At the head of the table sat Caresse Wheatland, a girl whom the lieutenant instantly found it difficult to describe. She was a flame, a flash, a vivid dash of exotic color, a lovely flare of something unbelievably exquisite — but definitely dangerous. Auburn-haired and brown-eyed, slim as a rapier, with a delicious curving mouth and a naturally perfect skin, she would dominate any gathering. For behind her arresting beauty was plenty of brains. Williams could see why the professor might fancy her in love with some other man, even plotting with the other man to free herself. She was nothing that could ever be held long by one person — as uncertain as quicksilver.
Had it not been for the music of that weird violin down in the strange room where the professor worked, the blasé young police lieutenant would not have believed any of the professor’s story. The man might be a genius, but he seemed a trifle cracked. But he could not forget that violin. If it could be explained by something logical, as of course it could, it at any rate spelled clanger for the professor.
Again and again the lieutenant’s puzzled eyes came back from a study of the guests, to that exotic young hostess, an emerald-studded cigarette holder between her rouged lips. What material she would make for the press if she ever got herself into a mixup! And then, naturally, his eyes went to the reporter, Fred Frisby, who sat on Mrs. Wheatland’s right and absorbed a good deal of her attention. Frisby was a sandy-haired young man with a likeable face and a store of good dinner yarns.
Next to Frisby sat Saleworth, the diamond expert, a gray-haired youngish man with a slow voice and a droll wit. The lieutenant did not pay much attention to him. Then came Linda Price, a fair-haired, dimpled young woman, who wore many diamonds and laughed at everything any one said.
Phil Farren, the lawyer, sat beside Linda. He was a type one passes on the street every day, medium height, medium color, medium brains, Williams decided, though he could not be too sure. He must not make a mistake about these people, for if that crazy professor was right, a clever crime was hatching about that magnificent dinner table. Boy, what news it would make! And what a case for his office!
Next to Farren sat the host, and next to him the chemist, Will Clinton. Stout and rather red-faced, and possessed of a jovial laugh, Clinton did not seem the type to make the brilliant successes he had made in his line, which went to show, thought Williams grimly, that one must not be too swift to judge, and certainly not in his work.
He himself sat beside Clinton, and next to him came Eddie Harmer, the idle millionaire. Harmer was young, as young as the lovely hostess, and his wavy dark hair, dark eyes and swarthy skin, coupled with a good figure and perfect grooming, made him very attractive. Caresse seemed to think so, for when she could tear herself from Frisby she turned instantly to Harmer, to the exclusion of the rest of the table which she left to Linda Price and her husband.
If any of those well bred people felt uncomfortable to have a police lieutenant seated at that exclusive board with them, they gave no evidence of it. Perhaps they were accustomed to the eccentricities of the host, although his presence, thought Williams, must cause the man who was contemplating a crime, some uneasiness.
The dinner moved along smoothly enough until the frozen dessert was passed and then, with no warning whatever, the host rose, cleared his throat and stood at the end of the table facing his radiant young wife until silence gradually fell and every one looked at him.
“Before we go down to my workroom,” said the professor in a pleasantly clear voice, “I wish to say a few words to the man who has come here to-night to murder me.”
Caresse gave a gasp and her face flushed with lovely warm color.
“Archie!” she said sharply. “Don’t be such an utter fool!”
“My dear,” Wheatland bowed courteously, “I don’t care to be interrupted if you please. There is a man at this table who has come here this evening to murder me, I repeat. He has sent me notes telling me so for the past weeks. He does not wish me to demonstrate this evening my marvelous ability to make genuine diamonds. He wishes to be able to do that himself, my dear Caresse, after he has stolen my precious formula and married you.”
“My dear fellow!” gasped Farren, horrified, while protests arose from about the table.
The lieutenant sat in grim silence, watching the shocked face upon which the candlelight danced strangely. It was not his job to interfere — yet. His feelings were anything but enviable. He realized that he was in a position no police lieutenant had probably ever been placed in, and he studied the men about that table with keen, anxious eyes. They were on the verge of a great crime, a mysterious crime. He was being told so. To-morrow it might sprawl across the pages of the press. To-night he broke bread with the murderer and knew not who he was! His hands were tied until the crime was committed. It was hideous.
The professor’s face was quite quiet as he looked about the table. His eyes did not linger longer on one face than on another.
And then before he could go on with his ghastly remarks, the faint sound of a violin playing the funeral march drifted in from the hall or the garden — it was hard to say which.
Linda Price screamed thinly and laid her jeweled hand over her mouth.
“What on earth is that?” she gasped. “Archie Wheatland, I don’t think this is funny! Make him stop, Caresse!”
Lieutenant Williams was frowning. His keen eyes never ceased their trip about the table, studying one face after another, but he could not pick up one guilty expression.
The playing of the violin came closer, came apparently to the very door of the handsome dining room and stopped there, its mournful strains filling the silent room.
Then Caresse Wheatland sprang to her feet.
“Archie, if this is more of your trickery, stop it at once!” she cried. “It is horrible! None of us are amused! Stop it, I say!”
Down the length of the flower-decked table the eyes of husband and wife locked.
“My dear,” said the professor slowly, “you know I speak the truth. As for the violin playing — I have not its secret. Somebody explain it, please. The man who has murder in his heart can do so, I know.”
But for a moment, while still the strains of the funeral march magnificently played, possessed the air, no one said a word, and then Frisby gave a strained laugh.
“Professor, this is great stuff for the front page!” he said. “I’ll work this up in my account of the demonstration to-night! Very clever and amusing.”
“I have nothing to do with it,” said Wheatland sternly. “The lieutenant knows I have not. He heard that violin to-day while down in my workroom with me. I can assure you there is no radio in the house or any other contraption which would explain it.”
“I heard it, yes,” said Williams then, quietly. “But I can’t say that the professor had nothing to do with it. I simply could not understand how he could have.”
The music abruptly ceased.
The professor and his young wife were still standing staring antagonistically at each other.
“Archie, you will take back what you said about me,” said the girl then through tight scarlet lips. “As for the idea of some one here wishing to murder you, that is like some of your other crazy notions. I don’t care about that. But the part about me, about some man loving me — that you must deny. And at once.”
“I am sorry,” said the professor bowing ironically, “but it is the truth. I know it and you know it. In an hour or so, all the world will know it. And I wish to add now that the man who leaves the workroom below stairs after the crime will brand himself as the criminal and my wife’s lover. If he takes the formula, or tries later on to manufacture diamonds, he will brand himself. I have told Lieutenant Williams the entire case, what I know of it. But I do not believe this frightens the man who has determined to end my life. He has a splendid defiance which appeals to Caresse. He is clever and fearless. I believe that is all. Let us go now and have the demonstration.”