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A Child Of The Rain
A Difficult Problem
A Grammatical Ghost
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
A Mystery With A Moral
A Spectral Collie
A Terribly Strange Bed
American Horses
An Astral Onion
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
Bourgonef
From The Loom Of The Dead
His Last Bow
Hunted Down
Introduction To A Mystery With A Moral
Introduction To Melmoth The Wanderer
Melmoth The Wanderer
Missing: Page Thirteen
My Fascinating Friend
No 1 Branch Line: The Signal-man
On Being Found Out
On The Northern Ice
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Satire Of The Sea
Shall He Wed Her?
Story Of An Obstinate Corpse
Story Of The Vanishing Patient
The Adventure Of Black Peter
The Adventure Of Charles Augustus Milverton
The Adventure Of The Abbey Grange
The Adventure Of The Bruce-partington Plans
The Adventure Of The Cardboard Box
The Adventure Of The Dancing Men
The Adventure Of The Devil's Foot
The Adventure Of The Dying Detective
The Adventure Of The Empty House
The Adventure Of The Golden Pince-nez
The Adventure Of The Missing Three-quarter
The Adventure Of The Norwood Builder
The Adventure Of The Priory School
The Adventure Of The Red Circle
The Adventure Of The Six Napoleons
The Adventure Of The Solitary Cyclist
The Adventure Of The Three Students
The Adventure Of Wisteria Lodge
The Affair Of The Tortoise
The Avenger
The Birth-mark
The Black Cross
The Box With The Iron Clamps
The Bronze Hand
The Cambered Foot
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of Mr Foggatt
The Case Of The Dixon Torpedo
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Closed Cabinet
The Coin Of Dionysius
The Disappearance Of Lady Frances Carfax
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The End Of The Road
The Fortune Teller
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Great Valdez Sapphire
The Grotto Spectre
The Haunted And The Haunters Or The House And The Brain
The Hermit Of Street
The Hole In The Mahogany Panel
The House By The Loch
The House Of Clocks
The House That Was Not
The Incantation
The Jew's Breastplate
The Knight's Cross Signal Problem
The Last Adventure
The Last Exploit Of Harry The Actor
The Lenton Croft Robberies
The Loss Of Sammy Crockett
The Lost Lady
The Lost Room
The Man In The Green Hat
The Mortals In The House
The Mysterious Card
The Notch On The Ax - A Story A La Mode
The Oblong Box
The Old Stone House
The Piano Next Door
The Pumpkin Coach
The Quinton Jewel Affair
The Reward
The Room Of The Evil Thought
The Second Bullet
The Shape Of Fear
The Spread Rails
The Stanway Cameo Mystery
The Thing On The Hearth
The Torture By Hope
The Tragedy At Brookbend Cottage
The Wrong Sign
The Yellow Flower
Their Dear Little Ghost

Anna Katharine Green

A Difficult Problem
A Memorable Night
A Mysterious Case
An Intangible Clue
As Told By Mr Gryce
Missing: Page Thirteen
Problem Ix Violet's Own
Shall He Wed Her?
The Black Cross
The Bronze Hand
The Case Of He Golden Bullet
The Case Of The Pocket Diary Found In The Snow
The Case Of The Pool Of Blood In The Pastor's Study
The Case Of The Registered Letter
The Doctor His Wife And The Clock
The Dreaming Lady
The Golden Slipper
The Gray Madam
The Grotto Spectre
The Hermit Of Street
The House Of Clocks
The Old Stone House
The Second Bullet



The Second Bullet








"You must see her."

"No. No."

"She's a most unhappy woman. Husband and child both taken from
her in a moment; and now, all means of living as well, unless
some happy thought of yours--some inspiration of your genius--
shows us a way of re-establishing her claims to the policy voided
by this cry of suicide."

But the small wise head of Violet Strange continued its slow
shake of decided refusal.

"I'm sorry," she protested, "but it's quite out of my province.
I'm too young to meddle with so serious a matter."

"Not when you can save a bereaved woman the only possible
compensation left her by untoward fate?"

"Let the police try their hand at that."

"They have had no success with the case."

"Or you?"

"Nor I either."

"And you expect--"

"Yes, Miss Strange. I expect you to find the missing bullet which
will settle the fact that murder and not suicide ended George
Hammond's life. If you cannot, then a long litigation awaits this
poor widow, ending, as such litigation usually does, in favour of
the stronger party. There's the alternative. If you once saw her--"

"But that's what I'm not willing to do. If I once saw her I
should yield to her importunities and attempt the seemingly
impossible. My instincts bid me say no. Give me something
easier."

