Introductory material (continued 3)

"Stop! I've been waiting for that word compromise! You can go back and tell your crowd that this strike isn't going to be settled—it's going to be broken!" Varr smashed one fist into the other as he roared his defiance. "Go back and tell 'em! Tell 'em I'll watch every man of you starving in the gutters before I'll be driven into doing what I've said I won't do. Go set some more fires in the tannery; you'll soon find that'll get you nowhere but in jail!"

"We've set no fires, Mr. Varr," answered Maple with dignity. "On the contrary, sir, the three of us here now were amongst them who helped to put out the fire last night. You've no call to blackguard honest men. As for starving in the gutter, sir—"

He stopped speaking to reach in his pocket and draw out a few small bills, which he held up for Varr's inspection, and at a nod of his head, his two companions also produced money from their trousers. Simon glanced at it and sneered.

"Found a union to support you, eh?"

"No, sir, not that. To tell the truth, Mr. Varr, there don't seem to be any good reason to tell you where this came from, or how it came, but we feel in duty bound to say it brought with it a message for you."

"A message? For me?" Simon repeated the phrases quickly, his mind alert for new alarms. "Well, what was it? Get it out!"

"We were told to tell you that while we held out against you we could count on getting money for our needs from the 'Black Monk'."

"The Black Monk!" Simon fell back a pace as he whispered the words. "The Black Monk! What—what do you mean?"

"That's all we can tell you, sir." Maple fumbled with his cap and coughed nervously. "We'll ask you again, sir, as in duty bound to our comrades, if you'll help us come to a compromise—"

"No!"

The committee shrank back from the explosive quality of the monosyllable that was like a door slammed in their faces.

"Very well, sir, then we'll wish you good day—and a kinder heart for your fellowmen."

"Stop!"

Sheer anger at this latest evidence of his enemy's activity had swept Simon Varr beyond self-control, beyond reasoning and beyond decency. He launched upon the stolid committee a rushing torrent of insult and invective. The veneer of dignity that had come to him with wealth and position slipped from him, as the old skin slips from a snake, and he went back to the vocabulary of his youth for terms sufficiently blasphemous and obscene to express his opinion of the strike, the strikers, the committee and its sponsors. He did not stop until his breath failed and left him panting.

The two men in the small office listened to that tirade in embarrassed silence. Jason Bolt fidgeted in his chair and grew pink to the tips of his ears. Herman Krech, as became a tactful bystander, gazed at the floor, stared at the ceiling, studied the glowing tip of his cigar, peered through the grimy window at the uninspiring view of Hambleton and generally comported himself with discretion and savoir faire. Inwardly, he was wondering if he had any right to inflict this termagant tanner on his unsuspecting friend, the detective. Not by a jugful, unless the mutt had a mighty interesting case—

"I think," said Simon Varr, reentering his office, "I think I have now made my position clear to those fellows!" A grim satisfaction was apparent in his voice and bearing, the usual aftermath with him of an outburst of temper. "Now we can resume where we left off."

"What was that stuff about a monk?" demanded Jason.

"That's part of my story. When Mr. Krech has heard it, he will tell us if it is likely to interest his friend." He sent a questioning glance at the big man. "By the way, what is his name?"

"Peter Creighton," said Mr. Krech.

X: Creighton Takes the Case

Jason Bolt and Herman Krech listened to Varr's narrative in rapt silence. The former's interest was mixed with amazement, the latter's with enthusiasm. As the tale progressed the big man hitched farther and farther forward in his chair, his expression that of a little child who proposes to miss no syllable of a fascinating fairy story. He considered himself something of a connoisseur in crime, did Mr. Krech, thanks to a few experiences with his friend Creighton, and a subject that had always made an appeal to his imagination was now become the hobby of his every idle moment. Although he would not have abandoned a lucrative business to take a position on Creighton's staff of operatives, it was his secret grief that the detective had never recognized his ability to the extent of offering him one.

He was beaming with delight by the time Varr had ended his curt account of his tribulations, and his distaste of the tanner's personality had been temporarily forgotten.

"Gee Joseph, Mr. Varr!" he burst out. "You really ought to congratulate yourself! You've been the victim of the prettiest piece of persecution I've ever heard of!"

"Thanks," returned Simon without enthusiasm.

"He seems to be waltzing all around you and jabbing you just where it will hurt the most, and yet he's clever enough to evade capture and even to keep you from guessing his identity. Why not make a list of your known enemies and check them off one by one?"

"Too many of 'em," retorted Simon briefly.

"Ah, yes—I should have thought of that!" A muffled snort from Jason marked his appreciation of the seemingly ingenuous jibe. "If a man's known by the enemies he makes, I should say this fellow was a lasting credit to you. You'll miss him when he's gone."

"I'll miss him with pleasure. But when is he going? D'you think this is a problem that will appeal to Mr. Creighton's critical taste?"

"It will have my hearty endorsement, anyway, when I submit it to him. He likes crooks with imagination, I know, and this bird has it. I wish you had brought along that note you got from him."

"I did." The tanner reached into his pocket and drew forth the message that he had found in the deft stick. "I decided to fetch it as long as I intended to tell you the story."

Krech accepted the bit of brown paper, carefully taking it by the tip of one corner and opening it with a shake. He held it out for Jason to read, but drew it back from the other's outstretched hand.

"Naughty, naughty, mustn't touch!"

"Fingerprints?" grunted Varr skeptically.

"It's a possibility we must consider," insisted the big man firmly. "I don't believe there are any, sort of pity if there were."

"Pity, eh? What do you mean, pity?"

"It would cheapen our crook. I don't believe he's the lad to leave clues." He added calmly, "Hush, now, and let me read this carefully."

Simon gasped and hushed. He consoled himself with the reflection that this human mastodon probably knew what it was about.

"Well, I'm hanged!" blurted Jason Bolt, when he had perused the missive. "What do you make of it, Krech?"

"Why, there are a number of curious features about it that leap to the eye," said Mr. Krech blandly. "I will call them to Creighton's attention, of course." He stepped to Varr's desk, helped himself to an unused envelope and inserted the note. "How many other people have touched this paper besides yourself, Mr. Varr?"

"Not a soul. I've shown it to no one."

"Oh, that's fine." He picked up a clean letterhead and held it out to the tanner. "Ink your thumbs and forefingers on that pad there and then press them on this." He waited until Simon had gruntingly obeyed. "Good. These will identify your marks on the message, and if there are any others they will be the sign manual of our crook."

"How can you be sure?" argued Jason. "It's obviously an old scrap of paper and a dozen people may have handled it before the crook got hold of it."

Mr. Krech regarded his friend with a look of dignified annoyance.

"There's always some one around to make difficulties," he said severely. "You're a fly on the wheel of progress."

"Excuse me for living," begged the fly meekly. Then he looked at his watch and exclaimed, "Hello. Our wives, Krech, our wives—! We're late for lunch already! Drop you anywhere, Simon?"

"I have my car." The tanner glanced at Krech. "You'll notify Creighton?"

"With pleasure. I'll keep these for him, too."

He placed the envelope containing the message and the fingerprints in his pocket, then moved to follow his friend, already on his way to the stairs. He paused at the door, however, and came back rather hesitatingly. "Say—just how did that couplet run?"

Simon made a wry face, but obligingly recited:

"Do you take that seriously?" asked the big man.

"Do you take me for a blasted fool?" snapped Simon irritably.

"Yes," said Mr. Krech simply. "Just the sort of blasted fool I would be in your place, or that nine out of ten men would be. Because the threat is directed at you, you scoff at it and ignore it."

"What are you getting at?"

"This: the fellow who wrote that note and does his stuff in a monk's costume has all the earmarks of a maniac. Maniacs are dangerous. If he has made use of this old local legend to further his purpose, he may go ahead with it to the bitter end—your bitter end! Until he is laid by the heels, why not play safe and stay home after dark?"

"Humph. I'm likely to, aren't I?" jeered Simon.

"No, you aren't, because, to use your own expression, you're 'a blasted fool,'" conceded Mr. Krech cheerfully. "Anyway, if you happen to get bumped off, don't come around haunting me on the score that I didn't warn you!" He smiled benignly. "Ta-ta!"

The tanner choked back an oath. For some time after the loud groaning of the stairs beneath his visitor's tread had died away, he sat at his desk and scratched his chin gently as he meditated. The striking of the clock in the outer office recalled him to more present matters. It was understood that if he did not return home by a certain hour in the middle of the day he would lunch downtown, and the hour was now past. On these occasions he usually walked to the Hambleton Hotel, the town's one hostelry, where he could regale himself on a couple of heavy sandwiches and a cup of doubtful coffee.

Thither he now betook himself, frowning on the way as he noted some condemnatory expressions on the faces of those he passed on the street. He knew that public opinion was antagonistic to him in the matter of the strike and his treatment of Maxon—the Hambleton News had run a nasty paragraph about the last—and the censure irritated, if it did not move him.

He had no sooner entered the dingy lobby of the hotel than his eye rested on his son, Copley, seated at a rickety writing table and industriously scribbling on a pad of cheap paper. Varr strode across to his side and addressed him curtly.

"What are you doing here?"

"Living here," returned the young man, glancing up but making no move to rise. He met his father's angry glare coolly. "More convenient to my job."

"Your job!" echoed Simon derisively. "What mental incompetent has employed you?"

"Barlow, the editor of the News. I'm a reporter now."

"Humph. Why?"

"For ready money, naturally, until I can get something good."

"Am I to understand you have left my roof?"

