“It seems the irony of fate,” said McKnight, getting up, “that a man should kill another man for certain papers he is supposed to be carrying, find he hasn’t got them after all, decide to throw suspicion on another man by changing berths and getting out, bag and baggage, and then, by the merest fluke of chance, take with him, in the valise he changed for his own, the very notes he was after. It was a bit of luck for him.” “Then why,” put in Hotchkiss doubtfully, “why did he collapse when he heard of the wreck? And what about the telephone message the station agent sent? You remember they tried to countermand it, and with some excitement.” “We will ask him those questions when we get him,” McKnight said. We were on the unrailed front porch by that time, and Hotchkiss had put away his notebook. The mother of the twins followed us to the steps. “Dear me,” she exclaimed volubly, “and to think I was forgetting to tell you! I put the young man to bed with a spice poultice on his ankle: my mother always was a firm believer in spice poultices. It’s wonderful what they will do in croup! And then I took the children and went down to see the wreck. It was Sunday, and the mister had gone to church; hasn’t missed a day since he took the pledge nine years ago. And on the way I met two people, a man and a woman. They looked half dead, so I sent them right here for breakfast and some soap and water. I always say soap is better than liquor after a shock.” Hotchkiss was listening absently: McKnight was whistling under his breath, staring down across the field to where a break in the woods showed a half dozen telegraph poles, the line of the railroad. “It must have been twelve o’clock when we got back; I wanted the children to see everything, because it isn’t likely they’ll ever see another wreck like that. Rows of—” “About twelve o’clock,” I broke in, “and what then?” “The young man up-stairs was awake,” she went on, “and hammering at his door like all possessed. And it was locked on the outside!” She paused to enjoy her sensation. “I would like to see that lock,” Hotchkiss said promptly, but for some reason the woman demurred. “I will bring the key down,” she said and disappeared. When she returned she held out an ordinary door key of the cheapest variety. “We had to break the lock,” she volunteered, “and the key didn’t turn up for two days. Then one of the twins found the turkey gobbler trying to swallow it. It has been washed since,” she hastened to assure Hotchkiss, who showed an inclination to drop it. “You don’t think he locked the door himself and threw the key out of the window?” the little man asked. “The windows are covered with mosquito netting, nailed on. The mister blamed it on the children, and it might have been Obadiah. He’s the quiet kind, and you never know what he’s about.” “He’s about to strangle, isn’t he,” McKnight remarked lazily, “or is that Obadiah?”