“Where are these people located?”

“Mrs. Wetherby is traveling with her husband in South America.  The Ostrello brothers are commercial travelers and somewhere on the road.”

“Then the Ostrellos are not rich?”

“No, they are poor, and Mrs. Ostrello was poor, too, before she married Mr. Langmore.”

There was another pause.

“Can you tell me anything else?” asked Adam Adams.

“Nothing of much importance.  It’s a deep mystery, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it’s very simplicity makes it deep.”  The detective drew a long breath.  “I was thinking of taking a vacation.  My doctor says I need it.”

“Oh!” There was a world of disappointment in the word.  “Don’t say that!  You must take hold of this.  I planned it all out as I came to town.  I know you can clear Margaret if you will only try.  Think of her position—­the disgrace—­my position—­ Oh, you can’t refuse me, Mr. Adams!” The young man came closer and caught the detective by the shoulder.  “If it’s money, set your price.”

“If I take hold, I’ll charge you only what is fair, Mr. Case.  But I never take a case, unless—­”

“Any request you have to make is already granted.”

“Unless I can first interview the person who stands accused of the crime.”

“You can see Miss Langmore at any time.  I told her that I was coming to town to interview you, and that I would bring you back with me, if you would come.  I told her what a wonderful man you were and what you had done for others.  I think it cheered her a little, although she was terribly cast down.”

“You must not promise too much on my account, young man.  I am no wizard, and I cannot perform the impossible, much as I might wish to do so.”

“But you will come?”

“Yes, I will come.”

“At once?” cried Raymond Case impatiently.

“At once.”

CHAPTER III

MARGARET LANGMORE

As Raymond Case had said, the Langmore mansion was a large one, setting in the midst of an extensive lawn, sprinkled here and there with maples and oaks and fine flowering bushes.  The hedge in front was well kept and the side fences were also in good repair.  In the rear was a stable and also an automobile shed, for the late master of this estate had been fond of a dash in his runabout when time permitted.  Down by the brook, back of the stable, was a tiny wharf, where a boat was tied up, a craft which Margaret Langmore had occasionally taken down to the river for a row.

The mansion now looked dark and lonesome, although many folks passed on the highway and whispered to each other that there was the spot where the gruesome tragedy had been committed.  “And to think that the man’s own daughter did it,” they would generally add.  “Beats all how bloodthirsty some folks can get.  He must have cut her short on money or something and she was too high-strung to stand it.”