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<h3 align="center">Chapter X A Confession</h3> “Don’t you dare touch me!” Eunice Embury cried, stepping back from the advancing figure of the burly detective. “Go out of my house—Ferdinand, put this person out!” The butler appeared in the doorway, but Shane waved a dismissing hand at him. “No use blustering, Mrs. Embury,” he said, gruffly, but not rudely. “You’d better come along quietly, than to make such a fuss.” “I shall make whatever fuss I choose—and I shall not ‘come along,’ quietly or any other way! I am not intimidated by your absurd accusations, and I command you once more to leave my house, or I will have you thrown out!” Eunice’s eyes blazed with anger, her voice was not loud, but was tense with concentrated rage, and she stood, one hand clenching a chair-back while with the other she pointed toward the door. “Be quiet, Eunice,” said Mason Elliott, coming toward her; “you can’t dismiss an officer of the law like that. But you can demand an explanation. I think, Shane, you are going too fast. You haven’t evidence enough against Mrs. Embury to think of arrest! Explain yourself!” “No explanation necessary. She killed her husband, and she’s my prisoner.” “Hush up, Shane; let me talk,” interrupted Driscoll, whose calmer tones carried more authority than those of his rough partner. “It’s this way, Mr. Elliott. I’m a detective, and I saw at once, that if the doctors couldn’t find the cause of Mr. Embury’s death, it must be a most unusual cause. So I hunted for some clue or some bit of evidence pointing to the manner of his death. Well, when I spied that little medicine dropper, half full of something, I didn’t know what, but—” Here he paused impressively. “But there was no bottle or vial of anything in the cupboard, from which it could have been taken. There was no fluid in there that looked a bit like the stuff in the dropper. So I thought that looked suspicious—as if some one had hidden it there. I didn’t see the whole game then, but I went around to a druggist’s and asked him what was in that dropper. And he said henbane. He further explained that henbane is the common name for hyoscyamin, which is a deadly poison. Now, the doctors were pretty sure that Mr. Embury had not been killed by anything taken into the stomach, so I thought a minute, and, like a flash, I remembered the play of ‘Hamlet’ that I saw last week. “I guess everybody in New York went to see it—the house was crowded. Anyway, I’ve proved by Mrs. Embury’s engagement book that she went—one afternoon, to a matinee—and what closer or more indicative hint do you want? In that play, the murder is fully described, and though many people might think poison could not be introduced through the intact ear in sufficient quantity to be fatal, yet it can be—and I read an article lately in a prominent medical journal saying so. I was interested, because of the Hamlet play. If I hadn’t seen that, I’d never thought of this whole business. But, if I’m wrong, let Mrs. Embury explain the presence of that dropper in her medicine chest.” “I don’t know anything about the thing! I never saw or heard of it before! I don’t believe you found it where you say you did!” Eunice faced him with an accusing look. “You put it there yourself—it’s what you call a frame-up! I know nothing of your old dropper!” “There, there, lady,” Shane put in; “don’t get excited—it only counts against you. Mr. Driscoll, here, wouldn’t have no reason to do such a thing as you speak of! Why would he do that, now?” “But he must have done it,” broke in Miss Ames. “For I use that bathroom of Eunice’s and that thing hasn’t been in it, since I’ve been here.” “Of course not,” and Shane looked at her as at a foolish child; “why should it be? The lady used it, and then put it away.” “Hold on, there, Shane,” Hendricks interrupted. “Why would any one do such a positively incriminating thing as that?” “They always slip up somewhere,” said Driscoll, “after committing a crime, your criminal is bound to do something careless, that gives it all away. Mrs. Embury, how did that dropper get in that medicine chest in your bathroom?” “I scorn to answer!” The cold tones showed no fear, no trepidation, but Eunice’s white fingers interlaced themselves in a nervous fashion. “Do you know anything about it, Miss Ames?” “N—no,” stammered Aunt Abby, trembling, as she looked now at the detectives and then at Eunice. “Well, it couldn’t have put itself there,” went on Driscoll. “Who else has access to that place?” Eunice gave no heed to this speech. She gave no heed to the speaker, but