d the centre of the room.
There he stood a moment, hands in his pockets, while he stared at the
toe of his right shoe, which he was carefully adjusting to a crack in
the flooring.

Judge Wilton made his chair crackle as he moved to look at Webster. It
was the weight of the detective's gaze, however, that drew the lawyer's
attention; when he looked up, his eyes were half-closed, as if the light
had suddenly become painful to them.

"That would be Russell's game, wouldn't it?" he retorted, at last.

"Mrs. Brace told me the same thing," Hastings said quietly, flashing a
look at Wilton and back to the other.

"Damn her!" Webster broke forth with such vehemence that Wilton stared
at him in amazement. "Damn her! And that's the first time I ever said
that of a woman. It's as I suspected, as I expected. She's begun some
sort of a crooked game!"

He trembled like a man with a chill. Hastings gave him no time to
recover himself.

"You know Mrs. Brace, then? Know her well?" he pressed.

"Well enough!" Webster retorted with hot repugnance. "Well enough,
although I never had but one conversation with her--if you may call that
bedlam wildness a conversation. She came to my office the second day
after I'd dismissed her daughter. She made a scene. She charged me with
ruining her daughter's life, threatened suit for breach of promise. She
said she'd 'get even' with me if it took her the rest of her life. I
don't as a rule pay much attention to violent women, Mr. Hastings; but
there was something about her that affected me strongly, she's
implacable, and like stone, not like a woman. You saw her--understand
what I mean?"

"Perfectly," agreed Hastings.

There flashed across his mind a picture of that incomprehensible woman's
face, the black line of her eyebrows lifted half-way to her hair, the
abnormal wetness of her lips thickened by a sneer. "If she's been after
this man for two weeks," he thought, "I can understand his trembles!"

But he hurried the inquiry.

"So you think she lied about that letter?"

"Of course!" Webster laughed on a high note. "Next, I suppose, she'll
produce the letter."

"She can't very well do that."

Something in his voice alarmed the suspected man.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

Hastings smiled.

"What do you mean?" Webster asked again, his voice lowered, and came a
step nearer to the detective.

Hastings took a piece of paper from his pocket.

"Here's the flap of the grey envelope,"