I, Spy - 6 Espionage & Detective Books in One Edition. Frederic Arnold Kummer

with the detective, who stood facing him. As the former caught sight of my pale face and bandaged head, he stopped speaking suddenly, sprang forward and took my hand.

      "Good God, Mr. Morgan!" he cried, "What's wrong with you?"

      I tottered unsteadily to a seat, and laughed. "Nothing much, Sir," I replied. "I had a bit of an accident last night and got a nasty cut in the head. It's nothing serious, however."

      "You look rather done up, Sir," said McQuade as he examined me searchingly. "Has Buddha been at work again? Major Temple has just been telling me about his dog. The thing is too deep for me. I've handled many cases, but this one beats them all for uncanniness, and downright mystery. I wonder if the truth of the affair will ever be known."

      "Yes," said I, shortly. "I know it."

      "You!" Both Major Temple and the detective turned and looked at me as though they could scarcely believe their ears.

      "I know how Robert Ashton was killed, and I'm pretty sure I can explain the death of the dog as well. In fact, you came very near having a third mystery on your hands this morning, Sergeant." I smiled grimly.

      "What do you mean?" asked the both of them, together.

      "I slept in the green room last night," I replied, "and the thing that did for poor Ashton came very near doing for me as well." As I spoke, I felt my wounded head gently. "As it is, I fancy I will be all right, after the doctor has put a few stitches in my head, but it was a close call, I can tell you."

      "You slept in the green room?" asked Major Temple in amazement. "What in the name of Heaven did you do that for?"

      "To find out what happened to Ashton, and by the merest chance I did so. A little more one way, and you would never have known. And a little more the other," I added, "and I probably never should."

      "Explain yourself, man," said the Major, somewhat testily. "What happened? Tell us about it, can't you?"

      "I can and will," I said, slowly, "but not here. We must go there, before you can fully understand."

      "Come on, then," said McQuade, and they both started toward the door.

      At that moment Muriel came in, glancing about, I felt, for me. She came toward me, as I rose from my chair, with a happy smile, which slowly faded away and was replaced by a look of deepest concern as she saw my bandaged head. "Why, Owen!" It was almost the first time she had called me by my Christian name and it made me feel wildly happy in spite of the racking pains in my head. "What on earth is the matter? Are you hurt?" She came up and took my hand, unmindful of the presence of her father and the man from Scotland Yard.

      "Not much," I managed to reply; "just a nasty bit of a cut about the head. I slept in the green room last night, and, as I was just telling your father, I managed to find out the secret of Mr. Ashton's death, but I had rather a bad quarter of an hour doing so." I smiled ruefully and felt my turban to see if it was on straight.

      "You—you slept in that room!" she cried, turning a bit white. "Why—you—what could you have been thinking of?"

      "Don't think about it," I said, patting the hand she had placed upon my arm. My realization of her concern, her love, her fears, because of my possible danger, filled me with joy. "We are just going there now, and I hope to explain to all of you just what happened. But I would not advise you to use it as a guest chamber, in future," I concluded with a slight laugh.

      The Major lead the way, with Sergeant McQuade at his heels. The little man from Scotland Yard was all professional eagerness. He felt, no doubt, that his reputation as a detective had been brought into question. He had worked on the case for nearly a week and had succeeded only in arresting a number of innocent persons, while it was left for myself, a rank outsider, to discover the solution of the mystery which had so completely baffled himself and his men. I could not help feeling a secret sensation of satisfaction. The Sergeant had acted very decently all through, I had to admit, but I had not quite forgiven Inspector Burns and himself for the famous theory they had so carefully constructed, which resulted in so much suffering on Muriel's part, as well as a great deal of discomfort and unhappiness upon my own.

      As we followed the others up the stairway, she took my arm and pressed it gently, and the look she gave me repaid me many times over for all the horrors of the night just past.

      McQuade took out his key as we reached the door of the room, but I explained that it was not locked, and that Major Temple had opened it the night before with a duplicate key. The pool of blood on the floor of the hall, which had collected while I lay there earlier in the morning, still gave mute evidence of the experience through which I had passed. Muriel shuddered as she looked at it, but I hurriedly pushed open the door, and bade the others enter. I had no desire for further sympathy nor did I wish to bring about any dramatic climax. We all entered, the Major and Muriel looking about fearsomely as though they momentarily expected some unseen figure to rise and confront them, weapon in hand. When they had all got inside, I closed the door and said: "The weapon that fractured Mr. Ashton's skull has been in plain view to everyone, ever since the morning his death was discovered. There it is," I continued, quietly, and pointed to the heavy bronze chandelier which hung from the ceiling close to the side of the bed.

      Chapter 14

       THE SECRET OF THE GREEN ROOM

       Table of Contents

      I do not know just what my auditors expected in the way of an explanation of the mystery when they followed me to the green room—possibly some well-constructed or finely drawn theory. When I pointed to the chandelier, they all looked a bit nonplused, and nobody said anything for several moments. Then McQuade remarked, in his quiet voice, with a shade of comprehension in his tone and expression: "How do you make that out, Sir?"

      The chandelier to which I had pointed was an old-fashioned one, of the kind in general use in the early fifties. It was, I fancied, originally made for a room with a somewhat higher ceiling. The ceilings in the wings of The Oaks were unusually low, and the extreme lower end of the chandelier extended to a point not much over six feet from the floor. I judged this, because I am myself five feet eleven, and I could just pass beneath it without striking it. It hung in the center of the room, and about three feet from the side of the bed, which, on account of its great size, extended far out from the wall against which it was placed. The chandelier was of dark bronze or bronzed iron, and consisted of a heavy central stem, from the lower end of which extended four elaborately carved branches, supported by heavy and useless chains reaching to a large ball about midway up the stem. Below the point from which these four arms sprung was a sort of circular bronze shield, or target, and from the lower face of this, in the center, projected an octagonal ornamental spike, about two and a half inches long, terminating in a sharp point. The whole thing was ugly and heavy, and seemed in design more suitable to a hall or library than a bedroom. Almost directly beneath it, but somewhat nearer to the side of the bed, stood the low bench or stool, not over five inches high, the use of which I have already mentioned. I explained the tragedy to the detective and the others as I knew it must have happened.

      "Last night," I said, "I was unable to open either the window in the south or that in the west wall, because of the driving rain. The same conditions, as you will remember, existed upon the fatal night which Mr. Ashton spent here. For some reason, which I hope to explain presently, we were both nearly suffocated while asleep, and rose suddenly in bed, with but one thought, one desire, to get a breath of fresh air. The window in the west wall, directly opposite the bed, attracted us. In Mr. Ashton's case, no doubt, the face of Li Min, peering in from without, increased his terror. Like myself, he sprang up and dashed toward the window, placing his right foot, as I did, upon the low stool beside the bed. His first dash forward and upward, to a standing position, like my own, brought his head, elevated by the height of the stool, in contact with the spike upon the lower end of the chandelier with great force. The spike entered his head, fracturing the skull. He was a taller and heavier man than myself, and the force of the contact as he sprang forward and upward must have been terrific. In my case, owing to my having jumped from the bed