This interested Braceway more than anything he had yet heard.

"That gave you an idea," he suggested.

"You are quick, Mr. Braceway. It did give me an idea. It made me think: well! This man, he has pawned things before, these very same things. He knew quite well what they should bring." Abrahamson shrugged his shoulders. "And he did know—and I let him have the money. That is, I mean, what happened the first two times. This last time, the three days ago, he was different, in a hurry, and he took only what I offered. He made no argument. I could see he was frightened. Yes—he was different this last time."

The detective, oblivious of the other for a moment, blew a cloud of smoke across the counter, causing the Jew to dodge and cough.

"Let me see," Braceway said. "You saw him three months ago, two months ago, and three days ago. Had you ever seen him before?"

Abrahamson laughed, and, reaching over, slapped Braceway on the shoulder gently.

"You are so quick, Mr. Braceway! I can't swear I had ever seen him before, but I think I had—not with the gold tooth and the beard, but with a moustache and bushy eyebrows, eyebrows too bushy."

"Where? Where did you see him?"

"Here, I think—but I'm not sure, you see. Sometimes I have traveled a little—to Atlanta, to Washington, to New York. I don't know; I can't tell whether I saw him in one of those places, or some other place, or here."

Braceway urged him with his eyes.

"If you only could! Mr. Abrahamson, if you could remember where you saw him when he wore the moustache, you would enable me to put my hands on him. You'd do more. You'd give me enough information to lead to the arrest of the murderer."

Abrahamson was silent, gazing through the shop doorway. He turned to the detective again.

"I bet you, Mr. Braceway, you will be glad to hear something. Chief Greenleaf was in here this morning, asking questions. But he asked so many that were worth nothing, so few that were good. And I forgot to tell him the whole story—the things of, perhaps, significance."

"Tell me. Significance is what I'm after."

"Well, you know Mr. Withers spent almost the whole day in here before the night of the murder. Once he went out. That was in the late afternoon to get some lunch. While he was out—understand, while he was out—in came the gold-tooth fellow.

"It was bad luck. I kept him as long as I could, but he was hurried, nervous. Half an hour, forty minutes maybe, after the gold-tooth fellow had gone, in came Withers again, out of breath, complaining that he had picked the man up just outside here and followed him, only to lose him when the gold-tooth fellow went through Casey's store to the avenue.

"I showed Withers the ring the fellow had pawned for a hundred dollars.

"'Yes, yes!' he said; 'that's one of my wife's rings.'

"And he was all cut up.

"Now, here is what I have to tell." Abrahamson lowered his voice and, leaning low on his elbow, thrust his face far over the counter toward Braceway. "It is only an idea, but—it is an idea. I bet you I would not tell anybody else. Such things might get a man into trouble. But I like you, Mr. Braceway. I confide in you. Mr. Withers and that man with the beard and the gold tooth—something in the look of the eyes, something in the build of the shoulders—each reminded me of the other, a little. And they were at no time in here together. Just an idea, I told you. But——"

He spread out his hands, straightened his back, and smiled.

Braceway was, undisguisedly, amazed.

"You mean Withers was the——"

"S—sh—sh!" Abrahamson held up a protesting hand. "Not so loud, Mr. Braceway. It is just an idea for you to think over. I study faces, and all that sort of thing, and ideas sometimes are valuable—sometimes not."

"By George!" Braceway put into his expression an enthusiasm he was far from feeling. "You've done me a service, a tremendous service, Mr. Abrahamson."

He thought rapidly. Three months ago! Where had George Withers been then? Three months ago was the first of February. He started. It was then that Withers had gone to Savannah. At least, he had said he was going to Savannah. And two months ago? He was not certain, but when had George left Atlanta, ostensibly for Memphis?

Inwardly, the detective ridiculed himself. He would have sworn to the innocence of Withers. In fact, he was swearing to it all over again as he stood there in the pawnshop. Abrahamson's "idea" was out of the question. People were often victims of "wild thinking" in the midst of the excitement caused by a murder mystery.

He returned to the effort to persuade the Jew to try to remember where he had seen the bearded man without a beard, with only a moustache and bushy eyebrows.

"That's the important thing," he urged. "If you can remember that, I'll land the murderer."

"Maybe—perhaps, I can." The pawn broker hesitated, then made up his mind to confide to Braceway another secret. "I don't promise, but there is a chance. You see, Mr. Braceway, I'm a thinker." He smiled, deprecating the statement. "Most men do not think. But me, I think. I do this: I want to remember something. Good! I go back into my little room back of the shop, and I practise association of ideas. What does the moustache remind me of? What was in his voice that made me think I had seen him before? What do his eyes bring up in my mind?

"So! I go back over the months, over the years. One idea leads to another connected with it. There flash into my mind links and links of thoughts until I have a chain leading to—where? Somewhere. It is fun—and it brings the results. I will do so tonight and tomorrow. I will try. I bet you I will be able to tell you—finally. You see?"

"It's a great scheme," said Braceway, encouraging him. "It ought to work. Now, tell me this: how did this fellow strike you? What did you think of him when he was in here pawning jewels and wearing a disguise?"

"I will tell you the truth. I thought at first he was like a lot of other sick people who come here with that disease—tuberculosis. In the beginning they have plenty of money. They expect to get well before the money gives out. But they have miscalculated. They are not yet well, and the money is gone.

"What next? They must have more money. With this disease, the rich get well, the poor die. Well! I thought this fellow needed money to get well—that was all; and, like a lot of them, he was ashamed of being hard up and didn't want it known."

"Tell me this: would the ordinary man in the street have noticed that the gold tooth was a false, clumsy affair?"

"I think not. I buy all sorts of old gold and sets of false teeth. There is a market for them. I have studied them. That's why I saw what this fellow's was."

"I see. Now, will you show me what he pawned two months ago, and three months ago?"

Abrahamson consulted a big book, went to the safe at the back of the shop, and returned with two little packets. In the first were two bracelets, one studded with emeralds and diamonds, the other set with rubies. In the second envelope was a gold ring set with one large diamond surrounded by small rubies.

"I allowed him six hundred dollars on the bracelets," explained Abrahamson; "they are handsome—exquisite; and three hundred and fifty on the ring."

Braceway passed the stuff back to him. It was a part of the Withers jewelry.

"You see, Mr. Braceway," added the Jew, "all this business, this murder and everything, will cost me money. This jewelry, it is stolen goods. Chief Greenleaf leaves it here for the present, as a decoy. Perhaps, somebody might try to reclaim it. That's what he thinks. As for me, I don't think so. It is a dead loss."

He sighed and rearranged the articles in their envelopes.

"Yes," agreed the detective; "it's hard luck. You've got every reason to be interested in running down the truth in this mix-up. I wish you could tell me where you think you saw this man—the time he had neither the gold tooth nor the brown beard."

"Be patient, my friend—Mr. Braceway. By tomorrow I may remember. I shall work hard—the association of ideas! It is a great system."

Braceway thanked him and was about to leave the shop. He had already formed a new plan. He turned back to the pawn broker.

"By the way," he said, "I'm going to Washington tomorrow. If you should remember, if the association of ideas produces anything, I wonder if you'd wire me?"

"Certainly. Certainly."

The detective wrote on a slip of paper: S. S. Braceway, Willard Hotel. He handed it to Abrahamson.

"Wire me that address, collect," he directed.

Abrahamson promised, smiling. He was pleased with the idea of helping to solve the problem which convulsed Furmville.

"Oh," added Braceway, "another thing. How would you describe this fellow in addition to the fact that he wore the beard and the gold tooth?"

"Very thin lips," replied Abrahamson slowly, "and high, straight, aquiline nose, and blond hair, and—and, I should say, rather thin, high voice."

"Good!" Braceway exclaimed. "Good! Mr. Abrahamson, you've just described the man who, I believe, committed the murder. And I know where he is."

Morley had been pointed out to him in the hotel earlier in the day, and Abrahamson's memory sketched a fairly good likeness of the young man as he remembered him. Why not make certain of it at once?

"You've been very obliging," he continued, "and, I suppose, that's why I feel I can impose on you further. I confide in you, as you did in me. I'm going back to the Brevord now. Could you follow me and take a look at a man who'll be with me there?"

The Jew's eyes sparkled.

"Yes, Mr. Braceway," he said and added: "It may cost me money, closing up the shop, you understand. But if I can help——"

"Don't misunderstand me," the detective cautioned. "There's no charge of murder. Nothing like that. This fellow may be the gold-tooth man, and still not be the guilty man."

"I see; I see," Abrahamson's tone was one of importance. "You go on, Mr. Braceway. I'll follow in three minutes."

"If the man I'm with is the one who wore the disguise, if he looks more like it than Mr. Withers did, make no sign. If he's not the fellow communicate with me later—as soon as you can."

Morley was the first person Braceway saw when he entered the lobby of the hotel. He lost no time, but crossed over to the leather settee on which the young man sat. Morley looked haggard and frightened, and, although he held a newspaper in front of him, was gazing into space.

Braceway decided to "take a chance." He had a great respect for his intuitions. These "hunches," he had found, were sometimes of no value, but they had helped him often enough to make the ideas that came to him in this way worth trying. He introduced himself.

"I was wondering," he said, sitting down beside Morley, "if you couldn't help me out in a little matter."

Morley sighed and put down his paper before he answered:

"What is it?"

"Something about make-ups—facial make-up."

Morley looked at him and felt that the detective's eyes bored into him.

"What about make-up?"

