than one, and it is time we got together and discussed certain features of this case.”

“Quite right. It will help us to a clearer understanding,” agreed the colonel.

“Then suppose, Mr. Hunter, that you first tell us any theories that you may have formed.”

Douglas dropped the paper cutter he was balancing in his hand, and, leaning on the table, looked seriously at his companions.

“I think,” he said deliberately, “that Philip Winthrop has a guilty knowledge of Senator Carew's death, if he is not the actual murderer.”

“Your reasons?” demanded Colonel Thornton.

“There was bad blood between them. That has been proved.” Douglas picked his words with care. “Possibly the quarrel was brought about because Senator Carew had found out something discreditable in Philip Winthrop's past. He had a responsible position as the senator's private secretary, and there is a chance he betrayed his trust.”

“In what way?” asked Brett eagerly.

“It may be that he is in the pay of some lobby anxious to influence important legislation.” Douglas, mindful of the secretary of state's caution, was feeling his way with care.

“Senator Carew was the last man to be influenced by such a character as Philip Winthrop,” said Thornton contemptuously.

“He may not have tried to do so, but simply have betrayed valuable information of committee plans and caucus.”

“That may be,” acknowledged Thornton, “particularly as I am told that Philip has been spending a great deal of money lately—far more than his salary would warrant.”

“'Value received,'” Douglas shrugged his shoulders expressively. “I have also found out that Hamilton, the coachman, is a Jamaican negro, his real name being Samuel Hamilton Quesada, and that he was brought here nearly two years ago by young Winthrop, when he returned from a visit to Jamaica. The senator took him into his employ at Winthrop's request and recommendation.”

“And your theory is——” questioned Brett sharply.

“That Winthrop either bribed Hamilton to kill Senator Carew, or to help him after he, Winthrop, had committed the murder. You must remember,” he added hastily, as Brett started to speak, “the Jamaican negro has a revengeful disposition when roused, and I have no doubt Senator Carew gave him merry hell when he discharged him Monday afternoon, and Hamilton was ready to risk everything to get even.”

Brett shook his head. “How did Senator Carew get into that carriage?” he asked doubtfully.

“Hamilton probably lied when he said he did not first stop at this house on his way to the ball to bring Miss Carew home. Or perhaps Winthrop came into this room, found Senator Carew busy writing, stole up behind him, seized the letter file, and stabbed him with it.”

Again Brett shook his head. “If that had been the case, the senator would have been stabbed in the back; whereas he was stabbed directly over the heart, and whoever committed the crime was facing him.”

“Well, that is not impossible,” argued Douglas. “Winthrop may have stood near the senator's chair and talked to him for a few minutes without the latter suspecting danger—may have even picked up the letter file—a harmless thing to do under ordinary circumstances—and without warning thrust it into the senator's chest.”

“And afterward?” questioned Brett.

“Afterward—Winthrop may have stepped into the hall, found no one there, tiptoed into the room again, telephoned”—pointing to the desk instrument—“out to the stable, and told Hamilton to drive at once to the front door. The sound of the horses' hoofs was probably drowned by the heavy rain, so no one in the house would have heard the carriage enter the porte-cochère, but”—impressively—“Winthrop, from this window, could see its arrival. He probably stepped into the hall again, found the coast clear, opened the front door, dashed back, picked up Senator Carew, who was much smaller than he, carried him out, and placed him inside the carriage. Hamilton had been drinking, and was perhaps too befogged to notice anything unusual, and when Winthrop slammed the carriage door, he probably drove off none the wiser.”

“Much as I dislike Philip Winthrop, I do not think him capable of committing murder,” said Colonel Thornton slowly. “Secondly, I believe, no matter how secretly you think the murder was planned, that if Philip were guilty, Mrs. Winthrop would have some inkling of it, and if their quarrel had been so serious, she would have known it, and would naturally try to hush matters up. Instead of which, she is the first to offer a reward, a large reward, mind you. It is not within reason that she would have done such a thing had she the faintest idea that Philip was the murderer.”

“I beg your pardon. Philip is not her son. There may be no love lost between them.”

“Good God! What a suggestion! You don't mean to insinuate that she offered that reward, knowing her stepson might be guilty?” Thornton looked at Douglas with sudden horror.

For reply Douglas nodded quietly.

“No, no, Douglas; you are shinning up the wrong tree. I have known Mrs. Winthrop for over fifteen years; she wouldn't injure a fly, let alone try to trap one whom she loves as her own flesh and blood. She was devoted to her husband, and for his sake legally adopted Philip and brought him up as her own son; in fact, she was entirely too indulgent and generous, which has proved his downfall. He hates work like a nigger.”

“Mr. Hunter has drawn a strong case against Philip Winthrop, except for one serious flaw,” broke in Brett, who had been a silent listener to their argument. “And that is that Philip Winthrop was at the Alibi Club on Monday evening. A number of reputable men are willing to swear to that. It is certain that he could not have been in two places at once. Secondly, Mrs. Winthrop swears that her brother spent Monday evening away from this house.” Brett leaned forward and spoke impressively. “Senator Carew was killed by another hand than Philip Winthrop's.”

“By whose hand?” asked Thornton and Douglas simultaneously.

“Captain Frederick Lane.”

“Fred Lane, of the engineer corps?” ejaculated Thornton, much astonished, while Douglas looked as blank as he felt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bah! You're mad!”

“Just a moment.” Brett held up a protesting hand. “Don't condemn my theory unheard. I seemed up against a blank wall in this house, so to-day I started an investigation at the other end—that is, at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. James Owen, where Miss Cynthia Carew attended a dance on Monday night.”

“Go on,” urged Douglas, as Brett stopped and glanced behind him to see that the hall door was closed.

“I called on Mrs. Owen. She was not inclined to be communicative, but her daughter, Miss Alice Owen, who came in during our interview, let the cat out of the bag, and Mrs. Owen had to tell then what she knew, which was this: That Captain Lane and Miss Carew were engaged——” A muttered word escaped Colonel Thornton, and Brett turned to him instantly. “I beg pardon—did you speak?”

“No,” growled the colonel.

“Apparently they had planned to announce the engagement at the dance,” resumed Brett. “Anyway, Miss Owen, who already knew of it, was told by Miss Carew that her uncle, the senator, had refused to give his consent, and had threatened to turn her out of doors if she did not instantly break the engagement.”

“Poor Cynthia! Poor little girl!” murmured Thornton. “I am very fond of her, and her father was my most intimate friend. It was beastly of Carew to issue such an ultimatum. She is entirely dependent upon him.”

“So Miss Owen thought. Miss Carew confided her troubles to her on her arrival. Miss Owen said that while they were sitting in the library, Captain Lane came in, looking very dejected, and she immediately got up to leave the lovers together. Before leaving the room, however, she overheard Lane tell Miss Carew that he had just seen her uncle, hoping to persuade him to reconsider his refusal, but that he had flatly refused to do so in the most insulting terms.”

“Upon my word, for a mild-tempered man, Carew managed to have plenty of quarrels on his hands on Monday!” exclaimed Thornton.

“And the last one undoubtedly brought about his death.” Brett spoke so positively that Douglas hitched his chair nearer in his excitement. “After I had finished my interview with Mrs. Owen, I asked permission to question her servants. The footman told me that Miss Carew left the dance earlier than the other guests, and that she had to wait a long time for her carriage. He said he called her carriage check number repeatedly, and with no result. Finally Captain Lane, becoming impatient, put on his overcoat and hat, and walked down the street, searching for Miss Carew's carriage.”

“And you think——” broke in Douglas.

“That Captain Lane found not only the carriage, but the senator sitting in it, and seized the opportunity to punish him for his deviltry to the girl he loved.”

A long pause followed as Colonel Thornton and Douglas sat thinking over Brett's startling news.

“Where did he get the weapon?” inquired Douglas finally.

“Out of Mrs. Owen's library, of course. He may have picked it up in a fit of absent-mindedness and carried it with him.”

“Did the footman or butler notice anything in his hand when he left the house?” questioned Thornton.

“I asked them, and they declared that he carried an umbrella in his left hand, but that they had not noticed whether he was holding anything in his right hand or not. The footman declared that it was raining so hard that it was impossible to see anything clearly. They both said Captain Lane was some fifteen minutes returning to the house.”

“Did he find the carriage?”

“He told the footman that he hadn't, and ordered him to keep calling the number, which he did, and soon after the carriage drove up.”

“Of all the cold-blooded propositions!” ejaculated Douglas. “Do you honestly mean that you think Lane deliberately put the girl he loved into the carriage to sit beside the man he had just murdered?”

“I do,” firmly, “and I stake my reputation as a detective that Captain Lane is guilty. You were with me, Mr. Hunter, when I overheard Miss Carew exclaim, as Miss Thornton entered her bedroom on Tuesday: 'They quarreled, Eleanor, they quarreled.'”

“She may not have been alluding to Captain Lane,” declared Douglas stoutly. “She may have referred to Philip Winthrop. He also quarreled with Senator Carew.”

“Philip is very much in love with Cynthia, and wishes to marry her,” volunteered Thornton quietly.

“Is that why Senator Carew objected to her engagement to Captain Lane?” asked Brett. “Did he wish her to marry Philip Winthrop?”

“I never heard that he did.” Thornton paused and reflected a moment. “I might as well tell you, for you will probably hear it from some one else eventually, that there has been a feud of long standing between the Lanes and Carews.”

Douglas whistled. “A Montague and Capulet affair?” he inquired.

“Exactly. Carew and old Governor Lane were political rivals. Lord, how they hated each other! They almost tore Maryland asunder when running for the governorship, which Lane won by a few votes. Carew charged fraud, which, however, was never proved. They cherished their animosity to the day of Governor Lane's death, and I can imagine it was a terrible shock to Carew to find that his dearly loved niece wanted to marry the governor's son.”

“What sort of a fellow is Lane?” asked Douglas.

“A fine specimen of the American gentleman,” exclaimed Thornton enthusiastically; “a soldier, every inch of him, brave to a fault. He has twice been mentioned in orders for gallant conduct—just the sort of fellow a romantic young girl like Cynthia would tall head over heels in love with.”

“In naming his virtues, you have overlooked his greatest fault,' said Brett calmly. “He has a fiendish temper, and, when provoked, falls into the most insane rages, so his brother officers tell me.”

“You are making out a black case against him,” agreed Douglas; “but there is one point you seem to have overlooked, and that is did the letter file used to kill Senator Carew belong to Mrs. Owen?”

“That is the one flaw in my case,” acknowledged Brett regretfully. “She declines to answer the question.”

Chapter XII.

At the White House.

“There's a note done cum fo' yo', suh,” announced the elevator boy lounging in the doorway of the Albany, as Douglas stepped inside the entrance of the apartment hotel. “I'll get it.” And visions of a tip caused the mulatto to hasten his leisurely footsteps to the small office at the left of the entrance. In a few seconds he was back at the elevator shaft, where Douglas stood waiting, and handed him a square envelope stamped with the words “State Department” in the left-hand corner. “Wanter go to yo' room, suh?” slipping the expected coin into his trousers pocket.

“Yes.” The door slammed shut, and the elevator shot upward. “Any one been to see me or telephoned, Jonas?”

“No, suh.” The mulatto brought the cage to a standstill at the third floor, and Douglas stepped out and hastened to his tiny apartment. Throwing his hat and cane on the bed, he drew a chair to the open window, having first made sure, with a caution that had grown upon him, that the hall door was securely locked, and that the chambermaid was not loitering in the vicinity. As he opened the note, an inclosure fell into his lap, but without looking at it he perused the few written lines. It was from the secretary of state. He read:

Dear Mr. Hunter: So far, no further developments. When people are at play they are usually “off guard.” I inclose an invitation to the garden party at the White House this afternoon, for which I asked. The diplomatic corps will attend in a body. I hope to see you there.

Douglas picked up the inclosed envelope with the words “The White House” stamped in small gold letters in the upper left-hand corner, and pulled out the engraved card. The gold-eagle crest at the top of the invitation was almost stared out of countenance, so long and so steadily did he regard it, as he slowly weighed in his mind the events of the past three days.

If the desk file used to kill the senator did belong to Mrs. Owen, then Brett had woven strong circumstantial evidence around Captain Lane. Was it possible that the young officer, incensed at Senator Carew's threat to turn his niece, Cynthia, out of doors, and goaded past endurance by a possible tongue-lashing at their last interview, had seized the opportunity offered by chance and killed Carew, an hereditary enemy? From time immemorial, family feuds had, alas! often led to murder.

If so, what, then, became of his own theory of an international intrigue? Were Senator Carew's interest in things Japanese, his desire to see Douglas, the information gleaned by the latter in Japan, the untimely death of the senator, and, last, the theft of the plans of the new battleships—were these simply coincidences?

Douglas roused himself, and glanced at the hour mentioned in the invitation—five o'clock. Jerking out his watch, he found he had but half an hour in which to change his clothes before he was due at the White House.

Shortly afterward, Douglas walked through Lafayette Square on his way to the eastern entrance of the White House. A long queue of smart turnouts and motors stretched along Pennsylvania Avenue from Seventeenth Street to Executive Avenue, as the short street between the treasury department and the White House is called.

