"At sound of the shot, Joe, who had been waiting below in the kitchen
with the landlady, rushed up-stairs. You explained how it happened; were
willing enough to give money now to get away quietly without being
dragged into the affair. The dead woman's confederate, greedy for gain
even at such a moment, would have helped you; but there was a
difficulty: would the police accept the story of suicide? There were
signs of a struggle. At that instant some one entered the house, came
stumbling up the stairs; it was the--'Frisco Pet."

John Steele paused; his listener sat stiff, immovable. "Joe hurried you
out, toward a rear exit, but not before," leaning slightly toward Lord
Ronsdale, "an impression of your face, pale, drawn, had vaguely stamped
itself on the befuddled brain," bitterly, "of the fool-brute. You lost
no time in making your escape; little was said between you and Joe; but
he proved amenable to your suggestion; the way out of the difficulty was
found. He hated the Pet, who had once or twice handled him roughly for
abusing this poor creature. You gave Joe money to have the landlady's
testimony agree with his; she never got that money," meaningly, "but
gave the desired evidence. Joe had found out something."

Once more the speaker stopped; there remained a crucial test. If Lord
Ronsdale had the paper, what John Steele was about to say would cause
him no surprise; he would be prepared for it. The words fell sharply:

"The landlady's son, Tom Rogers, was at the time in the house, in hiding
from the police. He was concealed above in a small room or garret;
through a stove-pipe opening, disused, he looked down into the
sitting-room below and heard, saw all!"

The effect was instantaneous, magical; Lord Ronsdale sprang to his feet;