Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 2, September 24, 1927

“The yankees say,” murmured Miss Wrayne, the adjusters’ secretary, “that when there ain’t no risk they double the insurance.”

I

In a small, plainly furnished room in the heart of the city of London, a room whose door bore the prosaic name of the North Western Trading Syndicate, Daphne Wrayne and the four Adjusters sat round a table and talked.

Any reporter in London would have paid fabulous money to have been present at that interview, for Daphne Wrayne was at that moment the center of public interest, and though the man in the street still knew next to nothing actually about the Adjusters, he knew that Daphne, who gave herself out as the secretary of this strange concern, had been held up to the closest possible microscopic scrutiny and had been announced to be flawless.

And therefore the man in the street, usually so suspicious of private inquiry agencies, had shed his suspicions of the Adjusters as rapidly as a tree sheds its leaves before an October gale.

Daphne’s portrait had appeared by now in every paper of note. She was not only young and beautiful, but fabulously wealthy as well. Her luxurious offices in Conduit Street were open to rich and poor alike — and, more amazing still, she charged no fees!

The fact that she declined to divulge the name of her associates mattered little. For Sir Geoffrey Pender, the commissioner of police, had only recently written to the press admitting that the Adjusters had rendered him “invaluable assistance” over the Great Northern Trust affair.

So, from that moment, Daphne Wrayne had become something like a public idol. To the man in the street she was the Adjusters. He loved to think that the slender, lovely, wide-eyed English girl whose photo met him so often in the magazines was giving up half her life and a good deal of her money for the benefit of others less fortunate than herself.

He loved, too, her frank avowal to the Daily Monitor that she had always wanted to do something with a “kick in it.” And even more her statement that “our raison d’etre is to help, without charge, those whom the law is unable to assist.”

Peter Pan, her four colleagues called her... her four colleagues of whose association with her the public never dreamed. There was Lord “Jimmy” Trevitter — her lover — the most popular young peer in England; Sir Hugh Williamson, famous explorer; Alan Sylvester, best worshiped actor manager in London; Martin Everest, the great criminal lawyer who was already, at forty, reputed to have refused a judgeship twice over.

These were the Adjusters, but so well did they guard their secret that not one single member of the public had the slightest inkling of it.

They sat round a table now listening to Daphne as she talked — four knights in the presence of their queen.

“It’s a simple little affair,” she said. “Blackmail again. The age-old story of the man who wrote foolish letters and never told his wife. And now he’s afraid to tell. Jimmy darling!” She slipped her hand into Lord Trevitter’s with a dazzling smile. “When we get married you’ll have to tell me all your murky past — and I’ll tell you mine! Then we’ll start level pegging!”

“He couldn’t remember it all, my dear,” smiled Williamson as he polished his gold-rimmed monocle. “It’s so long ago.”

The others chuckled. They knew well enough that ever since Daphne was sixteen Trevitter had never looked at another girl.

“You can’t say that, Hugh,” retorted Daphne with a merry little laugh.

“Don’t want to, my dear. But let’s hear your story.”

She became serious at once.

“His name’s George Pendlebury,” she began, “and he lives at Hammersmith. He’s a bank cashier with an excellent record, small income, happily married, one kiddie. But he tells me that he married his wife out of the schoolroom, and,” she gave a tiny sigh, “she’s just put him up on a pinnacle ever since they’ve been married.”

“The letters, of course, were to some other girl, Daph — pre-marriage?” put in. Everest.

“Quite so, Martin — and rather hectic ones, I gather.”

“Who holds them?”

“A man called Joshua Wollstein. He lives in a big house in Drayton Square, Kensington, and the Yard tells me he’s got rather a sticky reputation. They’ve never actually laid hands on him yet, but he’s figured in some funny cases.”

“D’you know how he got hold of the letters?” asked Sylvester.

“No — neither does Pendlebury. But he’s got ’em all right, and he wants five hundred for them. Alternatively he’ll try Mrs. Pendlebury. He appears to know quite a lot about his market.”

“We’d better get ’em from him then,” said Everest carelessly; “it won’t be difficult.”

