"So Janet's a remarkable person, is she?" muttered Krech when Miss Ocky had left the room. "Hers was the name I was about to mention when you stopped me. Janet Mackay knows Charlie Maxon!"
"Easy! Don't let your imagination run away with you. What conceivable motive could she have had to conspire against Varr's life?"
"I don't know." Krech grinned. "If I lay the foundation, it's up to you to erect the edifice. Brain-work, not manual labor, is my forte." Then he added more seriously, "I've thought of something; instead of the accomplice being actually a member of the household, mightn't he be just some one who has the entrée—the run of the house? Some one who could carry off the situation if he had been discovered in the living-room or study by the servants?"
"That's a good point, Krech; a very good point. I'll inquire into that possibility."
"So you're going to make this your headquarters?"
"Assuredly." Creighton tapped his pocket. "This decided it."
"Well—take care of yourself, won't you?" There was genuine concern in the big man's voice as he went on with specious flippancy. "Miss Copley left a dagger kicking around; let's hope she hasn't dropped an automatic or a machine-gun here and there. If Mr. Monk got the idea that you knew too much—"
"All right." Creighton reached out and gave Krech's arm an affectionate squeeze. "Don't worry; I'm an artist at taking care of myself."
"I know a darn' sight better!" growled Krech, and the honking of a horn from the driveway ended their talk. "Good-by. I'm going to pump Jason Bolt and if I glean anything I'll let you know in the morning."
Creighton waved good-night to him from the veranda and stepped back into the house to find the maid awaiting him in the hall.