“You do believe it, though!” Keefe turned on him, sharply. “And what’s more, you believe the criminal is the one of the three whom you least want it to be!”
Keefe’s meaning was unmistakable, and Allen’s flushed and crestfallen face betrayed his unwilling assent. Unable to retort—even unable to speak, he quickly left the room.
Keefe closed the door and turned to Burdon.
“That was a test,” he said; “I’m not sure whether Allen suspects Miss Wheeler—or not——”
“He sure acts as if he does,” Burdon said, his face drawn with perplexity. “But, I say, Mr. Keefe, haven’t you ever thought it might have been Jeffrey Allen himself?”
“Who did the shooting?”
“Yes; he had all the motives the others had——”
“But not opportunity. Why, he was at the garage fire—where I was——”
“Yes, but he might have got away long enough for——”
“Nonsense, man, nothing of the sort! We were together, fighting the flames. The two chauffeurs were with us—the Wheelers’ man, and Mr. Appleby’s. We used those chemical extinguishers——”