Murderer's Mail

OCTOR JAMES RICHARDS was a practitioner whose patients were only among the most fashionable persons in the city, yet he did more than cater to the supposed ailments of persons who liked to be thought in delicate health. Doctor Richards was in love with his profession, and while he took pride in the fact that men and women of social position and wealth had him as family physician, yet he was more than a doctor in name only.

And he was more than the ordinary physician who looked at diseases in the ordinary way and cured them by drugs alone. Psychology played a big part in Doctor Richards' practice. He looked for symptoms in the mind as well as in the body. And in most cases he found the clew to the defect and also to the cure there.

Now he took out his gold-edged prescription book and lifted his fountain pen from his pocket. He adjusted his glasses, and smiled across the wide library table at Gordon Sparter. The latter refused to meet his glance. His eyes were furtive, his nostrils were distended, he opened and closed his hands spasmodically, he wet his lips with his tongue continually.

“Sparter, you have been drinking too much!” the doctor accused.

“I suppose so.”

“And that is not at all like you. You may be one of the idle rich, you may have sowed considerable wild oats in your youth, you may know a champagne bottle when you see one but of recent years you have been a very moderate drinker.”

“I—that's right!”

“And within the last few days you have been drinking heavily; is that not so? Yet you have not grown intoxicated. The drink has hurt you, of course, and raised hob with your nervous system, but there had been some sort of a counter-irritant, I may say.”

“Counter irritant?” Sparter gasped, looking at the doctor, and then looking away again quickly.

“Exactly. You have been suffering mentally, suffering so much that liquor did not have its ordinary effect. You are sure that you have nothing more to tell me?”

“Quite sure. What do you mean, Richards? Why, everything is all right. I'm just a bit under the weather—caught a little cold, you know. Nerves are all right.”

Doctor Richards brushed a book from the end of the table. It fell to the floor with a crash. Gordon Sparter almost sprang from his chair, and a cry escaped him. He sank back again, trembling.

“Nerves all right, are they?” Richards asked, smiling again.

“Confound you! Why did you do that?”

“Just to show you that your nerves are not all right, my friend. You are in a sorry state. Is it business?”

“No, Nothing like that. My fortune is invested wisely—and I never speculate.”

“That is what I thought. So it is not business. And it is no affair in which a woman is concerned, of course.”

“What makes you say such a thing as that?”

“Women have been known to make men nervous, my friend. A love affair that is not running smoothly”

“Rot!”

“Of course it is rot, in your case,” Doctor Richards agreed. “A man happily married to one of the beauties of the city, and a woman who is more than a beauty”

“Nothing like that!” Sparter snapped.

“Of course not. Business and women are eliminated. You are not being blackmailed?”

“Certainly not! Seems to me you are talking a lot of nonsense! Going to give me some medicine?”

“Some medicine and some advice,” the physician replied. “I can give you medicine to soothe your nerves, drugs to help your body to get back to normal—but I must remove the cause if I am to effect a complete cure.”

“What do you mean by that?”

Gordon Sparter snapped the words again, and got up to pace the floor nervously.

“Something is preying on your mind,” the doctor said. “Straighten out your mind, and your body will take care of itself.”

“Utter rot! I'm just a bit seedy, I tell you—a little cold, and all that sort of thing.”

“Have it your own way,” Doctor Richards said. “I'll give you a prescription. But you must stop drinking to excess, and get out in the air more. Take Mrs. Sparter and make a trip some place. You've nothing to tie you down to the city.”

“I may do that,” Sparter said, stopping at one end of the table. “Haven't been away for several months.”

“And whatever it is that is bothering you—get it off your mind.”

Sparter tried to smile.

“Rot, I tell you!” he exclaimed. “I'm all right—just a bit of a cold”

The hall door was opened, and Doctor Richards was upon his feet instantly. A woman stood framed in the doorway—a woman of twenty-five, very beautiful, charming, cultured and refined. A smile played about her lips, and when she spoke it was in a voice that was musical and highly pleasing.

“Well, is the examination over?” she asked.

“All over, Mrs. Sparter,” the physician replied.

“And what is the verdict?”

“Mr. Sparter has a cold that he has neglected. It has made him nervous. He says that he feels a bit seedy. I shall give him some medicine, but I advise that he get out into the air more—possibly take a trip. With you along to nurse him”

“Heavens! I couldn't go along—not now!” Mrs. Sparter said.

“Why not?” her husband asked.

“With the club convention coming up in less than a month? And I am on several important committees too. But you can go, Gordon.”

“Think about it!” Sparter growled.

He turned toward the window, and Doctor Richards picked up his prescription book and fountain pen. He whirled around swiftly and looked sharply at Mrs. Sparter. He surprised a peculiar look on her face.

“And how are you feeling, Mrs. Sparter?” the doctor asked.

“Rather well—except that I am tired now and then,” she replied. She tried to smile, too, but there was a peculiar quality in her smile, and the physician noticed it. He had known her for years, had known her before her marriage to Sparter. She came from a prominent and wealthy family, had as much money of her own as Sparter had. Society had whispered that it had been a love match, that she adored Sparter, and that he was insanely jealous of her.

Doctor Richards was intensely interested in this household. He knew that something had happened within a year of the marriage—that there was not peace and contentment in this splendid house—and he supposed that it had been Sparter's jealousy that had caused a sort of estrangement. At times he felt a bit of fear for these friends of his. He had felt like doing something to aid them, he was fifty, and Sparter only thirty, and his wife twenty-five—but he had hesitated.

As he maintained the conversation, he watched Mrs. Sparter closely. She had been bred to conquer emotion when it was necessary. She was the sort of woman who can smile while her heart is breaking, but she did not delude Doctor Richards entirely this day.

There was something radically wrong in this household, he told himself—these young friends of his were on the rocks, or drifting in that direction.

“I just wanted to learn whether there was anything serious the matter with Gordon,” she said, now. “Stay and talk to him for a time, doctor, if you have no other patients waiting—cheer him up.”

“Glad to do it, if he wants me to.”

“Of course!” Sparter said. “Sit down, doctor. Going out?”

He addressed the question to his wife, and looked at her sharply as he did so.

“I am going to drive for a time—I feel that I need the air,” she said. “I have been writing a club paper.”

“Good thing to get out and let the breeze blow away the cobwebs,” Sparter  told her.

“I'll be back long before dinner,” she said.

She went out and closed the door, and the doctor sat down beside the wide library table again, and began talking of things that did not concern diseases and drugs.

Mrs. Sparter hurried up the stairs to her own boudoir. In the hall she met her maid.

“I am going out for a time, Marie,” she said. “You may lay out the new blue gown for dinner.”

“Yes, madame.”

“I shall not need you now.”

Mrs. Sparter went on into the room and closed the door. The maid heard the key turned in the lock.

Had Doctor Richards been watching the maid then, he would have been more than ever convinced that there was something wrong in the Sparter household. She walked down the hall for a short distance, stopped, hesitated, and then returned softly, making not the slightest noise. Just outside the door of the boudoir she stopped to listen, and presently she knelt and peered through the keyhole.

Mrs. Gordon Sparter had on her hat and coat. She was sitting before her desk in one corner of the room, her profile toward the hall door, writing a note.

As the maid watched, Mrs. Sparter finished the note and put it into an envelope, which she addressed. Then, for a moment, she sat with her face resting in her hands. The maid could see her face—for an instant when Mrs. Sparter thought she was not observed. It was drawn, almost haggard.

Then the woman at the desk sighed and seemed to come from an unpleasant reverie. She reached for a little, jeweled stamp box that was on one end of the desk, and took out a stamp. She wet it on a sponge, and put it on the envelope.

The maid got up quickly and hurried down the hall, this time disappearing into her own room. An instant later, she was down the rear stairs and talking to some of the other servants.

“The doctor's with him now,” the butler was saying to the cook. “He's been hitting the drink—that's what. All I've done for a week is whisky and carbonated water to his library or his den. Business trouble, I suppose—speculating.”

“I hope he ain't gone and lost all his money and that of the missus too,” the cook replied. “This is a good place.”

“I heard him tell the doctor he had a cold,” the maid offered.

“What are you doing down here?” the butler demanded.

“She said she didn't need me until she wanted to dress for dinner—she's going out.”

“And there's something funny about that, though it isn't for me to question the comings and goings of my mistress,” the butler said. “The chauffeur was telling me about it. About a dozen times in the last month she has driven downtown and left the car on a corner, and been gone for about fifteen minutes. The chauffeur followed her once—she went to the central post office and mailed a letter.”

“Well, that's her business!” the maid snapped.

“Looks peculiar, says I,” the butler replied. “Funny she doesn't put those letters with the other mail at the house. But it's none of my business.”

“And that's the truth!” the maid replied.

She went through the rear door and found herself in a small garden, used by the servants now and then. Now that she was alone, the maid appeared to have troubles of her own. There was a worried look in her face, and she paced the walk nervously. She plucked a rose, and tore it to pieces without as much as looking at it. Then she seemed to fight to regain her composure, and when she returned to the house she was smiling.

A woman's scream rang through the house, a second and a third. The maid's face blanched, the butler's eyes bulged, and the fat cook seemed to flinch. Gordon Sparter and Doctor James Richards, in the library, heard it and sprang to their feet. They rushed out into the hall.

One of the servants was huddled at the top of the stairs, weeping hysterically, and they hurried up to her.

“What is it?” Sparter demanded.

“She's dead—dead,” the servant wailed.

“Of whom are you speaking?” the physician demanded, shaking the woman and making an attempt to bring her out of her hysterics. “Answer me! What do you mean?”

“Mrs. Sparter—she's dead!” the woman sobbed. “She's sittin' before her desk in her room—dead! I was cleanin' the bathroom, and I went in there and”

But Doctor Richards and Gordon Sparter already were rushing along the hall toward the door of the boudoir,

HEY found that the door was locked on the inside, of course, and so they ran on, Doctor Richards in the lead, and reached the door of Sparter's room, ran through that and the bathroom, and so entered the boudoir. Some of the other servants, attracted by the tumult, had reached the second floor of the house and were caring for the woman who had made the discovery.

Mrs. Sparter was in the chair before her desk. She had fallen forward. She had on hat and coat, and the former had been thrust to one side, and her luxuriant hair had come down. One hand had overturned the inkwell, and the other had brushed paper and envelopes to the floor. Her eyes were open and glazed. There was an expression of agony about the corners of her mouth.

“Stand back!” Doctor Richards exclaimed, as they entered. He remembered that Sparter had married his wife for love, and he did not care to have a half-crazed man bothering him during these first few moments while he was at work.

But the first swift examination assured the physician that nothing could be done. Mrs. Sparter was dead. Doctor Richards turned toward Sparter.

“Is—she” Sparter gasped.

Doctor Richards nodded his head, slowly, and then sprang forward and put an arm behind Sparter's shoulders as he tottered.

“Careful, old boy!” he warned. “Come away now. Try hard not to break down. You're not any too well, yourself, at the present time, you know!”

“But” Sparter made an effort to speak, it seemed, and then glanced about him wildly.

“Into your own room for a few minutes, until you get over the shock a little!” the physician ordered. “I command it, Sparter! Back to your own room, old friend!”

He forced Sparter to turn around and pass through the bathroom again, and Sparter moved mechanically, as though dazed, rubbing the back of one hand over his eyes. Doctor Richards made him sit in a chair before one of the windows, and he called Sparter's valet to attend him.

“Just remain here until I make my investigation,” the physician said. “You can't help my being in there, old man, and you might hinder me a lot. Just sit here, and let your valet get you anything that you want.”

Richards stepped to the door and called the butler in from the hall.

“Mrs. Sparter has died while sitting before her desk in her boudoir,” he explained, simply. “I'm going to make an investigation, and I'd like to have you go into the room with me, if you have no objection to make.”

“Certainly, sir, unless there is something else that is required of me,” the butler said.

“Order the other servants down stairs, and then follow me. And tell them to remain in the house and keep quiet for the present. They are not to talk.”

“I understand, sir.”

The butler did as he had been ordered, and then went into the boudoir after the doctor. He glanced at Sparter as he passed; Sparter was gazing through the window as a man who sees nothing, one fist pressed tightly against his mouth. The valet was hovering near, ready to be of assistance, hoping that his master would control himself and neither faint nor grow hysterical.

Richards called the butler to aid him, and they lifted the body and put it upon the bed.

“Touch nothing in the room for the time being,” the physician directed.

“What do you suppose caused it, sir?”

“I do not know,” Richards replied. “Persons die in peculiar ways sometimes. A human heart is a delicate organ and easily demolished; it is a frail thing, yet life depends upon it.”

“She always seemed to be so very healthy, sir,” the butler offered. “She indulged in sports and”

“She was healthy,” the doctor replied. “I examined her less than two weeks ago—used to examine her every six months—and I remarked to her at that time that she had a splendid constitution. Her ceaseless social activities did not seem to break her down, as is the case with so many women.”

