Although genial and quickly responsive, he was, after all, an inscrutable man; and Mr. Fairbanks, for one, had learned that his gentle cordiality often hid deep thoughts in a quickly-working mind.
Without preamble, as soon as they were seated Mr. Stone began:
“Employed by Coroner Benson, I was asked to come here to discover, if might be, the murderer of Miss Madeleine Van Norman. By some unmistakable evidence which I have found, by some reliable witnesses with whom I have talked, and by some proofs which I have discovered, I have learned beyond all doubt who is the criminal, and how the deed was done. Is it the wish of all present that I should now make known what I have discovered, or is it preferred that I should tell Coroner Benson alone?”
For several minutes nobody spoke, and then the coroner said, “Unless anyone present states an objection, you may proceed to tell us what you know, here and now, Mr. Stone.”
After waiting a moment longer and hearing no objection raised, Fleming Stone proceeded.
“The man who murdered Miss Van Norman entered the house through a cellar window. He climbed up through the ash-chute in the drawing-room fireplace.”
Although some of Mr. Stone’s hearers had listened to this revelation in the morning, the others had not heard of it, and every face expressed utter astonishment, if not unbelief—with the exception of one. Tom Willard turned white and stared at Fleming Stone as if he had not understood.
“What?” he said hoarsely.
As if he had not heard the interruption, Fleming Stone went on:
“Who that man was, I think I need not tell you. Is he not already telling you himself?”
Willard’s face grew drawn and stiff, like that of a paralyzed man, but his burning eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from the quiet gaze of Fleming Stone. Then with a groan Willard’s head sank into his hands and he fell forward on the table—the very table at which Madeleine had sat on that fatal night.
There was a stir, and Schuyler Carleton rushed forward to Willard’s assistance if need be. But the man had not fainted, and, raising his white face, he squared his shoulders, clenched his hands, and, again fixing his eyes on those of Fleming Stone, said in a desperate voice, “Go on.”
“I must go on,” said Stone, gently. “I know each one of you is thinking that it is absurd to imagine a man of Mr. Willard’s weight and girth climbing up through the seemingly small opening in the fireplace. But this can be explained. To one who does not know how, such a feat would seem impossible, and, moreover, it would be impossible. It is only one who knows how who can do it. There are men in certain occupations, such as engineers and boiler men, who are continually obliged to squeeze through holes quite as small. The regular boiler manhole is oval, and measures ten by fifteen inches, but there are many of them in large tanks which measure even less each way. I had occasion some time ago to interview an engineer on this subject. He weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and had a chest measure of forty-two inches. He told me that he could go through a much smaller manhole than another workman who weighed only one hundred and sixty pounds, simply because he knew how. It is done by certain manipulations of the great muscles and by following a certain routine of procedure. But the method is unimportant, for the moment. The fact remains, and can be verified by any engineer. I discovered today that Mr. Willard is or has been an expert engineer, and for many years held such a position in a large factory right here in Mapleton. As to Mr. Willard’s presence in this house upon that fatal night, a tiny clue discovered by Mr. Fessenden gives us indubitable proof. Mr. Fessenden found next morning on the drawing-room floor a cachou. I have learned that these are by no means in common use in Mapleton, and, moreover, that it is not the custom of any one of the men now present to use them. I further learned that after Mr. Willard left here that night to go to the hotel he found by chance a small bottle of these in the room which was assigned to him. I am assuming that he carelessly put a few in his pocket, and that in his struggle through the ash-chute one fell upon the carpet. The room which Mr. Willard occupied at Mapleton Inn is in the second story, and its window opens upon a veranda roof which has a gentle slope almost to the ground. This provides an easy means of exit and entrance, and as Mr. Willard has no alibi later than half-past ten on that evening, the time would permit him to come here and go away again before the hour when Mr. Carleton is known to have arrived.”
Then turning and meeting Tom’s intent gaze, Fleming Stone addressed himself directly to him, and said, “Why you chose to kill your cousin, I don’t know; but you did.”
“I did,” said Tom, in a hollow voice, “and I will tell you why.” He rose as he spoke, and standing by the table, he steadied himself by placing one hand upon it.
“It was entirely unpremeditated,” he said, “and I’m going to tell you about it, because I owe a confession to Madeleine’s memory, though I am responsible for my deed to no one here present.”
Though Willard spoke with no attempt at pride or defiance, his tone and look were those of a man hopeless and utterly crushed. He addressed himself principally to Fleming Stone, looking now and then at Carleton, but not so much as glancing at anyone else.
“It is no secret, I think, that I loved my cousin Madeleine. Many, many times I have pleaded with her to marry me. But never mind about that. When
