The Mystery of the Sycamore

He went away to the train, and later, came Keefe and Genevieve Lane.

“Oh,” the girl cried, “I’m so glad to be back here again, Maida. My, but you’re prettier than ever! If you’d only touch up those pale cheeks – just a little bit – here, let me – ”

She opened her ever-ready vanity box, and was about to apply a touch of rouge, but Maida sprang away from her.

“No, no, Genevieve, I never use it.”

“Silly girl! You don’t deserve the beauty nature gave you, if you’re not willing to help it along a little yourself! How do you do, Mrs. Wheeler and Mr. Wheeler?”

She greeted them prettily, and Keefe, too, exchanged greetings with the family.

“Anything being done?” he asked, finally. “Has Mr. Stone discovered anything of importance?”

“Nothing very definite, I fear,” returned Daniel Wheeler. He spoke wearily, and almost despairingly. Anxiety and worry had aged him, even in the last few days. “I do hope, Keefe, that you can be of assistance. You have a keen eye for details, and may know or remember some points that escaped our notice.”

“I’m hoping I can help,” Keefe returned with a serious face. “Can I see Stone shortly?”

“Yes, now. Come along into the den, he’s in here.”

The two men went to the den, where Stone and Fibsy were in deep consultation.

“Very glad to see you, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone acknowledged the introduction. “This is McGuire, my young assistant. You may speak frankly before him.”

“If I have anything to speak,” said Keefe. “I don’t really know anything I haven’t told, but I may remind Mr. Wheeler of some points he has forgotten.”

“Well, let’s talk it all over,” Stone suggested, and they did.

Keefe was greatly surprised and impressed by the story of the cook’s having seen a man on the south veranda at the time of the shooting.

“But she didn’t see him clearly,” Fibsy added.

“Couldn’t she describe him?”

“No; she didn’t see him plain enough. But the maid, Rachel, told cook that she saw the man, too, and that he carried a bugle. Cook didn’t see the bugle.”

“Naturally not, if she only saw the man vaguely,” said Wheeler. “But, it begins to look as if there must have been a man there and if so, he may have been the criminal.”

“Let us hope,” said Keefe, earnestly. “Now, can you find this man, Mr. Stone?”

“We’ve got to find him,” Stone returned, “whether we can or not. It’s really a baffling case. I think we’ve discovered the origin of the fire in the garage.”

He told the story that Fibsy had learned from the chauffeur, and Keefe was greatly interested.

“What are the acids?” he asked.

“I don’t know the exact names,” Stone admitted, “but they are of just such powers as Fulton described, and the thing is plausible. Here’s the bottle.” He offered the little vial for inspection and Keefe looked at it with some curiosity.

“The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire in our car – in Mr. Appleby’s car – and then waited for the fire to come off as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being probably the man the servants saw – shot through the bay window and killed Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!”

“Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself, the confessed criminal.”

“Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda – if, indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.”

“That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr. Appleby. Why should he do it?”

“Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.”

“But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You know I did it – you know I had threatened to do it – you know I felt I just could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so – and so, I – ”

“Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you – what did you do?”

“I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took it and shot – then I ran back to the window-seat – ”

“What did you do with the pistol?”

“Threw it out of the window.”

“Toward the right or left?”

“Why, I don’t know.”

“Try to think. Stand up there now, and remember which way you flung it.”

Reluctantly, Maida went to the bay window, and stood there thinking.

“I don’t know,” she said, at last. “I can’t remember.”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Keefe. “I think we can prove that it was none of the Wheelers, but there was a man, an intruder, on the veranda who shot. Even if we never find out his identity, we may prove that he was really there. Where is this maid who saw him clearly? Rachel – is that her name?”

“That’s a pretty thing, too!” Fibsy spoke up. “She has flew the coop.”

“Gone! Where?” Keefe showed his disappointment.

“Nobody knows where. She just simply lit out. Even her lover doesn’t know where she is.”

“Who is her lover?”

“Fulton, the chauffeur. He’s just about crazy over her disappearance.”

“Oh, she’ll return,” surmised Stone. “She became frightened at something and ran off. I think she’ll come back. If not, we’ll have to give chase. We must find her, as she’s the principal witness of the man on the veranda. Cook is not so sure about him.”

“Who could he have been?” Keefe said. “Doubtless some enemy of Mr. Appleby, in no way connected with the Wheelers.”

“Probably,” agreed Stone.

“We found the pistol, you know, Mr. Keefe,” remarked Fibsy.

“You did! Well, you have made progress. Where was it?”