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(Tuesday, November 30; 12.30 p. m.)

When Snitkin and Burke had gone Vance turned from the window and strolled to where the doctor was sitting.

“I think it might be well,” he said quietly, “if the exact whereabouts of every one in the house preceding and during the shooting was determined.—We know, doctor, that you arrived here at about a quarter past ten. How long were you with Mrs. Greene?”

Von Blon drew himself up and gave Vance a resentful stare. But quickly his manner changed and he answered courteously:

“I sat with her for perhaps half an hour; then I went to Sibella’s room—a little before eleven, I should say—and remained there until Sproot called me.”

“And was Miss Sibella with you in the room all the time?”

“Yes—the entire time.”

“Thank you.”

Vance returned to the window, and Heath, who had been watching the doctor belligerently, took his cigar from his mouth and cocked his head at Markham.

“You know, sir, I was just thinking over the Inspector’s suggestion about planting some one in the house to keep an eye on things. How would it be if we got rid of this nurse that’s here now, and put in one of our own women from Headquarters?”

Von Blon looked up with eager approval.

“An excellent plan!” he exclaimed.

“Very well, Sergeant,” agreed Markham. “You attend to it.”

“Your woman can begin to-night,” Von Blon told Heath. “I’ll meet you here whenever you say, and give her instructions. There’s nothing very technical for her to do.”

Heath made a notation in a battered note-book.

“I’ll meet you here, say, at six o’clock. How’s that?”

“That will suit me perfectly.” Von Blon rose. “And now, if I can be of no more service . . .”

“That’s quite all right, doctor,” said Markham. “Go right ahead.”

But instead of immediately leaving the house Von Blon went up-stairs, and we heard him knock on Sibella’s door. A few minutes later he came down again and passed on to the front door without a glance in our direction.

In the meantime Snitkin had come in and informed the Sergeant that Captain Jerym was leaving Police Headquarters at once and would arrive within half an hour. He had then gone outside to make his measurements of the footprints on the balcony steps.

“And now,” suggested Markham, “I think we might see Mrs. Greene. It’s possible she heard something. . . .”

Vance roused himself from apparent lethargy.

“By all means. But first let us get a few facts in hand. I long to hear where the nurse was during the half-hour preceding Rex’s demise. And I could bear to know if the old lady was alone immediately following the firing of the revolver.—Why not have our Miss Nightingale on the tapis before we brave the invalid’s imprecations?”

Markham concurred, and Heath sent Sproot to summon her.

The nurse came in with an air of professional detachment; but her roseate cheeks had paled perceptibly since we last saw her.

“Miss Craven”—Vance’s manner was easy and businesslike—“will you please tell us exactly what you were doing between half past ten and half past eleven this morning?”

“I was in my room on the third floor,” she answered. “I went there when the doctor arrived a little after ten, and remained until he called me to bring Mrs. Greene’s bouillon. Then I returned to my room and stayed until the doctor again summoned me to sit with Mrs. Greene while he was with you gentlemen.”

“When you were in your room, was the door open?”

“Oh, yes. I always leave it open in the daytime in case Mrs. Greene calls.”

“And her door was open, too, I take it.”

“Yes.”

“Did you hear the shot?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“That will be all, Miss Craven.” Vance accompanied her to the hall. “You’d better return to your room now, for we’re going to pay a visit to your patient.”

Mrs. Greene eyed us vindictively when we entered after having knocked and been imperiously ordered to come in.

“More trouble,” she complained. “Am I never to have any peace in my own house? The first day in weeks I’ve felt even moderately comfortable—and then all this had to happen to upset me!”

“We regret, madam—more than you do apparently—that your son is dead,” said Markham. “And we are sorry for the annoyance the tragedy is causing you. But that does not relieve me from the necessity of investigating the affair. As you were awake at the time the shot was fired, it is essential that we seek what information you may be able to give us.”

“What information can I give you—a helpless paralytic, lying here alone?” A smouldering anger flickered in her eyes. “It strikes me that you are the one to give me information.”

Markham ignored her barbed retort.

“The nurse tells me your door was open this morning. . . .”

“And why shouldn’t it have been? Am I expected to be entirely excommunicated from the rest of the household?”

“Certainly not. I was merely trying to find out if, by any chance, you were in a position to hear anything that went on in the hall.”

“Well, I heard nothing—if that’s all you want to know.”

