the faintest notion that anything had happened to her;
had hurt her, I mean. I got myself in hand. I didn't do anything. I went
back to the hotel. I planned to have a last talk with her later in the
day."

"Tell me," Braceway asked with undisguised eagerness, "did this man wear
a beard?"

"I think so. I've been thinking about that all day. I think he did, but
I'm not sure."

"But you saw the plain silhouette, the outline of his head and body!"

"Yes. He might have had a beard, and again he might not. He was heavily
built, with a short, thick neck, and, in the attitude he was in,
foreshortened by the light being above him, a strong chin might have
been magnified, might have cast a shadow like that of a beard."

"And when you were struggling with him? How about that? Didn't you get
close to his face?"

"Yes; but he was taller than I was--I don't know--I can't remember. But I
think he had the beard, all right."

"He didn't make any noise on the steps, you say. Did he have rubber
shoes?"

"I don't know. My guess would be that he did."

The conductor began to shout, "All aboard!"

They started toward the Atlanta pullman.

"I wouldn't have told you--I can't see that any of this could affect the
final result--but for the fact that something might have come up to
embarrass you," Withers explained, still with the unpleasant, rattling
whisper. "It might have led you to think I hadn't been frank with you."

He had his foot on the first step of the car. The porter was evidently
anxious to get aboard and close the vestibule door.

"What do you mean?" Braceway caught him by the sleeve.

"Somehow," Withers leaned down to whisper, "in the struggle, I think, I
dropped--I lost my watch. Somebody must have picked it up, you know."

"Damn!" exploded Braceway angrily. "Why didn't----"

The train began to move. The porter put his hand to Withers' elbow and
hurried him up the steps.

CHAPTER XVI

A MESSAGE FROM MISS FULTON

It was a little after three o'clock when Chief Greenleaf and Lawrence
Bristow finished their "celebration dinner" and took their seats on the
porch of No. 9. The host, accomplishing the impossible in a prohibition
state, had produced a bottle of champagne, explaining: "Just for you,
chief; I never touch it;" and the chief had enjoyed it, unmistakably.

At Bristow's suggestion they refrained from discussing any phase of the
murder during the meal.

"All we have to do now," he said, "is to