Chapter VII: Part 7

"You see," she began, "first I tried to get at Doctor Lathrop himself. But I guess you must have been there first. He was barricaded, so to speak. I posed as a patient, tried to think up all kinds of ailments I could, just to get in. But he had an assistant who interviewed every patient. I think that fellow would make a medical detective. I thought I was clever, but he found me out and I was politely requested to step outside."

I glanced at Kennedy. Evidently Lathrop did not intend to talk. Was it wholly natural reticence?

"Then," resumed Belle to me, "I thought of our friend, Zona Dare. I remembered that she had been intimate with Vina Lathrop. Zona wouldn't say anything. But I didn't need that. From her I got the cue. I knew she was keeping something from me, just knew it--woman's intuition, I guess. I knew that Zona lived here at the Sainte-Germaine."

"But Mrs. Lathrop is alone," I hastened.

"Surely. You wouldn't see them together. Trust Zona. She's too clever for that."

Again I glanced at Kennedy without getting anything from the expression of his face. Was it a clue? Did it mean anything, this immediate appeal by Vina for help from the Freudian interpreter of the Village?

We chatted a few minutes longer, as Kennedy turned away further inquisitorial shafts of the clever reporter. However, somehow I felt that Belle still had something on her mind.

"Then you aren't going to write it, after all?" she asked, eagerly, of me, as Kennedy showed signs of leaving.

"Of course not," I assured. "It wouldn't look right--at this stage of the case--for me to write, do you think? However, that's no reason why _The Star_ shouldn't have the story."

She beamed.

"Very well, then. I'll try to get it," she replied, rather relieved at the thought that whatever clever work she had done to get the tip that had located Vina would not go for naught and would be credited to her.

We bowed ourselves away, leaving Belle the difficult and unenviable job of getting at Mrs. Lathrop again, something I should not have wanted to do, judging by the fiery glance that had been shot at us from behind the slammed door.

"That will be a last straw to Vina Lathrop--when she knows the newspapers have found her out here," I remarked, as we turned toward the street entrance.

Kennedy drew me back and we sidled into the protection of the fronds of a thick clump of palms.

I looked out cautiously. There was Doyle just coming up the steps of the hotel.

Doyle bustled in, and we let him pass, unaccosted.

"Where did _he_ get his information?" I wondered.

"Not so difficult. If the police drag-net is out, a hotel like the Sainte-Germaine isn't at all safe," replied Craig. "I imagine we can leave Vina to their tender mercies--the police and the press."

We left the hotel hurriedly lest we might encounter any one else, and a few minutes later found ourselves again at Chase's detective agency. Chase was in and regarded us inquiringly as we entered.

"About this Lathrop case," introduced Kennedy. "You know that she was very intimate with Mr. Shattuck."

Chase nodded.

"It occurred to me," went on Kennedy, "that since you were working for Mrs. Wilford you might be able to help me. There were several things you told me the other day that I've been thinking about."

Chase narrowed his eyes as if trying to fathom what Kennedy was thinking. "I admit breaking into Shattuck's apartment," he said. "Do you mean that?"

"Partly. Why did you do it?"

"It was to get some letters Mrs. Lathrop had written to him," returned Chase, without quizzing.

"Did you get them?"

"I did."

"Where are they?"

Chase balked.

"Did you read them?"

"Yes," he answered, reluctantly.

"What was in them? Shattuck had been pursuing Mrs. Lathrop, hadn't he?" fenced Kennedy, keenly.

"No--he had not. She had been pursuing him," snapped Chase, though why he was so evidently put out about it I could not make out at first.

"How about that Calabar bean?"

"I found it in a cabinet, while I was searching for the letters," he answered, his face betraying no expression.

"Why did you tell me that in the first place?" demanded Kennedy, suddenly switching the subject. "Did you have any motive?"

"Motive? I thought you ought to know--that's all. He's not _my_ client, you know."

"But he's a _friend_ of your client and--"

"Say, Kennedy, I know how Doyle has been hounding that poor little woman. If you want the truth, I didn't tell Doyle because it wouldn't do any good. I thought you could be _fair_."

"Well, what's your opinion?"

"I haven't any opinion. I know what I found. It's for you to have an opinion. Besides, I won't sacrifice a client for a friend of the client. Get me?" he asked, pointedly.

"She has won you, hasn't she?" asked Kennedy, somewhat, I thought, in Doyle's style.

Chase looked at him a minute. "Say, Kennedy," he returned, "I've always regarded you as something more than the rest of us."

He stopped as though he would have said more, but considered he had said enough.

What he meant by his cryptic remarks I could not make out. Was he determined to save his client, even at the cost of her lover? Kennedy's face was inscrutable. If he knew what Chase meant, I am sure Chase read no answer.

We left immediately afterward and soon were back again in the Subway. As we waited for the train, Kennedy paced the platform.

"I think I'm right, Walter," he remarked. "The thing is to prove it. I'm going to use a little more of Freud--to apply him to some detective work--in other words, I'm going to play upon suppressed desires. Just watch how it works."

Somewhat less than half an hour later we found ourselves in the hurly-burly of the Wall Street district. Shattuck, I knew, had an office around the corner not very far from that which Vail Wilford had occupied.

Kennedy, who had been there before, easily located it and called the floor from memory.

"It's not a large office," I remarked, as I followed Craig down the hall and stopped before a single glass door that bore Shattuck's name, adding, "Banker & Broker."

