Yet with all these fearful things coming down on her, the poor child—frail and delicate and already in the grip of the demon of disease—had it in her to stand up to it, quiet and brave. I made a mistake, though, when I said all these fearful things coming down on her, for she knew only one. Others had no place in her mind. They didn’t even occur to her.

And with old Mrs. Temple it was much the same, though in a different way. Back of all the police investigations, and questionings of witnesses, and photographing, and ransacking the mansion and grounds surrounding it, and the sensational newspaper write-ups, and arrests, and talk, and confusion, was this cruel blow for each of them—the loss of the one who was dear to them.

Mr. Pentecost left the train at Back Bay Station on arrival in Boston, thus saving about five minutes. And he saved some three minutes more by not having to explain to the taxi man where Torrington Road could be found, the morning and early afternoon papers having thoroughly attended to that.

It was a few minutes after four o’clock (Advanced time) when his machine came tearing up the drive—that is, tearing up the lower part of it, for it was stopped by a patrolman some distance from the house. Two policemen and a plainclothesman were on watch there. Pentecost hurriedly explained who he was, and that his firm had paid a large amount of money the day before for one of the murdered man’s inventions—which was still in the house, he supposed. They’d left it crated in the front hall.

The detective made no reply to that, but instead informed Mr. Pentecost that the Chief would like to see him at headquarters.

“Yes, but wait a minute!” remonstrated Pentecost. “I want to find out if that machine——”

“You can talk it over with the Inspector when you get there.”

“Talk it over! But my God, man—it’s our property!”

“The Inspector’ll attend to that. You don’t need to worry.”

“Was there a truck out here after it?”

“There sure was, but the truck didn’t get it. How do we know but it might have something to do with the case?”

“Have you got the idea that anybody’s going to shoot up a man for a three-ton machine he couldn’t get out of the house?”

“Ask the Inspector that.”

Pentecost was allowed to go in and satisfy himself that his property was still in the house and had not been tampered with. After a moment of breathing easier (not overdone you know) upon finding that this was the case, he apparently began to call to mind that a terrible crime had been committed and finally asked if he could see the poor chap who’d been shot. But the body’d been taken to the morgue some hours before.

Half an hour later the detective and Mr. Pentecost arrived at Pemberton Square and the Inspector didn’t keep them waiting long. Besides the latter there were two plain-clothes men in the room—one at a table ready to make notes, the other standing back near the window. The Inspector, seated at his desk, greeted Pentecost pleasantly; and after an informal question or two regarding his business and the methods of running it, came down to the matter in hand.

“Understand your firm’s been having some dealings with the man they shot out in Roxbury—or rather Jamaica Plain—last night.”

“Why yes, we just bought an invention of his—that is, rights to exploit and so forth—and paid the money down for it. It was only yesterday, and the machine’s still out there in the house. One of your men in charge advised me to speak to you about it, and I certainly hope you’ll be so good as to arrange it so we can——”

“All in good time Mr. Pentecost. First I’d like to have you tell me what you know about the affair or the people concerned in it.”

“Yes, certainly, certainly—er——” Pentecost appeared to be slightly flurried by having the subject shifted so suddenly away from what was apparently uppermost in his mind. (It might be just as well to remember I said “appeared to be” and “apparently.”)

“Your firm specializes in novelties of a mechanical nature, you say—organizes companies and that sort of thing?”

“Yes—yes, we—that’s our business.”

“What are some of the inventions you’ve handled?”

“Well, there’s quite a number. The latest thing we took over was the Crudex Oil Burning Device. We’re also behind the Polaris Refrigerating Machine, the Acme Vacuum Cleaner and other successful things. Of course we hit on a loser now and then, but our average stands up well.” (Pentecost had naturally given out the straight deals that the firm had undertaken—sometimes at considerable expense—for precisely this sort of emergency.)

“That being your business, I take it you were attracted to Haworth’s inventions.”

“Yes—I was.—That is, to one of them.”

“How did you happen to hear of them?”

“From reading a Sunday supplement write-up when I was over here a couple of weeks ago—or thereabout.” And Pentecost went on to give an account of how he went out there to see what sort of mechanical novelties the inventor had, and to describe his visit to the ancient mansion—the young man alone there with an old charwoman—the finding of a device that greatly interested him—the bringing of his partner over from New York to see it—and their ultimate purchase of the rights in the machine and the payment of quite a large sum of money down.

“Did you see much of the old woman you speak of,—the one who came in to cook for him and so on?”

“Not a great deal, but I had to admire her.”

“Why? What did you admire?”

“The game way she kept at it trying to protect Mr. Haworth from us,—for she got the idea we were trying to rob him or something like that. She bothered us some listening around, but it was no great matter, so I let it go.—Though now I think of it I did drive her away once.”

“What was the reason for that?”

“The machine we were negotiating for depended on a secret process, as you might say. That is, he managed his combustion to compress air direct without the use of intervening machinery. Something they’d hardly allow a patent on. That’s why I’m so nervous about it. I hope nobody takes it out of that crate.”

“Was the old woman trying to see it?”

