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

It was scarcely six o’clock when the coupe of the detective chief turned in at the hedge-bordered drive to Judge Henry Lethrop’s home in Bittersweet Place. The massive old clock on the stair landing bonged out the hour in its deep, cathedral tones as he was assisted out of his topcoat and shown into the library.

No one would have recognized this exquisitely turned out gentleman as the man who had been at Mrs. Yeager’s west side boarding-house not three hours before. All resemblance to the preternaturally grave Mr. Rindawn had vanished. In fact, this was not the well known figure of Philip MacCray himself. For this gentleman wore a tuxedo, an attire which his broad shoulders carried to perfection.

Mr. MacCray had made an unusual sacrifice in sartorial effects. In short, Mr. MacCray had a dinner engagement which he was filling properly.

There was only one person in the library, however, upon the detective chief’s entrance. This individual, similarly attired, rose from his armchair and came forward cordially to greet the guest. His step was firm and his back was as straight as ever, but the face of Judge Lethrop was careworn and drawn. If anything, his mane of hair was whiter than it had been a week ago.

Judge Lethrop was showing his age under the strain.

“It was good of you to come for dinner,” he greeted MacCray warmly. “I don’t think I could have gone through the ghastly motions of dining alone. Yet I could not bear the thought of going out where others could see me. This is the first Sunday night in years that Harry hasn’t sat across the table from me.”

The detective chief pressed his hand sympathetically.

“I can readily understand how lonely you feel under the circumstances, Judge Lethrop. And, believe me, I was glad to accept the dinner invitation. I am habitually a lonely man. When I am not at work on a case, Sundays are trackless wastes for me.”

“I wonder that you are not a married man, Mr. MacCray.”

A shadow fell across the smaller man’s face. He stared with eyes of pain into the fireplace. Judge Lethrop was quick to perceive.

“Pardon me,” he said gently. “I did not mean to touch a tender spot.”

MacCray smiled at him and imperceptibly straightened his shoulders.

“That is quite all right, sir,” said he. “As I am here with the intention of prying into your past this evening, it is only fair that I feel no delicacy about my own. Shall we talk now, or do you prefer waiting until after dinner?”

“As you please,” replied the judge, glancing at his watch. “Dinner won’t be served until six-thirty. Will you have a cigar?”

“Thank you,” said MacCray, accepting one and settling down comfortably in his chair. “Suppose we talk about me now and about you after dinner?”

The judge, looking politely puzzled at this second reference to himself, made a gesture of assent.

“How old a man do you take me to be?” asked MacCray after a silence.

“That is hard to say,” hazarded Judge Lethrop slowly, “although I should think you are in your early thirties.”

“I will be forty-one my next birthday,” said MacCray soberly. “Rather an old dog to be taught marital tricks, don’t you think?”

“Perhaps not,” smiled the other. “Wait until the right woman comes along.”

“She came — eleven years ago this fall,” answered the detective chief reminiscently. “She swept across the path of my life like a vivid, exotic flame and then went away, leaving my future a ruin of black and smoldering fields.”

“Do you wish me to ask what you mean, my friend?” said Lethrop gently.

MacCray winked the moisture from his eyes and gripped his cigar fiercely between a row of strong jaw teeth so that one side of his face was wrinkled. When he spoke again his voice was hard and cold.

“I have every reason to believe that she was shot at Brussels as a Prussian spy.”

“Ah!” murmured the old judge softly. “Then you saw service during the war?”

“I was in the same profession,” replied MacCray in faint bitterness. “But I was luckier and on the victorious side. In retrospect, now that the bitter war hatred has died down, I see no reason for even condemning, more than any other, the cause for which she gave her life. Anyway, that is the reason I am a lonely old devil to-day. I can sympathize with your present state. But, unless I have been reading signs wrong, this is going to be a still livelier household than before when Harry comes out of this affair.”

“You mean the missing girl?”

MacCray nodded.

Judge Lethrop looked very grave. “I don’t know what to think about it. I am greatly worried.”

“Forget it,” admonished the detective chief. “Your son has a very level head for a man of his age. Don’t try to think about it. Let matters work out in that direction of their own accord. You may be surprised at the result.”

A soft-footed butler entered the library.

“Dinner is served, Judge Lethrop,” he announced in a low voice.

It was not until after the meal that MacCray broached the subject he had come to discuss. Settled once more in the library, he opened the topic he had been careful to avoid at the table.