Anybody but Anne E-Book

Carolyn Wells

• Herausgeber: Mystery Mavens
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2017

Beschreibung

Eccentric millionaire David Van Wyck has decided to pledge all his money away, leaving his wife Anne nothing but her jewelry to survive on. When David sees Anne flirting with an old high school friend during a weekend party at his mansion, Buttonwood Terrace, he decides to include Anne’s gems in his giveaway. David Wyck is found murdered the next morning in a locked-room and while suspicion initially points to Anne, it becomes apparent that several of Wyck’s guests had a motive for the crime. The narrator of the story, the guest Anne is in love with, prays that the culprit is ‘Anybody but Anne.’

In a structural twist, Detective Fleming Stone appears in the preamble and returns in the third act, book-ending the mystery, rather than merely appearing in the denouement.

Leseprobe

ANYBODY BUT ANNE

A Fleming Stone Mystery

By Carolyn Wells

Table of Contents

Title Page

Anybody but Anne

Chapter I | Buttonwood Terrace

Chapter II | The Van Wyck Household

Chapter III | All about A Fan

Chapter IV | The Decision of David Van Wyck

Chapter V | The Crime in the Study

Chapter VI | Surmises

Chapter VII | The Mysterious Motor Car

Chapter VIII | Enter, A Detective

Chapter IX | The Inquest

Chapter X | Further Evidence

Chapter XI | Archer’s Theory

Chapter XII | Anne’s Testimony

Chapter XIII | An Adjournment

Chapter XIV | A Mysterious Disappearance

Chapter XV | Who Wrote The Letter?

Chapter XVI | Telltale Typewriting

Chapter XVII | The Search for the Pearls

Chapter XVIII | Fleming Stone Arrives

Chapter XIX | The Two Carstairs

Chapter XX | The Mystery Solved

Further Reading: Raspberry Jam

Anybody but Anne – A Fleming Stone Mystery by Carolyn Wells. First published in 1914. This edition published 2017 by Mystery Mavens. All rights reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-387-12518-0.

Chapter I

Buttonwood Terrace

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THE letter I had just read was signed Anne Mansfield Van Wyck,—and the first two names gave my memory such a fillip, that I sat for a long time, motionless, while my thoughts raced back ten years, and reached their goal in a little suburban town.

The picture which memory so obligingly showed me, in definite detail, was that of two young people saying good-by, somewhat effusively. One of these was an immature version of my present self, and the other was a pigtailed schoolgirl, who now signed herself, Anne Mansfield Van Wyck. At the time of that dramatic parting, she had been Anne Mansfield, and I, Raymond Sturgis, was leaving her to go to college.

Our farewell promises, though made in all good faith, were never fulfilled; and the barrier of circumstances that time raised between us, had kept us from sight of each other for ten years.

I assumed, when I thought of it at all, that Anne had forgotten me; and though I had not forgotten her, I remembered her only casually, and at long intervals.

I had heard of her marriage to David Van Wyck without poignant regret, but with a feeling of resentment that she should throw herself away on a man so old and eccentric, though a well-known capitalist. And, now, all unexpectedly, I had received an invitation to one of her house parties. It expressed, pleasantly enough, a desire to renew our old-time acquaintance, and asked me to come on Friday for the weekend.

The stationery was correct and rather elegant; the handwriting fashionable and sophisticated,—not at all like the sprawling schoolgirl hand of ten years ago.

My curiosity was roused to know what Anne would be like as Mrs. Van Wyck, and I accepted the invitation with a pleased sense of regaining an old friend.

As my train swayed swiftly through New England, toward the village of Crescent Falls, where the Van Wycks had their summer residence, I tried to picture to myself the pretty little Anne Mansfield that I had known, as the chatelaine of a great estate, with an elderly husband and two grown-up stepchildren. The picture was so incongruous that I gave it up, and awaited first impressions with unbiased opinions.