“Ordinary methods are no good, Martin,” rejoined the girl quickly; “I’ve found out all about that. Wollstein’s one of these cautious birds who never sees strangers. And the check stunt we played on Phil Carrington over Esme Benningham’s letter is a washout now. It was all round London in twenty-four hours after the police court proceedings. We must try something entirely new this time.”

“What’s this man Pendlebury like, Daph?”

“About the same size and build as Hugh,” rejoined the girl. “I fancy Alan could make up Hugh to resemble him very easily. By the way, Pendlebury has an appointment with Wollstein to-morrow night at nine thirty. I told him not to keep it, of course, but—”

“No, no!” interrupted Everest. “We’ll keep it for him — that is, Hugh will, if he likes. In the meanwhile tell Pendlebury to do something at nine thirty to-morrow night whereby he can establish a perfect alibi. It might not be wanted, but on the other hand, it might. Now listen to me a minute!”

II

On the following evening Sir Hugh Williamson, at nine thirty, presented himself at a large, somber-looking house in Drayton Square, Kensington, and rang the bell. The butler who opened the door seemed to recognize him. If he knew Pendlebury — as apparently he did — he should certainly have recognized Williamson. His make-up was well-nigh perfect.

“I have an appointment with your master,” murmured the explorer.

“Certainly, sir. Come this way.”

Williamson found himself in a large handsomely furnished library. Rows of books were on the walls, a fire was burning in the grate, the windows were closely shuttered. Williamson noted all this with the quick eye of the big game hunter.

Wollstein looked up from the chair in which he was sitting. He was an undersized little man with an unhealthy complexion, heavy sensuous lips and shifty eyes.

“Evenin’, Pendlebury. Well?”

The pseudo bank cashier sighed.

“I... I want to buy those letters,” he stammered.

“Oh, you do, do you? Well, they’ll cost you six hundred to-night.”

Williamson moistened his lips admirably.

“I... I must have them!”

He pulled out a rather shabby note case. Wollstein’s beady eyes glistened.

“Come into money, eh?” with a sneer.

“I... I’ve managed to scrape it up. Where are the letters?”

He was fingering a bundle of notes now, and Wollstein, watching him, went to his writing table, unlocked a drawer and produced a small package.

“Now,” he said curtly, “count those notes out on the table and I’ll put down your letters when they’re all there.”

Ten minutes later Williamson, chuckling happily, let himself out into the street — the butler apparently disdaining to answer the bell. As he turned the corner of the square a policeman on point duty scrutinized him.

“Good night, sergeant,” said Williamson cheerily.

“Good night, sir.”

In that little office in the city the Adjusters sat once more. But the faces of them all were unusually grave. Before them lay a newspaper on which large headlines stood out:

Alan Sylvester broke the silence:

“Who could have done it, Martin?”

Everest lighting a cigarette, paused.

“The butler possibly. At any rate we know Pendlebury didn’t. But I’d like to hear Hugh’s story first.”

“Daph will be here in a minute,” replied Williamson.

They got up quickly as the key clicked in the outside door and Daphne came into the room. Her face was a little pale, but she forced up a smile as they greeted her.

“I know. It’s pretty bad, isn’t it? Just about as bad as it could be, dears.”

It was, and they all knew it. Their faces reflected it. Without a word they watched her as she threw back her big fur coat, and sitting down at the head of the table lighted a cigarette.

“Anything to add to what the papers say, Martin?” she queried. “I see that Pendlebury has pleaded not guilty. Has he said anything about us?”

“Fortunately not a word, my dear. Incidentally, I’m defending him!”

“Martin!”

Amazement showed in her face, but the barrister merely smiled.

“Never mind how I managed it — that doesn’t matter. But I’ve seen him and he’s said nothing. Actually I think he was too flabbergasted at the whole affair. So I told him to go on saying nothing. Incidentally, he never left his house last night and he can prove it.”

“Then that means—” began Daphne eagerly, but he stopped her.

“Actually, I’m afraid it doesn’t. He’s only got his wife to vouch for it. We, of course, know he wasn’t at Wollstein’s house, but,” with a rather forced smile, “we don’t want to have to say so.”

“We shall have to say so, Martin,” replied the girl in low tones, “if it’s going against him.”

“Obviously, my dear. However, let’s get Hugh to tell us exactly what happened last night. Maybe he can let a little useful daylight into some of our dark places.”

