“I didn’t look for it, Mr. Cray. I merely felt that she had done wrong and I thought perhaps some evidence would be hidden away in her room. And a top drawer is the place a woman oftenest hides things.”

Cray gave a short laugh. “Rather clever of you, I admit. But Miss Austin says she did not put that money there, herself – that it was a plant.”

“A plant?” Miss Bascom looked puzzled at the word.

“Yes; she thinks some in-disposed person put it there to implicate her, falsely.”

“Oh, I see. Well, Mr. Cray, let her say who did it, and who could have got that money to do it with.”

The hard old face took on a look that was almost malignant in its accusation, and little Anita Austin gave a low cry as she saw it, and hid her face in her hands.

“Take her away,” she moaned, “oh, take that woman away.”

“You hear her,” Miss Bascom went on, unrelentingly. “Now, Mr. Cray, I’m a bit of a detective myself, and while you’ve been down here talking to Miss Mystery, I’ve been searching her room more carefully, and I’ve found a few more things, of which I should like to tell you.”

Cray was nonplused. His sympathies were all with the poor little girl, who, clinging to the arms of her chair, seemed about to go to pieces, nervously, but was bravely holding on to herself. Yet, if the Bascom woman was telling the truth, he must beware of the “poor little girl.”

“I’m not sure you’re within your rights, Miss Bascom,” he began, but he was interrupted with:

“Rights! Indeed, the rights of this matter are above your jurisdiction! The blood of John Waring calls from the ground! I am the instrument of justice that has been chosen by an over-ruling Providence to discover the criminal. She sits before you! That girl – that mysterious wicked girl is both thief and murderess!”

“Oh, no!” Anita cried, putting up her arm as if to ward off a physical blow.

Then she suddenly became quiet – almost rigid in her composure.

“That is a grave accusation, Miss Bascom,” she said, “you must prove it or retract it.”

Cray stared at the girl in astonishment. Her agonized cry had been human, feminine, natural – but this sudden change to stony calm, to icy hauteur was amazing – and, to his mind, incriminating.

Miss Bascom, however, was in no way daunted.

“Prove it I will!” she said, sternly. “In another drawer, Mr. Cray, I found the rolls of silver coin – exactly one hundred dollars worth – that we have been told were in the desk with the roll of bills. The ruby pin, you know about. And so, these thefts are proved. Now, as to the murder – I admit, it seems impossible that a girl should commit the awful crime – but I do say that I have found the weapon, with which it was done, hidden in Miss Austin’s room.”

Again that short, low cry – more like a hurt animal than a human being. And then, Anita Austin, the girl of mystery fell back into the depths of her chair, and closed her eyes.

“You needn’t faint – or pretend to,” admonished Miss Bascom, brutally; “you’re caught red-handed, and you know it, and you may as well give up.”

“I didn’t – I didn’t – ” came in low moans, but the girl’s bravery had deserted her. Limp and despairing, she turned her great eyes toward Cray for help.

With an effort, he looked away from her pleading face, and said:

“What is the weapon? Where did you find it?”

“It is a stiletto – an embroidery stiletto – and I found it tucked down in the crevice between the back and seat of a stuffed chair in Miss Austin’s room. Did you put it there?”

She turned on the girl and fired the question at her with intentional suddenness, and though Anita uttered a scared, “No,” it was a palpable untruth.

“She did,” Miss Bascom went on. “You can see for yourself, Mr. Cray, she is lying.”

“But even if she is, Miss Bascom, I must ask you to cease torturing her! I can’t stand for such cruelty!”

Cray’s manhood revolted at the methods of the older woman who was causing such anguish to the poor child she accused.

“You are not a legal inquisitor, Miss Bascom,” he went on; “it is for me to establish the truth or falsity of your suspicions.”

“Yes, you! You’re like all the other men! If a girl is pretty and alluring, you would believe her statement that white is black!”

“I believe no statements that cannot be proved to my satisfaction. Miss Austin, do you own an embroidery stiletto?”

“Yes,” was the hesitating answer, and the dark eyes swept him a beseeching glance that made Miss Bascom fairly snort with scorn.

“Where is it?”

“I – I fear I must admit that it is just where Miss Bascom says it is – unless she has removed it. Tell me, Mr. Cray,” and Miss Mystery suddenly resumed her most independent air, “must I submit to this? I thought accused people were entitled to a – oh, you know, counsel – a lawyer, or somebody to take care of them.”

“Wait, Miss Austin. You’re not accused yet – that is, not by legal authority.”

