drummed on the desk with the fingers of his right hand, his eyeglasses twirling about the thumb of his left. His eyes were fixed on the stack of the courthouse, a hundred feet away, which belched smoke in great clouds some three floors beneath his office window, fifteen stories above the ground.

The clock on the bookcase ticked away a full minute before he turned his head, and, fixing his eyes with a cold, impersonal stare upon the man sitting in the mission chair facing him across the desk, grunted out with sudden emphasis:

"So you say you're guilty, Matthews, and you're not sorry for it? Pretty mess, isn't it?"

The man across the desk stared at the lawyer's face for several seconds in silence. He was a young man, nearing his thirtieth year, well set-up and muscular; the lean face was clean shaven, disclosing a rugged jaw, with prominent cheek bones, and a ruddy, healthy complexion; his black hair, curling back, disclosed a broad forehead and a pair of friendly, hazel eyes, now clouded with worry and apprehension. The thin lips closely shut over his teeth emphasized the harassed expression which at the moment characterized his eyes. Between his knees the man twirled backward and forward, with quick, nervous jerks, a soft felt hat with the initials "C. T. M." stenciled in the band.

"Mr. Raybold," and the voice was resonant, low pitched, but vibrant with passion, "there was nothing else for me, or any other man, to do," and the words were emphasized by a sharp rap on the table. "You say that I am guilty-that I

"Advice?" and the tone of the lawyer was one of surprise. "Advice concerning what? Grace has been dead a week, and I have not heard that anyone, much less you, has been charged with killing him. You don't need a lawyer, now, man, though you may need a minister for your conscience's sake."

The face across the table fell for a second; then Matthews looked up. "You don't know the whole truth of the matter, counsel," he answerd quietly. "I'll begin at the beginning and tell the whole story if you care to listen-and then you'll see what I need," and Matthews paused expectantly.

Raybold glanced at his desk pad.

"It's wasting your time and mine, but I can give you fifteen minutes. Fire away;" and the lawyer slipped down in his chair, slid his glasses over his left ear, and, extending his arms on the desk in front of him, locked his fingers with deliberation and stared intently at the man who faced him.

Matthews coughed, cleared his throat audibly, and settled down in his chair, crossing his feet and perching his hat on his knee. He began to speak in a low, dull voice, as though recounting the details of some impersonal event the details of which he had committed to memory.

"There is only one explanation of this whole matter, counsel. You knew Jim Grace; so does a certain part of this town's population. He had money, social position, and an established business-if you call the law a business," and the speaker's face twisted into a wry grin. "What you don't know is that Grace

knew Myrtle Rhodes-Rhodes that was, it's Matthews now; she-but there isn't any use in bringing her into this matter any deeper than she already is-she was until Sunday a stenographer in the office of McIlvaine, Grace, & Valentine, Jim Grace's firm, you know."

The lawyer nodded his head without taking his eyes from the speaker's face. "Well," and Matthew's voice was hard and cold. "Grace may have been a social lion, but at the same time he was a mongrel and a jackal. I killed him because he was a dog," and the speaker paused for a moment to run his hand through his hair reflectively. "I guess I had better take a fresh start, Mr. Raybold," he added apologetically; "I can't think of this business without losing my head, and that won't do if you are to have the facts."

The lawyer nodded again.

"Miss Rhodes and I had been engaged some six months prior to Grace's

death," and the voice was uncertain and hesitating. "We were waiting only the final action of the Yula Valley Company, out in Nevada, on my contract with them, to get married. That contract came Saturday; we were married Sunday, the day Grace was buried."

"Yes," rapped out Raybold impatiently, "but what's that got to do with this case?"

"Everything," Matthews replied, quickly, sharply. "A month ago Grace told Miss Rhodes-she was his private stenographer, you know-that he himeslf was going to be married, and asked Myrtle to join him in a toast to the bride to be. She drank the toast in ice water; but by God! though apparently nothing but water, that one drink threw open to Grace the opportunity he had long been seeking. He hurried her into his car on pretext of her being taken suddenly ill, saying he was going to stop at the hospital and then take her home. She got home at 4 o'clock the next morning, no memory of anything that transpired between the time she left the office, when she clicked glasses with Grace."

