I knew anything on earth, I knew that the bit of chain that the
amateur detective had found, blood-stain and all, belonged just there.

And there was no one I could talk to about it, no one to tell me how
hideously absurd it was, no one to give me a slap and tell me there are
tons of fine gold chains made every year, or to point out the long arm
of coincidence!

With my one useful hand I fumbled the things back into the bag and
thrust it deep out of sight among the pillows. Then I lay back in a cold
perspiration. What connection had Alison West with this crime? Why had
she stared so at the gun-metal cigarette case that morning on the train?
What had alarmed her so at the farm-house? What had she taken back to
the gate? Why did she wish she had not escaped from the wreck? And last,
in Heaven's name, how did a part of her necklace become torn off and
covered with blood?

Down-stairs McKnight was still at the telephone, and amusing himself
with Mrs. Klopton in the interval of waiting.

"Why did he come home in a gray suit, when he went away in a blue?" he
repeated. "Well, wrecks are queer things, Mrs. Klopton. The suit may
have turned gray with fright. Or perhaps wrecks do as queer stunts as
lightning. Friend of mine once was struck by lightning; he and the caddy
had taken refuge under a tree. After the flash, when they recovered
consciousness, there was my friend in the caddy's clothes, and the caddy
in his. And as my friend was a large man and the caddy a very small
boy--"

McKnight's story was interrupted by the indignant slam of the
dining-room door. He was obliged to wait some time, and even his eternal
cheerfulness was ebbing when he finally got the hospital.

"Is Doctor Van Kirk there?" he asked. "Not there? Well, can you tell me
how the patient is whom Doctor Williams, from Washington, operated on
last night? Well, I'm glad of that. Is she conscious? Do you happen to
know her name? Yes, I'll hold the line." There was a long pause, then
McKnight's voice:

"Hello--yes. Thank you very much. Good-by."

He came up-stairs, two steps at a time.

"Look here," he said, bursting into the room, "there may be something in
your theory, after all. The woman's name--it may be a coincidence, but
it's curious--her name is Sullivan."

"What did I tell you?" I said, sitting up suddenly in bed. "She's
probably a sister of that scoundrel in lower seven, and she was afraid
of what he might do."

"Well, I'll go there some