on the table, and forced its point into the crevice of the humidor just above the lock.
"You can't do that!" cried Markham; and there was as much pain as reprimand in his voice.
Before he could reach Vance, however, there was a sharp click, and the lid flew open. Inside was a blue-velvet jewel-case.
"Ah! 'Dumb jewels more quick than words,'" said Vance, stepping back.
Markham stood staring into the humidor with an expression of tragic distress. Then slowly he turned and sank heavily into a chair.
"Good God!" he murmured. "I don't know what to believe."
"In that respect," returned Vance, "you're in the same disheartenin' predic'ment as all the philosophers.—But you were ready enough, don't y' know, to believe in the guilt of half a dozen innocent people. Why should you gag at the Major, who actu'lly is guilty?"
His tone was contemptuous, but a curious, inscrutable look in his eyes belied his voice; and I remembered that, although these two men were welded in an indissoluble friendship, I had never heard a word of sentiment, or even sympathy, pass between them.
Markham had leaned forward in an attitude of hopelessness, elbows on knees, his head in his hands.
"But the motive!" he urged. "A man doesn't shoot his brother for a handful of jewels."
"Certainly not," agreed Vance. "The jewels were a mere addendum. There was a vital motive—rest assured. And, I fancy, when you get your report
