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 after him. Even when the door had closed he did not change his position at once. Then, turning slowly, he walked to an armchair and sat down.

“Harley,” I said, hesitatingly, “has this discovery surprised you?”

“Surprised me?” he returned in a low voice. “It has appalled me.”

“Then, although you seemed to regard my theory as sound,” I continued rather resentfully, “all the time you continued to believe Colin Camber to be innocent?”

“I believe so still.”

“What?”

“I thought we had determined, Knox,” he said, wearily, “that a man of Camber’s genius, having decided upon murder, must have arranged for an unassailable alibi. Very well. Are we now to leap to the other end of the scale, and to credit him with such utter stupidity as to place hanging evidence where it could not fail to be discovered by the most idiotic policeman? Preserve your balance, Knox. Theories are wild horses. They run away with us. I know that of old, for which very reason I always avoid speculation until I have a solid foundation of fact upon which to erect it.”

“But, my dear fellow,” I cried, “was Camber to foresee that the floor of the hut would be taken up?”

Harley sighed, and leaned back in his chair.

“Do you recollect your first meeting with this man, Knox?”

“Perfectly.”

“What occurred?”

“He was slightly drunk.”

“Yes, but what was the nature of his conversation?”