“The theory being,” he said, “that the murderer first arranged for a fire in our car—in Mr. Appleby’s car—and then waited for the fire to come off as planned. Then, at the moment of greatest excitement, he, being probably the man the servants saw—shot through the bay window and killed Mr. Appleby. You were fortunate, Miss Maida, that you weren’t hit first!”
“Oh, I was in no danger. I sat well back in the window-seat, and over to one side, out of range of a shot from outside. And, too, Mr. Keefe, I can scarcely discuss this matter of the shot from outside, as I am, myself, the confessed criminal.”
“Confessing only to save me from suspicion,” said her father, with an affectionate glance. “But it won’t do any good, dear. I take the burden of the crime and I own up that I did it. This man on the veranda—if, indeed, there was such a one, may have been any of the men servants about the place, startled by the cry of fire, and running to assure himself of the safety of the house and family. He, doubtless, hesitates to divulge his identity lest he be suspected of shooting.”
“That’s all right,” declared Fibsy, “but if it was one of your men, he’d own up by this time. He’d know he wouldn’t be suspected of shooting Mr. Appleby. Why should he do it?”
“Why should anybody do it, except myself?” asked Dan Wheeler. “Not all the detectives in the world can find any one else with a motive and opportunity. The fact that both my wife and daughter tried to take the crime off my shoulders only makes me more determined to tell the truth.”
“But you’re not telling the truth, dad,” and Maida looked at him. “You know I did it—you know I had threatened to do it—you know I felt I just could not stand Mr. Appleby’s oppression of you another day! And so—and so, I——”
“Go on, Miss Wheeler,” urged Stone, “and so you—what did you do?”
“I ran across the den to the drawer where father keeps his pistol; I took it and shot—then I ran back to the window-seat——”
“What did you do with the pistol?”
“Threw it out of the window.”