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

Dinner had become a matter of history along with half a dozen games of dominoes before anything of interest developed in the adjoining room. Immediately after the meal, however, the young woman and her aunt returned to their double chamber.

But there was no resumption of the topic interrupted for dinner. The girl pleaded a headache and straightway retired to the bedroom to lie down. The aunt remained in the sitting room. She pulled her rocker over to where she could stare squarely out the window, and there she sat as the afternoon waned, rocking and tatting.

It must have been nearly three o’clock when footsteps sounded on the stairs and approached the chamber in which Miss Gilchrist waited. There was a gentle knock on the door and a woman’s voice saying:

“Oh, Miss Boatwright?”

“That’s Mrs. Yeager,” whispered Burke, again removing the wall plugs.

“What is it, Mrs. Yeager?”

“A gentleman is calling on your niece, ma’am,” answered the landlady. “He is in the parlor. Shall I tell him to wait?”

“What’s the name?” demanded the elderly spinster quickly.

“Mr. Rindawn.”

“Send him up here, please. My niece will receive him in our own sitting room.”

The landlady’s footsteps died away. Instantly Edna Boatwright came out of the bedroom and began pacing the floor before her aunt, her slim white fingers clenched tightly against her palms.

“Sit down, girl. You make me nervous,” declared the old woman almost pettishly.

“Oh, Aunt Eddie, don’t say or do anything rash,” begged the girl. “Leave it to me. Just stay with me.”

“I shall do as I see fit,” replied Miss Gilchrist primly. “You can govern yourself accordingly.”

“Please, my dear,” gasped the girl in great fear. “You don’t understand. Oh, for Heaven’s sake! I had better go downstairs to him. I—”

A knock on the door halted her before she took two steps.

“Come in,” crisply invited Miss Gilchrist.

“Mr. Rindawn, ma’am,” said the voice of Mrs. Yeager.

And the figure of a man entered Grady’s restricted field of view. The big detective would have needed no name to identify that pompous, roly-poly little form with the double chin settled in the cleft of the stiffly starched collar.

John Duke’s butler had put in his appearance to damn Edna Boatwright utterly in the eyes of Mr. Grady and link her with the murder of Francis W. Keene.

“Well, well,” said Mr. Rindawn in his solemn voice. “Good afternoon, ladies. I trust I see you both in excellent health. And I hope your heart condition is improving, my dear Miss Gilchrist.”

“James Rindawn,” began the lady directly addressed, “you—”

“You have spoiled our afternoon,” cut in Edna Boatwright swiftly. “We had to remain cooped up here to wait for you when I wanted to take Aunt Edwina out for an airing. These lovely fall days don’t come often. What do you want to see us about that is so urgent?”

“I did not come to see us, my dear,” replied Rindawn, calmly seating himself. “I came to talk to you. Sit down, my love. Relax. Let us visit a while.”

“What do you want?” she spat at him, relaxing not a whit, her tawny eyes flashing fire. “Haven’t I done enough? I have betrayed a noble gentleman and his son and... and—”

“Not to speak of a very interesting lawyer by the name of Warner, eh?” added Rindawn mildly.

She flushed furiously.

“Oh, how I hate you!” she cried passionately. “Don’t you dare mention his name to me in that sanctimonious way of yours. You lied to me. You deceived me cruelly. You have used me as a pawn. Why didn’t you tell me that that telephone call was about a real murder and was setting the police after an innocent boy — after Harry Lethrop of all people? God only knows how I have suffered ever since.”

“Why didn’t I tell you, you ask? Because, my dear, I knew you might object.”

“Might object?” she said bitterly. “You knew I would refuse.”

“James Rindawn,” Miss Gilchrist finally found speech for a second attempt, “what nonsense is this you are talking? What terrible thing have you forced my niece to do? What is it? Edna! For the love of Heaven, tell me what this means!”

“Oh, Aunt Eddie, I am in terrible trouble! You’ll not forsake me, will you? You’ll stand by me, no matter what happens, won’t you? I’ve betrayed my best friends and lost the right to accept the advances of a gallant man. Oh, have pity on me!”

Before Miss Gilchrist could more than put a protecting arm about the tempestuously sobbing girl there was a very definite interruption. The door burst violently open, and three men stepped quickly into the room.

Detective Grady could stand the pressure no longer. While his two companions leveled guns on the cherubic figure of John Duke’s butler he drew forth a pair of handcuffs.

“James Rindawn, alias Willis Gorms,” he said grimly, “and Edna Boatwright, I arrest both of you for criminal complicity in the murder of Francis W. Keene at the Avalon Arms Apartments on Tuesday last.”