“It was on the stroke of nine thirty,” began Williamson, “that I rang the bell and the butler opened the door.”

“Did he seem to recognize you?” asked Everest.

“He certainly did. And he ought to have, too. Ask Alan who made me up. I was as like Pendlebury as one pea is to another.”

Everest nodded.

“Did he say anything?”

“Merely that his master was expecting me. He showed me into the library. Wollstein was there.”

“All alone?”

“He was. Incidentally I noticed that the windows were all closely shuttered.” Everest nodded. He had become the keen, watchful cross-examiner now, jerking out questions, picking up answers — keen brain vitally alert.

“Wollstein uneasy or suspicious, Hugh?”

“Not a bit. I produced the money and he parted like a lamb.”

“Who let you out?”

“I let myself out. Wollstein rang for his butler, but he never materialized.”

A momentary pause. Everest was suddenly interested.

“Just repeat that last statement, Hugh.”

The explorer did so.

“You’re absolutely sure of that? It’s of vital importance.”

“I’m absolutely sure. As a matter of fact I had a half crown ready for him. It struck me as a pretty touch — having cheated his master out of six hundred quid!”

Even Daphne smiled at that, but she became serious again in a moment as Everest went on.

“There’s no possibility of any one being hidden in the room while you were there?”

Williamson shook his head.

“Not the remotest. And you know how quickly I absorb detail. There was just the pedestal table where Wollstein sat when he unlocked the drawer that contained the letters — a couple of easy chairs, a little table with coffee on it. The windows were tightly shuttered and fastened as I told you, and the curtains only came halfway down. No one else could possibly have been in the room.”

Martin Everest leaned forward in his chair.

“I have seen this butler’s sworn statement to the police,” he said slowly, and distinctly. “This is what he says: First that he let Pendlebury in at nine thirty and admitted him to his master’s room. We agree to that. Secondly that as the clock was striking a quarter to ten he helped Pendlebury on with his coat in the hall and let him out.”

Amazement showed on the faces of them all.

“From Hugh’s statement,” went on Everest, “that is a deliberate lie.”

“It most certainly is,” murmured Williamson.

“Right,” continued the barrister; “we’ll discuss that later. He goes on to say that he went straight to his master’s room — the library — and found the door locked. Failing to get an answer he ran out into the square where he found a policeman. Did you meet a policeman, Hugh, as you went through the square after you left Wollstein’s house?”

“I did. I said ‘Good night, sergeant,’ and he said ‘Good night, sir.’ ”

“That is on the policeman’s sworn statement. He has also identified Pendlebury. The policeman returned with the butler and they forced the library door — the key being missing. They found Wollstein dead in his chair with a bullet through his heart. On his table was a letter” — he turned to Daphne — “the letter you told him to write saying he would call at nine thirty and bring the money.

“The butler went to the station, made this statement, they arrested Pendlebury and the butler and policeman have identified him. The doctor who was called in says that death took place somewhere between nine thirty and nine forty-five. We, however, who know, can narrow it down considerably further. We know he was alive at a quarter to ten.

“Ergo, he was killed within a few minutes of Hugh’s leaving the house by some one who locked the door after he did it. The butler was the only man in the house. The other servants were all out.”

“If the police knew what we know,” murmured Daphne in the little pause that followed, “they’d arrest the butler.”

“I know, dear,” replied Everest, “but unfortunately they don’t, and what’s more, we don’t want to tell ’em unless we’re forced to. Pendlebury had a very obvious motive — from their point of view.”

“The revolver, of course, is missing?”

“It is, and the money. Their theory, of course, is — and so it very naturally would be — that Pendlebury went for those letters, paid for them, got them, shot Wollstein, and repocketed the money. And I don’t mind telling you that if I was running the case for the crown I’d lay twenty to one on getting a conviction.”

Sudden alarm showed in Daphne’s eyes. “You mean — they will — hang Pendlebury?”

“They mustn’t hang Pendlebury, my dear,” replied the barrister with quiet emphasis. “The Adjusters have got him into this and the Adjusters must get him out.”

“Yes,” said Daphne very slowly, “even if we — have to go smash to do it.”

