The Trevor case — A Reader’s Guide

pent five years as a member of the Canadian Northwest mounted police, and that service had left its mark in his appearance.

“Good morning, Mr. Attorney General.” His bow included all in the room. “Sorry to disturb you, sir, but my errand won’t take long.”

“Be seated, Mr. ----”

“Hardy--James Hardy, sir. Just before dawn this morning, O’Grady, who patrols this beat, noticed a man sneak out of your back yard. O’Grady promptly gave chase and caught his man just as he was boarding a train for New York. He took him to the station and had him locked up on suspicion. As the fellow had a full kit of burglar’s tools with him, including mask and sneakers, the Chief sent me round here to ask if you’d been robbed?”

“Oh, no,” replied the Attorney General. “I have just been through my safe and everything is intact. There’s nothing missing in your quarters, Wilkins?” he added, turning to the white-faced butler.

“No, sir; nothing, sir.” Wilkins’ voice trembled, and he looked at the detective with frightened eyes.

“Perhaps he tried, and finding all the windows barred gave it up as a bad job. I am--” continued the Attorney General, but his speech was cut short by the entrance of Doctor Davis.

“I am told there is a detective here.” The Attorney General bowed and motioned to Hardy. “You are properly accredited?” went on the physician. Hardy threw back his coat and displayed his badge. “Have you told him of Mrs. Trevor’s death?”

“No. Why speak of that terrible accident--”

“It was no accident.” The physician’s voice, though low pitched, vibrated with feeling.

The Attorney General half rose from his chair; then sank back again.

“Davis,” he said, almost fiercely, “you _know_ that by some fearful mischance Hélène locked herself in the air-tight safe and was suffocated.”

The detective glanced with quickened interest at the two men.

“On closer examination upstairs,” said the doctor, slowly, “I found a small wound under the left breast. The wound was concealed by the lace bertha of her evening dress. The weapon penetrated to the heart, and she bled internally. Mrs. Trevor was dead before she was put in that safe.”

The detective broke the appalling silence with an exclamation:

Without one word Beatrice Trevor fell fainting at her father’s feet.

MANY called, but few were invited to attend Mrs. Van Zandt Macallister’s stately entertainments. Possibly for that reason alone her invitations were eagerly sought and highly prized by social aspirants.

For more years than she cared to remember, official, residential, and diplomatic Washington had gathered on an equal footing in her hospitable mansion on F Street. So strictly did she draw social distinctions that one disgruntled climber spoke of her evening receptions as “Resurrection Parties,” and the name clung. But all Washingtonians took a deep interest in “Madam” Macallister, as they affectionately called her. She was _grande dame_ to her fingertips.

On the occasion of her daughter’s marriage to the Duke of Middlesex she gave a beautiful wedding breakfast. The wedding was of international importance. The President, his Cabinet, and the Diplomatic Corps were among the guests.

Mrs. Macallister was standing in the drawing-room with her back to the dining-room door talking to the President. As the butler drew apart the folding doors, the long table, covered with massive silver, china, and glass, gave way under the weight. The crash was resounding. The terrified guests glanced at each other. Mrs. Macallister never even turned her head, but went on conversing placidly with the President.

The doors were instantly closed; the guests, taking their cue from their hostess, resumed their light chatter and laughter; and in a remarkably short time the table was cleared and reset, and the breakfast announced. As the President, with a look of deep admiration, offered his arm to Mrs. Macallister, he murmured in her ear:

“‘And mistress of herself though china fall.’”

Washington society had never forgotten the incident.

Mrs. Macallister had rather a caustic tongue, but a warm, generous heart beat under her somewhat frosty exterior. Her charities were never aired in public. Only the clergymen knew how many families she kept supplied with coal in winter and ice in summer. And many an erring sister had cause to bless her name.

Mrs. Macallister glanced impatiently at the clock--twenty minutes past five. She leaned forward and touched the electric bell beside the large open fireplace. There were two things she abominated--to be kept waiting--and midday dinners; the former upset her nerves; the latter her digestion.

“Has Miss Margaret returned?” she asked, as Hurley entered with the tea tray.