Anne Meredith looked at her mother, appalled. “Marry David Curtis!” she exclaimed. “Marry a man I have seen not more than a dozen times. Are you mad?” “No, but your uncle is,” bitterly. “God knows what has prompted this sudden philanthropy,” hesitating for a word. “This sudden desire to, as he expresses it, ‘square accounts’ with the past by insisting that you marry David Curtis or be disinherited.” “Disinherited—?” “Just so”—her mother’s gesture was expressive. “Having brought you up as his hei

Fully a minute passed before David Curtis moved. Stooping down, he groped about for his cane. It had rolled a slight distance away and it took him some few seconds to find it. Possession of the cane brought a sense of security; it was something to lean on, something to use to defend himself.... He paused and listened attentively. No sound disturbed the quiet of the night. Taking out his repeater he pressed the spring—a quarter past two. He had remained downstairs in the library far later than he

Coroner Penfield waited with untiring patience for Inspector Mitchell to complete his examination before signing to the undertaker’s assistants, who stood grouped at the further end of the hall, to remove the body. In utter silence the men came forward with their stretcher, and all that was mortal of John Meredith was tenderly lifted and carried to a spare bedroom. As the bearers passed Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door it opened and Anne Meredith stepped across the threshold. Dressed in her white pe

As David Curtis crossed the threshold of the door of John Meredith’s bedroom Doctor Leonard McLane sprang forward with a low ejaculation. “Dave! It’s you—really you,” he exclaimed. “Penfield said a Doctor Curtis was here, but it did not dawn on me that it was you.” He looked closely at his old friend and his expression of eager welcome gave place to one of compassion. His handclasp tightened. “I’m—” “Leonard McLane,” Curtis’ tired face lightened. “I recognized your voice when you first spoke.” “

The opening and closing of doors and the murmur of distant voices came fitfully to David Curtis as he sat near the window of his bedroom, his head propped against his hand and his sightless eyes turned toward the view over the hills to the National Capital. He had sat in that position for fully an hour trying to reduce his chaotic thoughts to order. Out of the turmoil one idea remained uppermost—John Meredith had undoubtedly been murdered. Who had committed so dastardly a crime? Would the answer

In the interval that followed the members of the jury relaxed and leaned back in their comfortable chairs, but no one broke the silence. Only the rustle of paper at the press table as reporters prepared copy could be heard, and David Curtis waited with the patience and quietude which his long convalescence in hospitals had engendered. He was not aware of the many curious glances cast in his direction, but the keen-eyed reporters who had scented a story of unusual interest in the rumored marriage

Lucille’s prompt arrival drew a pleased look from Coroner Penfield, which quickly changed to one of admiration. She had taken more than ordinary pains with her toilet and her mirror had told her, five minutes before, that she was justified by the result. Her name had figured in too many social events to be unknown to the reporters and they one and all favored her with close attention. “What relation are you to Miss Anne Meredith, Miss Hull?” asked Penfield, after she had answered a number of que

The violent slam of the front door jarred through the house, then came the sound of rapid footsteps up the staircase and down the hall. Colonel Julian Hull hesitated at his bedroom door, stood in thought for fully three minutes, then continued on his way to a room at the back of the house which he designated as his “den.” His wife looked up at his entrance. Her mild blue eyes widened at his disheveled appearance. “Why, Julian! Is anything wrong?” she asked. “Wrong?” Colonel Hull flung himself in

David Curtis felt around his empty cigarette case and sighed regretfully; he had not realized his rapid consumption of its contents. The cigarettes had, at least, provided diversion of a sort. Since Anne’s peremptory summons by her mother, he had been left severely alone. No one had entered the library and the folding doors, which had been in use for the inquest in place of the portières, and closed again by Mrs. Meredith after Anne’s departure, had prevented his hearing anything transpiring in

Gretchen, the chambermaid, craned her neck over the banisters in her endeavor to find out what was going on in the large square reception hall on the floor below. Her limited knowledge of English prevented her understanding much of what she overheard. The voices grew more indistinct as the speakers moved away, and finally ceased entirely. Gretchen straightened up and rubbed her stiff muscles, then with a backward glance down the corridor toward Mrs. Meredith’s boudoir door, she turned to her rig

