Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 28, No. 3, November 12, 1927

Many of the world’s best detectives put their heads together to catch the clever crooks who swirl about that cursed hand.

Mary Smith, the great graphologist, receives evidence of the substitution of a double for the prominent London widow, Mrs. Alma Batten. Miss Smith turns the case over to the world-renowned detective, Juan Murphey. Murphey sends over three “society” operatives on a big yacht, and Hoofty, a “roughneck” operative, on a transatlantic liner. He himself sails on the same liner disguised as a Spanish grandee, “Don Jaime de Ventura,” with one of his most talented assistants disguised as his valet, “Michael Strogoff.” A girl named Annette Taylor begins to spy on them. One evening she runs into their suite in deathly fear of a man in a steward’s uniform. The next day, she is found dead, with a dagger between her shoulder blades, and a misleading note pinned to the outside of her cabin door. As Juan and Michael return from the captain’s preliminary inquest, they stand close together while Juan reaches in, to turn on the electric light. “Once before they had stood thus and an instant afterward had been fighting for their lives.”

Chapter X Deadly Caution

There was a vivid memory of that in their minds at the moment, for they felt the impalpable presence of menacing existences. However the lights, springing out, showed them the rooms empty.

Silently they went in, still close together, shut and locked the door, and still keeping side by side, thoroughly searched every nook and cranny of the rooms before they said a word. Then they withdrew to their bathroom, turned on the water and stood to talk.

“Did you notice that writing left outside the door, Michael?” asked Juan, sitting down on a chair before the mirror and pulling off his wig carefully, that Michael might massage his head, for the thing was very tight-fitting, and there were times when the pressure of it on his scalp drove him wild with nervousness.

“No — as to anything beside tire writing,” said the old man, who had begun to carefully knead the other’s shaven head.

“Listen, then. ‘Stewardess. Please do not wake me in the morning. I have had a bad night and wish to sleep.’ What does that tell you, my dear Michael?”

There was a silence, and after it had lasted a little while Don Jaime, looking in the mirror, saw the other shake his head.

“Well, it tells me that Miss Taylor was killed, not during the night, but in the morning!”

Another silence. Then Michael said:

“Oh!”

“Precisely!”

“ ‘Please do not wake me in the morning. I have had a bad night.’ Yes, of course!”

“You see, if it had really been written the night before, by the girl, she would have said: ‘Please do not wake me in the morning, I am afraid I shall have a bad night.’ Or something like that.

“The person who did write that was subconsciously aware that it was then morning or close to it, and involuntarily and without knowing it, wrote of the night as having passed.

“I don’t know that that helps us much, but it establishes the fact — more or less — that she was alive during the major part of the night. When the finger-print men from Scotland Yard get to work they may be able to get prints that will help, or the captain may be able to find the fellow.”

“I have always thought that in a large ship like this, a clever man could hide himself throughout the voyage by working at this and that, providing, of course, that he could get the right clothes for the jobs. It seems that this fellow did.”

“You would know him again?”

“I think I would know him even if he were disguised, and especially if I saw him walk. There was something very distinctive about his motion. And his voice, too. It had an odd, grating sound.

“I suspect that it is a ‘whisky’ voice, and I don’t think him as young as he was got up to seem. Perhaps his hair was dyed, or it might be a wig. There was something about the difference in two sides of his face, too.”

“He goes in the records, of course.”

“Oh, yes. I have sketched him profile, and full, and halfway.” Shutting the bathroom behind him and locking it — for this was always done when Juan was in there without his make-up — Michael brought from what seemed like the flat side of an open trunk some thin sheets of paper, and took them back to the bathroom. “There he is,” he said, and fell to massaging the shaven poll again.

Juan looked long and carefully. Michael had a really extraordinary gift, he knew. With sure, though seemingly careless pencil, he had placed on that little piece of tough tracing paper an almost breathing likeness, an ugly face, something malign and ferocious about it, despite the rather good-looking features.

The unevenness in the two sides of the face was well brought out. There was quite a library of these drawings, in a concealed wall safe, back in New York, in the big old-fashioned suburban house that Juan had called “home” since he was born.

Like Michael, Juan had a prodigious memory for faces.

“Ever see this bird before?”

“Never.”

“Probably an English or Continental criminal. Though he does not really look the criminal at all, does he?”

“No, he does not.”

By-and-by the make-up was all freshened, the dark stain all over the body inspected, and places where it seemed to have worn a little repaired, the special stain for the finger nails and toe nails renewed, the hair on legs and arms lightly touched to keep the red out of it.

Juan and Michael took no chances on Don Jaime being intentionally or unintentionally undressed and thus exposed to detection. Last of all, the wig was hauled on, a delicate operation, and Juan, inspecting himself in the glass, sighed and made a face at the darkly handsome person that he saw there.

“I’ll be mighty glad when I get this mop off my head again,” he said, pushing up a corner of it in order to scratch, with deep satisfaction.

No matter where they were, Don Jaime and his valet slept in the same room. They had developed a system to which they were so accustomed that they did not have to discuss it, which was that Michael no more than dozed through the one night, and that Juan no more than dozed through the following.

That they were both alive had been due, several times, to this system. Now, therefore, as they took to their respective couches, Juan just said laconically:

“Yours.”

He then turned on his side, and in ten deep breaths was sleeping like a baby. Michael did not even doze. That “feeling” of his to which he could never give a name, but which less cautious people had called his “hunches,” made him sit up, after a time, and reach under his pillow for the pistol which was never out of his reach.

Two hours dragged by. Silently, like a shadow, he got up and went to stand by the light switch. There was nothing definite that he could put a finger on, except that twice he had thought he heard a foot in the corridor. Between the bedroom and the corridor there was the small sitting room, but he could look right at the outside door.

At three o’clock, by the radiolight watch on his wrist, Michael was of a mind to return to his bed. He was tired with standing absolutely still, than which there is nothing more exhausting. He would have moved a foot in another moment.

The faintest of sounds reached him. Had he not been straining to hear, it would have passed unnoticed. He slipped the pistol into his right hand and placed a finger of his left on the switch. The noise continued, if noise it could be called; it was little more than a whisper of a sound.

Slowly, then, the blank blackness of the wall in which the corridor door stood, changed. A slip of light glimmered for a second, and was instantly blotted out. Some one had opened the door just wide enough to squeeze through, had come into the sitting room, and had shut the door behind him.

Michael pressed down the finger which rested on the light switch.

A split second afterward, his gun and another roared. Juan, awaking with that instant alertness which was one of his powers, had fired at the same moment that the other had, at the figure crouched for a spring.

The figure’s hand, that one holding a long and shining knife, came toward the breast in a convulsive movement, and then the body plunged forward, along the floor, twitched, and lay still.

The air was still full of the faintly sweet odor of smokeless powder when feet came running in the corridor. The next moment some one knocked on the door, and then pushed it open.

The tableau still held. The frightened night steward saw the two passengers still holding their revolvers, and as he stared, the body on the floor gave a final convulsion.

The man’s eyes seemed as though they would fall from his head, so far did they appear to protrude, but he was well-trained, like all the servants of the great liners.

“What… what happened — sir?” he stammered.

Juan swung a long leg out of bed. “I don’t know, yet,” he said coolly. “I was awakened by the light coming on, and the moment that I opened my eyes I saw this fellow leaping at my man here with a knife in his hand. We both fired at the same moment, but I am sure you will find that my bullet did not kill him. I aimed for the shoulder.”

“I aimed for the legs,” said Michael. He was trembling a little. A fight never distressed him, small as he was, but the death of any human being affected him deeply. Juan threw on a bathrobe and walked over to him.

“Sit down, my dear fellow,” he said gently. “I am sure that you will find that you did not kill him, either.”

“I suppose we had better see if he is alive,” said the steward hesitatingly.

“No,” said Juan, “what we must do is to send for the doctor at once. You get those people who are filling the corridor out there into their rooms and send the doctor here. Tell them that my man shot at a thief — or, no — say that he shot by mistake at some one.

“The ship’s officers must do as they please about giving out the news. I will lock the door behind you, and you bring the doctor as soon as you can get him. Also the head steward, and one of the ship’s officers.”

The corridor was full of people in disarray, Juan saw, as he let the steward out and heard him explaining, and urging people to return to their cabins.

Michael had regained his composure.

“Well, he played a return engagement,” he said.

“That’s the man, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Huh! Well, that means that we are under a ban of some kind.” Then, Standing right over Michael, he went on, in their all but soundless talk: “All we know is that this is the man who came into the room after the girl. Careful. I begin to suspect everybody. This is a big thing we’ve headed into.”

A moment afterward there came a tap at the door, and Michael let in two of the ship’s officers, the head steward, and the doctor, who had with him a nurse from the hospital. Without a word he and she advanced to the crumpled figure and turned it over on its back, and it was then clear that both Michael and Juan were right in thinking that they had not killed the man.

There was a bullet wound in his right shoulder which would have made his knife useless to him, and there was a bullet in his left leg which would have checked his deadly rush, but that from which he had died was his own knife.

