The porcelain mask A detective story

unfair," he protested. "Perhaps her conscience, but am I responsible for her conscience? Am I responsible for--for her sins?" Kirklan Gilmore staggered to his feet. "What do you mean--her sins?" he cried hoarsely. "Am I never to know the truth about her?" Sarbella shook his head. "Not from my lips," he answered; "she is dead. Let what past there be buried with her. It will be better that way, Kirklan--better for every one." "Who is dead?" came a tremulous question from the hall. The novelist recognized the voice of Mrs. Gilmore, his stepmother, and leaped forward to prevent her entrance. He knew, high-strung, nervous woman that she was, the gruesome sight would be a tremendous, perhaps even dangerous, shock to her. "You--you mustn't come in here, mother. Something--something has happened to Helen." "You mean," gasped Mrs. Gilmore, clutching at the casing of the door for support, "that she is dead?" "Yes, Helen is dead," finished Kirklan. "Go back to your room, please." "I was awakened by something. I am not certain just what it was," whispered the little, gray-haired woman. "And then there was a shot. You mean, Kirklan, that your wife----" The novelist inclined his head. "Helen has--has killed herself. Bates has gone to telephone Doctor Bushnell; there is nothing you can do--nothing. Now please return to your room." Mrs. Gilmore began to sob wildly, perhaps not so much from grief as from the hysteria of horror. "She has killed herself--suicide! Oh, the disgrace, the scandal of it; three weeks married and--a suicide. I--I knew that something awful would happen. It was in the air. I had a presentiment of it at dinner. All of you acted so strangely, so tragic. Kirklan, what made her do it?" "I don't know," he answered thickly. "Perhaps the reason for it died with her. I--I don't want to talk any more about it, mother; it's all I can do to hold myself together. Won't you please go back to your room?" Mrs. Gilmore, making a move to obey him, released her fingers from the support of the door casing and staggered; thus, unintentionally, she reeled just within the door. As she saw the crimson-stained form on the lounge, a scream tore up through her throat. She swayed dizzily, her knees crumpled beneath her, and she would have fallen to the floor in a limp heap, had not Kirklan reached out and caught her in his arms. "Sarbella!" he called. "She--has fainted. I knew that would happen if--if she saw it. Won't you help me with her? I--I suppose we'd better take her to Joan's room; she can't be left alone in this condition." Victor Sarbella rushed forward to lend his assistance, and between them they supported the limp, gray-haired figure down the hall to the wing of the house where Joan Sheridan's belongings had been banished by the coming of Kirklan's bride to Greenacres. This, the room of tragedy, had been Joan's until the coming of the house's new mistress. "You'll find a light button there, near the corner of the turn," directed Gilmore, and Sarbella fumbled for the switch. "It's the last door to the right. She--she's heavier than I thought." As the two men came to the door that Kirklan had indicated, there reached both of their ears the muffled sound of sobbing--convulsive, hysterical sobs. A tremor went through Gilmore. Joan's room being somewhat removed from the other part of the house, it was reasonable that the sound of the shot might not have awakened her, but, being awake, how could she have failed to hear it? And she was not asleep! She was awake--weeping! Apprehensive terror clutched at Gilmore's heart--the terror of a sinister something that he could not explain. Was it possible that, after all, it had been Joan who had screamed? Sarbella, too, looked startled and darted his host a quick, uneasy, questioning glance. His arms being occupied, Gilmore kicked his shoe against the foot of the door, as a substitute for rapping. On the other side of the panel the choking sobs suddenly ceased. "Yes?" "It's Kirklan, Joan. Something has happened, and your mother has fainted. We thought we ought to bring her here to you." "Just--just a moment, Kirk," came the tremulous answer, "and I will let you in." There was a brief wait and the sound of running water, as the girl within the room turned on a faucet. Then the door opened, and Joan stood before them. Although it was now almost one o'clock in the morning, she had not taken down her hair for the night; she had, late as it was, not yet retired. Evidently the sound of running water had marked her effort to undo the evidence of tears, but her eyes were red and her face was ghastly! After a first furtive glance her gaze avoided Gilmore's eyes. "You can put her on my bed," she said in a shaking voice, but she did not ask why her mother had fainted. "Something very terrible has happened, Joan," the novelist said hoarsely. "Didn't you hear it?" He had placed his stepmother on the bed and mechanically began to rub her wrists. "Didn't I hear--what?" Joan asked so faintly that her voice was hardly audible. "The pistol shot--just--just a few minutes ago," answered Gilmore. The girl shuddered, her head averted. Her hands were clenched at her sides, and her lower lip was imprisoned between her teeth, obviously in an effort to keep it from trembling. She was making a tremendous effort to keep her self-control. "I did not hear a pistol shot," she said, her voice still very low. "I did not hear any shot. Why do you ask?" "Helen has killed herself, Joan; she shot herself with a pistol." There was no startled cry of horror from Joan's lips, as she heard what might have been supposed to be her first news of tragedy. But was it news to her? There was not so much as an exclamation of surprise, not so much as a murmured word of sorrow or sympathy. Standing