"I don't say," Miss Jarvis answered, "that I know who the man was. If I did, I'd shout it from the housetops. What I say is that it is a wicked shame for Mr. Truman, who is a fine young man, to be locked up for a murder he did not commit."

"How was this black-bearded stranger dressed, Miss Jarvis?"

That was an easy one for the seamstress. She took it in her stride: "He wore a black slouch hat, a black sateen shirt, a vivid red bandanna handkerchief, blue serge pantsa"like an old time gold minera" and he had on a pair of scuffed brown oxfords. As I told you, that is what I saw-"

"While you were bicycling past the Grundle farm?"

"Yes, sir. I wanted you to know this." She started for the door. "If you want to use my testimony I'll gladly take the witness stand and tell in detail what I saw. I have withheld a certain amount of detail to use in the courtroom scene."

"Scene?" Gillian said, as if baffled.

"I mean, in the courtroom. I will bide my time. And I must say it's an honor to meet you. I knew you would be courtly and gallant and considerate." She shot a sour glance at Seth Peters. "Which is more," she added acidly, "than I can say for some of the younger members of your glorious profession."

Gillian gave her his courtliest, his most gallant bow. And when the door was closed and she was safely out of earshot, he sat down and covered his face with his hands.

But Seth Peters did not see the humor of it.

"She's nothing but a d.a.m.ned old pest," the young man said.

Gillian feebly waved his hand. "I know, I know," he said weakly. "The poor old girl is in an awful predicament. Her pride is involved. She has told this lie and she has to stick to it."

"She's the worst old liar in town. She's notorious."

"Yes. She's a congenital liara"just as Nellie Hearthstone is a congenital, truth-teller. Miss Jarvis has doubtless led a dry, dull, uneventful life. Who knows what glorious adventures she lives through as she bicycles about the county? This liea"this romance she told us about a man got up like something out of an old-fashioned stage melodramaa"is like the bear that had a man holding its tail. The man didn't dare let go. Miss Jarvis must stand by her lie. She must nourish it along. It is already so real to her that she believes it herself. Do you know who that black-bearded man really is?"

Seth Peters looked perplexed, "What do you mean, Mr. Hazeltine, who is he?"

"I'll tell you," Gillian laughed.

"That man is our old frienda"the bogey man. He is the mysterious, invisible bad man we think about as kids. We think we forget about him when we grow up, but we never do. He always bobs up at murder trials. There was a black-bearded, mysterious stranger mentioned in the Hall-Mills case. When Ruth Snyder and Judd Gray killed Albert Snyder, she told the police that a black-bearded giant of a man had come to the bedside, bent over her husband and bashed in his skull with sash weight a"or was it a hammer? We hate to admit it, but most of us still believe in the bogeyman. Who else is it that makes us scared to walk into a black room?"

"I suppose you're right," Seth Peters politely agreed, "but it's pretty obvious that we can't save Jim Truman with a bogey man alibi."

Gillian shrugged. "You never know who or what you may use in a case as tough as this one," he said. "Shall we drive out and see how Jeff Pavlitch stacks up as the one and only witness for the defense? How old is he?"

"About forty-seven."

"Married?"

"Yes, sir; to an American woman. I talked to them yesterday. As a matter of fact, Pavlitch has been talking pretty freely. He hated Grundle."

"If I were you, Peters, I'd send him away until the: very day you want his testimony. Don't let Dawbridge know about him. Don't even let him appear at the grand jury inquiry. He is your table card."

CHAPTER 8. SECOND MURDER.

TWO reporters were lounging in Gillian's coupe, and three more were making themselves at home on the running board when the two lawyers crossed the sidewalk.

One of the five was Josh Hammersley of the Timesa"an old and trusted friend of Gillian's. Josh threw away a cigarette and said: Yeah, I expected to run into you out here, Gill. A good wholesome murder can't take place anywhere these days without your being in it up to your ears."

"I'm not in this one, Josh."

"You will be, sooner or later. If I were a lawyer, I would climb aboard if only to annoy Dawbridge. We ornaments of the press have developed acute cases of tin-eara"it is from listening to the roar of bouquets hurled by Mr. Elton Dawbridge at Mr. Elton Dawbridge."

A reporter seized Gillian roughly by the arm. "Say," he barked, "who killed Amos Grundle?"

"c.o.c.k Robin," Gillian answered.

"The bogey man," Seth Peters sourly added. "He has long black whiskers, he creeps from tree to tree like an Indian, he shoots his victims with diamonds, and he can be seen only from a bicycle."

"There's your story," Gillian said. "Go and interview Nettie Jarvis, the seamstress."

