Faulkner's Folly E-Book

Carolyn Wells

• Herausgeber: Al-Mashreq eBookstore
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 293

Beschreibung

Faulkner's Folly by Carolyn Wells is a tantalizing mystery that weaves together elements of suspense and charm in a delightful narrative. When a renowned architect's eccentric mansion—dubbed Faulkner's Folly—becomes the site of a baffling crime, it sets the stage for a riveting investigation. As detective Nora Hunt delves into the opulent but peculiar world of the mansion, she uncovers a labyrinth of secrets and deceit that stretches beyond the grand estate's walls. With a cast of intriguing characters and twists that keep you guessing, this novel promises a captivating read full of clever revelations and unexpected turns. Will Nora solve the enigma of Faulkner's Folly, or will the mansion's mysteries remain unsolved?

Leseprobe

Table of Contents

Faulkner's Folly

I - In the Studio

II - Where They Stood

III - What They Said

IV - Goldenheart

V - Blake’s Story

VI - Mrs. Faulkner’s Account

VII - Natalie, Not Joyce

VIII - The Emeralds

IX - One or the Other

X - Orienta

XI - Sealed Envelopes

XII - A Vision

XIII - An Alibi Needed

XIV - From Seven to Seventy

XV - Natalie in Danger

XVI - Confession and Arrest

XVII - Alan Ford

XVIII - Questions and Answers

XIX - Ford’s Day

XX - On the Staircase

Landmarks

Table of Contents

Cover

Faulkner's Folly

By: Carolyn Wells

Edited by: Rafat Allam

Copyright © 2024 by Al-Mashreq Bookstore

First published in 1917

No part of this publication may be reproduced whole or in part in any form without the prior written permission of the author

All rights reserved.

I - In the Studio

Beatrice Faulkner paused a moment, on her way down the great staircase, to gaze curiously at the footman in the lower hall.

A perfectly designed and nobly proportioned staircase is perhaps the finest indoor background for a beautiful woman, but though Mrs. Faulkner had often taken advantage of this knowledge, there was no such thought in her mind just now. She descended the few remaining steps, her eyes still fixed on the astonishing sight of a footman’s back, when he should have been standing at attention. He might not have heard her soft footfall, but he surely had no business to be peering in at a door very slightly ajar.

Faulkner’s Folly was the realised dream of the architect who had been its original owner. It was a perfect example of the type known in England as Georgian and in our own country as Colonial, a style inspired by the Italian disciples of Palladio, and as developed by Inigo Jones and Christopher Wren, it had seemed to James Faulkner to possess the joint qualities of comfort and dignity that made it ideal for a home. The house was enormous, the rooms perfectly proportioned, and the staircase had been the architect’s joy and delight. It showed the wooden wainscoting, which was handed down from the Jacobeans; broad, deep steps with low risers, large, square landings, newels with mitred tops and rather plain balusters. But the carved wood necessary to carry out the plans, the great problems of lighting, the necessity for columned galleries and long, arched and recessed windows, together with the stupendous outlay for appropriate grounds and gardens, overtaxed the available funds and Faulkner’s Folly, in little more than two years after its completion, was sold for less than its intrinsic value.

James Faulkner died, some said of a broken heart, but his wife had weathered the blow, and was, at the present time, a guest in what had been her own home.

The man who bought Faulkner’s Folly was one who could well appreciate all its exquisite beauty and careful workmanship. Eric Stannard, the artist and portrait painter, of international reputation and great wealth, and a friend of long standing, took Faulkner’s house with much joy in the acquisition and sympathy for the man who must give it up.

A part of the purchase price was to be a portrait of Mrs. Faulkner by the master hand of the new owner; but Faulkner’s death had postponed this, and now, a widow of two years, Beatrice was staying at the Stannards’ while the picture was being painted. Partly because of sentiment toward her husband’s favourite feature of the house, and partly because of her own recognition of its artistic possibilities, Beatrice had chosen the stairs as her background, and rarely did she descend them without falling into pose for a moment at the spot she had selected for the portrait

But on this particular evening, Beatrice had no thought of her picture, as she noticed the strange sight of the usually expressionless and imperturbable footman, with his face pressed against the slight opening of the studio door.

“Blake,” she said, sharply, and then stopped, regretting her speech. As the Stannards’ guest, she had no right or wish to reprove her hosts’ servants, but it was well-nigh impossible for her to forget the days of her own rule in that house.