"Easier things are not so remunerative. There's money in this
affair, if the insurance company is forced to pay up. I can offer
you--"

"What?"

There was eagerness in the tone despite her effort at
nonchalance. The other smiled imperceptibly, and briefly named
the sum.

It was larger than she had expected. This her visitor saw by the
way her eyelids fell and the peculiar stillness which, for an
instant, held her vivacity in check.

"And you think I can earn that?"

Her eyes were fixed on his in an eagerness as honest as it was
unrestrained.

He could hardly conceal his amazement, her desire was so evident
and the cause of it so difficult to understand. He knew she
wanted money--that was her avowed reason for entering into this
uncongenial work. But to want it so much! He glanced at her
person; it was simply clad but very expensively--how expensively
it was his business to know. Then he took in the room in which
they sat. Simplicity again, but the simplicity of high art--the
drawing-room of one rich enough to indulge in the final luxury of
a highly cultivated taste, viz.: unostentatious elegance and the
subjection of each carefully chosen ornament to the general
effect.

What did this favoured child of fortune lack that she could be
reached by such a plea, when her whole being revolted from the
nature of the task he offered her? It was a question not new to
him; but one he had never heard answered and was not likely to
hear answered now. But the fact remained that the consent he had
thought dependent upon sympathetic interest could be reached
much more readily by the promise of large emolument,--and he
owned to a feeling of secret disappointment even while he
recognized the value of the discovery.

But his satisfaction in the latter, if satisfaction it were, was
of very short duration. Almost immediately he observed a change
in her. The sparkle which had shone in the eye whose depths he
had never been able to penetrate, had dissipated itself in
something like a tear and she spoke up in that vigorous tone no
one but himself had ever heard, as she said:

"No. The sum is a good one and I could use it; but I will not
waste my energy on a case I do not believe in. The man shot
himself. He was a speculator, and probably had good reason for
his act. Even his wife acknowledges that he has lately had more
losses than gains."

"See her. She has something to tell you which never got into the
papers."

"You say that? You know that?"

"On my honour, Miss Strange."

Violet pondered; then suddenly succumbed.

"Let her come, then. Prompt to the hour. I will receive her at
three. Later I have a tea and two party calls to make."

Her visitor rose to leave. He had been able to subdue all
evidence of his extreme gratification, and now took on a formal
air. In dismissing a guest, Miss Strange was invariably the
society belle and that only. This he had come to recognize.

The case (well known at the time) was, in the fewest possible
words, as follows:

On a sultry night in September, a young couple living in one of
the large apartment houses in the extreme upper portion of
Manhattan were so annoyed by the incessant crying of a child in
the adjoining suite, that they got up, he to smoke, and she to
sit in the window for a possible breath of cool air. They were
congratulating themselves upon the wisdom they had shown in thus
giving up all thought of sleep--for the child's crying had not
ceased--when (it may have been two o'clock and it may have been
a little later) there came from somewhere near, the sharp and
somewhat peculiar detonation of a pistol-shot.

He thought it came from above; she, from the rear, and they were
staring at each other in the helpless wonder of the moment, when
they were struck by the silence. The baby had ceased to cry. All
was as still in the adjoining apartment as in their own--too
still--much too still. Their mutual stare turned to one of
horror. "It came from there!" whispered the wife. "Some accident
has occurred to Mr. or Mrs. Hammond--we ought to go--"

Her words--very tremulous ones--were broken by a shout from
below. They were standing in their window and had evidently been
seen by a passing policeman. "Anything wrong up there?" they
heard him cry. Mr. Saunders immediately looked out. "Nothing
wrong here," he called down. (They were but two stories from the
pavement.) "But I'm not so sure about the rear apartment. We
thought we heard a shot. Hadn't you better come up, officer? My
wife is nervous about it. I'll meet you at the stair-head and
show you the way."

The officer nodded and stepped in. The young couple hastily
donned some wraps, and, by the time he appeared on their floor,
they were ready to accompany him.

Meanwhile, no disturbance was apparent anywhere else in the
house, until the policeman rang the bell of the Hammond
apartment. Then, voices began to be heard, and doors to open
above and below, but not the one before which the policeman
stood.

