“That’s an easy thing to say, Letty,” he answered.  “But it is not such an easy thing to do.  Poor Dick is deep enough in the mud as it is, and it will not be to my credit to mention my connection with Matlock Styles.”

“Yes, but Tom, you—­you—­Oh, how can I explain?  Can’t you trust me when I tell you that I am speaking for your own good?  I—­I know many things of which you are ignorant.”

“Then why don’t you tell me, Letty?  Is it fair for you to keep silent?”

“No, but then you must remember that I am Mr. Adams’ private clerk, and he is working on this case in the interests of Miss Langmore.”

“I know he is working for her and I hope he clears her.  I always thought she was a pretty nice kind of a girl, and I can’t believe that she is guilty.”

“Tom, did you ever imagine they would think you were guilty?” and she gazed at him earnestly, as If to search his very soul.

He started.

“Me?  Why—­why should anybody imagine I was guilty?  It’s—­it’s out of all reason.”  He drew a quick breath.  “Letty, do you mean to insinuate that Mr. Adams imagines—­”

“You mustn’t ask me questions, Tom.  But think over what you have told me—­of that letter your brother Dick wrote asking for money, and how you visited the house on the very morning of the murder to get the money, and how Mr. Langmore took the letter from your mother and tore it in half, and the scene afterwards.”

“Yes, I know.  But—­”

“And then think of the way by which Mr. Langmore and your mother died.  Killed by a curious poison, something that they inhaled, which, when the doctor got a whiff of it, gave him cramps in the stomach—­a curious drug not generally known to medical science, a drug—­”

He caught her by the wrist and looked fearfully, frightfully, into her face.

“Letty!  My God!”

A short silence followed and she saw that he was thinking, deeply, swiftly.  The cold perspiration stood out on his forehead but he did not appear to notice it.  He dropped her wrist and his hand fell as if made of stone.

“Now you understand, Tom.  I—­I am speaking for I—­I—­want you to clear yourself.”

“Then it has gone as far as this?” He gave a groan.  “It was that drug—­Letty, are you sure they have found out about that drug?”

“Yes, but do not say I said so.”

“That drug is accursed—­a Chinese student told me so.  I laughed at him then, but now I believe it.  The first time I carried it around with me I was wrecked in a railroad accident and had my arm hurt.  Then, two weeks later, when I had it with me, I got caught in that hotel fire in Buffalo.  After that a vial once broke on me and if I hadn’t gotten away in a hurry I should have been smothered.  And now—­”

“Have you carried any of It lately?”

“No, not for a month.  I was afraid of it, and so was the firm.  We got rid of it, and I was glad of it.”  He bit his lip meditatively.  “And they think—­they suspect—­that that drug was used?  It may be.”