The policeman on special duty scrutinized his card of admission carefully before allowing him to pass down the corridor and out into the garden.

The president and his wife were receiving on the lawn under a huge, blossoming chestnut tree near the south portico. As Douglas waited in line to approach the president, he glanced about him with great interest. He had been to many brilliant functions in other countries, but he decided in his own mind that he had seldom seen a more beautiful setting for an entertainment than that afforded by the stately mansion and its surrounding gardens. The lovely rolling grounds, with their natural beauty, and the towering white shaft of the Washington Monument in the background, made a picture not easily forgotten.

The full-dress uniforms of the military and naval aids on duty added to the brilliancy of the scene. The marine band, their scarlet coats making a vivid touch of color against the huge fountain, with its myriad sprays of water, were stationed on a raised platform far down the lawn. The southern breeze carried the stirring airs they were playing to Douglas' ears, and sent the hot blood dancing in his veins. Or was it the sight of Eleanor Thornton, looking radiantly beautiful, that set his heart to throbbing in a most unusual manner? Some telepathy seemed to tell her of his presence, for she looked around, caught his eye, and bowed.

He had kept moving as the guests ahead of him advanced, and the next moment he was being presented to the president by the military aid stationed in attendance at his elbow. He had but time to receive a hearty handshake and a cordial word of welcome from the president and the “first lady of the land,” for the other guests were waiting impatiently to greet them, and he could not loiter.

“Douglas Hunter, as I'm a sinner!” A hearty slap on the shoulder emphasized the words, and Douglas wheeled around to find Captain Chisholm, of the British Royal Artillery, addressing him. “The idea of your being here and not letting me know, old chap!” he added reproachfully, as they shook hands.

“I didn't know you were in town,” declared Douglas. “Thought you were still in Paris.”

“I was transferred to the embassy in Washington three months ago. Upon my word, Douglas, I took you for a ghost when I first saw you. I was under the impression that you were stationed at Tokyo.”

“So I am; I am here only on leave of absence.” The Englishman's eyebrows went up. “I had to attend to some Washington property that has been left me by an uncle. This is my native heath, you know.”

“I wasn't aware of it,” dryly. “But then, Douglas, you are perpetually springing surprises, like your nation, on us benighted foreigners.”

“Anything to drink around here?” inquired Douglas. “I am as thirsty as a herring.”

“There is some excellent champagne punch. Come along.” And the tall Englishman led the way to a long table placed under the trees near the tennis courts, where refreshments were being served. They corralled a colored waiter, and soon were sipping iced punch, as, standing at some distance from the crowd about the table, they watched the animated scene.

“Miss Thornton,” said a cold voice back of them, “Mrs. Truxton is waiting for you.”

“I didn't want to come to Washington,” acknowledged Chisholm, after a moment's silence. “But now I'd hate to leave it. The people are delightful, and I have never met with such genuine hospitality.”

“You are right; Washington people never forget you. Go away for ten years, and on your return you will be greeted just as warmly as to-day.”

“Don't talk of going away; I've only just come,” laughed Chisholm. “My word, Douglas, this seems like old times! I can almost imagine myself back in Paris. The chestnut trees in blossom, which remind me of the Parc Monceau, help the illusion. And there's another illusion,” nodding his head toward Eleanor Thornton, who stood at some distance, talking to two staff officers, “or I should say a delusion.” He smiled gayly, but there was no answering smile on Douglas' face. Not noticing his companion's silence, the Englishman added: “Is she still hunting around, looking up old files and records?”

Douglas started as if stung. “I don't know,” shortly.

“A dangerous habit,” commented Chisholm calmly. “If Miss Thornton had not left Paris and gone to Berlin when she did, her interest in government affairs might have led to serious trouble—for her.”

“Now, what the devil do you mean?” demanded Douglas hotly.

Chisholm turned and regarded him steadily for a second, then his monocle slipped down and dangled from its silken cord. “There, there!” he exclaimed soothingly. “Don't get your rag up! I was only spoofing.”

“You have very rudimentary ideas of humor,” growled Douglas, still incensed. In his heart he knew the Englishman was right; Eleanor Thornton was an enigma. Dare he penetrate the mystery, or was he afraid to face the issue?

Chisholm laughed good-naturedly. “Miss Thornton is looking at you, Douglas; don't let me detain you. I'll see you again before I leave here.”

Douglas hesitated; then, with the remark, “I'll be back soon, Chisholm,” he walked across the lawn to join Eleanor.

The Englishman looked after him with speculative eyes. “Still touched in that quarter,” he muttered, twirling his blond mustache in his fingers. “Too bad! Douglas is such a bully good chap—and she——”

He was not allowed to indulge in more reflections, for he was seized upon by a bevy of pretty girls, and forced to dance attendance upon them for the remainder of the afternoon.

Recollections of his last interview with Eleanor troubled Douglas. How would she greet him? His doubts were soon put at rest, for at his approach Eleanor put out her hand and greeted him warmly. The two staff officers, who were introduced to Douglas, saw they were de trop, and, after a few minutes, made their excuses and departed.

“Will you have an ice or a sandwich?” inquired Douglas.

“Neither, thanks; I have already been helped.”

“Then suppose we stroll down to the fountain. We can't hear the marine band with all this chatter.” He glanced disgustedly at the joyous crowd about them.

Eleanor laughed. “Don't be hard on your fellow creatures, if you are out of sorts.”

“What makes you think that?”

“You looked so cross when talking to Captain Chisholm. I am sorry you found your topic of conversation so boring.”

“What do you mean?”

“You both glanced so frequently at me that I naturally concluded I was under discussion.”

“On the contrary, we were discussing—masked batteries.” She scanned him covertly, but could get no inkling of his thoughts from his blank expression. “Captain Chisholm has a fatal habit of talking shop whenever he gets a chance. Isn't that Colonel Thornton beckoning to us over there?”

“Why, so it is. Shall we walk over and join him?” She paused to exchange a few words of greeting with several friends, then turned back to Douglas smilingly. “Come.” He suited his steps to hers as they started across the lawn. “How long will you remain in Washington, Mr. Hunter?”

“Until the sale of some property of mine is completed,” briefly. “I asked for you this morning, Miss Thornton, thinking you might care to go for a motor ride, but they told me that you were lying down and could not be disturbed.”

“They? Who?” swiftly. “This is the first I have heard of your call.”

“Indeed? Why, I spoke to Annette when I reached the Carew residence this morning.”

“Annette!” in growing astonishment. “Annette told you I was indisposed, and could not be disturbed?”

“Yes. My cousin had loaned me his car for the morning, and I thought it just possible that a run in the fresh air might set you up after the funeral yesterday.”

“It was good of you to think of me, Mr. Hunter.” She raised her eyes in time to see the secretary of state regarding her intently as they strolled past him. He lifted his hat courteously, and returned their words of greeting, but his face was grave as he paused and watched them moving through the throng. “I am sorry about this morning,” continued Eleanor. “Annette and I will have a reckoning when we reach home.”

“Would you have gone with me?” eagerly.

“Yes.” Douglas bent to catch the monosyllable. Her foot turned on the uneven ground, and he put his hand on her arm to steady her. As his fingers closed over her soft, rounded arm, he instinctively drew her closer. The warmth of her skin through her glove thrilled him.

“I hope you will ask me again,” she said.

“To-morrow? Will you go with me to-morrow?”

“Yes.” She met his eyes for a second, then glanced away, while a hot blush mantled her cheeks. “Provided, of course, that Cynthia Carew does not need me.” Then, in a louder tone: “Well, Uncle Dana, how are you?”

“Feeling splendidly. No need to ask about you and Douglas.” He smiled quizzically. “I am glad that you could come here to-day, Eleanor.”

“I did not wish to, but Cousin Kate Truxton insisted that I had to bring her here. She declared that she would not come otherwise, and made such a point of it that I could not refuse, particularly as Mrs. Winthrop and Cynthia would not hear of my remaining with them.”

“I have just come from there,” responded Colonel Thornton. “Cynthia came into the library while I was talking to Mrs. Winthrop, and I was shocked by her appearance. The child has wasted away.”

“Is it not pitiful?” exclaimed Eleanor. “It nearly breaks my heart to see her suffering. She neither eats nor sleeps.”

“Can't you give her an opiate?” asked Douglas.

“She declines to take one.”

“Can't you administer it surreptitiously?”

“I have a better plan than that,” broke in Colonel Thornton. “The child needs a change of ideas. The atmosphere of the house is enough to get on any one's nerves, particularly with that dipsomaniac, Philip, raising Cain at unexpected moments.”

“What's your plan, Uncle Dana?”

“That you bring Cynthia over to my house to-morrow to spend Sunday. You come, too, Douglas. Cynthia hasn't met you, and she won't connect you with any of the tragic occurrences of the past week.” Then, as he saw the look of doubt on Eleanor's face, he added: “Human nature can stand just so much of nervous strain, and no more. Cynthia must have relaxation and diversion.”

“But I don't think Mrs. Winthrop will approve of her going out so soon after the funeral,” objected Eleanor doubtfully.

“Bah! That nonsense belongs to the dark ages. What good will Cynthia's staying in that gloomy house do poor Carew? I'll drop in to-morrow morning and see Mrs. Winthrop. Leave the matter to me, Eleanor. There is no earthly reason why she should object. I'll ask Cousin Kate Truxton also.”

“Cousin Kate!” echoed Eleanor, her conscience smiting her. “Where has she gone?”

“I left her talking with Senator Jenkins some time ago.” The colonel glanced behind him. “Speaking of angels, here she comes now.”

Mrs. Truxton was walking leisurely in their direction. Seeing that they had observed her, she waved her parasol and hastened her footsteps.

“Cousin Kate, I think you already know Mr. Hunter,” said Eleanor, as the older woman reached her side.

“Indeed I do.” Mrs. Truxton extended both her hands, her face beaming with smiles. “Why haven't you been to see me, Douglas?” she added reproachfully.

“I have been extremely busy since my arrival, Mrs. Truxton,” apologized Douglas. “I was looking forward to calling upon you this Sunday.”

“Have you had a pleasant time this afternoon, Kate?” asked Thornton.

“Yes. It has been a delightful entertainment; just the right people and the right number.”

“It would be pretty hard to crowd these grounds,” laughed Eleanor.

“There isn't any elbowroom about the refreshment table,” put in Thornton; “I almost had to fight to get a plate of ice cream a few minutes ago.”

“A much-needed improvement would be small chairs scattered about the grounds,” grumbled Mrs. Truxton, leaning heavily on her parasol. “It is exceedingly tiresome having to stand so long.”

“It would be prettier, too, and less formal,” agreed Eleanor. “The guests would then saunter over the lawns, and not stand crowded together near the president.”

“It would also be much more brilliant if the members of the diplomatic corps wore their court dress,” announced Mrs. Truxton, with decision, “instead of those hideous frock coats and gray trousers.”

“What, in this weather, Kate?” exclaimed the astonished colonel. “Do you wish to kill off the corps bodily? They wear their court dress only at the state receptions and the diplomatic dinners held at the White House every winter.”

“I know that,” pettishly. “But it would improve the brilliancy of this affair.”

“Even with the objectionable frock coat,” laughed the colonel, “this is a scene characteristic of the national capital alone. Nowhere else in this country can such a gathering of distinguished men and women be brought together.”

“You are quite right in that,” acknowledged Mrs. Truxton. “I've seen ten presidents come and go, and I have lived to see Washington develop in a way that would have surprised the founders. Mercy on us, look at 'Fuss and Feathers'! She nodded toward a pretty, overdressed little Western woman, who was advancing in their direction.

“Mrs. Blake has certainly outdone herself,” agreed Colonel Thornton, as he and Douglas raised their hats in greeting to the pretty woman who strolled past them. “I wonder she doesn't make you wish to break the Eighth Commandment, Eleanor.”

“Why?” exclaimed his niece.

“On account of her collection of magnificent rubies.” Eleanor changed color. “I thought that stone was one of your fads.”

“I like all jewelry.” The slight emphasis was lost on her companions. Eleanor fingered her parasol nervously, and glanced uneasily over her shoulder to where Douglas stood beyond earshot, talking to an old friend. “But I shall spend my time in wishing; I can never hope to rival Mrs. Blake's collection.”

Marry a rich man and pursuade him to give you rings and necklaces,” advised Thornton. Eleanor moved restlessly.

“Mrs. Blake looks like a jeweler's window,” broke in Mrs. Truxton, in her uncompromising bass. “Such a display at a garden party is unpardonable. It is extremely bad taste for any woman to wear to the White House more jewelry than adorns the president's wife.”

Thornton laughed outright. “Few women will agree with you, Kate. By the way, why didn't you come to the telephone last night? I wanted to speak to you particularly. It wasn't late when I called.”

“I gave Soto, Eleanor's cook, his English lesson last night, and when we got to a present participle used in a future sense to indicate a present intention of a future action, I was so tired I had to go to bed,” explained Mrs. Truxton, as Douglas rejoined them.

“After that I am only surprised that you ever got up again,” ejaculated the colonel.

