The fire in the library had been replenished a short time before by Mandy and it blazed with unaccustomed brilliancy, and Nina in the overheated atmosphere felt a return of the giddiness which had upset her upstairs. Crossing the library, she threw open the upper half of the Dutch door. The cool air refreshed her and she stood enjoying it while her gaze roved over the garden and its box hedges along the walks. The flower beds in their winter dress presented a dreary aspect. But Nina’s attention did not linger upon them; instead it centered upon a man sitting on one of the stone benches near the sundial. His air of dejection was marked. He turned ever so slightly and in spite of the soft hat pulled far down on his forehead and his hunched shoulders, Nina recognized Leigh Wallace. On impulse she turned the key in the lower half of the door and opening it, walked down the path. Her footfall was noiseless and it was not until she stopped directly in front of him that Wallace became aware of her approach.
“Nina!” The low cry escaped him involuntarily.
“Don’t!” Her tone stung him like a lash. “I prefer to be addressed as Mrs. Potter.”
“Certainly.” Wallace grew white to the lips. “I shall respect your wishes. Had I known that you were here, I would not have come.”
“It is perhaps as well that you are here,” Nina took a step forward. “It gives me an opportunity to return these letters.”
Wallace looked at the package she held toward him and then at her.
“You kept them!” he gasped. “You had the nerve—”
Her scornful expression checked him. “Comment is unnecessary,” she said. “Take the letters and destroy them.”
Wallace’s uncomprehending stare frightened her. Was his old failing upon him—had he been drinking? For a long minute they regarded each other. Slowly he put out his hand, took the package, and without a glance at them or at her turned and walked away.
Inspector Mitchell left Charles Craige to enter “Rose Hill” alone.
“I’ll be in shortly,” he exclaimed. “Wait until I get there,” And, not waiting to hear even if Craige made an answer, the Inspector headed for the house adjoining the Baird mansion on the east. Craige paused a second to give an order to his chauffeur, then mounted the long steps to the vestibule where Mandy stood awaiting his arrival.
“I done see’d yo’ comin’,” she remarked, closing the door with a bang. “Go right in de li’bry, Mister Charles. I’ll tell Miss Kitty yo’ am hyar jes’ as soon as my gran’son gets back from the sto’.” And Mandy resumed her place in the parlor window from whence she could obtain an unobstructed view up and down Q Street.
Craige’s heavy footsteps did not cause a man, standing in front of the open Dutch door in the library, to turn around, so fixed was his attention on the view into the garden. Craige paused just over the threshold of the library door.
“Why, hello, Ben!” he exclaimed. “I didn’t know you were here.”
With a convulsive start, Ben Potter swung around and Craige recoiled a step or two. The rage stamped on Potter’s countenance had distorted it almost beyond recognition.
“God bless my soul!” Craige ejaculated. “Ben, what is it?”
Potter passed a hand across his face and with an effort regained some semblance of self-control.
“Nothing, nothing,” he stammered. “Where’s Kitty?”
“I am sure I don’t know.” Craige’s astonishment increased. “Probably upstairs.”
Potter brushed past him without a word and disappeared into the hall. Craige advanced farther into the library and paused in indecision. From where he stood he faced the Dutch door, the upper half of which stood open, and thus had an uninterrupted view of the garden.
It did not need remarkably keen eyesight to recognize the man and woman standing near the sun-dial. Craige stared at the tableau for fully a minute, then turned thoughtfully away just as Leigh Wallace took the package from Nina Potter.
Kitty, awakened from her sleep by Ben Potter’s unceremonious entrance into her bedroom, was gazing at her cousin in utter bewilderment.
“What are you saying?” she demanded for the second time.
“That your revolver was found by Inspector Mitchell on the floor of Ted Rodgers’ car,” repeated Potter. He made no attempt to modify his angry tones and his voice carried through the open door and across the hall into Ted Rodgers’ bedroom.
“You are mad!” exclaimed Kitty. “My revolver is here in my desk.” Springing up she hastened to her antique secretary and pulled open one of the drawers. It was empty.
“The revolver was here yesterday,” she cried.
