“Very well,” said Smith quietly. “It’s my duty to tell you, Mr. Thomas, that in all my experience I have never seen a clearer case of circumstantial evidence. You killed Mrs. Breese.” CHAPTER IX THIRD DEGREE “But I didn’t kill anyone!” shouted the actor. “Good God, man, what do you want from me? I’ve had enough!” His voice screeched protest. “Sit down,” Smith ordered. Reluctantly the actor obeyed, as if in a daze. “I’ll tell you the facts as we have them now. If you can offer anything to offset them, I’ll be very glad to hear what you have to say. But this is the way the thing would appear in court: “You are a member of Mrs. Breese’s household. Your status is peculiar. The talk is that you’re her fiancé. But you have a sweetheart in New York who expects to go to Europe with you. You have no money. Mr. Rice and the National City Bank testify that they have seen a forged check made out by you. Mr. Rice testifies that he telephoned Mrs. Breese tonight informing her of the check. Mrs. Breese taxes you with it.” “But she didn’t,” protested the actor. “I went upstairs while she was still telephoning.” “Why?” “To write a letter to Miss Saunders. Mrs. Breese had agreed to give me the money and I was sending a letter to Miss Saunders to tell her everything was all set. Then, when I was about to come down again, the butler ran up to tell me she had been killed!” “You still deny you forged this check Mr. Rice mentioned?” “Absolutely!” “All right,” said Smith. “Let’s waive that. In any case, fifteen minutes after Rice phoned here, Mrs. Breese is found dead. You’re upstairs. The butler tells you that Mrs. Breese has been killed. You don’t send for a doctor. Why? Because you knew already that Mrs. Breese was dead. You send him for a policeman.” “I didn’t think.” “Perhaps not. In any case, Mr. Thomas, you had the opportunity to kill Mrs. Breese, and if I am to believe Rice, you had the motive. I’m being very frank with you.” “But I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it!” Smith shrugged his shoulders. “Have you ever fired a revolver, Mr. Thomas?” he demanded. “Have I ever--yes, in the army.” “Are you a pretty good shot?” “Not especially so, no. But I’ve never fired a revolver since. I never even had one in my hand.” I stared at Thomas, for at that moment I recalled one of the hectic events of the yacht trip down. “Don’t you remember,” I said, “that on the yacht you went into Henry Breese’s cabin late at night and took a revolver from his luggage?” “Oh!” the actor looked daggers at me. I, too, apparently had turned against him. “That was after he tried to throw himself in the ocean, and I knew he had a revolver, and I wasn’t taking any chances. So I took it away from him.” “What happened to that revolver?” Smith demanded. “I threw it away that night.” “Sorry to contradict you,” I said firmly. “You threw the cartridges away. I distinctly remember seeing you put that revolver in your pocket.” “I threw it away later!”