“Oh, am I not? Then – ” and she gave Miss Bascom a glance of unutterable scorn, “I have nothing to say.”

“Nothing to say!” the spinster almost shrieked. “Nothing to say! Of course she hasn’t! She kills a man, takes his valuables, and then declares she has nothing to say.”

“Now, now, Miss Bascom, be careful! Why did you put your stiletto in such a place, Miss Austin?”

“I don’t know.”

The dark eyes gave him a gaze of childlike innocence, and Cray couldn’t decide whether he was looking at a deep-dyed criminal or a helpless victim of unjust suspicion.

“And where did you get the money and the ruby pin?”

“I don’t know – I mean I don’t know how they got in my room. This lady says she found them there – that’s all I know about them.”

An indifferent shrug of the slim shoulders seemed to imply that was all Miss Mystery cared, either, and Cray asked:

“Then, if the valuables – the pin and the money are not yours, you are, of course, ready to relinquish possession of them.”

“Of course I am not! Since I am accused of stealing them, I propose to retain possession until that accusation is proved or disproved! Perhaps Miss Bascom wishes to take them herself.”

“You know, Miss Austin,” Mr. Cray spoke very gravely, “you are making a mistake in treating this matter flippantly. You are in danger – real danger, and you must be careful what you say. Do you want a lawyer?”

“I don’t know,” the girl suddenly looked helpless. “Do you think I ought to have one?”

“Have you funds?”

“Yes. I am not a rich girl – but, neither am I poor. However, I think I shall ask advice of some one before I decide upon any course.”

“Of whom? Perhaps no one can advise you better than I can.”

“What is your advice, Mr. Cray?”

The sweet face looked at him hopefully, the curved red lips quivered a little as the speaker added, “I am very alone.”

Again Miss Bascom sniffed. Unattractive, herself, she resented with a sort of angry jealousy the appealing effect this girl had on men. She knew intuitively that Cray would sympathize with and pity the lonely girl.

“My advice is, Miss Austin, first, that you dispel this mystery that seems to surround you. Tell frankly who you are, what is your errand in Corinth, how you came into possession of Doctor Waring’s ruby, and why you hid your stiletto, if it is merely one of your sewing implements.”

Miss Mystery hesitated a moment, and then said, quietly:

“Your advice is good, Mr. Cray. But, unfortunately, I cannot follow it. However, I am willing to state, upon oath, that I did not kill Doctor Waring with that stiletto.”

“I’m afraid your oath will be doubted,” Miss Bascom intervened sharply. “And, too, Mr. Cray, even if this girl did not strike the fatal blow, she well knows who did! She is in league with the Japanese, Nogi. That I am sure of!”

“Nogi!” exclaimed Anita.

“Yes, Nogi,” Miss Bascom went on, positively. “You came here only a day or two after he did. You have a Japanese kimono, and several Japanese ornaments adorn your room. You went to the Waring house that night, Nogi let you in and out, and though the Japanese doubtless committed the murder, you stole the money and the ruby, and then, your partner in crime departed for parts unknown.”

Miss Bascom sat back in her chair with a look of triumph on her plain, gaunt face.

Clearly, she was rejoiced at her denunciation of the girl before her, and pleased at the irrefutable theory she had promulgated.

“And how did Miss Austin or the Jap, either, leave the room locked on the inside?” propounded Cray, his own opinions already swayed by the arraignment.

“That,” said Miss Bascom, with an air of finality, “I can’t explain definitely, but I am sure it was an example of Japanese jugglery. When you remember the tales of how the Japanese can do seemingly impossible tricks, can swallow swords and get out of locked handcuffs, it is quite within the realm of possibility that one could lock a door behind him, and give it the appearance of having been locked from the inside.”

Now, Cray had already concluded that the door had been cleverly locked by some one, but he hadn’t before thought of the cleverness of the Japanese.

He rose almost abruptly, and said, “I must look into some of these matters. Miss Austin, you need not attempt to leave town, for you will not be able to do so.”

“I most certainly shall not attempt to leave – as you express it – if I am asked not to. But, I may say, that when I am entirely at liberty to do so, I propose to go away from Corinth.”

Her dignity gave no effect of a person afraid or alarmed for her own safety, merely a courteous recognition of Cray’s attitude and a frank statement of her own intentions.

Miss Bascom sniffed and said:

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cray. I’ll see to it, that this young woman does not succeed in evading justice, if she tries to do so.”

At which Miss Mystery gave her a smile that was so patronizing, even amused, that the spinster was more irate than ever.