"I had the idea—perhaps I got it from George Withers—that you used to be interested in a matter of theatricals."

Morley coloured.

"Yes. That is," he qualified, "I was a member of the dramatic club when I was in college, University of Pennsylvania. But I didn't know Withers knew anything about it."

Braceway's demeanour now was casual. His eyes were no longer on Morley. He was watching Abrahamson, who was at the news-stand near the main entrance.

"I thought George had mentioned it to me, but I may be mistaken. Did you ever 'make up' with a beard?"

The morning papers had got hold of the suspicion of some of the authorities that a man wearing a brown beard and a gold tooth was wanted because of the murder of Mrs. Withers. Although Chief Greenleaf had tried to keep it quiet, it had leaked out as a result of Jenkins' search for traces of the man. Morley had read all this, and Braceway's question upset him.

"No," he answered; "I never did. I played women's parts."

Abrahamson was shaking his head in negation. He made it plain that he saw in Morley no resemblance to the man who had come disguised to the pawnshop.

Braceway did not press Morley for further information.

"Then you can't help me," he laughed lightly. "Women don't wear beards."

He got up with a careless word about the hot weather and passed on to the clerk's desk. He was thinking: "He was lying. Any college annual prints the cast of the important 'show' given by the dramatic club that year. I'll wire Philadelphia."

He found the manager of the Brevord and inquired:

"How about the bellboy who was on duty all Monday night, Mr. Keene?"

"He's in the house now," Keene informed him. "Roddy is his name."

"Send him up to my room, will you?"

Braceway stepped into the elevator. Five minutes after he had disappeared, Morley went into the writing room. His hand trembled a little as he picked up a pen. He put two or three lines on several sheets of paper, one after the other, and tore up all of them.

The communication which he finally completed he put into an envelope and addressed to Braceway. It read:

"Dear Mr. Braceway: When you asked me about the make-up, I was thinking of something else and was not quite clear as to what you were saying or what you wanted to know. I remember now that, on one occasion, I did have a part as a man who wore a beard in a play given by my college dramatic club. However, I don't remember enough about it to pass as an expert on such make-ups.

"Yours truly,

"Henry Morley."

Going to the desk, he left the note for the detective.

"I'm a fool," he reflected, as he went to the door and looked out at the traffic in the street. "I believe I'll get a lawyer."

He considered this for a while.

"Oh, what's the use? He'll ask me a lot of questions, and——"

He shuddered and turned back into the lobby, hesitant and wretched.

"My God!" he thought miserably. "I've got to get back to Washington! I've got to! After that, I can think—think!"

But he believed he could not go until the chief of police gave him permission. If he had consulted a lawyer, he might have found out differently. As it was, he stayed on, thinking more and more disconnectedly, eating nothing, his nerves wearing to raw ends.

Upstairs Braceway was strengthening the net he had already woven around Henry Morley.

"I was right." He reviewed what he had learned from Abrahamson. "It's still up to Morley. That pawn broker's off, 'way off. He thinks George Withers resembles the man with the beard, and, although he gave me the description that fitted Morley exactly, he takes a look at him and denies emphatically that Morley resembles at all the fellow with the disguise."

Abrahamson, however, was not satisfied with what he had seen. Back in front of his shop, he opened the door, took down the sign he had left hanging on the knob, "Back in ten minutes," substituted another, "Closed for the day," relocked the door, and started off in the direction of Casey's department store.

He had decided to devote the whole afternoon to detective work. Of course, it would cost him money, having the shop closed half a day. "But," he consoled himself, "I'm worth seventy thousand dollars. I bet I am entitled to a little holiday."



CHAPTER XV

BRACEWAY SEES A LIGHT

Braceway had discovered long ago that the man who attempts good work as a detective must depend almost as much on his ability to make friends as he does on his capacity for sifting evidence.

"I'm a good worker," he was in the habit of saying, "but I'm not half as good working alone as I am when I have the help of all the men and women who are witnesses in a case or connected with it in some other way. I need all the cooperation I can get."

This was one reason why Roddy, when he entered Braceway's room, felt sure immediately that he would receive only kindly treatment. He had shown signs of fear on entering the room, and in his extremely black face his singularly white eyeballs had rolled around grotesquely.

But Braceway put him at ease with a smile.

"What have you been trying to do, Roddy?" was his first good-humoured question. "Think you've got sense enough to fool all the white folks?"

"Who, boss? Me, boss?" the boy returned, disavowing with a grin any pretense to intelligence. "Naw, suh, boss. You knows I ain' got no sense. I ain' nevuh tried to fool nobody."

"Didn't you tell the chief of police you were awake all of Monday night when you were on duty in the lobby and didn't you say the only thing you did was to carry up Mr. Morley's bags?"

"Yas, suh, boss; an' dat was de truth—nothin' but de truth, boss. Gawd knows——"

Braceway took from his pocket a crisp, new one-dollar bill and smoothed it out on his knee.

"Now, listen to me, Roddy," he said, this time unsmiling. "Mr. Keene has just told me he wouldn't fire you, even if you did go to sleep Monday night. There's nothing for you to be afraid of; and this dollar note is yours as soon as you tell me the truth, the real truth, about what you saw and what you missed seeing Monday night. If you don't tell me, I'll have you arrested."

Roddy's eyes, which had shone with a rather greasy glitter at the sight of the money, rolled rapidly and whitely in their sockets at the mention of arrest.

"'Deed, boss, you ain' gwine to have no cause to 'res' me, no cause whatsomever. You knows how 'tis, boss. Us coloured folks, we got a gif, jes' a natchel gif', foh nappin' an' sleepin'. Boss, dar ain' no nigger in dis town whut would have kep' wide awake—wide—all dat Monday night nor any yuther night."

"Very well. Think now. Try to remember. Were you asleep at all before midnight?"

"Naw, suh, boss. Naw, suh!"

"Not at all?"

Roddy began to wilt again.

"Well, it might uv been dis way, boss, possibilly. 'Long 'bout 'leven I kinder remembuhs jes' a sort uv nap, mo' like a slip, boss." He coughed and spoke desperately: "You see, boss, when it gits a little quiet at night, seems to me, why, right den, ev'y nigger I knows is got a hinge in his neck. 'Pears like he jes' gotter let his haid drap furward. Dar ain' no use talkin', boss, dat hinge wuks ovuhtime. I 'spec' mine done it, too, jes' like you say, 'long 'bout 'leven. Yas, suh, I reckon dat's right."

"How about the time between midnight and two in the morning? Was the hinge working then?"

"Aw, boss," replied Roddy with something like reproach, "you knows 'tain' no queshun uv a hinge arftuh midnight. Arftuh midnight, boss, de screws drap right outen' de hinge, an' dar ain' no mo' hinge. You jes' natchelly keeps your haid down an' don' lif' it no mo'. Naw, suh, dar ain' no hinge to he'p you dat late, onless—onless somebody hit you or stab you."

Braceway became stern. His eyes snapped.

"Didn't you carry Mr. Morley's grips up to his room for him that night, room number four hundred and twenty-one?"

"Yas, suh."

"What time was that?"

"Dat wuz jes' five minutes arftuh two, boss."

"Had you been asleep during the two hours before that?"

"I hates to say it, boss, but I wuz, almos' completely."

"Then, how did you wake yourself up thoroughly enough to know that it was exactly five minutes past two?"

"Lemme see, suh. Possibilly, 'twuz bekase uv whut I seen 'long about ha'fpas' one—possibilly, boss."

"So you hadn't been asleep for two hours?"

"Almos', suh. It wuz dis way: you see, boss, de bellboys' bench is right unduh de big clock in de lobby, off to de right uv de desk. I happen' dat night to let my haid slide ovuh 'g'in de glass case uv de clock, an when it stahted out to hit de ha'fpas' bell, it rattled an' whizzed, an' it jarred me. Golly, boss! I woke up an', when I seed how it wuz rainin' outside, I thought lightnin' had hit me. It skeered me—an' dat is one good way to wake up a nigger at night—skeer 'im, an' you don' have to stab him. I sorter hollered.

"I got up an' went to de main entrance, jes' to make de night clerk think I wuz on de job in case he woke up. I looked down de street tow'rd de post-office, an' I seed a man goin' in dar.

"'Bless de Lawd!' I says to myse'f. 'White people ain' got much to do—goin' to de post-office dis time uv night.' An' I went on back to de bellboys' bench and stahted in niggerin' it once mo'e."

"Niggering it?"

"Yas, boss; you know, dat means quick sleepin'. 'Peared to me I ain' no mo'e got my eyes shut when I wakes up ag'in, an' right dar in de lobby is dat same man what I seed gwine to de post-office."

"What waked you up?"

"I don' know, boss. I can' no mo'e figger dat out den I kin fly. Dat wuz de fust time in my life dat I done wake up at night when onmolested."

"How did you know the man you saw in the lobby was the one you had seen going into the post-office?"

"Dey wuz de same, boss; dat's all. Had de same buil', same long raincoat on, an' same thick beard. He had done pass' me by an' wuz on his way up de stairs 'stead uv waitin' foh me to run de elevatuh. I wouldn' nevuh seed his beard dat time, but he turn' 'roun' when he wuz nigh to de top uv de stairs an' look back at me. Den I seed foh a fac' dat he wuz de same as de yuther man I jes' done seed."

Braceway gave no sign of how highly he valued the negro's words. Seated by the window, the dollar bill still on his knee, he kept his gaze on Roddy, holding him to his narrative.

