Late the same evening the Wheeler family and their guests were gathered in the living-room. Much had been done in the past few hours. The family doctor had been there, the medical examiner had been called and had given his report, and the police had come and were still present.

Samuel Appleby, junior – though no longer to be called by that designation – was expected at any moment.

Two detectives were there, but one, Hallen by name, said almost nothing, seeming content to listen, while his colleague conducted the questioning of the household.

Burdon, the talkative one, was a quick-thinking, clear-headed chap, decided of manner and short of speech.

“Now, look here,” he was saying, “this was an inside job, of course. Might have been one of the servants, or might have been any of you folks. How many of you are ready to help me in my investigations by telling all you know?”

“I thought we had to do that, whether we’re ready to or not,” spoke up Genevieve, who was not at all abashed by the presence of the authorities. “Of course, we’ll all tell all we know – we want to find the murderer just as much as you do.”

Keefe looked at her with a slight frown of reproof, but said nothing. The others paid no attention to the girl’s rather forward speech.

In fact, everybody seemed dazed and dumb. The thing was so sudden and so awful – the possibilities so many and so terrible – that each was aghast at the situation.

The three Wheelers said nothing. Now and then they looked at one another, but quickly looked away, and preserved their unbroken silence.

Jeffrey Allen became the spokesman for them. It seemed inevitable – for some one must answer the first leading questions; and though Curtis Keefe and Miss Lane were in Appleby’s employ, the detective seemed more concerned with the Wheeler family.

“Bad blood, wasn’t there, between Mr. Appleby and Mr. Wheeler?” Burdon inquired.

“They had not been friends for years,” Allen replied, straightforwardly, for he felt sure there was nothing to be gained by misrepresentation.

“Huh! What was the trouble, Mr. Wheeler?”

Daniel Wheeler gave a start. Then, pulling himself together, he answered slowly: “The trouble was that Mr. Appleby and myself belonged to different political parties, and when I opposed his election as governor, he resented it, and a mutual enmity followed which lasted ever since.”

“Did you kill Mr. Appleby?”

Wheeler looked at his questioner steadily, and replied: “I have nothing to say.”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to incriminate yourself.”

“He didn’t kill him!” cried Maida, unable to keep still. “I was there, in the room – I could see that he didn’t kill him!”

“Who did then?” and the detective turned to her.

“I – I don’t know. I didn’t see who did it.”

“Are you sure, Miss? Better tell the truth.”

“I tell you I didn’t see – I didn’t see anything! I had heard an alarm of fire, and I was wondering where it was.”

“You didn’t get up and go to find out?”

“No – no, I stayed where I was.”

“Where were you?”

“In the window-seat – in the den.”

“Meaning the room where the shooting occurred?”

“Yes. My father’s study.”

“And from where you sat, you could see the whole affair?”

“I might have – if I had looked – but I didn’t. I was reading.”

“Thought you were wondering about the fire?”

“Yes,” Maida was quite composed now. “I raised my eyes from my book when I heard the fire excitement.”

“What sort of excitement?”

“I heard people shouting, and I heard men running. I was just about to go out toward the north veranda, where the sounds came from, when I – I can’t go on!” and Maida broke down and wept.

“You must tell your story – maybe it’d be easier now than later. Can’t you go on, Miss Wheeler?”

“There’s little to tell. I saw Mr. Appleby fall over sideways – ”

“Didn’t you hear the shot?”

“No – yes – I don’t know.” Maida looked at her father, as if to gain help from his expression, but his face showed only agonized concern for her.

“Dear child,” he said, “tell the truth. Tell just what you saw – or heard.”

“I didn’t hear anything – I mean the noise from the people running to the fire so distracted my attention, I heard no shot or any sound in the room. I just saw Mr. Appleby fall over – ”

“You’re not giving us a straight story, Miss Wheeler,” said the detective, bluntly. “Seems to me you’d better begin all over.”

“Seems to me you’d better cease questioning Miss Wheeler,” said Curtis Keefe, looking sympathetically at Maida; “she’s just about all in, and I think she’s entitled to some consideration.”

“H’m. Pretty hard to find the right one to question. Mrs. Wheeler, now – I’d rather not trouble her too much.”

“Talk to me,” said Allen. “I can tell you the facts, and you can draw your deductions afterward.”

“Me, too,” said Keefe. “Ask us the hard questions, and then when you need to, inquire of the Wheelers. Remember, they’re under great nervous strain.”

