Such things never ruffled Corson, and he went calmly on. “This man’s relation to you?” he said, interrogatively, looking at Letitia. “He was no kin of mine,” she snapped; “he was the uncle of my nephew, Mr Bates, and Mr Bates is the sole heir.” “Indeed; he is to be congratulated. Now, this man,—Sir Binney——” “Don’t call him that!” put in Eliza. “It does annoy me so! Say Sir Herbert Binney or Sir Herbert. Have you never known a knight?” “No, ma’am, I never have. Well, Sir Herbert, then,—did he live here?” “In this building,—not in this apartment,” Richard answered, as the two haughty ladies seemed disinclined to accommodate their inquisitor. And then, by dint of slow and persistent questioning, Detective Corson drew out the vital statistics of the deceased gentleman and of the members of the Prall household. “Now as to the ‘women,’” Corson went on. “You know Sir Herbert left a paper stating that women killed him. This is a most peculiar message for a dying man to leave.” “Why so, if it is true?” and Letitia Prall’s eyes gave him a curious look. “Yes,—that’s just it,—if it is true.” “It’s got to be true,” burst out Bates, impulsively. “No man is going to write a thing like that with his last ounce of dying strength unless it’s true!” “I agree to that,” and Corson nodded, “if he did write it.” “What?” Miss Prall started up in amazement. “Who says he didn’t write it?” “Nobody says so, I only say it might be so. Suppose the murderer himself wrote it to turn suspicion toward some one else,—some woman.” “I never thought of that!” and Miss Prall fell into a brown study, as if the new thought moved her profoundly. “Nor I,” said Bates, looking intently at the detective. “But, I say, that writing looked to me amazingly like my uncle’s.” “And the porter,—Bob Moore, you know,” broke in Eliza,—“he said, the pencil dropped from Sir Herbert’s fingers just as he fell back dead——” “Oh, no, he didn’t say that! That’s the way stories get repeated. There’s no such thing as direct, undistorted evidence! Moore didn’t see the pencil in Sir Herbert’s fingers at all. He saw it lying on the floor beside the dead man’s hand,—or, he says he did.” “Good Heavens! You don’t suspect Moore!” cried Richard. “Why, he’s the best chap going!” “I don’t say he isn’t, and I don’t say I suspect him, but I want you people to understand that he _might_ have done it all,—might have committed the murder and might have written the scribbled paper to turn suspicion away from himself. As for the handwriting, that trembling, shaky scrawl can’t be identified with anybody’s ordinary writing.” “Oh, I can’t think it,” Richard objected. “Why, Bob Moore couldn’t do such a thing, and, besides, what would be his motive?” “We haven’t come to motive yet. We’re finding out who had opportunity.” “Any passer-by had that,” Miss Prall said, positively; “while Moore was up in the elevator, what was to prevent any pedestrian going by from stepping in and killing Sir Herbert?”