convivial company, found himself, most unaccountably, on his own
doorstep in the gray dawn.

"Raining!" murmured James Darcy, as he reached over to switch on the
light above the little table where he set precious stones into gold and
platinum of rare and beautiful designs. "Raining and cold! I wish the
steam was on."

The fog from outside seemed to have penetrated into the jewelry shop.
It swirled about the gleaming showcases, reflected from the cut glass,
danced away from the silver cups, broke into points of light from the
times of forks, became broad splotches on the blades of knives, and,
perchance, made its way through the cracks into the safe, where it
bathed the diamonds, the rubies, the sapphires, the aqua marines, the
pearls, the jades, and the bloodstones in a white mist. The
bloodstones--

Strange that James Darcy should have thought of them as he looked at
the rain outside, heard its drip, drip, drip on the windows, and saw
the fog and swirls of mist inside and without the store. Strange
and--

First, as he gazed at the prostrate body--the horrid red blotch like a
gay ribbon in the white hair--he thought the small, insistent sound
which seemed to fill the room was the beating of her heart. Then, as
he listened, his ears attuned with fear, he knew it was the ticking of
the watch in the hand of the dead woman.

James Darcy rubbed his eyes, as though to clear them from the fog. He
rubbed them again--he passed his hand before his face as if cobwebs had
drifted there--he touched his ears, which seemed not a part of himself.

"Tick-tick! Tick-tick! Tick-tick!"

The sound seemed to grow louder. It was not her heart!

"Hello! Come here, somebody! Amelia! what's the matter? Sallie!
Sallie Page! Wake up! Hello, somebody! She's dead! Killed! There's
been a murder! I must get the police!"

James Darcy started to cross the room to reach and fling open the front
door leading to the street, that he might call the alarm to others than
the deaf cook, who had not yet come downstairs. Mrs. Darcy's maid had
gone away the previous evening, and was not expected in until noon. It
was too early for any of the jewelry clerks to report. Yet Darcy felt
he must have some one with him.

To cross the store to reach the door meant stepping over the body--the
grotesquely twisted body, with the white, upturned face and the little
spot of red, near where the silver comb had fallen from the silvered
hair. And so Darcy changed his mind--he ran to the side door, fumbled
with the lock, flung back the portal, and then rushed out in the rain
and drizzle, the fog streaming after mm as he parted the mist like
long, white streamers of ribbon, such as they suspend at the door for
the very young or the aged.

"Hello! Hello!" shouted Darcy into the silent rain and mist of the
early morning street, now deserted save for himself.

The glistening asphalt, the gleaming trolley rails, the dark and damp
buildings seemed to echo back his words.

"Hello! Hello!"

"Police!" voiced James Darcy. "There's been a murder!"

"A murder!" echoed the mist.

There was silence after this, and Darcy looked up and down the street.
Not a person--not a vehicle--was in sight. No one looked from the
stores or houses on either side or across from the jewelry shop.

Then a rattling milk wagon swung around the corner. It was followed by
another.

"Hello! Hello! there--you!" called Darcy hoarsely.

"What's the matter?" asked the first man, as he swung down from his
vehicle with a wire carrier filled with bottles in his hand.

"Somebody's been hurt--killed--a relative of mine! I want to tell the
police. It's in that jewelry store," and he pointed back toward it,
for he had run down the street a little way.

"Oh, I see! Darcy's! She's killed you say?"

"I'm afraid so."

"Accident?"

"I don't know. Looks to me more like murder!"

The milkman whistled, set his collection of bottles back in his wagon,
and hurried with Darcy toward the store. The other man, bringing his
rattling vehicle to a stop, followed.

"Where is she?" whispered Casey, as soon as he reached the side of his
business rival, Tremlain.

"On the floor--right in the middle--between the showcases," answered


<< previous page | next page >>

Jump to page: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30 | 31 | 32 | 33 | 34 | 35 | 36 | 37 | 38 | 39 | 40 | 41 | 42 | 43 | 44 | 45 | 46 | 47 | 48 | 49 | 50 | 51 | 52 | 53 | 54 | 55 | 56 | 57 | 58 | 59 | 60 | 61 | 62 | 63 | 64 | 65 | 66 | 67 | 68 | 69 | 70 | 71 | 72 | 73 | 74 | 75 | 76 | 77 | 78 | 79 | 80 | 81 | 82 | 83 |