"

"I think I do, Jim. But, oh, you've got to help me all you can!"

"I will that," I said in a sudden burst of cordiality. "I want you to
feel that you can rely on me right through. And if there's any questions
asked just let me do the answering, and if you're asked anything, why
just say the same as I do. You can't say anything else because we were
together all the night."

"But, Jim, I don't see why we should have to deceive people like this.
Why is it necessary?"

"Have you ever heard of the thing called circumstantial evidence, Moira?
You must remember that I heard a shot, and ran into the room just in
time to see you standing over your uncle with a smoking revolver. I know
what happened, but the police mightn't look at the matter in the same
light. There's plenty of other ways of explaining that broken window."

"I suppose you know what's best," she said with a tired little sigh.
"But it all does seem so horrible. I wish I hadn't to lie so."

"There's worse things than lying," I hinted. "It's a case of choosing
the lesser of two evils, and really, Moira, I think in his own peculiar
way your uncle trusted me."

She nodded as if she could not trust herself to speak.

Then came the sound of heavy footsteps on the verandah, and the
door-bell rang violently.

"That's the police, very likely," I said in a quick whisper. "Just keep
your head and leave the rest to me."

She said no word, but the pressure of her hand on mine told me more than
hours of speech.

CHAPTER VI.

I TELL A LIE.

The police had brought the divisional surgeon with them, and he made his
brief examination while the sergeant questioned Moira and myself. My
story was the simple one that I had outlined, and I must say that Moira
played up well to my lead. She was naturally upset at what she had gone
through, and the sergeant, I fancy, made allowance for this, and
attributed any trifling discrepancies between our two stories to this
fact. He was one of the politest officials it has ever been my lot to
deal with, and he carried out his duties in a way that made me his
debtor for life. I was not as shocked by the occurrence as I might have
been. I had seen far too much of the rough side of life and the sudden
side of death to have any other feeling than a rather natural sorrow at
losing a man who had been something more than a benefactor to me; but I
did not make the radical mistake of treating Bryce's death too lightly.
I rather fl