The two bullets, striking him almost simultaneously, had caused him to bring his right hand, with the knife in it, toward his own breast, and there it had sunk deep, and straight through his heart.

The man was naked above the waist save for a thin black “singlet,” evidently part of a scanty suit of union underwear. The knife had met with no such obstacle as it would have, had he been wearing the usual number of upper garments. However, he had fallen directly on it, and so his death was really inevitable.

He had on black, worn trousers, black socks, and rubber-soled black shoes. Arms, hands, face, and neck had been smeared with coal dust. It was obvious that in such an array, the man might have slipped about the ship at night and escaped notice.

There were several objects in his pockets. A purse in which there were ten pounds in English money, a bunch of skeleton keys, a pouch of tobacco, a very small pipe, a box of matches, a tin box in which there were four pieces of a popular brand of eating chocolate, a twenty-five pistol of beautiful workmanship. The knife which was imbedded in his heart had a common bone handle. The doctor drew it slowly out. It was a kitchen knife, thin and narrow and sharp, the kind which is used for cutting roast meat in thin slices.

“This is the man who came into this room after the girl,” said Michael, as the doctor turned and looked toward him, and he and Juan, together, then stated that, the valet being wakeful, he had heard the scrape of the key in the door, and had been standing right by the electric light switch when the man entered.

The light had awakened Don Jaime, and he and his man, seeing the sinister figure, crouched, knife in hand, had fired simultaneously. That was all that there was to tell, so far as they were concerned.

The doctor groaned. “The ship is surely having her share of excitement. I fear that Captain Shelburne will need my attention when he hears this,” he added with the ghost of a smile on his grave face. “In all the years that the Aquitania has been afloat nothing like this has ever occurred on her.

“Well, I’ll have the body removed at once and the rug taken out. It is certainly unfortunate for you, sir, that you and your man have become mixed up in this. I can’t understand what the fellow was after.”

His worried gaze shifted from the stalwart figure of the Spanish grandee to the little figure of the valet, and Juan saw in it that he was asking himself what kind of game was afoot anyway.

This was the one thing which the detective wished to avoid, as the slightest identification of himself with mysterious events would be a great detriment to his work.

“You don’t suppose that some one who had this suite on some other voyage hid diamonds or something like that here, do you?” he asked, after seeming to reflect. “I’ve read of such things being done. It’s the only thing that I can think of. Perhaps you had better have us moved to another suite.”

The doctor’s face cleared, and Juan knew that his momentary suspicion had passed.

“It’s a case for the Yard, that’s what,” he said briskly, “and meanwhile, even for the short time that remains before we dock, I think it an excellent idea that you should change your suite.”

The head steward said he would arrange with the purser for the exchange of suites.

Chapter XI Getting Down to Cases

The quiet man who came aboard just before the Aquitania docked at Southampton seemed more like a business man than a detective, but he was really, as Juan told Michael Strogoff, one of the Yard’s very good operatives.

“Inspector Hand,” he introduced himself to Captain Shelburne and Don Jaime who, with a number of others, were awaiting him in the captain’s room.

The body of the man who had been killed by his own knife lay in the mortuary, and there the inspector went first, his little stick under his arm, rolling his gloves into a ball, wiping his face with a fine silk handkerchief — everything about him seeming precise, reserved and poised.

Juan grinned after him and, standing where the rest of the party could not see him, said, soundlessly to Michael: “Some of our New York roughneck dicks ought to see this bird.”

When he came back and sat down at the desk with the captain he drew out a very prosaic notebook and took everybody’s names and pedigrees before another word was said. Then he invited them to tell what they knew.

To Don Jaime he gave just the degree of special consideration that the distinguished figure of that gentleman seemed to demand, and to Michael he gave a pleasant manner which was distinctly removed from the perfunctory way in which he addressed the stewards and other employees of the ship.

One and all, they declared that they had never seen the dead man before. The head steward stated that the most diligent search had not brought out any fact which would show how the steward’s uniform had been procured by the dead man.

The knife with which the man had sought to kill was from the meat department, and from a rack containing eleven others. It had been missed at eight the night before by the meat roast chef.

The inspector had also viewed the body of the girl who called herself Annette Taylor. He declared that neither she nor the other dead person were known to him by sight. He looked at the handwriting of Miss Taylor and at that of the note which had been left on her door, and agreed that they did not seem to be by the same hand.

Michael had already taken perfect tracings of these specimens, knowing well that they would be required by the police. What he had not surrendered was the paper with the girl’s name and the address which the stewardess had given her, which she had written for him.

Inspector Hand wrote everything down in his book, and then declared that he would now go through the dead girl’s effects, and was about to rise and dismiss the meeting when a steward brought him a note in an envelope. “Just came on board, sir,” he stated, “by public messenger.”

Inspector Hand opened the envelope and read rather a lengthy sheet of paper, which he then placed in his pocket. “Yes, yes,” he said, visibly coming back to the matter in hand, “the matter is most unusual. It shall be carefully looked into.

“I can assure you, Captain Shelburne, that as little will be said about it in the press as possible. It might be that we could suggest that the two deaths were part of some intrigue between the two persons involved — obscure persons, of little interest. Yes, yes.”

He turned to follow the steward who was to show him the girl’s room, and with a second thought turned back to Don Jaime and Michael.

“As your man was the only one to speak to the deceased, perhaps he had better come with me,” he said. “You may come, also, if you wish.”

“Why — thank you, inspector — I think I will,” said Don Jaime, who had been turning away indifferently. “I’ve never seen a detective of your standing at work, and it would interest me.”

So the four of them, the steward, Inspector Hand, and Juan and Michael, arrived at that door at the end of the corridor, and the steward unlocked the door, over which there were sheets of paper tacked and wads of paper on the knob, so that any prints might be preserved. This had also been done on the door of the suite which had been Don Jaime’s.

Inspector Hand took the key from the steward, thanked him, turned him out, and shut and locked the door on the inside. Then he looked at Juan appraisingly.

“I should never have known you, Mr. Murphey,” he said in a low voice. “I must congratulate you.”

“I did not meet you when I was last here as De Ventura,” said Juan also in a low voice. “Allow me to present my colleague, who is known as Michael Strogoff. You will know him better as Harvey Lettner.”

The inspector bowed. “Mr. Lettner, your brochures on crime are much in use over here,” he stated respectfully. “I have, myself, practiced a few of your tricks when, as rarely happens, I am obliged to resort to some kind of disguise. We don’t do a great deal of that sort of thing over here.”

“Nor over there, either,” said the man whom most of the world knew as Lettner, a writer on rare and erudite subjects, who had been for many years the “dresser” to a very great Shakespearean actor, a strange little figure in the literary, scholastic, and detective fields, and something of a legend to them all, for he was seldom seen in person.

“How did you get that note of yours off the boat and back here by messenger?” the inspector said to Juan. “You really astonished me.”

“I wrote it this morning, sealed it in an envelope addressed to you here, then resealed it in an envelope addressed to a messenger service near the docks here, of which I happened to know, telling them that the letter inside was to be sent as directed immediately. I sent the message ashore with a passenger, a Mrs. Mason, whom I knew I could trust.”

“Sounds simple, like all inspirations,” said the Yard man. “Of course, it is most necessary that your identity shall remain concealed. Are you coming to the Yard to see about the job you are on? And is this part of it?”

“I think it is,” said Juan, answering the last question first, “but Michael and I are very much in the dark as to what is really afoot. Yes, I’m coming to the Yard for a conference, but you had better call me for it in connection with this matter, so that it will seem natural for me to go. Now, if you will permit me, I will look on.”

Inspector Hand may have felt that he was somewhat on his mettle, working thus beneath the eyes of two transatlantic confreres of such fame; for not so much as a stray hairpin in that room escaped him. The net result was precisely nothing.

Annette Taylor, for all that her meager belongings revealed, was just what she had said that she was. Her trunk and baggage bore her initials, and so did her cheap handkerchiefs and underwear, put on with indelible ink.

She had a few books with her of a general character, a toilet set in bone, a fountain pen, a bottle of moderate-priced toilette water.

“No letters, not a notebook, not a scrap of memoranda, and no money,” Juan said, as the search was ended.

Inspector Hand nodded.

“I suppose that the murderer took the money. Her purse is empty, except for her cabin-door key. He sprang the catch as he went out.”

“He might have taken the letters that she had with her, too?”

“Yes, he might. He did not look in the trunk, though, nor through the bags. Struck her as she lay asleep, and then pulled the bedclothes up around her again.”

“The only strange thing about all this that you have found, is that you found so little,” said Juan. “The most ignorant people usually have letters with them, bills, receipted or not, postals — things of that sort.”

“Yes, there was evidently nothing in the trunk or the bags known to the murderer if, as you have suggested, this was more than a common murder. Whatever it was, if it was a thing — an object — was in the purse.

“The money found on the man might have been taken from her. I am inclined to agree with you that this is not an ordinary murder. I’ll call you then in regard to it, in a day or two.”

