"Miss Booth, or Mrs. Fairfax, has a step-brother, by marriage," he said. "He has worked at photography. He gambles in Wall Street. He was desperate—but as yet I have no positive proof that he did this crime. I am waiting for developments—and expecting things at any moment."
"Where is the man?" said Wicks. "What's his name?"
"Foster Durgin. I'm waiting for him now. He's fifteen minutes overdue."
"Arrest him when he comes!" commanded Wicks. "Take no chances on letting him escape!"
"Perhaps that's good advice," said Garrison slowly. "I'll think it over."
"He's the only one you suspect?"
"Well, there's one more element, somewhat vague and unsubstantiated," admitted Garrison. "There's a man, it seems, who threatened Hardy years ago. He has followed Hardy about persistently. Hardy appeared to fear him greatly, which accounts for his ceaseless roving. This man may and may not have accomplished some long-planned revenge at Branchville. He appears to be somewhat mystical, but I felt it my business to investigate every possible clew."
"Certainly," said Wicks, whose scrutiny of Garrison's face had grown once more abnormally acute. "What's his name?"
Garrison focused his eyes on the man across the desk incisively.
"Hiram Cleave."