I hardly heard him. I wanted to laugh and cry in the same breath--to

crawl into bed and have a cup of tea, and scold Liddy, and do any of

the thousand natural things that I had never expected to do again. And

the air! The touch of the cool night air on my face!

As Alex and I reached the second floor, Mr. Jamieson met us. He was

grave and quiet, and he nodded comprehendingly when he saw the safe.

"Will you come with me for a moment, Miss Innes?" he asked soberly, and

on my assenting, he led the way to the east wing. There were lights

moving around below, and some of the maids were standing gaping down.

They screamed when they saw me, and drew back to let me pass. There

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was a sort of hush over the scene; Alex, behind me, muttered something

I could not hear, and brushed past me without ceremony. Then I

realized that a man was lying doubled up at the foot of the staircase,

and that Alex was stooping over him.

As I came slowly down, Winters stepped back, and Alex straightened

himself, looking at me across the body with impenetrable eyes. In his

hand he held a shaggy gray wig, and before me on the floor lay the man

whose headstone stood in Casanova churchyard--Paul Armstrong.

Winters told the story in a dozen words. In his headlong flight down

the circular staircase, with Winters just behind, Paul Armstrong had

pitched forward violently, struck his head against the door to the east

veranda, and probably broken his neck. He had died as Winters reached

him.

As the detective finished, I saw Halsey, pale and shaken, in the

card-room doorway, and for the first time that night I lost my

self-control. I put my arms around my boy, and for a moment he had to

support me. A second later, over Halsey's shoulder, I saw something

that turned my emotion into other channels, for, behind him, in the

shadowy card-room, were Gertrude and Alex, the gardener, and--there is

no use mincing matters--he was kissing her!

I was unable to speak. Twice I opened my mouth: then I turned Halsey

around and pointed. They were quite unconscious of us; her head was on

his shoulder, his face against her hair. As it happened, it was Mr.

Jamieson who broke up the tableau.

He stepped over to Alex and touched him on the arm.

"And now," he said quietly, "how long are you and I to play OUR little

comedy, Mr. Bailey?"




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