"Absolutely. Left it last night, and returned for clothes and a few personal belongings this morning. You piled it on a bit thick last evening—too thick. I've quit."

"Saved me the trouble of throwing you out!" said Simon between his teeth. "What did you tell your mother?"

"The truth. I didn't intend to, but I found Aunt Ocky had overheard our little chat and had told her we'd had a holy row. Sorry."

"Blast your Aunt Ocky!"

That did not seem to call for a reply and Copley made none. After a few seconds of silence he raised his pencil suggestively.

"Speaking as a prominent citizen, Mr. Varr, what have you to say regarding the opening of the new sewer in State Street?"

"Nothing—except that I hope you'll fall into it!" said his father with asperity, and walked away.

Copley wrote an item on another sheet of paper. "Among those lunching at the Hambleton Hotel yesterday was Mr. Simon Varr, of the Varr-Bolt Tanneries. He did not tip the waiter." He cocked his head at a critical angle and contemplated the last six words before reluctantly obliterating them. Discretion must be his watchword, he told himself, and a job is better than a jest.

Simon finished his meal and returned to the office, noticing already the premonitory symptoms of the mild indigestion that habitually followed the greasy cooking of the hotel chef. He found his insurance man waiting for him and spent two tedious hours over an inventory and proofs of loss before he could rid himself of the fellow—and sped his going with a curse because the broker warned him the insurance company would certainly cancel their existing policies if they got wind of an incendiary.

That reminded Simon of the footprints in the tannery yard which he had wished to examine by daylight. He had intended to show them to that chap Krech, but Jason had spoiled things by hurrying him off to his silly lunch. He descended the stairs, called Nelson to join him, and went to the end of the fence around which the fire bug had fled.

He gave the watchman a brief account of Fay's experience at the commencement of the fire, when he had actually obtained a glimpse of the incendiary at his evil work. He discussed with Nelson, a shrewd man, the possible identity of the miscreant, but they arrived at no conclusion. Together they traced the footprints from the yard around the fence and up the muddy bank of the little stream until they vanished on the firmer ground outside the premises.

"Make anything of them?" asked Varr.

"Nothing more than you do, sir; they seem to be the tracks of a large man. That friend of Mr. Bolt's could have made 'em nicely."

"Get a couple of empty boxes," directed Simon, mindful of the protective device he had used in his kitchen garden to preserve the marks left by Charlie Maxon. "Cover up two good sets of these; they may come in handy later." He studied the skies. "We'll probably have rain before morning."

"Fay won't object to that," declared the watchman, grinning. "If he had his wish, it would rain chemical fire-extinguishing fluid!"

Simon lingered to see that the work of covering the tracks was properly done, and hoped that Mr. Krech and his detective would appreciate his thoughtfulness. Then he left the tannery, climbed into his car and drove home. The strain of the night before had told on even his iron physique—and there was the mute appeal of a decanter of Bourbon that he knew would freshen his nagging spirit.

Jason's dilapidated little touring car greeted his gaze as he drove past the front of the house to the garage, and a sound of light voices came to him from the side veranda. Easy enough to guess the meaning of that, the Bolts had dropped in with their friends for tea and a chat with Lucy, who counted Mary Bolt her closest friend.

He joined them a moment later. Lucy, he saw at once, had been crying. No amount of powder or superficial gayety could conceal that fact from him. She did not look at him directly, and her voice was frigid as she introduced him to the one member of the party he had not met.

"Mrs. Krech—my husband."

Varr bowed to a tall, slender, strikingly handsome young woman with deep-blue eyes and a mass of dark red hair, who was seated beside his sister-in-law on a couch. The two were talking earnestly together until he interrupted them, as though they had taken an instant liking to each other.

"Excuse me if I don't get up," apologized Krech from the deep chair in which he was sitting. "I'm anchored."

The handsome Angora had found him, and as though to mark his approbation of another animal as fine as himself, had leaped into his lap and curled up contentedly beneath his caressing hand. Despite his words, Krech put him down and rose immediately when Simon indicated that he did not propose to join them. He followed the tanner into the house and accosted him in the hall.

"I'd like to see the window where that burglar got in last night," he said. "Got a minute to show me?"

"Very well. In this way." They went into the sitting room and Varr spoke on the way of his recent activities in the tanning yard, a piece of foresight that Krech instantly applauded. "This is the window; it was either pushed open by main force, or the catch was pressed back by some tool."

"The last is it," announced the big man promptly. "See here where the paint has been broken near the lock and the brass of the bolt is scratched? It's a cinch to open these things—a child could do it with a penknife."

"You have sharp eyes," admitted Varr grudgingly. "I hadn't noticed those scratches on the brass."

"Oh, I've helped Creighton on his cases any number of times, and of course a man soon gets the trick of observing the least thing out of the ordinary. Smaller marks than those scratches have hanged many a man, Mr. Varr."

"What a cheerful thought!" exclaimed a laughing voice behind them. They turned and found Mrs. Krech, with Miss Ocky at her elbow. "What are you two talking about hanging for? Herman, I came in to look for you; we're just leaving."

"All right, Jean; I was just giving Mr. Varr my celebrated imitation of an expert criminologist!" He did not proceed further until he had glanced questioningly at his host, who gave permission with a nod and a shrug. "Some one broke in here last night and staged a burglary; I didn't tell you before because I didn't know how far it was being kept secret."

"Can't keep secrets in this place," grunted Simon. "I gave up trying long ago."

"Have the police any idea who did it?"

"The police! My dear Mrs. Krech, it's evident that you don't know much about country constabulary. I wasted no time telling them of my troubles. Your husband is going to place them in the hands of a friend of his."

"Peter Creighton! Is he coming here? Lovely!" She turned impulsively to Miss Ocky. "He's just the nicest man you ever met!"

"Who is he?" demanded Miss Ocky, but before she could get her answer, Varr had interrupted.

"We don't know yet that he is coming. You will surely write to him to-night, Mr. Krech?"

It was the very question the big man had been waiting for, but no one could have guessed it from his perfectly simulated surprise. His eyebrows were delicately arched as he made bland reply.

"You don't realize the value of time in these matters, Mr. Varr. Write to him! To-night! He'd have my life! No, sir, as soon as I left you this morning I went straight to the village and telephoned him. Bolt was fearfully annoyed about his lunch—he doesn't understand urgency, either."

"You got Creighton? What did he say?"

"He will handle it. He can't get here until the first train in the morning, but of course he is working on the case already."

"Working on the case?" repeated Simon impatiently. "How in thunder can he? He doesn't know anything about it yet."

"Oh, yes, he does. You forget that I was able to give him a lot of information. We had a long talk—ask Bolt."

"But, what can he do in New York?"

"Plenty," said the big man airily. "You don't know him."

"May I ask again," said Miss Ocky plaintively, "who is this Peter Creighton? And what?"

"He's a dear!" said Mrs. Krech.

"He's a wonder!" said her husband.

"He's a detective," said Simon grimly.

"A detective! Coming here!" cried Miss Ocky, her eyes bright with interest. "My word, won't that be jolly!"

XI: Checkers and Chicane

Miss Drusilla Jones, whose fortunes were temporarily bound up with those of Charlie Maxon, was a rather tall and shapely young woman, handsome in a coarse sort of way when her face was in a state of animation; in repose, its expression was marred by a too-great boldness in the big dark eyes and a suggestion of sullenness about the heavy, full-lipped mouth. She dressed well—"too well for an honest woman," was the dark verdict of ladies more reputable and less attractive—and, with a shrewdness surprising in one of her type, avoided the cheapening allure of cosmetics. She spent most of her days in bed, and earned her living, at least ostensibly, by spending most of the night at Tom Martin's dance hall, where she was kept on the payroll as an "entertainer." It was there she had first met Charlie Maxon.

In accordance with her promise to return at a later hour, she left her small house on the edge of the town shortly after four o'clock and turned her steps in the direction of the tannery, where she hoped to catch Simon Varr in his office. Her natural sullenness of expression was intensified as she walked slowly along her way, for certain friends of hers had pointed out to her that she was wasting her time. Simon could do nothing if he would, and would do less than that if he could, for the lover languishing in jail.

"Then I'll give him a piece of my mind!" she retorted. "I'm not afraid of old Varr nor any other man."

Her course led her through the heart of the town, and her exact social status could have been nicely determined by the glances of disfavor she received from certain thin-nosed, pursed-lipped matrons of Hambleton whom she passed en route. She could pretend to ignore these glances, and she did, but they aroused a fierce resentment in her breast and hardened a resolution already half formed—she was sick of this place, she was sick of these people, she was sick of her undue prominence in a small town where every one knew all about every one else, and she proposed to shake its dust from her high heels at the first opportunity that offered.

At the tannery, Nelson opened the door when he recognized her through the peephole and greeted her with a shake of the head.

"No use, Drusilla. He isn't here, and he wouldn't talk to you if he was. Said to tell you he'd no time to waste on Maxon's women."

"He did, did he!" flared the girl. "Then you can tell him for me that he's goin' to get into a peck of trouble if he don't look out!"

"I wouldn't say things like that if I was you, Drusilla," admonished the watchman. He had always liked the girl and regarded her with as much kindly tolerance as was fitting to a respectable family man. "There's talk around town already that your Charlie knows more about the fires we've had than he ought to."

"Sort of thing this town would say! How could he start a fire when he was locked up in jail? Answer me that."

"He's got friends, ain't he?"

"That's neither here nor there. You can take it from me, he don't know anything about those fires."

"You may be wrong, Drusilla, a man don't have to tell a woman all he knows. Anyway, it will be best for you and best for him if you keep your mouth shut." He looked around them cautiously. "I know what I'm talking about. Take my tip and watch your step."

