“Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda—if, indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.” “That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr. Appleby. Why should he do it?” “Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.” “But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You know I did it—you know I had threatened to do it—you know I felt I just could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so—and so, I——” “Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you—what did you do?” “I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took it and shot—then I ran back to the window-seat——” “What did you do with the pistol?” “Threw it out of the window.” “Toward the right or left?” “Why, I don’t know.” “Try to think. Stand up there now, and remember which way you flung it.” Reluctantly, Maida went to the bay window, and stood there thinking. “I don’t know,” she said, at last. “I can’t remember.” “It doesn’t matter,” said Keefe. “I think we can prove that it was none of the Wheelers, but there was a man, an intruder, on the veranda who shot. Even if we never find out his identity, we may prove that he was really there. Where is this maid who saw him clearly? Rachel—is that her name?” “That’s a pretty thing, too!” Fibsy spoke up. “She has flew the coop.” “Gone! Where?” Keefe showed his disappointment. “Nobody knows where. She just simply lit out. Even her lover doesn’t know where she is.” “Who is her lover?” “Fulton, the chauffeur. He’s just about crazy over her disappearance.” “Oh, she’ll return,” surmised Stone. “She became frightened at something and ran off. I think she’ll come back. If not, we’ll have to give chase. We must find her, as she’s the principal witness of the man on the veranda. Cook is not so sure about him.” “Who could he have been?” Keefe said. “Doubtless some enemy of Mr. Appleby, in no way connected with the Wheelers.” “Probably,” agreed Stone. “We found the pistol, you know, Mr. Keefe,” remarked Fibsy. “You did! Well, you have made progress. Where was it?” “In the fern bed, not far from the veranda railing.” “Just where the man would have thrown it!” exclaimed Keefe. “Or where I threw it,” put in Daniel Wheeler.