“Cousin Kate nearly worries herself sick teaching Soto,” laughed Eleanor. “I only wish you had heard her describing the kingdom of heaven to him. She introduced some new features into that kingdom that would probably surprise the Presbyterian synod. I suppose she didn't want to disappoint his great expectations.”

“Is Soto a Jap?” asked Douglas curiously.

“Yes. I prefer Japanese servants, and both Soto and Fugi have been with me for some time,” said Eleanor. “Do you know, Uncle Dana, I have just discovered that Fugi has studied five years at the American school in Japan, two years at the Spencerian Business College, and is a graduate of Columbia University?”

“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Mrs. Truxton. “After this I shan't dare to ask him to pass me the bread. What did you want to say to me on the telephone, Dana?”

“I wanted some facts about the late Governor Lane, of Maryland, and, knowing you were a walking encyclopedia, I thought you might help me out.”

“Of course I can. Do you——”

“Hush!” exclaimed Eleanor anxiously. “Here comes Captain Lane.”

Douglas scanned the tall young officer approaching them with keen interest. His uniform set off his fine figure to advantage, and his face was one to inspire confidence.

“How are you, Mrs. Truxton?” he said. “Miss Eleanor, I've been searching the place for you. Won't you come and see the rose garden with me? Oh, I beg pardon, colonel! I didn't see you at first.”

“That's all right, Lane. Have you met Mr. Hunter?”

“No. How do you do, sir?” Lane wrung Douglas' hand. “Glad to know you.”

“It is time for us all to go,” declared Mrs. Truxton. “We must say good-by. Come with me, Douglas. I want to ask you some questions about your uncle's death.”

As the small group strolled toward the White House, Colonel Thornton was buttonholed by an old friend. Mrs. Truxton, with Douglas in tow, crossed the ground to where the president was standing talking to several late arrivals.

“Now's our time,” whispered Lane in Eleanor's ear. “The rose garden is at our right.” He said no more until they had passed the south portico and walked down the path leading to the wonderful box hedges that surround the rose garden. They had the place to themselves, and Eleanor exclaimed with pleasure at the beautiful flowers, which were blossoming in profusion.

“How is Cynthia?” demanded Lane, stopping in the middle of the garden path, and regarding his companion intently.

“Almost a nervous wreck.”

“My poor darling!” The soldier's strong face betrayed deep feeling. “I wish I could comfort her.” His voice changed. “Miss Eleanor, why does she refuse to see me?” Eleanor hesitated perceptibly. “Wait! Let me finish. I have called repeatedly at the Carews', only to be told that Cynthia is confined to her room; I have written notes that I have given personally to Joshua to deliver, and have never received an answer to one of them.

“I love Cynthia with all my heart and soul”—Lane's voice shook with feeling—“and I would have sworn, before her uncle's death, that my affection was returned. I cannot understand her avoidance of me, and her silence cuts deep.” He paused a moment, and cleared his throat. “Miss Eleanor, you are Cynthia's most intimate friend, and you are with her constantly. You must have heard of some reason for her treatment of me.”

Eleanor nodded without speaking. She heartily wished the interview was over.

“Then I implore you to tell me the reason of Cynthia's silence.”

“Can't you imagine that for yourself?” began Eleanor; then, as Lane shook his head, she added: “Cynthia is overwrought. Every action on Monday night seems distorted——” She hesitated again and bit her lip. “You went to look for her carriage; you were gone a long time; and when she entered the carriage, her uncle was sitting there—dead.”

Fearlessly she raised her lips to his—in surrender.

Slowly her meaning dawned on Lane.

“Good God! You don't mean——” He staggered back, his face- gone white.

“Yes.”

“And she thinks that! Cynthia, Cynthia, have you so little faith?” Lane's agony was pitiful.

“You must not be unjust to her,” cried Eleanor, her loyalty up in arms. “Remember, you had just told her of your fearful quarrel with her uncle; she had also seen you playing with a letter file when you were with her in the library——”

“But, great heavens! I didn't take that out into the street with me,” exclaimed Lane passionately. “I tell you what it is, Miss Eleanor. I must see Cynthia and explain this terrible tangle. Can you help me meet her?”

Eleanor considered for a moment. “I have already urged Cynthia to see you, but she has been so unnerved, so unstrung, that I could not make her see matters in a reasonable light. I think the best thing for you to do is to meet her when she least expects it.”

“Capital! Can you arrange such a meeting?”

“My uncle, Colonel Thornton, has asked Cynthia and me to go to his house in Georgetown to-morrow and spend Sunday. I think Mrs. Winthrop will permit Cynthia to go, and if that is the case, you can call there to-morrow night.”

“Good!” Lane paced the walk restlessly for a minute, then returned to Eleanor's side. “It's pretty hard to wait so long before seeing her,” he said wistfully.

Eleanor held out her hand. “Don't be discouraged; Cynthia loves you devotedly.”

“God bless you for those words!” Lane caught her hand and raised her slender fingers to his lips.

“Miss Thornton,” said a cold voice back of them, “Mrs. Truxton is waiting for you.” And Eleanor flushed scarlet as she met Douglas' eyes.

Chapter XIII.

The Moth and the Flame.

Douglas brought the powerful roadster to a standstill under the porte-cochère of the Carew mansion, and disentangling himself from among the levers, ran up the few steps. Before he could ring the bell, the door was opened by Colonel Thornton.

“Come in,” he exclaimed heartily. “I saw you from the drawing-room window, and, as Joshua has gone to ask Mrs. Winthrop if she can see me, I thought I would let you in, and not keep you standing outside.”

“Thanks, colonel.” Douglas followed the older man into the drawing-room. “Have you seen Miss Eleanor?”

“No. Here, don't sit on that gilt-edged insecurity,” as Douglas pulled forward a parlor chair. “This sofa is big enough to hold us both. Tell me, are there any new developments in the Carew case?”

“Only that Brett is convinced Captain Lane is guilty, and from what he said this morning, I should not be at all surprised to hear of the latter's arrest.”

“Good Lord! You don't say so! Poor, poor Cynthia! I greatly fear another shock will prove most dangerous in her present nervous condition.”

“Has Mrs. Winthrop consented to Miss Carew's spending to-morrow at your house?”

“I don't know yet——” Colonel Thornton stopped abruptly as the portières parted, and a woman stepped into the room. Thinking it was Mrs. Winthrop, he started to rise, but it proved to be Annette, and he sank back in his seat.

“Bou jour, messieurs.” Annette readjusted the portières with care, then walked with catlike quickness over to where the men were sitting. “Mistaire Hunter, you are investigating ze death of Senator Carew, n'est-ce pas? And you, monsieur,” turning to Colonel Thornton, “are Madame Winthrop's man of affairs?”

“Well, what then?” asked Douglas quickly.

“Only that I may be of help.”

“Indeed?”

“Oui, messieurs,” calmly. “I know —much.”

“Good!” Thornton's tone betrayed his satisfaction. “Go ahead and tell us.”

“Ah, non, non, monsieur!” Annette shook her head violently. “First, I must have some monie.”

“What, a bribe?” Douglas spoke with rising indignation.

“Non, monsieur; a reward.”

“You must first tell us what you know,” explained Thornton patiently. “Then, if your information leads to the arrest and conviction of the murderer, you will be paid the one thousand dollars offered by Mrs. Winthrop.”

“One thousand dollars did you say, monsieur? Non, I will not sell my news for that.”

“It is the amount offered by Mrs. Winthrop.”

“But Madame Winthrop is willing to give five thousand.” Annette glanced eagerly at the two men. “My news is worth that.”

Thornton shook his head. “Mrs. Winthrop has reconsidered, and will not give more than one thousand,” he declared, with finality.

An obstinate frown marred Annette's pretty face. “I will not take less than five thousand,” she announced, with emphasis.

“You go too fast,” broke in Douglas quietly. “First, the reward will not be paid until after the murderer is convicted; secondly, your information may be of no value whatever.”

“So?” Annette's smile was not pleasant. “Zen I keep my news to myself,” and she started for the door.

“Wait!” commanded Thornton. “Come back here!” Then, as she obeyed, he added in a more kindly tone: “If your information is really valuable, Annette, I am willing to advance you some money. But first you must tell us what you know and suspect.”

“How much?”

“Say fifty dollars,” drawing out his leather wallet, and extracting several yellowbacks, which he held temptingly in his hand.

“Not enough, monsieur.”

Thornton lost all patience. “I shan't offer you another cent,” and he thrust the money back into the wallet.

Annette's eyes flashed. “Very well, monsieur le colonel; I go. But when I come back, you will have to pay me more—but, yes!—more than that beggarly five thousand!” And, with a stamp of her foot, she turned and hastened out of the room.

“A nice she-devil!” remarked Thornton, gazing blankly at Douglas.

“I think——” Douglas broke off, as the portières were again thrust aside, and Eleanor walked in.

“Uncle Dana, Mrs. Winthrop is waiting to see you in the library. Oh, Mr. Hunter, good morning.” Her slender hand was almost lost in his firm clasp. “I did not know you were here.”

“I called, hoping that you might care to take a motor ride,” said Douglas quickly.

“Why, yes; with pleasure.”

“Eleanor,” broke in Thornton, returning from the hall door, “did you tell that precious maid of yours that Mrs. Winthrop would give five thousand dollars reward for information leading to the conviction of the murderer of Senator Carew?”

“Annette!” in profound astonishment. “No, certainly not; I've never spoken to her on the subject. Where did you get such an idea?” Her voice rose to a higher key.

“She has just been here, insisting that we pay her five thousand for some information which, she declares, will solve the puzzle of poor Carew's death.”

Eleanor smiled incredulously. “Nonsense! I don't believe she knows a thing about it.” Her bright color had faded, and she gazed anywhere but at the two men.

“It may be,” suggested Douglas thoughtfully, “that, while in this house, she has found a certain paper for which Brett is searching.”

“That's possible,” agreed Thornton. “It was announced in yesterday's papers that a reward of one thousand dollars had been offered. But what gets me is how Annette knew that Mrs. Winthrop might raise the amount to five thousand—the very sum, in fact, that she first thought of offering.”

“I'm sure I don't know.” Eleanor frowned in perplexity.

“Is she a good servant?” inquired Douglas.

“I have always found her honest and reliable. She brought me excellent recommendations when she came to me in Paris, where I engaged ker.”

“It may be that the mystery has gone to her head,” suggested Thornton, “and she is inspired to play detective.”

“Personally, I think she is taking advantage of the present situation to extort money,” objected Douglas.

“I believe you've hit it,” exclaimed the older man. “Tell Brett, Douglas. He may be able to induce Annette to tell what she knows. I must go now and see Mrs. Winthrop.”

“Let me know what she decides about Sunday,” called Eleanor, as Thornton, for the second time, hurried out of the room,

“You are looking tired, Miss Thornton,” said Douglas, glancing at her attentively.

“I didn't get much sleep last night. Cynthia was miserable, and I sat up with her until five o'clock this morning.”

“No wonder you are worn out!” Douglas looked his concern. “I really think a motor ride would do you lots of good. Do keep your promise and come for a spin.”

Eleanor glanced doubtfully down at her pretty house gown. “If you don't mind waiting while I change;

“Why, certainly not.”

“I won't be long,” and Eleanor disappeared.

Douglas did not resume his seat, but, instead, paced the room with long, nervous strides. Eleanor was not the only one who had passed a sleepless night. He had sat up and wracked his brain, trying to find the key to the solution of the mystery surrounding the senator's death. Annette must be made to tell what she knew. Perhaps Brett's authority as an officer of the law might intimidate her. It was worth trying. Walking down to the folding doors that led from the drawing-room into the dining room, he opened them and found Joshua busy polishing the mahogany table.

“Is there a branch telephone in the house?” he asked. “Besides the one in the library? Mrs. Winthrop is in there, and I don't want to disturb her.”

“Suttenly, suh; dar's one right in de pantry, suh.” And Joshua, dropping his work, piloted Douglas to the instrument.

It took him but a few minutes to get police headquarters on the wire, only to find that Brett was out. Whistling softly, he hung up the receiver and went back into the drawing-room. Eleanor had not appeared, and he sat down at the inlaid desk, which was supplied with pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a short note while he waited for her return.

“Where's Eleanor?” asked Thornton, coming into the room and picking up his hat, which he had left on one of the chairs.

“Here.” And his niece, who had entered just behind him, joined them. “I am sorry to have kept you so long, Mr. Hunter, but I found Annette had gone out on an errand for Cynthia, and I had to do without her assistance.”

“You were very successful.” Thornton made her a courtly bow, as he gazed at his beautiful niece. Her fashionable, light-gray suit and smart hat were extremely becoming. Eleanor colored faintly as she read the admiration in Douglas' eyes.

“What luck did you have with Mrs. Winthrop, Uncle Dana?” she asked.

“The best. She said she thought it an excellent plan. So I shall expect you both this afternoon, Eleanor, and you had better stop and pick up Cousin Kate Truxton on your way out.”

“Very well, I will; but, Uncle Dana, we won't get over to you until just before dinner.”

“That will do.” The two men followed Eleanor out into the square hall. “Don't forget, Douglas, that I expect you, too.”

“That's very good of you, sir,” Douglas hesitated, “but don't you think I might be in the way in a family party?”

