“At what time was this?” “About half past one; a few minutes later, just after the clock in the hall had chimed the half hour.” “Why do you tell me this?” He glared at me. “That’s a nice question, when you’ve fairly dragged it out of me! But I’m banking on your statement that you’re loyal to Alma and I’m hoping that you can somehow ward off inquiries from Mr. Moore or keep the police away from her house.” “You don’t think she had anything to do with——” “Of course, I know Alma Remsen had nothing to do with her uncle’s death, if that’s what you’re trying to say, but I do believe she was here late that night, and if that fact is discovered, it means trouble all round.” He had suddenly acquired a dignity quite at variance with his former boyish embarrassment, and spoke earnestly and steadily. “Why would she come here at such an hour?” “She—she comes at any time—she has her own key——” He was floundering again. “Yes, I know, but at half past one at night! What could be the explanation?” “I can’t tell you——I daren’t tell you,” he moaned like a child. “But oh, Mr. Norris, do stand by! Do use any tact or cleverness you may possess to keep the hounds off her track! She will be persecuted, unless we can save her!” He began to look wild-eyed, and I began to fear that Miss Remsen had even a worse and more imbecile helper in him than in me. But the whole affair was growing in interest, and I was glad to have a sympathizer in my belief in Alma Remsen’s innocence, whatever sort he might be. For I had caught a few words from the next room and I felt certain that Everett and Keeley Moore were talking over the strange story of Alma and the waistcoats. Feeling I could do no more with Dean just then, I went back to the bedroom. “Sifting clues?” I asked, trying to speak casually. Kee looked at me, and smiled a little. “Absent clues rather than present ones,” he said. “You see, the waistcoats and the Totem Pole disappeared, but so did the plate—the fruit plate.” “Is that important?” I asked. “Why, yes, in a way. Everything that is here or that isn’t here is important.” “A bit cryptic, but I grasp your meaning,” I told him. “Then the hammer that belongs to the nail is important?” “Very much so,” Kee answered, gravely. “Do you know where it is?” “I don’t, but it seems to me you haven’t looked for it very hard. If the murderer is one of this household, presumably he used a hammer belonging here.” “Then it loses its importance. The hammer is only of interest if it was brought in from outside.” “Have you made any headway at all, Kee?” “Not much, I confess. Mr. Everett here inclines to Ames——” “And Ames inclines to Everett,” was the somewhat surprising observation of the secretary himself. “Yes,” he went on, as I looked at him in amazement, “but I think, I hope, Ames only suspects me because it’s the conventional thing to do. In stories, you know, nine tenths of the crimes are committed by the confidential secretary.”