“Still,” encouragingly, “we won’t think of that just yet. He can’t appear at the Assizes for at least a fortnight. In the meantime I’ll see that he says nothing at all — just reserves his defense.

“And remember always that we’re in a much stronger position than the police are. They’re convinced that Pendlebury murdered Wollstein, but we know he didn’t. Furthermore, we’ve got a very shrewd idea who did.”

“You mean the butler?” said Daphne quickly.

“I most certainly do. The butler has gone out of his way to lie in order to get Pendlebury arrested. Why? Obviously because he committed the murder himself or is shielding some one who did. Now what we’ve got to do during the next few weeks is to concentrate on the butler. Let’s discuss what can be done.”

III

Sir Geoffrey Pender, commissioner of police, got up from his table as Daphne Wrayne was shown into his room.

“Well, Miss Wrayne, this is an unusual pleasure. Probably unusual, too, in other ways. The few visits we get from you are generally exciting. What is it this time?”

Daphne Wrayne, smiling, dropped into the chair he drew up for her and pulled out her cigarette case.

“Commonplace this time, I’m afraid, Sir Geoffrey,” she replied. “I merely want you to inconvenience yourself for an hour to gratify my curiosity.”

“Well, Miss Wrayne, the Yard is not usually ungrateful. How can we help you?”

Daphne’s eyes were innocence itself as they regarded the chief commissioner.

“This Drayton Square murder. I’m rather intrigued.”

“It’s rather ordinary, isn’t it?” he answered. “You’re surely not connected with it in any way?”

“Oh, dear no,” airily; “but... well, crime of any sort fascinates me, and I’ve got an overpowering desire to see the room in which the murder was committed. Like to take me up there?” with a pretty appeal of her brown eyes.

“I’m frightfully busy, Miss Wrayne” — hesitating — “but would one of my men do instead? What about Montarthar?”

Daphne’s eyes twinkled merrily.

“I’d love it to death. We’re the greatest of pals. I always remind him of the first time you sent him up to Conduit Street! He looked on me as a sort of mixture of Cleopatra, Circe, and the Worst Woman in London rolled into one.”

Sir Geoffrey laughed heartily, then he rang his bell.

“Well, he shall take you right up now. But I’m afraid there’s nothing to interest you, Miss Wrayne. The case against Pendlebury is overwhelming. Even Martin Everest can’t help him.”

The girl knitted her brows.

“The Yankees say,” she murmured thoughtfully, “that when there ain’t no risk they double the insurance.”

Half an hour later, sitting in the library of No. 9 Drayton Square, she studied the room with obvious interest. Inspector Montarthar, big, burly, but respectfully quiet, watched her with eyes in which a certain perplexity struggled with admiration. For he was remembering the assistance she and her unknown colleagues had already rendered the Yard.

Yet now he was firmly convinced that nothing could possibly come of this visit of hers. As he watched her eyes going slowly round the room, seeming to absorb every tiny detail, he wondered what was going on in her brain.

Then suddenly he saw her eyes come to rest on a big picture that hung almost opposite her — saw her forehead wrinkle. Abstractedly she picked up her cigarette case, took out a cigarette and lighted it — but her eyes were still riveted on the picture.

“Quaint picture, eh, Miss Wrayne?” ventured the inspector. “Not the sort of thing you’d choose for your drawing-room?”

“Hardly.”

It certainly was a strange picture. The artist had done his work well. It showed a masked burglar crouching in a darkened room. His revolver looked as if it was pointed directly at Daphne as she sat there. The whole thing was almost lifelike.

“The door of this room was locked when Wollstein was found, wasn’t it?” asked Daphne, still gazing at the picture.

“It was.”

“Key never discovered?”

“Not likely. Pendlebury probably threw it away. He had heaps of chances between here and his house.”

For a few minutes Daphne never spoke. Then she rose from her chair, dived into her vanity bag and, producing a small magnifying glass, walked across to the picture. She studied it keenly — put up the magnifying glass and studied it even more keenly. Then she turned.

“Come and have a look here, inspector!” she said.

As he came across quickly she handed him the magnifying glass. When he lowered it there was something like fear in his eyes, but Daphne was smiling now.

“Is the door locked?” she queried.

