“The man in ten was sleeping heavily. I could hear his breathing, and it seemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtains of his berth without being seen. After that, it was a mere matter of quiet searching.
“The car became very still. I was about to try for the other berth, when some one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.
“Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, and after looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lower ten. You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten, with the notes.”
I nodded curtly.
“I’m not trying to defend myself,” he went on. “I was ready to steal the notes - I had to. But murder!”
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.
“Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains. It was very still. The man in ten didn’t move, although my heart was thumping until I thought he would hear it.
“I felt around cautiously. It was perfectly dark, and I came across a bit of chain, about as long as my finger. It seemed a queer thing to find there, and it was sticky, too.”
He shuddered, and I could see Alison’s hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.
“All at once it struck me that the man was strangely silent, and I think I lost my nerve. Anyhow, I drew the curtains open a little, and let the light fall on my hands. They were red, blood-red.”
He leaned one hand on the back of the chair, and was silent for a moment, as though he lived over again the awful events of that more than awful night.
The stout detective had let his cigar go out; he was still drawing at it nervously. Richey had picked up a paper-weight and was tossing it from hand to hand; when it slipped and fell to the floor, a startled shudder passed through the room.
“There was something glittering in there,” Sullivan resumed, “and on impulse I picked it up. Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back to my own berth.”
“Where you wiped your hands on the bedclothing and stuck the dirk into the pillow.” Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structure crumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.
“I suppose I did - I’m not very clear about what happened then. But when I rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aisle almost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain, into my bag.
“I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours. It was still perfectly quiet, except for some one snoring. I thought that would drive me crazy.
“The more I thought of it the worse things looked. The telegram was the first thing against me - it would put the police on my track at once, when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.
“Then I remembered the notes, and I took out the wallet and opened it.”
He stopped for a minute, as if the recalling of the next occurrence was almost beyond him.
“I took out the wallet,” he said simply, “and opening it, held it to the light. In gilt letters was the name, Simon Harrington.”
The detectives were leaning forward now, their eyes on his face.
“Things seemed to whirl around for a while. I sat there almost paralyzed, wondering what this new development meant for me.
“My wife, I knew, would swear I had killed her father; nobody would be likely to believe the truth.
“Do you believe me now?” He rooked around at us defiantly. “I am telling the absolute truth, and not one of you believes me!
“After a bit the man in lower nine got up and walked along the aisle toward the smoking compartment. I heard him go, and, leaning from my berth, watched him out of sight.
“It was then I got the idea of changing berths with him, getting into his clothes, and leaving the train. I give you my word I had no idea of throwing suspicion on him.”
Alison looked scornfully incredulous, but I felt that the man was telling the truth.
“I changed the numbers of the berths, and it worked well. I got into the other man’s berth, and he came back to mine. The rest was easy. I dressed in his clothes - luckily, they fitted - and jumped the train not far from Baltimore, just before the wreck.”
“There is something else you must clear up,” I said. “Why did you try to telephone me from M-, and why did you change your mind about the message?”
He looked astounded.
“You knew I was at M-?” he stammered.
“Yes, we traced you. What about the message?”
“Well, it was this way: of course, I did not know your name, Mr. Blakeley. The telegram said, ‘Man with papers in lower ten, car seven,” and after I had made what I considered my escape, I began to think I had left the man in my berth in a bad way.
“He would probably be accused of the crime. So, although when the wreck occurred I supposed every one connected with the affair had been killed, there was a chance that you had survived. I’ve not been of much account, but I didn’t want a man to swing because I’d left him in my place. Besides, I began to have a theory of my own.
“As we entered the car a tall, dark woman passed us, with a glass of water in her hand, and I vaguely remembered her. She was amazingly like Blanche Conway.
“If she, too, thought the man with the notes was in lower ten, it explained a lot, including that piece of a woman’s necklace. She was a fury, Blanche Conway, capable of anything.”
“Then why did you countermand that message?” I asked curiously.
“When I got to the Carter house, and got to bed - I had sprained my ankle in the jump - I went through the alligator bag I had taken from lower nine. When I found your name, I sent the first message. Then, soon after, I came across the notes. It seemed too good to be true, and I was crazy for fear the message had gone.
“At first I was going to send them to Bronson; then I began to see what the possession of the notes meant to me. It meant power over Bronson, money, influence, everything. He was a devil, that man.”
“Well, he’s at home now,” said McKnight, and we were glad to laugh and relieve the tension.
Alison put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the man she had so nearly married, and I furtively touched one of the soft little curls that nestled at the back of her neck.
“When I was able to walk,” went on the sullen voice, “I came at once to Washington. I tried to sell the notes to Bronson, but he was almost at the end of his rope. Not even my threat to send them back to you, Mr. Blakeley, could make him meet my figure. He didn’t have the money.
McKnight was triumphant.
“I think you gentlemen will see reason in my theory now,” he said. “Mrs. Conway wanted the notes to force a legal marriage, I suppose?”
“Yes.”
The detective with the small package carefully rolled off the rubber band, and unwrapped it. I held my breath as he took out, first, the Russia leather wallet.
“These things, Mr. Blakeley, we found in the sealskin bag Mr. Sullivan says he left you. This wallet, Mr. Sullivan - is this the one you found on the floor of the car?”
Sullivan opened it, and, glancing at the name inside, “Simon Harrington,” nodded affirmatively.
“And this,” went on the detective - “this is a piece of gold chain?”
“It seems to be,” said Sullivan, recoiling at the blood-stained end.
“This, I believe, is the dagger.” He held it up, and Alison gave a faint cry of astonishment and dismay. Sullivan’s face grew ghastly, and he sat down weakly on the nearest chair.
The detective looked at him shrewdly, then at Alison’s agitated face.
“Where have you seen this dagger before, young lady?” he asked, kindly enough.
“Oh, don’t ask me!” she gasped breathlessly, her eyes turned on Sullivan. “It’s - it’s too terrible!”
“Tell him,” I advised, leaning over to her. “It will be found out later, anyhow.”