The reporters collectively groaned. Josh Hammersley said, plaintively: "Interview her! We can't get away from her. She asked me an hour ago if I would like to run the story of her life in serial form. Gill, be a good egg and let us have the exclusive story that you are taking this case."

Gillian shook his head. "When I go back to town tonight, I'm washed up."

"You mean," Josh guessed, "Truman hasn't a chance. He is sewed up in a bag and the bag is dangling from Dawbridge's scalp belt. Wella"give us some dope on the Hearthstone girl. What is shea"the sweetheart of Clinton County?"

"Nope. I talked to her for four hours. She's decent, cultured, refined. A wonderful girl."

"Can Dawbridge make her testify against Truman?"

"Yes."

One of the reporters grinned.

"You're saying, Mr. Hazeltine, that the Hearthstone girl saw Truman murder Amos Grundle. That's great! Now, tell us how he happened to use that d.a.m.ned diamond."

Gillian looked at him coldly, then at Josh Hammersley.

"Josh," he said, "this young man is evidently new and overambitious. You might take him aside and tell him how it distresses me when I am misquoted. I'll give you boys an interesting sidelight on the Hearthstone girl. She is a psychological rarity. She literally cannot tell a lie. Because of her obscure origin, she has a tremendous amount of pride. This excessive pride has made her so honest, so truthful that the normal man or woman could not grasp it."

"Is this straight?" Josh demanded. Gillian nodded.

"Wait a minute!" Seth Peters interrupted. "Aren't you apt to hurt the case, Mr. Hazeltine, by letting that out?"

"Not a bit of it. What the case most needs is public sympathy. When the public learns that Nellie Hearthstone is a decent, high-principled girl, sentiment will swing to her. Public sentiment is the most powerful weapon a lawyer can use."

"How about that will?" a reporter asked.

"Miss Hearthstone told me flatly that she will not touch a cent of Grundle's, money."

"What's the defense going to be?"

"Ask Mr. Peters. He is Truman's lawyer."

Several of the reporters grinned. One of them told Peters, "You'd better kidnap Mr. Hazeltine, buddy. If you don't, when Elton Dawbridge gets through with you, you'll ride out of this town with a lily in your hand."

Gillian said quickly, "Let's go, Peters." He climbed behind the wheel. Peters got in beside him.

It was beginning to sprinkle. Lightning flickered in the west, and the faraway rumbling of thunder rolled through the streets like the sound of distant drums.

Following Seth Peters' directions, Gillian drove rapidly out of town along a badly rutted dirt road. At the Grundle farmhouse, which was in total darkness, Gillian slowed but did not stop. Several cars were parked in the ditches. Flashlights gleamed, like fireflies. Curiosity-seekers were evidently swarming over the premises. Gillian drove on.

"There's a car following us," Peters said presently. "I think those reporters are after us."

"We'll have to duck them. Where is Pavlitch's house?"

"Up a side road a half mile on. Step on it!"

Gillian stepped on it. As they neared the side road, he switched off his lights and drove slowly around the corner. After an interval, two cars went flying past on the main road. Gillian waited until they were well past, then switched on the dimmers and drove on.

Rain was now failing heavily. It made of the small structure, which Seth Peters designated as the Pavlitch farmhouse, a somewhat ghostly residence. It was unpainted, and the weather had blackened it. Oil lamps at curtainless windows added to its air of desolation.

Even before Gillian had turned off the ignition, he heard the m.u.f.fled wailing of a woman. It was a shivery sound. He ran across the yard and into the house. The room he entered showed various evidences of poverty. There were no rugs or carpets on the scrubbed floor. The furniture was poor and shabby.

A man was lying on a couch against one wall. Beside the couch a woman was huddled in a chair, wailing.

She was unaware of Gillian's presence until he spoke; then she sprang up with a scream.

Gillian felt more than a little faint. Accustomed as he was to murders, the sight of a dead man always affected him. And one glance at the figure on the couch was sufficient to tell him that Jeff Pavlitch was dead.

The woman was too hysterical to do more than babble, and wail. But Gillian, gently questioning her, gathered that it had all happened within the last two hours. A man had come to the door and asked Jeff to step outside. He had been gone about an hour. Mrs. Pavlitch, worried over the sinister developments of the past week, had gone out to look for him.

She had found him, lying in the ditch at the fork, with his skull crushed in, as if he had been struck with terrific force by some heavy objecta"a club, perhaps. She had run back for a wheelbarrow and brought him home in that.

Seth Peters, almost as white as the man on the couch, was staring past Gillian.

