on de flo'. When I ast her 'bout it, she says it mus' be de key to Number Five—she mus' uv drapped it."
"I see," said Bristow thoughtfully. "Yes, you're right, Mattie. There are a lot of careless people in the world."
When she had gone back to the kitchen, the full force of what she had said struck him. How simple it would have been for Perry to have taken the key from the drunken Lucy and gone to No. 5! After the commission of the crime, what would have been easier than for him to throw the key on the floor in Lucy's house, thus apparently proving that he had had no way of gaining entrance to the bungalow?
"I didn't foresee this," he meditated. "There's only one thing more needed to hang that darky. That is the discovery that he has in his possession, or has hidden, the jewelry."
He seemed suddenly reminded of something else by this thought. He went to the telephone and called up the Brevord Hotel.
"A Mr. Morley, Mr. Henry Morley, registered there last night, didn't he?" he inquired of the clerk.
"Yes," the clerk replied.
"I wonder," continued Bristow suavely, "if you'd mind looking at the register and telling me exactly at what time he did register. This is Chief Greenleaf's office talking."
"I see. Yes, sir; very glad to. Just hold the wire a moment while I look."
Bristow waited. The Brevord was scarcely four minutes' walk from the railroad station. Morley, having missed the midnight train by two minutes, should have registered at the hotel certainly not later than ten minutes past midnight.
"I have it," came the clerk's voice. "Mr. Henry Morley, of Washington, D. C., registered here at five minutes past two this morning."
Bristow was astonished, but his voice was uncoloured by surprise when he inquired:
"Are you sure of that?"
"Quite," said the clerk laconically. "We always put down opposite each guest's name the time of arrival and registering."
"Thanks ever so much." Bristow hung up the receiver slowly.
It was now after one o'clock, and, following the routine prescribed by his doctor, he made his way to the sleeping porch to lie down for half an hour before dinner, his midday meal.
"From midnight until two o'clock this morning," he reflected, revolving a dozen different facts in his mind. "Mr. Morley failed to mention how he amused himself during all that time. If he's not a criminal, he's criminally stupid."
Chapter V.
The Husband’s Story
Mr. Bristow, however, was not allowed to rest half an hour. Instead, he was called upon to consider a phase of the Withers murder more amazing than any of those so far uncovered. Barely ten minutes after his conversation with the clerk of the Brevord, Mattie announced that two gentlemen were waiting to see him, one of them being the chief of police.
When Bristow stepped into the living room, Greenleaf introduced the stranger. He was Mr. Withers—Mr. George S. Withers, husband of the murdered woman. He was of the extreme brunette type, his hair blue-black, his black eyes keen and piercing and always on the move. Bristow got the impression in looking at him that all his features, the aquiline nose, the firm, compressed mouth, the large ears, were remarkably sharp-cut.
The man's excitement was almost beyond his control. He apparently made no attempt to hide the fact that his hands trembled like leaves in the wind and that, every now and then, his legs quivered perceptibly. As soon as he had shaken hands, he sank into a chair.
"Mr. Withers," the chief explained, "caught me at Number Five before I had started down town. I have explained how you are helping me in this—er distressing matter. So we came up here."
"I see," said Bristow, betraying no surprise that Withers had appeared so suddenly.
In fact, he had not thought of the husband previously, except to calculate that, in answer to the telegram Dr. Braley had undoubtedly sent, he could not reach Furmville from Atlanta before far into the night.
"He only heard of the tragedy half an hour ago," Greenleaf added.
"I didn't know you were in town or even expected," Bristow said casually. "I thought you were in Atlanta."
"I—I wasn't expected." Withers hurried his words.
"You mean nobody expected you?"
"That's it, I wasn't expected. But I've been in—in town here since yesterday morning."
"And Mrs. Withers didn't know of it?"
"Nobody knew of it. I didn't want anybody to know of it."
Bristow purposely remained silent, awaiting some explanation. He looked down, studying the pattern of the scratches he made by rubbing his right shoe against the side of the built-up sole, two inches thick, of his left shoe. The shortness of his crippled leg made this heavy sole necessary; and the awkwardness of it worried him. He seemed always conscious of it.
Greenleaf, taking his cue from Bristow, said nothing.
"I came in without notifying anybody," Withers felt himself obliged to continue, "and I registered under an assumed name."
"Where?" the lame man asked swiftly.
"At the Brevord."
"What name—under what name?"
"Waring, Charles B. Waring."
"And you've been in Furmville since yesterday morning? Got here on the eight o'clock train yesterday morning?"
"Yes."
Bristow gave him the benefit of another long pause and studied him more closely. He saw that this bereaved husband was of the high-strung, Southern-gentleman type, hot-tempered, impulsive, one of those apt to believe that "shooting" is the remedy for one's personal ills or injuries. The lines of his mouth betrayed selfishness and peevishness.
The interrogator broke the silence at last:
"Of course, Mr. Withers, there's some good explanation for your secret trip to Furmville?"
"Well—er—yes."
"What is it?"
Withers hesitated.
"I—I don't know that I care to say now—to discuss it yet."
Bristow shot Greenleaf a prompting glance.
"You see, it's this way," the chief acted on the silent suggestion; "I'm in charge of this matter, the capture of the murderer, and Mr. Bristow is helping me. In fact, he's the man in command. His abilities fit him for the work. If the man who killed your wife is caught, it will be through the work of Mr. Bristow. I'm confident of that.
