I gave the station agent a five-dollar bill, which he rolled up with a couple of others and stuck in his pocket. I turned as we got to a bend in the road, and he was looking curiously after us. It was not until we had climbed the hill and turned onto the road to the Carter place that I realized where we were going. Although we approached it from another direction, I knew the farm-house at once. It was the one where Alison West and I had breakfasted nine days before. With the new restraint between us, I did not tell McKnight. I wondered afterward if he had suspected it. I saw him looking hard at the gate-post which had figured in one of our mysteries, but he asked no questions. Afterward he grew almost taciturn, for him, and let me do most of the talking. We opened the front gate of the Carter place and went slowly up the walk. Two ragged youngsters, alike even to freckles and squints, were playing in the yard. “Is your mother around?” I asked. “In the front room. Walk in,” they answered in identical tones. As we got to the porch we heard voices, and stopped. I knocked, but the people within, engaged in animated, rather one-sided conversation, did not answer. “‘In the front room. Walk in,’” quoted McKnight, and did so. In the stuffy farm parlor two people were sitting. One, a pleasant-faced woman with a checked apron, rose, somewhat embarrassed, to meet us. She did not know me, and I was thankful. But our attention was riveted on a little man who was sitting before a table, writing busily. It was Hotchkiss! He got up when he saw us, and had the grace to look uncomfortable. “Such an interesting case,” he said nervously, “I took the liberty—” “Look here,” said McKnight suddenly, “did you make any inquiries at the station?” “A few,” he confessed. “I went to the theater last night—I felt the need of a little relaxation—and the sight of a picture there, a cinematograph affair, started a new line of thought. Probably the same clue brought you gentlemen. I learned a good bit from the station agent.” “The son-of-a-gun,” said McKnight. “And you paid him, I suppose?” “I gave him five dollars,” was the apologetic answer. Mrs. Carter, hearing sounds of strife in the yard, went out, and Hotchkiss folded up his papers. “I think the identity of the man is established,” he said. “What number of hat do you wear, Mr. Blakeley?” “Seven and a quarter,” I replied. “Well, it’s only piling up evidence,” he said cheerfully. “On the night of the murder you wore light gray silk underclothing, with the second button of the shirt missing. Your hat had ‘L. B.’ in gilt letters inside, and there was a very minute hole in the toe of one black sock.” “Hush,” McKnight protested. “If word gets to Mrs. Klopton that Mr. Blakeley was wrecked, or robbed, or whatever it was, with a button missing and a hole in one sock, she’ll retire to the Old Ladies’ Home. I’ve heard her threaten it.”