And then Doctor Richards was silent, conducting his examination. The butler, standing against the wall across the room, heard the physician grunt once or twice as if in surprise, and once an exclamation escaped his lips. And after a time the doctor raised his head, and the butler saw an expression of horror in his face.

“What is it, sir?” the butler asked.

“Do not ask questions!” Doctor Richards snapped, angrily. “Glance into the other room and see if Mr. Sparter is all right.”

The butler obeyed.

“Mr. Sparter is sitting before the window, sir, looking out,” he reported. “He—he seems to be taking it pretty hard, sir. I suppose the shock”

“No doubt,” the doctor interrupted. “And there is another sad blow in store for him. You have been with them since their marriage, haven't you?”

“Yes, sir,” the butler replied, “and I was with Mr. Sparter's father before that.”

“Then you should have the interests of the family at heart and should be trusted,” said Doctor Richards. “I'm going to tell you what may surprise you—Mrs. Sparter died from poison!”

The butler gasped, and his face grew livid.

“Poison, sir?”

“Not so loud! We'll keep it to ourselves for a few minutes. Just stand where you are!”

The butler remained near the wall, looking across the room at the body with an expression of horror in his face. Doctor Richards went slowly around the room, looked at the litter on the desk and on the floor below it, investigated the things on the dressing table, and then glanced toward the butler again.

“Why—why did she take it, sir?” the servant gasped.

Doctor James Richards was asking himself the same question. He knew the poison that had caused Mrs. Sparter's death—knew it the moment he had looked at the dead lips and had sniffed the odor that remained clinging there. It was a subtle poison not generally known, a poison the mere touch of which on the tongue would cause a person's heart to cease beating.

How had Mrs. Gordon Sparter obtained it? And why had she taken it? As far as Doctor Richards knew, she had every reason for wanting to live. She was talented, rich, popular. There was no skeleton in her family, as far as the doctor knew, nor in the family of her husband. Three years before, she had married for love. Possibly her husband's unreasonable jealousy had caused a minor estrangement, but nothing serious enough to lead this high-spirited woman to take her own life.

She was not that sort, either, Doctor Richards told himself. She was a woman who was known to be thoroughly modern. In the event of a separation from her husband, she would have gone elsewhere and lived her own life, perhaps in sorrow, yet in peace.

Doctor Richards walked over to the bed and looked down at her again. He found that he could not bring himself to believe that she had committed suicide. And the one thing that bothered him, aside from a motive for the act, was the fact that there was no trace of poison remaining in the room.

There was no tiny, empty bottle to be found. There was no small piece of paper that could have contained the poison in the form of a powder. Envelopes and paper were scattered about, there were a few letters on the desk, that it seemed she had just written and prepared for mailing, and that was all.

Doctor Richards searched the boudoir again, thoroughly, while the butler watched, but he found nothing. And then the thought came to him that Mrs. Sparter had not taken her own life, but had been slain by another.

Yet, who would murder such a splendid woman? What could the motive be? So far as the doctor knew, she did not have an enemy in the world. And could it have been an accident? Doctor Richards did not think so, remembering the nature of the poison. It was not a drug that every person could procure. And this was not a case of a careless woman taking a poisonous powder by mistake for headache medicine, or anything like that. Mrs. Sparter had not used headache powders, as the doctor knew very well—she had a sort of prejudice against them.

The poison caused instant death—and she had died at her desk. Her swollen and discolored lips and tongue told that the poison had touched there. And what had contained it? Where was the bottle or paper?

Doctor Richards unlocked and opened the door that led from the boudoir into the hallway, and stepped outside. He walked rapidly down the stairs to the lower floor, where the servants had gathered, and asked for the maid, who stepped forward immediately.

“When did you see Mrs. Sparter last?” the doctor demanded.

“She came up the stairs from the library and told me that she was going out and would not need me until time for her to dress for dinner,” the maid replied. “I went down the rear stairs to talk to the other servants.”

“Did she act in a peculiar manner?”

“No, sir; she seemed to act quite as usual, sir.”

Doctor Richards regarded the faces of the other servants, and then went slowly up the stairs. He closed and locked the boudoir again, and walked across the room to the telephone, and called the office of the coroner. A cry caused him to whirl around. Gordon Sparter stood in the bathroom door.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“I am calling the coroner's office, Gordon—sudden and—unexpected death, you know.”

“Don't do that—the publicity”

“I am afraid that it cannot be helped in such a case, my friend,” the doctor replied. “Everybody will know that she died suddenly; and there would be greater publicity—and scandal—if we did not obey the law.”

“I—I won't have it”

The doctor hung up the receiver without attending to the call, and hurried across the room to grasp Sparter by the shoulders.

“I see that I have to tell you now—and I was hoping to spare you for a time,” he said. “Gordon, prepare yourself for a shock—your wife did not die a natural death!”

“What—what is this you say?”

“She died from poison, Gordon.”

“I—I don't understand”

“A peculiar poison that not every man knows about, Gordon, a virulent poison of which I happened to learn a few years ago while on a tour of the world.”

But—she”

“We cannot understand it, of course, Gordon,” the doctor said. “Perhaps she took it by accident, perhaps she committed suicide, and, perhaps she was murdered.”

“But, who”

“Don't you see, now, why I must telephone to the coroner and have him investigate?”

“I—I suppose so. You know what is right. But I can't understand it! I can't believe it!” Sparter cried. He glanced toward the body of his wife.

“Go back into your own room, Gordon,” Doctor Richards commanded. “It will only make it worse for you to remain here at the present time.”

“The room—we'd better have it straightened”

“Nothing can be touched until the coroner arrives,” the physician told him.

“Those papers—letters”

“Nothing, Gordon. Go back into your own room. You must try to be quiet. I'll take charge for the present and attend to everything. You are not yourself, remember. Please do as I say.”

He urged Sparter back into the other room, and before Sparter realized what was taking place, he felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle in his wrist.

“You” Sparter gasped.

“You must remain quiet, and rest!” the doctor said. “You'll be a raving maniac if you don't sleep while the officials are here. Leave everything to me, Gordon. I'll attend to things, and remain until you are conscious again.”

He assisted Sparter to the bed and stretched him upon it, sat beside him until the narcotic took effect, and then hurried back into the boudoir and called the coroner and reported the case.

And then he walked to a window and stood looking out toward the street, thinking. Finally he whirled back to the desk again, and reached for the telephone directory. He located the number he wished, obtained the connection.

“I wish to speak to Mr. Terry Trimble,” he said.

HEN the telephone bell rang, Terry Trimble looked at the instrument accusingly and sighed. Though it was four o'clock in the afternoon, Trimble was in dressing gown and slippers. He had been sitting beside the table in his den, smoking and perusing a volume of poetry written by an Englishmen whom the critics were praising at the moment.

Billings, his secretary, entered the room quietly and stepped to the desk to take up the telephone.

“Before you answer that, Billings, want you to understand a few things,” Terry Trimble told him. “If it is the chief of police, tell him that I have gone to Maine to fish and left word that ] refused to help his men solve any more mysteries.”

“Yes, sir.

“If it is some society woman, you may say that I am very deep in a case and cannot accept invitations at the present time, and that, if I ever accept an invitation again, I shall refuse to tell how run criminals to earth.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well,” said Terry Trimble. “Now you may answer that call, and let us hope that the party has called the wrong number. I have been trying for four hours to ascertain why the critics call this poet great, and it is one mystery I am unable to solve.”

The secretary grinned and turned his back as he took the receiver from its hook. Terry Trimble touched match to cigarette and continued reading the despised poet as if Billings were not in the room and the telephone bell had not sounded.

“Sir?” Billings said, presently.

“What is it, Billings?'

“Doctor James Richards, sir, and he says that it is very important.”

Terry Trimble sighed and put down his book, and took the telephone from the hand of Billings.

“Good afternoon, doctor,” he said. “What is troubling you now? Are you going to make me work?”

Billings, waiting in anticipation, watched Terry Trimble closely as he listened to the words that came over the wire. He had been with Trimble for three years, and yet he could not begin to understand him. This man who pretended to be a butterfly at times, who relished poets and high-brow drama, who dressed almost like a fashion-plate—this was Terry Trimble, the trouble-maker, the man feared by criminals as they feared none other!

Some five years before, Terry Trimble after a row with an uncle whose heir he was, had established himself as a detective, only he did not call himself that. He termed himself a trouble-maker, and explained that he sought to make trouble for unscrupulous persons who annoyed others. He had special ways of attending to blackmailers, for instance.

“Cause them so much trouble that they'll stop troubling other people,” had been his plan.

He had been extraordinarily successful from the first, being one of those rare things, a born detective. And so he became more than a trouble-maker, and often helped the police out of a tight hole. Billings knew that Terry Trimble loved the work, and yet he pretended to be bored whenever a call to duty came. Billings knew he loved it because, while he charged wealthy men exorbitant fees, he often worked for poor men for nothing.

“Well, I suppose I'll have to run over and look into the matter,” Billings heard him say. “Oh, in about half an hour, I suppose! Don't let that silly ass of a coroner obliterate all the clews.”

And then he put the receiver on the hook, put the telephone on the table, and got to his feet.

“We go into action, Billings!” he announced,

Billings knew what that meant. He removed Terry Trimble's dressing gown and slippers, fetched shoes and coat, stick and gloves, and helped Trimble make himself ready—Billings was secretary and assistant and valet combined, not because Trimble could not afford more than one man, but because Terry Trimble did not care to have too many persons know the details of his business. He had learned to trust Billings.

“Just when I was beginning to solve the mystery of that poet, too,” Trimble complained. “Order the limousine, Billings, and prepare to accompany me. Mrs. Gordon Sparter is dead—poison—don't know, it seems, whether it was suicide, accident or murder. Ordinary case, I imagine, but old Doctor Richards is a friend of mine. Let us make haste, Billings.”

The secretary had touched the button that warned the chauffeur, and had put on his own hat and coat. Terry Trimble yawned and picked up his gloves and stick and followed Billings slowly through the hall. He even stopped to sniff at a bowl of roses there—it was his idea of making haste.

As they rode across the city to the Sparter residence, Trimble talked of almost everything except homicides and criminals. Billings knew the mood. Trimble never bothered about a crime until he knew the details. And then he worked like a fiend, accomplished what seemed to be impossible, and then relapsed into an orgy of reading and smoking once more.

They went up the broad driveway and from the limousine. Doctor Richards met them on the veranda steps.

“The coroner is here, Terry, but is not making any headway,” the physician reported.

“That is as usual, isn't it?” Terry asked.

“I can give you the details”

“Spare us for the present. Let me get my breath,” Terry Trimble implored. “Billings, keep the chauffeur company until I need you. I hope I'll not need you at all. Nothing to the case, I take it.”

“This is going to be a real case, my boy,” Doctor Richards told him, as they entered the house. “Mrs. Sparter died instantly, a few minutes after her maid left her. The poison is an uncommon one. I failed to find its container. There is no motive”

“There always is a motive,” Terry Trimble interrupted. “You are looking at this thing as a friend of the family, and I am looking at it from the outside, which makes a world of difference. Say no more about it, please—allow me to make my own investigation. You may say something that will get me on the wrong track. A train of thought, my dear doctor, is a delicate thing, and easily wrecked.”

Doctor Richards led the way up the stairs and to the boudoir. The coroner and his assistant were there, but nothing had been touched. They nodded to Trimble, who returned nods and then went across to look at the body. He gave it but a glance, and then turned toward Doctor Richards.

“What caused death?” he asked.

“A poison, Terry—a poison known to but few men. It is found in China, has been in use there for centuries.”

“One of those mysterious poisons of the East, eh? Tell me about it.”

Doctor Richards gave its scientific name, told how it was derived and spoke of its effects.

“One touch of it to the end of the tongue, and it causes instant death,” he explained. “A bit of it in a cut would have the same result. Mrs. Sparter had the poison on her tongue. The tongue and lips are swollen, are purplish and spotted with carmine—that is the way this poison works.”

“She was dead, you say, the instant that poison touched her lips or tongue?”

“No question about it. We found her sitting at her desk, her head fallen forward.”

“And you didn't find the container?”

“I did not. The poison could have been either in liquid or powder form, Terry.”

“Well, she either committed suicide, died from accident, or was murdered, eh?”

“Exactly,” the doctor said.

“Would she have had time, after taking the poison, to dispose of the container?”

“Absolutely not!” the doctor replied. “She died in her chair—was unable to get out of it.”

“Couldn't she have carried the poison—say in powder form—in her hand to the chair and then taken it?”

“No. A damp, perspiring hand would have caused action of the poison.”

“Must be nasty stuff!” Trimble exclaimed. “Sure you didn't overlook the container?”

“Absolutely sure. I searched well for it—was afraid somebody else might find it, that a bit of poison remained, and we'd have another tragedy.”

“Um! Well, she didn't commit suicide, then,” Terry said. “Now let us consider an accident.”

“This is a sort of poison one doesn't find in every house,” said Doctor Richards. “And Mrs. Sparter was not a woman to have a lot of drugs around. She seldom needed them. She believed in fresh air and exercise more than in medicine.”

“Wise woman! She had to get that poison as she sat in the chair, eh?”

