The Gray Mask. Camp Wadsworth

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      A tired-looking man in plain clothes lounged in the verandah. Another with a languid air paced up and down at the side. They became animated and converged on Garth, anxious to know if the inspector had got any word of Randall.

      While he was talking to them Garth first became aware of a mournful undertone, sometimes punctuated by a shrill, despairing note, now smothered in a heavy silence.

      "What's that?" he asked sharply.

      The men moved restlessly.

      "Been listening to that music all day," one of them answered. "Lonely hole! Who'd want to live here?"

      "I see. Mrs. Randall," Garth said. "I'd hoped she'd be able to stand a little talk by this time."

      "Swell chance!" the man answered. "There's a high and mighty sawbones with her who'd do murder himself before he'd let you get within a mile of her. I'm sick of the rotten case. Nothing to it anyway."

      "I'm going in, boys," Garth said. "Inspector told me everything had been left."

      One of the detectives handed him a key.

      "Room's locked. This lets in from the corridor. Key to her bedroom door's in the lock."

      Garth entered the hall. Randall's hat lay as the inspector had described it. Its gilt initials stared up at Garth with an odd air of appeal. He saw Treving's coat and hat – another tragic excitation for the doctor if he had chanced to notice them – on a chair by the table. A key, which Garth found fitted the front door, lay at the table's edge. Garth replaced it there and continued up the stairs.

      Mrs. Randall's cries were quieter. Garth, inured as he was to unbridled suffering, was grateful. He unlocked the door of the dressing-room and paused just across the sill while he made a quick survey of the scene of the murder. There was plenty of light and air here, for the curtains were thrown back and the window was open. Since the doctor had unquestionably left by the front door he could not understand why the window had been opened on such a chilly night. He mused. Before bothering with Randall's course from the verandah it would be useful to examine the source of everything.

      The table cover was awry. One or two books lay on the floor beneath. Half a dozen long-stemmed roses, faded as they were, still splashed color across the carpet of a neutral tint. As his eyes took them in Garth smiled, shame-facedly reminiscent.

      He started. The formless, agonized cry of a woman arose and seemed to set in violent motion the atmosphere of this tragic chamber.

      The cry was repeated. Garth shivered. He had a quick uncomfortable fancy that the woman was making horrid and superhuman efforts to overcome some obstacle to expression.

      "I wish she'd keep quiet," he thought. "Confound it! There's no acting about that. She wants to talk and can't."

      He returned to his scrutiny of the room. Its disordered condition suggested a struggle before Randall had fired the shots and dropped the revolver there at the end of the table.

      A circle of no great radius would have enclosed the scattered and faded roses. No – not all. One bud lay farther off, nearer the bedroom door.

      Garth tiptoed to it, stooped, and picked it up, examining it curiously while he tried to reconstruct from it an active picture of the tragedy. The stem had been broken away, indicating, since Treving or Randall had probably worn it, the close and desperate nature of their struggle. For it was not like the roses from the vase. They were of a larger variety and wider open, and this lay, he estimated, near the spot where Treving, conquered and killed, had fallen.

      As he stooped there, reflecting, constantly troubled by the impotent sounds from the next room, a ray of late sunlight penetrated the foliage, entered the open window, and gleamed upon a silvery thread apparently in the carpet. In his haste to reach this thread Garth stumbled noisily against a chair, and, as if in response, while he detached the thread from the carpet, a gentle knocking reached him from the bedroom door.

      A little ashamed of his racket, he thrust the thread in his pocket, arose, and opened the door. A tall man with iron-gray hair entered, closing the door gently behind him. His tone was repressed, but Garth did not miss its annoyance.

      "Do you want to kill that woman?"

      "I see. The chair," Garth said.

      "Every sound from this room," the man explained, "must be torture to her. I suppose you policemen think all this fuss and feathers necessary. You'd do better to get after Randall."

      Garth curbed his own irritation.

      "When do you think we'll be able to question her?"

      "God knows! If this keeps up. She's in a bad way. Do you suppose I'd waste my time here otherwise. I tell you quiet is essential."

      Garth rested his hands against the table. The knotted veins testified to his anxiety, but his tone was casual.

      "By the way, doctor, since you're Mrs. Randall's cousin, you must have known the doctor pretty well."

      "Yes, yes, very well."

      "Did you ever notice – was he in the habit of wearing a flower in his button-hole?"

      The other glanced at him suspiciously.

      "What are you driving at?"

      "Answer me, please," Garth insisted.

      "I never saw him with one. He was a very masculine type – no affectations."

      Garth flushed.

      "And Mr. Treving?" he asked. "You knew him, too?"

      "Slightly."

      "Did he?"

      "What? Wear a flower? I'm sure I don't know. Never noticed. But I think it likely enough."

      Garth's hands relaxed. He straightened.

      "Thank you, doctor. There'll be no more noise here to-night. I'm sorry about the chair. I'd rather you didn't say anything about those questions."

      The doctor's face, which had shown suffering all through, broke into a derisive smile.

      "About the flowers! I understand. One must appear wise, even if there's nothing to be wise about."

      "Quite so," Garth said gravely.

      The other returned to the bedroom and Garth went downstairs. He paused in the hall long enough to take the latch-key from the table and slip it in his pocket. Then he walked to the back of the house where the servants were collected in an uneasy group. There was a chauffeur, he found, a butler, a cook, and a maid. Another maid, they told him, was with Mrs. Randall.

      Garth questioned them about last night's wedding and the hour of their return, but they were an incoherent lot, all talking at once, and saying nothing useful. Therefore he returned to the verandah where he stood, trying to put himself in Randall's place, casting about for his likely course when he had sensibly decided not to use his automobile.

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