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The Yellow Streak

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Yet there had been but one shot! If only he had been able to find that
bullet in the rosery! Robin thought ruefully of his long hunt among the
sopping rose-bushes.

Yes, there had been only one shot. Mary Trevert had stated it
definitely. Besides, the bullet that had killed Hartley Parrish had been
fired from his own revolver and had been found in the body. Robin Greve
felt the murder theory collapsing about him. But the suicide theory did
not stand up, either. What possible, probable motive had Hartley Parrish
for taking his own life?

"He wasn't the man to do it!"

The wheels of the train took up the rhythm of the phrase and dinned it
into his ears.

"He wasn't the man to do it!"

The riddle seemed more baffling than ever.

Robin thrust one hand into his right-hand pocket to get his pipe, his
other hand into his left-hand pocket to find his pouch. His left hand
came into contact with a little ball of paper.

He drew it out. It was the little ball of slatey-blue paper he had found
on the floor of the library beside Hartley Parrish's dead body.




CHAPTER XII


MR. MANDERTON IS NONPLUSSED

Horace Trevert walked abruptly into Mary's Chinese boudoir. Lady
Margaret and the girl were standing by the fire.

"Well," said Horace, dropping into a chair, "he's gone!"

"Who?" said Lady Margaret.

"Robin," answered the boy, "and I must say he took it very well ..."

"You don't mean to tell me, Horace," said his mother, "that you have
actually sent Robin Greve away ...?"

Mary Trevert put her hand on her mother's arm.

"I wished it, Mother. I asked Horace to send him away ..."

"But, my dear," protested Lady Margaret.

Mary interrupted her impatiently.

"Robin Greve was impossible here. I had to ask him to go. I suppose he
can come back if ... if they want him for the inquest ..."

Lady Margaret was looking at her daughter in a puzzled way. She was a
woman of the world and had brought her daughter up to be a woman of the
world. She knew that Mary was not impulsive by nature. She knew that
there was a wealth of good sense behind those steady eyes.

In response to a look from his mother, Horace got up and left the room.

"Mary, dear," said the older woman, "don't you think you are making a
mistake?"

The girl turned away, one slim shoe tapping restlessly against the brass
rail of the fireplace.

"My dear," her mother went on, "remember I have known Robin Greve all
his life. His father, the Admiral, was a very old friend of mine. He was
the very personification of honour. Robin is very fond of you ... no, he
has told me nothing, but I _know_. Don't you think it is rather hard on
an old friend to turn him away just when you most want him?"

There was a heightened colour in the girl's face as she turned and
looked her mother in the face.

"Robin has not behaved like a friend, Mother," she answered. "He knows
more than he pretends about ... about this. And he lets me find out
things from the servants when he ought to have told me himself. If he is
suspected of having said something to Hartley which made him do this
dreadful thing, he has only himself to thank. I _did_ try to shield
him--before I knew. But I'm not going to do so any more. If he stays I
shall have the police suspecting me all the time. And I owe something
to Hartley ..."

Her mother sighed a soft little sigh. She said nothing. She was a very
wise woman.

"Robin left me to go to the library ... I am sure of that ..." Mary went
on breathlessly.

"Why?" her mother asked.

The girl hesitated.

Then she said slowly:

"You and I have always been good pals, Mother, so I may as well tell
you. Robin had just asked me to marry him. So I told him I was engaged
to Hartley. He went on in the most awful way, and said that I was
selling myself and that I would not be the first girl that Hartley had
kept ..."

She broke off and raised her hands to her face. Then she put her elbows
on the mantel-shelf and burst into tears.

"Oh, it was hateful," she sobbed.

Her mother put her arm round her soothingly.

"Well, my dear," she said, "Robin was always fond of you, and I dare say
it was a shock to him. When men feel like that about a girl they
generally say things they don't mean ..."

Mary Trevert straightened herself up and dropped her hands to her side.
She faced her mother, the tear-drops glistening on her long lashes.

"He meant it, every word of it. And he was perfectly right. I _was_
selling myself, and you know I was, Mother. Do you think we can go on
for ever like this, living on credit and dodging tradesmen? I meant to
marry Hartley and stick to him. But I never thought ... I never
guessed ... that Robin ..."

"I know, my dear," her mother interposed, "I know. Perhaps it doesn't
sound a very proper thing to say in the circumstances, but now that poor
Hartley is gone, there is no reason whatsoever why you and Robin ..."

The Treverts were a hot-tempered race. Lady Margaret's unfinished
sentence seemed to infuriate the girl.

