Gibbs George
The Splendid Outcast

Moira read with growing horror the familiar address, the names of Madame Toupin and the other tenants, her own name and Barry Quinlevin's, whose absence had added to the mystery. The type danced before her eyes like the shifting colors in a kaleidoscope and then became merged and incomprehensible. Was she dreaming? With an effort, she focused again upon the damnable page, aware of this new crisis that had sought her out from the depths of her retreat.

Harry – dead – ! murdered – ! What had he been doing at the studio? There must be some mistake. Harry was at camp a hundred miles away – And Jim – Jim Horton – his murderer. The thing was impossible!..

She got up, paper in hand, and scarcely aware of what she was doing, went to her room and quickly put on her hat and coat, coming down stairs a few moments later and taking the road in the direction of the Railroad Station. She had no definite plan except to escape her uncle and get to Paris as quickly as possible. But she was aware that some instinct was guiding her. She inquired of the Station Agent when the Paris train was due. She was lucky. There would be a train in half an hour. She bought a ticket out of the slender means in her possession and waited, going over and over in her mind the terrible phrases which seemed already to have burned themselves indelibly upon her memory. The motive for the crime? There seemed to be none – "except that the two brothers had not been friendly." Motive! Harry – her husband – and Jim – ! Holy Virgin! She leaned against a tree by the roadside and wordlessly prayed. Not that motive – not that! And Jim Horton – whatever the things he had suffered through Harry, his own misplaced gallantry, and through her, he was not the man who could have done this thing. When she raised her head, listening for the sounds of the train, a smile was on her lips, a new smile of confidence and faith. She had tried him. She knew the kind of man he was. He could fight, in the open, as a brave man should, but not in the dark, not with a dastardly blow for his own brother in the dark.

When the train came in she was calm again and resolved. Whatever skill, whatever intelligence she had, was to be dedicated to solving this mystery, and clearing Jim Horton of all complicity in the murder. Her name was mentioned. The police required her presence. She would go to them and tell her whole story, neglecting nothing, whatever it cost her.

She stared at the passing scenery with eyes that saw nothing. But there was a frown at her brows and her lips were drawn together in a firm line. She was beginning to see with an inner vision, to turn over one by one the events of the last few weeks and the motives of all those concerned in them. The police did not know who had committed this crime if Jim Horton were innocent. The circumstances were such as to preclude the possibility of any one escaping from the room. And yet some one must have been there and some one, somehow, must have escaped.

Out of her own knowledge emerged a motive for a murder – not of Harry, but of his brother – a motive that had already been the cause of two abortive attempts upon his life. Somehow this thought emerged with photographic distinctness from the others, becoming at each moment more definite and more full of sinister suggestion. But a life, perhaps two lives, one of them Jim Horton's, hung upon the keenness of her vision and intelligence. If Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire, whose name had been given in the Matin, was balked in getting at the truth, she would help him. There were many things he did not know, many things that she could tell him, such as would perhaps open new vistas for investigation.

Quite calmly now she took out the paper and re-read the details, her imagination catching at neglected clues, her instinct groping, and her horror grew – not at the thought of Jim in his prison, but of other suspicions that rose from every known fact and confronted her – pointing accusing fingers.

She passed between the white columns of the entrance to the Palais de Justice, through the iron and gilt barrier and then paused, but not in any fear, for her mind was made up and her courage had come back to her with a rush that put to shame her days of uncertainty. So she approached one of the palace guards and asked to be shown to the office of the Prefet. The Prefet, she was informed, was not in the building. Would any one else do? Was it upon a matter connected with the administration of justice? She replied promptly that she came upon a matter in connection with the murder mystery in the studio at No. 7 Rue de Tavennes and the man pricked up his ears, conducting her promptly up a long flight of stone steps to the left, where he told her she would find the Juge d'Instruction. And when in reply to his question as to what name he should announce, she told him that she was Madame Horton, his interest and activity were intense. With a word to the greffier who stood near, he disappeared through a door and in a moment returned with two gentlemen who hurried forward to meet her, introducing themselves as Monsieur Simon, the Juge d'Instruction, who had taken charge of the investigation, and Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire de Police for the District in which the crime had been committed.

