Gard’s face underwent a kaleidoscopic series of changes; then astonishment and relief finally triumphed, and were followed by hysterical laughter.  Brencherly was disconcerted.

“Oh, so you think I did it!” he said at last.  “I wish I had!” he added.  “That wouldn’t worry me in the least.”

“Mrs. Marteen!” Brencherly exclaimed, and stood aghast and silent.

“No!” thundered Gard, and then leaned forward brokenly with his head in his hand.

Slowly the detective’s mind readjusted itself, and the look in his eyes fixed upon Gard’s bowed figure was all pitying understanding.  Then he shook his head.

“No, she didn’t do it,” he said—­“never!  I don’t believe it!”

The stricken man looked up gratefully, but his head sank forward again.  “He had done a horrible thing to her,” he said.  “You’re right; you must have my confidence if you are to help—­us.  He had tried to estrange Dorothy from her mother.  I—­happened to be able to stop that.  I used what you told me to quiet him.  I threatened to tell his son the whole story.  It was bluffing, for we knew nothing positive.  But the story is all true.  He was putty in my hand when I held that threat over him—­putty.  I went to him that night to dictate what he was to do in case he obtained any clew of Mrs. Marteen.  I thought she might try to see him—­to—­reproach him.  We knew she was very ill, had been when she went away, and then—­nerve shock.  I went to him—­and found him already dead.  You understand—­Mrs. Marteen—­I couldn’t but believe—­so I set the stage for robbery.  I bluffed it off with everyone.  I gave the message to lock up and leave Mahr undisturbed.  I wanted an alibi for her—­or at least to gain time.”

Brencherly remained silent.  A man’s devotion to another commands awed respect, however it may manifest itself.  But he was thinking rapidly.

“You know District Attorney Field, don’t you?” he asked at length.

Gard nodded.  “An old personal friend; but I can’t go to him with that story.  I’d rather a thousand times he suspected me than give one clew that would lead to her.  I’ll stick to my story.  Field wouldn’t cover up a thing like that—­he couldn’t.”

“I know,” returned Brencherly; “there’s got to be a victim for justice first, or else prove that nothing, not even the ends of justice, can be gained before you can get the wires pulled.  But that’s what I’m setting out to do.  I don’t believe, Mr. Gard, that Mrs. Marteen committed that murder—­not that there may not have been plenty of reason for it, but the way of it—­no!  I’ve got an idea.  I don’t want to say too much or raise any hopes that I can’t make good; but there’s just this:  when I leave the house it will be to start on another trail.  In the meantime, everything is being done that is humanly possible to find Mrs. Marteen.  There’s only one other way, and that, for the present, won’t do—­it’s newspaper publicity, photographic reproductions and