Keefe laughed and shrugged his shoulders, but at that moment there was such a blast of wind and storm, accompanied by a fearful crash, that what he said could not be heard.
“Explain, please, Mr. Stone,” Wheeler said again, after a pause, but his voice now showed more interest.
“I will. The time has come for it. Mr. Wheeler, do you and Mr. Allen see to it, that Mr. Keefe does not leave the room. Terence—keep your eyes open.”
Keefe still smiled, but his smile was a frozen one. His eyes began to widen and his hands clenched themselves upon his knees.
“Curtis Keefe killed Samuel Appleby,” Stone went on, speaking clearly but rapidly. “His motive was an ambition to be governor of Massachusetts. He thought that with the elder Appleby out of the way, his son would have neither power nor inclination to make a campaign. There were other, minor motives, but that was his primary one. That, and the fact that the elder Appleby had a hold on Mr. Keefe, and of late had pressed it home uncomfortably hard. The murder was long premeditated. The trip here brought it about, because it offered a chance where others might reasonably be suspected. Keefe was the man on the veranda, whom the cook saw—but not clearly enough to distinguish his identity. Though she did know it was not John Mills.”
“But—Mr. Stone——” interrupted Wheeler, greatly perturbed, “think what you’re saying! Have you evidence to prove your statements?”
“I have, Mr. Wheeler, as you shall see. Let me tell my story and judge me then. A first proof is—Terence, you may tell of the bugle.”
“I went, at Mr. Stone’s orders,” the boy stated, simply, “to all the shops or little stores in this vicinity where a bugle might have been bought; I found one was bought in a very small shop in Rushfield and bought by a man who corresponded to Mr. Keefe’s description, and who, when he stopped at the shop, was in a motor car whose description and occupants were the Appleby bunch. Well, anyway—Miss Lane here knows that Mr. Keefe bought that bugle—don’t you?” He turned to Genevieve, who, after a glance at Keefe, nodded affirmation.
“And so,” Stone went on, “Mr. Keefe used that bugle——”
“How did he get opportunity?” asked Wheeler.
“I’ll tell you,” offered Genevieve. “We all staid over night in Rushfield, and I heard Mr. Keefe go out of doors in the night. I watched him from my window. He returned about three hours later.”