whisperingly, "I am not so sure that I have even that to be thankful for."

A faint wrinkle showed itself between the eyes of Ashton-Kirk; but other than this he made no sign that he was disturbed.

"Love," said the old woman, after a few moments, "is the one thing which is thought to be the corrector of what is bad. Through love, I have heard it said, the fair-hearted influences the wrong-doer. It is as a bridge between them, over which is pa.s.sed the saving grace. That is what every one says. But," and there was a note in her voice which was almost savage, "is it true? And if it works one way, why should it not work the other? If good pa.s.ses between two people because they love each other, why should not evil? And," very slowly, "Simon Morse and his niece were much attached to each other."

Through the open window, the roar of midday arose from the street. The throaty voices of peddlers, the grind of wheels and the warning cries of drivers were ceaseless; and below all this was an undertone, a subdued murmurous undertone such as is made by cautious creatures, each with a private design.

"Sometimes," said the old woman, "things are expected, and when they come they create no surprise. And, again, there are others which are so unexpected that they all but crush one to the earth."

Ashton-Kirk nodded.

"Something unexpected has happened," he said.

"You shall hear all for yourself," said the old servant. "It was for that purpose that I came to you." She settled herself rigidly in her chair, upright, unbending, full of purpose. "I have read the newspapers," she said. "I have heard the police and the coroner's deputy. They have all said much, and in the end their talk comes to this: Philip Warwick murdered Simon Morse.

"Perhaps," and her gray eyes searched his face, "you too think so. But no matter. I tell you, _and I know_, that he did not do this thing."

There was a moment's silence, then Ashton-Kirk said, quietly:

"Then who did?"

She gestured with both hands.

"Because I say that I know that _he_ did not," she replied, "does it follow that I must know who _did_?" She waited for an answer, but as none came, she went on: "You have heard that Philip Warwick and Stella Corbin were to be married? I thought so. He is a very boyish fellow; he was proud of her and told every one. I was glad when I heard it, for I thought them well mated. But Simon was not pleased; the young man perhaps would not follow where he led; at any rate he disliked him. They quite frequently had high words; but Mr. Warwick never allowed himself to go too far in his resentment--at least never until lately. The day that you first visited the house, they almost came to blows; and on the night that Simon was killed, he actually struck his secretary."

"This was not told to the police," said the secret agent. "Why?"

"I was the only one that saw it," said the old woman, "and I did not tell of it because I knew that it would only make them suspect the young man all the more."

"Go on," said Ashton-Kirk.

"This is how I came to be a witness to what pa.s.sed between them. I had gone to the front door to answer a ring, but it was only a person to inquire about some one who had lately left a house across the street. As I closed the door, I saw that of the library ajar; and through the opening I saw Dr. Morse and Mr. Warwick standing facing each other.

"'Very well, then,' Mr. Warwick was saying, 'it shall be done in spite of you.'

"And with that the other lifted his hand, and I heard the sound of the blow even where I stood."

"Did Warwick return it?"

"I think not. I did not wait to see, however, but went on along the hall. I turned, though, as I reached the end, and saw Mr. Warwick step out of the library and walk toward the stairs. He had gone up perhaps three steps when he stopped and was about to turn back; but, though he was fairly shaking with anger, he thought better of it and went on up to his room."

"At what time was this?"

"Immediately after dinner." If such a thing were possible, the old woman sat more erect than ever, the craggy brows bent over the sharp eyes, and the voice sank a tone lower. "And as Philip Warwick went up the stairs, I saw Miss Stella come out of the room opposite the library; she stood looking after him--and on her face was a look which I had never noticed there before. She had seen what had happened, and for some reason was glad of it.

"There was nothing more, until I left the front door some time later and went to the kitchen to make the coffee. Then I heard something on the back stairs. Thinking it might be Drevenoff, taken bad, I opened the door. But it was Miss Stella and Mr. Warwick. They stood on the landing, and were talking in low tones. I could not help overhearing what they said; and I remember it because I have repeated it over and over to myself a thousand times since then.

"'Is it possible?' Mr. Warwick said. 'Have you really got it?'

"I did not hear what was said in answer; and then he spoke again.

"'But how in the world did you manage it? I know he thinks a great deal of you, but I never dreamed that he'd give----'

"Here she must have stopped him by putting her fingers to his lips, a way that she had.

"'Don't stop to talk,' I heard Miss Stella say. 'You must go at once.

And no matter what you hear, do not return until I send you word.'

"Then I closed the door softly, as they stole down-stairs; and after a little again came the soft footfalls, this time going up the stairs."

There was a pause, and then the old woman crossed her hands in her lap, her eyes looking sternly into the face of Ashton-Kirk.

"It was only a few minutes after that," she said, "that I found Simon Morse dead in his chair.

CHAPTER XIV

OKIU WRITES A LETTER

Ashton-Kirk, a short time after the old servant woman left, rang for Fuller. When the latter entered he found his employer writing a telegram.

"Have you heard anything from O'Neill?" asked the secret agent.

"This morning--yes. He merely said that he was still trying to strike the trail of Philip Warwick."

Ashton-Kirk held out the telegram.

"Send him this," said he, briefly.

Fuller glanced at the yellow sheet, and then whistled, amazedly; however, he said nothing, but instantly left the room.

The morning mail lay neglected upon the table. Some were sharp, businesslike envelopes, bearing downright statements as to the senders'

ident.i.ty; others were big and square, while a number were small and dainty. A few were remarkable after the same manner that an oddly dressed man is remarkable; and to one of these latter the eye of the secret agent was first attracted.

"It's hardly to be wondered at," he mused, as he held up the envelope and studied its characteristics, "that the postman should have mentally marked the letters received by Karkowsky. There seems an individuality about each piece of mail that must almost unconsciously impress the person handling it. A strange style of handwriting is like a strange face; the very manner of sticking on a stamp might give very clear indications as to another's mental process."

He cut open the flap of the envelope; when he unfolded the sheet enclosed, he glanced at the signature; then he lay back in his chair, a smile upon his face.

"Okiu," he murmured. "I was beginning to wonder what his first move would be."

Still smiling, he held the letter up once more, and read:

"MY DEAR MR. ASHTON-KIRK:

"I was most happy to meet you upon several occasions recently.

But, believe me, I had no actual realization of what you were, or I should have been overcome.