not as many as I'd like; but as many as I can expect in a little town like this. Mostly transients, of course; drummers and men of that sort. Young Willard stayed here, when the Van Norman house was full of company, but after the—the trouble, he went back there to stay."
"Affable sort of man, Willard, isn't he?" observed Stone.
"Yes, he's all of that, but he's a scapegrace. He used to lead this town a dance when he lived here."
"How long since he lived here?"
"Oh, he's only been away a matter of three years, or that. 'Bout a year before his uncle died they quarrelled. They both had the devil's own temper, and they had quarrelled before, but this time it was for keeps; and so off goes Mr. Tom, and never turns up again until he comes to Miss Madeleine's wedding."
"Was he in any business when he lived here?"
"Yes, he had a good position as engineer in a big factory. He was a good worker, Tom was, and not afraid of anything. Always jolly and good-natured, except when he'd have one of them fearful fits of temper. Then he was like a raging lion—no, more like a tiger; quiet-like, but deep and desperate."
Soon after Fleming Stone rose to go. "Thank you very much," he said politely, "for your half-hour. And, by the way, have you any cachous? I find I haven't any with me, and after smoking, you know, before going back to the ladies."
"Yes, yes, I know; but I don't happen to have any. But wait a minute, I believe Tripp has some." He threw open the door and gave a quick whistle.
A boy appeared so suddenly that he could not have been far away, and, moreover, his sharp black eyes and alert manner betokened the type of boy who would be apt to be listening about.
His hand was already in his pocket when Mr. Taylor said to him, "Tripp, didn't I see you have a small bottle of cachous?—those little silver pellets, you know."
"Yessir;" and Tripp drew forth a half-filled bottle.
"That's right. Give them to the gentleman."
"Oh, I only want a couple," said Fleming Stone, taking the vial which Tripp thrust toward him. "Where did you get these, my boy?"
The boy blushed and looked down, twisting his fingers in embarrassment.
"Speak up, Tripp," said the landlord sternly. "Answer the gentleman, and see that you tell the truth."
"I ain't going to tell no lie," said Tripp doggedly. "I found this here bottle in the bureau-drawer of number fourteen a few days ago."
"Fourteen? That's the room Mr. Willard had," said Mr. Taylor, reflectively.
"Yessir, but he didn't leave them there. They were there before. I seen 'em, and I knew that hatchet-faced hardware man left 'em; then Mr. Willard, he come, but he didn't swipe 'em, so I did. That ain't no harm, is it?"
"Not a bit," said Fleming Stone, "since you've told the truth about it, and here's a dollar for your honesty. And I'm going to ask you not to say anything more about the matter, for a few days at least. Also I'm going to ask to be allowed to take a look at room number fourteen."
"Certainly, sir. Tripp, show the gentleman up;" and Mr. Taylor fairly rubbed his hands with satisfaction to think that he and his premises were being made use of by the great detective.
"Yessir. It's at the back of the house, sir. This way, sir."
Mr. Stone's survey of the room was exceedingly brief. He gave one glance around, looked out of the only window it contained, tried the key in the lock, and then expressed himself satisfied.
Tripp, disappointed at the quickly-finished performance, elaborately pointed out the exact spot where he had found the cachou bottle, but Mr. Stone did not seem greatly interested.
However, the interview was financially successful to Tripp, and after Mr. Stone's departure he turned several hand-springs by way of expressing his satisfaction with the detective gentleman.
After dinner that evening the group of the night before reassembled in the library.
A strange feeling of oppression seemed to hang over all. The very fact that Fleming Stone had as yet said nothing of any discoveries he might have made, and the continued courtesy of his pleasant, affable demeanor, seemed to imply that he had succeeded rather than failed in his mission.
Although genial and quickly responsive; he was, after all, an inscrutable man; and Mr. Fairbanks, for one, had learned that his gentle cordiality often hid deep thoughts in a quickly-working mind.
Without preamble, as soon as they were seated Mr. Stone began:
"Employed by Coroner Benson, I was asked to come here to discover, if might be, the murderer of Miss Madeleine Van Norman. By some unmistakable evidence which I have found, by some reliable witnesses with whom I have talked, and by some proofs which I have discovered, I have learned beyond all doubt who is the criminal, and how the deed was done. Is it the wish of all present that I should now make known what I have discovered, or is it preferred that I should tell Coroner Benson alone?"
For several minutes nobody spoke, and then the coroner said, "Unless any one present states an objection, you may proceed to tell us what you know, here and now, Mr. Stone."
After waiting a moment longer and hearing no objection raised, Fleming Stone proceeded.
"The man who murdered Miss Van Norman entered the house through a cellar window. He climbed up through the ash-chute in the drawing-room fireplace."
Although some of Mr. Sterne's hearers had listened to this revelation in the morning, the others had not heard of it, and every face expressed utter astonishment, if not unbelief—with the exception of one. Tom Willard turned white and stared at Fleming Stone as if he had not understood.
"What?" he said hoarsely.
As if he had not heard the interruption, Fleming Stone went on:
"Who that man was, I think I need not tell you. Is he not already telling you himself?"
Willard's face grew drawn and stiff, like that of a paralyzed man, but his burning eyes seemed unable to tear themselves away from the quiet gaze of Fleming Stone. Then with a groan Willard's head sank into his hands and he fell forward on the table—the very table at which Madeleine had sat on that fatal night.
There was a stir, and Schuyler Carleton rushed forward to Willard's assistance if need be. But the man had not fainted, and, raising his white face, he squared his shoulders, clenched his hands, and, again fixing his eyes on those of Fleming Stone, said in a desperate voice, "Go on."
"I must go on," said Stone, gently. "I know each one of you is thinking that it is absurd to imagine a man of Mr. Willard's weight and girth climbing up through the seemingly small opening in the fireplace. But this can be explained. To one who does not know how, such a feat would seem impossible, and, moreover, it would be impossible. It is only one who knows how who can do it. There are men in certain occupations, such as engineers and boiler men, who are continually obliged to squeeze through holes quite as small. The regular boiler man-hole is oval, and measures ten by fifteen inches, but there are many of them in large tanks which measure even less each way. I had occasion some time ago to interview an engineer on this subject. He weighed two hundred and fifteen pounds, and had a chest measure of forty-two inches. He told me that he could go through a much smaller man-hole than another workman who weighed only one hundred and sixty pounds, simply because he knew how. It is done by certain manipulations of the great muscles and by following a certain routine of procedure. But the method is unimportant, for the moment. The fact remains, and can be verified by any engineer. I discovered to-day that Mr. Willard is or has been an expert engineer, and for many years held such a position in a large factory right here in Mapleton. As to Mr. Willard's presence in this house upon that fatal night, a tiny clue discovered by Mr. Fessenden gives us indubitable proof. Mr. Fessenden found next morning on the drawing-room floor a cachou. I have learned that these are by no means in common use in Mapleton, and, moreover, that it is not the custom of any one of the men now present to use them. I further learned that after Mr. Willard left here that night to go to the