ome of us have
still other theories."

"Gentlemen," Sullivan said slowly, "I give you my word of honor that I
did not kill Simon Harrington, and that I do not know who did."

"Fiddlededee!" cried Hotchkiss, bustling forward. "Why, I can tell
you--" But McKnight pushed him firmly into a chair and held him there.

"I am ready to plead guilty to the larceny," Sullivan went on. "I took
Mr. Blakeley's clothes, I admit. If I can reimburse him in any way for
the inconvenience-"

The stout detective was listening with his mouth open. "Do you mean
to say," he demanded, "that you got into Mr. Blakeley's berth, as he
contends, took his clothes and forged notes, and left the train before
the wreck?"

"Yes."

"The notes, then?"

"I gave them to Bronson yesterday. Much good they did him!" bitterly.
We were all silent for a moment. The two detectives were adjusting
themselves with difficulty to a new point of view; Sullivan was looking
dejectedly at the floor, his hands hanging loose between his knees.
I was watching Alison; from where I stood, behind her, I could almost
touch the soft hair behind her ear.

"I have no intention of pressing any charge against you," I said with
forced civility, for my hands were itching to get at him, "if you will
give us a clear account of what happened on the Ontario that night."

Sullivan raised his handsome, haggard head and looked around at me.
"I've seen you before, haven't I?" he asked. "Weren't you an uninvited
guest at the Laurels a few days--or nights--ago? The cat, you remember,
and the rug that slipped?"

"I remember," I said shortly. He glanced from me to Alison and quickly
away.

"The truth can't hurt me," he said, "but it's devilish unpleasant.
Alison, you know all this. You would better go out."

His use of her name crazed me. I stepped in front of her and stood over
him. "You will not bring Miss West into the conversation," I threatened,
"and she will stay if she wishes."

"Oh, very well," he said with assumed indifference. Hotchkiss just then
escaped from Richey's grasp and crossed the room.

"Did you ever wear glasses?" he asked eagerly.

"Never." Sullivan glanced with some contempt at mine.

"I'd better begin by going back a little," he went on sullenly. "I
suppose you know I was married to Ida Harrington about five years ago.
She was a good girl, and I thought a lot of her. But her father opposed
the marriage--he'd never liked me, and he refused to make any sort