Markham persisted patiently.

“You heard no one, for instance, cross Miss Ada’s room, or open Miss Ada’s door?”

“I’ve already told you I heard nothing.” The old lady’s denial was viciously emphatic.

“Nor any one walking in the hall, or descending the stairs?”

“No one but that incompetent doctor and the impossible Sproot. Were we supposed to have had visitors this morning?”

“Some one shot your son,” Markham reminded her coolly.

“It was probably his own fault,” she snapped. Then she seemed to relent a bit. “Still, Rex was not as hard and thoughtless as the rest of the children. But even he neglected me shamefully.” She appeared to weigh the matter. “Yes,” she decided, “he received just punishment for the way he treated me.”

Markham struggled with a hot resentment. At last he managed to ask, with apparent calmness:

“Did you hear the shot with which your son was punished?”

“I did not.” Her tone was again irate. “I knew nothing of the disturbance until the doctor saw fit to tell me.”

“And yet Mr. Rex’s door, as well as yours, was open,” said Markham. “I can hardly understand your not having heard the shot.”

The old lady gave him a look of scathing irony.

“Am I to sympathize with your lack of understanding?”

“Lest you be tempted to, madam, I shall leave you.” Markham bowed stiffly and turned on his heel.

As we reached the lower hall Doctor Doremus arrived.

“Your friends are still at it, I hear, Sergeant,” he greeted Heath, with his usual breezy manner. Handing his coat and hat to Sproot, he came forward and shook hands with all of us. “When you fellows don’t spoil my breakfast you interfere with my lunch,” he repined. “Where’s the body?”

Heath led him up-stairs, and after a few minutes returned to the drawing-room. Taking out another cigar he bit the end of it savagely. “Well, sir, I guess you’ll want to see this Miss Sibella next, won’t you?”

“We might as well,” sighed Markham. “Then I’ll tackle the servants and leave things to you. The reporters will be along pretty soon.”

“Don’t I know it! And what they’re going to do to us in the papers’ll be a-plenty!”

“And you can’t even tell them ‘it is confidently expected that an arrest will be made in the immediate future,’ don’t y’ know,” grinned Vance. “It’s most distressin’.”

Heath made an inarticulate noise of exasperation and, calling Sproot, sent him for Sibella.

A moment later she came in carrying a small Pomeranian. She was paler than I had ever seen her, and there was unmistakable fright in her eyes. When she greeted us it was without her habitual gaiety.

“This thing is getting rather ghastly, isn’t it?” she remarked when she had taken a seat.

“It is indeed dreadful,” returned Markham soberly. “You have our very deepest sympathy. . . .”

“Oh, thanks awf’ly.” She accepted the cigarette Vance offered her. “But I’m beginning to wonder how long I’ll be here to receive condolences.” She spoke with forced lightness, but a strained quality in her voice told of her suppressed emotion.

Markham regarded her sympathetically.

“I do not think it would be a bad idea if you went away for a while—to some friend’s house, let us say—preferably out of the city.”

“Oh, no.” She tossed her head with defiance. “I sha’n’t run away. If there’s any one really bent on killing me, he’ll manage it somehow, wherever I am. Anyway, I’d have to come back sooner or later. I couldn’t board with out-of-town friends indefinitely—could I?” She looked at Markham with a kind of anxious despair. “You haven’t any idea, I suppose, who it is that’s obsessed with the idea of exterminating us Greenes?”

Markham was reluctant to admit to her the utter hopelessness of the official outlook; and she turned appealingly to Vance.

“You needn’t treat me like a child,” she said spiritedly. “You, at least, Mr. Vance, can tell me if there is any one under suspicion.”

“No, dash it all, Miss Greene!—there isn’t,” he answered promptly. “It’s an amazin’ confession to have to make; but it’s true. That’s why, I think, Mr. Markham suggested that you go away for a while.”

“It’s very thoughtful of him and all that,” she returned. “But I think I’ll stay and see it through.”

“You’re a very brave girl,” said Markham, with troubled admiration. “And I assure you everything humanly possible will be done to safeguard you.”

“Well, so much for that.” She tossed her cigarette into a receiver, and began abstractedly to pet the dog in her lap. “And now, I suppose, you want to know if I heard the shot. Well, I didn’t. So you may continue the inquisition from that point.”

“You were in your room, though, at the time of your brother’s death?”