And I may well have done so, for, though I knew of his wealth, I knew nothing of the taste and judgment that had led David Van Wyck to select for his summer home a most beautiful country estate, whose century-old mansion was surrounded by equally old buttonwood trees, a species rapidly growing extinct in New England.

The motor car which brought me from the station swung into the broad avenue that led to the house, and I marveled that such a home could have been found in America. For it was like an English park; the green lawns rolling off in velvety sweeps toward distances of woodland, which betokened flowery dells and picturesque ravines.

No one had met me at the railroad station, save the chauffeur and footman, so I assumed that the Van Wyck household was conducted on formal lines. I held my mind open for informing impressions, and suddenly, rounding a curve, we came within sight of the house.

I knew the Van Wyck home was called Buttonwood Terrace, but when I saw it I felt a whimsical impulse to call it All Gaul—for it was so definitely divided into three parts. The enormous rectangle that had originally formed the main dwelling had later received the addition of two also rectangular wings. But these were not attached in the usual fashion; they were jauntily caught by their corners to the two rear corners of the main house. These lapping walls impinged but a few feet, or just enough for communicating doors. Thus, the wings, with the back or southern side of the house, formed three sides of a delightful terrace, from which marble steps and grassy paths led to formal gardens beyond, where one could wander among fountains, statues, and rare and beautiful plants.

The West wing held the many kitchens and other servants’ quarters, and the East wing,—I judged from its long, almost church-like windows,—was a great hall of some sort.

For some reason, the car circled the house before pausing at the front entrance, and, enthralled by the beauty and wonder of the place, I was ready to forgive Anne Mansfield her much-criticized marriage. The door was opened to me by an obsequious personage in livery, and I was at once shown to my room. This was on the second floor, at the front of the house, and on the East side. It was a marvel of good taste and comfortable, even luxurious appointments, but I scarcely noticed it, as I caught sight of the view from my windows.

The Berkshire hills rolled above and beyond one another, in what seemed a very riot of mountainous glee. The spring green had appeared early, and the tender verdure of the young leaves contrasted with the deep greens and purples of the mountain forests. It was nearly sunset, and a red gold glow added a theatrical effect to the glorious landscape.

I leaned out of my East window, and glanced toward the back of the house. I saw again that great East wing, so peculiarly attached to the corner of the main dwelling, and concluded it had been built later. It had almost the appearance of a chapel, for the long windows were of stained glass, with arched tops and ornate casings. The fact that these windows reached from the roof nearly to the ground, proved the wing apartment to be a lofty one, fully the height of two ordinary stories. So interested in the matter was I, that I asked the man who was unpacking my things, if the East wing might be a chapel.

“No, sir,” he answered; “it’s Mr. Van Wyck’s study.”

He volunteered the further information that tea was now being served there, and that I was to go down as soon as I was ready.

Shortly after, I followed my guide through the halls and rooms of the enormous house. Drawing rooms and reception rooms were furnished with quiet elegance; and the heavy hangings, though of brocades and tapestries, were never obtrusive in coloring or design.

Through the halls we went, until we reached the doorway that formed the sole connection between the main house and the East wing. Here, after a murmured announcement of my name, the servant left me, and I found myself in the study of David Van Wyck.

I think I have never seen a more impressive room than this study at Buttonwood Terrace. Its domed ceiling of leaded glass was perhaps thirty feet high, but so large was the room and so graceful its lines that the architecture gave the effect of perfect proportion.

The walls were paneled between the stained-glass windows, and at the West end of the room was a small balcony, like a musicians’ gallery, reached by a spiral staircase. At the same end of the room, under the balcony and opening on the terrace, were large double doors; and there was no other entrance save the single door that connected with the main house through the lapped corners.

There were perhaps a dozen people present, and though, of course, I recognized my hostess, I went to greet her with a face that, I am sure, showed an expression of incredulity.

Anne Van Wyck laughed outright.

“It’s really I,” she said; “you seem unable to believe it ...”