“And last night in Ted’s car,” reiterated Potter, with stubborn temper. “Your revolver—and one chamber had been recently discharged and Ted Rodgers nearly killed.”
As his words echoed across the hall Miss Gray, the trained nurse, closed the bedroom door and turned to look at her patient. With feeble strength he struggled upright.
“Bring me my clothes,” Ted Rodgers gasped, as she hurried to his side.
Chapter XXI
Mouchette, the Seven-Toed
When Nina Potter reentered the library a few minutes later she found Charles Craige playing with the Angora cat, Mouchette. With a word of greeting she moved over to the fire and held out her hands before the blaze. Craige, who had risen at sight of her, observed her effort to avoid his gaze.
“I feel chilled,” she confessed, and a shiver shook her from head to foot.
“You have a bad cold,” Craige remarked. “Was it wise to linger in the garden—?”
Nina, intent on her own thoughts, never noticed the gravity of his manner.
“Perhaps not,” she admitted absently. “I should have remembered my coat. Where is Kitty?”
“Upstairs, I imagine. Your husband went to find her.”
“Ben!” Nina whirled around. “Ben—here?”
“Look out, you will scorch yourself,” Craige stepped hastily toward her. “Don’t stand so near the fire.”
“I am in no danger—” but Nina drew away from the fireplace with a paler face. “How long have you been in the library, Mr. Craige?”
“About ten minutes.”
“Was Ben here with you?”
“I found him here when I arrived. Do sit down, Mrs. Potter, you look utterly fagged,” and Craige wheeled forward a chair. As she still remained standing he started to remonstrate, but the words died on his lips as Kitty came into the room, followed by Ben Potter.
“Thank heaven you are here,” she cried, running to her godfather’s side. “You will bring Ben to his senses.”
Potter walked up to them, his eyes ablaze with anger. “I’ve told her a few plain truths,” he stated. His truculent manner made anything but an agreeable impression on Craige, who viewed him with contempt. He had no use for bullies.
“Stop shouting, Ben,” he remarked cuttingly. “You forget you are addressing your cousin and your wife.”
Nina moved slightly to one side and looked at her husband. Upon his entrance she had shrunk behind Craige. The movement had been instinctive.
“Why are you so excited, dear?” she asked, timidly.
Potter avoided her gaze and addressed Craige. “I’m tired of mysteries,” he declared. “First, Cousin Susan is murdered, brutally murdered, poor old lady; then my friend. Ted Rodgers, is shot while driving in his own car with Kitty—and Kitty’s revolver, with one chamber discharged, is found in the car. Damn it!” His teeth clenched together. “It’s time the police took action.”
“We will, never worry—” Inspector Mitchell, who had been an interested spectator of the scene from the doorway, stepped inside the library, his face set and stern. “Allow me to conduct this investigation in my own way, Mr. Potter. Stand aside, sir.” He turned to address some one in the hall. “Welsh, go tell Major Wallace that he will find Miss Baird here and not in the parlor.”
“Wallace!” Potter faced about. “Is he still hanging around here? Why don’t you throw him out?”
; “Major Wallace has a perfect right to come here if he wishes to.” Kitty spoke with warmth. “How dare you, Ben, dictate who shall call here and who shall not? This is my house.”
“Is it?” Potter had lashed himself into a fury—a fury apparently intensified by the arrival of Leigh Wallace, for he turned and shook his fist at the young officer. “As your nearest of kin, Kitty, I insist that your aunt’s wishes be carried out and that you shall not receive Wallace again. She knew what character of man he is—and that knowledge was the cause of her death.”
Craige stepped forward. “Are you aware of what you are saying, Ben?” he asked. “That you virtually accuse Major Wallace of killing Miss Susan Baird?”
“Sure.” Potter laughed recklessly. “Miss Baird had proof of his treachery—”
“Treachery? To whom?” Craige’s hand on Kitty’s shoulder warned her to be silent as he shot his questions at the distraught naturalist.
“To Kitty—playing fast and loose with her affections, and holding clandestine meetings with—” Potter licked his dry mouth, while his eyes, inflamed with hate, rested on Wallace’s white face, “with my wife.”
