JENKINS' ADVICE

Philip Darwin was a man of so great wealth and social prominence that the news of his murder and the subsequent arrest of his wife aroused the public to such a pitch of sensational excitement and furor that the district attorney, an exceedingly clever man by the name of Grenville, was forced to set the trial for the end of November, within two months from the date of the murder.

Whereupon I hastened to lay the case before my lawyers, who were also the Trenton solicitors, since I took no great stock in Cunningham for the reason that he had been Darwin's attorney. Therefore, as I remarked before, I went to the firm of Vaughn and Chase, where I found the senior partner in his office. I would rather have spoken to Chase, who was younger and more enthusiastic, but he was out of town, so I had to content myself with Richard Vaughn.

The senior partner was the old-fashioned type of lawyer, cautious and unimaginative, and he listened to my rather disconnected statements with patient tolerance. When I had finished he shook his head and eyed me rather pityingly.

"You know of course that we do not make it a practice to take up criminal cases?" he said with indulgent kindliness.

"I didn't know," I said, rising and walking toward the door. "I came to you because you have handled her father's business for years, but I certainly won't trouble you to defend her since it might break a rule of your firm," and I flung open the door.

"Tut, my dear boy, don't fly off the handle at my first remark. Close the door and sit down, please. Of course we'll take the case," he continued as I resumed my seat, "or rather we shall see to it that she has proper counsel at the time. But you must realize for yourself that we haven't much evidence to go on."

"You have a good knowledge of her character, you know she is incapable of murder, and you have her account of what happened in the study," I returned.

Again he bent upon me that tolerant, pitying look. "My dear boy," he said, laying a hand on my knee, "you are young and in love and as is only natural you are letting your heart run away with your head. Besides you know nothing of courts and their proceedings. Mrs. Darwin's account of that minute or two in the study is, to say the least, extremely fanciful."

"But true," I interrupted with conviction.

"Yes, yes, of course," he replied soothingly. "But remember that a jury of twelve honest, but more or less stolid, citizens is convinced by facts and not by fancies."

"What do you advise then?" I asked dully.

"I shall call on the little lady myself and have a talk with her and arrange for her defense. I shall also try to make her more comfortable. My advice to you is, get more evidence, good, substantial, unshakable evidence."

It was all very well for Mr. Vaughn to talk of getting further evidence, I muttered savagely to myself as I dined that night. But where in Kingdom Come was I going to find it? Over and over I reviewed the coroner's inquest and the more I studied the facts the blacker things grew for Ruth.

In utter weariness of mind I finally flung myself into my chair, from which I had been called so abruptly two nights before, and waived aside the newspapers that Jenkins was offering me. I had caught a glimpse of the headlines. Philip Darwin's life history, his penchant for chorus girls, his wealth, and his prominence, were blazoned forth for all to read. Even his wedding was raked from the files, and old pictures of the wedding party were on display. I had no desire to go over the sickening business again.

And then as Jenkins laid the papers on the table, the name, Cora Manning, caught my eye and I picked up the discarded sheet and avidly devoured the column devoted to this woman whose name had appeared on Philip Darwin's will. An enterprising reporter had discovered where Cora Manning lodged and had forthwith set out to interview her. But the only person he saw was the girl's good-natured landlady who declared that Cora Manning had left the house at eleven the night of the murder, carrying her suitcase and that she had told her landlady that she was going on a journey of great importance and not to worry in the least about her. When the reporter asked where the girl had gone the landlady returned that she had no idea, but that since she had taken artists, writers, and actors as lodgers, she had ceased to worry herself about their comings and goings so long as they paid their board, for according to her they were all erratic and far from responsible.

All of which, contended the reporter who had made the scoop, only corroborated the statement which he had made the previous evening as to what actually took place in the study between the husband and wife. Mrs. Darwin had entered the study and had quarreled with her husband about the letter. Mr. Darwin in anger had torn up his will and had defiantly begun a new one, writing down the first name that occurred to him to annoy his wife, whereupon she snatched the pistol from the drawer and killed him.

"Fool!" I muttered, flinging the paper into the fire in my indignation. "Of all the idiotic trash that has been printed that's about the worst. Does the young idiot think all that could happen in two minutes? Ye gods, has the whole world gone mad that they can believe her guilty!"

"It's a dreadful thing, sir," said Jenkins respectfully, as he replenished the fire that I had so signally extinguished.

"It's a miserable business and blacker than Egypt," I answered dismally. Then recalling Mr. Vaughn's words I said abruptly, "Jenkins, if you were the jury, knowing what you have read in the papers, would you say that Mrs. Darwin was guilty?"

"If I were twelve easy-going men not given to much reasoning, I'd say she was, sir," he replied deferentially, adding before I could speak, "But knowing Mrs. Darwin—as it were—personally—sir, I'd say she was innocent."

I buried my face in my hands with a groan of utter despair. If Jenkins, a servant, albeit an ultra-intelligent one, was as persuaded as Mr. Vaughn that the jury would find Ruth guilty, I might as well give up at once.

"If I were you, sir, if you will pardon the liberty of my giving advice, I'd ask Mr. McKelvie to help me, sir."

I raised my head. "Who is Mr. McKelvie, Jenkins?"

"He is a gentleman, sir, who is interested in solving problems of crime. It's a sort of hobby with him, sir," said Jenkins, his usually somber eyes beginning to sparkle as he spoke.

