I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer
"I do not follow any one train of reasoning," he retorted, "nor do I intend to neglect any one. I want the truth, and I intend to have it." He left the roof hurriedly, and, entering the house we descended to the library, where Major Temple sat awaiting the conclusion of our investigations.
"Well, Mr. Morgan," he inquired excitedly as we came in, "what have you discovered?"
I nodded toward the Sergeant. "Mr. McQuade can perhaps tell you," I replied.
"I can tell you more, Major Temple," said the detective, gravely, "if you will first let me have a few words with Miss Temple."
"With my daughter?" exclaimed the Major, evidently much surprised.
"Yes," answered the detective, with gravity.
"I'll go and get her," said the Major, rising excitedly.
"If you do not mind, Major Temple, I should much prefer to have you send one of the servants for her. I have a particular reason for desiring you to remain here."
I thought at first that Major Temple was going to resent this, but, although he flushed hotly, he evidently thought better of it, for he strode to a call bell and pressed it, then, facing the detective, exclaimed:
"I think you would do better to question Li Min."
"I do not intend to omit doing that, as well," replied McQuade, imperturbably.
We remained in uneasy silence until the maid, who had answered the bell, returned with Miss Temple, who, dismissing her at the door, faced us with a look upon her face of unfeigned surprise. She appeared pale and greatly agitated. I felt that she had not slept, and the dark circles under her eyes confirmed my belief. She looked about, saw our grave faces, then turned to her father. "You sent for me, Father?" she inquired, nervously.
"Sergeant McQuade here"—he indicated the detective whom Miss Temple recognized by a slight inclination of her head—"wishes to ask you a few questions."
"Me?" Her voice had in it a note of alarm which was not lost upon the man from Scotland Yard, who regarded her with closest scrutiny.
"I'll not be long, Miss. I think you may be able to clear up a few points that at present I cannot quite understand."
"I'm afraid I cannot help you much," she said, gravely.
"Possibly more than you think, Miss. In the first place I understand that your father had promised your hand in marriage to Mr. Ashton."
Miss Temple favored me with a quick and bitter glance of reproach. I knew that she felt that this information had come from me.
"Yes," she replied, "that is true."
"Did you desire to marry him?"
The girl looked at her father in evident uncertainty.
"I—I—Why should I answer such a question?" She turned to the detective with scornful eyes. "It is purely my own affair, and of no consequence—now."
"That is true, Miss," replied the Sergeant, with deeper gravity. "Still, I do not see that the truth can do anyone any harm."
Miss Temple flushed and hesitated a moment, then turned upon her questioner with a look of anger. "I did not wish to marry Mr. Ashton," she cried. "I would rather have died, than have married him."
McQuade had made her lose her temper, for which I inwardly hated him. His next question left her cold with fear.
"When did you last see Mr. Ashton alive?" he demanded.
The girl hesitated, turned suddenly pale, then threw back her head with a look of proud determination. "I refuse to answer that question," she said defiantly.
Her father had been regarding her with amazed surprise. "Muriel," he said, in a trembling voice—"what do you mean? You left Mr. Ashton and myself in the dining-room at a little after nine." She made no reply.
Sergeant McQuade slowly took from his pocket the handkerchief he had found in Mr. Ashton's room, and, handing it to her, said simply: "Is this yours, Miss?"
Miss Temple took it, mechanically.
"Yes," she said.
"It was found beside the murdered man's body," said the detective as he took the handkerchief from her and replaced it in his pocket.
For a moment, I thought Miss Temple was going to faint, and I instinctively moved toward her. She recovered herself at once. "What are you aiming at?" she exclaimed. "Is it possible that you suppose I had anything to do with Mr. Ashton's death?"
"I have not said so, Miss. This handkerchief was found in Mr. Ashton's room. It is possible that he had it himself, that he kept it, as a souvenir of some former meeting, although in that case it would hardly have retained the strong scent of perfume which I notice upon it. But you might have dropped it at table—he may have picked it up that very night. It is for these reasons, Miss, that I asked you when you last saw Mr. Ashton alive, and you refuse to answer me. I desire only the truth, Miss Temple. I have no desire to accuse anyone unjustly. Tell us, if you can, how the handkerchief came in Mr. Ashton's room."
At these words, delivered in an earnest and convincing manner, I saw Miss Temple's face change. She felt that the detective was right, as indeed, did I, and I waited anxiously for her next words.
"I last saw Mr. Ashton," she answered, with a faint blush, "last night about midnight."
Her answer was as much of a surprise to me as it evidently was to both Major Temple and the detective.
"Muriel," exclaimed the former, in horrified tones.
"I went to his room immediately after he retired," continued Miss Temple, with evident effort. "I wished to tell him something—something important—before the morning, when it might have been too late. I was afraid to stand in the hallway and talk to him through the open door for fear I should be seen. I went inside. I must have dropped the handkerchief at that time."
"Will you tell us what you wished to say to Mr. Ashton that you regarded as so important as to take you to his room at midnight?"
Again Miss Temple hesitated, then evidently decided to tell all. "I went to tell him," she said, gravely, "that, no matter what my father might promise him, I would refuse to marry him under any circumstances. I told him that, if he turned over the emerald to my father under any such promise, he would do so at his own risk. I begged him to release me from the engagement which my father had made, and to give me back a letter in which, at my father's demand, I had in a moment of weakness consented to it."
"And he refused?" asked the detective.
"He refused." Miss Temple bowed her head, and I saw from the tears in her eyes that her endurance and spirit under this cross-questioning were fast deserting her.
"Then what did you do?"
"I went back to my room."
"Did you retire?"
"No."
"Did you remove your clothing?"
"I did not. I threw myself upon the bed until—" She hesitated, and I suddenly saw the snare into which she had been lead. When she appeared in the hallway at the time of the murder she wore a long embroidered Chinese dressing gown. Yet she had just stated that she had not undressed. McQuade, who seemed to have the mind of a hawk, seized upon it at once.
"Until what?" he asked bluntly.
"Until—this morning," she concluded, and I instinctively felt that she was not telling the truth.
"Until you heard the commotion in the hall?" inquired McQuade, insinuatingly. I felt that I could have strangled him where he stood, but I knew in my heart that he was only doing his duty.
"Yes," she answered.
"Then, Miss Temple, how do you explain the fact that you appeared immediately in the hall—as soon as the house was aroused—in your slippers and a dressing gown?"
She saw that she had been