"Perhaps you carried corrosive sublimate in your pocket. I didn't find any; but perhaps you once carried it. I tore out the coat pocket in which I found the cigars and subjected it to the test. At sometime there had been corrosive sublimate, in the form of powder or crystals, in the pocket, and in some manner, perhaps because of an imperfection in the package, a minute quantity was loose in your pocket.
"Here was an answer to every question, and more; here was how the cigars were poisoned, and, in combination with the tailor's tag inside your pocket, a short history of your life. Briefly it was like this: Once you had corrosive sublimate in your pocket. For what purpose? First thought-to rid your home of insects. Second thought-if you were boarding, married or unmarried, the task of getting rid of the insects would have been left to the servant; and this would possibly have been the case if you had been living at home. So I assumed for the instant that you were keeping house, and if keeping house, you were married-you bought the poison for use in your own house.
"Now, without an effort, naturally, I had you married, and keeping house. Then what? The tailor's tag, with your name, and the date your clothing was made-one year and three months ago. It is winter clothing. If you had worn it since the poison was loose in your pocket the thing that happened to you to-night would have happened to you before; but it never happened before, therefore I assume that you had the poison early last spring, when insects began to be troublesome, and immediately after that you laid away the suit until this winter. I know you are wearing the suit for the first time this winter, because, again, this thing has not happened before, and because, too, of the faint odor of moth balls. A band of crape on your hat, the picture of a young woman in your watch, and the fact that you are now living at your club, as your bill for last month shows, establish beyond doubt that you are a widower."
"It's perfectly miraculous!" I exclaimed.
"Logic, logic, logic," snapped the irritable little scientist. "You are a lawyer, you ought to know the correlation of facts; you ought to know that two and two make four, not sometimes but all the time."
KIDNAPPED BABY BLAKE, MILLIONAIRE.
I.
Douglas Blake, millionaire, sat flat on the floor and gazed with delighted eyes at the unutterable beauties of a highly colored picture book. He was only fourteen months old, and the picture book was quite the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld. Evelyn Barton, a lovely girl of twenty-two or three years, sat on the floor opposite and listened with a slightly amused smile as Baby Blake in his infinite wisdom discoursed learnedly on the astonishing things he found in the book.
The floor whereon Baby Blake sat was that of the library of the Blake home, in the outskirts of Lynn. This home, handsomely but modestly furnished, had been built by Baby Blake's father, Langdon Blake, who had died four months previously, leaving Baby Blake's beautiful mother, Elizabeth Blake, heart-broken and crushed by the blow, and removing her from the social world of which she had been leader.
Here, quietly, with but three servants and Miss Barton, the nurse, who could hardly be classed as a servant-rather a companion-Mrs. Blake had lived on for the present.
The great house was gloomy, but it had been the scene of all her happiness, and she had clung to it. The building occupied relatively a central position in a plot of land facing the street for 200 feet or so, and stretching back about 300 feet. A stone wall inclosed it.
In Summer this plot was a great velvety lawn; now the first snow of the Winter had left an inch deep blanket over all, unbroken save the cement-paved walk which extended windingly from the gate in the street wall to the main entrance of the home. This path had been cleaned of snow and was now a black streak through the whiteness.
Near the front stoop this path branched off and led on around the building toward the back. This, too, had been cleared of snow, but beyond the back door entrance the white blanket covered everything back to the rear wall of the property. There against the rear wall, to the right as one stood behind the house, was a roomy barn and stable; in the extreme left hand corner of the property was a cluster of tall trees, with limbs outstretched fantastically.
The driveway from the front was covered with snow. It had been several weeks since Mrs. Blake had had occasion to use either of her vehicles or horses, so she had closed the barn and stabled the horses outside. Now the barn was wholly deserted. From one of the great trees a swing, which had been placed there for the delight of Baby Blake, swung idly.
In the Summer Baby Blake had been wont to toddle the hundred or more feet from the house to the swing; but now that pleasure was forbidden. He was confined to the house by the extreme cold.
When the snow began to fall that day about two o'clock Baby Blake had shown enthusiasm. It was the first snow he remembered. He stood at a window of the warm library and, pointing out with a chubby finger, told Miss Barton:
"Me want doe."
Miss Barton interpreted this as a request to be taken out or permitted to go out in the snow.
