# The Marathon Mystery/Part 1/Chapter 3
### CHAPTER III
#### Tricks of the Trade

GODFREY turned aside to hide the smile of satisfaction he could not wholly suppress; he had been adroitly driving Simmonds toward that suggestion.
For Godfrey wanted to be alone a few minutes with Miss Croydon. He was acutely conscious that here was a mystery much more puzzling than appeared on the surface; much more picturesque than the ordinary run of mysteries. Miss Croydon had said that her errand to suite fourteen had been on a private matter which did not concern the police, but Godfrey was not so sure of that. Of course, he could not compel her to explain it, and yet he felt that two or three well-directed questions might give him the clew which he was seeking now in vain.
“Very well,” he agreed; “We’ll see her down to her cab. What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to quiz the janitor and then search the house. Maybe the other fellow hasn’t had a chance to get away yet. I wonder what’s going on out there?” he added, as they returned together to the other room.
They could hear a commotion of some sort in the hall, the hum of many voices, the shuffling of many feet. …
​The commotion swelled to an uproar as Simmonds opened the door and closed it quickly behind him. Godfrey heard his voice raised in angry expostulation, and he chuckled grimly to himself as he turned to Miss Croydon.
He gazed at her with interest, searchingly, pondering how best to surprise her secret—at the bent head, with its crown of dark hair, shadowed by a little velvet hat; at the rounded arms, the graceful figure. The remarkable resolution and self-control with which she had answered the detective’s inquiries seemed to have deserted her. She was sitting huddled up in the chair, with her head in her hands, in an attitude almost of collapse. A convulsive shudder shook her from moment to moment. They had been thoughtless, Godfrey told himself, to leave her alone with the dead man—that was enough to unnerve any woman.
He paused yet a moment, looking at her,—at the slender hands, the little ear,—and he pictured to himself what her training had been, how she had been fenced away from the rough places of the world, the unpleasant things of life. Certainly, she could never have committed such a crime as this, or even connived at it.
Yet she had lied—deliberately and distinctly she had lied. She had told him that she had never before seen the dead man; she had told Simmonds just the opposite. Which was the truth? Doubtless the first; her first impulse would be to speak the truth; afterward, at leisure for a moment, she had mastered her agitation, had thought out the lie, and had uttered it with a surprising calmness.
​Godfrey felt that he was groping toward the light. But there was another mystery more impenetrable still. What was it had nerved her to brave the tittle-tattle of the world, to endanger her good name, to run she knew not what risk of indignity and insult? A love affair? Bah! To suppose her capable of such an assignation was preposterous. One had only to look at her to see that. And yet, what other reason could have brought her to this place, alone, on such a night…
Suddenly she felt the scrutiny he bent upon her, and raised her eyes to his. Then she straightened up, quickly, still looking at him, and he saw a flash of defiance in her eyes. Plainly, she did not fear him; he fancied there were few things in the world she did fear.
“May I see you to your cab, Miss Croydon?” he asked.
“To my cab?” she repeated, half-rising. “I may go, then? I am free? You have not——”
“Betrayed you?” he finished, as she stopped suddenly. “No; I don’t intend to. Whether you know the man yonder or not, I don’t for an instant believe you killed him.”
“Oh, I didn’t!” she cried. “I did my best to save him. But it was done so quickly—I didn’t understand until too late.”
“Nevertheless,” continued Godfrey evenly, “I think you’re wrong in trying to protect the scoundrel who did.”
The colour faded suddenly from her face,
“To protect him?” she faltered.
​“I’m sure you know him. You could place him in the hands of the police, if you wished.”
She stared without answering into his steady eyes. There was something compelling in their glance, a power there was no resisting, urging her to speak. She had been deeply shaken by the evening’s tragedy; her strength was almost gone. Godfrey saw her yielding, yielding—a moment more, and he would have the story. With a last sigh of resistance, she opened her lips, closed them, opened them again…
The door opened and a man came in—a keen-faced man of middle age, who nodded to Godfrey and threw a quick, penetrating glance at his companion. Behind him, the clamour burst out anew; various heads appeared in the doorway, various eager faces sought to peer into the room; but the newcomer calmly closed the door and assured himself that it was locked. He looked at Godfrey again, then expectantly at the girl.