stared at him, unseeingly, her gaze seeming to go straight through him. “Why, the maid,” said Aunt Abby, with a helpless glance toward Elliott and Hendricks, as if beseeching assistance. “The servants must be considered,” said Hendricks, catching at a straw. “They may know something that will help.” “Call the maid,” said Shane, briefly, and, as neither of the women obeyed, he turned to Ferdinand, who hovered in the background, and thundered: “Bring her in—you!” Maggie appeared, shaken and frightened, but when questioned, she answered calmly and positively. “I put that dropper in the medicine closet,” she said, and every one looked toward her. “Where did you get it?” asked Shane. “I found it—on the floor.” “On the floor? Where?” “Beside Miss Ames’ bed.” The girl’s eyes were cast down; she looked at nobody, but gave her answers in a dull, sing-song way, almost as if she had rehearsed them before. “When?” “This morning—when I made up her room.” “Had you ever seen it before?” “No, sir.” “Why did you think it belonged to Miss Ames?” “I didn’t think anything about it. I found it there, and I supposed it belonged to Miss Ames, and I put it away.” “Why did you put it in the medicine chest?” The girl looked up, surprised. “That seemed to me the proper place for it. Whenever I find a bottle of camphor or a jar of cold cream—or anything like that—I always put it in the medicine chest. That’s where such things belong. So I thought it was the right place for the little dropper. Did I do wrong?” “No, Maggie,” Driscoll said, kindly, “that was all right. Now tell us exactly where you found it.” “I did tell you. On the floor, just beside Miss Ames’ bed. Near the head of the bed.” “Well, Miss Ames—I guess it’s up to you. What were you doing with this thing?” “I didn’t have it at all! I never saw it before!” “Come, come, that won’t do! How could it get there?” “I don’t know, but I didn’t put it there.” The old lady trembled pitifully, and looked from one to another for help or guidance. “Of course, she didn’t!” cried Eunice. “You sha’n’t torment my aunt! Cease questioning her! Talk to me if you choose—and as you choose—but leave Miss Ames alone!” She faced her inquisitors defiantly, and even Shane quailed a little before her scornful eyes. “Well, ma’am, as you see, I ain’t got much choice in the matter. Here’s the case. You and your aunt and Mr. Embury was shut in those three rooms. Nobody else could get in. Come morning, the gentleman is dead—murdered. One of you two done it. It’s for us to find out which—unless the guilty party sees fit to confess.” “I do! I confess!” cried Aunt Abby. “I did it, and I’m willing to go to prison!” She was clearly hysterical, and though her words were positive, they by no means carried conviction. “Now, that’s all bosh,” declared Shane. “You’re sayin’ that, ma’am, to shield your niece. You know she’s the murderer and—” Eunice flew at Shane like a wild thing. She grasped his arm and whirled him around toward her as she glared into his face, quivering with indignation. “Coward!” she flung at him. “To attack two helpless women—to accuse me—me, of crime! Why, I could kill you: where you stand—for such an insinuation!” “Say, you’re some tiger!” Shane exclaimed, in a sort of grudging admiration. “But better be careful of your words, ma’am! If you could kill me—ah, there!” The last exclamation was brought forth by the sudden attack of Eunice, as she shook the big man so violently that he nearly lost his balance. “Say, you wildcat! Be careful what you do! You are a tiger!” “Yes,” Aunt Abby giggled, nervously. “Mr. Embury always called her ‘Tiger’.” “I don’t wonder!” and Shane stared at Eunice, who had stepped back but who still stood, like a wild animal at bay, her eyes darting angry fire. “Now, Mrs. Embury, let’s get down to business. Who’s your lawyer? “I am,” declared Alvord Hendricks. “I am her counsel. I represent Mrs. Embury. Eunice, say nothing more. Leave it to me. And, first, Shane, you haven’t enough evidence to arrest this lady. That dropper thing is no positive information against her. It might be the work of the servants—or some intruder. The story of that housemaid is not necessarily law and gospel. Remember, you’d get in pretty bad if you were to arrest Mrs. Sanford Embury falsely! And my influence with your superiors is not entirely negligible. You’re doing your duty, all right, but don’t overstep your authority—or, rather, don’t let your desire to make a sensational arrest cloud your judgment.” “That’s what I think, Mr. Hendricks,” said Driscoll, earnestly; “we’ve found the method, but I’m by no