"You mean that he is a private detective?" I asked, not overly pleased, for Jones of Headquarters had struck me as being up to snuff and yet every clue that he found had only drawn the net more tightly about Ruth. It was no wonder therefore that I was chary of detectives, for except in books, I deemed them all cut out of the same mold and after the same pattern.

"Oh, no, sir," returned Jenkins, horrified. "He's not a detective in the ordinary sense of the word. He is what you call an investigator of crime and he only takes cases that he thinks are worth-while solving. He does it mostly to amuse himself, sir."

"Oh, I see. A second Sherlock Holmes, eh?" I said ironically.

Jenkins looked hurt. "He says, sir, that there is no one who can equal Sherlock Holmes. He says, sir, that beside Holmes he's only an amateur burglar, though begging his pardon, I don't agree with him, sir."

"How does it happen that you know so much about him, Jenkins?" I asked suspiciously.

"He once saved my life in the Great War, and in return I help him with his cases when he needs me, sir."

"Humph. I thought I employed you, Jenkins."

"Well, yes, sir. But I have my free hours, sir." The poor fellow's face grew so very mournful at my insinuation that I could not help smiling even in the midst of my despondency.

"I'm not blaming you, Jenkins. I was merely wondering why he didn't hire you altogether," I said.

"He's rather eccentric, sir. He does not want to be bothered with servants."

"And do you think this very strange gentleman will condescend to help me, Jenkins?" I inquired dubiously.

"Oh, yes, indeed, sir, if I ask him."

"Do you really believe that he can find a ray of light amidst the Stygian darkness of this horrible business?" I asked, interested in spite of myself.

"I'm sure of it, sir."

"Very well, then. Get me my hat and give me his address. Anything is better than this deadening inaction."

When he returned with my overcoat and hat, Jenkins handed me a folded note. "If you don't mind, sir," he said apologetically. "Mr. McKelvie doesn't always receive strangers, sir."

Queer customer, I reflected as I departed on my errand and I had my doubts of his ability to aid me, grave doubts which were only increased by the faded gentility of the old house on Stuyvesant Square, and far from quieted by the sight of the darky who popped her head out of the front window at my ring. It was a head calculated to frighten away any but the boldest intruder, a head bristling with wooly gray spikes set like a picket fence around a face the whites of whose eyes gleamed brighter and whose thick lips flamed redder against the shiny blackness of her skin.

"Courageous man to employ such an apparition," was my thought as I proferred my request.

"Mistuh McKelvie?" she repeated after me, parrot-like. "No, suh, he ain't home, no, suh."

"Are you sure?" I persisted, holding out the note; for I recalled Jenkins' remarks.

"Ah ain't 'customed to tellin' no lies, young man," she responded with a haughty toss of the head.

"Will you please tell me then when I can find him at home?" I continued, too weary to be amused by the incongruity of unkemptness trying to look haughty and dignified.

"About a week, suh. He's away, yessuh," and she pulled in her head and slammed the window in my face.

ARTHUR TRENTON

Discouraged I returned to my car and as I drove across the Square it suddenly occurred to me that it was somewhere in this vicinity that the evening paper had stated that Cora Manning lodged. Her name carried me back to the inquest and the coroner's attempts to learn the girl's identity. It seemed strange now that I thought of it dispassionately, that of all the persons present in the study not one had any idea who she was. I did not for a moment credit the statement of the reporter who claimed that Darwin had put down the first name that had occurred to him merely to annoy Ruth. Men as a rule do not leave their fortunes on impulse to the first person they happen to think of, and I was pretty certain that Philip Darwin was no exception to this rule. If therefore the uncle deemed her worthy to become his chief legatee, was it not more than likely that the nephew was also acquainted with the girl? I recalled the fact that Lee himself, in view of Ruth's statement, was Darwin's real heir, yet he had not seemed to take it amiss that his uncle intended to disinherit him, and I also recollected his peculiar actions as he denied all knowledge of Cora Manning, and my own belief at the time that he knew the girl well.

Now I was convinced of the fact and acting on the impulse I headed the car in the direction of the Yale Club, determined to see Lee Darwin and learn the truth from him. When I arrived at my destination, I eagerly ascended the steps and entered the club; for though not a member myself I foresaw no difficulty in the way of securing an interview. To my chagrin the steward to whom I confided my errand told me that Lee Darwin had gone South the afternoon of the eighth, ostensibly on business, nor as far as I could discover had he left any address behind.

That he should leave the city the day after the murder without waiting to attend his uncle's funeral, which was scheduled for the morrow, seemed to me the height of disrespect. I began to wonder if Lee Darwin had had a very urgent reason for leaving town as soon as possible. He had sensed that his uncle was dead when he saw the coroner. Was it because he was the murderer? If so, why had he been foolhardy enough to return to the house, and how in the name of goodness had he vanished from the study after killing his man in the dark!

Whereupon I gave it up in disgust and went home. Jenkins had waited up for me and had evidently been listening for my return, for hardly had I inserted the key in the lock when he opened the door.

"There's a gentleman waiting to see you, sir. He is in the library," he said in a low tone, as he helped me off with my overcoat. "He refused to give his name, sir."

"Very well, Jenkins." I started down the hall when I heard him again at my elbow.

"Pardon my curiosity, sir," he whispered eagerly, "but did you see Mr. McKelvie, sir?"

"No. He is unfortunately away and won't be home for a week," I said bitterly, realizing for the first time how much I had unconsciously counted upon this man's aid.

