turned pale. "I love Sylvia for herself," he said, with an
effort, "and if her father had committed twenty murders I would not let
her go. But she must never know."

"No," said Hurd, stretching his hand across and giving Paul a friendly
grip, "and I knew you'd stick to her. It wouldn't be fair to blame the
girl for what her father did before she was born."

"We must keep everything from her, Hurd. I'll marry her and take her
abroad sooner than she should learn of this previous murder. But how did
it happen?"

"I'll tell you in a few minutes." Hurd rose and began to pace the narrow
limits of the attic. "By the way, do you know that Norman was a secret
drinker of brandy?"

Paul nodded, and told the detective what he had learned from Mrs. Krill.
Hurd was much struck with the intelligence. "I see," said he; "what Mrs.
Krill says is quite true. Drink does change the ordinary nature into the
opposite. Krill sober was a timid rabbit; Krill drunk was a murderer and
a thief. Good lord, and how he drank!"

"How do you know?"

"Well," confessed Hurd, nursing his chin, "Pash and I went to search the
Gwynne Street house to find, if possible, the story alluded to in the
scrap of paper Deborah Junk found. We couldn't drop across anything of
that sort, but in Norman's bedroom, which nobody ever entered, we found
brandy bottles by the score. Under the bed, ranged along the walls,
filling cupboards, stowed away in boxes. I had the curiosity to count
them. Those we found, ran up to five hundred, and Lord knows how many
more he must have got rid of when he found the bottles crowding him
inconveniently."

"I expect he got drunk every night," said Paul, thinking. "When he
locked up Sylvia and Deborah in the upper room--I can understand now why
he did so--he could go to the cellar and take possession of the shop key
left on the nail by Bart. Then, free from all intrusion, he could drink
till reeling. Not that I think he ever did reel," went on Beecot,
mindful of what Mrs. Krill had said; "he could stand a lot, and I expect
the brandy only converted him into a demon."

"And a clever business man," said Hurd. "You know Aaron Norman was not
clever over the books. Bart sold those, but from all accounts he was a
Shylock when dealing, after seven o'clock, in the pawnbroking way. I
understand now. Sober, he was a timid fool; drunk, he was a bold, clever
villain."

"My poor Sylvia, what a father," sighed Paul; "but this crime--"

"I'll