"Do you think I'd marry Robin Greve as long as I thought he knew the
mystery of Hartley's death!" she cried passionately. "I was willing to
give up my self-respect once to save us from ruin, but I won't do it
again. I'm not surprised to find you thinking I am ready to marry Robin
and live happy ever after on poor Hartley's money. But I've not sunk so
low as that! If you ever mention this to me again, Mother, I promise you
I'll go away and never come back!"

"My dear child," temporized Lady Margaret, eyebrows raised in protest
at this outburst, "of course, it shall be as you wish. I only
thought ..."

But Mary Trevert was not listening. She leant on the mantel-shelf, her
dark head in her hands, and she murmured:

"The tragedy of it! My God, the tragedy of it!"

Lady Margaret twisted the rings on her long white fingers.

"The tragedy of it, my dear," she said, "is that you have sent away the
man you love at a time when you will never need him so badly again ..."

There was a discreet tapping at the door.

"Come in!" said Lady Margaret.

Bude appeared.

"Mr. Manderton, the detective, my lady, was wishing to know whether he
might see Miss Trevert ..."

"Yes. Ask him to come up here," commanded Lady Margaret.

"He is without--in the corridor, my lady!"

He stepped back and in a moment Mr. Manderton stepped into the room,
big, burly, and determined.

He made a little stiff bow to the two ladies and halted irresolute near
the door.

"You wished to see my daughter, Mr. Manderton," said Lady Margaret.

The detective bowed again.

"And you, too, my lady," he said. "Allow me!"

He closed the door, then crossed to the fireplace.

"After I had seen you and Miss Trevert last night, my lady," he began,
"I had a talk with Mr. Jeekes, Mr. Parrish's principal secretary, who
came down by car from London as soon as he heard the news. My lady, I
think this is a fairly simple case!"

He paused and scanned the carpet.

"Mr. Jeekes tells me, my lady," he went on presently, "that Mrs Fairish
had been suffering from neurasthenia and a weak heart brought on by too
much smoking. It appears that he had consulted, within the last two
months, two leading specialists of Harley Street about his health. One
of these gentlemen, Sir Winterton Maire, ordered him to knock off all
work and all smoking for at least three months. He will give evidence to
this effect at the inquest. Mr. Parrish disregarded these orders as he
was wishful to put through his scheme for Hornaway's before taking a
rest. Mr. Jeekes can prove that. In these circumstances, my lady...."

"Well?"

Lady Margaret, in her black crêpe de chine dress, setting off the
silvery whiteness of her hair, was a calm, unemotional figure as she sat
in her lacquer chair.

"Well?" she asked again.

"Well," said the detective, "the verdict will be one of 'Suicide whilst
of unsound mind,' and in my opinion the medical evidence will be
sufficient to bring that in. There will not be occasion, I fancy, my
lady, to probe any farther into the motives of Mr. Parrish's action...."

"And are you personally satisfied"--Mary's voice broke in clear and
unimpassioned--"are you personally satisfied, Mr. Manderton, that Mr.
Parrish shot himself?"

The detective cast an appealing glance at the tips of his well-burnished
boots.

"Yes, Miss, I think I may say I am...."

"And what about the evidence of Bude, who said he heard voices in the
library...."

Mr. Manderton gave his shoulders the merest suspicion of a shrug, raised
his hands, and dropped them to his sides.

"I had hoped, my lady," he said, throwing a glance at Lady Margaret,
"and you, Miss, that I had made it clear that in the circumstances we
need not pursue that matter any further...."

Lady Margaret rose. Her dominating personality seemed to fill the room.

"We are extremely obliged to you, Mr. Manderton," she said, "for the
able and discreet way in which you have handled this case. I sometimes
meet the Chief Commissioner at dinner. I shall write to Sir Maurice and
tell him my opinion."

Mr. Manderton reddened a little.

"Your ladyship is too good," he said.

Lady Margaret bowed to signify that the interview was at an end. But
Mary Trevert left her side and walked to the door.

"Will you come downstairs with me, Mr. Manderton," she said. "I should
like to speak to you alone for a minute!"

She led the way downstairs through the hall and out into the drive. A
pale sun shone down from a grey and rainy sky, and the damp breeze
blowing from the sodden trees played among the ringlets of her dark
hair.

"We will walk down the drive," she said to the detective, who, rather
astonished, had followed her. "We can talk freely out of doors."

They took a dozen steps in silence. Then she said:

"Who was it speaking to Mr. Parrish in the library?"

"Undoubtedly Mr. Greve," replied the man without hesitation.

"Why undoubtedly?" asked the girl.

"It could have been no one else. We know that he left you hot to get at
Mr. Parrish and have words with him. Bude heard them talking with voices
raised aloud...."

