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  “The devil you say!”

  “Oh, yes,” said Mr. Barnes, determined now to make Mr. Burrows a little uncomfortable. “I have no doubt he intends to skip out, but, of course, he cannot get away. You have him shadowed?”

  “Why, no, I have not,” said Mr. Burrows, dejectedly. “You see, I did not connect him in my mind with—”

  “Perhaps he is not connected with the case in your mind, Burrows, but he is connected with it in fact. He is unquestionably the key to the situation at present. With him in our hands we could decide whether it was he or Randal who pawned those rings. Without him we can prove nothing. In short, until you get at him the case is at a standstill.”

  “You are right, Mr. Barnes,” said Mr. Burrows, manfully admitting his error. “I have been an ass. I was so sure about Randal that I did not use proper precautions, and Morgan has slipped through my fingers. But I’ll find his trail, and I’ll track him. I’ll follow him to the opposite ocean if necessary, but I’ll bring him back.”

  “That is the right spirit, Tom. Find him and bring him back if you can. If you cannot, then get the truth out of him. Let me say one thing more. For the present at least, work upon the supposition that it was he who pawned those rings. In that case he has at least two hundred dollars for travelling expenses.”

  “You are right. I’ll begin at once without losing another minute.”

  “Where will you start?”

  “I’ll start where he started—at his own house. He’s left there by now, of course, but I’ll have a look at the place and talk a bit with the neighbors. When you hear from me again, I’ll have Morgan.”

  VIII

  Mr. Barnes returned to his home that night feeling well satisfied with his day’s work. With little real knowledge he had started out in the morning, and within ten hours he had dipped deeply into the heart of the mystery. Yet he felt somewhat like a man who has succeeded in working his way into the thickest part of a forest, with no certainty as to where he might emerge again, or how. Moreover, though he had seemingly accomplished so much during the first day, he seemed destined to make little headway for many days thereafter. On the second day of his investigation he ascertained one fact which was more misleading than helpful. It will be recalled that Mark Quadrant had told him that his brother had a scar on the sole of his foot made by cutting himself whilst in swimming. Mr. Barnes went to the Morgue early, and examined both feet most carefully. There was no such scar, nor was it possible that there ever could have been. The feet were absolutely unmarred. Could it be possible that, in spite of the apparently convincing proof that this body had been correctly identified, nevertheless a mistake had been made?

  This question puzzled the detective mightily, and he longed impatiently for an opportunity to talk with one of the family, especially with the elder brother, Amos. Delay, however, seemed unavoidable. The police authorities, having finally accepted the identification, delivered the body to the Quadrants, and a second funeral occurred. Thus two more days elapsed before Mr. Barnes felt at liberty to intrude, especially as it was not known that he had been regularly retained by Mrs. Quadrant.

  Meanwhile nothing was heard from Burrows, who had left the city, and, as a further annoyance, Mr. Barnes was unable to catch Mr. Mitchel at home though he called three times. Failing to meet that gentleman, and chafing at his enforced inactivity, the detective finally concluded to visit the cemetery in the hope of learning what had occurred when Mr. Mitchel had inspected the ashes. Again, however, was he doomed to disappointment. His request to be allowed to examine the contents of the urn was refused, strict orders to that effect having been imposed by the Chief of the regular detective force.

  “You see,” explained the superintendent, “we could not even let you look into the urn upon the order of one of the family, because they have claimed the body at the Morgue, and so they have no claim on these ashes. If a body was burned that day, then there is a body yet to be accounted for, and the authorities must guard the ashes as their only chance to make out a case. Of course they can’t identify ashes, but the expert chemists claim they can tell whether a human body or only an empty coffin was put into the furnace.”

  “And are the experts making such an analysis?” asked Mr. Barnes.

  “Yes. The Chief himself came here with two of them, the day before yesterday. They emptied out the ashes onto a clean marble slab, and looked all through the pile. Then they put some in two bottles, and sealed the bottles, and then put the balance back in the urn and sealed that also. So, you see, there isn’t any way for me to let you look into that urn.”

  “No, of course not,” admitted the detective, reluctantly. “Tell me, was any one else present at this examination besides the Chief and the two experts?”

  “Yes. A gentleman they called Mitchel, I believe.”

  Mr. Barnes had expected this answer, yet it irritated him to hear it. Mr. Mitchel had information which the detective would have given much to share.

  During the succeeding days he made numerous ineffectual efforts to have an interview with Amos Quadrant, but repeatedly was told that he was “Not at home.” Mrs. Quadrant, too, had left town for a rest at one of their suburban homes, and Mark Quadrant had gone with her. The city house, with its closed shutters, seemed as silent as the grave, and the secret of what had occurred within those walls seemed almost hopelessly buried.

  “What a pity,” thought the detective, “that walls do not have tongues as well as ears.”

  A week later Mr. Barnes was more fortunate. He called at the Quadrant mansion, expecting to once more hear the servant say coldly, “Not at home,” in answer to his inquiry for Mr. Quadrant, when, to his surprise and pleasure, Mr. Quadrant himself stepped out of the house as he approached it. The detective went up to him boldly, and said:

  “Mr. Quadrant, I must have a few words with you.”