“No, but it can be in a moment.”

“Better do so. We don’t want to be interrupted at this stage. I rather think I’m going to surprise you.”

Without a word he walked to the door, turned the key in it, came back. Then:

“Miss Wrayne,” he said helplessly, “were you... were you — looking for this?”

Daphne laughed merrily. Her delight was obvious.

“Frankly no! But I don’t mind admitting that I was looking for something of this sort — though I never dared to hope I should find it.”

IV

The Wollstein murder trial one month later brought the usual crowd to the Central Criminal Court. Even though the facts of the case, as the public had read them, seemed amazingly clear, they still remembered that Pendlebury had stoutly asserted his innocence throughout.

They also remembered, too, that Martin Everest had been retained for the defense — and that Martin Everest had an interesting little knack of springing surprises on the court.

Daphne Wrayne was present, exquisitely dressed as usual, and following the proceedings with her usual interest. But then the public had grown used to seeing her at most of the causes célèbres. Her being there was nothing unusual.

There was the usual little murmur of expectancy when the prisoner was brought in. There was the usual craning of heads to get a glimpse of him, the whisperings, the nudgings. He flushed a little under the scrutiny and seemed miserably ill at ease.

But his “Not guilty, my lord!” was in clear unfaltering tones, and one or two people in the court fidgeted a little in their seats. The thought of a possibly innocent man having to fight desperately for his life is always a slightly disturbing one.

The attorney general rose to open the case. He was a big florid-faced, heavy-looking man. He outlined to the jury the circumstances of the murder with that slightly superior air that prosecuting counsel so often employs — an air that always suggests that he, counsel, is apologizing for having to waste the time of twelve such intelligent men on anything so obvious.

He presented them with the facts already known. Finally he told them that a letter would be produced acknowledged by the prisoner to have been written by himself. It contained the following remarkable passage:

By the time the attorney general resumed his seat the spectators were engaged in mentally hanging George Pendlebury.

The first witness called was the butler, a clean-shaven, swarthy Italian, who gave his name as Tito Antonio, but who spoke English perfectly and swore his way through the case with complete smoothness.

He knew his master was expecting the prisoner — his master had said so. Heard no shot, but wouldn’t have expected to hear one. He was in his butler’s pantry. Besides, he was rather deaf — always had been. How did he hear the bell which summoned him to let the prisoner out? He didn’t hear it — he saw it. There was an indicator on the wall of the pantry.

Where was the prisoner when he came outside? In the hall putting on his coat. Was he absolutely certain it was the prisoner? Absolutely — know him anywhere.

Martin Everest lounged up to cross-examine, hands deep in his trousers pockets, eyes on the ceiling, a slightly bored look on his handsome face.

“The distance between the library and your pantry is exactly twenty paces. The rooms, in fact, adjoin. You swear you never heard the revolver shot?”

“I’ve already sworn it.”

“Strange, isn’t it?”

“Not at all. I’m very deaf — I’ve just said so.”

“Oh, I forgot. Of course you have!”

The spectators exchanged glances. Even the judge looked up. For an eminent king’s counsel to acknowledge forgetfulness on an important point of this sort was an amazing admission. But no shade of perturbation crossed Everest’s face. He seemed entirely unperturbed.

“So naturally,” he went on, “you never heard a sound?”

“Naturally!”

Up to that moment Everest had been speaking loudly — unusually loudly for him. But now he turned to his junior with a smile and murmured hardly above his breath:

“I’d like to know where he keeps his own revolver.”

“If you mean me, I haven’t got one,” snapped back the butler.

A little murmur of amazement went over the court. Not a person, outside those immediately around Everest, had heard his careless, almost contemptuous aside. They had only seen him turn — heard him mutter something.

But the butler’s angry answer stiffened them into amazement in a moment — though not half as much as Everest’s next question, which followed in a flash.

“I thought you told us you were deaf?”

Silence for a moment. Every eye now was on the butler, who had flushed up angrily, his hands working, his eyes glaring sullenly in front of him like a trapped animal.

“Mr. Everest,” said the judge, slightly puzzled, “I heard the witness’s answer, but I never heard your question.”

“It was not a question, your lordship,” with a smile. “It was merely a remark to learned counsel behind me. What I said was—”

The attorney general was on his feet in a moment.

