The Paternoster Ruby Part 28

It was before the bath room door that Felix Page had met his death; it was the bath room that had been designated on the chart found by me in the snow; it was to this point that both Alexander Burke and Alfred Fluette had turned with a glance of ardent eagerness; it was to the bath room that Genevieve had pursued the mysterious yellow face--always the bath room. It would seem to be the converging point of the tragedy's every moving current.

We were about to give it up in despair, when I started forward with a wordless cry. _The bar of yellow soap was gone!_

On the instant the import of this discovery flashed into my mind. How blind and dull I had been!

During the struggle Tuesday night, between Page and--shall I say Fluette?--in the hall, Burke had in some way secured the ruby, and with diabolical cleverness _had pressed it into the bar of soap_! A bit of manipulation under the water-tap had removed all traces. Think of the brain that could light upon a hiding-place like that in the stress of such a moment! And I had paused by that very bar of soap, philosophizing and moralizing--it made me sick to think of it. No wonder they were all so interested in the bath room!

This revelation left my mind blank for a second. Then came a rush of mingled feelings--bitter chagrin and disappointment, mortification because I had been outwitted, and a blind, hot resentment against those who had bested me.

Recalling the object I had heard drop to the floor at the moment I dashed the door open, I dropped to my hands and knees and began a feverish search for some sign. Yes, there it was--a small smear of soap, where the bar had struck.

For a while Stodger thought I was crazy, and perhaps I was. I fumed and raved at him for not entering into the search with a frenzied zeal equal to mine. At last he too understood.

But our pawing over the floor and the stairs, and even in the snow outdoors, availed nothing. We were beaten, confounded, made a laughing-stock.

The bar of soap was gone.

CHAPTER XIX

BELLE

It was a very crestfallen detective that presented himself at the Fluette home early Friday morning. I had counted so much upon unearthing the ruby myself, a.s.sured that through it I must certainly succeed in drawing some betrayal from the murderer, that its loss amounted to a thwarting of all my efforts. My feeling was that of one who has striven and failed--failed through a solitary act of gross carelessness.

But if I was dejected, I was no less determined. Only a little more than two days had elapsed since Felix Page met his untimely death; the body had not been interred yet; and I knew that I held in my hands the ends of a net which enveloped all the actors. One of them was guilty.

My determination was to be no longer considerate through fear of wounding the innocent. I meant to draw in the lines of the net until everybody's position stood clear and unequivocal; but to that end I must be fortified with one more fragment of information. And here it was that I looked to Genevieve.

A neat-appearing maid admitted me, who seemed to be expecting my arrival, for she conducted me at once up-stairs, above the second story to the third, and to a room in the rear of the house. I wondered a bit at this; but I was more surprised than ever when the open door disclosed Miss Fluette instead of Genevieve. A good many startling experiences were in store for me that morning.

The maid closed the door and left us immediately. I began muttering some words expressive of my pleasure at seeing Miss Fluette able to be up and about; but something in her manner checked the speech. She had not even looked at me. In fact, I quite suddenly realized that she was studiously keeping her eyes averted from mine.

And again, she presented the appearance of one who has recently undergone a strenuous exertion. Her rich, red-gold hair was in disorder; she was breathing deeply, and her cheeks were flushed, though her movements were direct and full of purpose. Then, too, if a man may hazard the guess, I would have said that the lacey, beribboned dressing gown she wore hid her nightdress. The situation was most unusual.

When I entered the room she was standing on one side of the door, precisely as if she had moved aside to make way for me, meaning to depart as soon as I had entered. But she did not. Instead, the instant I crossed the threshold, she advanced quickly to the door. She turned the key, then withdrew it from the lock, and hastened to a chair on the side of the room farthest away from me.

I could not repress a smile--despite my amazement at these proceedings--when I realized that the chair was placed between us as an object of defence. She stood, very erect, behind it, her hand tightly holding the back. She was prepared with a weapon of offence, also.

For now her right hand appeared, for the first time, from a fold of her gown; I was startled to see that it held a small, shining revolver.

For the first time, too, her hazel eyes met mine, and they burned with a light which, considering the manner of my reception, I was not slow in ascribing to a state of mind bordering upon irresponsibility.

"So I am a prisoner," I said.

"You are," she replied. She clipped the words in an uncompromising way which promised that I was in for a bad quarter of an hour. Where in the world was Genevieve? I wondered. But Miss Belle went on at once, eying me steadily with a hard, stony look.

