doomed to pace the laurel walk till the day of judgment."

"That's the story," I nodded, "and the beating is at least authentic."

"H'm!" Terry frowned. "And Solomon tells me tales of the Colonel himself
whipping the negroes--there can't be any truth in that?"

"But there is," I said. "He didn't hesitate to strike them when he was
angry. I myself saw him beat a nigger a few days ago," and I recounted
the story of the chicken thief.

"So! A man of that sort is likely to have enemies he doesn't suspect.
How about Cat-Eye Mose? Was Colonel Gaylord in the habit of whipping
him?"

"Often," I nodded, "but the more the Colonel abused Mose, the fonder
Mose appeared to grow of the Colonel."

"It's a puzzling situation," said Terry pacing up and down the room
with a thoughtful frown. "Well!" he exclaimed with a sudden access of
energy, "I suppose we might as well sit down and tackle it."

He took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves; then shoving
everything back from one end of the big library table, he settled
himself in a chair and motioned me to one opposite.

"Tomorrow morning," he said as he took out from his pockets a roll of
newspaper clippings and a yellow copy pad, "we will drive over and have
a look at that cave; it ought to tell its own story. But in the
meantime--" he looked up with a laugh--"suppose we use our brains a
little."

I did not resent the inference. Terry was his old impudent self, and I
was so relieved at having him there, assuming the responsibility, that
he might have wiped the floor with me and welcome.

"Our object," he commenced, "is not to prove your cousin innocent of the
murder, but to find out who is guilty. The most logical method would be
to study the scene of the crime first, but as that does not appear
feasible until morning, we will examine such data as we have. On the
face of it the only two who appear to be implicated are Radnor and this
Cat-Eye Mose--who is a most picturesque character," Terry added, the
reporter for the moment getting ahead of the detective.

He paused and examined the end of his fountain pen speculatively, and
then ran through the pile of clippings before him.

"Well, now, as for Radnor. Suppose we look into his case a little." He
glanced over one of the newspaper slips and tossed it across to me.

"There's a clipping from the 'Baltimore Censor'--a tolerably
conservative journal. What have you to say in regard to it?"

I picked it up and glanced