"What do you mean?"

"Varr's sending to New York for a detective."

"A detective!" Miss Jones was startled, and made no effort to conceal the fact. "How do you know?"

"Mr. Bolt was here this morning with a friend of his from New York, and I heard them speakin' about it as they went out. So you tell Charlie Maxon to be a good little boy and put away his box of matches."

"He had nothing to do with those fires," reiterated Drusilla mechanically, her thoughts elsewhere. She had met country detectives and done business with them on terms satisfactory to both sides, and she held them consequently in contempt, but a detective from New York was an unknown and possibly ominous quantity. "When's he comin'?"

"Dunno. To-morrow, I'd say likely."

"Well, to-morrow's another day," remarked Drusilla easily, recovering something of her poise. "I guess he won't amount to so much! I'm obliged to you just the same for tipping me off. Drop in at Martin's one of these evenings and have one on me—he's serving a pretty good brand just now."

"Don't you try to vamp me, Drusilla," grinned Nelson. "I'm a decent married man."

Miss Jones tossed her head and strolled away.

She quickened her step presently as she decided on a course of action that appealed to her restless, rather adventurous nature. She had played with this same idea previously, but had lacked the animus to put it through. Nelson, with his good-natured hint about a detective from the city, had supplied that.

She went straight to the dance hall, closed at this hour to its nocturnal patrons, where she knew she would find Tom Martin in the office back of the main room. He was there as she expected—a keen-eyed, sharp-featured little cockney whose history from the time he disappeared from London in a fog to the day when he emerged in this unlikely corner of the great United States would have made a thrilling story—particularly to the English police! Through the open door of his office he was keeping an eye on the activities of several waiters who were cleaning up the dance hall and straightening the small round tables where "only soft drinks" were served, and he looked up to welcome his visitor with a nod of surprised recognition.

"'Ello, Drusilla. Wotcher doin' 'ere at this time o' dye?"

Miss Jones had two wants and voiced them promptly.

"Give me a quart of rye, Tom, and a couple of knock-out drops."

Mr. Martin jumped in his chair and shot a nervous glance at the men in the outer room. "The rye's all right—you've got some wiges comin' ter yer an' I'll take it out o' them. But I don't know nothin' about them other things, Drusilla. Wot are they?"

"Don't try the baby-innocent act on me, Tom! I want some knock-out drops, same's you put in the beer of that drummer from the city last Tuesday night—and I mean to have 'em!"

Hers was a carrying voice, and she was speaking with fearful distinctness. A visible shudder ran through Mr. Martin's slender frame as he sprang to his feet and hurriedly shut the door.

"All right, Drusilla, you can have 'em—but fer the luv o' Mike don't tell th' blinkin' world abaht it! Wotcher want 'em for?"

"What you don't know won't hurt you," responded the girl.

That gave him pause, but in the end she had her way after some cajolery and a few loud threats. She left the premises with a paper parcel in her hand and the wished-for pellets in her bag.

Her house was not far removed from the police station, in the rear of which was the small square building that served as a lockup for such casual unfortunates as were not of a quality to be sent to the county jail. Here Charlie Maxon was incarcerated, his quarters consisting of a small room with a grille door and a barred window too high for anything but light and ventilation. The only additional deterrent to his escape was to be found in the person of a nondescript elderly man who received a dollar a day from the town funds to act as jailer when the lockup was in use. His name was Moody, his chief characteristic the determined grouch he had cherished since the advent of prohibition.

He was seated on the stone steps of the jail, smoking a small but powerful pipe, when Drusilla Jones appeared from the direction of her house. She bore a basket in one hand, its contents scrupulously covered with a white napkin. It was about six o'clock.

"Good evening, Mr. Moody!"

"Hullo."

"I've brought a few things I've cooked myself for Charlie's dinner," she informed him. "Want to look 'em over?" She put down the basket and whipped off the napkin, replacing it when the jailer had cast a gloomy eye over the contents and signified his satisfaction with a nod. "Come and unlock the door so I can give it to him, there's an old dear!"

The old dear arose grumbling and proceeded to obey, pulling the door key from his pocket. She followed him into the building, where their advent was hailed with joy by the prisoner, upon whose hands time was already beginning to hang heavy.

"That you, Drusilla? Say—that's fine! Twenty-five cents a day is the food allowance in this jail, and nineteen of that is grafted by some one before it turns into grub." He accepted the basket from Moody, who promptly relocked the door of the cell. "Get a chair, Drusilla, and we can talk while I polish off this dinner."

"No, you don't," corrected Moody. "What do you think this is—a hotel? You can have five minutes, young woman, an' then out you go!"

He went back to his doorstep and resumed his pipe. He might or might not be within earshot; Drusilla could not determine which and she dared not take chances. Fortunately she had guarded against such a contretemps as this by providing a second line of communication, and after chatting loudly with her vis-a-vis through the bars of his cell she suddenly dropped her voice and whispered swiftly:

"Bottom of the basket. A note. Read it!"

He registered his perfect comprehension by an eloquent wink the while he discoursed long and loudly upon more innocent topics. They exchanged sally and quip through the forbidding grille until a warning grumble from the doorstep marked the expiration of the five minutes and the end of their interview.

"'Night, Charlie. See you again soon!"

"'Night, Drusilla—and thanks. If you run into old Varr, give him a bust on the head for me!"

"Hush, Charlie—you shouldn't talk that way! Should he, Mr. Moody?" she added brightly to Cerberus as she passed him. "I'm always telling him he talks too much and doesn't mean half what he says."

"Every one talks too much except me," declared the disappointed disciple of Bacchus. "I only talk when I'm drinkin', and I haven't said a word for months and I haven't been what you might call loquacious for some years."

"Charlie knows where to get liquor," suggested Drusilla, quick to seize this happy opportunity to titivate the jailer's thirst. "Make him get you some!"

"On your way!" said Mr. Moody virtuously—but thoughtfully.

Charlie Maxon, hearing their voices and sure that he was unobserved, delved rapidly into the bottom of the basket at some cost to a custard pie that recklessly intervened. He discovered a quart of rye which he promptly thrust into concealment beneath the single blanket on his narrow cot, a half dozen excellent cigars that he stored in a pocket of his vest, and an envelope that contained two white pellets and a hastily-written note.

The latter he carried nearer to the window and read its contents hurriedly; a soundless whistle relieved his emotions when he had finished its perusal. He was briefly pensive.

"Well—why not?" he demanded of himself finally. "She's not such a bad looker—and she's sure got a brain!"

He secreted the letter inside his shirt, proposing to destroy it at the first opportunity, then settled himself to the tranquil enjoyment of Drusilla's dainties quite as if no weightier matter than her pastry portended. A hearty eater always, he did not desist until the last fragment of the damaged pie concluded his repast. Then he went to the door of his cell, stuck his head between the bars and hailed the seated figure of his personal attendant.

"Wotcher want?" asked Moody, grudgingly coming to his call.

"Thought you might like a cigar," explained his prisoner, poking one through the grille. "Smoke 'em, don't you?"

"When I c'n get 'em," admitted the jailer, and regarded this one with the dark suspicion of a man who has been the victim of practical jokes before. "What's the matter with it?"

"Nothin'. Smoke up! Gimme a match, will you?"

"You ain't supposed to smoke in your cell," objected Moody, but produced the match and lighted both their cigars. "However, I guess you won't tell the Chief of Police if I don't!"

"No fear. You're a good sport, Moody. I always knew that."

"Fine cigar," commented the jailer critically.

"Leave it to Drusilla. You can bet she helped herself from the best box Tom Martin has."

"Women are useful when they provide a man with good tobacco, but in other ways they can get you into a mortal lot of trouble. Take it from me, Charlie, and steer clear of 'em."

"I guess you know your way around, eh, Moody?"

"You can tie to that. Frinstance, if you knew as much as me you never would've got into this jail."

"I expect you're right. You've got a head on your shoulders!"

"Well, it's an ill wind that blows nobody some good," reflected the jailer complacently. "I'm gettin' a dollar a day because you coveted your neighbor's tomatoes and then had no more sense than to shy one at him. Missed him, too, they tell me."

"I won't miss him another time if I get a shot at him, whether it's with a tomato or something else!" snapped Maxon with sudden viciousness. "I'd like to pitch him into one of his own vats!"

"You don't love him much, eh?"

Charlie Maxon thereupon expressed his exact opinion of his late employer in studied terms to which Mr. Moody lent the attentive and appreciative ear of a connoisseur in language. When the recitation was ended, he nodded approval and returned to his doorstep, where he sat down and contentedly finished his cigar.

Maxon dropped on his cot, eased the cork from the bottle of rye and took one satisfying drink of the invigorating liquor. More, he dared not allow himself for the moment.

At nine o'clock Moody rose from his doorstep and came inside, carefully locking and double-locking the door and putting its key in his pocket. He did the same by the rear exit, and was preparing to retire to the privacy of his own small room when he was hailed a second time by his charge.

"Now, what?" Moody went to the barred door of the cell with more alacrity on this occasion, hopeful of further largesse. "Can't you let a man have a minute's peace?"

"Going to bed so soon?"

"Nothin' else to do."

"Remember two years ago how we used to play checkers at the Workmen's Club?"

"What of it?"

"You used to beat me then pretty regular, but I guess it'd be different now. I'd beat you four out of five."

"That's nonsense. What are you gettin' at anyway?"

"What's the matter with letting me out of here for a while? A few games of checkers wouldn't do any harm—help pass the time."