"Never mind, sir. The trial is two months away and in seven weeks Mr. McKelvie can solve anything, sir."

"Thank you for your encouragement at any rate," I answered, touched by his desire to console me.

"It's the truth, sir," he replied simply.

"I wish I could think so," was my comment, but I did not speak it aloud. Not for anything would I have hurt his feelings by displaying the doubts which had descended upon me again as to the ability of this man he so evidently worshipped. Instead I nodded agreement and stepped into the library.

"Mr. Trenton!"

Ruth's father was the last person I had expected to see, for I still held him responsible for all my misfortunes and I believe he was aware of the state of my feelings in the matter, since he had refused to give Jenkins his name, fearing that I might beg to be excused from seeing him. But he had taken me unawares and there was no retreat after my first exclamation.

"Carlton, have they really dared to commit Ruth to jail?" he asked in a voice that trembled with anger and emotion.

I nodded dumbly, and abruptly he sat down and hid his face in his hands, then as abruptly he rose and fell to pacing the room in an agitated manner. Apathetically I watched him. I too had had my siege of walking the floor. It was only fair that he should have his turn.

That he was suffering as I had suffered I divined, but it had no effect upon me beyond rousing a dull wonder and perhaps anger, that he should look no older than when I saw him last, six months ago. But, no, I was wrong. He was still the same spare man with a magnificent head of snow-white hair above a massive brow and a pair of gray eyes, deep-set and penetrating, but sorrow and pain had left their trace, for so I read the meaning of the deep lines that had graven themselves around his mobile mouth and sensitive nostrils.

"Has counsel been appointed to defend her?" Mr. Trenton spoke so low and his voice was so charged with emotion as he sank wearily into my big chair, that his words made no impression on my brain and he was forced to repeat them before I could comprehend sufficiently to answer in the affirmative.

"Mr. Vaughn will arrange for her defense," I added.

"You will be permitted to testify in her behalf?" he inquired.

"No, I'm the chief witness against her," I answered sadly.

"What!" He was absolutely dumbfounded.

"Haven't you read the papers?" I asked him.

He shook his head. "I have been ill for days. To-day the doctor told me I could go out. I overheard my hostess asking her husband if he thought it would hurt me to tell me about Ruth. I at once demanded an explanation and when I had been told that Ruth was in jail charged with the murder of her husband, I waited to hear no more but took the train and came straight to you. I naturally supposed—that is, of course—knowing your love for her I assumed you would do your best to free her by—by taking her side," he said brokenly.

I sighed. Once more the miserable details had to be recounted and then I laughed harshly. Mr. Trenton looked at me as though he thought that I must have taken leave of my senses. For the moment I verily think I had, for the thought came all unbidden that I was another Ancient Mariner relating my tale to all who crossed my path, only I could not remember what crime I had committed that I should be punished in so terrible a manner.

"Do you suppose it could have been in a former reincarnation?" I asked him in all seriousness.

"For heaven's sake, man, brace up!" cried Mr. Trenton alarmed. "You can't afford to go to pieces now!"

I passed my hand wearily across my brow. "I—I guess I'm pretty nearly all in," I mumbled, sinking into a chair.

Ruth's father looked across at me compassionately. "Poor boy," he said gently. "I won't worry you for your story to-night."

"Have you any objections to my remaining here with you?" he continued presently, as I preserved an unbroken silence. "I—I can't bear to return—to that crime-haunted house," he added with a shudder.

"Certainly. Glad to have you. I'll ring for Jenkins," I murmured vaguely, trying to rise. But my legs refused to support me and my head fell back heavily against the cushions.

When next I opened my eyes I was in my bed and Jenkins was moving softly about the room.

"What time is it, Jenkins?" I asked, sitting up.

"Twelve-thirty, sir," responded Jenkins, pulling aside the curtains to let in the light of day.

"Have I been asleep all that time?" I inquired aghast.

"You were very tired, sir. You hardly slept the night before," he apologized for me.

"Mr. Trenton is waiting luncheon for you, sir. He wants to know how you are feeling, sir," he continued presently.

The events of the previous evening flocked into my mind, and I felt the blood surge into my cheeks. What a chicken-hearted fellow her father must have thought me!

"Tell Mr. Trenton I'll join him in the library in half an hour," I said decisively.

"Very well, sir."

It was more than thirty minutes before I made my appearance, but I had myself well in hand now and after luncheon, at which we spoke only of common-places, I told him that I was ready to give him the details of the case. Immovably he sat with his head bowed upon his hands while I related the facts, nor did he interrupt by word or gesture at any time during the recital.

When I had finished he raised his head, and I was startled by the old and haggard look upon his face. He had aged ten years in as many minutes.

"The sins of the father," he said, hoarsely. "Carlton, it's all my fault that Ruth has killed that wretch!"

AN EXPLANATION

When a human being has run the gamut of horror and suffering in a short space of time his mind ceases to be affected by further sensations. At any other time I should have been appalled that Mr. Trenton could even for a moment believe his daughter guilty. As it was, I merely accepted his words as one more link in the chain of evidence against her.

"My boy," he said humbly, "I know that you have held me responsible for your misfortunes. And you are perfectly right to feel so. I, and I alone, am to blame for all that has happened."

He paused to wipe the moisture that had gathered on his forehead, showing what an effort he was making to control his emotion.

"But if I am to blame in spoiling the boy, I have been punished beyond my due. You do not know, I hope you may never know the anguish, the torture, the awful horror, of learning that the being you have worshipped and adored is worthless clay, a—a common murderer! I was frantic, crazy, and to save my boy I sacrificed my girl. And now, and now—" He broke off with a sob and buried his head in his hands.

