Tony did not get home until nine o’clock that night. Reynolds told him at once, and he found me in the library.

“What’s this about Bessie? Is it serious?”

“I don’t think so. She’s got some broken ribs. Bill Sterling says there’s some concussion too. Not much.”

“Does Mother know?” he asked.

“I’ve told her. Tony, she says somebody shot at her.”

“Nonsense! Who would do a thing like that?”

Jim Conway came in soon afterward. I thought he looked pretty grim. He accepted Tony’s offer of a highball, but he did not relax. He fairly bristled with suspicion, and I dare say finding us together did not help matters.

“I’ve been looking over your wife’s car,” he said. “It looks as though somebody tried to kill her tonight, Tony.”

“Kill her? Are you serious?”

“As serious as three bullet holes in the rear tire of her car and one in the body.”

“Good God,” said Tony, and got up. “Where is the car? I want to look it over.”

But Jim did not move. “I suppose you can account for your own movements tonight?”

“I didn’t shoot at my wife, if that’s what you mean,” said Tony savagely.

His account that evening, however, was not entirely satisfactory. I could see that on Jim’s face. Tony had left his office at five as usual. He had gone back later to do some long-distance telephoning. At seven-thirty he had gone to his club for dinner, and left for home about half past eight.

“Where were you at seven?” Jim asked.

“Still in my office.”

“Anybody prove that?”

“I was alone. The man in the elevator may remember taking me down. He wouldn’t know the time, probably.”

Jim got up. “I’m sorry, Tony. It’s a hell of a mess. You see, the clock on the instrument board stopped at seven. You carry a gun, don’t you?”

“Not always. It’s usually in my room. It’s there now.”

But it was not there. The two men went upstairs together, to come down a few minutes later. I heard them going out, and it was midnight before Tony came back. He was not alone. Both Jim and the detective Hopper were with him, and shortly after that Dwight Elliott drove up.

It was Amy who kept me informed, an Amy now happily relieved of Bessie by another nurse and enjoying herself hugely. But it was days before I learned what had taken place that night in Tony’s study: the four men with drinks at their elbows, Tony’s set face, Hopper’s shrewd one, and Mr. Elliott’s watchful. At first it was genial enough. When Bill Sterling, making his final call on Bessie, was brought in, Hopper greeted him with a grin.

“How about letting that fellow of mine get some sleep, Doctor? He’s threatening to resign.”

“It won’t hurt him to learn how a hard-working medical man earns his living.”

They let him go, after he described Bessie’s injuries. They were not serious, but she was suffering from shock; some concussion too.