by Marion Bryce
“No, dear,” and Elliott looked at her kindly, “you can’t change your mind like that. Mr. Stone has the case, and he will go on with it and when you come to yourself again, you will be glad, for he will free you from suspicion by finding the real criminal.”
“I don’t want him to! I don’t want the criminal found! I want it to be an unsolved mystery, always and forever!”
“No;” Elliott spoke more firmly. “No, Eunice, that is not what you want.”
“Stop! I know what I want—without your telling me! You overstep your privileges, Mason! I’m not an imbecile, to be ignored, set aside, overruled! I won’t stand it! Mr. Stone, you are discharged!”
She stood, pointing to the door with a gesture that would have been melodramatic, had she not been so desperately in earnest. The soft black sleeve fell away from her soft white arm, and her out-stretched hand was steady and unwavering as she stood silent, but quivering with suppressed rage.
“Eunice,” and going to her, Elliott took the cold white hand in his own. “Eunice,” he said, and no more, but his eyes looked deeply into hers.
She gazed steadily for a moment, and then her face softened, and she turned aside, and sank wearily into a chair.
“Do as you like,” she said, in a low murmur. “I’ll leave it to you, Mason. Let Mr. Stone go ahead.”
“Yes, go ahead, Mr. Stone,” said Aunt Abby, eagerly. “I’ll show you anywhere you want to go—anything you want to see I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Why, do you know anything I haven’t been told, Miss Ames? I thought we had pretty well sized up the situation.”
“Yes, but I can tell you something that nobody else will listen to, and I think you will.”
Eunice started up again. “Aunt Abby,” she said, “if you begin that pack of fool nonsense about a vision, I’ll leave the room—I vow I will!”
“Leave, then!” retorted Aunt Abby, whose patience was also under a strain.
But Stone said, “Wait, please, I want a few more matters mentioned, and then, Miss Ames, I will listen to your ‘fool nonsense!’ First, what is this talk about money troubles between Mr. and Mrs, Embury?”
“That,” Eunice seemed interested, “is utter folly. My husband objected to giving me a definite allowance, but he gave me twice the sum I would have asked for, and more, too, by letting me have charge accounts everywhere I chose.”
“Then you didn’t kill him for that reason?” and the dark eyes of the detective rested on Eunice kindly.
“No; I did not!” she said, curtly, and Stone returned,
“I believe you, Mrs, Embury; if you were the criminal, that was not the motive. Next,” he went on, “what about this quarrel you and Mr. Embury had the night before his death?”
“That was because I had disobeyed his express orders,” Eunice said, frankly and bravely, “and I went to a bridge game at a house to which he had forbidden me to go. I am sorry—and I wish I could tell him so.”
Fleming Stone looked at her closely. Was she sincere or was she merely a clever actress?
“A game for high stakes, I assume,” he said quietly.
“Very high. Mr. Embury objected strongly to my playing there, but I went, hoping to win some money that I wanted.”
“That you wanted? For some particular purpose?”
“No; only that I might have a few dollars in my purse, as other women do. It all comes back to the same old quarrel, Mr. Stone. You don’t know! can’t make you understand—how humiliating, how galling it is for a woman to have no money of her own! Nobody understands—but I have been subjected to shame and embarrassment hundreds of times for the want of a bit of ready money!”
“I think I do understand, Mrs, Embury. I know how hard it must have been for a proud woman to have that annoyance. Did Mr, Embury object to the lady who was your hostess that evening?”
“Yes, he did. Mrs, Desternay is an old school friend of mine, but Mr. Embury never liked her, and he objected more strenuously because she had the bridge games.”
“And the lady’s attitude toward you?”
“Fifi? Oh, I don’t know. We’ve always been friends, generally speaking, but we’ve had quarrels now and then—sometimes we’d be really intimate, and then again, we wouldn’t speak for six weeks at a time. Just petty tiffs, you know, but they seemed serious at the time.”
“I see. Hello, here’s McGuire!”