"But probably it's large enough for all the brokerage business that Shattuck really does," he returned. "I have an idea that it is just about enough to keep him from being classed as an idler. Besides, it gives him standing."

Kennedy handed his card to the boy who presided over a sort of swinging gate in the outer office.

The door to Shattuck's inner office happened to be open and we could see him. Consequently it was not possible for him to send out word that he was not in.

It was a rather nettled office-boy who returned to us.

"For what, may I ask, am I indebted to you for _this_ visit?" inquired Shattuck with almost insulting bruskness as the boy stood at the door, admitting us, then carefully closed the door to the outer office.

I felt angry at the tone, but Kennedy kept his temper admirably.

"I suppose," began Craig, clearing his throat and speaking as deliberately as ever Shattuck did, "that you know the story about Mrs. Lathrop?"

"Some one on the street called my attention to it," Shattuck prevaricated, rather than admit interest.

"I thought you might be in a position to explain it--at least to throw some light on it," pursued Kennedy, directly. "I'm quite interested, naturally."

"Explain it?" flared Shattuck, eagerly seizing on something that would divert the main issue. "Explain it? Why, you and Doyle and the newspapers"--nodding insultingly at me--"ought to be able to do that best, don't you think? It's you all that have caused a great deal of trouble. Judging by what I read and hear, you know more about our affairs in this case than we do ourselves. I'd suggest that perhaps our positions should be reversed. I might appeal to you for information, rather than have you coming around here appealing to me."

Not only was it what he said, but it was even more the tone and manner in which he said it that seemed to rub Kennedy the wrong way. As for myself, I must confess that I was boiling over at the bravado of the man.

I would have come back with a quick remark--and probably have exposed my hand and done exactly what Shattuck expected, for there was no denying that he was clever with a gambler's cleverness and nerve.

It was not so with Kennedy. For a moment he paused, as though checking a first remark; then he spoke in the same measured and considered tones as at the start.

"I can tell you, Shattuck, that I don't like the attitude either you or Mrs. Wilford assume."

Shattuck merely shrugged superciliously, and would have turned to some papers on his desk, had not Kennedy possessed one of those compelling personalities that demand that you hear them out, whether you like it or not.

"Mrs. Wilford seems to have assumed a sort of passive attitude toward me," Kennedy resumed.

"You don't expect her to help you?" inquired Shattuck.

"As for yourself," continued Craig, unperturbed, "I am frankly of the opinion, Shattuck, that your attitude is quite one of open hostility. I would not presume to dictate to either of you how you should order your conduct--but--it seems to me that, under the circumstances, it might not be unwise to take care not to prejudice your cases, you know."

Shattuck involuntarily shot a quick glance from under his heavy eyebrows at Kennedy. But not even Shattuck's cleverness could read anything in Craig's face.

What is it that this man knows? Quite apparently that was the sudden thought working back of Shattuck's beetling brows.

"For instance," continued Kennedy, as though determined to have his way in the matter and ram the words down Shattuck's throat, "I am sure you know of that Calabar bean which I--or rather Mr. Jameson--discovered in Mr. Wilford's office--not very far away from here, I see."

Shattuck's face was a study. Not once did the man lose his poise. It was not that.

"Well, it raises some interesting problems. I won't say that I haven't settled them. But, for the sake of argument, let us take the circumstance--just in itself."

Shattuck calmly lighted a cigarette and deliberately inhaled it, bored.

"Of course," Craig went on, after a pause, "we all know that Doctor Lathrop is a doctor and hence likely to dabble in almost anything relating to his profession. Perhaps he knew of the existence and the properties of the Calabar bean. Quite certainly, I should say. No doubt he has used the drug--physostigmine. In fact, he tells me he has. Very well, then. So much for that.

"Take yourself, for example. I think I recall seeing many African trophies in that very cozy den of yours. Now, the Calabar bean is well known in Africa, not only in the Calabar, on the west coast, but in many other parts of the continent that travelers and tourists visit. So, you see, although at first sight such a bean might seem to have very little to do with a prosperous broker on Broad Street, it is not impossible that a judge or jury--or a detective--might see a connection."

Kennedy paused to watch the effect of the home thrust. I cannot say that Shattuck even winced. He was a man with too much control over himself for that. I longed for some of the psychological laboratory instruments that will reveal, often, what a nerve-strong exterior hides.

"But, quite more important still," continued Kennedy, "is the fact that the bean, or rather its derivative, physostigmine--which we know was the poison that killed Wilford--is known and used by oculists for its curious effect on the pupils. Now, from what I have learned on unimpeachable authority about Mrs. Wilford as a girl, her father, Honore Chappelle, a Frenchman, was a well-known oculist. He had no sons and often used to wish that his only child had not been a girl. For a time he had some vague idea, I believe, that his daughter might take up his place in the business. However, that was merely fanciful. As Honora grew to womanhood and tasted the advantages of the not small fortune her father had piled up, the social life appealed to her. And yet, in the girlhood days, who shall say she did not learn something of the Calabar bean, of the drug, and of its properties? It would be most unlikely if she did not."

Kennedy paused for a moment, leaving Shattuck almost speechless and hiding a secret fear.

"You can draw your own conclusions from what I have just said," finished Craig. "Sometimes, you know, actions speak louder than words."

Shattuck had risen, almost angrily as two red spots of passion appeared on his face over the cheek-bones.