A low tap at his bedroom door aroused Curtis. Rising in some haste he went over to his bureau, took out his despatch box, and, opening it, securely locked the handkerchief inside it. Not until the box was again in the drawer did he turn toward the door. “Come in!” he called as the knock was repeated with more insistence. Doctor Leonard McLane stepped briskly inside and closed the door behind him. “I am glad I found you, Dave,” he said, and, observing Curtis’ pleased smile on recognizing his voic

David Curtis was not far behind Leonard McLane in reaching the hall and instinctively swung in the direction the latter was headed. Anne Meredith turned back from the head of the circular staircase at their approach. “Oh, Doctor McLane!” she exclaimed. “I found poor Gretchen stretched out here in a dead faint. She is coming to, now. Thank you,” addressing Inspector Mitchell who, seated on the top step, supported the chambermaid’s head on his broad shoulder. “You were very kind.” “Not at all, Mis

Gerald Armstrong looked inquiringly at Inspector Mitchell as the latter waved him to a chair in the library; then turned his regard to Detective Sergeant Brown. He learned nothing from the Sergeant’s stolid expression and again focused his attention on the latter’s superior officer. “Sit down, Mr. Armstrong,” directed Mitchell. Taking a chair he planted himself in front of Armstrong, while Sergeant Brown braced his burly figure against a convenient sofa and remained a silent onlooker. “Now, sir,

David Curtis balanced the Yale key in his hand in deep thought. “And this key was the only object in Meredith’s safe deposit box?” he asked. “It was.” Hollister lighted a cigar and puffed vigorously. “Damned odd, isn’t it? Why did Meredith preserve the key so carefully?” “It might have been left there accidentally.” “True.” The lawyer pointed to the inventory sheet lying on the window ledge. “That notation reads: ‘Contents of safe deposit box belongs to.’” He folded the paper and replaced it in

Gretchen looked at the panting woman before her with concern. “Plees, Mees Hull, sit awhile,” she begged, pointing to one of the comfortable wicker chairs on the side veranda of Ten Acres. Gretchen had caught a glimpse of Mrs. Hull toiling up the brick walk, which led from the Rockville Turnpike into the grounds, and, by a circuitous route through the trees, up to the old mansion, and skirted it on either side. She had left the pantry window to open the little-used north door to admit her. Mrs.

“Why doesn’t God create an insect to destroy weeds,” mused Mrs. Meredith. Albeit not given to expressing her emotions aloud, she had acquired the habit of airing her wrath when alone by a sort of audible conversation under her breath which, unsuspected by her, Susanne had often utilized, thereby acquiring much desirable information quite unknown to her mistress. “Susanne!” Mrs. Meredith raised her voice and her maid came out of Anne’s room and into the boudoir. “Madame, you called?” “Which bedro

David Curtis rose from his seat by the window and stretched his cramped muscles. He had sat in the same position for what seemed to him interminable hours, waiting in watchful silence for the return of his mysterious visitor. But the remainder of the night had proved uneventful. The servants were astir early and he heard doors and windows being opened on the lower floor as they went about their work. He had about completed dressing when a knock sounded on his door, and he crossed the room and, t

Susanne was some little time in repairing the ravages which rage and surprise had made in Mrs. Meredith’s complexion. “That will do, Susanne.” Mrs. Meredith rose before her dressing table. “Tell Miss Anne that I am waiting for her.” Susanne started at her stern tone; the French maid’s nerves were not under their usual excellent control. Before she could execute the order Anne appeared in the doorway. “What is it, mother?” she asked. “Why did you send me word to dress at once?” Mrs. Meredith paus

Inspector Mitchell gazed at Mrs. Hull as if he thought her demented. “You! You killed John Meredith!” he gasped, as the others listened in petrified silence. “Yes.” Mrs. Hull unconsciously tightened her grasp on David Curtis’ hand. His firm clasp helped her to keep her self-control. “But I did not intentionally stab him. It was an accident.” Lucille walked unsteadily over to her mother. “Dearest,” she stammered. “You must be mad!” Then as she caught Mrs. Hull’s pathetic, pleading eyes, she turne