Another ring, and this time an insistent one;--and still no
response. The officer's hand was rising for the third time when
there came a sound of fluttering from behind the panels against
which he had laid his ear, and finally a choked voice uttering
unintelligible words. Then a hand began to struggle with the
lock, and the door, slowly opening, disclosed a woman clad in a
hastily donned wrapper and giving every evidence of extreme
fright.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, seeing only the compassionate faces of her
neighbours. "You heard it, too! a pistol-shot from there--there--
my husband's room. I have not dared to go--I--I--O, have mercy
and see if anything is wrong! It is so still--so still, and only
a moment ago the baby was crying. Mrs. Saunders, Mrs. Saunders,
why is it so still?"

She had fallen into her neighbour's arms. The hand with which she
had pointed out a certain door had sunk to her side and she
appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

The officer eyed her sternly, while noting her appearance, which
was that of a woman hastily risen from bed.

"Where were you?" he asked. "Not with your husband and child, or
you would know what had happened there."

"I was sleeping down the hall," she managed to gasp out. "I'm
not well--I--Oh, why do you all stand still and do nothing? My
baby's in there. Go! go!" and, with sudden energy, she sprang
upright, her eyes wide open and burning, her small well featured
face white as the linen she sought to hide.

The officer demurred no longer. In another instant he was trying
the door at which she was again pointing.

It was locked.

Glancing back at the woman, now cowering almost to the floor, he
pounded at the door and asked the man inside to open.

No answer came back.

With a sharp turn he glanced again at the wife.

"You say that your husband is in this room?"

She nodded, gasping faintly, "And the child!"

He turned back, listened, then beckoned to Mr. Saunders. "We
shall have to break our way in," said he. "Put your shoulder well
to the door. Now!"

The hinges of the door creaked; the lock gave way (this special
officer weighed two hundred and seventy-five, as he found out,
next day), and a prolonged and sweeping crash told the rest.

Mrs. Hammond gave a low cry; and, straining forward from where
she crouched in terror on the floor, searched the faces of the
two men for some hint of what they saw in the dimly-lighted
space beyond. Something dreadful, something which made Mr.
Saunders come rushing back with a shout:

"Take her away! Take her to our apartment, Jennie. She must not
see--"

Not see! He realized the futility of his words as his gaze fell
on the young woman who had risen up at his approach and now stood
gazing at him without speech, without movement, but with a glare
of terror in her eyes, which gave him his first realization of
human misery.

His own glance fell before it. If he had followed his instinct he
would have fled the house rather than answer the question of her
look and the attitude of her whole frozen body.

Perhaps in mercy to his speechless terror, perhaps in mercy to
herself, she was the one who at last found the word which voiced
their mutual anguish.

"Dead?"

No answer. None was needed.

"And my baby?"

O, that cry! It curdled the hearts of all who heard it. It shook
the souls of men and women both inside and outside the apartment;
then all was forgotten in the wild rush she made. The wife and
mother had flung herself upon the scene, and, side by
side with the not unmoved policeman, stood looking down upon the
desolation made in one fatal instant in her home and heart.

They lay there together, both past help, both quite dead. The
child had simply been strangled by the weight of his father's arm
which lay directly across the upturned little throat. But the
father was a victim of the shot they had heard. There was blood
on his breast, and a pistol in his hand.

Suicide! The horrible truth was patent. No wonder they wanted to
hold the young widow back. Her neighbour, Mrs. Saunders, crept in
on tiptoe and put her arms about the swaying, fainting woman; but
there was nothing to say--absolutely nothing.

At least, they thought not. But when they saw her throw herself
down, not by her husband, but by the child, and drag it out from
under that strangling arm and hug and kiss it and call out
wildly for a doctor, the officer endeavoured to interfere and
yet could not find the heart to do so, though he knew the child
was dead and should not, according to all the rules of the
coroner's office, be moved before that official arrived. Yet
because no mother could be convinced of a fact like this, he let
her sit with it on the floor and try all her little arts to
revive it, while he gave orders to the janitor and waited
himself for the arrival of doctor and coroner.

