“I’d tackle the old man first,” said Hallen; “I think, on general principles, he’s the one to make inquiries of before you go to the ladies. Let’s go to him now.”
“No;” proposed Burdon, “let’s send for him to come here. This is away from the house, and we can talk more freely.”
“I’ll go for him,” offered Allen, seeing they were determined to carry out their plan.
“Not much!” said Burdon. “You’re just aching to put a flea in his ear! You go for him, Hallen.”
The detective went to the house, and returned with Daniel Wheeler at his side.
The suspected man stood straight and held himself fearlessly. Not an old man, he was grayed with care and trouble, but this morning he seemed strong and alert as any of them.
“Put your questions,” he said, briefly, as he seated himself on one of the many seats beneath the old sycamore.
“First of all, who do you think killed Samuel Appleby?”
This question was shot at him by Burdon, and all waited in silence for the answer.
“I killed him myself,” was the straightforward reply.
“That settles it,” said Hallen, “it was one of the women.”
“What do you mean by that?” cried Wheeler, turning quickly toward the speaker.
“I mean, that either your wife or daughter did the deed, and you are taking the crime on yourself to save her.”
“No;” reasserted Dan Wheeler, “you’re wrong. I killed Appleby for good and sufficient reason. I’m not sorry, and I accept my fate.”
“Wait a minute,” said Hallen, as Keefe was about to protest; “where was your daughter, Miss Maida, when you killed your man?”
“I—I don’t know. I think she had gone to the fire—which had just broken out.”
“Well, I know. She had. She had been sitting in her favorite window-seat, in the large bay, and was there while you and Mr. Appleby were talking together. Also, she did not leave the room to go to the fire, for no one saw her anywhere near the burning garage.”
“As to that, I can’t say,” went on Wheeler, slowly, “but she was not in the den, to my knowledge, at the time of the shooting.”
“Very well, let that pass. Now, then, Mr. Wheeler, if you shot Mr. Appleby, what did you afterward do with your revolver?”
“I—I don’t know.” The man’s face was convincing. His frank eyes testified to the truth of his words. “I assure you, I don’t know. I was so—so bewildered—that I must have dropped it—somewhere. I never thought of it again.”