“WELL, and what then?” demanded a voice behind the group. The three men and Eleanor wheeled around and gazed at the young officer in surprise too deep for words. “Well, what then?” demanded Captain Lane for the second time.  
“How did you get here?” asked Brett, recovering from his surprise.
 
“Through the door. How did you suppose?” with a of amusement in his handsome eyes. “The butler told me I would find you here when he admitted me a few seconds ago.” Then his face grew stern. “I entered in time to overhear your remark,”—turning directly to Brett. “Because your men did not see me leave the house it doesn’t follow that I spent the night here.”
 
“Then where did you spend it?” asked Brett swiftly.
 
“With my cousin, General Phillips, at his apartment at the Dupont,” calmly.
 
“At what hour did you reach his apartment?”
 
“About twelve o’clock.”
 
“And where were you between the hours of nine-thirty and twelve?”
 
“Most of the time walking the streets.”
 
“Alone?”
 
“Alone.” Lane faced them all, head up and shoulders back, and gave no sign that he was aware of the which he felt in the tense atmosphere. The coroner was the next to speak.
 
“Suppose you take a chair, Captain Lane, and give us a more account of your actions last night,” he suggested, and Lane dragged forward a chair and seated himself. “When did you leave this house?”
 
“About half-past ten o’clock.” He caught Eleanor’s start of surprise, and added hastily, “I am, as perhaps you already know, engaged to Miss Carew. During our interview last night she fainted, and I summoned Miss Thornton, who urged me to go, but I felt that I could not leave the house until I knew that Miss Carew was better. So, instead of going out of the front door, I picked up my coat and hat and slipped into the dining room, which was empty.”
 
“What was your object in going there?”
 
“I hoped that Miss Thornton would come downstairs again, and I could then get an opportunity to speak to her.”
 
“Would it not have been better and more straight-forward to have stepped into the library and informed Colonel Thornton of your presence in his house?” asked the coroner, dryly.
 
Lane flushed at his tone. “Possibly it would,”—haughtily,—“but I was on impulse; I was extremely alarmed by Miss Carew’s condition and could think of nothing else.”
 
“What caused Miss Carew’s indisposition?” inquired the coroner.
 
“She is not strong, and overtaxed her strength yesterday.”
 
The coroner did not press the point, to Lane’s relief. “Did anyone see you in the dining room last night?”
 
“I think not; the room was not lighted, and the table had been already cleared, so no servant entered the room.”
 
“Did you see Miss Thornton again?”
 
“No. I had not been waiting long before I saw Colonel Thornton come down the stairs with a man whom I judged to be a physician. As they passed the dining room door I heard the doctor tell Colonel Thornton that Miss Carew had consciousness, and would be all right after a night’s rest. A few minutes after that I left the house.”
 
“How?”
 
“I have dined frequently with Colonel Thornton and know the house fairly well; so, as I had promised to keep my visit to Miss Carew a secret, I opened the long French window which gives on the south , ran down the steps, and walked down the garden path, jumped the fence between this property and the next, and walked out of their gate into the street.”
 
Brett said something under his breath that was not to his detective force. “May I ask you why you thought such precautions necessary?” he inquired.
 
“Because I was aware that I had been followed over here,” retorted Lane calmly. “And, as I considered it nobody’s business but my own if I chose to call on Miss Carew, I to avoid them.”
 
“And what did you and Annette, Miss Thornton’s French maid, discuss before you left here?” Brett rose to his feet and confronted Lane squarely as he put the question.
 
“I did not speak to anyone except Miss Carew and Miss Thornton while in this house,”—steadily.
 
“No? Then perhaps you only saw the maid, Annette, when she was asleep?”—with emphasis.
 
“I don’t catch your meaning?” Lane tapped his foot with his swagger stick.
 
“Listen to me, Captain Lane,”—Brett dropped back in his chair and emphasized his remarks by frequent taps on the table with his left hand. “You can’t the issue with fake .”
 
“I am nothing!” Lane’s eyes flashed and his voice deepened, the voice of a born fighter, accustomed to command. “I have no testimony to fake.”
 
“I suppose you will say next,”—sarcastically,—“that you don’t know the maid, Annette, is dead.”
 
“Dead?” echoed Lane, bounding from his chair.
 
“Dead—murdered last night.”
 
“Good God!” There was no mistaking Lane’s and surprise. Brett watched him closely; if he was acting, it was a perfect performance. “How—what killed her?”
 
“Asphyxiated by gas,”—briefly,—“when asleep last night.”
 
“This is horrible!” Lane paced the floor in uncontrollable excitement. “But what,” pulling hi............