again. "What do you stick to that for?"

"Because," Hastings declared, "I'm ready to swear-and-cross-my-heart he
lied when he said he ran that four miles. I'm ready to swear he was here
when the murder was done. When a man's got as good an alibi as he said
he had, his adam's-apple don't play 'Yankee Doodle' on his windpipe."

"Is that so!"

"It is--and here's another thing: when's Mrs. Brace going to break
loose?"

"Now, you're talking!" agreed Crown, with momentary enthusiasm. "She
told me this morning she'd help me show up Webster--she wouldn't have it
that Russell killed the girl. Foxy business! Mixed up in it herself, she
runs to the rescue of the man she----"

The sheriff paused, unable to bring that reasoning to its logical
conclusion.

"No," he said, dejected; "I can't believe she put him up to murdering
her daughter."

"That woman," Hastings said, "is capable of anything--anything! We're
going to find she's terrible, I tell you, Crown. She's mixed up in the
murder somehow--and, if you don't find out how, I will!"

"How can we get her?" Crown argued. "She was in her flat when the
killing was done. We've searched these grounds, and found nothing to
incriminate anybody. All we've got is a strong suspicion against two
men. She's out and away."

"Not if we watch her. She's promised to make trouble--she'll be lucky if
she makes none for herself. Let's keep after her."

"I'm on! But," the sheriff reminded, again half-hearted, "that won't get
us anything soon. She won't leave her flat before the funeral."

"That won't keep her quiet very long," Hastings contended. "She told me
the funeral would be at nine o'clock tomorrow morning--from an
undertaker's.--Anyway, I've instructed one of my assistants to keep
track of her. I'm not counting on her grief absorbing her, even for
today."

But he saw that Crown was not greatly impressed with the possibility of
finding the murderer through Mrs. Brace. The sheriff was engrossed in
mental precautions against being misled by "the Sloanehurst detective."

He was still in that mood when Miss Sloane sent for Hastings.

The detective found her in the music room. She had taken the chair which
Judge Wilton had occupied an hour before, and was leaning one elbow on
an arm of it, her chin resting in the cup of her hand. Her dress--a
filmy lavender so light that it shaded almost to pink, and magically
made to bring out the grace of her figure--drew his attention to the
sligh