T he white-capped nurse dropped the curtains in place so that they completely shut out the night and equally prevented any ray of artificial light penetrating the outer darkness. Her eyes, blinded by her steadfast gaze into the whirling snow storm, were slow in adjusting themselves to the lamp lighted room and for some minutes she saw as in a blur the spare form of the physician standing by her patient’s bed. Doctor Roberts turned at her approach and removed his finger from about the man’s wrist

A   long-drawn sigh cut the stillness. Slowly Miriam Ward raised her head and struggled to a more upright position. Her limbs felt stiff and cramped and she moved with difficulty. Without comprehension she watched a beam of light creep from underneath a window curtain and extend across the floor, its radiance widening as the sun rose higher in the heavens. The current of air from the opened window blowing indirectly upon her overcame her sense of suffocation, but her wild stare about the bedroom

A lan Mason stopped his restless pacing back and forth and looked at his watch—two o’clock. Surely, the autopsy must be over! He had waited for what appeared an interminable time for the County coroner, his assistant and Doctor Roberts to join him in the living room as they had promised. The afternoon papers would soon be off the press and distributed to the public; it would not be long before the reporters from the other local papers and even the representatives of the great news services locat

M artha Corbin laid down the brass fire tongs and turned to look at the wood-basket by the hearth. The logs were both long and heavy. Before attempting to lift one her attention was caught by the sound of a familiar lagging footstep going in the direction of the back hall. “You, Charlie,” she called, shrilly. “Come ’ere and fix this fire.” A snarl was his only response, and a second later a door banged shut behind her amiable spouse. Martha’s thin lips compressed into a hard line. Stooping over

A   distinct and unmistakable snore from the bed caused Miriam to approach her patient. Mrs. Nash, her head unevenly balanced between two pillows, was at last asleep. To place her in a more comfortable position would undoubtedly awaken her, and Miriam backed away on tiptoe from the bedside. She had spent three weary hours at Mrs. Nash’s beck and call; she had run every conceivable errand the sick woman’s fancy had dictated, had prepared her for bed, and finally induced her, on threat of departur

T he minutes dragged interminably to Martha Corbin and she wished most devoutly that she had gone to her room before Guy Trenholm had found her in the kitchen. The sheriff was not a man to disobey, and at his peremptory direction she had at once accompanied him upstairs to find Miriam Ward. But she had not bargained on having to take the nurse’s place in Mrs. Nash’s bedroom. Illness in any form terrified her, and only the knowledge that Miriam was across the hall kept her in her chair. At first

D octor Roberts laid down his stethoscope and frowned as he gazed at Mrs. Nash, lying back on her pillow, both eyes closed, and breathing rapidly. Leaning forward he picked up her chart and read Miriam’s notations on it with a wrinkled brow. “You must stay in bed another day,” he said finally. “The flu is treacherous.” Mrs. Nash’s eyes slowly opened and regarded him steadily. “What’s the matter with your medicines?” she demanded. “Why am I not better?” “Don’t be so impatient.” He evaded a direct

B etty Carter watched Miriam disappear up the staircase before she moved. Crossing the living room she stopped in front of the fire and warmed her hands, then sitting down she toyed idly with a string of pearls about her neck. “Still conscious of your pearls?” asked Guy Trenholm. He had followed her across the room and paused in front of her. Betty crimsoned from neck to brow and her eyes flamed with wrath. “If you can’t refrain from insults, don’t address me,” she said. It was Trenholm’s turn t

D octor Roberts removed his fingers from Mrs. Nash’s wrist, after taking her pulse, and then bowed gravely to her husband. “Your wife has rallied and we can safely leave her with the nurse,” he said. “Come, Nash, you must be very weary after your anxious night,” and laying his hand persuasively on his companion’s shoulder he gently pushed him toward the hall door, then turned back to speak to Miriam. “I will be downstairs in the living room if you need me.” Miriam, in the act of preparing Mrs. N

M iriam hung up the telephone receiver with a dissatisfied frown. For the third time her talk with the nurse in Doctor Roberts’ office had been cut off, and her appeal to the local operator at Upper Marlboro for a clear line had brought no results. Moving away from the telephone table she stood hesitating in the center of the living room. Should she go back to her bedroom and lie down again, or go out for a walk? The latter alternative was the most inviting, although reason told her she should t

