"I said the other night we had a good case against him," smiled Osborne, as he looked at Ashton-Kirk with nodding head. "Didn't I? Didn't I tell you I'd seen men sent to the chair on less?"
"Yes, I remember some such expression," replied the investigator.
"But you kind of pooh-poohed it," said the headquarters man, smiling even more broadly than before. "You spoke of other indications, don't you remember? It was your idea a woman was in it." He looked at Scanlon, and laughed. "Recollect that?" he asked. "He said a woman had been hanging around outside—with a revolver—an old flame of the Bounder's, maybe."
Scanlon also laughed—and in the sound was an indication of vast relief. Women had disappeared out of the orbit in which the crime swung, for Mr. Scanlon. He had gone for days with a fear in his mind, with his spirit sagging under a weight of expectation. But now he was free of that. No woman figured in the case—the murderer had said so in his confession. Woman had vanished utterly from all things having to do with the affair. And so Scanlon laughed—a laugh of relief; and as he looked at the big, good-natured face of Osborne, he realized that while he had always liked him, he had never appreciated him so much as now.
"Yes," said he, "I remember. He rather figured on the lady. But, then, I've heard it said that you never can count on ladies. You don't know just when you've got 'em."
There was a flavor to this old saying of men that had a recent tang—and flavors, like scents, are most reminiscent. Yes, he had heard it—only a very short time before, and under unpleasant circumstances. A cloud came over the big athlete's face; he tried to put the feeling aside, and in the effort to do so, memory flared up and showed him the facts. It had been in Duke Sheehan's place during his first talk with the burglar, Big Slim. It was the cracksman who had spoken of the undependability of women. Then with a rush came other things which he had said; chief among these was the story of how Nora had followed her husband on the night of the murder. And then, also, there was the thing he had seen himself through the windows at Bohlmier's hotel. But as these thoughts pressed forward in his mind he crushed them back.
"They happened," said he. "I don't question those I heard about, and I know what I've seen. But," and he sighed profoundly, "she ain't had anything to do with that man's death. There's no doubt about that. The party who did it has given it all up. It's as clear as sunshine on that point; and the other thing can wait; explanations for them can come at any time."
During the progress of these things through the mind of Mr. Scanlon, the talk had proceeded between Ashton-Kirk and the headquarters man.
"All right," said Osborne; "I know you seldom agree with the police about things, but this is one in which there is nothing more to be said. Burton himself says he did it—and his word is the last one."
Ashton-Kirk looked at his cigar with a favoring eye; the aroma was rich, and through the smoke he detected that thin spiral, of a denser texture, which spoke of the presence, in a proper proportion, of the leaf he prized.