In Jeopardy Part 8

"Yessum," returned Effingham with cheerful alacrity. Since one of the ladies of the family had a.s.sumed the responsibility it was not for him to offer any further objection. He went over to the right side of the great fireplace and touched a spring in the paneling; a door, just high and wide enough to accommodate an ordinary sized person, swung open.

"Nothing very romantic about this door," commented Miss Trevor. "It is merely a short cut to the terrace and gardens, besides being a convenient means of avoiding uncongenial visitors. But I don't think Mr.

Graeme often used it, and none of the servants, except Effingham, are even aware of its existence."

We all crowded around the secret entrance. The short pa.s.sage turned sharply to the left behind the ma.s.sive bulk of the chimney breast; we caught just a glimpse of a second and outer door, strongly built and banded with stout iron.

Warriner stepped forward and entered the pa.s.sage, reappearing almost immediately. "The outside door is unlocked," he said. "But that doesn't prove anything of itself. Before proceeding further I think it would be wise to examine the exterior situation."

I happened to catch Miss Trevor's eye, and I could have sworn that a spark of relief-c.u.m-triumph burned there for the infinitesimal part of a second. We trooped into the hall and left the house in order to gain the library terrace.

There was the door, cleverly masked by vines, in a corner of the chimney stack. Moreover, its wooden surface had been veneered with stucco, colored and lined to simulate the brick of the chimney; the deception was quite good enough to pa.s.s casual inspection.

"The vines don't count for much," said Warriner. "Easy to push them aside. But hullo! what's that?"

Plastered squarely on the line of the door opening was the empty coc.o.o.n of a moth. It was perfectly evident that the door could not have been opened without destroying the fragile structure, and of course it must have been fixed in position months before to give time for the transformation of the pupa into the perfect insect. That seemed to settle the question of either entrance or exit for a period long antedating the death of Francis Graeme.

"Pretty conclusive testimony," remarked Warriner. "I take it we're all witness to the fact, and so if no one has any objection----" And then, before a protest could have been voiced, he coolly picked off the coc.o.o.n and dropped it into his pocket.

When we were rea.s.sembled in the library John Thaneford again suggested that we might proceed to the formality of a verdict; he pointed out that there was no shred of evidence connecting any definite person with the tragedy. But once more Warriner was ready with a counter-proposal; he wanted to examine the two negroes who were working on the south lawn between those fateful hours of noon and two o'clock on the twenty-first of June.

"But Doctor Marcy has their positive a.s.surance," urged Thaneford, "that no stranger was seen about the place that day. Isn't that so, doctor?"

he continued, turning to Marcy.

Doctor Marcy nodded. "Yes, and I've known both men all my life," he said. "I can vouch for them as being perfectly straight."

"Better have them in and get their evidence on the record at first hand," persisted Warriner.

There was incontrovertible reason in this, and Zack and Zeb were sent for. John Thaneford still looked like a thunder cloud, and I found it difficult to make up my mind. Was he annoyed at the masterful way in which his official authority was being usurped, or was he inwardly anxious to keep the inquiry within conventional bounds; was it even possible that he was seeking to shield somebody? His personal skirts must be clear, for it was positively established that he had been at "Thane Court" the entire day of June the twenty-first. Being a relative, the tidings of Mr. Graeme's death had been sent to him by telephone, and he had replied that he would come immediately to the "Hundred." But he had not put in an appearance until the next morning. The one suspicious circ.u.mstance was his willingness, almost eagerness, to accept Doctor Marcy's certificate without making any investigation on his own account, coupled with his subsequent reluctance to reopen the inquiry. Finally, his att.i.tude throughout the inquest had been restless and perfunctory; it could be easily seen that the exercise of his duty as coroner was most distasteful to him. But I was keenly aware that I did not like John Thaneford; all the more reason that I should not do him any injustice.

And so I kept my cogitations to myself.