“Yes. Remember to call me through the Ritz. Explain over the wire what it’s about. The operators always more or less listen in to calls, and if I am under suspicion by whatever gang is operating, at the switchboard is right where they will look for information about me.”

There was now a knock on the door, and a spectacled young man with a camera and a small suitcase was admitted by the inspector.

“Take every print that you find, no matter what it is,” said the inspector, preparing to leave. “Also photos of the room. Conference to-morrow morning.”

In the corridor, where the steward awaited them, the inspector formally thanked Don Jaime and his man, was sorry that the matter remained practically without explanation, trusted that Don Jaime would have a pleasant stay in the British Isles, and was off, swinging his little stick, and looking more like a prosperous merchant than ever.

“A very fine example of English efficiency, that Inspector Hand,” said Don Jaime to Michael as they went past the steward.

“A good machine,” said Michael, when they were out of earshot of the steward.

“If the rank and file of ours were as good we could be thankful,” the other replied. “Of course, he did not see the two drops of blood by the door.”

“Nor that several other drops had been wiped off the carpet nearer the bed.”

“Ah, ha, Michael — you always see more than I do.”

“On the floor, especially; I’m nearer to it!”

“She opened the door to him, then?”

“The moment that she did, she saw her danger, or perhaps did not — her face was peaceful — and turned, and he struck her. Then he snatched her up and put her back in bed before there was more than a drop or two of blood to fall. He saw those near the bed—”

“Which argues that he turned on the light—”

“—and wiped them up, possibly with his bare hand.”

“Does nothing occur to you, Michael?”

“N-no. I think that’s all.”

“She was in her nightdress, wasn’t she, when struck?”

“Yes, yes — of course. Now you are the smart one.”

“Did she strike you as the kind of a girl who would open her bedroom door to a strange man without stopping to throw on the robe that hung over her berth?”

“No.”

“Very well, then. You see that she must have known the man. Not only that, she must have known him so intimately that she had no instinct to dress before receiving him.”

“Let us think,” said Michael. “Were they at all alike? I have her sketched — did it as soon as I talked to her.”

Now they hurried to the suite and opened the dispatch bag which Michael always earned with him. “I put these sketches ere, as the safest place,” he said.

Together they looked long and carefully at the two pieces of paper on which there were, respectively, the profiles, full faces, and three-quarter views of the two who had died on the Aquitania.

After a long moment they raised their eyes, and nodded at each other.

“Relatives,” said Michael positively. “Perhaps brother and sister, or even father and daughter. We shall see whether the man’s hair was dyed. I suspect that it was. There was a peculiar color about it which makes me think that it is really gray.”

“We have gained very little,” said Juan, sighing. He had that one temperamental “trick.” Unless things were at high tension he felt that no progress was being made.

Chapter XII At Scotland Yard

When the big car in which Don Jaime de Ventura and his “man” were traveling passed through the severe entrance of Scotland Yard he who was really the criminal scholar, Harvey Lettner, looked out curiously.

“I’ve never been in London before long enough to see all the places that I wanted to,” he said. “This time I hope that I can see something of the old town. That was sure fast and furious work we had when you were here on the Buchner case; as Don Jaime, in that case, you sure were a heart breaker.”

“You hush!” said his companion, with a well-imitated snarl. “That’s what Hoofty is always — I wonder if he arrived all right? We ought to have had a note from him this morning.”

“I was a little worried about him myself,” said Michael, as they got out of the car and were met by a man who was evidently waiting for them. “But I got word to him before Inspector Hand came aboard and found that he was all right. Not a word had leaked to the steerage about the murders.”

There are all sorts of things in the big pile of buildings called Scotland Yard, but the room into which “Don Jaime” and “Michael Strogoff” were ushered might have been the living room of a rather studious gentleman of quiet tastes.

It was the office of a chief inspector of one of the departments of the I, C. E., which is the official name of the organization housed in the historic pile.

Chief Inspector Cross proved to be a man who bore out the impression created by his room. He wore spectacles, and his suit, although of good quality, would have been the better for the attention of a valet.

Michael, who had played the valet so many times that he had a corner of his mind in which he actually was the servant, looked with disapproval at the wrinkled trouser knees and at the deep creases in the sleeves, and wished that he might suggest a fine man whom he knew — strictly in his character as Michael Strogoff — who might be had at a moderate sum, a prince of valets.

Chief Inspector Cross was also an exception to one’s conception of a high police official, in that he had not the slightest air of sternness, but appeared, on the contrary, rather shy of his most distinguished-looking guest, whose dark good looks and immaculate turnout seemed to impress him.

While the introductions were taking place Inspector Hand came in, cane swinging, notebook out, handkerchief as fresh as ever, as though he had that moment stepped away from them on the Aquitania.

“I think you will be interested in this gentleman, sir,” he said. “I suppose he was introduced to you as a Spaniard?”

The chief inspector said yes, he had been, and showed that his mental processes were not slow by instantly looking with added interest at Juan.

Inspector Hand smiled, and waved his well-manicured hand at the two guests in exactly the manner of a good merchant who has a surprising bargain with which to startle you.

“The make-up is astonishing,” he said calmly. “I did not know myself that it was one, until told. This, sir, is Juan Murphey of New York, with Mr. Harvey Lettner, the well-known criminologist, whose brochures I think you will remember we have in the library.

“Mr. Murphey is under this name and appearance for purposes which he will relate to you. Mr. Lettner goes as his valet, Michael Strogoff.”

The chief inspector rose, came forward, and offered his hand again to both his visitors.

“You astonish me, as well,” he said. “We have several men here who specialize in make-up, but I confess that, like Inspector Hand, I should never have known that you were not appearing as yourself. As for Mr. Lettner — allow me to express, my dear sir, my admiration for your patience, scholarship, and knowledge of your special subjects.”

He was a man who — you could see as he was studied — could not easily be amazed, but the diminutive, withered, and altogether odd-looking person who was now posing as a valet evidently struck him with so much surprise that he could hardly keep that sentiment out of his manner, and he was the more disconcerted in that the little gentleman who was, in his way, an international celebrity, smiled merrily at him with a full understanding of the effect produced.

“I wish that I had a few more inches in height, inspector; I’d swap them for some of the fame that you are kind enough to attribute to me. At least, I can play the valet to my distinguished young friend here, with better grace, perhaps, than if I were a bigger man — and that’s a compensation. Juan’s society is worth a good deal — to a man who hates to be bored.”

“From what I hear about the happenings on the Aquitania, you need not have experienced that sensation, crossing! Suppose now, you give me a straight-away account of everything, including the matter which causes you to be here as Don Jaime. By the way, is there such a family?”

“Oh, yes!” said Juan smiling. “My mother’s.”

The inspectors both looked surprised.

“My mother was the last of the family — a very old one. My father was an artist — and an Irishman. I don’t know which to put first: both were equally important to him.

“He claimed to come from kings of the Emerald Isle and my mother really did come from the old line which sat on the Spanish throne in the person of Ferdinand, who had a wife named Isabella, destined to be of moment to a country where I, the last of the line, was to be born.

“There was still a fair amount of money when my mother was married to the Irish-American Murphey — and an old castle far in the hills in Spain, with a hundred or so acres of the most useless land you can imagine.

“It costs me several thousand dollars a year to keep it from falling to pieces, and to support the five families who have always lived on the mountain slopes.”

For a moment after Juan Murphey ceased to speak there was a curious silence in the room. There had been something formal, something stately, antiquated, a breath of other times, and of kingly pride and power in the deep tones, the wonderful eyes.

“Well, that’s that!” said Juan, and flashed on them his New York smile. “It helps, when I choose to take up this role, that there is a good deal of truth in it. Harvey, here, is a nut for Spanish history and I’ve always spoken the language, along with English, so that both are really mother tongues. That’s enough about me.

“I tell you this, though, to show that I am so anxious not to have Don Jaime seem to have anything to do with Juan Murphey. He is always there, ready for we to slip into him at need.

“In this present case I want to stay in the character until I pass on to Spain, visit my people there and then, on the way back to the coast, slip into Murphey, cross into France, and arrive in Canada, from which place I will run down to New York with very few to know that I have been away.”

“Yes, I see,” said Chief Inspector Cross. “You may be sure that we will do everything to support your impersonation.”

“And now I think that I ought to place this case before you, first briefly and then in detail.

“It begins when a client comes to see Miss Mary Smith, the graphologist, of New York. I think you know of her?”

“Author of ‘Criminals and their Handwriting,’ with myself as editor and partial collaborator,” added Michael.

“Yes… yes. That is also in our library.”

“Well, this client brings a letter to Miss Smith. Feels that there is something queer about it. Old friend, knows her intimately. Alma — Mrs. George Batten of 26 Hyacinthe Road, St. John’s Wood, London.”

“Ah, yes!” Inspectors Cross and Hand nodded.

“You know anything of her?”

“No, only what the papers say. She is young, rich, and popular; a widow. Very quiet — fine reputation.”