"Don't you think you have done enough, hounding Mrs. Wilford with your confounded science?" he demanded.

"I cannot say," replied Kennedy, coolly, reaching for his hat and deliberately turning away. "I am telling you this only for your own benefit. Good morning, sir."

Just what Kennedy was attempting I began to understand as we closed the door to the hall and turned again to the elevator. The seeking out of Shattuck was quite in keeping with the plan of campaign Craig had mapped out at the start.

I saw that he was counting on planting something that would make Shattuck fear for Honora, if not for himself. And, it was evident that behind his bravado Shattuck did have a fear for Honora.

XVII

THE SUPPRESSED DESIRE

Even before Kennedy announced where he was going, I outguessed the next step in his scheme.

He would end by planting something that would make Honora fearful for Shattuck, as well as for herself. The effect would be to bring to light her suppressed desires, to make the Freudian theory play detective for us. And then? Almost anything might happen.

Looked at in this light, I could see that Craig would have done a very profitable day's work. It was, in short, merely playing one against the other--first Lathrop against Vina; now Honora against Shattuck.

We rode back again up-town and prepared to make our daily excuse for visiting Mrs. Wilford. In spite of the distastefulness of our duty, I felt sure that still our position with her was superior to that of the other inquisitors who were always on her trail.

"Before we go in," cautioned Kennedy, as we entered the main entrance to the apartment, "I want to see McCabe. He must be back on the job by this time."

Careful to cover ourselves, we sought out the ostensibly empty apartment which Doyle had hired as a dictagraph room. McCabe was there and seemed to be glad to see us. Evidently he had some news to report.

"What's on your mind, McCabe?" greeted Kennedy.

"Why, sir, he's been calling her up again."

"Who?"

"Mr. Shattuck, I mean."

Kennedy merely glanced at me. The virus had begun to work.

"What did he say?" asked Kennedy, quickly.

"I couldn't just make out what it was about. He wasn't very definite. Said he wanted to see her alone."

"And Mrs. Wilford?"

"Said she couldn't--that she was afraid--afraid for him, she said. I guess she knows pretty well how we're watching her."

"What did Shattuck say to that?"

"Well, I should say he was trying to warn _her_," replied McCabe, "without coming out too definitely. You see, they were both pretty careful in the words they used. There's something strange between that pair, you can be sure of that."

"What were the exact words?" asked Kennedy. "Did you get them down?"

McCabe nodded and referred to his notes.

"When Mr. Shattuck called up, he asked her first, 'I suppose they're watching you yet, Honora?'

"'Oh, Vance,' she answered, 'it gets worse every day.'

"There's some more--and then he suddenly said, 'Honora, Kennedy has just been here to see me again.'

"She seemed to be rather alarmed at that news. 'To see you again, Vance? What about?'

"'I don't know what he's up to,' Shattuck replied. 'I wish I did. It's something about that poisoned bean--you know, the thing they've been talking about.'"

"Pretending ignorance!" I exclaimed. "He knows. Go on."

"They talked about that a little while, without saying anything important. The next was Honora: 'He keeps asking me all sorts of questions about dreams and trying psychological experiments. I don't dare refuse to answer. But what do you suppose it is all about, Vance?'"

"What did Shattuck tell her?" asked Kennedy, interested.

"Here, I'll read it, exactly. 'More of that Freud stuff, I guess, Honora, from what you've already told me. That may go all very well in a book--or in Greenwich Village. But it's a fake, I tell you. Don't believe it--too much.'"

"That's a remarkably reassuring statement," commented Kennedy. "Don't believe it--and then he takes it all back by adding, 'too much.'"

"Yes, sir," agreed McCabe, to whom this angle of the case was a mystery. "I don't know as he believed what he said himself. You see, he next asked her: 'Can't you see me? I _must_ try to help you.' And he meant it, too."

"Did she say she would?" hastened Kennedy.

"Not directly. 'Vance, I'm so afraid--afraid to drag you into this thing. You know they're watching me so closely. I don't see them around--yet they seem to know so much.'"

"You don't suppose she suspects anything of this?" I interrupted, indicating the dictagraph and the tapped telephone.

"Hardly," answered McCabe. "She wouldn't talk at all over the wire, if she did, would she? Here's how it ended. Shattuck said, finally, 'Well, I'm going to see you very soon, anyhow, to have a heart-to-heart talk, Honora.' He seemed to be quite worried. And so did she over him."

"Have you told Doyle anything about it?" asked Craig.

"Haven't had a chance yet. It just happened."

Kennedy turned to go.

"Oh, just before that that detective called her up, too."

"Which one--Rascon or Chase?"

"Chase."

Kennedy smiled quietly. Everything was working.

"What of him?"

"He said you had been to see him. There was something about that poisonous bean he told her."

"Did he mention Shattuck's name?" asked Kennedy.

"Yes, he questioned her about Shattuck--about his travels--I thought it was pretty broadly hinting after he mentioned that Calabar bean."

"But did he say anything definite about it? I mean, anything connecting it with Shattuck?"

"No--nothing definite."

Evidently Chase had never told Honora of his discovery in Shattuck's apartments. Why? Was it because he was sure that she would not believe it? Was he waiting for more conclusive evidence? What was the reason? It had not been revealed even yet.

We thanked McCabe, made our exit, and arrived on Honora's floor in such a way that it would not be suspected that we had been anywhere else in the building.

