PHILIP WINTHROP moved restlessly in bed, then lay still, for a feeling of deadly nausea almost overcame him. Half an hour passed, and, feeling better, he raised his hand and felt his throbbing temples. Wearily he tried to collect his ideas, but all appeared confused.

What was it that he had promised? Slowly his torpid conscience awoke. “For value received”—the phrase held a double meaning which penetrated even his dulled senses. He could not afford to lie there like a bump on a log any longer. He opened his eyes; apparently it was late, for the room was in total darkness, save for a streak of light which came from the half-open hall door.

With an effort Philip raised himself on his elbow and glanced about him, but even that slight exertion was too much in his weakened state, and, with a groan, he slid back on the pillows. For some seconds he lay without moving, but the yellow patch of light troubled him, and he rolled over on his side facing the wall. He struggled apathetically to piece together the occurrences of the past few days. Suddenly he caught the sound of a light step and the swish of skirts approaching his bed.

The next instant a glass was thrust under his nose and placed gently against his mouth. He raised his hand and pushed the glass away from him. “G’way,” he stammered faintly; “leave me ’lone.”

Apparently no attention was paid to his request, for the glass was again placed at his lips. Again he tried to thrust it from him, but his feeble efforts made no impression against the strong wrist. His resistance only lasted a few minutes, then his weaker will surrendered to the stronger, and he sipped the medicine obediently, after which the glass was withdrawn.

Downstairs in the library three men sat smoking around the large desk table.

“I am glad you could join us to-night, Colonel Thornton,” said Brett, as he placed one of the ashtrays conveniently near the lawyer. “Three heads are better than one, and it is time we got together and discussed certain features of this case.”

“Quite right, it will help us to a clearer understanding,” agreed the Colonel.

“Then suppose, Mr. Hunter, that you first tell us any theories which you may have formed.”

Douglas dropped the paper-cutter he was balancing in his hand, and, leaning on the table, looked seriously at his companions. “I think,” he said deliberately, “that Philip Winthrop has a guilty knowledge of Senator Carew’s death, if he is not the actual murderer.”

“Your reasons,” demanded Colonel Thornton.

“There was bad blood between them, that has been proved,” Douglas picked his words with care. “Possibly the quarrel was brought about because Senator Carew had found out something discreditable in Philip Winthrop’s past. He had a responsible position as the Senator’s private secretary, and there is a chance he betrayed his trust.”

“In what way?” asked Brett eagerly.

“It may be that he is in the pay of some lobby anxious to influence important legislation.” Douglas, mindful of the Secretary of State’s caution, was feeling his way with care.

“Senator Carew was the last man to be influenced by such a character as Philip Winthrop,” said Thornton contemptuously.

“He may not have tried to do so, but simply have betrayed valuable information of committee plans and caucus.”

“That may be,” acknowledged Thornton, “particularly as I am told that Philip has been spending a great deal of money lately; far more than his salary would warrant.”

“‘Value received.’” Douglas shrugged his shoulders expressively. “I have also found out that Hamilton, the coachman, is a Jamaican negro, his real name being Samuel Hamilton Quesada, and that he was brought here nearly two years ago by young Winthrop when he returned from a visit to Jamaica. The Senator took him into his employ at the former’s request and recommendation.”

“And your theory is?” questioned Brett sharply, laying down his cigar.

“That Winthrop either bribed Hamilton to kill Senator Carew, or to help him after he, Winthrop, had committed the murder. You must remember,” he added hastily, as Brett started to speak, “the Jamaican negro has a revengeful disposition when roused, and I have no doubt Senator Carew gave him merry hell when he discharged him Monday afternoon, and Hamilton was ready to risk everything to get even.”

Brett shook his head. “How did Senator Carew get into that carriage?” he asked doubtfully.

“Hamilton probably lied when he said he did not first stop at this house on his way to the ball to bring Miss Carew home. Or perhaps Winthrop came into this room, found Senator Carew busy writing, stole up behind him, seized the letter file and stabbed him with it.”

Again Brett shook his head. “If that had been the case, the Senator would have been stabbed in the back; whereas he was stabbed directly over the heart, and whoever committed the crime was facing him.”

