"Morley's theft and clamour for money from Miss Fulton, Withers'

jealousy, and my own extra precaution of appearing with beard and gold tooth in the Brevord Hotel, so as to shift suspicion to a mysterious 'unknown' in case of necessity; all these things left too many clues, presented an embarra.s.sment of riches.

"If I had known of them in advance, either Morley or Withers would have paid the penalty for the crime. The negro would never have received my attention.

"I have no game leg, never have had. The brace made it easy for me to transform myself into an agile, powerful man in my 'private' work.

"I have no tuberculosis, never have had. I have a normally flat chest.

Sluggish veins and capillaries in my face, caused by my having suffered pathological blushing for ten years, cause a permanent flush in my cheeks.

"That was enough to fool the physicians. Besides, when the Galenites have once diagnosed your purse favourably, your disease is what you please.

"I have said my first great mistake was losing my temper with Enid Withers.

"My second was my laughter in the cab the night Braceway and I questioned Morley. I knew he was holding back something, but I never dreamed it was his knowledge of my having done the murder.

"That laugh was suicidal, for it was the disarming of myself by myself.

"But for the albino discovery by Braceway, my conviction would have been impossible. The case against Perry was too strong.

"Still, it is as well this way as another. I should never have served the time for embezzlement. A free life is a fine thing. I suspect that death, perhaps, is even finer."

He handed the last page to Braceway, leaned back in his chair, put up his arms and yawned. The glance with which he swept the faces of those before him was arrogant. It had a sinister audacity.

"The confession's complete," Braceway told Greenleaf, clipping his words short. "Take him away. No--wait!" He pulled a pen from his pocket and turned to the prisoner.

"Oh, the signature," Bristow said coolly. "I forgot that."

He took the typewritten pages roughly from Fulton, and in a bold, free hand wrote at the bottom of each: "Thomas F. Splain."

"I'm ready," he announced, rising from his chair so that he jostled Fulton unnecessarily.

The old man, his self-control broken at last, struck him with open hand full in the face. His fingers left three red stripes across the murderer's white cheek.

Before Braceway could interfere, Bristow checked his impulse to strike back and gave Fulton a long, level look.

"You're welcome to it," he said finally; "welcome, old man. I guess I still owe you something, at that."

"Put the cuffs on him," ordered Greenleaf.

"First, though, I'd like to have a clean collar, some clean linen; and I want to get rid of this brace," Bristow interrupted.

"To h.e.l.l with what you want!" Greenleaf cried, a shade more purple with rage.

Bristow turned to Braceway:

"You're right. The stuff's in the sole of this shoe."

"Let's take charge of that now," Braceway said to the chief. They each grasped one of the prisoner's arms and hustled him with scant ceremony to his bedroom. Bristow removed his trousers and, unbuckling the belt and straps of the steel brace, took off the thick-soled shoe.

Greenleaf put his hand into it and tugged at the inner sole.

"Opens on the outside," prompted Braceway, "underneath, near the instep."

The chief, after fumbling with it a moment, got it open. The jewels streamed to the floor, a little cascade of radiance and colour. He picked them up, getting down on all-fours so as not to miss one.

"Don't be unreasonable," Bristow complained as he slipped on another shoe. "Let me have a clean shirt and collar."

"Be quick about it," Braceway consented, his voice heavy with contempt.

Greenleaf, holding him again by one arm, shoved him toward the bureau. He got out of his shirt, Greenleaf shifting his grasp so as not to let go of him for a second. In trying to put the front collar b.u.t.ton into the fresh shirt, he broke off its head.

"Come on," growled the chief. "You don't need a collar anyway."

"Not so fast! I've more than one collar b.u.t.ton."

He put his hand into a tray and picked up another. It had a long shank and was easily manipulated because of the catch that permitted the movement of its head, as if on a hinge.

"This is better," he said, fingering it, unhurried as a man with hours to throw away.

"Get a move on! Get a move!" Greenleaf growled again, tightening his hold until it was painful.

Bristow, apparently bent on throwing off this rough grasp on his left arm, swiftly raised his right hand with the b.u.t.ton to his mouth.

For the fraction of a second his eyes, bright and defiant, met Braceway's. The detective, reading the elation in them, shouted:

"Look out!"

There was a click. And Bristow flung away the b.u.t.ton as Braceway caught at his hand.

"I beat you after----" he tried to boast.

But the poison, quicker than he had thought, cut short his utterance. His eyelids flickered twice. He collapsed against Greenleaf and slid, crumpled, to the floor.

"Cyanide," said Braceway. "He had it in the shank of that collar b.u.t.ton."

Greenleaf bent over him.

"G.o.d, it's quick!" he announced. "He's dead."