f her
mechanically, displaying neither fondness nor a desire to comfort and
soothe.

Bristow quietly left the room and returned to his porch.

"Her father," he analyzed what he had seen, "blames her for the
tragedy--possibly believes her guilty of the actual murder. Why? This is
a new angle--brand new."

He went in and called up Greenleaf, only to be told that the chief had
left word he was to be found at the Brevord Hotel. Telephoning there, he
got him on the wire.

"Neither Withers nor Braceway came up here with old Mr. Fulton," he
began.

"I know," put in the chief. "I'm down here to meet Braceway now. He and
Withers are in conference. Braceway doesn't want to go to the inquest.
I'm to take him by the undertaker's to look at the body, and then he
wants to run up to see you. Says he won't learn anything important at the
inquest; he'd rather talk to you."

"All right," returned Bristow. "That suits me perfectly. When will he be
here?"

"In half an hour, I suppose. And I'll run up as soon as the inquest is
over."

"I wonder," Bristow communed again with himself, "whether this Braceway
is on the level, whether Withers is on the level. What's their game--to
find the real murderer or to shut up a family scandal?"

The scandal theory bothered him. He saw no way of getting at it.

In less than an hour he and Braceway were shaking hands on the porch of
No. 9. Bristow, studying him rapidly, motioned him to a chair.

Here was no ordinary police-detective type. This man had neither
square-toed shoes, nor a bull neck, nor coarseness of feature. About
thirty-six years old, he was unusually slender, and straight as a dart,
a peculiar and restless gracefulness characterizing all his movements. He
seemed fairly to exude energy. He was keyed up to lightning-like motion.
He gave the impression of having a brain that worked with the precision
and force of some great machine, a machine that never missed fire.

From the toes of his highly polished tan shoes to the sheen of his blond
hair and the crown of his nobby straw hat, he looked like a well dressed
and prosperous professional man. His dark gray suit with a thin thread of
pale green in it, his silver-gray necktie, the gloves he carried in his
left hand, every detail of his appearance marked him, first as a "snappy
dresser," and second as a highly efficient man.

While they exchanged casual greetings, Braceway lit a cigarette and spun
the match, with a droning sound,