Even as she looked, the man turned toward her a white and startled face,—it seemed almost as if he welcomed her appearance.

“Blake! What is it?” she said, alarmed at his manner. “What are you doing?”

“I—heard a strange sound, Madame,—from the studio—”

“A strange sound?” and Beatrice came along the hall toward the footman.

“And the lights in there, just went out—”

“The lights went out! What do you mean, Blake? It is not your business if lights in rooms are turned off or on, is it?”

“No, Madame—but—there, Madame! Did you not hear that?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” and Beatrice paled, as an indistinct voice seemed to cry faintly, “Help!” It was a horrible, gurgling sound, as of one in dire extremity. “What can it be? Go in, Blake, at once! Turn on the lights!”

“Yes, Madame,” and the trembling footman pushed open the door and felt fumblingly in the dark for the electric switch.

It was only a few seconds, but it seemed an interminable time before the lights flashed on and the great room was illuminated to its furthest corners.

Beatrice, close behind the trembling footman, stood, stunned.

“I knew it was something dreadful!” Blake cried, forgetting in his shock his conventional speech.

Beatrice gave one gasping “Oh!” and covered her face with her hands. But in a moment she nerved herself to the sight, and stared, in a horrified fascination, at the awful scene before her.

At the other end of the long room, in a great, carved armchair, sat Eric Stannard, limp and motionless. From his breast protruded an instrument of some sort, and a small scarlet stain showed on the white expanse of his shirt bosom.

“Is he—is he—” began Beatrice, starting forward to his assistance, when her bewildered eyes took in the rest of the scene.

Behind Stannard, and across the room from one another, were two women. They were Joyce, his wife, and Miss Vernon, a model.

Joyce, only a few feet from her husband’s left shoulder, was glaring at Natalie Vernon, with a wild expression of fear and terror, Natalie was huddled against the opposite wall, near the outer door, cowering and trembling, her hands clutching her throat, as if to suppress an involuntary scream.

Unable to take in this startling scene at a glance, Beatrice and Blake stared at the unbelievable tableau before them. The man got his wits together first.

“We must do something,” he muttered, starting toward his master. “There is some accident—”

As if by this vitalised into action, the two women behind Stannard came forward, one on either side of him, but only his wife went near to him.

“Eric,” she said, faintly, taking his left hand, as it hung at his side. But she got no further. With one glance at his distorted face she sank to the ground almost fainting.

“Who did this, sir?” Blake cried out, standing before Stannard. The dying man attempted to raise his right hand. Shakingly, it pointed toward the beautiful girl, his model.

“Natalie,” he said, “not Joyce.” The last words were a mere choking gurgle, as his head fell forward and his heart ceased to beat.

“No!” Natalie screamed. “No! Eric, don’t say—”

But Eric Stannard would say no word again in this world.

Beatrice Faulkner staggered to a divan and sank down among the pillows.

“Do something, Blake,” she cried. “Get a doctor. Get Mr. Barry. Call Halpin. Oh, Joyce, what does it all mean?”

Then Mrs. Faulkner forced herself to go to Joyce’s assistance, and gently raised her from the floor, where she was still crouching by her husband’s side.

“I don’t—know—” returned Joyce Stannard, her frightened eyes staring in tearless agony. “Did you kill him, Natalie?”

“No!” cried the girl. “You know I didn’t! You killed him yourself!”

Halpin, the butler, came in the room, followed by Miller, who was Stannard’s own man.

Astounded, amazed, but not hysterical, these old, trusted and capable servants took the helm.

“Telephone for Doctor Keith,” Miller told the other, “and then find Mr. Barry.”

Barry Stannard was Eric’s son by a former marriage; a boy of twenty, of lovable and sunny disposition, and devoted to his father and to his young stepmother. He soon appeared, for he had been found strolling about the grounds.

He came in at Halpin’s message, and seeing the still figure in the armchair, sprang toward it, with a cry. Then, as suddenly, he turned, and without a word or glance at any one else, he ran from the room.

Without touching it further than to assure himself that life was really extinct, Miller stood, a self-appointed sentinel over the body of his dead master. He looked curiously at the instrument of death, but said no word concerning it.

There was more or less confusion. Several servants, both men and women, came to the doors, some daring to enter, but except in one or two instances, Miller ordered them out.

