"It was late, after midnight, and we went at once to our berths. I undressed, and then I lay there for an hour, wondering how I was going to get the notes. Some one in lower nine was restless and wide awake, but finally became quiet.
"The man in ten was sleeping heavily. I could hear his breathing, and it seemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtains of his berth without being seen. After that, it was a mere matter of quiet searching.
"The car became very still. I was about to try for the other berth, when some one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.
"Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, and after looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lower ten. You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten, with the notes."
I nodded curtly.
"I'm not trying to defend myself," he went on. "I was ready to steal the notes - I had to. But murder!"
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
"Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains. It was very still. The man in ten didn't move, although my heart was thumping until I thought he would hear it.
"I felt around cautiously. It was perfectly dark, and I came across a bit of chain, about as long as my finger. It seemed a queer thing to find there, and it was sticky, too."
He shuddered, and I could see Alison's hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.
"All at once it struck me that the man was strangely silent, and I think I lost my nerve. Anyhow, I drew the curtains open a little, and let the light fall on my hands. They were red, blood-red."
He leaned one hand on the back of the chair, and was silent for a moment, as though he lived over again the awful events of that more than awful night.
The stout detective had let his cigar go out; he was still drawing at it nervously. Richey had picked up a paper-weight and was tossing it from hand to hand; when it slipped and fell to the floor, a startled shudder passed through the room.
"There was something glittering in there," Sullivan resumed, "and on impulse I picked it up. Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back to my own berth."
"Where you wiped your hands on the bed-clothing and stuck the dirk into the pillow." Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structure crumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.
"I suppose I did - I'm not very clear about what happened then. But when I rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aisle almost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain, into my bag.
"I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours. It was still perfectly quiet, except for some one snoring. I thought that would drive me crazy.
"The more I thought of it the worse things looked. The telegram was the first thing against me - it would put the police on my track at once, when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.
"Then I remembered the notes, and I took out the wallet and opened it."
He stopped for a minute, as if the recalling of the next occurrence was almost beyond him.
"I took out the wallet," he said simply, "and opening it, held it to the light. In gilt letters was the name, Simon Harrington."
The detectives were leaning forward now, their eyes on his face.
"Things seemed to whirl around for a while. I sat there almost paralyzed, wondering what this new development meant for me.
"My wife, I knew, would swear I had killed her father; nobody would be likely to believe the truth.
"Do you believe me now?" He rooked around at us defiantly. "I am telling the absolute truth, and not one of you believes me!
"After a bit the man in lower nine got up and walked along the aisle toward the smoking compartment. I heard him go, and, leaning from my berth, watched him out of sight.
"It was then I got the idea of changing berths with him, getting into his clothes, and leaving the train. I give you my word I had no idea of throwing suspicion on him."
Alison looked scornfully incredulous, but I felt that the man was telling the truth.
"I changed the numbers of the berths, and it worked well. I got into the other man's berth, and he came back to mine. The rest was easy. I dressed in his clothes - luckily, they fitted - and jumped the train not far from Baltimore, just before the wreck."
"There is something else you must clear up," I said. "Why did you try to telephone me from M-, and why did you change your mind about the message?"
He looked astounded.
"You knew I was at M-?" he stammered.
"Yes, we traced you. What about the message?"
"Well, it was this way: of course, I did not know your name, Mr. Blakeley. The telegram said, 'Man with papers in lower ten, car seven," and after I had made what I considered my escape, I began to think I had left the man in my berth in a bad way.
"He would probably be accused of the crime. So, although when the wreck occurred I supposed every one connected with the affair had been killed, there was a chance that you had survived. I've not been of much account, but I didn't want a man to swing because I'd left him in my place. Besides, I began to have a theory of my own.
"As we entered the car a tall, dark woman passed us, with a glass of water in her hand, and I vaguely remembered her. She was amazingly like Blanche Conway.
"If she, too, thought the man with the notes was in lower ten, it explained a lot, including that piece of a woman's necklace. She was a fury, Blanche Conway, capable of anything."
"Then why did you countermand that message?" I asked curiously.
"When I got to the Carter house, and got to bed - I had sprained my ankle in the jump - I went through the alligator bag I had taken from lower nine. When I found your name, I sent the first message. Then, soon after, I came across the notes. It seemed too good to be true, and I was crazy for fear the message had gone.
"At first I was going to send them to Bronson; then I began to see what the possession of the notes meant to me. It meant power over Bronson, money, influence, everything. He was a devil, that man."
"Well, he's at home now," said McKnight, and we were glad to laugh and relieve the tension.
Alison put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the man she had so nearly married, and I furtively touched one of the soft little curls that nestled at the back of her neck.
"When I was able to walk," went on the sullen voice, "I came at once to Washington. I tried to sell the notes to Bronson, but he was almost at the end of his rope. Not even my threat to send them back to you, Mr. Blakeley, could make him meet my figure. He didn't have the money.
McKnight was triumphant.
"I think you gentlemen will see reason in my theory now," he said. "Mrs. Conway wanted the notes to force a legal marriage, I suppose?"
"Yes."
The detective with the small package carefully rolled off the rubber band, and unwrapped it. I held my breath as he took out, first, the Russia leather wallet.
"These things, Mr. Blakeley, we found in the seal-skin bag Mr. Sullivan says he left you. This wallet, Mr. Sullivan - is this the one you found on the floor of the car?"
