"I thought of that right away, but it won't do. If I had been drugged I wouldn't have moved around, and I did
come out somehow, I managed to get to the empty house to sleep. It's more as if my mind had simply closed,
as if it had gone on working its own ends without my knowing anything about it. And that's dreadful, because
the detective has practically accused me of murdering my grandfather. How was it done? You see I know
nothing. Tell me how--how he was killed. I can't believe I--I'm such a beast. Tell me. If I was in the house,
some detail might start my memory."
So Katherine told her story while Bobby listened, shrinking from some disclosure that would convict him. As
she went on, however, his sense of bewilderment increased, and when she had finished he burst out:
"But where is the proof of murder? Where is there even a suggestion? You say the doors were locked and he
doesn't show a mark."
"That's what we can't understand," Graham said. "There's no evidence we know anything about that your
grandfather's heart didn't simply give out, but the detective is absolutely certain, and--there's no use mincing
matters, Bobby--he believes he has the proof to convict you. He won't tell me what. He simply smiles and
refuses to talk."
"The motive?" Bobby asked.
Graham looked at him curiously. Katherine turned away.
"Of course," Bobby cried with a sharpened discomfort. "I'd forgotten. The money--the new will he had
planned to make. The money's mine now, but if he had lived until this morning it never would have been. I
see."
"It is a powerful motive," Graham said, "for any one who doesn't know you."
"But," Bobby answered, "Howells has got to prove first that my grandfather was murdered. The autopsy?"
"Coroner's out of the county," Graham replied, "and Howells won't have an assistant. Dr. Groom's waiting in
the house. We're expecting the coroner almost any time."
Bobby spoke rapidly.
"If he calls it murder, Hartley, there's one thing we've got to find out: what my grandfather was afraid of. Tell
me again, Katherine, everything he said about me. I can't believe he could have been afraid of me."
"He called you," Katherine answered, "a waster. He said: 'God knows what he'll do next.' He said he'd ordered
you out last night and he hadn't had a word from you, but that he'd made up his mind anyway. He was going
to have his lawyer this morning and change his will, leaving all his money to the Bedford Foundation, except
a little annuity for me. He grew sentimental and said he had no faith left in his flesh and blood, and that it was
sad to grow old with nobody caring for him except to covet his money. I asked him if he were afraid of you,
and all he answered was: 'You and Bobby are thicker than thieves.' Oh, yes. When I saw him for the last time
in the hall he said there was nothing for me to worry about except you. That's all. I remember perfectly. He
said nothing more about you."
"I wonder," Bobby muttered, "if a jury wouldn't think it enough."
Katherine shook her head