“Then we are forced to the conclusion that whoever entered did so very quietly, that it was with the knowledge and permission of Doctor Waring himself, that the visitor was the person whose footprints lead straight to the door, and whose finger prints are on the chair that stood near the Doctor’s own chair. We are borne out in this view by the fact that the same person now possesses the money and the ruby pin which we know Doctor Waring had in his room with him, and we know that the person is here in Corinth for unexplained reasons, and is, in fact, so peculiar that she is known as—Miss Mystery. Just why, Mr. Lockwood, are you arguing against these obvious inferences, and why do you undertake to free from suspicion one against whom everything is so definitely black?” “Because,” Lockwood spoke very quietly, but his jaw was set in a stubborn way, “the lady you call Miss Mystery, is a young and defenseless girl, without, so far as I know, a friend in this town. It is unfair to accuse her on the strength of this fantastic story and it is unfair to condemn her unheard.” “Not unheard,” said the attorney, “but what she says only incriminates her more deeply.” CHAPTER XII MAURICE TRASK, HEIR The funeral services of John Waring were solemn and impressive. No reference was made to the manner of his taking-off, save to call it mysterious, and the encomiums heaped upon him by the clergy and the college faculty were as sincere as they were well-deserved. There were two members of the great audience who were looked at with curiosity by many. One of these was Miss Mystery, the girl who, it was vaguely rumored was in some way connected with the tragedy. To look at her, this seemed impossible, for a sweeter face or a gentler manner could scarce be imagined. Anita Austin sat near the front, on one of the side aisles. She wore a gown of taupe-colored duvetyn, and a velvet toque of the same color. Her olive face was pale, and now and then her small white teeth bit into her scarlet lower lip, as if she were keeping her self-control only by determined effort. A close observer might note that she paid no heed to the utterance of the able men who gave tribute to John Waring’s character, but her troubled eyes rested on the flower-covered casket, and the rising tears overflowed as she stifled an occasional sob. And then, fairly clenching her hands in a determination to show no emotion, this strange girl would straighten up, and stare blankly ahead of her as if in utter oblivion of the scene. Directly behind her was Helen Peyton, who had chosen that place with the intention of watching Miss Mystery. Mrs. Peyton was by her daughter’s side, but her whole attention was on the funeral services, and she thought of little else.