But even before I could reply she turned to welcome another newcomer, and I stood alone, a moment, waiting for her to turn back to me.

The scene was a picturesque one. The contrast of the modern garbed society people, their light laughter and gay chatter, with the dignity and grandeur of the old room and its antique furnishings, made an interesting picture. Everywhere the eye rested on carvings and tapestries worthy of a baronial hall, and yet the gay occupation of afternoon tea seemed not amiss in this setting. It was late in May, and though the great doors stood open to the terrace, the blaze of an open fire was not ungrateful.

My hostess did not herself preside at the tea-table, but left that to her stepdaughter Barbara, while she graciously dispensed charming smiles of greeting or farewell to the guests who came or went. After a few moments came a lull in her duties and with a fascinating smile she invited me to sit beside her and talk over old times.

“Remembering our schoolmate days, may I call you Anne?” I asked, taking my place by her on a divan.

“I suppose I really oughtn’t to allow it, but it is pleasant to feel you are an old friend,” she smiled.

“It is—though a bit hard to realize that the little schoolgirl I used to know is now mistress of all this grandeur.”

“It is a fine old place, isn’t it?” she returned, evading the personal equation. “And, perhaps because of its picturesque possibilities, I pride myself on my house parties. I adore having guests, and I invite them with an eye to their fitting into this environment.”

“Thank you for the implied compliment,” I murmured, but I brought back my gaze from my surroundings, to look more attentively at Anne’s face.

It seemed to me I had caught a plaintive note in her voice, and I looked for a corresponding expression in her eyes. But she dropped her long lashes, after a swift glance that was a little roguish, a little wistful, and entirely fascinating. Suddenly I wondered if she were happy. My vague impression of her husband was that he was tyrannical and possibly cruel; I felt intuitively that Anne's lightheartedness was assumed, and covered a disappointed life.

But meantime she was chatting on, gaily. “Yes,” she declared; “I select my house parties with the utmost care. I have an exactly proper admixture of married people and unmarried, of serious-minded and frivolous, of geniuses and feather-heads.”

“In which class am I?” I asked, more for the sake of making her look at me than for a desire for information.

“It’s so long since we last met, that I shall have to study you a bit before I can classify you. But please be as frivolous as you can, for I want you to offset a very serious guest.”

“I know,” I said, following Anne’s glance across the room, “the long girl in pale green. I shall have to be a veritable buffoon to average up with that serious-minded siren! She looks like a Study of a Wailing Soul.”

“Yes—isn’t she Burne-Jonesey? That’s Beth Fordyce, and she’s the dearest thing in the world, but she has a sort of aesthetic pose, and goes in a little for the occult and such ridiculous things. But you’ll like her, for she’s a dear when she forgets her fad.”

“Does she ever forget it?”

“Yes; when she’s thinking of clothes. Indeed, sometimes I think she prefers clothes to soulfulness,—but she’s terribly devoted to both.”

“She certainly makes a success of her raiment,” I observed, looking at the long, sweeping lines of Miss Fordyce’s misty, green draperies.

I suppose it was only a touch of the Eternal Feminine, but Anne seemed to resent my compliment to the green gown, and quickly turned the subject.

“The frizzy blonde lady next to her is Mrs. Stelton,” she went on; “she’s a young widow who’s terribly in love with Morland, my stepson. To tell the truth, I invited her because I want him to find out that he really doesn’t care for her, after all. Then Barbara, at the tea-table is my stepdaughter; she’s exactly like her father, and when I married him, Barbara was determined not to like me. But I am determined she shall; and of course I shall win out—though I haven’t made any startling success as yet.”

“So much for the women,” I said. “Now tell me of your men.”

