It still lacked half-an-hour of the time set for the inquest.

Creighton was smoking a cigarette and mentally digesting the information gleaned from the newspaper when Jason Bolt, accompanied by Krech and Miss Ocky, came swooping down upon him.

"Developments!" said Jason, his face wreathed in smiles. "I've found out what Norvallis has up his sleeve. Want to know?"

"I certainly do," said Creighton. "How did you find out?"

"Small-town stuff," declared Bolt cheerfully. "You can't keep a thing dark in the country. Our local Chief of Police is sore as a pup because Norvallis, when he gave the paper the story yesterday, failed to give him credit for fixing the hour of the murder by the dry ground beneath the body. Steiner--that's the chief--came to see me this morning at the office to make some inquiries about the fire the other night. He accepted a cigar, got to talking about his troubles--and didn't hesitate to tell me the county officers' theory when I asked him what it was."

"Charlie Maxon?" asked Creighton when Bolt paused for breath--and from the corner of his eye saw Miss Ocky give a little start.

"You've guessed it," admitted Jason a trifle disappointedly. "I confess I don't think much of their case, but Charlie Maxon is their choice.

He broke jail just after ten o'clock and came up here. That is definitely proved to their satisfaction, at least, by footprints recognized as his in the soft earth beside Simon's body. They were identical with some he'd left when he came up here on an earlier tomato-swiping raid. Norvallis swore out a warrant yesterday afternoon and started a couple of sleuths on the trail of Maxon and his lady friend, and they were arrested early this morning in the village of Chiswick, about fifty miles down the line. What do you think of that?"

"What is the charge?"

"Indefinite. They're to be held on suspicion of being concerned in the murder. That's why I say it sounds like a weak case."

"How do they trace the dagger to Maxon?"

"He is supposed to have an accomplice." Bolt looked a little more serious. "Steiner was more cautious on that point--or else he was not so much in the know. There was a discharged clerk named Langhorn who accompanied Billy Graham to this house on the night of the robbery.

Langhorn must have recognized the notebook in Simon's hand during that interview, and it was common knowledge among the clerks in the tannery that it contained valuable matter. The police theory is that he took advantage of Simon's absence at the fire to sneak back to the house, enter the study and steal the book--using the dagger and carrying it off with him afterward. He was seen talking to a man on the evening of the murder at the corner of an alley behind the lock-up. The county crowd think that man was Maxon, that Maxon was two-thirds drunk at least, and that Langhorn gave him the knife and egged him on to kill Simon. That's the gist of it."

"Um. Why should Langhorn flirt with the hangman? Discharged clerks don't necessarily revenge themselves to that extent!"

"He wouldn't tell me if he could--and I don't believe he can!"

"There is something I don't understand," broke in Miss Ocky, frowning thoughtfully. "Can a possibly innocent man be held just on suspicion like that? Surely, Norvallis must have strong proofs."

"I may be doing him an injustice," answered Creighton quietly, "but I think I have discovered the reason for Mr. Norvallis' activities. I rather wondered why he was thrusting himself so eagerly into the investigation instead of leaving it to the detectives. Yesterday I saw a poster on a fence by the tannery and learned that he is up for County-Attorney at the coming State election!" He caught a flicker of comprehension in Jason's eye, but Miss Ocky and Krech looked blank.

"Don't you see? Here's a murder--a notable murder--committed in his county a few weeks before election. He has to do something. Maxon obligingly implicates himself enough to warrant his being held.

Norvallis arrests him. He can easily juggle things along until the ballots have dropped in the box--meanwhile demonstrating that he's an active, zealous and conscientious officer!"

"You've hit it," declared Bolt. "He's that kind."

"But that's--_vile_!" cried Miss Ocky.

"We'll give him the benefit of one doubt," said Creighton. "He probably would not do that to a man he believed innocent; undoubtedly he is convinced that Maxon is guilty and will fight tooth-and-nail to convict."

"Well--is he right?" asked Bolt slowly. A dull red flushed his cheeks.

"Did Maxon do it?"

"I'm confident that he did not," said Creighton. A pressure of his arm against his breast brought a crackle of paper and the comfortable a.s.surance that his chip from the blade of the dagger was safe. "Don't press me for reasons yet, Mr. Bolt."

"I won't." Jason rose as Bates came around the corner to say the inquest had opened. "Take your time, sir, but get me that notebook!"

The proceedings went swiftly and smoothly from beginning to end.

Whether or not he was a particularly good coroner--and Creighton felt some doubt of that--Merton was certainly expert in the technique of his job. He handled his witnesses capably, with deftness and dispatch, extracting facts from them with the easy grace of a headwaiter pulling corks, and each time a fact popped out he beamed benignly at his jury.

No mention was made of the police theory, and from the way Merton neatly headed off one or two witnesses who came close to trespa.s.sing on that forbidden ground, Creighton reckoned that Norvallis had persuaded him to mark time "in the interests of justice." The crowd that had come for a thrill were rewarded by the tale of the black monk, most of which was told by Miss Ocky. Her soft, clear voice carried to every ear, and her cool, matter-of-fact tones seemed rather to accentuate the dramatic values of her testimony than otherwise. It was the highlight of the whole picture, more interesting even than the verdict with its orthodox tag of "person or persons unknown."

"Norvallis hasn't shown his hand," murmured Jason Bolt, who was sitting next to Creighton.

"It'll make a louder splash in the papers to-morrow," retorted the detective cynically.

He had taken care to seat himself at the beginning of the inquest in such a way that he could watch the faces of the spectators who had come to this macabre entertainment. There was so much to the case that was hopelessly dark to him that he dared miss no opportunity to seek something or somebody who might inject even a single ray of light into the murk. He knew that the crowd at any inquest was quite likely to include the very person or persons unknown mentioned in the verdict.

He watched the crowd here with a sharp eye for any one who might display a deeper interest than that of the casual ambulance-chaser brand.

He spotted just one among those present who seemed worthy of closer attention. This was a strikingly handsome blond man, middle-aged and well-dressed, who occupied an inconspicuous seat in the farthest corner of the long room. He had about him an air of strained intensity as he leaned forward to follow every word of the testimony, particularly when Miss Ocky was giving hers, and he tugged nervously and continuously at a close-cropped mustache. Creighton could see that his face was haggard and bore lines of worry--and he could see that an unmistakable look of relief came into his eyes as the jury returned its open verdict.

"Interesting," said the detective to himself, and touched Bolt on the arm as the man hurried from the room at the conclusion of the proceedings. "Who is that fair-haired chap just going out?"

"His name is Leslie Sherwood," answered Jason promptly. "He's a native of these parts but he has been out in the great world making lots of money. He has just returned and opened up the old Sherwood place, which has been closed since his father's death a few months ago. Why?"

Creighton was spared a reply by the appearance of a dapper, sharp little old gentleman who came up and greeted Bolt by his first name.

"h.e.l.lo, Judge!" Jason turned with a gesture of his hand. "I want you to meet Mr. Peter Creighton, of New York. This is Judge Taylor, Mr.

Creighton, who has always handled our legal affairs and managed somehow to keep us out of jail! Judge, Creighton is here to investigate that robbery of the other evening when Simon's notebook was stolen."

"_And_ the dagger that killed him!" added Taylor significantly. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Creighton. I trust your inquiry will be successful."

He jerked his head backward. "What did you think of this inquest?"

"Nicely stage-managed," said the detective, and an appreciative twinkle lit the lawyer's eyes. "May I have a chat with you sometime, Judge?"

"Whenever you please. Jason will show you my office."

"h.e.l.lo! Who is this?" Creighton was facing the door from the hall, to which the other two men had their backs, and he was the first of them to notice a tall, prepossessing young man who hurried into the room.

Behind him came Miss Ocky, looking pleased, and after her Krech, hunting for the detective from whom he had become separated. "Is it--?"

"Copley!" cried Jason Bolt and Judge Taylor with one voice. They greeted the newcomer warmly, but with the subdued sympathy suitable to the occasion. "When did you learn about this?" added Bolt.

"This morning's papers. I came as fast as I could." He spun around toward Miss Ocky. "My mother--?"

"Sleeping," answered his aunt. "It has been a shock, but you have no need to worry about her. Don't think of waking her up; I know you must want to go to her, but wait."

"This is a terrible business," said the young man to Bolt and the lawyer. He was yet unaware of Creighton, who had withdrawn slightly into the background. "I only know what I've read in the papers. As I came in just now I heard somebody say the inquest had drawn a blank.

Is that so?"

"Yes. It is a complicated affair, Copley," answered Bolt. "It will take some time to tell you everything that has happened--"

"We'll go into it later, then. Just tell me now if everything possible is being done to identify the man who killed my father. That is the most important business before us. Have the police any clues?"

"I believe so, but they are saying little. On our own account, I have engaged this gentleman here--Mr. Creighton--to conduct an independent inquiry. Creighton, this is Mr. Varr's son, of whom you have heard."

Copley sent a keen look at the detective, then held out his hand.

"Glad to meet you--and very glad that Mr. Bolt has engaged your services. It is the very thing I would have wished. I have no confidence in the local authorities."

"That appears to make it unanimous," said Creighton, grinning.