frenzy of anger, remembering Australia, seeing how Thompson will always stand in his way, he draws his revolver and shoots him through the heart. That done, he walks out, closes the door, goes to his room, and, at a favourable moment, leaves the building.”
He leaned back in his chair and applied a fresh match to his cigar.
“That,” he concluded, “is my idea of the story. There’s one person who can fill in the details. I’m going to apply to her as soon as I get back from Boston.”
“You mean Miss Croydon?”
“Yes,” he nodded, “and I think Tremaine is pretty near the end of his adventurous career.”
“There’s one thing,” I remarked, after a moment, “that diamond I found on the floor here didn’t come from Tremaine’s pin. I tried it last night and it didn’t fit.”
Godfrey smiled as he placed the clippings carefully in his pocket-book.
“I know it,” he said; “I meant to tell you. It came from a ring belonging to Jimmy the Dude. I saw him tonight across the street—Simmonds had him in for another sweating—Simmonds isn’t quite convinced yet that Jimmy’s innocent—and I noticed a ring on his finger containing a cluster of little diamonds. One of them was gone, and when I questioned him, he said he’d lost it somewhere the night Thompson was killed. He probably dropped it here as he was helping Thompson to bed.”
“That’s it, no doubt,” I agreed; “but it breaks one thread of evidence.”
