"My one big mistake in the study was that diary of 1920. It lay open on the desk where he'd been writing. It did tell of his having identified me as Clayte. I'd not expected it, and so I didn't handle it well. Time pressed. I couldn't carry it with me; I tore out the leaf, stuck the book into the drainpipe, and ran. "And after all," he summed up, "my plans would have gone through on schedule; you never could have touched me with your clumsy, police-detective methods, if it hadn't been for the girl." He dropped his head and stood brooding a moment, demanded another smoke, got it, shrugged off some thought with a gesture, and finished, "I was in too deep to turn. It was her life--or mine. Things went contrary. We couldn't get her to come out to the masquerade, where it would have been easy. With those two Mandarin costumes, Fong Ling in my place, I had my time from the hour we put on the masks till midnight. Another perfect alibi. Well--it didn't work. They say you have to shoot a witch with a silver bullet. And she's more than human." A siren's dry shriek as the Sheriff's gasoline buggy made its way through the crowded street outside. Cummings raised his brows at me, got my nod of permission, and shot his first question at the prisoner. "Vandeman, where's the money?" "Not within a hundred miles of here," instantly. "You took it south with you--on your wedding trip?" Cummings would persist. But our man, so expansive a moment ago, had, as I knew he would at direct mention of his loot, turned sullen, and he started for the San Jose jail, mum as an oyster. CHAPTER XXXI THE MILLION-DOLLAR SUITCASE The Sheriff had gone with his prisoner; Cummings left; and then there came to me, in the street there before the lock-up, riding with Jim Edwards in his roadster, a Worth Gilbert I had never known. Quiet he had been before; but never considerate like this. When I rushed up to him with my triumph and congratulations, and he put them aside, it was with a curious gentleness. "Yes, yes, Jerry; I know. Vandeman turned out to be Clayte." Then, noticing my bewilderment, "You see, Jim let it slip that Barbara's hurt. Where is she?" And Edwards leaned around to explain. "When we came past Capehart's, and she wasn't there, I--" "Oh, that's only a scratch," I hurried to assure the boy. "Barbara'll be all right." "So Jim said," he agreed soberly. "I'm afraid you're both lying to me." "All right," I climbed in beside him. "We'll go and see. She's up at your house--waiting for you." As we headed away for the other end of town, he spoke again, half interrogatively, "Vandeman shot her?" and when I nodded. "He's on his way to jail. I'm out. But I'm the man that's responsible for what's happened to her. Dragged her into this thing, in the first place. She hated those concentrating stunts; and I set her to do one at that woman's table. To help play my game--I risked her life."