The speaker paused, the sweat standing out on his brow, his eyes blazing, and the fingers of his hands trembling.

"You understand, Raybold, you understand?" and the voice rasped with unsuppressed fury.

The lawyer closed his eyes, unlocked his fingers, and the nervous tattoo on the desk began again. "Of course, Matthews of course. The law," he added quietly, "could have reached Grace and forever damned him, his name, his career -everything, and-"

"Yes, and her name would have been dragged down with his," and Matthews was on his feet, hammering on the desk with clenched fist. "There was only one way, Raybold," and the voice sunk to a low, metallic whisper, as though the speaker feared he would be overheard. "Grace knew one thing, Myrtle knew it, I knew it; that no one else should ever know it, that the wrong might be righted, I figured could be accomplished only by his death. So I killed him; and now, whether, in view of all these things, I Raybold, what I want to know is this, should quit town and go West. They may arrest me, and they may not,—but Grace's partner McIlvaine suspects me, I guess, if nothing else."

"Why?" the lawyer's voice was sharp, incisive.

Matthews smiled grimly. "Simply because I was fool enough, one night three weeks ago, to tell Grace in the lobby of the Palace Building that I had an account to settle with him," replied Matthews, slowly. "McIlvaine was in the 'phone booth in the corner and probably overheard what I said, though he may not have understood it."

"And what did you say?" the lawyer's tone was curious.

The blood mounted slowly to the other's face and he flushed painfully. "It wasn't exactly what I said," he began, painfully, "but it was the way in which I said it. I wanted to hit him, but, like a fool, didn't; simply slapped my hand on my hip and told him that he had better prepare to hide his shame in hell, or words to that effect."

Matthews paused, wet his lips, and, diving into his pocket, produced a bunch of keys. Slipping the ring over the little finger of his left hand, he swung it around swiftly with quick, nervous jerks of his wrist.

"The Wednesday after that," he continued, "they found Grace between the front wheels of his car at the entrance of his office building. You read about it?" and the eye flashed the question.

Raybold nodded affirmatively. "Of course, but nobody except yourself seems to know exactly how it happened."

Matthews started uneasily, glanced hurriedly at the closed door, and then at the clock. Drawing a deep breath, he spoke, soberly, quickly. "I followed Grace all that day-that night. When he left his club and drove to his office, I followed in a taxi. I got out of that on the plaza when I saw him bring his machine to a halt and switch off the headlights. Five minutes after he had entered the lobby of the Palace, I was in the tonneau of his car. I first tied down the cut-out, the muffler exhaust, climbed into the back seat and covered my knees with the robe. There I waited three mortal hours, expecting my man to show up at any minute. I had figured the whole matter out carefully, and was prepared to act and act quickly. At last he came out of the building, buttoning up his overcoat as he came across the pavement. He stepped in front of the machine, lit the headlights, and then came back to the wheel, threw the battery coil on, and stepped out in front again to crank up. I watched his every movement, unimpeded by the wind shield, which was folded down upon the dash; my gun was in my hand and I crouched down on the floor, the revolver resting on the seat in front of me, my body concealed in the shadow cast by the top. As he turned the engine over the third time, the exhaust let loose like a rapidfire gun. Grace straightened up; there was a puzzled look on his face as he stepped back into the beam of the left light. You could not distinguish the report of my revolver from the exhaust. As he fell in a crumpled heap on the pavement, I stepped out of the machine, on the car tracks in the street, and swung into the alley. The gun went down a sewer and I walked down a block, got on a car and went home," and Matthews drew a long breath.

The room was silent for a full minute. Matthews, with closed eyes, was running

his right hand through his hair in a nervous, distracted manner, and gripping the arm of his chair with his left, the keys dangling from his finger, while Raybold sat drumming energetically on the desk, his eyes fixed upon the monotonous shelves of books which lined the wall.

"It's a nasty situation at best," he said. "Was it your own gun which you used, or did you buy or borrow one?" "I got it at Aldred's," Matthews replied.

