In my favor was McKnight’s theory against Mrs. Conway.  She had a motive for wishing to secure the notes, she believed I was in lower ten, and she had collapsed at the discovery of the crime in the morning.

Against both of these theories, I accuse a purely chimerical person named Sullivan, who was not seen by any of the survivors—­save one, Alison, whom I could not bring into the case.  I could find a motive for his murdering his father-in-law, whom he hated, but again—­I would have to drag in the girl.

And not one of the theories explained the telegram and the broken necklace.

Outside the office force was arriving.  They were comfortably ignorant of my presence, and over the transom floated scraps of dialogue and the stenographer’s gurgling laugh.  McKnight had a relative, who was reading law with him, in the intervals between calling up the young women of his acquaintance.  He came in singing, and the office boy joined in with the uncertainty of voice of fifteen.  I smiled grimly.  I was too busy with my own troubles to find any joy in opening the door and startling them into silence.  I even heard, without resentment, Blobs of the uncertain voice inquire when “Blake” would be back.

I hoped McKnight would arrive before the arrest occurred.  There were many things to arrange.  But when at last, impatient of his delay, I telephoned, I found he had been gone for more than an hour.  Clearly he was not coming directly to the office, and with such resignation as I could muster I paced the floor and waited.

I felt more alone than I have ever felt in my life.  “Born an orphan,” as Richey said, I had made my own way, carved out myself such success as had been mine.  I had built up my house of life on the props of law and order, and now some unknown hand had withdrawn the supports, and I stood among ruins.

I suppose it is the maternal in a woman that makes a man turn to her when everything else fails.  The eternal boy in him goes to have his wounded pride bandaged, his tattered self-respect repaired.  If he loves the woman, he wants her to kiss the hurt.

The longing to see Alison, always with me, was stronger than I was that morning.  It might be that I would not see her again.  I had nothing to say to her save one thing, and that, under the cloud that hung over me, I did not dare to say.  But I wanted to see her, to touch her hand—­as only a lonely man can crave it, I wanted the comfort of her, the peace that lay in her presence.  And so, with every step outside the door a threat, I telephoned to her.

She was gone!  The disappointment was great, for my need was great.  In a fury of revolt against the scheme of things, I heard that she had started home to Richmond—­but that she might still be caught at the station.

To see her had by that time become an obsession.  I picked up my hat, threw open the door, and, oblivious of the shock to the office force of my presence, followed so immediately by my exit, I dashed out to the elevator.  As I went down in one cage I caught a glimpse of Johnson and two other men going up in the next.  I hardly gave them a thought.  There was no hansom in sight, and I jumped on a passing car.  Let come what might, arrest, prison, disgrace, I was going to see Alison.