WHEN STEPHEN DEERING arrived at his brother's brand-new town house, he thought that really Mac was doing himself rather well. It was a smart house just off the park. A neat maid let him in and showed him to a bedroom on the second floor. Mr. and Mrs. Deering, she said, had left instructions that he was to make himself at home.

AFTER THE LAPSE of some years I find myself in a position to make public certain remarkable information about the Ferguson case. I can still see John Ferguson as he was on the night after his trial, huddled in an armchair in my room, his eyes blazing out of his white face, his long hands grotesquely gesticulating as he emphasized some point with, “I tell you, I’m giving you the thing just as it happened.”

CORPORAL NORTHUP made her sit down in Craig’s chair, and drew up another for himself. Patricia was white and shaky, but valiantly she held herself together and forced herself not to look at those sinister stains. “Last night,” Northup said, speaking straight from the shoulder, “while Sam was down at the Den and Poleon was with you, those Chiwaughimis had their chance at Craig. They got into this cabin by jimmying that north window over there.