Later in the evening they gathered in the den and Keefe revealed his discoveries.
“I felt all along,” he said, “that there was—there must have been a man on the south veranda who did the shooting. Didn’t you think that, Mr. Stone?”
“I did at times,” Stone replied, truthfully. “I confess, though my opinion changed once or twice.”
“And at the present moment?” insisted Keefe.
“At the present moment, Mr. Keefe, your attitude tells me that you expect to prove that there was such a factor in the case, so I would be foolish indeed to say I doubted it. But, to speak definitely—yes, I do think there was a man there, and he was the murderer. He shot through the window, past Miss Wheeler, and most naturally, her father thought she fired the shot herself. You see, it came from exactly her direction.”
“Yes;” agreed Keefe, “and moreover, you remember, Rachel saw the man on the veranda—and the cook also saw him——”
“Yes—the cook saw him!” Fibsy put in, and though the words were innocent enough, his tone indicated a hidden meaning.
But beyond a careless glance, Keefe didn’t notice the interruption and went on, earnestly:
“Now, the man the servants saw was the murderer. And I have traced him, found him, and—secured his signed confession.”
With unconcealed pride in his achievement, Keefe took a folded paper from his pocket and handed it to Daniel Wheeler.
“Why the written confession? Where is the man?” asked Stone, his dark eyes alight with interest.
“Gee!” muttered Fibsy, under his breath, “going some!”
Genevieve Lane stared, round-eyed and excited, while Allen and the Wheelers breathlessly awaited developments.
“John Mills!” exclaimed Mr. Wheeler, looking at the paper. “Oh, the faithful old man! Listen, Stone. This is a signed confession of a man on his death-bed——”
“No longer that,” said Keefe, solemnly, “he died this afternoon.”
“Yes, Mr. Wheeler. In the hospital. The witnesses, as you see, are the nurses there.”
The paper merely stated that the undersigned was the slayer of Samuel Appleby. That the deed was committed in order to free Daniel Wheeler from wicked and unjust molestation and tyranny. The signature, though faintly scrawled, was perfectly legible and duly witnessed.
“He was an old servant of mine,” Wheeler said, thoughtfully, “and very devoted to us all. He always resented Appleby’s attitude toward me—for Mills was my butler when the trouble occurred, and knew all about it. He has been an invalid for a year, but has been very ill only recently.”