“Did you leave the hotel at once?” “Yep. Drove straight home and didn’t see him then, nor since.” “Did you notice any excitement around the hotel as you drove away?” “Excitement? Reckon not. A feller I know spoke to me, but I was too durn mad to answer him decent.” “But didn’t you notice anything else?” Low thought a moment. “Now I think of it,” he said, “I do remember seein’ two or three men runnin’ down the street at the side of the hotel, but I was so durn mad that I didn’t turn my head. The hull town mought ha’ been on fire fer all I cared. I was thinkin’ of how I’d been cheated.” “I understand.” If Nick had had any doubt of this man’s innocence it was all gone now. Low was no actor; just a plain, honest farmer—bullheaded, quick-tempered and unreasonable, perhaps, but no murderer. He couldn’t have told his story of the afternoon in that straightforward way, if he had been guilty. “Mr. Low,” said Nick, after a pause, “Judson is dead.” “Dead!” repeated the farmer, in a tone that showed the greatest surprise. “How long since, Mr. Nicholas?” “He died while you were at the door to his room.” “You don’t mean it!” “He was murdered.” “Wha-a-a-t!” “Thrown from his window to the sidewalk.” “Good Lord! Then that was what those men were runnin’ for.” “Yes—they went to pick him up.” The farmer sat with his elbows on his knees, staring open-mouthed at Nick. “That’s awful, ain’t it?” he whispered. “It is,” said Nick, “and there’s something else that is still more awful.” He paused, but Low said nothing. “It is perfectly well known,” Nick added, “that you started up to Judson’s room just before the deed.” Low became very attentive, but it was plain that the truth was not dawning on him yet. “And that you came down again in a hurry,” added the detective, “immediately afterward. It is also well known that you threatened Mr. Judson——” This was enough. The light burst upon the honest farmer suddenly. In the moonlight, his face was ghastly white, and his voice almost choked, as he said: “Mr. Nicholas, you don’t mean to set thar an’ tell me thar’s folks as say I done it?” “That is what they say,” returned Nick, quietly. Low groaned, and buried his face in his hands. “My wife has often told me,” he sobbed, “that that sharp tongue of mine would git me into trouble. I see! It all fits in like the handle into an ax.” “Listen,” said Nick. “There isn’t going to be as much trouble as you think for. I told you that I was not a lawyer, but that I might be able to help you. I am a detective, Mr. Low.” The farmer uncovered his face and looked frightened now. “I said my name was Nicholas,” the detective went on, “and that was the truth, but only a part of it. My last name is Carter.” Low started. “From New York?” he gasped. “Yes.” The farmer shook from head to toes. He laid his trembling hands on Nick’s arm, and began: