Part 14 (1/2)

”Sisst!” warned Drew, clutching the operative's arm. ”Easy,” he whispered. ”Come on. Somebody is waiting upstairs for us. See his head in the light by the banister. Same chap, ain't it?”

”Can't see, Chief. Might be!”

”Nice house,” commented Drew as his feet sank in a deep-blue hall carpet. ”Good ornaments and fixtures throughout the place. Nice house!

Just about what I'd expected. Here we are. I'll do the talking.”

A blond pompadour, under which was a pair of wide gray eyes that blinked at them, greeted the two detectives as they turned the last landing. A thick-lipped mouth, in which was considerable strength and determination, opened and revealed a double row of strong, young teeth that would have delighted an Army recruiting sergeant.

”Well, what do you gentlemen want at this hour of the morning?”

Drew squared his shoulders and pressed Delaney back a foot or more.

”Harry Nichols?” he asked brusquely.

”Yes, I'm Harry Nichols.”

”Miss Stockbridge's friend?”

The gray eyes widened perceptibly. The lids dropped in heavy calculation. ”Who are you?” the young man asked point-blankly. ”I don't believe I ever had the pleasure of meeting either of you gentlemen.”

Nichols glanced into Delaney's leaning face which was just over his chief's shoulder.

”No, you haven't,” said Drew softening his tone. ”We've never met, but we may see considerable of each other. Here's my card!”

Nichols took the card, tilted it to the light from the open door, then dropped it into the right-hand side pocket of his lounging robe beneath which blue pajamas showed.

”Come in!” he said without committing himself. ”Come in, and take off your hats. I've only two rooms and a bath, here.”

Drew stepped upon heavy rugs and crossed the chamber to a chair. He turned this, removed his hat, and sat down with his legs thrust outward. His eyes roamed the place in slow calculation. Dark, old masters, which were probably good in their day, stared down at him. A little globe, petticoated in soft silk, gave a yellow light to the walls and floor. It brought out Nichols' features in sharp, actinic shadows. Drew continued his searching glance. A bed, with tossed coverlet and sheets, loomed from an inner room. A table, upon which was an officer's cap and gloves, stood between two doors that were closed.

One of these doors, Drew concluded, was the bathroom entrance, the other might have been a closet. His eyes fastened finally upon a telephone upon a dark-wood stand. He lifted his chin.

”Montgomery Stockbridge is dead!” he snapped, darting at Harry Nichols the keen scrutiny of a man salvoing a surprise.

Nichols glanced at the 'phone. ”I know that!” he said with rising color. ”I'm aware of that fact, Mr. Drew.”

”When did you first learn of it?”

”See here! I have your card. I know who you are. I was almost expecting you, or another detective. But,”--Nichols' voice raised to a determined key--”but, sir, I am not talking to anybody about what you just told me. How do I know who you represent--the police or the law or the----”

”You have talked with Miss Stockbridge. She told you in the drug-store that I was in the house. She has told you that I was called in by her father. She undoubtedly 'phoned you, after she recovered from her faint. You have the details of the dastardly murder--if ever there was one! I represent her. I represent her friends. I have no other interest in this case!”

Harry Nichols drew out the card and studied it. He glanced at Delaney.

”Who is this man?” he asked.

”My right bower. He's with me--and you and Miss Loris. We're together in this. The police now have the case. What I want is to protect you and her from the police. What will they do when they learn from the servants--which they will--that Miss Stockbridge had _this_ gun in her hand when she entered the library?”

Drew extended his palm. In the hollow of it lay the little ivory-handled revolver which he had taken from Loris.

”What are they going to do when they learn about this?” he asked with shrewd reasoning. ”Particularly, Mr. Nichols, when the caliber of this revolver is probably the same caliber of the bullet which entered, and is still in, Mr. Stockbridge's brain.”

The gray eyes narrowed. The lips compressed until they were white. They seemed drawn with pain. A faint hiss of surprise sounded in the room.