Kitabı oku: «The Curved Blades», sayfa 5
IX
FURTHER TESTIMONY
Count Henri Charlier was being questioned, and he was distinctly ill at ease. His French savoir faire was not proof against definite inquiries as to his intentions regarding the late Miss Carrington, and indefinite allusions concerning his movements on the night of her death.
He had related, straightforwardly enough, his visit at Garden Steps that evening and his departure at or about midnight. He denied his engagement of marriage, but admitted that he had paid Miss Carrington such attentions as might lead her to suspect an attachment.
“You did not return to this house after leaving on Tuesday night?”
“Most assuredly not.”
“You were not in Miss Carrington’s boudoir at one o’clock or thereabouts?”
Count Charlier’s black eyes snapped. But by a successful effort he controlled his indignation, and said, simply, “I was not.”
“But she was heard to address you.”
“Impossible, as I was not there.”
“She distinctly declared that you were the mark she aimed at. What construction do you put upon those words?”
“It is not for me to boast of my attraction for a lady.”
Count Charlier simpered a little, and Gray Haviland looked at him with a frown of undisguised scorn. Haviland had never liked the Count, indeed, he even doubted his right to the title, and especially had he feared a marriage between him and Miss Lucy. And, granting that this feeling was partly due to a consideration of his own interests, Haviland also distrusted the Frenchman and doubted Miss Lucy’s happiness as his wife.
“Did Miss Carrington leave you a bequest of ten thousand dollars in United States bonds?” went on the Coroner.
“I – I don’t know,” and the Count stammered in an embarrassed way.
“You do know!” shouted Haviland; “the will has been read, and you know perfectly well that such a bequest was left to you.”
“Why did you deny the knowledge?” asked Scofield, sternly.
“I’m – I’m not sure – ”
“You are sure!” stormed Gray. “Now where were you when Miss Carrington spoke those words to you? If not in her boudoir, then on the balcony outside the window, perhaps.”
“Absurd,” said the Coroner.
“Not at all,” said Gray; “that window opens on a balcony enclosed by glass. It is easily reached from outside by a small staircase, mostly used in summer, but always available. How could Miss Carrington speak to the Count concerning the bonds and concerning her infatuation for himself, which is no secret, unless he were there before her? And how could he be in the room – in her boudoir – unknown to the servants? Moreover, Mr. Coroner, I believe the glove found in Miss Carrington’s hand to be the property of Count Charlier.”
“But no!” cried the witness, excitedly; “I have repeatedly disclaimed that glove. It is not mine, I know not whose it is. I know nothing of this sad affair, whatever. If the money is left to me, as I have been told, it is a – a surprise to me.”
“Surprise nothing!” murmured Haviland, but he said no more to the Count.
“If my story might be told now, – ” ventured Mrs. Frothingham.
After a moment’s hesitation, Coroner Scofield decided to let her tell it, as having a possible bearing on Count Charlier’s testimony.
The rather stunning-looking widow was fashionably dressed, and she fluttered with an air of importance as she took the stand. She related again the story she had told of the supposed burglar, whom she saw leaving the living-room by way of a window, at four o’clock on Wednesday morning.
“How can you be so sure it was a burglar?” asked Scofield.
“Oh, he looked like one. All huddled up, you know, and his face buried between a high coat collar and a drawn-down cap. And he walked slyly, – sort of glided among the shrubs and trees, as if avoiding notice. No man on legitimate business would skulk like that.”
“Might it not have been Count Charlier?” asked the Coroner, bluntly.
“Certainly not!” and Mrs. Frothingham gave a little shriek. “The Count is a slim and elegant figure; this was a stocky, burly man; a marauder, I know.”
“It may be,” said the Coroner, wearily. “It may be that a burglar was concealed in the house, or let in by a servant, and that he attacked Miss Carrington as she was seated at her dressing table. It seems impossible that he should have administered poison to her, however, and the conjoined circumstances may indicate collusion between – ”
“Between whom?” asked Inspector Brunt.
“I don’t know,” confessed Scofield. “Every way I try to think it out, I ran up against an impassable barrier.”
“That’s what I say,” began Haviland; “it is a most involved case. I shall cable Carrington Loria for authority to employ an expert detective.”
“Why cable him?” asked Pauline; “I am equally in authority now. Carr and myself each receive half the residuary estate of Aunt Lucy, and, of course, I am as anxious to find the – the murderer, as Carr can possibly be.”