She was still sitting there in wide-eyed misery, alternately
fondling the little body and drawing back to consult its small
set features for some sign of life, when the doctor came, and,
after one look at the child, drew it softly from her arms and
laid it quietly in the crib from which its father had evidently
lifted it but a short time before. Then he turned back to her,
and found her on her feet, upheld by her two friends. She had
understood his action, and without a groan had accepted her fate.
Indeed, she seemed incapable of any further speech or action. She
was staring down at her husband's body, which she, for the first
time, seemed fully to see. Was her look one of grief or of
resentment for the part he had played so unintentionally in her
child's death? It was hard to tell; and when, with slowly rising
finger, she pointed to the pistol so tightly clutched in the
other outstretched hand, no one there--and by this time the room
was full--could foretell what her words would be when her tongue
regained its usage and she could speak.

What she did say was this:

"Is there a bullet gone? Did he fire off that pistol?" A question
so manifestly one of delirium that no one answered it, which
seemed to surprise her, though she said nothing till her glance
had passed all around the walls of the room to where a window
stood open to the night,--its lower sash being entirely raised.
"There! look there!" she cried, with a commanding accent, and,
throwing up her hands, sank a dead weight into the arms of those
supporting her.

No one understood; but naturally more than one rushed to the
window. An open space was before them. Here lay the fields not
yet parcelled out into lots and built upon; but it was not upon
these they looked, but upon the strong trellis which they found
there, which, if it supported no vine, formed a veritable ladder
between this window and the ground.

Could she have meant to call attention to this fact; and were her
words expressive of another idea than the obvious one of suicide?

If so, to what lengths a woman's imagination can go! Or so their
combined looks seemed to proclaim, when to their utter
astonishment they saw the officer, who had presented a calm
appearance up till now, shift his position and with a surprised
grunt direct their eyes to a portion of the wall just visible
beyond the half-drawn curtains of the bed. The mirror hanging
there showed a star-shaped breakage, such as follows the sharp
impact of a bullet or a fiercely projected stone.

"He fired two shots. One went wild; the other straight home."

It was the officer delivering his opinion.

Mr. Saunders, returning from the distant room where he had
assisted in carrying Mrs. Hammond, cast a look at the shattered
glass, and remarked forcibly:

"I heard but one; and I was sitting up, disturbed by that poor
infant. Jennie, did you hear more than one shot?" he asked,
turning toward his wife.

"No," she answered, but not with the readiness he had evidently
expected. "I heard only one, but that was not quite usual in its
tone. I'm used to guns," she explained, turning to the officer.
"My father was an army man, and he taught me very early to load
and fire a pistol. There was a prolonged sound to this shot;
something like an echo of itself, following close upon the first
ping. Didn't you notice that, Warren?"

"I remember something of the kind," her husband allowed.

"He shot twice and quickly," interposed the policeman,
sententiously. "We shall find a spent bullet back of that
mirror."

But when, upon the arrival of the coroner, an investigation was
made of the mirror and the wall behind, no bullet was found
either there or any where else in the room, save in the dead
man's breast. Nor had more than one been shot from his pistol, as
five full chambers testified. The case which seemed so simple had
its mysteries, but the assertion made by Mrs. Saunders no longer
carried weight, nor was the evidence offered by the broken mirror
considered as indubitably establishing the fact that a second
shot had been fired in the room.

Yet it was equally evident that the charge which had entered the
dead speculator's breast had not been delivered at the close
range of the pistol found clutched in his hand. There were no
powder-marks to be discerned on his pajama-jacket, or on the
flesh beneath. Thus anomaly confronted anomaly, leaving open but
one other theory: that the bullet found in Mr. Hammond's breast
came from the window and the one he shot went out of it. But this
would necessitate his having shot his pistol from a point far
removed from where he was found; and his wound was such as made
it difficult to believe that he would stagger far, if at all,
after its infliction.

Yet, because the coroner was both conscientious and alert, he
caused a most rigorous search to be made of the ground overlooked
by the above mentioned window; a search in which the police
joined, but which was without any result save that of rousing the
attention of people in the neighbourhood and leading to a story
being circulated of a man seen some time the night before
crossing the fields in a great hurry. But as no further
particulars were forthcoming, and not even a description of the
man to be had, no emphasis would have been laid upon this story
had it not transpired that the moment a report of it had come to
Mrs. Hammond's ears (why is there always some one to carry these
reports?) she roused from the torpor into which she had fallen,
and in wild fashion exclaimed:

"I knew it! I expected it! He was shot through the window and by
that wretch. He never shot himself." Violent declarations which
trailed off into the one continuous wail, "O, my baby! my poor
baby!"