She followed them through the door from which they had emerged and answering their questions told her story without hesitation, from the moment of her visit to Jim Horton at the hospital at Neuilly until she had read in the morning paper of the crime.

"I came, Messieurs, because it was my duty to aid you in clearing up this mystery, and because I know that whatever the evidence you hold against him, Monsieur Horton could never have been guilty of this crime."

Monsieur Simon wagged his head sagely and plucked with slender white fingers at his dark beard.

"We are greatly indebted to you, Madame. Our agents have been looking for you. No doubt they would have found you in time, but it was wiser for you to come – much wiser. Your story is interesting and may do much to help Monsieur Matthieu in his investigation, but – "

"But you must admit, Madame," broke in the practical Commissaire, who had a reputation at stake, "that instead of tending to clear Monsieur Horton of suspicion, you have only added one more thread to the net that already enmeshes him."

"What do you mean, Monsieur?"

"His love for you – his dislike for your husband – "

Moira flushed painfully. "I have told you the truth of this matter because I believe that only by knowing the whole truth will you be able to solve this mystery. If Monsieur Horton tells you that the studio was empty, he tells you what he believes to be the truth. Why, otherwise, would he lie about a situation which must surely condemn him?"

"We have thought of all that, Madame," said Monsieur Simon, "and I am willing to admit that there are several points in his testimony which are very puzzling. We have only finished his examination and that of Madame Morin, which have lasted the greater part of the morning. Both he and Madame Morin have repeated without the slightest divergence the testimony taken in the preliminary examination at the scene of the crime. I am glad to say also that their statements confirm in a general way your own in regard to what has happened in the affair of the Duc de Vautrin. The entire department of Police is now upon a search for Monsieur Barry Quinlevin and the man named Tricot, who will, of course, be given the opportunity to explain where they were last night at eight o'clock. An agent goes at once to Fontainebleau. But that does not exonerate Monsieur Horton or Madame Morin. A man has been killed in a room from which the murderer could not have emerged without detection. The door to the sleeping apartments was locked, the key on the outside, the window was sixty feet from the stone flagging below. The window and wall were carefully studied this morning after daybreak. The murderer could not have climbed down. It is impossible. Monsieur Horton admits that he did not escape by the stair. How then did he escape? The doors have been guarded. He is not there now nor did Monsieur Horton discover him either before or after the murder – "

"And yet he was there, Monsieur Simon – " said Moira, her voice gathering strength and clearness from the depth of her faith and conviction. "He was there, Monsieur le Commissaire," she repeated, "all the time. Nothing else is possible."

Monsieur Matthieu tapped his eyeglasses upon the palm of his hand.

"I should be very willing to believe you, Madame," he said, with polite scepticism, "had I not ocular demonstration that there could have been no one in the room at any moment between the arrival of Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin and the alarm given by Monsieur Horton himself. I have not yet exhausted every avenue of investigation, but I need not conceal from you the extreme danger of the position in which Monsieur Horton finds himself. We have a motive for the crime. Even you, Madame, have only added testimony as to that. With his brother dead, there was no obstacle to your unfortunate affection – "

"Monsieur – !" Moira had drawn back from him in dismay, her face blanched again.

"If I seem cruel, I only speak with the cold logic of the professional analyst of human motives. The fact that you are a Catholic and opposed to divorce only provides another reason why your husband should be removed from the path of Monsieur Horton – "

Everything that Moira had said seemed to be weaving more tightly the skein of evidence around the man she loved. And this thinking machine in the eyeglasses, grasped only at the threads that seemed to incriminate him. And what of the other evidence that she had presented – would they disregard that? She was trying to think clearly, connectedly, and presently managed to put her thoughts into words.

"Have you discovered how or why Monsieur Jim Horton happened to be at the studio and why if he was bent upon the murder of his own brother he took Madame Morin as a witness – "

"Or accessory – " put in Monsieur Matthieu sharply.

"That is absurd – " broke in Moira with some spirit, "and you know it."

Monsieur Simon nodded approval.

"I am glad you have made that point, Madame. It is our trade to make our witnesses uncomfortable that they may controvert themselves. But you have probed quite straight. And instead of answering your question, permit me to ask you another. Did you send a Petit Bleu to Monsieur Horton requesting him to come to your studio last night at eight o'clock?"

The expression upon Moira's face showed so genuine an astonishment that there could be no doubting the sincerity of her reply.

