“Well, rather! I expect—though you mustn’t say anything about it—but I’ve an idea that you may yet be a governor’s wife! And it wouldn’t do then to have your father barred from the state!” Maida sighed. The hopes Keefe held out were the realization of her dearest wishes—but, oh, the price she must pay! Yet she was strong-willed. She determined to give no thought whatever to Jeffrey, for if she did she knew her purpose would falter. Nor did she even allow herself the doubtful privilege of feeling sorry for him. Well she knew that that way madness lay. And, thought the poor child, sad and broken-hearted though Jeff may be, his sadness and heartbreak are no worse than mine. Not so bad, for I have to take the initiative! I have to take the brunt of the whole situation. The others assembled, and at dinner no word was said of the tragedy. Save for Maida and Jeffrey Allen, the party was almost a merry one. Daniel Wheeler and his wife were so relieved at the disclosure of Maida’s innocence that they felt they didn’t care much what happened next. Fibsy flirted openly with Genevieve and Fleming Stone himself was quietly entertaining. Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed his discoveries. “I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr. Stone?” “I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my opinion changed once or twice.” “And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe. “At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.” “Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on the veranda—and the cook also saw him——” “Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning. But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and went on, earnestly: “Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him, found him, and—secured his signed confession.” With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler. “Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark eyes alight with interest. “Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!” Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments. “John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed——”