“A family party is exactly what I wish to avoid,” exclaimed Thornton. “Cynthia needs to be taken out of herself. And, therefore, I want you to spend Sunday with us as if it were a regular house party.”

“Then I'll come with pleasure.” Douglas helped Eleanor into the low seat of the motor, and clambered in behind the wheel. “I'm awfully sorry there isn't a third seat, colonel, and that I can't take you where you wish to go.”

“I left my car down by the curb. Thanks all the same, Douglas.” And Thornton waved a friendly good-by to Eleanor as the motor started slowly down the driveway.

“If you have no objection, I will stop at the Municipal Building for a moment, Miss Thornton,” said Douglas, turning the car into Thirteenth Street.

“I don't mind in the least. What a magnificent motor!”

“Isn't it?” with enthusiasm, as he steered safely between another machine and a delivery wagon. “My chief in Tokyo has one just like this, and I learned to run his car.”

As they crossed K Street, he put on the emergency brakes hard, and the motor stopped just in time, as a touring car shot in front of them, and disappeared down the street. When the car was again under way, Douglas turned to the silent girl by his side.

“That was the Japanese ambassador, was it not?”

Yes.”

“He seemed to be in the devil of a hurry. It was a near smash.”

“A little too near for comfort.” Eleanor drew a long breath. “I noticed some luggage in his car—— Oh, take care!” as the motor skidded toward the gutter.

“I beg your pardon! I didn't mean to frighten you,” said Douglas, as he applied the brake going down Thirteenth Street hill to Pennsylvania Avenue. “That chap got on my nerves. I don't care if he is an ambassador, and exempt from arrest; he has no business to be breaking our rules and regulations.”

“Come now! Didn't you break some rules when in Japan?” asked Eleanor, her lovely face dimpling into a smile. Douglas started slightly, but she apparently did not notice his discomfiture. “Judging from the luggage in the car, and the rate at which they were going, I imagine the ambassador was trying to catch a train.”

“It looks that way.” Douglas brought the car to a standstill before one of the entrances to the Municipal Building. 'I won't be a minute, Miss Thornton.”

“Don't hurry on my account,” Eleanor called after him.

Brett was still out, so Douglas gave the note he had written when waiting for Eleanor at the Carews' to the attendant, first adding a postscript, and inclosing it in a large envelope, with instructions that it was to be delivered to the detective immediately on his return. Then, with a lighter heart, he hastened out of the building and rejoined Eleanor.

“Where do you wish to go, Miss Thornton?” he asked, as they started slowly up Pennsylvania Avenue.

Eleanor considered a moment before answering. “Suppose we go out the Conduit Road,” she said finally.

Douglas swung the machine across the broad avenue and through the short street behind the treasury department, into the drive that circles around the White House grounds. “It's some years since I've been out in this direction, Miss Thornton, so if I go astray, please put me back on the straight and narrow path.”

“Straight out Pennsylvania Avenue and through Georgetown,” directed Eleanor, as the big car swung back again into the avenue. “The narrow path comes after you reach the Conduit.”

“Then it should be spelled 'Conduct.' You have been going out a great deal this winter, have you not?”

“Yes; Washington has been extremely gay, and I have enjoyed it so much.”

Douglas smiled down at her. “And I bet a thousand to one that Washington enjoyed you. I asked about your going out because I am wondering if, among all the men you've met this winter, you have come across a middle-aged man with black hair and beard, and very blue eyes?”

Not receiving a reply, Douglas turned and scanned his companion. She sat silent, gazing straight before her. The car sped on for several squares before she roused herself.

“That is a very vague description, Mr. Hunter. Do you remember the man's name?”

Douglas shook his head. “I have never heard it. I asked only because I was under the impression that I saw him with you at the navy department on Thursday morning.”

“With me—at the navy department?” gasped Eleanor, sitting bolt upright. She was white to the lips.

“Yes; I thought I saw him talking to you in an elevator. I just caught a glimpse of you as the cage descended past the floor on which I was.”

“You are entirely mistaken, Mr. Hunter.” Eleanor's eyes did not waver before his questioning look. “I was alone, though I do recollect there was another passenger in the elevator, who got out on the first floor, while I continued on down to the basement.”

“Then I was mistaken.” Douglas slowed the car down to the limit prescribed by law as he crossed the M Street bridge over Rock Creek, then increased his speed as they passed through Georgetown.

“You have aroused my curiosity.” Eleanor settled herself more comfortably in the low seat. “Why do you take an interest in a man with blue eyes and black hair?”

“Because I thought he was with you.”

“Upon my word!” Eleanor's laugh held a shade of annoyance. “That's a very silly reason!”

“I don't think it is,” replied Douglas steadily. “I am interested in everything that concerns you.”

Eleanor surveyed him keenly. She studied the fine profile, the broad shoulders, and the powerful hands holding the steering wheel. The quiet figure seemed instinct with the vital personality of the man, a living part of the pulsing machine that he was guiding through the narrow, congested street with such skill. They crossed Thirty-seventh Street, and in a few minutes the car leaped ahead up the hill leading to the Conduit.

Eleanor said nothing, and Douglas was equally silent. They had the narrow road to themselves, and he increased their speed. The wheels raced like velvet on the finished macadam. On they sped. Soon Eleanor caught a glimpse of the Potomac below them, and the bright sunlight sparkled on the water, and on the green foliage of the wooded banks of the Maryland and Virginia shores. They passed the Three Sisters, then the reservoirs, and Douglas saw a straight stretch of road ahead, and no vehicle in sight. The next moment the powerful machine, gathering speed, fairly shot down the road, which seemed a narrowing white strip as the revolving wheels devoured the distance.

Douglas turned his eyes a moment from the flying landscape to Eleanor, who sat, tense, fearless, her pulses leaping as the rushing wind stung her cheeks. She caught his look. “Faster, faster!” she called. And obediently Douglas threw the throttle wide open. On, on they flew. A wild exhilaration engulfed Eleanor; her spirit seemed to soar, detached from things earthly. She cast a glance of resentment at Douglas, when, seeing that the road curved in the distance, he slackened speed. By the time the big car reached the turning, he had brought it to a standstill near the side of the road.

Eleanor drew a long breath. “Oh, why did you stop?” Her eyes shone like stars. “It was glorious!”

“I stopped”—Douglas turned squarely in his seat and faced Eleanor—“because I want to ask you to confide in me.”

“To do what?” Eleanor's deep-blue eyes opened to their widest extent.

“To tell me”—Douglas hesitated over his choice of words—“your mission in life.”

Eye to eye, they gazed at each other. Eleanor was the first to speak.

“I am at a loss to understand your singular request,” she said freezingly.

“Miss Thornton, do me the justice to think that I am not asking from idle curiosity; it is because I have your welfare so deeply at heart.”

“If I did not know you to be a sane person, I should think you had suddenly lost your mind. As you take the matter so seriously, I must repeat that I am concerned in nothing.”

Douglas held her gaze, as if in the limpid depths of her blue eyes he would fathom the secret of her soul. Eleanor's breath came and went, she colored painfully, but her eyes never dropped before his. Nearer he bent and nearer. The virile strength of the man drew her, and his arms closed about her slender waist.

“Eleanor, I love you.” The very repression of his tone added to its intensity.

Fearlessly she raised her lips to his—in surrender.

Some time later, Douglas backed the car a yard or two, then turned it toward Washington, but their return trip was made with due attention to the speed law.

“Will you please tell me—Douglas——” She hesitated adorably over his name. “Indeed, you must not kiss me again!” drawing back as far as the seat would permit. “Why did you avoid me in Paris?”

A shadow passed over Douglas' radiant face, and was gone before Eleanor observed it.

“I suppose you would call it false pride,” he said. “I had no money—you had much—and so I worshiped from a distance. Now that my inheritance has made me well to do, I felt that I had a right to ask you to marry me. In Paris I thought you would take me for a fortune hunter.”

“Which only goes to show what fools men are!” exclaimed Eleanor roguishly. “Bend down nearer me.” She placed her mouth close to his ear. “You could have had me for the asking then, dear heart”—his left arm stole about her—“for I know a man when I see one.”

 

“Not a word, remember!”

“Madame has my promise.” Annette tucked the small roll of bills inside the bosom of her gown as Mrs. Winthrop replaced her pocketbook in her handsome leather hand bag.

“Where is Miss Eleanor?”

“Joshua tells me that in my absence mademoiselle left ze house to motor wiz Monsieur Hunter.”

“If she asks for me on her return, tell her that I will be back in time to lunch with her and Miss Cynthia.”

“Oui, madame.” Annette assisted Mrs. Winthrop into her coat, then left the bedroom. From a safe distance down the hall, she watched Mrs. Winthrop descend the staircase, and waited until she heard Joshua close the front door after her and retreat into his own domain. She then slipped noiselessly down the hall and into Mrs. Winthrop's bedroom. Half an hour passed before she again appeared, wearing a satisfied smile. The hall was empty. “I have seen what I have seen,” she muttered under her breath exultingly, as she proceeded downstairs. “And I think I will haf more monie by to-morrow. Mon Dieu!”

The peal of the front bell had startled her from her reverie. As Joshua did not appear to answer it, she crossed the square hall and opened the door. A tall man, wearing nondescript clothes, confronted her in the vestibule.

“Miss Thornton—is she in?” he questioned. The contrast of his deep-blue eyes against his tanned skin and black beard held her attention. Receiving no reply, he repeated his question with emphasis.

“Non, mademoiselle is out in ze motor,” she answered, none too civilly.

Without a word, he turned on his heel and hastened down the steps. Annette stared up the street after him; then closed the door softly, her pretty forehead puckered in a frown. Where had she seen those eyes before?

Chapter XIV.

“Thornton's Nest.”

Douglas, suit case in hand, ran across Seventeenth Street in time to catch a Georgetown car. As he paid the conductor, he heard his name called, and, glancing down the half-empty car, saw Captain Chisholm seated at the farther end, and beckoning to him. He made his way down the center aisle, and joined the Englishman.

“Can you dine with me, Douglas?” asked Chisholm, making room for him on the narrow seat.

“Ask me some other time, old man. I am dining with Colonel Thornton to-night.”

“Then suppose we make it Monday night at the Metropolitan Club?”

“Thanks, I will. At what hour?”

“Eight o'clock. I was sorry to miss you when you called this afternoon, Douglas.”

“How did you know I had been to see you, Chisholm?” in surprise. “The telephone girl told me you were out.”

“I stopped for a moment at the Rochambeau, and found your card in my letter box. I am on my way to the embassy now. Washington seems to agree with you, Douglas,” eying his companion with interest. “I never saw you looking better.”

“Happiness is a great health restorer,” laughed Douglas.

“Happiness?” Chisholm tugged at his fair mustache. “Hum!” He looked carefully around; they had that end of the car to themselves. “Heard the news?”

“What news?'

“About the Japanese ambassador?”

“No.”

“He has been recalled.”

“For what reason?”

“Not given out,” shortly. “He called at the White House and state department, presented his papers, and left this morning.” Chisholm looked Douglas squarely in the face. “Can't give a poor blasted Englishman a point on the situation, I suppose?”

Douglas smiled. but his eyes were grave. “I would if I could—but I can't. The ambassador's departure is as great a surprise to me as to you.”

“You!” Cynthia shrank back against the wall as Lane stepped forward. Chisholm leaned forward and touched the electric button as the car approached N Street. “I'll look you up to-morrow, Douglas. Ta-ta, old chap.” And he hurried out of the car.

Douglas settled back in his seat and pondered over the information Chisholm had given him. What did the ambassador's abrupt departure portend? Was it but another of those puzzling coincidences that seemed to follow in the wake of Senator Carew's murder, or was it the culmination of an intrigue that would end in war?

The spring day was drawing to a close as Douglas left the car in Georgetown and walked toward “Thornton's Nest.” The old place had not altered since he had seen it last, twelves years before. Even the beautiful old garden appeared as usual; the same box hedge, the envy of the neighboring landowners, separated the sidewalk from the well-kept private grounds. The large, old-fashioned mansion stood back Some distance in its own grounds. The bricks had been brought from Philadelphia by sloop, and the fanlight over the front door had been imported from England in the days prior to the Revolutionary War. The huge columns supporting the arched roof shone white in the gathering darkness. Douglas turned in at the gate, ran lightly up the few stone steps leading to the portico, and rang the bell. He had hardly removed his hand from the button when the hall door was opened and an old darky confronted him on the threshold.

“Cum right in, Marse Douglas. I'se mighty glad ter see yo' ag'in, suh.”

“Nicodemus, is that you?” shaking the old man's hand. “I haven't seen you since you chased me off the grounds for stealing apples. How's Sophy?”

“Only tol'able, thank ye, suh; she's got a misery in her back. Want ter go to yo' room, suh?”

“No, I'll just leave my hat and overcoat here.”

“Yessir. Let me take yo' bag, suh; I'll tote it upstairs. My,” as Douglas stepped forward so that the hall light fell full on him, “how yo' do favor yo' pa, the ole cunnel!”

Douglas laughed. “Thanks. Have the ladies come yet?”