“I object, my lord,” he exclaimed. “I overheard the observation, and it was a most improper one.”

“Might I respectfully suggest to your lordship that your lordship asks the jury if they heard it?” suggested Everest blandly.

“I object, my lord,” boomed the attorney general again. “Observations made by learned counsel to their colleagues cannot be admitted as evidence.”

The judge deliberated for a moment.

“If learned counsel happens to make an observation,” he said, “and the witness, choosing to take it as a question, answers it” — he turned to the jury: “Did any of you hear counsel for the defense’s remark?”

A hurried consultation among the jury. Then the foreman rose: “Not one of us heard it, my lord.”

The judge addressed the shorthand writer.

“What have you got on your notes?”

“Merely the witness’s answer, my lord. I couldn’t catch the question.”

“It seems to me,” murmured the judge with a smile, “that it was learned counsel for the defense who did the catching.”

A little ripple of laughter ran through the court.

“I’m quite willing to repeat my remark, my lord,” said Everest.

“And I submit to your lordship,” exclaimed the attorney general angrily, “that it is not admissible.”

“It’s quite immaterial to me,” murmured Everest blandly.

“Of course it is — now,” snapped the other.

“Don’t blame me for your deaf clients!” retorted Everest and once again the spectators tittered.

“Mr. Everest,” said the judge, apparently anxious to pour oil on the troubled waters, “as neither the jury, nor the shorthand writer for the court, nor myself heard the remark, and as you have admitted that such remark was not addressed to the witness, may I suggest that for the future you confine yourself to addressing the witness and only the witness while you are engaged in cross-examination?”

“Certainly, my lord,” blandly. “May I add, as justification for having made a remark at all, that as neither you nor the jury heard it should prove conclusively that I never dreamed a deaf witness would!”

The attorney general looked up angrily, but Martin Everest’s face was as guileless as a young curate’s. The judge studied him thoughtfully over his glasses.

“I must accept your assurance, Mr. Everest,” he said slightly sarcastically.

“As your lordship pleases.”

The attorney general flopped down angrily into his seat, for he knew the spectators were smiling. He knew too the value of the point that Everest had so cleverly made. Yet the latter’s voice when he asked his next question was smoothness itself.

“Do you know the reason which brought the prisoner to your master’s house on the night the murder was committed?”

“I don’t!”

“You haven’t any idea?”

“None at all.”

“In fact you never knew of the existence of that letter to which my learned friend alluded in his opening speech, until you heard him mention it? I’m talking of course of that letter which the prisoner wrote to your master saying he would call?”

“I knew nothing whatsoever about it!” answered the butler.

Martin Everest nodded thoughtfully.

“I see. You didn’t know then that your master held certain letters written by the prisoner which he was trying to induce the prisoner to buy?”

“I certainly didn’t.”

“Or that the prisoner bought them from your master on the night the murder was committed?”

A little gasp of amazement went up round the court.

“No, I didn’t know that,” replied the witness.

“Didn’t know either that the prisoner paid your master six hundred pounds in bank notes for them?”

The judge looked up quickly and the spectators exchanged glances. It certainly struck them as a most damaging question for the defense to ask. Only Everest seemed entirely unconcerned at the little murmur of surprise that went round.

“I didn’t,” answered the butler.

“Never have seen or handled those notes?”

“I have not!”

The witness was getting a little uneasy now and not a few of the spectators noticed it and commented on it among themselves. Martin Everest, however, was as smooth and bland as could be.

“I am going to have a revolver handed to you,” he said; “I want you to tell us whether it’s yours or not.”

“I’ve already told you I haven’t got one,” retorted the witness.

“Don’t get angry,” murmured Everest smoothly. “Just look at it and answer my question.”

The butler took the revolver sullenly, looked at it.

“I’ve never seen it in my life.”

“Swear it?”

“Yes — I do.”

Silence for a moment. Then Everest spoke again, addressing the judge.

“My lord, I have no more questions to ask this witness, but in view of certain evidence I intend to call I am going to ask your lordship to order him to remain in court.”

