d up," Richey explained.
"He's clever enough to be worth knowing, and, besides, I'm not so
cocksure of his guilt as our friend the Patch on the Seat of Government.
No murderer worthy of the name needs six different motives for the
same crime, beginning with robbery, and ending with an unpleasant
father-in-law."

We were all silent for a while. McKnight stationed himself at a window,
and Hotchkiss paced the floor expectantly. "It's a great day for modern
detective methods," he chirruped. "While the police have been guarding
houses and standing with their mouths open waiting for clues to fall in
and choke them, we have pieced together, bit by bit, a fabric--"

The door-bell rang, followed immediately by sounds of footsteps in the
hall. McKnight threw the door open, and Hotchkiss, raised on his toes,
flung out his arm in a gesture of superb eloquence.

"Behold--your man!" he declaimed.

Through the open doorway came a tall, blond fellow, clad in light gray,
wearing tan shoes, and followed closely by an officer.

"I brought him here as you suggested, Mr. McKnight," said the constable.

But McKnight was doubled over the library table in silent convulsions of
mirth, and I was almost as bad. Little Hotchkiss stood up, his important
attitude finally changing to one of chagrin, while the blond man ceased
to look angry, and became sheepish.

It was Stuart, our confidential clerk for the last half dozen years!

McKnight sat up and wiped his eyes.

"Stuart," he said sternly, "there are two very serious things we have
learned about you. First, you jab your scarf pins into your cushion
with your left hand, which is most reprehensible; second, you
wear--er--night-shirts, instead of pajamas. Worse than that, perhaps, we
find that one of them has a buttonhole torn out at the neck."

Stuart was bewildered. He looked from McKnight to me, and then at the
crestfallen Hotchkiss.

"I haven't any idea what it's all about," he said. "I was arrested as
I reached my boarding-house to-night, after the theater, and brought
directly here. I told the officer it was a mistake."

Poor Hotchkiss tried bravely to justify the fiasco. "You can not deny,"
he contended, "that Mr. Andrew Bronson followed you to your rooms last
Monday evening."

Stuart looked at us and flushed.

"No, I don't deny it," he said, "but there was nothing criminal about
it, on my part, at least. Mr. Bronson has been trying to induce me to
secure the forged notes for