"Mr. Trenton, don't. I'll stake my life that Ruth is innocent." I held out my hand, touched as I had thought I no longer possessed the power to be touched by his sorrow. Certainly if I had suffered, he had been in hell.

"My boy, you give me new life," he said, raising his head and taking my hand. "I do not deserve your forgiveness."

"It's all behind us, Mr. Trenton, and can't be undone. The task before us is to free Ruth. We will work together toward that end," I answered.

He was silent a moment, evidently pondering mentally some question, then he said with the air of one who has arrived at a decision by which he will abide whatever comes, "And the first step is to show you something that I had hoped not to reveal. The very day of the murder I received a letter from Dick stating—but you had better read it yourself."

He took from his wallet a single sheet of notepaper which he handed me. It was dated from Chicago two days before the murder and written in Dick's unmistakable flowing hand.

"Dear Dad," it began.

"Philip Darwin has persecuted the Trenton family for the last time. I have a weapon to use against him which will free Ruth and myself from the bondage we are in to that cur. I am leaving for the East to-morrow and when my task is completed, I shall call upon you at Tarrytown.

"Your repentant son,

"Dick."

When I finished reading I looked across at Mr. Trenton, wondering if to him too had occurred the thought which possessed me. Could the weapon be murder and the answer to the problem the fact that Ruth was shielding her brother again? Then I shook my head.

"If Dick was in the study how did he get away without my seeing him?" I said aloud. "He couldn't vanish into thin air."

"Carlton!" The word was a cry. "No, no, he would not dare again!"

"What did he mean by weapon then?" I inquired bluntly.

"Not—not murder! I could not bear that! No. I am sure he meant that he had learned that Philip Darwin was his uncle," he said low.

"His uncle!" I gasped, horrified.

"Yes, his uncle. But not Ruth's, Carlton! No, no, she was no relation to him," he reassured me quickly.

My head began to whirl. Affairs were growing too complicated for me. "I don't understand what you are talking about," I returned wearily.

"I'll explain. It all happened so very long ago that I never mention it, but the fact is that two years after Ruth's mother died I married Philip Darwin's sister."

"Darwin knew then that Dick was his nephew?" I asked when he paused.

"No. No one knows it except myself. Philip Darwin could not have been more than ten or so at the time, and I doubt if he remembers that he ever had a sister. You see when I met her I had no idea who she was, for she was acting under an assumed name. She had been on the stage six months and was heartily sick of it when I was introduced to her. We fell in love with each other and before the wedding she confided her story to me.

"Her father, Frank Darwin, was a stern, unyielding, puritanical man, who had no use for what he called the lure of the world. On the other hand, Leila was just eighteen, beautiful, proud, wilful. She had read of the wonders of the stage and when her father opposed her desire to become an actress she ran away from home. When he learned that she had actually joined a theatrical company, he disinherited her and refused to have anything further to do with her, forbidding his two sons, Robert, who became Lee's father, and Philip, from ever mentioning her name or seeing her again. She died when Dick was born, poor little girl, more than twenty-five years ago, and I think I had almost forgotten the relationship. A quarter century is more than ample time to erase a memory," he ended with a sigh.

I was silent for a while and then asked him why he had not told Philip Darwin that Dick was his nephew, thus avoiding all the dire consequences which had followed Darwin's threat of exposure.

"Because it would have made no difference to him at all," answered Mr. Trenton. "He wanted Ruth and if she had refused him he would have revenged himself by exposing Dick, knowing that we would suffer far more than he. Besides, he would have demanded proofs. I had none which I could give him."

"What about family resemblance?"

Mr. Trenton shook his head. "They are both dark and about the same build. That is as far as the resemblance goes, and that's no proof, for Ruth is dark, too."

"And you really think that Dick—"

"Yes, I do. I believe that in some way the boy learned that he was Darwin's nephew and hoped to use the knowledge to force Darwin to divorce Ruth," he interrupted.

This time it was I that disagreed. "But you said yourself that the knowledge would cut no ice with Darwin," I said, impatiently.

"But Dick wouldn't know that. He is young and to him it would seem only natural that an uncle should desire to shield his nephew. The husband bound to secrecy to preserve his good name would be unable to fight proceedings if Ruth brought suit for divorce against him. At any rate, that is how I read it."

I did not like to say so, and thus shatter his fool's paradise, for he was entitled to any consolation which he could draw from his deductions. To me, however, there were two flaws in his reasoning. In the first place, if Mr. Trenton was the only one who knew his wife's identity and he had almost forgotten it, how in the name of all the gods had Dick learned it? And in the second place, I was firmly convinced that Mr. Richard Trenton stood in no ignorance of Mr. Philip Darwin's true character and would be under no delusions as to the exact reception such knowledge would receive.

No, Dick had some other weapon in mind, and the only one which would free both himself and Ruth at one stroke was the death of Philip Darwin. Dick had killed a man once under less provocation. What was to prevent his repeating the act when he realized the injustice that had been done Ruth in forcing her to marry such a man? But in that event why had he not come forward to free Ruth from jail? Surely he had not sunk so low that he would permit her to pay the extreme penalty for his act. It's true that she was allowed to shield him once, but I very much doubt whether Dick knew anything of it until after the wedding when his coming forward would certainly have created a terrible scandal without in the least bettering conditions for Ruth.

