“There are no rings on her hands. Did she sleep with ’em?”
“Really,” said Welden, “I am not sure. My impression is that she did not.”
“What were they, dimons?”
Welden drummed for a moment again. “There were two table-cut diamonds, two tallow drop emeralds, an inch-long sapphire and a double ruby, a ruby set on a ruby, one on top of the other.”
The chief sat up. “What would yer say they were worth?”
Welden, running his fingers through his thick, bright hair, looked at the ceiling and then back at the officer. “At Delhi, in our money, the rubies cost forty-five thousand, altogether the others cost as much more. Here, of course, they would come higher.”
The chief whistled. It was his welcome to the light, clear, direct, unequivocal, which then broke fully upon him. He jumped to his feet.
“If they’re gone,” he exclaimed, “there’s the motive. Let’s see if they’ve been pinched.”
“That’s right,” said Dr. Quizenberry, rising too.
“Chief,” said Welden, rising also, “I was in that room before you came. It may give you a poor opinion of me, but it will be a little before I care to return.”
“Poor opinion! Lord! If my wife had been done up as yours has, I’ll be jiggered if I could show your nerve. It’s grit yer got, real grit.”
“That’s right,” the coroner repeated. “That’s right.”
But Welden had rung for Harris. As the authorities passed from the room he went again to the window.
Before him the Pacific stretched, a syrupy blue. Over it he looked and far beyond, to another ocean, one that beat against the coast of France. Above it a vision mounted, the picture of a pillowed head. That picture, photographed on the mind’s encephalic films, became a negative on which developed others. At Deauville, in the hall of a villa, he saw—
“Mr. Welden,” someone was saying.
He turned. The authorities were before him, the chief nodding significantly while the other grimly smiled.
“Won’t you have another drink?” Welden asked.
“Yes, I will,” said the chief.
“That’s right,” said the coroner, “I will too.”
Then, as they helped themselves and stood there, the one large, the other small, both ludicrous and equally imbecile, they reminded Welden of some scene, in some play, that he had seen somewhere long before.
“The pearls and pins are safe,” the big man began. “They were locked in a bag, and they’re there now. But the rings are gone. The maid says they were on the dressin’ table last night, when she was gettin’ yer wife ready for bed. Since which they’ve been cribbed. Whoever pinched ’em did it, and I’ll bet yer now I know who that is, for though they’re gone, somethin’ has turned up. Can yer guess what?”
But Welden could not.
“The instrument! When there’s any funny business, that’s what we look for; that and the motive. When we’ve both, we’ve only to show the opportunity to nail the man. Well, we have. It’s the Irishman. The knife was in the barn. The motive—and motive enough—was the rings; the opportunity—”
“But,” Welden protested, “the poor devil is lame. He could not have climbed to the porch.”
“Oho! You don’t know how spry a lame man can be. Besides, how do we know that he did climb? In a house like this, unless the boss sees to it himself, yer never sure about the doors and windows. Anyhow, what did he have a carving knife stuck in his hay for? That’s no place for a bleeder. Lord! And an alibi rollin’ right out of him. That’s the way with these vermin. Whenever they do anythin’ crooked, they always have an alibi and more vermin to back ’em up. It’s my sworn duty to protect the bastard, but, if it wasn’t, Lord! I’d say lynch him. I wasn’t raised here, I came from the South.”
“That’s right,” the coroner remarked, and meditatively finished his glass.
“Well, anyhow, he’s on his way to the lockup,” the chief continued, putting down his own.
“When’s the inquest?” he asked, turning to Dr. Quizenberry.
“Tomorrow noon.”
Turning to Welden he added: “I can count on yer to be there?”
“Naturally,” Welden answered, and the authorities withdrew.
When they had gone, Welden took from his pocket a letter, one already opened, which he reread, tore slowly to bits, and then poured out a glass of brandy. Before he had finished it, Harris reappeared.
“Will you have luncheon, sir?”
Welden nodded. “You and Perkins must get everything in order. You must also find an undertaker. Say that he is to arrange about a plot and that he is also to arrange with an Episcopal clergyman to hold services here and at the grave. Afterward, I shall not require Perkins, and as I cannot expect you to leave her, I will give you each six months’ wages, and your expenses home.”
“Thank you, sir, I am sure we are both very grateful. Will you have luncheon here, sir, or in the breakfast room?”
“I will have it here. By the way, Mrs. Welden is to be in ball gown. The canary one, Perkins will know, with a lace scarf about the neck, high up. If the scarf is insufficient, use an opera cloak, the violet and gold one. Perkins will know about that also.”
“Yes, sir. It will be attended to. Shall I fetch the luncheon now, sir?”
Welden nodded.
In a little while the man returned with a tray. When he had arranged it, he said:
“Begging your pardon, sir, I was to ask would you wish the hair marcelled?”
“Whatever is necessary. And, Harris—”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell the undertaker that before the coffin is closed, he is to notify me. I wish to go there.”
“Yes, sir; thank you, sir. Luncheon is served.”
For hours Welden sat, looking at the sea, looking, too, at the pictures that developed on the mind’s encephalic films.
Toward sunset, other pictures developed. On the horizon clouds, sinister and malignant, shaped themselves into the resemblance of enormous centaurs, combating with each