“Yes. Well, Miss Smith states, from a letter received some time ago by her client, that this Mrs. Batten’s character is just as you have stated, but on being shown another specimen received this month, the graphologist declares that the latter letter is written by another person altogether.

“My offices and Miss Smith’s are in the same wing of an office building, and we sometimes consult with each other. She called me in. The client recalled various things which seemed to confirm the statement of the graphologist, although at first she had refused to admit the idea.

“The upshot of the matter was that I came over, with Michael — I beg your pardon, I get so used to calling him that — with Mr. Lettner, and that two more of my operatives, now on the yacht Aloha will be here shortly.

“I am sure that there was no way for the news to leak to whatever criminals are concerned in what we are convinced is some big plot, that de Ventura is myself.

“On the other hand’ it is quite possible that the fact that this friend of Mrs. Batten’s friend going to the graphologist might make the people back of all this nervous over the handwriting, which Miss Smith pronounced to be one of the most wonderful forgeries that she ever saw, and that this may have put them on their guard.

“At any rate, coming over, this poor, fraudulently consumptive Annette Taylor attracted my attention by her sly efforts to spy on us, and then Michael here — confound it — well, I might as well say Michael and you’ll understand, why, Michael had an interview with her in which she said that she was a poor seamstress.

“Then, later, she flies into my suite and begs him to be silent and to protect her. He locks her into a closet and then a steward whom he has never seen before knocks and pretends that he thinks there was a ring for him and, under an excuse, gets into the suite.

“He does not find the girl. She goes out afterward, frightened, but refusing to tell the captain, that the man had annoyed her.

“The next day she does not appear, we are worried about her, Michael goes to the cabin, finds that there was a note left on her door — you have that — finds her dead; and then, that night, an unknown man breaks into our suite and evidently means to do for either me or Michael or both of us.

“We shoot, just to disable him, but he falls on the knife he has out for us and kills himself.

“Inspector Hand will have told you that we did not find a thing in the cabin, but Michael and I did notice something which we did not mention to the inspector at the time, for the reason that we wanted to think it over, but which I am now prepared to tell you.”

Inspector Hand bore this well. He just looked interested, and not at all as though he had been beaten at his own game.

“We saw,” said Juan, “that there was a small drop of blood at the door of the room, and that several more had been dropped close to the berth.”

There was a moment’s silence. “I do not follow you, Mr. Murphey,” said the chief inspector, then. “It was to be expected that there might be blood drop from the weapon or from the hands of the assassin.”

Juan and Michael shook their heads, and Juan looked at the little man, nodding to him to continue.

“Let me explain, inspector,” said Michael in his wonderful voice. “The dagger was driven in to the hilt between the girl’s shoulders. Just that one blow. It pierced her heart.

“The weapon was not withdrawn. Bleeding at no time was great. It was internal. There was no blood whatever on the handle.

“In addition to that, there was the fact that the apex of the two drops which could be seen accurately — those near the door — were toward the door. You perceive, of course, the significance of that.”

Both inspectors looked as if they wished that they did, and he who was Michael to almost every one who knew him, went on: “I have made a study of blood drops, you may remember. Well, owing to the thickness of blood and the fact that it is warm when it falls and then congeals, we may often learn more from the disposal of a drop of it than we may from many other fluids.

“You see, if the weapon, hand, or person from which or whom the blood comes is moving away from a given point, the apex of the blood drops will be toward that point. The apex of the blood drops in the case in point were toward the door.

“Therefore, we believe that the girl herself opened the door, saw her danger, instinctively turned, was struck and that instant snatched up as she fell and swiftly put into the berth.

“The several drops near the bed had been smeared in the effort to obliterate them, but the drops near the door were intact.”

“She was in her night dress?” said the chief inspector, and they saw that he had instantly made the right deduction.

Chapter XIII A Flying Bullet

“You see,” said Juan, “that the woman known as Annette Taylor must have known the man whom she admitted with such fatal results, for she was, as Michael Strogoff states — and he is one of the shrewdest judges of human nature of whom I know — a girl of very good moral character, and also a person of real refinement.

“She would have at least partially dressed if the man had not known her very well. As to that, Michael has brought you the sketches which he made of both of these people.”

The inspector looked carefully at the sketches which Michael handed him, and then nodded. “Undoubtedly, some relationship,” he stated.

“Both unknown to you?”

“To me, yes. But, of course—”

His shrug expressively outlined the great network of records and people which made up the vast organization. “We shall have them photographed and Bertilloned and finger-printed — the latter, in fact, has now been done. I expect the reports any moment.”

“Of course, we have taken one thing for granted,” said Juan, “and that is that the man from whom the girl fled in terror was also the man who killed her, but that I think we may consider a foregone conclusion.”

“It would seem so,” said the inspector, and just then there was a tap at the door and a young man walked in with some photographs in his hand.

“Here you are, then, Martin,” said the chief inspector, reaching for the photographs.

The man addressed as Martin placed a number of his prints on the desk, and laconically began describing them.

“Found on handle of dagger in girl’s back — Found on handle of knife in man’s breast — Found on door, inside and out, of girl’s cabin — Found on door of Don Jaime de Ventura’s suite.”

Juan and Michael and the two inspectors leaned over eagerly. The comparisons were easy, which they are not always. Even a person not used to comparing finger-prints would have known that certain prints were, or were not the same.

As they looked, Inspectors Cross and Hand, Juan Murphey, and the man mostly known as Michael Strogoff, all drew back and stared at each other. Then they bent over the photographs again, and at last stood up and shook their heads.

The sets of finger-prints on the kitchen knife, on which the man had fallen and thus killed himself, and the prints found on the handle of the door of Juan’s suite, were the same.

But there were entirely different prints on the dagger found in the body of the girl, and those same prints were on her cabin door.

In short, there was conclusive proof that the man who had attempted the midnight assassination of Don Jaime and probably his valet was not the man who committed the murder of Annette Taylor.

Juan groaned. “Oh, Lord — it’s one of those mixed-up cases. Michael, now we have got our work cut out for us!”

“Er… we are not entirely without interest in the matter, either,” Chief Inspector Cross murmured and, with a wry smile, Juan hastily turned to him to apologize.

“Of course, inspector. Pray, forgive me. That was a figure of speech, anyway. We shall all have to do our best — to assist Scotland Yard.”

The inspector was not devoid of humor, but he was not a laughing man. He just gave Juan a twinkle of his eye, and then said, very seriously: “Now it is a case of whether we can identify either of these dead people. How about the prints?”

“No record,” stated the terse Martin.

“We’ll see what America has to say, too,” said the inspector. “Perhaps one or both of these people may be known as criminals there. I shall be glad when this new international book of criminals is available. It is what the world ought to have.”

“You will see what you can do about Mrs. Batten?” said Juan, standing up to go. “I will, of course, speak of this visit to the Yard. It would be quite an event in the life of the man whom I am impersonating, and he would speak of the impression made on him; I shall do so.

“Please be careful, if any of the I. C. E. men have occasion to speak to me, should this become a real ‘case,’ that they address me wholly as Don Jaime — but I think that I ought to be identified by the Yard — in case I need help or can hand on information?”

“We do not usually work with the outside, as you know, but in the case of such eminent scientists as Mr. Lettner and Miss Smith, the graphologist, we are always interested — and with a detective of such a character as your own, we are glad to cooperate.”

“I appreciate this, for my colleagues and also for myself, inspector,” Juan replied. “I ought to tell you that I had one of my operatives come over on the steerage with me, who will endeavor to get work at the house next door to Mrs. Batten’s, a house where I expect to be a frequent guest.

“It will be quite easy for him to bring word here should I have something for you which ought not to be trusted to the mail. The telephone I will not use, of course; there are too many chances for a slip on that end.

“The man’s description will do you no good, but I will give you two words which he will know and which no one beside our own organization does know. ‘Hoofty goofty.’ ”

“What!”

“A name which originated in San Francisco, in the pioneer days. A famous ‘character’ used it, an irresponsible, shiftless, and yet interesting man, who was a daredevil and a vagabond.

“I gave it to this man because he usually assumes that character, but he is apt to appear as almost anything, and has dozens of dialects which he can use perfectly; so, as I say, his description would do you little good. But the words will identify him.”

“Your country is always full of amazing and amusing matters,” said Inspector Cross. “Some time I shall surely make you a visit.”

“What do you wager that I find an invitation for dinner from Mrs. Mason when we get back?” Juan said to Michael, as they were getting into their car, after having said adieu to the two inspectors, and to the sergeant who had shown them over part of the big place.

“I wish to lose no money, and therefore I wager nothing,” said Michael. “I know that you ought to hitch your title, and another name to which you have a right, together. Don Juan—”

Don Jaime de Ventura never boyishly scuffled, as Juan Murphey loved to do, but he had his own way of making a reprisal; he suddenly caught the little man beside him in what seemed like a hand of iron and on the small but muscular leg of that gentleman left a respectably sized black and blue spot, due to a vigorous pinch.

“Ouch!” said Michael. “Confound you — where do you get those steel pliers you call your fingers?”

