“I heard your voices when I came through the rear yard from the side street. Not knowing yours and being a bit jealous of Kate, I entered noiselessly and listened in the rear hall. That’s all there was to it,” added Conroy. “I heard most that you have said, Carter, and you’re dead wrong.” “You really think so, do you?” “I know so, Carter.” “Dead wrong in what respect?” questioned Nick tentatively. “In suspecting Kate Crandall of----” “Stop a moment,” Nick interrupted. “Who are you, anyway?” The question brought a sharper gleam into the eyes back of the gold-bowed glasses, but it waned almost instantly, for the detective’s tone and scrutiny evinced no definite suspicion. “My name is Jack Conroy.” “Jack Conroy, eh?” “That’s what.” “Where do you live? How could you enter this house?” “I board here, have boarded here for weeks,” Conroy promptly asserted. “That’s why I could enter. I have a key to both doors.” “That’s true, Mr. Carter, on my word,” Kate Crandall put in. “I already have told you what I think your word is worth,” said Nick, with a quick glance at her. “But you are wrong, Carter, dead wrong,” Conroy repeated. “I know what I am talking about, and I’m going to prove it to you.” “That’s up to you, then,” said Nick. “I’m always, open to conviction. I’m willing to listen.” “That’s as it should be,” Conroy replied. “As I understand it, from what you two have been saying, some girl or child has recently been abducted.” “Exactly,” said Nick, not without an object in prolonging this conversation. “Yesterday afternoon?” “Yes.” “At what time?” “About four o’clock.” “Well, I was with Kate Crandall in a moving-picture house at that hour, so I know she could have had no hand in an abduction,” Conroy forcibly asserted. “I know also that you may not believe that, since I am her intimate friend, and it’s on another point that I’m going to set you right.” “What point is that?” “That letter,” said Conroy, pointing to it. “I don’t know what it contains, but I heard what you said about it and saw what you did to the pad. You evidently suspect that the letter was written in this house. So it was, of course, in view of what you have discovered. But Kate Crandall did not write it.” “How do you know that?” questioned Nick. “Because I know who did write it.” “Who?” “The man who lives here and owns the place--Andy Duffy,” said Conroy emphatically. “How do you know he wrote it?” Nick asked, with steadfast scrutiny. “Because I saw him at work on it three or four evenings ago,” said Conroy. “I was reading, and he was seated at his desk. I wondered what he was doing, he was at work so long and kept tearing up sheets of paper.” “Why didn’t you inquire?”