means sure we’ve found the criminal. Leastways, it don’t look sure to me. Eh, Shane?” “Clear enough to me,” the big man growled; but he was quite evidently influenced by Hendricks’ words. “However, I’m willing to wait—but we must put Mrs. Embury under surveillance—” “Under what!” demanded Eunice, her beautiful face again contorted by uncontrollable anger. “I will not be watched or spied upon!” “Hush, Eunice,” begged Elliott. “Try to keep yourself calm. It does no good to defy these men—they are not really acting on their own initiative, but they are merely carrying out their duty as they see it.” “Their duty is to find out who killed my husband!” and Eunice gave Shane another stormy glare. “They cannot do that by accusing two innocent women!” “If you two women can be proved innocent, nobody will be more glad than me,” Shane announced, in a hearty way, that was really generous after Eunice’s treatment of him. “But it beats me to see how it can be proved. You admit, ma’am, nobody could get into Mr. Embury’s room, except you and Miss Ames, don’t you?” “I don’t admit that at all, for the murderer did get in—and did commit the murder—therefore, there must be some means of access!” “Oho! And just how can you suggest that an intruder got in, and got out again, and left those doors fastened on the inside?” “That I don’t know—nor is it my business to find out.” “Maybe you think a flyin’ machine came at the window, ma’am! For nothin’ else could negotiate a ten-story apartment.” “Don’t talk nonsense! But I have heard of keys that unlock doors from the outside—skeleton keys, I think they are called.” “Yes, ma’am, there are such, sure! But they’re keys—and they unlock doors. These doors of yours have strong brass catches that work only on the inside, snap-bolts, they are. And when they’re fastened, nothing from the other side of the door could undo ‘em. But, I say—here you, Ferdinand!” The butler came forward, his face surprised rather than alarmed, and stood at attention. “What do you know of events here last night?” Shane asked him. “Nothing, sir,” and Ferdinand’s face was blankly respectful. “You’d better tell all you know, or you’ll get into trouble.” “Could you—could you make your question a little more definite?” “I will. When Mr. and Mrs. Embury came home last night, were they in good humor?” “I don’t know, sir.” “You do know! You know your employers well enough to judge by their manner whether they were at odds or not. Answer me, man!” “Well, sir, they were, I should judge, a little at odds.” “Oh, they were! In what way did they show it? By quarreling?” “No, sir.” “How, then?” “By not saying anything. But it’s not uncommon for them to be at odds, sir—” “Speak when you’re spoken to! After Mr. Embury went to his room, did you attend him?” “I was in his room, yes.” “Mrs. Embury was in her own room then?” “Yes.” “Her outer door was closed?” “Yes.” “And, therefore, fastened by the snap-bolt?” “Yes, I suppose so.” “Don’t you know so? Don’t you know that it must have been?” “Yes.” “And then—then, when you left Mr. Embury’s room—when you left him for the night—did you close his door?” “I did.” “And that, of itself, locked that door?” “Yes, I suppose so.” “Stop saying you suppose so. You know it did! You’ve lived in this house two years; you know how those doors work—you know your closing that door locked it? Didn’t it?” “Yes, it did. I turned the knob afterward to make sure. I always do that.” Ferdinand now seemed to be as discursive as he was reticent before. “And I know Miss Eunice’s—Mrs. Embury’s door was locked, because she had to unbolt it before I could get in this morning.” “But look here,” Driscoll broke in, “are these doors on that snap-bolt all day? Isn’t that rather an inconvenience?” “Not all day,” vouchsafed Ferdinand. “They can be turned so the bolt doesn’t catch, and are turned that way in the daytime, usually.” “But,” and Driscoll looked at him intently, “you can swear that the bolts were on last night?” “Yes, sir—” “You can’t!” Hendricks shot at him. The lawyer had been listening in silence, but he now refuted Ferdinand. “You don’t know that Mrs. Embury put on the catch of her door when she closed it.” “I do, sir; I heard it click.” “You are very observant,” said Shane; “peculiarly so, it seems to me.” “No, sir,” and Ferdinand looked thoughtful; “but, you see, it’s this way. Every night I hear the click of those locks, and it sort of seems natural to me to listen for it. If it should be forgotten, I’d think it my duty to call attention to it.” “A most careful butler, on my word!” Shane’s tone was a little sneering. “He