When the prisoner went into the witness box excitement ran high. But it faded away to amazement as he gave his evidence. To one and all it seemed that Martin Everest by his questions and the prisoner by his admissions were deliberately playing into the hands of the prosecution.

For Pendlebury not only admitted to the letter and the visit to Wollstein’s house at nine thirty on the night of the murder, but he admitted having paid him six hundred pounds in notes and receiving a packet of letters in exchange. And though he gave the numbers of the notes he declined to say how he got them. So when he finally left the witness box there was hardly any one in that court who would not have said that he was a doomed man.

Yet when Martin Everest rose again he seemed entirely at ease and utterly unruffled.

V

“Miss Daphne Wrayne!” he said.

Guy Templeton, junior counsel for the defense, turned to a colleague with a grin.

“I told you we’d startle you in a minute,” he said sotto voce.

“Gad, you have!” whispered the other. “What have you got up your sleeve?”

“You wait and see, my lad!”

Certainly this was the sensation. As Daphne made her way to the witness box the court was buzzing with excitement. Even the judge was interested.

“You, I believe, are the secretary of a concern called the Adjusters, Miss Wrayne?”

“I am!”

The judge looked up with a bland smile.

“I suppose I ought to conform to tradition and say ‘Who are the Adjusters’?”

“That, my lord,” answered Everest, “is a question quite a lot of us would like to have answered.”

A little ripple of laughter ran over the court.

“Perhaps Miss Wrayne is here to tell us,” murmured the judge.

“Surely it wouldn’t be evidence, my lord?” queried Daphne innocently and another murmur of laughter ran round.

“Not unless you intend to produce the Adjusters, Miss Wrayne?”

“Can’t be done!” answered the girl and once again laughter rang out. But it died away in a moment, for the spectators guessed that something in the way of a sensation was coming. Martin Everest went on.

“Miss Wrayne, have you visited the house of the deceased since the murder took place?”

“I have.”

“When?”

“The day before yesterday.”

“May I ask why, Miss Wrayne?” put in the judge.

“Chiefly curiosity, my lord,” with a smile.

“Not in any official capacity then?”

“Oh dear no!”

Every one in the whole of that crowded court was watching her now with breathless interest. Her beauty, her perfect self-composure and the readiness with which she gave her answers; but above all the clear candor of her brown eyes had enlisted the sympathy of judge, jury and spectators in a moment. They saw a girl out of the ordinary, a girl with a quick alert brain and a keen sense of humor.

“Did you go alone, Miss Wrayne?” was Everest’s next question.

“No! I went with Detective Inspector Montarthar of Scotland Yard.”

Martin Everest turned to the judge.

“With your lordship’s permission I will ask your lordship to let the witness tell her own story. I may say that I propose afterward to call Inspector Montarthar and the Chief Commissioner of Police who will confirm it.”

“Very well, Mr. Everest.” The judge turned to Daphne. “Please tell the court what happened, Miss Wrayne.”

And in the breathless silence of that packed court, with every eye riveted on her, she told them — told them quite simply, without any attempt at effect, though with a little heightened color in her cheeks at that sea of eyes riveted upon her. And then when she had described the picture in the library in detail:

“I went over and examined it — and found, to my surprise, that it had been obviously tampered with. Exactly where the muzzle of the revolver appears in the picture, a neat little round hole had been cut — just wide enough to take the muzzle of a real revolver. The original piece of canvas had subsequently been replaced and the spot painted over — and at no very recent date. Examined through a magnifying glass it was obvious.”

As she paused a little sigh of amazement went round the court. She went on:

“I drew the inspector’s attention to it and we took down the picture to find that the wall behind it had recently been repapered. At my suggestion we then rang up the chief commissioner who came up immediately.”

Again she paused for a moment, but neither judge nor counsel would have dreamed of breaking into that breathless, waiting silence.

“The three of us then went to the room that is known as the butler’s pantry. In that room there are a lot of colored prints nailed to the walls. Behind one of them we found the wall had also recently been repapered. Before attempting to remove it we took certain measurements — the two rooms adjoin — and found that the picture in one room was directly opposite to the picture in the other.

“We then proceeded to remove the wall paper on both sides. Inside we found a large cavity opening up communication between the pantry and the library. At the end nearest to the pantry we found a revolver and a packet of bank notes.”

