"But somebody killed Hargraves—who did it?"
The prosecutor looked at the man incredulously.
"Do you mean to tell me, that though you know now that you didn't kill Hargraves—that you don't know who did kill him?"
"I'm here to find out," was Challoner's determined answer.
"Why thunderation!" ejaculated Murgatroyd; and looking the other squarely in the eyes, went on: "I knew that everybody didn't know, but I thought you knew long ago that it was Pemmican of Cradlebaugh's who did it."
"Pemmican," repeated Challoner, as if to himself, "was the only man who knew, and he's dead."
"Yes," assented Murgatroyd, "he killed himself in jail. He confessed just before the Court of Appeals filed its opinion of affirmance in your case. It was a game on his part, that murder. He had stolen ten thousand dollars from the management of Cradlebaugh's, and had been threatened with prosecution for it. It was necessary for him to replace the money. The opportunity came and he seized it. He knew that there was bad blood between you and Hargraves; knew that there was a motive on your part; knew that you shot and missed; knew that Hargraves had a lot of money on his person, and he set out to get it. It was safe—he got it, and Hargraves, too—shot him dead with another gun,—after you missed him,—and paid back the money to Cradlebaugh's."
Miriam could not restrain herself, and burst out:—
"And you have known this for years?"
"Yes," he told her quietly, his eyes wandering over Miriam's face; "but it's plain to me now that you haven't known it."