Receiving no response, he lapsed again into thoughtful silence.  Mrs. Klopton came in just as the clock struck one, and made preparation for the night by putting a large gaudy comfortable into an arm-chair in the dressing-room, with a smaller, stiff-backed chair for her feet.  She was wonderfully attired in a dressing-gown that was reminiscent, in parts, of all the ones she had given me for a half dozen Christmases, and she had a purple veil wrapped around her head, to hide Heaven knows what deficiency.  She examined the empty egg-nog glass, inquired what the evening paper had said about the weather, and then stalked into the dressing-room, and prepared, with much ostentatious creaking, to sit up all night.

We fell silent again, while McKnight traced a rough outline of the
berths on the white table-cover, and puzzled it out slowly.  It was
something like this: 
            ____________________________________
           | 12 | 10 | 8 |
           |____________|___________|___________|
          
 |_______________Aisle________________|
           | 11 | 9 | 7 |
           |____________|___________|___________|

“You think he changed the tags on seven and nine, so that when you went back to bed you thought you were crawling into nine, when it was really seven, eh?”

“Probably-yes.”

“Then toward morning, when everybody was asleep, your theory is that he changed the numbers again and left the train.”

“I can’t think of anything else,” I replied wearily.

“Jove, what a game of bridge that fellow would play!  It was like finessing an eight-spot and winning out.  They would scarcely have doubted your story had the tags been reversed in the morning.  He certainly left you in a bad way.  Not a jury in the country would stand out against the stains, the stiletto, and the murdered man’s pocket-book in your possession.”

“Then you think Sullivan did it?” I asked.

“Of course,” said McKnight confidently.  “Unless you did it in your sleep.  Look at the stains on his pillow, and the dirk stuck into it.  And didn’t he have the man Harrington’s pocket-book?”

“But why did he go off without the money?” I persisted.  “And where does the bronze-haired girl come in?”

“Search me,” McKnight retorted flippantly.  “Inflammation of the imagination on your part.”

“Then there is the piece of telegram.  It said lower ten, car seven.  It’s extremely likely that she had it.  That telegram was about me, Richey.”

“I’m getting a headache,” he said, putting out his cigarette against the sole of his shoe.  “All I’m certain of just now is that if there hadn’t been a wreck, by this time you’d be sitting in an eight by ten cell, and feeling like the rhyme for it.”

“But listen to this,” I contended, as he picked up his hat, “this fellow Sullivan is a fugitive, and he’s a lot more likely to make advances to Bronson than to us.  We could have the case continued, release Bronson on bail and set a watch on him.”