"Come in, Mrs. Watson," the lawyer said. But she shook her head and
withdrew: she was the only one in the house who seemed to regret the
dead man, and even she seemed rather shocked than sorry.
I went to the door at the foot of the circular staircase and opened it.
If I could only have seen Halsey coming at his usual hare-brained clip
up the drive, if I could have heard the throb of the motor, I would
have felt that my troubles were over.
But there was nothing to be seen. The countryside lay sunny and quiet
in its peaceful Sunday afternoon calm, and far down the drive Mr.
Jamieson was walking slowly, stooping now and then, as if to examine
the road. When I went back, Mr. Harton was furtively wiping his eyes.
"The prodigal has come home, Miss Innes," he said. "How often the sins
of the fathers are visited on the children!" Which left me pondering.
Before Mr. Harton left, he told me something of the Armstrong family.
Paul Armstrong, the father, had been married twice. Arnold was a son by
the first marriage. The second Mrs. Armstrong had been a widow, with a
child, a little girl. This child, now perhaps twenty, was Louise
Armstrong, having taken her stepfather's name, and was at present in
California with the family.
"They will probably return at once," he concluded "sad part of my
errand here to-day is to see if you will relinquish your lease here in
their favor."
"We would better wait and see if they wish to come," I said. "It seems
unlikely, and my town house is being remodeled." At that he let the
matter drop, but it came up unpleasantly enough, later.
At six o'clock the body was taken away, and at seven-thirty, after an
early dinner, Mr. Harton went. Gertrude had not come down, and there
was no news of Halsey. Mr. Jamieson had taken a lodging in the
village, and I had not seen him since mid-afternoon. It was about nine
o'clock, I think, when the bell rang and he was ushered into the
living-room.
"Sit down," I said grimly. "Have you found a clue that will
incriminate me, Mr. Jamieson?"
He had the grace to look uncomfortable. "No," he said. "If you had
killed Mr. Armstrong, you would have left no clues. You would have had
too much intelligence."
After that we got along better. He was fishing in his pocket, and
after a minute he brought out two scraps of paper. "I have been to the
club-house," he said, "and among Mr. Armstrong's effects, I found
these. One is curious; the other is puzzling."
The first was a sheet of club note-paper, on which was written, over
and over, the name "Halsey B. Innes." It was Halsey's flowing
signature to a dot, but it lacked Halsey's ease. The ones toward the
bottom of the sheet were much better than the top ones. Mr. Jamieson
smiled at my face.