There were still quite a number of relatives and family friends at the house when Lanagan returned. The reception hall was brilliantly lighted, and he hung up his hat. As he did so he examined Macondray’s topcoat carefully and quickly. On the collar was one hair. It was tucked away, labeled, in a separate package in the pocketbook. He went to the room of the murder to find Wilson there “sweating” Macondray. The broker was bent over a table, sobbing. The intermittent, hysterical cries of the mother, hoarser and fainter as exhaustion came upon her, still punctuated the air. Wilson was reading a letter. He passed it to Lanagan. Lanagan read, then, a startling few lines written by Miss Hemingway the day before to Macondray, breaking their engagement with the single explanation: _I love another. You surely could not want to marry a woman who had discovered she loved another._ Lanagan passed the letter back. He was anxious to make a microscopic examination of the hair, but he wanted also to put Macondray through a mill. He signalled Wilson to “jam,” and the detective touched Macondray on the shoulder. “Get together,” he said brusquely. “We want you to answer a few questions.” “We aren’t getting any place in this fashion,” added Lanagan curtly. “Tell me, Macondray, when did you get that letter?” Macondray straightened up, wiping his eyes. “This afternoon at 5 o’clock,” he said. “When did you see Miss Hemingway last?” There was a long pause while Macondray gazed fixedly first at Lanagan and then at Wilson, as though trying to read their minds to learn what they knew. “Because you did see her after the letter, you know,” said Lanagan quietly. It was entirely a random shot, but it went home. Macondray studied the matter over again for some moments. “Well,” he said at last slowly, “I suppose it is best that I tell all I know. I saw her last--at half-past eight o’clock to-night.” His head dropped to his breast and dry sobs shook him again for a minute. “But as to her death I can offer no explanation. Only--you have Martin in custody, and I saw Martin in her room at that time. My God!” he burst out, “that Elvira could have sunk so low! A menial, a lackey--a chauffeur!” “We don’t want a dissertation on caste,” said Lanagan with cold brutality. “What we want of you, Macondray, either here or at the city prison--” Macondray started, realising for the first time that suspicion was pointing his way--“is a simple statement of how you happened to see Miss Hemingway in this room with Martin and what happened after that?”