The house-boy corroborated in general the statements made by Campion. He had admitted the peddler at the back entrance, and had taken him to the butler's pantry. Campion had asked to see Mr. Graeme, and had been told that he was engaged.

"Were you with Campion all the time he was in the house?" asked Judge Hendricks.

"Ya.s.sah, 'cept when Mr. Effingham done call me into the dining room to help him turn ober the rug."

"Five minutes perhaps?"

But Marcus could not be positive about the elapsed period. He could only a.s.sert that when he returned to the pantry Campion had gone; presumably he had let himself out.

"But there is a door from the pantry into the short pa.s.sage that leads to the library, isn't there?"

"Ya.s.sah."

"How about Effingham's master-key; did you ever hear of it?"

Marcus grinned all over with the irresistible comedy of his race.

"Eberybody know all about 'um," he chuckled throatily. "Mr. Effingham hid 'um behind clock like old dog wif bone. Yah! yah!"

"Then it was no particular secret, the master-key and its hiding place?"

"Nossah."

"That will do. Let's have the prisoner again."

Campion remained perfectly cool and self-possessed. He readily agreed that he had been left alone in the pantry for a period of five minutes; it might even have been longer. He admitted that he had gone to the library door, and had knocked two or three times.

"That may have been what disturbed Eunice Trevor," whispered Warriner in my ear. "Just at that moment she must have been in the room with the despatch-box in her hand."

"You got no reply to your knock?" continued Judge Hendricks.

"No, sir."

"Did you know of the master-key?"

"Yes, sir. Marcus showed me its hiding place behind the clock, and we had been laughing at old Effingham's simplicity."

"Then it didn't occur to you that you might use the master-key?"

"Well, I didn't fancy the idea of actually intruding upon Mr. Graeme.

You remember, sir, that he had forbidden me to come on the place."

"Yet you summoned enough courage to knock?"

"That was a little different, sir, from walking in on him unannounced.

Besides, I really did wish to see him."

"For what purpose?"

It was the crucial question, and we all craned our necks in our eagerness to catch the reply. But Campion's voice was without a tremor.

"To restore the matchbox and claim the twenty dollars reward," he answered.

"What proof can you give that the article in question was lost and a reward offered for its return?"

The mulatto drew a folded newspaper from his pocket, and handed it to Judge Hendricks. It was a copy of the _King William County Clarion_, and a paragraph in the advertising columns was heavily blue-pencilled. It was to the effect that a gold and turquoise-jewelled matchbox, bearing the initials F. H. G., had been lost on the road between Calverton and Lynn. A reward of twenty dollars was offered for its return to Mr.

Graeme of "Hildebrand Hundred."

"The date of this copy of the Clarion," said Judge Hendricks, frowning portentously, "is June 10, 1919. In the absence of any further evidence I direct the discharge of the prisoner."

"There still remain some interesting possibilities," said Warriner to me, as we walked down the street. "On one side of the locked door that black shadow of a woman, ready to do anything to save her lover's fortune; on the other, that yellow-faced scoundrel, eager for plunder, fingering the master-key, and trying to muster up enough courage to use it. And between them, a dead man. Or was he dead at that particular moment? Perhaps the two of them, working together, might have brought the thing about."

"But Campion could hardly have committed the murder, returned the master-key to its position behind the clock, and left the house, by the kitchen entrance, in the short s.p.a.ce of five minutes," I objected.

"Well, how is this for an hypothesis?" retorted Warriner. "Campion is the tool employed by John Thaneford to do the dirty work. He is instructed to be at the library door at a few minutes past one.

Thaneford, with his telephoto lens, sees that Graeme is dozing in his chair. He signals to Eunice, who enters by the postern-door and admits the waiting Campion, the master-key not being used at all. The crime accomplished, both escape by the secret door, leaving the coc.o.o.n gummed in place to destroy the clue."

"Rather fortuitous, don't you think? The whole train of circ.u.mstances goes off the track in case Mr. Graeme doesn't fall asleep at just the right moment."

"Of course," agreed Warriner. "And I was beginning to fancy myself as an amateur sleuth," he added a trifle ruefully.

"Anyway you have the magnifying telephoto lens and the purloined coc.o.o.n to your credit, my dear Chalmers. As for the rest of it, we may as well fall back on our coroner's verdict: Dead by the visitation of G.o.d. Will you come back to dinner this evening?"

But Warriner declined, pleading the pressure of his laboratory work. I picked up Betty at the Crandall's, and we drove back slowly to the "Hundred."

It was nearing sunset as we rolled up the drive under the arching shadow of the lindens. Suddenly Betty started, and grasped my arm. Directly opposite rose the ma.s.sive bulk of the Sugar Loaf. In an open s.p.a.ce a portion of the woodland road was visible, where it wound around the upper escarpment of the dome; and there, outlined against the level rays of the sinking sun, stood motionless a great black horse. The powerful figure of the rider was readily recognizable--John Thaneford.

"He told me that he was going away to-day," whispered Betty, as though fearful of being overheard. "For an indefinite period," she added.

"Forever, I hope," I muttered under my breath.

The silhouette of horse and rider stood out stark, almost colossal, against the crimsoning skyline. But the black shadow of Sugar Loaf was lengthening swiftly over the level meadows that margined the little river Whippany; the advancing darkness seemed to be sucking out, in its chill embrace, all the warmth and brightness of the summer day. Betty shivered, touched up the horses and we speeded on. But so long as I could see the great black horseman remained motionless, watchful, eternally menacing.

Chapter XII

_Safe Find, Safe Bind_

Let me now pa.s.s over some six months concerning which there are no events of particular moment to be recorded--I mean in connection with the tragedy.

Late in December Betty and I were married very quietly-at S. Saviour's Church, Bob Mercer coming down to a.s.sist in the ceremony. During the summer and autumn I had been absent almost continuously in Philadelphia, engaged in winding up the trusteeship which had formed the bulk of my professional work. Of course, I had already come to a full understanding with my dear girl, and it was quite natural that she should continue to live on at the "Hundred," the only home that she had ever known. The presence of Mrs. Anthony preserved the convenances; and, after long cogitation, I had formally requested Eunice Trevor to stay on, in her old capacity of paid companion to Betty. Perhaps it was an unwise decision, but let me briefly recapitulate the influencing circ.u.mstances. Here they are:

Eunice was Betty's first cousin, and the two girls had been brought up together, almost from infancy. Moreover, they were friendly, if not precisely intimate. Eunice was absolutely penniless, and I could not send her away, even with provision for her financial future, without a full explanation to Betty. Now whatever my surmises and suspicions there was no direct evidence that Francis Graeme's death had been due to violence; he was resting quietly in S. Saviour's churchyard, and Betty's sorrow ought not to be reawakened except for grave cause. Whatever part Eunice Trevor had taken in the tragedy--always a.s.suming that there had been a tragedy--must have been a consequent of her unfortunate entanglement with John Thaneford; and G.o.d knows she had been punished for her fault through the irremediable wound to her affections. I could not believe, moreover, that she had been an active partic.i.p.ant in any crime, overt or covert. Circ.u.mstances might have made her a confidante, even a tool, but she had not been an actual accessory to Francis Graeme's death, either before or after the event. So much by way of simple justice to the girl.