“But I did,” and the serene eyes looked at Stone calmly. “Can you prove it—I mean, to my satisfaction? Tell me this: where did you get a pistol?” “I used Mr. Wheeler’s revolver.” “Where did you get it?” “From the drawer in his desk, where he always keeps it.” Stone sighed. Of course, both Maida and her mother knew where the revolver was kept, so this was no test of their veracity as to the crime. “When did you take it from the drawer?” Sara Wheeler hesitated for an instant and from that, Stone knew that she had to think before she spoke. Had she been telling the truth, he argued, she would have answered at once. But immediately she spoke, though with a shade of hesitation. “I took it earlier in the day—I had it up in my own room.” “Yes; where did you conceal it there?” “In—in a dresser drawer.” “And, when you heard the alarm of fire, you ran downstairs in consequence—but you paused to get the revolver and take it with you!” This sounded absurd, but Sara Wheeler could see no way out of it, so she assented. “Feeling sure that you would find your husband and Mr. Appleby in such a desperate quarrel that you would be called upon to shoot?” “I—I overheard the quarrel from upstairs,” she faltered, her eyes piteous now with a baffled despair. “Then you went down because of the quarreling voices—not because of the fire-alarm?” Unable to meet Stone’s inexorable gaze, Mrs. Wheeler’s eyes fell and she nervously responded: “Well, it was both.” “Now, see here,” Stone said, kindly; “you want to do anything you can, don’t you, to help your husband and daughter?” “Yes, of course!” and the wide-open eyes now looked at him hopefully. “Then will you trust me far enough to believe that I think you will best help them by telling the truth?” “Oh, I can’t!” and with a low moan the distracted woman hid her face in her hands. “Please do; your attitude proves you are concealing important information. I am more than ever sure you are not the guilty one—and I am not at all sure that it was either of the other two.” “Then who could it have been?” and Sara Wheeler looked amazed. “That we don’t know. If I had a hint of any direction to look I’d be glad. But if you will shed what light you can, it may be of great help.” “Even if it seems to incriminate my——” “What can incriminate them more than their own confessions?” “Their confessions contradict each other. They can’t both be guilty.” “And you don’t know which one is?” “N—no,” came the faltering reply. “But that admission contradicts your own confession. Come now, Mrs. Wheeler, own up to me that you didn’t do it, and I’ll not tell any one else, unless it becomes necessary.”