"I know it."
"You know it?" gasped the three visitors; and the next moment the women
were grouped around the prosecutor's desk.
Murgatroyd proceeded to open his mail.
"Yes," he mused, "I have known it for almost five years--you must have
known it, too."
"Not until a few hours ago," Challoner quickly informed him.
"You don't say so," was Murgatroyd's answer; and presently he added:
"though perhaps it is not so very surprising."
Challoner's eyes narrowed; his pulse was beating fast. Suddenly he
said:--
"But somebody killed Hargraves--who did it?"
The prosecutor looked at the man incredulously.
"Do you mean to tell me, that though you know now that you didn't kill
Hargraves--that you don't know who _did_ kill him?"
"I'm here to find out," was Challoner's determined answer.
"Why thunderation!" ejaculated Murgatroyd; and looking the other
squarely in the eyes, went on: "I knew that everybody didn't know, but I
thought you knew long ago that it was Pemmican of Cradlebaugh's who did
it."
"Pemmican," repeated Challoner, as if to himself, "was the only man who
knew, and he's dead."
"Yes," assented Murgatroyd, "he killed himself in jail. He confessed
just before the Court of Appeals filed its opinion of affirmance in your
case. It was a game on his part, that murder. He had stolen ten thousand
dollars from the management of Cradlebaugh's, and had been threatened
with prosecution for it. It was necessary for him to replace the money.
The opportunity came and he seized it. He knew that there was bad blood
between you and Hargraves; knew that there was a motive on your part;
knew that you shot and missed; knew that Hargraves had a lot of money on
his person, and he set out to get it. It was safe--he got it, and
Hargraves, too--shot him dead with another gun,--after you missed
him,--and paid back the money to Cradlebaugh's."