  “Must?” said Mr. Quadrant with an angry inflection. “I think not. Move out of my way, and let me pass.”

  “Not until you have given me an interview,” said Mr. Barnes firmly, without moving.

  “You are impertinent, sir. If you interfere with me further, I will have you arrested,” said Mr. Quadrant, now thoroughly aroused.

  “If you call a policeman,” said Mr. Barnes, calmly, “I will have you arrested.”

  “And upon what charge, pray?” said Mr. Quadrant, contemptuously.

  “I will accuse you of instigating the removal of your brother’s body from the coffin.”

  “You are mad.”

  “There are others who hold this view, so it would be wise for you to move carefully in this matter.”

  “Would you object to telling me what others share your extraordinary opinion?”

  “I did not say that it is my opinion. More than that, I will say that it is not my opinion, not at present at all events. But it is the view which is receiving close attention at police headquarters.”

  “Are you one of the detectives?”

  “I am a detective, but not connected with the city force.”

  “Then by what right do you intrude yourself into this affair?”

  Mr. Barnes knew that he must play his best card now, to gain his point with this man. He watched him closely as he answered:

  “I am employed by Mrs. Quadrant.”

  There was an unmistakable start. Amos Quadrant was much disturbed to hear that his sister-in-law had hired a detective, and curiously enough he made no effort to hide his feelings. With some show of emotion he said in a low voice:

  “In that case, perhaps, we should better have a talk together. Come in.”

  With these words he led the way into the house, and invited the detective into the same room wherein he had talked with Mark Quadrant. When they had found seats, Mr. Quadrant opened the conversation immediately.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “John Barnes,”
was the reply.

  “Barnes? I have heard of you. Well, Mr. Barnes, let me be very frank with you. Above all things it has been my wish that this supposed mystery should not be cleared up. To me it is a matter of no consequence who did this thing, or why it was done. Indeed, what suspicions have crossed my mind make me the more anxious not to know the truth. Feeling thus, I should have done all in my power to hinder the work of the regular police. When you tell me that my sister-in-law has engaged your services, you take me so by surprise that I am compelled to think a bit in order to determine what course to pursue. You can readily understand that my position is a delicate and embarrassing one.”

  “I understand that thoroughly, and you have my sympathy, Mr. Quadrant.”

  “You may mean that well, but I do not thank you,” said Mr. Quadrant, coldly. “I want no man’s sympathy. This is purely an impersonal interview, and I prefer to have that distinctly prominent in our minds throughout this conversation. Let there be no misunderstanding and no false pretenses. You are a detective bent upon discovering the author of certain singular occurrences. I am a man upon whom suspicion has alighted; and, moreover, guilty or innocent, I desire to prevent you from accomplishing your purpose. I do not wish the truth to be known. Do we understand one another?”

  “Perfectly,” said Mr. Barnes, astonished by the man’s manner and admiring his perfect self-control and his bold conduct.

  “Then we may proceed,” said Mr. Quadrant.

  “Do you wish to ask me questions, or will you reply to one or two from me?”

  “I will answer yours first, if you will reply to mine afterwards.”

  “I make no bargains. I will answer, but I do not promise to tell you anything unless it pleases me to do so. You have the same privilege. First, then, tell me how it happened that Mrs. Quadrant engaged you in this case.”

  “I called here, attracted merely by the extraordinary features of this case, and Mrs. Quadrant granted me a short interview, at the end of which she offered to place the matter in my hands as her representative.”

  “Ah! Then she did not of her own thought send for you?”

  “No.”

  “You told me that the regular detectives are considering the theory that I instigated this affair. As you used the word instigated, it should follow that some other person, an accomplice, is suspected likewise. Is that the idea?”

  “That is one theory.”

  “And who, pray, is my alleged accomplice?”

  “That I cannot tell you without betraying confidence.”

  “Very good. Next you declared that you yourself do not share this view. Will you tell me on what grounds you exculpate me?”

  “With pleasure. The assumed reason for this act of removing your brother from his coffin was to prevent the cremation. Now it was yourself who wished to have the body incinerated.”

  “You are mistaken. I did not wish it. On the contrary, I most earnestly wished that there should be no cremation. You see I incriminate myself.”

  He smiled painfully, and a dejected expression crossed his face. For an instant he looked like a man long tired of carrying some burden, then quickly he recovered his composure.

  “You astonish me,” said Mr. Barnes. “I was told by Mr. Mark that you insisted upon carrying out your brother’s wish in this matter of disposing of his body.”

  “My brother told you that? Well, it is true. He and I quarrelled about it. He wished to have a regular burial, contrary to our brother’s oft-repeated injunction. I opposed him, and, being the elder, I assumed the responsibility, and gave the orders.”

  “But you have admitted that you did not wish this?”

  “Do we always have our wishes gratified in this world?”

