Bassett was having a visitor. He sat in his chair while that visitor
ranged excitedly up and down the room, a short stout man, well dressed
and with a mixture of servility and importance. The valet's first words,
as he stood inside the door, had been significant.

"I should like to know, first, if I am talking to the police."

"No--and yes," Bassett said genially. "Come and sit down, man. What I
mean is this. I am a friend of Judson Clark's, and this may or may not
be a police matter. I don't know yet."

"You are a friend of Mr. Clark's? Then the report was correct. He is
still alive, sir?"

"Yes."

The valet got out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He was clearly
moved.

"I am glad of that. Very glad. I saw some months ago, in a
newspaper--where is he?"

"In New York. Now Melis, I've an idea that you know something about the
crime Judson Clark was accused of. You intimated that at the inquest."

"Mrs. Lucas killed him."

"So she says," Bassett said easily.

The valet jumped and stared.

"She admits it, as the result of an accident. She also admits hiding the
revolver where you found it."

"Then you do not need me."

"I'm not so sure of that."