"Help pass—! Say, where do you think you are? Why don't you ask me to take you to the movies? Mebbe you'd like me to send for Drusilla so's we could have a dance? Want me to lose my job, huh?"

"Who's going to know anything about it except us? Slip out and get a board—and a couple of glasses!"

"Glasses? What kind of glasses?"

"Whisky glasses."

Moody started. He looked keenly at his prisoner. Slowly, a warm light stole into his eye, he moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue.

"Quit your kiddin'!"

"I'm not kidding—look here!"

Maxon knew his man. Satisfied that he had Moody quivering with anticipation, he stepped to his cot, produced the flat bottle and shook it invitingly. The rich gurgle was music to the jailer's ear. A more hard-boiled, professional warder would have followed just one course with decision and dispatch, to Moody's credit be it said, it did not once occur to him that he might safely confiscate the treasure and dedicate it to his own delight.

"I'll go after those glasses," he said promptly. "Sure it's good stuff, Charlie?"

"Wouldn't drink it myself if I wasn't, would I? Hustle up—I'm ready for a drink right now."

Tempted beyond his strength, the faithless keeper of the Hambleton lockup departed on winged feet. He was back in remarkably quick time, a checkerboard under his coat and two bar glasses in his pockets. A last feeble flicker of responsibility stayed his hand an instant as he opened the cell door.

"No tricks, Charlie!"

"'Course not. Cross my heart and hope to die."

With the doors locked and no windows through which they could be seen, they sat themselves confidently at a small table, a glass at each side, the checkerboard between them and the precious bottle on the floor within easy reach. The proceedings opened with one apiece.

"A-a-a-ah!"

"Told you it was good, didn't I? Have another."

"Thanks. This is like old times. Black moves first."

"Teach your grandmother. Chin-chin."

"If that's bootleg, it's good enough for me."

"It ain't, though. He gets it from Canada himself."

"An empty glass is a mournful sight. Thanks. Your move."

They played and drank and drank and played. Moody won most of the games, which suited both of them. An hour passed. There was lots of time, Charlie told himself. He wasn't due at Drusilla's until eleven-thirty—the rendezvous she had made in the event that all went well. On the other hand, he was beginning to feel the effect of the whisky he was drinking. It wouldn't do to get tight himself. Better speed things up a bit, then take a walk for half an hour or so before going to Drusilla's—

"Em-py glash—mournful shight."

Charlie's left hand hovered an instant over the mournful sight, his fingers crumbling something; then he picked up the glass and filled it.

"A-a-a-ah."

Five minutes later he was half-carrying, half-dragging the inert figure of his jailer to the cell which by rights he should have been occupying himself. He dropped Moody on the narrow cot, relieved him of his keys and stepped out, grinning as he locked the door behind him. It would be a long, long time before the recreant warder awakened to discovery and disgrace. No one from outside would come near the place until eight or nine in the morning; he had oceans of time in which to make good his escape before the alarm could be given.

He possessed himself of a slouch hat that he found in Moody's room and drew its brim well down over his eyes, then cautiously unlocked the back door of the jail. This gave on to a narrow, unlighted alley, which led to a quiet side-street. There was little chance of his meeting any one at that hour of the night. After a quick survey which assured him the alley was deserted, he left the building and locked the door.

The fresh night air after the stuffy atmosphere of the jail hit him hard. It sent the potent fumes of the whisky to his head, and by the time he had reached the end of the alley he was staggering perceptibly. He vaguely realized his condition and the peril it implied, and paused for an instant at the first corner to steady himself against the wall of a building while he strove to clear his brain. He jerked off his hat to give the air access to his head, too fuddled to note that a street-lamp not ten yards away was shining directly on his face.

Then a tight grip fastened on his arm and he was pushed back into the obscurity of the alley.

"Charlie Maxon, by glory! Who let you out?"

"Wh-who are you?"

"Who am I? Well, that's pretty good! Mean to say you can't see me? I'm Langhorn!"

XII: Starlight on Steel

When he had finished his examination of the broken window in the living-room, Herman Krech contrived—partly by his sheer physical bulk and partly by the exercise of a soft assertiveness that was saved by his bland geniality from being plain rudeness—to sequester Simon Varr for a word in private. To accomplish this end he was obliged to shake off his own wife, the tanner's wife, the Jason Bolts and Miss Ocky Copley, the last lady in especial revealing the pertinacity of a cockle-burr in her objection to being shaken off. Krech didn't succeed in losing her until he had shut the door of the study in her face with a courteously affected air of absent-mindedness.

"What do you want?" inquired Varr ungraciously.

"I've got a message for you—sorry if I'm intruding," replied the big man, half-amused and half-resentful at his host's tone. "I'm afraid it will annoy you—but most things do, don't they? But Creighton thought it best to give you a tip and of course I feel obliged to pass it on as received."

"All right. What is it?" said the tanner less irascibly.

"Practically a repetition of the warning I gave you this morning on my own account. I read him that note over the telephone. He said it sounded like the work of a nut, and added that a bad nut is often a dangerous proposition. He thinks you should take reasonable precautions against a personal attack at least until he gets here."

"When peace will mantle the earth, I suppose!"

"Possibly so," answered the big man imperturbably. "I know if I were a crook engaged in a campaign of crime I'd be apt to desist if a detective suddenly appeared over the horizon. Wouldn't you?"

"Not if I thought he was scared of me!"

"Oh—I see." Mr. Krech's face, normally pink, deepened to a delicate shade of rose. "Rather cheap, that, isn't it, Varr? No, Creighton is not scared of crooks so you could notice it, but he's not a darn' fool either. Anyway, there it is. Take it or leave it."

"I'll leave it, thank you. Does he think I'm going to wire the Governor to turn out the militia?"

"He'd be more likely to suggest that you wire the nearest asylum for a competent keeper; he has a rough tongue at times."

"Humph. When's he coming?"

"First train in the morning. Gets here at eleven."

"I'll drive down and meet him. Will he stop at the hotel, or will he expect me to put him up here?"

"You'd better settle that with him, Mr. Varr. He's not a roughneck, if that's what you mean." Krech contemplated the tanner reflectively; there were several things he wished to tell him but he manfully swallowed them all. "Good-day, sir!"

His doubts of the morning were reborn as he left the study, unattended. Had he any right to inflict this specimen on Creighton? He could only hope that the detective's sense of humor would prove a buffer between him and his patron's boorishness. If not—

His cogitations ended abruptly as he spied Miss Ocky awaiting him in the living-room. He had caught her with her eye so attentively fixed on the study door as to suggest that a less refined woman might have had an ear glued to the keyhole. He beamed on her, his customary good-nature again in the ascendant as he left the irritating tanner behind.

"Hello," he greeted her cheerfully. "Others all waiting for me outside?"

"Yes. Your wife has apologized for you twice, I believe. I think it was mean of you to shut yourself up like that after getting me all excited about detectives and things! What were you two talking about?"

"Secrets," chuckled Mr. Krech. He continued to move implacably toward the front door as she marched with equal determination at his elbow. "Just a girly-girly heart-to-heart talk. Delightful fellow, isn't he?"

"Humph. You might remember he wasn't the only victim of the robbery. If he lost a notebook, I lost a perfectly good dagger. Why can't I know what's going on, too?" She cooed softly. "Please, Mr. Krech!"

"Well, if you must know! I asked him, 'Vot iss a tanner?' and he said, 'Vat do you mean?', and then—"

"Oh!" cried Miss Ocky, and flounced. Then her indignation gave way to laughter. "Mr. Krech, you're a—a sus domesticus!"'

"French for diplomat, I take it," he retorted amiably, and left her on the top step as he surged across the piazza and down to the waiting car. Nevertheless, he sought his more erudite spouse at the first opportunity.

"Jean, what's a sus domesticus?"

"Gracious!" She wrinkled her beautiful brow for a moment, but she had taught school for a while before acquiring wedded affluence and the answer presently came to her. "Why—a common pig, I suppose."

"Gosh. A common pig? Not even a nice, clean, pink-and-white, prize-winning pig?"

"No. What are you talking about?"

"Nothing. Nothing a-tall! Say—what did you think of that Copley woman?"

"Miss Copley? Very interesting. Very attractive. I liked her immensely. Didn't you?"

He thought that over an instant. Then, like Miss Ocky, he surrendered to amusement and gave one of his deep chuckles.

"Yes," he said. "I did. Sometime I'd like to pack a dictionary with me and drop in on her for a chat!"

After Krech had dropped his unwelcome warning and departed, Simon Varr turned to his desk and tried to forget some of his immediate problems by attacking a small mass of correspondence that he had brought home from the office after the innumerable interruptions of the morning. He did not succeed any too well in concentrating his thoughts on the task. They would persist in wandering to other matters, leaving him staring blankly at a letter while his wits went the weary round of his perplexities. With reflection came temper, and he rather welcomed the sound of his study door being opened with no preliminary knock. That foreboded more trouble of some sort, and he was in the humor for a fight— He swung his chair around and started at the sight of his wife in the doorway.

"Well? Come in. What is it?"

She accepted the invitation. She came into the room slowly, but she ignored his gesture toward a chair. She stood looking down at him, her face all the whiter for a touch of vivid color that burned in each cheek, her arms hanging loosely at her sides but her hands clenched in token of restrained emotion. Her voice was calm as ever when she spoke, but passion lent it a husky quality that smote ominously on his ear.

"What have you done to—my son?"

"Done to him? Done to him? What d'you mean?" He sputtered. "I haven't done anything to him!"

"You quarreled with him?"

