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 he didn’t realize that he cared for the little girl until after his wife was dead.”

“And you fell for that! No, Mr. Lane, his affection for the young lady dates farther back. I can see the whole situation, and I haven’t the least doubt that Mrs. Barham discovered—or, at least suspected her husband’s double life and went to the masquerade ball in order to see for herself. That’s why she told no one where she was going. That’s why she told her chauffeur to take her there that night, meaning to go on to the Gardner party afterward. Then Barham, finding her there—of course he would know her in any costume—had a quarrel with her, and either with intent to kill her, or merely in a fit of blind rage, he flung the bronze at her and she fell. Immediately, Barham went down the front stairs, gave his monk’s robe to his servant, told the doorman he would be back shortly, and disappeared. Could there be a better way out of it all? He went back at once to his home, and, returning to his life as Andrew Barham, was free from all suspicion of his crime. I for one don’t want any clearer case against him.”

“I don’t believe it,” Lane mused; “I can’t believe it. He was so convincing as he told his story”

“Of course he was. He’s a clever man and a shrewd one. But he can’t convince me. I want some one else to hang this crime on, before I give up my hope of hanging it on him. He’s the logical criminal, he’s the obvious one—in a word, there’s no other way to look.”

“No”; Lane insisted. “You’re wrong and I know you’re wrong—and I’ll prove you’re wrong. Give me a couple of days—give me twenty-four hours before you arrest Andrew Barham, and I’ll give you another suspect—and the right one, or I’ll eat my own words.”