“Then you see it as I do, Mr. Elliott?” and Stone turned to him quickly. “But, even so, we must look into this story. Suppose, as an experiment, we build up a case against Mrs. Embury, for the purpose of knocking it down again. A man of straw--you know.” “Don’t,” pleaded Elliott. “Just forget the rigmarole of the nocturnal vision--and devote your energies to finding the real murderer. I have a theory--” “Wait, Mr. Elliott, I fear you are an interested investigator. Don’t forget that you have been mentioned as one of those with ‘motive but no opportunity.’“ “Since you have raised that issue, Mr. Stone, let me say right here that my regard for Mrs. Embury is very great. It is also honorable and lifelong. I make no secret of it, but I declare to you that its very purity and intensity puts it far above and beyond any suspicion of being ‘motive’ for the murder of Mrs. Embury’s huband.” Mason Elliott looked Fleming Stone straight in the eye and the speaker’s tone and expression carried a strong conviction of sincerity. Fibsy, too, scrutinized Elliott. “Good egg!” he observed to himself; “trouble is--he’d give us that same song and dance if he’d croaked the guy his own self!” “Furthermore,” Stone went on, “Mrs. Embury shows a peculiarly strong repugnance to hearing this story of Miss Ames’ experience. That looks--” “Oh, fiddlesticks!” cried Miss Ames, who had been listening in amazement; “it wasn’t Eunice! Why would she rig up in Sanford’s gym jersey?” “Why wouldn’t she?” countered Stone. “As I said, we’re building up a supposititious case. Assume that it was Mrs. Embury, not at all enacting a ghost, but merely wandering around after her impulsive deed--for if she is the guilty party it must have been an impulsive deed. You know her uncontrollable temper--her sudden spasms of rage--” “Mr. Stone, a ‘man of straw,’ as you call it, is much more easily built up than knocked down.” Elliott spoke sternly. “I hold you have no right to assume Mrs. Embury’s identity in this story Miss Ames tells.” “Is there anything that points to her in your discernment by your five senses, Miss Ames?” Stone asked, very gravely. “Has Mrs. Embury a faintly ticking watch?” “Yes, her wrist-watch,” Aunt Abby answered, though speaking evidently against her will. “And it is possible that she slipped on her husband’s jersey; and it is possible there was raspberry jam on the sleeve of it. You see, I am not doubting the evidence of your senses. Now, as to the gasoline. Had Mrs. Embury, or her maid, by any chance, been cleaning any laces or finery with gasoline?” “I won’t tell you!” and Aunt Abby shook her head so obstinately that it was quite equivalent to an affirmative answer!