“Well,” said Burke speculatively, “I guess that Wilkinson’s man had seen him a few times; but not very often.” He paused, then added suddenly. “You don’t mean—”
“I mean just what you are thinking,” replied Clarendon, his smile increasing almost imperceptibly. “Just as the police thought they had found a note signed by Chatham, so did those men at the Grampian Apartments think they saw Chatham leave!”
“I see it now!” exclaimed Burke. “It wasn’t Chatham who signed the note. It wasn’t Chatham who killed Wilkinson. But wait! The theory ends right there!
“Wilkinson must have known Chatham well enough not to be mistaken. It must have been Chatham himself who came to see Wilkinson.”
“Do you have Wilkinson’s testimony to that effect?” inquired Clarendon softly.
“Whew!” gasped Burke. “You’re driving it home, now. Perhaps Wilkinson thought it was Chatham, too, until—”
“Until he recognized his error. Then the man disguised as Chatham had only one course — to kill Seth Wilkinson.”
BURKE was groping mentally. Fantastic though the theory might be, it seemed very real to him.
After all, the one man qualified to identify Horace Chatham was dead. Yet he still found it difficult to depart from accepted facts. He was on the point of asking a question when Clarendon forestalled him.
“Let us go back further,” said the man with the masklike face. “You may check me if I am wrong on any detail.