"But if the door were locked?"

"Mr. Parrish may have opened it and locked it again, Mr. Greve getting
out by the window. But there are no traces of that ... one would look to
find marks on the paint on the inside. Besides, a little test we made
this morning suggests that Mr. Greve spoke to Mr. Parrish through the
window...."

"Was the window open?"

"Yes, Miss, it probably was. The fire had been smoking in the library.
Mr. Parrish had complained to Bude about it. Besides, we have found Mr.
Parrish's finger-prints on the inside of the window-frame. Outside we
found other finger-prints ... Sir Horace's. Sir Horace was good enough
to allow his to be taken."

The girl looked at the detective quickly.

"Were there any other finger-prints except Horace's on the outside?" she
asked.

Mr. Manderton shook his head.

"No, Miss," he answered.

They had reached the lodge-gates at the beginning of the drive and
turned to retrace their steps to the house.

"Then we shall never know exactly why Mr. Parrish did this thing?"
hazarded Mary.

Mr. Manderton darted her a surreptitious glance.

"We shall see about that," he said.

There was menace in his voice.

Mary Trevert stopped. She put her hand on the detective's arm.

"Mr. Manderton," she said, "if you are satisfied, then, believe me, I
am!"

The detective bowed.

"Miss Trevert," he said,--and he spoke perfectly respectfully though his
words were blunt,--"I can well believe that!"

The girl looked up quickly. She scanned his face rather apprehensively.

"What do you mean?" she asked, "I don't understand...."

"I mean," was the detective's answer, given in his quiet, level voice,
"that when you attempted to mislead Inspector Humphries you did nobody
any good!"

The girl bent her head without replying, and in silence they regained
the house. At the house door they parted, Mary going indoors while the
detective remained standing on the drive. Very deliberately he produced
a short briar pipe, cut a stub of dark plug tobacco from a flat piece he
carried in his pocket, crammed the tobacco into his pipe, and lit it.
Reflectively he blew a thin spiral of smoke into the still air.

"_He_ told me about that fat butler's evidence," he said to himself;
"_he_ put me wise about that window being open; _he_ gave me the office
about the paint on the finger-nails of Mr. H.P."

He ticked off each point on his fingers with the stem of his pipe.

"Why?" said Mr. Manderton aloud, addressing a laurel-bush.




CHAPTER XIII


JEEKES

Mr. Albert Edward Jeekes, Hartley Parrish's principal private secretary,
lunched with Lady Margaret, Mary and Horace. Dr. Romain seemed not to
have got over his embarrassment of the morning, for he did not put in an
appearance.

Mr. Jeekes was an old young man who supported bravely the weight of his
Christian names, a reminder of his mother having occupied some small
post in the household of Queen Victoria the Good. He might have been any
age between 35 and 50 with his thin sandy hair, his myopic gaze, and his
habitual expression of worried perplexity.

He was a shorthand-writer and typist of incredible dexterity and speed
which, combined with an unquenchable energy, had recommended him to
Hartley Parrish. Accordingly, in consideration of a salary which he
would have been the first to describe as "princely," he had during the
past four years devoted some fifteen hours a day to the service of Mr.
Hartley Parrish.

He was unmarried. When not on duty, either at St. James's Square,
Harkings, or Hartley Parrish's palatial offices in Broad Street, he was
to be found at one of those immense and gloomy clubs of indiscriminate
membership which are dotted about the parish of St. James's, S.W., and
to which Mr. Jeekes was in the habit of referring in Early-Victorian
accents of respect.

"When I heard the news at the club, Miss Trevert," said Jeekes, "you
could have knocked me down with a feather. Mr. Parrish, as all of us
knew, worked himself a great deal too hard, sometimes not knocking off
for his tea, even, and wore his nerves all to pieces. But I never
dreamed it would come to this. Ah! he's a great loss, and what we shall
do without him I don't know. There was a piece in one of the papers
about him to-day--perhaps you saw it?--it called him 'one of the
captains of industry of modern England.'"

"You were always a great help to him, Mr. Jeekes," said Mary, who was
touched by the little man's hero-worship; "I am sure you realized that
he appreciated you."

"Well," replied Mr. Jeekes, rubbing the palms of his hands together, "he
did a great deal for _me_. Took me out of a City office where I was
getting two pound five a week. That's what he did. It was a shipping
firm. I tell you this because it has a bearing, Miss Trevert, on what
is to follow. Why did he pick me? I'll tell you.

"He was passing through the front office with one of our principals when
he asked him, just casually, what Union Pacific stood at. The boss
didn't know.

