The Circular Study Read online

  CHAPTER II.

  MYSTERIES.

  A moment of indecision, of awe even, elapsed before Mr. Gryce recoveredhimself. The dim light, the awesome silence, the unexpected surroundingsrecalling a romantic age, the motionless figure of him who so lately hadbeen the master of the house, lying outstretched as for the tomb, withthe sacred symbol on his breast offering such violent contradiction tothe earthly passion which had driven the dagger home, were enough tomove even the tried spirit of this old officer of the law and confuse amind which, in the years of his long connection with the force, had hadmany serious problems to work upon, but never one just like this.

  It was only for a moment, though. Before the man behind him had givenutterance to his own bewilderment and surprise, Mr. Gryce had passed inand taken his stand by the prostrate figure.

  That it was that of a man who had long since ceased to breathe he couldnot for a moment doubt; yet his first act was to make sure of the factby laying his hand on the pulse and examining the eyes, whose expressionof reproach was such that he had to call up all his professionalsangfroid to meet them.

  He found the body still warm, but dead beyond all question, and, onceconvinced of this, he forbore to draw the dagger from the wound, thoughhe did not fail to give it the most careful attention before turning hiseyes elsewhere. It was no ordinary weapon. It was a curio from someoriental shop. This in itself seemed to point to suicide, but thedirection in which the blade had entered the body and the position ofthe wound were not such as would be looked for in a case of self-murder.

  The other clews were few. Though the scene had been one of bloodshed anddeath, the undoubted result of a sudden and fierce attack, there were nosigns of struggle to be found in the well-ordered apartment. Beyond afew rose leaves scattered on the floor, the room was a scene of peaceand quiet luxury. Even the large table which occupied the centre of theroom and near which the master of the house had been standing whenstruck gave no token of the tragedy which had been enacted at its side.That is, not at first glance; for though its large top was covered witharticles of use and ornament, they all stood undisturbed and presumablyin place, as if the shock which had laid their owner low had failed tobe communicated to his belongings.

  The contents of the table were various. Only a man of complex tastes andattainments could have collected and arranged in one small compasspipes, pens, portraits, weights, measures, Roman lamps, Venetian glass,rare porcelains, medals, rough metal work, manuscript, a scroll ofmusic, a pot of growing flowers, and--and--(this seemed oddest of all) arow of electric buttons, which Mr. Gryce no sooner touched than thelight which had been burning redly in the cage of fretted ironworkoverhead changed in a twinkling to a greenish glare, filling the roomwith such ghastly tints that Mr. Gryce sought in haste another button,and, pressing it, was glad to see a mild white radiance take the placeof the sickly hue which had added its own horror to the already solemnterrors of the spot.

  "Childish tricks for a man of his age and position," ruminated Mr.Gryce; but after catching another glimpse of the face lying upturned athis feet he was conscious of a doubt as to whether the owner of thatcountenance could have possessed an instinct which was in any wisechildish, so strong and purposeful were his sharply cut features.Indeed, the face was one to make an impression under any circumstances.In the present instance, and with such an expression stamped upon it, itexerted a fascination which disturbed the current of the detective'sthoughts whenever by any chance he allowed it to get between him and hisduty. To attribute folly to a man with such a mouth and such a chin wasto own one's self a poor judge of human nature. Therefore, the lampoverhead, with its electric connection and changing slides, had ameaning which at present could be sought for only in the evidences ofscientific research observable in the books and apparatus everywheresurrounding him.

  Letting the white light burn on, Mr. Gryce, by a characteristic effort,shifted his attention to the walls, covered, as I have said, withtapestries and curios. There was nothing on them calculated to aid himin his research into the secret of this crime, unless--yes, there _was_something, a bent-down nail, wrenched from its place, the nail on whichthe cross had hung which now lay upon the dead man's heart. The cord bywhich it had been suspended still clung to the cross and mingled its redthreads with that other scarlet thread which had gone to meet it fromthe victim's wounded breast. Who had torn down that cross? Not thevictim himself. With such a wound, any such movement would have beenimpossible. Besides, the nail and the empty place on the wall were asfar removed from where he lay as was possible in the somewhatcircumscribed area of this circular apartment. Another's hand, then, hadpulled down this symbol of peace and pardon, and placed it where thedying man's fleeting breath would play across it, a peculiar exhibitionof religious hope or mad remorse, to the significance of which Mr. Grycecould not devote more than a passing thought, so golden were the momentsin which he found himself alone upon this scene of crime.

  Behind the table and half-way up the wall was a picture, the only largepicture in the room. It was the portrait of a young girl of an extremelyinteresting and pathetic beauty. From her garb and the arrangement ofher hair, it had evidently been painted about the end of our civil war.In it was to be observed the same haunting quality of intellectual charmvisible in the man lying prone upon the floor, and though she was fairand he dark, there was sufficient likeness between the two to argue somesort of relationship between them. Below this picture were fastened asword, a pair of epaulettes, and a medal such as was awarded for valorin the civil war.

  "Mementoes which may help us in our task," mused the detective.

  Passing on, he came unexpectedly upon a narrow curtain, so dark of hueand so akin in pattern to the draperies on the adjoining walls that ithad up to this time escaped his attention. It was not that of a window,for such windows as were to be seen in this unique apartment were highupon the wall, indeed, almost under the ceiling. It must, therefore,drape the opening into still another communicating room. And such hefound to be the case. Pushing this curtain aside, he entered a narrowcloset containing a bed, a dresser, and a small table. The bed was thenarrow cot of a bachelor, and the dresser that of a man of luxurioustastes and the utmost nicety of habit. Both the bed and dresser were inperfect order, save for a silver-backed comb, which had been taken fromthe latter, and which he presently found lying on the floor at the otherend of the room. This and the presence of a pearl-handled parasol on asmall stand near the door proclaimed that a woman had been there withina short space of time. The identity of this woman was soon establishedin his eyes by a small but unmistakable token connecting her with theone who had been the means of sending in the alarm to the police. Thetoken of which I speak was a little black spangle, called by millinersand mantua-makers a sequin, which lay on the threshold separating thisroom from the study; and as Mr. Gryce, attracted by its sparkle, stoopedto examine it, his eye caught sight of a similar one on the floorbeyond, and of still another a few steps farther on. The last one layclose to the large centre-table before which he had just been standing.