“And, now, Miss Austin,” the attorney said, “I’ll take your finger prints, please, as they may be useful in proving what you did not do.”

He smiled a little as the girl readily enough gave her consent to the procedure.

“And,” he went on, more gravely, “I will ask you for one of your shoes – one that you wore on Sunday.”

Surprised into a glance of dismay, Miss Mystery rose without a word and went upstairs for the shoe.

She returned with the dainty, pretty thing, and merely observed, “I’d like to have it back, when you are through with it.”

Putting the shoe in his overcoat pocket, Cray went away.

“Miss Bascom,” Anita said, turning to her enemy, “may you never want a friend as much as I do now.”

“The nerve of her!” Liza Bascom muttered to herself, as Miss Mystery went upstairs to her own room.

“There’s a very deep mystery here!” Cray soliloquized, as he returned to the Waring house. “But I’m getting light on it.”

Cray was far from lacking in ingenuity, and he proceeded at once to compare the finger prints he had of Anita Austin with the prints on the small black-framed chair that had been found drawn up to the desk chair of John Waring.

They were identical and Cray mused over the fact.

“That girl was here that night,” he decided; “there’s no gainsaying that.” He called the butler to him.

“Ito,” he began, “did you let in any one late Sunday night – after you came home?”

“No, sir,” the imperturbable Jap declared, thinking the question foolish, as all the inquirers knew the details of his Sunday evening movements.

“Do you remember seeing this chair, Monday morning?”

“Distinctly. I saw Mr. Lockwood smoothing its back.”

“Smoothing its back! What do you mean?”

“I looked through from the dining-room window, to see if Mr. Lockwood was coming to breakfast, and I perceived him carefully smoothing the plush of the little chair, sir.”

Cray meditated. Here was a point of evidence. Lockwood was not the sort to absent-mindedly paw over a chair back. He was doing it on purpose. For what reason? What reason could be, save to erase some evidence?

Cray examined the chair. It had a frame of shiny black wood, while seat and back were covered with a dark plush of a fine soft quality.

Cray drew his fingers across the back. They left a distinct trail of furrows in the fabric.

Ito, watching, nodded his head, gravely.

“Not finger-prints,” Cray said to himself – “but, maybe finger-marks. Whose?”

“You surely saw this, Ito?”

“Yes, sir; and Miss Peyton also saw. She was then in the doorway, asking Mr. Lockwood to come to breakfast.”

Cray went in search of Helen and put the question to her suddenly.

“What was Gordon Lockwood doing, when you went to call him to breakfast, Monday morning?”

“He was – I don’t remember.”

“Speak the truth – or it may be mean trouble for you and him, too.”

“He was – he seemed to be dusting off a chair.”

“With a duster?”

“No; just passing over it with his hand.”

“That isn’t dusting it.”

“Well, I don’t know what you call it! Perhaps he was merely pushing the chair into place.”

“It isn’t his custom to push the study furniture into place. He was erasing indicative marks on that plush chair back – that’s what he was doing.”

“Absurd!” Helen cried; “what marks could there be?”

“I don’t know. Come and let us see.”

Cray took Helen to the study, and asked her to sit in the chair.

“Lean back,” he directed. “Now, get up.”

The girl obeyed, and there was plainly seen on the plush the faint but unmistakable imprint of the beaded design that adorned the back of the frock she wore.

“I told you so!” Cray said, in triumph. “That plush registers every impress, and when Lockwood rubbed it smooth it was to erase a damaging bit of testimony.”

“Rather far-fetched, Mr. Cray,” said Gordon Lockwood himself, who had come in and had heard and seen the latter part of the detective’s investigation.

“Not so very, Mr. Lockwood, when you learn that the finger prints on the chair frame are your own and those of a certain young person who is already under suspicion.”

Gordon Lockwood, as always under a sudden stress, became even more impassive, and his eyes glittered as he faced the attorney.

“Don’t be too absurd, Mr. Cray,” he advised, coldly. “I suppose you mean Miss Austin – I prefer to have no veiled allusions. But the finding of her finger prints on a chair in this room, and mine also, does not seem to me to be in any way evidence of crime.”

“No?” Cray gave him scorn for scorn. “Perhaps then, you can explain Miss Austin’s presence here that night.”

“I don’t know that she was here – and I most certainly could not explain any of her movements. But I do deny your right to assume her guilty from her presence.”

