"Come in, Mrs. Watson," the lawyer said. But she shook her head and

withdrew: she was the only one in the house who seemed to regret the

dead man, and even she seemed rather shocked than sorry.

I went to the door at the foot of the circular staircase and opened it.

If I could only have seen Halsey coming at his usual hare-brained clip

up the drive, if I could have heard the throb of the motor, I would

have felt that my troubles were over.

But there was nothing to be seen. The countryside lay sunny and quiet

in its peaceful Sunday afternoon calm, and far down the drive Mr.

Jamieson was walking slowly, stooping now and then, as if to examine

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the road. When I went back, Mr. Harton was furtively wiping his eyes.

"The prodigal has come home, Miss Innes," he said. "How often the sins

of the fathers are visited on the children!" Which left me pondering.

Before Mr. Harton left, he told me something of the Armstrong family.

Paul Armstrong, the father, had been married twice. Arnold was a son by

the first marriage. The second Mrs. Armstrong had been a widow, with a

child, a little girl. This child, now perhaps twenty, was Louise

Armstrong, having taken her stepfather's name, and was at present in

California with the family.

"They will probably return at once," he concluded "sad part of my

errand here to-day is to see if you will relinquish your lease here in

their favor."

"We would better wait and see if they wish to come," I said. "It seems

unlikely, and my town house is being remodeled." At that he let the

matter drop, but it came up unpleasantly enough, later.

At six o'clock the body was taken away, and at seven-thirty, after an

early dinner, Mr. Harton went. Gertrude had not come down, and there

was no news of Halsey. Mr. Jamieson had taken a lodging in the

village, and I had not seen him since mid-afternoon. It was about nine

o'clock, I think, when the bell rang and he was ushered into the

living-room.

"Sit down," I said grimly. "Have you found a clue that will

incriminate me, Mr. Jamieson?"

He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "No," he said. "If you had

killed Mr. Armstrong, you would have left no clues. You would have had

too much intelligence."

After that we got along better. He was fishing in his pocket, and

after a minute he brought out two scraps of paper. "I have been to the

club-house," he said, "and among Mr. Armstrong's effects, I found

these. One is curious; the other is puzzling."

The first was a sheet of club note-paper, on which was written, over

and over, the name "Halsey B. Innes." It was Halsey's flowing

signature to a dot, but it lacked Halsey's ease. The ones toward the

bottom of the sheet were much better than the top ones. Mr. Jamieson

smiled at my face.




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