Then Mr. Benson set forth in a concise way and in chronological order the facts as far as they were known, the suspicions that had been entertained and given up; and deplored the entire lack of clue or evidence that might lead to investigation in any definite direction.
The others, as Mr. Stone had suggested, made remarks when they chose, and the whole conversation was of an informal and colloquial nature. It seemed dominated by Fleming Stone’s mind. He drew opinions from one or another, until before they realized it everyone present had taken part in the recital. And to each Fleming Stone listened with deference and courtesy. The coroner’s legal phrases, Fessenden’s impetuous suggestions, Tom’s blunt remarks, Carleton’s half-timid utterances, Kitty’s volatile sallies, and even Miss Morton’s futile observations, all were listened to and responded to by Fleming Stone with an air of deep interest and consideration.
As the hour grew late Mr. Stone said that he felt thoroughly acquainted with the facts of the case so far as they could be told to him. He said he could express no opinion nor offer any suggestion that night, but that he hoped to come to some conclusions on the following day; and if they would all meet him in the same place the next evening, he would willingly disclose whatever he might have learned or discovered in the meantime. This put an end to the conversation, and Mr. Benson and Mr. Fairbanks went home. The ladies went to their rooms, and Carleton, Fessenden and Willard sat up for an hour’s smoke with Fleming Stone, who entertained them with talk on subjects far removed from murder or sudden death.
The next morning Fleming Stone expressed a desire to be shown all the rooms in the house.
“In a case like this,” he said, “with no definite clues to follow, the only thing to do is to examine the premises in hope of happening upon something suggestive.”
Kitty was eager to be Mr. Stone’s guide, and easily obtained Miss Morton’s permission to go into all the rooms of the old mansion.
Fessenden went with them, and though the tour of the sleeping-rooms was quickly made, it was evident that the quick eye of the detective took in every detail that was visible. He stayed longer in Madeleine’s sitting-room, but, though he picked up a few papers from her desk and glanced at them, he showed no special interest in the room.
Downstairs they went then, and found Mr. Fairbanks in the library, awaiting them. He brought no news or fresh evidence, and had merely called in hope of seeing Mr. Stone.
The great detective was most frank and kindly toward his lesser colleague, and made him welcome with a genial courtesy.
“I’m going to make a thorough examination of these lower rooms,” said Fleming Stone, “and I should be glad of the assistance of you two younger men. My eyes are not what they once were.”
Mr. Fairbanks and Rob well knew that this statement was merely an idle compliment to themselves; for the eyes of Fleming Stone had never yet missed a clue, however obscurely hidden.
But Kitty, ignorant of the principles of professional etiquette, really thought that Fleming Stone was depending on his two companions for assistance.
Tom Willard had gone out, and Miss Morton was looking after her all-important housekeeping, so the three men and Kitty French were alone in the library.
In his quick, quiet way Fleming Stone went rapidly round the room. He examined the window fixtures and curtains, the mantel and fireplace, the furniture and carpet, and came to a standstill by the library table. The dagger, which was kept in a drawer of the table, was shown to him, but though he examined it a moment, it seemed to have little interest for him.
“There’s not a clue in this room,” he said almost indignantly. “There probably were several the morning after the murder, but the thorough sweepings and dustings since have obliterated every trace.”
Somewhat abruptly he went into the large hall. Here his proceedings in the library were duplicated. “Nothing at all,” he said; “but what could be expected in a room which is a general thoroughfare?”
Then he went into the drawing-room. The other three followed, feeling rather depressed at the hopeless outlook, and a little disappointed in the great detective.
Stone glanced around the large apartment.
“Swept, scrubbed, and polished,” he declared, as he glanced with disfavor at the immaculate room.
“And indeed it was quite necessary,” said Miss Morton, who entered just then. “After all those vines and flowers were taken away, and as a good deal of the furniture was out, I took occasion for a good bit of housecleaning.”
“Well,” said Fleming Stone quietly, “there’s one clue they didn’t sweep away. Here is where the assassin entered.”
As he spoke Mr. Stone was leaning against the mantel and looking down at the immaculately brushed hearth.
“Where?” cried Kitty, darting forward, and though the others gave no voice to their curiosity, they waited breathlessly for Stone’s next utterance.
The hearth and the whole fireplace were tiled, and in the floor tiling, under the andirons, was a rectangular iron plate with an oval opening closed by an iron cover. This cover was hinged, and could be raised and thrown back to permit ashes to be swept into the chute. The iron plate was sunk flush with the hearth and cemented into the brickwork, and the cover fitted into the rim so closely that scarce a seam showed.
“He came up through this hole in the fireplace,” said Stone, almost as if talking to himself, “very soon after Miss Dupuy went upstairs at half-past ten. Before Mr. Carleton arrived at quarter after eleven, the murderer had finished his work, and had departed by this same means.”
While the others stood seemingly struck dumb by this revelation, Kitty excitedly flew to the fireplace and tried to raise the iron lid, but the andirons were in the way. Rob set them aside for her, while
