ll as
Russell's--what then?"

"He's right, Berne," Wilton cautioned again. "He's taken the friendly
course."

"I understand that, judge," Berne said; and, without answering Hastings,
turned squarely to Wilton: "But it's a thin clue. He admits Russell lost
a nail-file, too."

"Several years ago," Hastings goaded, so that Webster pivoted on his
heel to face him; "you lost yours when?--last night?--this morning?"

"I don't know! I noticed its absence this morning."

"There you are!--But," Hastings qualified, to avoid the quarrel, "the
nail-file isn't much of a clue if unsupported." He approached
cordiality. "And I appreciate your intending to tell me. That was what
you intended to give me in confidence, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Webster answered, half-sullen.

Hastings changed the subject again.

"Did you know Mildred Brace intended to clear out, leave Washington,
today?"

"Why, no!" Webster shot that out in genuine surprise.

"I got it from Russell," Hastings informed, and went at once to another
topic.

"And that brings us to the letter. Judge Wilton tell you about that?"

Webster was lighting a cigarette, with difficulty holding the fire of
the old one to the end of the new. The operation seemed to entail hard
labour for him.

"In the grey envelope?" he responded, drawing on the cigarette. "Yes. I
didn't get it."

He took off his coat. The heat oppressed him. At frequent intervals he
passed his handkerchief around the inside of his collar, which was
wilting. Now, more than ever, he gave the impression of exaggerated
watchfulness, as if he attempted prevision of the detective's questions.

"Nobody got it, so far as I can learn," Hastings said, a note of
sternness breaking through the surface of his tone. "It vanished into
thin air. That's the most mysterious thing about this mysterious
murder."

He, in his turn, began pacing the floor, a short distance to and fro in
front of Judge Wilton's chair, his hands behind him, flopping the baggy
tail of his coat from side to side.

"You doubtless see the gravity of the facts: that letter was mailed to
Sloanehurst. Russell has just told me so. She waved it in his face, to
taunt him about you, before she dropped it into the mail-box. He
swears"--Hastings stopped, at the far end of his pacing, and looked hard
at Webster--"it was addressed to you."

Webster, again with his queer, high-pitched laugh, like derision, threw
back his head and took two long strides towar