“An inquest is only a necessary formality, Miss Innes,” he replied.  “Unless a crime is committed in the open, the inquest does nothing beyond getting evidence from witnesses while events are still in their minds.  The police step in later.  You and I both know how many important things never transpired.  For instance:  the dead man had no key, and yet Miss Gertrude testified to a fumbling at the lock, and then the opening of the door.  The piece of evidence you mention, Doctor Stewart’s story, is one of those things we have to take cautiously:  the doctor has a patient who wears black and does not raise her veil.  Why, it is the typical mysterious lady!  Then the good doctor comes across Arnold Armstrong, who was a graceless scamp—­de mortuis—­what’s the rest of it?—­and he is quarreling with a lady in black.  Behold, says the doctor, they are one and the same.”

“Why was Mr. Bailey not present at the inquest?”

The detective’s expression was peculiar.

“Because his physician testified that he is ill, and unable to leave his bed.”

“Ill!” I exclaimed.  “Why, neither Halsey nor Gertrude has told me that.”

“There are more things than that, Miss Innes, that are puzzling.  Bailey gives the impression that he knew nothing of the crash at the bank until he read it in the paper Monday night, and that he went back and surrendered himself immediately.  I do not believe it.  Jonas, the watchman at the Traders’ Bank, tells a different story.  He says that on the Thursday night before, about eight-thirty, Bailey went back to the bank.  Jonas admitted him, and he says the cashier was in a state almost of collapse.  Bailey worked until midnight, then he closed the vault and went away.  The occurrence was so unusual that the watchman pondered over it an the rest of the night.  What did Bailey do when he went back to the Knickerbocker apartments that night?  He packed a suit-case ready for instant departure.  But he held off too long; he waited for something.  My personal opinion is that he waited to see Miss Gertrude before flying from the country.  Then, when he had shot down Arnold Armstrong that night, he had to choose between two evils.  He did the thing that would immediately turn public opinion in his favor, and surrendered himself, as an innocent man.  The strongest thing against him is his preparation for flight, and his deciding to come back after the murder of Arnold Armstrong.  He was shrewd enough to disarm suspicion as to the graver charge?”

The evening dragged along slowly.  Mrs. Watson came to my bedroom before I went to bed and asked if I had any arnica.  She showed me a badly swollen hand, with reddish streaks running toward the elbow; she said it was the hand she had hurt the night of the murder a week before, and that she had not slept well since.  It looked to me as if it might be serious, and I told her to let Doctor Stewart see it.

The next morning Mrs. Watson went up to town on the eleven train, and was admitted to the Charity Hospital.  She was suffering from blood-poisoning.  I fully meant to go up and see her there, but other things drove her entirely from my mind.  I telephoned to the hospital that day, however, and ordered a private room for her, and whatever comforts she might be allowed.