"That will be all. Does the State wish to cross-examine this witness?"

"I want to ask the witness just one question," Dawbridge said sourly. "Do you know, Miss Jarvis, that you have the reputation of being the greatest liar in Clinton County?"

Gillian snapped an objectiona"and was overruled. Dawbridge and his judge were going to carry the fight to the last ditch.

Miss Nettie Jarvis left the stand to a fluttering and a t.i.ttering. She looked very indignant. With nose in air, she disappeared. Her great moment had been crowned with an insult.

Dawbridge drifted over to Gillian. His mouth was a snarl.

"You haven't heard the end of this," he growled. "Those X-ray films were fakesa"and you know it! Was there a bullet hole in the back of that shirt?"

"Ask the shirt," Gillian answered.

"I'll cook you yet!"

"I'll make a tough disha"Senator!"

"Next witness!" snapped the judge. "Mary Nolan. "

Dawbridge turned in his tracks so sharply that he almost fell, His widening eyes looked at Gillian. He strode back.

"Look here, Hazeltine. What's the big idea?"

"Live and learn," Gillian answered.

"Why are you calling that girl to the stand?"

"You can cross-examine her to your heart's content," Gillian replied, "when I'm through with her. Don't forget the bet!"

The county prosecutor licked his lips, watched the girl on the stand uneasily, and relapsed into silence.

She was a pretty, bright-eyed country girl. She looked wholesome and fresh.

Gillian began firing questions at her: "Miss Nolan, where did you grow up?"

"Clinton Orphanage," Miss Nolan said briskly.

"Was Mrs. Truman, formerly Nellie Hearthstone, there with you?"

"Yes, sir."

"What was and is your opinion of the orphanage superintendent, based on your personal experience and observation?"

"Mr. Wardell was the finest, kindest man I ever knew."

"Did you ever know him to auction off pretty orphans to the highest bidders?"

"No, sir. That was a vile lie."

"What is your occupation?"

"I am a cook."

"Where are you employed?"

"At present, I am not employed."

"Where was your last position?"

"I worked for Mr. and Mrs. Elton Dawbridge."

A faint hum rose in the courtroom; but fell-off into eager silence again.

"Why did you leave his employment?"

"Because I knew too much."

Elton Dawbridge sprang up. His mouth was working savagely. His fists were clenched. His eyes were ablaze.

He shouted: "That girl is lying! She's lying! This is a dirty, cold-blooded frame-up!"

Gillian said patiently: "Your honor, will you please request this gentleman to refrain from interrupting me? He may take this witness for cross-examination in just a moment."

His honor did nothing but stare with hungry fascination at Gillian.

Gillian took advantage of the lull to say: "Miss Nolan, what do you meana"you knew too much? Kindly tell the jury just what you meant."

"I meant simply that I knew how violently Mr. Dawbridge and Mr. Grundle quarreled and fought."

"Fought?" Gillian snapped.

"Yes, sira"fought. They fought terribly. Every time Mr. Grundle came to the house, they fought. And one time, just a few days before the murder, Mr. Dawbridge shouted that he was going to kill Mr. Grundle."

"Your honor-" Dawbridge began, and choked.

"What did they fight about?" Gillian asked.

"The graft."

"What graft?"

"Well, you see, Mr. Dawbridge had put Mr. Grundle on the board of education and the board of charities, and he grafted. And Mr. Dawbridge thought Mr. Grundle was holding out on him."

"OBJECTION!" roared Mr. Dawbridge, who was now purple.

"Sustained!" cried the judge somewhat hastily.

"And then," the girl went on sweetly, I suppose I knew too much about the masquerade party."

"What masquerade party?" Gillian gently prompted her.

"The firemen's ball, held in Hook and Ladder Company Number Seven's firehouse last Washington's Birthday."

"Did Mr. Dawbridge attend that masquerade party?"

"Indeed, he did, sir. He won the second prize."

"How was he dressed"'

Dawbridge sprang up. But the girl answered so rapidly that he could not even force words out of his throat.

"He was dressed as a gold-miner. He wore a thick black beard, a black sateen shirt, a bright, red bandanna handkerchief, a black slouch hat, and scuffed brown oxfords."

"Could you identify the costume if you saw it?"

"Yes, sir."

Gillian opened a paper package on his table; held up, in turn, a thick black false beard, a black sateen shirt, a bright red bandanna handkerchief, a pair of old blue pants, and a pair of scuffed brown oxfords.

"Where," Mr. Dawbridge roared, "did you get those?"

"Out of your bedroom closet," Gillian snapped.

