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

This startling denouement was too much for the weak heart of the maiden aunt. She gave vent to one queer sound and fainted dead away. The girl quivered convulsively, then straightened herself rigidly, clamped her pretty mouth in that prim secretarial manner, and stood silently eying the leader of the intruders with smoldering eyes which scorched despite the lowered lids.

Mr. Rindawn stared into the mouths of the drawn guns of Burke and Brill and then into the fierce and watchful face of Mr. Grady with an incredulous expression. Slowly an unmistakable wrath kindled in his blue-gray eyes.

“Stick out your mitts!” snapped the big detective curtly. “I must warn you that anything you now say may be used against you.”

Instead of complying with the sharp instruction, Mr. Rindawn calmly placed his hands behind his back, arched his chest until there was a distinct sag in his abdomen, settled more flat-footedly on the floor, and smiled in the face of Mr. Grady. It was not a pleasant smile, but it was a smile that actually appeared on that solemn countenance. He spoke.

“Bert Grady,” he ripped out, “you are a damned jackass! Didn’t I tell you that no arrests were to be made until I gave the word? If this young woman were criminally guilty, you would have played the devil by this blunder.”

The tone of that incisive voice, as well as the startling speech, made all three of the officers jump and stare at John Duke’s butler in amazement. Edna Boatwright started and turned swiftly to peer at the speaker. She made three swift steps to his side and peered into his face, eye to eye. She paled in fear as she recoiled from his level gaze. Then she flushed in rising anger. Her smoldering eyes flashed fire and her lovely lips curled in hate.

With a suddenness that was tigerish she shot out her hand and grasped the thinning gray locks atop his head. One fierce jerk — and the entire scalp lifted from Mr. Rindawn’s cranium, baring the close-cropped and bristling sandy hair of Philip MacCray.

“Holy Moses!” ejaculated Grady and Burke in one breath. “The chief!”

Sergeant Brill only blinked as he lowered his revolver. Then he turned it in the direction of the passionately aroused young woman. Fastening his gaze intently on her tense figure, he began edging closer. MacCray held up one dissuading hand as he felt tenderly of the spots where his disguising silk wig had been fastened to his head.

“Never mind, Brill,” said he quickly. “Miss Boatwright means no further violence. She is innocent of all intentional wrongdoing. I’ll take charge here, if you please.”

To the panting girl he bowed.

“I am sorry to have deceived you, my dear young lady, but it was necessary. I will explain. Won’t you please be seated while we see about your aunt?”

He took the wig which still dangled from her clenched fingers and gently urged her toward a chair. Like a figure in a dream she obeyed him. Then, as she sank into the seat, she suddenly burst into tears.

“Burke,” grated MacCray sharply, “see to the elderly lady; you know something about the heart. Brill, guard the door. Let no one enter. This disturbance may have been loud enough to attract attention.”

“What... what shall I do, chief?” asked Grady uncertainly.

“Sit down and keep quiet until I have time to read the riot act to you,” rejoined MacCray grimly. “I’ll do the talking from now on.”

There was a silence broken only by the sobs of the girl and the low murmur between MacCray and Burke as they resuscitated Edwina Gilchrist. No other sounds were heard, but it was a most eloquent silence.

In a few minutes Miss Gilchrist was restored to consciousness. She was still dazed, and MacCray used her condition to steady the nerves of the young woman. He led the docile young lady to the side of her aunt, admonishing her to get a firm grip on herself and quiet the old lady. Then he stepped back and waited while the two women clung to each other convulsively for a moment.

After a space the younger woman looked up.

“Well, sir?” she inquired coldly. “What is the meaning of all this?”

It was the prim and impersonal secretary who now spoke.

“You are a thoroughbred, Miss Boatwright,” admired MacCray. “I will now briefly—”

“Where is James Rindawn?” she interrupted anxiously. “The real James Rindawn!”

“I imagine he is beginning to give orders concerning his master’s Sunday dinner at this hour,” replied the detective chief dryly.

“He knows nothing of this masquerade of yours?”

“I hope not. Now, if you—”

“What do you mean by assuming his guise and coming here? How did you know — how do you know that I am even aware of his existence?”

“Young lady, if you don’t mind,” MacCray snapped, “I’ll ask the questions while you do the answering. First, let me inform you that James Rindawn is in imminent danger of having his neck stretched at the expense of the State. I am not trying to threaten you or intimidate you; I am merely stating a fact.”