ture; but when a fellow like Sullivan not only commits a murder, but goes to all sorts of trouble to put the burden of guilt on an innocent man—I say hunt him down, sir!"
"You are convinced, of course, that Sullivan did it?"
"Who else?" He looked over his glasses at me with the air of a man whose mental attitude is unassailable.
"Well, listen to this," I said.
Then I told him at length of my encounter with Bronson in the restaurant, of the bargain proposed by Mrs. Conway, and finally of McKnight's new theory. But, although he was impressed, he was far from convinced.
"It's a very vivid piece of imagination," he said drily; "but while it fits the evidence as far as it goes, it doesn't go far enough. How about the stains in lower seven, the dirk, and the wallet? Haven't we even got motive in that telegram from Bronson?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but that bit of chain—"
"Pooh," he said shortly. "Perhaps, like yourself, Sullivan wore glasses with a chain. Our
