nts Jeff to find out who fixed up that
accident for Fleming. You heard that big, long shaggy-dog story about
exactly what happened and where everybody was supposed to have been at
the time. I hope you got all that recorded; it was all told for a
purpose."

Rand had picked up the outside phone and was dialing. In a moment, a
girl's voice answered.

"Carter Tipton's law-office; good afternoon."

"Hello, Rheba; is Tip available?"

"Oh, hello, Jeff. Just a sec; I'll see." She buzzed another phone. "Jeff
Rand on the line," she announced.

A clear, slightly Harvard-accented male voice took over.

"Hello, Jeff. Now what sort of malfeasance have you committed?"

"Nothing, so far--cross my fingers," Rand replied. "I just want a little
information. Are you busy?... Okay, I'll be up directly."

He replaced the phone and turned to his disciples.

"Our client," he said, "wants two jobs done on one fee. Getting the
pistol-collection sold is one job. Exploring the whys and wherefores of
that quote accident unquote is the other. She has a hunch, and probably
nothing much better, that there's something sour about the accident. She
expects me to find evidence to that effect while I'm at Rosemont, going
over the collection. I'm not excluding other possibilities, but I'll work
on that line until and unless I find out differently. Five thousand
should cover both jobs."

"You think that's how it is?" Kathie asked.

"Look, Kathie. I got just as far in Arithmetic, at school, as you did,
and I suspect that Mrs. Fleming got at least as far as long division,
herself. For reasons I stated, I simply couldn't have handled that
collection business for anything like a reasonable fee, so I told her
five thousand, thinking that would stop her. When it didn't, I knew she
had something else in mind, and when she went into all that detail about
the death of her husband, she as good as told me that was what it was.
Now I'm sorry I didn't say ten thousand; I think she'd have bought it at
that price just as cheerfully. She thinks Lane Fleming was murdered.
Well, on the face of what she told me, so do I."

"All right, Professor; expound," Ritter said.

"You heard what he was supposed to have shot himself with," Rand began.
"A Colt-type percussion revolver. You know what they're like. And I know
enough about Lane Fleming to know how much experience he had with old
arms. I can't believe that he'd buy a pistol without carefully examining
it, and I