Copley when
Creighton finished. "Is the Maxon theory sound?"

"I think not. As for clues--well, such indications as I have turned up
are too vague to be termed that."

"Do you suspect any one?"

"That question is out of order, Mr. Varr."

"Oh. Will you tell me then, in a general way, where those indications
you mention seem to point?"

"In a general way, yes." Creighton meditated. "They point to a person
who hated your father, who sympathized with the striking tanners, who
was wealthy enough to supply them with money, either from sympathy or
to further his grudge, a person of some education, familiar with local
history and imaginative enough to adapt the costume of a legendary monk
to a perfect disguise. Last, a person who was sufficiently familiar
with this house to stage a burglary as bold as it was successful."

Copley Varr was pale as this hypothetical portrait was limned. His
eyes now avoided the detective's.

"That description might fit a--a number of people," he said.

"Oh, yes. It's very vague. Now, I can ask a question that you
mustn't, do _you_ suspect any one?"

"N-no."

"Come! are you weakening already about giving me information?"

"Suspicion--if I had any--is not fact!"

"Quibbles won't get us anywhere. I won't press you further to voice
your suspicion--right now. In the meantime, I'll plod along with my
investigation on the obvious lines."

"Obvious? I suppose they are to you, Mr. Creighton, but I do not see
a single point of attack. Will you tell me what you plan to do, or is
that also taboo?"

"I'm going to make a list of all the people that description might fit
and then eliminate them one by one as circumstances dictate. I suppose
competent alibis will let most of 'em out. Yes, I guess I'll have
quite a fine assortment of alibis at the end." The detective was
speaking easily, good-humoredly, and his voice was elaborately casual
as he added:

"By the way, where were you the night of the burglary from ten to
twelve?"

Copley Varr started violently and his face crimsoned. For a long
minute he did not speak but sat staring angrily at his inquisitor. He
clenched his hands as though ready to leap on the detective. Then,
slowly, his fingers relaxed, the color faded from his cheeks and the
anger from his eyes. Creighton watched the metamorphosis with
approval; if he could get the best of his temper like that, would he
have been likely to lose it to the extent of comm