"You want me to believe that, when you saw this man two blocks away at half-past one in the morning, you noticed he wore a beard? Wasn't it too dark?"

"Naw, suh. Dem post-office lights is pow'ful, boss. I seed de beard all right, an' I seed it once mo'e when he wuz on de stairs."

"What did he do after he had looked back at you while he was going upstairs?"

"Nothin', boss. He seed I wuz lookin' at him, an' he jes' went on up an' out uv sight, in a hurry, like."

"What time was that?"

"Dat wuz twenty-six minutes uv two."

"How do you know that? You'd gone back to sleep, hadn't you?"

"Yas, suh, a little niggerin'. But, when I woke up dat way widout no reason, I kinder jumped. I wuz afeer'd dat clock might be goin' to jar me ag'in, an' I took a look at it. Dat wuz how I seed de time. It wuz twenty-six minutes uv two."

"What did you do then?"

"Nothin', boss; jes' went on niggerin' it. Dat is, I went on till de night clerk giv' me a kick on de shins and tole me to take Mistuh Morley's bags up to fo'-twenty-one. I done tole you dat was five minutes arftuh two. Den, when we got up to de room, I says to him: 'I thought you wuz in dis hotel half-hour ago, boss, when you had a beard.'

"An' right off de bat I wuz sorry I said dat. He look' at me kinder mad an' he said: 'Whut you talkin' 'bout, boy? You mus' be talkin' in yore sleep!'

"I come on back downstairs. He didn' have to say no mo'e. I tell you, boss, when a white man tell me I been talkin' in my sleep, I is been talkin' in my sleep—dar ain' no argufyin' 'bout it—I is been doin' dat ve'y thing."

"But you thought Mr. Morley, the man with the grips, was the one you had seen going up the stairs and, also, the one you had seen going into the post-office—and, when you saw him on the stairs and on the street, he wore a beard? Is that it?"

"I ain' thought nothin' 'bout it, boss. I knowed it."

"What did you think about his shaving off the beard at that time in the morning?" Braceway urged, fingering the dollar bill. "Didn't you think it was queer?"

"I tryin' to tell you, suh, I ain' done no thinkin' 'bout dat. He done said I wuz talkin' in my sleep, an' I is a prudent nigger."

"Did he have a gold tooth, Roddy?"

"Naw, suh," said Roddy, "but he did look rich 'nough to have one. Leastways I ain' seen he had one."

"Have you seen the man with the beard since?"

"Naw, suh. I jes' tole you, boss, he done shave it off."

"And Mr. Morley?"

"Yas, suh, I done seen him. He's in de hotel now. He's de same man."

"Did he wear rubber overshoes when he had the beard, and when he didn't have it?"

"Yas, suh—bofe times."

"Has he said anything to you since Monday night?"

"Naw, suh."

"Did you see anybody else that night—Monday night?"

"Naw, suh."

"Do you remember anything else about how the bearded man looked?"

"Naw, suh, 'cep' he look' jes' like dis Mistuh Morley; dat's all I know, boss."

Braceway got to his feet.

"All right, Roddy," he said heartily; "you're a good boy. Here's your dollar."

Roddy rolled his white eyeballs toward the ceiling and bent his black face floorward.

"Gawd bless you, boss! You is one good——"

"And here's another dollar, if you can keep your mouth shut about this until I tell you to open it. Can you do that?"

Roddy conveyed the assurance of his ability to remain dumb until a considerable time after the sounding of Gabriel's trump.

"See that you do. If you don't, I might have to arrest you after all."

When the negro had gone, Braceway stood at the window and, with glance turned toward the street, saw nothing of what was passing there. He was reviewing the facts—or possible facts—that had just come to him. Restlessness took hold of him. He fell to pacing the length of the room with long, quick strides. It seemed that, in the labour of forcing his brain to its highest activity, he called on every fibre and muscle of his physique. His cheeks were flushed; his eyes, hard and brilliant, snapped.

He was thinking—thinking, going over every particle of the evidence he had drawn from Roddy, trying to estimate its value when compared with everything else he had learned about the case. His stride grew more rapid; his breathing was faster.

The murder, the men and women connected with it, the stories they had told, all these flashed on the screen of his mind and hung there until he had judged them to their smallest detail.

What could Abrahamson have meant by indicating a belief that the man with the gold tooth looked like George Withers?

Was the boy Roddy wide enough awake that night to have formed any real opinion as to the resemblance of the bearded man and Henry Morley?

The trip to the post-office—did that explain the disappearance of the stolen jewelry? Had Morley mailed it at once to himself, or somebody else, in Washington?

Withers had returned to the Brevord early Monday night. That must have been before half-past twelve. Although the night clerk and the bellboy had been asleep at the time and had not seen him, there was no room for doubt of his return as he had described it.

And why should Morley, wearing the disguise, have waked up Roddy and assured himself, by the look flung over his shoulder, that the negro saw him on the stairs?

Or had that been Morley, after all? What reason, what motive——

Suddenly, with the abruptness of a horse thrown back on his haunches, he stood stock still in the middle of the room, his brilliant eyes staring at the wall, his breathing faster than ever, as he considered the idea that had flashed upon him. The idea grew into a theory. It had never occurred to him before, and yet it was right. It must be. He had it! For the first time, he felt sure of himself, was convinced that he held a safe grasp on the case.

He strode to the window and struck the sill with his fist. The tenseness went out of his body. He breathed a long sigh of relief. He had seen through the mist of puzzling facts and contradictory clues. The rest would be comparatively plain sailing.

Some of Braceway's friends were in the habit of laughing at him because, when he was sure of having solved a criminal puzzle, he always could be seen carrying a cane. The appearance of the cane invariably foretold the arrest of a guilty man.

He went now to the corner near the bureau and picked up the light walking-stick he had brought to Furmville strapped to his suitcase. He lingered, twirling the cane in his right hand. His thoughts went to the interview he and Bristow had had that morning with Fulton, whose white hair and deep-lined face were very clear before him. He recalled the old man's words:

"She wept bitterly. I can hear her weeping now. She had a dash, a spirit, a joyous soul. This man none of you has been able to find has been in Enid's life for a good many years."

Braceway's eyes softened.

Well, there was no need to worry now. Things were coming his way. The old man would have his revenge. He put on his hat, deciding to go down for a late lunch. When he looked at his watch, he whistled. He had promised to be at the railroad station to see the funeral party off for Atlanta on the four o'clock train; and it was now half-past three. He hurried out.

For the first time in his life, he had been guilty of taking a course which might lead to serious results, or to no results at all. He had permitted personal considerations to make "blind spots" in his brain.

Because of a warm friendship for George Withers, he had rushed to conclusions which took no account of the dead woman's husband. He had forgotten that the faces of Morley and Withers were shaped on similar lines. If any other detective had done that, Braceway would have been the first to censure him.

As he had expected, he found Withers and Mr. Fulton far ahead of train time. They had been passed through the gates and were standing on the platform. Braceway noticed that, of the two, the father was standing the ordeal with greater fortitude and calmness. Withers was nervous, fidgety, and seemed to find it impossible to stand in any one place. He drew Braceway to one side.

"I've got something to tell you, Brace," he said in a low tone, his voice tremulous. "I didn't want to tell you for—for her sake. I thought it might cause useless talk, scandal. But you're working your head off for me, and you've a right to know about it."

"Don't worry, George," Braceway reassured him. "Things are coming out all right. Don't talk if you don't feel like it."

He said this because he was suddenly aware of the quality of suffering he saw in the man's eyes. It was so evident, so striking, that he felt surprised. Perhaps, he thought, he might have exaggerated things when he had told Bristow that Enid had subjected her husband to incessant disappointments and regrets. Withers now was mourning; in fact, he appeared overwhelmed, crushed.

"It's this," Withers hurried on: "I was up there that night in front of the house until—until after one o'clock. You know I told you I was on the porch just across the road and went back to the hotel as soon as Campbell had turned his machine and gone home. That wasn't quite correct. I waited, because Enid didn't turn out the lights in the living room. It struck me as strange.

"I waited, and I fell asleep. That seems funny—a husband infuriated with his wife and trying to find out what she is doing to deceive him goes to sleep while he's watching! But that's exactly what I did.

"When I awoke, the lights were still on in the living room. I looked at my watch, and, although I couldn't see very well, I made out it was after one. I suppose I'd been asleep for half an hour at least. You see, I had had a hard night on the sleeper and a terrific day, and——"

"Sure. I understand that," Braceway consoled him. "Did you see anything, George?"

"Yes; I saw something all right," he struggled with the words. "As I looked up, a figure was silhouetted against the yellow window shade. It was a man's figure. It was after one in the morning, and a man was there with——"

His voice failed him altogether. Braceway, a perplexed look in his eyes, studied him uneasily.

"The silhouette was quite plain. There was the clear-cut shadow of him from the waist up. It was so plain that I could see he was wearing a cap. I could see the visor of it, you know; a long visor. He was a well-built man, good shoulders, and so on.

"As I got to my feet, the lights were turned off. I went across the street. I don't think I ran. It was raining. I was going to kill him. That was all I was thinking about. I was going to kill him, and I wanted to catch him unawares. I wasn't armed, and I was going to choke him to death."

The train gates were opened, and passengers began to stream past them toward the train. Withers lowered his voice to a hoarse whisper. Braceway noticed the unpleasant sound of it.

