Was the crime one of anger or revenge?  Why, then, the robbery?  The appearance of the table drawers would seem to indicate someone in search of papers, yet the dead man’s valuables appeared to have been removed by force—­the cuff link had been broken, the watch snatched from its pocket with such violence that the cloth had been torn.  At present the mystery that surrounded the crime was impenetrable.  The dead man’s son was prostrated with grief.

Gard finished reading and rose, crushing the paper in his hand.  “It’s a horrible thing—­horrible!  I hope you gentlemen will excuse me.  I am not well, and this—­has affected me—­unaccountably.”  He turned to his stateroom.  “I’m going to rest, if I can.”

The two men looked at each other in deep concern.

“I hope we don’t lose him,” muttered Denning.

Alone in the silence of his swaying room, Gard threw himself face down upon the bed.  He could not reason any longer.  His whole being gave way to a voiceless cry.  He shook as if with cold, and beat his hands rhythmically on the pillows.  He rolled over at last, and lay staring at the curved ceiling of the car.  One thought obsessed him.  She had been there, in that room, hidden—­watching him, doubtless, as he committed the ghastly theft.  Even in the awful situation in which she found herself, what must she think of him?  Criminal, blackmailer, murderess, perhaps—­but what could she think of him?  The blood tingled through his veins and his waxen face flushed scarlet with vivid shame.  In his weakened, overwrought condition, this aspect of the case outranked all others.  He forgot the horrible publicity that threatened not only Dorothy and her mother but Victor Mahr’s son—­when the motive of the crime was learned.  He forgot the yearning of his soul for the saving of its sister spirit.  He forgot the dread vision of the chair of death in the keen personal shame of the creature she must believe him to be.

Suddenly a new angle of the case presented itself—­Brencherly!  He sat up gasping.  Brencherly must have guessed—­the inevitable logic of the situation led straight to the solution of the enigma.  The detective knew of Mahr’s efforts to obtain the combination of Mrs. Marteen’s safe; he, himself, had told him that those efforts had been successful.  Brencherly knew of Mrs. Marteen’s sudden return, her visit to her home and her mysterious disappearance.  The motive of the murder was supplied, the disappearance accounted for.  Already the detective’s trained mind had doubtless pieced together the fragments of these broken lives.  It was Brencherly who had told him of Mahr’s former marriage.  Everything, everything was in his hands.  Would the man remain true to him?  What wouldn’t one of the great newspapers pay for the inside story!  Could Brencherly be trusted?  His well seasoned dislike of the whole detective and police service made him sure of treachery.  But before him rose the vision of the boyish, candid face, as the detective had taken the Great Man’s proffered hand, the honesty in his voice as he had given his word—­“I’ll do my best, sir,” and into Gard’s black despair crept a pale ray of hope.