“I think,” she said, “I’ll stay with him. I think I better look after him. We’ll be right back.”
“I think,” Cassie said as the car sped away, “that she guessed it, too. Bill, that boy’s got something up his sleeve. I do hope she stops him.”
“She will,” Leonidas said. “I have the utmost faith in Margie.”
“Yes, but w’hen Cuff gets an idea,” Cassie said, “he’s terribly inclined to cling to it. Think how long he clung to the notion that Rossi was a fine fellow. Well, it’s up to Margie. Bill, do you really think that Chard had nothing to do with Pig Eyes, and that garage, and trying to get your red refrigerator? Do you think she wras just going to see her sick brother? You really do? Then, why did she run away from Dow, and yell ‘Stop thief!’ and all?”
“Suppose that you were walking alone down one of Dalton’s less reputable streets on a cold, dark March evening,” Leonidas said. “Suppose you realized that you wrere being followed. D’you think you’d pause to discover the gentleman’s identity, or d’you think you’d do just what Miss Chard did? Er—if you recall, flight was your impulse when Cuff said we were being trailed, just now.”
“I suppose,” Cassie said, “that you’re right. Do you think she’ll be there on Florence Street now?”
“If she’s not there, someone will know where she may be found. And I do want,” Leonidas said, “to find out how much money Medora kept in the brush box.”
Cassie looked wildly around the station’s waiting room.
“Bill, I can’t scream in here! I simply can’t! Tell me quickly what you’re talking about! Who ever said one word about Medora keeping money in a box! What box? What money?”
“D’you remember what Miss Chard took from Leslie on the train?”
“The gun and the handcuffs,” Cassie said, “the hundred-dollar bill, and the brush box. But—”
“M’yes,” Leonidas said. “But, when Leslie so hurriedly left Medora’s house yesterday, she had only the brush box in her possession. The gun and the handcuffs, and the hundred-dollar bill were all acquired after she got to New York. Therefore, we may conclude that the brush box was the item which mattered. Er—d’you know what a brush box is like?”
“I know what a brush is,” Cassie returned, “and I know what a box is, but until today I never knew that a brush box existed!”
“It’s a longish, narrow tin box,” Leonidas explained, “with a tightly fitting hinged lid. Once, many years ago, I made a bicycle tour of England with a friend who was addicted to water colors, and I spent a large portion of the time breaking my thumbnails in an effort to open that infernal brush box for him. In short, a brush box makes an excellent receptacle in which to keep things, and you can be sure that the things won’t fall out.”
“But Medora—”
“Medora,” Leonidas said, “liked to keep things in boxes. Dow established that fact. She enjoyed keeping valuable things in boxes. She hoarded bills in boxes. In the library of her house she had an old-fashioned safe which, I gather, a child could open.”
“With roses,” Cassie said. “Jock did. He was just fiddling with it, one day while we were waiting to take Medora to a committee meeting, and it popped open.”
“M’yes. And I like to think,” Leonidas said, “that Medora kept in that safe a brush box containing money—”
“I’ve never felt so Columbus-and-the-eggy in my life,” Cassie said. “Of course! After Leslie left, Medora found she’d been robbed! Someone swiped her brush box full of bills. And so she sent Chard after Leslie, to see whether Leslie had swiped it, or whether Leslie had her own brush box full of brushes, or whether it was all a mix-up of brush boxes, or what not. And—why, that was why she had the will! She was waiting to see if Leslie was the thief before she destroyed it! But she didn’t!”
“Exactly,” Leonidas said. “The brush box which Miss Chard brought to Medora this morning was Leslie’s own brush box, filled with brushes. The hundred-dollar bill, as they doubtless discovered from their check list, or from the bank’s check list, was not one of the missing bills. So Medora knew that Leslie was not the thief. She didn’t destroy the will. She telephoned a lawyer to come and get it.”
“Why didn’t Medora tell Rutherford?” Cassie said. “Why didn’t she tell the police?”
Leonidas smiled.
“Think,” he said.
“Bill! You mean that Medora was killed before she could tell! But why did she wait? This must have happened yesterday! Chard got to New York last night in time to take the midnight. She must have left here yesterday evening! Medora must have known yesterday afternoon— Why did she wait?”
“Medora,” Leonidas said, “was making sure. It was either Leslie, who left so hurriedly, or it was X. She waited until she was able to satisfy herself about Leslie-after all, she didn’t know the girl. Then—”
“Then she went bounding off in the Birch Hill bus to the lecture-luncheon!” Cassie said. “Oh, Bill, that’s silly. If she knew it was either Leslie or X, and she proved it wasn’t Leslie, then she knew it was X. Didn’t she? Well, under the circumstances, she wouldn’t go to the Tuesday Club’s lecture-luncheon! Not if I know Medora, she wouldn’t! She’d set right out on the trail of X!”
“M’yes.” Leonidas put on his pince-nez and looked out of the window. “M’yes. And so she did, Cassie. So she did.”
The noise of a passing freight train mercifully drowned out Cassie’s scream.
“She went to the lecture-lunch, and she was on the trail of X? Bill, d’you mean Medora was killed by a woman? Someone in the Tuesday Club?”
“Sometimes,” Leonidas said, “sometimes I wonder about you, Cassie. Sometimes you know so much about women that you appal me, and then again you ignore the most obvious feminine touches!”
“I do not consider a pickax a feminine touch!” Cassie said indignantly. “Very few women