"He did what I expected; came down the steps without a sound. I didn't even hear him close the door. I can't say I saw him. It was pitch dark, and I sensed where he was. I was conscious of all his movements. When he reached the bottom step, I closed with him. I couldn't trust to hitting at him. It was too dark.

"I put out my hands to get his throat, but I misjudged things. I caught him by the waist. He had on a raincoat. I could tell it by the feel of the cloth. And I couldn't get a good hold of him. While I struggled with him, he got me by the throat. He was a powerful man, a dozen times stronger than I am.

"We swayed around there for a few minutes, a few seconds—I don't know which. We didn't make any noise. I couldn't do a thing. He choked me until I thought my head would burst open.

"When he realized I was all in, he gave me a shove that made me reel down the walk a dozen steps. He didn't stop to see what I did. He ran. That is, I suppose he ran. I didn't hear him, and I didn't see him again. He disappeared—completely."

Braceway looked at his watch. It was five minutes before train time.

"What did you do then?"

"Nothing."

"Where did you go, then? What did you think? Speed up, George! I want to get all this before you go."

"Yes," said Withers, a little catch in his throat; "I thought you ought to know about it. I—I stood there a moment, there in the rain, dazed, trying to get my breath. I'd intended going in to have it out with Enid. But I didn't. I suppose I knew, if I did, I'd kill her. And I guess now I would have.

"You see, I hadn't the faintest notion that anything had happened to her; had hurt her, I mean. I got myself in hand. I didn't do anything. I went back to the hotel. I planned to have a last talk with her later in the day."

"Tell me," Braceway asked with undisguised eagerness, "did this man wear a beard?"

"I think so. I've been thinking about that all day. I think he did, but I'm not sure."

"But you saw the plain silhouette, the outline of his head and body!"

"Yes. He might have had a beard, and again he might not. He was heavily built, with a short, thick neck, and, in the attitude he was in, foreshortened by the light being above him, a strong chin might have been magnified, might have cast a shadow like that of a beard."

"And when you were struggling with him? How about that? Didn't you get close to his face?"

"Yes; but he was taller than I was—I don't know—I can't remember. But I think he had the beard, all right."

"He didn't make any noise on the steps, you say. Did he have rubber shoes?"

"I don't know. My guess would be that he did."

The conductor began to shout, "All aboard!"

They started toward the Atlanta pullman.

"I wouldn't have told you—I can't see that any of this could affect the final result—but for the fact that something might have come up to embarrass you," Withers explained, still with the unpleasant, rattling whisper. "It might have led you to think I hadn't been frank with you."

He had his foot on the first step of the car. The porter was evidently anxious to get aboard and close the vestibule door.

"What do you mean?" Braceway caught him by the sleeve.

"Somehow," Withers leaned down to whisper, "in the struggle, I think, I dropped—I lost my watch. Somebody must have picked it up, you know."

"Damn!" exploded Braceway angrily. "Why didn't——"

The train began to move. The porter put his hand to Withers' elbow and hurried him up the steps.



CHAPTER XVI

A MESSAGE FROM MISS FULTON

It was a little after three o'clock when Chief Greenleaf and Lawrence Bristow finished their "celebration dinner" and took their seats on the porch of No. 9. The host, accomplishing the impossible in a prohibition state, had produced a bottle of champagne, explaining: "Just for you, chief; I never touch it;" and the chief had enjoyed it, unmistakably.

At Bristow's suggestion they refrained from discussing any phase of the murder during the meal.

"All we have to do now," he said, "is to see that the knot in Perry's rope is artistically tied—and that's not appetizing."

"I've got something new," Greenleaf contributed; "but you're right. We'll wait until after dinner."

They were greatly pleased with what they had accomplished; and each one, without giving it voice, knew the other's pleasure was increased by the thought that they had got the better of Braceway.

They saw from the porch that an automobile was standing in front of No. 5. As they settled back in their chairs, Fulton and George Withers left the bungalow and got into the machine.

"They're going to take the body to Atlanta on the four o'clock," said Greenleaf.

For a moment they watched the receding automobile. Then Bristow inquired, "What's the new thing you've dug up?"

"The report from the Charlotte laboratories."

"Oh, you got that—by wire?"

The lame man seemed indifferent about it.

"Yes; by wire," Greenleaf paused, as if he enjoyed whetting the other's curiosity.

Bristow made no comment. He gave the impression of being confident that the report could contain nothing of value.

"You ain't very anxious to know what it is," the chief complained. "I nearly had a fit until it came."

"Oh, it doesn't matter much, one way or the other," Bristow said, conscious of Greenleaf's petulance. "The thing's settled anyway."

"That may be true; but it don't do any harm to get everything we can. The laboratory reported what you thought they'd report. Nothing under Miss Fulton's nails; particles of a white person's skin, epidermis, under Perry's."

Bristow laughed pleasantly, his eyes suddenly more alight.

"I beg your pardon, chief; I was having a little fun with you—by pretending indifference. But it's great—better than I'd really dared expect. It's the only direct, first-hand evidence we can offer showing that the negro, beyond any dispute, did attack her."

He laughed again. "Let's see the wire."

"I guess it settles the whole business," Greenleaf exulted, passing him the telegram.

He read it and handed it back.

"After that," he commented, "I'm almost tempted to throw away what I had to show you; its importance dwindles."

"What is it?"

"A confession by Lucy Thomas that Perry went to Number Five the night, rather the morning, of the murder."

"You got that—from her!" exclaimed Greenleaf.

"Yes—signed."

"Mr. Bristow, you're a wonder! By cripes, you are! My men couldn't get anything out of her. Neither could I."

"Here it is. I wrote out her story and read it back to her, and she signed it."

Greenleaf took the paper and read it:

"I know Perry Carpenter went to Mrs. Withers' house Monday night. He and I had been drinking together, and I was nearly drunk, but he was only about half-drunk. He told me he knew where he could get a lot of money, or 'something just as good as money,' because he had seen 'that white woman' with it. He and I had a fight because he wanted me to give him the key to Mrs. Withers' house, to her kitchen door.

"He broke the ribbon on which I used to hang the key around my neck, and he went out. That was pretty late in the night. Before daylight, he came back and flung the key on the floor, and he cursed me and hit me. I had two keys on the ribbon, one to Number Five, Manniston Road, and one to the house where I worked before I went to Mrs. Withers. He had taken the wrong one. When he hit me, he said: 'You think you're damn smart, giving me the wrong key; but that didn't stop me.' He seemed to be drunker then than he was when he went out earlier in the night.

(Signed) "Lucy Thomas."

The chief whistled. "How in thunder did you get this out of the woman?"

"Sent for her and had a talk with her. She told so many stories and contradicted herself so much that, at last, she broke down and let me have the real facts."

"Will she stick to what she says in this paper?"

"Oh, yes. There won't be any trouble about that."

Greenleaf offered him the signed confession.

"No; keep it," he said. "It's your property, not mine."

The chief folded it and put it carefully into his breast pocket.

"I wonder," he speculated, "what Mr. Braceway will say to this."

"He'll realize that the case is settled. But I don't think he'll quit work."

"Why won't he, if he sees we've got the guilty man?"

"That's what I'd like to know. I believe—this is between you and me—I believe he's working more for George Withers now than he is for the state. You see, as I've already told you, there may be some family scandal in this, something the husband wants to keep quiet. Braceway will be satisfied as soon as we show him that the only thing we want is to present the evidence against the negro; that we take no interest in private scandals. But there's one thing, however, chief, I wish you'd do: let Morley go to Washington on the midnight train tonight instead of making him wait until tomorrow."

"Why?"

"If Braceway won't let matters drop as they are now, he'll insist on following Morley to Washington. If he does, I'm going, too; and we might as well get it over."

"You're not afraid our case won't hold water, are you?"

"No. The case stands on its own feet. There's no power on earth that could break it down."

"Well, then, why——"

"I'll tell you why, chief. I've been set down here with this tuberculosis. You know what that means, at least, several years of convalescence. Why shouldn't I make use of those years, develop a business in which I can engage while I'm here? This murder case has opened the door for me, and I'm going to take advantage of it. Lawrence Bristow, consulting detective and criminologist. How does that strike you?"

"Fine!" said Greenleaf heartily. "And you're right. Your reputation's made; and, even if you had to be away from Furmville a few days at a time now and then, it wouldn't hurt your health."

The chief's tendency to claim credit for Carpenter's arrest had disappeared. He liked Bristow, was impressed by his quiet effectiveness.

"I'm glad you think I can get away with it," the lame man said, much pleased. "Now, you see why I want to go to Washington with Braceway. It's merely to keep my hold on this case. If you say I'm entitled to the credit for reading the riddle, I'm going to see that I get the credit."

"All right. I'll let Morley know he can go tonight, and he needn't worry about our troubling him."

"Thanks. The sooner we gather up every little strand of evidence, the better it will be."

Greenleaf prepared to leave. As he stood up, he caught sight of a young man coming up Manniston Road.

"A stranger," he announced. "Another detective?"

Bristow glanced down the street.

"No. It's a newspaper correspondent. That's my guess. The Washington and New York papers have had time to send special men here by now for feature stories."

The young man went briskly up the steps of No. 5.

"I was right," concluded Bristow. "If you run into him, chief, do the talking for the two of us. Just tell him I refuse to be interviewed."

"Why?" demanded Greenleaf. "An interview would give you good advertising."

"There's just one sort of publicity that's better than talking," said Bristow laconically; "aloofness, mystery. It makes people wonder, keeps them talking."

