Part 16 (2/2)

”Not at all. Make yourself at home.”

”I will. First, I'd like to see that statue--the one of the hunter, with which it is supposed Mrs. Darcy was struck.”

”Oh, that is at the prosecutor's office--that and Harry King's unfortunate paper knife.”

”So they are. I had forgotten. Well, I'll look about a bit then.

Don't pay any attention to me. I'll go and come as I please.”

And so he went, seemingly rather idly about the jewelry store, looking and listening.

It was not until the third day of his surveillance, during which pa.s.sage of time he had waited anxiously for a message from New York without getting it, that the colonel felt his patience was about to be rewarded. The detective was a fisherman in more ways than one.

Trade had been rather brisk in the shop--possibly because of gruesome curiosity--when, one afternoon, a man entered who seemed to know several in the place. Yet he did not talk with them, beyond a mere pa.s.sing of the time of day, but went about nervously from showcase to counter and repeated the journey. When Mr. Kettridge asked him at what he desired to look he replied there was nothing in particular--that he had in mind a gift, but, as yet, had decided on nothing.

”Look about as you please,” was the courteous invitation he received, and the man availed himself of it.

Of medium build, yet with the appearance of having lived more in the open than does the average man, his face had, yet, a strange pallor not in keeping with his robust frame. And his manner was certainly nervous.

”Now what,” mused the colonel to himself, ”is _he_ fis.h.i.+ng for?”

That day there was more than the usual number of people in the store--many of them undoubtedly curiosity seekers, who came into price certain articles ostensibly, but who, really, wanted to stare at the place where the bloodstains had been scrubbed away.

And at this spot the robust man stared longer than did some of the others, the colonel thought. Did he hope that some spirit of the poor, murdered woman might still be lingering there, to whisper to him what he sought to learn?

”Who is that man?” asked Colonel Ashley of Mr. Kettridge, who had often come to the shop during the holiday seasons to help Mrs. Darcy.

”Oh, that's Mr. Grafton.”

”Mr. Grafton? Who is he?”

”Aaron Grafton, one of Colchester's best and wealthiest citizens. He owns the Emporium.”

”That big department store?”

”Yes. He has built it up from a small establishment. I have known him a number of years, and he knew Mrs. Darcy quite well. He often has purchased diamonds here, though he is not married, and I don't know that he is engaged--rather late in life, too, for him to be considering that.”

”Oh, well, you never can tell,” and the colonel smiled.

”So that is Aaron Grafton!” he mused. ”Well, Mr. Grafton, in spite of the well known reputation you bear, I think you will stand a little watching. I must not neglect the smallest clew in a case like this.

Yes, decidedly, I think you will bear watching!”

For at that moment the merchant, after another round of the store, seeking for something it seemed he could not find, turned and hurried out, a much-troubled look on his face. Colonel Ashley followed.

CHAPTER VII

<script>