object. “Oh, no, thank you,
Mr. Benton,” she said rather abstractedly. “Thank you, I’m only
looking about.” She gave him a pleasant nod and a smile and turned
to the next table.
The storekeeper could not help wondering, as
he returned to his counter, exactly what it was that Mrs. Meade was
looking for, since by this time she had looked over nearly every
display in the store. Whatever the object of her search, she did
not seem particularly satisfied with the results, yet neither did
she seem impatient, for she was the last customer of the evening,
and showed no inclination towards leaving any time soon.
The deeply colored sunset, the same that cast
its rays over Denver in the hour that Edgerton and his companions
were traversing that narrow street, was streaming into the shop,
its red glow falling over the displays as if the windows had been
tinted with blood. The aroma of supper cooking drifted out from the
living quarters at the back of the store, hovering around the
counter where Benton was going over the day’s accounts and hoping
that Mrs. Meade would find whatever it was she wanted before the
meal was ready. Older ladies always did take such time making up
their minds.
Mrs. Meade was frowning at a hurricane lamp
with a hopefully positioned price tag, displaying the original
price prominently crossed out and a more attractive one
substituted, when a series of thuds overhead and a thunder of
footsteps down the stairs from the second floor made her turn, in
time to see the young deputy sheriff stumble down the last of the
stairs and make for the front door.
“Is something wrong, Richard?” called Mrs.
Meade.
“It’s Miss Lewis—she’s been taken ill. I’ve
got to go for a doctor.” And he jerked the door open, tripped over
his own feet and then again over the threshold, and somehow managed
to get out of the store and, it is devoutly to be hoped, down the
outside steps without further catastrophe.
Mrs. Meade did not wait to see, however, nor
did she return to her shopping, but crossed the store to the
staircase and ascended. Quietly she opened the door to the
seamstress’ room.
Diana Lewis did not look ill. She was by the
mannequin at the other end of the room, her head bent slightly and
her mouth a sharp, set line, working away at the white dress as if
her life depended upon it. Mrs. Meade watched her for a moment, and
then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Diana Lewis whipped round with a startled
gasp. She stood staring at Mrs. Meade, one hand clenched and her
thin body rigid.
“No, Miss Lewis,” said Mrs. Meade firmly,
“I’m afraid it won’t do.”
* * *
So the next morning when Edgerton and Andrew
Royal, having come directly from the railway station, mounted the
stairs and opened the door, they both halted momentarily and
blinked in surprise at finding a tableau almost exactly like the
one they had left—Diana Lewis seated on the sofa, and Mrs. Meade
ensconced in an armchair, looking thoroughly mistress of the
situation. The only new element was Royal’s young deputy, who sat
on a chair over near the sewing-table with a guilty, mortified
expression on his boyish face.
“Now, before you say anything, Andrew, you
must understand that it was not Richard’s fault,” said Mrs. Meade.
“Anyone might have been taken in. You might if you had been
the one to stay with her. She was an actress once, as she
told us, and I have no doubt a very convincing one, too.”
“What, do you mean she made an attempt at
escape?” said Edgerton.
“Oh, yes. I thought she would. But since I
was expecting it, I was able to be here and prevent it.”
“ Expecting it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Meade. “You see, I never
believed for a moment that a woman who could cold-bloodedly arrange
for another girl to be murdered would give up those pearls so
easily. Fear couldn’t drive a woman to do such a thing, but greed
might. That story she told us yesterday was, if you’ll
Mr. Benton,” she said rather abstractedly. “Thank you, I’m only
looking about.” She gave him a pleasant nod and a smile and turned
to the next table.
The storekeeper could not help wondering, as
he returned to his counter, exactly what it was that Mrs. Meade was
looking for, since by this time she had looked over nearly every
display in the store. Whatever the object of her search, she did
not seem particularly satisfied with the results, yet neither did
she seem impatient, for she was the last customer of the evening,
and showed no inclination towards leaving any time soon.
The deeply colored sunset, the same that cast
its rays over Denver in the hour that Edgerton and his companions
were traversing that narrow street, was streaming into the shop,
its red glow falling over the displays as if the windows had been
tinted with blood. The aroma of supper cooking drifted out from the
living quarters at the back of the store, hovering around the
counter where Benton was going over the day’s accounts and hoping
that Mrs. Meade would find whatever it was she wanted before the
meal was ready. Older ladies always did take such time making up
their minds.
Mrs. Meade was frowning at a hurricane lamp
with a hopefully positioned price tag, displaying the original
price prominently crossed out and a more attractive one
substituted, when a series of thuds overhead and a thunder of
footsteps down the stairs from the second floor made her turn, in
time to see the young deputy sheriff stumble down the last of the
stairs and make for the front door.
“Is something wrong, Richard?” called Mrs.
Meade.
“It’s Miss Lewis—she’s been taken ill. I’ve
got to go for a doctor.” And he jerked the door open, tripped over
his own feet and then again over the threshold, and somehow managed
to get out of the store and, it is devoutly to be hoped, down the
outside steps without further catastrophe.
Mrs. Meade did not wait to see, however, nor
did she return to her shopping, but crossed the store to the
staircase and ascended. Quietly she opened the door to the
seamstress’ room.
Diana Lewis did not look ill. She was by the
mannequin at the other end of the room, her head bent slightly and
her mouth a sharp, set line, working away at the white dress as if
her life depended upon it. Mrs. Meade watched her for a moment, and
then she stepped into the room and closed the door behind her.
Diana Lewis whipped round with a startled
gasp. She stood staring at Mrs. Meade, one hand clenched and her
thin body rigid.
“No, Miss Lewis,” said Mrs. Meade firmly,
“I’m afraid it won’t do.”
* * *
So the next morning when Edgerton and Andrew
Royal, having come directly from the railway station, mounted the
stairs and opened the door, they both halted momentarily and
blinked in surprise at finding a tableau almost exactly like the
one they had left—Diana Lewis seated on the sofa, and Mrs. Meade
ensconced in an armchair, looking thoroughly mistress of the
situation. The only new element was Royal’s young deputy, who sat
on a chair over near the sewing-table with a guilty, mortified
expression on his boyish face.
“Now, before you say anything, Andrew, you
must understand that it was not Richard’s fault,” said Mrs. Meade.
“Anyone might have been taken in. You might if you had been
the one to stay with her. She was an actress once, as she
told us, and I have no doubt a very convincing one, too.”
“What, do you mean she made an attempt at
escape?” said Edgerton.
“Oh, yes. I thought she would. But since I
was expecting it, I was able to be here and prevent it.”
“ Expecting it?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Meade. “You see, I never
believed for a moment that a woman who could cold-bloodedly arrange
for another girl to be murdered would give up those pearls so
easily. Fear couldn’t drive a woman to do such a thing, but greed
might. That story she told us yesterday was, if you’ll
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