The Mystery of the Sycamore

And with the efficient help of two chauffeurs and other willing workers the fire was soon reduced to a smouldering heap of ashes.

Allen ran, then, to the den, to tell them there that the danger was past.

He entered to see Samuel Appleby dead in his chair, with a bullet through his heart. Daniel Wheeler stood beside him, gazing distractedly at the dead man. Maida, white and trembling, was half hidden as she stood just inside the curtains of the window.

Not realizing that there was no hope of life, Allen shouted for help, and tore open Appleby’s coat to feel his heart.

“He’s quite dead,” he said, in an awe-stricken tone. “But, we must get a doctor at once!”

“I’ll telephone,” spoke up Genevieve’s quiet voice, and with her usual efficiency, she found the number and called the doctor.

“Now the police?” she went on, as if such matters belonged to her province.

“Certainly,” said Curtis Keefe, who stood by his late employer, taking charge, by common consent.

“Who killed him?” said Genevieve, in a hushed tone, as she left the telephone.

All looked from one to another, but nobody replied.

Mrs. Wheeler came to the doorway.

“I knew it!” she cried; “the phantom bugler!”

“But the phantom bugler didn’t kill him,” said Genevieve, “and we must find out who did!”

CHAPTER VII

INQUIRIES

Late the same evening the Wheeler family and their guests were gathered in the living-room. Much had been done in the past few hours. The family doctor had been there, the medical examiner had been called and had given his report, and the police had come and were still present.

Samuel Appleby, junior – though no longer to be called by that designation – was expected at any moment.

Two detectives were there, but one, Hallen by name, said almost nothing, seeming content to listen, while his colleague conducted the questioning of the household.

Burdon, the talkative one, was a quick-thinking, clear-headed chap, decided of manner and short of speech.

“Now, look here,” he was saying, “this was an inside job, of course. Might have been one of the servants, or might have been any of you folks. How many of you are ready to help me in my investigations by telling all you know?”

“I thought we had to do that, whether we’re ready to or not,” spoke up Genevieve, who was not at all abashed by the presence of the authorities. “Of course, we’ll all tell all we know – we want to find the murderer just as much as you do.”

Keefe looked at her with a slight frown of reproof, but said nothing. The others paid no attention to the girl’s rather forward speech.

In fact, everybody seemed dazed and dumb. The thing was so sudden and so awful – the possibilities so many and so terrible – that each was aghast at the situation.

The three Wheelers said nothing. Now and then they looked at one another, but quickly looked away, and preserved their unbroken silence.

Jeffrey Allen became the spokesman for them. It seemed inevitable – for some one must answer the first leading questions; and though Curtis Keefe and Miss Lane were in Appleby’s employ, the detective seemed more concerned with the Wheeler family.

“Bad blood, wasn’t there, between Mr. Appleby and Mr. Wheeler?” Burdon inquired.

“They had not been friends for years,” Allen replied, straightforwardly, for he felt sure there was nothing to be gained by misrepresentation.

“Huh! What was the trouble, Mr. Wheeler?”

Daniel Wheeler gave a start. Then, pulling himself together, he answered slowly: “The trouble was that Mr. Appleby and myself belonged to different political parties, and when I opposed his election as governor, he resented it, and a mutual enmity followed which lasted ever since.”

“Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”

Wheeler looked at his questioner steadily, and replied: “I have nothing to say.”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to incriminate yourself.”

“He didn’t kill him!” cried Maida, unable to keep still. “I was there, in the room – I could see that he didn’t kill him!”

“Who did then?” and the detective turned to her.

“I – I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.”

“Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.”

“I tell you I didn’t see – I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of fire, and I was wondering where it was.”

“You didn’t get up and go to find out?”

“No – no, I stayed where I was.”

“Where were you?”

“In the window-seat – in the den.”

“Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?”

“Yes. My father’s study.”

“And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?”

“I might have – if I had looked – but I didn’t. I was reading.”

“Thought you were wondering about the fire?”

“Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when I heard the fire excitement.”

“What sort of excitement?”

“I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I – I can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept.

“You must tell your story – maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you go on, Miss Wheeler?”