“Well, somebody will have to authorize it who is willing to pay for it. As man of business in this home, I am willing to attend to all such matters, but I must have authority.”
“You seem to me a little premature, Mr. Haviland,” commented the Inspector. “Perhaps when the inquest is concluded, it may not be necessary to call on any other detective than our own Mr. Hardy.”
“Perhaps not,” agreed Haviland; “but unless you people all wake up, you’re not going to get anywhere. I admit the getting is difficult, but that’s just the reason a wise sleuth should be called in before the trails grow cold.”
And then the Coroner returned to his task of questioning Mrs. Frothingham.
The widow was not definitely helpful. Her statements were often contradictory in minor details, and when she corrected them they seemed to lose in weight. She stuck to the main points, however, that by the help of a strong field-glass she had discerned, in the bright moonlight, a man leave by way of the French window, at four o’clock, and had seen him make his way stealthily out by the great entrance gates of the place.
Cross-questioning on this brought no variations, and the jurymen wagged their heads in belief of her story.
But her accounts of her own doings on Tuesday evening were vague and indefinite.
“I was in my own home all the evening,” she said at one time; and again, “I went out for a short walk at eleven o’clock.” This last in refutation of Haskins, the Carrington butler, who deposed to having seen the lady walk across the lawns of Garden Steps.
“Where did you walk?”
“Oh, just around my own place; and for a moment I strolled over here because the Steps looked so beautiful in the moonlight.”
“You were alone?”
“I was. I have no house guests at present, save the Count; and as my brother, who lives with me, is on a Western trip, I was alone, and I walked about to kill time until Count Charlier should return after his bridge game over here.”
“Did you walk near the house, while on the Garden Steps’ estate?” asked Scofield, scenting a possible espionage of her titled visitor.
“Oh, no!” and the witness bristled with indignation; “why should I! I was not really an acquaintance of Miss Carrington, merely a neighbor.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am, but I saw you on the conservatory verandah,” said Haskins, in a deprecatory way.
“That is not true, Mr. Coroner,” said the lady, glancing scornfully at the butler. “I beg you will not accept a servant’s statement in preference to mine!”
“You are sure of this, Haskins?” said the Inspector gravely.
“Yes, sir. Sure, sir.” and the man looked doggedly certain, though a little scared.
“And you deny it?” went on Scofield to Mrs. Frothingham.
“I most certainly do! How absurd for me to be over here, and how more than absurd for me to deny it if I were!”
This seemed sensible. Why should she deny it? And mightn’t the butler be mistaken? Or deliberately falsifying?
If there were collusion or criminal assistance by any of the servants, surely the word of all of them must be mistrusted unless proven.
And, too, what could have brought Mrs. Frothingham to the verandah of a home where she was not an accepted guest? Or, could she have been spying on the Count?
For it had slowly entered the Coroner’s not very alert mind that perhaps the volatile widow had her own plans for the Count’s future, and Miss Carrington did not figure in them. The manner of the witness bore out this theory. She was self-conscious and at times confused. She frequently looked at the Count and then quickly averted her gaze. She blushed and stammered when speaking his name or referring to him. In a word, she acted as a woman might act in regard to a man of whom she was jealous. And the situation bore it out. If Mrs. Frothingham had matrimonial designs on her distinguished guest, would she not naturally resent his visits to a rich neighbor? Mrs. Frothingham was not rich, and she may well have been afraid of Miss Carrington’s charm of gold, which could cause many a man to overlook anything else that might be lacking.
Coroner Scofield was getting more and more tangled in the mazes of this extraordinary case. He was practically at his wits’ end. At last he blurted out: “It is impossible, it seems, to get a coherent, or even plausible story from a woman! Is there any man present, who knows any of the details of the happenings of Tuesday evening and night?”
There was a moment’s silence at this rather petulant speech, and then Stephen Illsley rose, and speaking very gravely, said:
“It seems to be my unpleasant duty to tell what little I know of these matters.”
The relieved Coroner heard this with satisfaction. Accepting his good fortune, he prepared to listen to Illsley’s testimony.
“I was spending the evening here,” the witness began, “and during my visit I was in the various rooms. At a late hour, perhaps something after eleven, – I was crossing the hall, and I saw Mrs. Frothingham on the stairway.”
“On the stairway!” exclaimed the Coroner, in amazement.
“Yes,” returned Illsley, his grave eyes resting on the face of the widow, who stared at him as if stricken dumb. “Yes, I saw her distinctly. She was evidently coming downstairs, one hand rested on the banister, and she was looking upward at the ceiling.”