  The dainty trail formed by these bright sparkling drops seemed to affecthim oddly. He knew, minute observer that he was, that in the manufactureof this garniture the spangles are strung on a thread which, if oncebroken, allows them to drop away one by one, till you can almost followa woman so arrayed by the sequins that fall from her. Perhaps it was thedelicate nature of the clew thus offered that pleased him, perhaps itwas a recognition of the irony of fate in thus making a trap for unwarymortals out of their vanities. Whatever it was, the smile with which heturned his eye upon the table toward which he had thus been led was veryeloquent. But before examining this article of furniture more closely,he attempted to find out where the thread had become loosened which hadlet the spangles fall. Had it caught on any projection in doorway orfurniture? He saw none. All the chairs were cushioned and--But wait!there was the cross! That had a fretwork of gold at its base. Might notthis filagree have caught in her dress as she was tearing down the c
rossfrom the wall and so have started the thread which had given him thisexquisite clew?

  Hastening to the spot where the cross had hung, he searched the floor athis feet, but found nothing to confirm his conjecture until he hadreached the rug on which the prostrate man lay. There, amid the longhairs of the bearskin, he came upon one other spangle, and knew that thewoman in the shiny clothes had stooped there before him.

  Satisfied on this point, he returned to the table, and this timesubjected it to a thorough and minute examination. That the result wasnot entirely unsatisfactory was evident from the smile with which heeyed his finger after having drawn it across a certain spot near theinkstand, and also from the care with which he lifted that inkstand andreplaced it in precisely the same spot from which he had taken it up.Had he expected to find something concealed under it? Who can tell? Adetective's face seldom yields up its secrets.

  He was musing quite intently before this table when a quick step behindhim made him turn. Styles, the officer, having now been over the house,had returned, and was standing before him in the attitude of one who hassomething to say.

  "What is it?" asked Mr. Gryce, with a quick movement in his direction.

  For answer the officer pointed to the staircase visible through theantechamber door.

  "Go up!" was indicated by his gesture.

  Mr. Gryce demurred, casting a glance around the room, which at thatmoment interested him so deeply. At this the man showed some excitement,and, breaking silence, said:

  "Come! I have lighted on the guilty party. He is in a room upstairs."

  "He?" Mr. Gryce was evidently surprised at the pronoun.

  "Yes; there can be no doubt about it. When you see him--but what isthat? Is he coming down? I'm sure there's nobody else in the house.Don't you hear footsteps, sir?"

  Mr. Gryce nodded. Some one was certainly descending the stairs.

  "Let us retreat," suggested Styles. "Not because the man is dangerous,but because it is very necessary you should see him before he sees you.He's a very strange-acting man, sir; and if he comes in here, will besure to do something to incriminate himself. Where can we hide?"

  Mr. Gryce remembered the little room he had just left, and drew theofficer toward it. Once installed inside, he let the curtain drop tillonly a small loophole remained. The steps, which had been graduallygrowing louder, kept advancing; and presently they could hear theintruder's breathing, which was both quick and labored.

  "Does he know that any one has entered the house? Did he see you whenyou came upon him upstairs?" whispered Mr. Gryce into the ear of the manbeside him.

  Styles shook his head, and pointed eagerly toward the opposite door. Theman for whose appearance they waited had just lifted the portiere and inanother moment stood in full view just inside the threshold.

  Mr. Gryce and his attendant colleague both stared. Was this themurderer? This pale, lean servitor, with a tray in his hand on whichrested a single glass of water?

  Mr. Gryce was so astonished that he looked at Styles for explanation.But that officer, hiding his own surprise, for he had not expected thispeaceful figure, urged him in a whisper to have patience, and both,turning toward the man again, beheld him advance, stop, cast one look atthe figure lying on the floor and then let slip the glass with a low crythat at once changed to something like a howl.

  "Look at him! Look at him!" urged Styles, in a hurried whisper. "Watchwhat he will do now. You will see a murderer at work."

  And sure enough, in another instant this strange being, losing allsemblance to his former self, entered upon a series of pantomimicactions which to the two men who watched him seemed both to explain andillustrate the crime which had just been enacted there.

  With every appearance of passion, he stood contemplating the empty airbefore him, and then, with one hand held stretched out behind him in apeculiarly cramped position, he plunged with the other toward a tablefrom which he made a feint of snatching something which he no soonerclosed his hand upon than he gave a quick side-thrust, still at theempty air, which seemed to quiver in return, so vigorous was his actionand so evident his intent.

  The reaction following this thrust; the slow unclosing of his hand froman imaginary dagger; the tottering of his body backward; then the momentwhen with wide open eyes he seemed to contemplate in horror the resultof his own deed;--these needed no explanation beyond what was given byhis writhing features and trembling body. Gradually succumbing to theremorse or terror of his own crime, he sank lower and lower, until,though with that one arm still stretched out, he lay in an inert heap onthe floor.

  "It is what I saw him do upstairs," murmured Styles into the ear of theamazed detective. "He has evidently been driven insane by his own act."

  Mr. Gryce made no answer. Here was a problem for the solution of whichhe found no precedent in all his past experience.