about that alibi
of his; but I couldn't shake him; and the Otis testimony's sound. So
we'll have to quit counting on Russell's proving his own guilt. We've
got that little job on our hands, and the best way to handle it is to
prove your innocence. See that?"

The bow with which Webster acknowledged this statement was a curious
mingling of grace and mockery. The detective ignored it.

"And," he continued, "there's only one way for you to come whole out of
this muddle--frankness. I'm working for you; you know that. Tell me
everything you know, and we've got a chance to win. The innocent man who
tries to twist black into white is an innocent fool." He looked swiftly
to Wilton, who was leaning far back in his chair, head lolling slowly
from side to side, the picture of indifference. "Isn't that so, judge?"

"Quite," Wilton agreed, pausing to remove his cigar from his mouth.

"Of course, it's so," Webster said curtly. "I've just told you so.
That's why I've decided--the judge and I have talked it over--to give
you something in confidence."

"One moment!" Hastings warned him. "Maybe, I won't take it in
confidence--if it's something incriminating you."

"Yes; you've phrased that unfortunately, Berne," the judge put in,
tilting his head on the chair-back to meet the detective's look.

Webster was nonplussed. Apparently, his surprise came from the judge's
remark rather than from the detective's refusal to assume the role of
confidant. Hastings inferred that Wilton, agreeing beforehand to the
proposal being advanced, had changed his mind after entering the room.

"Hastings is right," the judge concluded; "even if he's on your side,
you can't expect him to be tied up blind that way by a suspected
man--and you're just that, Berne."

Seeing Webster's uncertainty, Hastings took another course.

"I think I know what you're talking about, Mr. Webster," he said,
matter-of-fact. "Your nail-file's missing from your dressing
case--disappeared since yesterday morning."

"You know that!" Berne flashed, suddenly angry. "And you're holding it
over me!"

Open hostility was in every feature of his face; his lips twitched to
the sharp intake of his breath.

"Why don't you look at it another way?" the old man countered quickly.
"If I'd told the coroner about it--if I'd told him also that the size of
that nail-file, judging from the rest of the dressing case, matched that
of the one used for the blade of the dagger, matched it as we