"I? No, Monsieur Simon. I was at Fontainebleau. Why should I ask him to come to the studio when I was not there?"

The two men exchanged glances of new interest.

"Both Monsieur Horton and Madame Morin testify that Monsieur Horton received such a message."

Moira started forward in her chair.

"What did that message say, Messieurs?"

Monsieur Simon took the blue slip from a packet of papers and laid it before her. With eyes dilated, she read the message that was signed with her name. Then for a moment frowned deeply, staring at this confirmation of her suspicion.

"What do you think, Madame?" asked Simon.

Moira was silent for a moment, struggling for the mastery of her emotions. And then in a suppressed tone, barely audible,

"It is as I supposed, Messieurs. Monsieur Jim Horton was lured to the studio by this message and – my husband – was killed by mistake in his stead."

"By whom, Madame?" asked the Judge quickly.

Moira made a nervous gesture of recantation.

"I – I do not know. It is horrible to suspect without further proof. I – I cannot say."

"Monsieur Quinlevin?"

"That's impossible. He was at Fontainebleau."

"Then who – ?"

"That's for you to find out. I did not come to accuse – but to liberate. Search! Find! Let their own words convict them," she said wildly. "I cannot. I only know that Monsieur Horton did not kill my husband. That is impossible."

Monsieur Matthieu, who had listened for most of the while in silence, now rose and took a pace or two before her, tapping his glasses quickly against his palm.

"Madame Horton, let us confine ourselves to the physical evidence that confronts us. No one could have been in that studio between the moment when Monsieur Jim Horton and Madame Morin say they left it until they say they returned some moments later. That is the fact. I know. It is my business to neglect nothing. I haveneglected nothing. Therefore I tell you that no matter whom you suspect to have committed this murder, no matter whom Monsieur Simon or I might believe to have had a motive in committing it, the fact remains that he could not have entered the studio or departed from it during the short period in which this crime was committed. And I say to you now that no human being except Monsieur Horton could have been present to commit this murder."

"And yet," said Moira desperately, "a human being other than Monsieur Horton killed my husband."

Monsieur Matthieu shrugged and smiled.

"You have not investigated as I have done, Madame," he said.

"No, Monsieur. But I am right," she said firmly.

"You are persistent."

"It is my duty to find the truth of this matter."

"And mine – but not to achieve the impossible – "

Monsieur Simon, whose nervous fingers had been caressing his dark beard, while his small deep-set eyes followed the changing emotions in Moira's troubled face, now broke into the discussion with some spirit.

"It is not safe, Monsieur le Commissaire, to disregard the intuitions of a woman. In this case, since we have weighed all immediate evidence, perhaps it would be wise to give Madame Horton the opportunity of confirming to her own satisfaction the results of your investigation."

Monsieur Matthieu smiled and shrugged again.

"Volontiers, Monsieur, if you think it worth while."

"At least it can do no harm. Madame Horton is familiar with her own studio. Perhaps she may notice something that has escaped your eye."

"As you please."

"It is that which you desire, Madame?" asked the Judge.

"Oh, thanks, Monsieur," uttered Moira gratefully. "I could not be satisfied, even after the skill of Monsieur le Commissaire, unless I had probed this mystery with my own eyes."

"Come, then, Madame. There is still time. We shall go at once."

CHAPTER XXIV
THE CLUE

The body of Harry Horton had been removed from the studio and this it seemed made Moira's task less painful. But she was now armed with a desperate courage which even the sight of Harry's mangled body would not have dismayed. And the thought that her keenness of perception, her intelligence, her woman's instinct were the only weapons she had with which to combat the scepticism of this skillful detective and save Jim Horton from the perils of impending indictment for murder, gave her a sense of responsibility which keyed her faculties to their utmost and drove from her heart all terrors of her situation. She must succeed where Monsieur Matthieu had failed. Instinct would guide her, instinct and faith. Monsieur Matthieu, if not her enemy, was prejudiced in favor of a pre-conceived idea which every bit of evidence justified, and yet there must be other evidence – clues neglected, trifles overlooked – and she must find them out.

The burden of the testimony against Jim Horton would fall if she could prove it physically possible for some one to have been in the studio while Jim Horton and Piquette had waited outside. This was her object – nothing else seemed to matter.

