We were a somber-looking group of men. The horror and nervous tension of the last few hours was still with us. No one felt very much at ease, and my eyes still saw the amazing scene in the boat house. The heavy face of the chief wore the most bewildered look I have ever seen, and it seemed as if he still found it impossible to believe all that had taken place. Only Ranville and Bartley appeared to be unmoved, and the Englishman's face wore an admiring look whenever he glanced at Bartley. It was the chief who voiced the thought which was in all our minds. He turned to Bartley, and his heavy voice asked the question we all wished answered. “Mr. Bartley,” he asked, “for God's sake, tell us how you doped out this thing. I can't believe yet the minister killed those two men. To save my life I can't see it.” Bartley started to speak, only to be interrupted by Carter's rising from his chair. Telling us he thought the chief would pardon us if we took a little drink, he left the room, returning in a moment. Under his arm was a three-sided bottle, and glasses clinked in his pockets. No one spoke while he poured out the Scotch, and very soberly we each took our drink. Then Carter turned to his friend. “Now, John,” was all he said. Fumbling in his pocket, Bartley found his cigar case and slowly lighted one of the long thin cigars he loved so well. Then, leaning far back in his chair, he turned to the chief. “As you know, Chief,” were his words, “the solving of any crime is oftentimes a matter of luck. It is not often we find clews scattered about which lead us directly to the criminal. Most murders are solved by very careful detail work by the police. Others are solved by sheer good fortune, and a few by what we might call a bit of psychology.” I saw Ranville nod his head in agreement, but the chief's face was a study. He started to say something, only to check himself as Bartley continued: “When I first read in the papers regarding the murder of Warren, my first thought was, the whole thing seemed incredible. Then I began to wonder what the motive might be. There must always be some kind of a motive for a murder. The crime is committed, of course, for many reasons. In the main, there are but three—robbery, revenge or sudden, frenzied passion. When I read the accounts of Warren's death, every one of these reasons seemed to be eliminated. In fact, the more I thought it over the less there seemed to be of any kind of motive.” He paused to relight his cigar; then went on: