"No," said Doctor Masterson, and his voice had a peculiar ring, as of a man proving his own opinion.
Apparently Janet Pembroke was accustomed to the inflections of the old doctor's voice, for she looked suddenly up at him, as if he had said something more. Her crying spell was over, for the time at least, and her white face had again assumed its haughty and inscrutable expression.
"Was it heart disease?" she inquired, looking straight at Doctor Masterson.
"No," he replied; "it was not. Nor was it apoplexy, nor disease of any sort. Mr. Robert Pembroke did not die a natural death; he was killed while he slept."
I suppose to a man of Doctor Masterson's brusk, curt manner it was natural to announce this fact so baldly; but it seemed to me nothing short of brutality to fling the statement in the face of that quivering, shrinking girl.
"Killed!" she said, clasping her hands tightly. "Murdered!"
"Yes," said the doctor; "murdered in a peculiar fashion, and by a means of devilish ingenuity. Indeed, I must confess that had it not been for Doctor Post's conviction that the death was not natural, and his determination to discover the cause, it might never have been found out."
"Was he shot?" asked Janet, and it seemed to me she spoke like one in a trance.
"Shot? No!" said Doctor Masterson. "He was stabbed, or rather pierced, with a long, thin pin a hat-pin, you know. Stabbed in the back of his neck, at the base of the brain, as he lay asleep. He never knew it. The pin broke off in the wound, and death was immediate, caused by cerebral hemorrhage. Doctor Post and I have made a most thorough examination, and we are convinced that these are the facts. Mr. Pembroke was lying on his side, in a most natural position, and was, in all probability, sleeping soundly. This gave the murderer an excellent opportunity to aim the deadly pin with careful precision, and to pierce the brain with a swift stab. The result of this was precisely the same as a sudden and fatal apoplectic stroke. Though there may have been a tremor or slight quiver of certain muscles, there was no convulsion or contortion, and Mr. Pembroke's face still retains the placid look of sleep. Death must have taken place, we conclude, at or near midnight."
We who heard this sat as if paralyzed. It was so unexpected, so fearfully sudden, so appalling, that there seemed to be no words fit to express our feelings.
Then George Lawrence spoke. "Who did it?" he said, and his white face and compressed lips showed the struggle he was making for self-control.
"I don't know," and Doctor Masterson spoke mechanically, as if thinking of something else.
"No, of course, we don't know," broke in Doctor Post, who seemed a bit inclined to emphasize his own importance. And perhaps this was but natural, as the older doctor had plainly stated that but for Doctor Post's insistent investigation they might never have discovered the crime.
"But we must immediately set to work to find out who did this dreadful deed," Doctor Post went on; and though I felt repelled at the avidity he showed, I knew he was right. Though the others seemed partially stunned by the suddenly disclosed fact, I foresaw the dreadful experiences that must follow in its train.
Miss Pembroke, though still sitting by Laura's side, had broken away from her encircling arm. The girl sat upright, her great eyes fixed on Doctor Masterson's face. She showed no visible emotion, but seemed to be striving to realize the situation.
"Murdered!" she breathed in a low whisper; "Uncle Robert murdered!"
Then, without another word, her eyes traveled slowly round the room, resting on each person in turn. Her glance was calm, yet questioning. It almost seemed as if she suspected some one of us to be guilty of the crime. Or was it that she was seeking help and sympathy for herself? If so she could stop with me. She need look no further. I knew that in the near future she would want help, and that of a legal nature. She had herself said, or at least implied, that she would not look for such help from Graham Leroy. If this were true, and not merely a bit of feminine perversity, I vowed to myself that mine should be the helping hand outstretched to her in her hour of need.
"There is much to be done," Doctor Post continued, and his mind was so occupied with the greater facts of the situation, that he almost ignored Miss Pembroke. He addressed himself to Doctor Masterson, but it was easily seen that this was a mere form, and he himself quite evidently intended to be the real director of affairs. "We must find out who was the intruder, doubtless a professional burglar, who committed this awful deed. We must search the room for clues, and that, too, at once, before time and circumstance may obliterate them."
Although I didn't show it, I couldn't help a slight feeling of amusement at this speech. It was so palpably evident that Doctor Post possessed what he himself would doubtless call the Detective Instinct; and, moreover, it was clearly indicated that his knowledge of the proper methods of procedure were gained from the best detective fiction! Not that he was wrong in his suggestion, but it was not the time, nor was it his place to investigate the hypothetical "clues."
