But already he was on the track of something. He did not tell them, but on leaving he went back to his office and taking from his wallet a small clipping from a newspaper, perhaps an inch by two inches in size, sat studying it for some time.

“I’d begun to get a glimmer,” he said later. “Not much. No idea as to who had committed the murders, but a bit of the story. And a damned queer story it was.”

Nevertheless, he came up to see Bessie the next day. “What did you do the night Mrs. Wainwright died?” he asked, with no preamble.

“What night was it?” she inquired insolently. “I’m bad at dates.”

“Now listen, Mrs. Wainwright,” he said, “don’t put on any act with me. You know what night it was. Go on from there. You gave a cocktail party and a dinner. The dinner was over and people left before eleven. What did you do after that?”

“I went to bed. Alone, if that interests you.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s enough, isn’t it?”

But he kept at her, quietly, persistently. She had expected to profit by Maud’s will, hadn’t she? She had been disappointed when she found she got nothing? Still, when you thought about it, she was not bad off. Tony got it all, and she was still his wife. She listened. Then she began to laugh, loud and rather dreadful laughter.

“So I killed her!” she said. “God, that’s funny.”

She went from that into straight hysterics. He called Amy and Hilda, but he had to go away without seeing her again. One thing was settled before he left, however. She was on no account to be allowed to leave Beverly. He told Tony that. She was not only a witness at the Stoddard trial. He had an idea she knew a lot of things she had not disclosed.

“What sort of things?” said Tony, red-eyed and weary.

“If I knew that I’d know all the answers,” said Jim, and went away to study again the small scrap of paper he carried in his wallet.

They took Bessie to town the next day. She was an unwilling witness, sitting in the district attorney’s office in her silver fox coat and a small black hat, and smoking steadily. Yes, she had told Margery Stoddard she knew who she was. No, she had not blackmailed her. That was a dirty word, and she wouldn’t stand for it. What had been the effect on Mrs. Stoddard of these revelations? Well, she hadn’t liked it, of course. Who would?

“Had she told her husband what you knew?”

“How do I know?”

“You were afraid of him, weren’t you?”

“Afraid? Why?”

“Just what were you afraid of, if it was not of Julian Stoddard?” said the district attorney, leaning over his desk and staring at her. “Someone shot at you one night. Who was that? And why live behind locked doors?” He kept his eyes on her. “You see, we know a good bit. We even know you carry a small revolver—or did. Are you carrying it now?”