“Did she see you?”
“I think not. If so, she made no sign. But she was not looking my way, and I went on into the reception room, where I was going in search of a scarf Miss Stuart had left there. When I recrossed the hall, the lady had disappeared.”
“Did not this seem to you a strange circumstance?”
“I had no right to any opinion on the subject. It was not my affair what guests were at the house I was visiting, or what they might be doing.”
“But Mrs. Frothingham asserts she was not an acquaintance of Miss Carrington.”
“I did not know that, then; and even so, it gave me no right to speculate concerning the lady’s presence there. Nor should I refer to it now, except that in view of the subsequent tragedy it is due to every principle of right and justice that all truths be known as to that evening. Mrs. Frothingham will, of course, recall the episode and can doubtless explain it.”
“I should like to hear the explanation!” said Pauline, with flashing eyes. “As mistress here now, I am interested to know why a stranger should wander about this house at will.”
Mrs. Frothingham sat silent. Her face showed not so much consternation or dismay as a cold, calculating expression, as if debating just what explanation she should offer.
At last she spoke. “I may as well own up,” she said, and laughed nervously. “I was on the verandah, as the vigilant butler noticed. I did step inside the hall, as I had so often heard of the rare tapestries and paintings, and, in my ennui, I thought it no harm to take a peep. The great door was ajar, and I was a little chilled by my walk across the lawns. I said to myself, if I meet any one I will merely beg a few moments’ grace and then run away. Yes, I did take a step or two up the stair, to look at a picture on the landing. It was all innocent enough, perhaps not in the best of taste, but I was lonely, and the light and warmth lured me. In a moment I had slipped out and run away home, laughing over my escapade like a foolish child.”
Her light laugh rippled out as she concluded her story. She looked ingenuous and truthful, but the Coroner distrusted feminine fairy-tales, and this was a little too fanciful to be true.
Moreover, Mrs. Frothingham was looking at him sharply from the corner of her eye. Clearly, she was watching him to see how he took it.
He didn’t take it very well. The acknowledged presence of an outsider in the house, for a not very plausible reason, was illuminating in his estimation. She had been on the stairway. Had she been to Miss Carrington’s room? True, she said she went only to the landing, – but pshaw, women had no regard for the truth! Had she and Count Charlier planned between them to – bah, why did this woman want to kill her neighbor? Even if she were jealous of the Count’s attention, would she go so far as crime? No, of course not! He must question her further. And yet, what good would that do, if she would not tell the truth?
Well, she was in the house at half-past eleven, that much was certain, for Stephen Illsley’s story and her own and also the butler’s testimony all coincided as to that.
And then, Detective Hardy, who had just returned from a short errand, made a startling statement. He declared that the glove which had been found clasped tightly in the dead fingers of the late Miss Carrington did belong to Count Henri Charlier.
Mr. Hardy had been searching the Count’s wardrobe, and though he did not find the mate to that particular glove, he found many others, some worn and some entirely unused, but all of the same size and made by the same firm as the one now in the Coroner’s possession!
Thus cornered Count Charlier reluctantly admitted that it was his glove.
“I denied it,” he thus excused himself, “because I have no idea how it came into Miss Carrington’s possession, and I did not wish to implicate her in an affair with my unworthy self.”
“H’m,” thought Gray Haviland, fixing his attention on the Count and on the flustered Mrs. Frothingham; “a precious pair of adventurers! I expect Scofield is right, we won’t need an expert detective.”
There was more of the inquest. But its continuance brought out no developments not already here transcribed. There was much cross-questioning and probing; there was much rather futile effort to make all the strange details fit any one theory; there was variance of opinion; and there was more or less dissension.
But as a final result, the Coroner’s jury brought in a verdict that Miss Lucy Carrington met her death by poison administered by a person or persons unknown, who thereafter, probably for the purpose of diverting attention from the poison, struck her a blow on the head. The jury in their deliberation felt that Count Henri Charlier was implicated. But not having sufficient evidence to make a charge, suggested to the detective force that he be kept under surveillance.
X
BIZARRE CLUES
It was Saturday. The funeral of Miss Carrington had been held the day before and the imposing obsequies had been entirely in keeping with her love of elaborate display in life. The casket was of the richest, the flowers piled mountain high, the music, the most expensive available; for the young people in charge had felt it incumbent on them to arrange everything as Miss Lucy would have desired it.
