onversation with the clerk of the Brevord, Mattie announced that two
gentlemen were waiting to see him, one of them being the chief of police.

When Bristow stepped into the living room, Greenleaf introduced the
stranger. He was Mr. Withers--Mr. George S. Withers, husband of the
murdered woman. He was of the extreme brunette type, his hair
blue-black, his black eyes keen and piercing and always on the move.
Bristow got the impression in looking at him that all his features,
the aquiline nose, the firm, compressed mouth, the large ears, were
remarkably sharp-cut.

The man's excitement was almost beyond his control. He apparently made no
attempt to hide the fact that his hands trembled like leaves in the wind
and that, every now and then, his legs quivered perceptibly. As soon as
he had shaken hands, he sank into a chair.

"Mr. Withers," the chief explained, "caught me at Number Five before I
had started down town. I have explained how you are helping me in
this--er distressing matter. So we came up here."

"I see," said Bristow, betraying no surprise that Withers had appeared so
suddenly.

In fact, he had not thought of the husband previously, except to
calculate that, in answer to the telegram Dr. Braley had undoubtedly
sent, he could not reach Furmville from Atlanta before far into the
night.

"He only heard of the tragedy half an hour ago," Greenleaf added.

"I didn't know you were in town or even expected," Bristow said casually.
"I thought you were in Atlanta."

"I--I wasn't expected." Withers hurried his words.

"You mean nobody expected you?"

"That's it, I wasn't expected. But I've been in--in town here since
yesterday morning."

"And Mrs. Withers didn't know of it?"

"Nobody knew of it. I didn't want anybody to know of it."

Bristow purposely remained silent, awaiting some explanation. He looked
down, studying the pattern of the scratches he made by rubbing his right
shoe against the side of the built-up sole, two inches thick, of his left
shoe. The shortness of his crippled leg made this heavy sole necessary;
and the awkwardness of it worried him. He seemed always conscious of it.

Greenleaf, taking his cue from Bristow, said nothing.

"I came in without notifying anybody," Withers felt himself obliged to
continue, "and I registered under an assumed name."

"Where?" the lame man asked swiftly.

"At the Brevord."

"What name--under what name?"

"Waring, Charles B. Waring."

"And you've