"The Record doesn't blaze forth everything I know," he said quietly.

"I know it doesn't, but you'd give it this-it would have a right to this."

"Is it so important as all that?"

"I rather fancy it's the clue we've been looking for."

His eyes were shining now as he looked at me.

"That is important," he said. "I should like to have it."

"I'm not absolutely sure," I said, again. "But I'm going to see him again this evening. If there's anything I can tell you after that, I will."

"That's fair enough," he a.s.sented. "The story, whatever it is, is bound to be public property in a few days, I suppose?"

"It will probably come out at the inquest. When is the inquest?"

"It's been set for to-morrow; but it will probably be held open until Lucy Kingdon can testify."

"You'll beat the world a day, then."

"That's what I like to do. But here we are, and there's Haynes at the door."

We entered the yard, and G.o.dfrey introduced me to the coroner. He impressed me at once as alert and efficient, and he led the way into the house, and asked that I tell him the story of the night before, which I did as circ.u.mstantially as I could.

"I hope your wound isn't a bad one," he said, when I had finished, glancing at my bandaged hand.

"Oh, no," I said; "a mere scratch. To tell the truth, I'd nearly forgotten it."

"Here's the weapon the bullet came from," he added, and produced from his pocket a small, pearl-handled revolver. "There are two chambers empty. The other bullet flew straighter than the one fired at you, Mr. Lester."

"You mean--"

"Yes, we probed for it and got it out. It had pa.s.sed directly through the heart, and lodged in the muscles of the back. There can be no question that it came from this revolver."

"Whose revolver is it?" I asked.

"Presumably Miss Kingdon's. We've not been able to find any evidence on that point. It wasn't bought here in Elizabeth. You see it's a foreign make."

I could decipher upon the barrel the letters "C & I, Paris." G.o.dfrey examined it with eyes which were gleaming strangely. I watched him with a curious sinking of the heart, but he handed it back to the coroner without comment.

"Anything else?" he asked. "No trace of the watch?"

"No," and Haynes shook his head.

"How is Miss Kingdon?"

"A little quieter, but still delirious. She won't be able to testify to-morrow. We've got a trained nurse for her-the doctor thinks she'd better not be moved for a day or two."

"And no light as to the ident.i.ty of the victim?"

"Not the slightest. I've found a cabman who saw him get off the 10.30 train from New York on the morning of the tenth. Then he went into a drugstore near the depot, and asked to look at a directory, afterwards asking the way to North Broad Street. He probably spoke to no one else till he stopped to ask Clemley where the Kingdons lived."

"He'd never been here before, then."

"Evidently not. And he didn't know the Kingdons' address until he got here."

"No," agreed G.o.dfrey; "no. Well, you've evidently done everything that could be done, Mr. Haynes. Perhaps something more will come out at the inquest. It opens at ten o'clock, doesn't it?"

"Yes; here are your subpnas," and he handed us each a paper.

"Very well," said G.o.dfrey. "We'll be present, of course. Where will it be held?"

"I thought it best to hold it right here," answered Haynes, "I want the jury to be on the scene."

"But won't it disturb Miss Kingdon?"

"Not at all. There's a large front room which will answer nicely-and I'll have the police keep everybody out who hasn't some business there. Here's the room," and he opened a door and led the way into the room beyond.

It was the one into which Miss Kingdon had shown me on the morning of my memorable interview with her, and involuntarily my eyes sought the portrait on the wall opposite the front windows. It was still there-as alluring, astonishing, compelling as ever. Indeed, as I gazed at it now, it seemed even more striking than it had when I saw it first.

"Look at that," I said, turning to G.o.dfrey, but there was no need for me to call his attention to the portrait. He had already seen it, and was gazing at it in rapt admiration.

"Whose is it?" he demanded, at last. "Who painted it?"

I pointed to the name scrawled in the corner.

"'Ruth Endicott,'" he read slowly. "Well, and who was she?"

"That's her portrait," I said. "Does it remind you of any one?"

He looked at it for a moment in silence; then he shook his head.

"No, I can't say that it does. But who was Ruth Endicott?"

"n.o.body in particular-a distant relative of the Kingdons."

G.o.dfrey gazed at me sceptically.

"Really?" he asked.

"Really. This was the last picture she painted-of herself. You see how crude it is."

"Crude-yes; but it's got power, Lester. The woman's there, somehow, looking right out of the canvas. Did she die?"

"Yes; thirty years ago," and I told him the little I knew of Ruth Endicott and her history.

He listened without comment, his eyes still on the bewitching face gazing down from the wall at us.