“Yes,”

“It touched her tongue or lips, and she died instantly—didn't have a chance to make a move. Um! No container, either! Stuff isn't found scattered around. Looks to me as if she couldn't have done it by accident.”

“I scarcely believe it was an accident.”

“Then she was murdered,” Terry Trimble announced. “Now we are getting at it.”

“But the motive”

“We have to find the motive, of course, and the person who killed her—and then our work will be done,” Terry Trimble said. “It is very simple. Who saw her last alive?”

“Her maid, as far as we know.”

“I'll talk to the maid,” Trimble said.

Doctor Richards took him to the lower floor, and they went to the rear of the house, where the servants had congregated. The maid was called, and Terry Trimble bade her make herself comfortable.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Marie Dupont, sir.”

“One thing I never have been able to discover, and that is why so many maids call themselves Marie Dupont,” Terry said. “You are no more French than a German sausage. I'm Irish myself, and I know an Irish girl when I see one.”

“My—my real name is Mamie Cassidy, sir. If you've got a French name, you always can get a better job.”

“Lots of sense in that!” Trimble snorted. “Makes you a better maid, I suppose. Tell me what you know of this business.”

The maid explained how Mrs. Sparter had dismissed her, how she had gone down the stairs to talk to the others, and how the alarm had been sounded by another servant. Mrs. Sparter had not acted in a peculiar manner, she asserted.

“Know any little secrets about your mistress?” Trimble asked.

“I don't know what you mean, sir.”

“Did she get along all right with her husband?”

“As far as I know, sir.”

“Nothing mysterious about her actions, or anything like that?”

“I think not, sir.”

“Like her?”

“I—I admired her very much, sir.”

“Don't think she had any sort of a love affair?”

“Oh, no, sir!” replied Marie Dupont.

“Very good. You may go upstairs and go about your business, whatever it is,” Terry Trimble said. “The coroner and his assistant are removing the body. But you are to touch nothing in the boudoir for the present.”

“I understand, sir.”

Marie hurried away, and Terry Trimble questioned the butler.

“Where were you when Mrs. Sparter was found dead?” he asked.

“Talking to some of the other servants, sir, in the rear of the house.”

“Been here long?”

“Since Mr. Sparter was married, sir, and I was with his father before that.”

“Any idea how this happened?”

“Not the slightest, sir. It is so terrible”

“Yes, I know. Let us save our mourning until later! We are trying to solve a mystery now. Was Mrs. Sparter happy with her husband?”

“It isn't for me, sir”

“It is under the present circumstances,” said Trimble.

“I suppose they were as happy as most married couples, sir.”

“That is rather an open answer, but we'll let it pass. Did you like Mrs. Sparter?”

“She was a kind mistress, sir.”

“Anything peculiar about her recently?”

“Yes, sir, though perhaps I shouldn't speak of it.”

“Speak of it by all means!”

“She had been acting rather mysterious, sir, for some time. Her chauffeur told me that frequently of late she would drive to a certain corner downtown, leave the machine, be gone for fifteen minutes, and then return. He wondered at it, and I think that he spied upon her once, sir, through curiosity. He told me that she went to the central post office and mailed a letter. That is peculiar, sir—generally the letters are placed in a basket in the library, and are mailed by one of the servants.”

“Um!” Terry Trimble grunted. “That is all for the present.”

He went toward the front of the house again, Doctor Richards following him.

“Don't think she was unworthy, Terry,” the doctor begged. “This tragedy is not the result of some sordid love affair, as the butler's words might lead you to believe. I have known her for years”

“And I'm looking at it from the outside,” Trimble reminded him. “Please wait here for me.”

They had reached the foot of the stairs. Terry Trimble ran up the flight quickly and noiselessly, and reached the door of the boudoir. He knelt and peered through the keyhole.

And then he sprang to his feet, opened the door quickly, and was face to face with the maid who called herself Marie Dupont.

“I requested you not to touch anything in here!” Terry Trimble said. “Leave those papers on the desk alone!”

“I—there were a couple of letters, sir, and was going to put them in the mail.”

“Her letters?”

“Yes, sir."

“Put them back on the desk. It is for Mr. Sparter to say whether they shall be mailed now.”

The maid glared at him for an instant, then fought to regain her composure, and then put two letters on one corner of the desk, and started toward the door that opened into the hall, holding her nose high in the air.

“One moment, please!” Terry Trimble exclaimed, stopping her. “I said all of the letters, didn't I? I always mean what I say, young woman—never waste words. So, suppose you place the third letter on the desk also.”

“Sir?”

“I glanced at the desk when I was in here before, and there were three letters on it.”

“But, sir”

“And now I want you to put with the other two the one you picked up and thrust into the front of your dress. I happened to be watching you through the keyhole. And then you may sit down and give me an explanation, young lady!”

HE expression on the face of Marie Dupont was one of mingled surprise and terror. She turned away from the door, holding her hands to her breast as if to guard the letter Terry Trimble had seen her put there a few minutes before.

Then she walked a short distance back into the room and stood looking at the trouble-maker, her wide eyes reguarding [sic] him with something like astonishment.

“I—you must be mistaken, sir,” she said.

“Not a bit of it! I saw you pick up the letter and put it in the front of your dress. If you'd rather I'd arrest you and send you to police headquarters, and have a matron search you there”

“No! Don't do that!” she cried.

She took the letter from her dress, tossed it on the desk, and started toward the door again.

“One moment, please!” Trimble commanded.

He glanced down at the letter. It was addressed to Mr. George Winton, and the street address was one to be found in the poorer part of the city. Then he looked up at Marie Dupont again, adjusted his monocle and regarded her carefully.

“Why were you trying to get away with that letter?' he demanded, motioning her toward a chair.

“I—I was bewildered, sir; I didn't know what I was doing, I guess. I'm quite sure”

“And I am quite sure that you did know exactly what you were doing!” Trimble told her. “Better tell me the truth, don't you think? Why try to get away with that letter and none of the others?”

Marie Dupont was silent for a moment. She looked through the window and hesitated about making a reply.

“Don't take time to make up some sort of a story,” the trouble-maker said. “It is the truth that I want, you understand. It probably will be better for you to tell it, and at once.”

“I don't like to talk about it,” she said.

“But it happens to be necessary.”

“Well—I liked Mrs. Sparter, sir. She was a kind mistress, was good to all the servants, and”

“It is the letter I am asking about.”

“I am coming to that, sir. I don't want to speak ill of the dead, but Mrs. Sparter has been acting peculiarly of late.”

“You told me downstairs a short time ago that she had been doing nothing of the sort.”

“I—I didn't want to say anything about it, sir. But I suppose I must tell now. She—she wrote letters now and then, mysterious letters, sir, and mailed them herself. She never left them with the other mail, for I watched—I could not help noticing it.”

“And what does that signify? Some love affair—is that what you are trying to say?”

“I—I was afraid so, sir. Sometimes she seemed not to be happy with Mr. Sparter. And when I saw that letter—you see, sir, it is addressed to a stranger, to some man I never heard mentioned—I was afraid it was a love letter.”

“I understand. But why did you take it?”

“I was afraid that it was a love letter to a man, sir, as I said, and I didn't want Mr. Sparter to find it and read it, now that Mrs Sparter is dead.”

“You indignantly denied downstairs that she could have a love affair.”

“I didn't want to mention it before the others, sir,” the maid replied. “Scandal is an awful thing, especially in regard to a dead person.”

“And so you tried to get away with the letter because you thought so much of your mistress and didn't want a scandal connected with her name?” Trimble asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“This letter is addressed to a George Winton. Know him?”

“No, sir,” she said.

“Never heard Mr. Sparter or his wife speak of the man?”

“Never, sir.”

“Um! He might be a merchant, or some man she wanted to do work for her.”

“In that case, sir, she would not have written personally; she would have dictated the letter to her secretary and it would have been typewritten. And have seen other letters she wrote, sir, addressed to the same man.”

“Well, you are to be complimented in trying to protect the reputation of your dead mistress,” Terry Trimble said. “But if you happen to run across anything else, take me into your confidence. Understand that?”

“Yes, sir.

“You may go now. Say nothing about this to any of the others. Remain around the house, in case I have need of you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Marie Dupont.

She hurried from the room, and she did not look back at Terry Trimble as she turned into the hall. Trimble picked up the three letters and put them to one side, and then he began examining the scraps in the wastebasket, the litter of paper and envelopes and old letters, searching them well, reading now and then, destroying nothing he found.

He put the three letters in his pocket and went down into the library. Doctor Richards was there, and Gordon Sparter was there also, having recovered from the effects of the narcotic.

“f didn't want a detective,” Sparter was saying. “I am afraid of the publicity”

“But the thing must be cleared up!” Doctor Richards protested. “It is better for us to have our own man on the job before the police get here and start prowling around, isn't it?”

“I—I suppose so,” Sparter said.

He accepted the introduction to Trimble, and regarded him peculiarly.

“You have discovered something?” he asked. “Haven't been at work very long,” Trimble replied, adjusting his monocle and yawning. “Like to ask a few questions, if you care to answer them.”

“I'll do anything that I can,” Sparter said.

“All these questions are necessary, of course, and you must reply to them frankly. Please understand that,” said the trouble-maker. “You must not resent anything.”

“Very well.”

“You were on good terms with your wife?

A spasm of pain crossed Sparter's face at the question, but he struggled against his emotion.

“As good terms as the ordinary man is on with his wife,” he said. “We had our little differences, of course.”

“I mean there was nothing serious?”

“No,” Sparter said.

“Pardon me, but were you ever suspicious of another man?”

Sparter hesitated a moment before replying.

“I am very jealous by nature,” he explained. “Little things look like big things to me at times. On one or two occasions I fancied that she was paying attention to another man.”

“Anything serious? Any particular man?”

“No.”

“Your wife was a very beautiful and attractive woman, Mr. Sparter. Did you know of any man who was foolishly infatuated with her, who might have had a desire for vengeance because she repulsed him?”

“If there was such a man, I was not aware of it,” Sparter said.

“Are you being quite frank with me?”

Sparter bowed his head in his hands for a moment, and then raised it and looked at the trouble-maker again.

“I will tell you the truth,” he said. “But I trust that it will go no further unless it proves necessary. I am quite sure that, for some time, my wife had been writing to some man. She mailed these letters herself, and in a clandestine manner. I come from a proud family, Mr. Trimble, and I could not think of asking her to explain her actions. It grieved me a great deal”

“And you grew suspicious?”

“I am ashamed to say that I did. Earlier this afternoon, Doctor Richards suggested that I go away for a time for my health, and she said that she could not accompany me, because of social duties. I was of the opinion that it was because she did not care to leave this unknown man for any length of time. She left us to go upstairs and prepare to go out—and I was sure that she meant to post another mysterious letter. A few minutes later she was found dead.”

“Have you ever been in China, Mr. Sparter?”

“I was there for three years when I was a youngster. My father had big business interests there, and I was manager of his Chinese company.”

“Made a lot of friends and found out a lot about the mysterious East?”

“Naturally; I was young, and it all appealed to me.”

“Ever study Chinese poisons?” Trimble shot at him.

“No. What do you mean? Are you insinuating that I”

“I'm just asking questions, Mr. Sparter. Try to remain calm, please. Do you know William Dragnough?”

“He is my wife's cousin, a college professor who lives in California.”

“And Mrs. Avery Steele?”

“A very dear friend of Mrs. Sparter's—went to school together. Why do you ask me these things?”

“I found letters addressed to them on Mrs. Sparter's desk, that is all. Here they are.”

Trimble took two letters out of his pocket and handed them to Sparter.

“Please do not mail them; I wish to examine them first,” Trimble said. “I'll do so in your presence, of course. Do you know a man by the name of George Winton?”

“Never heard of him,” Sparter said.

“Ah!”

“Why? Did you find another letter—addressed to him?”

“I did.”.

“Let me have it!” Sparter cried.

Terry Trimble held up a hand in protest.

“I know what you are thinking,” he said. “You think this George Winton may be the man in whom Mrs. Sparter was interested. Please let me handle this for the time being.”

“We'll read the letter”

“I'll read it,” Trimble said.

“I demand”

“I happen to be in charge of this case,” said the trouble-maker. “When I start on a case I keep on until I get to the bottom of it. I place the guilt where it belongs, regardless of whom the guilty person may be. Just let me handle this.”

“But that letter”

“May accuse the murderer,” Trimble added. “Your wife died as the result of a poison that causes instant death. She died at her desk. She had been writing letters. It is safe to assume that the poison reached her tongue when she wet the flap of an envelope by”

“Great heavens!” Doctor Richards gasped.

“You see?” Trimble asked. “These letters must be investigated carefully. I'll attend to that. And this one addressed to George  Winton—I'll rip it open at the bottom and read it.”

Trimble did as he had said he would do. Sparter sank back in his chair, his face pale, his hands trembling, and Doctor Richards watched him closely. Terry Trimble read the letter swiftly:

Mrs. Sparter had signed the letter with her first name only. The trouble-maker folded it again, put it in the envelope, and returned the envelope to his pocket.

