I stumbled up, as you may imagine, with father’s words painting the picture in my mind. Jerry was in that picture. Then I shook myself and cast him out of the image and put Keeban, Harry Vine, in his place. “When was it, father?” I asked. “Less than an hour ago. The police roused your mother who woke me.” He was in pajamas and dressing gown, was father, with bedroom slippers on. He was tall and gray and gaunt-looking in the glow of my reading lamp which he’d lit. He shook a little and bent a little more; he believed that Jerry did it. “Where was it?” “Jerry killed him at home.” “How?” “He shot him, I said; he shot him down in cold blood.” I began at this time to feel it; and what I felt was not that Jerry had shot Win Scofield; no, not Jerry who’d grown up beside me as my brother in this house. That duplicate of Jerry, whom I myself had mistaken for Jerry when I found him in that basement room, that man and his Christina, who then was with him, had “got” Win Scofield; and my rage rose against her. She was his wife and, if she had not fired the shot, she’d been in the plot. I thought how I had seen her last night singing and exultant. I clenched my hands and shook. My father was going on. “He was seen and recognized by three persons. There’s no doubt about it at all.” “Who saw him?” I said. “Mrs. Scofield.” I laughed at that and it must have seemed mad to father. “Who else?” I asked him. “The chauffeur.” I laughed again. “And the butler,” father finished. I didn’t laugh at that. I hadn’t seen the butler but there was no reason for believing he was not in the game. “They got him,” I thought to myself. “They got old Win Scofield.” His life was not an invaluable one, as perhaps you have gathered; but that wasn’t the point with me. They--his wife and other people close about him and upon whom he had a right to depend--had got him, and certainly in some low, treacherous way. No wonder Jerry had warned me to try and stop this; he’d told me he’d pick and choose, so when he took the risk of warning, he’d warn against a more than ordinary crime. “Jerry killed Winton Scofield,” my father repeated just then; and I came back at him now, “He didn’t.” I couldn’t tell him that Jerry had sent me to try to stop this murder. I remembered in time that Jerry forbade me a word. There was no use talking to father, anyway. “Get some clothes on,” was all he said to me. “Keeban did that!” I proclaimed; and father pulled up and faced me. “There’s no Keeban; don’t let me hear you say that again. This family faces the fact; Jerry’s gone to crime. We face it and we do not shirk our responsibility. Come to yourself, Stephen. Jerry’s picture is in police headquarters in every city east or west; New York, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Minneapolis, Baltimore, every headquarters has reported the same; they have no criminal in their galleries who would be taken for Jerry. There’s never been a Keeban in crime; it’s Jerry.”