“WELL, and what then?” demanded a curt voice behind the group. The three men and Eleanor wheeled around and gazed at the young officer in surprise too deep for words. “Well, what then?” demanded Captain Lane for the second time.

“How did you get here?” asked Brett, recovering from his surprise.

“Through the door. How did you suppose?” with a flicker of amusement in his handsome eyes. “The butler told me I would find you here when he admitted me a few seconds ago.” Then his face grew stern. “I entered in time to overhear your remark,”—turning directly to Brett. “Because your men did not see me leave the house it doesn’t follow that I spent the night here.”

“Then where did you spend it?” asked Brett swiftly.

“With my cousin, General Phillips, at his apartment at the Dupont,” calmly.

“At what hour did you reach his apartment?”

“About twelve o’clock.”

“And where were you between the hours of nine-thirty and twelve?”

“Most of the time walking the streets.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.” Lane faced them all, head up and shoulders back, and gave no sign that he was aware of the antagonism which he felt in the tense atmosphere. The coroner was the next to speak.

“Suppose you take a chair, Captain Lane, and give us a more detailed account of your actions last night,” he suggested, and Lane dragged forward a chair and seated himself. “When did you leave this house?”

“About half-past ten o’clock.” He caught Eleanor’s start of surprise, and added hastily, “I am, as perhaps you already know, engaged to Miss Carew. During our interview last night she fainted, and I summoned Miss Thornton, who urged me to go, but I felt that I could not leave the house until I knew that Miss Carew was better. So, instead of going out of the front door, I picked up my coat and hat and slipped into the dining room, which was empty.”

“What was your object in going there?”

“I hoped that Miss Thornton would come downstairs again, and I could then get an opportunity to speak to her.”

“Would it not have been better and more straight-forward to have stepped into the library and informed Colonel Thornton of your presence in his house?” asked the coroner, dryly.

Lane flushed at his tone. “Possibly it would,”—haughtily,—“but I was acting on impulse; I was extremely alarmed by Miss Carew’s condition and could think of nothing else.”

“What caused Miss Carew’s indisposition?” inquired the coroner.

“She is not strong, and overtaxed her strength yesterday.”

The coroner did not press the point, to Lane’s relief. “Did anyone see you in the dining room last night?”

“I think not; the room was not lighted, and the table had been already cleared, so no servant entered the room.”

“Did you see Miss Thornton again?”

“No. I had not been waiting long before I saw Colonel Thornton come down the stairs with a man whom I judged to be a physician. As they passed the dining room door I heard the doctor tell Colonel Thornton that Miss Carew had regained consciousness, and would be all right after a night’s rest. A few minutes after that I left the house.”

“How?”

“I have dined frequently with Colonel Thornton and know the house fairly well; so, as I had promised to keep my visit to Miss Carew a secret, I opened the long French window which gives on the south veranda, ran down the steps, and walked down the garden path, jumped the fence between this property and the next, and walked out of their gate into the street.”

Brett said something under his breath that was not complimentary to his detective force. “May I ask you why you thought such precautions necessary?” he inquired.

“Because I was perfectly aware that I had been followed over here,” retorted Lane calmly. “And, as I considered it nobody’s business but my own if I chose to call on Miss Carew, I decided to avoid them.”

“And what did you and Annette, Miss Thornton’s French maid, discuss before you left here?” Brett rose to his feet and confronted Lane squarely as he put the question.

“I did not speak to anyone except Miss Carew and Miss Thornton while in this house,”—steadily.

“No? Then perhaps you only saw the maid, Annette, when she was asleep?”—with emphasis.

“I don’t catch your meaning?” Lane tapped his foot nervously with his swagger stick.

“Listen to me, Captain Lane,”—Brett dropped back in his chair and emphasized his remarks by frequent taps on the table with his left hand. “You can’t dodge the issue with fake testimony.”

“I am dodging nothing!” Lane’s eyes flashed ominously and his voice deepened, the voice of a born fighter, accustomed to command. “I have no testimony to fake.”

“I suppose you will say next,”—sarcastically,—“that you don’t know the maid, Annette, is dead.”

“Dead?” echoed Lane, bounding from his chair.

“Dead—murdered last night.”

“Good God!” There was no mistaking Lane’s agitation and surprise. Brett watched him closely; if he was acting, it was a perfect performance. “How—what killed her?”

“Asphyxiated by illuminating gas,”—briefly,—“when asleep last night.”

“This is horrible!” Lane paced the floor in uncontrollable excitement. “But what,” pulling himself up, “what has that unfortunate girl’s death to do with me?”

“What had you to do with the unfortunate girl’s death is more to the point,” retorted Brett meaningly, and Lane recoiled.

