E. Phillips Oppenheim

“ The girl slipped from the wall and came toward him.
“What has happened?” she asked.
“What seems to have been a murder,” Mr Cray answered gravely. “There is an old man there quite dead. I think the woman is trying to say that he was stabbed by his son, the boy who ran past us across the field and into the wood.”
“How horrible!” the girl exclaimed, turning suddenly pale. “In that cottage, too, where everything looks so peaceful! Why, it must have been done while we were sitting here talking. And that boy, too! He had such a fine face.” ”

“ Mr. Cray assured her. “Glad of your company. I can see you've a real pretty face under your make-up.”
“You Americans are so forward,” she murmured.
“We know good things when we see them,” Mr. Cray declared. “Doing a film, eh? Well, that's interesting. What's the story?”
“Too long to tell you,” she replied. “The point is, there's a murder at that cottage opposite, and the body's dragged out into that wood. They've been hauling a poor fellow about there until he declares he hasn't a sound bone in his body.”
“Pretty strenuous, that,” Mr. Cray remarked. “Kind of peaceful place for a murder.” ”

“ I myself will be responsible for Jacques Cassiat.”
The magistrate made a sign, and the thing was done. Monsieur Droumbet continued.
“Monsieur le magistrat,” he pronounced, “perjury has been committed in this court within the last hour. You have been told a lie! You have been told a lie in order to shield the guilty man!”
There was an intense silence. François Lafont was leaning farther forward in his seat now, breathing heavily. The courage born of the wineshops where he had spent the early morning was evaporating. The woman's eyes were like points of fire. ”

“ These foreigners get so crazy over nothing.”
“Déjeuner!” the girl sighed. “Don't! I ate my sandwiches before eleven o'clock.”
Mr. Cray smiled. His car had just come into sight, slowly rounding the hill.
“I guess I can fix that,” he said. “I've a glass of white wine, and sandwiches enough for a crowd, in my automobile here.”
The girl gazed from Mr. Cray to the approaching automobile. There was a look of adoration in her face.
“You are an angel,” she declared. 'From the moment I saw you on the wall, I felt that you were meant to bring happiness into my life. ”

“ Cray proved himself an expert in the modern dances which were being lavishly indulged in, and as he led her, breathless, back to her place, Miss Lindel declared that she was having the most enjoyable evening of her life.
“Why, if all the crowd aren't here!” she exclaimed a little later, waving her hand towards a distant corner of the room. “There's Mr. Harding, the producer; and Miss May, our leading lady; and Mr. Spens, the photographer, whom you met this morning. They don't seem to be able to find a table.”
“Ask them right across,” Mr. Cray insisted hospitably. ”

“ The old man was mean but doting. He wouldn't even pay his son wages for the work he did on the bit of farm, and the woman seems to have helped to make bad blood between them whenever she could.”
“And who was the other man?”
“François Lafont, his name was,” Mr. Cray replied. “He owns the next plot of land.”
The girl shivered a little
“These things are common-place enough to read about,” she remarked, “but it gives one a strange feeling to have been within half a yard of anyone who has just committed a murder. ”

“ Mr. Cray declared as he opened the door of the car and stretched out his hand for the luncheon basket. “Peter Gibson, his name is, of the Gibson Shoe Company, of Lynn. Some plant he owns, I can tell you.”
“I love him for his sex,” the young lady declared, accepting a sandwich from the very magnificent collection which Mr. Cray had spread out. “I should have hated you to have been faithless before we met.”
Mr. Cray produced a bottle of wine and a corkscrew, and a very agreeable little picnic followed. The photographer, having completed his “stills,” was summoned to join in the feast. ”

“ He was thoroughly contented here, basking in the warm sunlight, enjoying his cigar, and lazily speculating as to the doings of a mysterious crowd of people of whom he could catch glimpses every now and then, moving about behind the trees on the other side of the road. ”

“ Cray explained, “who go about the world poking their noses into other people's business. I've a kind of a natural taste for adventures and for straightening out problems when I come across one. I get more kicks than thanks, but I've had some amusement out of it.... With regard to this present little affair, there doesn't seem, on the face of it, to be much room for interference from anybody. ”

“ Are you free this evening?”
“She made me do it!” he cried. “She threw her arms around his neck.”
“Sure!” Mr. Cray agreed. “I'll come for you if you say the word, or will you be at the Hôtel de Paris at eight o'clock?”
“Hôtel de Paris! How delightful!” she exclaimed. “You needn't trouble to fetch me, Mr. Cray, but I'd be glad if you'd take me home..... Here comes our photographer. He's going to take some 'stills' of the cottage.”
Mr. Cray nodded.
“Some one moving about inside,” he remarked, gazing at one of the windows. ”

“ Work is good for us all, and I couldn't sit down and be the only one of my family to do nothing.”
These sidelights upon the young lady's family history, and their agreeable little picnic, were suddenly broken into by a further untoward happening connected with the cottage opposite. The front door was thrown open, and a woman ran screaming into the road. Her hands were high above her head; her face seemed distorted with horror. She ran toward the two, shouting and gesticulating, pointing first to the cottage and then down the hill, across the field. Mr. Cray slipped off the wall. ”

“ Yet it has been proved that you left the house after a violent quarrel with your father, that those quarrels were of almost daily occurrence, and that he was found stabbed in his chair by the first person who entered the room after your departure. In the face of these facts, do you still obstinately deny your guilt?”
“I am not guilty,” the boy declared passionately. “I swear that I never raise? ”