"Vaguely--from Bates himself. Why? What trouble was it?"

"Starvation. He had difficulty finding work because no one wished to employ a man who had just been pardoned out of a penitentiary where he was serving a life sentence for murder."

There was a brief silence.

"It can't be!" she whispered at length. "Not Bates! It can't be _true_!"

"He was married in those days, and the other man was guilty of breaking up the home. Extenuating circ.u.mstances, you see. He was lucky enough to have a lawyer who didn't lose interest when the prison swallowed him, and he brought the matter to the attention of a new Governor who pardoned Bates after he had served five years. Your father happened on him when he was near the end of his rope, gave him sanctuary and helped him bury the past. That is his story."

"How did he come to tell you?"

"I persuaded him to. I've noticed ever since I've been in the house that he was shaky, nervous--_worried_. Three times out of five, when you see a servant in that condition following a mysterious crime, you can look for the explanation in a shady past. I tackled him from that basis. He didn't need much urging--in fact, he told me he had half made up his mind to come to me with the story of his own accord. I believe him. He had been in mortal terror lest the police discover it." Creighton paused in order to study her serious, thoughtful face.

"He asked me to tell you this."

"He did!"

"He seems devoted to you. He had wanted to tell you himself, but could never quite find the courage. He has wanted you to know the truth about him, but has never been able to forget the way others used to receive it. He has taken some hard knocks."

"Poor soul. Poor lonely soul!" Her voice was tender.

"I thought you'd feel that way about it! You'll find an opportunity to make him understand, I suppose? Probably he won't want to talk much about it, but you--you could give him a friendly pat on the arm or--or something like that, couldn't you?"

Miss Ocky suddenly turned and looked at him with eyes that were shining through unshed tears.

"You're a queer man! You can sit there suspecting him of murder and still want me to be kind to him!"

"Have I said anything about suspecting him?" demanded the detective with almost a touch of asperity.

"You accused me of suspecting Copley last evening and I had to remind you that he'd probably turn up with a perfectly good alibi--and he did!

If there's a pessimist in human nature sitting around here, it isn't I!"

"Mmph. All right, little sunshine!"

"I don't care anything about suspicion. I want proof. Until I get it, I try to preserve an open mind."

"Oh. Well, that's an improvement over Mr. Norvallis, I must admit!"

Miss Ocky turned her eyes back to the fire. "What you've told me about Bates has given me quite a--a shock, Mr. Creighton. I won't drag any more red-herrings around, but can't we _please_ talk of something else?"

He cheerfully and promptly consented. They talked a while on every subject under the sun except the death of Simon Varr, and they were both a trifle disconcerted when a wild shrieking of brakes and a heavy step on the veranda announced the arrival of Herman Krech, who would tolerate no other topic until he left at eleven.

It was just short of midnight when Creighton, sound asleep, was roused by a discreet but persistent tapping on his door. He rolled out of bed, struck a match, opened the door and discovered Copley Varr, grinning broadly.

"I've got my father-in-law's blessing!" he announced.

"I congratulate you." The detective blinked. "Excuse me, but I was with the angels! Did you call me back just to tell me this?"

"No. I thought you ought to know that we were a pair of nuts this noon. Mr. Graham was holding pat hands in a poker game during the fire and robbery, and he was presiding at a lodge-meeting in Hambleton the night--the night before last!"

"With umpty-umph fellow-lodgers to prove it. Um. Touch 'em and they vanish!"

"What?"

"I mean, I'd like to find a prospect that would stay put for a while at least. As it is now, the moment I look sideways at any one he promptly trots out an alibi."

"Like I did to-day! I see. Trying for a detective, eh?"

"Very trying," said Peter Creighton. "Good night!"

He shut the door, and presently rejoined the angels.

_XIX: Among Those Present_

After that midnight report from Copley Varr, ten days pa.s.sed without the occurrence of a single distinctive event. They were not empty days, however, for Peter Creighton, who continued patiently to cast hither and yon very much like an Indian brave seeking the trail of an enemy warrior.

The full scope of his investigation was not apparent to the naked eye, as Krech, who was chafing at the lack of developments and inclined to accuse his friend of masterly inactivity, discovered one afternoon.

They were taking a stroll in the twilight at the detective's insistence, and met a roughly-dressed individual with a cap on the back of his head and a short pipe stuck in his mouth. He was loitering by the side of the road, and to Krech's surprise, Creighton excused himself and joined the man for a brief chat.

"Who's your rough-neck pal?" he demanded curiously as the detective came back and suggested a return home. "His face is familiar but I can't just place him."

"You once bought a painting from him when he was posing as an artist!"

Creighton chuckled. "He reminded me of it just now; said you're the only connoisseur who ever really appreciated his work!"

"Gee Joseph! One of your men!"

"Fellow named Latimer."

"What is he doing around here?"

"Covering the tannery end of this affair. Latimer's an artist in more ways than one. When I told him what I wanted, he got two books on modern methods in tanning from the New York Public Library, studied them on the train coming up, and landed a job as easy as you please when Graham and Bolt started to replace the old hands who had left.

Snappy work!"

"Gosh. And I thought you were investigating this case single-handed!

You're a foxy guy at times, Creighton. Has Latimer learned anything useful?"

"Not to me, I'm sorry to say. The few facts he has turned up seem merely to darken the outlook for Charlie Maxon, that unfortunate prisoner-pent. He appears to be quite as bad an egg as Mr. Norvallis believes."

"Do you suppose Norvallis is making any progress with _his_ case?"

inquired Krech.

"He's sitting pretty with the voters!" said Creighton shortly. "By the way, neither Bolt nor Graham knows who Latimer is. Don't tell 'em."

"I won't," promised the big man.

He did, however, after the fashion of husbands, tell his wife that evening after dinner. They were standing together on the front steps of their host's house, having been persuaded with no great difficulty to lengthen their stay by at least another week, and Krech had just lighted a cigar to keep him company while he strolled over to the Varr home.