Madame Storey Intervenes

In order to recuperate from the strain of the tremendous publicity that
followed upon her success in the famous case of the Smoke Bandit, Mme.
Storey retired for a few days to the house of her close friends, the
Andrew Lipscombs, who lived in the Connecticut hills remote from any
neighbor. I accompanied my employer, since she insisted that I needed a
holiday as well as herself.

We simply locked up, our offices and went away, leaving the telephone to
ring, the mail to accumulate, and the hordes of curiosity-seekers to
mill around the door as they would. We supposed that we had kept the
place of our retreat a secret from all, but that fond hope was soon
dissipated. Late on the night of our arrival, as we were playing bridge
with our friends in the blessed quietude of their house, my employer was
called to the telephone.

She returned to the card table with the grave remote look that I knew so
well, her working look, and my heart sank.

"Well, Bella, we have another case," she said.

I laid down my cards. It was useless to protest, of course.

"There's been a terrible affair down at Fremont-on-the-Sound," she went
on. "A gentleman has been found shot dead in his study, and a young girl
has been arrested. The man who called me up, evidently the girl's lover,
begged me to come and try to get her off. His voice coming through the
receiver had an extraordinary quality; young an manly; shaken with grief
and agitation; yet proud and confident of his girl; it won me
completely. I said I would drive right down."

"Murder?" said Mr. Lipscomb, startled, "and so close to, us? Who's been
murdered?"

"Cornelius Suydam."

"Good God!" cried our host, springing up. "Why, he's the great man of
the neighborhood. His house, Fernhurst, is one of the show places! Who
is said to have killed him?"

"The girl's name is Laila Darnall."

Both Mr. and Mrs. Lipscomb stared at my employer in a stupefied fashion.
The former was the first to find his voice.

"Merciful Heaven!" he gasped. "She's his ward! Said to be richer than he
is. An exquisite young creature; a sort of golden princess; we see her
being whisked about in automobiles from one great country house to
another. Oh, this will create a terrible sensation! Who called you up?"

"He called himself Alvan Wayger."

"I never heard of him."

"A sort of princess!" Mrs. Lipscomb echoed, aghast. "With everything in
the world a girl could wish for! Why on earth should she want to kill
her guardian?"

"I don't know," said Mme. Storey. We must go and find out. Will you lend
me a car and a chauffeur?"