Ferdinand, with a half-apologetic look, ushered in a boy, with red hair, and a very red face. He was a freckled youth, and his bright eyes showed quick perception as they darted round the room, and came to rest on Miss Ames, on whom he smiled broadly. “This is my assistant,” Stone said, casually; “his name is Terence McGuire, and he is an invaluable help. Anything doing, son?”
“Not partickler. Kin I sit and listen?”
Clearly the lad was embarrassed, probably at the unaccustomed luxury of his surroundings and the presence of so many high-bred strangers. For Terence, or Fibsy, as he was nicknamed, was a child of the streets, and though a clever assistant to Fleming Stone in his career, the boy seldom accompanied his employer to the homes of the aristocracy. When he did do so, he was seized with a shyness that was by no means evident when he was in his more congenial surroundings.
He glanced bashfully at Eunice, attracted by her beauty, but afraid to look at her attentively. He gazed at Mason Elliott with a more frank curiosity; and then he cast a furtive look at Aunt Abby, who was herself smiling at him.
It was a genial, whole-souled smile, for the old lady had a soft spot in her heart for boys, and was already longing to give him some fruit and nuts from the sideboard.
Fibsy seemed to divine her attitude, and he grinned affably, and was more at his ease.
But he sat quietly while the others went on discussing the details of the case.
Eunice was amazed at such a strange partner for the great man, but she quickly thought that a street urchin like that could go to places and learn of side issues in ways which the older man could not compass so conveniently.
Presently Fibsy slipped from his seat, and quietly went into the bedrooms.
Eunice raise her eyebrows slightly, but Fleming Stone, observing, said, “Don’t mind, Mrs, Embury. The lad is all right. I’ll vouch for him.”
“A queer helper,” remarked Elliott.
“Yes; but very worth-while. I rely on him in many ways, and he almost never fails to help me. He’s now looking over the bedrooms, just as I did, and he’ll disturb nothing.”
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Aunt Abby; “maybe he won’t—but I don’t like boys prowling among my things!” and she scurried after him.
She found him in her room, and rather gruffly said, “What are you up to, boy?”
“Snuff, ma’am,” he replied, with a comical wink, which ought to have shocked the old lady, but which, somehow, had a contrary effect.
“Do you like candy?” she asked—unnecessarily, she knew—and offered him a box from a drawer.
Fibsy felt that a verbal answer was not called for, and, helping himself, proceeded to munch the sweets, contentedly and continuously.
“Say,” he burst out, after a thoughtful study of the room, “where was that there dropper thing found, anyhow?”
“In this medicine chest—”
“Naw; I mean where’d the girl find it?—the housework girl.”
“You seem to know a lot about the matter!”
“Sure I do. Where’d you say?”
“Right here,” and Aunt Abby pointed to a place on the rug near the head of her bed. It was a narrow bed, which had been brought there for her during her stay.
“Huh! Now you could’a dropped it there?”
“I know,” and Aunt Abby whispered, “Nobody’ll believe me, but I know!”
“You do! Say, you’re some wiz! Spill it to me, there’s a dear!”
Fibsy was, in his way, a psychologist, and he knew by instinct that this old lady would like him better if he retained his ignorant, untuto
red ways, than if he used the more polished speech, which he had painstakingly acquired for other kinds of occasions.
“I wonder if you’d understand. For a boy, you’re a bright one—”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I am! They don’t make ’em no brighter ’n me! Try me, do, Miss Ames! I’m right there with the goods.”
“Well, child, it’s this: I saw a—a vision—”
“Yes’m, I know—I mean I know what visions are, they’re fine, too!” He fairly smacked his lips in gusto, and it encouraged Aunt Abby to proceed.
“Yes, and it was the ghost of—who do you suppose it was?”
“Your grandmother, ma’am?” The boy’s attitude was eagerly attentive and his freckled little face was drawn in a desperate interest.
“No!” Aunt Abby drew closer and just breathed the words, “Mr. Embury!”
“Oh!” Fibsy was really startled, and his eyes opened wide, as he urged, “Go on, ma’am!”
“Yes. Well, it was just at the moment that Mr. Embury was—that he died—you know.”
