"I have spoken of you as a detective," he replied, gravely, "because I believe you to be one, and have so believed since the day you came to Trafton. To explain in full would be to occupy more time than you or I can well spare to story telling. I have watched you since you first came to this place, curiously at first, then earnestly, then anxiously. I believe you are here to ferret out the authors of the many robberies that have happened in and about Trafton. If this is so, then there is no one more anxious to help you, or who could have a stronger motive for so doing, than Jim Long."
He paused for a moment, but I remained silent, and he began anew.
"I think you are interested in Bethel and his misfortunes. I think you know him for the victim of those who believe him to be what you really are."
"You think there are those who fear Bethel because they believe him to be a detective? Is that your meaning?"
"That is my meaning."
"Long," I said, seriously, "you tell me that your gun was stolen last night; that you recognized the sound of the report coming from the direction of Bethel's house."
He moved closer to me and laid a hand on my shoulder.
"It was my gun that shot Bethel," he said, solemnly. "To-morrow that gun will be found and I shall be accused of the crime. If the devils had possessed my knowledge, it would have been you, instead of Carl Bethel, lying somewhere now, dying or dead. I say these things to you to-night because, if my gun is found, as I anticipate, and I am accused of the shooting, I may not be able to serve Carl Bethel, and he is not yet out of danger. If he lives he will still be a target for his enemies."
He spoke with suppressed emotion, and my own feelings were stirred as I replied: