The Paternoster Ruby | Page 3

to drag from memory's hiding-place the tantalizing
circumstance which I somehow felt was pregnant with possibilities in
the light of the financier's death. What on earth was it? I thought of
everything else I had ever heard or read about the man.
But I was young--not only in the service, but in years as well--and this
was one of my first hard rubs with that heartless old pedagogue,

Experience.
Felix Page had enjoyed--I use the word advisedly--a widespread
reputation for eccentricity. The word, I held a secret conviction, was
merely a polite euphemism to cover his unscrupulous nature. Many acts
of his were condoned, or even laughed at, which would have been
nothing short of outrageous if performed by another. He had been
widely exploited as a "character"; in reality he had been a merciless old
skinflint, with a supreme disregard for the rights or pleasures of others.
Still, it is not to be denied that his eccentricity did reveal itself in
certain ways. After business hours he retired to a forlorn old mansion,
where he lived alone, without kindred (if he had any) or servants, save
for an ancient dame who came of mornings to prepare his breakfasts,
and to discharge, under his nagging supervision, the few domestic
duties necessary to meet his requirements.
Something like a half-hour after leaving the Central Office, I arrived at
the Page place. Stodger, a short, fat, good-natured chap, was awaiting
my arrival--evidently with some impatience, for he was stamping to
and fro before the gate for warmth. As soon as he learned my business
he conducted me up to the house.
On the way he gave me a hasty account of the crime, concerning which
he frankly and whimsically confessed to be very much at sea.
A description of the house and grounds is in order. The location was all
that could be desired, and would have been an ideal place of residence
if rehabilitated from its sorry condition of neglect. The house faced the
north end of Sheridan Park, a glimpse of whose lagoons could be
caught here and there among the leafless trees. It sat well back from the
wide boulevard, and, surrounded as it was by fine old elms and beeches
and maples, it reminded me of some antiquated English country home,
such as I have seen in pictures.
There were any number of chimney clusters; but the general air of the
place was extremely cold and forbidding. Notwithstanding it was
mid-winter and that an inch or more of snow lay on the ground, there

was not a wisp of smoke above any of the chimneys to indicate the
welcome presence of a fire below.
A high iron fence extending along the front of the property was divided
by a carriage entrance and a smaller gate for pedestrians. The former,
barring the way to a weed- and grass-grown drive, was hermetically
sealed by rust; while the other was just as permanently fixed open by
the accumulation of earth and gravel about its lower part. Two parallel
rows of ragged, untrimmed privet designated the tortuous way of the
drive to the unused porte-cochère.
"Nasty case," Stodger was imparting, in queer staccato sentences.
"Shouldn't have much difficulty, though; responsibility lies between
two men. Here all last night. Nobody else. Callahan and O'Brien holdin'
'em. One 's Page's private secretary; fellow named Burke--Alexander
Stilwell Burke. Peach of a monicker, ain't it? Has all three sections on
his cards.
"The other 's a young lawyer chap; calls himself Royal Maillot. I can't
pry out of either of 'em what he was doing here."
"And nobody else, you say?" I asked when he paused.
"Nope--so they say. Either one of 'em might have done it. They 're
down on each other for something; glare at each other like--like--you
know--cat and dog."
"Go on."
"Well, this fellow Burke--Alexander Stilwell--he comes to our shack
some time after two this A. M. Told the desk-sergeant old Page 'd been
croaked; wouldn't say anything more. Dippy? Say! Acted like
somebody 'd slipped him a round o' knockout-drops. Sure thing, he did.
Would n't budge till old Grimes sent me back with him. I 'm only a
license inspector, too. This is what I--h'm-m--I butted into. Dev'lish
cold, ain't it?"
He had opened the front door and ushered me into a deep, wide hall. A

broad stairway, with carved oak balusters, rose on one side to a landing
which formed a sort of balcony over the rear end of the hall, and thence
continued up to the second story.
With his concluding words, Stodger pointed up to the landing, through
whose balusters I could see a hand and a part of a motionless human
form stretched out at full length upon the floor.
"Felix Page--b'r-r--dead as a door-nail," Stodger now added. "Slugged