“It strikes me,” said Leo, “that there are a fatal number of ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ in your theory. Given a series of four even chances, each of which you are to win, and each of which, to count for you, is contingent upon your winning each of the other three, and your chances are not one in eight but one in two hundred and fifty-six.” “This is not a game of dice, Mr. Ballinger,” retorted Aughinbaugh. “This letter is not the result of chance, but purposed and planned by an unusual man--who had ten days in which to study it out. I have only touched on a few of his significant allusions and stopped to put forward the complete theory based on them all. If you will be patient I will now show you how he unmistakably denounces these men.” “I’m sorry,” said Billy, “but I have to acknowledge that I agree with Leo. A theory based upon too many probabilities becomes improbable for that very reason. Too many ‘ifs’!” “There is no ‘if’ about Jeff’s disappearance,” rejoined George hotly. “That we know. There is no ‘if’ about this letter, written in his own hand long after, written to a non-existent wife, in care of Billy Beebe; written under no conceivable conditions and for no conceivable purpose except to convey information under the very eyes of a vigilant jailer; a wanton and senseless folly, that could serve no purpose but to stir us to cruel and useless alarm, if it does not carry to us this information. When two hundred and fifty-six grossly improbable things point each to a common center, the grossness of each separate improbability makes the designed pointing just so much more convincing. You won’t let me go on. By Heavens, we are discussing the laws of evidence and lower mathematics, instead of deciphering this letter!” “Let Mr. Aughinbaugh be!” said Pringle. “Jeff said, once and again, that George would tell us what to do. We know two very significant truths, and only two: Jeff left Mr. Aughinbaugh’s rooms a few minutes before midnight. He should have reached his own rooms just after midnight; he didn’t. There are the contradicting events, apparently giving each other the lie; there, and not at another time. If Thorpe and his striker lied--and men do lie, even politicians--Jeff is accounted for. And it is the weakness of a lie that it is no real thing, but an appearance botched upon the very truth. When in doubt, search for the joint. The lie is compressed by hard facts into these few minutes. George is looking in the right place, George knows what to do; go on, George! That will be all from the Great Objectors.” Chapter X “And then he will say to himsel’, The son of Duncan is in the heather and has need of me.” --_Alan Breck._