"Call it that if you choose. He forced the issue—though he probably went cry-babying to you with some other version!"

"He doesn't lie. And he told me just what I managed to drag out of him—no more. I got the impression that he was—ashamed of you, that's all."

"Well? I'll live it down, I guess! What do you expect me to do about it?"

"The decent thing, just for once in your life. I want you to go to him, or send for him, and—and make peace."

"You can see me doing it, can't you? Ha!"

"He has left our roof."

"His own choice!"

"You drove him to it."

"That's not so! He's free, white and twenty-one; he can do as he pleases elsewhere, but he'll do as I say while he's in my house!"

"My house, please!"

"We've had that argument before and you've had precious little change out of it! As for Copley—let him rustle his own living or starve until he learns to obey my wishes!"

"You won't consider mine?"

"No!" The word was like a thunderclap.

"Very well." She held herself erect to every inch of her slim height, her steadfast gaze leveled at him from beneath straight brows. "I warn you, Simon, that you are going too far. I don't know if you realize all the brutalities, the ignominies, that I've suffered from you since we were married. Much kinder if you'd beaten me. It hasn't seemed possible to me that you can have realized—! Yours is a very curious nature—I've had to make allowances—often—" Her voice faded into silence.

"What are you going to do about it?"

She jumped beneath the lash of that crisp question.

"I don't know—yet." Abruptly, she turned on her heel and left the room.

"That's that!" Simon swung back to his desk, a grim smile on his lips. "It always boils down to the same thing—they don't know what they're going to do about it. Let 'em rant all they please, in the end what I say goes!"

He resumed his correspondence, refreshed.

The only aftermath of this latest squall instantly apparent was the message Bates gave him as he announced dinner. Miss Lucy would not be down. She was indisposed.

"Another word for a bad disposition," Simon informed his sister-in-law, as they seated themselves at a table laid for two, indifferent to the fact that he was criticizing his wife within the hearing of a servant. "She'll have recovered by morning."

"We can't all have your sunny nature, Simon."

"Humph. You've heard about the roekus with Copley, I suppose?"

"Rumors have reached me." Miss Ocky peppered her soup composedly. "Need we discuss it now?"

"No. There's always the weather, if you prefer that."

The topic did not seem to appeal to her. They did not talk about the weather, nor anything else. A silence that would have been perfect but for the sound of a subdued champing from the head of the table was broken only once during the progress of the meal. Occupied though he was with his food, Varr gradually became conscious of a steady scrutiny that first puzzled, then irritated him. He glared at her angrily.

"What do you keep looking at me like that for?" he demanded.

"Interest, Simon. Pure, unadulterated interest."

"Well, stop it! I don't like it!"

For a wonder, she acceded to his insistence without a word. It cost her no effort to avoid looking at him for the remainder of the time at the table, after which they rose in silence and parted. Simon went inevitably to his study, Miss Ocky in sisterly fashion to Lucy's room to inquire the cause of her malaise.

Two hours passed before she came down again. Two somewhat trying hours, to judge from the expression on her face, which wore a look as grim as any ever sported by Medusa. Her eyes were cold and hard as she marched promptly to the closed study door and rapped upon it—a gesture of icy politeness.

"Come in! Humph. So it's you, Ocky! Dropped in to take another good look at me?"

"No—to have a rather serious talk with you, Simon." From the effortless way in which she drew a heavy armchair into the position she desired, a shrewd observer might have gleaned a hint of the muscular strength that was her heritage from many a camp and trail. "Hope you don't mind."

"Quite the contrary. By a serious talk I presume you mean a row. Well—I've gotten so I thrive on 'em!"

"Yes. I pity you just enough, Simon, to wish you weren't so fond of them." Miss Ocky dropped into her chair and lighted a cigarette with pensive deliberation. "I don't know that I can offer you a real row, my idea was to hand you a few straight-from-the-shoulder remarks and then a couple of ultimatums. As for the brutal badinage in which you delight, I'm in no mood for it this evening."

"Let's have your remarks. I guess I can stand 'em."

"First, then—I suppose you know that you have played the cat-and-banjo with Lucy's happiness for the last twenty-odd years?"

"Don't assume I know anything. Just tell me!"

"Consider yourself told that, to start with. I was literally shocked when I came back and saw the change in Lucy. She's the shadow of her old self, nothing more. It is you who are responsible for that."

"Humph!"

"Now you have started on Copley—made a good start, too, if the boy's manner is any criterion. Possibly I may be doing him an injustice. It might have been consideration for his mother rather than fear of you that has restrained him until now. Anyway, I'm glad he has summoned the courage to defy you at last."

"Indeed. May I ask you one question? How long has it been considered good form for a woman to enter a man's house and interfere with his domestic relations. Eh?"

"It was my father's house first, then Lucy's. I am more at home here this minute than you could ever be."

"Try and prove it in a law-court!"

"Perhaps I shall—some day." She paused to scrutinize her polished finger-nails, brushed a speck from one of them, raised her eyes to his and added dryly, "After all, Simon, you know you only got in here by a trick."

"A trick! Now—what do you mean by that?"

"Memory gone phut, Simon? Perhaps I can refresh it. While I was watching the fire last night a man came up to me and called me by name. It was—Leslie Sherwood."

"Ah!" The exclamation was wrung from him through stiff lips. The color drained from his face as he leaned forward tensely, one hand gripping an arm of his chair like a vise. "G-go on!"

"That shot went home, did it?" asked Miss Ocky coolly, watching the effect of her words. "I've several more in the locker! We had quite a long talk together and he told me many things I didn't know. Interesting things—very!"

"What?" Simon's voice was hoarse. "He didn't tell you—he didn't dare tell you—" He stopped, a deadly fear in his eyes.

"Yes. He told me why he quarreled with his father. Why he left home. Why he has come back now, freed by his father's death. Shall I go on, Simon?"

He sank back in his chair, shaken in all his being. He could not speak until he moistened his lips with his tongue.

"Have you—told Lucy?"

"No. That is Leslie's right, I should say. No doubt he will use it. As far as I can see, there is only one way by which you can make a decent exit from the mess you're in."

"If—if you're suggesting—suicide—forget it!"

"Suicide? No! Why should I waste my breath proposing an act that requires courage? What I meant was—divorce."

"Divorce!"

"It needn't cost you a penny. Make it easy for her to get—your lawyers will arrange that. You'll have the tannery—and welcome! All you need do is—go! Go from this house!"

"Divorce! Stand aside—hat in hand—bow another man into my place—!" The rage of a cornered animal swept aside his fear. "I'll see you all in—"

"Don't shout."

"So that is why Sherwood has come back!" He gritted his words through set teeth. "He thinks he is going to make trouble for me, eh? Just let him try—just let him try! If he dares to say a word to Lucy—if he even dares to set foot on this property—" His clenched fist crashed on the desk beside him as he abandoned himself to a very ecstasy of fury. "If he dares try that, by Heaven, I'll kill him like a dog!"

"I wouldn't," advised Miss Ocky in her quiet, hard little voice. "Everything would have to come out in court, then, and you'd have a fearful time persuading any jury that it was justifiable." She had finished her cigarette, and since Simon's study boasted no ash-trays, she rose and went to the open window to toss the stub outside. She remained there, leaning against the casement and breathing deep of the cool night air. "Wouldn't you rather be divorced than hanged?"

"No!"

"Humph. Queer tastes, you have! Well—I've kept my promise. I've told you a few straight facts and issued an ultimatum. The rest is up to you. Would you like time to consider—"

"No! Not a minute—blast you!"

"I don't blast easily, Simon. I'm to assume, then, that you reject my well-intentioned—Hello! What's that!" Her voice dropped to an excited whisper as she bent her head and peered into the darkness.

The alteration in her manner penetrated through the fog of temper that had clouded his brain. He left his chair and was at her side in a bound, surmising her answer even before he snapped a swift question.

"What is it?"

"That monk—! I could have sworn—! Over there by the big silver birch—! I can't see him now. Can you make out anything?"

Side by side they leaned from the window, striving to accustom their eyes to the starlit night. A long minute passed.

"I must have been mistaken." Miss Ocky drew a long breath. "A shadow from a swaying bough—or imagination."

"There isn't wind enough to sway a twig!" he corrected curtly. He lingered a while longer, his angry gaze continuing to search the darkness, before he drew back into the room. "It's quite likely you saw him," he muttered. "No doubt he saw you, too, and heard you—and has slunk off with his tail between his legs!" He half made to pull down the sash, then contemptuously refrained. "I'd like to get my hands on him!" His fingers curled longingly.

After a moment's hesitation, she accepted his dismissal of the subject. She stepped back and confronted him.

"To return, then—divorce, Simon?"

"Never!" He fairly barked it.

"I know of just one thing to your credit, Simon," said Miss Ocky rather sadly, rather dully. "You do mean what you say. I must accept your decision as—final."

"You must!" The interlude had braced him. "And—what are you going to do about it?"

She shrugged her shoulders, looked at him with expressionless eyes—turned and walked quickly from the room. His sharp, sardonic laugh followed her down the hall.

"Another false alarm!"

He threw himself into his chair, mopping his brow. Some ten minutes went by before a thought occurred to him that was fortuitously anticipated by the sudden appearance of the old butler.

"That decanter of Bourbon, Bates! Then go to bed."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

History repeated itself. He drank two glasses of the fiery liquor in swift succession. As he did so it rather staggered him to reflect that barely twenty-four hours had elapsed since he had stood there the night before, doing the same thing. Gad—what a day! Last night that monk had interrupted him—

That monk! He muttered the words. Had Ocky really seen him? Was he loose again on some fresh errand of crime? Had he been frightened away by their appearance at the window? Had he been frightened away permanently?