“You lie!” The denial rang out clearly. Only Inspector Mitchell’s powerful arm prevented Wallace from springing on Potter. “You d—mn scoundrel, to blacken your wife’s name.”
“Stop! Stop!” Nina Potter wrung her hands. “You are both mad!”
“This scene has gone far enough!” Craige spoke with authority. His calmness brought some comfort to Kitty—they were not all losing their heads! “Quiet, Potter. Now, Mitchell, what have you to say?”
Inspector Mitchell surveyed the small circle with critical eyes. He noted Nina Potter, standing white-faced and terror-stricken, her gaze riveted on her infuriated husband. Kitty, bewilderment struggling with dawning horror as she stared at her cousin and his young wife and then at Wallace, had sunk down on the nearest chair. Wallace, his eyes downcast, stood swaying on his feet. Mitchell glanced at Craige and pointed slightly to Wallace. It was plain to both men that the young officer had been drinking.
“Suppose we sit down,” Mitchell indicated the chairs about the tea table, and taking their consent for granted, deliberately seated himself. With some hesitancy, Potter followed his example and Wallace did so mechanically. Nina Potter, her feet dragging as she stumbled nearer, half fell into an armchair and Craige took the vacant one by Kitty’s side.
“Draw up,” Mitchell directed. “I will lay my cards on the table—and then, Mr. Potter,” as the naturalist started to speak, “we’ll hear what you have to say. Until then, keep quiet.”
Mitchell spoke in a tone which commanded respect and Potter sullenly obeyed him. The silence remained unbroken for a tense moment, then the portieres were drawn aside and Welsh, the plain clothes detective, stuck his head inside the library.
“Mrs. Parsons,” he announced, and drew back to let her enter.
Half way across the library the pretty widow paused and inspected the company assembled around the tea table in astonishment.
“My dear Kitty,” she said, dropping her lorgnette. “I stopped only for a minute,” she hesitated. “I fear I am de trop,” and she turned to leave.
“Not a bit of it.” Mitchell spoke so quickly that Kitty, who had risen, had no opportunity to answer Mrs. Parsons. The instinct of courtesy gained ascendancy over her perturbed spirit, and she offered her chair to the pretty widow. “Join us here, Mrs. Parsons,” added Mitchell. “We want your advice.”
Mrs. Parsons’ smile was charming, but her eyes were keenly alert as she moved forward, searching each face for a clue to the scene which she felt she had interrupted. Not observing where she was going, she stepped on something soft. A loud wail from Mouchette caused her to start convulsively, and the Angora cat, switching her injured tail, back and forth, sprang on Kitty’s vacant chair and from there to the tea table.
“That cat is always under my feet, horrid beast!” Mrs. Parsons, conscious of appearing ridiculous, for Wallace had not restrained a chuckle, spoke with irritation.
“Let me help you,” and Craige, who with the other men had risen on the widow’s entrance, assisted her in removing her wrap.
Mrs. Parsons presented an alluring picture in her chic crepe de Chine calling costume, its soft folds showing her graceful figure to advantage. Mrs. Parsons, with reason, was vain of her neck and arms and generally wore elbow sleeves and square cut neck. She was making a round of visits, and as she removed her long white gloves, she laid her gold card case and mesh bag before her on the tea table.
Mouchette eyed them for a second and then put out an inquisitive paw. Mrs. Parsons promptly drew both bag and card case out of the cat’s reach. Craige, who missed nothing the widow either said or did, lifted Mouchette off the table and held her on his knee. He was aware of Mrs. Parsons’ fear of cats. Mouchette submitted to his petting with good grace and much purring, and finally curled up in his lap, but her yellow eyes never ceased watching Mrs. Parsons.
“Is this a seance?” asked Mrs. Parsons as the silence continued. “If not,” her eyebrows lifted, “why are we sitting around this table?”
“We are waiting for Inspector Mitchell to, as he expressed it, ‘lay his cards on the table.’” Potter spoke with a sneer. “In other words, Cecelia, you are in at the death.”
Mrs. Parsons’ slight start was lost on all but Craige.