“Ah, you tacitly admit her presence, then. Indeed, one can scarcely doubt it, when it is shown that this little shoe of hers,” he took it from his pocket, “exactly fits the prints that cross the field of snow between here and the Adams house.”

“To measure footprints – after all this time!” and Lockwood’s lip curled.

“The prints are exactly as they were made, Mr. Lockwood. The unchanging cold weather has kept them intact. I tried this shoe, and the prints are unmistakable. Moreover, the short stride is just the measure of the natural steps of Miss Austin. The footprints lead from the Adams house over here and back again. The returning prints occasionally overlap the ones that came this way, showing that the trip away from this house was made latest. Miss Austin was seen to come over in this direction – well, none but a half-wit would be blind to the inevitable conclusions!”

“None but a half-wit would read into this evidence what you pretend to see,” retorted Lockwood, almost losing his calm.

“That’s my business,” Cray said, sharply: “now, Mr. Lockwood, why did you smooth off that chair back? Careful, now, two witnesses saw you do it.”

“I’m not denying it” – Lockwood smiled in a bored, superior way, “but if I did it, I was – and am unconscious of it. One often touches a piece of furniture in passing with no thought of doing so.”

“That won’t go down. Both the butler and Miss Peyton saw you definitely and deliberately rub over the back of that chair. Why did you do it?”

Cray was inexorable.

But the impassive secretary merely shrugged his shoulders.

“I can’t answer you, Mr. Cray. I can only repeat it must have been an unconscious act on my part, and it has no sinister significance. I may have been merely pushing the chair out of my way, you know.”

“Look here, Mr. Lockwood, you are a man of honor. Do you, upon oath, declare that you did not purposely smooth that chairback, for the reason that it showed some incriminating impress?”

“I am not under oath. I have stated that I did not do what you accuse me of, and I have nothing further to say on the subject.”

Lockwood drew himself up and leaned with folded arms against the mantelpiece.

Cray dropped the subject, but his snapping eyes and compressed lips seemed to show he had not finally dismissed it.

“At what time,” he said, abruptly, “did Doctor Waring lock his study door?”

“About ten o’clock,” the secretary replied.

“And you heard nothing from the room after that? No sound of voices? Nobody coming in at the French window?”

“No,” replied Lockwood.

“Then we are forced to the conclusion that whoever entered did so very quietly, that it was with the knowledge and permission of Doctor Waring himself, that the visitor was the person whose footprints lead straight to the door, and whose finger prints are on the chair that stood near the Doctor’s own chair. We are borne out in this view by the fact that the same person now possesses the money and the ruby pin which we know Doctor Waring had in his room with him, and we know that the person is here in Corinth for unexplained reasons, and is, in fact, so peculiar that she is known as – Miss Mystery. Just why, Mr. Lockwood, are you arguing against these obvious inferences, and why do you undertake to free from suspicion one against whom everything is so definitely black?”

“Because,” Lockwood spoke very quietly, but his jaw was set in a stubborn way, “the lady you call Miss Mystery, is a young and defenseless girl, without, so far as I know, a friend in this town. It is unfair to accuse her on the strength of this fantastic story and it is unfair to condemn her unheard.”

“Not unheard,” said the attorney, “but what she says only incriminates her more deeply.”

CHAPTER XII
MAURICE TRASK, HEIR

The funeral services of John Waring were solemn and impressive. No reference was made to the manner of his taking-off, save to call it mysterious, and the encomiums heaped upon him by the clergy and the college faculty were as sincere as they were well-deserved.

There were two members of the great audience who were looked at with curiosity by many.

One of these was Miss Mystery, the girl who, it was vaguely rumored was in some way connected with the tragedy.

To look at her, this seemed impossible, for a sweeter face or a gentler manner could scarce be imagined.

Anita Austin sat near the front, on one of the side aisles. She wore a gown of taupe-colored duvetyn, and a velvet toque of the same color. Her olive face was pale, and now and then her small white teeth bit into her scarlet lower lip, as if she were keeping her self-control only by determined effort.

A close observer might note that she paid no heed to the utterance of the able men who gave tribute to John Waring’s character, but her troubled eyes rested on the flower-covered casket, and the rising tears overflowed as she stifled an occasional sob.

And then, fairly clenching her hands in a determination to show no emotion, this strange girl would straighten up, and stare blankly ahead of her as if in utter oblivion of the scene.

Directly behind her was Helen Peyton, who had chosen that place with the intention of watching Miss Mystery. Mrs. Peyton was by her daughter’s side, but her whole attention was on the funeral services, and she thought of little else.

