Chapter I

For weeks the five-hundred-thousand-dollar reception of the Jimmy Raeltons had been heralded as the greatest event of the New York social season. The news columns had been filled with accounts of the costly preparations, the wonderful gowns, the millions in jewels that would grace the first appearance of the Raeltons in society since the Carlton-Browne reception of thirteen months before. The newspapers had retold, lest their readers should forget, the tragic story of the mysterious suicide of Mrs. Jimmy Raelton’s sister, Mrs. Donald Wreye, on the night following the Carlton-Browne affair. The consequent retirement of the Raeltons had been reviewed; the report of the ill health of Mrs. Raelton had been substantiated; and the two months’ cruise on the palatial Raelton yacht was said to have brought back the bloom to faded cheeks. And to-night the Jimmy Raeltons were formally to re-enter New York’s social scheme of things; again to fill the niche that had been vacant for thirteen months.

The small army of police herded the curious crowd from the side-walk as a black limousine drove up silently and came to a stop at the canopied curb. The door swung open, and men and women, who would stand patiently for hours to catch a mere glimpse of the notables they worshipped from afar, saw the first man alight. The electric globe under the awning brought out the striking whiteness of the face and hair; the contrast of the great blue circles of the smoked-glass, tortoise-rimmed library spectacles that rested lightly on the thin nose; the broad shoulders, and deep chest under the Inverness. The first arrival rapped the pavement lightly with the slim stick he carried as the apple-cheeked, black-haired man who accompanied him spoke a word to the driver and stepped beside him.

A policeman touched his hat. “Early, ain’t you, Mr. Colton?” he greeted the other.

“These things never interest me, Peters,” returned Thornley Colton, in his deep, musical voice. “A quiet chat with Jimmy and my goddaughter before the crowd arrives, then home and quiet.”

He started briskly toward the wide steps, the red-cheeked man so close that his coat-sleeve touched that of the other. The policeman turned to his partner.

“A great guy, Tom,” he observed, in a hoarse whisper. “He says he’s blind, an’ everybody else says he’s blind, but if he is, then I wish I was! That’s all.”

The two men had ascended the steps. A man of impassive face opened the door, two others took their coats and sticks. Silent-footed servants were everywhere, deftly arranging the last details before the guests should arrive. On every hand was evidence of the lavishness that would mark the reception; but it was the lavishness of good taste, not the garishness of mere money. Through the great, high hall they were conducted to the Moorish room, where Jimmy Raelton greeted them with characteristic enthusiasm. But the superkeen ears of Thornley Colton caught an undercurrent of seriousness in the host’s voice.

“Robbery?” he asked quietly, as the slim, hollow stick he always carried found a chair.

“Scott, yes!” laughed Raelton; then, seriously: “That mind-reading stunt of yours is positively uncanny at times, Colton.”

“Simple elimination,” explained the blind problemist. “Something more serious would have been given publicity before this; something less serious would not have caused you to ask us here an hour before guests should arrive.”

“It’s more puzzling than really serious,” declared Raelton. “You know I’m so foolishly happy to-night because Dorothy is herself again that nothing else could really matter.” His face lighted up boyishly. The Jimmy Raeltons had been married five years, and society still called them the Newlyweds.

He took a small leather case from the inlaid taboret beside him, and snapped open the lid. Sydney Thames, the blind man’s secretary and constant companion, could not repress a gasp of admiration as the wonderful diamond necklace sent its thousand flashing fires toward the shaded lights above.

“This is the thing I wanted to see you about,” quizzically smiled Jimmy Raelton, as he extended the open case toward the blind man. A question would be needed here, at least.

Colton took the case, weighed it on his open palm an instant, brushed the stones ever so lightly with the tip of his forefinger, and snapped shut the lid.

“Worth fifty thousand--if it wasn’t paste,” he announced.

“Good Lord!” Raelton sank weakly into a big morris chair, the one anachronism his comfort-loving body demanded.

