"Twenty or thirty minutes must have pa.s.sed. Then I heard a cautious step on the trail--and nearly fell off my log when a figure in the garb of a monk glided into the open. Rather weird! Sounds silly here, of course, but for a moment my hair stood on end. I had a notion that I was seeing a ghost!

"Before I recovered my wits, it--it happened! I had supposed Simon had gone to bed when his light went out, but now he appeared from around the corner of the house. It was obvious that he was stalking the monk.

It was like watching a scene in a melodrama, and I couldn't have moved hand or foot to save my life. All of a sudden, Varr rushed him. I thought the fellow would run, but instead of that he waited. When Simon got close, the monk appeared to raise a sort of mask he wore. I heard Simon cry out something in a surprised voice, and then I saw a flash of steel as the monk threw up his arm and brought it down. Simon dropped to the ground and lay on his back--and the monk glided off down that trail before I realized that I had seen a murder!"

"Why didn't you chase him--holler--do _something_!" cried Miss Ocky.

"Couldn't seem to budge," said Sherwood briefly. He looked a little hurt. "If you think it was just cowardice you're jolly well mistaken!

I had no sensation of fear at any time. You've heard the expression, 'rooted with amazement'? Well, I was it!

"I was still in that condition three minutes later, perhaps, when I heard another, heavier step on the trail. A man appeared, and from the way he walked I could tell he had been drinking. He staggered toward the body, but he was staring at the house and shaking his fist at it.

He reeled off the cement path and almost stumbled over Simon before he saw him. He gave a cry, and stooped to look closer--then turned and bolted for dear life and vanished down the trail. He had been scared sober!

"I began to get back my senses. The first thing I thought of was my own position and what I should do. If I were called on to account for my presence there it would involve the mention of Lucy's name if I told the truth--and to save my neck I couldn't think of a plausible lie!

There was none to explain my presence in Varr's kitchen garden at eleven o'clock at night!

"I felt under no obligation to give the alarm--it never once occurred to me that the second man wasn't tearing h.e.l.l-for-leather to the police-station with his story! I did, however, feel that I could not leave Simon lying there with a knife in him while there was a possibility of his being still alive. It took all the nerve I had, but I walked out and took a careful look at him. I knew enough about anatomy to see at once that he had been stabbed through the heart and must have died instantly. Then I lost no time in getting away--"

"You kept to this cement path?"

"Yes; I had sense enough to leave no tracks in that soft earth. I got home without meeting any one, and I hoped I would never be drawn into the case.

"It gave me a jolt when I found the crime had not been reported by that second man. The inquest rea.s.sured me when it seemed as if everybody was at a loss to know who had committed the murder. They could remain at a loss for all of me, so long as I wasn't brought into the case--and Lucy! Then, the next morning, the papers had the news of Maxon's arrest! I haven't slept much since!"

"I'm hardly surprised," said Creighton dryly. "Your story does one thing to the Queen's taste--it corroborates Maxon's description of his movements that evening. He was drunk when he broke jail, he had an hour or so to kill before meeting Drusilla Jones, and he staggered up here with the tipsy notion of wrecking the garden to spite old Varr.

He was sobered by what he found, as you noticed, but even then didn't have sense enough to see that his best bet was to go straight to the police. He claims he never stopped to think how black appearances against him would be. Would you be able to swear that he was the man you saw here after the murder?"

"Yes. I went to court when he was examined and remanded and I recognized him beyond a shadow of doubt."

"And I'm to understand you've kept silent simply out of consideration for Mrs. Varr?"

"That weighs a good deal with me," said Sherwood quietly. "I haven't enjoyed these past nine days, Mr. Creighton. When I couldn't stand it any longer, I came to Miss Copley to tell her of my difficulty."

"And I advised him to talk with you and be guided by your instructions," threw in Miss Ocky.

"What had I better do?" asked Sherwood hopelessly.

"Do! There's a man in the county jail with an ugly charge hanging over him that a word from you will lift--and you ask me what to do!"

Creighton was scandalized. "Go to Norvallis--instantly! Tell him the truth and let him decide how much publicity must attend the liberation of Maxon. I don't think he will insist upon much!"

"You're right, Mr. Creighton--but not helpful."

"Helpful! What did you expect?" snorted the detective indignantly.

"Did you think I'd encourage you to let Maxon rot in jail just to humor your quixotic notions about gossip and a woman's name? I sympathize with your difficulty, but that's as far as I can go. There are two things I've never done and never expect to do knowingly--let an innocent man suffer unjustly or a guilty one escape!"

"At this point there was loud applause from the gallery!" murmured Miss Ocky in her soft, amused drawl, and brought him to earth. "Go on, Leslie, and do your duty. It can't be helped."

"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood unhappily, and got off the rock.

"Nothing more you want to ask me, is there?"

"N-no," answered the detective, a bit subdued by Miss Ocky's rebuke.

"Yes--one thing. What did this confounded monk look like?"

"Well, I can't help you much there. I got the impression that he wore a mask--as Miss Copley did when she saw him on the trail. He was dressed from head to foot in black. He even wore black gloves; it was an odd thing that made me notice that. Have you ever seen a man straighten up from some completed task and stand looking down at it, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together as if to say, 'Well, there's a good job over and done with'? That's what this fellow did as he stood above Simon--"

"_Oh!_" gasped Miss Ocky, and collapsed limply on the bowlder, her face ashen. "Oh!"

"What is it?" snapped Creighton, wheeling upon her. "What is the matter?"

"It's all so ghastly--so--so cold-blooded!" she managed to stammer.

"Don't mind me. I'm all right."

"Um," said Creighton, eyeing her doubtfully. "You come into the house and get a rest before dinner! Good-day, Mr. Sherwood!"

He carried his point without much difficulty. He hovered over Miss Ocky until he had her safely in the house and on her way to her room, and for once her militant spirit seemed burned out. He reproached himself bitterly for having let her listen to Sherwood, though n.o.body could have foreseen that the noodle-pated idiot would start embroidering his story with graphically gruesome tidbits! Why hadn't he kept his fat head shut? Serve him right if Norvallis jumped _him_ next and put him in the jug for political prestige! For a few minutes Creighton was almost cheerful as he pondered that possibility.

Fortunately for his peace of mind, Miss Ocky reappeared for dinner and impressed him as having entirely regained her composure. She was her usual gently mocking, always slightly cynical and amusing self. As the swift conversation flashed back and forth between them--past the apparently unconscious person of young Mr. Merrill--he gradually recovered his own equanimity and was quite himself again by the time he and Miss Ocky settled to coffee and cigarettes in the cozy corner of the veranda.

"Almost time for Mr. Krech to make his evening call," she suggested.

"They dine earlier at the Bolts' than we do here."

"Queer thing about Krech," mused Creighton. "I've never seen him take so little interest in a case as he does in this. Usually he is at my heels from morning until night, spraying questions the way a machine-gun sprays bullets. Now he just blows in--and presently blows out."

"Oh!" said Miss Ocky. She sat up straight, scratched her chin meditatively with one slim forefinger, and darted him a look that he missed. "Mmph. Y-yes, that is queer."

"Of course he's devoted to his wife," continued the detective, "and I suppose that distracts a man from the pursuit of a mere hobby."

"Briefly," said Miss Ocky. "Briefly!"

"A charming woman ought not to be cynical--" Creighton broke off and raised his hand. "He's coming now; you can hear that car of Bolt's six miles on a quiet night! Shall we tell him about Leslie Sherwood?--the poor chap hasn't had anything so nourishing for a week."

"Swear him to secrecy," stipulated Miss Ocky.

Thus, when the big man appeared and dropped into a chair, he was duly pledged to discretion and informed of the fact that an eyewitness of the murder had turned up.

"My gosh!" he exclaimed when the details had been told. "Why, that just naturally blows Norvallis clean out of water! What'll he do if he loses Mr. Vote-getter Maxon?"

"Pinch Sherwood," chuckled Creighton. "That ought to net him even handsomer returns."

"Oh--_no_!" cried Miss Ocky, and turned white. "Oh, I think it is simply disgraceful that such things can happen in a civilized country!

Bad enough to be the subject of gossip and suspected of a crime, but to be actually imprisoned on mere suspicion--"

"I was only joking," cut in the detective hastily. "Norvallis will make no such stupid blunder. I'm sorry to say there is a wide difference between what can be done to a mere workingman and what may be done to a country gentleman of position."

"So much the worse!" snapped Miss Ocky unappeased.

"This lets out Charlie Maxon," muttered Krech, and regarded his friend morosely. "Seems to me, Creighton, that every time this case takes one step forward, it slides back two. Jason Bolt is getting fearfully down in the mouth. When this news reaches him it will be the finishing touch."

"I had a talk with him this afternoon," said the detective, and flicked his cigarette over the veranda rail. "Reminded him that Rome wasn't built in a day and that murderers aren't always caught in a night, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and dropped a few other comforting thoughts in similar vein. I also mentioned that one never knew in a case of this kind when something might happen--"