“As much right,” retorted Matthewson hotly, “as you have to throw suspicion on these gentlemen, simply because of the coincidence of my meeting them during a hasty visit to Millbank on the night that Wing was murdered. It would be just as reasonable to suspect me of the murder.” “It is possible that I do,” said Trafford. “Come,” exclaimed Matthewson, “this is going a trifle far. It’s not five minutes since you said you were satisfied I did not murder him.” “But that was before you refused to tell me whom you met.” Just at that moment a loud voice was heard in the outer room, demanding to see Mr. Matthewson. He rose and turned the key in the door, notwithstanding a movement on Trafford’s part to stop him. As he turned to his desk, Trafford asked: “Do you recognise the voice?” “No,” said the other, shortly and indignantly; “but I propose to finish this matter here and now, so that there will be no need to reopen it.” “That’s Cranston, the detective whom you, your brother, and Charles Hunter have hired,” said Trafford. “I advise you to see him, and let me be in a cupboard or behind a screen while he is here.” “Superb!” said Matthewson, with a vicious sneer. “You’ll know all he’s found out--steal his thunder! Excellent!” “Mr. Matthewson,” Trafford said, with a touch of dignity in his voice that his companion could but note, “I would be justified in resenting such a remark, and you are not justified in making it. Cranston has discovered nothing that I haven’t known for weeks; but he’s been in Bangor, and I know what he could find out there. You sent him there and made a cruel mistake when you did it. I would have stopped it, if I could. He’s here now to tell you and, if I mistake not, to demand a price for his silence. If I’m wrong, no harm can come from my hearing. If I’m right, you’re the man who wants me to hear; it’ll be the best protection you can have in the future.” At the mention of Bangor, Matthewson turned pale and then flushed. That it was made with the purpose of informing him that the detective knew the secret of his mother’s early life, he could not doubt. There was but one thing that he ought to do, and that was to pitch the man out of his room. He would have done it, but for the man on the other side of the door, to whose presence he was recalled by the turning of the door-knob. In which of these men did he place the greater trust? He had only to ask the question to let it answer itself. But this new menace? He would know it at its worst. That was beyond question. “Pass through this door, into the next room,” he said. “There you will find the door of a closet, which has a second door opening into this alcove. After he has entered and looked into that alcove, as he may, come out of the closet and--listen.” Cranston, on entering, did exactly what Matthewson had predicted; he examined the alcove before taking the chair to which Matthewson pointed him. “There’s no one in there,” Matthewson said.