ident that there was a
real grief. She fumbled for a black-bordered handkerchief, and her
throat worked convulsively. I saw now that she was in mourning.

"Do you mean," I asked incredulously, "that Mr. Fleming married a second
time?"

"He married me three years ago, in Plattsburg. I came from there last
night. I--couldn't leave before."

"Does Miss Fleming know about this second marriage?"

"No. Nobody knew about it. I have had to put up with a great deal, Mr.
Knox. It's a hard thing for a woman to know that people are talking
about her, and all the time she's married as tight as ring and book can
do it."

"I suppose," I hazarded, "if that is the case, you have come about the
estate."

"Estate!" Her tone was scornful. "I guess I'll take what's coming to me,
as far as that goes--and it won't be much. No, I came to ask what they
mean by saying Allan Fleming killed himself."

"Don't you think he did?"

"I know he did not," she said tensely. "Not only that: I know who did
it. It was Schwartz--Henry Schwartz."

"Schwartz! But what on earth--"

"You don't know Schwartz," she said grimly. "I was married to him for
fifteen years. I took him when he had a saloon in the Fifth Ward, at
Plattsburg. The next year he was alderman: I didn't expect in those days
to see him riding around in an automobile--not but what he was making
money--Henry Schwartz is a money-maker. That's why he's boss of the
state now."

"And you divorced him?"

"He was a brute," she said vindictively. "He wanted me to go back to
him, and I told him I would rather die. I took a big house, and kept
bachelor suites for gentlemen. Mr. Fleming lived there, and--he married
me three years ago. He and Schwartz had to stand together, but they
hated each other."

"Schwartz?" I meditated. "Do you happen to know if Senator Schwartz was
in Plattsburg at the time of the mur--of Mr. Fleming's death?"

"He was here in Manchester."

"He had threatened Mr. Fleming's life?"

"He had already tried to kill him, the day we were married. He stabbed
him twice, but not deep enough."

I looked at her in wonder. For this woman, not extraordinarily handsome,
two men had fought and one had died--according to her story.

"I can prove everything I say," she went on rapidly. "I have letters
from Mr. Fleming telling me what to do in case he was shot down;
I have papers--canceled notes--that would put Schwartz in the
penitentiary--that is," she said cunningly, "I did ha