On the spur of a swift impulse, born perhaps of the whisky, he reached up quickly and extinguished the solitary lamp. The room was instantly plunged into darkness, through which he groped his way cautiously as he set the stage for a game of cat-and-mouse. He pushed the chair that Ocky had used directly in front of the open window and settled himself in its depths, his hot eyes staring into the night and challenging it to yield its secrets.

He moved only once during the next half-hour. That was to pour himself another drink, which he sipped slowly while he continued to watch the neighborhood of the big birch that Ocky had indicated. Would he come back? Would he? Varr waited for the answer to that, waited and waited while a murderous rage filled his breast and grew ever more intense with each succeeding mouthful of raw drink. Would he come?

Yes!

The empty glass slipped from his fingers to fall with a light thud on the carpeted floor as he slowly rose from his seat. He rubbed his eyes, quite unnecessarily, for they were now used to the dim starlight. No possible doubt existed—the ominous black figure was there! Straight and tall, it stood, exactly as he remembered seeing it at the head of the trail. Now it was on a concrete path that bisected the kitchen garden, motionless, apparently inspecting the darkened house of the man it pursued.

Stealthy as a cat, nearly as swiftly, Simon rushed from his room and out of the house by the front door. His plan was to circle the building, taking advantage of every shadow, and get as close to his enemy as he could before revealing himself. Suppose the fellow took alarm and got off to a running start? Could he hope to catch him? For the first time in his life, he wished he had a revolver.

Less than ten yards intervened between them when he finally broke cover and hurled himself furiously forward, hatred in his heart, a deep oath on his lips. At last! His fingers itched for the throat of his enemy.

It was disconcerting suddenly to realize that he had not taken his foe by surprise; his swift approach was slightly checked as he saw that the figure was facing him, watching him—waiting for him! It was still as any statue up to the very instant when he flung out his arms to seize it; then it fell back a pace and its left hand went slowly up to lift the black veil that masked its countenance.

If another emotion as strong as his hatred existed in Simon's breast, it was curiosity as to the identity of his relentless enemy. His advance came to an almost involuntary halt as he thrust his head forward the better to distinguish the features of that face so dimly visible in the uncertain light.

Then it was his turn to step back, his arms dropping to his sides, his brain reeling from the shock as it apprehended the truth.

"You!" he gasped chokingly. "You!"

In that moment he was helpless, defenseless, mentally and physically paralyzed from sheer amazement. It was the moment for which his crafty foe had played—and won. The figure darted, forward, its right arm rose and fell. One flicker of starlight on metal, then the thud of steel driven home—

A single groan escaped the lips of Simon Varr before they were sealed in death.

XIII: A Deduction or Two

The eleven o'clock train from New York was commendably punctual the next morning.

Its brakes had barely ceased squealing on one side of the Hambleton platform when Miss Ocky brought her small car to a smart halt on the other. She sprang to the planking and waited for the passengers to alight, her face reflecting the cheerful knowledge that she was looking her very best that morning in a becoming hat and a well-fitting coat and skirt of gray English tweed.

Not many people alight at Hambleton on even the liveliest occasions, and this time a mere handful descended from the train. Among them was a middle-aged man in a dark-blue serge, a light overcoat on one arm and a heavy suitcase suspended from the other. He was compactly built without being too heavy, his smooth-shaven face wore an expression of good nature, and his eyes looked out on the world from behind tortoise-shell glasses with a friendly twinkle that concealed something of their sharpness. They had an inquiring expression now as he glanced about him.

Miss Ocky did not have to be much of a detective herself to know that here was her search concluded, though no one in the world could have measured up less to her expectations. She had visualized something with large feet, a big mustache and a heavy jowl, that would descend from a smoker with a dead cigar gripped between its teeth. Silly of her, she admitted to herself as she walked over and accosted him briskly.

"Mr. Creighton, isn't it? Knew it must be. I'm Miss Copley, and if I hadn't come down for you I don't know who would!"

"Very good of you, Miss Copley." He looked not unnaturally mystified by her greeting. "I was rather expecting a friend of mine—"

"Mr. Krech? He couldn't get away from the police."

"The police!" He was startled at first, then the twinkle in his eye deepened. "Don't tell me that his sins have found him out at last!"

"I have to tell you something much more serious than that," she answered soberly. "Come along and stick that bag in the car. We can talk while I drive you to the house. To begin with, Simon Varr was found in his kitchen garden this morning—stabbed to the heart."

Peter Creighton had a fashion of receiving such bits of news in a little silence that gave him time to gather his wits. Miss Ocky saw that the good humor was gone from his face which was now grave and stern. He did not speak until he had deposited his bag in the tonneau of the car and seated himself at her side in the front.

"Murdered," he said; it was not a question.

"The doctor says the blow could not have been self-inflicted." She touched the starter and turned the car homeward. "Yes—murdered."

"That is terrible, Miss Copley. I feel deeply shocked. Has the murderer been identified?"

"I can't say positively. He was found about six o'clock this morning by the cook, and you can imagine that we have been simply inundated with police and officials ever since. They've been doing a lot of whispering and conferring and I think they do suspect some one, but of course they haven't confided in me."

"Excuse me, Miss Copley—just who are you? I gather you are a member of the Varr household."

"He was my brother-in-law. He married my sister. I've been visiting them about two months."

"I see. Thank you. Now—what about Krech and the police?"

"Well, they notified Jason Bolt—he was Simon's partner—and he came right over, bringing Mr. Krech, who is staying with him. There was a lot of talk about a mysterious monk—I know something about him, too!—and just when it was time to go to the train, Mr. Norvallis was questioning your friend in the living-room. So I slipped away and came to your rescue. It's as well I did—there are no taxis in Hambleton!"

"It was very good of you to remember me, with so much else to think about. You—er—how did you know I was expected?"

"Mr. Varr told us yesterday that Mr. Krech was sending for you."

"'Us'?" He turned to look at her while she answered. "How many people knew that I was coming, do you suppose?"

"Oh—several, anyway! Why?"

"I'm wondering if the news could have reached the ears of the murderer," he explained. "Some one was persecuting Mr. Varr, we know that. If he suddenly learned that a detective was coming—you see?"

"He might have thought it better to—to strike while the striking was good? Yes, I see." She took her eyes from the road long enough to give him a quick look. "You think of things very quickly, Mr. Creighton!"

"Practice makes perfect," he murmured. "Who is Norvallis?"

"Assistant County Attorney, or something like that. Murders are rather too complicated to be handled by the local police, evidently."

"Yes, the County takes hold usually—sometimes the State, if the County can't make the grade. You spoke of a doctor—was that the County Physician? Has the body been moved yet?"

"Yes—thank goodness! I wasn't a great admirer of Simon's, but it wasn't nice to think of him lying out there in a tomato-patch! However, I suppose you're disappointed."

"Why? Oh, I see! You're assuming that I might be interested in the investigation. That doesn't seem likely. I came here on some matter of burglary—and quite possibly that has ceased to be of importance now. I must talk to Norvallis, though."

"If you investigate the robbery, you will be investigating the murder," said Miss Ocky quietly. "When Simon's notebook was stolen, his desk was forced open by a Persian dagger, belonging to me, that happened to be lying handy. That was missing with the notebook—and it was found again this morning in—in Simon!"

"Golly!" Creighton looked at her with renewed interest. "Not pleasant for you, that!"

"It seems to link the two crimes, doesn't it?"

"Decidedly. Here we are, I see."

A small crowd of curiosity-seekers was gathered at the gate which gave access to the driveway from the highroad, and a policeman in uniform was chatting with them amiably while barring their closer approach. He saluted as Miss Ocky waved her hand to him and vigorously honked her way through the staring crowd.

"I'll drop this bag in the hall for the time being," said the detective as they mounted the piazza steps and entered the house. "Will you put me deeper in debt to you by finding Mr. Krech for me?"

She said she would, and departed on the errand while he lingered in the hall. The sight of no less than twelve automobiles of various sizes and sorts parked in front of the house had prepared him for a mob inside. A hum of voices reached him from a room on his left, the door of which was discreetly closed, and another hum came from one on the right, which he could see was a dining-room. Farther back in the hall, three solid-looking gentlemen had their gray heads together in a serious confab. For some reason they appeared to regard his entrance with considerable interest, and seemed to be discussing him while he waited. He put it down to the fact that he was a stranger where it was the custom for every one to know every one else. Then Herman Krech came out of some room in the rear and swept down upon him, accompanied by a short, stout, worried-looking individual.

"Hello, Creighton. This is Mr. Bolt, Mr. Varr's partner."

"Glad to meet you, Mr. Bolt." Creighton barely acknowledged the introduction as he searched his friend's face. "Krech, how did this happen? I wouldn't have had it—"

"I know." The big man broke in quickly, earnestly. "I know what you are thinking. Forget it! It isn't your fault, nor mine. I warned him yesterday morning on my own account, and again in the afternoon after I had talked with you. He simply disregarded it."

"A pity!" muttered the detective. His face had cleared somewhat at Krech's statement. "Thank goodness, I haven't got that negligence on my conscience! It has been worrying me ever since I heard the news. So he wouldn't listen to you?"

"Nary a bit. Let's go out on the piazza. There's a place around the corner that this merry throng hasn't discovered."

He led the way with his easy self-assurance and they followed at his heels. He was right about the privacy of the retreat to which he took them; a few men were standing around the front piazza, but no one had turned the corner.

