When she nodded a “yes” I saw the tremendous
possibilities involved. If this detective could
prove that Gertrude feared and disliked the murdered
man, and that Mr. Armstrong had been annoying and
possibly pursuing her with hateful attentions, all
that, added to Gertrude’s confession of her presence
in the billiard-room at the time of the crime, looked
strange, to say the least. The prominence of
the family assured a strenuous effort to find the
murderer, and if we had nothing worse to look forward
to, we were sure of a distasteful publicity.
Mr. Jamieson shut his note-book with a snap, and thanked
us.
“I have an idea,” he said, apropos of
nothing at all, “that at any rate the ghost
is laid here. Whatever the rappings have been—and
the colored man says they began when the family went
west three months ago—they are likely to
stop now.”
Which shows how much he knew about it. The ghost
was not laid: with the murder of Arnold Armstrong
he, or it, only seemed to take on fresh vigor.
Mr. Jamieson left then, and when Gertrude had gone
up-stairs, as she did at once, I sat and thought over
what I had just heard. Her engagement, once
so engrossing a matter, paled now beside the significance
of her story. If Halsey and Jack Bailey had left
before the crime, how came Halsey’s revolver
in the tulip bed? What was the mysterious cause
of their sudden flight? What had Gertrude left
in the billiard-room? What was the significance
of the cuff-link, and where was it?
IN THE EAST CORRIDOR
When the detective left he enjoined absolute secrecy
on everybody in the household. The Greenwood
Club promised the same thing, and as there are no
Sunday afternoon papers, the murder was not publicly
known until Monday. The coroner himself notified
the Armstrong family lawyer, and early in the afternoon
he came out. I had not seen Mr. Jamieson since
morning, but I knew he had been interrogating the
servants. Gertrude was locked in her room with
a headache, and I had luncheon alone.
Mr. Harton, the lawyer, was a little, thin man, and
he looked as if he did not relish his business that
day.
“This is very unfortunate, Miss Innes,”
he said, after we had shaken hands. “Most
unfortunate—and mysterious. With the
father and mother in the west, I find everything devolves
on me; and, as you can understand, it is an unpleasant
duty.”
“No doubt,” I said absently. “Mr.
Harton, I am going to ask you some questions, and
I hope you will answer them. I feel that I am
entitled to some knowledge, because I and my family
are just now in a most ambiguous position.”
I don’t know whether he understood me or not:
he took of his glasses and wiped them.
“I shall be very happy,” he said with
old-fashioned courtesy.
“Thank you. Mr. Harton, did Mr. Arnold
Armstrong know that Sunnyside had been rented?”
