By NATALIE SUMNER LINCOLN Author of “I Spy,” “The Moving Finger,” “The Nameless Man,” “The Red Seal,” “The Three Strings,” etc. With Frontispiece A. L. BURT COMPANY Publishers      New York Published by arrangement with D. Appleton & Company Printed in U. S. A. COPYRIGHT , 1921, BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY Copyright, 1920, by Street and Smith PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA THE UNSEEN EAR...

T he bedroom door opened and closed on its oiled hinges without a sound, and a man walked over to the closet. With methodical care he hung his coat on its accustomed peg before moving deliberately over to his bureau. On its highly polished top he laid down a soiled scrap of paper. His quiet, orderly actions gave no indication of the rage consuming him. As he raised his head his eyes traveled upward and he started back involuntarily at the face contemplating him in the mirror. His face—but was th

D etective Ferguson laid an impatient finger on the bell of the front door of the Hale residence and, removing his hat, fanned himself vigorously. Coroner Penfield’s message had been imperative and, the Headquarters’ car having been out on an errand, he had commandeered a “bike” which a patrolman had left in the outer hallway, and had pedaled uptown as rapidly as possible. The unwonted exertion, as well as his intense curiosity, had both served to excite him. What untoward circumstances had requ

M rs. Hale rattled her coffee cups and looked over the top of her silver urn at Joe Richards; he had asked for a third cup of coffee and he drank it clear. Mrs. Hale was shocked. But the remonstrance on the tip of her tongue died unspoken as she studied his clear-cut profile and observed the dogged set to his determined jaw. She took silent note of his unusual pallor, the dark circles under his eyes, and his continued silence. Mrs. Hale felt resentful; she was of a talkative disposition and had

A nna , the waitress, took one more comprehensive look around the prettily furnished boudoir to make sure that she had not overlooked the sugar bowl; it was certainly nowhere in sight. Anna paused on her way to the door leading to Judith’s bedroom, turned back and, picking up the breakfast tray, departed to her domain below stairs. Judith, totally unaware that she had disturbed her mother’s excellent waitress by walking off in a moment of absent-mindedness with the sugar bowl, saw reflected in h

R ain and snow followed by sleet had reduced the traffic in the streets of the Capital City to venturesome taxicabs and occasional delivery cars. Few Washingtonians, not required by necessity to venture out of doors, were so unwise as to risk a fall on the slippery pavements, and the generally gay thoroughfares of the fashionable Northwest were deserted. Weather-forecasters had announced in the morning press that a decade had passed since such a combination of ice and sleet had visited the city

I t was lacking twenty minutes of noon and Polly Davis frowned discontentedly as she consulted her wrist-watch. She was under positive instructions from Robert Hale to complete the compilation of data given to her the week before. Hale’s cramped and peculiar style of penmanship was difficult to read at any time, and with her thoughts wandering far afield, Polly found her task more irksome than usual. Swiftly her fingers moved over the familiar typewriter keys and with mechanical exactness she co

T he death of Austin Hale under mysterious circumstances had created a veritable sensation in Washington, and the residents of the National Capital read with avidity every newspaper account. To the indignation of the city editors and the staffs of newspaper men few details were forthcoming from either Police Headquarters or the Hale residence. Thus thrown upon their own resources, imagination played a large part in their “write-ups” of the tragedy which, headed by display type of the most sensat

A t sight of John Hale towering head and shoulders above the others in the outer office of Latimer and House, Stockbrokers, the senior partner hastily excused himself from several persistent clients and sent his messenger to bring John Hale into his private office. “Well?” he demanded without further greeting. “Well, has the night brought counsel?” John Hale tipped the revolving chair he was occupying back to its limit before replying. “The night brought nothing but sleeplessness,” he groaned. “

P olly Davis closed the vestibule door of her home in C Street with a veritable slam and proceeded up the street oblivious of greetings from several of her neighbors. The street, celebrated in its day for having among the occupants of its stately old-fashioned brick houses such personages as John C. Fremont, John C. Calhoun, and General Winfield Scott, was chiefly given over to modern business enterprises, and only a few “Cave-dwellers” (the name bestowed upon Washingtonians by an earnest “climb

A nna , the waitress, found the time lagging in spite of the game of solitaire she was playing to wile away the tedium of her enforced idleness. She cast a resentful glance at her swollen ankle before shuffling the cards for the thirtieth time since she had eaten her midday meal. She had discarded the morning newspaper, and refused to find entertainment in the cheap paper novel which the cook had brought to her early in the morning, so her last and only solace was the pack of playing cards. Mrs.

