Bristow went back to his porch. Looking down to his left and through the
trees, he commanded a view of Freeman Avenue.

"When I see an automobile flash past that spot," he decided, "I'll hurry
down to Number Five. I want to be there to witness the meeting between
Miss Fulton and her father. It may be possible that, when this
scandal--whatever it was--was about to break concerning Mrs. Withers,
this family was lucky enough to have a negro hauled up as the murderer.
In any event, it's up to me to keep track of the relations between
Fulton, his daughter, Withers, and Morley. The psychology of the
situation now is as important as any material evidence."

He did not have long to wait. At a quarter past nine he caught a glimpse
of a big car speeding out Freeman Avenue. He sprang to his feet, hurried
down to No. 5, rang the bell, and was inside the living room by the time
the machine had climbed up Manniston Road and deposited in front of the
door its one passenger. He was a man of sixty-five or sixty-seven years
of age, very white of hair, very erect of figure.

Bristow did not have time or need to formulate an excuse for his presence
before Mr. Fulton rushed up the steps to meet Maria. As she came from the
direction of the bedrooms to greet him, her expression had in it
reluctance, timidity even.

The father and daughter met in the centre of the living room. Bristow,
stationed near the corner by the door, could see their faces. He watched
them with attention strained to the utmost.

In the eyes of Maria there was a great fear mingled with a look of
pleading. The old man's face was deep-lined; under his eyes were dark
pouches; and his lips were tightly compressed, as if he sought to prevent
his bursting into condemnation.

With a little catch in her voice, Maria cried out, "Father!" and stood
watching him.

For a moment the old man's eyes were dreary with accusation. Bristow had
never seen an emotion mirrored so clearly, so indisputably, in anybody's
eyes. It was a speaking, thundering light, he thought.

The father, without opening his mouth, plainly said to the girl:

"At last, you've killed her! It's all your fault. You've killed her."

Bristow read that as easily as if it had been held before him in printed
words. So, apparently, did Miss Fulton. The pleading expression left her
face, and, in place of it, was only a flourishing, lively fear.

But Fulton put out his arms and gathered her into them, took hold o