The Sheridan Road Mystery | Page 9

his hat,
he asked politely, "Are you the tenant here?"
"Yes," came in a soft but nervous voice.
"May I come in and talk with you a few minutes?" inquired Morgan.
"What is it you want?" the girl inquired.
Morgan threw back his coat and disclosed his badge. "I am a city
detective, and I would like a few words with you about this affair

across the hall."
"What affair is that?" asked the girl.
Morgan smiled. "Didn't you know there was some trouble across the
hall last night?"
"No," she returned. "I retired early and have heard nothing about it."
Morgan was at a loss for a moment. The girl was not of the type that
one would associate with persons of a criminal sort. Her replies had
been given in a tone of voice so candid and wondering that it hardly
seemed possible she could be acting. Whatever the situation, however,
Morgan wanted to get inside this apartment and study the girl more
closely.
"Well, I'll tell you all about it," he said, gently, "if you'll let me come in
for a moment or two."
"I know nothing about it," she maintained, with a touch of irritation in
her voice, and Morgan's foot signaled to him that she was attempting to
close the door.
Morgan never liked to be rough in his methods. He hesitated over
forcing himself into the presence of this young woman, and yet he now
had an impression that an interview with her was imperative. There was
a slight pause, as he ran over in his mind some way to gain his entrance
without force.
"Do you know Mr. Marsh downstairs?" he inquired, suddenly, his eyes
keeping a keen watch on her face.
"I do not know any of the tenants in the building."
"That's strange," said Morgan, thoughtfully. "I was just talking with Mr.
Marsh, and he told me that you knew all about the trouble last night. He
suggested that if I would come and see you I could get just the
information I wanted."

"I don't know this Mr. Marsh, and I can't understand why he should
make such a statement." Surprise was apparent in her voice.
Morgan was quite sure that her surprise was genuine. At the same time
his remarks had just the effect he had hoped they would. It brought a
new element into the matter and added to the girl's natural curiosity.
She opened the door wider, and nodding toward the front room, said,
"Step in and tell me what you wish to know."
The room into which Morgan entered was a counterpart of the one
across the hall, though as he rapidly observed the furnishings, he was
impressed with the greater taste displayed and the homelike atmosphere.
A piece of embroidery, on which she had evidently been working, lay
on the arm of a chair near the window.
Conjecturing that she would resume her seat in this chair, Morgan
seated himself where he could keep his back to the window, while the
girl whom he was about to question would directly face the full light.
Morgan's guess was correct. The girl went directly to the chair she had
left to answer his ring, and taking up her embroidery, picked nervously
at its edges, meanwhile watching Morgan expectantly.
Surmising that a direct attempt to question her at once might defeat his
purpose, Morgan immediately broke into an account of the previous
night's occurrence. As he brought out the various details of what was
reported to have taken place, he slyly watched her face. At the end of
his recital, he felt convinced that what he told the girl had previously
been unknown to her. Moreover, Morgan became sensible of a growing
feeling of interest and confidence in the girl. Her sweetness seemed so
genuine, her dark blue eyes so frank and honest in the straightforward
way they met his.
"It seems very strange that I heard none of the excitement," remarked
the girl, when Morgan had finished his story. "I had a rather busy day
yesterday with my studies and retired early."
Morgan had decided upon his line of questioning while relating the
incidents of the night before.

"May I ask your name?"
"Certainly," she replied. "My name is Atwood."
Morgan, having noticed the absence of a wedding ring, assumed that
she was unmarried. Therefore, he said, "Is your mother at home, Miss
Atwood?"
A shade of sadness passed over her face. "My mother died some
months ago," she replied.
"I am sorry. I know what it is to have a good mother," sympathized
Morgan. Then he inquired, "Perhaps your father heard the
disturbance?"
"Oh no," she replied. "My father is away."
"He travels?"
"Yes; my father is a salesman."
"For some Chicago house, I suppose."
"No; for a business