"A charming woman ought not to be cynical—" Creighton broke off and raised his hand. "He's coming now; you can hear that car of Bolt's six miles on a quiet night! Shall we tell him about Leslie Sherwood?—the poor chap hasn't had anything so nourishing for a week."
"Swear him to secrecy," stipulated Miss Ocky.
Thus, when the big man appeared and dropped into a chair, he was duly pledged to discretion and informed of the fact that an eyewitness of the murder had turned up.
"My gosh!" he exclaimed when the details had been told. "Why, that just naturally blows Norvallis clean out of water! What'll he do if he loses Mr. Vote-getter Maxon?"
"Pinch Sherwood," chuckled Creighton. "That ought to net him even handsomer returns."
"Oh—no!" cried Miss Ocky, and turned white. "Oh, I think it is simply disgraceful that such things can happen in a civilized country! Bad enough to be the subject of gossip and suspected of a crime, but to be actually imprisoned on mere suspicion—"
"I was only joking," cut in the detective hastily. "Norvallis will make no such stupid blunder. I'm sorry to say there is a wide difference between what can be done to a mere workingman and what may be done to a country gentleman of position."
"So much the worse!" snapped Miss Ocky unappeased.
"This lets out Charlie Maxon," muttered Krech, and regarded his friend morosely. "Seems to me, Creighton, that every time this case takes one step forward, it slides back two. Jason Bolt is getting fearfully down in the mouth. When this news reaches him it will be the finishing touch."
"I had a talk with him this afternoon," said the detective, and flicked his cigarette over the veranda rail. "Reminded him that Rome wasn't built in a day and that murderers aren't always caught in a night, that the darkest hour is just before the dawn, and dropped a few other comforting thoughts in similar vein. I also mentioned that one never knew in a case of this kind when something might happen—"