It happened as Bristow had thought. Greenleaf, going down the walk, met the stranger, special correspondent of a New York paper. They had a short colloquy, the newspaper man looking frequently toward No. 9, and finally they turned and went down Manniston Road.

Bristow, leaving his chair to go back to the sleeping porch, saw Miss Kelly come out of No. 5 and hurry in his direction. He waited for her.

"Miss Fulton wants to see you, Mr. Bristow," said the nurse. "She asked me to tell you it's very important."

He was frankly surprised.

"Wants to see me, Miss Kelly?"

"Yes; at once, if you can come."

"Why, certainly."

He stepped into the house and got his hat.

"How is Miss Fulton?" he inquired, descending the steps with Miss Kelly.

"Much better. In fact, she seemed in good spirits and fairly strong as soon as her father and Mr. Withers left. That was about half an hour ago."

"Perhaps, their departure helped her," he suggested, smiling. "Often one's family is annoying—we may love them, but we want them at a lovable distance."

She gave him an approving smile.

"What about the medicine?" he asked as they reached the door. "Has she had much bromide—stuff like that?"

"No; not today. Her mind's perfectly clear."

He put one more question:

"Do you happen to know why she wishes to see me?"

"I think it's something about her brother-in-law, Mr. Withers."

"Ah! I wonder whether——"

He did not finish the sentence, but, stepping into the living room, waited for Miss Kelly to announce his arrival.

The quick mechanism of his mind informed him that he was about to be confronted with some totally unexpected situation.



CHAPTER XVII

MISS FULTON'S REVELATION

Prepared as he was for surprise, his emotion, when he was ushered into Miss Fulton's room, was little short of amazement. The girl was transformed. Instead of a spoiled child, with petulant expression, he beheld a calm, well controlled woman who greeted him cordially with a smile. Overnight, it seemed, she had developed into maturity.

Wearing a simple, pale blue negligee, and propped up in bed, as she had been the day before, she had now in her attitude nothing of the weakness she had shown during his former interview with her. For the first time, he saw that she was a handsome woman, and it was no longer hard for him to realize why Braceway had been in love with her. He waited for her to explain why he had been summoned.

"I've taken affairs into my own hands—that is, my affairs," she said. "There's something you should know."

"If there is anything——" he began the polite formula.

"First," she told him, "I'd better explain that father ordered me to discuss the—my sister's death with nobody except Judge Rogers. You know who he is, the attorney here. Father and George have retained him. I haven't seen him yet. I wanted to give you certain facts. I know you'll make the just, proper use of them."

"Then I was right? You do know——"

"Yes," she said, exhibiting, so far as he could observe, no excitement whatever; "I was not asleep the whole of Monday night. I narrowly escaped seeing my sister die—seeing her murdered."

Her lips trembled momentarily, but she took hold of herself remarkably. A trifle incredulous, he watched her closely.

"I heard a noise in the living room. It wasn't a loud noise. The fact that it was guarded, or cautious, waked me up, I think. Before I got out of bed, I looked at my watch. It was somewhere in the neighbourhood of one o'clock—I'm not sure how many minutes after one. As I reached the little hallway opening into the dining room, I heard a man's voice.

"He was not talking aloud. It was a hurried sort of whisper. It seemed as if the voice, when at its natural pitch, would have been high or thin, more of a tenor than anything else. It gave me the impression of terrific anger, anger and threat combined. The only thing I heard from my sister was a stifled sound, as if she had tried to cry out and been prevented by—by choking."

She looked out the window, her breast rising and falling while she compelled herself to calmness.

Bristow was looking at her with hawk-like keenness.

"And what did you do?" he asked, his voice low and cool.

"I pulled the dining room door open. From where I stood, looking across the dining room into the living room, I could see the edge of my sister's skirt and—and a man's leg, the right leg.

"That is, I didn't see much of his leg. What I did see was his foot, the sole of his shoe, a large shoe. He was in such a position that the foot was resting on its toes, perpendicular to the floor, so that I saw the whole sole of the rubber shoe."

She put both hands to her face and closed her eyes, holding the attitude for several minutes. When she looked at him again, there were no tears in her eyes, but the traces of fear.

"It seemed to me that he was leaning far forward, putting most of his weight on his left foot and balancing himself with the right thrust out behind him. There was something in the position of that leg which suggested great strength.

"All that came to me in a minute, in a second. When I realized what I saw, the danger to Enid, I fainted, just crumpled up and slid to the floor, and everything went black before me. I don't think I had made a sound since leaving the sleeping porch."

Bristow spoke quickly.

"Miss Fulton, who was the man?"

She overcame a momentary reluctance.

"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "I am not sure. I thought it was either Henry Morley or George Withers."

She turned away. A tremor shook her from head to foot.

"Why?" he asked.

"First, the voice," she replied, her face still averted. "It could so easily have been Mr. Morley's high voice lowered to a whisper; or it might have been George Withers'. When he's angry, his deep voice undergoes a curious change; it's horrid."

"And the second reason?"

"The man wore rubbers." She turned her face toward him. "I had seen Mr. Morley put his on two hours before that."

"How about your brother-in-law?"

"He's a crank on the subject—never goes out in the rain unless he has them on."

"Think a moment, Miss Fulton. Couldn't that man have been a negro—the negro who is now held for the crime? He wore rubber-soled shoes. Could you swear that what you saw was not a rubber sole attached to a leather or canvass shoe?"

"No; I couldn't."

"And the voice? Did you hear any of the man's words? Could you swear that it wasn't the illiterate talk of an uneducated negro?"

"No; I couldn't."

"What made you think of Morley and Withers?"

"Mr. Morley was in a raging temper with my sister when he left me—in connection with money matters. You know about that part of the affair?"

"Yes."

"And George's voice is always like the one I heard. It's like that when he gets—used to get—into a temper with Enid."

Bristow felt immensely relieved. He was so sure of his case against Perry Carpenter that he refused to consider anything tending to obscure his own theory.

"Are you still sure it was Mr. Morley or Mr. Withers?"

"I think now," she answered, her voice hardly above a whisper, "it was George Withers."

"Why?"

"Let me explain again. I lay there, where I had fainted, for hours, until just a few minutes before you answered my call for help. I must have had a terrific shock. When I recovered consciousness, I stumbled into the living room and saw—saw Enid. Her—oh, Mr. Bristow!—the sight of her face, of her mouth, paralyzed my voice.

"I stood on the porch and tried to scream, but at first I couldn't. I only gasped and choked. I started down the steps, reached the bottom, and then found I could make myself heard. I ran back up the steps and stood there shrieking until I saw you coming. I suppose nobody had seen me go down the steps."

"But that hasn't anything to do with Mr. Withers?"

"Yes—yes, it has. When I went down the porch steps, I saw something lying in the grass, on the upper side of the steps, the side toward your house."

She slipped her hand under one of the pillows.

"It was this."

She handed to Bristow an open-faced gold watch. He read on the back of it the initials, "G. S. W."

"It's George Withers' watch," she said, "and, when I found it, he had not been on this side of Manniston Road, according to the story he told you and the chief of police."

Bristow was thinking intently, a frown creasing his forehead. He was wishing that she had not found the watch. He reminded himself of the hysterical condition she had been in the day before. Perhaps, after all, this story was nothing but an unconscious invention—a fantasy which she thought to be the truth.

"Why did you refuse yesterday to tell me this; and why do you volunteer it now?" he inquired, holding her glance with a cold, level look.

"I'm afraid you won't understand," she answered, a little smile lifting the corners of her mouth, a smile which, somehow, still had in it a great deal of sorrow. "Yesterday I was still under the influence of the way I had lived all my life, subjugated, as it were, by the fact that my older sister was my father's favourite and by the further fact that my sister's personality was stronger than mine—at least, I had been taught to think so.

"I don't want you to think I didn't love my sister. I did; but it made a cry-baby out of me. I always relied on others—do you see? But now, that influence is gone. I'm my own mistress; and I know it. I can and must do what strikes me as right."

Bristow, close student of human nature that he was, did understand. There flashed across his mind a passage he had read in something by George Bernard Shaw: that nobody ever loses a friend or relative by death without experiencing some measure of relief.

"Yes; I see what you mean," he assented; "its an instance of submerged personality—something of that sort."

"Mr. Braceway is working with you, isn't he?" she asked suddenly.

"Why, yes," he replied, surprised.

"I thought," she continued, "that what I had seen would be of service to you and him. And I can't understand why father and George want all this secrecy. One would think they were afraid of finding out something—something to make them ashamed! What I want is to see the guilty man punished—that's all."

He recalled Braceway's statement that he had been engaged to marry Maria Fulton. Could it be that she still loved him, and that the engagement to Morley, her helping him financially, had been all a pretense, the pitiful product of pique toward Braceway to show him she cared nothing for him? And now she wanted to help Braceway, not Bristow?

He decided to ignore that part of the situation. The obvious incrimination of Withers gave him enough to think about. He was sorry it had happened. He did not believe there was the shadow of a case against him.

He rose and handed the watch to Miss Fulton.

"No," she objected; "I don't want it. You and Mr. Braceway, perhaps, will make use of it."

He hesitated before putting it into his pocket.

"Why did you send for me, Miss Fulton?" he asked, after thanking her for doing so. "Why me instead of your lawyer, Judge Rogers?"

"He would have forbidden me to talk," she answered simply; "and I wanted to talk. I refuse ever again to carry around with me other people's secrets. It's too oppressive."

