“Cut it out,” ordered Burdon. “Take up the bugler business some other time, if you like—but we must get down to brass tacks now.” His proceedings were interrupted, however, by the arrival of young Samuel Appleby. The big man came in and a sudden hush fell upon the group. Daniel Wheeler rose—and put out a tentative hand, then half withdrew it as if he feared it would not be accepted. Hallen watched this closely. He strongly suspected Wheeler was the murderer, but he had no intention of getting himself in bad by jumping at the conclusion. However, Appleby grasped the hand of his host as if he had no reason for not doing so. “I’m sorry, sir, you should have had this tragedy beneath your roof,” he said. Hallen listened curiously. It was strange he should adopt an apologetic tone, as if Wheeler had been imposed upon. “Our sorrow is all for you, Sam,” Dan Wheeler returned, and then as Appleby passed on to greet Maida and her mother, Wheeler sank back in his chair and was again lost in thought. The whole scene was one of constraint. Appleby merely nodded to Genevieve, and spoke a few words to Keefe, and then asked to see his father. On his return to the living-room, he had a slightly different air. He was a little more dictatorial, more ready to advise what to do. “The circumstances are distressing,” he said, “and I know, Mr. Wheeler, you will agree with me that we should take my father back to his home as soon as possible. “That will be done to-morrow morning—as soon as the necessary formalities can be attended to. Now, anything I can do for you people, must be done to-night.” “You can do a lot,” said Burdon. “You can help us pick out the murderer—for, I take it, you want justice done?” “Yes—yes, of course.” Appleby looked surprised. “Of course I want this deed avenged. But I can’t help in the matter. I understand you suspect some one of the—the household. Now, I shall never be willing to accuse any one of this deed. If it can be proved the work of an outsider—a burglar or highwayman—or intruder of any sort, I am ready to prosecute—but if suspicion rests on—on anyone I know—I shall keep out of it.” “You can’t do that, Mr. Appleby,” said Hallen; “you’ve got to tell all you know.” “But I don’t know anything! I wasn’t here!” “You know about motives,” Hallen said, doggedly. “Tell us now, who bore your father any ill-will, and also had opportunity to do the shooting?” “I shan’t pretend I don’t know what you’re driving at,” and Appleby spoke sternly, “but I’ve no idea that Mr. Daniel Wheeler did this deed. I know he and my father were not on friendly terms, but you need more evidence than that to accuse a man of murder.” “We’ll look after the evidence,” Hallen assured him. “All you need tell about is the enmity between the two men.”