As we met Mrs. Wilford, I cannot say that we were quite as welcome as on some previous encounters with her. It seemed that she was repressing her excitement not quite as easily as on previous occasions.

Yet she seemed not to dare to refuse to see us. Perhaps, too, there was an element of curiosity to know whether anything had been discovered beyond what Doyle had already told her.

If that were the case, she had not long to wait. Kennedy did not plan this time to keep her in suspense long.

In fact, it seemed as if it were part of his plan to fire the information he wished to impart as a broadside and watch the effect, both immediate and ultimate.

"I suppose you have read in the newspapers about the troubles of the Lathrops and what has happened?" he opened fire.

"Nothing about that woman interests me," Honora returned, coldly.

"That's not exactly what I came to tell you, though," remarked Kennedy, briskly.

Honora was on the alert in an instant, although she tried to hide it.

"I've discovered just what it was that caused the death of your husband," hastened Craig.

I watched her closely. She was trying to show just enough and not too much interest.

"Indeed?" she replied, veiling her eyes as a matter of self-defense. "Was it belladonna?"

"No, it was not atropin," returned Craig, giving the drug its more scientific name. "It was physostigmine."

I was watching her narrowly. Evidently she had been expecting some repetition of the psychological tests and Kennedy's more direct attack almost swept away a defense as she tried to adjust herself to the unexpected.

Before she could recover from the shock that the bald statement seemed to give her, Craig shot out, "Has Doyle told you?"

"Yes," she replied, endeavoring to remain calm and at the same time appear frank, "something about a bean which either you or Mr. Jameson discovered down in the office."

"Then why did you mention belladonna?" asked Craig.

She avoided his gaze as she answered, quickly, "Because it was the first thing that the police mentioned--the first thing that came into my head--like some of your psychological tests, I suppose."

The last sentence was uttered with a sort of sarcastic defiance which I did not relish in Honora.

"So," she continued in the same defiant tone, "it's another poison, this time--this physostigmine?"

"Yes," reiterated Kennedy, quietly. "The Calabar bean. I suppose Doyle described it to you--its devilish uses in the Calabar--the way the natives use it in ordeals--and all that sort of thing?"

"Yes--briefly," she replied, evidently steeling herself into a nonchalance she did not feel.

"Of course, the drug has a certain medical importance, too," continued Craig, as though eager to hammer home the information about it which he wished to have stick in her mind. "It is physostigmine."

Honora was evidently about to ask some question about the drug, perhaps such a question as would have portrayed ignorance, but Kennedy caught her eye and she closed her parted lips. There was no use camouflaging before this man. She knew it--knew the drug, I decided, and knew he knew she knew of it.

"But it wasn't the drug, physostigmine, in this case," went on Kennedy. "It was the Calabar bean itself. I found traces of it in Mr. Wilford's stomach--starch grains from the beans themselves. You know you can recognize various starch grains under the microscope by their size, formation, and so forth. I've clearly demonstrated that."

"You did? Why--I--I--er--thought that was Doctor Leslie's work."

Evidently she did not realize that Kennedy was anything more than a dilettante scientist, dabbling with his psychological tests.

Kennedy was now coming into the open more and more with her and she could not place him. On her part she saw that she must be more and more on guard, yet with fewer weapons on which to rely.

"Oh no," returned Kennedy, easily. "I mix up in all sorts of queer investigations. Toxicology is a hobby with me. Doctor Leslie did indeed confirm my results, working independently."

He paused to let her get the full significance.

"But about these beans. They come from Africa, you know. Travelers, people who have hunted over Africa, often bring them back as curios."

Honora shot a covert glance at Craig. Did she know that Shattuck had possessed some, after all?

I saw at once the trend of Kennedy's remarks. There was quite enough in what he had said to arouse in her the fear that Shattuck was suspected by him.

And, as I studied Honora even more closely, I could see now that she was making a great effort to conceal her anxiety.

If the anxiety concerned solely herself, I could have understood it better, perhaps.

But was it about herself? Would she have acted in just this manner if it had been that she believed Kennedy to be making a direct accusation against her?

I could not decide. But, as I thought of it, I saw how cleverly Kennedy was leading his trumps.

If she were consumed with anxiety for Shattuck, the traveler in Africa, she must be heroically suppressing her own real feelings toward him, as she had done for so long.

I felt sure that the added pressure, day by day, was having its effect on her.

"I suppose you know," pursued Kennedy, deliberately, without letting up on the pressure, "that traces of belladonna were found in one glass on Mr. Wilford's desk at the office and that an almost empty bottle of belladonna was found by the police here in your apartment?"

"It was mine," she asserted, calmly, as though prepared. "It had been nearly used up. Celeste knows all about how I used it for my eyes. Many women do. She can tell you that."

She said it boldly, and yet, since Kennedy had mentioned the Calabar bean, I had an indefinable feeling that Honora was concealing something--perhaps not only a fact--but also a great fear.

No longer, now, did Kennedy seem to care whether he antagonized her or not. More and more, it seemed, it was his purpose to drop the mask with her, to fight her with other weapons than those psychological.

"Both physostigmine and belladonna are used by oculists, you know," hinted Kennedy, broadly.

The face of Honora was a study as she listened to this direct insinuation. She bit her lips at the thought that she had betrayed her knowledge of the use of belladonna.

