It occurred to Reilly that it was a trifle strange for Stewart to have kept revolver cartridges close at hand in his desk, but no revolver. A careful search of the study failed to reveal a weapon.
He sent for the servant, Johnson.
Johnson was a small, pale, meek man, who acted as though he had received a great deal of harsh treatment in his life. He inclined his head respectfully when Reilly showed his badge.
“How long have you been in Mr. Stewart’s service?” the detective inquired.
“Six years, sir.”
“Ever known him to act afraid of anything?”
Johnson hesitated. “I… can’t say that I have, sir—”
“Well, now, I mean, did he ever act like he was afraid?”
“N-no, sir; not unless it was by his insistence upon having the house securely locked at night. He was always quite particular about that.”
“Sure. That was the way we found it last night. Do you know if he kept a gun in the house?”
“Yes, he did.”
“Where?”
“Right there in the desk which you have been examining, sir.”
“Is it there now?”
“I certainly presume so. It was there—”
He stopped as Reilly exhibited the top drawer.
“W-why — that’s strange, sir.”
“You’ve no idea what become of it?”
“I certainly haven’t! It was there the other day—”
“All right,” said Reilly, looking at him keenly. “Now, about that fake telegram you got yesterday.”
“I… I’ve no idea who could have sent it, sir—”
“Exactly what time did it come?”
“Shortly after five o’clock.”
“Humph. Was Mr. Stewart here then?”
“No, sir. He was down town. I left a note for him, explaining that I was called away—”
“Oh, then you knew he was goin’ to be back soon?”
The man nodded. “I knew he would be back before seven thirty, for he had an appointment here with a Mr. Fothergill.”
“Oh, with a Mr. Fothergill, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All right, me man. That’s all now. You can go out”
“Yes, sir.”
Left alone, Reilly again looked thoughtfully at the cartridges. In his mind, the missing revolver bulked large. Who had taken it? Who, besides Stewart and Johnson, knew that it was kept in the study?
A discoloration at the bottom of the cardboard box caught his attention. He scrutinized it carefully; then tipped out the cartridges in his hand and examined it from the inside.
He poured the cartridges back, and found his fingers moist and sticky. Taking out several, he smelled them.
“Oil,” declared Reilly.
He frowned in perplexity.
Then he caught his breath and peered at the cover of the box. Distinct upon its surface, just below the manfacturers’ name, were the oily prints of two small, slender fingers.
Reilly carried the box to the window. He found it impossible to decide how recent the prints were. But there were made with the same oil which had soaked into the bottom of the box. Machine oil.
And this was a small hand. A woman’s band.
His next move was to interview the other servants. The cook was immediately disqualified. She was extremely fat; she weighed over two hundred, he felt certain. Hilda Larsen’s hands were much too large.
Mary O’Brien was a small, pretty girl; but Reilly liked Mary, and he was heartily glad when he saw that her fingers were short and oval instead of long and slender.
He sent again for Johnson.
“Tell me, Johnson,” urged Reilly confidentially, “is there a Mrs. Stewart?”
“Yes, sir. Mrs. Stewart is in Europe.”
“Oh, in Europe, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“An’ about how long has she been there, now?”
“Mrs. Stewart has been away since early November, sir.”
“Humph,” mused Reilly. “There’s no other ladies livin’ here, I suppose?”
“Miss Virginia lives here, sir.”
“Miss Virginia?”
“Mr. Stewart’s daughter. She is in Philadelphia — I… no… begging your pardon, inspector — I am informed that she is back in town this forenoon, and has been told of Mr. Stewart’s death.”
“An’ how long has Miss Stewart been in Philadelphia?”
“A little more than a week.”
“She’s not been to the house since she came back, I suppose?”
“No, sir; I think not.”
Again Reilly stood deep in thought for a moment.
“All right, Johnson,” he decided. “That’s all.”
Chapter IX
The Second Generation
Virginia Stewart came to the house shortly before noon. She was a slender girl of twenty-two, with clear complexion and large, full blue eyes.
Although she was pale, Frank Reilly could not escape the vague impression that she suffered more from the shock of the tragedy than from a very keen grief. A friend, Dorothy Welford, accompanied her.
At his first opportunity, the young detective apologized in his best manner for intruding, and explained that he had been assigned to clear up the circumstances of her father’s death.
He presented a document which he had found in a closet upstairs, and asked the girl whether it had any significance to her.
There were several papers bound by a dip, the top sheet thickly covered with dust. She took them in an unsteady hand, but returned them almost immediately. The papers comprised a memorandum of a merger of the business interests of Clarence Faulkner and Thomas Strong.
“I… don’t think I’ve ever seen this—” she said in a weak voice.
Reilly thanked her, placed the dusty papers carefully in a big envelope, and left the room. Although apparently disappointed, he had obtained exactly what he desired. He had obtained an excellent set of finger-prints made by Virginia Stewart.
He went at once to Captain Peters, the finger-print expert of the department, taking the papers and also the cover of the cartridge box.
The captain was an expert in every sense of the word, and he worked swiftly and surely. In the early afternoon Reilly returned to Stewart’s home with the information he desired.
This time he found the girl with Grafton Duncan, the young man whom he had seen at the house on the previous evening. From the nature of their interview Reilly immediately decided that he was intruding.
He withdrew to the butler’s pantry and chatted with Mary O’Brien for a half hour. When a glance into the library showed him that Miss Stewart was at liberty, he paused long enough to assure Mary that he hoped he might talk with her again.
He entered the library, hat in hand.
“Beggin’ your pardon once more, Miss Stewart,” he ventured, respectfully, “but may I speak with you for a few minutes?”
She turned. It was apparent that she was maintaining composure with an effort. Yet, as before, Reilly was almost certain that he discerned more of shock and bewilderment than of sorrow.
“Yes. What is it?”
“This is Detective Reilly of headquarters, ma’am,” he said. “I was speakin’ with you a few minutes this mornin’. Beggin’ your pardon for askin’ the question, ma’am, but I’m told you have not seen your father since you left for Philadelphia about eight or nine days ago?”
She responded very quietly. “No.”
“It was this mornin’ you returned, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
He studied her for an instant with his bright blue eyes.
“You wasn’t here last evenin’ by any chance, Miss Stewart?”
The girl started, raising her glance to meet his for a second.
“W-why — as a matter of fact,” she replied. “I’m amazed that you have guessed it — but I did almost come to the house last evening.”