“I went home to the Adams house, making, of course, those footprints in the snow. It was a very cold night, I remember the clear shining stars, but I thought of nothing but my father – my splendid, wonderful father. And I hoped, oh, how I hoped, that some way would be found that he and I could spend our lives together. I didn’t know what he would do – but I prayed to God that some way out might be found.
“The rest you know. Of the manner of my father’s death, I know nothing at all. Of Nogi, I have no knowledge. I kept all this secret at first, because I hoped to shield my father’s name better that way. But I think now, it’s better told. I couldn’t live under the weight of such a secret.
“One more word as to my mother. She has had an admirer for many years, named Carl Melrose. She has kept him at a distance, but, as you know from the telegram she sent me, she has already either married him or promised to. Also, she advised me to tell the whole truth. I have done so.”
Unheeding the others, Lockwood put his arm round the exhausted girl as she fell over toward him. His wonderful calm helped her, and his gentle yet firm embrace gave her fresh courage to endure the strain.
“Thank you, Miss Austin,” and Stone spoke almost reverently. “You have shown marvelous wisdom and bravery and I congratulate you on your entire procedure. You are an exceptional girl, and I am proud to know you.”
This was a great deal for Fleming Stone to say, and Anita acknowledged it with a grateful glance.
Fibsy, his eyes streaming with unchecked tears, came over and knelt before her.
“Oh, Miss Austin!” he sobbed, “Oh, Miss Anita!”
Trask alone remained unmoved, and sat with folded arms and frowning face.
But little attention was paid him, and Stone said, thoughtfully:
“Our problem of the mystery of Doctor Waring’s death is as great as ever.”
“It is,” agreed Lockwood, “but I am sure now, Mr. Stone, that it was a suicide. The motive is supplied, for I knew Doctor Waring so well, I knew the workings of his great and good mind, and I am sure that he felt there was no other course for him. I can see just how he decided that the exposure of all this would react against the reputation of the College. That the sensation and scandal that would fill the papers would harm the standing of the University of Corinth, and that – and that alone – caused his decision. I know him so well, that I can tell you that never, never would he take his life to save himself trouble or sorrow, but for others’ sake – and I include Mrs. Bates – he made the sacrifice.
“I can see – and I am sure of what I say – how he realized that the press and the public would forgive and condone a dead man, when, if he lived, the brunt of the whole matter would fall on his beloved College and on the woman he loved and respected.
“Now – as I feel sure he foresaw – such of this story as must be made public will have far less weight and prominence, than if he were alive. I know all this is so – for, I knew John Waring as few people knew him.”
A grateful glance from John Waring’s daughter thanked him for this tribute.
“That ten thousand dollar check?” Trask said, suddenly, for his mind was still concerned with the financial side.
“I think that must have been sent to my mother,” said Anita. “She, as I told you, returned to the use of her maiden name, and during our interview, my father told me he should write her at once and send her money. I feel sure he did do so – ”
“Without doubt,” Lockwood said; “and if so, the letter would have been mailed with the collection next morning. The returning voucher will show.”
“Also the letter he wrote my mother will corroborate all I have told you,” said Anita, and both her assertion and Gordon’s, later came true.
“I felt,” Anita said, by way of further explanation, “that Mrs. Bates ought to know all. So, when Mrs. Adams practically put me out of her house, and I had no wish to accept Mr. Trask’s invitation to come over here, nor,” she smiled affectionately at Lockwood, “could I fall in with your crazy plans – I just went next door and told Mrs. Bates all about it. She was very dear and sweet to me, and now, if you please, I will go back there. I am weary and exhausted – I cannot stand any more. But when you want me, I can be found at Mrs. Bates’. I leave all matters to be decided or settled, in the hands of Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Stone. Fibsy, dear, will you escort me home?”
With a suddenly acquired dignity, Fibsy rose, and stood by her side, and in a moment the two went away together.
When the boy returned the others were absorbed in the discussion of the mysterious death of John Waring.
“I’m inclined to give it up,” Fleming Stone said, thinking deeply.
“Don’t do it, F. Stone,” Fibsy said, earnestly. “It’s better to find out. You never have gave up a case.”
“No. Well, Fibs, which way shall we look?”
A strange embarrassment came over the boy’s face, and then he said, diffidently:
“Say, gentlemen, could I be left alone in this room for a little while? I don’t say I kin find out anythin’ – but I do wanta try.”