“Yes’m, they always comes then, ma’am!”
“I know it, and oh, child, this is a true story!”
“Oh, yes, ma’am—I know it is!”
Indeed one could scarcely doubt it, for Aunt Abby, having found an interested listener at last, poured forth her account of her strange experience, not caring for comment or explanation, since she had found some one who believed!
“Yes, it was just at that time—I know, because it was almost daylight—just before dawn—and I was asleep, but not entirely asleep—”
“Sort’a half dozing—”
“Yes; and Sanford—Mr, Embury, you know, came gliding through my room, and he stopped at my bedside to say good-by—”
“Was he alive?” asked Fibsy, awe-struck at her hushed tones and bright, glittering eyes.
“Oh, no, it was his spirit, you see—his disembodied spirit”
“How could you see it, then?”
“When spirits appear like that, they are visible.”
“Oh, ma’am—I didn’t know.”
“Yes, and I not only saw him but he was evident to all my five senses!”
“What, ma’am? What do you mean?”
Fibsy drew back, a little scared, as Aunt Abby clutched his sleeve in her excitement. He felt uneasy, for it was growing dusk, and the old lady was in such a state of nervous exhilaration that he shrank a little from her proximity.
But Fibsy was game. “Go on, ma’am,” he whispered.
“Yes,” Aunt Abby declared, with an eerie smile of triumph, “I saw him—I heard him—I felt him—I smelled him—and, I tasted him!”
Fibsy nearly shrieked, for at each enumeration of her marvelous experiences, Miss Ames grasped his arm tighter and emphasized her statements by pounding on his shoulder.
She seemed unaware of his personal presence—she talked more as if recounting the matter to herself, but she used him as a general audience and the boy had to make a desperate effort to preserve his poise.
And then it struck him that the old lady was crazy, or else she really had an important story to tell. In either case, it was his duty to let Fleming Stone hear it, at first hand, if possible. But he felt sure that to call in the rest of the household, or to take the narrator out to them would—as he expressed it to himself “upset her applecart and spill the beans!”
CHAPTER XIV. THE FIVE SENSES
However he decided quickly, it must be done, so he said, diplomatically, “This is awful int’restin’, Miss Ames, and I’m just dead sure and certain Mr. Stone’d think so, too. Let’s go out and get it off where he c’n hear it. What say?”
The boy had risen and was edging toward the door. Rather than lose her audience, Aunt Abby followed, and in a moment the pair appeared in the living-room, where Fleming Stone was still talking to Eunice and Mr. Elliott.
“Miss Ames, now, she’s got somethin’ worth tellin’,” Fibsy announced. “This yarn of hers is pure gold and a yard wide, Mr. Stone, and you oughter hear it, sir.”
“Gladly,” and Stone gave Aunt Abby a welcoming smile.
Nothing loath to achieve the center of the stage, the old lady seated herself in her favorite arm-chair, and began:
“It was almost morning,” she said, “a faint dawn began to make objects about the room visible, when I opened my eyes and saw a dim, gliding figure—”
Eunice gave an angry exclamation, and rising quickly from her chair, walked into her own room, and closed the door with a slam that left no doubt as to her state of mind.
“Let her alone,” advised Elliott; “she’s better off in there. What is this story, Aunt Abby? I’ve never heard it in full.”
“No; Eunice never would let me tell it. But it will solve all mystery of Sanford’s death.”
“Then it is indeed important,” and Stone looked at the speaker intently.
“Yes, Mr. Stone, it will prove beyond all doubt that Mr. Embury was a suicide.”
“Go on, then,” said Elliott, briefly.
“I will. In the half light, I saw this figure I just mentioned. It wasn’t discernible clearly—it was merely a moving shadow—a vague shape. It came toward me—”
“From which direction? “asked Stone, with decided interest.
“From Eunice’s room—that is, it had, of course, come from Mr. Embury’s room, through Eunice’s room, and so on into my room. For it was Sanford Embury’s spirit—get that firmly in your minds!”
The old lady spoke with asperity, for she was afraid of contradiction, and resented their quite apparent scepticism.
