AS her voice ceased on the last solemn word Eleanor read astonishment and incredulity written on her listeners’ faces, and her heart sank. She bit her lips to hide their trembling.

“How did you discover Senator Carew was dead, Miss Thornton?” asked the Secretary harshly. “It has been testified that the interior of the landau was dark and that the carriage lamps had been extinguished.”

“I did not see he was dead,”—Eleanor hesitated. “After opening the carriage door I spoke to him several times. On getting no reply, I put out my hand and accidentally touched his chest, and my fingers encountered the round base of the letter file.” Her large eyes filled with horror at the recollection. “I did not, of course, know what it was then, but I realized that something was dreadfully wrong. The Senator’s silence, the touch of that cold metal in such a place terrified me. I drew back, instinctively closed the carriage door, and fled to my house. The next morning I heard of the murder from Annette.”

“Why did you not come forward with this information then?” asked Brett sternly.

“Because I was afraid.” Eleanor threw out her hands appealingly. “I had no one to verify my statements, and I feared I would be charged with the crime. Confident of my own innocence, I did not think any information I might furnish would assist the arrest of the guilty person.”

“You should have spoken sooner,” said Colonel Thornton sharply. He tempered his rebuke by rising and leading Eleanor to his own comfortable chair, into which she sank wearily. “But the harm your silence has done can fortunately be remedied. Philip Winthrop,”—swinging around on the young man,—“your plea that you lacked the weapon used is puerile; you could easily have picked one up at the club; letter files are kept on most desks. Knowing where Senator Carew was to be on Monday night, you laid your plans carefully beforehand, and with devilish ingenuity picked out an unusual weapon, so that it would be harder to trace the murder to you.”

“You lie!” growled Winthrop fiercely; then, addressing them all, “I had nothing whatever to do with the Senator’s death. She did it, though your misplaced sympathy blinds you to the truth.”

“Miss Thornton’s sex will not shield her,” declared the Secretary firmly, “if she be guilty—but, Mr. Winthrop, your story will also be investigated to the minutest detail. Until your innocence is proved without a shadow of a doubt you will consider yourself under arrest. Brett will see that the proper papers are made out.”

Winthrop blanched. “I’m—I’m—in no condition to go to jail,” he stammered. “It is monstrous!”

“Just a moment,” broke in Douglas. He had been deep in thought, and had paid but little attention to their conversation. “You say, Winthrop, that the letter file used to slay Senator Carew belonged to a desk set given to Miss Thornton by Miss Cynthia Carew.”

“I do,” exclaimed Winthrop positively.

Eleanor’s surprise was reflected in her uncle’s face. Was Douglas taking sides against her? Her eyes filled with tears, which she winked hastily away.

“Have you such a desk set, Eleanor?” demanded Douglas.

“Yes, Cynthia gave it to me last Christmas.”

“Is the letter file missing?”

The answer was slow in coming. “Yes,” she breathed faintly.

“Ah! What did I tell you?” cried Winthrop triumphantly.

Douglas paid no attention to him, but continued to address Eleanor. “Where do you keep this desk set?”

“In the writing room across the hall from my drawing-room.”

“Describe your first floor, please, Eleanor.”

“The drawing-room is to the left of the front door; to the right is the small writing room, back of that the staircase, and back of the drawing-room is the dining room. The house is what is called three-quarters.”

“I see. Does the dining room communicate with the drawing-room?”

“Yes; there are old-fashioned sliding doors between the two rooms.”

“Do you use portiÈres?”

“Yes, on all the doors.”

Douglas smiled at her encouragingly, then he turned to the four men. “Miss Thornton has testified that no one of her household knew that Senator Carew was with her Monday night. She is mistaken. There was one other person who knew that fact; who had ample opportunity to overhear her conversation with the Senator; to take the letter file from the desk in the writing room, and steal after him when he left, open the carriage door, and stab him.”

“Who was it?” questioned Eleanor breathlessly, while the others hung on his words.

“The servant who admitted him.”

“Fugi!” gasped Thornton. “My God! I believe you’re right. But the motive, man?”

“An international intrigue.” Douglas caught the Secretary’s eye, who nodded appreciatively. “Miss Thornton has already stated that Senator Carew told her that he had discovered proof of a plot against this country, that the secrets of this government were being betrayed, that he knew the names of the spy or spies, and that he was on the way to inform the Secretary of State. Concealed in one of the portiÈres, Fugi overheard all this, and, to save his own life, killed Senator Carew.”

“You’ve solved it,” declared Brett, rising. “I’ll run over to your house now, Miss Thornton, and catch Fugi before he can get away.”

“I don’t think you’ll find him there,” interposed Eleanor. “Mrs. Truxton went out in my motor for a drive this afternoon, and Fugi, who acts as chauffeur as well as butler, is driving the car. I expect them here at any moment.”

“So much the better.”

“There is a car drawn up alongside of mine now,” exclaimed the Secretary, who had gone over to the window overlooking the street.

Brett started for the door, but, before he reached it, it was flung open and Mrs. Truxton precipitated herself into the room. Her hat was cocked on one side in the most rakish manner and her flushed face testified to her perturbed state of mind.

“I’ve found you, Mr. Secretary!” she exclaimed, slamming the door shut. “Don’t go,” as Brett moved past her. “I went to your house, then to the State Department——” She stopped, breathless.

“Sit down,” said the Secretary soothingly, “and tell me why you wished to see me so urgently.”

“Oh, dear, I’m so confused!” Mrs. Truxton drew a long breath, then plunged into her story. “I stopped at our house, Eleanor, as I had forgotten to bring my writing materials here. I found my letter book in my room where I had left it, and, on opening it, discovered this letter addressed to you, Mr. Secretary”—drawing out an envelope from her handbag. “I can’t conceive where it came from,” added the poor woman, “except that I left my letter book in Eleanor’s drawing-room on Monday night on my way to bed. I was up early Tuesday morning before any of the servants were down, and, on entering the drawing-room, found my letter book still lying on the table, with several of its leaves turned over. I gathered up all the papers without looking at them carefully, and took them up to my desk and laid them away in a drawer. This is the first time I have opened the letter book, for in your absence, Eleanor, I have used your writing room.” Mrs. Truxton paused to take breath. “It’s marked ‘important,’ and that’s why I hurried after you; besides, handwriting is like a photograph to me, and I never forget one I have seen—that letter is from Senator Carew.”

“Good God! the missing letter!” shouted Brett.

The Secretary took the letter from Mrs. Truxton and tore it open, and, in a voice of suppressed excitement, read its contents aloud.

A chair was dashed aside, and, before anyone could move, Colonel Thornton had thrown open the hall door and disappeared. So totally unexpected was the dÉnouement that the others sat too stunned to move, and that moment’s respite gave Thornton his chance. The roar of a motor broke the spell, and the men, galvanized into sudden action, raced to the front door, only in time to see Eleanor’s powerful car, far down the street, with Colonel Thornton at the wheel. He turned the machine into Wisconsin Avenue and disappeared.