Chapter III

Moris Klaw reappeared in the evening, accompanied by a strikingly beautiful brunette.

The change of face upon the part of Mr. Grimsby of New Scotland Yard was singular.

“My daughter--Isis,” explained Moris Klaw. “She assists to develop my negatives.”

Grimsby became all attention. Leaving two men on duty in the hall, Moris Klaw, his daughter, Grimsby, Coram, and I went up to the Greek Room. Its darkness was relieved by a single lamp.

“I’ve had the stones in the Athenean Harp examined by a lapidary,” said Coram. “It occurred to me that they might have been removed and paste substituted. It was not so, however.”

“No,” rumbled Klaw. “I thought of that, too. No visitors have been admitted here during the day?”

“The Greek Room has been closed.”

“It is well, Mr. Coram. Let no one disturb me until my daughter comes in the morning.”

Isis Klaw placed a red silk cushion upon the spot where the dead man had lain.

“Some pillows and a blanket, Mr. Klaw?” suggested the suddenly attentive Mr. Grimsby.

“I thank you, no,” was the reply. “They would be saturated with alien impressions. My cushion it is odically sterilized! The ‘etheric storm’ created by Conway’s last mental emotion reaches my brain unpolluted. Good-night, gentlemen. Good-night, Isis!”

We withdrew, leaving Moris Klaw to his ghostly vigil.

“I suppose Mr. Klaw is quite trustworthy?” whispered Coram to the detective.

“Oh, undoubtedly!” was the reply. “In any case, he can do no harm. My men will be on duty downstairs here all night.”

“Do you speak of my father, Mr. Grimsby?” came a soft, thrilling voice.

Grimsby turned, and met the flashing black eyes of Isis Klaw.

“I was assuring Mr. Coram,” he answered, readily, “that Mr. Klaw’s methods have several times proved successful!”

“Several times!” she cried, scornfully. “What! has he ever failed?”

Her accent was certainly French, I determined; her voice, her entire person, was certainly charming--to which the detective’s manner bore witness.

“I’m afraid I’m not familiar with all his cases, miss,” he said. “Can I call you a cab?”

“I thank you, no.” She rewarded him with a dazzling smile. “Good-night.”

Coram opened the doors of the Museum, and she passed out. Leaving the men on duty in the hall, Coram and I shortly afterward also quitted the Museum by the main entrance, in order to avoid disturbing Moris Klaw by using the curator’s private door.

To my friend’s study Hilda Coram brought us coffee. She was unnaturally pale, and her eyes were feverishly bright. I concluded that the tragedy was responsible.

“Perhaps, to an extent,” said Coram; “but she is studying music and, I fear, overworking in order to pass a stiff exam.”

Coram and I surveyed the Greek Room problem from every conceivable standpoint, but were unable to surmise how the thief had entered, how left, and why he had fled without his booty.

“I don’t mind confessing,” said Coram, “that I am very ill at ease. We haven’t the remotest idea how the murderer got into the Greek Room or how he got out again. Bolts and bars, it is evident, do not prevail against him, so that we may expect a repetition of the dreadful business at any time!”

“What precautions do you propose to take?”

“Well, there will be a couple of police on duty in the Museum for the next week or so, but, after that, we shall have to rely upon a night watchman. The funds only allow of the appointment of four attendants: three for day and one for night duty.”

“Do you think you’ll find any difficulty in getting a man?”

“No,” replied Coram. “I know of a steady man who will come as soon as we are ready for him.”

I slept but little that night, and was early afoot and around to the Museum. Isis Klaw was there before me, carrying the red cushion, and her father was deep in conversation with Coram.

Detective-Inspector Grimsby approached me.

“I see you’re looking at the cushion, sir!” he said, smilingly. “But it’s not a ‘plant.’ He’s not an up-to-date cracksman. Nothing’s missing!”

“You need not assure me of that,” I replied. “I do not doubt Mr. Klaw’s honesty of purpose.”

“Wait till you hear his mad theory, though!” he said, with a glance aside at the girl.

“Mr. Coram,” Moris Klaw was saying, in his odd, rumbling tones, “my psychic photograph is of a woman! A woman dressed all in white!”

Grimsby coughed--then flushed as he caught the eye of Isis.

“Poor Conway’s mind,” continued Klaw, “is filled with such a picture when he breathes his last--great wonder he has for the white woman and great fear for the Athenean Harp, which she carries!”

“Which she carries!” cried Coram.

“Some woman took the harp from its case a few minutes before Conway died!” affirmed Moris Klaw. “I have much research to make now, and with aid from Isis shall develop my negative! Yesterday I learnt from the constable who was on night duty at the corner of the Square that a heavy pantechnicon van went driving round at four o’clock. It was shortly after four o’clock that the tragedy occurred. The driver was unaware that there was no way out, you understand. Is it important? I cannot say. It often is such points that matter. We must, however, waste no time. Until you hear from me again you will lay dry plaster of Paris all around the stand of the Athenean Harp each night. Good morning, gentlemen!”

His arm linked in his daughter’s, he left the Museum.