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knew—”
    “Maybe,” said Randy reluctantly, “I told him. You see I knew Joe had it in his letter case. He—he told me. But I never thought of taking it.”
    “It was not on record?” asked Jim Byrne.
    “No,” said Randy, flushing. “I—asked him to keep it quiet.”
    “I wonder,” said Susan, looking away from Randy’s miserable young face, “just how Tryon Welles expected to silence you.”
    “Well,” said Randy dully, after a moment, “it was not exactly to my credit. But you needn’t rub it in. I never thought of this—I was thinking of—Michela. That she did it. I’ve had my lesson. And if he destroyed the note, how are you going to prove all this?”
    “By your testimony,” said Susan. “And besides—there’s the ring.”
    “Ring,” said Randy. Jim Byrne leaned forward intently.
    “Yes,” said Susan. “I’d forgotten. But I remembered that Joe had been reading the newspaper when he was killed. The curtains were pulled together back of him, so, in order to see the paper, he must have had the light turned on above his chair. It wasn’t burning when I entered the library, or I should have noted it. So the murderer had pulled the cord of the lamp before he escaped. And ever since then he has been very careful to avoid any artificial light.”
    “What are you talking about?” cried Randy.
    “Yet he had to keep on wearing the ring,” said Susan. “Fortunately for him he didn’t have it on the first night—I suppose the color at night would have been wrong with his green tie. But this morning he lit a cigarette and I saw.”
    “Saw what, in God’s name,” said Randy burstingly.
    “That the stone isn’t an emerald at all,” replied Susan. “It’s an Alexandrite. It changed color under the flare of the lighter.”
    “Alexandrite!” cried Randy impatiently. “What’s that?”
    “It’s a stone that’s a kind of red-purple under artificial light and green in daylight,” said Jim Byrne shortly. “I had forgotten there was such a thing—I don’t think I’ve ever happened to see one. They are rare—and costly. Costly,” repeated Jim Byrne slowly. “This one has cost a life—”
    Randy interrupted: “But if Michela knows about the note, why, Tryon may kill her—” He stopped abruptly, thought for a second or two, then got out a cigarette. “Let him,” he said airily.
    It had been Tryon Welles, then, prowling about during the night—if it had been anyone. He had been uncertain, perhaps, of the extent of Michela’s knowledge—but certain of his ability to deal with her and with Randy, who was so heavily in his debt.
    “Michela doesn’t know now,” said Susan slowly. “And when you tell her, Randy—she might settle for a cash consideration. And, Randy Frame, somehow you’ve got to recover this house for Christabel and do it honestly.”
    “But right now,” said Jim Byrne cheerily. “For the sheriff. And my story.”
    At the doorway he paused to look at Susan. “May I come back later,” he said, “and use your typewriter?”
    “Yes,” said Susan Dare.

SPIDER
    “BUT IT IS FANTASTIC,” SAID SUSAN Dare, clutching the telephone. “You can’t just be afraid. You’ve got to be afraid of something.” She waited, but there was no reply.
    “You mean,” she said presently, in a hushed voice, “that I’m to go to this perfectly strange house, to be the guest of a perfectly strange woman”
    “To you,” said Jim Byrne. “Not, I tell you, to me.”
    “But you said you had never seen her—”
    “Don’t maunder,” said Jim Byrne sharply. “Of course I’ve never seen her. Now, Susan, do try to get this straight. This woman is Caroline Wray. One of the Wrays.”
    “Perfectly clear,” said Susan. “Therefore I’m to go to her house and see why she’s got an attack of nerves. Take a bag and prepare to spend the next few days as her guest. I’m sorry, Jim, but I’m busy. I’ve got to do a murder story this week and—”
    “Sue,” said Jim,