“Not to my knowledge,” he said. Of course the commodore might have poisoned the dog, but it was unlikely. Probably that inside-operator, or his outside pal had “done the deed.” A dog would be in their way. Miss Gerald considered. “There is another question I should like to ask you, Mr. Bennett,” she said presently. “Go on,” returned Bob, with dark forebodings. “Are you a sleep-walker?” “No.” “Then why do you go wandering around nights when every one else has retired? Last night, for example?” “So that hammer-thrower told you, did he?” remarked Bob. “I thought he would.” “Do you blame him?” “Oh, I suppose it was his duty.” Every one seemed “telling” on Bob just at present. “You do not deny it?” “Why should I?” “Then we may accept his version of the story?” “Yes. I presume it was correct.” Again Miss Gerald remained thoughtful and Bob glanced out toward the gardeners. One of them seemed to have edged nearer. Bob smiled a little glumly. After having caught him in the web, the spiders were now winding the strands around and around him. Spiders do that when they don’t want to devour their victim right off. They mummify the victim, as it were, and tuck him away for the morrow. “Why”—the accusing presence was again speaking—“did you go down-stairs that first night of your arrival, after all the household had retired?” Bob would have given a great deal not to answer that, but he had to. “I was showing some people out.” “Your accomplices?” “They might be called that.” Miserably. He wouldn’t “give away” Dan and the others, unless he had to—unless truth compelled him to designate them by name as his accomplices. “Are you aware, Mr. Bennett, of the seriousness of your answer?” “Yes, I know. But how did you know—that I went down-stairs?” “I thought I heard some one go down. And then I got up and you went by my door, and I looked out, ever so quietly. You went in Dolly’s room and she woke up and caught you trying to take her brooch.” Bob was silent. What was the use of talking? “Well, why don’t you speak?” “It is true I went in Miss Dolly’s room, but I thought it was my room,” said Bob monotonously. “It was a mistake.” And Bob told how the brooch happened to fall to the floor. Strange to say, truth didn’t ring in his accents. He hadn’t much confidence at that moment in the old saw that truth is mighty and will prevail. Truth wasn’t mighty; it was a monster that sucked your heart’s blood. And Bob gazed once more with that famished look upon Miss Gerald. He found her a joy to the eye. Though she stood in a practical pose, the curves of her gracious and proud young figure were like ardent lines of poetry in a matutinal and passionate hymn to beauty. And Bob’s lips straightway yearned to sing hexameters to loveliness in the abstract—and in the flesh—instead of plodding along half-heartedly through unconvincing and purposeless explanations.