traces of the wet even on the trimming of the toque.—Yes, dad, Mrs. French was out in the rain yesterday. Not very important.”
“Why not?” the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar of the coat.
“Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to the store,” retorted Ellery. “What of it?”
The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.
“Here’s something,” he said, turning the gauzelike material over in his hands. “Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out of bed.” An exclamation escaped him. On the corner of the scarf was a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his father’s shoulder.
“M. F.,” he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.
The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every gesture. At his movement they stared guiltily and averted their heads.
“What was Mrs. French’s first name?” Queen questioned the group; and as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant chorus of “Winifred!”
“Winifred, eh?” muttered the old man, letting his eyes return fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his gray eyes.
“Winifred, eh?” he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector’s hand. “Winifred what? Any middle name or initials?”
“Winifred—Winifred Marchbanks French,” stammered the secretary.
The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French, who was watching him with dull uncomprehending eyes.
“Mr. French—” Queen shook the millionaire’s shoulder gently—“Mr. French, is this your wife’s scarf?” He held the scarf up before French’s eyes. “Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French’s?”
“Eh? I—Let me see it!” The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy from the Inspector’s hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth, examined the monogram with feverish fingers—and slumped back in his chair.
“Is it, Mr. French?” pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.
“No.” It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.
The Inspector turned toward the silent group. “Can any one here identify this scarf?” He held it high. There was no answer. The Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.
“So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!” snapped Queen, grasping the secretary by the arm. “What do the letters M. F. stand for—Marion French?”
The young man gulped, sent an agonizing glance toward Ellery, who returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who was mumbling to himself. …
“You can’t believe she had anything to do—to do with it!” cried Weaver, shaking his arm free. “It’s absurd—crazy! … You can’t believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She’s too fine, too young, too—”
“Marion French.” The Inspector turned toward John Gray. “Mr. French’s daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?”
Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. “My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!” His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief moment; he collapsed into his chair.
Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table, and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost hidden by the dead woman’s tumbled
“Why not?” the old man asked, his hands softly moving aside the collar of the coat.
“Because she probably wet her shoes and hat in crossing the sidewalk to the store,” retorted Ellery. “What of it?”
The Inspector did not reply. His seeking hand plunged suddenly beneath the coat-collar and reappeared with a filmy, color-clouded scarf.
“Here’s something,” he said, turning the gauzelike material over in his hands. “Must have slipped down inside the coat when she tumbled out of bed.” An exclamation escaped him. On the corner of the scarf was a silk-embroidered monogram. Ellery leaned farther forward over his father’s shoulder.
“M. F.,” he said. He straightened up, frowning, saying nothing.
The Inspector turned his head toward the group of directors at the other side of the room. They were huddled together, watching his every gesture. At his movement they stared guiltily and averted their heads.
“What was Mrs. French’s first name?” Queen questioned the group; and as if each one had been addressed individually, there was an instant chorus of “Winifred!”
“Winifred, eh?” muttered the old man, letting his eyes return fleetingly to the body. Then he fixed Weaver with his gray eyes.
“Winifred, eh?” he repeated. Weaver bobbed his head mechanically. He seemed horrified at the wisp of silk in the Inspector’s hand. “Winifred what? Any middle name or initials?”
“Winifred—Winifred Marchbanks French,” stammered the secretary.
The Inspector nodded curtly. Rising, he strode over to Cyrus French, who was watching him with dull uncomprehending eyes.
“Mr. French—” Queen shook the millionaire’s shoulder gently—“Mr. French, is this your wife’s scarf?” He held the scarf up before French’s eyes. “Do you understand me, sir? Is this scarf Mrs. French’s?”
“Eh? I—Let me see it!” The old man snatched it in a sort of frenzy from the Inspector’s hand. He bent over it avidly, pulled it smooth, examined the monogram with feverish fingers—and slumped back in his chair.
“Is it, Mr. French?” pursued the Inspector, taking the scarf from him.
“No.” It was a flat, colorless, indifferent negative.
The Inspector turned toward the silent group. “Can any one here identify this scarf?” He held it high. There was no answer. The Inspector repeated his question, glaring at each one individually. Of them all, only Westley Weaver averted his glance.
“So! Weaver, eh? No nonsense, now, young man!” snapped Queen, grasping the secretary by the arm. “What do the letters M. F. stand for—Marion French?”
The young man gulped, sent an agonizing glance toward Ellery, who returned the glance commiseratingly, looked at old Cyrus French, who was mumbling to himself. …
“You can’t believe she had anything to do—to do with it!” cried Weaver, shaking his arm free. “It’s absurd—crazy! … You can’t believe she had anything to do with this, Inspector. She’s too fine, too young, too—”
“Marion French.” The Inspector turned toward John Gray. “Mr. French’s daughter, I believe Mr. Weaver said before?”
Gray nodded sullenly. Cyrus French suddenly attempted to leap from his chair. He uttered a hoarse cry. “My God, no! Not Marion! Not Marion!” His eyes blazed as Gray and Marchbanks, the directors nearest the old man, jumped to support his quivering body. The spasm lasted for a brief moment; he collapsed into his chair.
Inspector Queen returned without a word to his examination of the dead woman. Ellery had been a silent witness of the little drama, his sharp eyes flitting from face to face as it unfolded. Now he sent a glance of reassurance at Weaver, who was leaning abjectly against a table, and then stooped to pick up an object from the floor which was almost hidden by the dead woman’s tumbled
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