is, indeed!” Eunice defended; “and I can assert that it is because of his faithfulness and efficiency that we have always felt safe at night from intrusion by marauders.” “And you did lock your door securely last night, Mrs. Embury?” “I most assuredly did! I do every night. But that does not prove that I killed my husband. Nor that Miss Ames did.” “Then your theory—” “I have no theory. Mr. Embury was killed—it is for you detectives to find out how. But do not dare to say—or imply—that it was by the hand of his wife—or his relative!” She glanced fondly at Miss Ames, and then again assumed her look of angry defiance toward the two men who were accusing her. “It is for you to find out how,” said Mason Elliott, gravely. “It is incredible that Mrs. Embury is the guilty one, though I admit the incriminating appearance of the henbane. But I’ve been thinking it over, and while Mr. Driscoll’s surmise that the deed can possibly be traced to one who recently saw the play of ‘Hamlet,’ yet he must remember that thousands of people saw that play, and that therefore it cannot point exclusively toward Mrs. Embury.” “That’s so,” agreed Driscoll. “Who went with you to the play, Mrs. Embury?” “My aunt, Miss Ames; also a friend, Mrs. Desternay. And, I understand you went yourself, Mr. Driscoll. Why single out me for a suspect?” The haughty face turned to him was quite severely critical. “True, Mrs. Embury, why should I? The answer is, motive. You must admit that I had neither motive nor opportunity to kill your husband. Mrs. Desternay, let us say, had neither opportunity nor motive. Miss Ames had opportunity but no motive. And so you, we must all admit, are the only human being who had both opportunity—and motive.” “I did not have motive!” Eunice flushed back. “You talk nonsense! I have had slight differences of opinion with my husband hundreds of time, but that is not a motive for murder! I have a high temper, and at times I am unable to control it. But that does not mean I am a murderess!” “Not necessarily, but it gives a reason for suspecting you, since you are the only person who can reasonably be suspected.” “But hold on, Driscoll, don’t go too fast,” said Mason Elliott; “there may be other people who had motives. Remember Sanford Embury was a man of wide public interests outside of his family affairs. Suppose you turn your attention to that sort of thing.” “Gladly, Mr. Elliott; but when we’ve proved no outsider could get into Mr. Embury’s room, why look for outside motives?” “It seems only fair, to my mind, that such motives should be looked into. Now, for instance, Embury was candidate in a hotly contested coming election—” “That’s so,” cried Hendricks; “look for your murderer in some such connection as that.” “Election to what?” growled Shane. “President of the Metropolitan Athletic Club—a big organization—” “H’m! Who’s the opposing candidate?” “I am,” replied Hendricks, quietly. “You! Well, Mr. Hendricks, where were you last night, when this man was killed?” “In Boston.” Hendricks did not smile, but he looked as if the question annoyed him. “You can prove that?” “Yes, of course. I stayed at the Touraine, was with friends till well after midnight, and took the seven o’clock train this morning for New York, in company with the same men. You can look up all that, at your leisure; but there is a point in what Mr. Elliott says. I can’t think that any of the club members would be so keen over the election as to do away with one of the candidates, but there’s the situation. Go to it.” “It leaves something to be looked into, at any rate,” mused Shane. “Why didn’t you think of it for yourself?” said Hendricks, rather scathingly. “It seems to me a detective ought to look a little beyond his nose!” “I can’t think we’ve got to, in this case,” Shane persisted; “but I’m willing to try. Also, Mrs. Embury, I’ll ask you for the address of the lady who went with you to see that play.” “Certainly,” said Eunice, in a cold voice, and gave the address desired. “And, now, we’ll move on,” said Shane, rising. “You ain’t under arrest, Mrs. Embury—not yet—but I advise you not to try to leave this house without permission—” “Indeed, I shall! Whenever and as often as I choose! The idea of your forbidding me!” “Hush, Eunice,” said Hendricks. “She will not, Mr. Shane; I’m her guaranty for that. Don’t apprehend any insubordination on the part of Mrs. Embury.” “Not if she knows what’s good for herself!” was Shane’s parting shot, and the two detectives went away. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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