“Well, you know my husband. He’s distinguished-looking, isn’t he? And though he’s nearly sixty, that little alert air of his makes him seem younger. Morland looks like him, but they are not at all alike otherwise. Morland is handsome but he is puffy-minded, and any woman can lead him by a string. For the moment, he thinks Mrs. Stelton is his ideal, but I intend that Beth Fordyce shall dethrone her. That tall man talking to Beth now is Connie Archer. He’s a dear thing, but a little difficult. Mr. Van Wyck doesn’t like him; but, then, my husband likes so few people.”

“Do you like Mr. Archer?” I asked, looking directly at her.

She flashed me a glance of surprise, and then answered coolly, “I like him, but not as much as he likes me.”

“Anne Mansfield Van Wyck,” I said, looking at her sternly, “don’t tell me you’ve developed into a coquette!”

“Developed!” she repeated, with a gay little laugh; “I was always a coquette. I used to flirt with you, ’way back in High School Days.”

“That you did!” I agreed. “You purposely kept Jim Lucas and me in a fever of jealousy toward one another!”

“Of course I did. You were both so susceptible. If I let one of you carry my schoolbooks, the other promptly went off in a sulk.” Anne laughed merrily at the recollection, and I gazed at her, thinking how beautiful she had grown, and wondering why she had married Van Wyck.

“And do you remember,” I went on, a little diffidently, “the last time we met?”

“’Deed I do!” she replied, without a trace of embarrassment. “You were going off to college, and you kissed my hand as we parted. That was a very graceful act,—for a schoolboy,—and I’ve never forgotten how well you did it.”

“Yes,” said I, lightly, “one must be a born cavalier to get away with a hand-kiss successfully. When I get a real good chance I’m going to see if your right hand has lost its cunning.”

“Nonsense!” she returned laughingly. “I’m not allowed to permit anything of that sort. I’m a perfect Griselda of a wife and my husband rules me with a rod of iron.”

“Indeed I do,” said Van Wyck himself, as he came toward us, and, really, Anne’s speech had been made at him rather than to me.

“And so you knew my wife as a child?” he asked, after Anne had conventionally introduced us.

“As a girl,” I corrected him. “We were acquainted during our High School days, when I was an awkward cub, and she was ‘standing with reluctant feet.’ ”

“H’m; and was she then, as now, a self-willed, insistent creature, determined to have her own way in everything?”

My blood boiled at his tone, even more than at his words. But I felt sure it was better to keep to the light key, so I said: “Yes, indeed; like all other women. And even as boys, we men are only too glad to give the Blessed Sex their own way.”

Anne flashed me a glance that distinctly betokened approval. I felt she had wondered how I would meet her husband’s ill-chosen speech, and I felt elated at having passed through the ordeal successfully in her eyes.

David Van Wyck glowered at me. As Anne had said, he was distinguished-looking, but his drawn brows, and straight, thin lips, showed habitual surliness. His thick, tossing hair was almost white, and his acutely black eyes gleamed from beneath heavy gray eyebrows. He was tall and well-proportioned, with an alert air that made him seem less than the sixty years his wife had ascribed to him.

He was handsome; his manners, though superficial, were correct; and yet he roused in me a spirit of antagonism such as no stranger ever had done before. After a few moments more conversation, he said, quite abruptly, “I will take your place beside my wife, and do you go and make yourself charming to the other ladies.”

Chapter II

The Van Wyck Household

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“PRESENTLY,” I returned equably; “but first let me congratulate you on the find of this delightful old place. This room itself is a marvel. It might have been brought over from some English castle.”

David Van Wyck looked around appreciatively. “It is a fine room,” he agreed. “It was built later than the main house, and was originally intended, I imagine, for a ballroom. It has a specially fine floor, and that musicians’ gallery at the end seems to indicate festivities on a big scale. To be sure, the whole scheme of decoration is too massive and over-ornate for these days, but it is all in harmony, and the gorgeousness of coloring has been toned down by time.”

This was true. The lofty walls were topped by a wide and heavy cornice, with an enormous cartouche in each corner, massive enough for a cathedral. But the coloring was dimmed by the years, and the gilding was tarnished to a soft bronze. Most of the furniture consisted of choice old pieces collected by Van Wyck for this especial use, and it was plain to be seen that he took great pride in these, and in his rare and valuable pictures and curios.

