“The man in ten was sleeping heavily.  I could hear his breathing, and it seemed to be only a question of getting across and behind the curtains of his berth without being seen.  After that, it was a mere matter of quiet searching.

“The car became very still.  I was about to try for the other berth, when some one brushed softly past, and I lay back again.

“Finally, however, when things had been quiet for a time, I got up, and after looking along the aisle, I slipped behind the curtains of lower ten.  You understand, Mr. Blakeley, that I thought you were in lower ten, with the notes.”

I nodded curtly.

“I’m not trying to defend myself,” he went on.  “I was ready to steal the notes—­I had to.  But murder!”

He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Well, I slipped across and behind the curtains.  It was very still.  The man in ten didn’t move, although my heart was thumping until I thought he would hear it.

“I felt around cautiously.  It was perfectly dark, and I came across a bit of chain, about as long as my finger.  It seemed a queer thing to find there, and it was sticky, too.”

He shuddered, and I could see Alison’s hands clenching and unclenching with the strain.

“All at once it struck me that the man was strangely silent, and I think I lost my nerve.  Anyhow, I drew the curtains open a little, and let the light fall on my hands.  They were red, blood-red.”

He leaned one hand on the back of the chair, and was silent for a moment, as though he lived over again the awful events of that more than awful night.

The stout detective had let his cigar go out; he was still drawing at it nervously.  Richey had picked up a paper-weight and was tossing it from hand to hand; when it slipped and fell to the floor, a startled shudder passed through the room.

“There was something glittering in there,” Sullivan resumed, “and on impulse I picked it up.  Then I dropped the curtains and stumbled back to my own berth.”

“Where you wiped your hands on the bed-clothing and stuck the dirk into the pillow.”  Hotchkiss was seeing his carefully built structure crumbling to pieces, and he looked chagrined.

“I suppose I did—­I’m not very clear about what happened then.  But when I rallied a little I saw a Russia leather wallet lying in the aisle almost at my feet, and, like a fool, I stuck it, with the bit of chain, into my bag.

“I sat there, shivering, for what seemed hours.  It was still perfectly quiet, except for some one snoring.  I thought that would drive me crazy.

“The more I thought of it the worse things looked.  The telegram was the first thing against me—­it would put the police on my track at once, when it was discovered that the man in lower ten had been killed.

“Then I remembered the notes, and I took out the wallet and opened it.”