“Keeban, he goes by the name of Harry Vine,” I returned; “he’s not in their galleries because he’s kept out of their hands. They’ve got to catch a man before they can photograph him.” My father gave me up. “Come talk to the police,” he said and stalked from my room. Downstairs I met Mullaney and a plain clothes man from the central detective bureau who wanted to know how I happened to run into Mrs. Scofield’s car at eleven in the evening. I wanted to know something before I answered this; I wanted to know that the witnesses, Shirley and Thurston and the butler, were being held by the police. All three were; so there could be no harm in keeping what I knew. You can always tell what you’ve kept to yourself but never call back what you’ve chattered. I thought, “When Jerry warned me of this murder, he said ‘not a word to any one.’ If I say he warned me against Shirley, and the news gets out, not only the police’ll be after him; the crowd he trains with now will go for him and get him, surely.” So I said to Mullaney about my collision with Shirley’s car, “You have the report on that accident.” “So you stick to it that ’twas an accident?” I nodded. “Then tell us, please, what was you doing up that way alone at that time so that you had the little accident?” I didn’t like his tone; I didn’t like it at all. There was no possibility of my convincing him of the existence of Keeban; and the impossibility of it only made me surer of Keeban, just as it always did when I argued with father. You see at that time, it was a matter of faith with me; and nothing feeds up faith like antagonism. I was slow but also stubborn, as perhaps you’ve perceived. These men were here because they were sure Jerry had shot down Winton Scofield; Jerry’d been seen doing it. I wouldn’t believe that; therefore I had to believe in Keeban. “What are you getting at?” I asked Mullaney. He changed his tone. “Our cards are face up on your table, Mr. Fanneal,” he said, respectfully enough. “We’re not accusin’ you of any doin’s; but we think you know more about him who was Jerry Fanneal than you are telling us.” “What do you think I know?” “We figure that you thought he was up by Mr. Scofield’s big house last night and that’s why you was there; we think you was lookin’ for him when you bumped into Mrs. Scofield comin’ out.” I could deny that directly and I did. “That’s wrong.” “You didn’t know he was there or you didn’t expect him there?” “No: that’s flat.” “Where may he be now? Do you know that?” “I do not.” “That’s flat too, sir?” “Absolutely.” They gave me up after a while; and the reporters arrived, bringing details not mentioned to me by Mullaney or his companion. The reporters had to see all the Fanneal household and learn what we thought of Jerry now; they wanted fresh pictures, previously unpublished, of Jerry and of the rest of us; they had no doubt at all that Jerry had committed the murder. “Why would he?” I asked them.