“Give me those other letters,” he said to Sparter. “On second thought, I'll slit the envelopes at the bottom, leave the letters with you, and carry away the envelopes. I want a chemist friend of mine to examine them.”

“But that letter—what was in it?” Gordon Sparter cried.

“That is not for you to know at present, Mr. Sparter. I promise to show it to you later, if it amounts to anything. You'll have to be satisfied with that for the time being.”

ERRY TRIMBLE left the Sparter residence accompanied by Doctor Richards, and they walked down the avenue a distance while Trimble sent his limousine on ahead. He knew that the doctor wanted to talk to him about the affair.

“What do you make of it, Terry?” he asked.

“Now, doc, you know very well that I never speculate about a case,” the trouble-maker replied. “When I have solved the mystery, then I'll tell you all about it.”

“That letter, Terry You see, I have known Mrs. Sparter since she was a girl. I cannot think that she was the sort of woman to have a clandestine love affair.”

“You never can tell about women, doc, or about men either. I'll let you see that letter—in strict confidence.”

He gave it to the physician, who read it and then returned it to the envelope and handed it to the trouble-maker.

“It sounds bad,” he admitted. “But I feel sure that we are looking at the thing from the wrong angle, Terry.”

“I'll soon find out about that,” the trouble-maker promised.

“It is your belief that Mrs. Sparter was murdered?”

“Certainly,” Trimble replied. “Now, don't go asking me about motive, and all that. I have a few things to find out yet, you know. Well, I'll get into the limousine here. Want me to drop you some place?”

“Thanks, no,” the doctor answered. “I am calling on a patient in this block.”

Trimble got into his car and glared at Billings, who was quite used to such actions when the trouble-maker was considering a case. He told the chauffeur to drive to a certain office building far downtown, and during the drive he did not speak a word. But when he left the limousine he motioned for Billings to follow him.

They ascended in an elevator and walked along a corridor, and after a time entered an office. Trimble's chemist friend greeted them.

“I want you to cut off the flaps of these three envelopes,” the trouble-maker directed. “I want to know, as soon as possible, whether any of the flaps had been poisoned in such a manner that a person licking the flap would meet death.”

“That stunt has been done before,” the chemist offered.

“And probably will be often again,” Trimble said, dryly. “I am going to leave Billings here, and he can bring me the result of your labors. Cut the flaps off now, and let me have the remainder of the envelopes.”

Five minutes later, Terry Trimble was entering his limousine again. He gave the chauffeur an address in the poorer section of the city, sat in a corner against the cushions, puffed at a cigarette, and considered the case.

He did not like the manner in which Marie Dupont, the maid, had acted, but he was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt for the time being, and assume that she merely had been attempting to prevent a scandal about her dead mistress. Trimble knew of maids who would have done such a thing.

He considered Gordon Sparter, too. Sparter was jealous, and believed that his wife had been corresponding secretly with another man. Would Gordon Sparter slay his wife rather than accuse her and let the matter become public? Sparter came of a proud family, and was a man who shivered at the suggestion of a breath of scandal touching it. And Sparter had spent some years in China in his youth; he might be acquainted with the peculiar poison.

“No use trying to sum up yet,” Trimble told himself.

He glanced through the window of the limousine. The car was in a district of cheap lodging houses and cheaper shops, running through narrow, dirty streets where ragged children played at peril of limb and life.

Terry Trimble was watching the numbers on the buildings, and presently he found the one he sought. At the next corner he bade the chauffeur stop the car. It was quickly surrounded by children, to whom Terry Trimble paid not the slightest attention as he got out and started along the littered walk. He adjusted his monocle and walked slowly. Now and then the ghost of a smile hovered at the corners of his mouth as he observed some furtive individual give him a look of horror and hurry away. Those of the underworld—and there were many in this district—knew Terry Trimble, and feared him.

He came opposite the building he had noticed, which bore the number Mrs. Sparter had written on the envelope as the address of George Winton. It was a ramshackle, three-story building of an era long past. Trimble knew what it would be like inside. Gas jets would be burning feebly in the hallways; the stairs would creak; there would be odors of cooking cabbage and meat and strong butter; a fat landlady in a wrapper would answer his ring, her hair stringing about her head, her apron and hands dirty, her face frozen in an expression that meant defiance to bill collectors.

Trimble merely glanced at the front of the house and walked on toward the next cross-street. Could it be possible that the exquisite Mrs. Gordon Sparter had indulged in a love affair with a man who would live in such a place? The trouble-maker did not think it probable, but reminded himself that some queer things happen in the world. And there might be some excellent reason for a man hiding in such a locality, many men did make an attempt to hide there.

He entered a little cigar store on the corner, to find nobody in it except a middle-aged man who appeared to be the proprietor. Trimble purchased a package of cigarettes that he never intended to use, and glanced at the man behind the counter.

“Seen George Winton lately?” he asked.

“I don't think I know him, sir,” came the reply.

Trimble said no more. He left the shop and walked on along the street. Either the cigar store man had lied or George Winton was not well known by that name in the neighborhood.

The trouble-maker turned and retraced his steps. He came opposite the building again, went up the steps, passed through the front door, and rang the bell for the landlady. In a moment she appeared—looking exactly as Trimble had known she would look.

The landlady seemed to be impressed with the appearance of her visitor. She had seen plenty of men before who had fine clothes—and nothing else—but Terry Trimble had something about him that stamped him as the genuine article.

“I am looking for George Winton,” Trimble said.

“I'll see if he is in, sir,” the landlady said. “Are you a relative of his?”

“Why do you ask?” Trimble countered.

“Oh, he was telling me the other day that he had some wealthy relatives, sir, that is all. He seems to be a very quiet and nice gentleman. One moment, sir.”

“I'll go right up, if you'll tell me the way,” Trimble interrupted.

“The second floor, sir. Go to the front of the stairs and knock at the first door to the right.”

Trimble adjusted his monocle again and started up the stairs. They creaked, as he had known they would. So George Winton had told the fat landlady that he had wealthy relatives, had he? Perhaps George Winton had told the truth. Perhaps there was a reason for him hiding away in such a poor section of the city.

He stumbled along the dark hall and found the door, and knocked. He heard steps inside the room, and presently the door was thrown open. The first thing that impressed Trimble was that there was no reluctance in opening that door, and it was opened wide, too, not a few inches so that it could be closed quickly. Evidently the occupant of the room did not fear a visit from the police.

The man who faced Trimble was about thirty years of age, tall and broad of shoulder, his hair streaked with gray, his eyes piercing.

“I am looking for Mr. George Winton,” Trimble said.

“I am Mr. Winton. Will you step inside? What business can you have with me?”

There was something of suspicion in Winton's tone, and Terry Trimble was quick to notice it. He walked inside the room, removing his hat and allowing his monocle to drop. Winton closed the door and offered a chair—there were but two in the room.

“Have you ever been in China?” the trouble-maker asked, suddenly, watching the man before him.

A look of astonishment flashed in Winton's face for an instant as he returned Trimble's stare.

“That is rather a peculiar question,” he said. “May I ask your name, first?”

“I beg your pardon. My name is Trimble.”

“And why do you ask me such a question, Mr. Trimble?”

“I just wanted to know,” Trimble said. As a matter of fact, he was gaining time to study the man before him.

“Yes, I have been in China,” Winton replied, smiling a bit. “I spent five years there, working like a dog for a big corporation that used men as machinery, chained to a desk”

“Ah, yes, of course,” Trimble interrupted. “They all say that. So you have been in China.”

“I have. I was even in trouble there once. But, if you have come to me concerning that, let me tell you that it was all settled years ago. I am rather interested in knowing how you knew my name and address, in knowing why a man of your sort should come to this part of the town and look me up.”

“My sort?”

“Well-dressed gentlemen who wear monocles are scarce down here,” Winton said.

“Rather puzzles you, doesn't it?” Trimble said. “I suppose I had better explain immediately. I come from Mrs. Gordon Sparter.”

He watched Winton closely as he spoke. Once more the puzzled expression flashed through the man's countenance, and then a stern look came about his mouth.

“You come from Mrs. Sparter, do you?” Winton said. “I suppose you are one of the attorneys for the upper crust. So she has sent you to settle things, has she? Well, there is only one way she can settle it! You might as well save your breath!”

That startled Trimble, but he did not betray it. He was still studying Winton, trying to make a guess at his character.

“You appear to be rather bitter toward Mrs. Sparter,” Trimble said.

“If I am, that is my business. I'm not sure who you are, you know, and I don't intend to do much talking.”

“Well, I am glad to say that I am not an attorney,” Trimble said.

“One of her society friends, are you?”

“I cannot say that I am.”

“Well, what are you?” Winton demanded.

“Some persons call me a detective,” Terry Trimble said.

Winton sprang to his feet, his face flushing.

“A detective, are you?” he cried. “Well, you can't throw any scare into me, let me tell you that! I think you'd better get out of here! I don't need your company!”

“Not so fast, please,” Trimble objected. “I am not trying to bluff you. I am investigating a certain matter. Would you be kind enough to explain to me your relations with Mrs. Sparter?”

“I'm not talking!”

“Perhaps it will be to your interest to talk,” the trouble-maker said. “You are under suspicion, you know.”

“What do you mean by that?” Winton cried.

“I imagine that you know.”

“I know one thing—that you can't handle me like a boy and get away with it!” Winton exclaimed. “I don't need you meddling in this affair at all!”

Trimble felt that he was getting into deep water. He could not understand Winton's talk, did not know what it meant. He adjusted his monocle again and stared at the man before him, and George Winton began to grow nervous.

“Take that confounded glass out of your eye and talk straight!” he commanded. “I want to know what you mean! Who are you, and what do you want here?”

“I wanted, for one thing, to ascertain whether you ever had been in China,” said Trimble. “You have told me that you were there for several years.”

“Trying to dig up that old trouble, are you?” Winton asked. “It won't do you any good, I can tell you. And it has nothing at all to do with this other affair. I'm not to be bluffed or scared, and you might as well understand that!”

“Suppose you tell me how many letters you have received from Mrs. Sparter recently.”

“That is none of your business! And you perhaps know, since you come to me from her.”

“I come to you from her, yet I do not know,” the trouble-maker said. “She was unable to tell me. When I saw Mrs. Sparter last, Mr. Winton, she was stretched out on her bed—dead! She had died from a Chinese poison administered in a peculiar manner. And you have been in China!”

OR an instant, George Winton merely stared at Terry Trimble, aghast, and then he seemed to sense the intimation in the trouble-maker's words. He gave a hoarse cry and reeled backward toward a small dresser that stood against the wall. Terry Trimble simply adjusted his monocle again and watched the man before him, seemingly neither alert nor on guard.

“You—you say she is dead?” George Winton gasped, still watching the trouble-maker closely.

“You are a consummate actor, aren't you?” Trimble said. “You might make an excellent income by going on the stage—except that you are going to the electric chair!”

“The—chair!” Winton gasped. “I didn't do it—you can't say that I did!”

“Plenty of circumstantial evidence, my man, and there probably will be ample real evidence before I am done. Mrs. Sparter has been corresponding with you secretly for some time—why? What have been your relations with her? Just before she died she wrote another letter to you, Winton, and it pleads in a manner that makes things look pretty dark for you. I guess your game is up. Perhaps you'd better sit down and tell me the whole thing.”

Winton gave another cry, like that of a trapped animal. He rolled his eyes, looked at every corner of the room. Then his hand dived toward one of the drawers of the dresser, opened it, and he whipped out a revolver.

“You can't hang anything like that on me!” he gasped. “You can't do it! I'm wise to your tricks. You have to have a goat, do you? I'm a nobody—but you can't railroad me to the chair!”

“Why get excited about it?” Terry Trimble asked, quietly. “Put down that silly gun! What are you going to do with it? Going to shoot me and have a couple of murders on your soul?”

“I'll—I'll”

“You'll make an ass of yourself if you try anything like it,” said the trouble-maker. “How far do you suppose you'd get? Have you an idea that I entered the lion's den in this manner without having somebody standing by with a red-hot iron? You couldn't get as far as the street!”

“There are ways”

“Got your getaway already planned, have you? That makes it look worse,” Trimble told him. “Put up that silly gun!”

By way of answer, George Winton walked slowly toward him, holding the revolver so that its muzzle menaced Terry Trimble.

“You can't—railroad me!” he gasped again. “Get up! Walk to that wall—and stand with your hands over your head and your face toward the plaster!”

“Going a bit far, aren't you?”

“I'm not fooling!” Winton cried. “I've been fighting for peace and happiness for years, and now, when they are almost in my grasp, I don't intend to be robbed of them by some dude, would-be detective, who has orders to get a goat and fasten something on him!”

“But, what are you going to do?” Trimble asked.

“Get up and face the wall, as I ordered! I'll show you what I am going to do! I'm going to bind and gag you and leave you here. And then I'm going to make a getaway, and look into things. I'm going to have a fighting chance. I'm not going to be taken to jail, to have some kid lawyer fuss over me and help get me convicted. Face the wall!”