"I'm glad to have a chance to speak to you, Mr. Bolt," said the detective when they had found seats. "This is a shockingly different state of affairs than I expected to find. What of the burglary that Mr. Varr had on his mind? Has that any importance now apart from its obvious connection with the crime?"

"Yes, indeed, great importance for me and a number of other people who may suffer from the theft of Simon's notebook." Jason looked ten years older than when he had risen that morning. "If that has gone it will be a serious blow to our tanning business—and a gold-mine to any competitor who might get his hands on it and not be honest enough to return it."

"Um. Secret formulas—that sort of thing?"

"Exactly. On my own behalf, and out of respect for my partner's wishes—his last wish, practically,—I would be very glad to have you take a hand in the affair and see if you can locate that notebook."

"The theft and the murder are linked by the dagger. If the police have their eye on the murderer, the notebook should be recovered when he is arrested."

"That's only a possibility, Mr. Creighton—and—oh, frankly, I want you to take the case anyway! Mr. Krech and I must try to tell you the whole story as we heard it from Simon yesterday. He was the victim of an unknown enemy. Threats—robbery—arson—murder! I won't be satisfied until that scoundrel is well and truly—hanged! As for the police—well, I think better of them than Simon, perhaps, but I'd still be glad of another string to my bow. It's proper for me to employ extra assistance if I wish, isn't it?"

"Perfectly. I quite understand how you feel—and I will be glad to do what I can. The family won't object, I suppose?"

"Not a scrap," said a woman's voice behind him. They started to their feet at the sight of Miss Ocky, who had come upon them unawares. "I can answer for the family. Please sit down again. I'll take this sofa—unless you're talking secrets," she added, with a faint smile for Herman Krech. "I tried to stay quiet in my room upstairs, but—nerves!" She lifted her shoulders and looked apologetic.

They assured her they had no secrets from her. She sat down and listened attentively as Jason Bolt, at Creighton's request, gave a careful account of the events preceding Varr's death as he had heard them from his partner, appealing to Krech from time to time for corroboration. His voice shook with emotion as he described his horror that morning when the news of Simon's fate was brought to him.

"A rotten business," he ended huskily.

Miss Ocky eased the tension by suddenly producing her cigarette case and passing it around; Creighton accepted one and lighted it, a thought surprised at this touch of outer-worldliness in a demure, middle-aged, country lady. It might be, he mused, that she called herself not an old maid, but a bachelor girl. He liked her, though; liked the bright eyes that lost nothing that passed, the alert brain that missed no trick, the strength of character revealed in the finely-modeled mouth and chin that were still invested with feminine charm.

"Let's tackle this business at once," he suggested. "Sooner the better. In a murder, look for the motive. Miss Copley—Mr. Bolt—can either of you tell me who might have wanted to kill Simon Varr?"

They looked uncomfortable. It was Krech who took the bull by the horns.

"De mortuis ml nisi bonum," he said gravely. "Otherwise, I should say that it would be simpler to give you a list of the people who didn't." He spared a regretful glance for Bolt's hurt little exclamation. "I know it jars on you just now, but truth is truth. I've seen enough in the last three days to know that Varr must have had a host of enemies."

"Yes," said Miss Ocky. "A notable collection."

"That won't do," objected the detective. "To dislike a man is one thing, to hate him to the point of murdering him is another."

"Greed is a motive for murder," said Krech. "Who stood to profit financially by his death?"

Jason Bolt stirred uneasily in his seat. Miss Ocky looked uncomfortable. Krech glanced from one to the other, then nodded to Creighton.

"It's the same answer," he said. "A lot of people."

"Neither the question nor answer are pertinent," commented the detective. "This murderer did not kill for money."

"Why are you so sure?" demanded Krech stubbornly.

"If he made up his mind that it would pay him to kill Simon Varr, he would have gone to work and done it out-of-hand, skillfully or clumsily as his limitations might permit. He wouldn't have wasted a lot of time with ineffective fires, bugaboo masquerading—and, above all, he never would have been so gracious as to send a warning note!" Creighton had the satisfaction of seeing his argument score a grand slam; there was conviction in the eyes of Krech and Jason Bolt, and something like admiration in Miss Ocky's. "No, the motive was not mercenary whatever else it may have been."

"There's this strike we've had on our hands," offered Jason. "I'll swear most of the men are decent fellows, but there are always some exceptions. They knew pretty well that Varr was the man who was fighting them—in other words, locking them out. With him out of the way, they knew they could count on better terms from me." He added diffidently, "Mightn't one of them have done it?"

"I spoke of the fires just now as being ineffective," replied Creighton. "I have gathered that they were. The second was the more serious of the two, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Well, was it serious enough to cripple the business? Was it a vital blow?"

"Not at all. The contents of the two buildings burned were worth money, of course, but they were only reserve stuff."

"But there are buildings in the yard whose loss might have hit you hard?"

"Oh, yes. Several."

"Then, if one of the striking workmen had set the fire, he would have selected one or more of them. I think we may safely assume that the incendiary was unfamiliar with the tannery and consequently was not one of the strikers."

"You win," said Jason Bolt, after a pause. "I've wondered why the scoundrel didn't touch off something more important, but the significance of his failure to do so never occurred to me. Go on, Mr. Creighton; I'm getting a lesson in straight thinking."

"Not so very straight," smiled the detective. "Given a fact, you have to think over and under and all around it before you can grasp its every implication. It's only because I've had a lot of experience that I can draw inferences a shade faster than the average man—and often quite as inaccurate!"

"If it wasn't either a striker or a person actuated by the desire for gain," said Krech, "who is left? What other motives are there for murder?"

"Revenge. Jealousy. What about the last, Miss Copley? Was he interested in any other woman than his wife?"

"No," said Miss Ocky, "and remarkably little in her!"

"Um. Friction?"

"No—not friction."

He saw her reluctance to answer this line of questioning and took it for granted that the presence of the others embarrassed her. He dropped the topic, intending to pursue it at a later, more favorable moment.

"Revenge," he continued. "Did Varr ever wrong any one to the extent of driving them to murder him?"

"No," said Jason Bolt. "Simon was a hard man but not as bad as that."

"No," said Miss Ocky—but she had gasped, and Creighton had heard her. He made a mental note of that.

"We're getting along nicely," said Herman Krech, who never liked to be out of the limelight too long. "It wasn't for money, it wasn't for revenge, it wasn't jealousy; by the time we've eliminated a few more motives we'll have only the correct one left."

"Meanwhile," said Creighton, "what's going on in the house? Who is running the police show?"

"Chap named Norvallis," answered the big man. "The Sheriff, the County Physician and a few plainclothes sleuths are in attendance, but Norvallis is the real leader of the gang. He has been going through the usual motions—asking everybody about everything—"

"Hold on!" broke in Jason. "I don't know that I agree with you. Seemed to me his questions were mighty casual and indifferent. Did it strike you that he had a sort of a pleased-with-himself air? I got the impression that he might already have made up his mind as to who was the guilty man and considered everything else relatively unimportant."

"It's not impossible that you're right," suggested Creighton. "The murderer may have left some glaring clue to his identity. Naturally, the police wouldn't talk about it until they got their hands on him." He turned to Krech. "You told him about this monk business, didn't you? How did he take it?"

"His first attitude," said Krech, "was that of a polite but skeptical child listening to a bedtime story. I soon convinced him of its importance, though. He says it simplifies things."

"Um. He must be even quicker at inferences than I am!"

"By the way, I told him about you and he said he wanted to see you the moment you got here."

"Well, this is a nice time to tell me!" laughed Creighton. He stood up. "I'd better take my place in line."

"I can count on you, then, to help us in the matter of locating that notebook?" asked Jason Bolt.

"Yes, sir," the detective assured him for the second time. "I can promise to take a personal as well as a professional interest in this case. I feel deeply the fact that Mr. Varr should have met death in such a fashion after he became my client."

"You did what you could to warn him."

"Now, about my headquarters; there's a hotel in the town?"

"Yes, but I've been hoping you would let us put you up." Bolt wrinkled his brows thoughtfully. "Mr. and Mrs. Krech are staying with us, but there's always room for one more."

"You're both talking nonsense," interrupted Miss Ocky. "The logical place for Mr. Creighton is right here."

"Kind of you, Miss Copley, but I hardly think I'll add to your problems. Let us agree that the hotel is the best for the time being. It is too soon yet to say where my activities will center."

XIV: Lucy Varr

There were four men in the living-room when Creighton tapped on the door and entered in response to a command. Two of them were standing by a French window which they appeared to be examining and discussing, and as Creighton knew that the theft of the notebook had been prefaced by the breaking of one of the windows in this room, he had no difficulty in deducing that this was the one and that the two men were plainclothes detectives of the county staff.

The other two were seated at the table in the center of the room, a litter of papers scattered in front of them. They looked up inquisitively as Creighton advanced and laid his card on the pile of memoranda before the more important gentleman of the pair.

"Ah, yes. Glad to meet you, Mr. Creighton. Very glad, indeed. My name's Norvallis—County Attorney's office. This is Sheriff Andrews, of Wayne County. Andrews, this is Mr. Peter Creighton of New York."

"Your name's familiar to me, Mr. Creighton," said Andrews, and stretched forth a long, bony arm with a calloused hand at the end of it. He was a mild-eyed individual with a soft, sweeping, tobacco-stained mustache. "I read the New York papers pretty reg'lar and I've followed one or two of your cases."

Norvallis was a stout, prosperous-looking man of forty-odd, a typical product of country politics. His manner was carefully bluff and hearty and characterized by a sort of bonhommie that was useful in impressing voters with the fact that he was a pretty good fellow, his close-set eyes sparkled with intelligence that his low brow defined as cunning rather than wisdom, and there were puffy semicircles beneath them that told of parties not entirely political.

