The Mystery Girl

Fibsy interrupted his story.

“Go back,” he directed, “to the beginning. Let me hear it all. It’s O. K., F. S.”

“I was attending to my dining-room duties,” Nogi said, “and I had taken the water tray to the study. I was weary and hoped the master would soon retire. So, I occasionally peeped through the small window from the dining-room. I saw a lady come and make a visit, and then I saw her and I heard her go away. Then I hoped the master would go to bed. But, no – he was very busy. He wrote letters, he burned some papers, he moved about much. He was restless, disturbed. Then he sat at his desk and read his book.”

“This one?” cried Fibsy, excitedly waving the Martial.

“I think so – one like that, anyway.”

“This was the one! Go on.”

“Then – oh, it was strange! Then the master got up, went to the small window at the back of the room – ”

“Which one?”

“The one by the big globe, and he opened it. But for a moment – ”

“Did he put his hand out?” Fibsy cried.

“Yes, I suppose to see if it rained. Yes, he put his hand out for a moment, then he closed the window.”

“And locked it?” asked Fibsy.

“It locks itself, with a snap catch. Then – ah, here is the strange thing! Then he went back, sat at his desk, and in a moment he fell over and the blood spurted out.”

“Didn’t he stab himself?” Fibsy asked.

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to do anything but scratch his ear, and over he fell! Such a sight! I was afraid, and I ran away – fast.”

“All very well,” said Stone, “but what became of the weapon?”

“I know,” Fibsy almost screamed, in his excitement. “Oh, F. Stone – I know!”

“Well, tell us, Terence – but steady, now, my boy. Don’t get too excited.”

“No, sir,” and the lad grew suddenly quiet. “But I know. Wait just a minute, sir. Where are the photographs of the house that the detectives took the day after?”

“I’ll get them,” Lockwood said, and left the room.

He returned, and Fibsy found a magnifying glass and looked carefully at certain pictures.

“It proves,” he said, solemnly. “F. Stone, you have solved your greatest case!”

It was characteristic of the boy, that although the solution was his own, his deference to Stone was sincere and un-self-conscious.

“Please,” he said, “I don’t know Latin, but you will find the explanation of Doctor Waring’s death on that red stained page. He was reading Martial, as we know, and – ” he pointed to the Epigram on the page in question, “as he read that, he found a way out.”

The grave statement was impressive, and Stone took the book.

“Shall I translate, or read the Latin aloud?” he asked the others.

“Wait a minute, I’ll get a Martial in English,” Lockwood said, out of consideration for Trask’s possible ignorance of the dead language.

“What number is the Epigram?” he asked, returning.

Stone told him, and Lockwood found the place, and passed the English version to Stone. Aloud, the detective read this:

TRANSLATIONBook IV, Epigram 18

On a youth killed by the fall of a piece of ice.

Just where the gate near the portico of Agrippa is always dripping with water, and the slippery pavement is wet with constant showers, a mass of water, congealed by winter’s cold, fell upon the neck of a youth who was entering the damp temple, and, when it had inflicted a cruel death on the unfortunate boy, the weapon melted in the warm wound it had made. What cruelties does not Fortune permit? Or where is not death to be found, if you, the waters, turn cut-throats.

“And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly, “he went to that window back by the big globe and got one – and here’s the proof! Look through the glass, F. S.”

Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a moment.

Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious.

The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed in a moment or two.

They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery was solved.

“Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone, thoughtfully.

“He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not have taken his life at that time.”

“There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.”

Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more than anything else in life, but he said:

“Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up.

“But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and – ”

“The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!”

“Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring, about two inches across. It’s gone now.”

“Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning – or perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.”

“He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.”

“In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it must have been that.”

The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police.

The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement.

He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.

Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish death.

Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her mother arranged matters between themselves.

The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he destroyed it.

“Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone together.

“I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.”

“But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?”

“Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and in deed. I just want to be – Anita Lockwood.”

Whereupon Gordon lost his head entirely.