The Abandoned Room. Camp Wadsworth

accused me of murdering my grandfather. How was it done? You see I know nothing. Tell me how—how he was killed. I can't believe I—I'm such a beast. Tell me. If I was in the house, some detail might start my memory."

      So Katherine told her story while Bobby listened, shrinking from some disclosure that would convict him. As she went on, however, his sense of bewilderment increased, and when she had finished he burst out:

      "But where is the proof of murder? Where is there even a suggestion? You say the doors were locked and he doesn't show a mark."

      "That's what we can't understand," Graham said. "There's no evidence we know anything about that your grandfather's heart didn't simply give out, but the detective is absolutely certain, and—there's no use mincing matters, Bobby—he believes he has the proof to convict you. He won't tell me what. He simply smiles and refuses to talk."

      "The motive?" Bobby asked.

      Graham looked at him curiously. Katherine turned away.

      "Of course," Bobby cried with a sharpened discomfort. "I'd forgotten. The money—the new will he had planned to make. The money's mine now, but if he had lived until this morning it never would have been. I see."

      "It is a powerful motive," Graham said, "for any one who doesn't know you."

      "But," Bobby answered, "Howells has got to prove first that my grandfather was murdered. The autopsy?"

      "Coroner's out of the county," Graham replied, "and Howells won't have an assistant. Dr. Groom's waiting in the house. We're expecting the coroner almost any time."

      Bobby spoke rapidly.

      "If he calls it murder, Hartley, there's one thing we've got to find out: what my grandfather was afraid of. Tell me again, Katherine, everything he said about me. I can't believe he could have been afraid of me."

      "He called you," Katherine answered, "a waster. He said: 'God knows what he'll do next.' He said he'd ordered you out last night and he hadn't had a word from you, but that he'd made up his mind anyway. He was going to have his lawyer this morning and change his will, leaving all his money to the Bedford Foundation, except a little annuity for me. He grew sentimental and said he had no faith left in his flesh and blood, and that it was sad to grow old with nobody caring for him except to covet his money. I asked him if he were afraid of you, and all he answered was: 'You and Bobby are thicker than thieves.' Oh, yes. When I saw him for the last time in the hall he said there was nothing for me to worry about except you. That's all. I remember perfectly. He said nothing more about you."

      "I wonder," Bobby muttered, "if a jury wouldn't think it enough."

      Katherine shook her head.

      "There seemed so much more than that behind his fear," she said. "As I've told you, he gave me a feeling of superstition. I never once was afraid of a murderer—of a man in the house. I was afraid of something queer and active, but not human."

      Bobby straightened.

      "Would you," he asked, "call a man going about in an aphasia quite human? Somnambulists do unaccountable things—such as overcoming locked doors—"

      "Don't, Bobby! Don't!" Katherine cried.

      "Sh—h! Quiet!" Graham warned.

      A foot scraped on gravel.

      "Maybe the detective," Bobby suggested.

      He stared at the bend, expecting to see the stiff, plain figure of the detective emerge from the forest. Instead with a dawning amazement he watched Carlos Paredes stroll into view. The Panamanian was calm and immaculate. His Van Dyke beard was neatly trimmed and combed. As he advanced he puffed in leisurely fashion at a cigarette.

      Graham flushed.

      "After last night he has the nerve—"

      "Be decent to him," Bobby urged. "He might help me—might clear up last night."

      "I wonder," Graham mused, "to what extent he could clear it up if he wished."

      Paredes threw his cigarette away as he came closer. Solemnly he shook

       hands with Katherine and Bobby, expressing a profound sympathy. Even then

       Bobby remarked that those reserved features let slip no positive emotion.

       The man turned to Graham.

      "Our little difference of last evening," he said suavely, "will, I hope, evaporate in this atmosphere of unexpected sorrow. If I was in the wrong I deeply regret it. My one wish now is to join you in being of use to Bobby and Miss Katherine in their bereavement. I saw the account in a paper at luncheon. I came as quickly as possible."

      Graham answered this smooth effrontery with a blunt question.

      "Do you know that Bobby is in very real trouble, that he may be implicated in Mr. Blackburn's death?"

      Paredes flung up his hands, but Bobby, looking for emotion in the sallow face then, found none. Paredes's features, it occurred to him, were exactly like a mask.

      Bobby checked himself. In his unhealthy way Paredes had been a good friend. The man's voice flowed smoothly, demanding particulars.

      "But this," he said, when they had told him what they could, "changes the situation. I must stay here. I must watch that detective and learn what he has up his sleeve."

      Graham turned away.

      "I've tried. Maybe you'll succeed better than I."

      "Then you'll excuse me," Paredes said quickly. "I should like your permission to telephone to my hotel in New York for some clothing. I want to see this through."

      The three looked at each other. Katherine and Graham seemed about to speak. Bobby wouldn't let them.

      "Carlos," he said, "you might help me. I'm almost afraid to ask. What happened in the cafe last night? The last thing I remember distinctly is sitting there with you and Maria and a stranger she had introduced. I didn't get his name. What did I do? Did any one leave the place with me?"

      Paredes smiled a little, shaking his head.

      "You behaved as if Mr. Graham's earlier fears had been accomplished. You insisted you were going to catch your train. I didn't think it wise, so I went to the cloak room with you, intending to see you home. Somehow, just the same you gave me the slip."

      "You oughtn't to have let him get away," Graham said.

      Paredes shrugged his shoulders.

      "You weren't there. You don't know how sly Bobby was."

      "I suppose it's useless to ask," Graham said. "You saw nothing put in his wine?"

      Paredes laughed.

      "Is it likely? Certainly not. I should have mentioned it. I should have stopped such a thing. What do you think I am, Mr. Graham?"

      "Sorry," Graham said. "You must understand we can't let any lead slip.

       This stranger Maria brought up?"

      "I didn't catch his name," Paredes answered.

      "I'd never seen him before. I gathered he was a friend of hers—connected with the profession. Now I shall telephone with your permission, Miss Katherine; and don't you worry, Bobby. I will see you through; but we can't do much until the coroner comes, until the detective can be made to talk."

      Katherine hesitated for a moment, then she surrendered.

      "Please go with him, Hartley, and—and make him as comfortable as you can in this unhappy house."