or not he was struggling, but my friends alone
were visible in the back seat, so I believed they had put him on the
floor, and did not stop or look at them again until I reached De
Silva's house in Market Street. Then, to my annoyance, when I got down
to help carry in Mr. Hunter, I found blood on the step and the panel,
and the idiots told me what they had done. It is only fair to say that
De Silva is innocent of any part in the affair. He didn't even know
that we were bringing anyone to Rossi's room, and we took care that he
should be out at the time we counted on arriving at Market Street."

"You didn't attack Mr. Hunter sooner because your orders were to wait
until the last possible moment?"

"That is so."

[Illustration: Scenes from the photo-drama.]

Devar was unaware of any change in the manner of either of the
detectives, because he was watching Lamotte's livid face with a species
of fascinated horror, but Curtis, who had often been compelled to hold
similar inquiries into cold-blooded crimes committed by Chinese
coolies, found greater interest in observing Clancy. A subtle
exultation had suddenly danced into the diminutive Franco-Irishman's
expressive features when Market Street was first mentioned, and his
coal-black eyes blazed in their slits at the sound of that name, De
Silva.

A queer thought flitted through Curtis's mind, but he put it aside,
because Steingall was speaking again.

"Well, you got rid of your friends. Then what did you do?"

"The rest was simple. I cleaned the car in a hurry with a bit of oily
waste, took it to a yard which I have used at times, at an address
which I beg you to permit me to forget, changed the number plate, and,
at an hour which I deemed discreet, drove uptown in order to dispose of
the car by leaving it deserted near the garage from which it came. The
owner's house is on Riverside Drive. His name is Morris; he is absent
in Chicago on business, while I learnt that his chauffeur was ill."

A gasp of uncontrollable excitement from Devar drew all eyes to him.

"Great Jerusalem!" he cried. "Next house to my aunt's!"

"There's a mistake somewhere," broke in Brodie. "I know Mr. Morris's
car, and that isn't it."

Lamotte was positively annoyed that his word should appear to be
doubted.

"Messieurs," he said grandiloquently, "I assure you on my honor that I
am not misleading you."

Nor was he. The discrepancy was cleared up next day. The Morris
automobil