"Have you told this to anybody else?—or do you intend to?"

"No; nobody; and I won't."

"Now, one thing about Mr. Morley: do you think he has stolen money—from his bank, for instance?"

"Why, no! He was speculating—and losing. I'm glad you asked about him. I shall never see him again—never!"

Bristow left her with the assurance that he and Braceway would make the best possible use of her theory and the facts she had adduced. He walked slowly back to his bungalow, his limp more pronounced than usual. He felt physically very tired.

But of one thing he was still certain: the strength of his case against Perry Carpenter. He chose to stick to that, much more stubbornly than Braceway had refused to consider minutely the exact situation of Withers in regard to the crime. If Withers had murdered his wife, circumstances were now ideally in his favour. The two men, unusually brainy, quick thinkers, who were recognized by the police and the public as able to bring punishment on the guilty man, had other and opposing theories—theories which they were resolved to "put over," to substantiate. As matters stood now, the story Bristow had just heard was hardly a factor. The detectives were busy with ideas of their own.

Maria Fulton, after the lame man had left her, lay back against her pillows and looked out the window with misty eyes. Counteracting the sorrow that had weighed upon her for two days, was her speculation as to how Braceway would receive the facts she had revealed.

Would he see that her course was one which she intended to be of help to him?—that, not knowing how he would treat a direct message from her, she had sent it to him through another?—that she desired, above all things, his success in the investigation?

"When I spoke to this man of Sam Braceway, my whole manner was a revelation of how I felt—a frank declaration! And, of course, he will tell him. If he doesn't——"

She called Miss Kelly.



CHAPTER XVIII

WHAT'S BRACEWAY'S GAME?

Braceway, keeping his promise to have another conference with Bristow, sat on the porch of No. 9 and watched the last golden streamers the setting sun had flung above the blue edges of the mountains.

He still carried his cane.

"What's your plan now, Mr. Braceway?" Bristow inquired. "You think you'll follow Morley to Washington?"

"Not follow him," the detective answered smilingly. "I'm going with him. That is, I'll take the same train he does."

"Greenleaf told you, I suppose, that he'd given Morley permission to leave tonight?"

"Yes—said you suggested it. And I think you're right. There's no use in losing time unnecessarily. Are you going, too?"

"Oh, by all means," Bristow said quickly, "and against my doctor's orders. That is, if you don't object—if you don't think I'd be in the way."

Braceway was clearly aware of the lame man's desire to accompany him so as to be associated with every phase of the work on the case, and to make it stand out emphatically in the long run that he, Bristow, pitting his ingenuity against Braceway, had gathered the evidence establishing the negro's guilt beyond question. The idea amused him, he was so sure of the accuracy of his own theory.

"Not at all," he said heartily. "I want you to come."

"How about avoiding him on the train? We don't want him to know we're his fellow-travellers."

"Oh, no. He'll get aboard at the station here. I have a machine to take me—and you, of course—to Larrimore, the station seven miles out. They'll flag the train. We'll get into a stateroom and stay there; have our meals served right there. You see, we don't get into Washington until dark tomorrow night."

"Yes; I see. The scheme's all right."

They were silent for several minutes.

"I've been thinking," said Bristow, "about Mrs. Withers having kept all her jewelry in the bungalow—unprotected, you know—nobody but her sister and herself there. It was risky."

"Yes," agreed Braceway. "What do you get from that?"

"Perhaps she was waiting—knew demands for money might come at any time—and was afraid to be caught without them."

"Exactly. That's the way I figured it."

They were silent again.

Braceway was the first to speak. He narrated all the facts he had learned from Abrahamson and Roddy, and concluded with the story Withers had told him on the station platform. He held back none of the details. Evidently, his irritation toward Withers had subsided. When Bristow handed him the watch Maria Fulton had found, he said laughingly:

"It's a good thing George told me about it, isn't it? Otherwise, we might have had to devote a lot of time to showing that he had nothing to do with the crime itself."

"And yet," qualified Bristow, "he said nothing to explain why the watch should have been so far back in the grass and to the side of the steps in this direction. According to his story, he must have dropped it on the other side, the down side."

"What do you mean?"

"I don't see how it could have fallen where Miss Fulton found it unless somebody had actually picked it up and thrown it there. He told you he was all the time down on the sidewalk, and, when the other man flung him off, he reeled down-hill, not up."

"That's hair-splitting," Braceway objected good-humouredly. "Nothing could make me think George responsible for the murder."

Bristow repeated then everything Maria Fulton had said that afternoon, and gave a fair, clear idea of her strong suspicion that the murder had actually been done by either Withers or Morley. It had no effect on Braceway.

"Miss Fulton," he said, "told you, of course, what she had seen and heard and, in addition, what she had guessed. But I don't see that it changes anything. I can't let it make me suspect Withers any more than I can accept as valuable Abrahamson's quite positive opinion that the man wearing the disguise was Withers. Things don't fit in. That's all. They don't fit into such a theory."

"Have you ever thought," persisted Bristow, "why Withers told Greenleaf and me yesterday morning that he was in the pawnshop when the man with the gold tooth was in there? Why should he say that when Abrahamson contradicts it at once by telling you they were at no time in the shop simultaneously?"

"Did Withers say to you outright, flat and unmistakably, that he saw the fellow inside the shop?" Braceway's voice had in it the ring of combativeness.

Bristow tried to remember the exact words Withers had used. Also, his harping on Withers' possible guilt struck him as absurd when he considered the strength of the case against Perry.

"I can't swear he did," he admitted at last; "but there's no doubt about the impression he gave us. Why, Abrahamson himself told you Greenleaf was positive Withers and the other man were there at the same time."

"Oh," Braceway said, obviously a little bored, "That's one of the things we have to watch for in these cases—wild impressions, the construing of words in a different way by everybody who heard them. It's a minor detail anyway."

"I don't get you at all," Bristow said, eyeing him intently.

"What do you mean?"

"Your conviction that Morley's the guilty man, your refusal to accept the case against Perry Carpenter, and your impatience in discussing Withers."

"Think over Miss Fulton's story," Braceway retorted. "If it does anything at all, it strengthens the suspicion that Morley's the man we want. And Roddy's story—on its face, it damns Morley! Withers had no motive except, a remote possibility, that of jealousy. Morley's motive was as old as time; the desperate need of money."

"Well, let's grant that, for the moment. What do you do with the evidence against the negro? He was after money."

Braceway laughed.

"To tell the truth," he admitted, "I don't do anything with it. I'll go further: it seems flawless, and yet——"

His face settled into serious lines.

"The report from the laboratory is unanswerable," Bristow went on. "It's as good as a statement from an eyewitness."

"Yes; it is. Still, in some way, I don't feel sure—But I'll say this: if my trip to Washington, our trip, isn't successful, I'll quit guessing and theorizing. I'll agree, without reservation, that Perry's the man."

Bristow hesitated before making his next remark:

"Of course, I'm not employed by Withers. My only connection with the case is a volunteer one. Yours is entirely different—and I realize that there may be—well—things you know and don't want me to know. But I can't help wondering whether Morley is the only consideration that takes you to Washington, whether there mightn't be something else relating, in a way, to the case—relating to it and yet not necessarily tied to it directly."

"What kind of something?" Braceway retorted.

"Say, for instance, something ugly, something painful to Fulton and Withers—terrific scandal, perhaps."

Braceway thought a moment.

"You've a keen mind, Mr. Bristow," he said finally. "I can't discuss that phase of it now, but you're partially right; although I'll say frankly, if Morley wasn't going to Washington, I wouldn't go either."

"Thanks; I appreciate your telling me that much. Now, let me ask one more question: why, exactly are you following Morley?"

"I'll tell you," Braceway replied with spirit. "It's a fair question, and I'll answer it. I'm going there on a hunch. I can't persuade myself that Perry's guilty, and I've a hunch that I'm now on the trail of the right man. And, as long as I'm in the business as a professional detective, I don't propose to disregard one scintilla of evidence, one smallest clue. I'll run down every tip and any hunch before I'll quit a case, saying virtually: 'Well, that man, or this man, seems guilty; go ahead and string him up.'

"No innocent man's going to his death as long as I feel there's a chance of the guilty fellow being around and laughing up his sleeve. That's the whole thing in a nutshell. That's why I'm after Morley! That's why I'm going to Washington."

Bristow, responding warmly to the other's voice and mood, leaned forward and grasped his hand.

"Good!" he said. "That's fine—and I'm with you."

"It's the only way to look at this work. Without the proper ideals, it's a rotten business. But, with the right viewpoint, it's great, at times far more valuable than the work of lawyers and judges."

"I'm glad you said that," Bristow declared; "very glad, because I'm thinking of going into it myself."

"You are?" Braceway appeared surprised; or his emotion might have been sympathy for a man driven to the choice of a new profession in life.

"Yes. I was talking about it to Greenleaf this afternoon. I realize—I'd be foolish if I didn't—that this case has given me a lot of publicity. It has put me where I can say I know something about crime and criminals, although, up until this murder, the knowledge has been mostly on paper."

"Yes; I know."

"But now, since I'm stuck down here for this long convalescence, it's the best thing I can do; in fact, it's the only thing. I've drifted through life fooling with real estate and writing now and then a little, a very little, poor fiction. Neither occupation would support me in Furmville; and I think I could make good as a sort of consulting detective and criminologist. There's money in it, isn't there?"