Annette, Mrs. Stannard’s maid, he advised to look after the ladies, and Foster, a houseman, he detailed to keep an eye on Barry.

“Where is Mr. Barry?” asked the man.

“I don’t know,” returned Miller, calmly. “He just stepped out—probably he’s on the terrace. Don’t annoy him by intrusion, but be near if he wants you.”

The three women of the household said almost nothing. Mrs. Faulkner was so stupefied by the situation, and the inexplicable attitude in which she had found her hostess and the girl, Natalie, she could think of nothing to say to either. And the two who had stood near the dying man, as the light disclosed the group, were equally silent.

Annette proffered fans and sal volatile impartially to all three, but she, also, though usually too voluble, had no words.

After what seemed an interminable wait, Dr. Keith arrived.

“Stabbed,” he said, briefly, as he examined the body, “and with one of his own etching needles! Who did it?”

“With what?” exclaimed Mrs. Faulkner, looking puzzled.

“With an etching point—or needle. An artist’s tool. Who did it?”

There was a silence, not so much awkward, as fraught with horror. Who could answer this question, even by a surmise.

Blake threw himself into the breach.

“We don’t know, sir,” he said. “It was doubtless done in the dark, and, when I turned up on the lights—the—the murderer had fled.”

A half exclamation from Joyce seemed to deny this assertion, and Natalie’s lovely face again showed that hunted, terrified look that had marked it at first.

“Where’s Barry?” went on Dr. Keith.

“I am here,” said young Stannard, himself, coming in from the terrace. “Dr. Keith, I want this matter hushed up. I am master here now, and horrible though it may all be, it will not lessen our trouble, but rather increase it, if you have any investigation or inquiry made into this thing.”

Dr. Keith looked at the speaker in amazement. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Barry, my boy. It is not possible to ignore the facts and causes of an occurrence of this sort. Do you know who stabbed your father?”

“No, I do not. Nor do I want to know. Father is gone, no persecution of any innocent person can restore him to life, and the criminal can never be found.”

“Why not? Why do you say that?”

“I feel sure of it. Oh, listen to me, Dr. Keith. Be guided by my wishes, and do not seek the one who brought about my father’s death. Joyce, you agree with me, don’t you?”

The young fellow had never addressed his father’s wife more formally than this; indeed, there was not much more than half a dozen years between their ages, and Joyce, at twenty-seven or thereabouts, looked almost as young as her stepson. There had always been good comradeship between the two, and during the two years Joyce had been Stannard’s wife she and Barry had never had a word of disagreement or unpleasantness of any sort.

About six weeks ago, Natalie Vernon, a professional model, had come to pose for Stannard, and as she had proved most satisfactory, Eric had informed his wife that he wished the girl to stay as a house guest for a time. Joyce had voiced no objection, whatever she may have felt in her heart, and had always treated Natalie with all courtesy and kindness.

The girl was a most exquisite beauty, a perfect blonde, with a face like Dresden china and a form of fairylike grace. The soft pink and white of her apple-blossom skin, the true sky colour of her eyes and the gleaming gold of her wonderful hair were Greuze-like in their effects, yet of an added piquancy and charm.

It is not to be wondered at that Barry promptly fell in love with her, nor is it remarkable that Eric himself was more or less under the spell of his beautiful model. A worshipper of all beauty, Stannard could not help it if his soul bowed down to this masterpiece of Nature’s.

A professional model Natalie was, but only for the draped figure. She was but eighteen, had been well brought up and educated, but, obliged to earn her own living, had found she had no resources of work except in her God-given beauty. Posing was a joy to her, and she had posed for but a few artists and those of the better, even best class. But Eric, accustomed to having whatever he desired, was determined Natalie should pose for some allegorical figures in a great picture on which he was engaged. This she refused to do, and the more Stannard insisted the more obdurate she became, until there was continual war between them on the subject. And owing to this state of things, Natalie had decided she must leave “Faulkner’s Folly,” and it was only Barry’s entreaties that had thus far kept her from fulfilling her intentions.

Joyce, herself a beautiful woman, of the dark-haired, brown-eyed type, had often been a model for Eric’s pictures, and if she resented being superseded by this peaches and cream maiden, she never confided the fact to those about her. Joyce Stannard was clever by nature, and she knew the quickest way to make her impressionable husband fall desperately in love with Natalie, was for her, his wife, to be openly jealous. So this Joyce would not appear to be. She chaffed him gaily about his doll-faced model and treated Natalie with the patronising generosity one would show to a pretty child.