Such words, even though the fruit of delirium, merited some sort
of attention, or so this good coroner thought, and as soon as
opportunity offered and she was sufficiently sane and quiet to
respond to his questions, he asked her whom she had meant by
that wretch, and what reason she had, or thought she had, of
attributing her husband's death to any other agency than his own
disgust with life.

And then it was that his sympathies, although greatly roused in
her favour began to wane. She met the question with a cold stare
followed by a few ambiguous words out of which he could make
nothing. Had she said wretch? She did not remember. They must not
be influenced by anything she might have uttered in her first
grief. She was well-nigh insane at the time. But of one thing
they might be sure: her husband had not shot himself; he was too
much afraid of death for such an act. Besides, he was too happy.
Whatever folks might say he was too fond of his family to wish to
leave it.

Nor did the coroner or any other official succeed in eliciting
anything further from her. Even when she was asked, with cruel
insistence, how she explained the fact that the baby was found
lying on the floor instead of in its crib, her only answer was:
"His father was trying to soothe it. The child was crying
dreadfully, as you have heard from those who were kept awake by
him that night, and my husband was carrying him about when the
shot came which caused George to fall and overlay the baby in his
struggles."

"Carrying a baby about with a loaded pistol in his hand?" came
back in stern retort.

She had no answer for this. She admitted when informed that the
bullet extracted from her husband's body had been found to
correspond exactly with those remaining in the five chambers of
the pistol taken from his hand, that he was not only the owner of
this pistol but was in the habit of sleeping with it under his
pillow; but, beyond that, nothing; and this reticence, as well as
her manner which was cold and repellent, told against her.

A verdict of suicide was rendered by the coroner's jury, and the
life-insurance company, in which Mr. Hammond had but lately
insured himself for a large sum, taking advantage of the suicide
clause embodied in the policy, announced its determination of not
paying the same.

Such was the situation, as known to Violet Strange and the
general public, on the day she was asked to see Mrs. Hammond and
learn what might alter her opinion as to the justice of this
verdict and the stand taken by the Shuler Life Insurance
Company.

The clock on the mantel in Miss Strange's rose-coloured boudoir
had struck three, and Violet was gazing in some impatience at the
door, when there came a gentle knock upon it, and the maid (one
of the elderly, not youthful, kind) ushered in her expected
visitor.

"You are Mrs. Hammond?" she asked, in natural awe of the too
black figure outlined so sharply against the deep pink of the
sea-shell room.

The answer was a slow lifting of the veil which shadowed the
features she knew only from the cuts she had seen in newspapers.

"You are--Miss Strange?" stammered her visitor; "the young lady
who--"

"I am," chimed in a voice as ringing as it was sweet. "I am the
person you have come here to see. And this is my home. But that
does not make me less interested in the unhappy, or less
desirous of serving them. Certainly you have met with the two
greatest losses which can come to a woman--I know your story
well enough to say that--; but what have you to tell me in proof
that you should not lose your anticipated income as well?
Something vital, I hope, else I cannot help you; something which
you should have told the coroner's jury--and did not."

The flush which was the sole answer these words called forth did
not take from the refinement of the young widow's expression, but
rather added to it; Violet watched it in its ebb and flow and,
seriously affected by it (why, she did not know, for Mrs. Hammond
had made no other appeal either by look or gesture), pushed
forward a chair and begged her visitor to be seated.

"We can converse in perfect safety here," she said. "When you
feel quite equal to it, let me hear what you have to
communicate. It will never go any further. I could not do the
work I do if I felt it necessary to have a confidant."

"But you are so young and so--so--"

"So inexperienced you would say and so evidently a member of
what New Yorkers call 'society.' Do not let that trouble you. My
inexperience is not likely to last long and my social pleasures
are more apt to add to my efficiency than to detract from it."

With this Violet's face broke into a smile. It was not the
brilliant one so often seen upon her lips, but there was
something in its quality which carried encouragement to the
widow and led her to say with obvious eagerness:

"You know the facts?"

"I have read all the papers."

"I was not believed on the stand."

"It was your manner--"

"I could not help my manner. I was keeping something back, and,
being unused to deceit, I could not act quite naturally."

"Why did you keep something back? When you saw the unfavourable
impression made by your reticence, why did you not speak up and
frankly tell your story?"