“Yessir. Dey's upstairs makin' demselves comfo'able. Cunnel Thornton will be down direckly. Yo' jes' walk inter de pawlar.”

Douglas strolled over to the large hall mirror, and inspected his tie with care; he had been in a hurry when getting into his evening clothes at the Albany, and the tie had proved troublesome. He readjusted it with care, felt in his vest pocket for a small box, then turned and surveyed his surroundings. A coach and four might have driven through the broad hall that ran the length of the house. At the end of the hall, two broad, circular staircases led to a wide landing, from which branched the two flights of steps leading to the first bedroom floor. Doors leading to the drawing-room, library, billiard, and dining rooms opened on the right and left of the hall.

Remembering that the drawing-room was at the left of the entrance, Douglas entered the open door and walked over to the mantelpiece, to see the time by the tall marble clock.

“Aren't you going to speak to me?” asked a mischievous voice behind him, and Douglas sprang around with an exclamation of delight. Eleanor was seated on a chair by one of the windows, and its high back, which was partly turned to the hall door, had concealed her from view.

“My darling!” Douglas kissed the winsome face rapturously. “Nicodemus told me you had arrived, but that you were upstairs; otherwise I should have come in at once. I begrudge the time I wasted in the hall.”

“I hurried and came down ahead of the others, hoping that you would get here early. I particularly wanted to see you, Douglas.”

“Did you?” in mock surprise. “I've been wanting to see you ever since I left you this morning.”

She slipped her hand in his. “It's just this, Douglas.” Her softly modulated voice had a trace of nervousness. “I want to ask you to keep our engagement a secret”—his face fell—“just a few days,” hastily. “I want to get accustomed to it before telling the family.” She blushed divinely. “It's such a precious secret.”

Douglas took her face between his hands and pressed a passionate kiss on her lips. “Your wish is my law,” he said gravely. “I was disappointed for the moment, because I am anxious to have the whole world know my happiness. I brought you this,” pulling a small, square box from his vest pocket, and laying it in her outstretched hand.

With a low cry of pleasure, she pulled off the wrapping paper and opened the box. The light from the lamp on the table near her chair was reflected back from a superb ruby in a diamond setting. The box slipped from her nervous fingers and rolled on the floor.

“Oh, get it quick, Douglas! I didn't mean to be so clumsy.”

Douglas reached under the table, where the box had rolled, and picked it up. “It's all right, my dearest; don't look so worried. The ring isn't injured, for it is still in the box. See?” He held it before her eyes. “Give me your left hand, dear.” Eleanor shrank slightly away from him, but Douglas was intent on removing the ring from the box, and did not notice her agitation. “It is very becoming to your hand,” slipping it on the third finger. “The deep crimson shows off the whiteness of your skin.”

“It's just lovely!” Eleanor drew a long breath, then raised her head, and kissed him tenderly. “Thanks, dear heart, for so beautiful a present. But I am afraid, if I wear it to-night, our engagement will be a secret no longer.”

“That's true!” exclaimed Douglas, his voice betraying his disappointment. “Put it back in the box,” holding it out to her.

“I'll do no such thing,” indignantly. “Take it off, Douglas, and give it to me.” He did so, and she slipped the ring inside the bodice of her low-cut evening gown. “Tell me, dearest, how did you happen to select a ruby?”

“It's my birth stone.” Douglas colored. “I hope you won't think me horribly sentimental.”

“I shall not tell you what I think; it might turn your head. Hush! Here comes Uncle Dana.”

Thornton strode into the room with outstretched hand. “Welcome to the 'Nest,' Douglas; I am sorry I wasn't downstairs when you came. I hope Eleanor has been doing the honors acceptably.”

“She has, indeed, and proved a host in herself,” laughed Douglas.

“Good! Though it's a mystery how she got down ahead of the others.”

“I was selfish enough to keep Annette to myself until I was fully dressed,” said Eleanor. “Then I sent her to Cousin Kate.”

“So you brought Annette with you?” asked Thornton.

“Yes, indeed. I had no intention of inflicting your bachelor household with three women and no handmaiden. I knew Sophy would have her hands full cooking dinner; therefore, I brought Annette along.” Her restless eyes detected a figure hovering just outside the hall door. “Come in, Cynthia.” And she went forward to meet her friend.

The two beautiful girls made a picture good to look upon as they stood together. Cynthia wore a simple frock that matched her cheeks in whiteness. While the pathetic droop of her mouth, and the dark shadows under her eyes, did not detract from her charm, she looked wretchedly ill. She shook hands with Douglas, when he was presented to her, with polite indifference, then seated herself in a chair and leaned back wearily. Douglas and Thornton exchanged glances, and the latter shook his head sadly. He was about to speak when Mrs. Truxton bustled into the room.

“I am sorry to keep everybody waiting,” she exclaimed, as Douglas pulled forward a chair for her. “But if you will have dinner at such a ridiculously early hour, Dana, you must expect your guests to be late.”

“You are not late, Kate, for dinner has not yet been announced. I had it earlier than usual, as I thought we would retire soon afterward and get a good night's rest.”

Cynthia shuddered involuntarily, and Eleanor, whose hand rested on her shoulder, patted it affectionately.

“It's all very well for you older people to keep early hours, Uncle Dana, but Cynthia and I are going to do just as we please. Personally, I expect to stay up until the wee sma' hours.”

“Dinner am served,” announced Nicodemus, opening the folding doors leading to the dining room, and, with an old-fashioned, courtly bow, Colonel Thornton offered his arm to Mrs. Truxton, and escorted her to the table, the two girls and Douglas following in their wake.

The dinner passed quickly. Thornton was an agreeable talker, and Douglas, who had traveled in many lands, seconded his efforts by recounting many amusing experiences that had befallen him. Cynthia's pale cheeks assumed a more natural hue as the two skillful talkers drew her out of herself, and Thornton sat back, well pleased, when he finally succeeded in making her laugh.

“Washington isn't what it used to be,” he declared. “As trite a statement as it is true. Its very bigness has spoiled it socially. There are cliques within cliques, and too many foreign elements dominate it nowadays.”

“Do you refer to the diplomatic corps?” asked Douglas, breaking off a low-toned conversation with Eleanor.

“Not entirely. When I speak of the 'foreign elements,' I also mean the 'climbers.'”

“We Georgetown people call them the 'pushers,'” announced Mrs. Truxton, helping herself to the ice cream that Nicodemus was passing.

“And yet,” continued Thornton, “I dare say there were just as amusing characters in Washington fifty years ago as now.”

“How about the woman of whom I have heard,” asked Eleanor, “who carried off the silver meat skewer at the French legation, as it was then, as a souvenir, and afterward used it as a hat-pin?”

“Human nature is very much the same from one generation to another,” acknowledged Mrs. Truxton. “But the types are different. I recollect my grandmother's telling me that she attended services one Sunday at St. John's Episcopal Church, on Lafayette Square, when the rector preached a fiery sermon against the sin of dueling. Mrs. Alexander Hamilton and her daughter sat in the pew just in front of my grandmother, and she said Miss Hamilton bore the tirade for some minutes, then rose, turned to her mother, and remarked in an audible tone: 'Come, ma, we'll go. This is no place for us.'”

“Come, you needn't put it all on Washington,” exclaimed Douglas. “Georgetown has famous blunderers and eccentric characters as well.”

“And ghosts,” added Mrs. Truxton. “Do not deprive Georgetown of its chief attraction. Ghosts and past glory walk hand in hand through these old streets.”

“Ghosts?” echoed Douglas, turning to his host. “Unless my memory is playing me false, this house used to be thought haunted. It seems to me I've heard tales of secret passages and mysterious noises.”

Thornton laughed outright. “That old legend was caused by flying squirrels getting in the wall through cracks in the eaves and chimneys. Sometimes on still nights I can hear them dropping nuts, which make a great noise as they fall from floor to floor. It's enough to scare a nervous person into fits.”

“You are very disappointing, Uncle Dana,” objected Eleanor. “When Douglas—Mr. Hunter”—she caught herself up, but apparently no one noticed the slip, and she went on hurriedly—“spoke of spooks, I had hopes of an ancestral ghost.”

“I always understood that this house was haunted, Dana,” put in Mrs. Truxton.

“Well, I believe we are supposed to possess a ghost—a very respectable, retiring one,” added Thornton, as Cynthia's eyes, which were fixed upon him, grew to twice their usual size. “My great-aunt, Sophronia Thornton, was a maiden lady, a good deal of a Tartar, I imagine, from the dance she led my Great-grandfather Thornton, who was an easy-going, peaceable man. She ran the house for him until his marriage, and then ran his wife, and, according to tradition, she has run her descendants out of her room ever since.”

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Cynthia. “Do tell us all about her.”

“There is not so very much to tell.” Thornton smiled at her eagerness. “The story goes, as I heard it first from my grandfather, that when he attempted to occupy her room, the southwest chamber, he was driven out.”

“How?”

“He was very fond of reading in bed. As I said before, my great-aunt was very rigid, and did not approve of late hours, which was one rock she and her brother split on. My grandfather, not having the lighting facilities of the present day, used to read in bed by placing a lighted candlestick on his chest, holding his book behind the candle, so that its light fell full on the printed page. At eleven o'clock every night he would feel a slight puff of air, and the candle would go out. He tried everything to stop it. He stuffed every crack and cranny through which a draft might be supposed to come, but it was of no use; his light was always extinguished at eleven o'clock.”

“Do you believe it?” asked Cynthia.

Thornton shrugged his shoulders. “I can only give you my own experience. I occupied the room once, when home on a college vacation. The house was filled with visitors, and I was put in the southwest chamber. Everything went on very smoothly until one night I decided to cram for an examination, and took my books to my room, I had an ordinary oil lamp on the table by my bed, and so commenced reading. After I had been reading about an hour, the lamp went out suddenly. I struck a match and relit it; again it was extinguished. We kept that up most of the night; then I gathered my belongings and spent the rest of the time before breakfast on the sofa in the library, where I was not disturbed by the whims of the ghost of my spinster great-aunt.”

“'There are more things in heaven and earth,'” quoted Eleanor, as she rose in obedience to a signal from Mrs. Truxton. “Where shall we go, Uncle Dana?” as they strolled out into the hall.

“Into the library. Nicodemus will serve coffee there, and if you ladies have no objection, Douglas and I will smoke there also.”

“Why, certainly,” exclaimed Mrs. Truxton, picking out a comfortable chair. She signaled Douglas to take the one next hers, and, without more ado, plunged into questions relating to his family history. He cast longing glances at Eleanor, but she refused to take the hint conveyed, and, to his secret annoyance, left the room shortly after.

Cynthia was having an animated conversation with Colonel Thornton and sipping her coffee, when, happening to look in the direction of the hall door, she saw Eleanor standing there, beckoning to her. Making a hurried excuse to the colonel, she joined Eleanor, who, without a word, slipped her arm about her waist and led her into the drawing-room.

“What is——”

The words died in her throat as she caught sight of a tall, soldierly figure standing under the chandelier. Eleanor discreetly vanished, closing the hall door softly behind her as she went.

“You!” Cynthia shrank back against the wall as Lane stepped forward.

“Cynthia, darling!” He held out his arms pleadingly, but with a moan she turned her face from him. His eyes flashed with indignation. “Cynthia, you have no right to condemn me unheard. I am innocent.” He approached her, and gently took her hand in his.

Her eyes were closed, but a few tears forced themselves under the lids, the scalding tears that come when the fountain is dry, and only bitter grief forces such expression of sorrow.

“Dear one, look at me. I am not guilty. I have forced myself upon you, because I want you to understand”—he spoke slowly as if reasoning with a child—“that I am absolutely innocent.”

“Not in thought!” burst in Cynthia.

“Perhaps not,” steadily, “but in deed. I spoke in anger. Your uncle had insulted me grossly when I met him just before going to Mrs. Owen's dance, and in my indignation I uttered a wish that would have been better left unsaid. But listen to reason, dear; to think evil is not a crime.”

Cynthia threw back her head and gazed at him wildly. “Oh, I would so gladly, gladly believe you innocent!” She placed her small, trembling hands on his breast. “It hurts horribly—because I love you so!”

Lane caught her in a close embrace. “My darling—my dear, dear one——” His voice choked.

Cynthia lay passive in his arms. Suddenly she raised her white face and kissed him passionately; then thrust him from her. “Oh, God! Why did you take that sharp letter file with you?”

“I didn't!” The words were positive, but his looks belied them.

“She says you did—she declares that when she met you looking for the carriage, you held it in your hand——” The words seemed forced from Cynthia. She placed a hand on the chair nearest her, swaying slightly.

“She? Who?” cried Lane.

“Annette.”

Chapter XV.

A Cry in the Night.

Eleanor tiptoed over to the bed. At last Cynthia had dropped asleep. It seemed hours since Lane's cal! for help had taken her into the drawing-room, where she had found Cynthia stretched upon the floor, and the young officer bending frantically over her. Doctor Marsh, who fortunately resided next door but one, had been sent for, and on his arrival in hot haste, Cynthia had been revived and carried to her room. Cynthia had shown a sudden aversion to having Annette about, so Eleanor had sent the maid to bed, and since ten o'clock had been sitting with Cynthia, trying to quiet her.

