“Yes, sir. And I found out from Rachel that——” “Rachel!” Fibsy fairly shot out the word, but a look from Stone made him say no more. “Yes, Rachel, the maid,” went on Keefe, “and I found that the man she saw on the veranda was of the same general size and appearance as Mills. Well, I somehow felt that it was Mills—and so I went to see him.” “At the hospital?” asked Wheeler. “Yes; some days ago. He was then very weak, and the nurses didn’t want me to arouse him to any excitement. But I knew it was my duty——” “Of course,” put in Stone, and Keefe gave him a patronizing look. “So, against the wishes of the nurses and doctors, I had an interview alone with Mills, and I found he was the criminal.” “He confessed?” asked Stone. “Yes; and though he refused to sign a written confession, he agreed he would confess in the presence of Mr. Wheeler and Mr. Stone. But—that was only this morning—and the doctor assured me the man couldn’t live the day out. So I persuaded the dying man to sign this confession, which I drew up and read to him in the presence of the nurses. He signed—they witnessed—and there it is.” With evident modesty, Keefe pointed to the paper still in Wheeler’s hands, and said no more. For a moment nobody spoke. The storm was at its height. The wind whistled and roared, the rain fell noisily, and the elements seemed to be doing their very worst. Genevieve shuddered—she always was sensitive to weather conditions, and that wind was enough to disturb even equable nerves. “And this same Mills was the phantom bugler?” asked Stone. “Yes—he told me so,” returned Keefe. “He knew about the legend, you see, and he thought he’d work on the superstition of the family to divert attention from himself.” Genevieve gasped, but quickly suppressed all show of agitation. Fibsy whistled—just a few notes of the bugle call that the “phantom” had played. At the sound Keefe turned quickly, a strange look on his face, and the Wheelers, too, looked startled at the familiar strain. “Be quiet, Terence,” Stone said, rather severely, and the boy subsided. “Now, Mr. Keefe,” Fleming Stone said, “you must not think—as I fear you do—that I grudge admiration for your success, or appreciation of your cleverness. I do not. I tell you, very sincerely, that what you have accomplished is as fine a piece of work as I have ever run across in my whole career as detective. Your intuition was remarkable and your following it up a masterpiece! By the way, I suppose that it was Mills, then, who started the fire in the garage?” “Yes, it was,” said Keefe. “You see, he is a clever genius, in a sly way. He reasoned that if a fire occurred, everybody would run to it except Mr. Wheeler, who cannot go over the line. He hoped that, therefore, Mr. Appleby would not go either—for Mr. Appleby suffered from flatfoot—at any rate, he took a chance that the fire would give him opportunity to shoot unnoticed. Which it did.”