“Well, that is not impossible,” argued Douglas. “Winthrop may have stood near the Senator’s chair and talked to him for a few minutes without the latter suspecting danger, may have even picked up the letter file, a harmless thing to do under ordinary circumstances, and, without warning, thrust it into the Senator’s chest.”

“And afterward?” questioned Brett.

“Afterward—Winthrop may have stepped into the hall, found no one there, tiptoed into the room again, telephoned”—pointing to the desk instrument—“out to the stable and told Hamilton to drive at once to the front door. The sound of the horses’ hoofs was probably drowned by the heavy rain, so no one in the house would have heard the carriage enter the porte-cochÈre, but”—impressively—“Winthrop, from this window, could see its arrival. He probably stepped into the hall again, found the coast clear, opened the front door, dashed back, picked up Senator Carew, who was much smaller than he, carried him out and placed him inside the carriage. Hamilton had been drinking, and was perhaps too befogged to notice anything unusual, and, when Winthrop slammed the carriage door, he probably drove off none the wiser.”

“As much as I dislike Philip Winthrop I do not think him capable of committing murder,” said Colonel Thornton, slowly. “Secondly, I believe, no matter how secretly you think the murder was planned, that, if Philip were guilty, Mrs. Winthrop would have some inkling of it, and if their quarrel was so serious she would have known it, and would naturally try to hush matters up. Instead of which, she is the first to offer a reward, a large reward, mind you. It is not within reason that she would have done such a thing had she the faintest idea that Philip was the murderer.”

“I beg your pardon, Philip is not her son. There may be no love lost between them.”

“Good God! what a suggestion. You don’t mean to insinuate that she offered that reward knowing her stepson might be guilty.” Thornton looked at Douglas with sudden horror.

For reply Douglas nodded quietly.

“No, no, Douglas, you are shinning up the wrong tree. I have known Mrs. Winthrop for over fifteen years; she wouldn’t injure a fly, let alone try to trap one whom she loves as her own flesh and blood. She was devoted to her husband, and for his sake legally adopted Philip and brought him up as her own son; in fact, she was entirely too indulgent and generous, which has proved his downfall. He hates work like a nigger.”

“Mr. Hunter has drawn a strong case against Philip Winthrop, except for one serious flaw,” broke in Brett, who had been a silent listener to their argument. “And that is that Philip Winthrop was at the Alibi Club on Monday evening. A number of reputable men are willing to swear to that. It is certain that he could not have been in two places at once. Secondly, Mrs. Winthrop swears that her brother spent Monday evening away from this house.” Brett leaned forward and spoke impressively, “Senator Carew was killed by another hand than Philip Winthrop’s.”

“By whose hand?” asked Thornton and Douglas simultaneously.

“Captain Frederick Lane.”

“Fred Lane, of the Engineer Corps?” ejaculated Thornton, much astonished, while Douglas looked as blank as he felt.

“Yes, sir.”

“Bah! you’re mad.”

“Just a moment,” Brett held up a protesting hand. “Don’t condemn my theory unheard. I seemed up against a blank wall in this house, so to-day I started an investigation at the other end; that is, at the residence of Mr. and Mrs. James Owen, where Miss Cynthia Carew attended a dance on Monday night.”

“Go on,” urged Douglas, as Brett stopped and glanced behind him to see that the hall door was closed.

“I called on Mrs. Owen. She was not inclined to be communicative, but her daughter, Miss Alice Owen, who came in during our interview, let the cat out of the bag, and Mrs. Owen had to tell then what she knew, which was this: that Captain Lane and Miss Carew were engaged——” a muttered word escaped Colonel Thornton, and Brett turned to him instantly, “I beg pardon, did you speak?”

“No,” growled the Colonel.

“Apparently they had planned to announce the engagement at the dance,” resumed Brett. “Anyway, Miss Owen, who already knew of it, was told by Miss Carew that her uncle, the Senator, refused to give his consent, and had threatened to turn her out of doors if she did not instantly break the engagement.”

“Poor Cynthia, poor little girl,” murmured Thornton, “I am very fond of her, and her father was my most intimate friend. It was beastly of Carew to issue such an ultimatum. She is entirely dependent upon him.”