But if Joyce was clever, Natalie was too, and she took this treatment exactly as it was offered, and returned it in kind. Her manner to her hostess was entirely correct, well-bred and even indicative of gratitude; but it also implied, with subtle touch, the older and more settled state of Joyce, and gave a hint of contrast in the freshness of Natalie’s extreme youth and the permissibility of a spice of the madcap in her ways.

But all these things, on both sides, were so veiled, so delicately suggested, that they were imperceptible to any but the closest observer.

And now, whatever the facts of Eric Stannard’s death might be shown to be, now it must soon be made known that when the lights of the room where he died were turned on, they had revealed these two—his wife and his paid model—near his stricken body, already quivering with its last few heartbeats.

In answer to Barry’s question, Joyce lifted her white face. “I don’t know—” she said, slowly, “I suppose—as Dr. Keith says—these things must be—be attended to in—in the usual way. But I, too, shrink from the awful publicity and the harrowing experience we must go through,—Beatrice, what do you think?”

Mrs. Faulkner replied, with a gentle sympathy: “I fear it won’t matter what we think, Joyce, dear. The law will step in, as always, in case of a crime, and our opinions or wishes will count for nothing.”

“I have sent for the Coroner and for the Police,” said Dr. Keith, who had given Halpin many whispered orders. “Now, Barry, don’t be unreasonable. You can no more stop the routine of the law’s procedure than the stars in their courses. If you know any facts you must be prepared to state them truthfully. If not, you must say or do nothing that will put any obstacle in the way of proper inquiry.”

Dr. Keith was treating Barry like a child, and though the boy resented it, he said nothing, but his face showed his hurt pride and his disappointment.

“Tell us all you can of the facts of the attack,” said Beatrice Faulkner to the doctor.

“The simple facts are plainly seen,” was the reply. “Some one standing in front of Mr. Stannard, as he sat in his chair, intentionally stabbed him with the etching needle. The instrument penetrated his flesh, just above and a little to one side of the breast bone, piercing the jugular vein and causing almost instant death.”

“Could it not have been a suicide?”

“Impossible, Mrs. Faulkner. Stannard could not have managed that thrust, and, too, the position of his hands precludes the theory of suicide. But the Coroner and his physician will, I am sure, corroborate my statement. It is a clear case of wilful murder, for, as you must see for yourself, no accidental touch of that instrument would bring about such a deep sinking of the point in a vital part of the victim.”

“But, if I may ask, sir,” said Miller, respectfully, “how could a murderer see to strike such a blow in a dark room? While Mr. Stannard could have stabbed himself in the dark.”

“Those points are outside my jurisdiction,” returned the Doctor, looking grave. “The Coroner and the Police Detectives will endeavour to give the answers to your perfectly logical queries.”

And then the men from Police Headquarters arrived.

II - Where They Stood

The countryside was in a tumult. A murder mystery at Faulkner’s Folly, of all places in world! Rensselaer Park, the aristocratic Long Island settlement, of which the celebrated house was the star exhibit, could scarcely believe its ears as the news flew about. And the criminal? Public opinion settled at once on an intruder, either burglarious or inimical. Of course, a man of Eric Stannard’s position and personality had enemies, as well as friends, from Paris, France, to Paris, Maine. Equally, of course, his enormous collection of valuable art works and even more valuable jewels would tempt robbers.

But the vague rumors as to his wife or that darling little model girl being implicated, were absurd. To be sure, the installation of Miss Vernon as a house guest was a fling in the face of conventions, but Eric Stannard was a law unto himself; and, too, Mrs. Stannard had always introduced the girl as her friend.

The Stannards were comparatively new people at The Park, but Mrs. Faulkner, whose husband had built the Folly, was even now visiting there, and her sanction was enough for the community. It would, one must admit, be thrillingly exciting to suspect a woman in the case, but it was too impossible. No, it was without doubt, a desperate marauder.

Thus the neighbours.

But the Police thought differently. The report of the Post Patrolman who first appeared upon the scene of the tragedy included a vivid description of the demeanour of the two ladies; and the whole force, from the Inspector down, determined to discover which was guilty. To them the death of Eric Stannard was merely a case, but from the nature of things it was, or would become, a celebrated case, and as such, they were elated over their connection with it.