"Yes; good money," Braceway replied without much enthusiasm. "But there are times when it's heart-breaking work, this thing of running down the guilty, the scum of the earth, the failures, the rotters, and the rats. It isn't all a Fourth of July celebration with the bands playing and your name in the papers."

"Oh, I understand that. Any profession has its drawbacks."

"But you have the analytical mind. And, as I just said, there's money in it."

The glow had faded from the sky, and, with the darkness, there had come a noticeable chill in the air. Braceway yawned and stretched his arms. In addition to his talks with Abrahamson, Roddy, and Withers, he had also interviewed Perry and Lucy Thomas.

"By George!" he said explosively. "I'm tired. I don't know when I've been this tired. This has been a real day, something popping every minute since I got here this morning."

Bristow did not answer that. He was thinking of the impression he had received from Maria Fulton that she was still in love with Braceway. He had had that idea quite vividly while talking to her. He wondered now whether he had better mention it to Braceway. No, he decided; the time for that would come after the grinding work in Washington. Bristow himself was far from being a sentimental man. If he had been in Braceway's place, he would have preferred to hear nothing about the girl and her emotions until after the completion of the work.

"Are you packed up?" Braceway asked. "Ready to go?"

"Almost."

"Well, suppose we drift on down to the Brevord. No; I forgot. You'd rather drive down, wouldn't you? Walking would bother that leg. I'll send the machine up for you."

"Thanks," Bristow accepted appreciatively. "That will be best."

"All right. I'll have it up here in an hour or so. You can pick me up, and we'll run out to Larrimore."

He went down Manniston Road, his heels striking hard against the concrete. Under the light at the far corner he flashed into Bristow's vision, twirling his cane on his thumb; his erect, alert figure giving little evidence of the weariness he had felt a few minutes before.

The lame man lingered on the porch, considering Braceway's confident assertion that he did not "propose to disregard one scintilla of evidence, one smallest clue." But, he reflected, that was exactly what Braceway was doing: not only disregarding one scintilla, but keeping himself blind to a great many clues, the evidence against George Withers and that against the negro.

"I can't make out his game," he concluded. "What's his idea about scandal, I wonder? The only possible scandal lies in the fact that Mrs. Withers paid blackmail for years. And the only way to make the fact public is to keep on denying that Perry's guilty. He seems to be trying to dig up scandal instead of hiding it."

Suddenly, with his characteristic quickness of thought, he realized that he disliked Braceway, definitely felt an aversion for him. When he was in Braceway's presence, influenced by his vitality and magnetism and listening to his conversation, he lost sight of his real feeling; but, left to himself, it came to the surface strongly. He wished he had never met the man. He knew he would never get close to him. And yet, he thought, why dislike him?

"Oh, he isn't my kind. I don't know. Yes, I know. He's just an edition de luxe of the ordinary four-flusher, a lot of biff-bang talk and bluff." He laughed, perhaps ridiculing himself. "Why waste mental energy on him? I've worked this case out. He hasn't."

And public opinion was with him. It conceded that he had the right answer to the puzzle. At that very moment the "star" reporter of The Sentinel was hammering out on his typewriter the following paragraph for publication in the morning:

"While it is generally recognized that Chief Greenleaf deserves great praise for the promptness with which the guilty man was discovered, the chief himself called attention this evening to the invaluable assistance he had received from Mr. Lawrence Bristow, already a well-known authority on crime. It was Bristow who, in addition to other brilliant work, forged the last and most impressive link in the chain of evidence against Carpenter. He did this by suggesting that the tests be made to determine whether or not the negro's finger nails showed traces of a white person's skin."

Later on in his story, the reporter wrote:

"Not a clue has yet been uncovered leading to the location of the stolen jewelry."

If Braceway could have read that, he would have said: "Wait until we get to Washington. That's where we'll come across the jewels. Give us time."

Bristow, having a different opinion, would have refused to divulge it. The last thing he expected, was any such result in Washington.



CHAPTER XIX

AT THE ANDERSON NATIONAL BANK

When the train pulled into Washington at eleven o'clock, Henry Morley, the first passenger to alight, shook off the red-cap porters who grabbed at his grips, and hurried toward the gates. Braceway, well hidden by shadows just inside the big side-door of one of the baggage coaches, observed how pale and haggard he looked under the strong glare of the arc-lights.

"Hardly more than a kid!" thought the detective, with involuntary sympathy. "Why is it that most of the criminals are merely children? If they were all hardened and abandoned old thugs this work would be easier."

Nevertheless, he kept his eyes on Morley and, a moment later, moved a step forward. This made him visible to a well-dressed, sleek-looking man who up to that time had been standing on the dark side of the great steel pillar directly across the platform from the baggage car. Braceway, with a quick gesture, indicated the identity of Morley, and the sleek-looking man, suddenly coming to life, fell into the stream of street-bound passengers.

Braceway went back to the Pullman and rejoined Bristow, who was waiting for him in the stateroom.

In the taxicab on their way to the Willard Hotel, the lame man lay back against the cushion, apparently tired out and making no pretense of interest in anything. Braceway muttered something inaudible.

"What's that?" Bristow asked, opening his eyes.

"I'd been thinking what a pity it is that most criminals are youngsters. When you nab them, you feel as if they hadn't a fair show; it hardly seems a sporting proposition. After that, I soothed myself by considering the satisfaction one feels in landing the old birds, the ones who know better."

"I can appreciate that," the other agreed. "That may be one reason why I'm glad I've fastened the thing on an ignorant negro rather than on a fellow like Morley."

"You've too much confidence in circumstantial evidence, Bristow. I remember what an old lawyer once told me: 'Circumstantial evidence is like a woman, too tricky—and tells a different story every day.'"

At the Willard, finding that adjoining rooms were not to be had, they were put on different floors. Going toward the elevators, Braceway said:

"Unless something unexpected turns up, let's have breakfast at eight."

"And then, what?"

"Go to the Anderson National Bank. A man named Beale, Joseph Beale, is its president. We'll have to persuade him to have the records examined, to see how Morley stands. If he's wrong, short, the rest will be easy."

"Very good. Did your man pick him up at the train?"

"Oh, yes. Platt's always on the job. He and his partner, Delaney, generally deliver."

"Who are they?" Bristow asked, interested. "How do they happen to be working for you?"

"They belong to a private bureau here, Golson's. Golson and I have worked together before."

In the elevator Bristow was thinking that the matter of becoming a professional detective was not as simple as it had appeared to him. The work required colleagues, assistants, "shadowers," and reciprocal arrangements with bureaus in other cities. It was like any other profitable business, complicated, demanding constant attention.

When they met at breakfast, Braceway had already received Platt's report.

"Nothing developed last night," he told Bristow. "Platt followed Morley, who went straight to his home. He and his mother live in a little house far out on R Street northwest. Morley took the street car and was home by a little after half-past eleven. The lights were all out by a quarter past twelve. This morning at six-thirty, when Delaney relieved Platt, our man hadn't left the house."

"What's your guess about today?"

"Either he'll go to the bank on time this morning, to throw off suspicion," said Braceway, "or, if he mailed the jewelry to himself here the night of the murder, he'll try to pawn them in Baltimore or at a pawnshop in Virginia, just across the river. There are no pawnshops in Washington. There's a law that interferes."

"Delaney won't lose him?"

"Not a chance."

During the meal he saw that Bristow was completely worn out. As a matter of fact, he looked actually sick.

"See here," Braceway said as they were ready to leave the table; "you look all in, done out."

Bristow did not deny it.

"I didn't sleep very well last night. It was close in my room, and this morning the humidity's oppressive. You know what that does to us of the T. B. tribe."

"Suppose you get some more rest. It's going to be a sweltering day."

"Oh, I can stand it. I want to go with you. I'm not going to feel any worse than I do now."

But the other was insistent. Bristow at last gave in. He would take the rest if Braceway would report progress to him at noon.

Returning to his room, the sick man swore savagely.

"Friday!" he said aloud. "Damn it all anyway!"

Braceway lingered several minutes on the steps outside the Anderson National Bank. He felt reluctant to go inside and start the machinery that would ruin Morley. It wasn't absolutely necessary, he argued, with something like weakness; he could, perhaps, find out all he wanted to know without——

He thought suddenly of the bizarre performances of the thing men call Fate. Because a woman is murdered under mysterious circumstances in a little southern city, evidence is uncovered showing that a panic-stricken boy has been stealing money from a bank hundreds of miles away; a detective is employed by the dead woman's husband; the detective is thrown again into contact with the victim's sister and realizes more clearly than ever that he loves her.

What would be the result of it all—the result for him? He remembered the gown she had worn to a ball, something of the palest yellow—how the blue of her eyes and the gleam of her hair had been emphasized by the simple perfection of the gown. What would she say if he went back to——

He forced himself down to reality.

He entered the bank and discovered that Morley had not reported for work. Having presented his card to a chilly, monosyllabic little man, he was shown, after a short wait, into a private office where, surrounded by several tons of mahogany, Mr. Joseph Beale reigned supreme.

Mr. Beale struck him as a fattened duplicate of Mr. Illington, thin of lip, hard of eye, slow and precise in enunciation. In spite of his stoutness, he had the same long, slender fingers, easy to grasp with, and the same mechanical Punch-and-Judy smile. When he greeted the detective, his voice was like a slow, thin stream that had run over ice.

"I'm not on a pleasant mission, Mr. Beale," Braceway began. "It's something in the line of duty."

The bank president looked at the card which had been handed to him.

