When we were downstairs again and the doctor had gone, Jones turned to me. McKelvie was smoking his pipe and pacing the room, his brows knit in thought, and Jones did not like to disturb him.

"I say, Mr. Davies, can't you give a fellow a few more details?" he begged. "I seem to have got the dope all wrong in this case. Who is this mysterious man?"

I glanced at McKelvie, but he was paying no attention to our conversation. I decided that there was no harm in telling Jones all that we knew, since McKelvie himself had already disclosed the more vital points.

So I gave Jones a rapid account of our search for the criminal, how we had discovered the secret entrance, where the trail of the sachet bags had led us, how we had interviewed Orton, Mrs. Harmon, and Cunningham, and how the finding of Dick's ring led to the discovery that he was still alive.

"But as regards the mysterious man in the curio shop," I ended, "I can't tell you who he is since I don't know, but my impression is that he was disguised and that he is not old at all, for one moment he was feeble and bent, and the next, when he turned off the light, tall and strong."

Jones slapped his hand on his knee. "By George, you're right. What did he look like, anyway?"

"When I first saw him he was bent and his head was thrust forward, his hair and beard were silver-white, his eyes protected by blue glasses," I answered.

"Disguised all right," said Jones with conviction. "It's a remarkable thing now, Mr. Davies, but when a man runs to disguise he always chooses the appearance which is his very opposite, the idea being, I suppose, to look as unlike his former self as possible. He stooped and was old, therefore he really is young and tall. He wore whiskers and glasses, therefore he is smooth-shaven and has good eyesight. That's your man."

"And if you add the fact that he is dark, you have a pretty good description of the murderer," put in McKelvie suddenly.

"Good heavens!" I began, but McKelvie raised his hand.

"Keep your suspicions to yourself," he said, and returned to his meditation.

"Seems to me you've made pretty good progress so far," Jones continued, "but what you need is the police on his trail. We'd soon have him where he belongs."

"Well, I don't know that we have made so much progress after all," I went on, as McKelvie ignored Jones' insinuation. "We have reduced the number of suspects by finding Lee, but we really are no further than we were three days ago. We progress so slowly," I added, impatiently, "because we discover only unsubstantiated facts. We thought Lee might be able to help us but he cannot swear to having seen his uncle die, and without that proof Ruth must stay in jail."

"I'm sorry," returned Jones. "The only thing to do is to catch the criminal or learn his identity."

"How?" I demanded. Did Jones think he could win out where McKelvie had been unsuccessful? Then I recalled McKelvie's words before he took the case, when he had handed me his list of questions. "Find the answers to those questions and you will have the name of the man who committed the crime." We ought to be able to answer almost all of them by now.

I pulled out my wallet and opened it, drawing forth the sheets that I had placed there less than a week ago (it seemed more like years) and spread them out in front of Jones, explaining their purpose and how I came by them. He read them through, glanced at McKelvie's back (he was seeking inspiration from the falling night), and then he grinned.

"Say," he whispered loudly, "we ought to be able to dope it out, you and I. I'll read you the questions and you give me the answers." He took out his fountain pen, prepared to fill in my replies, and I humored him.

"Question one. Why was the pistol fired at midnight?" Jones asked.

"To implicate Ruth," I returned.

"Did the murderer also light the lamp?" Jones' pen scratched away as he spoke.

"Yes. He lighted it from the safe," I said, explaining how we had ascertained this fact.

"How did he enter and leave the room?"

"He entered by the window and he left by the secret entrance," I replied, remembering McKelvie's assertion.

"Wrong." McKelvie swung toward us for a moment. "He entered by the door."

"But I thought you said—" I began.

"I've changed my mind," he retorted, and turned his back on us again.

Jones' eyebrows went up a trifle, and then he asked, "What was the motive for the murder?"

"I don't know," I said frankly. "It seems to me that answer depends on who murdered him. Find the murderer and you have the motive, not learn the motive and you have your man, as in most cases," I added.

"We'll leave number four blank, then. Why did the doctors disagree, and which was in the right? I recall that fact now. They had quite a tiff over it and the young doctor was worsted." Jones laughed at the recollection.

My answer astonished him. "I'd say they disagreed because the coroner's physician was a pompous old ass," I returned vindictively. I could not forget that in very truth Ruth's accusal had been the result of this verdict. "Dr. Haskins was in the right, since Darwin was shot at eleven-forty."

"Why did Philip Darwin put that ring on his finger and then take it off again?"

"Cunningham explained that Darwin did it in a moment of sentimentality. It seemed an idiotic thing to do, after all, and I don't believe he was addicted to sentiment," I said.

"Well, no, he might have had it in his hand and slipped it on unthinkingly, and then had trouble taking it off," replied Jones, reflectively.

