The seventh shot A detective story

said, in her prettiest, most ingénue way. “I haven’t been before a jury yet, you know, and—and men usually like me!” The inspector was red with indignation. But more than one of the men present suppressed a chuckle at his rage and Kitty’s composure. “Why,” asked Jim, “did you sign Miss Templeton’s name to that decoy telegram of yours?” Kitty shrugged her shoulders. “I certainly couldn’t sign my own, could I?” she rejoined calmly. “And she’d been suspected at the beginning. She seemed a good one to pick.” There was not much more to clear up, but Barrison was on the point of putting one more question when an officer came in and whispered to the inspector. “Bring them in,” he said at once. The new arrivals were the Blankleys, accompanied by the detective who had found them in Indianapolis. They looked frightened, but Lowry quickly relieved their minds and assured them that they would only be required as witnesses. The meeting between the sisters was curious. Seeing them together for the first time, Barrison saw the resemblance plainly, though Rita looked more Mexican than Kitty, and was, he knew, far the better woman of the two. “Well, Kit?” said she quietly, almost compassionately, but Kitty looked straight in front of her, and neither then nor at any other time deigned to recognize her existence. Barrison prompting the inspector, the latter turned to Marita and held out the letter which Jim had turned over to him the day before, the note which both he and the younger man had accepted as conclusive evidence of her guilt. “Did you write this, Mrs. Blankley?” he asked. She glanced down the page and nodded. “Certainly,” she responded; “when I returned the coat Kitty had lent me.” When they read it over, they found that its wording was innocent enough. It was only Kitty’s evil ingenuity which had twisted it deliberately. “Did you really hate me as much as all that, Kit?” asked Marita, almost in wonder, but Kitty said never a word, and did not even look in her direction. A little later, Jim Barrison was bidding Inspector Lowry good-by. “The inquest is to-day,” remarked the inspector, who was smoking very hard and looking very bland and satisfied. “And we won’t have to have any ‘person or persons unknown’ verdict this time! Found the murderer inside of forty-eight hours! We didn’t do so badly, eh, my boy?” Barrison dropped his eyes to hide an involuntary twinkle at the “we.” “Splendid, sir!” he declared cordially. “Good-by! I’m off to make a few extra inquiries—of a strictly personal nature.” CHAPTER XXXIII THE FALSE GODS GO “Well?” demanded Miss Templeton, at whose apartment Jim Barrison presented himself in record time after leaving headquarters. “And is the case now closed?” “Not quite,” said Barrison, putting down his hat and stick deliberately and standing facing her. She was standing, too; and, as she was a tall woman, her eyes were not so very much below his own. She was, he thought, most splendidly beautiful as she stood there gravely looking at him. “Not quite,” he repeated, in a voice he had never before permitted himself to use in speaking to her. “I want to ask a few more questions, please?” She nodded, still watching him in that deep, intent fashion. “First,” pursued Jim, trying to speak steadily and to keep to the unimportant things, even while his heart was throbbing violently, “why did you always suspect Kitty Legaye?” “Because I had an instinct against her; also because I was sure that she knew that man Wrenn. I could tell by the way that they looked at each other that they were not strangers, though I never knew them to speak to each other. And, you see, I knew that he was connected with Alan Mortimer’s old life. The suspicion seemed to slip in naturally.” “And at any time—at any time, mind you—did you have it in your mind to kill Mortimer yourself?” “Never!” she returned at once, and firmly. He paused a moment, looking full into the clearest eyes that ever a woman had. “Grace,” he said, calling her so for the first time, “why did you buy that revolver?” She colored painfully, but her eyes met his as truthfully as before. “Ah, you knew that!” she said. “I had hoped that you did not. However, what can it matter now? I am very much changed since the day I bought that revolver. You know that, I think?” “I know it,” he acknowledged gently. “I was terribly hurt, terribly outraged, terribly disappointed. You must always remember that I am a woman of wild emotions. I felt myself flung aside—not only in love, but in my profession. I had lost my part, and I had lost the man who, after all, I had believed I loved.” “And did _you_ want to kill Sybil Merivale, too?” She stared at him in astonishment. “Kill Sybil Merivale!” she repeated. “Why on earth should I? I had nothing against the girl, except that I believe I was a little jealous of her youth and freshness just at first. No; I had made up my mind to kill myself.” “Yourself!” “Yes. Didn’t you guess? I had an idea that you did, and that that was one reason for your keeping so near me all that evening in the box. I had the insane impulse to kill myself then and there, and spoil Alan’s first night!” She laughed a little, though shakily, at the recollection. “It was ridiculous, melodramatic, anything you like, but women have done such things, and—and I’m afraid I am rather that sort. I meant to do it, anyway.” “And—why didn’t you? You had the revolver; I felt it in your bag on the back of the chair. Why didn’t you?” He had not known that a woman’s eyes could hold so much light. “You know,” she said softly and soberly. “You were there. You had come into my life. The false gods go when the gods arrive!” There was a long stillness between them, in which neither of them stirred, nor took their eyes away. “You—love me?” Jim said, in a queer voice. “Yes.” When he let her leave his arms, it was only that he might look again into her eyes and touch that wonderful golden hair, now loose and soft about her face. “It—it isn’t dyed!” she said hastily. “I did make up, but my hair was always that color—truly!” “Oh, my dear, my dear!” he laughed, though with tears and tenderness behind the laughter. “What do I care whether it is dyed or not? It’s just a part of you.” A little later a whimsical idea came to him. “You know,” he said, “the inspector said to me yesterday that in drawing in our nets we sometimes found that we had captured some birds that we had never expected. I didn’t know how right he was, for—we two seem to have caught the Blue Bird of Happiness, after all!” “And I am sure,” said Grace Templeton solemnly, “that no one ever really caught it before!” THE END. ———————————————— End of Book ———————————————— Transcriber’s Note (continued) Errors in punctuation and simple typos have been corrected without note. Variations in spelling, hyphenation, accents, etc., have been left as they appear in the original publication unless as stated in the following: Page 17 – “Miss Lagaye” changed to “Miss Legaye” (I’ve been out of work since March, Miss Legaye.) Page 29 – “unforgetable” changed to “unforgettable” (A passionate, unforgettable woman) Page 41 – “crispy” changed to “crisply” (crisply waving locks) Page 45 – “playright” changed to “playwright” (sighed the discouraged playwright) Page 53 – “coldbloodedly” changed to “cold-bloodedly” (as cold-bloodedly as did Dukane) Page 76 – “well-simulated” changed to “well-stimulated” (much well-stimulated curiosity) Page 115 – “stagedoor” changed to “stage door” (your stage door keeper) Page 196 – “coldblooded” changed to “cold-blooded” (her cold-blooded dismissal) Page 197 – “feeing” changed to “feeling” (from feeling guilty) Page 198 – “imperturably” changed to “imperturbably” (remarked the inspector imperturbably) Page 305 – “not” changed to “nor” (would ever forget it—nor the enchanting picture)