In due course, the Coroner’s Inquest took place, and was held in the big studio where Eric Stannard had met his death.

Owing to the personality of Coroner Lamson, this was not the perfunctory proceeding that inquests sometimes are, but served to bring out the indicative facts of the situation.

It was the day after the murder and the room was partially filled with the officers of the law, the jury and a crowd of morbidly curious strangers. It seemed sacrilege to give over the splendid apartment to the demands of the occasion, and many of the audience sat timidly on the edge of the luxurious chairs or stared at the multitudinous pictures, statues and artistic paraphernalia. In the original plan the studio had been a ballroom, but its fine North light and great size fitted it for the workroom of the master painter. Nor was the brush the only implement of Eric Stannard. He had experimented with almost equal success in pastel work, he had done some good modelling and of late he had become deeply interested in etching. And it had been one of his own etching needles that had been the direct cause of his untimely death.

This fact was testified to by Doctor Keith, who further detailed his being called to the house the night before. He stated that he had arrived within fifteen minutes after Mr. Stannard—as the family had told him—had breathed his last. Examination of the body had disclosed that death was caused by the piercing of the jugular vein and the weapon, which was not removed until later, was a tool known as an Etcher’s needle, a slender, sharp instrument, set in a Wooden handle, the whole being not unlike a brad-awl. On being shown the needle, the Doctor identified it as the instrument of death.

Blake, the footman, was next questioned. He was of calm demeanour and impassive countenance, but his answers were alert and intelligent.

“Too much so,” thought Mr. Robert Roberts, a Police Detective, who had been put upon the case, to his own decided satisfaction. “That man knows what he’s talking about, if he is a wooden-face.” Now, Roberts, called by his chums, Bobsy, was himself alert and intelligent, and therefore recognised those traits in others. He listened attentively as Coroner Lamson put his queries.

“You were the first to discover your master’s dead body?”

“Mr. Stannard was not dead when I entered the room,” replied Blake.

“No, no, to be sure. I mean, you were the first to enter the room after the man was stabbed?”

“That I can’t say. When I entered—” Blake paused, and glanced uncertainly about. Barry Stannard was looking at the footman with a stern face.

Inspector Bardon, who was present, interposed. “Tell the story in your own words, my man. We’ll best get at it that way.”

“I was on duty in the hall,” began Blake, slowly, “and I noticed the lights go out in the studio here—”

“Was the door between the hall and studio open?” asked Lamson.

“No, sir, not open, but it was a very little ajar. I didn’t think much about the light going out, though Mr. Stannard never turned off the lights when he left the room to go upstairs to bed. And if it did strike me as a bit queer, I had no time to think the matter over, for just then I heard a slight sound,—a gasping like, as if somebody was in distress. As I had not been called, I didn’t enter, but I did try to peep in at the crack of the door. This was not curiosity, but there was something in that gasp that—that scared me a little.”

“What next?” said the Coroner, as Blake paused.

“Just then, sir, Mrs. Faulkner came down the stairs. She was surprised to see me peeping at a door, and spoke chidingly. But I was so alarmed, I forgot myself, and—well, and just then, I heard a distinct sound—a terrible, gurgling sound, and a voice said, ‘Help!’ I turned to Mrs. Faulkner to see if she had heard it, and she had, for her face looked frightened and she asked me what it meant, and she told me to go in and turn on the light. So—so, I did, and then I saw—”

“Be very careful now, Blake; tell us exactly what you saw.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard first, at the other end of the room, in his favourite big chair, and he was like a man dying—”

“Have you ever seen a man die?” Lamson snapped out the words as if his own nerves were at a tension.

“No—no, sir.”

“Then how do you know how one would look?”

“I saw something had been thrust into his breast, I saw red stains on his shirt front, and I saw his face, drawn as in agony, and his eyes staring, yet with a sort of glaze over them, and his hands stretched out, but sort of fluttering, as if he had lost control over his muscles. I couldn’t think other than that he was a dying man, sir.”

“That is what I want you to tell, Blake. An exact account of the scene as it appeared to you. Now the rest of it. Were you too absorbed in the spectacle of Mr. Stannard’s plight to see clearly the others who were present?”

