“At first I was going to send them to Bronson; then I began to see what the possession of the notes meant to me.  It meant power over Bronson, money, influence, everything.  He was a devil, that man.”

“Well, he’s at home now,” said McKnight, and we were glad to laugh and relieve the tension.

Alison put her hand over her eyes, as if to shut out the sight of the man she had so nearly married, and I furtively touched one of the soft little curls that nestled at the back of her neck.

“When I was able to walk,” went on the sullen voice, “I came at once to Washington.  I tried to sell the notes to Bronson, but he was almost at the end of his rope.  Not even my threat to send them back to you, Mr. Blakeley, could make him meet my figure.  He didn’t have the money.

McKnight was triumphant.

“I think you gentlemen will see reason in my theory now,” he said.  “Mrs. Conway wanted the notes to force a legal marriage, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

The detective with the small package carefully rolled off the rubber band, and unwrapped it.  I held my breath as he took out, first, the Russia leather wallet.

“These things, Mr. Blakeley, we found in the seal-skin bag Mr. Sullivan says he left you.  This wallet, Mr. Sullivan—­is this the one you found on the floor of the car?”

Sullivan opened it, and, glancing at the name inside, “Simon Harrington,” nodded affirmatively.

“And this,” went on the detective—­“this is a piece of gold chain?”

“It seems to be,” said Sullivan, recoiling at the blood-stained end.

“This, I believe, is the dagger.”  He held it up, and Alison gave a faint cry of astonishment and dismay.  Sullivan’s face grew ghastly, and he sat down weakly on the nearest chair.

The detective looked at him shrewdly, then at Alison’s agitated face.

“Where have you seen this dagger before, young lady?” he asked, kindly enough.

“Oh, don’t ask me!” she gasped breathlessly, her eyes turned on Sullivan.  “It’s—­it’s too terrible!”

“Tell him,” I advised, leaning over to her.  “It will be found out later, anyhow.”

“Ask him,” she said, nodding toward Sullivan.  The detective unwrapped the small box Alison had brought, disclosing the trampled necklace and broken chain.  With clumsy fingers he spread it on the table and fitted into place the bit of chain.  There could be no doubt that it belonged there.

“Where did you find that chain?” Sullivan asked hoarsely, looking for the first time at Alison.

“On the floor, near the murdered man’s berth.”

“Now, Mr. Sullivan,” said the detective civilly, “I believe you can tell us, in the light of these two exhibits, who really did murder Simon Harrington.”

Sullivan looked again at the dagger, a sharp little bit of steel with a Florentine handle.  Then he picked up the locket and pressed a hidden spring under one of the cameos.  Inside, very neatly engraved, was the name and a date.