“Well, then — lay off that line of talk.”

Michael was about to make some laughing reply when, to his infinite astonishment, Juan threw him to the floor of the car and at the same instant cast his long body prone on the seat. Not a second too soon, either.

In the moment during which this violent action occurred, there was a tinkle of glass and a bullet plumped itself into the other side of the car. The driver looked around at the sound, and started to pull up.

“No, no, go on!” Juan signaled with his hand, and the reply was a spurt of speed. Their Jehu was taking no chances on lingering. A glance at the face of his fare had been enough.

In fact, Juan was more concerned than he had often been in any of the events of his hazardous career. He had not realized how much little Harvey Lettner — the quaint “Michael Strogoff” of his invention — meant to him until he saw how close he had come to losing him.

“W-w-h-a-t… what… was that?” Michael managed to get out.

Before he replied, Juan told the driver to slow up, and then assisted his friend to the seat. “Somebody shot at us, driver,” he explained to the flustered chauffeur.

The man, half-slewed around in his seat, stared.

“Shot? Was that what broke the glass?”

“Yes. I was afraid to have you stop, at the moment. Some crazy person, perhaps. I will make a report of it to the police when we get back to the hotel. The bullet is right here.”

“Lawd bless us!” the chauffeur ejaculated, forgetting the austere pose which he usually maintained. All the rest of the way he drove as in a daze.

“You see, Michael,” said Juan in the latter’s ear, “just as I glanced out of the window I had a vague impression that some one behind one of the market stalls we were just then passing was aiming a pistol our way. I saw the hand and part of the sleeve.

“It was purely instinct that made me throw you to the floor and myself out of line of fire, and it must have been one split second afterward that the person fired.

“I would have preferred not to have had this happen, and if the bullet had passed out the other window, I would have professed not to know what had broken the glass. As it was, there was nothing to do but act the part of travelers who know of no reason for any one shooting at them.”

Michael did not speak, but he gripped the hand of Juan and wrung it, and the two men, always undemonstrative to each other, but really hearty friends, looked at each other with their affection shining in their eyes.

“No use in trying to thrash this out here,” said Michael finally.

At the hotel Don Jaime, languid and indifferent, stated that some one “probably insane” had taken a shot at his car. He gave the approximate place at which the thing had occurred, shrugged off the congratulations of the manager on his escape, and went to his suite.

“Now then,” he said, as he sank into a chair, “what are we up against? Can it be that I am, known? Some way or other, I do not believe it. Was that an accident? The shot meant for some one else?”

“It seems incredible that you should have seen and acted quickly enough to save my life,” said Michael. “I don’t suppose that you can remember more than just that flashing impression of the pistol and the hand?”

“Indeed, my dear Michael, it was hardly a thing which was actually seen. It was like a flash which you sometimes see in the motion pictures — a thing in the background which is there and gone while you wink. My action was instinctive. It might well have been that what I saw was an illusion if it had not been for the evidence of the shot.”

“I was never on a case with you when there seemed so many complications and when I was so conscious of danger at every step. From where that bullet struck, it looked as if it were intended for me, didn’t it? And yet, it would have been very hard to aim that carefully—”

“We were not moving very fast at that moment; in fact, we were just moving on again after a traffic stall. The person was standing somewhat behind something on the stalls — boxes or crates — I have the vaguest impression.”

There was a knock on the outer door of the suite, and at once Michael became the valet. Correct, subdued, and yet with authority in his manner he went toward the door.

The only incongruous thing about him was that from somewhere up his sleeve — in response to a quick gesture from Juan — he slid a pistol into view and then mysteriously caused it to disappear, as he grinned impishly over his shoulder before opening the door.

A uniformed messenger handed over a letter.

“I told you I’d have the invitation from Mrs. Mason!” exclaimed Juan, as he showed Michael the embossed M on the flap.

Chapter XIV Mrs. Mason Entertains

Mrs. Mason had a very handsome house, but its real charms were the trees, shrubs, and the big flower garden in the midst of which it was set. The house next door, No. 26, had less grounds, but was very large and imposing.

The exclusiveness of the locality was shown by everything and every one there, the houses, the grounds, the fine motors which glided along, the footmen and butlers, of whom glimpses could be had when doors were opened.

Mrs. Mason’s drawing-room looked out on the south aspect of her garden and toward the Batten house, from which the garden was separated only by a low brick wall, topped with vines and bright-hued flowers.

There was a gate in the wall, and a path of beautifully tinted stones led to it through the Mason garden. This could be seen the moment that one entered the room, for the whole south side of it was mostly long windows, opening onto a small terrace.

There was no one in the room when Don Jaime de Ventura was left in it by the butler, and therefore he had time to make his observations. He saw that the windows of the Batten house were much smaller than those in the Mason house, and guessed that the Batten house was the older one, made in the days when the admittance of light and sun was not considered as important as it is to-day.

There was a big chimney shouldering toward him and several windows at odd angles, which made him conclude that the hall, the hall chimney, and the stairs were on the side facing him.

Then Mrs. Mason came in with her quick, light step, and her frank smile.

It was not for nothing that Juan Murphey had had a Spanish mother whose traditions had been of great estate. She had given her son intensive social training. She had left with him that pride of race which demands of itself that it shall act in a manner worthy of the noble tradition.

Mrs. Mason’s fine eyes smiled on her visitor with genuine appreciation. She guessed that there were riches of his mind which she had not found, and beauties of his nature which no one save those very close to him would ever find, but she had already found him a delightful companion and a man of heart as well as intellect.

Juan, on his part, felt for this woman a genuine friendship. He, in turn, admired her intellectual power and her indifference to the stupidities of convention. As was usually the case when he was interested, he thought at once that it would be wonderful if Mary were there; and that thought, also as it often did, brought a sigh.

“It seems so appropriate to hear you sigh, Señor de Ventura,” laughed Mrs. Mason. “You look so dark and mysterious and melancholy. Also, you look awfully keen and snippy — horrors — no — I mean snappy. Americanisms amuse me so much, and yet I never can be quite correct in using them.”

“But I am not melancholy,” said her visitor. “How can I be when you have been so gracious as to ask me to dine tonight, thus enabling me to escape the terrors and disappointments of viands prepared by the hotel chef? Hotel chefs have, you know, a secret. They have the best that the world has, in the way of food stuffs, they have expert help in their kitchens and they have every convenience, and yet — with this one secret of theirs they do something to food which no private cook can.

“They disguise all natural flavors, serve you meat which cannot be distinguished — lamb from beef, chicken from pork — and reduce eating to a guessing contest. You guess what you are eating and the chef proves you wrong, every time.”

Mrs. Mason laughed. She did not know that Don Jaime was echoing sentiments which he had heard her express on the Aquitania, before he had made her acquaintance by seeming to swoon in her arms.

“Well, I only hope that my cook comes up to your ideals of what a private cook ought to be,” she said. “As a matter of fact, I think that she has spoiled me, for I have had her for ten years.

“I only wish that I could be so fortunate in a gardener. I have just lost Cordes, a man who really knew his business. He died while I was in America. I have just hired a friend of his, a young fellow who says that he came over on the same ship that we did. He has been in the States but did not find the opportunities there that he thought he would.”

“Ah? Yes, I hope that he will prove satisfactory,” Don Jaime murmured politely. No one could possibly have suspected that he received this information of “Hoofty’s” promptness with satisfaction.

He wanted, desperately, to lead the talk to Mrs. Mason’s neighbor. The women had, it was to be presumed, a great deal in common. Both were young and lovely, both were wealthy, and both were widows much sought after socially. But that would have to wait, no matter how long it might take.

The butler announced dinner and, to his considerable surprise, the stately Don Jaime discovered that he was the only guest. If the beautiful Bertha Mason had been a coquettish woman, he would have suspected that this was a boldly flirtatious move on her part, but the seriousness of her character precluded this view.

His interest quickened as he wondered if it could be possible that the very subject about which he wished to talk with Mrs. Mason, was tire subject about which she wished to talk to him, and if this could be the reason for her most singular honoring of him.

The lady herself brought the matter up, when they were back in the drawing-room, and the butler had left them alone with their coffee.

“Let me assure you that your cook is a woman above price,” said Don Jaime, with deep feeling. “Be careful. I warn you that if trickery of any kind can bring it about, I intend to lure her to my villa at Cannes.”

“She is a wonder,” replied Mrs. Mason simply, “and you would not be the first one who made that statement in jest and then tried it in all seriousness, unable to refrain from the temptation; but she is a confirmed Londoner.

“A husband — of sorts — lives ‘down Lime’ouse wye’ as she confides to me now and then, and once a week she is gone a day and a night.

“I suspect she and the husband celebrate this event with large quantities of gin, but as she always returns, a bit bleary, but lacking none of her skill, I cheerfully have meals out that day and variously accommodate myself to this peculiarity of hers, which, of course, violates every canon of the servant ethics — which is the reason that she returns.