On the way to the Rue de Tavennes in a cab Monsieur Simon replied politely to her questions, giving her all the information she desired, while Monsieur Matthieu sat opposite. How she hated the man! His smile patronized, his reddish hair inflamed her. She could see that in his mind Jim Horton was already convicted. But when they reached the porte cochère of Madame Toupin, Monsieur Simon handed her gravely down and Monsieur Matthieu led the way up the stair to the studio where a policeman was still on guard. Moira followed the Commissaireclosely and stood for a moment on the threshold of the room while Monsieur Matthieu unbent enough to show her where the body lay and to indicate the locked door and the chair which had been overturned. To Moira these matters were already unimportant, since she saw no reason to deny the testimony of the many witnesses on these points. She entered the room slowly, with a feeling of some awe, and for a moment stood by the fireplace, glancing from one object to the other, thinking deeply. A dark stain on the rug, just before her, gave her a tremor, but she recovered herself immediately and walked slowly around the room, examining each object as though she had never seen it before.

"Does Madame wish to look in the apartment or the kitchenette?" she heard Monsieur Matthieu's voice asking.

But she shook her head. The answer to the mystery lay here – in this very room. She was already satisfied as to that.

"Is this room in the precise condition in which it was found when the police first arrived?" she asked coolly.

"Yes, Madame, except for the removal of the body, nothing has been disturbed."

"You are sure of this?"

"I am, Madame. It is for this reason that a policeman has been always on guard."

"And you yourself, Monsieur, – you have moved no object – no drapery – no chair?"

"No, Madame. Nothing. I climbed upon the couch to look out of the window. That is all."

She nodded and passed around the lay figure which she was regarding with a new interest.

"And the gray drapery on the shoulder of the lay figure – you say it has not been touched?"

Monsieur Matthieu looked up with a smile.

"I examined the figure carefully, Madame. I may have raised the drapery – but I restored it as I found it."

"Then things are not precisely as they were," she said keenly.

"No, Madame. Not the gray drapery," said Matthieu amusedly.

"You did not touch the bolero jacket?"

"No, Madame."

"Nor the skirt?"

"I am quite sure of that," said the Commissaire.

She removed the hat from the head of papier machéand examined it minutely, then took off the head itself and stared into the painted eyes as though asking the mute familiar lips a question. And then suddenly, as the Commissaire and Monsieur Simon watched curiously,

"It is a pity that you moved the draperies, Monsieur Matthieu," she said slowly.

"Why, Madame?"

"Because you have disturbed the dust."

"I can't understand why – "

"I was away for a week. Some dust would have accumulated, upon the draperies – the figure has been touched. It is not as I left it."

"Of course, Madame, I made a thorough investigation – "

"And what did you learn from it?" she asked quietly.

Monsieur Matthieu glanced at her once and then shrugged.

"Nothing, Madame. A lay figure is a lay figure."

"True," said Moira carelessly, but the Commissairefound himself regarding her with a new appraising eye. What did she mean by this question?

But she moved past him quickly as though with a definite purpose, and approached the north window.

"Which of these sashes was unlocked, Monsieur?"

"The one to the right, Madame."

"I see. You say it was closed but not fastened?"

"That is correct."

"That is strange."

"Why, Madame?"

"Because I fastened it with great care before I left for Fontainebleau."

"You are sure of this?"

"Positive. It has an awkward catch. You see?"

And she demonstrated how easily it came unlatched unless pressed firmly down.

Monsieur Matthieu came forward smiling.

"You only indicate, Madame, that it will slip easily out of place."

Moira met his gaze firmly.

"Try to make it slip, Monsieur," she said, "since I have fastened it."

He tried by tapping – by shaking the window, but the catch held.

"It is a matter of little moment," he muttered, "since it would be impossible for the murderer to have escaped by this way."

"Perhaps," said Moira.

But while she spoke she unlocked the catch, then slipped it insecurely into place and stood aside, studying it keenly.

"What is it that interests you, Madame?" asked the Juge d'Instruction.

"The catch, Monsieur," she replied quietly. "It is an old one. The edges are worn quite smooth." And just then as a breeze came from without, the French window swung gently open.

Monsieur Matthieu started back a pace and glanced at Monsieur Simon.

