So I told the story; I had told it so many times that day that I did it automatically. And I told about the girl with the bronze hair, and my suspicions. But I did not mention Alison West. McKnight listened to the end without interruption. When I had finished he drew a long breath. “Well!” he said. “That’s something of a mess, isn’t it? If you can only prove your mild and child-like disposition, they couldn’t hold you for the murder—which is a regular ten-twent-thirt crime, anyhow. But the notes—that’s different. They are not burned, anyhow. Your man wasn’t on the train—therefore, he wasn’t in the wreck. If he didn’t know what he was taking, as you seem to think, he probably reads the papers, and unless he is a fathead, he’s awake by this time to what he’s got. He’ll try to sell them to Bronson, probably.” “Or to us,” I put in. We said nothing for a few minutes. McKnight smoked a cigarette and stared at a photograph of Candida over the mantel. Candida is the best pony for a heavy mount in seven states. “I didn’t go to Richmond,” he observed finally. The remark followed my own thoughts so closely that I started. “Miss West is not home yet from Seal Harbor.” Receiving no response, he lapsed again into thoughtful silence. Mrs. Klopton came in just as the clock struck one, and made preparation for the night by putting a large gaudy comfortable into an arm-chair in the dressing-room, with a smaller, stiff-backed chair for her feet. She was wonderfully attired in a dressing-gown that was reminiscent, in parts, of all the ones she had given me for a half dozen Christmases, and she had a purple veil wrapped around her head, to hide Heaven knows what deficiency. She examined the empty egg-nog glass, inquired what the evening paper had said about the weather, and then stalked into the dressing-room, and prepared, with much ostentatious creaking, to sit up all night. We fell silent again, while McKnight traced a rough outline of the berths on the white table-cover, and puzzled it out slowly. It was something like this: [Illustration] “You think he changed the tags on seven and nine, so that when you went back to bed you thought you were crawling into nine, when it was really seven, eh?” “Probably—yes.” “Then toward morning, when everybody was asleep, your theory is that he changed the numbers again and left the train.” “I can’t think of anything else,” I replied wearily. “Jove, what a game of bridge that fellow would play! It was like finessing an eight-spot and winning out. They would scarcely have doubted your story had the tags been reversed in the morning. He certainly left you in a bad way. Not a jury in the country would stand out against the stains, the stiletto, and the murdered man’s pocket-book in your possession.” “Then you think Sullivan did it?” I asked.