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Roswell T. Forrest.”
    Miss Withers gasped, audibly. The newcomer turned toward her. “I see you know,” he said. “I was his traveling companion—my name is Barney Kelsey.” Then he continued, dully: “We were supposed to make this little outing together, but Forrest missed the boat.”
    “But the letters,” protested the chief. “The letters were addressed to him by his first name only?”
    “I’ll explain all that. But, first, do you know who—what happened to him?”
    Dr. O’Rourke started to speak, but Miss Withers, in a voice that kept him silent, interrupted.
    “A paralytic stroke is a terrible thing,” she observed, commiseratingly.
    The newcomer’s eyes flickered once as the chief and the doctor stared at each other blankly.
    But before they spoke, Barney Kelsey nodded his head.
    “Forrest has had trouble like that before,” he went on, swiftly. “The doctors warned him that another attack would be fatal.”
    There was a dead silence.
    “Oddly enough,” continued Miss Hildegarde Withers, “Dr. O’Rourke here discovered no trace of paralysis past or present in the body. My remark was purely general. The doctor leans toward heart failure, at the present moment. My own ideas lead in quite another direction. I suppose your friend Forrest was also subject to heart trouble?”
    Kelsey’s eyes were those of a trapped animal for a flash, and then they became bland and open.
    “On second thought,” he said softly, “I agree with you that Roswell Forrest was murdered.”
    “I thought you would,” said Miss Withers.

CHAPTER IV
    “T HIS IS GETTING NO clearer, fast,” admitted Chief of Police Britt, after a long moment of uncomfortable silence. He looked at a massive silver watch and then definitely gave up any hope of getting back to his curio shop that noon. “S’pose you get down to cases and tell us what you mean by all this stuff about murder, and about your friend Roswell named Forrest or vice versa?”
    The chief went wearily over and turned a key in the door. Then he faced Barney Kelsey, expectantly. “Don’t mind the audience, just go ahead.”
    The stranger nodded. “I’ll try to make it short,” he promised. “This lady here”—he indicated Miss Withers—“recognized the name of Roswell T. Forrest. I’m surprised it means nothing to you, Chief.”
    “Maybe it does,” hedged the chief cautiously, “and maybe it doesn’t.”
    “Well, it’s been in the newspapers enough, anyway. Forrest has been dodging the Brandstatter Committee investigation, back in New York City, for a couple of months. He was confidential secretary to Welch, the Commissioner of Docks and Harbors, whom they’ve got on the grill right now. They wanted to make Forrest testify against his boss—”
    “In regard to the safety deposit boxes he shared with Welch!” cut in Miss Withers triumphantly. “That’s it! The New York papers were full of it when I left, and the clippings in Forrest’s billfold are about the same thing!”
    Kelsey bowed in agreement. “I’ve been traveling around the country with Forrest,” he continued. “Helping him dodge process servers and the newspaper men. You see—”
    “Wait a minute,” said the chief. “Let me get this straight. You did all this traveling around for love—or money?”
    Kelsey hesitated.
    “He means,” interrupted Miss Withers, “did you receive a salary from Forrest?”
    “I received salary and expenses, yes,” admitted Kelsey. “But not from Forrest. He couldn’t afford anything like that. Every week he received a money order from a New York lawyer—who, I don’t know—and along with his came one for me. You see, it was pretty important to a lot of people that Forrest shouldn’t come back to New York by mistake.”
    “So we see,” said Hildegarde Withers. Dr. O’Rourke grunted disagreeably in the background.
    “You realize,” the chief inquired, “that this makes you an accessory after the fact to anything Forrest may have