“Those notes will be produced, my lord,” exclaimed Everest, “and the jury will find that they bear the identical numbers given by the prisoner. They are the same notes that he swore he paid to the deceased in exchange for his letters.”

In the deathly silence that followed the judge turned to Daphne.

“Have you anything more to tell us, Miss Wrayne?”

“No, that’s all, my lord!”

“I don’t know whether my learned friend who leads for the prosecution wishes to cross-examine!” murmured Everest.

The attorney general shook his head.

“Not if you are calling those two other witnesses you spoke of just now,” he answered.

“Well, I am!”

The judge turned to Daphne.

“Thank you, Miss Wrayne,” he said in kindly tones. “I don’t wonder now that one hears such a lot about the Adjusters.”

Daphne flushed with pleasure.

“Thank you, my lord,” she answered.

As she left the box a little buzz of admiration rippled over the court.

Inspector Montarthar followed, corroborating Daphne’s story in every detail. Then came the chief commissioner of the police, a well set up military-looking man who told the court that the Adjusters had on several previous occasions rendered valuable service to him and his colleagues. He confirmed every point of Daphne’s narrative. Then when he had resumed his seat Martin Everest rose once more.

“I have one more witness to call, my lord,” he said. “Will John Henry Robinson please come forward?”

In the silence that followed a short white-bearded man walked to the witness box, took the oath, faced the barrister.

“You are a gunsmith?”

“I am.”

“You are in business at 942 High Street, Kensington?”

“That is so.”

“Will you take that revolver in your hand,” revolver handed to him, “and tell the court if you recognize it?”

“I do. I sold it from my shop about six months ago. My private mark is on it.”

Breathless suspense in court.

“Would you recognize the man to whom you sold it if you were to see him again?”

“I am pretty sure I should.”

“Why?” asked the judge.

“Because he came to me, my lord, and I told him I couldn’t sell him a revolver without a license. I put him down as a foreigner from his appearance. He came again a few days afterward with the necessary license. I noticed then that it bore an unmistakably English name — Frederick Robinson.”

“Can you see him in this court?” asked Martin Everest. “Take time.”

The gunsmith’s eyes traveled slowly round the court.

“May I ask that man over there,” he said slowly, “to stand up? I can’t see him quite clearly. That man in the gray overcoat sitting two rows behind counsel.”

A little murmur ran over the court, for in a second every one had seen that it was the butler.

“Stand up, please!” directed the judge. Slowly, very slowly, the butler rose to his feet.

“That is the man I sold the revolver to,” said the witness.

As Daphne was getting into her car outside the Central Criminal Court, the center of a crowd that surged about her shouting congratulations, Inspector Montarthar came hurrying down the steps.

“Miss Wrayne, I thought you’d like to know. Antonio’s been arrested.”

“Splendid. You’ll probably find there’s revenge or something at the back of it.”

The inspector leaned forward lowering his voice.

“We’ve found out quite a lot about him since you put us on the track. It seems Wollstein got him into his clutches, years ago.”

Daphne nodded dreamily. Her eyes had a far-away look. She made a pretty picture sitting there in her big racing car, white gloved hands on the wheel. As one or two cameras clicked she seemed suddenly to come back to earth and a smile rippled over her face.

“You know I’m getting horribly conceited, inspector!” she said. “I just love all this!”

“Well, you deserve it, Miss Wrayne!”

“Do I? I wonder.” Then knitting her brows: “That six hundred pounds that we found — who gets them?”

The inspector hesitated. He was obviously puzzled.

“The executors may claim them on behalf of Wollstein’s estate.”

Daphne shook her head.

“Their title’s bad. A contract based on an illegal act is a bad contract.”

“You mean that we ought to pay them to Pendlebury?”

“If I were his lawyer, I should make him sue you for them if you didn’t.” A smile came over his face.

“Now you mention it,” he admitted, “there are one or two nice little legal points arising out of it.”

As the car drew away Daphne was smiling deliciously.

“There are, my friend,” she murmured thoughtfully, “and even you don’t know how nice they are! But when you find out, as I suppose you will — though I sincerely hope you won’t — that all those notes are amazingly clever forgeries—”

As she steered her car through the traffic she was still smiling.