Terry Trimble sighed, allowed his monocle to drop, got up from the chair slowly, and stepped to the wall. He raised his hands above his head and turned his face toward the plaster, as he had been commanded.

“Put your hands behind your back, and be careful how you do it!” Winton said with a sneer in his voice. “You're a hot detective, I must say! I've been some places where you'd not last three seconds! Put those hands back, I say!”

Trimble lowered his hands and put them behind his back. He did not turn his head, but he heard Winton opening another drawer of the dresser, and he supposed the man was taking out something with which to bind his wrists.

There was a window a few feet away, and the shade was partly drawn. The dying light of the day came through in such a manner that the lower part of the window acted as a mirror of a sort. Trimble did not turn his head an inch, but he did turn his eyes, and in the lower part of the window he could watch George Winton.

Winton had taken a piece of rope from the drawer of the dresser, also several cravats. He was watching Trimble closely, and he held the revolver ready for action. And now he started moving across the room toward the trouble-maker, swiftly and silently.

“Not a move out of you, or you know what you'll get!” he warned. “This is a case where a dude detective tried to do something and could not get away with it!”

Trimble did not make a move. In the window, he watched Winton stop just behind him, saw him drop everything except the revolver and a long cravat, knew that the cravat was to be used to bind his wrists. It seemed to Winton that Trimble was shivering with fear, and the man who held the revolver sneered again.

Then he looped the cravat, stepped yet closer, and prepared to take a turn around Trimble's wrists. He held the revolver in his left hand now, his finger on the trigger.

At that instant, Terry Trimble acted. He whirled and sprang to one side. He struck, and George Winton crashed against the wall. In the same movement, the trouble-maker snatched the revolver from Winton's hand and turned it upon him.

“Taking too much for granted, aren't you?” Trimble asked, tossing the revolver to a corner of the room and drawing his own automatic from beneath his coat. “Back to the bed!”

Winton snarled and remained in the corner against the wall. The trouble-maker sprang forward and grasped him by the shoulder.

“Do as I say!” he commanded. “I can toss away this pretty toy and handle you with my bare hands! Don't think that I can't! You have made the fatal mistake of imagining that a well-dressed man must be a mollycoddle!”

Winton realized that he had made just that mistake. He knew, now, that Terry Trimble had muscles of steel, and he could tell by a glance at the trouble-maker's eyes, which had narrowed and seemed to be sending forth flakes of fire, that Terry Trimble was a man accustomed to having his orders obeyed.

Still clutching him by the shoulder, Trimble forced him to the bed and made him stretch himself upon it. In an instant, Trimble had used one of the cravats to lash Winton's wrists together. In another moment, he had tied the man's feet with the rope, had made a gag from some of the other cravats and had affixed it, and George Winton found himself helpless on the bed, lashed to it, his wrists and ankles bound so that he could not move them.

“There you are!” Terry Trimble said, dusting his hands. “Clever rogue, aren't you? And there you'll remain, my pretty bird, while I continue my investigations for a few minutes!”

The trouble-maker chuckled, adjusted his monocle, walked to the door, turned and chuckled again as he saw Winton's flashing, angry eyes, and then hurried into the dark hall and closed the door after him. He made his way swiftly down the stairs and left the building.

“I wonder how long it will take him to get free,” said Terry Trimble to himself. “Hope he doesn't do it too quickly, or yet take too much time about it!”

He hurried to the corner of the street, went around it, and looked in at the mouth of the alley. He saw Winton's getaway—a damaged fire escape, and he chuckled once more. He hurried back to the limousine and gave the chauffeur a certain signal that the man understood.

The ragged children scattered, the chauffeur started the car, and it ran slowly down the narrow thoroughfare. Terry Trimble was moved to sudden action.

He drew the curtains of the limousine quickly, pressed a button, and an aperture showed before him. The trouble-maker took out a bundle of clothing and began changing.

Monocle, stick, gloves and hat disappeared into that aperture. He removed his suit and donned another. No quick-change artist in a vaudeville theater ever worked as fast as did Terry Trimble then. And before the limousine had circled two blocks the debonair Terry Trimble had disappeared, and in his place was quite another individual.

He was dressed in a rough, dark suit now. He wore a cap that was pulled well down over his eyes. His shoes had disappeared, and he wore soft, black boots in which a man could walk without making the slightest noise. He wore a soft brown shirt and a small black tie, and his face and the edges of his hair had been dusted with a powder that changed his complexion completely. A few feet distant, he had a swarthy appearance; close up a man would have believed that Terry Trimble had been working in some factory where black dust predominated.

He rapped on the glass before him, and the limousine slowed down as it turned a corner, and managed to creep closer to the curb. Terry Trimble lifted an edge of a curtain and peered out. The next instant he had opened the door and slipped to the street, had closed the door again, the limousine had gathered speed and started down the street, and the trouble-maker stepped to the walk as if from behind it. He hunched his shoulders, shuffled a bit as he walked, and went on down the street. It was dusk now; to a passer-by Terry Trimble was a man returning home from the day's work.

The trouble-maker reached the mouth of the alley and watched from a position across the street. As it grew darker, he moved into the alley itself, and crept forward, keeping to the shadows, until he was within a few feet of the old fire escape.

Five minutes longer he waited, and then he heard the sudden squeak of a window being raised. There was silence for a time, and then a dark form crept down the fire escape, hung at the bottom of it for a moment, and dropped to the ground.

For an instant he crouched against the rear of the building, then started gliding through the alley toward the nearest street. Terry Trimble followed noiselessly, chuckling softly to himself.

“So he thinks he got away!” the trouble-maker thought. “Now we may see something interesting, or we may not—but I am quite sure that we shall.”

It was no difficult matter for Trimble to keep his quarry in sight in that district. The streets and alleys were in a sort of semi-gloom, and the trouble-maker followed easily. Winton walked rapidly from block to block, looking behind him often, stopping at corners to peer around them before going on, and always Terry Trimble followed, neither too close nor too far away.

And so they came finally to a better district of the city, where the streets were wider and better lighted. Trimble moved up closer, now, for he did not wish to lose George Winton in a crowd at some corner.

But Winton seemed to think that he had made good his escape from the lower end of town. He turned once and looked squarely at Terry Trimble, but without recognizing him; he saw only a workman making his way homeward after the day's toil.

And then Winton got on a surface car. Trimble engaged a taxicab and instructed the chauffeur to follow the car closely, but a third of a block behind, exhibiting his shield and a roll of bills that gained instant respect from the chauffeur.

The car went through the retail section and continued toward the other end of the city. Once, Winton transferred, and the taxicab hugged the curb until he had boarded the other car and had gone on. Far out in the residence section, Winton left the car, and Terry Trimble left the taxicab, telling the chauffeur to wait for a few minutes before going back downtown, in case he should be needed again.

Winton entered a corner drug store and went to the telephone booth. Trimble watched him from across the street, standing in the deep shadows cast by a friendly tree. After a time, Winton emerged and started up the avenue, and the trouble-maker followed again.

Block after block they walked, Trimble careful to remain unobserved now. The trouble-maker would liked to have known what that telephone message had been. But one thing gratified him—George Winton was making his way toward the residence of Gordon Sparter.

The quarry turned into a cross-street, and Trimble continued following, but on the other side of the thoroughfare. They came to a small park that was thick with trees and shrubs, and Winton turned into it. Trimble crossed the street without being seen, and entered the park also. He saw Winton walking slowly along one of the paths. After a time he reached a bench in a dark, secluded corner, and there he sat down.

Terry Trimble made his way forward slowly, careful to make no noise, half fearing he would tread upon some broken branch that would crack and send a warning to the man he was watching.

He came to within fifty feet, and then he stretched himself on the soft turf and began crawling forward, a foot at a time, stopping now and then to watch and listen.

Winton appeared to be growing nervous. Now and then he got up and paced back and forth before the bench, and then sat down again and bent forward, holding his face in his hands.

Ten minutes passed, fifteen, and then the trouble-maker heard somebody else approaching. Winton heard it, too, for he was upon his feet instantly, and darted behind a tree to the right of the bench, and stood there silently.

The steps came nearer. Terry Trimble could see, now, that it was a woman who approached. She reached the bench and stood before it, glancing around.

“George!” she whispered.

Winton hissed an answer and stepped from behind the tree. He took the woman in his arms.

Stretched on the ground a few feet away, Terry Trimble grinned and prepared to listen to the conversation. He did not doubt that it would prove interesting.

The woman was Marie Dupont, Mrs. Sparter's maid, who had declared to Terry Trimble that she did not know a man by the name of George Winton!

INTON clasped the woman to him for a moment, and then led her to the bench, and they sat down.

Terry Trimble was near enough to hear what they said if they spoke in an ordinary tone of voice, and he did not care to run the risk of getting nearer unless it proved absolutely necessary. There was no noise save for the rustling of the night breeze through the trees and shrubs, and even a whisper carried far.

“Tell me about it,” Winton was saying.

“There isn't much to tell,” Marie Dupont replied. “The doctor was talking to Mr. Sparter in the library, and Mrs. Sparter went down there for a moment to learn what the trouble was and then she came back up the stairs and told me she would not need me until time to dress for dinner.

“She went into the boudoir and locked the door, and I watched her through the keyhole. I saw her writing a letter, and supposed she was writing to you and would go out to mail it. She had on her hat and coat. I saw her take a stamp out of the stamp box, and then I hurried away and went down the stairs.”

“I went out into the garden for a few minutes, and then came back, and one of the other maids found her and began screaming. She was dead, of course.”

“What happened then?” Winton demanded. “Try to think of everything, Marie.”

“There was a big fuss, of course, and Doctor Richards seemed to take charge of things. He put Mr. Sparter to sleep and called the coroner and that detective.”

“What about the detective?” Winton demanded.

“He questioned me, but he didn't learn anything. I went up the stairs then—they had taken Mrs. Sparter's body away—and went into the boudoir. I wanted to get the letter she had written to you, to keep anybody else from getting it. That detective followed me and watched through the keyhole. He rushed in—he had seen me putting the letter in the front of my dress.”

“So you couldn't get away with it?”

“No,” she said. “Well, what did he say and do?”

“Oh, I pulled the wool over his eyes, George. I told him that I knew Mrs. Sparter had been writing to some man, and believed she had a love affair, and that I wanted to take the letter so Mr. Sparter would not find it and learn the truth. I wanted to protect my dead mistress from scandal, I told him, and he fell for it.”

“I wonder what she wrote in that letter.”

“I didn't have time to read it, of course.”

“Well, that detective did, I suppose. He came down to my room and caught me.”

“George!”

“He asked me a few questions that I didn't care to answer, of course. He got me to admit that I had been in China, and then he told me that Mrs. Sparter was dead, from a Chinese poison, and just as good as said that I had killed her.”

“Oh, George!” the girl exclaimed.

“He got the best of me—tied and gagged me and went out to make some sort of an investigation. But I managed to get free and away and telephone you—and here I am.”

“And what e you going to do now, George? What are we both going to do?” Marie wailed.

“I don't know—we'll have to see how things come out,” Winton said.

“And all our plans”

“We needn't give up hope yet,” said Winton. “I've fought before, and I can fight again. I'll keep out of that detective's sight all right. I know a place where I can hide. And you'll have to be careful, Marie—very careful.”

“I'll try to be.”

“You must be! Everything depends upon it!” Winton exclaimed. “Go back to the house, and for heaven's for heaven's sake try to act in a natural manner. Try to keep your mind off things. Let me do the worrying and the planning. And watch out for that detective!”

“He asked me if I knew a man named George Winton, and I told him that I did not.”

“Good; and remember that, too. Keep your eyes peeled, Marie—we've got to get out of this trap.”

“But what'll you do, George?”

“I'll hide out for the time being, and I'll keep busy, too. I'll come here to-morrow night at eight o'clock. You meet me here if you can, and tell me anything that has happened. But don't come if there is danger. Be sure that the detective is not keeping his eyes on you, that he does not follow you. And be careful around the house. Don't say or do anything that will cause suspicion.”

They got up from the bench, and Winton took the girl in his arms again. Terry Trimble watched them as they embraced. He had decided that he would not take Winton into custody now. He felt certain that the man would be at this spot on the night following, and he could get him then, if he wanted him.

Arm in arm, Winton and Marie Dupont started down the path toward the nearest street. Terry Trimble followed at a short distance watching them closely. Before they came to the street, they separated. Marie Dupont hurried toward the Sparter residence; George Winton dodged from shadow to shadow across the park, starting his journey to his unknown hiding place.

The trouble-maker remained standing in the dark for some time, for he did not care to have either of them see him and grow suspicious. When he was certain that they had gone some distance, he left the park and walked boldly down the street. At the drug store he entered the telephone booth and called his room, and got the chauffeur.

Then he walked on down the avenue, walked slowly as if he had nothing important to do. In time he saw his limousine approaching, and gave a signal. It drew up at the curb near him, and Trimble hurried forward, whispered some instruction to the chauffeur, and sprang in.

