can locate that notebook."

"The theft and the murder are linked by the dagger. If the police have
their eye on the murderer, the notebook should be recovered when he is
arrested."

"That's only a possibility, Mr. Creighton--and--oh, frankly, I want you
to take the case anyway! Mr. Krech and I must try to tell you the
whole story as we heard it from Simon yesterday. He was the victim of
an unknown enemy. Threats--robbery--arson--murder! I won't be
satisfied until that scoundrel is well and truly--_hanged_! As for the
police--well, I think better of them than Simon, perhaps, but I'd still
be glad of another string to my bow. It's proper for me to employ
extra assistance if I wish, isn't it?"

"Perfectly. I quite understand how you feel--and I will be glad to do
what I can. The family won't object, I suppose?"

"Not a scrap," said a woman's voice behind him. They started to their
feet at the sight of Miss Ocky, who had come upon them unawares. "I
can answer for the family. Please sit down again. I'll take this
sofa--unless you're talking secrets," she added, with a faint smile for
Herman Krech. "I tried to stay quiet in my room upstairs,
but--nerves!" She lifted her shoulders and looked apologetic.

They assured her they had no secrets from her. She sat down and
listened attentively as Jason Bolt, at Creighton's request, gave a
careful account of the events preceding Varr's death as he had heard
them from his partner, appealing to Krech from time to time for
corroboration. His voice shook with emotion as he described his horror
that morning when the news of Simon's fate was brought to him.

"A rotten business," he ended huskily.

Miss Ocky eased the tension by suddenly producing her cigarette case
and passing it around; Creighton accepted one and lighted it, a thought
surprised at this touch of outer-worldliness in a demure, middle-aged,
country lady. It might be, he mused, that she called herself not an
old maid, but a bachelor girl. He liked her, though; liked the bright
eyes that lost nothing that passed, the alert brain that missed no
trick, the strength of character revealed in the finely-modeled mouth
and chin that were still invested with feminine charm.

"Let's tackle this business at once," he suggested. "Sooner the
better. In a murder, look for the motive. Miss Copley--Mr. Bolt--can
either of you tell me who might have wanted to kill Simon Varr?"

They looked uncomfortable. It w