“To a person with highly sensitive finger-tips there can be no such thing as a fake diamond; because no crystal less hard will hold a sharply-defined facet edge. When, and how, was the substitution made?”

“That is just the point. Since the morning following the Carlton-Browne reception they have been in the safe-deposit vault to which only Dorothy and I have access. You know she has never used them since; she hasn’t been herself for six months or so.” A troubled light came to his eyes. “It wasn’t her sister’s death so much--it seemed to be something else. Sometimes I almost feared that she was discontented; that she didn’t want to stay at home with the kiddies any more. Her father was always a wanderer, and her grandfather died in China--you know how. But, thank God, that’s over. The two months’ cruise on the _Sea Mew_ have made her the same old Dorothy.”

He paused an instant, then came back to the point. “I’m quite an expert in an amateur way, and I recognized the substitution instantly to-night. The discovery seemed to agitate Dorothy terribly. She always set great store by the necklace--it was my wedding-present. The thing has upset her so that she will be positively ill, unless you discover how the substitution was made, and by whom. She wouldn’t let me call the police.”

“Where is Dorothy?” asked Colton anxiously.

“She is lying down. I’m afraid this thing is going to spoil the whole evening.” Again came the troubled note. He touched a small silver bell. “I’ll call her. I want you to convince her that it isn’t worth worrying about. You can do it, because she has always looked upon you as a father.”

A servant entered, bowed at the order, withdrew.

They waited in silence for the coming of Dorothy Raelton. Thornley Colton’s mind went back to the death of Colonel Calvin, the promise given by the blind man that he would be a father to the two parentless girls. A look of sadness came to the thin expressive lips. He was thinking of the other beautiful daughter; the suicide that had never been explained.

The servant returned. His ruddy English face had lost a bit of its colour; his voice trembled slightly.

“Mrs. Raelton is sleeping. The door’s locked--and Dora can’t wake her.”

In three minds leaped a single, horrible thought. Jimmy Raelton leaped to his feet, dry-lipped.

“My God, Thornley!” He ran toward the door, and into the hall. Thornley Colton was at his heels, supersensitive ears following each footfall unerringly. Sydney Thames hurried after them; the servant brought up the rear. They raced up the marble stairs. In the upper hall a maid leaned against the wall, wringing her hands.

“Mr. Raelton!” she sobbed. “Oh, I can’t bear it!”

Thornley Colton had not paused; his slim stick found the closed door. He turned to face them, on his countenance an expression Sydney Thames had never seen before. He spoke to the white-faced servant.

“The guests will begin to arrive any moment, now,” he said, and his tone was as strange as the look on his face. “Tell them that Mrs. Raelton has been taken suddenly ill. The reception is postponed--indefinitely. Let no one in.” He waited a moment till the man had gone; then his hand fell on Jimmy Raelton’s shoulder. “Sydney and I will go,” he said huskily.

“She isn’t----” Raelton could not finish.

Colton shook his head sadly. “She isn’t dead, Jimmy,” he said, and stopped, with a world of suggestion in his tone.

“Then I want you to stay,” pleaded the husband hysterically. “Nothing else matters--if she is alive.”

He thrust his shoulder against the door. The lock gave way. He staggered in; stopped short with a gasp of horror. On the wide bed lay Dorothy Raelton, unconscious, hair disarranged, priceless gown dishevelled. From one limp hand dangled a long, black opium pipe. On a low table beside the bed a sweet-oil lamp burned flickeringly. A small can of opium was overturned beside it. The needle that had cooked the drug over the flame stained the white coverlet of the bed. The pungent smell of opium smoke was in the air.

Jimmy Raelton darted across the room, flung himself on his knees beside the bed.

“My God!” he moaned in agony. “My God!”

Thornley Colton’s hand fumbled for the knob, found it.

“Come, Sydney,” he murmured softly. Mechanically Thames obeyed. The door closed softly behind them. The Jimmy Raeltons were alone.