“And, by the way,” pursued the old lady, “I shall persuade Ezra Lawton to hold the inquest here, and I shall see that this book is placed on the table for the witnesses’ oaths to be taken on. Personally, I shall tell him I have conscientious objections to swearing, and when I testify I shall merely ‘affirm’ (that is permissible in law, you know) with my saintly hands resting on this equally saintly tome.” She ceased and glared once more at her marveling niece, this time with an unbearable air of virtue. Doris returned the look for a second. Then, racked by a spasm of mingled tears and laughter, she caught the little old woman tight in her strong young arms. “_Oh!_” she gasped between laughing and weeping. “How I pity poor Saint Peter when you get to the Pearly Gates! Five minutes after he refuses to let you in you’ll make a triumphant entrance, carrying along his bunch of keys and his halo! But it was glorious in you to save Thax that way. You’re _wonderful_! And--and it was all a--a fib about your thinking he had stolen those things? Please say it was! _Please_ do!” “My dear,” Miss Gregg instructed her, “if I had said I lay awake through utter faith in the boy it wouldn’t have carried half the weight as if I made them think I started out on my vigil with a belief in his guilt. Can’t you see that? Of course, he never stole those things. I made that quite clear to you last evening, didn’t I?” “And--and, Auntie--you--you KNOW he’s innocent of--of this other awful charge, don’t you? _Say_ you do!” “The worst affront that can be offered is an affront to the intelligence,” Miss Gregg informed her. “Which means your question is a black insult to me. I didn’t grip his hand as Clive did, or shout ‘Shame!’ as you did when he was accused. None of those ‘Hands-Across-the-Sea’ demonstrations were needed to show my faith in him. My faith isn’t only in the man himself, but in his sanity. Whatever else Thax Vail is he’s not a born fool. Not brilliant. But assuredly not a fool. He wouldn’t kill young Chase or any one else--with a knife that every one would recognize at once as Thax’s own--and then go away, leaving it in the wound for the police to find. No, Thax didn’t kill Chase. But some one who hates Thax did.” “What--” “Why else should he do it with that knife? There must have been plenty of more suitable weapons at hand--unless he has killed so many people this week that all his own weapons are in the wash.” “But who--?”