“But that’s not what I had you to dinner for, Don Jaime,” she ended abruptly. “I mean to eat one of her dinners and talk about her afterward. I should have liked to have some of my friends here to meet you; and in fact I have planned for a little dinner for that purpose in a few days, if you will honor me.”

“Madame, you are too kind.”

“But now, to-night, I want to talk to you very confidentially. You see, I know that there is no one in the world who can understand the strange things that I am going to say as well as yourself.”

The Don gazed back at her earnestly, trying to be sure that his face betrayed nothing of his astonishment. What could she be about to say? His mind raced swiftly from one possibility to another while he maintained his quiescent, politely inquiring pose, but he was utterly unprepared for what followed.

“You are so well qualified to help people who have mysteries on their hands — my dear Mr. Juan Murphey!” she said, and threw herself back in her chair to chuckle with amusement, as well she might, for Juan allowed his lower jaw to drop in astonishment.

“My dear Mr. Murphey, I beg you to collect your features!” she said. “I assure you that I came into possession of this secret, not through any failure on your part to maintain your role, nor any slip on the part of the incomparable Michael, most learned of valets, but through a letter which I received from Miss Mary Smith!”

“From — Mary?”

“Aha! That’s a potent name, or I’m mistaken. Well, dear Mr. Murphey, in order to keep your eyes from really rolling out onto the floor, let me tell you quickly.

“You see, I have been a client of Mary Smith’s for several years, and I had an interview with her on the morning of the day when your Mrs. Hexter came in with a specimen of writing.

“Yes… yes — you see! I know a good deal about it. Mary has usually written to me at our place in Kent. She did not know my London address, for, in fact, I have not used this house a great deal — not usually more than the two months of the social season — well, after I left her office, I remembered that this year I intend to stay in town longer, and before I left the hotel I dropped her a line, giving her this one.”

“I see, I see — the address was next door—”

“Yes! Mary got that letter of mine just after you and I had sailed away on the Aquitania. She sat right down and wrote me an account of things, and asked me to speak to you. I got the letter a few hours afterward.”

“A few hours afterward, eh? What won’t that woman do next? How did she get it to the ship?”

“Said she had a client who was a rum runner and had the fastest high-powered engine-driven boat on the Atlantic coast. He ran along side and sent the letter up.

“The captain was purple with rage, but I soothed him. I said it was a letter of supreme importance. I knew that it must be, the moment that I saw Mary’s peculiarly-shaped envelope.”

“Well, I’ll be darned,” said Juan, “Mary is worse than I am so far as having queer clients is concerned. I suppose the rum-runner shows her the handwriting of people he does business with and asks her if he can take their checks. To think of your knowing Mary! Why didn’t you say so on board ship?”

Mrs. Mason’s smiling face sobered.

“I tell you the truth, I was afraid to. At first, I thought that it was a good joke, letting you go on with the impersonation. You do it wonderfully. Are you really Spanish?”

“Partly.”

“You know Mary. She’s a perfect graveyard, so far as secrets are concerned. I vaguely knew that she knew you, but I had no idea that you were close friends, nor anything about you. I’m dying to see what you really look like. But, of course, the complexion is yours.”

“It is not,” said Juan with the faintest trace of an Irish brogue, “and me hair’s the color of me fayther’s bedad, the which is red, ma’m.”

Mrs. Mason laughed again. “You and Mary! What a pair!”

Juan Murphey shook his head and his face fell. “No… not a pair,” he said, and looked straight into the eyes of the woman toward whom he had felt such an instant friendship, the moment that he had begun to talk to her. Her fine eyes showed that she understood.

“Well, and so you determined very wisely to wait until I could seem to come and dine, leaving the world to gossip when it knows — as, of course, it will — that you have given such preference to your new acquaintance, the Spanish Don.”

“Yes, that was so, but there is a good deal more to it than that. You see, Mary sent me a good account of the affair, and also the conclusions to which she had come. I had never thought of taking to her something which was troubling me — about the same subject.”

“A-h-h!” Juan breathed, and sat up very straight. “Now we are coming to it. I wanted, so much to ask you—”

“Yes. And I was about to talk to you, when those dreadful murders happened. Tell me, are they part of this” — her glance strayed to the house next door — “this matter?”

“I haven’t an idea. I was at Scotland Yard this morning, supposedly as Don Jaime, to be questioned about those two deaths, but really to have a general conference with Inspector Cross, and when we came away some one shot into the car and just missed us. We don’t know whether that is part of anything, or not.”

She showed her alarm and interest only by the widening of her eyes. Juan liked her more, and more trusted her nerve and good sense.

“Now that you know our side of it,” he went on, “the best thing you can do is to give me a little more of that delightful coffee and tell me all that you know — or suspect.”

Chapter XV What Her Next Door Neighbor Saw

“Alma and I have known each other for a long time, in a general way, you see, but never so closely as the last few years when I have usually spent about two months here.

“She is a very sensitive and gentle person, and for a long time after her husband’s death was practically a recluse. Her father built this house of hers, and she was born in it.

“She does not maintain a country place, but usually goes to France and Italy part of the year. Many of the houses about here are really occupied only for, at the most, four months of the year, but Alma always stayed in town a great deal.

“Mr. Batten liked town life and cared very little for the country, and nothing at all for sports. Alma never cared anything for sports, either.”

“This is what we heard from Mrs. Hexter.”

“Well, last year there was a time when I did not hear from Alma. She usually writes me with the utmost regularity about twice a month. Sometimes it is no more than a note — but she writes.

“I finally wrote to ask if she were well, and got a letter saying that she had been temporarily under the weather. Like Mrs. Hexter, I thought that she expressed herself in a way which seemed a little — what is it you Americans say? — high hattish? — well, never mind, and you needn’t laugh. You know what I mean.

“When I came up to town Alma came over at once to see me, though, and to say how glad she was that I had arrived. Now that was something that she had never done before. It was not quite her manner.

“She usually came out in the garden when she saw me looking at the tulip bed, and we’d compare hers and mine. This sounds so inconsequential that, if I had not had Mary’s letter I would never dare tell you of it.

“There were a lot of things like that. For one thing, Alma never used to say really clever things. You know what I mean. She usually replied very intelligently and well to anything that was said, but she did not sparkle — you understand.

“Now she started to slip a sparkle into her conversation. She started to — well, to talk, at times, as I had never known Alma to talk, and yet — there was something shallow and ill-informed about what she said when it came to the larger matters, world conditions, politics, and so on. Mary wrote me that this Mrs. Hexter had remarked that.

“There are a lot of little things like that. I can’t say that they worried me, but they did distinctly puzzle me. I could not mention them, even if I would, to other people, for very few people really know Alma well.

“She has never been the person to encourage intimacies. In fact, I often thought her standards too exacting, so far as people were concerned.

“Taking that into consideration, you can imagine my surprise when I found that she was cultivating a certain half Bohemian set — no, no, I do not mean artists and writers of any standing; it would be an honor to know them — but these are people on the fringe of things.

“I can’t say that I think any the worse of them for trying to get into that house, and I have to admit that the few I have met have behaved well and even proved rather interesting, but the point of the thing is that Alma would never have had these people in her house for intimate guests before this year.

“She was even rather indifferent to artists of real prominence, something which the duke gently chided her for. There seems to be a good deal of drinking going on when the duke is not there.”

“Ah!”

“He is not there as much as he would like to be, for even though all his estates in Russia had been taken from him, he still had a good many interests here in England, being one of the few exiles who are not poor.

“Then, he is looked to by all the Russians here and on the Continent as the active head of the old aristocracy, and he is often away from England.

“The thing which started me to doing some thinking occurred two months ago. I always keep this house open, with the cook and a maid here, in case I decide to run up, or arrive from anywhere, for — just as you heard me say on the Aquitania and as you so cleverly quoted — I detest hotel food.

“Well, I came up for a few days to do some shopping. Alma did not know that I had arrived, for it was a bright, sunny day, and I sent my bag on by a messenger and walked, going in at the side entrance there, to which I always carry a key.

“I came into this room. The curtains were partially drawn, and as I was tired, I sat down to rest in the dim light. I could look right into that small window there, which is a room where the housekeeper often sits and sews. Alma is seldom there.

“Well, on that day, Alma was in that room and there were two of these semi-bohemians with her. One of them is really a Russian, I think. At least, the duke seems to know him.

“The housekeeper was laughing and talking as I have never seen her do before, and Alma was sitting on the table, swinging her feet and laughing. Unless you had known her, Juan Murphey, you could never imagine how that startled me. It would not have surprised me more if she had been standing on her head.

“I never knew Alma to make the slightest motion which was not dignity itself. But that is not all. All of them were drinking, and this was what was especially strange.

“The whisky was not in any decanter, of which Alma had some wonderful examples, but in a common bottle, and the glasses were ordinary whisky glasses.

“This is something which you would have to estimate by the light of what Alma is really like. She never drinks spirits, except when chilled, and then only in the smallest quantity, and she is especially particular about the way that everything is served in her house.