“I was in my room all morning,” she said. “My first appearance beyond the threshold was when Sproot brought the sad tidings of Rex’s passing. But Doctor Von shooed me back again; and there I’ve remained until now. Model behavior, don’t you think, for a member of this new and wicked generation?”

“What time did Doctor Von Blon come to your room?” asked Vance.

Sibella gave him a faint whimsical smile.

“I’m so glad it was you who asked that question. I’m sure Mr. Markham would have used a disapproving tone—though it’s quite au fait to receive one’s doctor in one’s boudoir.—Let me see. I’m sure you asked Doctor Von the same question, so I must be careful. . . . A little before eleven, I should say.”

“The doc’s exact words,” chimed in Heath suspiciously.

Sibella turned a look of amused surprise upon him.

“Isn’t that wonderful! But then, I’ve always been told that honesty is the best policy.”

“And did Doctor Von Blon remain in your room until called by Sproot?” pursued Vance.

“Oh, yes. He was smoking his pipe. Mother detests pipes, and he often sneaks into my room to enjoy a quiet smoke.”

“And what were you doing during the doctor’s visit?”

“I was bathing this ferocious animal.” She held up the Pomeranian for Vance’s inspection. “Doesn’t he look nice?”

“In the bathroom?”

“Naturally. I’d hardly bathe him in the poudrière.”

“And was the bathroom door closed?”

“As to that I couldn’t say. But it’s quite likely. Doctor Von is like a member of the family, and I’m terribly rude to him sometimes.”

Vance got up.

“Thank you very much, Miss Greene. We’re sorry we had to trouble you. Do you mind remaining in your room for a while?”

“Mind? On the contrary. It’s about the only place I feel safe.” She walked to the archway. “If you do find out anything you’ll let me know—won’t you? There’s no use pretending any longer. I’m dreadfully scared.” Then, as if ashamed of her admission, she went quickly down the hall.

Just then Sproot admitted the two finger-print experts—Dubois and Bellamy—and the official photographer. Heath joined them in the hall and took them up-stairs, returning immediately.

“And now what, sir?”

Markham seemed lost in gloomy speculation, and it was Vance who answered the Sergeant’s query.

“I rather think,” he said, “that another verbal bout with the pious Hemming and the taciturn Frau Mannheim might dispose of a loose end or two.”

Hemming was sent for. She came in laboring under intense excitement. Her eyes fairly glittered with the triumph of the prophetess whose auguries have come to pass. But she had no information whatever to impart. She had spent most of the forenoon in the laundry, and had been unaware of the tragedy until Sproot had mentioned it to her shortly before our arrival. She was voluble, however, on the subject of divine punishment, and it was with difficulty that Vance stemmed her oracular stream of words.

Nor could the cook throw any light on Rex’s murder. She had been in the kitchen, she said, the entire morning except for the hour she had gone marketing. She had not heard the shot and, like Hemming, knew of the tragedy only through Sproot. A marked change, however, had come over the woman. When she had entered the drawing-room fright and resentment animated her usually stolid features, and as she sat before us her fingers worked nervously in her lap.

Vance watched her critically during the interview. At the end he asked suddenly:

“Miss Ada has been with you in the kitchen this past half-hour?”

At the mention of Ada’s name her fear was perceptibly intensified. She drew a deep breath.

“Yes, little Ada has been with me. And thank the good God she was away this morning when Mr. Rex was killed, or it might have been her and not Mr. Rex. They tried once to shoot her, and maybe they’ll try again. She oughtn’t to be allowed to stay in this house.”

“I think it only fair to tell you, Frau Mannheim,” said Vance, “that some one will be watching closely over Miss Ada from now on.”

The woman looked at him gratefully.

“Why should any one want to harm little Ada?” she asked, in an anguished tone. “I also shall watch over her.”

When she had left us Vance said:

“Something tells me, Markham, that Ada could have no better protector in this house than that motherly German.—And yet,” he added, “there’ll be no end of this grim carnage until we have the murderer safely gyved.” His face darkened: his mouth was as cruel as Pietro de’ Medici’s. “This hellish business isn’t ended. The final picture is only just emerging. And it’s damnable—worse than any of the horrors of Rops or Doré.”

Markham nodded with dismal depression.