"Because I was ashamed. Because I thought it would hurt me more
to speak than to keep silent. I do not think so now; but I did
then--and so made my great mistake. You must remember not only
the awful shock of my double loss, but the sense of guilt
accompanying it; for my husband and I had quarreled that night,
quarreled bitterly--that was why I had run away into another
room and not because I was feeling ill and impatient of the
baby's fretful cries."

"So people have thought." In saying this, Miss Strange was
perhaps cruelly emphatic. "You wish to explain that quarrel? You
think it will be doing any good to your cause to go into that
matter with me now?"

"I cannot say; but I must first clear my conscience and then try
to convince you that quarrel or no quarrel, he never took his own
life. He was not that kind. He had an abnormal fear of death. I
do not like to say it but he was a physical coward. I have seen
him turn pale at the least hint of danger. He could no more have
turned that muzzle upon his own breast than he could have turned
it upon his baby. Some other hand shot him, Miss Strange.
Remember the open window, the shattered mirror; and I think I
know that hand."

Her head had fallen forward on her breast. The emotion she
showed was not so eloquent of grief as of deep personal shame.

"You think you know the man?" In saying this, Violet's voice
sunk to a whisper. It was an accusation of murder she had just
heard.

"To my great distress, yes. When Mr. Hammond and I were
married," the widow now proceeded in a more determined tone,
"there was another man--a very violent one--who vowed even at
the church door that George and I should never live out two full
years together. We have not. Our second anniversary would have
been in November."

"But--"

"Let me say this: the quarrel of which I speak was not serious
enough to occasion any such act of despair on his part. A man
would be mad to end his life on account of so slight a
disagreement. It was not even on account of the person of whom
I've just spoken, though that person had been mentioned between
us earlier in the evening, Mr. Hammond having come across him
face to face that very afternoon in the subway. Up to this time
neither of us had seen or heard of him since our wedding-day."

"And you think this person whom you barely mentioned, so mindful
of his old grudge that he sought out your domicile, and, with
the intention of murder, climbed the trellis leading to your
room and turned his pistol upon the shadowy figure which was all
he could see in the semi-obscurity of a much lowered gas-jet?"

"A man in the dark does not need a bright light to see his enemy
when he is intent upon revenge."

Miss Strange altered her tone.

"And your husband? You must acknowledge that he shot off his
pistol whether the other did or not."

"It was in self-defence. He would shoot to save his own life--or
the baby's."

"Then he must have heard or seen--"

"A man at the window."

"And would have shot there?"

"Or tried to."

"Tried to?"

"Yes; the other shot first--oh, I've thought it all out--causing
my husband's bullet to go wild. It was his which broke the
mirror."

Violet's eyes, bright as stars, suddenly narrowed.

"And what happened then?" she asked. "Why cannot they find the
bullet?"

"Because it went out of the window;--glanced off and went out of
the window."

Mrs. Hammond's tone was triumphant; her look spirited and
intense.

Violet eyed her compassionately.

"Would a bullet glancing off from a mirror, however hung, be apt
to reach a window so far on the opposite side?"

"I don't know; I only know that it did," was the contradictory,
almost absurd, reply.

"What was the cause of the quarrel you speak of between your
husband and yourself? You see, I must know the exact truth and
all the truth to be of any assistance to you."

"It was--it was about the care I gave, or didn't give, the baby.
I feel awfully to have to say it, but George did not think I did
my full duty by the child. He said there was no need of its
crying so; that if I gave it the proper attention it would not
keep the neighbours and himself awake half the night. And I--I
got angry and insisted that I did the best I could; that the
child was naturally fretful and that if he wasn't satisfied with
my way of looking after it, he might try his. All of which was
very wrong and unreasonable on my part, as witness the awful
punishment which followed."

"And what made you get up and leave him?"

"The growl he gave me in reply. When I heard that, I bounded out
of bed and said I was going to the spare room to sleep; and if
the baby cried he might just try what he could do himself to
stop it."

"And he answered?"

"This, just this--I shall never forget his words as long as I
live--'If you go, you need not expect me to let you in again no
matter what happens.'"

"He said that?"

"And locked the door after me. You see I could not tell all
that."

"It might have been better if you had. It was such a natural
quarrel and so unprovocative of actual tragedy."

Mrs. Hammond was silent. It was not difficult to see that she
had no very keen regrets for her husband personally. But then he
was not a very estimable man nor in any respect her equal.

"You were not happy with him," Violet ventured to remark.