  The detective, watching the man’s face closely, again noted that expression of weariness cross his features, and an instinctive feeling of pity was aroused. Once more the skein became more entangled. His own suspicion against Mark Quadrant rested upon the supposition that the act was committed with the intent of making capital out of it with the widow, and was based upon the theory that Amos wished to have his brother incinerated. If now it should transpire that after all it was Amos who managed the affair, his motive was a higher one, for, while appearing to carry out the wishes of his deceased brother, he must have aimed to gratify the widow, without admitting her to the knowledge that his hand had gained her purpose. This was a higher, nobler love. Was Amos Quadrant of this noble mould? The question crossing the detective’s mind met a startling answer which prompted Mr. Barnes to ask suddenly:

  “Is it true that, speaking of this cremation, you said: ‘Let him burn; he’ll burn in hell anyway’?”

  Amos Quadrant flushed deeply, and his face grew stern as he answered:

  “I presume you have witnesses who heard the words, therefore it would be futile to deny it. It was a brutal remark, but I made it. I was exasperated by something which Mark had said, and replied in anger.”

  “It is a sound doctrine, Mr. Quadrant,” said the detective, “that words spoken in anger often more truly represent the speaker’s feelings than what he says when his tongue is bridled.”

  “Well?”

  “If we take this view, then it is apparent that you did not hold a very high regard for your brother.”

  “That is quite true. Why should I?”

  “He was your brother.”

  “And because of the accident of birth, I was bound to love him? A popular fallacy, Mr. Barnes. He was equally bound, then, to love me, but he did not. Indeed he wronged me most grievously.”

  “By marrying the woman you loved?”

  Mr. Barnes felt ashamed of his question, as a surgeon often must be sorry to insert the scalpel. To his surprise it elicited no retort. Mr. Quadrant’s reply was calmly spoken. All he said was:

  “Yes, he did that.”

  “Did she know?” ventured the detective hesitatingly.

  “No, I think not—I hope not.”

  There was a painful pause. Mr. Quadrant looked down at the floor, while Mr. Barnes watched him, trying to decide whether the man were acting a part with intent to deceive, as he had announced that he would not hesitate to do; or whether he were telling the truth, in which case the nobility of his character was brought more into perspective.

  “Are you sure,” said Mr. Barnes after a pause, “that the body taken from the river was that of your brother Rufus?”

  “Why do you ask that?” said Mr. Quadrant, on the defensive at once. “Can there be any doubt?”

  “Before I reply, let me ask you another question. Did your brother Rufus have a scar on the sole of his foot?”

  The other man started perceptibly, and paused some time before answering. Then he asked:

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Mr. Mark Quadrant told me that his brother had such a scar, caused by gashing his foot while in swimming.”

  “Ah, that is your source of information. Well, when Mark told you that his brother had met with such an accident, he told you the truth.”

  “But did the accident leave a scar?” Mr. Barnes thought he detected a carefully worded evasive answer.

  “Yes, the cut left a bad scar; one easily noticed.”

  “In that case I can reply to your question. If, as you both say, your brother had a scar on the sole of his foot, then there exists considerable doubt as to the identification of the body which was at the Morgue, the body which you have both accepted and buried as being that of your relative. Mr. Quadrant, there was no scar on that body.”

  “Odd, isn’t it?” said Mr. Quadrant, without any sign of surprise.

  “I should say it is very odd. How do you suppose it can be explained?”

  “I do not know, and, as I have told you before, I do not care. Quite the reverse; the less you comprehend this case the better pleased I shall be.”
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  “Mr. Quadrant,” said Mr. Barnes, a little nettled, “since you so frankly admit that you wish me to fail, why should I not believe that you are telling me a falsehood when you state that your brother told me the truth?”

  “There is no reason that I care to advance,” said Mr. Quadrant, “why you should believe me, but if you do not, you will go astray. I repeat, what my brother told you is true.”

  It seemed to the detective that in all his varied experience he had never met with circumstances so exasperatingly intricate. Here was an identification for many reasons the most reliable that he had known, and now there appeared to be a flaw of such a nature that it could not be set aside. If the body was that of Mr. Quadrant, then both these men had lied. If they told the truth, then, in spite of science, the doctors, and the family, the identification had been false. In that case Rufus Quadrant had been cremated after all, and this would account for the statement in Mr. Mitchel’s note that a human body had been incinerated. Could it be that these two brothers were jointly implicated in a murder, and had pretended to recognize the body at the Morgue in order to have it buried and to cover up their crime? It seemed incredible. Besides, the coincidence of the external and internal diseases was too great.

  “I would like to ask you a few questions in relation to the occurrences on the day and evening preceding the funeral,” said Mr. Barnes, pursuing the conversation, hoping to catch from the answers some clue that might aid him.

  “Which funeral?” said Mr. Quadrant.

  “The first. I have been told that you and your brother were present when the widow last viewed the face of her husband, and that at that time, about five o’clock, you jointly agreed that the coffin should not be opened again. Is this true?”

  “Accurate in every detail.”

  “Was the coffin closed at once? That is, before you left the room?”

  “The lower part of the coffin-top was, of course, in place and screwed fast when we entered the room. The upper part, exposing the face, was open. It was this that was closed in my presence.”