been in Furmville since yesterday morning? Got here on the
eight o'clock train yesterday morning?"

"Yes."

Bristow gave him the benefit of another long pause and studied him more
closely. He saw that this bereaved husband was of the high-strung,
Southern-gentleman type, hot-tempered, impulsive, one of those apt to
believe that "shooting" is the remedy for one's personal ills or
injuries. The lines of his mouth betrayed selfishness and peevishness.

The interrogator broke the silence at last:

"Of course, Mr. Withers, there's some good explanation
for your secret trip to Furmville?"

"Well--er--yes."

"What is it?"

Withers hesitated.

"I--I don't know that I care to say now--to discuss it yet."

Bristow shot Greenleaf a prompting glance.

"You see, it's this way," the chief acted on the silent suggestion; "I'm
in charge of this matter, the capture of the murderer, and Mr. Bristow is
helping me. In fact, he's the man in command. His abilities fit him for
the work. If the man who killed your wife is caught, it will be through
the work of Mr. Bristow. I'm confident of that. Moreover, every minute we
lose now may be disastrous to us. Consequently, we want to hear your
story. You appreciate our position, I know."

Withers licked his dry lips with the tip of his dry tongue.

"How about the newspapers?" he asked.

"You'll be talking only for our information," cut in Bristow crisply. "We
won't give it to the papers. We want to use it for our own benefit."

"Ah, I see. Well, then----"

Withers got up and paced the length of the floor several times in silence
while they watched him. He gave the impression of framing up in advance
in his mind what he would say. He seemed to want to talk without talking
too much--to tell a part of a story, not all.

"I tell you, gentlemen," he said, going back to his chair, his voice
trembling, "this is a hard thing to get to. I mean I don't like to say
what I must say. But I see there's no way out but this. The truth of the
matter is, I came up here to satisfy myself as to what my wife was doing
in regard to a certain matter."

"You mean you were suspicious of her--jealous of her?" Bristow
interpolated.

"No, not that," returned the husband.

"He's lying!" was the thought of both Greenleaf and Bristow.

"No. Let me make that very clear. I never doubted her in that way."

"Well, how did you doubt her?"

Withers winced.

"I don't mean I doubted her at all. I mean I tho