"Rubbish! I've heard that before! It doesn't mean a thing, any more than the old saw that 'murder will out' is true."

"All right, sir, that's one; then, again, there's a chance that said murderer may not be able to stay away because we may catch him."

"That's the talk!" said Bannard. "Now you've said something worth while.

Get your man, and then find out from him how he accomplished the impossible. Or, rather, the seemingly impossible. For, since somebody did enter that room, there was a way to enter it."

"It isn't the entering, you know, Mr. Bannard. Everybody was out of the living room at the time, and the intruder could have walked right in the side door of that room, and through into Mrs. Pell's sitting room. The question is, how did he get out, after ransacking the room and killing the lady, and yet leave the door locked after him."

"All right, that's your problem then. But, as I said, if he _did_ do it, or _since_ he did do it, somebody ought to be able to find out how."

"I'll subscribe to that, somebody _ought_ to be able to, but who is the somebody?"

"Don't ask me, I'm no detective."

"No, sir. Now, Mr. Bannard, what about this? Do you think that Florentine pocket-book, that was found emptied, as if by the robber, is the one that your aunt left you in her will?"

"I think it is, Mr. Hughes. But I am by no means certain. Indeed, I suppose it, only because it looks as if it had held something of value which the intruder cared enough for to carry off with him."

"You think it looks that way?"

"I don't," interposed Iris. "I think there was nothing in it, and that's why it was flung down. If it had had contents the thief would have taken pocket-book and all."

"Not necessarily," said Bannard. "But it's all supposition. If that's the pocket-book my aunt willed to me, it's worthless now. If there is another Florentine pocket-book, I hope I can find it. You see, Miss Darrel, we'll have to make a search of my aunt's belongings. Why all the jewels may be hidden in among her clothing."

"No," and Iris shook her head decidedly. "Aunt Ursula never would have done that."

"Oh, I don't think so, either, but we _must_ hunt up things. She may have had a dozen Florentine pocket-books, for all I know."

"But the will said, in the desk," Iris reminded him. "And there's no other in the desk, and that one has been there for a long time. I've often seen it there."

"You have?" said Hughes, a little surprised. "What was in it?"

"I never noticed. I never thought anything about it, any more than I thought of any other book or paper in Mrs. Pell's desk. She didn't keep money in it, that I know. But she did keep money in that little handbag, quite large sums, at times."

"Well," Hughes said, at last, by way of a general summing up, "I've searched the cellar, and I've long since searched the room where the lady died, and now I must ask permission to search the room above that one."

"Of course," agreed Miss Darrel. "That's your room, Iris."

"Yes; the detective is quite at liberty to go up there at once, so far as I am concerned."

The others remained below while Hughes and Iris went upstairs.

But after a few minutes they returned, and Hughes declared that all thought of any secret pa.s.sage from Iris' room down to her aunt's sitting room was absolutely out of the question.

"This house is built about as complicatedly as a packing-box!" he laughed. "There's no cubby or corner unaccounted for. There are no thickened walls or unexplained bulges, or measurements that don't gee.

No, sir-ee! However that wretch got out of that locked room, it was not by means of a secret exit. I'll stake my reputation on that! Now, having for the moment dismissed the question of means or method from my mind, I want to ask a few questions of one concerning whom, I frankly admit, I am in doubt. Mr. Bannard, you've no objection, of course, to replying?"

"Of course not," returned Bannard, but he suddenly paled.

Iris, too, turned white, and caught her breath quickly. "Don't you answer, Win," she cried; "don't you say a word without counsel!"

"Why, Iris, nonsense! Mr. Hughes isn't--isn't accusing me----"

"I'll put the questions, and you can do as you like about answering."

Hughes spoke a little more gruffly than he had been doing, and looked sternly at his man.

"Were you up in this locality on Sunday afternoon, Mr. Bannard?"

"I was not. I've told you so before."

"That doesn't make it true. How do you explain the fact that Mrs. Pell made out to you a check dated last Sunday?"

"I've already discussed that," Bannard spoke slowly and even hesitatingly, but he looked Hughes in the eye, and his glance didn't falter. "My aunt drew that check and sent it to me by mail----"

"We've proved she sent no letter to you on Sunday----"

"Oh, no, you haven't. You've only proved that Campbell didn't mail a letter from her to me."

Hughes paused, then went on slowly.

"All right, when did you get that letter?"

"How do you know I got it at all?"

"Because you've deposited the check in your bank in New York."

"And how did I deposit it?"

"By mail, from here, day before yesterday."

"Certainly I did. Well?"

But Bannard's jauntiness was forced. His voice shook and his fingers were nervously twisting.

Hughes continued sternly. "I ask you again, Mr. Bannard, how did you receive that check? How did it come into your possession?"

"Easily enough. I wrote to my hotel to forward my mail, and they did so.

There were two or three checks, the one in question among them, and I endorsed them and sent them to the bank by mail. I frequently make my deposits that way."

"But, Mr. Bannard, I have been to your hotel; I have interviewed the clerk who attended to forwarding your mail, and he told me there was no letter from Berrien."

"He overlooked it. You can't expect him to be sure about such a minor detail."

"He was sure. If Mrs. Pell did mail you that check in a letter on Sunday, it would have reached New York on Monday. By that time the papers had published accounts of the mysterious tragedy up here, and any letter from this town would attract attention, especially one addressed to the nephew of the victim of the crime."

"That's what happened, however," and Bannard succeeded in forcing a smile. "If you don't believe it, the burden of proof rests with you."

"No, sir, we _don't_ believe it. We believe that you were up here on Sunday, that you received that check from the lady's own hand, that the half-burned cigarette was left in that room by you, and the New York paper also. In addition to this, we believe that you abstracted the paper of value from the Florentine pocket-book, and that you were the means of Mrs. Pell's death, whether by actual murder, or by attacking her in a fit of anger and cruelly maltreating her, finally flinging her to the floor, with murderous intent! You were seen hanging around the nearby woods about noon, and concealed yourself somewhere in the house while the family were at dinner. These things are enough to warrant us in charging you with this crime, and you are under arrest."