“Drop the melodrama, Ben,” he said. “We prefer to listen to Inspector Mitchell and not to you. Go on. Inspector.”
But the Inspector was doomed to another interruption, for as he hitched his chair closer to Nina Potter, the sound of footsteps in the gallery circling the library drew all eyes upward. With the aid of his nurse, Ted Rodgers was making his way down the gallery steps with faltering speed.
“Don’t any one rise,” he begged, as they started to their feet. Kitty was the first to reach his side.
“Ted, is this wise, dear?” she asked, making no attempt to conceal her anxiety. “How could you let him get up, Miss Gray?”
“She couldn’t help herself.” Rodgers gently but firmly disengaged his hand from Kitty’s tender clasp. “Go and sit down, dear; I’ll take this chair.”
Miss Gray aided him in pulling out the throne-shaped chair. By tacit consent the others had avoided sitting in it. As Rodgers sank back, the bandage on his head showed up plainly. Leigh Wallace transferred his gaze elsewhere. Vividly before him had loomed the memory of Miss Susan lying dead in her throne-shaped chair on Monday morning. Rodgers’ complexion matched the dead woman’s in pallor. His exertions had made him deadly faint and it was some seconds before he could gather his strength to speak with clearness.
“Don’t wait, Miss Gray,” he said courteously. “They will call you if I need your aid. Thank you.” Then as the nurse withdrew, he turned to Inspector Mitchell. “Well, what news?”
“Miss Baird,” Mitchell cleared his throat and pointed to a typewritten manuscript which he had lain before him on the table just as Rodgers joined them. “You quarreled with your aunt on Sunday—”
“We had an argument, I admit—” Kitty rubbed one nervous hand over the other—they were both cold.
“It was more than an argument—it was a quarrel, and about Major Leigh Wallace,” Mitchell’s manner was dictatorial. “Don’t contradict me, madam, I know.”
“Well, what else do you know?” demanded Craige, losing patience. “What’s that document you have there, Mitchell?”
“All in good time, sir.” Mitchell’s smile was tantalizing. “You went out of here, Miss Baird, in a rage, because your aunt had ordered you not to return. Can you deny it?”
“N—no.”
“Stop a moment,” Craige held up his hand. “You are not obliged to answer these questions, Kitty, except in a law court. Don’t overstep your authority, Mitchell.”
Mitchell’s only answer was to shrug his heavy shoulders, and look across the table at Kitty. “Miss Baird,” he began. “You purchased some peaches for M
rs. Parsons on Saturday—”
She looked at him dumbly. Then at Mrs. Parsons, who gazed back at her in silent astonishment. “I bought some fruit for her on Saturday,” she admitted. “But if there were any peaches in the basket, they were there unknown to me.”
Mitchell smiled significantly. “Pretty thin,” he commented, and glanced over at Craige, before again addressing her. “You stopped to see Mrs. Parsons on Sunday morning, Miss Baird—and you brought those peaches home to your aunt.”
“I did not!” Kitty’s voice rang out clearly. “I was at Mrs. Parsons’ for a few minutes on Sunday on my way from church—”
“With Major Wallace?”
Kitty changed color. “Yes.”
“And Major Wallace went into the house with you?”
Kitty paused in uncertainty and her eyes sought Wallace. He sat lolling back in his chair, his air of indifference plainly assumed as his restless fingers played with the catch of Mrs. Parsons’ gold mesh bag.
“I went upstairs to see Mrs. Parsons,” she explained. “I left Major Wallace standing in the vestibule—”
“And the front door open—” Mitchell broke in rudely. He turned to Mrs. Parsons. “Your house is an English basement, with the drawing room on the second floor. Where is your dining room?”
“On the first floor.” Mrs. Parsons had been following the dialogue with unwavering attention. At her answer Mitchell nodded his head with an air of triumph.
“I’ll amend my statement, Miss Baird,” he said. “You did not carry those peaches home to your aunt, but Major Wallace did—when he called here to see her alone on Sunday afternoon.”
Wallace’s air of indifference dropped from him and he swung to his feet, his hands clenched. “You’re a damned liar!” he shouted.
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