“May very well be,” Charlie agreed.
Rankin got up. “Well, I suppose my dear old Chief is crying his eyes out because I haven’t shown up. He loves me, even though he does threaten to cast me off because I haven’t solved the mystery of Sir Frederic’s murder.”
“You are not alone in that fault,” Chan told him.
“I—I don’t suppose you could give me any little morsel for our million panting readers?”
“Nothing of note may yet be revealed.”
“Well, it does seem high time we were getting a glimpse behind that curtain,” Rankin remarked.
Charlie shook his head. “The matter is difficult. If I were in Peshawar—but I am not. I am in San Francisco fifteen years after the event, and I can only guess. I may add, guessing is poor business that often leads to lengthy saunters down the positively wrong path.”
“You hang on,” advised Rankin. “You’ll win yet and when you do, just let me be there, with a direct line to the office at my elbow.”
“We will hope that happy picture eventuates,” Chan replied.
Rankin went out, leaving Charlie to the book. He sat down before the fire and began to read eagerly. This was better than interviewing Mrs. Tupper-Brock.
At about the same time, Barry Kirk was going blithely up the steps of his grandmother’s handsome house on Pacific Heights. The old lady greeted him in the drawing-room.
“Hello,” she said. “How do you happen to be up and about so early? And wide awake, if I can believe my failing eyesight.”
“Detective work,” he laughed.
“Good. What can I do for you? I seem to have been left entirely out of things, and it annoys me.”
“Well, you’re still out, so don’t get up any false hopes,” he returned. “I’m not here to consult with you, wise as I know you to be. I’m looking for Mrs. Tupper-Brock. Where is she?”
“She’s upstairs. What do you want with her?”
“I want to take her for a little ride—down to see Miss Morrow.”
“Oh, so that young woman is still asking questions? She seems a bit lacking in results, so far.”
“Is that so? Well, give her time.”
“I rather fancy she’ll need a lot of it. Mixing up in affairs that should be left to the men—”
“You’re a traitor to your sex. I think it’s mighty fine of her to be where she is. Give this little girl a great big hand.”
“Oh, I imagine she doesn’t lack for applause when you are about. You seem very much taken with her.”
“I am, and don’t forget it. Now, how about calling Mrs. Tupper-Brock? Please tell her to come, and bring her hyphen.”
Mrs. Kirk gave him a scornful look, and departed. In a few minutes the secretary appeared in the room. Poised and cool, as always, she greeted Barry Kirk without enthusiasm.
“Good morning,” he said. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but Miss Morrow—you met her at my dinner—would like to see you. If you can come now, I’ll drive you down in my car.”
“Why, of course,” returned the woman calmly. “I’ll be just a moment.”
She went out, and Mrs. Kirk reappeared. “What’s the matter with that boy of Sally Jordan’s?” she demanded. “I thought he’d have this thing solved long ago. I’ve been watching the papers like a bargain hunter.”
“Oh, Charlie’s all right,” Kirk said. “He’s slow, but sure.”
“He’s slow enough,” admitted the old lady. “You might tell him that I’m growing impatient.”
“That’ll speed him up,” Kirk smiled.
“I wish something would,” his grandmother snapped. “What’s all this about Helen? Surely she’s not entangled in the case?”
“I’m not free to say, one way or another. Tell me, have you given Colonel Beetham that money yet?”
“No—but I believe I will.”
“Take my advice and hold off for a few days.”
“What? He isn’t in it, is he? Why—he’s a gentleman.”
“Just take my advice—” began Kirk. Mrs. Tupper-Brock was in the hall, waiting for him.
“Now you’ve got me all excited,” complained Mrs. Kirk.
“That’s bad, at your age,” Kirk said. “Calm down.”
“What do you mean—my age? I read of a woman the other day who is a hundred and two.”
“Well, there’s a mark to shoot at,” Kirk told her. “So long. See you later.”
Mrs. Tupper-Brock sat at his side in the roadster, stiff and obviously not inclined to talk. A few remarks on the weather yielding no great flood of conversation, Kirk abandoned the effort. They rode on in silence, and finally he ushered her into Miss Morrow’s office.
The deputy district attorney made a charming picture against that gloomy background. Such was not, however, her aim at the moment. Alert and businesslike, she greeted Mrs. Tupper-Brock and indicated a chair beside her desk.
“Sit down, please. So good of you to come. I hope I haven’t inconvenienced you?”
“Not in the least,” the woman replied, seating herself. There was a moment’s silence.
“You know, of course, that we are hunting the murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce,” Miss Morrow began.
“Naturally,” Mrs. Tupper-Brock’s tone was cool. “Why did you wish to see me?”
“I wondered whether you have any information that might help us.”
“That’s hardly likely,” responded Mrs. Tupper-Brock. She took out a lace-edged handkerchief and began to turn it slowly in her hands.
“No, perhaps not,” Miss Morrow smiled. “Still, we are not justified in ignoring anyone in this terrible affair. Sir Frederic was a complete stranger to you?”
“Yes, quite. I met him for the first time on that Tuesday night.”
“Did you also meet Colonel Beetham for the first time that night?”
The handkerchief was suddenly a tiny ball in her hand. “No—I did not.”
“You had met him before?”
“Yes. At Mrs. Dawson Kirk’s. He had been to the house frequently.”
“Of course. You and the Colonel are quite good friends, I hear. Perhaps you knew him before he came to San Francisco?”
“No, I did not.”
“While the Colonel was showing his pictures, you remained on the davenport with Miss Garland. You saw nothing of a suspicious nature?”
“Nothing whatever.” The handkerchief lay in a crumbled heap in her lap. She took it up and once more began to smooth it.
“Have you ever lived in
