“I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr. Stone?”
“I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my opinion changed once or twice.”
“And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe.
“At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.”
“Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on the veranda—and the cook also saw him——”
“Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning.
But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and went on, earnestly:
“Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him, found him, and—secured his signed confession.”
With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler.
“Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark eyes alight with interest.