“On the evening of May 10, a man came from somewhere below on the train due here at eight o’clock. He dropped off at the Bridge station, instead of coming into Millbank, and met another man, apparently by appointment, about half-way between the railroad and covered bridges. They talked about ten minutes----” “Hold on,” interrupted McManus; “you go too fast. Was the man he met a Millbank man?” “Oh, I forgot. It was Frank Hunter.” “Frank Hunter!” exclaimed McManus. “You’re still pointing to our office, as I said before. It’s a grave responsibility you’re taking, Mr. Trafford.” “I’m taking no responsibility. I’m simply giving you facts. Whoever was the murderer, I’m certain it wasn’t Frank Hunter. I’ll give you that for your comfort. As I was saying, they talked about ten minutes and then separated. Hunter went to his brother’s house and the stranger turned back, crossed the railroad bridge, and went down Somerset Street, meeting a man about a quarter of a mile below the Catholic church, where the street runs through the heavy maple grove. You know the spot?” McManus nodded, attempting no other interruption. “It was now about quarter to nine, and the two were together full half an hour. The stranger then came back up Somerset Street and went directly to Charles Hunter’s house. Ten minutes after, a man, who might have been the one whom the stranger met, crossed Eddy Street to Bicknell, came up Bicknell to Canaan, crossed Canaan to River Road, and went directly up River Road to the Parlin homestead. He reached there between half-past nine and quarter before ten and went to the side door, where he rang the right-hand bell, showing that he was acquainted with the peculiar arrangement of the bells. Mr. Wing came to the door and the two went into the library.” “Now,” continued Trafford after a pause, to enable McManus to grasp all of the details, “as to the time; it was nine-thirty when Mrs. Parlin left the room. Wing had not written his letter, so that we have got the time pretty closely fixed. He stayed with Wing until nearly eleven-thirty. The stranger seems to have left Hunter’s house under pretence of catching the freight that leaves at eleven, but in reality he went to Somerset Street and walked up and down that street until a quarter to twelve, when he was joined by a man, presumably the one who had come from Wing’s library. It was a pretty hazardous thing to do, this loafing up and down Somerset Street, but up to now I haven’t found a single person whose attention he particularly attracted and certainly not one who pretends to have recognised him, though I feel certain he has many acquaintances in this town.” “If the two Hunters saw him, why don’t you get his identity from them?” McManus demanded.