“That being the case, they can have nothing to do with the murder. The only other person who knew these facts was directly interested in keeping them concealed. Even admitting, as might be possible, that in order effectually to prevent exposure, she had been capable of killing or having her son killed, would she find any likelihood of this in a murder that would centre on him the interest of the entire State? Of course, she did not know of the existence of this paper, and she could not know that the murder would make the case public, but she would know that if he knew the facts, and had any interest in their publicity, he would have acted long ago. She would also know that if you knew the facts, your interest was that of secrecy, the chance of which would be diminished in the excitement of a murder case. Now that’s my reasoning, and through it I reach the conclusion that the facts revealed in that statement have nothing to do with the murder. I have since confirmed this by facts outside those from which I reasoned. I haven’t told a soul this before, not even McManus. I don’t want a soul save you to know it now; not even McManus. But now I’m going to ask you a question, which I believe has some bearing upon the causes of the murder, and that is: Why, if Mr. Wing had for two years been keeping many of his business papers at home, was there not one of them in his desk or safe the morning the murder was discovered?” “No papers in his desk or safe?” she said, while a look almost of terror came over her face. “You must be mistaken! Why, there was a package on his desk, lying right on the writing-pad, when I bade him good-night.” “Would you recognise it again if you saw it?” “Yes.” “Then look through the safe and see if you can find it.” He opened the safe and she went through it package by package, while he waited with that patience that comes of long training, until, the search finished, she looked up and said: “It isn’t here!” “It was here at nine o’clock on the night of the tenth; it wasn’t here at six on the morning of the eleventh. What do you make of that?” “It had been stolen!” she gasped, looking pale and perplexed. “There might be one other explanation,” he interposed; “and we are bound to look at that carefully. Mr. Wing might have burned them. He had a fire that evening.” “Yes,” she said, “he might.” “I made sure on that point,” he then explained, “the morning of the murder. Not from any suspicion that papers were missing, but on the principle of taking note of everything, even the most trivial. I can assure you that there were no papers of any amount burned in the fireplace the night before. We could scarcely expect it; but it would have been a stroke of genius if the thief had burned some papers to throw us off the track.” “The thief!” she repeated.