Martin left the room, and returned escorting the suspect, who was dressed in his working clothes, his coat covering a gray jersey. His face was stolid, but not unprepossessing; his bearing, quiet and reserved. His blue eyes shifted quickly. Then, as Oakes stood facing him, he respectfully saluted "Mr. Clark." The detective met him cheerily. "Good-morning, Maloney; I have asked you as a favor to come here and identify the man who shot at you the other day; O'Brien has reached the end of his rope now." As Oakes finished his sentence, Maloney's face changed hue, but he faced O'Brien, hesitatingly, as though somewhat at a loss. "There's the man! Yes, he shot me," he cried. Then again Oakes began to speak, and we all knew that he was purposely deceiving Maloney, playing with him--waiting for the moment when he would make the slip; when, if of diseased mind, he would fail to differentiate facts from fiction, when the false paths suggested to him would hopelessly entangle him. "The other night, Maloney, someone fired upon us on the road. We have well-nigh proved O'Brien is the guilty one. You chased him across the plain. We owe our thanks to you, one and all of us. Had _you_ not been so close behind him, he would have killed Mr. Stone here." Oakes motioned toward me as he spoke. I saw it all. He was twisting the facts, drawing Maloney into a false idea that he was unsuspected--that he was a hero. "Yes," I cried, seeing the point instantly. "I owe my life to you, old man. I thank you." A sudden flash of remembrance seemed to cross the suspect's face. Then his brow darkened. There was some error here--he was no hero. But what was it? Somehow things were wrong, but where? Dim recollection came to him, then a calmness curious to witness; but his eyes were shifting quickly, and the fingers of one hand were moving silently over one another, as though rolling a crumb of bread. The man was suspicious of something, but clever enough to be apparently calm, although not yet able to understand the flaw in the presentation of facts. Then with a supreme effort he seemed to rally to the occasion, and cleverly evaded the issue. "I only did a little thing," he said, "you need not thank me." The voice was uncertain; the tone pathetic, groping. Oakes had befuddled the poor intellect. Maloney was at sea and sinking. "Maloney," said Oakes again--there was gentleness in the detective's voice; he knew the man before him was going down--"Maloney, when we were fired upon you were watching the would-be murderer--this man O'Brien. You acted with the promptitude of lightning--O'Brien dropped the weapon he had with him. Did you see where it fell? It was a great army revolver, a 45-calibre weapon." Maloney started and straightened up; there, at least, was a familiar subject. He remembered _that_, even though his mind failed to remember the details of the assault.