contestable alibi for the time he had so fixed for the murder!"
Police Captain Crowley, livid with the first flash of fear that the murderer had made of him a tool, swung threateningly toward Caylis. For a moment, as though stiffened by the strain of following the accusation, Caylis had sat apparently paralyzed. Now in the sudden change from his absolute security to complete despair, he faced Crowley, white as paper; then, as his heart began to pound again, his skin turned to purple. His handsome, vain face changed to the face of a demon; his childlike eyes flared; he sprang toward Trant. But when he had drawn the two police officers together to stop his rush, he turned and leaped for a window. Before he could dash it open, Walker's powerful hand clutched him back.
"This, I think," Trant gasped, and controlled himself, as he surveyed the now weak and nerveless prisoner, "should convince even Captain Crowley. But it was not needed, Caylis. From the time Mrs. Mitchell showed you the report of Johanson's escape in the News and you thought you could kill Bronson safely, and you got her to send him out to you, until you had struck him down, set his watch forward and rushed to Crowley for your alibi, my case was complete."
"She—she"—Caylis's hands clenched—"peached on me—but you—got her?" he shouted vengefully.
Walker and Crowley turned to Trant in amazement.
"Mrs. Mitchell?" they demanded.
"Yes—your wife, Caylis?" Trant pressed.
