Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

“A rose by any name whatever smells just as sweet, or as disagreeable, owing to how well you like roses,” I remarked. “The point is that I wanted Spence to spend half an hour on the front lawn. He didn’t do it, though I’m not blaming him for that. Uncle Cato probably didn’t tell him to. Did you, uncle?”

“Well, no—”

“I thought so. Now, Santelle,” I said as disagreeably as possible, “either I get action when I want it and as I want it, or you can hire another pair of sleuths to do your guarding and mingling. I’m one of the sort who does his work under orders from himself and nobody else. Take me that way, or not at all. It’s your time to talk. What about it?”

“I’m keeping you,” he said quietly. “And approve of your attitude. Uncle Cato, no doubt, thought it unnecessary to hurry in the execution of your instructions. About Spence, though — you haven’t explained—”

“Oh,” I broke in nonchalantly, moving toward the door, “that is not important. I merely wished to see if he kept his shoes as clean as a good butler should. That’s all.”

Flash gave me a searching look, his face expressing perplexity — but he stepped aside and allowed me to pass out. I closed the door and went down to the lawn, no longer worried about those footprints in the loam.

Steel met me as I left the servants’ door.

“That young Patterson is acting mighty queer,” he announced. “I located him at the foot of the lawn, leaning against a tree, alone. Tried to open up a conversation with him — and he told me to get the hell away. I did, but not out of sight. When he started moving off, away from the house, I sneaked along too. Then the damned young fool suddenly started sprinting. I lost him. He runs like Man o’ War, that baby!”

“He’s in love, Jim,” I told him.

“Then he ought to run,” was the dry comment. “Away from her, and not toward her — which is what he done. To her, I mean.”

“This gets interesting,” I said. “Go on.”

“After I lost him,” Jim continued, “I started hunting Miss Bailey, figuring that would be the best chance to pick him up again. I was right. He joined the girl on a bench in the shadow of a tree a bit later. The funny thing about that is that he must have known exactly where she was, because she was barely recognizable to me in that shadow at twenty feet away.

“Seeing that he had joined his lady, I drew off and hid in a bush. Then, five minutes afterward, this young fool conies tearing and swearing away from there, nearly run me down in the bush, and went blindly away on high. Me trying to keep up, and losing. Where he is now is something I don’t know, and haven’t been able to find out.”

“I’ll have a look,” I told him. “Keep an eye on the servants’ door, and find out if any of them come out and search, as I sent instructions for them to do. Report when you see me again.”

Jim departed, and I began a stroll through the trees. Tommy Patterson must be found and made to act like a sane person — if a man in love can be made to act that way, or even give a fair imitation. He’d be tramping up and down, ruining flower beds, in some retired spot, no doubt. Love sometimes accelerates the foot as well as the heart.

I searched patiently, but Tommy proved elusive. Nearing the lower end of die river path, where it leaves the lawn and dips into the first hollow on its way to the boathouse, I came up short. Something moved sketchily in the moonlight, near the path or on it, and about fifty feet away. I stepped into the shadow of a clump of bushes.

The sketchy figure came on, reached a point opposite me, then stopped in a listening attitude. I stared hard, trying to make out the features of the woman, for it was a woman — and not one of the guests, at that. A woman in a red dress. Failing to get a good view of her face from where I was, I stepped forward suddenly.

She cried out, though not loudly, darted back—

And then a light exploded in from of my eyes, just like a photographer’s flash-powder does, a terrific pain shot through my head, and I went down on my face, groping blindly until I buried my nails in the sod.

I heard a man’s voice behind me — then ceased either to hear or feel. But before all my senses went dead, I knew that my face, as I pitched downward, brushed against something soft and silky — and I breathed in a strong odor of lilac.

Chapter XII A Couple of Wrenches

“You damned crook!”

It was Jim Steel’s voice, but I didn’t feel like saying howdy to him right then.

“I was ordered to search, sir—”

“Yeah! But you wasn’t ordered to clout the guests on the head with a blackjack!” Jim blazed.

“I think I cannot be blamed, sir,” the voice of Spence, sounding a bit muddled and distant, went on. “I saw him dart into the shadow of the bush, and crept up to investigate. Then he dashed toward the path, a lady cried out — and then I acted, sir. What else could I do?”

“Can’t answer that!” Jim retorted tersely. “But if you’ve laid him out for good, my man, you won’t even get a trial. I’ll croak you—”