"I don't know yet what the devil it may turn out to be," said Peter, still intent on the time-table, "but Cordenham is a little place somewhere south of Chicago--and it's destined to be famous one of these days if what I've learned this morning turns out to be true. You can take it from me----Oh--leave Chicago," he was reading now, "leave Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. That can't be right--nearly three hours--yes, it is. Leave Chicago one-twenty-six, arrive Cordenham four-seventeen. Gee! Must be a rotten little road.... I say, O'Malley, how would you rather go to Chicago?" "In a coffin," replied the confirmed and prejudiced New Yorker, promptly. Peter chuckled. "No, but I mean it, O'Malley. Which is the best train?" "The one that takes longest to go and the one that's quickest coming back," answered O'Malley, and Peter was forced to decide his route from his own, more limited experience. He chose a train which left the Pennsylvania Station at eleven o'clock, and reached Chicago at nine on the following morning. This would give him ample leeway, in case the Western train was late, to make the connection for Cordenham. After his last night's experience he wished to run no risk. When he had made his decision, he threw the time-tables down on the desk and turned to his partner. "I only have a little time, O'Malley," he said, "but I want to put you wise to something I turned up last night. It was a peach of a piece of luck, and explains a lot, as you'll see for yourself." And he proceeded rapidly to relate the story of his having surprised Angelo in Miss Blake's apartment. "I put the screws on him after I'd caught him," Peter said. "You may be sure of that, O'Malley. I made him believe that I thought he'd murdered one or both of the sisters." "But you couldn't have thought that, Peter," interrupted O'Malley, quickly. "No, of course not," answered Peter, readily. "I sized the situation up pretty well, from the minute he told me there was silver in the bundle he was carrying. But I wanted to get the dope straight, and the best way, of course, was to scare him into it, poor devil." Then he went on to tell of Angelo's confession. "I let him off easy," he said, in conclusion, "what else could I do, O'Malley? If either of us had a wife who was desperately ill, and we needed the money for her--well, all I said to him was, 'It's a poor bet, Angelo. Nobody gets away with it for long. Promise me you'll never try it on again.' And he promised by all the saints in the calendar.... And that was that." O'Malley was silent for a moment when Peter had finished. Then he said: "So--our murder theory's knocked into a cocked hat. At least it seems that way to me, Pete. Doesn't it to you?"