The limousine was driven up the avenue at a moderate rate of speed, its curtains drawn. Presently, the chauffeur heard a rap on the glass behind and turned into another street and drove rapidly to the residence of Gordon Sparter. He stopped before the veranda steps, and the door of the limousine opened. Out of it stepped the debonair Terry Trimble, dressed immaculately, his monocle screwed into his eye. He waved a hand languidly at the chauffeur, who drove the limousine to one side and waited with it there.

The butler answered Trimble's ring, and conducted him along the hall toward the library.

“Doctor Richards has returned, sir, and is with Mr. Sparter,” the butler said.

“By the way, what is your name?” Trimble asked.

“Gregg, sir.”

“I believe you told me that you had been with the family for some time!”

“Since Mr. Sparter's marriage, sir, and before that I was with Mr. Sparter's father. My father was attached to the family before me, sir, if it is of interest to you.”

“Um! Affiliated with the Sparters for generations, eh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Must like the family.”

“Naturally, sir. Mr. Sparter's welfare is as my own.”

“One moment, before we continue to the library,” Terry Trimble said. “Have you noticed anything unusual since I was here before, anything that might be of help to me?”

“I believe not, sir. The body was removed to an undertaking establishment. I suppose it will be returned and the funeral held here at the residence, sir.”

“I suppose Mrs. Sparter had a multitude of friends?”

“She seemed to have, sir, and Mr. Sparter has his, too.”

“Two sets, you mean?”

“Something like that, sir. Mrs. Sparter was a lovely lady, but scarcely in Mr. Sparter's social set, sir.”

“I understood they were equals in all things.”

“She had wealth in her own name, sir, but did not come from a family of such aristocratic standing as Mr. Sparter's.”

“A marriage like that generally leads to discord,” the trouble-maker offered.

“I have noticed that, sir.”

“Did it in this case?”

“I am afraid that they were not happy, sir, after the first infatuation wore away, if that is what you mean. As I told you before, there was reason to believe that Mrs. Sparter was having an affair with another man. I feel sure that Mr. Sparter believed it, too, for he has been suffering much recently, drinking a bit too much, and all that. It is a shame that such a man should be caused trouble and sorrow by a woman.”

“Um!” Terry Trimble said. “Why didn't he speak to her about it?”

“Mr. Sparter is not that sort of man, sir,” Gregg said, with evidence of some indignation. “He would in silence. If it came to the worst, sir, he would protect his honor and that of his family, of course”

“Even going to the length of murder?” Trimble asked

“Sir? I do not understand you, sir.”

“It is of small consequence,” the trouble-maker said. “Just forget it, Gregg. We'll go on to the library now.”

Gregg announced him and retired, and Terry Trimble sat down across the table from Gordon Sparter and the doctor.

“Anything new?” Doctor Richards asked.

“Doc, you know that I never talk about a case until I have finished it,” Trimble replied.

“You might as well drop the entire thing,” Sparter said. “I dread the publicity. I do not want my name dragged through newspapers and courts.”

“The coroner's inquest will be necessary,” Trimble reminded him, quietly.

“Of course—of course. We cannot evade that, naturally. The fact will come out that poison caused the death of my wife. But the rest”

The public will want to know how she got the poison,” Trimble told him.

“The terrible public!” Sparter gasped.

“The public has the right,” Trimble said. “Your wife either committed suicide or was murdered. I do not believe in the accident theory. And she apparently had no reason for committing suicide. So we must find the murderer.”

“Why should some person want to take her life?” Doctor Richards put in. “She had no enemies—there was no motive.”

“There is always a motive—and she must have had one enemy, at least,” the trouble-maker said.

“That letter—what was in it?” Sparter asked. “To whom was it addressed?”

“I have seen the man to whom it was addressed, and have spoken to him,” Trimble said. “I am not ready to say anything about that at present, Mr. Sparter. You just try to be as calm as possible, and let me handle this case.”

Sparter made a gesture of resignation. without as much as asking permission, Trimble went across to the telephone and called his own rooms. Billings answered the call.

“How about the stuff, Billings?” the trouble-maker asked.

“I got home with the report half an hour ago, sir. All the envelope flaps were examined, sir, and there is absolutely no trace of poison on any of them!”

Terry Trimble hung up the receiver and sat down in his chair heavily. He knew his chemist friend had made no mistake. There had been no poison, Chinese or otherwise, on the flaps of those envelopes. How, then, had Mrs. Sparter taken it into her system. The trouble-maker's fine theory had been smashed by a chemical examination.

For a time he remained silent, thinking, while Doctor Richards and Gordon Sparter conversed in low tones. Terry Trimble was puzzled for a moment. And then another thought came to him, and his face brightened.

He excused himself and stepped toward the door.

“I am going to look at the boudoir again,” he said, and jerked the door open.

Gregg, the butler, was a few feet away, walking down the hall. Terry Trimble felt certain that he had been listening at the door of the library.

HE trouble-maker called for no servant, but hurried up the broad stairs and went immediately to the door of the boudoir, which he found unlocked. He entered and locked the door behind him, draped a small rug over the key-hole so that nobody could look in from the hall, crossed the room and locked the door of the bathroom and draped another small rug over the keyhole there, snapped on the electric lights, and pulled down the shades at the windows.

Then he stood in the middle of the room for a moment, plucking at his lower lip with thumb and forefinger, his forehead wrinkled in thought. Finally, he sighed, and adjusted his monocle, and went over to the desk before which Mrs. Sparter had died.

He placed the chair before it, and sat down. He touched nothing at first, but looked at the litter in the wastebasket and on the floor. After a time, he bent forward and emptied the wastebasket, closely investigated every scrap of paper to be found there, and looked at the bits of writing. He found nothing that interested him, and put the basket to one side again.

He leaned forward, pulled a sheet of paper toward him, picked up a pen, and made a pantomime of writing a letter. He went through every motion, exactly as he imagined Mrs. Sparter had done. He pretended to address an envelope, and then he folded the piece of paper and inserted it, and went through the motion of sealing the envelope—but he did not touch his tongue to the flap.

The mythical letter before him, Terry Trimble glanced up and saw the stamp box on one corner of the desk. He opened it and took out a stamp, made a pretense of wetting it and pasting it on the envelope—and then returned the stamp to the box. Then he leaned back in the chair and thought some more.

“Um!” he said, finally, and a smile flashed across his face, and he chuckled softly to himself.

Trimble tossed the envelope back with the others, got up, picked up the stamp box, which was of polished mahogany, carved, and studded with jewels on the lid, and wrapped it in a bit of tissue paper he found. He put the box into one of his pockets, and continued his examination of the room.

The trouble-maker unlocked the door of the bathroom, then, and entered it. It was an ordinary bathroom with all toilet appliances, and everything seemed to be in order. Had there been any evidence there, it was destroyed now, for Trimble remembered that one of the maids had discovered Mrs. Sparter's body after cleaning the bathroom. He saw now that the maid had been thorough in her cleaning.

He walked on into Sparter's room, snapped on the lights there, and continued his investigation. There appeared to be nothing out of the ordinary. There was a small medicine cabinet, and Trimble investigated that, but found nothing more than the usual household remedies, and not many of those.

He went back through the bathroom again, closing all the doors and turning out the lights, glanced around the boudoir once more, then unlocked the hall door, turned off the boudoir lights, stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him.

Trimble went slowly down the stairs. He saw Gregg approaching from the front of the house.

“May I be of assistance, sir?” the butler asked.

“Not at present, thanks,” Trimble replied “I have been glancing around the boudoir again, Gregg. This case is rather puzzling, I am not afraid to say. Perhaps it was an accident or suicide after all. I may want to speak to that maid again before I leave the house.”

“I'll call her when you wish her, sir.”

“Very well, Gregg.”

Trimble looked at him intently for a moment, and the butler's face flushed. Then the trouble-maker walked into the library and faced Doctor Richards and Gordon Sparter again.

“I am rather puzzled about some things, but I think I am on the right track at that,” he announced.

“Who could have killed her?” Sparter cried. “What could have been the motive. Trimble, tell me what was in that letter! I remember, now, you said it was addressed to a George Winton. Who is he? What sort of man is he? Perhaps it is just a name—just a name some man used to get letters secretly at the general delivery window, in a sordid manner. Oh, I can't believe it!”

“Try to keep calm,” the trouble-maker advised. “I'll let you know everything at the proper time. No use in bothering you with minor details now, puzzling your brain with things I have not solved myself as yet.”

He sat down again and looked significantly at Doctor Richards. He depended upon the physician to keep Gordon Sparter quiet, and Doctor Richards guessed it. Sparter had picked up a letter opener and was twisting it nervously between his fingers. It was a silver-plated letter opener, highly polished, small but heavy, with a jewel glistening in the hilt.

“A little dinner, Gordon, and then bed again,” Doctor Richards was advising. “Let Mr. Trimble attend to everything, and try to get your mind off this tragedy as much as possible.”

“But I cannot get my mind off it!”

“That is natural, of course, but you must do as I say,” the doctor declared. “You are not any too well yourself, you know. And you'll have to go to the inquest to-morrow or next day.”

“I am going to have it delayed until day after to-morrow,” the trouble-maker put in. “I want to finish my investigation before they hold the inquest.”

“Why not have it over with?” Sparter asked. “Why drag it out? I can't stand it.”

“Calm yourself, Gordon,” the doctor advised. “Let me go with you to your room, eat something there, and I'll remain until you go to sleep.”

“You'll give me more confounded drugs”

“You must sleep,” the physician said.

The physician helped Sparter to his feet and led him to the hall door. As they passed out, Terry Trimble made a quick movement toward the other end of the table. He snatched up the letter opener, handling it by the hilt, wrapped it quickly in a piece of writing paper that happened to be on the table, and put it into one of his pockets.

Then he picked up his cane, took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, and polished the cane with it until it glistened. Cane held lightly by the crook in one hand, his hat and gloves in the other, Terry Trimble went into the hall. Gregg was waiting for him.

“I'd like to speak to that maid now,” the trouble-maker said. “I'll keep her only a minute or so.”

He followed Gregg to the servants' quarters in the rear, declining to have the maid come to him. They found Marie Dupont talking to the cook, and Gregg called her to one side. Terry Trimble looked at her closely; her face seemed paler than usual, and there was some nervousness in her manner. Gregg stepped away from them.

“Miss Dupont, as you call yourself professionally, have you noticed anything new that might be of interest to me?” Trimble asked.

“I am afraid not, sir,” the maid replied.

She had a small biscuit cutter in her hand, and as she spoke she refused to meet his eyes. Trimble watched that biscuit cutter; the manner in which she was handling it told him that she was frightened and trying to regain her composure. He did not doubt it, since she had come from her meeting with George Winton only a short time before, with Winton's instructions to be careful ringing in her ears.

“Have you been thinking over the past month or so?” he said, in a low tone. “Can you remember anything that looks suspicious in the light of what has happened?”

“I don't think so, sir,” she replied. She glanced up at him now, put the biscuit cutter down on the table, brushed her hands together, and seemed to be her normal self again. She had conquered her confusion because of the presence of the detective. “The letter was all, sir. Did it help you any?”

“A little, but not much,” Trimble replied. “Kindly keep your eyes and ears open, and, if you discover anything that might be of interest to me, let me know. You shall be rewarded.”

“I understand, sir.”

“That is all for this time,” said the trouble-maker. “You may go now.”

The maid turned away gladly, certain that this detective was one of not much intelligence, since he depended upon the suggestions of servants to build up his case.

Terry Trimble's hand darted forward and obtained possession of the biscuit cutter, which went into one of his pockets. Gregg turned toward him, to conduct him to the front of the house again.

“I am done here for the time being, Gregg,” the trouble-maker told the butler, as they reached the front hall. “Let me know if anything of interest happens.”

“Certainly, sir,” the butler answered.

“Hold my stick, please, while I draw on my gloves.”

Gregg held the stick. Trimble drew on his gloves, slowly, talking the while about ordinary things, screwed his monocle into his eye, took his stick again, and thanked Gregg. He hurried out to the limousine and ordered the chauffeur to drive him home.

His pockets were filled with peculiar loot. He had Mrs. Sparter's stamp box, Sparter's letter opener, and had even stolen the cook's plebeian biscuit cutter.

Terry Trimble was chuckling as the chauffeur drove the big limousine rapidly across the city, down the broad avenue, and to the fashionable apartment house where Terry Trimble had his suite.

“There is nothing to any case,” he assured himself. “All simple if a man knows how to go about it. One day I hope to get a real thrill by being confronted with a genuine mystery. Only a question of elimination now. That is, of course, if I am making a correct deduction.”

He made a face at himself in the mirror, then allowed his monocle to drop.

“By George, maybe I am not making a correct deduction!” he told himself. “In that case, this beastly business will bother me a few days longer, and I'll never finish that book of alleged poetry. I guess I'll have to try a bluff—yes, I'm quite sure of it!”

ILLINGS was waiting when Terry Trimble arrived, and hurried forward with the dressing gown.

“Order something from the café below, Billings,” the trouble-maker said. “We'll eat as we work.”

