"Really, I'm beginning to wonder if these county fellows can be as stupid as they're reputed." He glanced at Jason Bolt. "Suppose I take Mr. Varr into the study here and give him a resume of events to date?

Somebody must, and I know the details better than any one else, perhaps."

There was a chorus of relieved approval from Bolt, Taylor and Miss Ocky and a quick nod of a.s.sent from Copley.

"I must have a talk with you, too, Copley, as soon as possible," added Jason Bolt. "It's hard to have to intrude business--"

"Oh!" interrupted the young man, and suddenly ran his fingers through his hair with a distraught gesture. "I'm in the deuce of a jam--!

Aunt Ocky, when is the funeral?"

"We were waiting to hear from you. Now that you're here--shall we say to-morrow noon?"

"Very well. After that I must catch the one-thirty to New York." He shrugged his shoulders at Bolt's disappointed grunt. "It can't be helped, sir! And I'll be busy every minute until I leave. Are you sure that you need me after all?" He looked at the old lawyer who was eyeing him thoughtfully. "Judge Taylor, you had charge of my father's will, didn't you? Would it be improper for you to tell me whether or not I've inherited his interest in the tannery?"

"I'll risk the impropriety under the circ.u.mstances," said Taylor slowly, breaking a little silence that followed the question. "Yes, you have inherited a controlling interest without any restriction." He hesitated cautiously. "I'm a.s.suming that no other will exists--I cannot believe there is any."

"In that case--you and I are partners, Mr. Bolt." Copley held out his hand rather bashfully. "You'll have a fearful lot to teach me, but you'll find me willing to learn." He continued more incisively. "I believe the first thing to do is to get that strike settled and the men to work. They'll listen to you, Mr. Bolt, if you ask them to return pending our decision to raise wages and improve conditions. Another thing--can you persuade Graham to stay with us?"

"I believe so--now," said Bolt slowly.

"The tannery must remain closed to-morrow, the day of the funeral. I'd like to see it open up the morning after at the usual hour."

"It will," said Jason flatly. "Leave it to me."

"That's what I want to do, for a fortnight anyway. After that you will find me ready to pull my weight in the boat." The young man turned to the others. "Aunt Ocky, you'll let me know, won't you, as soon as my mother wakes up? Come on, Mr. Creighton; I'm anxious to hear all you can tell me." He walked off to the study without waiting to see if the detective followed.

Creighton did not, for the moment. Bolt and Krech were leaving, and so was Judge Taylor. The detective had a few words with his friend as they followed the other two along the hall to the piazza, while Miss Ocky went up to her sister's room.

"What did you think of him?" asked Krech.

"Haven't thought much yet."

"He ought to be a pleasant change for Jason. He'll be open to reason, yet he'll have ideas of his own. Did you notice how he snapped into the business of getting work started again?"

"I noticed it."

"An up-and-coming lad," said Krech. "He couldn't have done it better if he'd been expecting the job."

Creighton glanced at the speaker quickly, but the big man's face was as ingenuous as a child's. They dropped the subject as they came up with the others.

When he had bidden them _au revoir_, the detective went to the small study, where he found Copley Varr restlessly pacing the short fairway between the door and his father's desk. The young man welcomed him with a gesture of relief.

"Thought you were never coming," he said, though not rudely. "If I can't see my mother yet, I'm in a hurry to--to attend to some other matters."

"Is an interview with William Graham one of them?" asked Creighton quietly as they sat down. He caught the sharp look that Copley sent him. "While digging into the history of this case it was inevitable that I should discover something of your private affairs. I will ask you to believe that I do not violate confidences--even though I have to force them at times."

"That's all right. You're a detective, aren't you?"

"I try to be!" smiled Creighton.

"Well, it's no use employing a detective and then cramping his style by refusing him information. I understand that."

"Good. We'll get along beautifully. Will you tell me, please, why you are obliged to return to New York? Is the reason--Miss Graham?"

"Not any more." For the first time since he had entered the house, Copley smiled a little. "It is Mrs. Varr, now. We were married yesterday morning in New York." The smile vanished abruptly. "And my father--scarcely cold! I won't forget the shock I got from the papers this morning if I live to be a hundred."

"Got a shock, did you?" repeated Creighton to himself, yet the boy's words had rung true. "If you're ready, Mr. Varr, I'll give you the story of what happened up to your father's death. I'll be brief."

At that, it was a lengthy narrative. It took more than an hour to relate, an hour in which Copley Varr did not once take his eyes from the detective's face. His gaze was expressionless; Creighton, returning it with interest, strove vainly to pierce that inscrutable veil to see what lay behind.

"And there is no definite clue to the murderer?" asked, Copley when Creighton finished. "Is the Maxon theory sound?"

"I think not. As for clues--well, such indications as I have turned up are too vague to be termed that."

"Do you suspect any one?"

"That question is out of order, Mr. Varr."

"Oh. Will you tell me then, in a general way, where those indications you mention seem to point?"

"In a general way, yes." Creighton meditated. "They point to a person who hated your father, who sympathized with the striking tanners, who was wealthy enough to supply them with money, either from sympathy or to further his grudge, a person of some education, familiar with local history and imaginative enough to adapt the costume of a legendary monk to a perfect disguise. Last, a person who was sufficiently familiar with this house to stage a burglary as bold as it was successful."

Copley Varr was pale as this hypothetical portrait was limned. His eyes now avoided the detective's.

"That description might fit a--a number of people," he said.

"Oh, yes. It's very vague. Now, I can ask a question that you mustn't, do _you_ suspect any one?"

"N-no."

"Come! are you weakening already about giving me information?"

"Suspicion--if I had any--is not fact!"

"Quibbles won't get us anywhere. I won't press you further to voice your suspicion--right now. In the meantime, I'll plod along with my investigation on the obvious lines."

"Obvious? I suppose they are to you, Mr. Creighton, but I do not see a single point of attack. Will you tell me what you plan to do, or is that also taboo?"

"I'm going to make a list of all the people that description might fit and then eliminate them one by one as circ.u.mstances dictate. I suppose competent alibis will let most of 'em out. Yes, I guess I'll have quite a fine a.s.sortment of alibis at the end." The detective was speaking easily, good-humoredly, and his voice was elaborately casual as he added:

"By the way, where were you the night of the burglary from ten to twelve?"

Copley Varr started violently and his face crimsoned. For a long minute he did not speak but sat staring angrily at his inquisitor. He clenched his hands as though ready to leap on the detective. Then, slowly, his fingers relaxed, the color faded from his cheeks and the anger from his eyes. Creighton watched the metamorphosis with approval; if he could get the best of his temper like that, would he have been likely to lose it to the extent of committing murder?

Improbable!

"I was in the editorial rooms of the _News_ from ten-thirty until quarter to twelve, when I left to catch the midnight train to New York.

At least three men connected with the paper will bear me out."

"That's bully!" said Creighton. "The crowd on my list will be in luck if they do half as well. One thing more, Mr. Varr, and then I'm off to real work. Was William Graham in the habit of coming to this house?"