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them I don’t know anything about it?”
“We merely want to make doubly sure on all points,” Vance told him pacifyingly. “And you certainly wouldn’t want your sister’s death to go unavenged through any lack of perseverance on our part.”
Rex relaxed slightly, and took a deep inspiration.
“Oh, I’d tell you anything I knew,” he said, running his tongue over his dry lips. “But I always get blamed for everything that happens in this house—that is, Ada and I do. And as for avenging Julia’s death: that doesn’t appeal to me nearly so much as punishing the dog that shot Ada. She has a hard enough time of it here under normal conditions. Mother keeps her in the house waiting on her as if she were a servant.”
Vance nodded understandingly. Then he rose and placed his hand sympathetically on Rex’s shoulder. This gesture was so unlike him I was completely astonished; for, despite his deep-seated humanism, Vance seemed always ashamed of any outward show of feeling, and sought constantly to repress his emotions.
“Don’t let this tragedy upset you too much, Mr. Greene,” he said reassuringly. “And you may be certain that we’ll do everything in our power to find and punish the person who shot Miss Ada.—We won’t bother you any more now.”
Rex got up almost eagerly and drew himself together.
“Oh, that’s all right.” And with a covertly triumphant glance at his brother, he left the room.
“Rex is a queer bird,” Chester remarked, after a short silence. “He spends most of his time reading and working out abstruse problems in mathematics and astronomy. Wanted to stick a telescope through the attic roof, but the Mater drew the line. He’s an unhealthy beggar, too. I tell him he doesn’t get enough fresh air, but you see his attitude toward me. Thinks I’m weak-minded because I play golf.”
“What were the spells you spoke about?” asked Vance. “Your brother looks as if he might be epileptic.”
“Oh, no; nothing like that; though I’ve seen him have convulsive seizures when he got in a specially violent tantrum. He gets excited easily and flies off the handle. Von Blon says it’s hyperneurasthenia—whatever that is. He goes ghastly pale when he’s worked up, and has a kind of trembling fit. Says things he’s sorry for afterward. Nothing serious, though. What he needs is exercise—a year on a ranch roughing it, without his infernal books and compasses and T-squares.”
“I suppose he’s more or less a favorite with your mother.” (Vance’s remark recalled a curious similarity of temperament betwen the two I had felt vaguely as Rex talked.)
“More or less.” Chester nodded ponderously. “He’s the pet in so far as the Mater’s capable of petting any one but herself. Anyway, she’s never ragged Rex as much as the rest of us.”
Again Vance went to the great window above the East River, and stood looking out. Suddenly he turned.
“By the by, Mr. Greene, did you find your revolver?” His tone had changed; his ruminative mood had gone.
Chester gave a start, and cast a swift glance at Heath, who had now become attentive.
“No, by Gad, I haven’t,” he admitted, fumbling in his pocket for his cigarette-holder. “Funny thing about that gun, too. Always kept it in my desk drawer—though, as I told this gentleman when he mentioned it”—he pointed his holder at Heath as if the other had been an inanimate object—“I don’t remember actually having seen it for years. But, even so, where the devil could it have gone? Damme, it’s mysterious. Nobody round here would touch it. The maids don’t go in the drawers when they’re cleaning the room—I’m lucky if they make the bed and dust the top of the furniture. Damned funny what became of it.”
“Did you take a good look for it to-day, like you said?” asked Heath, thrusting his head forward belligerently. Why, since he held to the burglar theory, he should assume a bulldozing manner, I couldn’t imagine. But whenever Heath was troubled, he was aggressive; and any loose end in an investigation troubled him deeply.
“Certainly, I looked for it,” Chester replied, haughtily indignant. “I went through every room and closet and drawer in the house. But it’s completely disappeared. . . . Probably got thrown out by mistake in one of the annual house-cleanings.”
“That’s possible,” agreed Vance. “What sort of a revolver was it?”
“An old Smith & Wesson .32.” Chester appeared to be trying to refresh his memory. “Mother-of-pearl handle: some scroll-engraving on the barrel—I don’t recall exactly. I bought it fifteen years ago—maybe longer—when I went camping one summer in the Adirondacks. Used it for target practice. Then I got tired of it, and stuck it away in a drawer behind a lot of old cancelled checks.”
“Was it in good working order then?”
“As far as I know. Fact is, it worked stiff when I got it, and I had the sear filed down, so it was practically a hair-trigger affair. The slightest touch sent it off. Better for shooting targets that way.”
“Do you recall if it was loaded when you put it away?”
“Couldn’t say. Might have been. It’s been so long——”
“Were there any cartridges for it in your desk?”
“Now, that I can answer you positively. There wasn’t a loose cartridge in the place.”
Vance reseated himself.
“Well, Mr. Greene, if you happen to run across the revolver you will, of course, let Mr. Markham or Sergeant Heath know.”
“Oh, certainly. With pleasure.” Chester’s assurance was expressed with an air of magnanimity.
Vance glanced at his watch.
“And now, seeing that Doctor Von Blon is still with his patient, I wonder if we could see Miss Sibella for a moment.”
Chester got up, obviously relieved that the subject of the revolver had been disposed of, and went to the bell-cord beside the archway. But he arrested his hand in the act of reaching for it.
“I’ll fetch her myself,” he said, and hurried from the room.
Markham turned to Vance with a smile.
“Your prophecy about the non-reappearance of the gun has, I note, been temporarily verified.”
“And I’m afraid that fancy weapon with the hair-trigger never will appear—at least, not until this miserable business is cleaned up.” Vance was unwontedly sober; his customary levity had for the moment deserted him. But before long he lifted his eyebrows mockingly, and gave Heath a chaffing look.
“Perchance the Sergeant’s predacious neophyte made off with the revolver—became fascinated with the scrollwork, or entranced with the pearl handle.”
“It’s quite possible the revolver disappeared in the way Greene said it did,” Markham submitted. “In any event, I think you unduly emphasized the matter.”
“Sure he did, Mr. Markham,” growled Heath. “And, what’s more, I can’t see that all this repartee with the family is getting us anywheres. I had ’em all on the carpet last night when the shooting was hot; and I’m telling you they don’t know nothing about it. This Ada Greene is the only person round here I want to talk to. There’s a chance she can give us a tip. If her lights were on when the burglar got in her room, she maybe got a good look at him.”
“Sergeant,” said Vance, shaking his head sadly, “you’re getting positively morbid on the subject of that mythical burglar.”
Markham inspected the end of his cigar thoughtfully.
“No, Vance. I’m inclined to agree with the Sergeant. It appears to me that you’re the one with the morbid imagination. I let you inveigle me into this inquiry too easily. That’s why I’ve kept in the background and left the floor to you. Ada Greene’s