“Well, then,” Burdon seemed willing to take the advice, “you start in, Mr. Keefe. You’re Mr. Appleby’s secretary, I believe?”

“Yes; we were on our way back to his home in Stockfield – we expected to go there to-morrow.”

“You got any theory of the shooting?”

“I’ve nothing to found a theory on. I was out at the garage helping to put out a small fire that had started there.”

“How’d it start?”

“I don’t know. In the excitement that followed, I never thought to inquire.”

“Tell your story of the excitement.”

“I was at the garage with Mr. Allen, and two chauffeurs – the Wheelers’ man and Mr. Appleby’s man. Together, and with the help of a gardener or two, we put the fire out. Then Mr. Allen said: ‘Let’s go to the house and tell them there’s no danger. They may be worried.’ Mr. Allen started off and I followed. He preceded me into the den – ”

“Then you tell what you saw there, Mr. Allen.”

“I saw, first of all,” began Jeffrey, “the figure of Mr. Appleby sitting in a chair, near the middle of the room. His head hung forward limply, and his whole attitude was unnatural. The thought flashed through my mind that he had had a stroke of some sort, and I went to him – and I saw he was dead.”

“You knew that at once?”

“I judged so, from the look on his face and the helpless attitude. Then I felt for his heart and found it was still.”

“You a doctor?”

“No; but I’ve had enough experience to know when a man is dead.”

“All right. What was Mr. Wheeler doing?”

“Nothing. He stood on the other side of the room, gazing at his old friend.”

“And Miss Wheeler?”

“She, too, was looking at the scene. She stood in the bay window.”

“I see. Now, Mr. Keefe, I believe you followed close on Mr. Allen’s heels. Did you see the place – much as he has described it?”

“Yes;” Keefe looked thoughtful. “Yes, I think I can corroborate every word of his description.”

“All right. Now, Miss Lane, where were you?”

“I was at the fire. I followed the two men in, and I saw the same situation they have told you of.”

Genevieve’s quiet, composed air was a relief after the somewhat excited utterances of the others.

“What did you do?”

“I am accustomed to wait on Mr. Appleby, and it seemed quite within my province that I should telephone for help for him. I called the doctor – and then I called the police station.”

“You don’t think you took a great deal on yourself?”

Genevieve stared at him. “I do not think so. I only think that I did my duty as I saw it, and in similar circumstances I should do the same again.”

At this point the other detective was heard from.

“I would like to ask,” Hallen said, “what Mrs. Wheeler meant by crying out that it was the work of a ‘phantom burglar’?”

“Not burglar – bugler,” said Mrs. Wheeler, suddenly alert.

“Bugler!” Hallen stared. “Please explain, ma’am.”

“There is a tradition in my family,” Mrs. Wheeler said, in a slow, sad voice, “that when a member of the family is about to die, a phantom bugler makes an appearance and sounds ‘taps’ on his bugle. This phenomenon occurred last night.”

“Oh, no! Spooks! But Mr. Appleby is not a member of your family.”

“No; but he was under our roof. And so I know the warning was meant for him.”

“Well, well, we can’t waste time on such rubbish,” interposed Burdon, “the bugle call had nothing to do with the case.”

“How do you explain it, then?” asked Mrs. Wheeler. “We all heard it, and there’s no bugler about here.”

“Cut it out,” ordered Burdon. “Take up the bugler business some other time, if you like – but we must get down to brass tacks now.”

His proceedings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of young Samuel Appleby.

The big man came in and a sudden hush fell upon the group.

Daniel Wheeler rose – and put out a tentative hand, then half withdrew it as if he feared it would not be accepted.

Hallen watched this closely. He strongly suspected Wheeler was the murderer, but he had no intention of getting himself in bad by jumping at the conclusion.

However, Appleby grasped the hand of his host as if he had no reason for not doing so.

“I’m sorry, sir, you should have had this tragedy beneath your roof,” he said.

Hallen listened curiously. It was strange he should adopt an apologetic tone, as if Wheeler had been imposed upon.

“Our sorrow is all for you, Sam,” Dan Wheeler returned, and then as Appleby passed on to greet Maida and her mother, Wheeler sank back in his chair and was again lost in thought.

The whole scene was one of constraint. Appleby merely nodded to Genevieve, and spoke a few words to Keefe, and then asked to see his father.

On his return to the living-room, he had a slightly different air. He was a little more dictatorial, more ready to advise what to do.

“The circumstances are distressing,” he said, “and I know, Mr. Wheeler, you will agree with me that we should take my father back to his home as soon as possible.

“That will be done to-morrow morning – as soon as the necessary formalities can be attended to. Now, anything I can do for you people, must be done to-night.”

“You can do a lot,” said Burdon. “You can help us pick out the murderer – for, I take it, you want justice done?”

“Yes – yes, of course.” Appleby looked surprised. “Of course I want this deed avenged. But I can’t help in the matter. I understand you suspect some one of the – the household. Now, I shall never be willing to accuse any one of this deed. If it can be proved the work of an outsider – a burglar or highwayman – or intruder of any sort, I am ready to prosecute – but if suspicion rests on – on anyone I know – I shall keep out of it.”

“You can’t do that, Mr. Appleby,” said Hallen; “you’ve got to tell all you know.”

“But I don’t know anything! I wasn’t here!”

“You know about motives,” Hallen said, doggedly. “Tell us now, who bore your father any ill-will, and also had opportunity to do the shooting?”

“I shan’t pretend I don’t know what you’re driving at,” and Appleby spoke sternly, “but I’ve no idea that Mr. Daniel Wheeler did this deed. I know he and my father were not on friendly terms, but you need more evidence than that to accuse a man of murder.”

“We’ll look after the evidence,” Hallen assured him. “All you need tell about is the enmity between the two men.”

“An enmity of fifteen years’ standing,” Appleby said, slowly, “is not apt to break out in sudden flame of crime. I am not a judge nor am I a detective, but until Mr. Wheeler himself confesses to the deed, I shall never believe he shot my father.”

Wheeler looked at the speaker in a sort of dumb wonder.

Maida gazed at him with eyes full of thankfulness, and the others were deeply impressed by the just, even noble, attitude of the son of the victim of the tragedy.

But Hallen mused over this thing. He wondered why Appleby took such an unusual stand, and decided there was something back of it about which he knew nothing as yet. And he determined to find out.

“We can get in touch with you at any time, Mr. Appleby?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, of course. After a few days – after my father’s funeral, I will be at your disposal. But as I’ve said, I know nothing that would be of any use as evidence. Do you need to keep Mr. Keefe and Miss Lane for any reason?”

“Why, I don’t think so,” the detective said. “Not longer than to-morrow, anyhow. I’ll take their depositions, but they have little testimony to give. However, you’re none of you very far away.”

“No; you can always get us at Stockfield. Mr. Keefe will probably be willing to stay on and settle up my father’s affairs, and I know we shall be glad of Miss Lane’s services for a time.” Appleby glanced at the two as he spoke, and they nodded.

“Well, we’re going to stay right here,” and Burdon spoke decidedly. “Whatever the truth of the matter may be, it’s clear to be seen that suspicion must naturally point toward the Wheeler family, or some intruder. Though how an intruder could get in the room, unseen by either Mr. Wheeler or his daughter, is pretty inexplicable. But those things we’re here to find out. And we’ll do it, Mr. Appleby. I’m taking it for granted you want the criminal found?”

“Oh – I say, Mr. – er – Burdon, have a little common decency! Don’t come at me with questions of that sort, when I’m just about knocked out with this whole fearful occurrence! Have a heart, man, give me time to realize my loss, before you talk to me of avenging it!”

“That’s right,” said Curt Keefe. “I think Mr. Appleby deserves more consideration. Suppose we excuse him for the night.”

Somewhat reluctantly the detective was brought to consent, and then Daniel Wheeler asked that he and his wife and daughter also be excused from further grilling that night.

“We’re not going to run away,” he said, pathetically. “We’ll meet you in the morning, Mr. Burdon, but please realize our stunned condition at present.”

“My mother must be excused,” Maida put in. “I am sure she can stand no more,” and with a solicitous care, she assisted Mrs. Wheeler to rise from her chair.

“Yes, I am ill,” the elder woman said, and so white and weak did she look that no one could doubt her word.

The three Wheelers went to their room, and Genevieve Lane went off with them, leaving Allen and Keefe, with Sam Appleby, to face the two detectives’ fire of questions.

“You vamoose, too, Sam,” Keefe advised. “There’s no use in your staying here and listening to harrowing details. Mr. Allen and I will have a talk with the detectives, and you can talk to-morrow morning, if you wish.”

“All right,” and Appleby rose. “But, look here, Keefe. I loved and respected my father, and I revere his memory – and, yes, I want justice done – of course, but, all the same, if Wheeler shot dad, I don’t want that poor old chap prosecuted. You know, I never fully sympathized with father’s treatment of him, and I’d like to make amends to Wheeler by giving him the benefit of the doubt – if it can be done.”

“It can’t be done!” declared Burdon, unwilling to agree to this heresy. “The law can’t be set aside by personal sympathy, Mr. Appleby!”

“Well, I only said, if it can be,” and the man wearily turned and left the room.

“Now, then,” said Keefe, “let’s talk this thing out. I know your position, Allen, and I’m sorry for you. And I want to say, right now, if I can help in any way, I will. I like the Wheelers, and I must say I subscribe to the ideas of Sam Appleby. But all that’s up to the detectives. I’ve got to go away to-morrow, so I’m going to ask you, Mr. Burdon, to get through with me to-night. I’ve lots to do at the other end of the route, and I must get busy. But I do want to help here, too. So, at any rate, fire your questions at me – that is, if you know what you want to ask.”

“I’ll ask one, right off, Mr. Keefe,” and Hallen spoke mildly but straightforwardly. “Can you give me any fact or suggest to me any theory that points toward any one but Mr. Daniel Wheeler as the murderer of Samuel Appleby?”

Curtis Keefe was dismayed. What could he reply to this very definite question? A negative answer implicated Wheeler at once – while a “yes,” would necessitate the disclosure of another suspect. And Keefe was not blind to the fact that Hallen’s eyes had strayed more than once toward Maida Wheeler with a curious glance.

Quickly making up his mind, Keefe returned: “No fact, but a theory based on my disbelief in Mr. Wheeler’s guilt, and implying the intrusion of some murderous-minded person.”

“Meaning some marauder?” Hallen looked disdainful.

“Some intruder,” Keefe said. “I don’t know who, or for what reason, but I don’t think it fair to accuse Mr. Wheeler without investigating every possible alternative.”

“There are several alternatives,” Burdon declared; “I may as well say right out, that I’ve no more definite suspicion of Mr. Wheeler than I have of Mrs. Wheeler or Miss Wheeler.”

“What!” and Jeffrey Allen looked almost murderous himself.

“Don’t get excited, sir. It’s my business to suspect. Suspicion is not accusation. You must admit all three of the Wheeler family had a motive. That is, they would, one and all, have been glad to be released from the thrall in which Mr. Appleby held them. And no one else present had a motive! I might suspect you, Mr. Allen, but that you were at the fire at the time, according to the direct testimony of Mr. Keefe.”

“Oh, yes, we were at the fire, all right,” Allen agreed, “and I’d knock you down for saying to me what you did, only you are justified. I would far rather be suspected of the murder of Mr. Appleby than to have any of the Wheelers suspected. But owing to Keefe’s being an eye-witness of me at the time, I can’t falsify about it. However, you may set it right down that none of the three Wheelers did do it, and I’ll prove it!”

“Go to it, Allen,” Keefe cried. “I’ll help.”

“You’re two loyal friends of the Wheeler family,” said Hallen in his quiet way, “but you can’t put anything over. There’s no way out. I know all about the governor’s pardon and all that. I know the feud between the two men was beyond all hope of patching up. And I know that to-night had brought about a climax that had to result in tragedy. If Wheeler hadn’t killed Appleby – Appleby would have killed Wheeler.”

“Self-defence?” asked Allen.

“No, sir, not that. But one or the other had to be out of the running. I know the whole story, and I know what men will do in a political crisis that they wouldn’t dream of at any other time. Wheeler’s the guilty party – unless – well, unless that daughter of his – ”

“Hush!” cried Allen. “I won’t stand for it!”

“I only meant that the girl’s great love and loyalty to her father might have made her lose her head – ”

“No; she didn’t do it,” said Allen, more quietly. “Oh, I say, man, let’s try to find this intruder that Mr. Keefe has – ”

“Has invented!” put in Burdon. “No, gentlemen, they ain’t no such animile! Now, you tell me over again, while I take it down, just what you two saw when you came to the door of that den, as they call it.”

And so Allen and Keefe reluctantly, but truthfully, again detailed the scene that met their eyes as they returned from the fire they had put out.

