gards your second question I
admit I did go to the police court out of curiosity--I wanted to find
out what was going on. You," with a resentful glance at Helen, "treated
me as an outsider, and I was determined to find out for myself how the
burglar farce would end."

"Ah, you term it a farce--is that why you laughed in court?" asked Kent
quickly.

Mrs. Brewster changed color. "I feel badly about that," she stammered.
"I meant no disrespect to Jimmie, but I have a nervous inclination to
laugh--almost hysteria--when excited and overwrought."

"I see," answered Kent slowly. He was distinctly puzzled; Mrs.
Brewster's air of candor disarmed suspicion, but--"You saw and talked
with Jimmie Turnbull on Monday night?"

"I did not." Her denial was firm.

"Then how did you learn of his arrest?" asked Kent swiftly.

"I overheard him conversing--"

"With whom?" Kent demanded eagerly as she paused as if to reconsider her
confidences. Helen, one hand on the desk and the other on the arm of her
chair, tried to rise, but her strength had deserted her. "With whom?"
repeated Kent as the widow remained silent.

"Jimmie was talking with Grimes," Mrs. Brewster stated slowly. "From
what I overheard, he paid Grimes to let him inside the house."

Kent looked perplexed as he gazed first at the widow and then at Helen,
who had sunk back in her chair.

"Mrs. Brewster," he began after a pause. "Who gave Jimmie your aconitine
pills which Grimes left on the hall table?"

"The murderer."

"Yes, of course." Kent was watching her closely and he detected the tiny
beads of perspiration which were gathering on her upper lip. "And who,
in your opinion, was the murderer?"

Mrs. Brewster's expression changed--she looked hunted, and her eyes
fell before Kent's; abruptly she turned her back on him, to find Colonel
McIntyre at her elbow and Barbara just entering the room. Her eyes
traveled past the girl until they rested on Philip Rochester and
Detective Ferguson hovering behind him. Her face altered.

"I saw Philip Rochester," pointing dramatically toward him, "crawl out
of the reception room window and dart into the street just as O'Ryan
came in the front door with Helen."

Detective Ferguson could not restrain a joyful exclamation. "So that was
it!" he cried. "You were at the McIntyre house, and gave the poison to
Turnbull there--and not in the court room--four hours before he died.
You'll swing for that crime, my buck, in spite of your gl