a loss. He had come to the end of his
resourcefulness in the art of probing for facts. He was about to take
his departure, with the secret realization that he had learned nothing
new--unless an increased admiration of Mrs. Brace's sharpness of wit
might be catalogued as knowledge.

She put his thought into language.

"You see, Mr. Crown, you're wasting your time shouting at me, bullying
me, accusing me of protecting the murderer of my own daughter."

There was a new note in her voice, a hint, ever so slight, of a
willingness to be friendly. He was not insensible to it. Hearing it, he
put himself on guard, wondering what it portended.

"I didn't say that," he contradicted, far from graciousness. "I said you
knew a whole lot more about the murder than you'd tell--tell me anyway."

"But why should I want to conceal anything that might bring the man to
justice?"

"Blessed if I know!" he conceded, not without signs of irritation.

So far as he could see, not a feature of her face changed. The lifted
eyebrows were still high upon her forehead, interrogative and mocking;
the restless, gleaming eyes still drilled into various parts of his
person and attire; the thin lips continued their moving pictures of
contempt. And yet, he saw, too, that she presented to him now another
countenance.

The change was no more than a shadow; and the shadow was so light that
he could not be sure of its meaning. He thought it was friendliness, but
that opinion was dulled by recurrence of his admiration of her
"smartness." He feared some imposition.

"You've adopted Mr. Hastings' absurd theory," she said, as if she
wondered. "You've subscribed to it without question."

"What theory?"

"That I know who the guilty man is."

"Well?" He was still on guard.

"It surprises me--that's all--a man of your intellect, your
originality."

She sighed, marvelling at this addition to life's conundrums.

"Why?" he asked, bluntly.

"I should never have thought you'd put yourself in that position before
the public. I mean, letting him lead you around by the
nose--figuratively."

Mr. Crown started forward in his chair, eyes popped. He was indignant
and surprised.

"Is that what they're saying?" he demanded.

"Naturally," she said, and with the one word laid it down as an
impossibility that "they" could have said anything else. "That's what
the reporters tell me."

"Well, I'll be--dog-goned!" The knuckle-like chin dropped. "They're
saying