“ALL AT SEA”

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3399, 28 July 1932, Page 6

“ALL AT SEA”

By CAROLYN WELLS.

(Copyright.)

CHAPTER XLlV.—(Continued.) Without, appearing to do so, Stone scrutinised her keenly. Either this woman was all Miss Folsoin had painted her, and she was deliberately setting out to fascinate him, or Pellon was right and she was troubled, but not by reason of a guilty conscience regarding Folsom's murder. "I think, Mrs "Valdon," lie said gently, "it would be better if we talked plainly. You know, I dare say, that I am down here to investigate the death of Garrett Folsom. There are reasons why I should ask you some questions and I have chosen this way to do it, thinking it would be the least annoying to you." Carmelita thanked him with one of her best smiles. "You are good," she said, with a ring of sincerity in her tone. "Let us talk plainly then. In the first place, I did not kill Mr Folsom." "But you are glad he is dead," Stono said quietly. She gave him a startled glance. "I hate to put it so baldly," she said, as if thinking this over, "but well, I am not really sorry. Or to come nearer the truth, I'm glad only for one reason. Otherwise I wish the man were still alive." "You're glad he's dead because that gave you opportunity to retrieve your letters which he held." "You must have been told that," she said, looking straight at him, "and nobody could have told you but Dan Pelton. Yes, I did get my letters back, and I never could have done that so long as Garrett Folsom was alive." "And so you are suspected, in some quarters, of having killed him in order to accomplish that end." "Some quarters, meaning his sister, I suppose. Does any one else suspect me, Mr Stone?" "That I don't know. But it would not be out of the question for Miss Folsom to spread such a suspicion." 'I know it wouldn't. She hates me. I wonder why?" "Partly because you two are so diametrically opposed in character and type and partly because she really thinks you killed her brother." "My dear Mr Stone, I couldn't kill anybody. I really couldn't. Miss Folsom might; she's the killer sort. But I'm not—" "That's no argument, Mrs Valdon. To kill a man one doesn't have to perform the actual deed oneself." Fleming Stone had dropped his charming manner, and now lie spoke with the steely, low, hard voice that had so often struck terror to the heart of a wrongdoer. "Ohl" Carmelita gave a little gasp. "You mean—'-' "That some one else could have done it—at your bidding. Who was the man with the white moustache?" At once Stone saw he had drawn a blank.

your letters or their import if you are not connected with the crime." "What are you leading up to?" she asked gravely. "Just this. You know—probably from some evidence you ran across while getting your own letters —you know something you have not yet told. I want you to tell it to me." CHAPTER XLV. Carmelita Valdon stared at Fleming Stone. Her great dark eyes seemed to grow luminous with fear, and then they became sphinx-like and inscrutable. "You startled me," she said, with a light laugh. "I thought you meant it." "I did mean it —I do mean it. You learned something that you have kept to yourself. You discovered something that leads you to a definite suspicion. This thing you must tell, or you will find yourself in serious trouble." "Oh, no, not so bad as that." Carmelita Valdon was again mistress of herself. Her instant of fear had passed; she had come through the inquisition about her letters, and it had caused her no alarm. "Yes, Mrs Valdon." All at once Stone found himself on the losing side of the argument. "Yes, serious trouble," he ended up, a little lamely. She looked at him and smiled. "Shot all your arrows, have you, Mr Stone?" she bantered. "Well what next?" Stone wanted to shake her. Never hefore had he felt so baffled by a woman's wit. He was certain that she had 'no connection of any sort with the death of Garrett Folsom. But he knew, too, that she had a clue of some kind, however slight, that he would give \vorlds to learn. But it was so vague, so purely imaginary on his part, that he couldn't think, at the moment, of any way to force her hand. And she was so impossible. She was a different person from the sadfaced woman who had confessed to stealing her own letters and had admitted her relief at the death of Folsom. Now her eyes shining, her red lips smiling, her whole being full of vivacity and charm, she leaned closer to him and whispered; 'Don't shoot any more arrows at me. I haven't done anything wrong." "But you know who has!" he said sternly, angry at himself for being swayed by her beauty and lure. And then, with another of her sudden changes, she became wistful, even pathetic, and tears actually appeared in her eyes. "No. Merely a faint .slight possibility. Nothing that I can tell you." "Very well, Mrs Valdon," and Stone gave himself a mental shake. "I take that statement as a true one, and I shall say nothing more to you about It, until —until I, too, discover that same slight possibility." And at that he had the satisfaction of seeing her look very perplexed indeed.

