sat down before the open fire, which earlier had fought against the chill of the cool May morning, "you can work one out right on the ground. And I'll be mighty glad to have your help—if you will help."
"Of course," said Bristow. "I'll be more than glad to make any suggestions I can."
The chief went out on the porch and called across the yard of No. 7 to one of his men on guard at No. 5:
"Simpson, when a young man—name's Morley—gets there and asks for me, tell him to come up here to Number Nine."
He came back and referred to Bristow's offer of help:
"For instance?"
"Well," Bristow answered, "as we see it now, there are three possibilities: Campbell, or Morley, or some unknown man or woman, coloured or white, bent on robbery."
"So far, though, we haven't found any signs of robbery."
"I have."
"What were they?"
"The middle, third and little fingers of Mrs. Withers' left hand were scratched, badly scratched, as if rings had been pulled from them by force. And there was a deep line on the back of her neck. It looked black just now, but it was red when it was inflicted. It was too thin to have been made by a finger, but it might have been caused by somebody's having tugged at a chain about her neck until it broke."
"The thunder you say! I didn't notice any of that."
"I'll show you the marks when we go back there."
"But," objected Greenleaf, "I know Mr. Campbell. He's not the sort to steal. And I don't suppose Morley is."
"They say the same thing about bank presidents," Bristow replied with a slight smile, "but some of them get caught at it, nevertheless."
"Yes; but this is different—unless the murdered woman had extremely valuable jewelry."
"That's true. Besides, if the front door was unlocked all night, or, even if somebody knocked at the door and Mrs. Withers answered it, there is your third possibility, any ordinary robbery and murder."
"I believe that's what will come out," Greenleaf said, his troubled face showing his worried consciousness of inability to handle the situation; "but how will we—how will I prove it?"
"Morley and Campbell can make their own statements."
Bristow, going to the dining room door, called toward the kitchen:
"Mattie!"
Replying to his summons, a middle-aged coloured woman appeared.
"Mattie, didn't I hear Perry tell you yesterday that he was to go to work this morning for Mrs. Withers, 'making' her garden?"
"Yas, suh," answered Mattie, still breathing heavily from her hurried return from No. 5.
"Has he been around this morning?"
"Naw, suh."
"Do you know where Mrs. Withers' servant lives?"
"Yas, suh."
"What's her name?"
"Lucy Thomas, suh."
"Well, I want you to go there right away and find out what's the matter with her, why she didn't show up for work this morning. Take your time. Dinner can wait."
When Mattie had gone, Bristow explained:
"This Perry—Perry Carpenter—is a young negro who does odd jobs in this section. He's about twenty-five, I guess. Each of these bungalows has a garden back of it, you know. There are no houses behind us. I don't like Perry's looks. He did some gardening for me Saturday and yesterday."
"You think he——?"
"He's got a bad face. If neither Campbell nor Morley killed Mrs. Withers, why shouldn't we find out where Perry and the servant woman of Number Five are now, and where they were all last night?"
"I reckon that's right," chimed in Greenleaf. "It looks something like a common darky job at that."
"And this," added Bristow, taking something from his vest pocket and handing it to the chief of police, "looks more like it, doesn't it?"
Greenleaf examined the object the other had put into his hand. It was a metal button of the kind ordinarily worn on overall jumpers, and clinging to it were a few fragments of the dark blue stuff of which overalls are commonly made. On the back of the button were stamped in white the words: "National Overalls Company."
"Where did you get this?" asked the chief.
"I picked it up in the room where the dead girl was; and I'd forgotten it until this minute. It was on the floor a few yards from the body. You saw me when I picked it up. You were at the telephone."
"That's right. I remember now. By cracky! That came off of some darky's working clothes. That's sure!"
"The only trouble is," puzzled Bristow, "your negro doesn't wear overalls at night after he has finished work. He dresses up and loafs down town."
"That's true on Saturday nights. Other nights they don't take the trouble to change. And last night was Monday night. No, sir! That's our first clue, that button; the first sign we've had of the murderer."
"Keep it," Bristow told him. "I'm not as confident as you are, but you might have a look at the blouse of Perry's suit of overalls. We can't over-look anything now."
Deep in thought he gazed at the fire. Greenleaf got up and walked to the window, which gave a magnificent view of the great Carolina mountains in the distance. He was not admiring the mountains, however. He was wondering why Mr. Morley had not arrived.
"By the way," he said, "can't I get a drink of water?"
He was in the dining room on his way to the kitchen before Bristow roused himself from his reverie.
"Wait!" he called to the chief. "Let me get it for you."
Greenleaf, however, had gone into the kitchen. Bristow followed him and took a tumbler from a rack on the wall.
The chief drew the tumbler full twice from the faucet and gulped down the water. His hand shook. He was very nervous.
As they turned to leave the kitchen, he uttered an exclamation and, stooping down swiftly, pulled something from under the stove. When he straightened up, he had in his hand another metal button. He turned it about in his fingers, studying it.
"It looks like the one you found in Number Five," he said.
They compared the two. They were identical. The two men stared at each other.
"What do you make of that?" asked Greenleaf.
"I was wondering," Bristow replied, thinking quickly, "when—how that got there." He paused and added: "Mattie doesn't wear overalls."
They
