Whispering Wires Part 3

"That should let him out. Well," Drew added with a sweeping glance about the library, "well, these big windows--how about them?"

The detective advanced to the front of the room as he asked the question. "Two," he mused. "Two bay-windows of the superior order.

Curtains very heavy and rich. There's a good catch on this one," he added springing upon the radiator-box. "And a good catch on this one.

Both catches are closed. Seem to have been closed for some time. Here's dust. High-cla.s.s housekeeper, but I've got her here."

Drew smiled as he ran his fingers over the upper sash. He peered out into the Avenue with its flowing tide of vehicles. He turned and said to Stockbridge:

"Suppose you order your butler or doorman to shut the outside blinds.

It's getting dark and cold. I want to be sure that no one can get through this way."

"Good," said Stockbridge reaching for the b.u.t.ton with his toe. "Good!

We'll take every precaution. Twelve hours will show the thing one way or the other. Twelve hours should do it."

The butler entered bearing a silver tray. He set this on a mahogany tea-wagon and rolled it to the Magnate's chair. Drew frowned at the sight of a black bottle and one gla.s.s. A signal of understanding had been sent to the perfect servant.

Stockbridge moistened his thin lips thirstily. He whispered the instructions concerning the blinds. The butler withdrew like a shadow merging into a shadow. Drew shrugged his shoulders and went the round of the library with the keen, trained scrutiny of a man-hunter and a modern operative. He paused before a case of morocco-bound books.

"These cases?" he asked. "How about them? What's behind?"

"Books! Books!" shrilled the magpie.

Drew raised his brows and swung upon the bird.

"Books! Books!" repeated the pet. "Books, books, books!"

"Fine bird," said Drew with thought. "But what is behind the cases, Mr.

Stockbridge? I don't want to move them if the walls are all right."

A gla.s.s clicked against the silver tray as the Magnate answered hastily:

"All right! They're all right. I was here when they were filled. I just ordered so many feet of books. Six hundred feet, I think it was. I never look at them. All that I ever read is the magazines and the financial items in the newspapers."

"The pictures--paintings," Drew said.

"Pictures! Pictures!" repeated the magpie.

"Shut up!" snarled Stockbridge. "Keep quiet, Don!"

The bird ruffled its feathers and leaped to a top perch. It peered from there at Drew, with its head c.o.c.ked sideways.

"How about them?" repeated the detective.

"I had them hung by my orders," Stockbridge said. "They're all right.

Nothing but a strong wall behind. No need to bother about them."

"Everything is important," Drew suggested with a slight reproof in his voice. "Trifles may make for the answer to the riddle."

"That Corot over there is no trifle. It cost me thirty-five thousand dollars in France!"

Drew lifted the lower edge of the painting from the wall. Dust fell. He pressed his face against the paper and looked behind the canvas.

Letting the frame back he tried the same operation with the other paintings of size.

"No secret panel, or anything queer," he said finally as he dusted his hands. "All's well with the walls. Now the floor. How about trapdoors?"

"Impossible!" Stockbridge exclaimed. "I'm sure these rugs have been taken out and cleaned every time I go to my country-place. A trapdoor would be noticed!"

"I'm trying to find out," suggested Drew glancing from the bottle to the purple face of the Magnate. "Please answer me if you want to get results. I've got to see that no one comes into this library for the next twelve hours. After that period of time--we can breathe easier."

"Go on," said Stockbridge feeling the thrust.

"This door," Drew said. "The door to the hall. Can it be locked securely?"

"Yes! It can be locked and bolted from the inside. I often lock myself in--in----"

Stockbridge stiffened in his chair. He glanced toward the portieres. He leaned forward and attempted to shield the view of the quarter-emptied Bourbon-bottle and the used gla.s.s, as a girl in lavender and Irish-lace swept into the room.

Drew recognized Loris Stockbridge from newspaper photos. He held his breath as she glided by him, unseeingly. He touched his mustache and waited. Her face, framed in close-drawn hair the color of midnight sky, softened perceptibly as she swished round the great table in the center of the library and laid an unjeweled hand upon her father's shoulder.

She turned with a start as she realized that Stockbridge was not alone.

Drew bowed with swift courtesy.

"Mr. Drew," said the Magnate. "Mr. Drew, my daughter, Loris."

Again the detective bowed. He met her level glance with a smile in his brown eyes. She answered it and leaned over her father's shoulder. Drew wheeled and fell to studying the t.i.tles on the books. He moved to the magpie's cage. He extended one finger. The bird fluttered and sprang from perch to perch.

Drew thrust his hands into his pockets. He heard Loris speaking in terse, throaty tones to her father. He could not well avoid catching the tenor of their conversation. It concerned the letter from the cemetery and the threat of death within twelve hours, which the Magnate repeated to her with a softness in his aged voice.

A gushing torrent of unbridled emotion poured down upon his gray head.

The girl paced the floor between the chair and the table. She fell to her knees with swift grace.

"Be careful, father," she sobbed. "You must be so careful. Remember you're all that I have, now. That letter and that telephone call means that somebody is planning to destroy you. Oh, father, be careful. What would happen if you were taken away from me?"

"You'd marry that cad--Nichols!" blurted Stockbridge. "I'm the one thing that stands in his way. You'd marry him--wouldn't you?"

The girl rose proudly. Drew, from the shadow outside the rose-light, studied the slender figure crowned with a close-drawn turban of blue-black hair. His eyes ranged down to her slipper heels. They lifted again. He stroked his chin as he waited for her answer. It came truthfully enough and with high spirit.

"Yes, I'll marry him some day. I want your permission, but with it or without it, father, I am going to marry him. He's a captain in the Army. Doesn't that prove he is not all the things you said he was?"

"Good girl," said Drew in whispered admiration.

"It proves nothing!" exclaimed Stockbridge stiffening in his chair and half rising. "He's a cad and an a.s.s under all his uniform. He's too poor to be considered for one moment. I want my daughter to marry----"

"Whom she pleases," said Loris. "Harry may be poor, but he's not too proud to fight!"

"Bah! They get those uniforms so the girls will notice them. What does he know about war?"

"He's been at Plattsburg for three months. He's in town on furlough.

He's helping us with Red Cross work. Isn't that n.o.ble!"

"That part's all right," said the Magnate. "I want you to keep him from me, that's all. I believe he's half German!"