right," I said, letting it fly at him. "Where was your wife from
seven to half past nine on the evening of Gilbert's murder?"

Back went his head; out flashed all the fine teeth; the man laughed in
my face.

"Excuse me, Mr. Boyne. I understand that this is serious--nothing funny
about it--but really, you know, recalling the date, what you've said is
amusing. My dear man," he went on as I stared at him, "please remember,
yourself, where Ina was on that particular evening."

"The wedding and reception were done with by seven o'clock," I objected.
This ground was familiar with me. I'd been over it in considering what
opportunity Laura Bowman would have had for a call on Thomas Gilbert at
the required hour. If she could slip away for it, why not Ina Vandeman?
As though he read my thoughts and answered them, Vandeman filled in,

"A bride, you know, is dead certain to have at least half a dozen
persons with her every minute of the time until she leaves the house on
her wedding trip. Ina did, I'm sure. We'll just call her in, and she'll
give you their names."

He was up and starting to bring her; I stopped him.

"We'll not bother with those names just now. I'd rather have you--or
Mrs. Vandeman--tell me what you suppose would be the entry in Thomas
Gilbert's diary for May 31 and June 1, 1916. I have already identified
it as the date on which the Bowmans first moved into the Wallace house.
I think Mr. Edwards knows something more, but he's not so communicative
as you promise to be."

He looked as if he wished he hadn't been so liberal with his assurances.
I saw him glance half sulkily at Edwards, as he exclaimed,

"But those diaries are burned--they're burned. Worth told us the other
night that he burned them without reading."

At the words, Edwards stopped stock-still, something almost humorous at
the back of the suffering gaze he fastened on my face. I met it
steadily, then answered Vandeman,

"Doesn't make any difference to anybody that those books are burned. I'd
read them; I know what was in them; and I know that three leaves--six
pages--covering the entries of May 31 and June 1, 1916, were cut out."

"But what the deuce, Boyne?" Vandeman wrinkled a smooth brow. "What
would some leaves gone from Mr. Gilbert's diary four years ago have to
do with us here to-day--or even with his recent death?"

"Pardon me," I said shortly. "The matter's not as old as that. True, the
stuff was written four years ago; it recorded