fields to the road—he walked that, just as he said he had. This bears out Harold Merton's statement that when he discovered his father dead Varge had disappeared. Varge certainly must have been gone then, it would seem, to have done what there is plain evidence in the snow he did do, and yet get to town and give himself up before we started back; for, of course, if all this is true, Robson's discovery of Harold Merton bending over the Doctor was coincident with Harold Merton's discovery of his father's death. Now then, inside the house it was just the same—his story fits. The coroner says Doctor Merton was undoubtedly killed with that bar. The bar was bent, evidently in prying the cupboard door open, though the door must have held pretty solid for it's a right stout bar, and it fits into the marks and indents on the cupboard door and jamb. Well, that's about all. Every little point, as I say, seems to bear out his story, and yet"—the big sheriff's genial face was troubled, as he halted abruptly and leaned far over the desk toward the district attorney—"and yet I don't believe it now, Lee"—impulsively "we've both known him for years; what is there about that man that there isn't about you or me, or any other man we've ever met? You've only to look at him, and something in your soul tells you he's white, white clean through—and innocent. What is it, Lee?"
Lee tossed the paper cutter on the desk and his hand rumpled through his greyish hair.
"I don't know," he answered gravely. "I'm willing to admit a good deal of what you say—but I don't know. Anyway, we can't let sentiment carry us off our feet, Marston."