The lapse into careless enunciation told Stone how much in earnest his young colleague was, and he rose, saying, “You certainly may, my boy. The rest of us will have a conference in some other room, as to what part of Miss Austin’s story must be made public.”
Left to himself, Fibsy went at once to the bookcase that held the defaced copy of Martial, that John Waring had been reading the night he died.
Opening the volume at the blood-stained page, the unlettered boy eagerly read the lines. Tried to read them, rather, and groaned in spirit because he knew no Latin.
Small wonder that he was nonplused, for this was all he read:
MARTIAL’S EPIGRAMS
Liber IV, Epigram XVIII
Qua vicina pluit Vipsanis porta columnis
Et madet assiduo lubricus imbre lapis,
In iugulum pueri, qui roscida tecta subibat,
Decidit hiberno praegravis unda gelu:
Cumque peregisset miseri crudelia fata,
Tabuit in calido vulnere mucro tener.
Quid non saeva sibi voluit Fortuna licere?
Aut ubi non mors est, si iugulatis aquae?
His chin in his hands, he pored over the Latin in utter despair, and rising, started for the door.
Then he paused; “I must do it myself – ” he murmured: “I must.”
So he hunted the shelves until he found a Latin Dictionary.
He was not entirely unversed in the rudiments of the language, for Stone had directed his education at such odd hours as he could find time for study.
And so after some hard and laborious digging, Fibsy at last gathered the gist of the Latin stanza.
His eyes shone, and he stared about the room.
“It ain’t possible – ” he told himself, “and yet – gee, there ain’t nothing else possible!” He rose and looked out at every window, he noted carefully the catches – he paced from the desk to the small rear windows of the room, and back again.
“It’s the only thing,” he reiterated, “the only thing. Oh, gee! what a thing!”
He went in search of Stone, and found the three men shut in the living room and with them was Nogi.
Stone’s persevering efforts, by advertisements and circulars had at last succeeded, and the impassive and non-committal Japanese was there, and quite willing to tell all he knew.
Fibsy interrupted his story.
“Go back,” he directed, “to the beginning. Let me hear it all. It’s O. K., F. S.”
“I was attending to my dining-room duties,” Nogi said, “and I had taken the water tray to the study. I was weary and hoped the master would soon retire. So, I occasionally peeped through the small window from the dining-room. I saw a lady come and make a visit, and then I saw her and I heard her go away. Then I hoped the master would go to bed. But, no – he was very busy. He wrote letters, he burned some papers, he moved about much. He was restless, disturbed. Then he sat at his desk and read his book.”
“This one?” cried Fibsy, excitedly waving the Martial.
“I think so – one like that, anyway.”
“This was the one! Go on.”
“Then – oh, it was strange! Then the master got up, went to the small window at the back of the room – ”
“Which one?”
“The one by the big globe, and he opened it. But for a moment – ”
“Did he put his hand out?” Fibsy cried.
“Yes, I suppose to see if it rained. Yes, he put his hand out for a moment, then he closed the window.”
“And locked it?” asked Fibsy.
“It locks itself, with a snap catch. Then – ah, here is the strange thing! Then he went back, sat at his desk, and in a moment he fell over and the blood spurted out.”
“Didn’t he stab himself?” Fibsy asked.
“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to do anything but scratch his ear, and over he fell! Such a sight! I was afraid, and I ran away – fast.”
“All very well,” said Stone, “but what became of the weapon?”
“I know,” Fibsy almost screamed, in his excitement. “Oh, F. Stone – I know!”
“Well, tell us, Terence – but steady, now, my boy. Don’t get too excited.”
“No, sir,” and the lad grew suddenly quiet. “But I know. Wait just a minute, sir. Where are the photographs of the house that the detectives took the day after?”
“I’ll get them,” Lockwood said, and left the room.
He returned, and Fibsy found a magnifying glass and looked carefully at certain pictures.
“It proves,” he said, solemnly. “F. Stone, you have solved your greatest case!”
It was characteristic of the boy, that although the solution was his own, his deference to Stone was sincere and un-self-conscious.
“Please,” he said, “I don’t know Latin, but you will find the explanation of Doctor Waring’s death on that red stained page. He was reading Martial, as we know, and – ” he pointed to the Epigram on the page in question, “as he read that, he found a way out.”
The grave statement was impressive, and Stone took the book.
“Shall I translate, or read the Latin aloud?” he asked the others.
“Wait a minute, I’ll get a Martial in English,” Lockwood said, out of consideration for Trask’s possible ignorance of the dead language.
