Carolyn Wells

“ Now, go on, please, why did you step up on the window sill?”
“I didn’t!” A look of horror came into her eyes.
“But there is the mark of a sole there, a rubber sole. No, not those shoes you have on now,” he glanced at her crossed feet, “but shoes whose rubber soles show a design of little diamond-shaped dots.”
Alma took an appreciable moment to collect herself and then said calmly, “I don’t own any such shoes as you describe, Mr. Moore.” ”

“ I said, desiring most honestly to play fair, “no, but I shall have to work on Alma’s side, even if that means working against you.”
“That’s all right, so long as you work fairly. As you said, tell me all you discover, and listen to all I discover. Then, we are at one, and the truth will conquer. How far have you gone with her? Are you two engaged?”
The calm way he said this brought me to my senses. Of course, we weren’t engaged, she hadn’t even said she loved me or wanted me to love her. And I told Kee this, and he smiled kindly, and held out his hand. ”

“ I shall love you some day, I promise you that, now, but first, you must, you will help me! I am in danger, I can’t explain all to you now, I’m not sure I ever can, but in one matter you must help me. There is something I want destroyed, something that must be destroyed. ”

“ That Tuesday afternoon?”
“Yes,” said Alma, in a quiet, steady voice. “Yes, that was the last time.”
“What did you go there for?”
“On no especial errand; only to see him. I always go over two or three times a week, or thereabouts.”
“And, according to Mr. March, you raised a window in your uncle’s sitting room, thereby leaving your fingerprints on the white enamel paint?”
“So Mr. March told me. I know little of fingerprints—I mean as evidence—but I well know how they mar white paint. I am a tidy housekeeper, and I am continually at war with fingerprints on white paint.” ”

“ Kee repeated. “Nor the Totem Pole. What became of that?”
All Alma’s gayety fell away from her. She showed again that fear that so often darkened her eyes and clouded her brow.
But she shrugged her shoulders lightly, and said, “Oh, it’s around somewhere—it must be.”
“Never mind,” Kee said, kindly, “it doesn’t really matter.”
“You saw the waistcoats?”
“Yes, they were lying on the bed in the guest room. If you’re like my wife, you use the guest-room bed for a general temporary repository.”
“Every woman does,” Alma smiled, but it was a pitiful little smile. ”

“ Then it scarcely seems like you to have your hands in such condition that they would leave marks on the window frame.”
“No, it doesn’t seem like me.” Alma lifted her lovely little hands one after the other and scrutinized them with apparent interest. “No, I rarely have dirty hands. Even as a child, Merry says I was always tidy. But, Mr. Moore, I’m told that fingerprints cannot be mistaken, and so the fact remains, doesn’t it, that on that particular occasion my hands did need washing?” ”

“ Only for a moment did Alma look blank. Then she said, quickly:
“Oh, really? Then I must be mistaken in the day. I must have been there Monday afternoon. The days fly by so swiftly in summer, I can hardly keep track of them.”
“Perhaps,” said Kee, looking a bit baffled. “But another strange thing—Griscom says those fingerprints were not on the white paint Wednesday evening when he put the suite in order for the night. He says he would surely have seen them if they had been.”
She gave a little light laugh. “Poor old Griscom. His eyes are not what they used to be, I daresay. Now, Mr. ”