“The girl did it,” he reaffirmed.  “They have her cornered.  It won’t be possible for her to clear herself, even with the best lawyers in the country.”

“Do they suspect anybody else?”

“I think not.  By the way, did you say you were at the house?”

“Oh, I walked around the place, that’s all.  I saw a policeman on guard there.”

“Anybody else?”

“No.”

“Did you come across the stream?” asked the Englishman quickly.

“Yes.  I thought it was a short cut, but I got left.”

“You came right from the brook to my place?”

“Well, not exactly.  I got tangled up in the woods before I got on the path that brought me here.”

“See anything strange around the Langmore house—­any tracks or anything like that?”

“Why do you ask that?  I thought you were sure Miss Langmore was guilty.”

“So I am, but a fellow makes some bloomin’ mistakes sometimes.  I am not interested very much though,” continued Matlock Styles, and gave a yawn.

“I saw nothing out of the ordinary.  There were a good many footprints.”

“Running this way?”

“Running every way, I thought.  What kind of a man was this Barry Langmore?”

“A fairly good sort.  He wanted everything that was coming to him, and so did his wife.  She was a tartar and so was the girl.  I shouldn’t have wanted to live in the house with them.”

At that moment another man appeared at the doorway.

“Hullo! got company?” he called out.

“Not exactly, Bart,” answered Matlock Styles.  “Excuse me for a moment,” he continued, to the detective, and passed out of the room and to the kitchen with the newcomer.

He was gone for several minutes and during that time Adam Adams finished his lunch and took a good look at the room he occupied.  There was nothing unusual about the apartment and his survey was finished before the Englishman returned.

“Now I think I’ll pay you and be on my way,” said Adam Adams, rising.  There seemed to be no excuse for his lingering longer.  “How much do I owe you?”

“Not a blasted farthing.”

“Then I am much obliged.  Will you have a smoke?” and Adam Adams handed forth a couple of choice Havana cigars.

“I don’t know as I care to smoke, Mr.—­You didn’t give me your name.”

“Robert Dixon.  And yours?”

“Matlock Styles.  I don’t care to smoke.”

“Bart!”

At the call the other man came in from the kitchen.  To his surprise Adam Adams saw that he carried a rope in one hand and a pistol in the other.  He was followed by the mastiff Nelson.

“Don’t you dare to stir, you bloody rascal!” went on Matlock Styles to the detective.

“Why, what’s the matter now?” queried Adam Adams.  The turn of affairs puzzled him not a little.

“You’ll soon see what’s the matter,” said the man called Bart.