“Mr. Bronson offered to put up the money, and I agreed.  The flood came just then, and was considerable help.  It made a good setting.  I went to my city editor, and got an assignment to interview Ladley about this play of his.  Then Bronson and I went together to see the Ladleys on Sunday morning, and as they needed money, they agreed.  But Ladley insisted on fifty dollars a week extra if he had to go to jail.  We promised it, but we did not intend to let things go so far as that.

“In the Ladleys’ room that Sunday morning, we worked it all out.  The hardest thing was to get Jennie Brice’s consent; but she agreed, finally.  We arranged a list of clues, to be left around, and Ladley was to go out in the night and to be heard coming back.  I told him to quarrel with his wife that afternoon,—­although I don’t believe they needed to be asked to do it,—­and I suggested also the shoe or slipper, to be found floating around.”

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Holcombe, busy with his note-book.  “Did you suggest the onyx clock?”

“No.  No clock was mentioned.  The—­the clock has puzzled me.”

“The towel?”

“Yes.  I said no murder was complete without blood, but he kicked on that—­said he didn’t mind the rest, but he’d be hanged if he was going to slash himself.  But, as it happened, he cut his wrist while cutting the boat loose, and so we had the towel.”

“Pillow-slip?” asked Mr. Holcombe.

“Well, no.  There was nothing said about a pillow-slip.  Didn’t he say he burned it accidentally?”

“So he claimed.”  Mr. Holcombe made another entry in his book.

“Then I said every murder had a weapon.  He was to have a pistol at first, but none of us owned one.  Mrs. Ladley undertook to get a knife from Mrs. Pitman’s kitchen, and to leave it around, not in full view, but where it could be found.”

“A broken knife?”

“No.  Just a knife.”

“He was to throw the knife into the water?”

“That was not arranged.  I only gave him a general outline.  He was to add any interesting details that might occur to him.  The idea, of course, was to give the police plenty to work on, and just when they thought they had it all, and when the theater had had a lot of booming, and I had got a good story, to produce Jennie Brice, safe and well.  We were not to appear in it at all.  It would have worked perfectly, but we forgot to count on one thing—­Jennie Brice hated her husband.”

“Not really hated him!” cried Lida.

“Hated him.  She is letting him hang.  She could save him by coming forward now, and she won’t do it.  She is hiding so he will go to the gallows.”

There was a pause at that.  It seemed too incredible, too inhuman.

“Then, early that Monday morning, you smuggled Jennie Brice out of the city?”

“Yes.  That was the only thing we bungled.  We fixed the hour a little too late, and I was seen by Miss Harvey’s uncle, walking across the bridge with a woman.”