"I am Mrs. Allan Fleming," she said, with a certain husky defiance. "I beg your pardon," I said, after a minute. "You mean--the Allan Fleming who has just died?" She nodded. I could see she was unable, just then, to speak. She had nerved herself to the interview, but it was evident that there was a real grief. She fumbled for a black-bordered handkerchief, and her throat worked convulsively. I saw now that she was in mourning. "Do you mean," I asked incredulously, "that Mr. Fleming married a second time?" "He married me three years ago, in Plattsburg. I came from there last night. I--couldn't leave before." "Does Miss Fleming know about this second marriage?" "No. Nobody knew about it. I have had to put up with a great deal, Mr. Knox. It's a hard thing for a woman to know that people are talking about her, and all the time she's married as tight as ring and book can do it." "I suppose," I hazarded, "if that is the case, you have come about the estate." "Estate!" Her tone was scornful. "I guess I'll take what's coming to me, as far as that goes--and it won't be much. No, I came to ask what they mean by saying Allan Fleming killed himself." "Don't you think he did?" "I know he did not," she said tensely. "Not only that: I know who did it. It was Schwartz--Henry Schwartz." "Schwartz! But what on earth--" "You don't know Schwartz," she said grimly. "I was married to him for fifteen years. I took him when he had a saloon in the Fifth Ward, at Plattsburg. The next year he was alderman: I didn't expect in those days to see him riding around in an automobile--not but what he was making money--Henry Schwartz is a money-maker. That's why he's boss of the state now." "And you divorced him?" "He was a brute," she said vindictively. "He wanted me to go back to him, and I told him I would rather die. I took a big house, and kept bachelor suites for gentlemen. Mr. Fleming lived there, and--he married me three years ago. He and Schwartz had to stand together, but they hated each other." "Schwartz?" I meditated. "Do you happen to know if Senator Schwartz was in Plattsburg at the time of the mur--of Mr. Fleming's death?" "He was here in Manchester." "He had threatened Mr. Fleming's life?" "He had already tried to kill him, the day we were married. He stabbed him twice, but not deep enough." I looked at her in wonder. For this woman, not extraordinarily handsome, two men had fought and one had died--according to her story. "I can prove everything I say," she went on rapidly. "I have letters from Mr. Fleming telling me what to do in case he was shot down; I have papers--canceled notes--that would put Schwartz in the penitentiary--that is," she said cunningly, "I did have them. Mr. Fleming took them away." "Aren't you afraid for yourself?" I asked. "Yes, I'm afraid--afraid he'll get me back yet. It would please him to see me crawl back on my knees." "But--he can not force you to go back to him."