It was a pathetic commentary on the character of the dead woman that while all who mourned her felt the shock and horror of her death, they were not deeply bowed with sorrow. Pauline, as nearest relative, would naturally grieve most, but for the moment her affections were lost sight of in the paralyzing effects of the sudden tragedy.
Anita Frayne had practically “gone to pieces.” She was nervous, and jumped twitchingly if any one spoke to her.
Gray Haviland was reticent, an unusual thing for him, and devoted most of his time to matters of business connected with the estate.
Estelle, the maid, had succumbed to a nervous break-down, and had been taken to a nearby sanatorium, where she indulged in frequent and violent hysterics.
The household was in a continual excitement. Lawyers and detectives were coming and going, neighbors were calling, and reporters simply infested the place.
Pauline and Anita, though outwardly polite, were not on good terms, and rarely talked together.
But this morning the two girls and Haviland were called to a confab by Hardy, the detective.
“They’ve arrested the Count,” Hardy began, and Anita screamed an interruption:
“Arrested Count Charlier! Put him in jail?”
“Yes,” returned the detective. “I found the other one of that pair of gloves, the mate to the one in the lady’s hands, – where, do you suppose?”
“Where?”
“Rolled up in a pair of socks, in the Count’s chiffonnier drawer; of course, to hide it, as it is not at all easy to destroy a thing like that while visiting.”
“I know it,” said Pauline, earnestly; “it is hard. I’ve often noticed that, when I’ve wanted to burn a letter or anything. You can’t do it, unknown to the servants or somebody.”
“Rubbish!” said Anita, “It would have been easy for the Count to dispose of a glove if he had wanted to. But he didn’t. He never committed that crime! If a glove was found, as you say, somebody else put it there to incriminate an innocent man. It’s too absurd to fasten the thing on Count Charlier! Do you suppose he went to the boudoir and gave Miss Carrington poison, and then shook hands good-evening, and left his glove in her grasp? Nonsense! The glove in her dead hand was put there by the criminal to implicate the Count, and the glove in the rolled-up socks for the same purpose and by the same person!”
“By Jove, Miss Frayne! You may be right!” cried Hardy. “Somehow I can’t see the Count’s hand in this thing, and yet – ”
“And yet, he did it!” put in Haviland. “Have they really jailed him? I’m glad.”
“I’m sorry,” said Pauline, and her face was white; “Did he – did he – c-confess?” The girl’s voice trembled, and she could scarcely pronounce the words.
“Not he,” said Hardy; “he seemed dazed, and declared his innocence, – but he was not convincing. He takes it very hard and talks wildly and at random. But you know what Frenchmen are; liable to go off their heads at any time.”
“But look at it,” reasoned Anita; “why would the Count kill Miss Carrington? Why, he thought of marrying her.”
“Not much he didn’t!” and Hardy smiled a little. “I size it up this way. Matters had gone so far that he had to propose to the lady or clear out. He didn’t want to clear out for then she would take back the little matter of ten thousand dollars already marked for him in her will. Moreover, he couldn’t realize that tidy little sum, which he very much wants, so long as she lived. To be sure, he would have had far more, had he married her, but that was not in ‘his nibs’’ plans. So he resorted to desperate measures. He’s a thorough villain, that man! Outwardly, most correct and honorable, but really, an adventurer, as is also his friend, the dashing young widow.”
“Mr. Hardy,” and Pauline spoke calmly, now, “do you know these things to be true of Count Charlier, or are you assuming them?”
“Well, Miss Stuart, I know human nature pretty well, especially male human nature, and if I’m mistaken in this chap, I’ll be surprised. But also, I’ve set afoot an investigation, and we’ll soon learn his record, antecedents and all that. At present, no one knows much about him; and what Mrs. Frothingham knows she won’t tell.”
“It was very strange for Aunt Lucy to give him that money – ” began Pauline musingly.
“Not at all,” broke in Gray, “I know all about that. Miss Carrington had a certain bunch of bonds that amounted to just fifty thousand dollars. In one of her sudden bursts of generosity, and she often had such, she decided to give those bonds to five people. I mean, to devise them in her will, not to give them now. Well, four were Miss Stuart and Carr Loria, Miss Frayne and myself. And then, she hesitated for some time, but finally announced that the fifth portion should be named for the Count. I was there when the lawyer fixed it up, and Miss Carrington turned to me and said, laughingly, ‘I may change that before it comes due!’ Oh, she was always messing with her will. I’m glad there’s a tidy bit in it for me, as it is. Her demise might have taken place when I was for the moment cut out.”