“Miss Croydon,” said Godfrey, “this is Coroner Goldberg, whose duty it is to investigate this affair, and who may wish to ask you some questions.”
Goldberg removed his hat and bowed. Miss Croydon met his gaze with an admirable composure. Godfrey sighed—that moment of weakness was past—if Goldberg had only been a moment later!
“Only a few at present,” began the coroner, in a voice soft and deferential, as only he knew how to make it. How often, with that voice, had he led a witness on and on to his own ruin! “You were the only witness of this tragedy, I believe, Miss Croydon?”
“Yes, sir.”
​"Are you acquainted with the murderer?"
"No, sir."
"You never saw him before?"
"No, sir."
"But you could identify him, if the police succeed in capturing him?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"You have already given Mr. Simmonds a description of him?"
"Yes, sir; as well as I could."
"And told him the whole story?"
"Yes, sir—the whole story."
"Except one detail, I believe—you did not explain how you came to be in this room."
"No, sir; I did not tell him that,” she answered, in a low tone.
"Will you tell me?"
"I do not think it concerns the police, sir."
"You would better let me judge of that; if it does not concern the police, I promise you it shall go no farther."
She was looking at him anxiously; she moistened her lips and glanced uncertainly at Godfrey.
"Do you object to Mr. Godfrey's presence?" asked the coroner.
"Oh, not at all," she said quickly. "I'm very glad that Mr. Godfrey is here."
"I persist," continued Goldberg, "because I think that perhaps the story may help us to identify this man."
"It won't," said Miss Croydon; "but I will tell you—briefly, this man claimed to have certain—papers ​which concerned—our family. We had never heard—of him before. We knew nothing about him. But I came here—to see.”
“You did a very imprudent thing,” commented the coroner.
“I see it now,” agreed Miss Croydon humbly. “I came against the advice of my sister.”
“Then your sister knew you were coming?”
“Oh, yes; and tried to dissuade me. But I am sometimes—well-a little obstinate, I fear,” she went on, with just the ghost of a smile, and a humility which seemed to Godfrey a trifle excessive. “I shall not soon forget the lesson.”
Goldberg nodded, still looking at her. Godfrey wondered if he, too, suspected that there was something hidden behind this seeming candour. He had seen more than one instance of Goldberg’s acumen—an acumen heightened by a certain Oriental vividness of imagination. But, apparently, the coroner was satisfied with Miss Croydon’s answers.
“That is all, at present,” he said. “Your story shall go no farther. Mr. Godfrey, I am sure, promises that, too.”
“Certainly,” assented Godfrey.
“Of course,” the coroner added, “I shall have to summon you as a witness at the inquest. It will probably be tomorrow afternoon.”
She bowed without replying.
“One thing more,” said Goldberg. “Did he have the papers? Did he give them to you?”
“No,” she answered quickly. “He had no papers. He was lying.”
​“Then that is all,” repeated the coroner. “You’d better see her to her cab, Mr. Godfrey,” he added, with a little smile. “She’ll need an escort.”
She rose from her chair and dropped over her face a heavy veil which she had raised about her hat. Godfrey opened the door for her and followed her through. She shrank back from the mob which charged down upon her as soon as she appeared on the threshold, but Godfrey sprang forward quickly to her rescue.
“Keep close to me,” he said, and elbowed a way through the crowd with no great gentleness, despite a chorus of angry protests.
“It’s Godfrey of the Record.”
“Of course; he scents a corpse like a vulture.”
“Well, he’s no right to freeze us out!”
“Madame, we beg of you——”
But Godfrey merely smiled grimly and kept straight on, holding his companion firmly by the arm. In a moment, they were down the stairs and at the door of the cab.
“Miss Croydon,” he said, leaning toward her as she took her seat, “do me the favour to deny yourself to all callers tonight.”
“I shall,” she agreed instantly.
“Thank you,” and he stepped back, smiling, as the driver whipped up his horse.
He smiled more broadly still when he saw three other cabs following the first one.
“Now I call that enterprise!” he said to himself.
Then he chuckled again.