Wilkins answered the inspector's ring. His master was in the parlor sitting beside the body of his beloved wife. He would announce the inspector.
A second later he returned and ushered Des Moines into the big reception hall. The inspector shook hands with the millionaire. Then, his eyes on the other's face, he plunged immediately into the reason for his call.
"Mr. Winters," he said. "I believe that I am on the right track at last. But I need some information which only you can give me. Will you do it?"
There was no hesitancy on the part of the man of wealth. "Ask me anything you wish, inspector. I will answer your question lo the best of my ability."
Des Moines bored on.
"Winters," he said, sharply, "who is your heir?"
The millionaire started.
"Why, er — I don't understand what you are getting at?" he exclaimed.
"Just this. If I am correct in my guess, your life is in danger. In view of this morning's happenings, I am at last firmly convinced that Mrs. Winters' death was nothing more or less than a coldblooded murder! So, too, was the death of the maid! I will admit that several times I have had my doubts. Now I know!"
Winters started back, aghast. "Horrible! Horrible!" he cried. "It is hard to believe — yet it must be true. But who could have so hated my poor wife as to take her life?"
The inspector continued relentlessly. "With Mrs. Winters out of the way, it is my belief that you will be the next to go. We must protect you. Now who is going to profit by all this deviltry? Have you made a will?"
Winters put his hand to his head. "Surely, it cannot be true. You cannot believe that they — mere children—"
"Who are they, man? Speak up!"
"My nephew, Thomas De Pew, and my niece, Cora Dayton, his cousin. Everything I have will go to them. Mrs. Winters had no near relatives. My will has been made for months. Of course, had my wife lived, she would have inherited all."
"Do they live in the city?"
"They make their home with me. They have lived here since childhood. Both are orphans."
"I would like to talk with them, question them, without their knowing the reason. Will you kindly summon them? Tell them that I am merely seeking additional data for my report."
Winters, white-faced, arose. "I will do as you wish, inspector," he said, slowly. "But you are wrong in suspecting those children. Thomas is but nineteen years of age. His cousin is nearly a year younger. Theirs cannot be the brains that planned this horrible outrage."
He stepped into the adjoining room, only to reappear, an instant later, with the information that both of the young people had driven downtown for the afternoon.
Inspector Des Moines left the Winters home feeling that he had made no material progress.
XI
The funeral services for the late Mrs. Winters had been held and the body tenderly laid away in the family vault in Rose Hill cemetery. At the same hour, in another part of the city, amid more humble surroundings, was held the funeral of Dolly Matthews, the maid.
Alone in his office, Inspector Des Moines sat scanning the afternoon papers. They were still filled with criticisms of the police administration. Nor did the inspector blame them greatly. For he was obliged to confess himself beaten — defeated at every turn of the road. He had attended the funeral of Mrs. Winters in person. Several of his best plain clothes men had mingled with the crowd. Others had been present at the funeral of the maid. Their reports were one and the same. There was nothing — absolutely nothing — to report.
Over the telephone, he had given The Master the results of his interview with Winters. Mohammed Gunga had advised him to say nothing, do nothing, until Lessman again showed his hand.
Lost in reverie, he went over every phase of the case. A stone wall confronted him. There was nothing upon which he could even base a theory. Even though he succeeded in pinning the crimes on Winters, what jury would believe the incredible story? There was not even a motive. He would be laughed out of court. Mohammed Gunga was his only hope.
The telephone tinkled jarringly, startling him oat of his day dreams. The voice which answered his gruff "Hello!" was that of a stranger, agitated, jerky.
"Inspector, this is Thomas De Pew, Augustus Winters' nephew. For the love of God, come out here quick! Something awful has happened.
"I don't know what it is. I can't explain. I only know that a stranger called here shortly after we returned from the funeral and inquired for my uncle. Wilkins, the butler, heard him request a private interview. Uncle Gus took him into his study and closed the door. We supposed that he had departed, for, later, my uncle left the house for a short stroll — or, at least, we so imagined.
"A few minutes ago Wilkins entered the study. He found the body of the stranger lying on the floor — stone dead! No, there is not a mark of violence on him. The physician — Doctor Bennett — has just completed his examination. "And my uncle has not yet returned."
XII
Over die telephone, Des Moines reported the latest angle of the case to Mohammed Gunga. Then he drove to the latter's residence and picked him up on his way to the Winters home.
The white-faced butler admitted them, trembling like a leaf as he ushered them into the presence of young De Pew, a slender youth trying hard to appear manly in spite of his agitation. A moment later they were joined by Miss Dayton, the niece, a beautiful girl whose eyes were swollen and red from weeping, although she seemed to hold herself under better control than did the boy. The inspector briefly introduced The Master as one of his men versed in subtle poisons, brought along for the purpose of detecting if any such had been used in making away with the stranger found in the study.
A hasty examination of the dead man proved the correctness of young De Pew's report. He was a rough appearing individual, evidently a laborer, far from the sort of person a man of Winters' refinement and wealth would be likely to be on intimate terms with.
Mohammed Gunga arose from the stooping position over the dead man and turned to De Pew.
"Darius Lessman," he said, in the conversational tone of one polished gentleman addressing another, "the time for unmasking is at hand! We meet at last! It is your soul or mine! Prepare yourself for the ordeal! Summon, if you are able, the powers of darkness. I warn you that behind me lies all of the great strength of the Holy Ones — and only you know what that means. Are you ready for the trial?"
For an instant there was silence. Then, with a wild shriek, the girl ran screaming from the room. Des Moines stepped back a pace, startled by the sudden accusation. Yet he knew the Master too well to doubt the correctness of his charges.
De Pew's eyes glared angrily. He seemed about to leap at the throat of his accuser. Then, with a shrug of his thin shoulders, he chuckled — a throaty, diabolical, gleeful burst of mirth.
"As you wish, my dear Mohammed Gunga! As you wish. I will warn you, as you have warned me. I intend to kill you, damn you! Yes, and the infernal meddler with you, too. I'll kill you as I killed the others."
He rubbed his hands together gleefully, giving way again to his unholy mirth. "Yes, and. by God, I'll use your carcasses as I used this piece of carrion on the floor, there. Think you that you can stop me — that you, in your littleness, can end a career such as mine? I am Lessman, The Man Who Can Not Die! I'll be chief of police for a day! Ha! Ha! Yes, and I'll wear the robes of The Master.
"Listen, fools. Meta, the woman I love, is she who has just left the room. Together, we killed Mrs. Winters — blasted her as we will blast you. Yes, I'll blast you, curse you! I can throw my will across the continent. Think you, then, that you can defeat me? I got Des Moines here to end him, knowing that he would bring you along. With you gone, the world is mine!