For an instant Honora gazed at Kennedy, startled at the penetrating power of his eyes, as she realized that the finding of the bean had, in his mind, perhaps, some connection with herself.

What must have been the conflicting emotions in her mind as, now, for the first time, she realized that Kennedy had gone deeper into the case than Doyle or Leslie, that, while she might be a match for them, she could not possibly hope to be a match against the new weapons of science that Kennedy had brought to bear? Even though she might not fully appreciate them, Honora was too clever a woman not to know, merely by intuition, that she was faced with a battle in which the old weapons were unavailing.

I know the thoughts that were surging, by Kennedy's suggestion, through her mind--the past of her life, her father, Honore Chappelle; the old love-affair with Shattuck; the attainment of social ambitions with Wilford--and back again to the life of her girlhood and the profession of her father.

I thought for the moment that Craig had broken through her reserve. I knew that Kennedy was in reality fishing--at least I thought so. But it was evident by her actions that Honora did not know it.

"Why do you make these--these accusations?" she demanded. "You knew that my father was an optician--one of the best known in the city," she cried, searching Craig's face.

Kennedy nodded implacably.

"I haven't made any accusations," he returned, then added, directly, "But I assumed that you knew something of his business while he was alive."

"I do not know by what right you assume that I knew anything of the sort," she fenced. "Girls were not supposed to learn trades or professions in those days."

Honora, in spite of her assumption of a quiet tone, was almost hysterical. The mounting flush on her face showed that she was keen with emotion, that it was only by an almost superhuman effort that she controlled the volcano of her feelings.

Kennedy could see that it was only by such an effort that she managed to maintain her composure. He must have known that to press the case would have resulted in a situation such as might have advanced us fairly far toward the truth. Yet he did not follow farther any advantage he might have.

Evidently, Kennedy was content to let the seed which he had planted during this visit germinate. Or was he reluctant to allow McCabe over the dictagraph hear more that might be reported to Doyle on which Doyle might continue to base wrong conclusions? Desperately I clung to this last explanation.

As far as Honora was concerned, now, there was no use in our staying longer. Kennedy had deliberately thrown away a chance to drive her into further admissions. The interval had given her the time she needed. Now she was keenly on guard and mistress again of herself.

Secretly I was rather glad. It was better to let the information and suspicion that had been aroused work of itself.

"You are not yourself, Mrs. Wilford," suddenly apologized Kennedy. "It is not fair to you. Think over some of the things I have been forced to say to you. Perhaps you will see matters in another light. Good-by."

I do not know whether his keen questioning or this sudden quiet change of tone and the idea of leaving her at such a time had a greater effect. She shot him one startled look, then bowed in silence as we, in turn, bowed ourselves out. She even denied herself the final glance of curiosity, lest she might betray sudden relief changed to deep-seated fear at the sudden departure of Kennedy, with his cool assumption of power.

Outside, we encountered Celeste, who had been hovering in the hall, apparently listening. Quietly Kennedy beckoned her down the hall, away from the door we had just left, while he paused a moment to question her.

"I wish you would refresh your memory, mademoiselle," he began, suddenly. "Are you sure--absolutely sure that on the night Mr. Wilford was murdered madame was here--that she was not out--at all?"

His tone was such as to imply, not suspicion, but certainty that Celeste had been lying, that Mrs. Wilford had been out.

"Oh, but yes, monsieur," Celeste replied, glibly. "I was with madame all the evening. No--no--she was not out. She was here--all the evening--waiting for him. I can swear it. How many times must I swear it--to you--to those--those beasts!"

Celeste nodded outside. Kennedy smiled.

"Who should know better than I what madame was doing?" continued Celeste, vehemently.

Kennedy did not pursue the subject.

"You love madame, don't you, Celeste?" he asked, simply.

"Why--yes!" replied the girl, startled by the unexpectedness of the question.

"Good day," nodded Kennedy, simply, as a lawyer might dismiss a witness.

"Methinks she doth protest too much," I quoted, as I remembered the "Aussage test" again and its proof of the unreliability of Celeste.

Kennedy did not attempt further to shake the girl's story, and I was forced to conclude that he had another purpose in view. Perhaps it was that he knew that she would report to Honora what he had asked.

Kennedy turned to go out. But he did not close the door tightly as we went out. Sure enough, no sooner had he seemed to shut the door than he could see that she had darted into the room we had just left.

Kennedy smiled and closed the door softly.

XVIII

THE CONFESSION

Little happened during the rest of the day, which I spent in the laboratory, while Craig checked up the results of his previous observations on the case.

Toward the end of the afternoon I strolled out, uncertain just what to do. On the street I saw a boy selling papers and I called to him.

As my eye fell on a black head-line I fairly jumped with surprise. I read it again, hardly able to believe it. It was a startling bit of news that stared me in the face.

Vina Lathrop had committed suicide at the Sainte-Germaine!

Practically the whole story was told in the head-lines--that is, all except what little we knew. I turned the pages quickly. Belle Balcom had got in her brief interview with Vina, but it contained nothing new, either.

As I hastened back to the laboratory there ran through my mind the swift succession of events of the morning--our learning of the separation, the visit to the hotel, the meeting, the coming of Belle Balcom, and finally the appearance of Doyle. Without a doubt it was this succession of events that had convinced Vina that there was no escape from the social disgrace that awaited her after the action of Doctor Lathrop.