“Trying to see anything she could. We’d find her everywhere. I don’t suppose she’d have understood the thing even if she’d got a good look at it, but I always like to play safe when there’s no patent. So we finally asked Haworth to keep her out of the house till we got the machine away.”

After questioning Pentecost on other points, the business transaction between Haworth and the firm was taken up,—the fourteen-day option, the payment of the thirty-five thousand dollars, the arrangement made with him for coming on to New York and setting up and adjusting the machine, and his agreement to work under their direction for five years.

“It was a cash transaction I understand—this payment of thirty-five thousand?”

“Yes—he insisted on having it that way.”

“Do you know his reasons for that?”

“No.”

“You actually paid him that amount—in bills?”

“Yes. That is to say, he received it from the firm. Alfred Harker, our secretary, was the one who handed it to him.”

“But you saw—yourself—that that amount was paid over to him?”

“Yes, I did. I watched Harker counting it out for him.”

“Into his hands?”

“Well, no, it was rather too bulky for that. He counted it out on the table.”

“And Haworth took it?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do with it—put it in his pocket?”

“I’m not sure, but I should say not. It was rather too large for an ordinary pocket.”

“Mr. Pentecost, where, exactly, was that bunch of bills when you last saw it?”

“My recollection isn’t clear enough to admit of a positive statement. I have the impression that Haworth held it in his hands a short time and then put it down on the table and stood there with one hand resting on it.”

“What happened then?”

“Soon after the money was paid we left the house.”

“Did he bring it to the door with him when he went to see you out?”

“He didn’t come to the door—we left him standing at the table.”

“He said good night to you there?”

“Yes. And it was then that he was standing—as I remember it—with one hand resting on the stack of bills.”

“You referred to an agreement you made with him for working under your direction. Was he entirely willing to agree to this or did you have to urge it to some extent?”

“We had some discussion, but he finally saw it was to his advantage, and signed the contract willingly.”

“Have you that contract with you?”

“My partner took charge of it. I can wire him and he’ll get it in the mail to-night.”

“Kindly do that.”

The next inquiries were as to the machine the firm had bought, and Pentecost described it as well as he could and offered to have the blueprints sent over from New York—an offer which was accepted. He was unable, when asked, to give any information concerning Augustus Findlay as he’d never seen him nor even heard his name mentioned, nor could he tell the Inspector anything about the butler, Dreek, as he’d only seen him once or twice in the performance of his duties and once when he was called in to sign as a witness.... Yes, he should say it was quite possible this butler, Dreek, had seen the bunch of money.... No, he had no idea how it happened that Mr. Haworth had sent to a New York agency for a butler.

Shortly after that he was excused, the Inspector intimating that he’d like to have another chat with him in the near future.

Pentecost said of course—anything he could do, and added that if the Inspector wanted to see Mr. Harker and his son Alfred—the two who were with him at the Haworth place—he could get them over that night; but he was told that such a thing was hardly necessary, as their testimony could be taken in New York if it came to that.

“You got over here in quick time, Mr. Pentecost,” the Inspector was moved to say as the interview was coming to a close. “We have to thank you for that.”

“It was my business that was worrying me—not yours,” Pentecost returned. “And now that you speak of it,” he went on, beginning to show eagerness again, “I was advised to consult you as to how I could get that machine out of the house. We’ve got a good-sized stack of money invested in it and I’d like to get it into a safe place.”

“It’s perfectly safe where it is, Mr. Pentecost. We’ve got to hold it till we can see what bearing—if any—it has on the case. Good afternoon.”

A plain-clothes man opened the door for him and Mr. Pentecost passed out. When the man turned back into the room the Inspector spoke quickly in an undertone: “Run out after him, Charlie, and keep him in sight till I get someone on the job. Keep your distance—don’t let him get wise to it.”

The detective addressed as Charlie disappeared through the door.

The Inspector sat thinking a moment and then got to his feet and began pacing the room—a habit of his when hunting for the answer to something. He suddenly stopped and spoke to the plain-clothes man at the table who’d been taking down the conversation with Pentecost.

“What did you think of that, Alec?”

“Sounded nice an’ slick to me.”

“Ever see him before?”

“Not as I remember.”

“Got an idea I have. Can’t place it. Going to put Loderer and Trench on him.”

“Cinch on Findlay, ain’t it?”

“What you might call that, but there’s one or two curious things about it—money gone—thirty-five thousand in bills—we can’t get that on Findlay.”

“Nor on this man, either, that I can see. You can’t crack an alibi like that, with the Purser an’ all talking to ’im on the voyage. And on top of it he comes ashore from the steamer in New York this morning.”

The inspector muttered, “Yes, I know,” absently, and was silent a moment, thinking. Finally he said with a slightly explosive effect:

“God! I hope Bellinger gets the man that phoned in here last night!”

“You mean about this Pentecost not being on board?”

“Yes—and advising us to have the boat watched in New York.”

“Nothing on it yet?”

“Nothing to the good. We got the booth he phoned from and we picked up a man who saw a chap go into that booth about that time, but he couldn’t give a description except that he looked like a day laborer of some kind—so we don’t land anywhere.”

“What booth was it?”

“Nineteen——South Station.”