strength, that was beyond the strength of other men, to himself. But a moment's thought had dismissed that as being their object—on the surface it did not appear important; the chances were they would overlook the crux of it, and, besides, they would have questioned him first about it at the jail. And then from one possibility to another his mind had flown, but it was not until they had neared the house that, in an intuitive flash, the answer had come, perplexing, disturbing him—they were going to confront him with Harold Merton. Logic then had come instantly, buttressing intuition. Robson's story had not been without effect—his own explanation of the motive, the only possible one available that would lend itself to unalterable conditions, was, as he had appreciated from the first, not over-strong or convincing. Yes, undoubtedly, that was the trap, he had decided—and one that, he had realised, would tax him to the utmost to counteract. The danger lay with Harold Merton—a wrong word or act, a misdirected look, a falter in the other's voice, then a collapse and the man would be like putty, a pygmy, in the hands of the cleverest criminal lawyer in the State, and this was almost certain to ensue if he were exposed to the shock of a sudden, unexpected meeting—but that, Varge had determined, somehow and at all hazards, to prevent.
And now, as they stood within the storm door on the porch of the Merton home, Lee turned to Varge while his hand reached out for the knocker.
"You quite understand, Varge," he said again, gravely now, "that anything you say or do is entirely voluntary?"
Varge faced him slowly—and answered him with a