“Go on, please,” urged Stone.
“Well, the spirit came nearer my bed, and paused and looked down on me where I lay.”
“Did you see his face?” asked Elliott.
“Dimly. I can’t seem to make you understand how vague the whole thing was—and yet it was there! As he leaned over me, I saw him—saw the indistinct shape—and I heard the sound of a watch ticking. It was not my watch, it was a very faint ticking one, but all else was so still, that I positively heard it.”
“Gee!” said Fibsy, in an explosive whisper.
“Then he seemed about to move away. Impulsively, I made a movement to detain him. Almost without volition—acting on instinct—I put out my hand and clutched his arm. I felt his sleeve—it wasn’t a coat sleeve—nor a pajama sleeve—it seemed to have on his gymnasium suit—the sleeve was like woolen jersey—”
“And you felt this?”
“Yes, Mr. Stone, I felt it distinctly—and not only with my hand as I grasped at his arm but” Aunt Abby hesitated an instant, then went on, “But I bit at him! Yes, I did! I don’t know why, only I was possessed with an impulse to hold him—and he was slipping away. I didn’t realize at the time—who—what it was, and I sort of thought it was a burglar. But, anyway, I bit at him, and so I bit at the woolen sleeve—it was unmistakable—and on it I tasted raspberry jam.”
“What!” cried her hearers almost in concert.
“Yes—you needn’t laugh—I guess I know the taste of raspberry jam, and it was on that sleeve, as sure as I’m sitting here!”
“Gee!” repeated Fibsy, his fists clenched on his knees and his bright eyes fairly boring into the old lady’s countenance. “Gee whiz!”
“Go on,” said Stone, quietly.
“And—I smelt gasoline,” concluded Miss Ames defiantly. “Now, sir, there’s the story. Make what you will out of it, it’s every word true. I’ve thought it over and over, since I realized what it all meant, and had I known at the time it was Sanford’s spirit, I should have spoken to him. But as it was, I was too stunned to speak, and when I tried to hold him, he slipped away, and disappeared. But it was positively a materialization of Sanford Embury’s flitting spirit—and nothing else.”
“The vision may argue a passing soul,” Stone said kindly, as if humoring her, “but the effect on your other senses, seems to me to indicate a living person.”
“No,”
and Aunt Abby spoke with deep solemnity, “a materialized spirit is evident to our senses—one or another of them. In this case I discerned it by all five senses, which is unusual—possibly unique; but I am very psychic—very sensitive to spiritual manifestations.”
“You have seen ghosts before, then?”
“Oh, yes. I have visions often. But never such a strange one.”
“And where did this spirit disappear to?”
“It just faded. It seemed to waft on across the room. I closed my eyes involuntarily, and when I opened them again it was gone.”
“Leaving no trace behind?”
“The faint odor of gasoline—and the taste of raspberry jam on my tongue.”
Fibsy snickered, but suppressed it at once, and said, “And he left the little dropper-thing beside your bed?”
“Yes, boy! You seem clairvoyant yourself! He did. It was Sanford, of course; he had killed himself with the poison, and he tried to tell me so—but he couldn’t make any communication—they rarely can—so he left the tiny implement, that we might know and understand.”
“H’m, yes;” and Stone sat thinking. “Now, Miss Ames, you must not be offended at what I’m about to say. I don’t disbelieve your story at all. You tell it too honestly for that. I fully believe you saw what you call a ‘vision.’ But you have thought over it and brooded over it, until you think you saw more than you did—or less! But, leaving that aside for the moment, I want you to realize that your theory of suicide, based on the ‘vision’ is not logical. Supposing your niece were guilty—as the detectives think—might not Mr. Embury’s spirit have pursued the same course?”
Aunt Abby pondered. Then, her eyes flashing, she cried, “Do you mean he put the dropper in my room to throw suspicion on me, instead of on his wife?”
“There is a chance for such a theory.”
“Sanford wouldn’t do such a thing! He was truly fond of me!”
“But to save his wife?”
“I never thought of all that. Maybe he did—or, maybe he dropped the thing accidentally—”
