She had to tell him again and when she was through she referred Fred to me. "Let him tell it now."
She had me in the hole; and she knew it; and Fred saw it. I had no chance at all of convincing Fred that the man I met with her was not Jerry but Keeban. Here was she denying, like everyone else, that Keeban could exist; here was she explaining how Jerry had come to do this murder. I knew better than to try to tell my story.
Shirley carried on. "Jerry and I met him and he got the money. Ten thousand in cash, wasn't it?" she examined me. "If he denies it, Fred, ask the teller in his bank—last week Thursday he got it."
"Did you?" asked Fred.
"I did," I said.
He nodded to Shirley. "Go on."
"He gave it to Jerry to go away."
"That's right?" Fred asked me.
"That's right," I had to admit.
Shirley continued, "Then Jerry wanted me. He's crazy, you see. Sometimes he's all right, like anybody else; then he's like when he took that necklace from Dorothy Crewe and tossed her into the street. He said he'd get my hus-
