"That I did, as fast as my tremblin' legs could get me downstairs. I was clean daft. I couldn't make it out and I didn't try. I thought it was the Devil's own work, somehow, but how, I didn't know. My mind was full, makin' my escape. I ran like the old boy was after me, and reachin' home, I hid under me bedclothes and groaned all night. Full a week went by, and I begun to breathe easy, thinkin' I'd never be suspected of a hand in it, when up comes this gentleman, and says I done it. Well, I've told the truth now, and I'm relieved to get it off my chest." Bates heaved a deep sigh, as of a man eased of a great burden. His whole story bore the stamp of truth, and his manner of telling was straightforward and earnest. Nor was there reason for doubt. Though a startling tale, it entirely explained many of the strange conditions that had seemed so bewildering. It would never have occurred to Bates nor to any one to make up such a yarn, and what else could have deterred him from the contemplated robbery but the superstition that makes even the most hardened criminals refuse to steal from a dead person? Therefore, the narrative was accepted as probably true, and Bates was taken to the Tombs to await further proceedings against him. "You're a wonder!" said Gray Haviland, as, that same afternoon, he discussed the matter with Fleming Stone. "Would you mind telling me how you went straight to the criminal and walked him off to jail?" "That was practically a bit of luck," and Stone smiled. "It was the black-jack that gave me the clue. If the fellow hadn't dropped that in his fright, we might never have traced him. Though we would perhaps have found him eventually, through the maid, Estelle. She is not good at keeping things secret. However, he did drop the weapon, and it led straight to him." "But how?" "Well, the thing smelled strongly of creosote. Now, it was made from a bit of old cloth that looked like a piece of some discarded garment,--a man's coat, say. If the odor had been camphor or moth balls, I should have assumed a garment laid away in storage, but creosote is not used for that purpose. So I deduced a house recently remodeled by use of a certain kind of shingles. I know that the odor of those shingles clings to everything in the house for months. It is almost ineradicable. So I looked about for a house lately reshingled." "Why not a new house?" asked Hardy, who was present. "A point well taken," said Stone, nodding approval, "but in a new house the odor often is dispelled before the people move in. In a remodeled house, the furnishings stay there during the work and so are deeply impregnated with that unmistakable smell of creosote. At any rate, I worked on that, and when I found that a newly shingled old house was a boarding-house of the type Bates would be likely to live in, I went there to see, and found him." "Yes, but how did you know there was such a person as Bates? Where did you get his name?"