“The case is only too plain,” declared Burdon, as he snapped a rubber band over his notebook. “Sorry, gentlemen, but your story leaves no loophole for any other suspect than one of the three Wheelers. Good-night.”

CHAPTER VIII
CONFESSION

Before Sam Appleby left the next morning, he confided to Keefe that he had little if any faith in the detective prowess of the two men investigating the case.

“When I come back,” he said, “I may bring a real detective, and – I may not. I want to think this thing over first – and, though I may be a queer Dick, I’m not sure I want the slayer of my father found.”

“I see,” and Keefe nodded his head understandingly.

But Jeffrey Allen demurred. “You say that, Mr. Appleby, because you think one of the Wheeler family is the guilty party. But I know better. I know them so well – ”

“Not as well as I do,” interrupted Appleby, “and neither do you know all the points of the feud that has festered for so many years. If you’ll take my advice, Mr. Allen, you’ll delay action until my return, at least.”

“The detectives won’t do that,” objected Jeffrey.

“The detectives will run round in circles and get nowhere,” scoffed Appleby. “I shall be back as soon as possible, and I don’t mind telling you now that there will be no election campaign for me.”

“What!” exclaimed Curtis Keefe. “You’re out of the running?”

“Positively! I may take it up again some other year, but this campaign will not include my name.”

“My gracious!” exclaimed Genevieve, who knew a great deal about current politics. “Who’ll take your place?”

“A dark horse, likely,” returned Appleby, speaking in an absorbed, preoccupied manner, as if caring little who fell heir to his candidacy.

“I don’t agree with you, Mr. Appleby,” spoke up Jeff Allen, “as to the inefficiency of the two men on this case. Seems to me they’re doing all they can, and I can’t help thinking they may get at the truth.”

“All right, if they get at the truth, but it’s my opinion that the truth of this matter is not going to be so easily discovered, and those two bunglers may do a great deal of harm. Good-bye, Maida, keep up a good heart, my girl.”

The group on the veranda said good-bye to Sam Appleby, and he turned back as he stepped into the car to say:

“I’ll be back as soon as the funeral is over, and until then, be careful what you say – all of you.”

He looked seriously at Maida, but his glance turned toward the den where Mr. Wheeler sat in solitude.

“I heard him,” stormed Burdon, as the car drove away, and the detective came around the corner of the veranda. “I heard what he said about me and Hallen. Well, we’ll show him! Of course, the reason he talks like that – ”

“Don’t tell us the reason just now,” interrupted Keefe. “We men will have a little session of our own, without the ladies present. There’s no call for their participation in our talk.”

“That’s right,” said Allen. “Maida, you and Miss Lane run away, and we’ll go to the den for a chat.”

“No, not there,” objected Burdon. “Come over and sit under the big sycamore.”

And so, beneath the historic tree, the three men sat down for a serious talk. Hallen soon joined them, but he said little.

“I’m leaving myself, soon after noon,” said Keefe. “I’ll be back in a day or two, but there are matters of importance connected with Mr. Appleby’s estate that must be looked after.”

“I should think there must be!” exclaimed Burdon. “I don’t see how you can leave to come back very soon.”

Keefe reddened slightly, for the real reason for his intended return was centred in Maida Wheeler’s charm, to which he had incontinently succumbed. He knew Allen was her suitor, but his nature was such that he believed in his own powers of persuasion to induce the girl to transfer her affections to his more desirable self.

But he only looked thoughtfully at Burdon and said: “There are matters here, also, that require attention in Mr. Appleby’s interests.”

“Well,” Burdon went on, “as to the murder, there’s no doubt that it was the work of one of the three Wheelers. Nobody else had any reason to wish old Appleby out of the world.”

“You forget me,” said Allen, in a tense voice. “My interests are one with the Wheelers. If they had such a motive as you ascribe to them – I had the same.”

“Don’t waste time in such talk,” said Curt Keefe. “I saw you, Allen, at the fire during the whole time that covered the opportunity for the murder.”

“Of course,” agreed Burdon, “I’ve looked into all that. And so, as I say, it must have been one member of the Wheeler family, for there’s no one else to suspect.”

“Including Mrs. Wheeler,” quietly put in Hallen.

“How absurd!” flared out Allen. “It’s bad enough to suspect the other two, but to think of Mrs. Wheeler is ridiculous!”

“Not at all,” said Burdon, “she had the same motive – she had opportunity – ”

“How do you know?” asked Keefe.