"'A hundred and eighty-seven London parity,' says I. He turned round and
looked at me. 'How do you know that?' says he, rather surprised, this
being in a shipping office, you understand.

"'I take an interest in the markets,' I replied. 'Do you?' he says.
'Then you might do for me,' and tells me to come and see him."

"I went. He made me an offer. When I heard the figure ... my word!"

Mr. Jeekes paused. Then added sadly:

"And I had meant to work for him to my dying day!"

They were in the billiard-room seated on the selfsame settee, Mary
reflected, on which she and Robin had sat--how long ago it seemed,
though only yesterday! Mary had carried the secretary off after luncheon
in order to unfold to him a plan which she had been turning over in her
mind ever since her conversation with the detective.

"And what are you going to do now, Mr. Jeekes?" she asked.

The little man pursed up his lips.

"Well," he said, "I'll have to get something else, I expect. I'm not
expecting to find anything so good as I had with Mr. Parrish. And things
are pretty crowded in the City, Miss Trevert, what with all the boys
back from the war, God bless 'em, and glad we are to see 'em, I'm sure.
I hope you'll realize, Miss Trevert, that anything I can do to help to
put Mr. Parrish's affairs straight...."

"I was just about to say," Mary broke in, "that I hope you will not
contemplate any change, Mr. Jeekes. You know more about Mr. Parrish's
affairs than anybody else, and I shall be very glad if you will stay on
and help me. You know I have been left sole executrix...."

"Miss Trevert,"--the little man stammered in his embarrassment,--"this
is handsome of you. I surely thought you would have wished to make your
own arrangements, appoint your own secretaries...."

Mr. Jeekes broke off and looked at her, blinking hard.

"Not at all," said Mary. "Everything shall be as it was. I am sure that
Mr. Bardy will approve. Besides, Mr. Jeekes, I want your assistance in
something else...."

"Anything in my power...." began Jeekes.

"Listen," said Mary.

She was all her old self-composed self now, a charming figure in her
plain blue serge suit with a white silken shirt and black tie--the best
approach to mourning her wardrobe could afford. Already the short winter
afternoon was drawing in. Mysterious shadows lurked in the corners of
the long and narrow room.

"Listen," said Mary, leaning forward. "I want to know why Mr. Parrish
killed himself. I mean to know. And I want you, Mr. Jeekes, to help me
to find out,"

Something stirred ever so faintly in the remote recesses of the
billiard-room. A loose board or something creaked softly and was silent.

"What was that?" the girl called out sharply. "Who's there?"

Mr. Jeekes got up and walked over to the door. It was ajar. He closed
it.

"Just a board creaking," he said as he resumed his seat.

"I want your aid in finding out the motive for this terrible
deed,"--Mary Trevert was speaking again,--"I can't understand.... I
don't see clear...."

"Miss Trevert," said Mr. Jeekes, clearing his throat fussily, "I fear we
must look for the motive in the state of poor Mr. Parrish's nerves. An
uncommonly high-strung man he always was, and he smoked those long
black strong cigars of his from morning till night. Sir Winterton Maire
told him flatly--Mr. Parrish, I recollect, repeated his very words to me
after Sir Winterton had examined him--that, if he did not take a
complete rest and give up smoking, he would not be answerable for the
consequences. Therefore, Miss Trevert...."

"Mr. Jeekes," answered the girl, "I knew Mr. Parrish pretty well. A
woman, you know, gets to the heart of a man's character very often
quicker than his daily associates in business. And I know that Mr.
Parrish was the last man in the world to have done a thing like that. He
was so ... so undaunted. He made nothing of difficulties. He relied
wholly on himself. That was the secret of his success. For him to have
killed himself like this makes me feel convinced that there was some
hidden reason, far stronger, far more terrible, than any question of
nerves...."

Leaning forward, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, Mary Trevert
raised her dark eyes to the little secretary's face.

"Many men have a secret in their lives," she said in a low voice. "Do
you know of anything in Mr. Parrish's life which an enemy might have
made use of to drive him to his death?"

Her manner was so intense that Mr. Jeekes quite lost his
self-composure. He clutched at his _pince-nez_ and readjusted them upon
his nose to cover his embarrassment. The secretary was not used to
gazing at beautiful women whose expressive features showed as clearly as
this the play of the emotions.

"Miss Trevert," he said presently, "I know of no such secret. But then
what do I--what does any one--know of Mr. Parrish's former life?"

"We might make enquiries in South Africa?" ventured the girl.

"I doubt if we should learn anything much through that," said the
secretary. "Of course, Mr. Parrish had great responsibilities and
responsibility means worry...."