a little to one side, Victor Sarbella stared at the girl in narrow-eyed, intent interest, evidently greatly puzzled by her peculiar attitude. Joan still said nothing; almost absently she began massaging her mother's ice-cold fingers. "She faints very easily," she murmured. "It is never serious. She will be all right presently. Mr. Sarbella, will you please dampen a towel under the cold-water tap?" "I had been out at the studio," Gilmore went on, the words tumbling out jerkily. "I think I must have fallen asleep out there. When I came to the house I found that I didn't have my keys, and had to ring for Bates to let me in. My nerves were in a bad way, so I asked Bates to mix me a toddy, a nightcap. I was drinking it, when both of us--Bates and I--heard a scream. Right after that there was a shot. Bates and I rushed upstairs to find Helen dead; that's all I know." As his voice trailed off to a dull, lifeless stop, Joan gave a start and looked up to take the damp towel that Sarbella offered her. She placed it across her mother's forehead; Mrs. Gilmore stirred under this application and moaned faintly. "I think mother will be all right now," said Joan. "I don't think it will be necessary for either of you to stay. If I need you I will call." "Bates has telephoned to Doctor Bushnell. I will have him see mother when he comes, Joan." Joan nodded. "Perhaps it would be best," she agreed. "She is very high-strung, and may need an opiate. It was a tremendous shock to her--of course." Kirklan began a retreat from the room, and Sarbella, after another queer glance at Joan, followed. No word was spoken until they had come to the room of the tragedy. "I can't stand to go back in there!" Gilmore cried hoarsely. "It--it's all that I can do to hold myself together as it is. I think I'll go downstairs and have another drink." Victor Sarbella, frowning so deeply that his eyes seemed to be closed, put out his hand impulsively. "Don't do that, my friend," he murmured; "for your own sake--don't. Liquor will not help any at a time like this, and it will look bad, very bad, for you to be under the weather at a time like this." The butler came hurrying up the stairs. "I have had Doctor Bushnell on the wire, sir," he reported. "He had just got home from a call, and he says that he will be here as quickly as the car can bring him--a matter of minutes. It is only two miles from the village." Kirklan Gilmore glanced shudderingly toward the door of his wife's room. "It doesn't seem right," he muttered, "leaving her in there alone, but I can't stand to look at her again. I----" "There no use torturing yourself," advised Sarbella. "It is quite certain that she is beyond all human help. There is nothing that can be done until the doctor comes. Here, man, you're wabbly--all in; sit down here on the top step. Hold yourself together the best you can, my friend." Kirklan laughed harshly, mirthlessly. "Stop calling me 'my friend,' Sarbella," he said unsteadily. "I won't have any more of that from you. If it hadn't been for your coming down here, Helen would----" He broke off abruptly, as he realized that Bates was within earshot, and that very little missed the butler. Sarbella shrugged his shoulders, but made no verbal response. The house had become intensely still again. From the foot of the stairs there was the steady, measured ticking of the tall clock on the first floor, as the long pendulum moved to and fro. Gilmore sat down on the steps, shoulders slumping forward, as he laced and unlaced his fingers. Why had Joan been sobbing in her room? What was the reason for her strange behavior? Why had her face been so ghastly pale, even before he had informed her of Helen's death? He pondered this. "Listen!" said Bates, breaking the uneasy silence. The other two men jerked into an attentive attitude. There came to their ears the hum of a powerful motor. An instant later an automobile horn blasted the stillness in brief announcement. Doctor Bushnell had arrived. CHAPTER XI BUSHNELL CALLS THE POLICE The butler hurried stumblingly down the steps to admit Doctor Bushnell, who had been the Gilmore family physician for almost a dozen years; he swung open the door, as the doctor was stepping briskly across the porch. "You got here in a hurry, doctor," said Bates. "It happened upstairs. Mr. Kirklan is up there now--at the top of the steps. She's dead; I held a mirror to her face and----" "Yes, so you told me over the telephone," broke in Doctor Bushnell; he was a tall, crisp man, with a pair of gray eyes looking out from behind a pair of rimless spectacles. "She----" began Bates again. "This is no time for conversation, my good man," the doctor again interrupted firmly, but not impatiently. "You can talk later." He started swiftly for the stairs. But Bates was not to be shaken off so easily. "You didn't give me a chance to finish telling you over the phone," he said, blocking the way. "Mr. Kirklan says she killed herself, but I know better. She was murdered." Doctor Bushnell abruptly halted. "Murdered?" he repeated. "See if you don't bear me out, sir," whispered the butler. "I'm not a detective, but I've got common sense enough to know----" The physician shook loose Bates' fingers. "There'll be time enough for that, Bates. Just now there's a chance--a bare chance--that you are mistaken, and that she is still alive. If there is any chance of saving her, there must be no wasted time." Surgical kit swinging at his side, the doctor bounded up the stairs, two steps at a time. Kirklan Gilmore was waiting just outside the door of Helen's room. The doctor offered his hand, and they clasped silently for a brief moment, the grasp of the physician warm-hearted, sympathetic. "Am I too late, Kirklan?" The novelist bowed his head. "Yes, Doctor Bushnell, you are too late.