“What happened then?” the coroner asked.
“I passed her.”
The coroner smiled incredulously.
“You passed her?”
“Yes, I passed her. I had just taken a step or two when she cried out. Before I could turn she had fallen to the floor. She was dead.”
The coroner hesitated a moment, regarding Grover steadily before he asked his next question.
“Did you touch the dagger with which she was stabbed?”
Grover shuddered.
“I did not,” he stated in the most impressive tone he had used thus far.
“Then how,” the coroner leaned far over the desk to ask the question, “do you account for the undeniable fact that your finger-prints are on the handle of the dagger?”
With bated breath the occupants of the court-room awaited his reply. It came in a low, despairing voice.
“I cannot account for it,” the witness answered.
The coroner leaned back in his chair. When he spoke again it was almost indifferently, as though he were asking the question as a matter of form. “Had you and the deceased quarreled?”
The witness shook his head.
“Quarreled, no,” he answered. “Once I ventured to suggest to Miss Grenville that she was ruining herself by the kind of life she was leading. She resented what she called my interference and told me that she did not want to see me again.”
Slowly, almost languidly, he left the witness stand.
One more witness remained to be examined. This was the Mr. Sito Okawa with whom Grover claimed to have had an appointment. He was a short, dapper Japanese of the extremely intelligent type, suave, polite to the verge of the ridiculous.
After bowing low to the court and to the jury he took the witness stand. He stated that on the night of the murder he had indeed had an appointment with Mr. Grover. To the best of his belief, however, the time when they were to have met in his rooms had been eight-fifteen rather than seven-fifteen.
Then the coroner sent the jury to their deliberations. These did not consume a great deal of time. In less than five minutes the twelve men were back in their places, the foreman ready to recite their verdict. It was what everyone had expected. Irene Grenville had come to her death from the blow of a dagger driven into her heart by one George Grover, whom they recommended should lie held to await action by the Grand Jury.
Two days later the Grand Jury indicted the unfortunate young man. He was taken to the Tombs to await trial. And after a week or so New York forgot all about him, being concerned with matters of newer and greater importance. The baseball season opened—and a quite scandalous performance, the work of a degenerate French playwright, was being run at one of the largest theatres.
II
Song Kee’s participation in the Grenville murder case came about in a singular manner. One night as he entered his club for dinner after an afternoon unprofitably spent in investigating the administration of the city’s poor-laws, the doorman told him that a visitor was awaiting him in the Ladies’ Room.
“A visitor for me?” Song Kee inquired, lifting his eyebrows.
“Yes, sir. A lady, sir.”
Song Kee turned slowly and entered the Ladies’ Room. There, standing before the onyx fireplace of which every member of the Travelers, is justly proud, stood a woman. She was young, handsomely gowned and beautiful. Her loveliness was not of the gorgeous, riotous sort which startles one into instant admiration, but gentle, modest like the beauty of a wild-flower, appealing not to the many but to the appreciative few. Song Kee bowed low before her.
“You wish to see me, madam?” he asked with smiling courtesy.
“Are you Mr. Song Kee?” The woman put her query in a voice of amazing fulness and depth.
“At your service, madam.”
Again Song Kee bowed almost to the floor.
The woman stood silent before him. She seemed on the verge of speech, but hesitated as though in search of adequate words. Then:
“Mr. Kee, I am in frightful trouble. I— I have come to you to ask your help.”
“My help, madam? Why I—”
“I know,” she interrupted, “you do not even know who I am. Still,” she paused, “I am Sylvia Granger. I was engaged,” she threw her head up proudly, “I still am engaged to marry Mr. George Grover.”
Song Kee’s brow puckered into a puzzled frown.
The woman looked at him in amazement.
“Surely,” she said incredulously, “you must have heard of Mr. Grover. He is accused of the murder of Miss Grenville”
A look of comprehension dawned in Song Kee’s face.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “the actress in the Hotel Ralston. I read of the case in the newspapers.”
A wave of emotion swept over the woman.
“Oh, Mr. Kee!” she cried. “He didn’t do it. He couldn’t have! I don’t care what they say—he couldn’t have!”
She brushed her hand across her forehead, swaying backward. Song Kee sprang forward and helped her into a chair.
“Now, Miss Ganger,” he said gently after a moment during which she had regained her self-control, “please tell me as calmly as you can why you have come to me and what it is that you wish me to do.”
The woman looked him full in the eyes.
“I want you to help me to prove George Grover innocent,” she said. And then she hurried on as though to forestall any possible refusal from Song Kee. “Do you remember some weeks ago here in this club, you and Mr. Oglethorpe had a discussion about the detection of crime? You stated your belief in the superiority of the methods of your own people. My brother happened to overhear the conversation. He repeated it to me. And I am here, Mr. Kee, to beg, to implore you to use those methods in which you believe to investigate this frightful crime which has drawn into its net someone whom I hold dear. You,” her voice was tremulous with despair, “you are my last hope.”
For a little Song Kee remained silent, staring contemplatively at the floor.
Then he rose and began to pace the room.
“Miss Granger,” he said at last, pausing before the woman whose eyes did not falter beneath his steady gaze. “In China men are taught to respect certain things as sacred. One of these is the faith of a good woman. I respect your faith in your fiancé’s innocence. I am inclined to do my small best to help you justify it. But tell me what it is that makes you so sure of Mr. Grover’s innocence. As I recall the evidence brought out at the inquest, it was strongly against him.”
With the Chinaman’s words a gleam of hope had come to Sylvia Granger.
She leaned forward eagerly.
“I have no facts to justify my faith, Mr. Kee,” she said, “but I have what is worth innumerable facts—my knowledge of the man I love. You have said, or implied, that I am a good woman. I believe—I hope I am. But this I know. I know that in my heart no man, were he ever so clever, could have reached the place George Grover holds were he capable of imagining, let alone committing, the dastardly crime of which my fiancé is accused.”
Song Kee had listened carefully to her. When she had finished he resumed his pacing to and fro, stopping from time to time before her and gazing down at her with unseeing eyes. He paused at last with the manner of one who has arrived at a decision. Sylvia Granger breathed — “You will help me?” It was more a prayer than a question. Song Kee wrenched himself away from the thoughts which had absorbed him.
“Yes,” he said, “I will help you. But do not expect too much. All that I can do is to promise that I will look into this case as thoroughly as my poor abilities will permit.”