“I did not! But,” and Moore pulled himself together, “I’m not going to say another word! You’ve doped out this cock-and-bull story because you don’t know which way to look for the real murderer. And you think you can work a third degree on me—and railroad me to the chair, do you? Well, you can’t do it!” Moore’s eyes were glittering, his cheeks were flushed and his voice rose to a shrill shriek as he glared wildly at his tormentor. “Shut up on that!” Corson flung at him. “Calm yourself down, now. If you’re innocent, it’s all right. But I’ll keep my eye on you, my boy. Now, tell me any theory you have or can invent that will fit the facts of the case.” Corson asked this in the honest hope that Moore could give him a hint. The detective was a good plodding sleuth when it came to tracking down a clew, but he was not fertile of imagination and had little or no initiative. He really believed it might have been Moore’s work, but he thought so, principally, because he could think of no other way to look. “The facts are not so very strange,” began Moore, looking at the detective uncertainly. He didn’t want to give any unnecessary help, for he had a half-formed theory that he wanted to think out for himself, and he had no intention of sharing it with an avowed enemy. But he saw, too, that a few words of suggestion of any sort might lead Corson’s suspicions away from himself and might make for leniency. “Wait a minute,” he said, on a sudden thought. “The writing the dying man managed to scribble said that women did the murder.” “That’s my best bet!” cried Corson; “I’ve been waiting for you to mention that! You wrote that paper! That’s what occupied you all that time. Of course women didn’t do a deed like that. You conceived the fiendishly clever idea of writing such a message to mislead the police!” “You—you——” but words failed Bob Moore. He reverted to his plan of silence and sat, moodily staring in front of him, as the dawn broke and the time drew near for the day shift of workers to come on. “Don’t you think so?” and Corson now spoke almost ingratiatingly. “I mean don’t you think it pretty impossible for women to put over such a crime?” “No, I don’t,” Bob blurted out. “Nor you wouldn’t either, if you knew Binney! Why, his life just one—h’m—one woman after another! And they were all after him!” “What do you mean?” “Why he was a regular feller, you know. He took the chorus girls,—or some of their sort,—out to dinners and all that, and, here in the house, he jollied the elevator girls and the telephone and news-stand Janes,—and yet he detested girls’ service. Many a time he’d blow out to the manager about how he’d ought to fire all the girls and put back men or boys,—like we had before the war.” “Your story doesn’t hang together. Binney seemed to adore and hate the girls, both.”