"You found this window open, Monsieur le Commissaire," said the Judge.

"That is true," replied the Commissaire confidently, "but it is possible that Monsieur Horton may have disturbed it when he examined it before the murder."

Moira turned quickly.

"The window was securely locked. I left it so. Monsieur Horton found it so. You make nothing of this, either, Monsieur le Commissaire?"

Monsieur Matthieu shook his head and pointed toward the opening.

"My answer to your questions, Madame, is yonder," he said with a grin. "Explain to me how any living man could have descended from that window and I will surrender to you my position and my reputation as Commissaire de Police."

Moira made no reply. She had climbed upon the couch and was already half out of the window, examining the broad ledge outside, while Monsieur Simon, somewhat alarmed lest she should lose her balance, had caught her by the skirt of her dress.

"Be careful, Madame," he warned, "you may fall."

"Have no fear, Monsieur le Juge," she said with a smile. But she had lowered herself to her knees upon the ledge outside and clinging to the jamb of the window was carefully examining every inch of the sill and tin gutter.

Monsieur Matthieu, inside the room, had lighted a cigarette and was puffing at it contentedly, looking on with an amused tolerance at the solicitude of Monsieur Simon, who as he knew was more easily swayed than himself from the paths of his duty by a pretty face or a well-turned ankle. Through the panes of glass he saw that the girl had bent forward at the edge, her eyes near the tin gutter, the fingers of one hand touching the edge, while Monsieur Simon held her other arm and besought her to return. This she did presently, standing for a moment upright in the open window and looking down at them intently, a challenge in her eyes for the Commissaire.

"Did you discover anything, Madame?" he asked politely enough.

Though his professional manner may not have indicated it, Monsieur Matthieu was sorry for her. She had attempted the impossible. Her lover was doomed. But she was handsome – with the fine color that had come into her face from her exertions, and the new gleam of hope that had come into her eyes – handsome, but her effort was futile, so futile to hope to find clues where he, Matthieu, had failed.

She didn't reply and accepting the hand which the gallant Juge d'Instruction offered her, stepped down to the couch and so to the floor.

"You see, Madame," ventured the Commissaire more kindly, "that it would be quite out of the question for the murderer to have descended from the window."

"I have never thought that he did, Monsieur," said Moira dryly.

The Commissaire stared at her for a moment in astonishment. What was the meaning of this sudden assurance in her tone? Could it be possible that this girl had noted something that he had overlooked? That she had evolved a theory out of some intangible bit of evidence that had escaped him? Impossible. And yet curiously enough, he experienced a slight feeling of uneasiness which might have been discomfort had he not been so sure of himself.

"You have perhaps happened upon something that has escaped my eye?" he asked frankly.

"I do not know what your eye saw or what it did not see, Monsieur," she said quietly, "but I have learned nothing to make me change my opinions as to this crime."

"I hope that you will be able to confirm them," said the Commissaire. "If there is anything that I can do – "

"Yes, Monsieur," broke in Moira with precision. "If Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction will grant permission," with a flash of her eyes at Monsieur Simon, "I would be obliged if you will summon for me Monsieur Joubert or any others in the building who followed Monsieur Horton up the stair."

She glanced at Monsieur Simon, who bowed his head in agreement.

"By all means," said the Judge, "if Madame has reason to believe – "

"I ask it, Monsieur le Juge, not as a favor, but as a necessary step in the administration of justice in this case."

"It is little enough. Go, Monsieur. Here are the names. Madame Toupin will direct you."

Monsieur Matthieu hesitated. He did not wish to leave the room. Something had happened to change the manner of this woman. Her eyes glowed – she was authoritative – inspired. He was beginning to believe that after all…

"You will please go at once, Monsieur," the voice of the Judge was saying. "Madame and I will await your return."

And so with a backward glance, Monsieur Matthieu went out.

"You think you have found a clue, Madame?" asked Monsieur Simon with an air of encouragement.

"I don't know, Monsieur – a hope – perhaps a vain one. But you are friendly. You shall see."

And crossing quickly in front of him she went directly to the lay figure and examined it minutely.

"This old skirt, Monsieur, as you will observe, is fastened by buttons and is somewhat twisted to one side."

"Yes, Madame."

"This was the first thing that attracted my attention. But one button holds it, and it is fastened at the wrong button-hole."