Besides, the whole thing was illogical. If Dick killed Darwin to free Ruth, it was ridiculous to suppose that he would then run away and leave her to face the consequences. I was more inclined to believe that the boy had discovered some counter-knowledge which would buy his freedom from exposure. He had been in New York the day of the murder, or should have been, according to his letter. Why then did he remain in hiding, or had he returned to Chicago without making use of his "weapon" when he learned that Darwin was dead? On the other hand, that would also be a senseless proceeding, for Darwin dead, he, Dick, had nothing further to fear.

The whole affair was a muddle and growing more complicated at every turn, and I heartily wished that Dick would show up to settle all doubts on his score at least.

As if in answer to my thought, the phone in the hall rang sharply and Jenkins appeared to announce that Headquarters would like to speak with me. I sighed. What new evidence had they discovered now, I thought savagely, and my "hello" must have sounded like a roar in the Inspector's ear.

When he was through explaining I leaned limply against the wall and wiped my forehead with a trembling hand.

"Jenkins!" I said hoarsely. "Ask him if—if—it's really true!"

Jenkins took the receiver from my nerveless hand and spoke into the phone. "Yes, sir. I'll tell him, yes, sir." He rang off and turned to me, his long face graver than ever.

"He says there is no mistake, sir. And he'd be obliged if you and Mr. Trenton would receive Detective Jones and give him all necessary information, sir."

"Would you tell him—now?" I asked dully.

"It would be far kinder, sir," answered Jenkins. "I'm very sorry, sir."

I went slowly back into the library wondering how best to break the news to Mr. Trenton. My face must have told him much, for he sprang toward me with a sharp exclamation.

"Dick!" he cried. "You have news of Dick?"

I nodded, for I was unable to speak.

"Don't keep me in suspense, Carlton! What is it? Have they—" Then he turned away and sought a chair. "You need not tell me," he said very quietly. "I know that he is dead."

"Yes." I found my voice, but I hardly knew it for my own. "Yes, he—he drowned himself in the East River early this morning!"

THE SUICIDE

I had anticipated trouble when I gave Mr. Trenton the Inspector's message, but shock seemed to have rendered his sensibilities numb for the time being and he made no demur about receiving the emissary from Headquarters.

It was just two-thirty, the hour set for Philip Darwin's funeral, when the Inspector called me and while I awaited the arrival of Detective Jones my thoughts reverted to the funeral. I pictured to myself the solitary coffin being lowered into its grave unmourned and unattended by any save the faithful Mason, for I do not count the idle and the curious who merely come to gape and stare and be amused.

He had been rich and popular, with a host of friends, yet I was willing to wager that not one had taken the trouble to escort the body to its final resting-place, and though I had never had any use for the man while living, still my heart was strangely stirred by the spectacle of desolation which I had evoked. Death is after all dread enough without the added knowledge that no single human being will shed a tear at our passage from this earth. Even his own flesh and blood had turned from him, and for a minute I was sorry I had not attended. If I have one regret in all this terrible business it is that one omission to accompany the dead on its journey to the grave.

"Mr. Davies, how do you do, sir," said Jones, entering and breaking in abruptly on my thought, for I had not heard his ring. "And this gentleman is Mr. Trenton, I take it?"

"Yes, Mr. Jones. I have told him the sad news. You—you wish him to identify the body?" I asked, returning to earth with a decided jolt, mental if not physical.

"Unfortunately," answered Jones, with a commiserating look at Mr. Trenton, who sat staring vacantly into space, "the body has not yet been recovered. I really don't need it, but thought I might as well have an identification of his belongings."

He placed the package he had brought with him upon the table and opened it, exposing to view a gray suit of good material, a rather shabby cap, a watch, and a pocket notebook.

"These articles," he said, speaking rather loudly to attract Mr. Trenton's attention, "were found in a lodging-house on Water Street. Yesterday about noon, a dark young man, not any too well-dressed, and looking dishevelled and unkempt, applied for lodgings, and was taken in by the landlady, Mrs. Blake, herself. He spent the afternoon and early evening wandering about among the wharves and spoke to several loungers to whom he made no secret of where he was staying. This morning, before it was light, this strange lodger arose and went out. Mrs. Blake saw him go, but thought he was going to work. Fifteen minutes later someone banged on her door to tell her that her lodger had thrown himself into the river and had drowned. She was frightened and called the police. On the wharf was found the cap he had worn and in his room those other articles in a suitcase."

The detective paused in his narrative to pick up the watch. "The clothes are new and give no clue except that they evidently belonged to a gentleman. This watch is more helpful. Do you recognize it, Mr. Trenton?"

Mr. Trenton, still somewhat dazed by the rapid sequence of the other's story, received the watch with tender reverence, looked at it, nodded, and passed it to me. How well I remembered that gold time-piece of biscuit thinness, with its plain R. T. engraved upon the back, which Mr. Trenton had given Dick on his twenty-first birthday! And in further proof, if such were needed, the inside of the case held a round kodak picture of Ruth and Dick, taken on the same day!

No, there could be no mistake as to the identity of Mrs. Blake's lodger!

"The watch is really superfluous evidence," continued Jones. "In that notebook we found your name, Mr. Trenton, written along with his on the sheet reserved for identification."

He opened the book and showed us the page which had a place for name, address, parentage, age, height, etc. Dick had filled in only his own name and his father's.

"You identify the handwriting?" asked Jones.