“What number is the Epigram?” he asked, returning.
Stone told him, and Lockwood found the place, and passed the English version to Stone. Aloud, the detective read this:
TRANSLATION
Book IV, Epigram 18
On a youth killed by the fall of a piece of ice.
Just where the gate near the portico of Agrippa is always dripping with water, and the slippery pavement is wet with constant showers, a mass of water, congealed by winter’s cold, fell upon the neck of a youth who was entering the damp temple, and, when it had inflicted a cruel death on the unfortunate boy, the weapon melted in the warm wound it had made. What cruelties does not Fortune permit? Or where is not death to be found, if you, the waters, turn cut-throats.
“And so you see,” Fibsy broke the ensuing silence, “he decided to stab himself with an icicle, and he did. He did!” he repeated, triumphantly, “he went to that window back by the big globe and got one – and here’s the proof! Look through the glass, F. S.”
Stone did so, and without doubt, the fringe of icicles that hung from that particular window sash showed one missing! It was the very window that Nogi stated Waring had opened, and had put his hand out of for a moment.
Clearly, he had broken off an icicle, strong and firm on that freezing night, had returned to his chair, and inspired by the story of the youth under the portico of Agrippa, had stabbed his own jugular vein with the sharp, round point, and had fallen unconscious.
The icicle, melting in the wound, had disappeared, and death had followed in a moment or two.
They went to the study, and Nogi was made to imitate the movements he saw Doctor Waring make. It left no doubt of the exact facts and the mystery was solved.
“Do you suppose he meant to make it seem a murder?” asked Stone, thoughtfully.
“He did not!” defended Lockwood. “That is he did not mean to implicate anybody. He was a man amenable to sudden suggestion, and apt to follow it. I am certain the idea came to him, as he read his book, and in the impulse of the moment he rose, got the implement and did the deed. It was like him to read that book after his talk with his daughter. He often resorted to reading for a time to clear his mind for some important decision. Had he not read that very page, he would in all probability not have taken his life at that time.”
“There can be no doubt of it all,” said Stone. “Fibsy, the credit of the discovery is yours. You did a great piece of work.”
Fibsy blushed with delight at Stone’s praise, which he cared for more than anything else in life, but he said:
“Aw, I just chanced on it. But I found out another thing! While I was workin’ on that translatin’ business, the telephone rang. I answered, but somebody took it on an extension, so I hung up.
“But I was waitin’ quite a few minutes, and, what do you think? I happened to rest my forehead on the telephone transmitter, and – ”
“The red ring!” cried Stone. “Of course!”
“Of course,” Fibsy repeated. “Pokin’ around for a Latin Dictionary, I passed a lookin’ glass, and there on me noble forehead I saw a red ring, about two inches across. It’s gone now.”
“Yes,” Stone said. “Without doubt, Doctor Waring was telephoning – or perhaps was answering a call and he rested his head on the instrument.”
“He often did that,” said Lockwood, “but I never noticed a ring left.”
“In life,” Stone said, “it would disappear quickly. But if it happened just before he died, rigor mortis would preserve the mark. Any way it must have been that.”
The solution of the mystery, so indubitably the true one, was accepted by the police.
The matter was given as little publicity as possible, for Anita and Mrs. Bates, the two most deeply concerned both wished it so. No stigma of cowardice rested on John Waring’s name, for all who knew him knew that his act was the deed of a martyr to circumstances and was prompted by a spirit of loyalty to his College and unwillingness to let his own misfortunes in any way redound to its disparagement.
He trusted, they felt sure, that the truth would never be discovered and that the tragedy of his death would preclude blame or censure.
Himself, he never thought of, in his unselfish life or equally unselfish death.
Trask, perforce, resigned all claim to the estate, and Anita and her mother arranged matters between themselves.
The assumption was that John Waring’s will, which he burned, had been made in Mrs. Bates’ favor, but on learning of his nearer heirs, he destroyed it.
“Anita Waring,” Lockwood murmured softly when at last they were alone together.
“I love the name,” she said, “and it is really mine.”
“But it will be yours so short a time, it’s scarcely worth while to use it,” Gordon returned. “It will be a short time, won’t it, sweetheart?”
“Yes, indeed! I want to go away from Corinth forever. I love my father’s memory, but I can’t stand these scenes. I am tired of mystery in name and in deed. I just want to be – Anita Lockwood.”
Whereupon Gordon lost his head entirely.