Chapter XIX: Book IV: , Epigram 18

On a youth killed by the fall of a piece of ice.

Just where the gate near the portico of Agrippa is always dripping with
water, and the slippery pavement is wet with constant showers, a mass
of water, congealed by winter’s cold, fell upon the neck of a youth who
was entering the damp temple, and, when it had inflicted a cruel death
on the unfortunate boy, the weapon melted in the warm wound it had
made. What cruelties does not Fortune permit? Or where is not death to
be found, if you, the waters, turn cut-throats.

“And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly, “he went to that window back by the big globe and got one—and here’s the proof! Look through the glass, F. S.”

Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a moment.

Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious.

The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed in a moment or two.

They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery was solved.

“Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone, thoughtfully.

“He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not have taken his life at that time.”

“There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.”

Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more than anything else in life, but he said:

“Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up.

“But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and—”

“The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!”

“Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring, about two inches across. It’s gone now.”

“Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning—or perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.”

“He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.”

“In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it must have been that.”

The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police.

The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement.

He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.

Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish death.

Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her mother arranged matters between themselves.

The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he destroyed it.

“Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone together.

“I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.”

“But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?”

“Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and in deed. I just want to be—Anita Lockwood.”

Whereupon Gordon lost his head entirely.

_CAROLYN WELLS’_ _Baffling detective stories in which Fleming Stone, the great American Detective, displays his remarkable ingenuity for unravelling mysteries_

THE MYSTERY OF THE SYCAMORE
RASPBERRY JAM
THE DIAMOND PIN
VICKY VAN
THE MARK OF CAIN
THE CURVED BLADES
THE WHITE ALLEY
ANYBODY BUT ANNE
THE MAXWELL MYSTERY
A CHAIN OF EVIDENCE
THE CLUE
THE GOLD BAG

EACH WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR
12MO. CLOTH

PTOMAINE STREET
A Rollicking Parody on a Famous Book.

Transcriber’s Notes

--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.

--Moved promotional material to the end of the book.

--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.

--Provided an original cover image, for free and unrestricted use with
this Distributed Proofreaders eBook.