The Curved Blades

“She was wearing, when you left her, only the jewels she had worn during the evening?”

“Only those, sir. When I changed her evening gown for the boudoir robe, she bade me replace such jewels as I had already taken off her. She kept on her rings, bracelets and her long rope of pearls while I changed her costume.”

“And then she dismissed you for the night?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where was she then? Sitting before the mirror?”

“No, sir. She stood in the middle of the floor.”

“Was she in an amiable mood?”

“She was not. Because I offered to assist her further, she ordered me from the room in anger.”

“Ah, in anger! Was Miss Carrington often angry with you?”

“Indeed, yes; as she was with everybody.”

“Confine your answers to your own experience. You prepared a night luncheon for your mistress?”

“Yes, sir,” and now Estelle’s voice trembled and her eyes rolled apprehensively.

“What was it?”

“Two small sandwiches and a glass of milk.”

“What sort of sandwiches?”

“Caviare, sir.”

“Ah, yes. And why did you put a large dose of bromide in the glass of milk?”

“Did it kill her?” and Estelle screamed out her query. Pauline and Anita looked at one another. It was the same question Estelle had asked of them.

“An overdose of bromide may be fatal,” parried the Coroner, not answering the question directly. “Why did you do it?”

“I didn’t do it,” and the French girl shrugged her shoulders; “why should I poison my mistress? She was quick-tempered, but I was used to that.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said the Coroner; “the bromide didn’t poison Miss Carrington, for, in the first place, she didn’t take it. The glass of milk was found next morning untouched, though the sandwiches were gone. Therefore, the bromide in the milk was found. Why did you put it in?”

“I didn’t do it,” reiterated the maid. “Look higher up for that!”

“What do you mean?”

“I mention no names, but somebody must have done it, if bromide was found in that milk.”

“But you tried to get the glass away next morning, without being seen.”

“Who says I did?”

“Never mind that; you were seen. Why?”

“Well, sir, if I thought anybody was going to get into trouble because of it, I was only too glad to help, if I could, by removing it before it was noticed.” Estelle spoke slowly, as if weighing her words, and her furtive glances at Pauline bore only one significance. It was palpably apparent that she suspected Miss Stuart of the deed, and out of kindness had tried to remove the incriminating evidence.

Pauline stared at her with a glance that went through her or over her or around her, but gave not the slightest attention to the speaker.

“Did you put bromide in your aunt’s glass of milk, Miss Stuart?” asked the Coroner, and Pauline said, calmly, “Certainly not.”

Mr. Scofield sighed. It was a difficult matter to get at the truth when the witnesses were clever women, in whose veracity he had not complete confidence.

He gave up Estelle for the moment, and called Gray Haviland.

The young man’s appearance gave every promise of frankness and sincerity. He detailed the circumstances precisely as Pauline had told them. He denied having heard or seen anything suspicious during the night. He referred to the Coroner’s list of motives for crime, and added that he agreed with Miss Stuart that the present case could scarcely be ascribed to love or revenge. If the murder was committed for gain, it was, of course, a formal necessity to question all the beneficiaries of Miss Carrington’s will, but he was sure that all such inheritors were quite willing to be questioned. For his part, he believed that the criminal was some enemy of Miss Carrington, unknown to her immediate household, and he suggested that such a one be searched for.

“You’ve got that glove,” he reminded, “that was found clasped in the hand of the murdered woman. Why not trace that; or endeavor to learn in some way the reason for the many peculiar circumstances; or discover, at least, a way to look for further evidence; rather than to vaguely suspect those who lived under Miss Carrington’s roof?”

“I am not asking your assistance in conducting this inquiry, Mr. Haviland,” and the Coroner spoke shortly; “but pursuing my own plan of obtaining evidence in my own way. Will you kindly answer questions without comment on them?”

“Oh, all right; fire away. Only remember, that we relatives and friends are just as much interested in clearing up this mystery as you are, and we want to help, if we can be allowed to do so intelligently.”

Asked again if he saw or heard anything unusual in the night, Haviland replied, “You said ‘suspicious’ the other time. I did see something unusual. I saw Estelle go stealthily downstairs at three A.M. That’s unusual, but I don’t go so far as to call it suspicious.”

VIII

ANITA’S STORY

Instead of showing surprise at this statement, the Coroner broke the breathless silence that followed it, by saying:

“Will you please explain what you mean by ‘stealthily?’”

“Just what I say,” returned Haviland, bluntly. “She went slowly, now and then pausing to listen, twice drawing back around a corner and peeping out, and then coming forth again; she wore no shoes and carried no light; she went down the big staircase in the manner I have described, and after about ten minutes, returned in the same fashion. That’s what I mean by stealthily.”

“What was your errand?” asked Scofield of Estelle.

“Nothing. I didn’t go,” she replied, coolly.

“She tells an untruth,” said Gray, calmly. “She did go, just as I have described. But it was doubtless on an innocent errand. I have no idea she was implicated in Miss Carrington’s death. I am sure it is of casual explanation, – or, I was sure, until Estelle denied it.”

“How was it you chanced to see her?”

“I was wakeful, and I was prowling around to find something to read. I went out in the hall and got a magazine from the table, and had returned to my room and was just closing the door, when I saw a white figure glide across the hall. She passed through a moonlit space or I could not have seen her. She was wrapped in a light or white kimono thing, and I should never have thought of it again if it were not for what has happened.”

“You knew it to be this Estelle?”

“Yes; her red hair was hanging in a braid.”

“’Tisn’t red!” snapped Estelle, but Mr. Scofield silenced her with a frown.