Purposely he had sprung this question suddenly, feeling sure he could tell by her reaction whether she knew of the man or not.

Clearly she did not. For her uncomprehending look and her surprised voice were so indubitably sincere that the detective was forced to believe her. "The man with the white moustache? I've not the slightest idea. But he most certainly was no agent of mine! And I tell you, Mr Stone, I had no hand in Garrett Folsom's death. Either directly or indirectly."

They returned to the hotel, and as it was the bathing hour, Carmelita hurried away to keep an appointment, and Stone sat on the deck by himself to think things over. As a result of his cogitations he went up to Dan Pelton's suite. Ross, the valet Pelton had inherited from Folsom, was just leaving the rooms, having finished his work there. "Going in the surf?" Stone said pleasantly. "No, sir," Ross returned. "I can't seem to bear the sight of the ocean since—Mr Folsom—" "Yes, I know," Stone said understandingly. "I wish we could get at the truth, Ross." "I wish so, too, sir, but it is all so mysterious. If it had been on land, now—" "That's just it. A murder on land gives at least some chance of clues left on the scene, but in the ocean — not a showing." "Not a showing, sir. You have no ■ —-no suspicions, sir?" "No. I say Ross, have you?" He looked at the man closely. But he saw nothing save the immobile face of the servant, with a sad look in the eyes that told him only of a natural grief at the death of a respected master. 'I wish 1 could suspect him," Stone thought whimsically. "It would help along a Jot." "Wait a minute, Ross," he said, aloud, and the man paused. '•You know a heap about your late master's private affairs, and you needn't hesitate to speak out before me. Is there anybody you know of who could have had reason to do this job? I mean do you know of any one over whom Mr Folsom had a strong enough hold to make a motive for murder?" (To be Continued).

"But as soon as he was dead you hastened to get your letters?"

"I did indeed 1 And a hard time I had of it! I subsidized servants; I begged keys from friends; I tried every way I could think of—and I finally got them. Now they are burned up, and if the police accuse me of murder hecause of it they will have to prove it. But they can't get the letters 1"

Her smile of triumph went further toward convincing Stone of her innocence regarding the murder than any asseverations could have done. To his mind it was clear that she was so anxious to get her letters and so relieved at having got them that the thought of a more serious accusation had not yet sunk very deeply into her mind. And this ,of course, for the reason that she had no guilty knowledge of the crime itself. "The letters were so very important then?" he asked, casually. "Important to me because of their disclosure of some facts in my past life which.l wish kept secret. Facts which would be of small interest to the general public but which were of enough importance to give Garrett Folsom a hold over me that he never let me forget. Now they are destroyed, and my soul is at peace." She was silent a moment and then turned to him, with a really lovely smile, and said, "My soul couldn't be at peace if I had killed him, could it?"

"No, Mrs Valdon," Stone said, giving her a keen look, "I think it colud not. I'm not prepared to say I can tell a criminal by looking at one, but I will say that I think T can tell by talking to one. And my judgment, my experience and my instinct all shout to rac your innocence in the matter of Folsom's death. Now the question of those letters need never be brought up, never be even mentioned, if we can find out who did kill Folsom. That's all his sister wants; Hint's all the police want; that's all T want—to learn Hie identity of the murderer. No one has any justifiable concern with