“But Ada was so positive in her identification,” objected Markham, in a bewildered tone.
“She’s hardly to be blamed in the circumstances,” Vance returned. “The child had been through a frightful experience and was scarcely normal. And it is not at all unlikely that she, too, suspected her mother. If she did, what would have been more natural than for her to imagine that this shadowy figure she saw in the hall long after midnight was the actual object of her dread? It is not unusual for a person under the stress of fright to distort an object by the projection of a dominating mental image.”
“You mean,” said Heath, “that she saw somebody else, and imagined it was her mother because she was thinking so hard of the old woman?”
“It’s by no means improbable.”
“Still, there was that detail of the Oriental shawl,” objected Markham. “Ada might easily have mistaken the person’s features, but her insistence on having seen that particular shawl was fairly definite.”
Vance gave a perplexed nod.
“The point is well taken. And it may prove the Ariadne’s clue that will lead us out of this Cretan labyrinth. We must find out more about that shawl.”
Heath had taken out his notebook and was turning the pages with scowling concentration.
“And don’t forget, Mr. Vance,” he said, without looking up, “about that diagram Ada found in the rear of the hall near the library door. Maybe this person in the shawl was the one who’d dropped it, and was going to the library to look for it, but got scared off when she saw Ada.”
“But whoever shot Rex,” said Markham, “evidently stole the paper from him, and therefore wouldn’t be worrying about it.”
“I guess that’s right,” Heath admitted reluctantly.
“Such speculation is futile,” commented Vance. “This affair is too complicated to be untangled by the unravelling of details. We must determine, if possible, who it was that Ada saw that night. Then we’ll have opened a main artery of inquiry.”
“How are we going to find that out,” demanded O’Brien, “when Ada was the only person who saw this woman in Mrs. Greene’s shawl?”
“Your question contains the answer, Inspector. We must see Ada again and try to counteract the suggestion of her own fears. When we explain that it couldn’t have been her mother, she may recall some other point that will put us on the right track.”
And this was the course taken. When the conference ended, O’Brien departed, and the rest of us dined at the club. At half past eight we were on our way to the Greene mansion.
We found Ada and the cook alone in the drawing-room. The girl sat before the fire, a copy of Grimm’s “Fairy Tales” turned face down on her knees; and Mrs. Mannheim, busy with a lapful of mending, occupied a straight chair near the door. It was a curious sight, in view of the formal correctness of the house, and it brought forcibly to my mind how fear and adversity inevitably level all social standards.
When we entered the room Mrs. Mannheim rose and, gathering up her mending, started to go. But Vance indicated that she was to remain, and without a word she resumed her seat.
“We’re here to annoy you again, Ada,” said Vance, assuming the role of interrogator. “But you’re about the only person we can come to for help.” His smile put the girl at ease, and he continued gently: “We want to talk to you about what you told us the other afternoon. …”
Her eyes opened wide, and she waited in a kind of awed silence.
“You told us you thought you had seen your mother—”
“I did see her—I did!”
Vance shook his head. “No; it was not your mother. She was unable to walk, Ada. She was truly and helplessly paralyzed. It was impossible for her even to make the slightest movement with either leg.”
“But—I don’t understand.” There was more than bewilderment in her voice: there was terror and alarm such as one might experience at the thought of supernatural malignancy. “I heard Doctor Von tell mother he was bringing a specialist to see her this morning. But she died last night—so how could you know? Oh, you must be mistaken. I saw her—I know I saw her.”
She seemed to be battling desperately for the preservation of her sanity. But Vance again shook his head.
“Doctor Oppenheimer did not examine your mother,” he said. “But Doctor Doremus did—today. And he found that she had been unable to move for many years.”
“Oh!” The exclamation was only breathed. The girl seemed incapable of speech.
“And what we’ve come for,” continued Vance, “is to ask you to recall that night, and see if you cannot remember something—some little thing—that will help us. You saw this person only by the flickering light of a match. You might easily have made a mistake.”
“But how could I? I was so close to her.”
“Before you woke up that night and felt hungry, had you been dreaming of your mother?”
She hesitated, and shuddered slightly.
“I don’t know, but I’ve dreamed of mother constantly—awful, scary dreams—ever since that first night when somebody came into my room. …”
“That may account for the mistake you made.” Vance paused a moment and then asked: “Do you distinctly remember seeing your mother’s Oriental shawl on the person in the hall that night?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, after a slight hesitation. “It was the first thing I noticed. Then I saw her face. …”
A trivial but startling thing happened at this moment. We had our back to Mrs. Mannheim and, for the time being, had forgotten her presence in the room. Suddenly what sounded like a dry sob broke from her, and the sewing-basket on her knees fell to the floor. Instinctively we turned. The woman was staring at us glassily.
“What difference does it make who she saw?” she asked in a dead, monotonous voice. “She maybe saw me.”
“Nonsense, Gertrude,” Ada said quickly. “It wasn’t you.”
Vance was watching the