"What do you think?" I almost shouted, as I burst into the laboratory and threw the paper before Craig, who was still at work in his acid-stained smock. "And, do you know, often I had almost come to regard Vina as a possible suspect in the case, too! Could I have been right? Is it a confession?"

Kennedy read the news item, then tore off his smock and reached for his hat and coat.

"I'll admit that suicide might be taken as a confession, as a general rule," he exclaimed. "But it's not so in this case. Come--we must get over to the hotel. I doubt whether half the story can be known, even by this time. I wish I had been informed of this earlier. However, maybe it won't make any difference."

It did not take us many minutes to get down to the fashionable hotel, nor long to get up to the room from which, in spite of the demands of the hotel people, the body had not been removed.

Leslie, already notified in the course of the city routine, had arrived perhaps five minutes before us.

"I was out on a case," he explained. "When I got back to the office I saw the police notification. But you had already left when I tried to call you up."

I looked about. There was great excitement among the guests and employees on the floor on which Vina had taken her rather cheap and unpretentious room. But in all the group I could not see one familiar face, except that of Doyle, who had arrived just a few moments before Leslie.

"Has Doctor Lathrop been told?" asked Kennedy.

"Yes, but he didn't show any emotion. He has given orders that everything necessary must be done. But he absolutely refuses to allow the funeral to take place from his apartment. He insists that it must be from a private establishment. Even in death he will not forgive her. Said he would be over--but he hasn't come yet. I doubt whether he will. Her relatives live in the Middle West. He did give orders that they were to be notified."

"What was the cause of death?" asked Craig.

Leslie looked at him significantly. "I wanted your advice on that," he remarked. "Look."

He had led Kennedy over to the white bed on which the body of Vina lay.

"The eyes show the characteristic contraction of the pupils that I have come to recognize as from physostigmine. In fact, I don't think there can be much doubt about it in this case. What do you think?"

Kennedy bent over and examined the body.

"I quite agree with you," he added, as he rose. "It is a case of the same poisoning--only I think not by the bean this time, but by the pure drug."

"Where do you suppose she got it?" asked Doyle. "I'll try to trace it in some of the drugstores to make sure."

"Craig," I exclaimed, "do you recall that Doctor Lathrop said he had no use for the bean itself, but that naturally in his medicine-chest he had the drug? She heard us talking the thing over that time when we visited them. Without a doubt it was where she got it--that is," I corrected, "where she might have got it."

Kennedy nodded.

"No doubt you are right. It's a case of suicide by suggestion. She heard of the drug--and tried it. It's the way they all do. Suicide is a sort of insanity. If one person uses bichloride tablets, you find that a dozen, learning of it, do the same. It's a curious bit of psychology."

"I agree with you," chimed in Leslie. "This was a case of the use of the pure alkaloid. Nothing else could have acted so swiftly--and everything indicates swift action. The chambermaid had been in the room only a few minutes before. Then when she knocked on the door again she got no answer. She thought there was something strange about it, for she was sure that Mrs. Lathrop had not gone out. So she tried the door. It was locked. But through the keyhole she could see that Vina had fallen across the foot of the bed. She screamed and then they got the pass key and opened the door."

Kennedy had gone over to the window and was looking out. On a little roof below he pointed out something gleaming. Even from where we were we could see that it was a plain little vial.

"More than likely she took some of the drug from her husband's office," he commented. "By every indication the act was premeditated--or at least she contemplated doing it."

We glanced at each other, then at the former lovely form on the lonely bed, as the undertaker, sent by her husband, prepared to carry out the last offices, now that Doctor Leslie had given his permission.

"What about this new development?" asked Leslie at length of Kennedy. "Does it affect your plans at all?"

"Very much," asserted Kennedy, energetically. "It forces my hand. Now I must act immediately."

For a moment he stood, planning hastily just what to do.

"I'm going to try a little piece of psychology," he decided, finally, turning to us. "There are many things I need to know yet. For one thing, I'm not exactly sure just how much Mrs. Wilford actually knew about her husband and Vina Lathrop--not what she suspected or guessed. Oh, there are innumerable points that must be cleared up. I know no better or quicker way than to get them all together at once at my laboratory. Then I am sure that we can straighten this thing out quickly."

He paused and looked about us.

"Now," he added, assuming direction of affairs, with the tacit consent of both Doyle and Leslie, "I want each of you to help me. You, Walter, perhaps will be the best one to go after Mrs. Wilford. But don't, for Heaven's sake, tell her anything--except that it has been discovered that Vina Lathrop is a suicide.

"Doyle, you have worked some parts of the case up to a final point--in your own mind. I delegate you to go after Mr. Shattuck and bring him to the laboratory."

"Very well," agreed Doyle, with alacrity. "I don't mind that duty." He almost grinned.

Nor did I imagine that he did. Shattuck had made himself particularly obnoxious to Doyle and I fancied that Doyle would take a particular pleasure in this errand, especially as it might lead to the humiliation, or worse, of Shattuck.

"You, Leslie, as a doctor, I think would be the best to go after Doctor Lathrop," ordered Kennedy. "And all of you are to remember you are not to talk of the case, but merely to compel the attendance of the persons you are sent after. If they refuse or resist, you know where to get the authority to coerce them. But I don't think any of them will. It would look badly."