“It is my room,” he was saying, as he smiled benignly on his wife, “but I let Anne have her full teas here, because she thinks it’s picturesque. But except at the tea-hour, this is my exclusive domain.”

“You call it your study?” I inquired casually.

“I call it my study, yes; although I’m not a studious man, by any means. It is really my office, I suppose; but such a name would never fit this eighteenth-century atmosphere. I have my desk here, and my secretaries and lawyers come when I call them, and I have even profaned the place with a telephone, so that I’m always in touch with what the poets call the busy mart. Moreover, I confess I’m subject to short lived fads and fancies, and this good-sized room gives me space to indulge my interest of the moment.”

“He is, indeed,” said Anne, laughing. “Last summer he was a naturalist, and this room was full of stuffed birds and dried beetles and all sorts of awful things. But that’s all over now, and this year —what are you this year, David?”

Van Wyck’s face hardened. A steely look came into his eyes, and his square jaw set itself more firmly, as he replied, in a dry, curt tone, “I’m a philanthropist.”

The word seemed simple enough, and yet Anne’s face also became suddenly serious, and, unless I was mistaken, a flash of anger shot from her dark eyes to her husband’s grim face. But just then Archer and Miss Fordyce joined us, and Anne’s smiles returned instantly.

“What mood, Beth?” she cried gaily. “You see, Honey, I’ve been telling Mr. Sturgis that you’re aesthetic and lanky-minded and all the rest of it, and you must live up to your reputation.”

“If I can,” murmured Miss Fordyce, rolling a pair of soulful blue eyes at me; “but I’m only a beginner—a disciple of the wonderful mysticism of the—”

“There, there, Beth, cut it short,” broke in Archer. “We know! The mysticism of the theosophical value of the occult as applied to the hyper-aestheticism of the soul by whichever Great High Muck-a-Muck you’ve been reading last!”

The others laughed, but Miss Fordyce gave the speaker a reproachful glance, which, however, utterly failed to wither him.

“You’d be a real nice girl, Beth,” he went on, “if you’d chuck mysticism and go in for athletics.”

“You don’t understand, Mr. Archer,” began Miss Fordyce, in her soft, melodious voice; but Archer interrupted her:

“Now, don’t come the misunderstood racket on me! I won’t stand for it. Practice your wiles on Mr. Sturgis. Take him over there, and show him Mr. Van Wyck’s Buddha, and tell him what you know about Buddhaing as a fine art.”

I walked away with the pale-haired Miss Fordyce, but instead of talking about Buddha, we naturally fell into conversation about our fellow guests.

“I can well understand,” I said slowly, “that the occult would scarcely appeal to such a practical specimen of manhood as Archer. Who is he and what is he?”

“To begin with, he’s a supreme egotist.”

“Oh, I don’t mean his character; but what does he do?”

“I don’t know, exactly. I believe he’s a mining engineer or something. But he’s terribly in love with Anne, and he’s clever enough not to let Mr. Van Wyck know it.”

“But Anne knows it?”

“Of course, yes; and she doesn’t care two cents for him. But she’s a born coquette, and she leads him on, for nothing but an idle amusement. I don’t think a woman ought to do that.”

“Doubtless you are right, Miss Fordyce; but is it your experience that women always do what they ought to do?”

“Very rarely,” returned Miss Fordyce, laughing, and I began to realize that when the girl dropped her silly pose, she was really charming. “And especially Anne,” she went on. “She’s one of my dearest friends, but that doesn’t blind me to her faults.”

“And is it a fault to be attractive?”

“To be as attractive as Anne Van Wyck is a crime.” Miss Fordyce smiled as she spoke, but there was a ring of earnestness in her tone. “She is a siren, and her charm is of the sort that bowls men over before they know what they’re about.”

