He stopped for a minute, as if the recalling of the next occurrence was almost beyond him.

“I took out the wallet,” he said simply, “and opening it, held it to the light.  In gilt letters was the name, Simon Harrington.”

The detectives were leaning forward now, their eyes on his face.

“Things seemed to whirl around for a while.  I sat there almost paralyzed, wondering what this new development meant for me.

“My wife, I knew, would swear I had killed her father; nobody would be likely to believe the truth.

“Do you believe me now?” He rooked around at us defiantly.  “I am telling the absolute truth, and not one of you believes me!

“After a bit the man in lower nine got up and walked along the aisle toward the smoking compartment.  I heard him go, and, leaning from my berth, watched him out of sight.

“It was then I got the idea of changing berths with him, getting into his clothes, and leaving the train.  I give you my word I had no idea of throwing suspicion on him.”

Alison looked scornfully incredulous, but I felt that the man was telling the truth.

“I changed the numbers of the berths, and it worked well.  I got into the other man’s berth, and he came back to mine.  The rest was easy.  I dressed in his clothes—­luckily, they fitted—­and jumped the train not far from Baltimore, just before the wreck.”

“There is something else you must clear up,” I said.  “Why did you try to telephone me from M-, and why did you change your mind about the message?”

He looked astounded.

“You knew I was at M-?” he stammered.

“Yes, we traced you.  What about the message?”

“Well, it was this way:  of course, I did not know your name, Mr. Blakeley.  The telegram said, ’Man with papers in lower ten, car seven,” and after I had made what I considered my escape, I began to think I had left the man in my berth in a bad way.

“He would probably be accused of the crime.  So, although when the wreck occurred I supposed every one connected with the affair had been killed, there was a chance that you had survived.  I’ve not been of much account, but I didn’t want a man to swing because I’d left him in my place.  Besides, I began to have a theory of my own.

“As we entered the car a tall, dark woman passed us, with a glass of water in her hand, and I vaguely remembered her.  She was amazingly like Blanche Conway.

“If she, too, thought the man with the notes was in lower ten, it explained a lot, including that piece of a woman’s necklace.  She was a fury, Blanche Conway, capable of anything.”

“Then why did you countermand that message?” I asked curiously.

“When I got to the Carter house, and got to bed—­I had sprained my ankle in the jump—­I went through the alligator bag I had taken from lower nine.  When I found your name, I sent the first message.  Then, soon after, I came across the notes.  It seemed too good to be true, and I was crazy for fear the message had gone.