"Will you go?"

"Yes, I will go. And when Mr. Shane comes to see me again, I will tell him the truth--all the truth about the' Hamlet' play--and--it will be enough!"

"Tell him!" Eunice's eyes blazed now. "Tell him the truth--and add to it whatever lies your clever brain can invent! Do your worst Fifi Desternay; I am not afraid of you!"

"I am going, Eunice." Fifi moved slowly toward the door. "I shall tell the truth, but I shall add no lies--that will not be necessary!"

She disappeared, and Eunice stood, panting with excitement and indignation.

Aunt Abby came toward her. The old lady had been a witness of the whole scene--had, indeed, tried several times to utter a word of pacification, but neither of the women had so much as noticed her.

"Go away, Auntie, please," said Eunice. "I can't talk to you. I'm expecting Mason at any time now, and I want to get calmed down a little."

Miss Ames went to her room, and Eunice sat down on the davenport.

She sat upright, tensely quiet, and thought over all Fifi had said--all she had threatened.

"It would have been far better," Eunice told herself, "for my cause if I had held her friendship. And I could have done it, easily--but--Fifi's friendship would be worse than her enmity!"

When Mason Elliott came, Detective Driscoll was with him.

The net of the detectives was closing in around Eunice, and though both Elliott and Hendricks--as Fifi had truly surmised--were doing all in their power, the denouement was not far off--Eunice was in imminent danger of arrest at any moment.

"We've been talking about the will--Sanford's will," Elliott said, in a dreary tone, after the callers were seated, "and, Eunice, Mr. Driscoll chooses to think that the fact that San left practically everything to you, without any restraint in the way of trustees, or restriction of any sort, is another count against you."

Eunice smiled bravely. "But that isn't news," she said; "we all knew that my husband made me his sole--or rather princ.i.p.al--beneficiary. I know the consensus of opinion is that I murdered my husband that I might have his money--and full control of it. This is no new element."

"No;" said Driscoll, moved by the sight of the now patient, gentle face; "no; but we've added a few more facts--and look here, Mrs.

Embury, it's this way. I've doped it out that there are five persons who could possibly have committed this--this crime. I'll speak plainly, for you have continually permitted me--even urged me to do so.

Well, let us say Sanford Embury could have been killed by anyone of a certain five. And they size up like this: Mr. Elliott, here, and Mr.

Alvord Hendricks may be said to have had motive but no opportunity."

"Motive?" said Eunice, in a tone of deepest possible scorn.

"Yes, ma'am. Mr. Elliott, now, is an admirer of yours--don't look offended, please; I'm speaking very seriously. It is among the possibilities that he wanted your husband out of his way."

Mason Elliott listened to this without any expression of annoyance.

Indeed, he had heard this argument of Driscoll's before, and it affected him not at all.

"But, Mrs. Embury, Mr. Elliott had no opportunity. We have learned beyond all doubt that he was at his club or at his home all that night.

Next, Mr. Hendricks had a motive. The rival candidates were both eager for election, and we must call that a motive for Mr. Hendricks to be willing to remove his opponent. But again, Mr. Hendricks had no opportunity. He was in Boston from the afternoon of the day before Mr.

Embury's death until noon of the next day. That lets him out positively. Therefore, there are two with motives but no opportunity.

Next, we must admit there were two who had opportunity, but no motive.

I refer to Ferdinand, your butler, and Miss Ames, your aunt. These two could have managed to commit the deed, had they chosen, but we can find no motive to attribute to either of them. It has been suggested that Miss Ames might have had such a desire to rid you, Mrs. Embury, of a tyrannical husband, that she was guilty. But it is so highly improbable as to be almost unbelievable.

"Therefore, as I sum it up, the two who had motive without opportunity, and the two who had opportunity without motive, must all be disregarded, because of the one who had motive and opportunity both.

Yourself, Mrs. Embury."

The arraignment was complete. Driscoll's quiet, even tones carried a sort of calm conviction.

"And so, Eunice," Mason Elliott spoke up, "I'm going to try one more chance. I've persuaded Mr. Driscoll to wait a day or two before progressing any further, and let me get Fleming Stone on this case."

"Very well," said Eunice, listlessly. "Who is he?"

"A celebrated detective. Mr. Driscoll makes no objection--which goes to prove what a good detective he is himself. His partner, Mr. Shane, is not so willing, but has grudgingly consented. In fact, they couldn't help themselves, for they are not quite sure that they have enough evidence to arrest you. Shane thinks that Stone will find out more, and so strengthen the case against you but Driscoll, bless him!

thinks maybe Stone can find another suspect."

"I didn't exactly say I thought that, Mr. Elliott," said Driscoll. "I said I hoped it."

"We all hope it," returned Elliott.

"Hope while you may," and Driscoll sighed. "Fleming Stone has never failed to find the criminal yet. And if his findings verify mine, I shall be glad to put the responsibility on his shoulders."

CHAPTER XIII

FLEMING STONE

One of the handsomest types of American manhood is that rather frequently seen combination of iron-gray hair and dark, deep-set eyes that look out from under heavy brows with a keen, comprehensive glance.

This type of man is always a thinker, usually a professional man, and almost invariably a man of able brain. He is nearly always well-formed, physically, and of good carriage and demeanor.

At any rate, Fleming Stone was all of these things, and when he came into the Embury living-room his appearance was in such contrast to that of the other two detectives that Eunice greeted him with a pleased smile.

Neither Shane nor Driscoll was present, and Mason Elliott introduced Stone to the two ladies, with a deep and fervent hope that the great detective could free Eunice from the cloud of danger and disgrace that hovered above her head.

His magnetic smile was so attractive that Aunt Abby nodded her head in complete approval of the newcomer.

"And now tell me all about everything," Stone said, as they seated themselves in a cozy group. "I know the newspaper facts, but that's all. I must do my work quite apart from the beaten track, and I want any sidelights or bits of information that your local detectives may have overlooked and which may help us."

"You don't think Eunice did it, do you, Mr. Stone?" Aunt Abby broke out, impulsively, quite forgetting the man was a comparative stranger.

"I am going to work on the theory that she did not," he declared. "Then we will see what we can scare up in the way of evidence against some one else. First, give me a good look at those doors that shut off the bedrooms."

With a grave face, Fleming Stone studied the doors, which, as he saw, when bolted on the inside left no means of access to the three rooms in which the family had slept.

"Except the windows," Stone mused, and went to look at them. As they all had window boxes, save one in Aunt Abby's room, and as that was about a hundred feet from the ground, he dismissed the possibility of an intruder.

"n.o.body could climb over the plants without breaking them," said Eunice, with a sigh at the inevitable deduction.

Stone looked closely at the plants, kept in perfect order by Aunt Abby, who loved the work, and who tended them every day. Not a leaf was crushed, not a stem broken, and the scarlet geranium blossoms stood straight up like so many mute witnesses against any burglarious entrance.

Stone returned to Aunt Abby's side window, and leaning over the sill looked out and down to the street below.