"The coroner," he said shakily, "will find that he was struck by a pa.s.sing car-driver unknown. Page Elton Dawbridge!"

Gillian led him outside. As they returned to the coupe through the rain, the young lawyer said savagely: "It gives me a choked, strangled feeling, as if everything was closing in. Vollmer, the coroner, is Dawbridge's brother-in-law. You know as well as I do that Dawbridge put Pavlitch on the spot. He isn't going to leave the smallest stone unturned. He has killed the only witness I could possibly count on for help. What can I do now?"

Peters cursed in his half-hysterical horror.

CHAPTER 9. THE $150,000 BET.

BACK in Seth Peters's office, Gillian took a cigar from his pocket, lighted it and began pacing slowly up and down the small room, with a vertical groove between his eyes, a pale banner of smoke trailing after him.

Seth Peters sat hunched on the edge of his desk, his smoldering blue eyes following Gillian's strides, his face haggard, his air one of hopeless defeat. He had seen, in the past few days, the crumbling of his hopes to get a foothold in Clinton and to deal summarily with the rascals who ran Clinton.

He was whipped by ruthless might before he had a chance to fight. If the truth were known, he was more than a little disappointed in Gillian Hazeltine. He had heard so much about this slender, keen-eyed man. His enemies called him the Silver Foxa"and not because Hazeltine's black hair was prematurely sprinkled with silver. He was supposed to be so brilliant, so resourceful. Well, if he was so d.a.m.ned clever, why didn't he do something? Why did he talk so childishly about bogeymen?

Gillian now and then halted his stroll, removed the cigar from his mouth, and gazed thoughtfully, almost hopefully, at the ash. Then, with an imperceptible headshake, he strolled on.

Ideas were coming to Gillian from the thin air or, perhaps, the cigar ash, but he discarded them as rapidly as they presented themselves.

On one of his turns, feet were heard on the stairs. The flimsy building vibrated with the heavy footfalls.

Gillian stopped in his tracks and owlishly gazed at the door. Seth Peters swung about and glared at the frosted gla.s.s panel.

"More reporters," Gillian guessed.

"Nettie Jarvis," Seth Peters said cynically, "about to divulge further details on the bogey man."

The door opened. It was Elton Dawbridge. His theatrical black eyes seemed to snap. His wavy black hair was disordered. He stepped over the threshold and firmly closed the door behind him. His eyes danced from Seth Peters to Gillian.

The county prosecutor placed his back against the door. He looked dangerous. There was somehow in his appearance and air a suggestion of a panther crouched to spring.

"I want to know," he said coldly, "what you are doing in this town, Hazeltine."

Gillian leisurely replaced the cigar in his mouth and puffed at it. The question seemed to puzzle him. It was as if he were asking himself just what he was doing in this town.

"I'll tell you," Gillian drawled. "I'm curious to find out how you're going to launder Clinton's dirty linen. There's so much of it to wash that I'm anxious to know where you're going to begin."

"Now it's my turn to ask one," Seth Peters whipped out as he rose from the desk. "You dirty rat, who invited you to come into my office?"

The county prosecutor glanced at him and smiled. It was a thin, contemptuous smile. He wasn't afraid of this c.o.c.ky youngster. His eyes, when he swung them back to Gillian, were, however, hard and measuring.

"Are you coming into this, Hazeltine, as his a.s.sociate counsel?"

"No!" Seth Peters snapped. "And I'd give my right arm if he were! We'd give you a run for your moneya"you rat!"

Elton Dawbridge ignored him. Gillian blew three perfect smoke rings at the ceiling. The county prosecutor smiled.

"You've made a very wise decision, Hazeltine. I don't have to tell you what this case represents to me. I'll come clean, because I want you to realize that this case is dynamite. This case is an opportunity for which I've been waiting for years. It means I'm through being a hick town lawyer. I'm going to be the next attorney general of this State."

Seth Peters was breathing hard through dilating nostrils.

"That isn't news," he said hotly. "This isn't a question of whether Jim Truman goes to the chair rightly or wrongly, to you. His electrocution is nothing to you but a peg to hang publicity on."

The county prosecutor continued to ignore him. "You see what I mean, don't you, Hazeltine?"

"Yes," Gillian said, "I see what you mean."

"And you see that there's no room here, don't you, for your clever tricks, courtroom surprises, lying witnesses, bought judges."

"It's funny," Gillian remarked, "the way you harp on my tricks. How could any tricka"any kind of trick possibly save that Truman boy from the chair, with you prosecuting, Lindley presiding, and a handpicked jury with a verdict decided before the show starts?"