Sullivan opened it, and, glancing at the name inside, "Simon Harrington," nodded affirmatively.
"And this," went on the detective - "this is a piece of gold chain?"
"It seems to be," said Sullivan, recoiling at the blood-stained end.
"This, I believe, is the dagger." He held it up, and Alison gave a faint cry of astonishment and dismay. Sullivan's face grew ghastly, and he sat down weakly on the nearest chair.
The detective looked at him shrewdly, then at Alison's agitated face.
"Where have you seen this dagger before, young lady?" he asked, kindly enough.
"Oh, don't ask me!" she gasped breathlessly, her eyes turned on Sullivan. "It's - it's too terrible!"
"Tell him," I advised, leaning over to her. "It will be found out later, anyhow."
"Ask him," she said, nodding toward Sullivan. The detective unwrapped the small box Alison had brought, disclosing the trampled necklace and broken chain. With clumsy fingers he spread it on the table and fitted into place the bit of chain. There could be no doubt that it belonged there.
"Where did you find that chain?" Sullivan asked hoarsely, looking for the first time at Alison.
"On the floor, near the murdered man's berth."
"Now, Mr. Sullivan," said the detective civilly, "I believe you can tell us, in the light of these two exhibits, who really did murder Simon Harrington."
Sullivan looked again at the dagger, a sharp little bit of steel with a Florentine handle. Then he picked up the locket and pressed a hidden spring under one of the cameos. Inside, very neatly engraved, was the name and a date.
"Gentlemen," he said, his face ghastly, "it is of no use for me to attempt a denial. The dagger and necklace belonged to my sister, Alice Curtis!"
CHAPTER XXXI AND ONLY ONE ARM
Hotchkiss was the first to break the tension.
'Mr. Sullivan," he asked suddenly, "was your sister left-handed?"
"Yes."
Hotchkiss put away his note-book and looked around with an air of triumphant vindication. It gave us a chance to smile and look relieved. After all, Mrs. Curtis was dead. It was the happiest solution of the unhappy affair. McKnight brought Sullivan some whisky, and he braced up a little.
"I learned through the papers that my wife was in a Baltimore hospital, and yesterday I ventured there to see her. I felt if she would help me to keep straight, that now, with her father and my sister both dead, we might be happy together.
"I understand now what puzzled me then. It seemed that my sister went into the next car and tried to make my wife promise not to interfere. But Ida - Mrs. Sullivan - was firm, of course. She said her father had papers, certificates and so on, that would stop the marriage at once.
"She said, also, that her father was in our car, and that there would be the mischief to pay in the morning. It was probably when my sister tried to get the papers that he awakened, and she had to do - what she did."
It was over. Save for a technicality or two, I was a free man. Alison rose quietly and prepared to go; the men stood to let her pass, save Sullivan who sat crouched in his chair, his face buried in his hands. Hotchkiss, who had been tapping the desk with his pencil, looked up abruptly and pointed the pencil at me.
"If all this is true, and I believe it is, - then who was in the house next door, Blakeley, the night you and Mr. Johnson searched? You remember, you said it was a woman's hand at the trap door."
I glanced hastily at Johnson, whose face was impassive. He had his hand on the knob of the door and he opened it before he spoke.
"There were a number of scratches on Mrs. Conway's right hand," he observed to the room in general. "Her wrist was bandaged and badly bruised."
He went out then, but he turned as he closed the door and threw at me a glance of half-amused, half-contemptuous tolerance.
McKnight saw Alison, with Mrs. Dallas, to their carriage, and came back again. The gathering in the office was breaking up. Sullivan, looking worn and old, was standing by the window, staring at the broken necklace in his hand. When he saw me watching him, he put it on the desk and picked up his hat.
"If I can not do anything more - " he hesitated.
"I think you have done about enough," I replied grimly, and he went out.
I believe that Richey and Hotchkiss led me somewhere to dinner, and that, for fear I would be lonely without him, they sent for Johnson. And I recall a spirited discussion in which Hotchkiss told the detective that he could manage certain cases, but that he lacked induction. Richey and I were mainly silent. My thoughts would slip ahead to that hour, later in the evening, when I should see Alison again.
I dressed in savage haste finally, and was so particular about my tie that Mrs. Klopton gave up in despair.
"I wish, until your arm is better, that you would buy the kind that hooks on," she protested, almost tearfully. "I'm sure they look very nice, Mr. Lawrence. My late husband always - "
"That's a lover's knot you've tied this time," I snarled, and, jerking open the bow knot she had so painfully executed, looked out the window for Johnson - until I recalled that he no longer belonged in my perspective. I ended by driving frantically to the club and getting George to do it.
I was late, of course. The drawing-room and library at the Dallas home were empty. I could hear billiard balls rolling somewhere, and I turned the other way. I found Alison at last on the balcony, sitting much as she had that night on the beach, - her chin in her hands, her eyes fixed unseeingly on the trees and lights of the square across. She was even whistling a little, softly. But this time the plaintiveness was gone. It was a tender little tune. She did not move, as I stood beside her, looking down. And now, when the moment had come, all the thousand and one things I had been waiting to say forsook me, precipitately beat a retreat, and left me unsupported. The arc-moon sent little fugitive lights over her hair, her eyes, her gown.