“She ran down from her room at that very moment,” stated Burdon. “I have the testimony of one of the upstairs maids, and, also, I believe Miss Wheeler saw her mother in the den.”

“Look here,” said Hallen, in his slow, drawling tones, “let’s reconstruct the situation. You two men were at the fire – that much is certain – so you can’t be suspected. But all three of the Wheelers had absolute opportunity, and they had motive. Now, as I look at it – one of those three was the criminal, and the other two saw the deed. Wherefore, the two onlookers will do all they can to shield the murderer.”

Keefe stared at him. “You really believe that!” he said.

“Sure I do! Nobody else had either motive or opportunity. I don’t for one minute believe in an outsider. Who could happen along at that particular moment, get away with the shooting, and then get away himself?”

“Why, it could have been done,” mused Keefe, and Allen broke in eagerly:

“Of course it could! There’s nothing to prove it impossible.”

“You two say that, because you want it to be that way,” said Burdon, smiling at the two young men. “That’s all right – you’re both friends of the family, and can’t bear to suspect any one of them. But facts remain. Now, let’s see which of the three it most likely was.”

“The old man,” declared Hallen, promptly.

“Nonsense!” cried Allen. “Mr. Wheeler is incapable of a deed like that! Why, I’ve known him for years – ”

“Don’t talk about incapable of anything!” said Burdon. “Most murderers are people whom their friends consider ‘incapable of such a deed.’ A man who is generally adjudged ‘capable’ of it is not found in polite society.”

“Where’s the weapon,” asked Keefe, abruptly, “if Mr. Wheeler did it?”

“Where’s the weapon, whoever did it?” countered Burdon. “The weapon hasn’t been found, though I’ve hunted hard. But that helps to prove it one of the family, for they would know where to hide a revolver securely.”

“If it was Mr. Wheeler, he’d have to hide it in the den,” said Allen. “He never goes over to the other side of the house, you know.”

“It isn’t in the den,” Hallen spoke positively; “I hunted that myself.”

“You seem sure of your statement,” said Keefe. “Couldn’t you have overlooked it?”

“Positively not.”

“No, he couldn’t,” concurred Burdon. “Hallen’s a wonderful hunter. If that revolver had been hidden in the den, he’d have found it. That’s why I think it was Mrs. Wheeler, and she took it back to her own rooms.”

“Oh, not Mrs. Wheeler!” groaned Jeff Allen. “That dear, sweet woman couldn’t – ”

“Incapable of murder, I s’pose!” ironically said Burdon. “Let me tell you, sir, many a time a dear, sweet woman has done extraordinary things for the sake of her husband or children.”

“But what motive would Mrs. Wheeler have?”

“The same as the others. Appleby was a thorn in their flesh, an enemy of many years’ standing. And I’ve heard hints of another reason for the family’s hating him, besides that conditional pardon business. But no matter about that now. What I want is evidence against somebody – against one of three suspects. Until I get some definite evidence I can’t tell which of the three is most likely the one.”

“Seems to me the fact that Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs and back again is enough to indicate some pretty close questioning of her,” suggested Hallen.

“Oh, please,” begged Allen, “she’s so upset and distracted – ”

“Of course she is. But that’s the reason we must ask her about it now. When she gets calmed down, and gets a fine yarn concocted, there’ll be small use asking her anything!”

“I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on general principles, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to the ladies. Let’s go to him now.”

“No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is away from the house, and we can talk more freely.”

“I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carry out their plan.

“Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear! You go for him, Hallen.”

The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at his side.

The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an old man, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemed strong and alert as any of them.

“Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one of the many seats beneath the old sycamore.

“First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?”

This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence for the answer.

“I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply.

“That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward the speaker.

“I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you are taking the crime on yourself to save her.”

“No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”

“Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”

“I – I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire – which had just broken out.”

“You’re not sure – ”

“I am not.”

“She had been with you, in the den?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat, in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one saw her anywhere near the burning garage.”

“As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”

“Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr. Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”

“I – I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so – so bewildered – that I must have dropped it – somewhere. I never thought of it again.”

“But if you had merely dropped it, it must have been found. And it hasn’t been.”

“Somebody else found it and secreted it,” suggested Hallen. “Probably Mr. Wheeler’s wife or daughter.”

“Perhaps so,” assented Wheeler, calmly. “They might have thought to help me by secreting it. Have you asked them?”

“Yes, and they deny all knowledge of it.”

“So do I. But surely it will be found.”