“Then how did you enter this house?”

“I have a key—­I mean I found the front door unlatched.  Please don’t misunderstand me; I know it sounds unconvincing, but I really have a key to number thirty-eight.”

He attempted to reach for his pocket and the pistol glittered in his face.

“Won’t you let me prove my innocence?” he asked.

“You can’t prove it by showing me a key.  Besides, it’s probably a weapon.  Anyhow, if, as you pretend, you have managed to get into the wrong house, why did you bring that suit case up here?”

“It was here.  It’s mine.  I left it here in this passageway.”

“In my house?” she asked incredulously.

“In number thirty-eight; that is all I know.  I’ll open the suit case if you will let me.  I have already described its contents.  If it has samples of marble in it you must be convinced!”

“It will convince me that it is your valise.  But what of that?  I know it is yours already,” she said defiantly.  “I know, at least, that you are the marble man—­if nothing worse!”

“But malefactors don’t go about carrying samples of Georgia marble,” he protested, dropping on one knee under the muzzle of her revolver and tugging at the straps and buckles.  In a second or two he threw open the case—­and the sight of the contents staggered him.  For there, thrown in pellmell among small square blocks of polished marble was a complete kit of burglar’s tools, including also a mask, a dark lantern, and a blackjack.

“What—­w—­w—­what on earth is this?” he stammered.  “These things don’t belong to me.  I won’t have them!  I don’t want them.  Who put them into my suit case?  How the deuce—­”

“You are the marble man!” she said with a shudder.  “Your crimes are known!  Your wretched accomplice will be caught!  You are the marble man—­or something worse!”

Kneeling there, aghast, bewildered, he passed his hand across his eyes as though to clear them from some terrible vision.  But the suit case was still there with its incriminating contents when he looked again.

“I am sorry for you,” she said tremulously.  “I—­if it were not for the marble—­I would let you go.  But you are the marble man!”

“Yes, and I’m probably a madman, too.  I don’t know what I am!  I don’t know what is happening to me.  I ought to be going, that is all I know—­”

“I cannot let you go.”

“But I must!  I’ve got to catch a train.”

The feebleness of his excuse chilled her pity.

“I shall not let you go,” she said, resting the hand which held the pistol on her hip, but keeping him covered.  “I know you came to rob my house; I know you are a thoroughly bad and depraved young man, but for all that I could find it in my heart to let you go if you were not also the marble man!”

“What on earth is the marble man?” he asked, exasperated.

“I don’t know.  I have been earnestly warned against him.  Probably he is a relative of my butler—­”