Around the figure of the
methodical major--with his conspicuous white hat as a sort of
focus--was built up one of the most ingenious schemes of murder
with which I have ever come in contact. The victim literally
killed himself."
"But, Harley, the victim might have ignored the disturbance."
"That is where I first detected the touch of genius, Knox. He
recognized the voice of one of the combatants--or his companion
did. Here we are."
The cab drew up before the house in Hamilton Place. We alighted,
and Harley pressed the bell. The same footman whom I had seen
admit the woman opened the door.
"Is Lady Ireton at home?" asked Harley.
As he uttered the name I literally held my breath. We had come
to the house of Major Ragstaff's daughter, the Marchioness of
Ireton, one of society's most celebrated and beautiful
hostesses!--the wife of a peer famed alike as sportsman, soldier,
and scholar.
"I believe she is dining at home, sir," said the man. "Shall I
inquire?"
"Be good enough to do so," replied Harley, and gave him a card.
"Inform her that I wish to return to her a handbag which she lost
a few days ago."
The man ushered us into an anteroom opening off the lofty and
rather gloomy hall, and as the door closed:
"Harley," I said in a stage whisper, "am I to believe------"
"Can you doubt it?" returned Harley with a grim smile.
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