“I’m glad you warned me,” I returned; “I’ll be on my guard against her fatal glances.”

“You’ve known her a long time, haven’t you?”

“Oh, no; I knew her ten years ago, as a schoolgirl, but she doesn’t seem to be the same Anne now.”

“She’s a dear!” exclaimed Miss Fordyce, warmheartedly, “and I have done wrong in even seeming to censure her. But she does lead men a dance.”

“Isn’t she afraid of her husband?”

“Anne is afraid of nobody on earth,—well, with one exception,—but the exception is not her husband.”

“Who is it then? You?”

“Oh, goodness, no! Why should she be afraid of me? But she is afraid of Mrs. Carstairs, the housekeeper.”

“The housekeeper! How curious. Why is it?”

“I don’t know. But Mrs. Carstairs is really a most peculiar person. She was housekeeper for Mr. Van Wyck before Anne married him. Her son is Mr. Van Wyck’s valet. Well, Anne would be glad to send them both packing, mother and son, but her husband won’t let her.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, he is accustomed to their ways,—and they are both remarkably capable.”

“But why is Anne afraid of them?”

“I don’t think she’s afraid of Carstairs. But the mother is so queer. Anne says she has the evil eye.”

“Aren’t you and Anne imagining these things? Isn’t it one of your ‘occult’ notions?”

“Wait till you see Mrs. Carstairs. You’ll realize at once she’s queer.”

“I thought a housekeeper was always a portly, placid, middle-aged woman, in a black silk dress.”

Beth Fordyce laughed, “You couldn’t guess farther from the mark! Mrs. Carstairs is not middle-aged. Indeed, she seems extremely young to be the mother of the valet. He must be over twenty. Then she is very good looking, with a dark, subtle sort of beauty. She’s small, and slender, and she glides about so softly, she seems to appear from nowhere. Why, there she is now!”

I looked across the room and saw Mrs. Carstairs speaking to Anne. She wore black silk, it is true; but of modish cut and long, graceful lines. Indeed, she seemed to have more of an air of distinction than any of the other women present, excepting Anne.

She had no touch of apology or obsequiousness in her manner, and stood quietly talking, until she had finished her errand, and then moved away, and left the room without embarrassment. Her self-poise was marvelous, and I felt a flash of regret that such a woman should have to pursue what was after all, a menial occupation.

“She looks interesting,” I remarked to Miss Fordyce.

“She is!” was the emphatic reply. “Of course, it's an open secret that she hoped to marry Mr. Van Wyck. She was housekeeper here when he was a widower. Then, when he married Anne, he insisted that Mrs. Carstairs should stay on, to relieve Anne of all housekeeping boredom.”

“And Anne doesn’t want her?”

“Not a bit; but she can’t persuade Mr. Van Wyck to discharge her. The valet is most satisfactory, I believe, and the mother and son refuse to be separated. So, they’re both here. But Anne is afraid of her.”

“How absurd!”

“I don’t know. Mrs. Carstairs hates Anne, and though she is never openly disrespectful, she finds hundreds of little ways to annoy her.”

“And Anne’s stepchildren? How does she get along with them?”

“Oh, right enough. Morland adores her, and though Barbara was offish at first, she is coming round. Anne has shown great tact in managing Barbara, and I think they’ll get to be chums.”

I hadn’t yet had opportunity to converse with Barbara Van Wyck, and under pretense of a quest of fresh tea, I led Miss Fordyce toward the tea-table.

Miss Van Wyck was cordial, but not effusive, and struck me as being what is sometimes called “strong-minded.”

She was a striking looking girl, with a pale face and large dark eyes; but she had no such charm as Anne, nor had she the gentle softness of Beth Fordyce. She managed the tea things with a graceful air of being accustomed to it, and included us at once in a conversation she was carrying on with some other callers.

It seemed the Van Wyck tea hour was something of an institution; and neighbors and village people were always in greater or less attendance.