F rom their corner table Judith watched, with total lack of interest, the gay throng which filled the public dining room at Rauscher’s, although the scene was one to arrest attention. The smartly gowned women, the foreign attachés in their gay uniforms in contrast to the khaki-clad army officers and the somber evening dress of numerous civilians, formed an attractive center for the mirrored walls and shaded lights. Judith’s inattention was a source of displeasure to her mother whose efforts to s

J udith had not inherited her mother’s fondness for being waited upon and therefore she had never employed a personal maid. After her interview with Polly she went immediately to her bedroom and it required but a brief time to put away her coat and scarf. In removing the latter from around her neck, its delicate mesh caught in the diamond horseshoe pin, her only ornament, which she wore in the front of her evening dress. In striving to free the scarf she discovered to her dismay that one of the

D etective Ferguson completed his tour of the suite of three rooms and bath which Judith and her husband occupied and took up his station in the boudoir. At Richards’ earnest solicitation she had notified Police Headquarters of the robbery and Ferguson had been detailed to investigate it. He was followed into the room an instant later by Judith who watched him inspect her empty jewelry box with the aid of a magnifying glass. Quickly he made his test for finger prints, but she judged from the neg

A door slammed and hasty footsteps sounded down the corridor, then a figure blocked the doorway to the sitting room of Latimer’s bachelor apartment. “She’s gone!” Latimer dropped the Sunday newspaper he had been reading and stared at John Hale. For a moment he had not recognized his friend’s voice—it was hoarse, discordant. “She—who?” he exclaimed, springing to his feet. “Polly.” John Hale swayed slightly, then lunged for the nearest chair and dropped into it. Latimer wasted no words, but poured

M rs. Hale contemplated Anna, the waitress, with marked disapproval. “You should not attempt to exert yourself until Dr. McLane gives you permission,” she announced, with severity. “Dr. McLane told me to walk about as much as possible, madam.” Anna’s manner was respectful almost to the point of servility. “He promised to be here this afternoon. Indeed, Mrs. Hale, I’ll be careful. Don’t worry, madam.” “I suppose the doctor knows what he is about”—Mrs. Hale, however, looked extremely doubtful as s

A nna , the waitress, answered Robert Hale’s persistent ring of the front bell with all the speed her strained ankle would permit. At sight of her, Hale restrained an outburst of temper and with a mumbled, “Thanks,” stamped past her into the central hall of his home. “Is my brother in the house, Anna?” he inquired, tossing down his overcoat and hat on the first chair he came to. “Yes, sir, I believe so.” Anna closed the front door as an icy current of air blew her becoming cap at right angles. “

O n hearing the slam of the front door behind her uncle and Frank Latimer, Judith went to the windowed alcove of the library overlooking the street on which their house faced and, concealed from the view of passers-by, she watched John Hale and his companion enter the former’s touring car and drive off. Not until the car had turned the corner did she relax her vigilant attitude, then, turning, she paced up and down the floor. She could not keep still. Her nerves were aquiver, her brain on fire.

R obert Hale crossed the central hall and entered the library with characteristic haste. On finding only a solitary light burning, he stopped and switched on the other lamps until the library was flooded with light. “Hello!” he exclaimed, catching sight of Major Richards standing in front of the fireplace. “Glad you are ready for dinner. It never fails, Joe, if I am hungry, Mrs. Hale is always late. She never has a well regulated appetite.” Richards laughed. “Your wife told me not to change into

A s if hypnotized, John Hale stared at his sword cane, raising it slowly, very slowly, then as slowly dropped the point and gazed at his brother. “It is blood,” he gasped. “But you are unhurt?” “Yes.” Robert Hale’s voice was not quite steady. “You did not reach me.” “Then where did this blood come from?” demanded John Hale. “It’s—it’s not fresh ,” and there was a growing horror in the look he cast at his companions. Ferguson, who had followed every act and word with rapt attention, picked up the

I n stunned silence the little group eyed Detective Ferguson and his prisoner. Slowly the latter rose from his hands and knees, the handcuffs clinking musically as he knocked against Ferguson’s left wrist to which he was secured. “Easy,” cautioned Ferguson, and the revolver in his right hand menaced the murderer. “You’ll get no chance to escape now, Jim,” with emphasis, then with reluctant admiration as he scanned Turner’s good-looking effeminate features and his slight trim figure in its woman’