n is still stupidly drunk. But he holds her
in a tight grip. Then the tragedy. She must get away; in a minute
the car will be aroused. Such a woman, on such an errand, does not go
without some sort of a weapon, in this case a dagger, which, unlike a
revolver, is noiseless.

"With a quick thrust--she's a big woman and a bold one--she strikes.
Possibly Hotchkiss is right about the left-hand blow. Harrington may
have held her right hand, or perhaps she held the dirk in her left hand
as she groped with her right. Then, as the man falls back, and his grasp
relaxes, she straightens and attempts to get away. The swaying of the
car throws her almost into your berth, and, trembling with terror, she
crouches behind the curtains of lower ten until everything is still.
Then she goes noiselessly back to her berth."

I nodded.

"It seems to fit partly, at least," I said. "In the morning when she
found that the crime had been not only fruitless, but that she had
searched the wrong berth and killed the wrong man; when she saw me
emerge, unhurt, just as she was bracing herself for the discovery of my
dead body, then she went into hysterics. You remember, I gave her some
whisky.

"It really seems a tenable theory. But, like the Sullivan theory, there
are one or two things that don't agree with the rest. For one thing, how
did the remainder of that chain get into Alison West's possession?"

"She may have picked it up on the floor."

"We'll admit that," I said; "and I'm sure I hope so. Then how did the
murdered man's pocket-book get into the sealskin bag? And the dirk, how
account for that, and the blood-stains?"

"Now what's the use," asked McKnight aggrievedly, "of my building up
beautiful theories for you to pull down? We'll take it to Hotchkiss.
Maybe he can tell from the blood-stains if the murderer's finger nails
were square or pointed."

"Hotchkiss is no fool," I said warmly. "Under all his theories there's
a good hard layer of common sense. And we must remember, Rich, that
neither of our theories includes the woman at Doctor Van Kirk's
hospital, that the charming picture you have just drawn does not account
for Alison West's connection with the case, or for the bits of telegram
in the Sullivan fellow's pajamas pocket. You are like the man who put
the clock together; you've got half of the works left over."

"Oh, go home," said McKnight disgustedly. "I'm no Edgar Allan Poe.
What's the use of coming here and asking me thin