see, for Jimmie's murder. Men don't kill each
other without a motive."

"There is homicidal mania," suggested Clymer.

"But not in this case," retorted Kent. "We are sane men and it is up
to us to find out if Jimmie died by his own hand or was killed by some
unknown enemy.''

"Rest easy, Mr. Kent," said a voice from the doorway and Kent, who had
turned his back in that direction the better to talk to Clymer, whirled
around and found Detective Ferguson regarding him just inside the
threshold. "Mr. Turnbull's enemy is not unknown and will soon be under
arrest."

"Who is he?" demanded Clymer and Kent simultaneously.

"Philip Rochester."

Clymer was the first to recover from his astonishment. "Oh, get out!"
he exclaimed incredulously. "Why, Rochester was Turnbull's most intimate
friend."

"Until they fell in love with the same girl," answered Ferguson
succinctly, taking possession of the only other chair the porch boasted.
"One quarrel led to another and then Rochester did for him. Oh, it
dove-tails nicely; motive, jealous anger; opportunity, recognition in
court of Turnbull disguised as a burglar, at the same time Rochester
learns that Turnbull has been caught after midnight in the house of his
sweetheart--"

"D--mn you!" Kent sprang for the detective's throat. "Cut out your
abominable insinuations. Miss McIntyre shall not be insulted."

"I'm not insulting her," gasped Ferguson, half strangled. "Let go,
Mr. Kent. I'm only telling you what that half crazy partner of yours,
Rochester, was probably thinking in the police court. Let go, I say."

Clymer aided the detective in freeing himself. "Sit down, Kent," he said
sternly. "Ferguson meant no offense. Go ahead, man, and tell us the rest
of your theories."

It was some minutes, however, before the detective had collected
sufficient breath to answer intelligently.

"I size it up this way," he began with a resentful glance at Kent who
had dropped back in his chair again. "Rochester knew his friend had
heart disease and that his sudden death would be attributed to it--so he
took a sporting chance and administered a fatal dose of aconitine."

"How was it done?" asked Clymer.

"Just slipped the poison into the glass of water he handed to Turnbull
in the court room," explained Ferguson, and glanced in triumph at Kent.
"Neat, wasn't it?"

Kent regarded the detective, his mind in a whirl. His theory was
certainly plausible, but--"Have you other evidence to prove,