As we parted, I jumped into a taxicab. I felt sure now that something must break. In spite of all the discouragements, I saw that Kennedy had been biding his time. He had seemed to be quite willing to wait, much more so than either Doyle or Leslie. I had realized some time before what his game was. Anything might have happened to unmask some one. The death of Vina was that thing. Now was the time to follow up his surprise attack.

While we were gone, Craig hurried to the laboratory and there completed some simple preparations for our reception. From his cabinet he took and adjusted several little instruments, with an attachment that could be placed about the wrist, like a cuff or strap. These cuffs were hollow and from each ran a tube attached to an indicator. Both the hollow cuffs and the tubes were filled with a colored liquid which registered on a scale on the indicator part. But I anticipate my story.

I found my end of the duty far from pleasant, although under other circumstances, suspicion or not of Honora, I should have enjoyed an opportunity to meet her.

In spite of her feeling against Vina, the first news as I broke it to her came as a shock which she could not conceal. Yet, I felt, it would have taken more than even the practised eye of Kennedy to determine just what underlay her feelings in the matter.

When, however, I informed her that my orders were to take her to the laboratory, she demurred vigorously. It was more by threat than anything else that I managed to get her to go. She finally assented, nervously. Her whole attitude was one of not knowing what to expect this time.

In silence I escorted her in the taxicab to the laboratory, arriving there last of all, due to the cajolery I had been compelled to use to avoid forcing the issue.

Leslie and Lathrop were waiting already. As we entered, Honora bowed to Doctor Lathrop, who returned the bow courteously. Clearly, I thought, this is merely the relation of physician and patient. Doyle had returned, but McCabe was not with him. Shattuck had almost fought against coming, but only a direct threat of arrest on the part of Doyle had succeeded with him. Doyle was correspondingly watchful of his prey. Shattuck bowed to Honora, and I saw that she returned the bow, a slight flush spread over her face. What was it--fear for him or of him?

Perhaps Shattuck misinterpreted the action. At any rate, he seemed not content with a mere bow. He stepped forward.

"I hope, Honora," he remarked, in a low voice, but not so low that I could not catch it, "that you will not think this unpleasantness is in any way due to anything I've done."

For a moment Honora stared at Shattuck, then at Doyle, and finally at Kennedy.

"Not at all," she murmured. "It seems that I no longer have anything whatever to say about my own actions."

She said it with a sarcasm that was cutting, and at the same time with a keen observation of the rest of us. It was as though she were trying to read our minds. Kennedy, at least, gave her no chance.

As she entered, he greeted her blandly, and one would never have known from the look on his face or from his manner that it was he who had ordered them all assembled in his laboratory. He was the coolest of us all.

"I am going to try a little affair here that may or may not yield some results," he remarked, picking up one of the cuff attachments that lay before him on the table. "It is a simple enough thing. You merely slip this cuff over the wrist--so," he illustrated.

He drew the thing off again and turned to me. "I'm going to put the first one on you, Walter," he remarked. "You will be my 'control' in the experiment, as we call it."

Carefully he adjusted the thing on my wrist, and as he did so I realized that his purpose had been rather to get them familiar with what he was going to do than for any reason directed at me as a control. I watched the liquid in the indicator pulsing minutely as he finished.

Next he had turned and adjusted one after another of the instruments on the others, first Honora, then Shattuck, and finally Lathrop. When he came to Leslie and Doyle he paused and finally decided that as a "control" I was sufficient.

It was interesting to see how each of them took it. Honora accepted it with her previous passivity. Naturally Shattuck rebelled and it was only after a lengthy argument in which Doyle moved over ominously that he accepted. Lathrop viewed it, naturally, with the interest of a man of science.

"Of course, as you all realize," remarked Craig, as he finished adjusting the instruments, whatever they were, "there have been many very strange ramifications to this case. It began in tragedy and it seems to continue in tragedy. Crime is like the train of powder. When the match is touched to it the fire runs along rapidly until it reaches the magazine--which it will explode unless the fire is stamped out at some point along the line."

As he said it he glanced about at the faces before him, as though to see what each indicated. Even Doctor Lathrop, in spite of the suicide of his wife, showed no emotion.

"There is no use for me to rehearse the strange circumstances that root back into the past," Craig continued. "They are well known in general to all of you--the society gossip, the scandals that have been repeated widely. Motives enough for everybody have appeared in this case as I have delved into it. What we want now is _facts_."

He paused and leaned forward earnestly.

"It has always been a theorem with me that one might reason out by all sorts of logical means that a certain person could not have done a certain act at a certain time and place. And yet, when it has been reasoned out perfectly to the satisfaction of the reasoner--you may find that the person actually did it. Therefore, I am a sort of modern Gradgrind. What I want is facts--facts--facts."

As he finished he turned toward the table. Nor did he seem disposed to add anything immediately. Still, we could see what he was doing and such was the attention riveted on him that I am sure none of us missed a movement of his.

Casually he reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and drew forth the peculiar bean which I had picked up on the floor of Wilford's office. He stood there for a moment, as though absent-mindedly toying with it, his back toward us.

I glanced about. The action was not lost on any of them, but I watched the face of Honora more especially. She started forward, then caught herself. For the moment I thought she might have fainted. But she did not.

"What's the idea, Kennedy?" burst out Shattuck, impatiently, observing. "Is it just some little theatricals--or is it a little Spanish Inquisition stuff?"

"Just a moment, Shattuck," interrupted Doyle, who needed not very much provocation to boil over. "Mrs. Wilford," he shot out, suddenly, before she had recovered her composure, "you have not been frank, either with the police or with Mr. Kennedy. Some one besides you and your husband was in that office that night."