“Was there ever such a time?” asked Hardy.
“There sure was! Only last month, she got firing mad with me, and crossed me off without a shilling. Then she got over her mad and restored me to favor.”
“You and Miss Frayne have other bequests than those particular bonds you mentioned?” asked the detective.
“Yes, we have each ten thou’ beside, which was all right of the old lady, eh, Anita?”
“None too much, considering what I have stood from her capricious temper and eccentric ways,” returned the girl.
“Your own temper is none too even,” said Pauline, quietly; “I’d rather you wouldn’t speak ill of my aunt, if you please.”
What might have been a passage at arms was averted by the appearance of a footman with a cablegram.
“It’s from Carr!” exclaimed Pauline, as she tore it open, and read:
Awful news just received. Shall I come home or will you come here? Let Haviland attend all business. Love and sympathy.
Carrington Loria.
“He’s in Cairo,” commented Haviland, looking at the paper; “that’s lucky. If he had been off up the Nile on one of his excavating tours, we mightn’t have had communication for weeks. Well, he practically retains me as business manager, at least for the present. And Lord knows there’s a lot to be done!”
“I don’t understand, Gray, why you look upon Carr as more in authority than I am,” said Pauline, almost petulantly; “I am an equal heir, and, too, I am here, and Carr is the other side of the world.”
“That’s so, Polly. I don’t know why, myself. I suppose because he is the man of the family.”
“That doesn’t make any difference. I think from now on, Gray, it will be proper for you to consider me the head of the house as far as business matters are concerned. You can pay Carr his half of the residuary in whatever form he wants it. I shall keep the place, at least for the present.”
“Won’t Mr. Loria come back to America?” asked Hardy.
“I scarcely think so,” replied Pauline. “There’s really no use of his doing so, unless he chooses. And I’m pretty sure he won’t choose, as he’s so wrapped up in his work over there, that he’d hate to leave unless necessary.”
“But won’t he feel a necessity to help investigate the murder?” urged Hardy.
“I don’t know,” and Pauline looked thoughtful. “You see what he says; when he asks if he shall come home, he means do I want him to. If I don’t request it, I’m fairly sure he won’t come. Of course, when he learns all the details, he will be as anxious as we that the murderer should be found. But if I know Carr, he will far rather pay for the most expensive detective service than come over himself. And, too, what could he do, more than we can? We shall, of course, use every effort and every means to solve the mysteries of the case, and he could advise us no better than the lawyers already in our counsel.”
“That’s all true,” said Haviland; “and I think Loria means that when he puts me in charge of it all. But after a week or so we’ll get a letter from him, and he’ll tell us what he intends to do.”
“I shall cable him,” said Pauline, thoughtfully, “not to come over unless he wants to. Then he can do as he likes. But he needn’t come for my benefit. The property must be divided and all that, but we can settle any uncertainties by mail or cable. And, I think I shall go on the trip as we had planned it.”
“You do!” said Gray, in amazement. “Go to Egypt?”
“Yes, I don’t see why not. I’d like the trip, and it would take my mind off these horrors. Our passage is booked for a February sailing. If necessary I will postpone it a few weeks, but I see no reason why I shouldn’t go. Do you?”
“No,” said Haviland, slowly.
Hardy seemed about to speak and then thought better of it, and said nothing.
“Of course I shall not go,” began Anita, and Pauline interrupted her with:
“You go! I should say not! Why should you?”
“Why shouldn’t I, if I choose?” returned Anita, and her pink cheeks burned rosy. “I am my own mistress, I have my own money. I am as free to go as you are.”
“Of course you are,” said Pauline, coldly. “Only please advise me on what steamer you are sailing.”
“That you may take another,” and Anita laughed shortly. “But I may prefer to go on the one you do. Aren’t you rather suddenly anxious to leave this country?”
Pauline faced her. “Anita Frayne,” she said, “if you suspect me of crime, I would rather you said so definitely, than to fling out these continual innuendoes. Do you?”
“I couldn’t say that Pauline. But there are, – there certainly are some things to be explained regarding your interview with your aunt on Tuesday night. You know, I heard you in her room.”
“Your speech, Anita, is that of a guilty conscience. As you well know, I saw you come from her room at the hour you accuse me of being there.”
“Let up, girls,” said Haviland; “you only make trouble by that sort of talk.”
“But when an innocent man is arrested, Pauline ought to tell what she knows!”
“I have told, and it seems to implicate you!”
The impending scene was averted by Haviland, who insisted on knowing what word should be sent to Loria.
