“What do you mean?” asked Allen. “Why, I’ve inquired about among the servants and, adding our own testimony, I’ve figured it out that Mr. Wheeler was either the murderer or he was over the line on the other side of the house, and in that case has broken his parole and is subject to the law.” “How do you prove that?” inquired Burdon, interestedly. “By the story of Miss Wheeler, who says her father was not in the den at all at the time Mr. Appleby was shot. Now, as we know, Mrs. Wheeler ran downstairs at that time, and she, too, says her husband was not in the den. Also she says he was not in the living-room, nor in the hall. This leaves only her own sitting-room, from which Mr. Wheeler could see the fire and into which he was most likely to go for that purpose.” “He wouldn’t go in that room for any purpose,” declared Allen. “Not ordinarily, but in the excitement of a fire, men can scarcely refrain from running to look at it, and if he was not in the places he had a right to be, he must have been over on the forbidden ground. So, it comes back to this: either Mr. Wheeler was the murderer, and his wife and daughter have perjured themselves to save him, or he was in a place which, by virtue of the conditions, cancels his pardon. This, I take it, explains Mr. Wheeler’s present perturbed state of mind—for he is bewildered and worried in many ways.” “Well,” said Allen, “where does all this lead us?” “It leads us,” Keefe returned, “to the necessity of a lot of hard work. I’m willing to go on record as desiring to find a criminal outside of the Wheeler family. Or to put it bluntly, I want to acquit all three of them—even if——” “Even if one of them is guilty?” said Burdon. “Well, yes—just that. But, of course I don’t mean to hang an innocent man! What I want is to get a verdict for persons unknown.” “I’m with you,” said Allen. “It’s all wrong, I know, but—well, I can’t believe any of the Wheelers really did it.” “You do believe it, though!” Keefe turned on him, sharply. “And what’s more, you believe the criminal is the one of the three whom you least want it to be!” Keefe’s meaning was unmistakable, and Allen’s flushed and crestfallen face betrayed his unwilling assent. Unable to retort—even unable to speak, he quickly left the room. Keefe closed the door and turned to Burdon. “That was a test,” he said; “I’m not sure whether Allen suspects Miss Wheeler—or not——” “He sure acts as if he does,” Burdon said, his face drawn with perplexity. “But, I say, Mr. Keefe, haven’t you ever thought it might have been Jeffrey Allen himself?” “Who did the shooting?” “Yes; he had all the motives the others had——” “But not opportunity. Why, he was at the garage fire—where I was——” “Yes, but he might have got away long enough for——” “Nonsense, man, nothing of the sort! We were together, fighting the flames. The two chauffeurs were with us—the Wheelers’ man, and Mr. Appleby’s. We used those chemical extinguishers——”