"Your friend Krech told us the circumstances under which you were sent for," broke in Norvallis before Creighton could find some polite acknowledgment of the Sheriff's interest. "Must have been quite a shock to you to learn of Mr. Varr's death."

"It certainly was. Fortunately for my peace of mind, I took care yesterday to warn him against taking undue risks. He disregarded the advice."

"Oh. You warned him? You had some reason to believe his life was in danger?"

"Nothing so definite as that, but it was apparent that he had some sort of a queer, tough customer on his trail and it's always in order to take reasonable precautions."

"A queer customer, eh? This monk we've been hearing so much about! What opinion have you formed about that?"

"None at all," replied Creighton promptly.

Norvallis did not quite conceal the disappointment he felt at the flat negative. He changed the subject.

"I think you have a piece of evidence that should properly be turned over to me. Didn't Mr. Krech send you an anonymous note that Mr. Varr received from his enemy?"

"Yes." Creighton took an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Norvallis. "There it is, in good order. I had it tested for fingerprints this morning before I left the city."

"Find any?"

"Only those made by Mr. Varr himself. Further than that, the microscope showed that the surface of the paper had been uniformly abraded before it was written on, as if the crook had taken a rubber eraser and removed all traces of any prints that might have been there already."

"Cautious devil, wasn't he?"

Creighton did not answer. His eye had suddenly fallen on an object imperfectly concealed beneath a blank sheet of paper at Norvallis' elbow.

"Is that the knife that was used?" he asked.

"Yes." The county official rather reluctantly uncovered the exhibit. "Don't touch!"

"No fear!" Creighton reassured him.

He moved nearer to the ghastly souvenir and bent over it. A fine bit of Oriental workmanship that any museum might have valued; the haft was of silver, exquisitely chased, the blade was straight and slender, narrowing to a needlelike point, so that it belonged rather to the stiletto type than the dagger. An inscription ran lengthwise down the steel, which was of a distinct bluish tinge where it was not darkly stained. About an inch from the tip a tiny triangular nick had been made in one of the sharp edges, the only flaw in the weapon's perfection. Creighton looked up from it to meet the Sheriff's speculative eye.

"Can you read what it says on the blade, Mr. Creighton?"

"No! I have my limitations."

"It means, 'I bring peace'!" The officer tugged at his mustache and smiled. "Miss Copley told us that. It belongs to her."

"Well, I expect she won't want it back."

Norvallis put down the anonymous letter which he had been reading. His eyes were alight with satisfaction.

"This case will make people talk when it gets into the papers, Mr. Creighton!"

"Sure to."

"Have you any other information, or evidence, or exhibit, for me?"

"Not a scrap."

"Mr. Varr's death must alter your plans, of course. May I ask if you are returning to New York this afternoon or evening?"

Creighton knew perfectly well that Norvallis had been eager to put that question since the moment he had come into the room. He shook his head smilingly.

"Mr. Bolt has invited me to do what I can to recover the notebook that was stolen from Mr. Varr's desk."

"Oh." Norvallis exchanged a quick glance with the Sheriff. "Then, in a sense, we'll be working together. Possibly it hasn't occurred to Mr. Bolt that when the murderer is found, the thief will be found."

"Yes, he knows that. But my inquiry may diverge from yours, Mr. Norvallis. It may have to go farther than yours. Of course, you realize that yourself."

"Eh? Ah—yes, yes!" said the other blankly.

"I expect our relations will be both amicable and of mutual benefit," continued Creighton cheerfully. "If I turn up anything good I'll let you know, and I can hope for as much from you, can't I?"

"Er—well, I don't know about that." Norvallis looked pink and uncomfortable as he began to fidget with the papers on the table. "I don't know about that, Mr. Creighton. I may not feel free—er—no, on the whole I think it would be preferable if we conducted our investigations independently of each other. Yes, that would be better!" He had an air of relief as he got that dictum off his chest.

"All right," agreed Creighton, still cheerfully. He surmised the reason for the official's embarrassment, the police already knew, or thought they knew, the identity of the murderer, and it was a secret they proposed to guard jealously until they could cover themselves with glory by making an arrest. He did not blame them in the least, and accepted the rebuff good-humoredly. "As you please, Mr. Norvallis."

The two men by the window apparently had concluded their examination. One of them sauntered over to the table and reported.

"Nothing much there, sir. There's a few prints made by the butler opening and shutting the doors."

"Just as I expected," said Norvallis composedly. "Lucky we don't have to rely on fingerprints in this case, Mr. Creighton."

"Found none at all?"

"Not one. I'll make you a present of that bit of news."

"Thank you for nothing," grinned Creighton, then added mischievously, "Of course, before you can find fingerprints you have to know where to look for them."

"Oh."

"Yes. You stick to that window and Varr's desk and the hilt of this dagger—and leave the less obvious places to me."

"Indeed. I suppose it would be useless for me to ask you to designate some of those less obvious places?"

"Quite useless," answered Creighton truthfully.

He was smiling over that as he excused himself and left the room. He could not have answered the hypothetical question on a bet, for his remark had been a chance shot simply intended to annoy. No one would have been more surprised than himself to learn that this same shot would develop the qualities of a boomerang.

He was stopped in the hall by a pale, gray-haired man whose trembling hands betrayed the strain under which he labored.

"Mr. Creighton, isn't it, sir? Miss Copley told me to fix up some sandwiches and coffee in the butler's pantry. There's so many coming and going through the house she thought it would be quieter there. Mr. Krech is there already, waiting for you, sir."

"Very thoughtful of her. What is your name?"

"Edward Bates, sir. I'm the butler."

"Oh, yes, Miss Copley spoke of you. She tells me you handled things very well this morning after Mr. Varr was found."

"I did what I could, sir. I knew the body mustn't be moved, so I kept the news from Miss Lucy—that's Mrs. Varr, sir—until the police and the doctor got here."

"Knew that, did you? Been with the family long, Bates?"

"Thirty-five years, sir. I worked for old Mr. Copley before his daughter married Mr. Varr. This is a shocking business, sir."

The conversation carried them to the pantry door, whither Bates had led them. His hand was on the knob when Creighton checked him with a touch on his elbow, at which the old man jumped nervously.

"One moment. A butler who keeps his ears open often knows a lot that other people don't. What is your idea about this? Can you guess who murdered Mr. Varr?"

"No, sir!" His voice was almost panicky. "Indeed I can't, sir!"

"Uh-huh," said Creighton easily. Was the old fellow suffering from frazzled nerves or from hidden knowledge? Another little matter for future examination. "By the way, how is Mrs. Varr standing the shock?"

"Not too well, sir. She bore up like the brave lady she is until Mr. Norvallis was through with her, then broke down. She's in bed. The doctor says she must keep quiet and that she'll be all right, but he's coming again this afternoon."

"Get him to give you something for yourself," was Creighton's kindly admonition. "You're trembling like a leaf. The family will be depending on you a lot these next few days. Don't let them down by getting sick."

"I won't, sir. Thank you, sir."

Creighton permitted him to escape, well satisfied with the new tone in the man's voice as he acknowledged his appreciation of the detective's interest. Creighton was never harsh with a witness, never tried to bulldoze or rattle him, until all else had failed. His policy was to put people at their ease and gentle them into talking freely, a course that was all the more facile for him by reason of his genuine sympathy and understanding and his native kindliness.

Krech was waiting patiently behind a plate piled high with sandwiches. There was coffee, too, and before the butler left them alone, he stood an interesting decanter on the table. A shadow of gloom that overspread the big man's extensive countenance was visibly lightened by this.

"Bolt's gone home," he announced. "Mrs. Bolt and Jean must be suffering agonies of curiosity. I stayed here because I felt I might be able to help you."

"Stout fellow," said Creighton with a grin, and selected a huge sandwich. "Where do you think we'd better begin?"

"There's no use adopting that superior attitude with me. You know perfectly well I come in handy at times. Say—I'm sore at Bolt! He did you out of a good job."

"Me? How come?"

"Did you notice three solid-looking citizens in the hall when you arrived? Well, that was the Board of Selectmen of Hambleton, yes, sirree, b'gosh. Bolt had told 'em you were coming and they were all het up. They don't get along with the county crowd too well, and for that reason they'd about decided to retain your services just to show they were ready to hold up their end. Then Bolt came along and blurted out that he had commissioned you to investigate the matter and they pulled their horns in like a bunch of frightened snails. If he had only kept still you could have made a deal with them."

"I see. And what makes you think I'd be guilty of the indelicacy of letting two outfits pay me for the same job?"

"'Thnot 'n 'ndelicathy," said Mr. Krech vigorously through a sandwich. "If Bolt can have a second string to his bow, why can't you have a couple of employers?"

"Krech, you're a nice fellow with all the instincts of a crook."

"Huh. I suppose nothing could ever lead you from the narrow path of rectitude?"

"No," laughed Creighton, "nothing ever could!"

"Well, it won't be the Hambleton Selectmen, anyway. The three of them were pale when they discovered how close they'd been to spending a bunch of money unnecessarily."

They finished their lunch without the loss of much time, the detective setting the pace. Once into a case, he could be as patient and plodding as an ox, but the preliminaries found him restless and impatient. He detested the inevitable gathering of masses and masses of information that must subsequently be pulled to pieces and mulled over until the most of it had been discarded and the important residue determined. It all took so much time—precious time that the criminal might be using to strengthen his own position.