“Don’t play so fast,” I remonstrated.  “I have only one arm to your two.  Who is trailing Bronson?  Did you try to get Johnson?”

“I asked for him, but he had some work on hand.”

“The murder’s evidently a dead issue,” I reflected.  “No, I’m not joking.  The wreck destroyed all the evidence.  But I’m firmly convinced those notes will be offered, either to us or to Bronson very soon.  Johnson’s a blackguard, but he’s a good detective.  He could make his fortune as a game dog.  What’s he doing?”

McKnight put down his cards, and rising, went to the window.  As he held the curtain back his customary grin looked a little forced.

“To tell you the truth, Lollie,” he said, “for the last two days he has been watching a well-known Washington attorney named Lawrence Blakeley.  He’s across the street now.”

It took a moment for me to grasp what he meant.

“Why, it’s ridiculous,” I asserted.  “What would they trail me for?  Go over and tell Johnson to get out of there, or I’ll pot at him with my revolver.”

“You can tell him that yourself.”  McKnight paused and bent forward.  “Hello, here’s a visitor; little man with string halt.”

“I won’t see him,” I said firmly.  “I’ve been bothered enough with reporters.”

We listened together to Mrs. Klopton’s expostulating tones in the lower hall and the creak of the boards as she came heavily up the stairs.  She had a piece of paper in her hand torn from a pocket account-book, and on it was the name, “Mr. Wilson Budd Hotchkiss.  Important business.”

“Oh, well, show him up,” I said resignedly.  “You’d better put those cards away, Richey.  I fancy it’s the rector of the church around the corner.”

But when the door opened to admit a curiously alert little man, adjusting his glasses with nervous fingers, my face must have shown my dismay.

It was the amateur detective of the Ontario!

I shook hands without enthusiasm.  Here was the one survivor of the wrecked car who could do me any amount of harm.  There was no hope that he had forgotten any of the incriminating details.  In fact, he held in his hand the very note-book which contained them.

His manner was restrained, but it was evident he was highly excited.  I introduced him to McKnight, who has the imagination I lack, and who placed him at once, mentally.

“I only learned yesterday that you had been—­er—­saved,” he said rapidly.  “Terrible accident—­unspeakable.  Dream about it all night and think about it all day.  Broken arm?”

“No.  He just wears the splint to be different from other people,” McKnight drawled lazily.  I glared at him:  there was nothing to be gained by antagonizing the little man.

“Yes, a fractured humerus, which isn’t as funny as it sounds.”

“Humerus-humorous!  Pretty good,” he cackled.  “I must say you keep up your spirits pretty well, considering everything.”