Eleanor glanced about the room. There was nothing more she could do, and, stretching herself wearily, she arranged the night light so that it would not shine in Cynthia's eyes, and placed an old-fashioned brass bell on the small table by the bed, so that, if Cynthia needed assistance, she could ring for aid. Then, moving softly for fear of waking the sleeper, she stole across the room, turned out the gas, and, stepping into the hall, closed the door gently after her.

Some time later she was busy undressing in her own room, when a faint knock disturbed her. On opening the door, she found Mrs. Truxton standing in the hall, with a quilted wrapper drawn tight around her portly figure.

“I thought you hadn't gone to bed,” she remarked, in a sibilant whisper that was more penetrating than an ordinary low-pitched voice. “I just could not go to bed”—selecting a large oak rocker—“until I had some explanation of this extraordinary affair. Will you please inform me what made that poor girl faint in the drawing-room?”

“She is in a very nervous, excitable condition, Cousin Kate, which reacts on her heart action.”

Eleanor glanced despairingly at Mrs. Truxton. She knew that the latter was an inveterate, though kindly, gossip. Apparently she had come to stay for some time, as she sat rocking gently to and fro, her curl papers making a formidable halo around her soft, gray hair.

“Heart action?” echoed Mrs. Truxton. “That's as it may be. What was Captain Lane doing here?”

Eleanor started violently. She particularly wanted to keep the fact that Cynthia and Lane had been together a secret. She had watched for his arrival, had let him in before he had an opportunity to ring the front-door bell, and had shown him at once into the deserted drawing-room. During their interview, she had mounted guard in the hall. Hearing Lane's call for assistance, she had opened the drawing-room door, and, before summoning her uncle and the servants, had advised Lane to leave the house. She supposed he had followed her advice.

“Where in the world did you see him?” she asked.

“So he was here.” Mrs. Truxton smiled delightedly, while Eleanor flushed with vexation as she realized she had given herself away unnecessarily. “Your uncle and Douglas were discussing politics, and I slipped away to remind Nicodemus to put some sandwiches in my room, as I always want a late supper, particularly after so early a dinner. As I walked through the billiard room on my way to the library, I happened to glance through the door leading into the hall, and was surprised to see a man standing by the hatrack. As he raised his head, I thought I recognized Fred Lane. I wasn't quite sure, though, and before I could call his name, he had vanished.”

“I see.” Eleanor came to a quick resolution. “You have probably heard, Cousin Kate”—sitting down on the edge of her bed nearest the older woman—“that Fred Lane is very much in love with Cynthia.” Mrs. Truxton nodded her head vigorously. “Eventually, after he had paid her a great deal of attention, they became engaged. Unfortunately”—Eleanor was feeling her way with care—“unfortunately, they had a lovers' quarrel. Cynthia refused to see Fred, and he finally came to me and asked me to arrange an interview, saying that he felt convinced, if given the opportunity, he could straighten out their misunderstanding.”

Mrs. Truxton pondered some moments in silence. “Did this lovers' quarrel take place before Senator Carew's death?” she asked.

“Yes.” Eleanor's blue eyes did not waver before Mrs. Truxton's piercing look. “Why?”

“I was just thinking that if Senator Carew had known of an engagement between a member of his family and a Lane, he'd have died of apoplexy—instead of having to be stabbed to death.”

“What was the exact trouble between Senator Carew and Governor Lane, Cousin Kate?” asked Eleanor. “I never have heard.”

“It began years ago.” Mrs. Truxton hitched her chair close to the bed. “Governor Lane was an intimate friend of Philip Winthrop, senior, and, after the latter's marriage to Charlotte Carew, came frequently to Washington to visit them. To my thinking, Philip Winthrop was a bad egg, specious and handsome; and he took in the Carews completely, as well as Governor Lane. He was a stockbroker in Wall Street, and during a panic was ruined financially. He promptly committed suicide.”

“Oh, poor Mrs. Winthrop!” exclaimed Eleanor warmly. “What hasn't she been through!”

“Well, losing her rascal of a husband was the least one of her troubles,” said Mrs. Truxton dryly. “Philip Winthrop's failure was not an honorable one; there was talk of criminal proceedings. But all that was put a stop to by Senator Carew's stepping forward and paying his creditors.” She paused for breath.

“I don't see what Governor Lane has to do with it,” objected Eleanor, glancing meaningly at the clock, which was just striking one. She stifled a yawn.

“I am coming to that,” explained Mrs. Truxton. “Philip Winthrop appealed to Governor Lane, among other of his old friends, to loan him money to tide over the financial crisis, and the governor trusted him to the extent of ten thousand dollars.”

“That was exceedingly generous of him.”

“Yes, and I reckon he repented of his generosity many times.” Mrs. Truxton spoke with emphasis. “He loaned it to Winthrop without taking security, and without knowing that the latter was on the point of absolute failure. And this is where the row comes in. Lane went to Carew, and told him of the transaction, showed him the canceled check, and the latter, on finding that Lane had no promissory note or other security, declined to pay off the indebtedness.”

“I see.” Eleanor was paying full attention to the older woman.

“Lane was naturally incensed, for Carew had assumed all the other obligations, and he felt that his was a prior claim, being a debt of honor between friends. Carew didn't see it that way, and it led to a bitter quarrel. The ill feeling between the two men was intensified on Governor Lane's part because he met with financial reverses later, and the old Maryland homestead, which might have been saved by the return of the ten thousand dollars, was sold under the hammer.”

“This is all news to me. I was told they were political enemies.”

“Look!” she cried, pointing toward the door. “My dream! See, the panels are in the shape of a cross!”

“They were. Lane vowed to get even in every way in his power, and so entered politics. He was a man of great force of character and intellectual ability—although lacking in business sense”—she interpolated—“and a born orator. And when he found, after having held several important State positions, that Senator Carew was going to run for governor of Maryland, he entered the field against him, and Carew was beaten by a few votes.”

“When did this happen?”

“Oh, back in the early nineties. The quarrel was most acrimonious, particularly on Carew's side. He must have realized that he had not acted fairly to his old friend. As long as he had assumed Winthrop's debts, it seemed only right that he should return the money owing to Lane. Public opinion was with the latter.”

“Perhaps at that time he may not have had the ten thousand,” suggested Eleanor. “I have always heard and believed the senator an honorable man; and certainly it was good of him to shoulder any of his brother-in-law's debts.”

“He did it only to protect his sister, who was left penniless, and to quiet scandal.”

“Mrs. Winthrop penniless! Why, how comes it, Cousin Kate, that she lives as she does?”

“Senator Carew gave her a large allowance. He always said that Cynthia should inherit his fortune.”

“I never knew until the other day that Philip Winthrop was not Mrs. Winthrop's son.”

“She adopted him legally, I believe, at the time of her husband's death, and persuaded her brother, the senator, to have him brought up as one of the family. Philip Winthrop's first wife was a South American, I am told. I never saw her, as she died before he came to Washington. Mercy on us!”—glancing at the clock. “I had no idea it was so late.” She rose and started for the door. “How did you leave Cynthia?”

“Sound asleep, thank Heaven!”

“Did she and Fred Lane patch up their quarrel?”

“I am afraid not.” Eleanor kissed her cousin a warm good night, and watched her cross the wide hall to her bedroom, then closed and locked her own door, and hastened to complete her undressing.

 

About three in the morning, Cynthia awoke and lay for a few minutes bewildered by her surroundings. Then recollection returned to her with a rush, and she sank back among her pillows with a half-strangled sob. Slowly she reviewed her interview with Fred, trying to find some solace, but she could discover none, and, with a moan, she turned on her side and buried her face in the pillow. Their romance had promised so much, and, instead, her happiness had been nipped in the bud.

She raised her hot face and glanced about, looking for a glass of water, for she was parched with thirst. Eleanor had forgotten, apparently, to place any drinking water in the room. Cynthia sat up and gazed eagerly around by the aid of the night light, but she could discover no glass on either the table or the bureau. She was on the point of lying down again, when she remembered having seen a pitcher of ice water on a table near the head of the stairs. She reached out to ring the brass bell, but decided it would be cruel to call Eleanor, who had been up with her most of the night.

She pondered a moment, but her thirst was growing upon her, and, after a few minutes of indecision, she climbed out of the huge four-poster, and, getting into a wrapper and bedroom slippers, stole out of her room and down the hall in the direction of the stairs.

So intent was Cynthia on reaching her goal that she never noticed a figure crouching on the landing of the stairs, who drew back fearfully into the shadows at her approach. She found the ice pitcher on the table, with several glasses. Filling one of them, she took a long drink of the ice-cold water; then, feeling much refreshed, she refilled the glass, intending to take it with her to her room. She paused again, and looked about her with interest, for the hall was illuminated by the moonlight that streamed through the diamond-shaped panes of a window at one end of a wing of the house. The figure below her on the stair landing peered at her intently, poised for instant flight to the darker regions below in case she started to descend the stairs.

Cynthia was about to return to her room when her roving eyes fell on a closed door leading to a room in the wing. The moonlight was beating upon it. For one long second Cynthia stood transfixed; then she uttered a cry that roused the sleeping household—a cry of such terror that it froze the blood in the listeners' veins.

The figure on the landing stood glued to the spot until recalled to action by the hurried opening of doors. Then, with incredible swiftness, it vanished, as Eleanor, her hastily donned wrapper streaming in the wind, rushed to Cynthia's side.

“Good God! Cynthia! What is it?” she gasped, throwing her arms about her friend.

Cynthia caught her wrist in a grip that made her wince. “Look!” she cried. “Look!” pointing toward the door at the end of the wing. “My dream! See, the panels are in the shape of a cross!”

Eleanor cast a startled glance in the direction indicated. It was true. The panels stood out in bold relief in the brilliant moonlight, and they formed an unmistakable Greek cross.

“Yes, yes, dear,” she said soothingly. “It simply shows that your dream was founded on fact. Come to bed.”

“No, no.” Cynthia was trembling violently, but she refused to leave the spot. “You forget that in my dream the door is always locked.”

“In this case it is not,” exclaimed Colonel Thornton, who, with Douglas, had rushed into the hall as soon as they had struggled into some clothes. Mrs. Truxton brought up the rear, her curl papers standing upright, and her eyes almost popping from her head. “It's used simply as a storeroom,” he added. “Don't be so worried, Cynthia,” catching sight of her agonized face.

“I tell you it is locked!” She stamped her foot in her excitement.

For answer, Thornton stepped down the short hallway and turned the knob. To his intense surprise, the door did not open.

“Ah!” Her cry was half of triumph, half of agony. “I told you it was locked. It must be opened! I shall go mad if it is not!” And her looks did not belie her statement.

Douglas joined Thornton as he stood hesitating. “I think it would be best to humor her,” he said, in an undertone.

Thornton nodded in agreement. “I can't understand how it got locked,” he muttered. “How the devil can I get it open? It is English quartered oak.”

“Is there any way of entering the room by a window?” asked Douglas.

“No, it's too high from the ground, and there's nothing but the bare brick wall to climb up. No tree grows near it,” said Thornton thoughtfully. “And, unfortunately, I have no ladder long enough to reach the window.”

“Then there's nothing left but to try and force the door.” Douglas braced his powerful shoulders against the panels until his muscles almost cracked under the strain. “Run against it,” he gasped, perspiration trickling down his face, and Colonel Thornton obediently threw himself forward as the door gave slightly. “Again!” cried Douglas, and he threw his own weight on the panel, which yielded a little. “Once more!” And, with a rending crash, the upper and weaker panel splintered sufficiently to allow Douglas to slip his hand inside, and turn the key, which was in the lock. He also shot back the rusty bolt with difficulty, and withdrew his hand.

“Get the women back into their rooms,” he whispered, his face showing white in the moonlight. “The room is full of escaping gas.”

Thornton gazed blankly at him for a second, then turned to Mrs. Truxton. “Kate, I insist upon your taking these girls to your room.” She nodded understandingly, and he turned to Cynthia with an air of command. “Go with Mrs. Truxton, Cynthia. I promise to come instantly and tell you what we discover in this room.”

She nodded dumbly, past speech. The reaction had come, and Mrs. Truxton and Eleanor led her unresisting back to her room, and helped her to bed, where she lay, her eyes pleading to be relieved from her mental anguish.

Colonel Thornton and Douglas watched them until they disappeared inside the bedroom, then the latter opened the broken door of the locked room. An overpowering smell of illuminating gas choked them, and they drew back, gasping. Douglas stepped over to the hall window and threw up the sash, letting in the cool air. Then, holding his breath, he rushed inside the room, and, locating the escaping gas jet by the overpowering odor, reached up and turned off the cock of the wall bracket.

“It's no use; we'll have to wait and give the gas a chance to escape,” he said, returning to the colonel's side. “Are you sure the room is unoccupied?”

Thornton's eyes were half starting from his head. “Unoccupied?” he stammered. “It's been unoccupied for half a century. This is the southwest chamber which is supposed to be haunted by my great-aunt. A dog won't sleep there.”