Doctor Masterson appreciated this point, and with a slightly disapproving shake of his wise, old head, he observed: "I think those things are not in our province, Doctor Post. We have performed our duty. We have learned the method and means of Robert Pembroke's death; we have made our report, and our duties are ended. The case has passed out of our hands, and such details as clues and evidence, are in the domain of the coroner and inspector."
Doctor Post looked a little chagrined. But he quickly covered it, and effusively agreed with the older doctor.
"Quite so, quite so," he said; "I was merely suggesting, in what is perhaps an over-zealous desire to be of assistance. What you say, Doctor Masterson, is entirely true. And now," he added, again bristling with an assumption of importance, "and now, we must send for the coroner."
V
SEVERAL CLUES
I had often told Laura that if I ever did fall in love it would be at first sight, and now it had come. Not only Janet Pembroke's beauty and the pathetic appeal of her sorrowful face attracted me, but I was fascinated by the mystery of the girl.
The astounding news that had just been told her was so much worse than the mere fact of her uncle's death, that I fully expected her to show her emotion in desperate hysterics. But instead, it seemed to rouse in her a spirit of courage and self-reliance, and though it was quite evident that she was making a great effort, yet she ably succeeded in controlling herself perfectly.
There was no use blinking the fact; I had fallen in love with Janet Pembroke. And as the truth of the fearful tragedy penetrated her dazed brain, and she seemed so sadly in need of comfort and help my impulse was to go to her, and tell her of my sympathy and regard.
As this was out of the question, I was glad to see Laura sit by the girl's side and soothe her with kindly caresses. But, to my surprise, Janet did not faint, nor did she seem in any danger of physical collapse. On the contrary, Doctor Post's remark seemed to arouse her to action. She sat up very straight, and, though the rest of her face was perfectly white, a red spot glowed in either cheek.
"The coroner?" she said, in a strained, unnatural voice. "What would he do?"
"It is necessary, my child, that he be summoned," said Doctor Masterson, "since your uncle did not die a natural death."
"But what will he do?" persisted Janet.
"He will ask questions of all who know anything about the matter, and try to discover the one who did the awful deed."
"But what will he do?" persisted Janet.
"He will ask questions of all who know anything about the matter, and try to discover the one who did the awful deed."
"Of course, Janet," observed George Lawrence, "we must call the coroner. It is always done, I believe, in such a case as this."
"Very well," said Janet; "but it is all so dreadful I can't realize it. Who killed Uncle Robert? Was it a burglar? Did he steal anything?"
She seemed to be talking quite at random. George answered her kindly, and his manner was gentle and affectionate.
"We don't know, Janet dear," he said. "That is what the coroner will inquire into."
I was thankful that my own business did not imperatively demand my presence at my office that day, and I concluded to stay where I was, at any rate, until the coroner arrived.
I would doubtless be called as a witness, and, too, I trusted I could be of help to Janet.
The girl puzzled while she fascinated me. She seemed so helpless and alone, and yet she showed a strange courage almost bravado.
George Lawrence, too, was reserved and self-contained, and I imagined they both inherited something of their dead uncle's strength of character.
Doctor Masterson had telephoned for the coroner, who said he would come soon and bring an inspector.
Then Laura persuaded Miss Pembroke to go with her across to our own apartment, and rest there for a time. This plan commended itself to Doctor Masterson, and he told Janet not to return until he sent for her.
Doctor Post said he would return to his office, but would come up to the apartment again when called for.
He contrived to have a short talk with me before leaving.
"There's more to this than appears on the surface," he declared, with the air of imparting information of value. "This is a most cold-blooded murder, carefully planned and cleverly carried out. The criminal is no ordinary sneak thief or burglar."
"That may be," I returned, "but if so, it is the coroner's place to discover and punish the murderer. Surely we can do nothing."
"We ought to," urged Doctor Post; "we ought to examine the whole place carefully for clues."
"I confess, Doctor Post," I returned, "that I should be glad to do so. My inclinations, like yours, are toward going to work at once. But we are not in authority, and Doctor Masterson is. It is only courteous to him and to Miss Pembroke to acquiesce in their wishes."
So, reluctantly, Doctor Post went away, and I observed that Doctor Masterson seemed relieved at his departure.
"It's a bad business," said the doctor to young Lawrence. "I can't understand it."