Trimble began emptying his pockets placing his loot on the table before him.

“And get out the fingerprint outfit,” Trimble ordered. “Don't touch that cane, Billings, confound it! I've got prints on it that I want to examine.”

“Very well, sir,” Billings said.

“Telephone our chemist friend and tell him he must be at his office that in about an hour and a half. If he isn't I'll have a row with him. I want some quick action.”

Billings hurried away to attend to these things, and Terry Trimble wrapped the letter opener and stamp box, placed the biscuit cutter beside them, and put the cane carefully on one end of the long table. He was not chuckling now; there was a stern look in his face, an expression that Billings saw and recognized—it meant that Terry Trimble was hot on the trail.

Billings put out the fingerprint material, and presently placed a light dinner on one end of the table. But the dinner grew cold, and was not eaten. On the polished surface of the stamp box, Terry Trimble had developed fingerprints. On the letter opener he had those of Gordon Sparter, on the biscuit cutter those of Marie Dupont, on the cane those of Gregg, the butler.

Then he began comparing them with the prints on the stamp box, now and then sitting back in his chair and plucking at his lower lip, as he always did when he was puzzled. After a time he got up and paced the floor, while Billings remained quietly in one corner of the room, ready to be of assistance, yet knowing better than to speak at such a time.

“Limousine again!” the trouble-maker ordered, and Billings touched a button that warned the chauffeur in the garage at the end of the block.

“Get ready to accompany me!” Trimble ordered again, and began putting on his coat. He left the articles on the table, after looking at them searchingly again.

Ten minutes later he was in the limousine with Billings at his side. The chauffeur had his instructions, and drove as swiftly as traffic regulations would permit. Once more he invaded the poorer section of the city, and finally came to a stop before the building where George Winton had his room.

Terry Trimble hurried inside and rang the bell, and once more the fat landlady bowed before him.

“Mr. Winton about?” Trimble asked. “I have not seen him since you were here earlier in the day, sir,” the landlady replied.

“I'll run up and see,” Trimble said, handing the landlady a bill.

“Very well, sir,” she said, bowing again. For that bill, Terry Trimble could have entered and investigated every room in the house without protest from the fat landlady.

The trouble-maker hurried up the stairs and knocked at the door. There was no answer. He unlocked the door with a skeleton key and threw it open, holding his automatic in his left hand. George Winton, evidently, had not returned.

Trimble struck a match and lighted the gas, and looked around the room. He went immediately to the dresser and contemplated the things he found there. George Winton had left in a hurry, and had taken nothing with him apparently.

There was a small mirror on the dresser, smeared with fingerprints, and Trimble took that. He picked up a nickeled box that had contained a stick of shaving soap, too, wrapped the articles in a towel, and thrust them into his pocket. Then he extinguished the light and hurried out to the limousine. He did not see the landlady again.

He directed the chauffeur to take him to an undertaking establishment, and Billings looked at him in wonder, with some inkling of what was coming.

When they reached the place, Terry Trimble had an interview with the undertaker, and a short time later had made prints of Mrs. Gordon Sparter's dead fingers.

Then he decided to return to his suite again. It was evident to Billings that he had changed his original plan, since he had asked the secretary to accompany him, but had not used him. When the apartment house was reached, Trimble bade the chauffeur wait, and hurried up with Billings.

Once more he worked with absorbed concentration. He developed fingerprints on the mirror and box he had taken from Winton's room, and then he sat back and regarded them, inspected the ones he had taken from Mrs. Sparter's fingers, looked carefully at the stamp box again, and finally sighed in contentment.

“Billings, I hope that we are near the end of the chase,” he said. “It all depends upon a little theory of mine, and that chemist friend can wreck it, as he already has wrecked one. We'll go to see him now, Billings, and get something to eat later. Telephone his office and see if he is there.”

Billings did and announced the the chemist was waiting.

“You need not go along this time, Billings,” the trouble-maker said. “I'll not need you. The only thing that is bothering me with this case now is that I cannot wind it up to-night. I have to wait until to-morrow night, Billings, and all that time I cannot read, of course, since my mind will be full of the case. It is a hard life, Billings.”

Trimble descended in the elevator again, got into the limousine, and ordered the chauffeur to take him to a certain business building downtown. When he reached it, he went up to the chemist's office, and the chemist met him at the door.

“So you didn't find poison on those envelope flaps,” Terry Trimble said.

“Not the slightest trace of it, Terry. Did the fact wreck a case for you?”

“It didn't exactly wreck a case, but it wrecked a fine theory,” the trouble-maker replied. “I've got some more work for you to do, and Heaven help you if you fail me this time.”

Trimble took from his pocket the stamp box that had belonged to Mrs. Sparter. He took out the three envelopes that had contained the last letters she had written, too. And then he motioned for the chemist to go into his laboratory, and followed him there.

The trouble-maker explained at length, and the chemist's face grew a little pale, and then he laughed nervously.

“I don't like playing with these Chinese poisons,” he said. “They are entirely too sinister to suit me. But if it is necessary, I'll go ahead.”

“It's necessary,” Trimble said.

He lighted a cigarette despite a sign that said there was to be no smoking in the laboratory, and watched his chemist friend go about his work. Terry Trimble was nervous and apprehensive, but he did not betray the fact. The cigarette was consumed, and he lighted another, and smoked on. The chemist did not speak, but bent over his bench, working carefully, a mask over his face.

After a time, he straightened and drew a long breath, and then whirled around to face the trouble-maker.

“Well?” Trimble asked.

“You guessed it, Terry; you are right.”

“Which one, please?'

“This one,” replied the chemist.

He handed Terry Trimble one of the three envelopes. The trouble-maker glanced at it, and then a smile flashed over his face. He went toward the bench and pointed to the stamp box.

“And there?” he asked.

“Nothing, Terry. I'm sorry.”

The trouble-maker's reply surprised the chemist.

“I am not sorry,” he said. “That is the answer I wanted you to make, I didn't want you to find anything there.”

Still chuckling, Trimble wrapped up the stamp box and slipped it into one of his pockets again.

“My friend, all crimes are simple when a man looks at them from the right angle,” he said. “When a crime is committed there always is a criminal. That criminal always leaves a trail. That's old stuff, but it is true. There always is a motive, unless it is a case of some poor, crazed devil just running amuck. Find the motive and the criminal, and the crime is solved—that's all there is to it.”

“It sounds easy, but a lot of fellows seem unable to work it out that way,” said the chemist.

“They don't go at it right—that's all,” Trimble declared. “They neglect to use their brains. Take this case, now—but I'd better not talk about it yet. I have to throw a little bluff, and it may not work, and I have several other things to do before I am sure.”

“Mrs. Sparter was murdered?” the chemist asked.

“Yes; I don't mind telling you that much.”

“And the man who did it”

“Did I say it was a man? I did not. And I am not saying at present whether it is a man or a woman. Since you have done so much for me, I'll come around in a few days and tell you all about it. Going to leave now? I'll drop you at your home, or where you say. I haven't any more work to do until to-morrow evening.”

“I'll be with you in a few minutes, Terry, as soon as I put some of these chemicals away. It won't do to leave them scattered around; some of them are dangerous.”

“In that case, I'll go out into the hall and smoke,” the trouble-maker replied. “Those confounded chemicals of yours do not smell exactly like perfume, either. If I'm not in the hall, I'll be down in the limousine.”

Trimble stepped from the office, closing the door behind him, and started for the elevator. There was but little light in the hall, only a single incandescent glowing before the elevator cage. Trimble struck a match and applied it to the end of a fresh cigarette, and then decided that he would descend and wait in the fresh air below. He put out a finger to ring the bell for the elevator.

A quick step sounded behind him.

Trimble's ears caught it, and he sprang aside quickly, like a cat. A blackjack swished through the air and missed his head by a fraction of an inch. The trouble-maker had whipped out his automatic, and had whirled around to find himself confronted by a man who had a cap pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up, almost hiding his face.

Events happened quickly, then. Having missed, and fearing capture, Trimble's assailant hurled the blackjack at the trouble-maker's head, and it crashed over Trimble's left eye. He fired, but his antagonist had darted to the stairway and was plunging down the steps. Staggering from the blow he had received, Trimble reached the head of the stairs and fired again at the fleeing form and missed.

The chemist rushed from his office. The elevator man below heard the shots and started up swiftly. Terry Trimble was standing against the end of the elevator cage, holding one hand to his bleeding head.

“Swung at me and missed me,” he explained. “There's his blackjack—it's a new one. Shot at him and missed. And he got out, of course, while the elevator was coming up—got out without being seen.”

“This is a bad business, Terry,” the chemist said.

“On the contrary, it is a good business, and helps prove my little theory,” the trouble-maker replied. “You see, my friend, I happened to recognize the chap, though perhaps he feels sure that I did not.”

HE cut on his head having received the attention of a physician, Terry Trimble ate an excellent dinner, and joked with Billings as he did so; and then he went to bed and slept like a child.

He did not get up until almost noon, which surprised Billings some, for Trimble was an early riser.

“Stayed in bed as long as I could,” he explained. “Can't do anything until evening, and dare not read and take my mind off the case. Have to take a rest after this, I suppose. Swing the telephone over this way, Billings.”

Trimble called the Sparter residence and got Doctor Richards on the telephone.

“How is Mr. Sparter?” he asked.

“Very nervous, Terry, and suffering, evidently, but otherwise he seems to be all right.”

“I want you to do something for me,” the trouble-maker said. “At nine o'clock to-night, I want Mr. Sparter in his library, and 1 want Gregg, the butler, and Marie Dupont, the maid, there also, or at least in the house where I can get them to answer questions.”

“I'll arrange, Terry. Is there any news?"

“You sure do like to ask questions, don't you, doc? But I'll tell you this much—I hope to clear up this case at nine o'clock.”

The afternoon seemed a long one to Terry Trimble. He played the piano for a time, and talked to Billings a great deal, and had another visit from the doctor, who examined his head. He ate dinner in the suite with Billings, and continued to joke and smile and chuckle now and then.

“I want you to go along with me this evening, Billings,” he said, about seven o'clock. “We may experience a little rough weather, so be prepared.”

Billings knew what “rough weather” meant, that Terry Trimble expected to handle somebody bodily. He prepared for it by putting on an old, dark suit and slipping an automatic and a pair of handcuffs into his pockets. Then he ordered out the limousine, at Trimble's command, and they went down and got into it. The address Trimble gave the chauffeur was a corner, far up-town.

The trouble-maker had little to say during the journey, and Billings knew better than to ask questions or offer advice. The limousine stopped at the proper corner, and Terry Trimble and Billings got out, the former ordering the chauffeur to drive down the avenue and be back at the Sparter residence at ten o'clock.

Then he motioned for Billings to follow, and led the way down the street, keeping well in the shadows. Block after block they walked, and after a time approached the little park where Trimble had seen George Winton the night before.

“I'm expecting a certain man to keep an engagement here with a certain young woman,” the trouble-maker explained. “We are to capture them both with as little violence as possible, and in good condition. The man may prove to be a bit rough, Billings.”

“I'll be ready for it, sir.”

“No noise, now. We've got to creep up to a certain bench, and we want to be sure that our man is not in the neighborhood watching, and able to see us.”

Again Terry Trimble led the way, and Billings followed him without the slightest noise. They approached the bench from the rear, stopping now and then to listen, and finally they stretched themselves on the ground and crept forward. A soft hiss from Trimble caused Billings to stop.

They could see the bench by the light that filtered through the trees from the nearest cluster of are: Trimble glanced at the radium dial of his watch, and made sure that his automatic was ready. And so they waited, silently, ears strained to catch the faintest sound that would tell of the approach of a human being.

They heard steps after a time, and Marie Dupont approached the bench. She walked slowly up and down the path before it.

“George!” she whispered.

There was no answer, and she sat down on the bench, waiting. Several minutes passed, and then a dark shadow slipped across the path and went toward her.

“Marie!”

“George, I was frightened. Why wasn't you waiting?”

“I saw you come, Marie, but I wanted to make sure there was nobody else around, that I had not been followed.”

“What have you been doing, George?”

“Hiding all day. Anything new?”

“That detective has not been to the house to-day, George, but I think that he telephoned to Doctor Richards once. And Doctor Richards told all the servants that he wanted them to be in the house to-night about nine o'clock. So I'll have to hurry back, or they may grow suspicious. What does it mean, George?”

“A lot more fool questions, I suppose. You be careful Marie. You know what it might mean if they pump anything out of you.”

“I'll be careful, George—you know I shall! They'll get nothing out of me!”

“Then you hurry back to the house, Marie, so you'll not be missed. Try to meet me here to-morrow night at the same time, and maybe things will be different by then. I'll try to think up something. And don't worry too much, for it might be noticed.”

At that instant, Terry Trimble reached out and touched Billings on the arm. They moved together. They sprang to their feet and rushed forward, and Trimble grappled with George Winton, while Billings sought to get out his handcuffs.