Douglas stared at his companion in amazement for some seconds, then, holding his breath, again bolted into the room. The gas almost overcame him, but, fortunately catching sight of the outlines of the windows, he opened first one and then the other, and rejoined the colonel as quickly as possible. Without speaking, they waited until the pure night air had swept away the last remnant of poisonous gas; then Douglas stepped inside the room, struck a match, and applied it to the chandelier. As the light flared up, a horrified exclamation escaped Thornton.

“Good God! Look!”

Douglas' eyes followed his outstretched arm. Stretched on the high four-poster bed was the body of a woman, lying on her side, her face concealed by the masses of dark hair that fell over it. A book lay by her side, one finger of her left hand caught between the pages. A droplight, minus shade and chimney, stood on a low table beside the bed.

Reverently the two men tiptoed to the bedside. Thornton laid a shaking hand on the droplight. “She must have been reading, and fallen asleep,” he muttered between twitching lips. “She didn't know that the light is always blown out after eleven o'clock in this room.”

Awe-struck, Douglas gazed down at the silent figure. No need to feel pulse or heart; to the most casual observer the woman was dead.

“Who—who—is it?” demanded a quivering voice behind them. Both men wheeled about to find Eleanor, white-lipped and trembling, standing there. She had stolen into the room without attracting their attention.

Douglas leaned forward and raised the strands of hair gently from the cold face.

“Annette!” Eleanor's trembling lips could hardly form the whisper; she swayed backward, and Douglas caught her as she fell.

Chapter XVI.

The Mystery Deepens.

“Where's Brett?” asked Thornton, coming hurriedly into the library, where Douglas was seated at the telephone. The latter hung up the receiver before answering.

“He will be here directly, colonel. At present he is with the doctor and coroner in the southwest chamber. You had better sit down, sir,” glancing with commiseration at Thornton's haggard face. But the colonel continued his nervous pacing to and fro.

“Jove!” he muttered. “This affair has given me a devilish shock.” He paused before a small wall cabinet, and, selecting a key on his ring bunch, opened the door and took out a decanter.

“Will you join me?” he asked, placing it on the table with several tumblers.

“No, thanks, colonel.” Douglas heard the glass click faintly against the mouth of the decanter as the colonel poured out a liberal portion, which he drank neat. He was replacing the decanter in the wall cabinet when Brett, followed by the coroner, walked into the room.

“If you have no objection, Colonel Thornton, we will hold an informal investigation here,” said Doctor Penfield courteously.

“Not at all, sir, not at all,” exclaimed Thornton heartily. “I am most anxious to have this terrible affair cleared up as soon as possible. Simply state your wishes, and they will be carried out to the best of my ability.”

“Thanks.” The coroner seated himself at the mahogany table standing in the center of the room, and drew out his notebook and fountain pen, while Brett established himself on the opposite side.

“Shall I retire?” inquired the colonel.

“I think it would be best,” replied Doctor Penfield gravely. “I prefer to examine the members of the household separately. No offense is intended.”

“And none is taken.” Thornton smiled wearily. “You forget I'm a lawyer, doctor, and understand your position. If you wish to see me, I will be in my room.”

“All right, colonel.” The coroner consulted his notebook as Thornton left them, then turned to Douglas. “You were the first to enter the southwest chamber, were you not?”

“Yes. I broke in a panel of the door with Colonel Thornton's assistance, and we——”

“One moment.” Penfield held up his hand. “Was the door locked on the inside?”

“Yes, by an old-fashioned bolt as well as by lock and key.”

“Did the bolt and lock work stiffly?”

“They did.”

“In your opinion, would a person locking the door and shooting the bolt into place make enough noise to awaken the sleeper?”

“I think so—yes.”

“Did you find the windows of the room also bolted when you entered?”

“No, They were closed, but the bolts, which are similar to the one on the door, only smaller, were not fastened.”

“I see.” Penfield drummed on the table for a moment with his left hand. “Could any one have slipped past you and Colonel Thornton when you stood waiting in the hallway for the gas to escape?”

“No, we would have been sure to see them, and, besides, no one could have remained in that room alive; the escaping gas was overpowering.”

“Did the room have no other exit except the one door leading to the hall?”

“That is the only one I could discover. I searched the room thoroughly with Brett.” The detective nodded affirmatively. “We could find no trace of any other entrance or exit.”

“Strange!” exclaimed Penfield. “The windows are at too great a height from the ground, and can be reached only by a scaling ladder.”

“And, beside that,” put in Brett, “I've examined the ground under and near the two windows of that room, and there isn't a trace of a footstep or a ladder anywhere around.”

The coroner laid down his pen. “I think that is all just now, Mr. Hunter. Brett, will you ask Doctor Marsh to step here?”

The two men left the room.

“I'll wait in the drawing-room, Brett,” called Douglas, as the detective started upstairs to find the doctor.

In a few minutes, Brett reappeared in the library with Doctor Marsh.

“I won't detain you long, doctor,” began Penfield. “Be seated. You were the first to examine the dead woman upstairs. What do you think caused her death?”

“She was asphyxiated by illuminating gas. Every symptom points to that. Of course,” added the doctor cautiously, “this cannot be proved absolutely until the autopsy is held.”

“I think you are right. My diagnosis coincides with yours,” said the coroner. “Did you discover any evidence of a struggle, or marks of violence, about the woman's person?”

“No. Judging from what I found—and I believe nothing had been disturbed by either Colonel Thornton or Mr. Hunter—I think that the Frenchwoman was reading in bed, fell asleep, and was overcome by the gas.”

“How long do you think she had been dead before you reached her?”

“Several hours, judging from the condition of the body. She was lying in such a position that she got the full force of the gas directly in her face; the room did not have to become filled with the deadly fumes before she was affected by them.”

“I noticed that,” exclaimed the coroner. “The droplight stood on a low stand, so that the gas fixture was on a level with the woman's head, as the four-poster bed was an unusually high one. I have no further questions to ask just now, doctor. An autopsy will be held this afternoon at the city morgue, where the body will be taken shortly. Brett, ask Miss Cynthia Carew to come here.”

Doctor Marsh stopped on his way to the door. “I have just given Miss Carew an opiate,” he said quickly. “She must not be disturbed at present.”

The coroner's face fell. “That's too bad,” he grumbled. “I particularly wanted to ask what she was doing in the hall at that hour, and what drew her attention to the closed door.”

“As it happens, I can answer those two questions.” Marsh returned to the table. “Before I could quiet Miss Carew, she repeated her experiences a dozen times. It seems that she was thirsty, and went into the hall to get a glass of water, as she recollected seeing an ice pitcher and tumblers on the hall table near the stairs. She drank some water, and was returning when she noticed the door in the moonlight, dropped the glass she was carrying, and screamed.”

“I found a broken glass lying in the hall,” supplemented Brett.

“What was it about the door that caused her to scream?” asked the coroner.

“The panels, which are made in the shape of a Greek cross,” explained Marsh. “It seems that Miss Carew apparently suffers from a nightmare which takes the form of a door with panels of that shape. She declares it always foretells disaster. When she found such a door confronting her in the ghostly moonlight, it was too much for her nerves, and she screamed.”

“What is all this I am told about the southwest chamber being haunted?”

Marsh shrugged his shoulders. “I have resided all my life in Georgetown, and have always heard that a room in this house was supposed to be haunted. That particular kind of door with the panels forming a cross is called the 'witches' door,' and it was put there in the days just after the Revolution. It is to ward off evil, so the legend goes.”

“Well, it doesn't seem to have fulfilled its mission.” The coroner carefully turned a page in his notebook, and made an entry. “I am very much obliged to you, doctor,” as Marsh prepared to depart. “I wish you would let me know when Miss Carew is in fit condition to see me.”

“I will; good-by,” and the busy physician beat a hasty retreat.

“Suppose you get the butler, Brett,” said the coroner, when the two men were alone.

“May I suggest, Doctor Penfield, that you allow Mr. Hunter to be present when the servants are examined?” began Brett. “He is deeply interested in the murder of Senator Carew, and is assisting me in trying to unravel that mystery, and I think”—deliberately—“this French maid's singular death has something to do with the other tragedy.”

“Indeed?” The coroner's eyes kindled with fresh interest. “Certainly, Brett, if you think Mr. Hunter should be present, call him in.”

The detective hastened out of the room, to return within a few minutes with Douglas and Nicodemus. The old darky was gray with fright, and his eyes had not regained their natural size since he had been wakened by the noise attending the breaking in of the door. He had lain in his bed, too frightened to get up until Douglas had entered his room, hauled him out from under the bedclothes, and made him go downstairs and build the fire for the cook, Sophy, who was more composed than her brother, and busied herself in preparing coffee and an early breakfast for those who desired it.

“Is there such a thing as a long scaling ladder on the premises?” inquired the coroner, after he had asked Nicodemus' full name and length of service.

“No, suh; dey isn't, only a pa'r ob steps so high,” demonstrating with his hand. “Dat's der onliest one on de place.”

“Is any house being built in this neighborhood?”

“No, suh, dar isn't.”

“How did you come to put the maid in that room?”

“I didn't put her dar,” in quick defense. “She went dar ob her own accord. 'Deed dat's so, Marse Douglas,” appealing to him directly. “De cunnel, he done tole Sophy an' me ter fix three rooms fo' de ladies, an' a room fo' yo', suh. He doan' say nuffin' about de maid, Annette.”

“Then you were not expecting her?”

“No, suh. I was 'sprised when Miss Eleanor brunged her. After I haid shown de ladies ter dey rooms, I took Annette up ter de third flo', an' tole her she could take de front room dar.”

“Then how did she come to be occupying the other room?” asked the coroner quickly.

“It were dis-away, suh. Jes' befo' dinnah she cum ter me an' Sophy, an' say she doan' like de room in de third flo'——”

“Why not?” broke in Penfield.

“She said it were too far off from her folks, dat she had to be down whar she could hear dem. I tole her dat der warn't no room down on de second flo', dat dey was all occupied, an' she says, quicklike, dat she had jes' been in de room in de wing, an' dat she'd sleep dar.”

“Ah, then it was her own suggestion that she should occupy the room?” exclaimed Brett quickly.

“Yessir. She done say dat de bed looked comfo'ble, an' dat she'd jes' take de bedclothes offer de bed in de room on de third flo', an' move her things down inter de odder room. Sophy tole her dat de place were mighty dusty, 'cause it's been used as a storeroom, but Annette said she'd 'tend ter dat.”

“Did she speak to Colonel Thornton or to Miss Eleanor before moving into the room?” asked Douglas thoughtfully.

“No, suh, I don't think she did. I axed her ef she had, an' she said dat dey was all in de drawin'-room waitin' fer dinneh, an' dat she didn't want ter 'sturb 'em, an' dat dey wouldn't care whar she slep'.”

“Then no one knew she was occupying that room except you and Sophy?” asked the puzzled coroner.

“No, suh; 'less she tole dem later. I done warned her dat dat room were unlucky”—Nicodemus' eyes rolled in his head—“an' dat no good would cum ob her sleepin' dar, an' she jes' larf an' larf. An' now she's daid.” He shook his woolly head solemnly. “It doan' do ter trifle wid ghosts.”

“I won't keep you any longer,” said the coroner, after a long pause. “Send Sophy up here, Nicodemus. By way, is she any relation of yours?”

“Yessir. She's ma sister, an' we've bof worked hyar since befo' de wah. I'll send her right up, suh,” and he disappeared.

Sophy was not long in coming, and she confirmed all that Nicodemus had said. She added that the southwest chamber had not been occupied as a bed-chamber for years, although the four-poster bed had been left standing, with its mattresses and pillows in place; after which she was excused. Colonel Thornton was then sent for by the coroner.

“Your servants say, colonel, that you did not expect your niece to bring her French maid, Annette, with her last night,” began Penfield. “Is that so?”

“My niece is at liberty to bring any one”—with emphasis—“to this house,” said Colonel Thornton. “But I must admit that I did not know until just as dinner was announced that the maid had accompanied her.”

“Did you not see them arrive?” asked Brett.

“No, they came earlier than I anticipated, and I was not in the house when they reached here.”

“Did Nicodemus inform you that the maid was here?”

“No; why should he? He knows that this is my niece's second home, and that she is virtually mistress of the house.”

“Then your niece is thoroughly acquainted with this building?” put in Brett.

“Haven't I just said so,” impatiently. “Miss Thornton brought her maid with her, because she knows I have but two old servants, enough for my bachelor needs, but she very naturally considered that my other guests, Mrs. Truxton and Miss Carew, might desire a maid's services.”

“I understand. Were you aware that Annette intended to sleep in the southwest chamber?”

“I was not. If I had known it, I would not have permitted her to occupy the room.”

“Please tell me the exact superstition that hangs about that room,” said the coroner, after a brief pause.

“Stand back,” he growled between clenched teeth. “I'll go with you peaceably. Let me tell you, Brett”—glaring defiantly at him—“you'll live to regret this day's work.”

“It is believed that no light can be burned in that room after eleven o'clock; after that time it is always extinguished by some mysterious agency.”

“How comes it, then, that you allowed gas pipes to be placed in the room?”

“I gave the contract to have gas put in the house years ago, at the same time that I had running water and plumbing installed. The gas contractor naturally fitted each room with modern appliances. As the room is never used after dark, I never gave the matter another thought.”

