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On entering the apartment he had noticed the disorder of the room. He put out the electric light from the switch by the door, drew the curtains and raised the blind. At once he realized that death confronted him. Terrified, he had rushed to the hall calling for the servants. Theodore Mahr, Victor Mahr's only son, who was on his way to breakfast, rushed at once upon the scene.
A lean, triumphant smile curled his heavy purple lips, the radiating wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were drawn upward in a Mephistophelian hardness. It was Victor Mahr. His expression suddenly changed to one of intense disgust, as a tall young man entered the Denning box and bent in evident admiration over Dorothy's smiling face.
His companions exchanged dubious glances. "Nothing learned yet about the matter, sir, on which you engaged me, nothing at all. But there's something else I think you ought to know Victor Mahr is dead!" "Dead! How? When?" Gard feigned surprise. "Murdered last night," came the reply. "Found this morning. Our man watching the house learned it as soon as anyone did.
Mahr had leveled his stroke at a defenseless girl, but the weapon that should parry it would be wielded by a man's strong arm, backed by all the resources of brain and wealth. As these thoughts raced through his mind, he had been standing erect and silent, his eyes staring at the paper that crackled in his clenched fist. Dorothy's voice sounded far away repeating something.
The friend was far away; she could remain there and not be found stay until she had courage to do the thing that had suggested itself as the only issue to end it all. But who had killed Victor Mahr? She gave a gasp of horror and held up her hands was there blood upon them? But how how? Try as she would, no answering picture of horror rose from her darkened mind.
This crank may be dangerous. We know he is cunning. You should go with your chaperon say nothing about where to anyone, not to a soul, mind; not to the servants here, not even to Teddy Mahr. Just run down incognito to Atlantic City or Lakewood, or better still, to some little place where you are not known.
He, Marcus Gard, must dictate every word that might be said, foresee every possible form in which a meeting might come, and dictate the terms of Mahr's surrender. Words and sentences formed and shifted in his mind as he waited impatiently for his summons to be answered. The butler bowed, murmuring that Mr. Mahr was expecting Mr.
Why, I had to pick ever so many pockets, and I do hate touching people; you never can tell what germs they may have." She shook out her rusty black skirt as if to detach any possible contagion. "But, why," the incisive voice of the attorney inquired, "did you want to kill Victor Mahr?" "Why?" she screamed, her body suddenly stiffening.
"There's nothing that can't wait, and you need rest, sir." "Not till I can get it without nightmares," he snapped. "Now give me this Mahr affair all of it. I've seen the papers, of course, but I imagine you have the inside; then I want to hear what you think." The detective gave a start and colored to the roots of his hair.
He would strike his enemy through the heart of a child he would humiliate the girl so that, with shame and horror, she would turn away from all that life held for her! He knew that if the bolt found lodgment in her heart she would consider herself a thing too low, too smirched, to face her world. The marriage, that Mahr feared and hated, would never take place. Doubtless that evidence which Mrs.
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