"Go on, if you please," the detective said cheerfully. I think Wardrop realized the absurdity of trying to make any one believe that part of the story. He shut his lips and threw up his head as if he intended to say nothing further. "Go on," I urged. If he could clear himself he must. I could not go back to Margery Fleming and tell her that her father had been murdered and her lover was accused of the crime. "The bag was empty," he repeated. "I had not been five minutes trying to open the shutters, and yet the bag had been rifled. Mr. Knox here found it among the flowers below the veranda, empty." The chief eyed me with awakened interest. "You also live at Bellwood, Mr. Knox?" "No, I am attorney to Miss Letitia Maitland, and was there one night as her guest. I found the bag as Mr. Wardrop described, empty." The chief turned back to Wardrop. "How much money was there in it when you--left it?" "A hundred thousand dollars. I was afraid to tell Mr. Fleming, but I had to do it. We had a stormy scene, this morning. I think he thought the natural thing--that I had taken it." "He struck you, I believe, and knocked you down?" asked Hunter smoothly. Wardrop flushed. "He was not himself; and, well, it meant a great deal to him. And he was out of cocaine; I left him raging, and when I went home I learned that Miss Jane Maitland had disappeared, been abducted, at the time my satchel had been emptied! It's no wonder I question my sanity." "And then--to-night?" the chief persisted. "To-night, I felt that some one would have to look after Mr. Fleming; I was afraid he would kill himself. It was a bad time to leave while Miss Jane was missing. But--when I got to the White Cat I found him dead. He was sitting with his back to the door, and his head on the table." "Was the revolver in his hand?" "Yes." "You are sure?" from Hunter. "Isn't it a fact, Mr. Wardrop, that you took Mr. Fleming's revolver from him this morning when he threatened you with it?" Wardrop's face twitched nervously. "You have been misinformed," he replied, but no one was impressed by his tone. It was wavering, uncertain. From Hunter's face I judged it had been a random shot, and had landed unexpectedly well. "How many people knew that Mr. Fleming had been hiding at the White Cat?" from the chief. "Very few--besides myself, only a man who looks after the club-house in the mornings, and Clarkson, the cashier of the Borough Bank, who met him there once by appointment." The chief made no comment. "Now, Mr. Knox, what about you?" "I opened the door into Mr. Fleming's room, perhaps a couple of minutes after Mr. Wardrop went out," I said. "He was dead then, leaning on his outspread arms over the table; he had been shot in the forehead." "You heard no shot while you were in the hall?" "There was considerable noise; I heard two or three sharp reports like the explosions of an automobile engine." "Did they seem close at hand?"