I shook my head. "No, I am inclined to believe that he hurt his finger with Cora's ring. Lee said his uncle was wearing it on his little finger and that he removed it hastily and handed it to him. It was probably tight for him, and so he bruised the finger," I said.

"Where's the diamond then?" asked Jones.

"It may have fallen out and the murderer may have found it," I returned. "Or better yet, Orton may have taken it. You know Lee flung the ring at his uncle."

"That's plausible, and I never liked the secretary's face, anyway. Whose was the blood-stained handkerchief?" continued Jones.

"Cora Manning's, because of the perfume which all her male friends seem to have adopted also," I remarked.

"Where did the second bullet go?"

"By the way, McKelvie, where did it go?" I inquired.

But he pretended not to hear me, so I said to Jones with a laugh, "Another blank. I have no idea where it went."

"Did McKelvie search the room?"

"With a magnifying glass. It's not there."

"That's queer. It's bound to be somewhere. I'll have to have a look myself. Why is there so much evidence against Mrs. Darwin?"

I permitted myself a smile at Jones' evident estimate of McKelvie's abilities as far as searching a room was concerned, then I replied to his question. "I suppose the criminal believed in being thorough while he was about it."

"Who and what is Cora Manning?"

"She is, or was, Lee's fiancÉe. As to what she is, I'll tell you better when I see her. According to McKelvie she's a beauty," and I smiled. "Also, if you can believe what he says, the criminal is in love with this girl, so she is not the one who fired the shot."

"So McKelvie says, but if the criminal loves her, how do we know she wasn't his tool. Even the boy upstairs thought she had killed his uncle," remarked Jones.

"Don't be an idiot, Jones," said McKelvie's voice. "She wasn't likely to shoot a man who was already dying when she entered the room. She got there at eleven-forty-five, or later."

"Oh, yes. I forgot that fact. But the boy's watch may have been fast at that," replied Jones, unabashed. "She pointed a pistol at him, you know."

"Yes, and I presume she kept the man she loves in duress all this time? But have it your own way," returned McKelvie, dryly. Then I heard him add to himself, "Where can she be? If I could only lay my finger on her hiding-place, I'd have him in my toils."

"What has become of Darwin's securities?" Jones returned to the paper before him.

"Cunningham says Darwin lost his fortune in Wall Street," I answered.

"What is Lee Darwin's connection with the affair?"

"Like Ruth he is a victim of circumstances and the criminal's machinations," I said.

"Why did Richard Trenton come to New York and then commit suicide?" Jones went on.

"He came to New York at Darwin's request to see him. This we know to be a fact," and I told Jones the gist of Gilmore's story. "Also we know that he did not commit suicide although he tried to give the world that impression."

"That looks very bad. What's Cunningham's relation to the murdered man?"

"Just his friend since Cunningham is not a lawyer."

"That looks bad, too," said Jones. "He acted as counsel at the inquest illegally then."

"He says not. That he did not see Mrs. Darwin and gave her no advice. You can prosecute him when the case is over. We have no time for that now," I added.

"Which one of those having sufficient motive for killing Darwin answers to the description: Clever, unprincipled, absolutely cold-blooded?"

"There's an immense amount of latitude in that question. There might be any number of men of that type, since we do not know how many may have had sufficient motive for killing him. I expect that we haven't met all the men who have grudges against him, not by a long shot. And now, Mr. Jones, having doped it out, as you expressed it, would you mind telling me who committed that murder?" I asked quizzically.

Jones grinned. "I'll be hanged if I know," he replied. "But then we have not answered all the questions, you know. There's the motive and that second bullet. Oh, I say, McKelvie, what about letting me get busy on the trail of the revolver that made that second shot? There's a good substantial clue for you, though I know your preference for deductions."

McKelvie turned away from the window laughing at Jones' irony, then said quietly, "I won't trouble you to locate it as it might inconvenience you sadly. You see, I know where it is."

"You do?" Jones looked incredulous. "You know where it is and you haven't produced it?"

"How could I when you have had it under lock and key at Headquarters right from the start," returned McKelvie, his eyes twinkling.

"I? Oh, no, you're wrong there. I have only Darwin's pistol," replied Jones.

"That's the one I refer to."

"But, man, there's only one shot fired from that, the shot that killed Darwin," expostulated Jones.

"Use your imagination, Jones. Did you never hear of a man's cleaning his pistol and recharging it?" inquired McKelvie sarcastically.

"By Jove," said Jones, then added quickly, "What about the second bullet, then? I don't happen to possess that, too, do I?"

"No, for there was no second bullet."

"No second bullet!" I exclaimed, remembering the stress he had laid on that fact.

"No," he returned coolly, "there was no second bullet because—he took the trouble to remove it before he fired the cartridge."