"And what does that signify?"

"Merely that it has been tampered with – I did not fasten it in this way, Monsieur," she said positively.

"You are sure?" Monsieur Simon was now as eager as she.

"Absolutely. I am a leisurely person. I have done all the cleaning in this studio myself. I am careful in small matters. It would have been impossible for me to have fastened these buttons as you see them."

"Sapristi! Madame – And you think – ?"

He paused as Moira unbuttoned the old skirt and slipped it down while she moved eagerly around the partially disrobed figure.

"Monsieur!" she gasped in sudden excitement as she pointed to the cotton covering of the mannikin. He looked where she pointed and saw a stain of dirt and dust which extended the full length of the thigh.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"The lay figure has been moved from its iron bracket – "

"And even so, what – ?"

But she had fallen on her knees before it and didn't even hear him, for she suddenly bent forward with a little cry and put her finger into a small tear in the cotton cloth on the outside of the right calf.

"I have it," she muttered excitedly, as though half to herself. "I have it – new – clean on one side, soiled on the other – "

"What, Madame – what?" asked Simon, catching the fire of her eagerness.

"The hole in the leg, Monsieur," she cried. "Don't you see? A piece torn out against some rough surface – "

"Yes, but – "

"And here is the cloth that was torn from it," she gasped, exhibiting a small piece of cotton cloth. "You see? It fits the tear exactly."

Simon took it from her hands and scrutinized it through his glasses. The torn piece was of the same material as the cotton skin of the lay figure, soiled upon one side and clean upon the other.

"Where did you find this piece of cotton, Madame?" he asked in a suppressed tone.

"Outside the window – hanging below a torn edge of the tin gutter, where it must have escaped the eyes of Monsieur le Commissaire."

"Mon Dieu! Then the lay figure must have been outside on the ledge – "

"Exactly. Outside. The stain of dust upon the leg shows how it lay – "

"Magnifique, Madame – "

"But the skirt and the jacket were first removed," she went on breathlessly. "Isn't it obvious? Otherwise there would have been no stain of dirt upon the leg. There is no mark of dirt upon them."

"Quick, Madame. The jacket – "

And with his own hands the Judge helped her remove the Spanish jacket, taking from his pocket a small magnifying glass with which he examined the figure intently.

"By the armpits, Monsieur Simon. It is there the hands would have caught."

Simon obeyed while Moira lifted the arms.

"There's something," he muttered softly.

"A stain," broke in Moira quickly. "I can see it with the naked eye."

It was a faint smudge, of a brownish color like rust.

"The print of a finger?" she mumbled.

"It shall be analyzed. It looks like – "

"The murderer's fingers – stained – "

"If it is blood, Madame – "

"Yes, yes – "

"Then the murderer carried this figure back —afterthe murder – "

"Exactly. And he – "

She paused and then was suddenly silent, for Monsieur Matthieu, the Commissaire, appeared at the door of the studio. He came quickly forward, glancing at the denuded mannikin in the absurd pose of gesticulation into which they had put it. It seemed to be making a ribald gesture at the astonished Commissaire.

"You have left nothing to the imagination, I see, Madame." And then, "You have discovered something?" he asked.

"Perhaps," said Moira briefly. "You have been able to find some of the witnesses?"

"Yes, Madame. The most important. But it would give me pleasure to know – "

"In a moment, Monsieur. I am intent upon this problem. Perhaps we shall learn something. It is Monsieur Joubert that I wished to see particularly. He is a carpenter and lives in the court at the rear – "

"It is he I have found, Madame." And turning aside, Matthieu beckoned toward the corridor, and Monsieur Joubert entered. He was well known to Moira and saluted her, his brow troubled.

"Bon jour, Monsieur Joubert," she said, trying to control the beating of her heart and the labor of her breathing, for here she knew was to be the test of the worth of her discoveries. Everything that she believed, would stand or fall by the testimony of the people who had followed Jim Horton up the stair.

"Bon jour, Madame 'Orton," said the carpenter politely.

"Where were you, Monsieur," she began, "when you heard Monsieur Horton's cry of alarm?"

"In the court below, Madame. I was standing with Monsieur Lavaud, the pastry cook, at the angle of the wall just inside the Loge of Madame Toupin – "