The discussion was concerning a new public library in the town, and as it was of slight interest to me, I permitted my attention to wander about the room, and began to plan some way by which I could unobtrusively make my way back to my hostess.

But just then a motor car arrived, and a group of callers came in through the great portals of the study. The general confusion of introductions and greetings followed, and when it was over I somehow found myself standing beside Mrs. Stelton, the pretty young widow from whose toils Anne hoped to rescue Morland Van Wyck.

She was attractive in her way, but commonplace compared to Beth Fordyce or Anne. She chatted pleasantly, but her conversation was of the sort that makes a man’s mind wander.

“Are you here for the weekend, Mr. Sturgis?” she rattled on; “you’ll have a heavenly time! It’s the dearest place to visit. And they are all such lovely people. The beautiful Mrs. Van Wyck is a perfect hostess,—and Mr. Van Wyck is an old dear, —though a bit of a curmudgeon now and then.”

“You’re speaking of Mr. Morland Van Wyck?” I teased.

“You naughty man! Of course not. I mean our host. Morly isn’t in the least curmudgeonish!” She tapped my arm with her lorgnon in a playful manner. “As if anyone could be,—to you,” I returned, knowing her type.

“Nice gentleman!” she babbled on. “I admit I like a compliment now and then. I’m glad you're here. We’re such a pleasant house party.”

“Who is that striking looking man standing by the window?” I asked. “We were introduced as he came in, but I didn’t catch his name.”

“Stone,” she replied, “Fleming Stone. They say he is a detective.”

“Stone!” I exclaimed. “Is it really? Detective! I should think he was! Why, he’s probably the greatest real detective who ever lived! What is he doing here?”

“His home is in Crescent Falls,” Mrs. Stelton informed me; “that is, his mother has recently come here to live in the village, and he, naturally, visits her. He is staying with her now.”

“Is he a friend of Van Wyck’s?”

“No, he has never been here before. He came with Mr. and Mrs. Davidson, Crescent Falls Village people, and I think he came principally to see the house. This room, you know, is famous.”

“Not as famous as he is,” I said, gazing at the man I so much admired, but had never before seen.

Fleming Stone was a man who would have compelled notice anywhere, and yet his appearance was entirely quiet and unostentatious. He was slightly above average height, of a strong, well set up figure and a forceful expression of face. His hair was slightly gray at the temples, and his dark, deep-set eyes gave a strangely blended effect of unerring vision and kindly judgment. His manner was marked by a gentle courtesy, and his personal magnetism was apparent in every tone and gesture.

I longed to get away from the uninteresting widow and talk or at least listen to Mr. Stone. As this was not possible, I suggested that we both stroll across the room and join the group that surrounded him.

Though apparently not over-anxious, Mrs. Stelton agreed to this, and we became a part of the small circle that had formed around the great detective.

Great detective I knew him to be, for his fame was worldwide, and yet as he stood there drinking his tea with a careless grace, he gave only the impression of a cultured society man, ready to lend himself to the polite idle chatter of the moment.

He was looking at Anne Van Wyck, and, though not staring, not even gazing intently, I could see that his interest centered in her.

But this was not at all astonishing. I think few men were ever in Anne Van Wyck’s presence without centering their interest upon her.

Her slender figure was exquisitely proportioned, and her small head, with its masses of soft dark hair, was set upon her shoulders with a marvelous grace. Her deep gray eyes, with long, curling, dark lashes, were full of fascination, and her small, pale face was capable of expressing such receptiveness and such responsiveness that one’s eyes were drawn to it irresistibly. Anne’s face was mysterious—purposely so, maybe, for she was intensely clever; but mysterious with the weird fascination of the Sphinx.

And as Fleming Stone’s own deep eyes met those of Anne Van Wyck, in a glance that caught and held, it seemed as if two similar natures experienced a mutual recognition.

