Alan turned to Miriam and spoke with honest contrition. “I didn’t know that Paul had a nurse,” he said. “You weren’t here in the morning. I was still lying in Paul’s bed, trying dazedly to plan something—anything—when I heard some one return and walk swiftly to the bed. I heard your outcry and the sound of your fall, and,” in shame-faced honesty, “I bolted out of the window, gathered up my hat, coat and shoes, and fled.”
“Just a moment,” broke in Trenholm. “How about the ring you gave Miss Carter?”
Alan eyed him in surprise. “Oh, the ring?” he echoed. “Paul gave it to me Monday morning—that was why I happened to have it about me.”
“And why did Paul give you a ring which he valued with almost superstitious fervor?” inquired Trenholm.
“It wasn’t his original ring, but an exact replica which, Paul told me on Monday, he had had made for me. The original ring was a gold coin of the First century of the Christian era and belonged to my grandfather, another Alan Mason—”
“The suicide?”
Alan winced slightly as he bowed. “I don’t know Paul’s motive in having the ring copied for me—he often did freakish, unaccountable things.”
His remarks were checked by an exclamation from Roberts, who had regained some semblance of self-control while listening to Alan.
“There was no accounting for what Paul would do,” he stated, and all eyes turned to him, partly in curiosity, but more in unconcealed horror. “I may as well make my confession now as later,” he sighed. “After I left Abbott’s Lodge I motored to Upper Marlboro, deciding, as it was such a bad night, that I would remain at the hotel. It was before midnight when Corbin came in and told me that a letter had come that day from Canada from Zybinn and that he had taken it, with other papers, to the room Paul used as a sitting room. I gave Corbin his customary bribe—”
“Cocaine,” interposed Miriam quickly, and Roberts nodded.