“Didn’t he go to the funeral?”
“No; he said he was too ill; and indeed he was shut up one whole day with a terrible sore throat. He is the heir, too, of all her savings, they say; but he won’t go to Sibley. Some folks think it is queer, but I—”
Here her eyes wandered and her almost serious look vanished in a somewhat coquettish smile. Following her gaze with his own, Mr. Byrd perceived a gentleman approaching. It was the one he had first taken for Mr. Mansell.
“Beg pardon,” was the somewhat abrupt salutation with which this person advanced. “But they are proposing a game in the next room, and Miss Clayton’s assistance is considered absolutely indispensable.”
“Mr. Brown, first allow me to make you acquainted with Mr. Byrd,” said the lighthearted damsel, with a gracious inclination. “As you are both strangers, it is well for you to know each other, especially as I expect you to join in our games.”
“Thank you,” protested Mr. Brown, “but I don’t play games.” Then seeing the deep bow of acquiescence which Mr. Byrd was making, added, with what appeared to be a touch of jealousy, “Except under strong provocation,” and holding out his arm, offered to escort the young lady into the next room.
With an apologetic glance at Mr. Byrd, she accepted the attention proffered her, and speedily vanished into the midst of the laughing group that awaited her.
Mr. Byrd found himself alone.
“Check number one,” thought he; and he bestowed anything but an amiable benediction upon the man who had interrupted him in the midst of so promising a conversation.
His next move was in the direction of the landlady’s daughter, who, being somewhat shy, favored a retired nook behind the piano. They had been neighbors at table, and he could at once address her without fear of seeming obtrusive.
“I do not see here the dark young gentleman whom you call Mr. Mansell?” he remarked, inquiringly.
“Oh, no; he is in trouble. A near relative of his was murdered in cold blood the other day, and under the most aggravating circumstances. Haven’t you heard about it? She was a Mrs. Clemmens, and lived in Sibley. It was in all the papers.”
“Ah, yes; I remember about it very well. And so he is her nephew,” he went on, recklessly repeating himself in his determination to elicit all he could from these young and thoughtless misses. “A peculiar-looking young man; has the air of thoroughly understanding himself.”
“Yes, he is very smart, they say.”
“Does he never talk?”
“Oh, yes; that is, he used to; but, since his aunt’s death, we don’t expect it. He is very much interested in machinery, and has invented something—”
“Oh, Clara, you are not going to sit here,” interposed the reproachful voice of a saucy-eyed maiden, who at this moment peeped around the corner of the piano. “We want all the recruits we can get,” she cried, with a sudden blush, as she encountered the glance of Mr. Byrd. “Do come, and bring the gentleman too.” And she slipped away to join that very Mr. Brown who, by his importunities, had been the occasion of the former interruption from which Mr. Byrd had suffered.
“That man and I will quarrel yet,” was the mental exclamation with which the detective rose. “Shall we join your friends?” asked he, assuming an unconcern he was far from feeling.
“Yes, if you please,” was the somewhat timid, though evidently pleased, reply.
And Mr. Byrd noted down in his own mind check number two.
The game was a protracted one. Twice did he think to escape from the merry crowd he had entered, and twice did he fail to do so. The indefatigable Brown would not let him slip, and it was only by a positive exertion of his will that he finally succeeded in withdrawing himself.
“I wish to have a word with your mother,” he explained, in reply to the look of protest with which Miss Hart honored his departure. “I hear she retires early; so you will excuse me if I leave somewhat abruptly.”
And to Mrs. Hart’s apartment he at once proceeded, and, by dint of his easy assurance, soon succeeded in leading her, as he had already done the rest, into a discussion of the one topic for which he had an interest. He had not time, however, to glean much from her, for, just as she was making the admission that Mr. Mansell had not been home at the time of the murder, a knock was heard at the door, and, with an affable bow and a short, quick stare of surprise at Mr. Byrd, the ubiquitous Mr. Brown stepped in and took a seat on the sofa, with every appearance of intending to make a call.
At this third check, Mr. Byrd was more than annoyed. Rising, however, with the most amiable courtesy, he bowed his acknowledgments to the landlady, and, without heeding her pressing invitation to remain and make the acquaintance of Mr. Brown, left the room and betook himself back to the parlors.
He was just one minute too late. The last of the boarders had gone upstairs, and only an empty room met his eyes.
He at once ascended to his own apartment. It was on the fourth floor. There were many other rooms on this floor, and for a moment he could not remember which was his own door. At last, however, he felt sure it was the third one from the stairs, and, going to it, gave a short knock in case of mistake, and, hearing no reply, opened it and went in.
The first glance assured him that his recollection had played him false, and that he was in the wrong room. The second, that he was in that of Mr. Mansell. The sight of the small model of a delicate and intricate machine that stood in full view
