ing that Braceway, employed by you and Withers, is
persecuting this bank thief in the hope of building up the murder charge,
so that, if the case against Carpenter falls down, Morley will be the
logical man to be put on trial. You see?"

"No," Fulton said; "I don't. What do you mean?"

"That you, Withers, and Braceway are afraid Withers may be accused of the
murder."

"Ah! They're saying that, are they? And you were going to say--what?"

"Simply this: the negro's the guilty man. The facts speak for themselves,
and facts are incontrovertible. As surely as the sun shines, Carpenter
killed your daughter. Why, then, continue this gossip, slander which
besmirches Withers and is bound to attack your daughter's name?"

"What do you mean? Be a little more specific, please."

"I mean: what do you and Withers gain by letting Braceway keep this thing
before the public?"

Fulton leaned far forward in his chair, his lower lip thrust out, his
eyes blazing.

"No, sir!" he exploded. "I'll never call Braceway off! They're gossiping,
are they? They can gossip until they're blue in the face. What do I
care for public opinion, for gossip, for their leers and whispers?
Nothing--not a snap of the finger! To hell with what they say! What
I want is vengeance. I'll have it! Call Braceway off? Not while there's
breath in me!"

He paused and bit on his lip.

"Understand me, Mr. Bristow," he continued, his tone more moderate. "I
meant no criticism of you; I know how faithfully you've worked. I realize
even that you have proved your case. But I can't accept it, that's all.
You'll forgive an old man's temper."

Bristow carried the argument no further. He saw that Fulton, and Withers
too, would follow Braceway's lead. Consequently, he was confronted with
the necessity of keeping up the idiotic duel with the Atlanta detective.

Moreover, he sensed the viewpoint of the dead woman's family. They were
averse to believing she had been the victim of an ordinary negro burglar.
Remembering her beauty and charm, her cleverness and lovable qualities,
they preferred to think that some one under great emotion, or with a
terrific gift for crime, had cut short her brilliant existence.

People, he meditated, find foolish and bizarre means of comforting
themselves when overwhelmed by great tragedy. Very well, then; let it go
at that. After all, it was not his funeral.

Accompanying Fulton to the sidewalk, he climbed into the automobile and,
in a few