"I--in the office?" she repeated, blankly.

"Yes--in the office. We know there was a woman there."

"I was not there," she asserted, positively.

"Some one besides you and your husband--a man--was there," reiterated Doyle, ignoring her denial.

Kennedy was still half turned away. Nor did he show any disposition to interrupt Doyle. I looked at Doyle, wondering why Kennedy did not interrupt the detective's third degree.

Remorselessly Doyle pressed home his questioning.

"We know much more than you think, Mrs. Wilford," exclaimed Doyle, menacingly. "We have not been idle. There are more sources of information open to the police than maids that earn their pay from their mistresses," he hinted, darkly.

"Celeste told the truth," returned Honora, quietly. "Surely you have had chance enough to have found out about me from her, if there had been anything to find out."

Doyle was not to be placated by a soft answer.

"There were other people about that office that night," he added, confidently. "Mr. Wilford was not the only tenant in that building. Much can be overheard in the stillness after business hours. Don't forget that. Why did you tell him to give her up--that she never had loved him, did not, and never could love him?"

Honora flushed slightly at the reference implied by Doyle to Vina. She seemed about to reply hotly, then checked herself. She looked about the room as though seeking help from some one, but not finding it.

"If you were really there," interrupted Kennedy, quietly, for the first time, "tell."

I saw Shattuck scowl blackly at Kennedy for lending the weight of his support even thus mildly to Doyle's bulldozing. Almost I hated Craig for doing it, myself. Honora's friendlessness appealed to me as it had often before. However, I reasoned, sentiment is a dangerous thing in a murder case.

"It is your duty to tell," urged Kennedy. "It is ours to find out. As Doyle says, we have found out much. _Some one_--two people--were in that office, besides your husband!"

There was silence.

"A man was there--came later--at the time when the murder must have been committed!"

An instant she faltered and gazed wildly from one to the other of us beside her.

The strain was too great. It was as though something snapped under it.

"No!" she cried, half sobbing, half defiant. "There was no one in that office! I--"

It was too much for Shattuck.

Out of the corner of my eye I had seen his glance riveted on Kennedy's hands as Craig twirled the Calabar bean nonchalantly.

He turned suddenly and looked at Honora--then strode a step forward.

"Professor Kennedy," he exclaimed, in a husky voice, "she was not there. It was I who was in the office. I will tell all!"

XIX

THE LIE-DETECTOR

I do not know whether Kennedy was as startled as I at the unexpected confession of Shattuck. At any rate, his face did not betray it.

It was Honora, however, whom I watched most closely. Her color came and went. One moment she seemed as pale as death; the next her face was flushed and burning. Yet she said nothing, though I knew she could have shrieked.

What did it mean? Had she told the truth? Or had she confessed to something, in the hope of saving him?

For the moment Shattuck was the calmest in the room, as generally happens in a crisis of this nature with the principal actor in the scene.

"Let me tell you exactly what happened," he began, deliberately, avoiding as much as possible the mocking gaze of Doyle, who seemed delighted at the course of events.

Shattuck paused and cleared his throat, as though to gain time to think out the correct order of events.

"I came to the office," he continued, slowly. "It was quite late, but I found Vail Wilford there and alone," he emphasized the word. "As I entered, he was sitting at his desk. He turned and spoke to me. I don't recall just what it was that he said, but that doesn't make any difference now.

"I had thought the whole thing out before. I knew perfectly what I was there for. The situation--the wide scandal between himself and Vina Lathrop--had become intolerable. As for me, I may as well confess that the growing unhappiness of Mrs. Wilford preyed on my mind--until I was almost mad."

I heard Honora take a sharp breath, as though to control her feelings. She was leaning forward now, her cheeks burning, her eyes fixed on the face of the man who was speaking. With every word, I could see her emotions rising higher. Never had I dreamed that it was in this woman to show such depth of feeling. It was as though she were passing through some transformation which she herself did not understand, but which was changing her own soul and making a new creature of her.

"I cannot recall just what passed between us," went on Shattuck, as though eager to hasten on and have it over with. "It was about his wife and what I thought his duties were. Every moment I could see that he was growing more and more angry--which was what I intended. Finally he rose, threatening. Wilford was a powerful man and no mean antagonist--but I had come prepared. I had my gun at his breast before he knew it. I forced him back into his chair.

"'Honora is being driven mad by the way things are going,' I remember I shouted at him. 'One or the other of us must get out of her life.'

"I could have shot him as he sat there, facing me before his desk--but I did not."

Shattuck was talking calmly now, and earnestly, though underneath there was a depth of passion.

"Then what?" demanded Doyle, as though fearful that something might even yet arise to stop the story.

"I took one of those things, those beans that Kennedy has been talking about," he answered, pointing at the bean Kennedy was still holding in his hand.

"Where did you get it?"

"In Africa, of course," he hastened. "Where else?"

"Have you any more?" demanded Doyle.

"Yes--I think so," came back quickly. "I may have used the last one, though--or rather two, that is. You see, I must have dropped one and lost it. Then I must have forgotten about it in the excitement--that one Kennedy has."

"I see," nodded Doyle. "Always there is some loophole you people leave open, some place where the cleverest of you fall down and get caught."

Shattuck suppressed a quick retort that was on his lips.