But Trimble was recognized, and found that he had a fight on his hands. Winton was not to be taken without putting up a struggle. One cry of rage came from his throat, and he fought like a maniac. But the trouble-maker managed to trip him and hurl him to the ground, and Billings left the girl and rushed forward, the handcuffs in his hands.

Winton had taken a revolver from his pocket, but Trimble tore it from his grasp and tossed it aside. Billings managed to get on the handcuffs while Trimble held Winton by the wrists.

And then a feminine whirlwind descended upon them, Marie Dupont fighting and kicking and scratching and shrieking—a wild woman trying to fight for her man.

Billings managed to get to his feet and clasp her in his arms, but still she fought. And after a time, seeing that Winton had ceased to struggle, she stopped fighting, and burst into a torrent of tears. The trouble-maker forced George Winton to his feet.

“You put up a pretty good fight, but the odds were against you,” Trimble said. “Got anything to say?”

“I'm not talking now.”

“Perhaps it is just as well. I am going to take you to the Sparter residence, and there we'll have some explanations. You bring the girl along, Billings; she's in this as much as the man.”

“She ain't got anything to do with it!” Winton snarled.

“Well, she told me she didn't know a man named George Winton, and yet she seemed to be well acquainted with him to-night—and last night. Oh, yes, I saw you last night! You escaped because I wished it, and I followed you here and listened to your conversation with her. You said some damaging things, if you'll remember.”

He forced Winton along the path toward the street, watching him closely and continually, and Billings followed with Marie Dupont, who was sobbing now. They went along the street to the avenue, and turned up that, and finally reached the Sparter house. Terry Trimble rang the bell, and Gregg opened the door. Even the self-possessed butler showed his surprise.

“Mr. Sparter and Doctor Richards in the library?” Trimble asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“We'll go there, then.”

Gregg led the way, threw open the door of the library, and announced them. Doctor Richards and Sparter sprang to their feet as the four entered.

“Sit down, gentlemen,” Terry Trimble said. “And you, Gregg, come in and close the door, I may have need of you.”

HE trouble-maker arranged them on one side of the room to suit his purpose, bade Marie Dupont cease her sobbing, and then stepped forward to the table. He put upon it the stamp box, the biscuit cutter, the letter opener and his cane. The things had been spilled and handled during the fight with George Winton, but Trimble did not care about that now.

“Now, we'll settle this little affair,” he announced. “I take it that we all know how Mrs. Gordon Sparter died. She was murdered—it was no case of accident or suicide. Death was caused by a certain Chinese poison. Its action was instantaneous. She died before her desk as she finished addressing and stamping a letter.

“Doctor Richards found no trace of anything that might have contained the poison, and so I took it for granted that it had been put upon the flap of an  envelope, and that Mrs. Sparter in touching the envelope flap with her tongue, received death.

“I was wrong. I took the letters I found on her desk, and had a chemist examine the flaps. None of them had been touched with the poison. That puzzled me for a moment, and then I had another thought—that the poison had been on the back of a stamp.”

Doctor Richards uttered an exclamation and sat forward in his chair. Gordon Sparter's face was ashen. George Winton sat with his head bowed, and Marie Dupont was weeping softly and held her handkerchief before her eyes. Gregg was standing like a statue at the door, listening to the trouble-maker's words.

“I carried the stamp box away,” Terry Trimble continued, “I had the stamps in it examined, but none of them showed a trace of poison. Then I had the chemist examine the stamps on the three letters I found on Mrs. Sparter's desk. And on one of them we found the poison. Mrs. Sparter, finishing and sealing the letter, had touched her tongue to that stamp, had stamped the envelope—and had dropped forward dead!

“Then I knew how the crime had been committed. But I had to find a motive, and find the murderer—or murderess. The letter to which the fatal stamp had been attached was directed to George Winton—that man there!”

Gordon Sparter sprang to his feet.

“So you are the man!” he cried. “You are the man to whom my wife wrote secret letters! You are the snake that ruined our happiness”

“Please sit down, Mr. Sparter!” Terry Trimble said, firmly, nodding to Doctor Richards to see that he did so. “Let me continue my story, and then it will be time for you to speak. I found this George Winton and investigated him. He had been in China, and so perhaps he knew of this unusual poison. He had been in trouble there. The letter itself said that Mrs. Sparter would procure some money in a few days, and bade George Winton be patient, that happiness was not far away.

“That was plain, of course. It looked as though Mrs. Sparter had become infatuated with this man, and was preparing to get her hands on what cash she could, and elope with him. Happiness was not far away, she had written.

“Perhaps this George Winton doubted it. Perhaps he reasoned that she was slipping through his fingers—that she would balk at the last moment. Perhaps he was a bit afraid that she would repent and tell her husband, and that Winton would be caused serious trouble. Perhaps they had a quarrel, and Winton did not know that she would change her mind and write that last letter to him.

“We will assume that such was the case, that George Winton gained access to her boudoir, which would not be a difficult matter, that he put the fatal poison on some of the stamps in the stamp box—and then waited for her to find death.”

Sparter gave another cry and sprang to his feet again, but the doctor thrust him back into his chair, and whispered to him.

“It looks as if George Winton will make a trip to the electric chair,” Trimble went on. “And Mrs. Sparter's maid, an accessory—let us say that Winton procured the poison and the maid put it on the stamp, as she had every opportunity to do. She was in love with Winton, too, and eager to remove a rival. After Mrs. Sparter's death, she tried to steal the letter to Winton. She told me that she did not know him, yet they are sweethearts without”

“She didn't have anything to do with it!” Winton shrieked.

“It will take more than your denial”

“And I didn't have anything to do with it!” Winton cried again. “You can't railroad me to the chair. I never killed her! Why, she—she was my half-sister!”

There was silence in the room after that announcement. And then Gordon Sparter laughed, horribly.

“My wife had no brother or half-brother,” he said. “This man is telling a lie—he is crazed with his guilt”

“I'm telling the truth! Listen! You have to listen to me—it is my right!” Winton cried. “I can prove everything that I say”

“We'll listen,” the trouble-maker interrupted.

Winton gasped, tried to control himself, and then poured forth a torrent of words.

“She was my half-sister. That is, we had the same father, but—I—I was a—a natural child,” he said. “Her father, and mine, did the right thing, and, after my mother died, he sent me to China, got me a good position with a big firm there. But I was young and irresponsible—I left the place and went with another firm.

“Maybe you don't know China. If you're a white man there, you have to play the part—and that takes money. I didn't have the money. And so I took it—and got into trouble. I served time, and when they let me out I worked my way back to the United States. I came here, and I communicated with my half-sister.

“She knew the story, and seemed to pity me. She gave me some money and I went South and started in business. And there I met Marie. We grew to love each other. But my business did not turn out well, and I had an accident and had to go to the hospital. When I came out again, there wasn't any business—the creditors had taken it.

“We managed to get here, and I had an interview with my sister. She gave Marie a position as her maid, and said that she would help me again. I—I threatened her, and am ashamed of it now. She was the wife of a proud man, who came from a proud family. She was afraid he would learn of the skeleton in the closet, and I played upon that fear.

“She refused to meet me again, saying that she was afraid, but she wrote to me and sent me money. I tried to get a job, but could not. And a few days ago I found a firm that wanted a man in China, and that fitted me. I gave her as a reference, and they accepted the reference, because they knew that Mr. Sparter was interested in business in China, and they took it for granted that I had worked for him. And then I told her that I wanted to marry Marie and go there, and start anew. I asked her for the money. I was waiting for her answer—and I heard of her death.

“I never killed her. She was going to help me. I've got letters that will show it all, proof that I was her father's son. I just wanted peace and happiness, wanted to marry Marie and go to China and try to make something of myself after all the mistakes I had made. That's the truth. I never killed her! You can't railroad me to the chair!”

There was silence for a moment, save for Marie Dupont's sobbing. And then Gordon Sparter gave a sigh.

“So that was it,” he said. “She was afraid that I would resent such a thing. It was a brother—not—not a lover. If you can prove your words, Winton, I'll do as she would have done. You shall go to China with Marie, and have your chance.”

Winton did not answer; his head was in his hands again.

“But we have not solved the murder,” Terry Trimble protested, “and that is my object here. I am inclined to the belief that Winton tells the truth. Now let us look at it from another angle.”

“Gordon Sparter, you are a proud man, and your family is proud. You also are a jealous man. That jealousy caused a minor estrangement between you and your wife before you had been married a year.

“Recently you became aware of the fact that your wife was writing mysterious letters to some man. You imagined the worst, and you suffered in silence. You knew that she mailed those letters herself, and you were unable to get hold of one of them. You suffered torture, then. You suspected every man of your acquaintance; you wondered which one of them was laughing at you behind your back.

“You were too proud to speak to your wife of the affair, too proud to admit that your wife would be untrue, could be untrue to a Sparter of the Sparters. You began to fear that people would begin talking, that your wife's shame would become known. That caused your fits of nervousness and your heavy drinking, caused Doctor Richards to be called in to attend you.

“What was the remedy? Your wife's death! If she was removed suddenly, your good name would be saved. Men might wonder at her death, but they would never know that she had been a faithless wife. It would have to be done in such a way, of course, that there would be no suspicion touching you. You had been in China for several years, Gordon Sparter, and possibly you knew something of Chinese poisons that were quick-acting and of which the ordinary man did not know.”

Sparter gave a cry and sprang to his feet again.

“Are you trying to say that I murdered my wife?” he screeched.

“You had the motive and the opportunity, did you not?” the trouble-maker asked. “Sit down, please. I am not done yet.”

“I refuse to listen to any more of this!"

“Terry, you must be insane!” Doctor Richards cried.

“Sit down, Mr. Sparter!” the trouble-maker repeated, and Sparter sat down, staring at him like a madman.

“Let me get on with the story,” Trimble said. “We will assume that the poison was put on the stamps, and the stamps put in the box. There probably were several poisoned stamps. The first one that Mrs. Sparter used caused her death. The murderer guessed, of course, that there would be an investigation; he feared that the truth might be suspected and that the other stamps would be examined. It was to the murderer's interest to make away with the remaining poisoned stamps.

“so I took the stamp box away with me, and examined it for fingerprints. I also took a letter opener which Mr. Sparter had been handling, and a biscuit cutter that had been handled by Marie Dupont. There they are on the table. I handed my highly-polished stick to Gregg, and he left his fingerprints on it. I got some things from Winton's room and so obtained his prints, and I went to the undertaking establishment and took prints from Mrs. Sparter's fingers.

“The stamp box showed the prints of Mrs. Sparter's fingers, of course. And it showed other prints, also—showed that somebody else had handled that box recently. Who but the murderer, removing the remainder of the poisoned stamps? It was an easy matter, of course, to compare the prints and ascertain the guilty person. Had Gordon Sparter touched that stamp box, or Marie Dupont, or Gregg, or George Winton? I was not long in ascertaining the truth.”

Terry Trimble ceased speaking, cleared his throat, and adjusted his monocle as if he was not clearing up a tragedy.

“Billings!” he said.

“Sir?”

“Take those confounded handcuffs off Mr. Winton's wrists. He is not the man who killed Mrs. Sparter.”

Winton looked up gladly, and Marie Dupont gave a little cry of happiness. Billings removed the handcuffs and looked toward the trouble-maker.

Trimble was looking at Gordon Sparter.

“Billings!”

“Sir?”

“You have removed the handcuffs?”

“As you ordered, sir.”

“Very well. Now you may place them on the wrists of Gregg, the butler!”

Trimble whirled as he spoke, and was in time to prevent Gregg opening the door and dashing into the hall. There was a short, sharp struggle, while Doctor Richards and Gordon Sparter sprang to their feet, crying their astonishment. The handcuffs clicked on the butler's wrists, and he sank into the nearest chair.

“And there we have it!” Terry Trimble said. “I found Gregg's fingerprints on the stamp box. I have been guessing at a great deal of this—I find that criminals generally convict themselves. Why did you try to dodge to the door, Gregg? Why didn't you deny it, fight it?”

“I—I don't understand!” Sparter gasped.

“The explanation is easy, Mr. Sparter. Gregg has been associated with your family all his life. He is intensely loyal—too much so, in fact. He, too, knew that Mrs. Sparter was writing letters to some unknown man. He knew that you were suffering, and why. He wanted to preserve the good name of the family with which he was associated, and he thought he could do it by killing Mrs. Sparter before her shame became known. In his zeal, he murdered an innocent woman.”

“But the poison” Doctor Richards asked.

“That directed my suspicion to Gregg—the fact that it was a Chinese poison. Ever look at the butler closely, doc? He's an opium fiend. It's against the law to sell opium, of course, but there are Chinese who would do anything for money—even to selling a deadly poison and explaining how to use it. And Gregg attacked me last night. I recognized him and was convinced. Have I guessed correctly, Gregg?”

The butler did not reply; he nodded his head in the affirmative. And then he raised his face and looked across the room at Gordon Sparter.

“I—I thought that I was acting for the best, sir,” he stammered. “I thought I was serving you.”

“You fiend! I'll kill you with my bare hands”

But Terry Trimble hurled himself upon Gordon Sparter and threw him back.