“No, sir,” and the man’s calm face quivered now. “It is as if photographed on my brain. I can never forget it. Behind Mr. Stannard were the two ladies, Mrs. Stannard and Miss Vernon.”

“Directly behind him?”

“Not that, exactly. Mrs. Stannard stood behind, but off toward his left, and Miss Vernon was behind, but toward the right.”

“Show me exactly, Blake, where these two ladies stood,” and Coroner Lamson rose to see his demands fulfilled.

“Oh, sir,” begged Blake, his frightened eyes wavering toward the members of the household which employed him, “oh, sir—Mrs. Faulkner, sir,—she came in with me,—she can tell better than I—”

“Mrs, Faulkner will be questioned in due time. You came in first; we will hear your version and then hers. Be accurate now.”

With great hesitancy, Blake stepped to the spots he had designated.

“Mrs. Stannard stood here,” he said, indicating a position perhaps a yard back and to the left of Stannard’s chair, which was still in its place.

“What was she doing?”

“Nothing, sir. One hand was on this table, and the other sort of clasped against her breast.”

“And Miss Vernon?”

“She was over here,” and Blake, still behind the chair, crossed to its other side, and stood near the outer door.

“How was she standing?”

“Against this small table, and the table was swaying back and forth, like it would upset in a minute.”

“And her hands?”

“They were both behind her, sir, clutching at the table.”

“You have a wonderful memory, Blake,” and the Coroner looked hard at his witness.

“Not always, sir. But the thing is like a picture to my mind.”

“Like a moving picture?”

“No, sir, nobody moved. It was like a tableau, sir—”

“And then,” prompted Inspector Bardon.

At this point, Barry Stannard was again seen to look at Blake with a glance of deep concentration.

“Important, if true,” Detective Roberts said to himself. “Young Stannard is afraid of the footman’s further disclosures!”

Whether that was so or not, Blake suddenly lost his power of clear and concise narration.

“Why, then—” he stammered, “then, all was confusion. I started toward Mr. Stannard, it—it seemed my duty. And Mrs. Faulkner, she came toward him—”

“And the two ladies behind him?”

“They came toward him, too, and Mrs. Stannard took hold of his hand—”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, I couldn’t help it, sir—I blurted out, ‘Who did this?’ And Mr. Stannard—he said—”

“Said! Spoke?”

Attention was concentrated on the footman, and it is doubtful if any one save Roberts noticed Barry Stannard’s face. It was drawn in an agonised protest at the forthcoming revelation. But Blake, accustomed to obeying orders implicitly, continued to tell his story.

“Yes, sir, he spoke—sort of whispered, in a gasping way—”

“And what did he say?”

“He said, ‘Natalie, not Joyce.’ ”

“You are sure?”

“Yes, sir,” answered the stolid Blake. “And he sort of raised his hand, pointing toward the lady.”

“Pointing toward Miss Vernon, you mean?”

“Yes, sir.”

Barry Stannard could stand it no longer. “I won’t have this!” he cried. “I won’t allow this hysterical story of an ignorant servant to be told in a way to incriminate an innocent girl. It’s all wrong!”

The Coroner considered. It did seem too bad to listen to the vital points of the story from an underling, when such tragic issues were at stake.

“Sit down, for the present, Blake,” he said. “Mrs. Faulkner, will you give us your version of these events?”

Beatrice Faulkner looked very white and seemed loth to respond and then with a sudden, determined air, she faced the Coroner, and said, “Certainly. Will you ask questions?”

The beautiful woman looked even more stately in her mild acquiescence than she had done on her first mute refusal. Her large, soft black eyes rested on Joyce with a pitying air and then strayed to Natalie, the little model, who was a mere collapsed heap of weeping femininity. With a deep sigh, Beatrice turned to the Coroner.

“I am ready,” she said, with the air of one accustomed to dictate times and seasons.

A little awed, Coroner Lamson asked: “Do you corroborate the story as just related by Blake, the footman?”

“Yes, I think so,” and the witness drew her beautiful brows together as if in an effort of recollection. Though fully thirty-five, Beatrice Faulkner looked younger, and yet, compared to Joyce or Natalie she seemed a middle-aged matron. “I am sure I agree with his facts as stated, as to our entering the room, but I’m not sure he was able to hear clearly the words spoken by Mr. Stannard. I was not.”

“You were not?”