"Then, of course, they've got the number," snapped Raybold quickly. "It is all day with you if they find that gun, you understand and what did you say you did with it?"

"Chucked it into the sewer in the alley beside the Palace Building; its in the river by now-they'll never find it," said Matthews confidently.

"Don't bank on that," was the short reply; "what about the taxi driver? How long did he hang around the plaza-don't know, do you?'

"Oh, he left within five minutes after I paid him; his meter was out of whack and he paused under a gaslight to fix it; I saw him drive off before Grace entered the building. There's nothing in that," and the speaker's tone was one of confidence.

"Don't bank on that either," Raybold cautioned, "though I don't see how they can supply any motive even though suspicion is directed at you. That is, unless, of course they go after your wife—” "Myrtle won't talk-that's certain," broke in the other.

"Well," continued the lawyer, seemingly taking no notice of the interruption, "you want my advice. Before I give it, I'm going to sum up the situation. Flag any errors I make."

Matthews nodded.

"First, the police will look up Grace's private life; nothing found; then his professional career; nothing much found, other than that McIlvaine heard an idle threat some month or so ago. Here you, the threatener, come in. They look you up and learn that since that threat was made you have married the dead man's stenographer. Then they dig a little deeper into the office habits and conduct of Grace; up crops the event of a month

ago, the unexpected departure of Grace in his machine with his stenographer taken suddenly ill. Mark you, I am following this line because they will seek to couple you and your threat with a motive for the killing. The trail ends at the curb in front of the office building; Grace is his own chauffeur; no one knows where he went except Grace and Miss Rhodes,-Mrs. Matthews, I mean," added the speaker hastily. "He didn't. go direct to her home, nor to the Mercy Hospital either-inquiry there with a photo of Grace and a glance at the records would establish that. * * * Then they take the girl, your wife, in hand; you say she will not talk of what happened on the night her employer drove off with her in his machine ?"

"I said so," and Matthews' voice was cold and low.

"Good. They take up the trail behind you. The threat, the absence of any known enemies of Grace, would make the police grab at straws in a matter of this kind. Where were you that night? The authorities can learn nothing. You left your apartment at 7:30; no one saw you return. You were not at the Amalgamated Engineering offices,-the janitor tells them that, at any time between 8 and 11. I know they will ascertain that because we know where you were. You were not up town at Miss Rhodes' flat. We know that, and they will learn it in some way-no matter how; servants and others talk-for a price. You were not at your club; maybe you were at the theater. Such unexplained absence would certainly be the father to an anxious suspicion. The net tightens. You have no alibi, you have threatened the dead man, and married his stenographer. Let's summarize the situation: The man who, three days after Grace's death, marries his stenographer had been heard to threaten the dead man a month before; diligent search and inquiry fails to reveal that man's whereabouts on the night of the crime, and the woman who is his wife will throw no light on Grace's personal affairs. Suspicion will become. certainty if by any accident they find the taxi driver or the gun. I am inclined to believe that even now they may be watching you, so it would serve no good pur

pose to leave the city at the moment; they would certainly bring you back if they indicted you-and flight wouldn't help your case before a jury. That is all I can say now-but if the worst came to the worst, what defense would you rely on ?"

"I don't see that I have any" was the response in a dull, impersonal tone.

"Of course, continued Raybold, "there is the weakness of the state's case; purely circumstantial at best, the extent of which, however, we may not appreciate until they rest. Of course, there is behind all of it the real cause of this shooting; insanity mayhap by reason of a mind unbalanced by shock and anger; that defense might that defense might go here in Maryland, and it might not-'

"Forget that," broke in the other harshly. "Neither you, nor I, nor any other man shall bring her name into this mess. I killed him, I tell you I killed him, to hush this matter up; I won't hide behind any woman's skirts, much less my wife's, to save myself. I won't admit to anyone that I did it; I won't explain to anyone why I did it if they succeed in connecting me with the shooting. I killed him to shut his mouth, and I am going to keep mine shut if they kill me for it. There are some things that to me I dread more than death, and-"

"Well, plead guilty, then," interrupted Raybold, "they never give you the limit here, you know, if you do that."