“Then why was a droplight fastened to the wall bracket by the side of the bed?”

“I've been puzzling over that fact myself.” The colonel tipped his chair back on two legs. “That droplight is one I used to have in my bedroom. It didn't give very satisfactory light to read by, so several months ago I purchased another, transferred the chimney and shade to the new lamp, and sent the other one into the storeroom.”

“Then it is highly probable that Annette found it there, and, wishing to read in bed, attached it to the bracket herself.”

“And thereby sealed her own fate,” added the colonel solemnly.

“Do you really think that supernatural means caused her death?” asked the coroner incredulously.

“It seems to be either that, or suicide.”

“From what I hear, I incline to the latter theory,” acknowledged Doctor Penfield. “I don't take much stock in ghosts or other hallucinations, colonel, with all due respect to you, sir. Will you be so kind as to ask your cousin, Mrs. Truxton, to step here for a few minutes?”

On being summoned by Colonel Thornton, Mrs. Truxton hastened into the library. As her statements added nothing to what the coroner already knew, she was quickly excused, and Eleanor Thornton sent for.

Douglas had not seen her since carrying her to her room some hours before, and he was shocked by her appearance. “My precious darling!” he murmured, in a tone that reached her ear alone, as he opened the library door to admit her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

She shook her head and smiled at him, a smile that hurt him woefully, for it showed the effort it cost her. Doctor Penfield, struck by her beauty, which was enhanced by her unnaturally flushed cheeks and the dark shadows under her large eyes, rose and pulled forward a chair for her use.

“I won't detain you long, Miss Thornton,” he commenced, reseating himself. “Did you know your maid as sleeping in the southwest chamber?”

“No, I did not. On the contrary, she told me, when helping me change my dress for dinner, that she had been put in the room over mine.”

“When did you last see your maid?”

“She came to my assistance when Miss Carew fainted, shortly after dinner. After I had seen Miss Carew revived and put in bed, I had Annette help me out of my evening dress, and then told her to go to bed, as I would not require her services any longer.”

“At what hour was that?”

“Shortly before ten o'clock. I do not recollect the exact time.”

“Did she say nothing to you then about having moved down on your floor?”

“Not a word.”

“Has your maid had an unfortunate love affair?” inquired the coroner.

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Has she been despondent of late?”

“No; she seemed in her usual good spirits.”

“Do you know if she had lost money?”

“I never heard her mention such a thing.”

“Has she been with you long?”

“About two years.”

“And you found her?”

“Excellent in every way; honest, reliable, and capable.”

“Miss Thornton”—facing her directly—“have you formed any theory as to how your maid came to be asphyxiated?”

“I think it was due to an accident. She probably fell asleep, leaving the gas burning.”

“But Mr. Hunter found the two windows closed; no possible draft could get into the room to blow out the light—nor could any person have blown it out, for the door, the only means of entrance, was locked on the inside. How was it possible to have an accident under those circumstances?”

“Possibly it was suicide, though I cannot bear to think so.” Eleanor spoke with much feeling.

“Miss Thornton.” Brett rose, walked over to the table, and stood looking directly down into the lovely face raised so confidingly to his. “Did your maid ever utter any threats against Captain Frederick Lane in your presence?”

“Never.” Eleanor's eyes opened in surprise.

“Did she ever insinuate that he had something to do with the murder of Senator Carew?”

“No, never.” But Eleanor's firm voice quivered as she uttered the denial, and Brett detected it. His eyes lighted with excitement.

“What was Captain Lane doing here last night?”

The question was unexpected, and Eleanor started perceptibly.

“He came to see Miss Carew,” she admitted faintly.

“Did he see your maid?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Did Captain Lane spend the evening with you and Colonel Thornton?”

“Oh, no; he saw only Miss Carew.”

“How long was he with Miss Carew?”

“About ten minutes.”

“Indeed.” Brett paused, and spoke with greater deliberation. “Captain Lane, who is being shadowed by several of my men, was seen to enter this house last night between nine and half past, and though my men waited all night, he was never seen to leave it.”

Chapter XVII.

In the Name of the Law.

“Well, and what then?” demanded a curt voice behind the group. The three men and Eleanor wheeled around and gazed at the young officer in surprise too deep for words. “Well, what then?” demanded Captain Lane, for the second time.

“How did you get here?” asked Brett, recovering from his surprise.

“Through the door; how did you suppose?” with a flicker of amusement in his handsome eyes. “The butler told me I would find you here when he admitted me a few seconds ago.” Then his face grew stern, “I entered in time to overhear your remark,” turning directly to Brett. “Because your men did not see me leave the house, it doesn't follow that I spent the night here.”

“Then where did you spend it?” asked Brett swiftly.

“With my cousin, General Phillips, at his apartment at the Dupont,” calmly.

“At what hour did you reach his apartment?”

“About twelve o'clock.”

“And where were you between the hours of nine-thirty and twelve?”

“Most of the time walking the streets.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Lane faced them all, head up and shoulders back, and gave no sign that he was aware of the antagonism that he felt in the tense atmosphere. The coroner was the next to speak.

“Suppose you take a chair, Captain Lane, and give us a more detailed account of your actions last night,” he suggested, and Lane dragged forward a chair and seated himself. “When did you leave this house?”

“About half past ten o'clock.” He caught Eleanor's start of surprise, and added hastily: “I am, as perhaps you already know, engaged to Miss Carew. During our interview last night she fainted, and I summoned Miss Thornton, who urged me to go, but I felt that I could not leave the house until I knew that Miss Carew was better. So, instead of going out of the front door, I picked up my coat and hat, and slipped into the dining room, which was empty.”

“What was your object in going there?”

“I hoped that Miss Thornton would come downstairs again, and I could then get an opportunity to speak to her.”

“Would it not have been better and more straightforward to have stepped into the library, and informed Colonel Thornton of your presence in his house?” asked the coroner dryly.

Lane flushed at his tone. “Possibly it would,” haughtily, “but I was acting on impulse. I was extremely alarmed by Miss Carew's condition, and could think of nothing else.”

“What caused Miss Carew's indisposition?” inquired the coroner.

She is not strong, and overtaxed her strength yesterday.”

The coroner did not press the point, to Lane's relief. “Did any one see you in the dining room last night?”

“I think not; the room was not lighted, and the table had been already cleared, so no servant entered the room.”

“Did you see Miss Thornton again?”

“No. I had not been waiting long before I saw Colonel Thornton come down the stairs with a man whom I judged to be a physician. As they passed the dining-room door, I heard the doctor tell Colonel Thornton that Miss Carew had regained consciousness, and would be all right after a night's rest. A few minutes after that I left the house.”

“How?”

“I have dined frequently with Colonel Thornton, and know the house fairly well; so, as I had promised to keep my visit to Miss Carew a secret, I opened the long French window that gives on the south veranda, ran down the steps, and walked down the garden path, jumped the fence between this property and the next, and walked out of their gate into the street.”

Brett said something under his breath that was not complimentary to his detective force. “May I ask you why you thought such precautions necessary?” he inquired.

“Because I was perfectly aware that I had been followed over here,” retorted Lane calmly. “And as I considered it nobody's business but my own if I chose to call on Miss Carew, I decided to avoid them.”

“And what did you and Annette, Miss Thornton's French maid, discuss before you left here?” Brett rose to his feet and confronted Lane squarely, as he put the question.

“I did not speak to any one except Miss Carew and Miss Thornton while in this house,” steadily.

“No? Then, perhaps, you only saw the maid, Annette, when she was asleep?” with emphasis.

“I don't catch your meaning?” Lane tapped his foot nervously with his swagger stick.

“Listen to me, Captain Lane.” Brett dropped back in his chair and emphasized his remarks by frequent taps on the table with his left hand. “You can't dodge the issue with fake testimony.”

“I am dodging nothing.” Lane's eyes flashed ominously, and his voice deepened, the voice of a born fighter accustomed to command. “I have no testimony to fake.”

“I suppose you will say next,” sarcastically, “that you don't know the maid, Annette, is dead.”

“Dead?” echoed Lane, bounding from his chair.

“Dead—murdered last night.”

“Good God!” There was no mistaking Lane's agitation and surprise. Brett watched him closely; if he was acting, it was a perfect performance. “How—what killed her?”

“Asphyxiated by illuminating gas,” briefly, “when asleep last night.”

“This is horrible!” Lane paced the floor in uncontrollable excitement. “But what”—pulling himself up—“what has that unfortunate girl's death to do with me?”

“What had you to do with the unfortunate girl's death is more to the point,” retorted Brett meaningly, and Lane went white to the lips.

“By God! I'll not stand such an insinuation.” He made a threatening step toward Brett, who did not move. “Are you such a fool as to imagine, because I was in this house for a short time last night, that I killed a servant whom I had seen occasionally when she opened the door for me on my calling at Miss Thornton's residence?”

“I am not a fool, nor am I a believer in miracles.” Brett grew cool as Lane's excitement rose. “I was to have seen Annette this morning to get sworn testimony which she said would implicate you in Senator Carew's murder.” Lane staggered back, appalled. “Instead, I find her dead, under mysterious circumstances. You are the only person whom her death benefits; and you were in this house unknown to the inmates, and by your own admission no one saw you leave it. It is stretching the probabilities to suppose her death was a coincidence. You, and you alone”—his voice rang out clearly—“had the motive and the opportunity to bring about her death.”

“I deny it—deny it absolutely!” thundered Lane, his knuckles showing white, so tightly were his fingers clenched over his swagger stick, which he raised threateningly.

“Stop, Mr. Brett!” exclaimed Eleanor, who, with Douglas and the coroner, had sat too astounded to speak during the rapid colloquy between the two men. “You forget that the door to the southwest chamber occupied by Annette was locked on the inside and that door was the only means of entering the room. It is only fair to you, Captain Lane”—turning courteously to the young officer—“to remind Mr. Brett of the very obvious fact that no one could have entered the sleeping woman's room, blown out the light, and, on leaving the room, locked and bolted the door on the inside leaving the key in the lock.”

“Thanks!” exclaimed Lane gratefully, as he sat down and wiped the perspiration from his white face.

Brett scowled. He had hoped that his summing up of damaging facts, and his sudden accusation, might wring a confession from Lane, or, if not, that some slip of the tongue that the other might make in his agitation might give him a clew as to how the murder was committed. He was convinced of Lane's guilt. He glanced angrily at Eleanor. Why had she intervened? Long and silently he gazed at the beautiful face. The broad forehead, delicately arched eyebrows, the large, wistful eyes, shaded by curling eyelashes, and the finely chiseled features were well worth looking at, but Brett did not see them. A new problem was puzzling his active brain.

“I understood you to say, Captain Lane, that you had promised to keep your visit here a secret,” he said, breaking into the conversation of the others. “To whom did you make such a promise?”

“To Miss Thornton.” The question was unexpected and the answer slipped out thoughtlessly; then Lane bit his lip as he caught Eleanor's warning glance too late.

Brett turned swiftly on Eleanor. “Why did you wish him to keep his visit here a secret, Miss Thornton?”

“Because I was afraid Mrs. Winthrop would hear that Captain Lane and her niece had met here; my uncle might inadvertently mention it to her. Mrs. Winthrop does not approve of Captain Lane's attentions to Miss Carew,” explained Eleanor quietly.

“On what grounds?” quickly.

“Ask Mrs. Winthrop; she can tell you better than I.”

“I will,” grimly. “Captain Lane,” wheeling around, “why have you returned to this house at so early an hour in the morning?”

“I came to inquire for Miss Carew. I asked to see Miss Thornton, and the butler showed me into this room. And this is the first opportunity I have had, Miss Eleanor, to ask you how Cynthia is this morning.” His face betrayed his anxiety.

“She is asleep just now,” answered Eleanor, “but I hope she will be much better when she wakes up. I will tell her that you have called.”

“Thanks!” Lane rose. He felt that he was dismissed. “Has Cynthia been told of Annette's death?”

“Not yet. We explained the breaking in of the door of the southwest chamber by saying that Nicodemus had locked it, and neglected to tell Colonel Thornton, who had had it forced open.”

“I understand.” Lane shook hands with her warmly. “Will you please telephone me how Cynthia is? I'll be at the Army and Navy Club all day. Good morning.” He bowed formally to the coroner and Douglas, then turned to leave the room, only to find his exit barred by Brett.

“It is my duty to inform you, Captain Lane, that a warrant has been sworn out for your arrest,” he announced, taking a paper from his pocket.

Lane stepped back involuntarily. “What do you mean?” he stammered.

“In the name of the law, I arrest you for the murder of Senator Carew.” Brett ceased speaking, and signaled to two men who were sitting in the hall to enter the room.

It was some seconds before Lane broke the strained silence.

“Stand back,” he growled between clenched teeth, as the two detectives approached him. “I'll go with you peaceably. Let me tell you, Brett”—glaring defiantly at him—“you'll live to regret this day's work. Who swore out that warrant?”

“Mrs. Winthrop.”

Lane gazed at him in dazed surprise. “Mrs. Winthrop!” he mumbled. “Mrs. Winthrop!”

The end of this story will appear in the April number.

1. The first installment of “The Man Inside” appeared in the February number of Smith's.