"It's horrible!" exclaimed George Lawrence, covering his face with his hands. "Why, I was here yesterday afternoon, and Uncle Robert was particularly well, and particularly "
He paused, and with a grim smile Doctor Masterson completed the sentence: "Particularly cantankerous?"
"Yes, sir, he was," said Lawrence candidly. "I think I never saw him in a worse rage, and all about nothing. He stormed at Janet until the poor girl cried, and then he scolded her for that. But I suppose his gout was pretty bad, and that always made him ugly."
"Where do you live now, George?" inquired Doctor Masterson.
"I've bachelor rooms down in Washington Square. Not as comfortable in some ways as I was here, but good enough on the whole. I must make a home for Janet somewhere now. It's all dreadful, to be sure, but, really, she'll be happier without Uncle Robert, in every way."
"She inherits property?" I asked, and, because of Lawrence's confidential manner, my casual question did not seem impertinent.
"She and I are the only heirs," he said straightforwardly. "Uncle Robert's will is no secret. It was made long ago, and as we are his only relatives he left us equal inheritors. I don't care about that part of it, but I'm glad Janet is to have some money of her own. Uncle Robert was mighty close with her. I made money enough for my own needs, but Janet couldn't do that, and she had to scrimp outrageously. She's so proud, she won't accept a cent from me, and between uncle's miserliness and his temper she has led an awful life."
"Then I can't feel real regret that Mr. Pembroke is gone," I said, "except that the manner of his taking off is so horrible. Do you suppose that it is the work of burglars?"
"Must have been," said Lawrence. "I haven't looked around at all I hate all that sort of thing but I suppose the coroner will clear up all mystery."
"Now, on the contrary," said I, "I have a liking for detective work, and, if there is any occasion for it, I'll be glad to do anything I can for you."
George Lawrence seemed not to hear me.
"Uncle Robert hadn't an enemy in the world, that I know of," he said musingly; "so it must have been a burglar or marauder of some sort."
"Very unusual method for a burglar," said I, thinking of the hat-pin. "Would you mind if I looked about a little bit? I'd like to find the other end of that pin."
"What pin?" asked Lawrence.
"The pin that killed your uncle. The doctors say it was a hat-pin, broken off close to the flesh."
"A hat-pin? How awful!"
The young man gave a shudder, as if sensitive to gruesome pictures.
"Yes," I went on; "and if we could find the head end that broke off, it might be a clue to the murderer."
"Oh, yes, I see. Well, certainly, go and look about all you choose. But excuse me from that sort of thing. I'll get the best detectives, if necessary, but I can't do anything in that way myself."
I readily understood this attitude in one so closely related to the victim of the dreadful deed, and at his permission I determined to search the whole apartment thoroughly. We had been alone during this conversation, as Doctor Masterson had returned to his late patient's room, and the servant, Charlotte, had not reappeared.
I went directly to Mr. Pembroke's bedroom, but when there, I hesitated for a moment before addressing Doctor Masterson.
And then he spoke first; "I freely confess," he said, "that I owe to Doctor Post the discovery of the truth. I was positive it was not a natural death, but my old eyes failed to detect that tiny speck that gave us the solution. However, that does not give Doctor Post the right to pry into the affairs of the Pembroke household. It is now a case for the Coroner, and no one else has a right to interfere."
"I appreciate your attitude, Doctor Masterson," I returned, "but Mr. Lawrence, who is, of course, in authority, has given me permission to search this room, and in fact the whole apartment, for possible clues that may help to solve the mystery."
"Humph," grunted the old Doctor, peering at me through his glasses; "if George says so, of course you may do what you like, but I warn you you'd better let the matter alone."
"Have you any suspicions?" I asked suddenly.
"Suspicions? Goodness, no! How could I have any suspicions? You must be crazy!" And without another word the old man hurriedly left the room.
After this exhibition of anger on his part, I felt myself in an unpleasant position. Perhaps I had been over-zealous in my desire to be of service to Miss Pembroke. Perhaps there were clues or evidences better left undiscovered. But, pshaw! such ideas were absurd. Robert Pembroke had been murdered. It was the duty of any American citizen to do anything in his power toward the discovery of the criminal.
Convinced of this, I set to work at once to make a thorough search of the room for anything that might seem indicative.
I merely glanced at the quiet figure lying on the bed, for such evidence as that might show must be determined by the coroner's physicians. I was only seeking stray clues that might otherwise be overlooked, and that might prove to be of value.