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I confess I was staggered. The people at the surrounding tables, after glancing curiously in my direction, looked away again.

I got my hat and went out in a very uncomfortable frame of mind. That she would inform the police at once of what she knew I never doubted, unless possibly she would give a day or two’s grace in the hope that I would change my mind.

I reviewed the situation as I waited for a car. Two passed me going in the opposite direction, and on the first one I saw Bronson, his hat over his eyes, his arms folded, looking moodily ahead. Was it imagination? or was the small man huddled in the corner of the rear seat Hotchkiss?

As the car rolled on I found myself smiling. The alert little man was for all the world like a terrier, ever on the scent, and scouring about in every direction.

I found McKnight at the Incubator, with his coat off, working with enthusiasm and a manicure file over the horn of his auto.

“It’s the worst horn I ever ran across,” he groaned, without looking up, as I came in. “The blankety-blank thing won’t blow.”

He punched it savagely, finally eliciting a faint throaty croak.

“Sounds like croup,” I suggested. “My sister-in-law uses camphor and goose greese for it; or how about a spice poultice?”

But McKnight never sees any jokes but his own. He flung the horn clattering into a corner, and collapsed sulkily into a chair.

“Now,” I said, “if you’re through manicuring that horn, I’ll tell you about my talk with the lady in black.”

“What’s wrong?” asked McKnight languidly. “Police watching her, too?”

“Not exactly. The fact is, Rich, there’s the mischief to pay.”

Stogie came in, bringing a few additions to our comfort. When he went out I told my story.

“You must remember,” I said, “that I had seen this woman before the morning of the wreck. She was buying her Pullman ticket when I did. Then the next morning, when the murder was discovered, she grew hysterical, and I gave her some whisky. The third and last time I saw her, until to-night, was when she crouched beside the road, after the wreck.”

McKnight slid down in his chair until his weight rested on the small of his back, and put his feet on the big reading table.

“It is rather a facer,” he said. “It’s really too good a situation for a commonplace lawyer. It ought to be dramatized. You can’t agree, of course; and by refusing you run the chance of jail, at least, and of having Alison brought into publicity, which is out of the question. You say she was at the Pullman window when you were?”

“Yes; I bought her ticket for her. Gave her lower eleven.”

“And you took ten?”

“Lower ten.”

McKnight straightened up and looked at me.

“Then she thought you were in lower ten.”

“I suppose she did, if she thought at all.”

“But listen, man.” McKnight was growing excited. “What do you figure out of this? The Conway woman knows you have taken the notes to Pittsburg. The probabilities are that she follows you there, on the chance of an opportunity to get them, either for Bronson or herself.

“Nothing doing during the trip over or during the day in Pittsburg; but she learns the number of your berth as you buy it at the Pullman ticket office in Pittsburg, and she thinks she sees her chance. No one could have foreseen that that drunken fellow would have crawled into your berth.

“Now, I figure it out this way: She wanted those notes desperately—does still—not for Bronson, but to hold over his head for some purpose. In the night, when everything is quiet, she slips behind the curtains of lower ten, where the man’s breathing shows he is asleep. Didn’t you say he snored?”

“He did!” I affirmed. “But I tell you—”

“Now keep still and listen. She gropes cautiously around in the darkness, finally discovering the wallet under the pillow. Can’t you see it yourself?”

He was leaning forward, excitedly, and I could almost see the gruesome tragedy he was depicting.

“She draws out the wallet. Then, perhaps she remembers the alligator bag, and on the possibility that the notes are there, instead of in the pocket-book, she gropes around for it. Suddenly, the man awakes and clutches at the nearest object, perhaps her neck chain, which breaks. She drops the pocket-book and tries to escape, but he has caught her right hand.

“It is all in silence; the man is still stupidly drunk. But he holds her in a tight grip. Then the tragedy. She must get away; in a minute the car will be aroused. Such a woman, on such an errand, does not go without some sort of a weapon, in this case a dagger, which, unlike a revolver, is noiseless.

“With a quick thrust—she’s a big woman and a bold one—she strikes. Possibly Hotchkiss is right about the left-hand blow. Harrington may have held her right hand, or perhaps she held the dirk in her left hand as she groped with her right. Then, as the man falls back, and his grasp relaxes, she straightens and attempts to get away. The swaying of the car throws her almost into your berth, and, trembling with terror, she crouches behind the curtains of lower ten until everything is still. Then she goes noiselessly back to her berth.”

I nodded.

“It seems to fit partly, at least,” I said. “In the morning when she found that the crime had been not only fruitless, but that she had searched the wrong berth and killed the wrong man; when she saw me emerge, unhurt, just as she was bracing herself for the discovery of my dead body, then she went into hysterics. You remember, I gave her some whisky.

“It really seems a tenable theory. But, like the Sullivan theory, there are one or two things that don’t agree with the rest. For one thing, how did the remainder of that chain get into Alison West’s possession?”

“She may have picked it up on the floor.”

“We’ll admit that,” I said; “and I’m sure I hope so. Then how did the murdered man’s pocket-book get into the sealskin bag? And the dirk, how account for that, and the blood-stains?”

“Now what’s the use,” asked McKnight aggrievedly, “of my building up beautiful theories for you to pull down? We’ll take it to Hotchkiss. Maybe he can tell from the blood-stains if the murderer’s finger nails were square or pointed.”

“Hotchkiss is no fool,” I said warmly. “Under all his theories there’s a good hard layer of common sense. And we must remember, Rich, that neither of our theories includes the woman at Doctor Van Kirk’s hospital, that the charming picture you have just drawn does not account for Alison West’s connection with the case, or for the bits of telegram in the Sullivan fellow’s pajamas pocket. You are like the man who put the clock together; you’ve got half of the works left over.”

“Oh, go home,” said McKnight disgustedly. “I’m no Edgar Allan Poe. What’s the use of coming here and asking me things if you’re so particular?”

With one of his quick changes of mood, he picked up his guitar.

“Listen to this,” he said. “It is a Hawaiian song about a fat lady, oh, ignorant one! and how she fell off her mule.”

But for all the lightness of the words, the voice that followed me down the stairs was anything but cheery.