But the vines were bare of leaves and offered no obstruction to his view.

"If there had been a light in that window, any one leaving this house by the rear would have seen it, unless he had been drunk or a fool," muttered Sweetwater, in contemptuous comment to himself.

"Arthur Cumberland's story is one lie.
I'll take the district attorney's suggestion and return to New York to-night.

My work's done here." Yet he hung about the links for a long time, and finally ended by entering the house, and taking up his stand beneath the long, narrow window of the closet overlooking the golf-links.

With chin resting on his arms, he stared out over the sill and sought from the space before him, and from the intricacies of his own mind, the hint he lacked to make this present solution of the case satisfactory to all his instincts.
"Something is lacking." Thus he blurted out after a look behind him into the adjoining room of death.