"No, no," she said, firmly. "Cold. Baby must not go. Cold. Cold."
Baby Blake raised his voice in lusty protestation at this unkindness of his nurse, and finally Mrs. Blake had to pacify him. Since then a hundred things had been used to divert Baby Blake's mind from the outside.
This snow had fallen for an hour, then stopped, and the clouds passed. Now, at fifteen minutes of six o'clock in the evening, the moon glittered coldly and clearly over the unbroken surface of the snow. Star points spangled the sky; the wind had gone, and extreme quiet lay over the place. Even the sound from the street, where an occasional vehicle passed, was muffled by the snow. Baby Blake heard a jingling sleigh bell somewhere in the distance and raised his head inquiringly.
"Pretty horse," said Miss Balton, quickly indicating a splash of color in the open book.
"Pitty horsie," said Baby Blake.
"Horse," said Miss Barton. "Four legs. One, two, three, four," she counted.
"Pitty horsie," said Baby Blake again.
He turned another page with a ruthless disregard of what might happen to it.
"Pitty kitty," he went on, wisely.
"Yes, pretty kitty," the nurse agreed.
"Pitty doggie, 'n' pitty ev'fing, ooo-o-oh," Baby Blake was gravely enthusiastic. "Ef'nit," he added, as his eye caught a full page picture.
"Elephant, yes," said Miss Barton. "Almost bedtime," she added.
"No, no," insisted Baby Blake, vigorously. "Pity ef'nit."
Then Baby Blake arose from his seat on the floor and toddled over to where Miss Barton sat, plumping down heavily, directly in front of her. Here, with the picture book in his hands he lay back with his head resting against her knee. Mrs. Blake appeared at the door.
"Miss Barton, a moment please," she said. Her face was white and there was a strange note in her voice.
A little anxiously, the girl arose and went into the adjoining room with Mrs. Blake, leaving Baby Blake with the picture book outspread on the floor. Mrs. Blake handed her an open letter, written on a piece of wrapping paper in a scrawly, almost indecipherable hand.
"This came in the late afternoon mail," said the mother. "Read it."
" 'We hav maid plans to kiddnap your baby,' " Miss Barton read slowly. " 'Nothig cann bee dun to keep us from it so it wont do no good to tel the polece. If you will git me ten thousan dolers we will not, and will go away. Advertis YES or NOA ann sin your name in a Boston Amurikan. Then we will tell you wat to do. (sined) Three. (3)' "
Miss Barton was silent a moment as she realized what she had read and there was a quick-caught breath.
"A threat to kidnap," said the mother. "Evelyn, Evelyn, can you believe it?"
"Oh, Mrs. Blake," and tears leaped to the girl's eyes quickly. "Oh, the monsters."
"I don't know what to do," said the mother, uncertainly.
"The police, I would suggest," replied the girl, quickly. "I should turn it over to the police immediately."
"Then the newspaper notoriety," said the mother, "and after all it may mean nothing. I think perhaps it would be better for us to leave here to-morrow, and go into Boston for the Winter. I could never live here with this horrible fear hanging over me-if I should lose my baby, too, it would kill me."
"As you say, but I would suggest the police, nevertheless," the girl insisted gently.
"Of course the money is nothing," she went on. "I would give every penny for the boy if I had to, but there's the fear and uncertainty of it. I think perhaps it would be better for you to pack up Douglas's little clothes to-night and to-morrow we will go to Boston to a hotel until we can make other arrangements for the Winter. You need not mention the matter to the others in the house."
"I think perhaps that would be best," said Miss Barton, "but I still think the police should be notified."
The two women left the room together and returned to the library after about ten minutes, where Baby Blake had been looking at the picture book. The baby was not there, and Miss Barton turned and glanced quickly at Mrs. Blake. The mother apparently paid no attention, and the nurse passed into another room, thinking Douglas had gone there.
Within ten minutes the household was in an uproar-Baby Blake had disappeared. Miss Barton, the servants and the distracted mother raced through the roomy building, searching every nook and corner, calling for Douglas. No answer. At last Miss Barton and Mrs. Blake met face to face in the library over the picture book the baby had been admiring.
"I'm afraid it's happened," said the nurse.
"Kidnapped!" exclaimed the mother. "Oh," and with waxen white face she sank back on a couch in a dead faint.