T he undertaker’s assistant looked in deep embarrassment at Betty Carter as he remained standing in front of the closed door of the room where lay Paul Abbott’s body. “I’m sorry, Miss,” he said. “Those are the sheriff’s orders. No one is to go into the room now.” “But why?” demanded Betty. “The funeral will be held in half an hour, and”—her voice quivered—“I want to—to see him before the casket is closed.” Thompson moved uneasily from one foot to the other; Betty’s distress disturbed him. “I’m v

P ablo , Trenholm’s Filipino servant, brought the after-dinner coffee into the library and withdrew with the swiftness and silence which characterized his movements. “Excellent coffee,” commented Roberts. He relaxed lazily against the cushioned sides of the big leather chair in which he was sitting and stretched his tired muscles. “It’s strong and black. Better have some, Alan.” But Alan Mason declined. “I am too jumpy now,” he admitted. “Where the deuce is Trenholm?” “In the kitchen talking to

M iriam Ward opened the window a little further and looked out. It was nearly midnight and the cold, raw breeze was an agreeable contrast to the atmosphere of the sick room. Mrs. Nash’s preparations for the night were long-drawn-out and Miriam had found her at her worst. In turn she waxed dictatorial, fault-finding and fretful, and Miriam’s stock of patience was severely taxed. It seemed an interminable time before Mrs. Nash finally closed her eyes with the avowed intention of taking “forty wink

D octor Roberts leaned back in his chair and stared at Guy Trenholm. “So, Paul, poor lad, was stabbed with that vicious-looking nut pick,” he exclaimed, pointing to where it lay on the table in the sunparlor of Abbott’s Lodge. “And Mrs. Nash was awakened last night by a disguised man and succeeded in dragging off his false beard. Upon my word—what next?” The two men, with Alan Mason, looking wretchedly ill, making a poor third in their conversation, were waiting patiently for the arrival from Wa

M iriam looked at her watch—two o’clock. The brilliant sunlight and the out of doors exerted an appeal she could not resist. Stopping only long enough to put on her hat and coat, she started down the corridor and, when passing Mrs. Nash’s door, paused irresolutely. Mrs. Nash had recovered, when she left her at eight o’clock that morning, from her fright at discovering the disguised man in her room, but Miriam was troubled about her heart condition. She felt that she should speak to Somers before

G uy Trenholm raised his head. “May I keep this little paper in my safe?” he asked, taking it up. “I will return it at any time should you require it.” Miriam snapped her locket shut and slipped it inside her gown. “The paper is far safer with you than with me,” she replied, and sat quietly in her chair until Trenholm returned from placing it in a compartment of his safe. “It is incredible that Paul Abbott should have been the American soldier to whom Uncle Dmitri intrusted the diamond.” “But no

G uy Trenholm helped Miriam into his powerful roadster and then, with a murmured word of apology, slipped back into his bungalow. Miriam waited patiently, unmindful of his prolonged absence and thankful for the opportunity of rest undisturbed. Her ideas were confused—chaotic. The thirteen messages which she and Trenholm had just decoded were ringing in her head, but, try as she would, she could think of no solution to the enigma. The Law of Chance had indeed plunged her into an impenetrable myst

M iriam did not stay long in her bedroom after leaving Guy Trenholm in the hall of Abbott’s Lodge talking to Corbin. She had thought at first of lying down for a little while, but she was too restless. A walk would quiet her nerves, and, if Mrs. Nash had a good night, she might have an opportunity of relaxing and thereby gain some rest before morning. It took Miriam only a few minutes to put on her coat and hat again and, not bothering to take gloves, she went down the staircase. Mrs. Nash’s doo

T renholm’s noiseless pacing back and forth before Betty Carter’s bedroom door gave no evidence of the impatience consuming him. Miriam Ward had promised to join him the instant she was able to leave Betty. He had carried the unconscious girl to her room and then gone in search of Doctor Roberts, only to be told by Anna, who in her capacity of temporary maid was setting the dinner table, that Roberts and Alan Mason had gone for a motor ride in the former’s car earlier in the afternoon. Trenholm’

B etty Carter , too unhappy to keep to her room, where she had found bed intolerable after recovering from her faint, was the first to hear Roberts’ frantic cries for mercy as Trenholm got him upon his feet and half dragged, half lifted his prisoner into a chair. She stood aghast in the doorway of Mrs. Nash’s bedroom until pushed further inside by Alan Mason and Doctor Nash, who had paused to pick up a lighted lamp and carried it with him. Mrs. Nash, leaning heavily on Miriam’s arm, was likewise