and rough enough!"

Hastings made no reference to having been dismissed by Sloane. He was
glad when Crown changed the subject.

"Hastings, you saw the reporters this afternoon--I've been
wondering--they asked me--did they ask you whether you suspected the
valet--Jarvis?"

"Of what?"

"Killing her."

"No; they didn't ask me."

"Funny," said Crown, ill at ease. "They asked me."

"So you said," Hastings reminded, looking hard at him.

"Well!" Crown blurted it out. "Do you suspect him? Are you working on
that line--at all?"

Hastings paused. He had no desire to mislead him. And yet, there was no
reason for confiding in him--and delay was at present the Hastings plan.

"I'll tell you, Crown," he said, finally; "I'll work on any line that
can lead to the guilty man.--What do you know?"

"Who? Me?" Crown's tone indicated the absurdity of suspecting Jarvis.
"Not a thing."

But it gave Hastings food for thought. Was Mrs. Brace in communication
with Jarvis? And did Crown know that? Was it possible that Crown wanted
to find out whether Hastings was having Jarvis shadowed? How much of a
fool was the woman making of the sheriff, anyway?

Another thing puzzled him: why did Mrs. Brace suspect Arthur Sloane of
withholding the true story of what he had seen the night of the murder?
Hastings' suspicion, amounting to certainty, came from his knowledge
that the man's own daughter thought him deeply involved in the crime.
But Mrs. Brace--was she clever enough to make that deduction from the
known facts? Or did she have more direct information from Sloanehurst
than he had thought possible?

He decided not to leave the sheriff entirely subject to her schemes and
suggestions. He would give Mr. Crown something along another line--a
brake, as it were, on impulsive action.

"You talk about arresting Webster right away--or Sloane," he began,
suddenly confiding. "You wouldn't want to make a mistake--would you?"

Crown rose to that. "Why? What do you know--specially?"

"Well, not so much, maybe. But it's worth thinking about. I'll give you
the facts--confidentially, of course.--Hub Hill's about a hundred yards
from this house, on the road to Washington. When automobiles sink into
it hub-deep, they come out with a lot of mud on their wheels--black,
loamy mud. Ain't any other mud like that Hub Hill mud anywhere near
here. It's just special and peculiar to Hub Hill. That so?"

"Yes," agreed Crown, absorbed.

"All right. How, th