Mr. Dawbridge now found his voice. He shouted objections. He insisted that every line of Mary Nolan's testimony be stricken from the record. He shouted at the girl that every word of her testimony was a flagrant lie, manufactured testimony.

"Didn't you wear this costume at the Firemen's Washington's Birthday masquerade party?" Gillian demanded.

"Yes! What of it? What does it prove? You dirty trickster! Your honor-"

But his voice was lost in bedlam. He was still fighting, not knowing that the battle was over. Judge Lindley, however, was fully aware that Elton Dawbridge's powerful machine was smashed. The judge was, in fact, the first rat to leave the ship.

He demanded order. He gave instructions to the jury so brief that his address consumed no more than five minutes. What he told them, in so many words, was to bring in an acquittal verdict for James Truman, and to bring it in on the jump.

Dawbridge had the look of a man distracted beyond all normal mental bounds. His face white, his hair and eyes wild, he attempted, in the hubbub, to denounce Gillian. He used the word trickster, with profane and picturesque variations, forty times in two minutes.

"Am I accusing you of the murder?" Gillian finally countered. "My dear Elton, I am not a detective or policemana"I am not even suggesting that the State prosecute any one for Grundle's death. I am merely a hardworking lawyer, struggling to bring the light of justice into the dark places of the land."

The frantic county attorney left him and pleaded with the newspapermen. Nettie Jarvis had seen him at the party; she had been coached; he had been framed, he declared. The reporters laughed at him.

Mr. and Mrs. James Truman seemed in a daze. They sat at the table, holding hands and gazing into each other's eyes.

No one heard what Nellie said to her husband: "Isn't it marvelous, darling? You won't have the slightest shadow on your conscience, because there's not the slightest doubt about it. Mr. Hazeltine's proved that it was the bulleta"not the diamond."

Her husband looked ten years younger already.

Yet there was just a shade of doubt, just a suspicion of suspicion, in more cynical quarters. Josh Hammersley had Gillian in a corner.

"Come clean, you old vulture," he was saying. "You know d.a.m.ned well that whole bogey man story, including Hoffman's films, is phony. Your secret will be safe with me, Gill. Come clean."

"Josh," Gillian protested, "you astonish me. You hurt me. If any of you reporters had ever taken Nettle Jarvis's 'mysterious stranger' story seriously enough, you might have begun asking yourself where someone would have come up with an outfit as much like a theatrical costume as she described. Or, you might have begun the other way. and asked yourselves why Dawbridge was so determined to convict and hang Jim Truman that he'd even hire perjured witnesses. He even went so far as to have a couple of members of the local mob try to rub me out with a Tommy gun along a dark road one night. That's what started me thinking."

"Yeah, I heard about that," the crestfallen reporter replied. "Are you going to follow this up and get out an indictment for Dawbridge?"

"Why should I?"

"You mean, you've smashed him for life. Sure, you have. But are you going to follow it up?"

"No, Josh. I am going abroad with my wife, and spend part of the hundred and fifty thousand dollar profit I made recently in a business deal. We are going to London-Paris-Florence-Rome."

"Listen! What was that exclusive story you were going to hand out?"

"Ah, yes," Gillian murmured. "It's a nice little story. It's about Jim Truman and his bride. It's about their honeymoon. They are going to the same little village in southern France where my wife and I spent our honeymoon. Villeneuve. It's in the rose orchards, Josh. It's near the champagne orchards, too, Josh. What a wonderful, romantic spot for a honeymoona"with the azure Mediterranean before you, the glorious snow-capped Alps behind you! And what charm. And after the honeymoon, we are all going to meet in Paris-for a little whoopee."

"Listen, Gillian, just satisfy my personal curiosity, won't you? Was that Nolan girl telling the truth?"

"Didn't she take an oath?"

Josh scratched his head. "You know d.a.m.ned well that Jarvis woman is the worst liar in the world. She could have seen that costume when Dawbridge wore it, and remembered."

"Don't forget," Gillian said sternly, "that, at least once in their lives, the worst liars in the world may break all laws and tell the truth."

But Seth Peters, overhearing this conversation, still doubted. He was remembering another conversation, when Gillian had joked that to save their client his personal inclination was to "pin the job on Elton Dawbridge or Judge Lindley." Had that been nothing more than a joke? Or was his victory today simply the result of another of the Silver Fox's famous courtroom tricks?

But Gillian was supremely unconcerned, as he puffed contentedly on his cigar and fought his way out of the courtroom. He paused resignedly to pose for several hundred feet of motion picture film, and then walked over to the telegraph office.

To Governor Judson Withrow he sent the following cryptic telegram: "The Rat Wears a Bell."

There was a smile on Gillian's face when he left.

END.