Zack and Zeb proved to be model witnesses under Warriner's skilful tutelage. It was positively determined that no stranger had been near the library terrace between eleven and two o'clock on the day in question.

"Or anybody else?" asked Warriner.

"Miss Eunice she done come by thar; walkin' up fum de gyarding,"

answered Zeb.

"What time was that?"

"Ah reckon 'bout one o'clock, sah."

"How do you know? Do you carry a watch?"

"Nossah, but de oberseer's bell for de fiel' hands just done rung,"

a.s.serted the witness with conviction.

"Where did Miss Trevor go?"

"I doan know, sah. I speck she went plum into de manshun house--roun' de cornah, sah."

Zack could add nothing more to this statement, and Zeb, when called in his turn, merely produced corroborative testimony.

"I think we had better see Miss Trevor herself," said Warriner, after Zeb had bowed and sc.r.a.ped his way out.

"All d.a.m.ned nonsense," objected Thaneford, looking uglier than ever.

"And I must say, Mr. Warriner, that you are taking a great deal too much on yourself. I'm the coroner, and I know my duty."

Warriner stuck to his guns, and he was backed up by a juryman named Orton, a well-to-do farmer and an unusually intelligent man, as it seemed to me. Thaneford finally yielded ungracious a.s.sent and Miss Trevor again entered the room. As she stood confronting us I was struck by the intense pallor of her skin, when contrasted with the coal blackness of her hair and her sombre apparel of mourning. Yet she appeared perfectly collected and self-possessed; she admitted readily that she had been on the library terrace at the approximate hour of one o'clock; she explained that she had gone to the walled garden to cut some flowers for the luncheon table; she had returned by the terrace as that was the shortest way to the front door; she had entered the house, and, after arranging the flowers, she had retired to her own room.

Warriner put a question or two relative to her taking Effingham's post at the library door while Doctor Marcy was endeavoring to break the news to Betty; her answers were definite and given without hesitation.

Yes, she had sent the servant upstairs to get the smelling salts and the ammonia; she had thought the restoratives might be needed. Her account of the finding of the body agreed perfectly with the story told by Doctor Marcy.

"Thank you, Miss Trevor," said Warriner. "Just one more question. What sort of flowers did you cut on your visit to the garden?"

"Yellow roses. I think the variety is called _Madame Colette Marinette_."

Upon Miss Trevor's retirement the verdict was taken. It was unanimous and to the effect that Francis Hildebrand Graeme had come to his death through the visitation of G.o.d.

The jurymen climbed into their surreys and Fords and took their departure. Warriner lingered behind, and a few minutes later he joined me on the porch, where I was smoking a long longed-for cigarette. Miss Trevor had gone upstairs, and John Thaneford had betaken himself to the sick-room; we were entirely alone.

"I found this in the pa.s.sage behind the secret door," he said, and handed me the withered remains of what had been a magnificent yellow rose.

"Interesting exhibit, isn't it," he went on dryly.

"You don't--you don't mean?" I stammered.

"I'm not very much up on floriculture, but this particular variety happens to be one of my favorites. The florists call it----"

"Yes?"

"_Madame Colette Marinette._"

Chapter VII

_The Whispering Gallery_

The long afternoon went by, but we had accomplished nothing more than the consumption of an unlimited amount of tobacco.

"Certainly not convincing evidence," said Warriner with a final shrug of his shoulders. "Still my yellow rose is worth preserving along with the moth coc.o.o.n," and he put the pathetic dead flower carefully away in his empty cigarette case. For a minute or two the silence remained unbroken.

"I wonder if you would mind spending a few days here at the 'Hundred?'"

I blurted out; suddenly I was aware that I had taken a strong liking to Chalmers Warriner.

"I've no end of things on hand," he answered, smiling cordially, "but I'll see what I can do. Suppose I run into Calverton, look over my mail, and return here around ten o'clock."

"It would be a great kindness," I said heartily. We shook hands, and he jumped into his perfectly appointed cross-country car and drove away.