A silence fell for a moment. There was something about Stone’s manner of speaking that made for conviction in the minds of his hearers that he said truth. “Wait a minute! Oh, wait a minute!” It was Genevieve Lane who cried out the words, and then she sprang from her chair and ran to Keefe’s side. Flinging her arms about him, she whispered close to his ear. He listened, and then, with a scornful gesture he flung her off. “No!” he said to her; “no! a thousand times, no! Do your worst.” “I shall!” replied Genevieve, and without another word she resumed her seat. “Yes,” went on Stone, this interruption being over, “your ingenious ‘success’ in the way of detecting is doomed to an ignominious end. You see, sir,” he turned to Daniel Wheeler, “the clever ruse Mr. Keefe has worked, is but a ruse—a stratagem, to deceive us all and to turn the just suspicion of the criminal in an unjust direction.” “Explain, Mr. Stone,” said Wheeler, apparently not much impressed with what he deemed a last attempt on the part of the detective to redeem his reputation. “Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—a stratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed confession?” “I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.” “Who is, then?” “You are!” Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard. “Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest. “I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes open.” Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees. “Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.” “But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?” “I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me then. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”