ive you an opportunity to explain certain things in
connection with Mr. Whitmore's death."

A crafty expression overspread Collins's face.

"Look here, officer!" he exclaimed, a weak smile on his lips. "I'm no
boob!" Obviously, he meant this lapse into the slang of the Tenderloin
to convey his intimate knowledge of police methods. "You can't soft-soap
me! You don't want explanations! You want me to get myself in bad. But
you won't get anything out of me. I know my rights."

This defiant speech produced an effect opposite to what Collins had
intended. The detective banished the note of persuasion from his voice
and adopted an accusing tone, heightened by a manner almost ferocious.

"You don't want to get yourself in bad!" he snarled. "Well, you're in so
bad now that you can't possibly get in worse. You threatened to kill
Whitmore. You knew that he had discovered your double life! You
intercepted the letter which he had sent to your wife."

Collins's pale face had grown paler. So the detective knew of the
intercepted letter! Where did he obtain knowledge of it? Only those
immediately concerned in the case were aware of its existence. Who had
told the police of it?

"What letter are you talking about?" Collins made a bold pretense at
ignorance.

"This letter," Britz produced the note which Whitmore had sent to Mrs.
Collins.

On seeing the familiar handwriting Collins leaped out of his chair.

"Where'd you get it?" he demanded.

"Sit down!" commanded Britz. "I'll tell you when I get ready. You showed
the letter to your wife and she decided to leave you. Then you started
forth to kill Whitmore. But he had disappeared. He did not return for
six weeks. Then, one day he came back. He was found in his office dead,
with a bullet in his body. This is the bullet."

Britz held the leaden pellet between his fingers, then laid it on the
table.

"It was taken from Whitmore's body," he explained. "It was fired from a
32-caliber revolver--in fact from this very weapon."

From his coat pocket Britz produced the weapon, a gleaming steel
revolver of the hammerless variety.

"Do you recognize it?" he inquired, extending it toward Collins.

Collins's hand did not reach for the weapon. All his confidence had
vanished. Fear seemed to paralyze him.

"That isn't all," proceeded the detective with aggravating assurance.
"The chambers in this revolver were filled from a box of fifty
cartridges. There are five chambers. After the