The Paternoster Ruby | Page 8

that, there 's going to be trouble. They can't bluff me, and I
know they have n't any right to dictate what I shall do."
All of which was quite true. Maillot glanced at the body again, and
lowered his voice.
"Say," he said, "can't we go to a more appropriate place to talk matters
over?"

"Yes--the library," suggested I.
He drew back, and his face darkened.
"Library!" he echoed.
"There 's a fire there now," I informed him, wondering at his
quick-changing moods. Next instant he was talking again, eagerly.
"But--look here, Swift--you have n't examined the body yet, have you?
I 'm curious to see whether you discover anything. Queer old chap he
was; I don't think anybody ever understood him."
He broke off and eyed Stodger severely.
"What the deuce are you laughing at, Stodger?" he demanded.
Stodger laid a hand upon his arm, and asked with husky eagerness:
"On the level, Maillot--between us, you know--just what did you say
last night when somebody pulled the shade down over that lamp of
yours?"
"You go to thunder," Maillot retorted, turning his back upon him.
"Pshaw! I 'll bet it was hotter than that," said Stodger, in a disappointed
tone.
Now, then, here were the parts of the puzzle I had to piece together in
order to gain some conception of the manner in which Felix Page met
his death.
The still form lay, as I have already stated, on the landing which
extended across the rear of the hall like a balcony. The stairs continued
thence up to the second story, but in a direction exactly the reverse of
the first flight and on the opposite side of the hall therefrom.
Standing midway upon this landing, I had a view not only of the entire
spacious hall, but could also see the top of the étagère tipped forward at

the head of the stairs. It had evidently been a receptacle for old
magazines and newspapers, all of which, that had not been checked by
the balusters, now lay in a confused heap upon the floor just as they
slid from the shelves.
Even across the distance which then separated me from this article of
furniture--twelve feet, I should say--I could see that the top was coated
with dust, save for two spots where the rich red lustre of the polished
mahogany shone conspicuously: one about five inches in diameter and
forming a perfect octagon, the other much smaller, and ragged in
outline.
Here at my feet was the explanation. The base of the iron candlestick
accounted for the octagonal design; while the fragments of a shallow,
saucer-like sea-shell, which had been utilized as a match holder,
accounted for the smaller spot. These two articles manifestly had
reposed upon top of the étagère. The matches, to the number of half a
dozen or so, were strewn upon the stairs and landing.
I picked up the candlestick from where it lay upon the landing, and
examined it with much interest. It was a solid affair of ornamental iron,
about fifteen inches high, and weighed some six or eight
pounds--clearly a nasty weapon if wielded by a strong arm.
The bit of candle which it had contained lay nearby, one end flattened
out from having been crushed under somebody's foot.
At the time of his tragic death Mr. Page was in his sixty-first year, but a
large and very vigorous man. He had been garbed in his street clothes
(save for a frayed and faded purple smoking-jacket), thus contradicting
Burke's belief that the household had retired. On the right temple the
mark clearly showed where the candlestick's base had crushed the skull
beneath. Death certainly had been instantaneous.
While I held the candlestick in my band, Maillot suddenly exclaimed:
"By George, Swift! the old gentleman's death may have been owing to
accident, after all!"

I looked keenly at him.
"Suppose he was here on the landing," the young fellow went on
enthusiastically; "suppose somebody knocked that book-case affair
suddenly forward--might 've stumbled against it in the dark, you
know--why, that heavy candlestick would have put a quietus on any
man, falling on his head that way."
But I could not encourage this idea.
"I thought of that as soon as I saw the overturned whatnot," said I; "but
several circumstances disprove it.
"In the first place, if the candlestick slid off the top, the dust would
show it. Now the shell did slide, for you can plainly see where it
scraped the dust in doing so.
"Again, considering your supposition, the candle-stick would have
struck about half-way up the flight; if Mr. Page had been at that point
on the stairs--in the line of its fall--his head would have been too high
to have encountered it. And then, Maillot, look here." I pointed