“So Miss Owen thought. Miss Carew confided her troubles to her on her arrival. Miss Owen said that while they were sitting in the library Captain Lane came in looking very dejected, and she immediately got up to leave the lovers together. Before leaving the room, however, she overheard Lane tell Miss Carew that he had just seen her uncle, hoping to persuade him to reconsider his refusal, but that he flatly refused to do so in the most insulting terms.”

“Upon my word, for a mild-tempered man, Carew managed to have plenty of quarrels on his hands on Monday,” exclaimed Thornton.

“And the last one undoubtedly brought about his death”; Brett spoke so positively that Douglas hitched his chair nearer in his excitement. “After I had finished my interview with Mrs. Owen I asked permission to question her servants. The footman told me that Miss Carew left the dance earlier than the other guests, and that she had to wait a long time for her carriage. He said he called her carriage check number repeatedly, and with no result. That Captain Lane, becoming impatient, put on his overcoat and hat and walked down the street searching for Miss Carew’s carriage.”

“And you think?” broke in Douglas.

“That Captain Lane not only found the carriage but the Senator sitting in it, and seized the opportunity to punish him for his deviltry to the girl he loved.”

A long pause followed as Colonel Thornton and Douglas sat thinking over Brett’s startling news.

“Where did he get the weapon?” inquired Douglas finally.

“Out of Mrs. Owen’s library, of course. He may have picked it up in a fit of absent-mindedness and carried it with him.”

“Did the footman or butler notice anything in his hand when he left the house?” questioned Thornton.

“I asked them, and they declared that he carried an umbrella in his left hand, and that they had not noticed whether he was holding anything in his right hand or not. The footman declared that it was raining so hard that it was impossible to see anything clearly. They both said Captain Lane was some fifteen minutes returning to the house.”

“Did he find the carriage?”

“He told the footman that he hadn’t, and ordered him to keep calling the number, which he did, and soon after the carriage drove up.”

“Of all the cold-blooded propositions!” ejaculated Douglas. “Do you honestly mean that you think Lane deliberately put the girl he loved into the carriage to sit beside the man he had just murdered?”

“I do,” firmly, “and I stake my reputation as a detective that Captain Lane is guilty. You were with me, Mr. Hunter, when I overheard Miss Carew exclaim, as Miss Thornton entered her bedroom on Tuesday—‘They quarreled, Eleanor, they quarreled.’”

“She may not have been alluding to Captain Lane,” declared Douglas stoutly; “she may have referred to Philip Winthrop. He also quarreled with Senator Carew.”

“Philip is very much in love with Cynthia and wishes to marry her,” volunteered Thornton quietly.

“Is that why Senator Carew objected to her engagement to Captain Lane?” asked Brett. “Did he wish her to marry Philip Winthrop?”

“I never heard that he did”; Thornton paused and reflected a moment. “I might as well tell you, for you will probably hear it from some one else eventually, that there has been a feud of long standing between the Lanes and Carews.”

Douglas whistled. “A Montague and Capulet affair?” he inquired.

“Exactly. Carew and old Governor Lane were political rivals. Lord! how they hated each other! They almost tore Maryland asunder when running for the governorship, which Lane won by a few votes. Carew charged fraud, which, however, was never proved. They cherished their animosity to the day of Governor Lane’s death, and I can imagine it was a terrible shock to Carew to find that his dearly loved niece wanted to marry the Governor’s son.”

“What sort of a fellow is Lane?” asked Douglas.

“A fine specimen of the American gentleman,” exclaimed Thornton enthusiastically, “a soldier, every inch of him, brave to a fault; he has twice been mentioned in orders for gallant conduct—just the sort of a fellow a romantic young girl like Cynthia would fall head over heels in love with.”

“In naming his virtues you have overlooked his greatest fault,” said Brett calmly. “He has a fiendish temper, and, when provoked, falls into the most insane rages, so his brother officers tell me.”

“You are making out a black case against him,” agreed Douglas, “but there is one point you seem to have overlooked, and that is, did the letter file used to kill Senator Carew belong to Mrs. Owen?”

“That is the one flaw in my case,” acknowledged Brett regretfully. “She declines to answer the question.”