A silence fell on them both. From somewhere in the dark shadows above
the fire glowing red through the falling twilight a clock chimed once.
There was a faint rustling from the neighborhood of the door. Mr. Jeekes
started violently. A coal dropped noisily into the fireplace.

"There was something else," said Mary, ignoring the interruption, and
paused. She did not look up when she spoke again.

"There is often a woman in cases like this," she began reluctantly.

Mr. Jeekes looked extremely uncomfortable.

"Miss Trevert," he said, "I beg you will not press me on that
score...."

"Why?" asked the girl bluntly.

"Because ... because"--Mr. Jeekes stumbled sadly over his
words--"because, dear me, there are some things which really I couldn't
possibly discuss ... if you'll excuse me...."

"Oh, but you can discuss everything, Mr. Jeekes," replied Mary Trevert
composedly. "I am not a child, you know. I am perfectly well aware that
there's a woman somewhere in the life of every man, very often two or
three. I haven't got any illusions on the subject, I assure you. I never
supposed for a moment that I was the first woman in Mr. Parrish's
life...."

This candour seemed to administer a knock-out blow to the little
secretary's Victorian mind. He was speechless. He took off his
_pince-nez_, blindly polished them with his pocket-handkerchief and
replaced them upon his nose. His fingers trembled violently.

"I have no wish to appear vulgarly curious," the girl went on,--Mr.
Jeekes made a quick gesture of dissent,--"but I am anxious to know
whether Mr. Parrish was being blackmailed ... or anything like that...."

"Oh, no, Miss Trevert, I do assure you," the little man expostulated in
hasty denial, "nothing like that, I am convinced. At least, that is to
say ..."

He rose to his feet, clutching the little _attaché_ case which he
invariably carried with him as a kind of emblem of office.

"And now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Trevert," he muttered, "I should
really be going. I am due at Mr. Bardy's office at five o'clock. He is
coming up from the country specially to meet me. There is so much to
discuss with regard to this terrible affair."

He glanced at his watch.

"With the roads as greasy as they are," he added, "it will take me all
my time in the car to ..."

He cast a panic-striken glance around him. But Mary Trevert held him
fast.

"You didn't finish what you were saying about Mr. Parrish, Mr. Jeekes,"
she said impassively. The secretary made no sign. But he looked a trifle
sullen.

"I don't think you realize, Mr. Jeekes," she said, "that other people
besides myself are keenly interested in the motives for Mr. Parrish's
suicide. The police profess to be willing to accept the testimony of the
specialists as satisfactory medical evidence about his state of mind.
But I distrust that man, Manderton. He is not satisfied, Mr. Jeekes. He
won't rest until he knows the truth."

The secretary cast her a frightened glance.

"But Mr. Manderton told me himself, Miss Trevert," he affirmed, "that
the verdict would be, 'Suicide while temporarily insane,' on Sir
Winterton Maire's evidence alone ..."

Mary Trevert tapped the ground impatiently with her foot.

"Manderton will get at the truth, I tell you," she said. "He's that kind
of man. Do you want me to find out from them? At the inquest, perhaps?"

The secretary put his _attaché_ case down on the lounge again.

"Of course, that would be most improper, Miss Trevert," he said. "But
your question embarrasses me. It embarrasses me very much ..."

"What are you keeping back from me, Mr. Jeekes?" the girl demanded
imperiously.

The secretary mopped his forehead with his handkerchief. Then, as though
with an effort, he spoke.

"There is a lady, a French lady, who draws an income from Mr. Parrish ..."

The girl remained impassive, but her eyes grew rather hard.

"These payments are still going on?" she asked.

Jeekes hesitated. Then he nodded,

"Yes," he said.

"Well? Was she blackmailing ... him?"

"No, no," Mr. Jeekes averred hastily. "But there was some unpleasantness
some months ago ... er ... a county court action, to be precise, about
some bills she owed. Mr. Parrish was very angry about it and settled to
prevent it coming into court. But there was some talk about it ... in
legal circles ..."

He threw a rather scared glance at the girl.

"Please explain yourself, Mr. Jeekes," she said coldly. "I don't
understand ..."

"Her lawyer was Le Hagen--it's a shady firm with a big criminal
practice. They sometimes brief Mr. Greve ..."

Mary Trevert clasped and unclasped her hands quickly.

"I quite understand, Mr. Jeekes," she said. "You needn't say any more ..."

She turned away in a manner that implied dismissal. It was as though she
had forgotten the secretary's existence. He picked up his _attaché_ case
and walked slowly to the door.

A sharp exclamation broke from his lips.

"Miss Trevert," he cried, "the door ... I shut it a little while
back ... look, it's ajar!"

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