"I shall get to the point at once. It all depends upon you, whether or not you leave this room alive. It will be for you to choose, and I think you 'll choose the wiser course. I 'm in dead earnest."

She was, whatever her purpose; there was no gainsaying that. I was profoundly curious to learn what that purpose was.

"May I sit down?" I asked, calmly.

She made an impatient gesture with the hand that clutched the chair-back--the hand that held the door-key. But there were two keys in her grasp, I observed. The flowing sleeve of her dressing-gown disclosed a momentary glimpse of white, rounded arm.

"It's useless--useless for you to play for time. I want to know why you have permitted Royal Maillot to be railroaded to _jail_"--she flung the word at me--"and permitted a _snake_ like that creature, Burke, to go scathless.

"But, no, I don't care for your motives. You know Royal to be innocent. Between the two who were in that house Tuesday night--Royal, open, frank, and manly; Alexander Burke, sly, secretive, and a coward if ever there was one. What sort of intellect have you that it should make such a choice between these two? Bah! You're either base--in league with the criminals--or a fool."

She stopped for sheer lack of breath. She stood staring at me with all the dignity of an outraged queen, and for once in my life I was so astounded that I was at an utter loss for words. I sank into a nearby chair--without her permission--and for the second or so of the pause, my thoughts flew like lightning.

When Miss Fluette was carried from the Page library the previous day her condition promised a long siege of illness; Dr. De Breen had confirmed my own surmise with a declaration to that effect. Why, then, was she not at this moment in bed, with Genevieve caring for her? I had an engagement with Genevieve; she was expecting me at eight o'clock. Miss Belle's appearance indicated that she had prepared for this meeting with the utmost haste--she had probably risen and donned dressing-gown and slippers after I rang the doorbell. What, then, had she done with Genevieve?

I was not in the least frightened by her display of the pistol. To tell the truth, it was only with much difficulty that I kept from laughing. Still, I did so. The girl was plainly so overwrought that she was fairly frantic, and it would require the utmost circ.u.mspection on my part to keep her from precipitating matters before somebody came.

The women folks, I fancied, would then need the a.s.sistance of a man; but for the present her condition demanded that I be at least considerate.

So I concluded to humor her.

"What is it you wish me to do?" I inquired, not forgetting my dignity.

She waved the insignificant weapon toward a writing desk.

"There are pens and ink and paper," she said, her voice tremulous with suppressed pa.s.sion. "I want you to write down a plain, straightforward declaration that Royal Maillot is innocent, and then follow it with the reasons why you know him to be innocent--for you have those reasons.

Doubtless it will include an exposure of the guilty; very well, this is the time for such a disclosure."

The amazing effrontery of the proposal made me gasp. Suppose I were to tell her that I believed her father to be the guilty man? Heavens and earth! Here was a pretty pa.s.s!

"Miss Fluette," I said at length, very gravely, "such a declaration from me would have no more weight than the sheet of paper itself. The matter is entirely out of my hands. Further than to procure the evidence necessary to convict the guilty, I have no influence whatever."

"So!" Her lip curled and her eyes flashed. "You would weave a rope about Royal's neck!"

"I would not," I emphatically disputed. "If Royal Maillot was instrumental in Felix Page's death, he was so innocently. He don't know now--"

She broke in, leaning with intense eagerness across the chair-back.

"Then _why_ is he in prison?" There was a note of triumph in her voice, as if she had me cornered.

"Miss Fluette," I replied earnestly, "will you listen to me for a few minutes? Believe me, there is no occasion for this desperate manner--"

"I _am_ desperate."

"Perhaps. I understand your feelings; you and Mr. Maillot have my deepest sympa--"

She cut me short with a rap of the pistol upon the chair-back; I looked to see the thing go off.

"We don't want sympathy," she said through her teeth. "We want justice. And justice we 'll have. Go over there and write!"

She imperiously indicated the desk.

Was a man ever caught in such an absurd predicament! I was truly sober now. I was resolved not to commit myself to anything that would only make me ridiculous; but this pa.s.sionate, high-strung girl had told only the truth when she warned me that she was in dead earnest. My dilemma was most perplexing--and irritating, too. Could she be made to understand that if I exposed my hand now, before the issue was ripe, that the disclosure might work irreparable injury? Would she comprehend that such a course would immediately drive the guilty inside their defences? Could she be made to see that it was better for her lover to endure a temporary inconvenience, than to be left in a position where he could never be freed from reproach? Perhaps so, but only by showing her where her father stood. I scarcely need point how impossible such a choice was. And in her present mood!