“May as well get it off,” he said; “it takes long enough to get word back and forth to him, anyway. What shall I say for you, Polly?”
“Tell him to come over or not, just as he prefers, but that I shall be quite content if he does not care to come; and that I shall go to Egypt as soon as I can arrange to do so. Put it into shape yourself, – you know more about cabling than I do.”
Haviland went away to the library, and Hardy followed.
“Look here, Mr. Haviland,” said the latter, “what do these ladies mean by accusing each other of all sorts of things? Did either of them have any hand in this murder?”
“Not in a thousand years!” declared Gray, emphatically. “The girls never loved each other, but lately, even before the death of Miss Lucy, they have been at daggers drawn. I don’t know why, I’m sure!”
“But what do you make of this story of Miss Frayne’s about hearing Miss Stuart in her aunt’s room?”
“She didn’t hear her. I mean she didn’t hear Miss Stuart; what she heard was Miss Carrington talking to herself. The old lady was erratic in lots of ways.”
“Why do you all say the old lady? She wasn’t really old.”
“About fifty. But she tried so hard to appear young, that it made her seem older.”
“She was in love with the Count, of course?”
“Yes; as she was in love with any man she could attach. No, that’s not quite true. Miss Lucy cared only for interesting men, but if she could corral one of those, she used every effort to snare him.”
“Is the illustrious Count interesting?”
“She found him so. And, yes, he always entertained us. She made that bequest to attract his attention and lure him on. And then – ”
“Well, and then?”
“Oh, then he couldn’t withstand the temptation and he shuffled her off, to make sure of the money now.”
“You think he killed her, then?”
“Who else? Those girls never used a black-jack – ”
“But the poison?”
“Had it been poison alone, there might be a question. But that stunning blow has to be remembered. And neither Miss Stuart nor Miss Frayne can be thought of for a moment in connection with that piece of brutality.”
“But the snake? The queer costume?”
“The costume wasn’t so queer – for a boudoir garb. The snake is inexplicable, – unless the man has a disordered mind, and used insane methods to cover his tracks. Then there’s the glove, you can’t get around that!”
“That glove might have been put in her hand by anybody.”
“That’s so! By a professional burglar, say! I really believe – ”
“Oh, let up on that professional burglar business! No burglar is going off without his loot, when he has uninterrupted time enough to kill a person twice, with poison and then, to hide that, with a fractured skull! How do you explain, even in theory, those two murderous attacks?”
“Good Lord, man, I don’t know! It’s all the most inexplicable muddle. I don’t see how any of the things could happen, but they did happen! You’re the detective, not I! Aren’t you ever going to discover anything?”
“I may as well own up, Mr. Haviland, I am beyond my depth. There is a belief among detectives that the more bizarre and amazing the clues are, the easier the deduction therefrom. But I don’t believe that. This case is bizarre enough, in all conscience, yet what can one deduce from that paper snake and that squeezed-up glove? It was all up in a little wad, you know, not at all as if it were carelessly drawn from a man’s hand, or pulled off in a struggle.”
“There was no struggle. The features were composed, even almost smiling.”
“I know it. That proves it was no burglar. Well, I’m up a tree. I wish you felt inclined to call in Fleming Stone. He’s the only man on this continent who could unravel it all.”
“I want to get him, but Miss Stuart won’t hear of it. I’d have to have either her authority or Loria’s.”
“But Mr. Loria gave you full swing, in that cable.”
“Yes, for ordinary business matters. But this is different. I’d have to have assurance that he’d pay the bills before I engaged Stone. I’ve heard he’s some expensive.”
“I’ve heard that, too. But, by Jove, I’d like to work with him! Or under him. I say, I wish you could bring it about.”
“I might cable Loria on my own, and not mention it to Miss Stuart until I get the permission.”
“Do. For as you say, the two ladies cannot possibly be involved, and I, for one, don’t believe that nincompoop Count ever pulled off such a complicated affair all by himself.”
“What about the widow he’s visiting?”
“Ah, there you have it! Those two are in it, but there’s more mystery yet.”
“I’d like to have it straightened out,” said Haviland, thoughtfully. “In a way, I feel responsible to Loria, since he has put me in charge. And if he wants me to get Stone, I’ll be glad to do so. As you say, it can’t affect the girls, – that stuff Anita made up was only to bother Pauline. You see, Pauline came back at her with a counter accusation. They’re both unstrung and upset, and they scarcely know what they’re saying.”