"I was not a fully contented woman. But for all that he had no
cause to complain of me except for the reason I have mentioned. I
was not a very intelligent mother. But if the baby were living
now--O, if he were living now--with what devotion I should care
for him."

She was on her feet, her arms were raised, her face impassioned
with feeling. Violet, gazing at her, heaved a little sigh. It
was perhaps in keeping with the situation, perhaps extraneous to
it, but whatever its source, it marked a change in her manner.
With no further check upon her sympathy, she said very softly:

"It is well with the child."

The mother stiffened, swayed, and then burst into wild weeping.

"But not with me," she cried, "not with me. I am desolate and
bereft. I have not even a home in which to hide my grief and no
prospect of one."

"But," interposed Violet, "surely your husband left you
something? You cannot be quite penniless?"

"My husband left nothing," was the answer, uttered without
bitterness, but with all the hardness of fact. "He had debts. I
shall pay those debts. When these and other necessary expenses
are liquidated, there will be but little left. He made no secret
of the fact that he lived close up to his means. That is why he
was induced to take on a life insurance. Not a friend of his but
knows his improvidence. I--I have not even jewels. I have only my
determination and an absolute conviction as to the real nature of
my husband's death."

"What is the name of the man you secretly believe to have shot
your husband from the trellis?"

Mrs. Hammond told her.

It was a new one to Violet. She said so and then asked:

"What else can you tell me about him?"

"Nothing, but that he is a very dark man and has a club-foot."

"Oh, what a mistake you've made."

"Mistake? Yes, I acknowledge that."

"I mean in not giving this last bit of information at once to
the police. A man can be identified by such a defect. Even his
footsteps can be traced. He might have been found that very day.
Now, what have we to go upon?"

"You are right, but not expecting to have any difficulty about
the insurance money I thought it would be generous in me to keep
still. Besides, this is only surmise on my part. I feel certain
that my husband was shot by another hand than his own, but I know
of no way of proving it. Do you?"

Then Violet talked seriously with her, explaining how their only
hope lay in the discovery of a second bullet in the room which
had already been ransacked for this very purpose and without the
shadow of a result.

A tea, a musicale, and an evening dance kept Violet Strange in a
whirl for the remainder of the day. No brighter eye nor more
contagious wit lent brilliance to these occasions, but with the
passing of the midnight hour no one who had seen her in the
blaze of electric lights would have recognized this favoured
child of fortune in the earnest figure sitting in the obscurity
of an up-town apartment, studying the walls, the ceilings, and
the floors by the dim light of a lowered gas-jet. Violet Strange
in society was a very different person from Violet Strange under
the tension of her secret and peculiar work.

She had told them at home that she was going to spend the night
with a friend; but only her old coachman knew who that friend
was. Therefore a very natural sense of guilt mingled with her
emotions at finding herself alone on a scene whose gruesome
mystery she could solve only by identifying herself with the
place and the man who had perished there.

Dismissing from her mind all thought of self, she strove to
think as he thought, and act as he acted on the night when he
found himself (a man of but little courage) left in this room
with an ailing child.

At odds with himself, his wife, and possibly with the child
screaming away in its crib, what would he be apt to do in his
present emergency? Nothing at first, but as the screaming
continued he would remember the old tales of fathers walking the
floor at night with crying babies, and hasten to follow suit.
Violet, in her anxiety to reach his inmost thought, crossed to
where the crib had stood, and, taking that as a start, began
pacing the room in search of the spot from which a bullet, if
shot, would glance aside from the mirror in the direction of the
window. (Not that she was ready to accept this theory of Mrs.
Hammond, but that she did not wish to entirely dismiss it
without putting it to the test.)

She found it in an unexpected quarter of the room and much nearer
the bed-head than where his body was found. This, which might
seem to confuse matters, served, on the contrary to remove from
the case one of its most serious difficulties. Standing here, he
was within reach of the pillow under which his pistol lay hidden,
and if startled, as his wife believed him to have been by a noise
at the other end of the room, had but to crouch and reach behind
him in order to find himself armed and ready for a possible
intruder.

Imitating his action in this as in other things, she had herself
crouched low at the bedside and was on the point of withdrawing
her hand from under the pillow, when a new surprise checked her
movement and held her fixed in her position, with eyes staring
straight at the adjoining wall. She had seen there what he must
have seen in making this same turn--the dark bars of the opposite
window-frame outlined in the mirror--and understood at once what
had happened. In the nervousness and terror of the moment, George
Hammond had mistaken this reflection of the window for the window
itself, and shot impulsively at the man he undoubtedly saw
covering him from the trellis without. But while this explained
the shattering of the mirror, how about the other and still more
vital question, of where the bullet went afterward? Was the angle
at which it had been fired acute enough to send it out of a
window diagonally opposed? No; even if the pistol had been held
closer to the man firing it than she had reason to believe, the
angle still would be oblique enough to carry it on to the further
wall.