"Yes, it's my son's," returned Mr. Trenton in that same monotonous tone in which he had first spoken of Dick's death.

"Knowing that these articles belonged to Mr. Richard Trenton, and knowing also that he was Mrs. Darwin's brother, we had these things brought to Headquarters for investigation, because we thought there might be some connection between this suicide and the murder of Philip Darwin."

"I don't believe that Dick had anything to do with the murder," I said slowly. "Surely you are not of the opinion that he killed Darwin?"

"Well, hardly, since he wasn't in the study when the crime was committed. What I meant was that he might have been the instigator; and she, the tool, as it were."

I stiffened. "What do you mean?" I asked coldly.

"This." Jones spoke sharply. "I have been delving into Richard Trenton's past history. One of the things I learned from a former servant was the fact that six months ago Richard Trenton came home hurriedly one night in company with Philip Darwin and that after a consultation with Mr. Trenton, the boy was packed out West. The next night, according to the same servant, Philip Darwin came to the house and was closeted with Mr. Trenton and his daughter for several hours. When Darwin finally left, Mr. Trenton looked ten years older and Miss Trenton was in tears. Two weeks later, to the servant's astonishment, she married not you, but Philip Darwin."

He looked at me shrewdly and I nodded in confirmation of his story. "Having satisfied myself that there was decided connection between the flight of the brother and the marriage of the sister, I proceeded to trace Richard Trenton's movements on the night of the murder. He came to New York on the seventh of October and arrived at Grand Central at 10.10 p. m. From there he took a taxi to the Corinth Hotel. He registered, went to his room, and in a few minutes came down again and went out on foot. He returned to the hotel about one o'clock. According to the night clerk he looked haggard and weary. The next morning he paid his bill and again left on foot. To-day, the tenth, he commits suicide. Mrs. Darwin declares she has not seen her brother since he left for Chicago, but admits corresponding with him and refuses to say about what. Now, the question is, What was he doing between the time he left the hotel and one o'clock on the night of the murder? Where did he go between the morning of the eighth and the afternoon of the ninth? Did he instigate the murder and then in remorse commit suicide?"

"No, I don't believe it," I said stoutly. "You have learned so much that I think the best course which I can follow is complete frankness. However, there is no need to rake dead ashes, so I will merely say that Dick was forced to leave New York and that Philip Darwin had the boy in his power because he knew the reason for Dick's flight. And basely Darwin used his knowledge to force Mrs. Darwin to marry him to save her brother from exposure."

"I see, and of course it strengthens my point. Driven to desperation young Trenton may have returned with intentions to kill Darwin," put in Jones.

"Yes," I interjected eagerly, "and very probably he went so far as the Darwin home that night. Then he may have thought better of it and tramped about as one will when fighting a mental battle. In the morning he left with intentions of returning to Chicago. Then he read of the murder in the papers and decided to lie low and see what happened. When he learned that his sister was arrested, he probably considered himself the primal cause of all the trouble and in a fit of despondency drowned himself."

I was quite proud of the theory I had evolved and doubtless it was the right one. Jones weighed it in his mind and then he said, "You're right, Mr. Davies, that's probably just what did take place."

"Besides, if he had instigated the murder, since he was putting himself beyond the power of the law, he would have left behind a written confession to that effect," I added.

"Yes, that's so. Well, I guess we can say he had nothing to do with it after all. Probably thought he was morally responsible. 'In pace requiescat.'"

"Amen to that," I answered so surprised to hear him quote Latin that for a space I could find nothing to say.

"There is no hope of finding the body?" I asked when I had recovered my mental balance.

"I'm afraid not. It has probably been carried out to sea."

"You are certain that he drowned himself," I persisted, for I recalled that Dick could swim.

"Yes, he was seen and recognized by the men to whom he had spoken the previous evening. They saw him throw himself into the river. Before they could reach him he had gone down beyond recall."

"I should like to interview Mrs. Blake and the others," I said, not with any hope of discovering a flaw in the evidence, but because I could not endure to witness the poor father's silent grief.

"Certainly, Mr. Davies. I have my car outside. I will take you there myself," answered Jones affably.

As the detective began to wrap Dick's belongings, Mr. Trenton, who I am confident had heard no word of our conversation, suddenly realized that the conference was over and leaning forward took the watch from the table.

"May I keep it?" he begged.

"Yes, we have sufficient evidence in case we should need it," answered the detective.

"I'll be with you in a moment," I said, for I wished to give Jenkins directions to keep an eye on Ruth's father. When I returned Jones had his package under his arm and though he said good-by, Mr. Trenton did not respond.

"Poor old chap," he whispered. "It must have been an awful blow to him."

"Worse than anyone can imagine," I returned, thinking of the confession he had made. So we went out, leaving him there alone with the thoughts of his dead.

We drove in silence to Water Street and pulled up before a shabby old house. Decidedly Mrs. Blake's was not the type of home I should have picked out to live in, but when one has no intention of using one's lodging, the more obscure the better, I imagine. And it certainly was obscure, and dingy and ill-smelling.

I was shown the room in which Dick had slept and where he had left his clothes, and it struck me that if he hired that room to remain unknown, he had been very negligent in leaving his belongings around. Then I decided he chose that locality because it was near the river and the river was the most convenient end he could think of. Poor Dick!

I talked with the men who had witnessed the suicide, I was even shown the place where the event occurred, and the point where the body submerged! It was all very gruesome and alas, all too true! The only thing that puzzled me was why the lad had done it.

