“Yes, Mr. Stone,” said Keefe, “if my solution of this mystery is a ruse—a stratagem—what have you to offer in its place? You admit the signed confession?”
“I admit the signature, but not the confession. John Mills signed that paper, Mr. Keefe, but he is not the murderer.”
“Who is, then?”
“You are!”
Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard.
“Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest.
“I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes open.”
Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.
“Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.”
“But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”