I may have been over-fanciful, but I looked upon Fleming Stone as almost superhuman; and though, before my arrival at Buttonwood Terrace, I had felt no special personal interest in Mrs. David Van Wyck, I was now conscious of a dawning realization that the Anne Mansfield I used to know had grown to a wonderful woman.

It was part of Anne’s beautiful tact, that she made no reference to Fleming Stone’s profession or to his celebrity.

She smiled graciously and opened the conversation with a bit of banter.

“It is a great pleasure to welcome you under our roof-tree, Mr. Stone,” she was saying, “but it is also a surprise. For, I am told, you are a confirmed woman-hater.”

“Aren’t ‘woman-haters’ always confirmed, Mrs. Van Wyck?” he parried; “I never heard of one that wasn’t.”

“Nor I,” said Anne, laughing at the quip; “but you evade my question. Do you hate all women?”

“No,” said Stone; “I do not. But if I did, I should say I did not,—out of common politeness.”

“How baffling!” cried Anne. “Now I can form no idea of your attitude toward our sex.”

“Oh, I’ve no reason to conceal that,” said Stone, lightly. “It is merely the attitude of civilized man toward civilized woman. Taken collectively, women are delightful. But any one of them alone, nearly scares me out of my wits.”

“I’d like to try it!” said Anne, with a daring sweep of her long lashes, as she half closed her eyes, and looked at him.

“You wouldn’t have to try. I admit I’m afraid of you already. I’m afraid of any woman. One never knows what they mean by what they say.”

“They rarely know that, themselves,” Anne flung back at him; and Condon Archer, who stood near, added, “Or if they do, they know wrong.”

“These are cryptic utterances,” I put in, laughingly. “Are you good people sure you know what you’re talking about?”

“We’re sure we don’t!” said Anne, gaily, “and that’s just as good. But if we’re really achieving cryptic remarks, we’ll refer them to Beth. She knows all about crypticism,—or whatever you call it,—and mysticism, and occultism ... ”

“Oh, good gracious, Anne, don’t!” cried Miss Fordyce. “I don’t mind people who understand, talking about those things; but you are not only ignorant but intolerant of them.”

“Nonsense, girlie,” said Anne, smiling at Miss Fordyce, “I love you, and so I love all those crazy notions of yours.”

“I’m sure Mr. Stone understands,” Beth Fordyce went on, looking at him with earnest eyes.

It may have been my imagination, but it seemed to me that Fleming Stone had to wrench his attention away from Anne by force, and compel himself to reply to Miss Fordyce’s remark.

Chapter III

All about A Fan

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“YOU are sure I understand what, Miss Fordyce?” he asked; “I assure you my understanding is not limitless.”

“Oh, understand clairvoyance, and all that sort of thing. You must, you know, with all your wonderful detective ability. Please tell us all about yourself, won’t you? I never saw a real detective before, and they’re awfully different from what I imagined! I thought they were more—more—”

“Unwashed,” put in Archer bluntly. “I am not myself acquainted with many of them, but those I have met are not in Mr. Stone’s class socially, by any means.”

“They’re not in his class professionally, either,” I declared, anxious to have Fleming Stone aware of my appreciation of his genius. “Mr. Stone is in a class by himself. His work is art, that’s what it is.”

“Thank you,” said Fleming Stone, but in the smile he gave me there was a slight tinge of that boredness that masters always feel at compliments from tyros. “My art, as you call it, is my life,” he went on, simply. “I do not study it, I simply practice it as it comes along. And, after all, any success I may have had is merely the rational outcome of logical observation.”

“Oh, don’t depreciate yourself, Mr. Stone,” said Mrs. Stelton, shaking a silly finger at him. “You know you are the greatest detective ever—Mr. Sturgis told me so. And now you must, you simply must, tell us just how you do it, and give us an example. Here, take my fan, and deduce my whole mental caliber from it!”

Although Fleming Stone looked at the speaker pleasantly, I was convinced that he felt, as I did, that it [...]