"And be cooped up like a caged bird for the rest of my life-bah!" replied Matthews, getting upon his feet and settling his hat firmly upon his head. "They may prove that I might have killed him; they can't prove why he was killed-and I think I'll take my chances with the jury," he finished stoutly.

"You are a fool, man," said the lawyer testily. testily. "If they indict you, and you maintain the same stubborn, defiant attitude that possesses you now, I tell you frankly you haven't one chance in a thousand; they won't return a true bill against you unless the state has some evidence, and you have got none. I've known you a long time, Matthews, and I am not going to see you railroaded without a fair trial; but you understand, here and now, that I won't be answerabl

the consequences if I am compelled to try this case according to your views and regardless of mine. You understand that?"

"I do," answered the other, slowly; "I appreciate your position, but I have figured the whole thing up. I gave Grace his medicine for silence, and I will take mine in the same way. I didn't come here to discuss any defense I might have; I simply wanted your advice as to the best policy to pursue; you have given that, and I am content;" and the speaker opened the door, and, with a cherry "Good-bye," stepped out into the corridor.

Ten days later a true bill was returned by the grand jury, charging Cloyd T. Matthews with murder in the first degree in causing the death of James F. Grace.

A phone message from the office of Duncan Raybold brought a deputy sheriff across the street from the courthouse with the bench warrant. Matthews was in Raybold's private office, gazing at the city sky line to the north, twirling his hat in his hands.

Raybold took the paper from the officer's hand and read it carelessly; then he tossed it across the desk to Matthews. "It's in proper shape, boy; there's nothing to do but go quietly with our friend here-and keep a stiff upper lip over a close mouth."

That night Cloyd Matthews slept in the city jail.

The state's case was well under way. The chain which it had woven about the dark-haired, muscular young man sitting silently behind Duncan Raybold, was seemingly complete. The prison pallor had touched Matthews' face, his hands, his wrists; but no fear, no apprehension, no appeal for mercy was voiced by any of the numerous changes of expression which his face underwent. The prisoner had grinned rather sheepishly at McIlvaine's recital of the passage between Grace and himself; had chuckled audibly as the witness endeavored, under crossexamination, to "squirm" out of the admission that he had at that time been acting the conscious eavesdropper; his

face had retained its immobile, impersonal expression as Lawrence Malloy, the driver of taxi bearing license number 68,923, had, after a cautious scrutiny of the traverser, identified him as the man who had gotten into his machine at Union Station and directed the witness to follow the heavy touring car ahead bearing tag 53,247, already identified as the license on Grace's machine; stared placidly and without batting an eye as the witness described how his fare had alighted on the courthouse plaza, and how he, curious, after having stopped his car to fix his meter, had run it around the corner and crept back to see Matthews disappear behind Grace's machine. Cross-examination failed to shake the witness, and seemingly only emphasized the importance which the defense seemed to attach to his testimony.

The expression on the traverser's face changed slightly as Warner MacKenzie, a salesman in Aldred's, the city's leading sporting-goods house, took the stand. Witness and accused had known each other for years, and it was with obvious reluctance and misgiving that the witness took the oath. The prosecuting officer, having elicited MacKenzie's occupation, handed him a heavy, sawed-off, bulldog type revolver, the barrel and cylinder of which were covered with rust, while the horn handle was tinged a mottled green.

"I hand you a W. & J. .32 caliber, fiveshell revolver; you are familiar with that model?"

"I am," responded the witness.

"Tell us the number of that gun, then," and the prosecutor paused with pencil in midair, while the foreman of the jury leaned forward and stared intently at the witness.

MacKenzie, turning the weapon charily in his hand, rested it on the arm of his chair, and, taking a small instrument from his pocket, deftly removed the screw securing the handle.

"Its No. 1,370,162, sir," he said.

"Now, Mr. MacKenzie, turn to the record of your company's sales for last November and tell us whether that weapon was sold by your concern?"

"Objected to," said Raybold, on his feet; "they have not connected this ex