elf sneering at the captain
of police, impressing him despite himself as Johnson Boller not only
established his alibi in a few crisp sentences, but also directed the
stupid detective force toward the true criminal.

At present, however, he discovered that he was downright scared. Unless
one of them rose up and told about Mary and then called her in to verify
the truth, it seemed that Hobart Hitchin, idiot though he might be, had
established something of a case. And instead of sneering, Johnson Boller
grew redder and redder, until Hitchin said:

"Ah, you know all about it, eh? I had wondered!"

"Well, cut out your wondering!" Johnson Boller said roughly.
"Because----"

"I wouldn't talk now, if I were you," said Hitchin, kindly enough. "I'm
devoting myself to Fry. Well, Fry?"

As yet Anthony had not found the proper line of speech.

"The boy, a stranger, comes here at midnight," Hitchin purred
relentlessly. "There is a heavy fall at two. There is weeping before
seven, the weeping of a strange woman. There are the boy's clothes--the
rest of them are downstairs. So, once more--_where is David Prentiss_?"

He waited, and Anthony Fry drew a long breath. All his life he had been
painfully addicted to the truth; it was part of his cherished and
spotless reputation. All his life he had shunned fiction, and was
therefore ignorant of plot technique. So he did fairly well in smiling
sourly and saying, calmly enough:

"So far as I know, David is about starting for his work, Hitchin. The
thing had slipped my mind altogether, but I remember now that the boy
took a suit--a blue suit--for himself and changed into it while here.
That outfit was decidedly shabby. After that he left, and as to the
French girl, you may theorize and be hanged, for she happens to be none
of your infernal business, and she has no connection with David."

"None, eh?"

"None whatever!"

Mr. Hitchin grinned without humor and examined the trousers in silence,
thinking, and later humming to himself. He smoothed them out and then
folded them carefully, finally replacing them in his brief case. After
that he looked at Anthony.

"If I were you, Fry, I should tell the truth, and let me help you. You
know, and I know, that the boy never left this apartment. Well?"

"Well?" snapped Anthony.

"And you know and I know that what remains of him is still here,
and----"

"Are you accusing me of murder?" Anthony demanded savagely.

"I have been doing that