after him wistfully.
“Jove, I wish I had his constitution,” he exclaimed. “Neither nerves nor heart! What a chauffeur he would make!”
But I was serious.
“I have an idea,” I said grimly, “that this small matter of the murder is going to come up again, and that your uncle will be in the deuce of a fix if it does. If that woman is going to die, somebody ought to be around to take her deposition. She knows a lot, if she didn’t do it herself. I wish you would go down to the telephone and get the hospital. Find out her name, and if she is conscious.”
McKnight went under protest. “I haven’t much time,” he said, looking at his watch. “I’m to meet Mrs. West and Alison at one. I want you to know them, Lollie. You would like the mother.”
“Why not the daughter?” I inquired. I touched the little gold bag under the pillow.
“Well,” he said judicially, “you’ve always declared against the immaturity and romantic nonsense of very young women - ”
“I never said anything of the sort,” I retorted furiously.
“‘There is more satisfaction to be had out of a good saddle horse!’” he quoted me. “‘More excitement out of a polo pony, and as for the eternal matrimonial chase, give me instead a good stubble, a fox, some decent hounds and a hunter, and I’ll show you the real joys of the chase!’”
“For Heaven’s sake, go down to the telephone, you make my head ache,” I said savagely.
I hardly know what prompted me to take out the gold purse and look at it. It was an imbecile thing to do - call it impulse, sentimentality, what you wish. I brought it out, one eye on the door, for Mrs. Klopton has a ready eye and a noiseless shoe. But the house was quiet. Downstairs McKnight was flirting with the telephone central and there was an odor of boneset tea in the air. I think Mrs. Klopton was fascinated out of her theories by the “boneset” in connection with the fractured arm.
Anyhow, I held up the bag and looked at it. It must have been unfastened, for the next instant there was an avalanche on the snowfield of the counterpane - some money, a wisp of a handkerchief, a tiny booklet with thin leaves, covered with a powdery substance - and a necklace. I drew myself up slowly and stared at the necklace.
It was one of the semi-barbaric affairs that women are wearing now, a heavy pendant of gold chains and carved cameos, swung from a thin neck chain of the same metal. The necklace was broken: in three places the links were pulled apart and the cameos swung loose and partly detached. But it was the supporting chain that held my eye and fascinated with its sinister suggestion. Three inches of it had been snapped off, and as well as I knew anything on earth, I knew that the bit of chain that the amateur detective had found, blood-stain and all, belonged just there.
And there was no one I could talk to about it, no one to tell me how hideously absurd it was, no one to give me a slap and tell me there are tons of fine gold chains made every year, or to point out the long arm of coincidence!
With my one useful hand I fumbled the things back into the bag and thrust it deep out of sight among the pillows. Then I lay back in a cold perspiration. What connection had Alison West with this crime? Why had she stared so at the gun-metal cigarette case that morning on the train? What had alarmed her so at the farmhouse? What had she taken back to the gate? Why did she wish she had not escaped from the wreck? And last, in Heaven’s name, how did a part of her necklace become torn off and covered with blood?
Downstairs McKnight was still at the telephone, and amusing himself with Mrs. Klopton in the interval of waiting.
“Why did he come home in a gray suit, when he went away in a blue?” he repeated. “Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Klopton. The suit may have turned gray with fright. Or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts as lightning. Friend of mine once was struck by lightning; he and the caddy had taken refuge under a tree. After the flash, when they recovered consciousness, there was my friend in the caddy’s clothes, and the caddy in his. And as my friend was a large man and the caddy a very small boy - ”
McKnight’s story was interrupted by the indignant slam of the dining-room door. He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternal cheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital.
“Is Doctor Van Kirk there?” he asked. “Not there? Well, can you tell me how the patient is whom Doctor Williams, from Washington, operated on last night? Well, I’m glad of that. Is she conscious? Do you happen to know her name? Yes, I’ll hold the line.” There was a long pause, then McKnight’s voice:
“Hello - yes. Thank you very much. Good-by.”
He came upstairs, two steps at a time.
“Look here,” he said, bursting into the room, “there may be something in your theory, after all. The woman’s name - it may be a coincidence, but it’s curious - her name is Sullivan.”
“What did I tell you?” I said, sitting up suddenly in bed. “She’s probably a sister of that scoundrel in lower seven, and she was afraid of what he might do.”
“Well, I’ll go there some day soon. She’s not conscious yet. In the meantime, the only thing I can do is to keep an eye, through a detective, on the people who try to approach Bronson. We’ll have the case continued, anyhow, in the hope that the stolen notes will sooner or later turn up.”
“Confound this arm,” I said, paying for my energy with some excruciating throbs. “There’s so much to be looked after, and here I am, bandaged, splinted, and generally useless. It’s a beastly shame.”
“Don’t forget that I am here,” said McKnight pompously. “And another thing, when you feel this way just remember there are two less desirable places where you might be. One is jail, and the other is - ” He strummed on an imaginary harp, with devotional eyes.
But McKnight’s light-heartedness jarred on me that morning. I lay and frowned under my helplessness. When by chance I touched the little gold bag, it seemed to scorch my fingers. Richey, finding me unresponsive, left to keep his luncheon engagement with Alison West. As he clattered down the stairs, I turned my back to the morning sunshine and abandoned myself to misery. By what strain on her frayed nerves was Alison West keeping up, I wondered? Under the circumstances, would I dare to return the bag? Knowing that I had it, would she hate me for my knowledge? Or had I exaggerated the importance of the necklace, and in that case had she forgotten me
