The Mystery of the Sycamore

“Who is it?”

“Haven’t an idea – and if I had, I’d say I hadn’t. You see, I’m his trusty.”

“Oh, well, in any case, you can put in a word against Mr. Keefe, can’t you?”

But Genevieve had lost interest in her project. She realized if Mr. Stone had accomplished his purpose and had solved the murder mystery he would be apt to take small interest in the love affairs of herself or Maida Wheeler, either.

“He won’t think much of his cherished trusty, if you don’t do the errand he sent you on,” she said, rather crossly.

Fibsy gave her a reproachful glance. “This, from you!” he said, dramatically. “Farewell, fair but false! I go to seek a fairer maiden, and I know where to find her!”

He went flying across the lawn, for he had caught a glimpse of Maida in the garden.

“Miss Wheeler,” he said, as he reached her, “will you please come now to see Mr. Stone? He wants you.”

“Certainly,” she replied, and turning, followed him.

Genevieve joined them, and the three went to Stone’s rooms.

“Miss Wheeler,” the detective said, without preamble, “I want you to tell me a few things, please. You’ll excuse me if my questions seem rather pointed, also, if they seem to be queries already answered. Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”

“Yes,” said Maida, speaking wearily, as if tired of making the assertion.

“You know no one believes that statement?”

“I can’t help that, Mr. Stone,” she said, with a listless manner.

“That is, no one but one person – your father. He believes it.”

“Father!” exclaimed the girl in evident amazement.

“Yes; he believes you for the best of all possible reasons: He saw you shoot.”

“What, Mr. Stone? My father! Saw me shoot Mr. Appleby!”

“Yes; he says so. That is not strange, when, as you say, you fired the pistol from where you stood in the bay window, and Mr. Wheeler stood by or near the victim.”

“But – I don’t understand. You say, father says he saw me?”

“Yes, he told me that.”

Maida was silent, but she was evidently thinking deeply and rapidly.

“This is a trap of some sort, Mr. Stone,” she said at last. “My father didn’t see me shoot – he couldn’t have seen me, and consequently he couldn’t say he did! He wouldn’t lie about it!”

“But he said, at one time, that he did the shooting himself. Was not that an untruth?”

“Of a quite different sort. He said that in a justifiable effort to save me. But this other matter – for him to say he saw me shoot – when he didn’t – he couldn’t – ”

“Why couldn’t he, Miss Wheeler? Why was it so impossible for your father to see you commit that crime, when he was right there?”

“Because – because – oh, Mr. Stone, I don’t know what to say! I feel sure I mustn’t say anything, or I shall regret it.”

“Would you like your father to come here and tell us about it?”

“No; – or, yes. Oh, I don’t know. Jeffrey, help me!”

Allen had sat silently brooding all through this conversation. He had not looked at Maida, keeping his gaze turned out of the window. He was sorely hurt at her attitude in the Keefe matter; he was puzzled at her speech regarding her father; and he was utterly uncertain as to his own duty or privilege in the whole affair. But at her appeal, he turned joyfully toward her.

“Oh, Maida,” he cried, “let me help you. Do get your father here, now, and settle this question. Then, we’ll see what next.”

“Call him, then,” said Maida, but she turned very white, and paid no further attention to Allen. She was still lost in thought, when her father arrived and joined the group.

“You said, Mr. Wheeler,” Stone began at once, “that you saw your daughter fire the shot that killed Mr. Appleby?”

“I did say that,” Daniel Wheeler replied, “because it is true. And because I am convinced that the truth will help us all better than any further endeavor to prove a falsehood. I did see you, Maida darling, and I tried very hard to take the blame myself. But it has been proved to me by Mr. Stone that my pretence is useless, and so I’ve concluded that the fact must come out, in hope of a better result than from concealment. Do not fear, my darling, no harm shall come to you.”

“And you said you did it, father, and mother said she did it.”

“Yes, of course, I told your mother the truth, and we plotted – yes, plotted for each of us to confess to the deed, in a wild hope of somehow saving our little girl.”

“And you saw me shoot, father?”

“Why, yes, dear – that is, I heard the shot, and looked up to see you standing there with consternation and guilt on your dear face. Your arm had then dropped to your side, but your whole attitude was unmistakable. I couldn’t shut my eyes to the evident fact that there was no one else who could have done the deed.”

“There must have been, father – for – I didn’t do it.”

“I knew you didn’t! Oh, Maida!” With a bound Allen was at her side and his arm went round her. But she moved away from him, and went on talking – still in a strained, unnatural voice, but steadily and straightforwardly.

“No; I didn’t shoot Mr. Appleby. I’ve been saying so, to shield my father. I thought he did it.”

“Maida! Is it possible?” and Daniel Wheeler looked perplexed. “But, oh, I’m so glad to hear your statement.”

“But who did do it, then?” Miss Lane asked, bluntly.

“Who cares, so long as it wasn’t any of the Wheelers!” exclaimed Jeffrey Allen, unable to contain his gladness. “Oh, Maida – ”

But again she waved him away from her.

“I don’t understand, Mr. Stone,” she began; “I don’t know where these disclosures will lead. I hope, not back to my mother – ”

“No, Maida,” said her father, “there’s no fear of that.”

Reassured, Maida went on. “Perhaps I can’t be believed now, after my previous insistence on my guilt, but God knows it is the truth; I am utterly innocent of the crime.”

“I believe it,” said Fleming Stone. “There was little evidence against you, except your own confession. Now you’ve retracted that it only remains for me to find the real criminal.”

“Can you,” cried Fibsy excitedly, “can you, F. Stone?”