“No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”
“I—I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire—which had just broken out.”
“You’re not sure——”
“I am not.”
“She had been with you, in the den?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat, in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one saw her anywhere near the burning garage.”
“As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”
“Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr. Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”