But no sign of any such impact had been discovered on this wall.
Consequently, the force of the bullet had been expended before
reaching it, and when it fell--

Here, her glance, slowly traveling along the floor, impetuously
paused. It had reached the spot where the two bodies had been
found, and unconsciously her eyes rested there, conjuring up the
picture of the bleeding father and the strangled child. How
piteous and how dreadful it all was. If she could only
understand-- Suddenly she rose straight up, staring and
immovable in the dim light. Had the idea--the explanation--the
only possible explanation covering the whole phenomena come to
her at last?

It would seem so, for as she so stood, a look of conviction
settled over her features, and with this look, evidences of a
horror which for all her fast accumulating knowledge of life and
its possibilities made her appear very small and very helpless.

A half-hour later, when Mrs. Hammond, in her anxiety at hearing
nothing more from Miss Strange, opened the door of her room, it
was to find, lying on the edge of the sill, the little
detective's card with these words hastily written across it:

I do not feel as well as I could wish, and so have telephoned to
my own coachman to come and take me home. I will either see or
write you within a few days. But do not allow yourself to hope.
I pray you do not allow yourself the least hope; the outcome is
still very problematical.

When Violet's employer entered his office the next morning it
was to find a veiled figure awaiting him which he at once
recognized as that of his little deputy. She was slow in lifting
her veil and when it finally came free he felt a momentary doubt
as to his wisdom in giving her just such a matter as this to
investigate. He was quite sure of his mistake when he saw her
face, it was so drawn and pitiful.

"You have failed," said he.

"Of that you must judge," she answered; and drawing near she
whispered in his ear.

"No!" he cried in his amazement.

"Think," she murmured, "think. Only so can all the facts be
accounted for."

"I will look into it; I will certainly look into it," was his
earnest reply. "If you are right-- But never mind that. Go home
and take a horseback ride in the Park. When I have news in regard
to this I will let you know. Till then forget it all. Hear me, I
charge you to forget everything but your balls and your parties."

And Violet obeyed him.

Some few days after this, the following statement appeared in
all the papers:

"Owing to some remarkable work done by the firm of -- & --,
the well-known private detective agency, the claim made by Mrs.
George Hammond against the Shuler Life Insurance Company is
likely to be allowed without further litigation. As our readers
will remember, the contestant has insisted from the first that
the bullet causing her husband's death came from another pistol
than the one found clutched in his own hand. But while reasons
were not lacking to substantiate this assertion, the failure to
discover more than the disputed track of a second bullet led to
a verdict of suicide, and a refusal of the company to pay.

"But now that bullet has been found. And where? In the most
startling place in the world, viz.: in the larynx of the child
found lying dead upon the floor beside his father, strangled as
was supposed by the weight of that father's arm. The theory is,
and there seems to be none other, that the father, hearing a
suspicious noise at the window, set down the child he was
endeavouring to soothe and made for the bed and his own pistol,
and, mistaking a reflection of the assassin for the assassin
himself, sent his shot sidewise at a mirror just as the other let
go the trigger which drove a similar bullet into his breast. The
course of the one was straight and fatal and that of the other
deflected. Striking the mirror at an oblique angle, the bullet
fell to the floor where it was picked up by the crawling child,
and, as was most natural, thrust at once into his mouth. Perhaps
it felt hot to the little tongue; perhaps the child was simply
frightened by some convulsive movement of the father who
evidently spent his last moment in an endeavour to reach the
child, but, whatever the cause, in the quick gasp it gave, the
bullet was drawn into the larynx, strangling him.

"That the father's arm, in his last struggle, should have fallen
directly across the little throat is one of those anomalies
which confounds reason and misleads justice by stopping
investigation at the very point where truth lies and mystery
disappears.

"Mrs. Hammond is to be congratulated that there are detectives
who do not give too much credence to outward appearances."

We expect soon to hear of the capture of the man who sped home
the death-dealing bullet.





Next: An Intangible Clue

Previous: The Golden Slipper



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