"Somebody shot Collis Dongan," said Pen simply. "Somebody who hated you. For look how cleverly the crime has been fastened on you. That is no accidental train of circumstances. Your revolver! And somebody keeps sending stuff to the newspapers that is cunningly designed to poison the public mind against you!"
"But how could Riever get away with it?" asked Don in a maze. "He's too public a character. Like some sort of potentate you know. He never goes out alone. Even if he did shake his body-guard, every newsboy on the street would recognize him."
"I don't suppose he did it himself," said Pen. "But with his money he could easily get it done, couldn't he? One reads of such things."
"But if I was his mark, why didn't he take a shot direct at me?" said Don.
"That wouldn't satisfy a man like that," said Pen. "Instant death is painless."
"But what do you know about Riever?" asked Don.
"My intuition tells me," she said simply. "For years he has been jealous of you; jealous of everything you were that he was not. It was like a corroding ulcer in his breast. That letter of course brought it to a head.... Don't you see? to drag you down, to disgrace you so completely, to bring you to such an unspeakable death, that is the only thing that would give him satisfaction."
"Good God! I can't grasp such fiendish villainy!" cried Don.
"I can," said Pen quietly. "... I guess my soul is older than yours."
"Suppose we're right," said Don. "What good? There is not a scintilla of evidence!"