“No. I heard the indistinct mumble of the dying man, but I am not ready to say positively that I clearly understood the words.”

“You came down stairs just as Blake was peeping in at the door?”

“He wasn’t peeping. He was, it seemed to me, listening. I, naturally, thought it strange to see a footman prying in any way, and I called out his name, reprovingly. Then, I suddenly realised that as he was not my footman I had no right to reprimand him; and just then he turned his full face toward me, and I saw that the man looked startled, and that something unusual must be happening in the studio. He told me the lights had just gone out, and even as he spoke we both heard that sighing ‘Help!’ It was a fearful sound, and struck a chill to my very heart. I bade Blake turn on the light quickly, and then I followed him into the room.”

“Yes, Mrs. Faulkner, that is just as the footman told it. Now, will you tell what you saw in the studio, and what you inferred from it.”

“I saw Mr. Stannard in his arm chair, a dagger or some such thing protruding from his breast, and blood stains on his clothing. I inferred that some burglar or marauder had attacked him and perhaps robbed him.”

“And how did you think this intruder had entered?”

“I didn’t think anything about that. One doesn’t have coherent thoughts at such a moment. I realised that he had been stabbed, so of course, I assumed an assailant. Then I saw his wife and Miss Vernon standing near him, and I had no thought save to assist in any way I might. I cried out to Blake to get a doctor, and then I went to Mrs. Stannard’s side, just as she was about to faint:”

“Did she faint?”

“No, that is, she did not entirely lose consciousness, though greatly agitated. And then, soon, the butler and Miller, Mr. Stannard’s valet, came in, and after that Barry came and—and everything seemed to happen at once. Doctor Keith came—”

“One moment, Mrs. Faulkner, you are getting ahead of your story. What about the words uttered by Mr. Stannard before he died?”

“They were so inarticulate as to be unintelligible.”

“You swear this?”

“I do. If he said ‘Joyce’ or ‘Natalie,’ it is not at all strange, considering that those two women were in his sight. But I repeat that he did not say them in a connected sentence, nor did he himself mean any real statement. It was the unconscious speech of a dying man. In another instant he was gone.”

Though outwardly calm, Beatrice Faulkner’s voice trembled, and was so low as to be scarcely audible. But she stood her ground bravely, and her eyes met Barry’s for a moment, in the briefest glance of understanding and approval.

“Hum,” commented the astute Roberts to his favourite confidant, himself, “the Barry person is in love with the dolly-baby girl, and the queenly lady is his friend, and she’s helping him out. She isn’t telling all she knows, or if she is, she’s colouring it to save the implicated ladies.”

“What is your position in this house, Mrs. Faulkner?”

The faintest gleam of amusement passed over the white face. It was almost as if he thought her a housekeeper or governess.

“I am a guest,” she returned, simply. “I have been staying here a few weeks for the purpose of having my portrait painted by Mr. Stannard.”

“You previously owned this house, did you not?”

“My late husband, an architect of note, built it. Later, it was sold to Mr. Stannard, who has lived in it nearly two years.”

“Where were you just before you came down the stairs and saw Blake?”

“In the Drawing Room, on the second floor, at the other end of the house. I had been entertaining a guest, and as he had just taken leave, I went down stairs to rejoin my hostess.”

“Where did you expect to find Mrs. Stannard?”

“Where I had left her, in the Billiard Room.”

“You left her there? How long before?”

“An hour or so. There were several guests at dinner, and they had drifted to the various rooms afterward.”

“Who were the guests at dinner?”

“Mr. Wadsworth, who was with me in the Drawing Room; Mr. Courtenay, a neighbour, and Mr. and Mrs. Truxton, who also live nearby.”

“Mrs. Truxton, the jewel collector?”

“Yes; that is the one.”

“There was no one else at dinner?”

“Only the family group; Mr. and Mrs. Stannard, Mr. Barry Stannard, Miss Vernon and myself.”

“Once again, Mrs. Faulkner, you attach no significance to the words, ‘Natalie, not Joyce’ which Blake quotes Mr. Stannard as saying?”

Taken thus unexpectedly, Mrs. Faulkner hesitated. Then she said, steadily: “I do not. They were the articulation of a brain already clouded by approaching death. He merely named the people he saw nearest to him.”

“That is not true! Eric meant what he said!”

It was Joyce Stannard who spoke.