“As for her taking guests of even very ordinary caliber into the housekeeper’s room, having in a bottle of whisky and drinking with them and with the housekeeper out of large, coarse glasses — well, I tell you that I have never had such a shock.”

“I don’t wonder,” said Juan.

“It doesn’t sound like much, but it was just as bad as if I had seen Alma stealing, or hugging her own butler or something like that. The queer thing was, too, that the housekeeper sat with her hand on Alma’s knee.

“Alma is always kind to her servants, but in all the years I have known her I have never seen the slightest familiarity permitted them. The housekeeper is devoted to Alma, and has been with her many years. She is one of the most silent women that I have ever known, and the servants have told my servants that for weeks at a time they never saw any more of her than when they were called into her room to receive their orders and when she went through the house or the kitchens inspecting their work.

“Alma once told me that Mrs. Keenan had had a great tragedy in her life which was the reason for her peculiar manner. Well, imagine what it seemed like to see that solemn woman laughing and talking.

“The whole scene was so out of character that long after they had all left that room I just sat there in a daze.

“I told the housemaid that I was tired and would lie down and not to raise any of the windows or disturb the curtains, and then I lay on that couch over there and thought.

“It was growing dark and I had no idea of seeing anything more, but as I gazed absently at the window I saw that people had come into the room opposite again, and that time I went to my windows and looked carefully through the dusk.

“Mrs. Keenan was there and the Russian and they talked, and both of them drank as they talked. Nothing unusual to tell, but there was such an air of equality — and that woman, whom I had never seen raise her eyes in all these years — well, of course, she raised them, but I mean that she never seemed to pay attention to anything or anybody — that woman talked away with her eyes and her hands and her whole body, in a way that was not nice, like some rough character.

“For a moment I could have sworn that she was a bad person of some kind. And listen to this. Those two went out of that room arm in arm!”

“I… see!” said Juan, drawing a long breath. “Well, what did you do?”

“I? I didn’t do anything. I went to bed with a headache and laid awake half the night. Once I got up and went to my window, which is also on this side and looked out, thinking that I had heard a noise next door and sure enough, there was a light in the back bedroom window which is Alma’s dressing room.

“I was so worried that I watched it for a long time, and I am sure that I saw the shadows of several people passing the shade. You will laugh at me for deducing anything from such slight evidence, but I do believe that there were several people there — and that they were all drunk.

“Can you imagine what I felt? Drunken men in Alma’s dressing room at three o’clock, a.m. It would be different if she were different.”

“I… see,” said Juan again.

“Well, I have never seen anything like that since, but I have felt a great difference in Alma. She seems to have rather intimate association with this Russian whom I saw talking to the housekeeper in that familiar way.

“His name is Bravortsky and he is said to have been a major in the Czar’s forces. I have heard him mention the regiment and many details, but I never do remember anything about army or navy matters.

“Bravortsky is at the house a good deal, more often when the duke is not there than when he is. Once, when I went over to see Alma about some roses which we both have in our gardens the butler seemed startled when he saw me at the door, and I thought that I saw Alma run up the stairs; in fact, I could be almost sure that I saw her, and yet he said that she was not in.

“I am sure that I saw him look backward over his shoulder as if to make sure that she was out of sight. Of course, such a thing might happen at any time if a woman did not wish to see a chance visitor, but it is unthinkable that Alma should not see me. I think that Edith Hexter and I are her only real friends.

“When I went to see Mary Smith, a week ago, I did not think of presenting this problem to her. I often save any handwriting of celebrities that I happen to have, and as I had a number with me and wanted to see her anyway, I took them in, in person.

“What she wrote me as to her deductions about the handwriting of Alma, which Edith Hexter had just received, knocked me cold. You see, I had seen some things that would seem to give a good deal of color to that preposterous idea of Mary’s.”

“Not preposterous,” Juan shook his head. “When Mary gives her professional opinion in that slow, careful way of hers, you may be sure that she is not mistaken. I am sure of her.

“You see, the old system of identification by handwriting totally ignored the graphological deductions of character and therefore was often inaccurate, but the union of the handwriting expert and the graphologist gives a true result.

“I’m going on the premises that Mary is right, and that the woman about whom we are now talking is not your old friend, not the old friend that Mrs. Hexter knows, but a woman who has been substituted for her. Tell me if you notice anything in her appearance which is different?”

“N-no… I can’t say that I do, but I can say that her eyes do not seem the same. They are more beautiful, if anything, than they used to seem. Her voice is richer, too. She has more animation.

“All I can say is that it is as if you had taken rather a dim portrait and painted it in high colors. As I told you, what she does is not really different, but there is a little more impulsiveness about her.

“However, that which, to my mind, is most peculiar of all is this. Alma never cared for anything outside of her own home. She disliked sports, never walked except when in the country, and never set foot outside her own house after nightfall unless she went in a car.

“But lately I have seen her, on four different occasions, dressed very inconspicuously, leave the house after nine o’clock at night and walk away into the dark.

“Once I am sure that a man who had been standing at the corner of Hyacinthe Road and Camberwall Street turned and walked with her. I can only repeat that you would have to have known Alma to know how unusual such an action on her part would seem.”

Chapter XVI The Method in His Madness

The butler tapped on the door at this point, entered, and informed his mistress that a young woman from Garrett’s Agency had arrived. “About the position, madame.”

“Will you excuse me a few minutes?” Mrs. Mason said to Juan. “This is an applicant for the position of housemaid. I sent out an urgent call to-day to several agencies, but none that they sent me pleased me.

“I don’t know this agency, but they supply domestic servants of a superior order and I suppose have sent the girl at this late hour on the chance of getting her in.”

“Wait a minute.” Juan was smiling mischievously. “Do something for me. See this girl in here, will you? It’s just a whim.” Mrs. Mason stared for a moment, and then laughed. “Don Jaime has only to command,” she said. “Bring the girl here, Dawkins.

“Now, what is going on?” she asked, as the man went out of the room.

“Wait; I’m not sure that anything is.”

The young woman whom the butler brought into the drawing room a moment later was an excellent example of the good servant. She was dressed with extreme simplicity, carried herself with modest assurance, and was not at all flustered.

She gave her name to Mrs. Mason as Amelia Hutchinson, produced copies of her references, referred Mrs. Mason to the agency as to their possession of the originals, stated her qualifications, and sat silent afterward.

Mrs. Mason shot a doubtful look at Juan. She could not imagine what he had wanted the girl in for. As for Juan, he was in a quandary. The girl was either a very good actress, or she was just what she seemed to be. At last he passed Mrs. Mason a card on which he had scribbled:

When he was alone with the girl, he said to her:

“Who gave you this assignment?”

The girl looked at him with surprise. “Assignment?” she said. “I don’t understand, Mr. Hollingshead of the agency told me to come here.”

Without a word Juan went out to the telephone which he had noticed in the hall, and called Mrs. Mason. “Call the agency,” he said, “and say that you will take the girl. Ask for Mr. Hollingshead. Just as you are through, say, ‘The terms are as agreed on.’ ”

“Yes, but—”

“He will then say something. Hang up the receiver and tell me what that is.”

Mrs. Mason shook her head in half-assumed and half-real amazement, and then did as she was bidden.

“ ‘That’s all settled, then,’ ” she quoted, as she hung up the receiver.

Juan grinned and took her by the arm.

“Come back,” he ordered, and marched her into the drawing-room where he said: “I just got the all settled sign on you, miss. I’m Juan Murphey.”

The girl’s impassive face flashed into life. She stood up, shook hands respectfully with Juan, and said: “I’ve often heard of you, sir, but never thought to be with you on a case.”

Mrs. Mason sank into a chair, and rolled her eyes at the pair.

“Well!” she exclaimed. “Will somebody kindly explain? Why does the young woman have this assurance, and why do you tell her another name than your own, Don Jaime?”

“You are a discreet as well as charming lady,” said Juan, still smiling. “This is one of the most expert indoor detectives that you could want to see.”

“Oh, Mr. Murphey!”

“Yes, you are, my dear. What is your name? I’ve forgotten.”

“Rose Maguire.”

“But she came from a domestic servant agency,” protested Mrs. Mason.

“That agency is a sort of double-barreled one,” Juan replied. “It is really an excellent servant agency, but it is also a detective agency, known to a few, and often supplying England with servants who are also detectives.

“They have to be good servants, as well as detectives. I am sure that you will have no fault to find with your housemaid, Mrs. Mason.”

“I won’t know how to treat her,” the woman wailed, with her usual half humorous attitude. “How can I order her around when she may be detecting at that very moment?”

“You need not think about that at all, Mrs. Mason,” the pseudo housemaid replied, smiling. “After I leave this room just forget that I am anything but what I am hired for — unless I am needed to do something in the other line, or you want to consult me or to tell me something.

“Am I supposed to know something about the case, Mr. Murphey? I suppose that you have got word to Mr. Hollingshead that you are here?”

“Yes, I had Mrs. Mason give him the word, and received back his.”

“So that was what those terms were?”