"Ahem!" he said, with a lip smile. "You're a detective?"

"Yes."

"Well, Mr. Braceway, what is it? Let's see whether I can do anything for you. At least, I assume you want——"

This ruffled Braceway.

"I want nothing," he said crisply; "and I'm afraid I'm going to do something for you."

The banker stiffened.

"What is it?"

"It's one of your employes; in fact, it's your receiving teller."

"What! Henry Morley! Impossible, sir! Outrageous! Preposterous!"

"Just a moment, if you please," put in Braceway. "I was going to say that I was positive about nothing. I've been compelled to suspect, however, that Mr. Morley might be short in his accounts. There are unexplained circumstances which seem to connect Mr. Morley with the murder of a woman. Therefore——"

"One of the—one of my employes a thief and a murderer!" Mr. Beale pushed back his chair and fell to patting his knees with his fists. "Great God, Mr.——" He looked at the card again. "Why, Mr. Braceway, I can't believe it. It would be treason to this bank, treason to all its traditions!" He had not suffered such an attack of garrulity for the past twenty years. "And Morley, his family, his birth! By George, sir, his blood! Are we to lose all faith in blood?"

"As I wanted to say," Braceway managed to break in, "the murder of Mrs. George S. Withers in Furmville, North Carolina, led——"

This was the crowning blow. Mr. Beale gasped several times in rapid succession, not entirely hiding his slight, cold resemblance to a fish.

"Mrs. Withers!" he got out at last. "The daughter of my old friend, Will Fulton! Fulton, one of our depositors!"

He was reduced to silent horror.

Braceway took advantage of his condition and outlined the circumstances in considerable detail.

"If he's short in his accounts," he concluded, "the motive for the murder is established. And, if he's been stealing from the bank, you want to know it."

Mr. Beale pushed a bell-button.

"Charles," he said to the chilly little man, "tell Mr. Jones I want to speak to him. Our first vice-president," he explained to Braceway.

Mr. Jones, evidently dressed and ready for the part of president of the bank whenever Mr. Beale should see fit to die, came in and, with frowns, "dear-dears" and tongue-clucking, heard from the president the story of what had befallen the Anderson National.

"How soon," inquired Beale, "can we give this—er—gentleman an answer, a definite answer, as to whether Morley, the unspeakable scoundrel, is a thief?"

Mr. Jones considered sadly.

"Perhaps, very soon; two o'clock or something like that—and again it may take time to find anything. Suppose we say five or half-past five this afternoon; to be safe, you understand. Half-past five?"

"Very well," agreed Beale, and turned to Braceway: "Will that be satisfactory?"

"Perfectly."

Braceway left them, their mask-like faces plainly damaged by anxiety; their cool, slow utterance slightly humanized by the realization that they must act at once. In fact, as the detective closed the door of the private office, Mr. Jones was reaching with long, slender fingers for the telephone. They would need the best accountant they could find for the quick work they had promised Braceway.



CHAPTER XX

THE DISCOVERY OF THE JEWELS

Braceway returned to the lobby of his hotel, and, having bought half a dozen New York newspapers, settled down to wait for a report from Golson's bureau concerning Morley's movements. A little after eleven he was called to the telephone.

"Your man caught the eight o'clock train for Baltimore." Golson himself gave the information. "Delaney also caught it. They got to Baltimore at nine. Your man took a taxi straight to the shop of an old fellow named Eidstein, reaching there at twenty minutes past nine. He and Eidstein went into Eidstein's private office back of the shop and stayed there for over an hour, in fact until about half-past ten. Your man came out and went to a down-town hotel. He was there when Delaney, still sticking to him, managed to get a wire to me telling me what I've just told you."

"Fine!" said Braceway. "What was he doing in the hotel? Did he meet anybody, or write anything?"

"Delaney didn't say."

"Who's this Eidstein, a pawn broker?"

"No; he's a dealer in antiques: furniture, old gold, old jewels, anything old. He stands well over there. He's all right. I know all about him."

"That's funny, isn't it?"

"What's funny?"

"That he didn't go to a pawnshop."

"Keep your shirt on," laughed Golson. "The day's not over yet."

"No doubt about that. What about Corning, the loan-shark in Virginia?"

"I've got a man over there, just as you asked. Shall I keep him on?"

"Sure!" snapped Braceway. "Suppose Morley gives Delaney the slip in Baltimore and doubles back to Corning's! Keep him there all day."

He left the telephone and went up to Bristow's room, No. 717. When he knocked, the door was opened by a young woman in the uniform and cap of a trained nurse.

"I beg your pardon," he began, "I got the wrong room, I'm afraid. I——"

"This is Mr. Bristow's room," she said in a low tone. "Are you Mr. Braceway?"

"Yes."

"Come in, then, please." She stepped back and held open the door. "Mr. Bristow's still very weak, but he told me to let you in. He said he must see you as soon as you arrived."

Braceway saw that there was no bed in the room, and asked where the sick man was. The nurse pointed to a closed door leading into the adjoining room.

"What's the matter with him?" he asked. "By George! He hasn't had a hemorrhage, has he?"

"Yes, sir. That's exactly what he has had. The doctor says all he needs now is rest. He doesn't think there's any real danger. Will you go in to see him?"

She quietly opened the door to the sickroom. Braceway went in on tiptoes, but Bristow stirred and turned toward him when the nurse put up the window shade.

"You'll have to lie still, Mr. Bristow," she cautioned on her way out. "It's so important to keep these ice-packs in place."

"Thanks, Miss Martin; I shall get on," he answered in a voice so weak that it startled Braceway.

"I don't think you'd better talk," said his visitor. "Really, I wouldn't."

Bristow gave him a wry smile.

"It's nothing serious; just a—pretty bad hemorrhage," he said, finding it necessary to pause between words. "The boneheaded Mowbray—my physician in Furmville, you know—was right for once. He said—this might happen."

"I'm going out and let you sleep," Braceway insisted, displaying the average man's feeling of absolute helplessness in a sickroom.

"No, not yet. The fellow I had in—knows his business—put ice on the lung and on my heart—gave me something to lessen the heart action."

"And you're not in pain?"

"No. I'll be all right in—in a little—One thing I wanted to—tell you. Quite important—really."

He mopped his forehead with tremulous, futile little dabs which accentuated his weakness. Braceway instinctively drew his chair closer to the bed so as to catch all of the scarcely audible words.

"Just occurred to me," the sick man struggled on, "just—before I had this hemor—Ought to have somebody, extra man, working with Platt and Delaney. Tell you why: if Morley mailed the jewelry that—night of the murder, he wasn't fool—enough to mail it to himself or to his own—house. If he visits anybody today—we ought to have an extra man with Delaney. Delaney can keep on Morley's trail—extra man can watch and—if necessary, question anybody Morley visits or consults with. Then——"

"Correct!" exclaimed Braceway. "Right you are! Who says you're sick? Why, your bean's working fine. Don't try to talk any more. I'm going out to get busy on that very suggestion."

"Another thing," Bristow said, lifting a feeble hand to detain his visitor. "Come up here at six—this evening, will you? I'll have my strength back by that time. Don't laugh. I will. I know I will. I've had hemorrhages before this."

"What do you want to do at six?"

"Help you—be with you when you question Morley. Promise me. I'll be in shape by that time."

Braceway promised, and went into the outer room.

"Do you think," he asked Miss Martin, "there's the slightest chance of his getting up this evening, or tonight?"

"I really don't know," she smiled. "There may be. It all depends on his courage, his nerve. Anyway, he won't be able to do much, to exert himself."

"He's got the nerve," Braceway said admiringly; "got plenty of it. By the way, how did it happen? How do you happen to be here?"

"It seems that at about a quarter to ten Mr. Bristow called the downstairs operator and asked her to send a bellboy to his room, number seven-seventeen. When the boy came in here, Mr. Bristow was lying across the foot of his bed, pressing to his mouth a towel that was half-saturated with blood.

"He had dropped his saturated handkerchief on the bathroom floor. And he evidently had been bleeding when he was at the telephone. He was awfully weak, so weak that the boy thought he was dying. He couldn't speak. The boy remembered having seen the house physician, Dr. Carey, at a late breakfast in the cafe, and got him up here at once. Dr. Carey called me to take the case as soon as he had seen Mr. Bristow.

"I think that's all. Of course, the bed that was in here and all the other soiled things had been removed by the time I came in; and the management insisted on his taking the extra room."

"Thank you," said Braceway. "I'm glad to get the details. You'll see that he has everything he needs, won't you?"

A few minutes later, when Miss Martin entered the bedroom to lower the window shade, Bristow told her:

"I think I'll sleep now. Shut the door and, on no account, let—anybody, doctor or anybody else—wake me up. You call me at six, please. What time is it now? Twelve-fifteen? Remember, you'll let me sleep?"

Braceway went to his own room to brush up for lunch. Although he had not taken the trouble to tell Bristow, he had already arranged with Golson to have the "extra man" on the job. He was taking no chances. He smiled when he thought of the sick man's eagerness to give him advice.

It occurred to him that he should have communicated with George Withers. The funeral was over; had been set for yesterday. He would send him a wire as soon as he went downstairs.

"By George!" Braceway communed with himself. "If I hadn't been his friend, I probably would have worried him. Even if Morley has embezzled from the bank, how closely have I coupled him with the crime? Not very closely unless he tries to pawn, or produces, some of the stolen stuff—not any more closely than George has coupled himself with it! George acted like such an ass!"