“By God; I’ll not stand such an insinuation!” He made a threatening step toward Brett, who did not move. “Are you such a fool as to imagine because I was in this house for a short time last night that I killed a servant whom I had seen occasionally when she opened the door for me on my calling at Miss Thornton’s residence?”

“I am not a fool, nor am I a believer in miracles.” Brett grew cool as Lane’s excitement rose. “I was to have seen Annette this morning to get sworn testimony which she said would implicate you in Senator Carew’s murder.” Lane staggered back, appalled. “Instead, I find her dead, under mysterious circumstances; you are the only person whom her death benefits. And you were in this house, unknown to the inmates, and, by your own admission, no one saw you leave it. It is stretching the probabilities to suppose her death was a coincidence. You, and you alone,”—his voice rang out clearly,—“had the motive and the opportunity to bring about her death.”

“I deny it—deny it absolutely!” thundered Lane, his knuckles showing white, so tightly were his fingers clenched over his swagger stick, which he raised threateningly.

“Stop, Mr. Brett!” exclaimed Eleanor, who, with Douglas and the coroner, had sat too astounded to speak during the rapid colloquy between the two men. “You forget that the door to the southwest chamber occupied by Annette was locked on the inside, and that door was the only means of entering the room. It is only fair to you, Captain Lane,”—turning courteously to the young officer,—“to remind Mr. Brett of the very obvious fact that no one could have entered the sleeping woman’s room, blown out the light, and, on leaving the room, locked and bolted the door on the inside, leaving the key in the lock.”

“Thanks,” exclaimed Lane gratefully, as he sat down and wiped the perspiration from his white face.

Brett scowled. He had hoped that his summing up of damaging facts and sudden accusation might wring a confession from Lane, or, if not that, some slip of the tongue which the other might make in his agitation might give him a clew as to how the murder was committed. He was convinced of Lane’s guilt. He glanced angrily at Eleanor. Why had she intervened? Long and silently he gazed at the beautiful face. The broad forehead, delicately arched eyebrows, and the large wistful eyes, shaded by long curling eyelashes, and finely chiseled features were well worth looking at; but Brett did not see them—a new problem was puzzling his active brain.

“I understood you to say, Captain Lane, that you had promised to keep your visit here a secret,” he said, breaking into the conversation of the others. “To whom did you make such a promise?”

“To Miss Thornton.” The question was unexpected, and the answer slipped out thoughtlessly; then Lane bit his lip as he caught Eleanor’s warning glance too late.

Brett turned swiftly on Eleanor. “Why did you wish him to keep his visit here a secret, Miss Thornton?”

“Because I was afraid Mrs. Winthrop would hear that Captain Lane and her niece had met here; my uncle might inadvertently mention it to her. Mrs. Winthrop does not approve of Captain Lane’s attentions to Miss Carew,” explained Eleanor quietly.

“On what grounds?”—quickly.

“Ask Mrs. Winthrop; she can tell you better than I.”

“I will,” grimly. “Captain Lane,” wheeling around, “why have you returned to this house at so early an hour in the morning?”

“I came to inquire for Miss Carew. I asked to see Miss Thornton, and the butler showed me into this room. And this is the first opportunity I have had, Miss Eleanor, to ask you how Cynthia is this morning.” His face betrayed his anxiety.

“She is asleep just now,” answered Eleanor, “but I hope she will be much better when she wakes up. I will tell her that you have called.”

“Thanks.” Lane rose. He felt that he was dismissed. “Has Cynthia been told of Annette’s death?”

“Not yet. We explained the breaking in of the door of the southwest chamber by saying that Nicodemus had locked it and neglected to tell Colonel Thornton, who had it forced open.”

“I understand.” Lane shook hands with her warmly. “Will you please telephone me how Cynthia is. I’ll be at the Army and Navy Club all day. Good morning.” He bowed formally to the coroner and Douglas, then turned to leave the room, only to find his exit barred by Brett.

“It is my duty to inform you, Captain Lane, that a warrant has been sworn out for your arrest,” he announced, taking a paper from his pocket.

Lane stepped back involuntarily. “What do you mean?” he stammered.

“In the name of the law I arrest you for the murder of Senator Carew.” Brett ceased speaking and signaled to several men who were sitting in the hall to enter the room.

It was some seconds before Lane broke the strained silence.

“Stand back!” he growled between clenched teeth, as the two detectives approached him. “I’ll go with you peaceably. Let me tell you, Brett,” glaring defiantly at him, “you’ll live to regret this day’s work! Who swore out that warrant?”

“Mrs. Winthrop.”

Lane gazed at him in dazed surprise. “Mrs. Winthrop!” he mumbled. “Mrs. Winthrop!”