his hands clenched slowly, it turned
redder. Before he could speak, Kent went on.

"You have not shown me the courtesy or the sympathy you have had for
the worst criminals that ever faced you. You amazed every man that was
in this room, because at one time--if not now--they were my friends. It
wasn't what you said. It was how you said it. Whenever there was an
inclination on their part to believe, you killed it--not honestly and
squarely, by giving me a chance. Whenever you saw a chance for me to
win a point, you fell back upon the law. And you don't believe that I
killed John Barkley. I know it. You called me a liar the day I made
that fool confession. You still believe that I lied. And I have waited
until we were alone to ask you certain things, for I still have
something of courtesy left in me, if you haven't. What is your game?
What has brought about the change in you? Is it--"

His right hand clenched hard as a rock as he leaned toward Kedsty.

"Is it because of the girl hiding up at your bungalow, Kedsty?"

Even in that moment, when he had the desire to strike the man before
him, it was impossible for him not to admire the stone-like
invulnerability of Kedsty. He had never heard of another man calling
Kedsty a scoundrel or dishonest. And yet, except that his faced burned
more dully red, the Inspector was as impassively calm as ever. Even
Kent's intimation that he was playing a game, and his direct accusation
that he was keeping Marette Radisson in hiding at his bungalow, seemed
to have no disturbing effect on him. For a space he looked at Kent, as
if measuring the poise of the other's mind. When he spoke, it was in a
voice so quiet and calm that Kent stared at him in amazement.

"I don't blame you, Kent," he said. "I don't blame you for calling me a
scoundrel, or anything else you want to. I think I should do the same
if I were in your place. You think it is incredible, because of our
previous association, that I should not make every effort to save you.
I would, if I thought you were innocent. But I don't. I believe you are
guilty. I cannot see where there is a loophole in the evidence against
you, as given in your own confession. Why, man, even if I could help to
prove you innocent of killing John Barkley--"

He paused and twisted one of his gray mustaches, half facing the window
for a moment. "Even if I did that," he went on, "you would still have
twenty years of prison ahead of you for the worst kind of