“Yes, Mrs. Mason. By that means Hollingshead, who is the man in charge of the detective branch of the agency, knows that you know who your housemaid is and, inferentially, that I am here. We have to be very careful in using the telephone, there are so many ways of tapping a telephone, these days, that practically nothing can be intrusted to it with the assurance of secrecy, which is the reason that I did not speak myself.

“Now, Rose, suppose that Mrs. Mason and I give you a very brief statement of what the matter is. I have no idea, at present, of what you can do. I just sent word to the agency by an operative of mine who arrived this morning that they should try to fill this place.

“I was not really certain that I could confide in Mrs. Mason at first, and trusted to chance to get word to you about the matter. By the way, Mrs. Mason, the gardener whom you hired this evening was that operative.”

“My word!” The Englishwoman stared. “That is ‘such speed,’ isn’t it? You Americans!”

“It is ‘some speed,’ yes. I’ll have to take you in hand and teach you our vocabulary. Now, on this case, you begin with what you know, and I’ll finish it.”

Between the two of them they managed to give a comprehensive if hasty statement of the case to Rose Maguire, who merely nodded at their astonishing statements.

“The thing for me to do is to become as friendly with the servants next door as I can,” she said.

“And now you’d better go,” Juan said. We don’t want the butler to know that you are anything but what you seem. Be here in the morning.

“Tell Hollingshead that I thank him for giving you to us, and that I’ll not communicate direct with him if I can help it. I feel that every move that I make may be watched, and if possible I want to preserve the Spaniard for a time.

“That’s a smart girl,” he told Mrs. Mason, after Rose Maguire, instantly slipping into her character, had thanked Mrs. Mason for the position and had followed the butler out. “I have heard of her before. Some day she will be really worth while.

“Now we have two people to undermine that place next door while we assail it from above. How am I going to be introduced there? It must not be too soon. Whether I am suspected or not, I must always maintain my pose. If I can disarm suspicion, so much the better.”

“I wonder if you can get an introduction to Bravortsky or some of that crew? I tell you! Bravortsky has been in to tea once or twice, and I suspect that he will be here to-morrow, since Nicolas Yurdsky, the Russian pianist, is to come and he knows that.

“For some reason, he and all of them — Alma, too — are cultivating Yurdsky, who has been a friend of mine ever since, as a poor boy, he began playing here in London.

“Alma seemed not to care for him, but now — you know, even knowing all that I do, there are times when I simply cannot believe that it is not my Alma — my Alma who has fallen into evil hands, in some way. Do you think it possible that Mary Smith could be mistaken?”

“No!”

Mrs. Mason shrugged her shoulders and sighed. “When I think that the Alma that I know may be somewhere outside her own safe old home, which she loves so and that she so seldom wants to leave, it makes me frantic. If this is a substitute woman, she is a fiend and the whole thing is a diabolical plot!”

“That is exactly what it is. I am more convinced of it every moment. We must not hurry, though. A single false step will betray us. As for you, dear lady — I wish that you would allow Rose to sleep in your dressing room; I should feel safer.”

“Why… I am safe, here in my own house. What do you mean?”

“I mean, that we have undoubtedly some of the cleverest and most desperate of European and possibly American criminals to deal with, and that they will not stop at anything.

“You and Mrs. Hexter are the only two persons well enough acquainted with the true Alma to become suspicious. She is on the other side of the Atlantic, but you are right here, next door. I do not feel easy.

“Please promise me that you will have Rose with you. She has a pistol, no doubt. For to-night, how about the cook?”

“I wouldn’t ask her a favor outside of her kitchen, for a thousand pounds.”

“How about the butler? Where does he sleep?”

“He and the cook have rooms on the third floor.”

“So that you are alone in this house but for them?”

“Yes. The footman goes home. If I am entertaining a great deal, of course, I have in other servants, but the season is hardly opened yet.”

“I don’t like it.”

“Oh, nonsense!”

He was still worried as he went down to his waiting car, for he had not succeeded in getting Bertha Mason to believe that there was any cause for her to be afraid, and he could see that it was still hard for her to make up her mind that the case was really dangerous.

Michael’s face did not change as he welcomed his master to their suite in the Ritz, but Juan saw that he was pale.

“You’ll have to get out of this habit of worrying about me, dear chap.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come here,” said Juan, and as Michael, after seeing that every shade was down and that there was no keyhole from the hall in a line with them, came to sit beside him, he went on to tell his colleague of all that had happened that evening.

“Where is Hoofty staying?” he asked, as he ended.

For answer Michael brought out a very correct-looking letter:

“I hope that you will drop in and see me before you leave London,” said the writer, who addressed his note to “Mon cher Jaime.” The note was a casual chat. In one part there was a quotation, evidently from a book of light philosophies. “That’s the address,” Michael stated. “I decoded it. ‘19 Warwick Lane.’ That’s down Limehouse way.”

“You see the value of all the training that I insist on my operatives taking,” Juan said. “Very often, there would be no occasion whatever for such elaborate precautions. Hoofty could send me in his address and write a report, just as he often does.

“But there are times and they are the most serious times to a detective, when he has to remember that the cunning of not only one high-class criminal, but of a number of them, perhaps under a clever leader, is pitted against him.

“I don’t know that our mail will be or can be tampered with, but if we can plant our operatives in places, so can criminals, and I am convinced that hotel servants have far too little attention from the police of every country.

“Half of the big crimes are either planned in hotels or have part of their plots laid there. So I can’t be sure that some employee here is not here for the express purpose of watching us. With the magnitude of the job which must be on hand, there may be many members of this gang which we are dealing with.

“I know that a great many people think that perfecting my operatives in disguise, teaching them to guard against surprises, and giving them means of secretly communicating with me and with each other, is all a waste of time.

“I acknowledge that we don’t use these resources often and that a great deal of the work we do is of the simplest description. But when we do get into a mess like this, Michael, the ordinary detective methods are hopelessly outclassed.”

Chapter XVII Tinkling Fingers

Yurdsky was playing.

Bravortsky leaned on the end of the piano with just a shade too obsequious a manner.

Several women and men were grouped near one of the long windows which opened on the terrace.

Mrs. Mason sat on a sofa with her friend Alma.

Don Jaime de Ventura, more like a painting by Velasquez than ever, stood by the mantle, his slim and graceful figure making every other man in the room look commonplace.

The housemaid, “Amelia Hutchinson,” served tea, under the careful eye of the butler. It spoke volumes for her that he was not frowning slightly; Dawkins was the terror of untrained or careless servants.

Yurdsky was a superb pianist; but it seemed to Juan that the company paid a trifle too much court to him. He was a pale, quiet youth who had no personal vanity, but who was a sublime egotist when it came to his talent. There was no extravagance of praise which he would not accept as his due.

Juan had observed this company with minute attention, although his manner was that of a person who is habitually absentminded. The women and the men were all just a trifle too authentic! In short, everybody looked his or her part too well.

Bravortsky was excessively military, the women were very Russian, and very French, and very English. The men, who had been introduced by various names, were so very much at ease!

But as for Mrs. George Batten, if Juan had not had an unshakable confidence in Mary Smith, not only as a woman, but as a scientist, he would have been convinced that the whole fabric of their surmises was a falsity.

There did not seem a particle of artificiality about her. She was rather quiet in her manner, although undeniably beautiful. Juan wondered that the two women closest to her, Edith Hexter and Bertha Mason, had not insisted on this point more.

He had been introduced to her and had had the opportunity to sit down on the sofa with the two women, but this was not in the game. He intended to seem aloof from all other women, and to give his friendship rather openly to Mrs. Mason.

In his inner consciousness, Juan knew very well that he had a good deal of magnetism, in his own usual person, and that as Don Jaime he really was something of what Hoofty was continually teasing him for being — a heart-breaker.

Outside the window through which Juan could look he now saw that worthy, properly smocked and hatted, working carefully around some rosebeds. Hoofty was clearly visible from the drawing-room and as Yurdsky, after receiving adulation, was sitting down to rest and to drink his tea, Juan distinctly heard Alma Batten say to her friend:

“I see you have a new gardener in the place of old Cordes.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Mason replied. “I got him yesterday. It seems that Cordes knew him and gave him the address when he was dying in the hospital, poor old fellow. To think that I was not here. He’d been with me eight years.”

“I have had to make some changes in my own staff,” the rich, colorful voice went on. “You remember Thompkins? He used to tend the grounds as well as work in the house. He’s gone to America.

“I wonder if your man could help me a little for the next few weeks until I can get another man like Thompkins? I don’t need a man just for the grounds, you know. They are not as extensive as yours.”

“Yes, I’ll tell Brown to see you after dinner this evening, of course,” Mrs. Mason replied.

There had been just a second’s hesitation in her reply, and Juan thought that he guessed what had caused it. Like himself, she had been too amazed by this turn of good fortune to believe that it could be wholly fortuitous. Like her — as he felt sure — he instantly began to ask himself what lay behind this.

Speculation on this was brought abruptly to an end by the butler, who stopped in the middle of the large doorway of the drawing-room, ready to make an important announcement.