Not far off was Gordon Lockwood, and with him were Mrs. Bates and her nephew, Pinckney Payne. Of this trio only the secretary let his gaze wander now and then to the sad little face that was rapidly becoming the dearest thing in life to him. As the church filled, and the flower-scented atmosphere grew oppressive, Miss Austin let her coat fall from her shoulders, and Lockwood noted with a start that she wore the same gown she had worn to the lecture at which he first saw her. Again he counted the queer little buttons that edged the sailor collar. He shook his head, and a great feeling of compassion filled his heart.

“Poor child,” he said to himself, “what does it all mean?”

The other magnet for strangers’ eyes was Maurice Trask, the relative of John Waring, who had come from his home in St. Louis, to take possession of his inheritance.

For, in the absence of any will, he had proved himself the next of kin, and had gladly, even eagerly, taken the reins of government of the affairs and home of the dead man.

He was the son of John Waring’s cousin, and though the two men had never met, the credentials and records brought by Maurice Trask left no possible doubt as to his heirship.

Trask was not prepossessing of appearance, though he was well-mannered and moderately well-dressed. His lack was that of sophistication, and he seemed ignorant of the finer conventions of life. He was what is known as a self-made man, and men of home manufacture require some sterling qualities to start with if they are to turn out a satisfactory product.

These qualities Trask didn’t have, and a first glance at the sharp-featured face gave an impression of greed and shrewdness.

There was also a slight air of bravado, which was quite evidently caused by an uneasy feeling of inferiority. He seemed to say, “I am as good as you are,” because his conviction of that fact needed some such assertion to bolster it up.

In his seat as chief mourner, he was decorum itself. His black garb was very black, and if it betrayed a provincial cut or fit, such an effect was more in keeping with the man than correct apparel would have been.

His grief might have seemed a trifle ostentatious to one who remembered he had never seen his cousin, but on the whole Maurice Trask was accepted by those whose curiosity led to criticism, as a satisfactory heir to the Waring estate.

Nor was this an inconsiderable matter, for John Waring, beside his profession, had written several successful books, and possessed in all a goodly fortune.

Moreover, there was no mystery about Trask. His life was an open book, the lawyers had said; his family tree was of correct record and his claim to the estate clear and true.

While as to that minx, Miss Mystery, nobody knew or could find out where she came from, what she was doing in Corinth, or who she was, anyway. Clearly she was mixed up with Doctor Waring in some unconventional way – that is, if the reports were true that she visited him in his study without the knowledge of his household. No shadow of blame was attached to John Waring for this – although it would seem that the man was old and wise enough to ward off an attack from such a small vampire.

“That’s what she is,” Helen Peyton concluded, to herself, as she mused on the girl who sat in front of her. “She just plain vamped poor Doctor Waring – and she got into the study – and, now, I can prove it!”

After the funeral, the chief mourners went back to the Waring home to discuss matters. Mrs. Peyton had tea served in the living-room, for all who came, and many neighbors, drawn by curiosity, accepted her hospitality.

Trask, rubbing his hands involuntarily, slipped easily into his new rôle of host, and rather overdid his part.

“Yes,” he would say, “yes, yes. I learned from the addresses how fine a man my cousin was – yes, yes, a noble character. Now, I can’t expect to take his place in your community all at once – but I’ll get there! I’ll get there! And you’ll all help me, won’t you?” he beamed on them. “Yes, yes, you’ll all help me to become one of the first citizens of Corinth – one of the first citizens of your lovely, tree-decked town. Yes, yes.”

Plate and cup in hand, he moved around among his guests, a little awkwardly but full of amiability and good cheer. His sentiment was quite evidently, “the king is dead; long live the king,” and he wanted to get settled on his throne at once.

But the cousin of John Waring had another side to him.

This was shown when, later on, he met a few people in the study.

Cray was there, by invitation, and Morton also. Lockwood and the two Peytons.

“Just a few words at the outset,” Trask began, and he was noticeably more at ease in this executive session than he had been in the social atmosphere.

“I want to maintain this household, for a time at least, as I find it. I shall be glad, Mrs. Peyton, if you will continue to keep house for me, and I should like you, Mr. Lockwood, to remain as secretary, if you are willing. There is, of course, much to be done in settling the estate, and your knowledge would be invaluable. Also, if you will, Mrs. Peyton, I’d like you to engage servants – or keep the ones you have. In fact, please look after the house matters entirely. For, here is what I want to do first. Find the man who killed my cousin. I never shall feel right in taking and using his home and his money unless I do everything in my power to discover his murderer.”