It was one thing to convince Jones, but quite another to satisfy myself that my reasoning was correct. Dick was not despondent by nature and though he might hold himself responsible for Ruth's marriage, surely he would have the sense to see that committing suicide would only add to her sorrow without in the least aiding to free her. I gave it up unless he really killed Darwin and feared to face the consequences, but that would make him out a despicable creature indeed, and I resolutely closed my mind to such a suggestion.

When I reached home Mr. Trenton put into words the thought I had refused to harbor.

"Carlton," he said, with the calm of desperation. "I have been thinking things over and I believe you are right. We will go to Ruth and tell her that it is useless for her to shield Dick any longer."

GRAYDON MCKELVIE

It was easy enough for me to procure through Mr. Vaughn an interview with Ruth and the next afternoon Mr. Trenton and I visited her in the prison, or rather in that gray reception-room which is as far as outsiders may come in the Tombs. She was delighted to see her father, concerning whose silence she had been quite worried, and when he broke down and told of yesterday's happenings, she wept with him for a few minutes, then quietly dried her eyes and set herself to comfort him. What she said I do not know, for I did not like to intrude myself upon their sorrow, and I withdrew to the other end of the room and looked out the grated window.

To think that Ruth, my beloved, should have to spend her days in such a place, barred from association with her friends, and from the blessed light of day, innocent of any wrong, yet suffering for some wretch's crime! Ruth and the horrible creatures who infested the jail! The thought goaded me to desperation. Abruptly I swung back toward her and spoke hoarsely,

"Ruth, for God's sake if you are shielding Dick, tell us at once, for I can stand this suspense no longer!"

She had been seated on a chair beside her father, but at my cry she jumped up and came to me. Verily I must have been mad, I think, for I caught her to me and kissed her again and again. A moment she clung to me, then she pushed me away.

"Carlton! No, you must not!" she sobbed. "No, no," as I followed her, "not until I am cleared of the shadow of murder!"

"You have committed no crime," I replied savagely. "What do I care for the world's opinion!" And I caught her to me once more.

"Carlton! If you kiss me again I—I shall hate you!" she whispered fiercely.

Instantly I released her and walked rapidly away to the other end of the room.

"Carlton, please don't be angry," she said, brokenly, timidly touching my arm with the tips of her fingers, "but, oh, my dear, if you kill my self-respect what in all the world have I left to offer you!"

Humbly I carried her hand to my lips. "Forgive me, dear. I don't deserve to be allowed even the privilege of looking upon you."

She gave me a smile so forgiving that it brought the tears to my eyes, and seeing how I was moved she turned away to her father.

"Ruth," he said, relieving the tension, "we have come here, Carlton and I, to ask you a question."

"Yes, Daddy," she replied, softly, sitting down beside him again.

He drew out Dick's letter and handed it to her. When she had read it he explained the process of reasoning that had led him to believe that Dick had killed Darwin and had then committed suicide.

"And now, Ruth, if you saw him there in the study and helped him to escape, if you are shielding him as you did once before, I hope you realize that he is quite unworthy and that it is too much of a sacrifice for you to suffer for his crime."

He had spoken with difficulty, showing how much the words cost him, yet determined to make amends for all the wrong that had been done to Ruth, both by himself and Dick. When he finished she looked from him to me in utter bewilderment.

"I am shielding no one, Daddy. And as far as I know Dick was not in the study when I was there."

There was no mistaking her sincerity. She was telling the truth and the whole business was a worse tangle than ever before.

"Besides," she added, "I do not think Dick would do such a thing."

"He did once," returned her father, gloomily.

"But, Daddy, dear, he did not know what he was doing and it—it was Phil's fault for giving him that pistol. I have mothered him for years and I know. Whatever reason he had for committing suicide, Daddy, rest assured in the conviction that he did not kill my husband."

A ray of hope lighted Mr. Trenton's face. "You really believe that, Ruth? You are not saying it just to comfort me?"

She laid a hand upon his arm as she answered quietly, "I don't believe it, Daddy. I know he did not murder Phil."

After that we could not believe it either, and so we were back once more exactly where we started from. In other words, we were moving in circles which ended where they had begun: namely, in the police's assertion that Ruth was guilty, a beginning which we knew to be false on the face of it, but which we had no means of proving to anyone's satisfaction.

"The only thing to do is to hire a competent detective," said Mr. Trenton emphatically, that night at dinner.

This recalled McKelvie to my mind. "I have one in view," I answered, "but he is away at present."

"Hire another one then," he retorted.

But I preferred to wait, for as I said before I had not much use for detectives, private or police, and the only reason that McKelvie appealed to me at all was because he did not seem from Jenkins' account to have much in common with the usual sleuth. Then Mr. Trenton wanted to rush out and employ a man on his own initiative, but this also I negatived, since no detective was far better than a mediocre fellow without a grain of imagination. I remembered Jones, and shuddered for Ruth.

I should like to say right here that if the reader thinks that both Mr. Trenton and I got over our grief at Dick's horrible end very rapidly, he must remember that human beings cannot be kept at high tension for a great length of time or the brain would snap. Everyday occurrences and the dire need of doing something for Ruth pushed to the background more recent happenings, particularly when Jenkins brought me word late that same night that Graydon McKelvie would see me at his home.

Mr. Trenton of course desired to accompany me, but I finally dissuaded him, telling him that it was better that only one of us should apply to McKelvie, especially as I had been forewarned that he was rather eccentric. To which Mr. Trenton grudgingly agreed, and I set out to interview this solver of crimes with a fluttering heart, for upon him I based all my remaining hopes.

