"I haven't heard anything,"replied Kelly. "Osborne, from headquarters, went in a few minutes ago with the coroner's assistant. The sergeant and a couple of men have been here all morning."
Bat opened the gate and went slowly up the path. The house was a bright, cheerful-looking place; the little garden was laid out in walks, the trees were carefully trimmed; and though it was still October, everything had been made ready for the winter season.
"Nice little home,"commented the big man. "Shows care and thoughtfulness. No place at all for a murder."
In reply to his ring the door was opened by a second policeman. A few words brought the sergeant in charge to the door; and he shook hands with Scanlon and asked him to step in.
"Any interest in this case?"he asked, and his broad, red face displayed a great deal of that very thing. "Is your friend Ashton-Kirk along with you?"
"No,"replied Bat, easily, "he's not. But from what I hear, it's the kind of a thing he'd like."
The sergeant shook his head.
"Oh, between you and me it's simple enough,"said he. "The newspapers have played it up some, that's all. To my mind, the party that croaked Burton ain't out of reach by a long shot; and if they'd have left it to me I'd had him at City Hall an hour ago."
"That so!"Bat looked surprised. "I thought it was one of those things all bundled up in mystery."
He went slowly down the hall and turned in at the first door to the left, which stood partly open, and from behind which he heard voices. A burly, good-natured looking man with a derby hat in his hand was talking to a dapper, quick-eyed personage whose carefully trimmed beard and immaculately white waistcoat gave him the conventional "professional"look. Near a window was a big chair, among the pillows of which reclined a young girl with a pale, sweet face and that appearance of fragility which comes of long-continued illness; beside her stood an anxious-looking young man whose haggard countenance told of a sleepless night and a harassed mind.
Scanlon at once recognized in the big man the "well-known"—as the newspapers always put it—city detective, Osborne; and so calmly advanced and shook his hand.
"Glad to see you,"spoke Osborne, affably. "Meet Dr. Shower, assistant to the coroner,"indicating the white waistcoated gentleman.
"These investigations are not exactly the thing I care for,"Dr. Shower told Osborne, after acknowledging the presentation, graciously. "As a matter of fact I think they are entirely within the duties of the police. We of our office shouldn't be dragged out to view dead bodies in all sorts of places; it consumes a great deal of time, and, as far as I can see, can do no possible good."
Osborne shrugged his heavy shoulders.
"Well, Doctor,"spoke he, "maybe you've got it right. But when old Costigan was coroner he always insisted that a body—especially in a case like this—should not be touched until he had looked at it and asked his questions."
"Costigan was romantic,"stated Dr. Shower, as he stroked his beard with a firm hand; "he had imbibed a great deal of theoretical detective nonsense, and tried to act up to it. However,"with a lifting of one eyebrow, "here I am, so I might as well get to work."He looked about. "Where is the body?"
"In the room just across the hall,"said Osborne.
"Just so."Dr. Shower looked at the young man and the young woman. "And these are—?"
"The son and daughter of the murdered man,"answered the detective.
"To be sure."Shower smoothed his waistcoat with the same firm gesture. "Of course."Then to the young man: "Am I right in understanding that your father did not reside here?"
The young man laughed suddenly; the sound was unexpected and full of bitterness, and caused Bat Scanlon to look swiftly toward him.
"Yes, you are quite right in that,"said the son. "Quite right! My father did not live here."
There was a feeling behind the words that was not to be mistaken; and a slight pucker appeared between the eyes of the assistant coroner which a person well acquainted with him would have told you indicated increasing interest.
"You are reported to have said to the police sergeant,"stated Dr. Shower, referring to some memoranda scribbled upon the back of an envelope, "that the relationship between your father and yourself has not been an agreeable one."
"There has been no relationship between my father and myself—none whatsoever—for a number of years."
There was a gleam in the eyes of the speaker and a shaking quality in his voice which showed intense feeling; the thin hand of his sister rested upon his arm for an instant; he looked at her quickly, and then bent over while she whispered something in a tone so low that none of the others could hear a word.
"Very well, Mary,"he said. "It's all right. Don't worry."
"What you say being the case,"said Dr. Shower, "your father would not be likely to be a frequent visitor."
"We've lived here for five years; he was never here before. Up to last night I had not seen him for at least seven years."
"Humph!"The pucker between the assistant coroner's eyes deepened; he took a firm clutch upon his beard. "Then the visit of last night was quite unusual—unique, I might say."
"He was the last person in the world I expected to see,"said the young man. "I did not get home until late. I had a cartoon to do for the sporting page and ideas were not flowing very easily; my usual train is at eleven-ten, but I was held up until the twelve-twenty-two. As I came down the street I saw a light burning in the sitting-room window; but I thought my sister was waiting for me, as she sometimes does. But when I came in and saw my father with her, I was so astonished that for a moment I could not speak."
"Just so. And now,"here the hand of the questioner fell to caressing the trimmed beard, tenderly, "tell me this: Your father's visit, so late at night, and after so long an estrangement, must have had some special reason behind it. Would you mind saying what it was?"
For a moment there was silence. Bat Scanlon saw Osborne's eyes narrow as he watched the young man; he saw from the assistant coroner's attitude that this was a most important question. And, more than anything else, he saw in the pale, sweet face of the invalid girl a look of subdued terror; the fragile hands were clasped together as though she were praying. And at length young Burton spoke:
"I don't know that there was any reason for the visit. He gave me none."
Shower turned upon the invalid girl quickly.
"Did he say anything to you?"
"No,"replied the girl, in a low tone. "No; he said nothing."
"What did he talk about?"asked Osborne.
"I do not know,"said the girl, her voice even fainter than before. "I never understood my father. He—he always frightened me by the way he looked and the way he laughed."
She sank back, exhausted, among the pillows; her brother bent over and spoke soothingly and encouragingly to her. When she had recovered a little he turned once more to the others, and Scanlon saw a bitter anger in his face—a cold, hard fury, such as only comes of a hurt that is deep and long rankled.
"You heard what she said?"he asked. "She never understood him. How could a girl like her understand a man like that! He frightened her by the way he looked and the way he laughed! Do you know what that means? It's a thing born in her—got from her mother—a mother who lived in fear of that man for years. And then he finally drove her to her grave. He was a monster—a human beast—he had no more remorse than——"
"Frank!"The girl's faint voice checked him. He looked down at her, the same expression in his face as Scanlon had seen there before.
"No, she doesn't know what he talked about,"the young man resumed, in a lower tone, and with a quieter manner. "She never saw him in her life but what she almost died through fear of him."
With a gesture the assistant