him when he says he was home all that evening. And neither of us think he bumped the old man off—though of course he might. Who then?”
“This Creda Dexter,” I suggested, “was marrying Gantvoort for his money, wasn’t she? You don’t think she was in love with him, do you?”
“No. I figure, from what I saw of her, that she was in love with the million and a half.”
“All right,” I went on. “Now she isn’t exactly homely—not by a long shot. Do you reckon Gantvoort was the only man who ever fell for her?”
“I got you! I got you!” O’Gar exclaimed. “You mean there might have been some young fellow in the running who didn’t have any million and a half behind him, and who didn’t take kindly to being nosed out by a man who did. Maybe—maybe.”
“Well, suppose we bury all this stuff we’ve been working on and try out that angle.”
“Suits me,” he said. “Starting in the morning, then, we spend our time hunting for Gantvoort’s rival for the paw of this Dexter kitten.”