As I sat in the cosy little sitting-room of the old house on Stuyvesant Square to which I had been conducted by a better combed and more civil Dinah with the announcement that "Mistuh McKelvie'll be down in a secun', sah," I conjured a vision of the type of man I expected to see. I evolved a cross between an oddity and a mental Sampson, a fretful, thin man, with a head too big for his body, who would speak in a querulous high-pitched voice.

The man who entered the room at that moment and came toward me with extended hand was none of these things. He was a slender, well-dressed young man, well above the medium height, with a pleasant, but rather rugged cast of countenance, whose main features were a tenacious chin and a pair of brilliant black eyes. But when he spoke my name I forgot his appearance. Never had I heard such a melodious voice. It soothed the ear with its mellow richness and remained in the mind long after it had ceased, like the echo of some clear-toned bell. And such was its power that by merely pronouncing my name he had made me believe that he alone of all the world could possibly solve the problem which was well-nigh overwhelming me.

Later I came to know him better and I should have liked him even without the added attraction of his voice, for he was a refined and cultured man, extremely clever, if eccentric, whose main idiosyncrasies seemed to be confined to a whole-souled worship of Sherlock Holmes, a decidedly autocratic manner, and a fondness for speaking satirically, even at the expense of his friends.

"Jenkins has told me that you have a problem which you wish me to look into," he said, motioning me to be seated as he settled himself in a large arm-chair. "Will you give me briefly the details of the case?"

I am afraid my story was far from brief, for I told him everything from the moment I heard the shot, through the inquest, to Dick's suicide. He listened attentively to every word without comment and when I was through he briskly assumed command.

"I have read of the crime in the papers," he said, "but I must study the coroner's personal notes of the inquest, before I come to a decision."

He rose and walked to his desk as he spoke, where he scratched off a few lines on a sheet of notepaper, which he enclosed in an envelope.

"What was the reason for young Trenton's removal from New York six months ago?" he asked abruptly, turning toward me as he sealed the envelope.

"Is it necessary to the investigation?" I inquired, loth to reveal the family skeleton.

"I do not ask unnecessary questions," he returned coldly.

Without more ado I related the affair in all its sordid details. When I finished he held out the envelope which he still retained in his hand. "Kindly tell Jenkins to take this note to Coroner Graves," he said. "Meet me here at ten o'clock to-morrow for your answer. Good-night, Mr. Davies."

Before I could adjust my thoughts to his rapid speech I found myself in the street looking in some perplexity at the closed door of Graydon McKelvie's house.

"Well, I'll be hanged!" I exclaimed wrathfully, as I climbed into my car.

I drove away in no very pleased frame of mind at the reception I had received, for when I reviewed the conversation I realized that he had not compromised himself to help me at all. The moment I reached home, however, I forgot my annoyance at the cavalier way I had been treated. The sudden transformation of Jenkins' lugubrious countenance into an ecstatic smile as he hastened to carry out McKelvie's command, for that's just what it was, made me feel sanguine once more of that gentleman's aid. I put down his manner, therefore, to eccentricity and the natural desire to know more of the problem before he promised to bring his faculties to bear upon it.

I passed the evening in Elysium and I came down to earth with a bang when promptly at ten o'clock the next morning, in answer to my query, McKelvie tossed a sheet of paper across the table to me with the remark:

"Find the answers to those questions and you'll have the name of the person who committed the crime."

I looked at him, sitting smoking unconcernedly, to the paper in my hand, undecided which to tackle first, when my mind caught the sense of the words before me. After that I forgot my surroundings until I had absorbed every line that McKelvie had written. The document was drawn up in the form of a series of questions, with sufficient space below each one to insert the proper answer, and it read as follows:

(1) Why was the pistol fired at midnight?

(2) Did the murderer also light the lamp?

(3) How did the murderer enter and leave the study?

(4) What was the motive for the murder?

(5) Why did the doctors disagree, and which was in the right?

(6) Why did Philip Darwin put that ring on his finger and then pull it off?

(7) Whose is the blood-stained handkerchief?

(8) Where did the second bullet go?

(9) Why is there so much evidence against Mrs. Darwin, and who would most desire to injure her?

(10) Is Cora Manning the woman in the case and if so, who and what is she?

(11) What has become of Darwin's securities?

(12) What is Lee Darwin's connection with the affair?

(13) Why did Richard Trenton come to New York and then commit suicide?

(14) What is the relation between Mr. Cunningham and the murdered man?

(15) Which one of those having a sufficient motive for killing Darwin answers to the following description: clever, unprincipled, and absolutely cold-blooded?

"Find the answers to those questions!" I repeated when I had devoured the sheet with my eyes. "It would take me a lifetime! For mercy's sake, don't fail me now when I have only you to depend on to help me!" I cried.

With an odd smile he took his pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl upon his open palm. Then he looked at me and spoke abruptly, "If I take this case it will be on one condition."

"A thousand if you wish," I exclaimed impatiently.

"No, only one, that when I give commands they shall be obeyed implicitly, even though you may not be able to perceive their wisdom at the time."

I blinked at the unexpectedness of the answer and then held out my hand. "It shall be as you say, Mr. McKelvie, only don't let them convict Ruth."

He clasped my hand. "I won't, Mr. Davies, if she is guiltless, and my first command is this: I want an interview with Mrs. Darwin this afternoon."