“It may be a case of suicide,” suggested Attorney Cray, who was narrowly watching the speaker.

“No-sir-ee! First place, as near as I can figure it out, my cousin was not the man to take his own life. Also, he was on the eve of taking a fine position as College President – also he was about to marry a beautiful lady. Why worry? And too – and this is to me the strongest argument against the suicide theory – I’ve read lots of detective stories – you needn’t sniff, Mr. Cray, those stories are often founded on fact – and many of them hinge on the mystery of a sealed room. Often a book starts out with a situation just like this; man found dead. Room locked up. No weapon about. Murder or suicide? And, listen here; invariably the solution is murder. Yes, sir – invariably! Why? ’Cause suicide is a mighty scarce article. You don’t find Human Nature putting an end to itself very often. That is, not worthwhile Human Nature. Your suicides are weak men, down and outers, ignorant, half-baked chaps. Not fine, upstanding men such as John Waring was. You know that, Mr. Cray?”

“Yes,” the attorney nodded. “That’s certainly so, Mr. Trask. And, anyway, if you’re going to make investigations, you have to start on the theory of murder.”

“Just that exactly,” Trask agreed. “Then if we run up against proof – actual proof of suicide, why then, we know where we’re at.”

Lockwood looked at Trask and listened to him with interest. He was a new type to the secretary, who with all his knowledge of characterization couldn’t quite place him.

At first, Lockwood had felt an instinctive dislike, the newcomer had been so patently pleased with his inheritance, and so evidently insincere in his mourning. But this sensible, straightforward insistence on avenging his cousin’s murder – if it were murder – raised Trask in Lockwood’s estimation, and he concluded to remain as secretary, for a time, at least.

“You have the case in charge, Mr. Cray,” Trask went on, “and I want you to push it – push it, sir. Get help if you want – get some hifalutin detective, if that’s the proper caper – but, get results. Results, that’s what I’m after! Here’s my idea. Get busy, and do all you can as quick as you can. Don’t dawdle. Put things through. And then – if you can’t find the criminal, after due effort, then, we’ll give up the hunt. That’s my idea. Do all you can – and then quit.”

“Very well, Mr. Trask,” Cray replied; “I understand, and I’ll do as you say. When you have the time to devote to it, I’ll give you a history of the case.”

“The time is now, Mr. Cray. And your history must be put in a nutshell. The circumstances of John Waring’s death, I know. Also, I know whom I suspect as the murderer. So tell me your decisions to date.”

“I fear we have made no decision, Mr. Trask. As a matter of fact the evidence to date points in a most painful direction.”

“What! You’re deterred from justice because evidence points in a painful direction! My stars, Cray! is that the way you detect in New England!”

“But evidence may be false, and it is unwise to accuse without certainty – ”

“I have some certain evidence,” said Helen Peyton, and all turned to look at the girl, who spoke hesitatingly and in a low tone.

“Yes, I wouldn’t tell it – but – I think I ought to. I just found it out today.”

“Of course you must tell it, Miss Peyton,” Trask said, dictatorially. “Out with it!”

“Well,” Helen spoke to Cray, “you know Mr. Lockwood rubbed off some marks from this chair the morning after – after we found Doctor Waring.”

“Yes, they were without doubt indicative marks. What do you know about them?” Cray looked at her earnestly, for he had great interest in that act of the secretary’s.

“They were the marks made by the buttons on the back of the dress Miss Austin wore today.”

For a moment Gordon Lockwood’s calm almost deserted him. It was but a fleeting instant, yet Cray’s sharp eyes caught the look of utter dismay that crossed the impassive face of the secretary. Immediately the usual hauteur returned and the grave eyes met Cray’s without a tremor.

“How do you know?” Cray was all alertness.

“I sat behind her at the funeral. She took off her coat and I couldn’t help noticing a certain arrangement of buttons. It struck me, because I noticed the marks on the chair back, and they were just the same design.”

“Absurd,” Lockwood said, quietly, but with a deep scorn in his tone. “As if you could identify the trimming on a lady’s gown!”

“But I did,” Helen persisted, spurred by Lockwood’s manner. “I noticed it on the chair, a clear pattern of the trimming of the collar, and two rows down the back. And then I saw Mr. Lockwood rub it off of the chairback with utmost care. And today, when I saw Miss Austin’s dress, I recognized it at once. She was here that night – Mr. Lockwood knew it – and he erased the marks – ”