“Yes, there appears to be an inevitability about these tragedies that’s beyond mere human power to combat.” He got up wearily and addressed himself to Heath. “There’s nothing more I can do here at present, Sergeant. Carry on, and phone me at the office before five.”

We were about to take our departure when Captain Jerym arrived. He was a quiet, heavy-set man, with a gray, scraggly moustache and small, deep-set eyes. One might easily have mistaken him for a shrewd, efficient merchant. After a brief hand-shaking ceremony Heath piloted him up-stairs.

Vance had already donned his ulster, but now he removed it.

“I think I’ll tarry a bit and hear what the Captain has to say regarding those footprints. Y’ know, Markham, I’ve been evolving a rather fantastic theory about ’em; and I want to test it.”

Markham looked at him a moment with questioning curiosity. Then he glanced at his watch.

“I’ll wait with you,” he said.

Ten minutes later Doctor Doremus came down, and paused long enough on his way out to tell us that Rex had been shot with a .32 revolver held at a distance of about a foot from the forehead, the bullet having entered directly from the front and embedded itself, in all probability, in the midbrain.

A quarter of an hour after Doremus had gone Heath re-entered the drawing-room. He expressed uneasy surprise at seeing us still there.

“Mr. Vance wanted to hear Jerym’s report,” Markham explained.

“The Captain’ll be through any minute now.” The Sergeant sank into a chair. “He’s checking Snitkin’s measurements. He couldn’t make much of the tracks on the carpet, though.”

“And finger-prints?” asked Markham.

“Nothing yet.”

“And there won’t be,” added Vance. “There wouldn’t be footprints if they weren’t deliberately intended for us.”

Heath shot him a sharp look, but before he could speak Captain Jerym and Snitkin came down-stairs.

“What’s the verdict, Cap?” asked the Sergeant.

“Those footprints on the balcony steps,” said Jerym, “were made with galoshes of the same size and markings as the pattern turned over to me by Snitkin a fortnight or so ago. As for the prints in the room, I’m not so sure. They appear to be the same, however; and the dirt on them is sooty, like the dirt on the snow outside the French doors. I’ve several photographs of them; and I’ll know definitely when I get my enlargements under the microscope.”

Vance rose and sauntered to the archway.

“May I have your permission to go up-stairs a moment, Sergeant?”

Heath looked mystified. His instinct was to ask a reason for this unexpected request, but all he said was: “Sure. Go ahead.”

Something in Vance’s manner—an air of satisfaction combined with a suppressed eagerness—told me that he had verified his theory.

He was gone less than five minutes. When he returned he carried a pair of galoshes similar to those that had been found in Chester’s closet. He handed them to Captain Jerym.

“You’ll probably find that these made the tracks.”

Both Jerym and Snitkin examined them carefully, comparing the measurements and fitting the rough patterns to the soles. Finally, the Captain took one of them to the window, and affixing a jeweller’s glass to his eye, studied the riser of the heel.

“I think you’re right,” he agreed. “There’s a worn place here which corresponds to an indentation on the cast I made.”

Heath had sprung to his feet and stood eyeing Vance.

“Where did you find ’em?” he demanded.

“Tucked away in the rear of the little linen-closet at the head of the stairs.”

The Sergeant’s excitement got the better of him. He swung about to Markham, fairly spluttering with consternation.

“Those two guys from the Bureau that went over this house looking for the gun told me there wasn’t a pair of galoshes in the place; and I specially told ’em to keep their eyes pealed for galoshes. And now Mr. Vance finds ’em in the linen-closet off the main hall up-stairs!”

“But, Sergeant,” said Vance mildly, “the galoshes weren’t there when your sleuths were looking for the revolver. On both former occasions the johnny who wore ’em had plenty of time to put ’em away safely. But to-day, d’ ye see, he had no chance to sequester them; so he left ’em in the linen-closet for the time being.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” Heath growled vaguely. “Well, what’s the rest of the story, Mr. Vance?”

“That’s all there is to date. If I knew the rest I’d know who fired the shots. But I might remind you that neither of your sergents-de-ville saw any suspicious person leave here.”

“Good God, Vance!” Markham was on his feet. “That means that the murderer is in the house this minute.”

“At any rate,” returned Vance lazily, “I think we are justified in assuming that the murderer was here when we arrived.”

“But nobody’s left the place but Von Blon,” blurted Heath.

Vance nodded. “Oh, it’s wholly possible the murderer is still in the house, Sergeant.”