"Mr. Suggs, sir, is it not?" he asked, with the soft deference of those who fetch and carry for the rich. "I'm in a bit of a corner, sir, and seeing you yesterday at Mr. Guerney's house, and hearing so highly of your capabilities — begging your pardon, sir — I've come to you for a bit of advice."
"Fire when ready," said Johnny good humoredly.
"Isn't there any place I can take you, sir?"
"Well, I'm going down to the prison—"
"Prison?"
"To see Bradley, Mr. Guernev's butler."
Hawker wagged his head hypocritically. "To think that whited sepulchre should kill his master. It is almost unbelievable."
"Do you believe it?"
"Of course. He was the only one in the house at the time. But you are going to the prison, sir. If you will ride on the seat with me I can explain myself on the way down, sir."
So the reporter sprang nimbly in beside the over-groomed Hawker, and the big machine leaped away with the satisfied purr of a giant cat.
"It is a most peculiar situation, sir," began the chauffeur. "You see, I was in the service of the Jones family for years. When Mr. Sylvester went for himself I followed as valet and chauffeur — the establishment being a small one, do you see, sir? He thought very much of me if I do say it, and his family having passed away, he made a will leaving everything to me."
Johnny turned a pair of brightly suspicious eyes on Hawker, who returned the gaze steadily for an instant before swinging it again to the street.
"It develops, sir," the chauffeur continued, "that Mr. Sylvester left practically nothing. His bank balance is almost non-existent. This car and his other personal belongings must go to satisfy his creditors. It is very sad — how close he was sailing to the wind, sir."
"That makes it rather hard for you," observed Suggs. "But why are you telling me?"
"I'm distrustful of lawyers, and I had to talk about it with someone. Here is the strange part, sir." The chauffeur whirled the car around a corner and threaded his way through a maze of traffic at a speed that was a testimonial to his cleverness. "I understand that my master inherited all of Mr. Guerney's vast fortune. Many a time Mr. Sylvester told me of his expectations. So, naturally, I expect to receive the money that would have gone to him—"
They had reached the gray, forbidding walls of the prison, and the Rolls-Royce came to a stop before the gates. Johnny descended, but hesitated a moment, one foot lagging on the running-board. He had an idea, and he wanted to see more of Hawker.
"I think I can do something for you," he said. "As soon as I am free, I'm coming to see you."
"You can find me at the St. Regis garage, sir."
Johnny's eyes met the little, bloodshot ones in a meaning glance.
"And you," he added, "can do something for me."
With a careless nod, he strolled toward the warden's office.
It was quite natural that Suggs should know the warden of the prison. It was equally natural that the warden should be glad to do a favor for a newspaperman and the son of one of the city's most influential men. When Johnny asked to talk with Bradley the warden — supposing it to be an ordinary interview that was desired — assented, and led him to the old butler's cell himself.
The wistful little man was reading his Bible, but he laid it down, and rose as Johnny entered. There was something pathetically small and dusty about him — so much like a once-loved toy that lias been relegated to a far corner of the closet — that Suggs felt very sorry for him. He said a word or two about being sad to see him there. Bradley responded gratefully.
The warden considerately withdrew out of earshot.
Suggs said, "I received that message you sent me, but couldn't make head or tail of it, so I came here to get the thing straight from your own lips."
Bradley looked at him in a confused sort of a way. "I–I don't know what you're talking about, sir."
"There's no need for mystification or melodrama," said Johnny impatiently. "I want to help clear this matter up. You shouldn't be here, but there are others who should. Most of all I want to help Mildred Guerney!"
He thrust his face close to Bradley's, and uttered that phrase with the utmost emphasis of which he was capable.
The butler's chin dropped; his mild blue eyes distended.
"Don't you see, man?" the reporter whispered tensely. "I want to help her. It is quite possible that the police will hear of her shortly. Tell me whatever you know. It may help."
Bradley sat down on the cot, and wrung his hands. "I don't know a thing, Mr. Suggs, I swear to God I don't! Except that I made the impression of the lock on his study door for her. I did sleep most of the afternoon, and I don't know what happened during that time—"
"Did Mr. Guerney really give the servants the day off, or did you?"
"He did."
"Why?"
"I had told him Mildred was coming to the house. He was afraid she would make a scene, and the servants would hear it."
"What was the meaning of the message you sent me?"
"I never sent you any message, sir."
Utterly exasperated, Johnny turned to the door. He could not understand why Bradley should deny having sent the note, if he really did send it. If he had not, who had, and why was the old butler's name signed to it? The reporter jerked his note-pad from his pocket, and laid it before Bradley.
"Write a few lines on there," he requested, "and sign your name. I want to compare it with that note I received this morning."
The butler did as Suggs commanded. He seemed so utterly wearied that his power of resistance was burned out. Johnny pocketed the note, said a cheerful good-bye, and went down the corridor with the warden. He felt like a man in a labyrinth, striving desperately to reach the center, only to find himself as far away as ever. The center he sought was the solution to the triple murder in the Guerney house. His initial incentive, to spur up his father's regard, had been supplanted by another. He wanted to scatter the black shadows enveloping Mildred Guerney, and regain for her the fortune that was rightfully hers.
Johnny headed at once for the Star office. Things were in full blast there, and no one paid any particular attention to him as he dived at his desk. The letter he had received that morning was flattened out under an ink-well and another lay beside it. This one was unsigned, and merely bore the words, "Page ninety-two, paragraph three."
He opened the first letter and read it again:
Probably the perculiafity of this will strike you at once. If you would do me a favor, when you hear of my death — and I feel that the end is not far — will you have my body disposed of as was that of Gustave Edmonson, who wrote, "The Psychology of the Working Gasses"?
Johnny grinned. The second note cleared up in an absurdly simple way the puzzle the first one had created. His correspondent wanted him to read page ninety-two, paragraph three, of "The Pyschology of the Working Classes." He called for a copy-boy and sent him for the book — the one he had consulted that morning having been returned to the library.
Then he laid out the two notes. Despite the brevity of the second one, it was easy to see that the chirography was identical with that of the first. Then Suggs flattened out the paper he had requested Bradley to write. It was identical with that of the other two notes!
Why had the old butler denied writing them?.
The copy-boy came back presently with Edmonson's masterpiece. Johnny seized it eagerly, and opened it at page ninety-two. In paragraph three he found this:
"The newest, type of family servant is the chauffeur, and he presents a most absorbing psychological study. He is usually a step ahead of the other servants mentally, and, in consequence, becomes more valuable or more dangerous as his character is inclined. I recall quite vividly the murder of Mr. Farnsworth Lee by his chauffeur — a man of—"