"You put them on just the same, though?"

"Certainly. I'm supposed to, you know."

"It seems very hard-hearted. If you knew that 'poor devil' was morally justified in committing his crime, wouldn't you be tempted to--leave the key of the handcuffs where he could get it?"

"Tempted, perhaps; that's all."

"Suppose it was some one who had a claim on you--a sister or brother or child?"

"You must ask that of some unfortunate sleuth with a family. My nearest relative is a third cousin who lives in Chicago but has nevertheless shown no criminal tendency to date. I'm remarkably well-protected from any potential struggle between duty and inclination." He smiled, and added apologetically, "Detective ethics is a pretty complicated subject to discuss, and I'm afraid it isn't getting on with the problem of who stole a notebook from Simon Varr's desk."

"Of course it isn't--and I'm much more interested in seeing you attack that! But I warn you our conversation is only postponed!"

They entered the study, where Creighton went straight to the window and stood looking out at the now devastated garden where Simon Varr had been found.

"Who _did_ find him, by the way?" he voiced a sudden thought.

"Katie, the cook. She came down first, as usual, and saw a man lying flat on his back in the tomato patch. Her first idea was that some one had taken a drop too much and had strayed there and gone to sleep, so she went up to Bates' room and routed him out. He came down and discovered the awful truth--and he behaved wonderfully. He seemed to know just what had to be done, and he actually managed to keep the news from the family until official permission had been received to bring the body into the house. Poor Lucy--my sister--was at least spared the thought of his lying out there."

"Who saw him last--in the house, I mean, of course?"

"Bates, who brought him a decanter of whisky here to the study, wished him good-night and left him."

"What time was that? Did the butler notice?"

"Yes, because he was interested in getting to bed. It was about ten-thirty."

"Um. He was left here--alone--with a decanter of whisky and a troubled mind. It's safe to a.s.sume that he took a drink or so. Tell me, was your brother-in-law an impulsive sort of person--liable to outbursts of pa.s.sion--inclined to do things in a headlong, reckless way?"

"A very good description indeed."

"I've been wondering how he happened to be out in the garden so opportunely for the murderer. If he was sitting in this room, looked out the window and spotted the fellow hanging around, his first impulse might have been to rush from the house and tackle him. Does that impress you as being a likely scenario, Miss Copley?"

"Very. To tell you the truth, when he was really angry I'm inclined to think he was scarcely responsible for his actions."

"His enemy knew that, you may be sure, and counted on it to his own advantage. Now, another question about the matter of time. You told me, Krech, that the hour of the murder had been approximately set at eleven. Do you know how that was determined?"

"It was the doctor's opinion, for one thing. Then it was pretty plausibly substantiated by a trick of the weather. There was a shower at eleven-thirty last night from which the ground was still wet early this morning. The local Chief of Police covered himself with glory by noticing that the earth beneath Varr's body was as dry as a bone when they took him up."

"Good enough. I must have a chat with that lad. I wonder if he noticed anything else that was useful."

"Somebody did," commented Miss Ocky thoughtfully. "There was a man out there making a plaster cast of some footprints. Why do you suppose he was doing that, Mr. Creighton?"

"My golly!" The detective's eyes flashed with excitement. "Did you see them, Miss Copley?"

"Yes, but they meant nothing to me."

"How large were they, do you remember?" He waved a hand at Mr. Krech's extremities. "Large as those?"

"Oh, my, no," said Miss Ocky, glancing at the objects indicated. "Not nearly as large as those."

"I'd like to interrupt these proceedings," declared Krech in an injured voice, "long enough to remark that any sculptor would tell you they are beautifully proportioned to my size."

"I wasn't criticizing their--architecture," said the lady.

"Second time to-day he's called attention to them!"

"Shameful. What was the first?"

"Oh, that was rather interesting. I'll tell you about it if he'll let me."

"Tell me anyway. He doesn't seem to be paying any attention to us at all. What _is_ he doing?"

"Hush! he's thinking," said the big man vindictively after a brief inspection of his friend. "He always looks like that when he thinks.

Scientists aver the eye reflects the mind; note the perfect blankness of his?"

That effectively aroused Creighton from his momentary abstraction. He grinned at the two of them.

"Pay no attention to him, Miss Copley. Yes, you can tell her what we found at the tannery, Krech." He looked at Miss Ocky. "That is in deference to your interest in the art of detection; may I count on you not to breathe a word of what I tell you to any one?"

"You may."

"It's a bargain. Go ahead, Krech, while I amuse myself looking over his desk."

Miss Ocky listened eagerly to Krech's somewhat embroidered account of their activities at the tannery, but managed to keep an eye on Peter Creighton the while. He was going over the desk and its roll-top cover inch by inch, peering at its surface, trailing his fingertips over the polished wood in case touch might find something that vision hadn't.

Once he interrupted Krech by asking him to bring a magnifying gla.s.s from his bag in the hall.

"What are you looking for?" asked Miss Ocky in the interim.

"Nothing--anything. I expect the first and may chance on the second.

This is just routine, Miss Copley. When I know a crook has been in a certain spot, I go over the place with a fine-tooth comb. You'd be surprised to know the number of microscopic bits of evidence a man can leave behind him in spite of every precaution."

"Have you found anything here?"

"No." He accepted the gla.s.s that Krech handed him and went back to his task. "This fellow was careful, sure enough."

The big man resumed his story. She interrupted him with a quick little exclamation when she heard of Charlie Maxon's escape. Her interest brought a question from the detective.

"Know him, Miss Copley?"

"I've spoken to him once or twice. Casually."

"How did that happen? Where did you meet him?"

"In a grocery store in the town. He came in for something while I was there. Of course he knew who I was, and he started talking to me about the strike and how hard it was on the men."

"Um. What sort of a chap is he? Capable of--murder?"