the same dark suspicions that Varr had entertained.

"Graham saw the notebook here, and knew what it was. He could use what
was in it--none better. According to the watchman, Nelson, Graham
sympathized with the strikers even if he ranked with the bosses. He
was a bit the worse for liquor when he was here that evening, in the
mood to think of some wild act and perhaps drunk enough to carry out
the thought. He had time to slip down and set that fire, then come
back when it was under way and sneak into the house. Granting that he
used the dagger because it was handy, why did he carry it away with
him? Was he thinking of murder already? Was he cool enough to figure
that a weapon taken from Varr's own house would not readily be traced
to him? Can't answer these questions--now!" Creighton lighted a
cigarette and wrinkled his brow. "Graham has plenty of intelligence,
from all accounts. He is clever enough to have thought of an effective
disguise, and he probably knew the legend of the monk, since his
daughter showed it to Miss Copley in a book belonging to them. Um. Is
he the man I'm looking for?"

He did not have time for further reflection before the entrance of Miss
Janet Mackay, once of Aberdeen, now a citizen of the world and the
devoted henchwoman of Miss October Copley. She inclined her head
stiffly in reply to his pleasant greeting, refused a chair, and
remained standing in front of him, hands folded across her flat
stomach, her cold eyes fixed on him through her cheap, steel
spectacles. She was taller and gaunter and more angular than ever.
Creighton chuckled inwardly. If Miss Copley was October, then this was
January, or at best late December!

It did not take him long to discover that he had drawn another perfect
blank. Trying to extract information from Janet Mackay was about as
profitable as trying to squeeze water from a handful of Sahara sand.
She knew nothing, and said less. After ten minutes of fruitless effort
he gave it up.

"It's clear you know nothing!"

"I know the world is well rid of a selfish deevil."

"Tut, tut! Have you no respect for the dead?"

"Not a whit for him, dead or alive."

"How is Mrs. Varr?"

"Resting easier."

"Is her son with her still?"

"He went off somewhere an hour ago."

"That's all, then. Thank you."

She stalked away, head in air, stiff as any ramrod.

"Now for Bates," muttered the detective, and touched the bell. "I'll
swear he's got somet