ry pat."

* * * * *

He turned to the others. Mandleco rather surprised him, seeming not so
much disturbed as he was engrossed deep in thought; as for Mrs. Carmack,
Beardsley saw that the comedy had gone out of it for her, but she tried
to keep up the veneer.

"This is all most interesting!" she sparkled, placing her glass down
carefully and turning to face him. "Am I to be next, Mr. Beardsley?
Shall I give both the questions and the answers as Mr. Pederson did?"

"No, Mrs. Carmack. I'll do that! I took note a moment ago that you
mentioned the _whodunits_. You must be familiar with them? Say as a
hobby?"

It wasn't at all what she expected. She stood wide-eyed and startled.

"This is so thrilling, remember. Vintage '60! As the _whodunits_ will
tell you, one of the prime requisites is an accounting and proof of your
whereabouts at the time of the deed! Well?"

Beardsley's voice was just edged enough to throw her into confusion.
"Why, I--" she faltered. "You mean that night? I--I--"

"What, no alibi? You don't even remember? According to vintage '60 that
could mean either complete innocence or extreme cunning; beware the
suspect who is clever enough to be ready with no alibi!"

Beardsley saw her stiffen; there was a change across her face, a
struggle beneath the eyes. "But then," he shrugged, "it has always been
my conviction that _motive_ rather than opportunity is the real
requisite. On that basis it's plain you couldn't have killed your
husband. You loved him! He was only fifty-eight, he only left you a
dozen million dollars, but you loved him and you were faithful! Anyone
can see that after seven weeks you're still all broken up over it!"

The veneer was gone now; Sheila Carmack's eyes were vicious pools of
hate, her mouth a grimace. "Why, you--you ridiculous little monster!"
Victor d'Arlan stepped forward belligerently. "Say, now look here! This
is all very--" Beardsley placed a hand on d'Arlan's chest and shoved,
and the latter stumbled back with mouth agape. Pederson was gazing at
Beardsley with delight and admiration, seeming to visualize this little
man as material for his next tele-column. Mandleco stood transfixed, a
monument of agony, twisting a fist into his palm. "Beardsley, stop it!
This ridiculous farce has gone far enough! I warned you about these
tactics--"

Beardsley said, "Shut up!" and Mandleco stood there with mouth opening
and closing soundlessly.

"Well