behind him. There was something in the position of that leg which
suggested great strength.

"All that came to me in a minute, in a second. When I realized what I
saw, the danger to Enid, I fainted, just crumpled up and slid to the
floor, and everything went black before me. I don't think I had made a
sound since leaving the sleeping porch."

Bristow spoke quickly.

"Miss Fulton, who was the man?"

She overcame a momentary reluctance.

"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "I am not sure. I thought it was either
Henry Morley or George Withers."

She turned away. A tremor shook her from head to foot.

"Why?" he asked.

"First, the voice," she replied, her face still averted. "It could so
easily have been Mr. Morley's high voice lowered to a whisper; or it
might have been George Withers'. When he's angry, his deep voice
undergoes a curious change; it's horrid."

"And the second reason?"

"The man wore rubbers." She turned her face toward him. "I had seen Mr.
Morley put his on two hours before that."

"How about your brother-in-law?"

"He's a crank on the subject--never goes out in the rain unless he has
them on."

"Think a moment, Miss Fulton. Couldn't that man have been a negro--the
negro who is now held for the crime? He wore rubber-soled shoes. Could
you swear that what you saw was not a rubber sole attached to a leather
or canvass shoe?"

"No; I couldn't."

"And the voice? Did you hear any of the man's words? Could you swear that
it wasn't the illiterate talk of an uneducated negro?"

"No; I couldn't."

"What made you think of Morley and Withers?"

"Mr. Morley was in a raging temper with my sister when he left me--in
connection with money matters. You know about that part of the affair?"

"Yes."

"And George's voice is always like the one I heard. It's like that when
he gets--used to get--into a temper with Enid."

Bristow felt immensely relieved. He was so sure of his case against Perry
Carpenter that he refused to consider anything tending to obscure his own
theory.

"Are you still sure it was Mr. Morley or Mr. Withers?"

"I think now," she answered, her voice hardly above a whisper, "it was
George Withers."

"Why?"

"Let me explain again. I lay there, where I had fainted, for hours, until
just a few minutes before you answered my call for help. I must have had
a terrific shock. When I recovered consciousness, I stumbled into the
living room and saw--saw Enid. Her--oh, Mr. Bristow!--th