yet."

"He ought to be a pleasant change for Jason. He'll be open to reason,
yet he'll have ideas of his own. Did you notice how he snapped into
the business of getting work started again?"

"I noticed it."

"An up-and-coming lad," said Krech. "He couldn't have done it better
if he'd been expecting the job."

Creighton glanced at the speaker quickly, but the big man's face was as
ingenuous as a child's. They dropped the subject as they came up with
the others.

When he had bidden them _au revoir_, the detective went to the small
study, where he found Copley Varr restlessly pacing the short fairway
between the door and his father's desk. The young man welcomed him
with a gesture of relief.

"Thought you were never coming," he said, though not rudely. "If I
can't see my mother yet, I'm in a hurry to--to attend to some other
matters."

"Is an interview with William Graham one of them?" asked Creighton
quietly as they sat down. He caught the sharp look that Copley sent
him. "While digging into the history of this case it was inevitable
that I should discover something of your private affairs. I will ask
you to believe that I do not violate confidences--even though I have to
force them at times."

"That's all right. You're a detective, aren't you?"

"I try to be!" smiled Creighton.

"Well, it's no use employing a detective and then cramping his style by
refusing him information. I understand that."

"Good. We'll get along beautifully. Will you tell me, please, why you
are obliged to return to New York? Is the reason--Miss Graham?"

"Not any more." For the first time since he had entered the house,
Copley smiled a little. "It is Mrs. Varr, now. We were married
yesterday morning in New York." The smile vanished abruptly. "And my
father--scarcely cold! I won't forget the shock I got from the papers
this morning if I live to be a hundred."

"Got a shock, did you?" repeated Creighton to himself, yet the boy's
words had rung true. "If you're ready, Mr. Varr, I'll give you the
story of what happened up to your father's death. I'll be brief."

At that, it was a lengthy narrative. It took more than an hour to
relate, an hour in which Copley Varr did not once take his eyes from
the detective's face. His gaze was expressionless; Creighton,
returning it with interest, strove vainly to pierce that inscrutable
veil to see what lay behind.

"And there is no definite due to the murderer?" asked,