“I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all the shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who, when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows that Mr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who, after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation. “And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle——” “How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler. “I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched him from my window. He returned about three hours later.” It was clear to all listening, that when Genevieve had whispered to Keefe and he had told her to do her worst, they were now hearing the “worst.” “So,” Stone narrated, “Mr. Keefe came over here and did the bugling as a preliminary to his further schemes. You admit that, Mr. Keefe?” “I admit nothing. Tell your silly story as you please.” “I will. Then, the day of the murder, Mr. Keefe arranged for the fire in the garage. He used the acids as the man Fulton described, and as Keefe’s own coat was burned and his employer’s car he felt sure suspicion would not turn toward him. When the fire broke out—which as it depended on the action of those acids, he was waiting for, Keefe ran with Mr. Allen to the garage. But—and this I have verified from Mr. Allen, Keefe disappeared for a moment, and, later was again at Allen’s side. In that moment—Mr. Wheeler, that psychological moment, Curtis Keefe shot and killed Samuel Appleby.” “And Mills?” “Is part of the diabolically clever scheme. Mills was dying; he was leaving a large family without means of support. He depended, and with reason, on hope of your generosity, Mr. Wheeler, to his wife and children. But Curtis Keefe went to him and told him that you were about to be dispossessed of your home and fortune, and that if he would sign the confession—knowing what it was—that he, Keefe, would settle a large sum of money on Mrs. Mills and the children at once. And he did.” “You fiend! You devil incarnate!” cried Keefe, losing all control. “How do you know that?” “I found it all out from Mrs. Mills,” Stone replied; “your accomplices all betrayed you, Mr. Keefe. A criminal should beware of accomplices. Rachel turned state’s evidence and told how you bribed her to make up that story of the bugler—or rather, to relate parrot-like—the story you taught to her.” “It’s all up,” said Keefe, flinging out his hands in despair. “You’ve outwitted me at every point, Mr. Stone. I confess myself vanquished——” “And you confess yourself the murderer?” said Stone, quickly. “I do, but I ask one favor. May I take that paper a moment?” “Certainly,” said Stone, glancing at the worthless confession.