There were lights in the house which showed ribbons of illumination around the edges of the windows. The man who was digging kept plugging away.

"From behind that big vine," Glassman said.

It needed no comment from him to point the direction. The vine was agitated by a weight thrust against it. Drops of rain cascaded down from the leaves, were caught in a shaft of light coming from an uncurtained diamondshaped pane of glass in one of the doors and transformed into a golden spray.

The shovel made more noise.

"Scraping dirt back to fill up the hole," Mason remarked.

The beam from Glassman's flashlight stabbed through the darkness.

A startled figure jumped back and thrashed about in the vine, which, under the illumination of Glassman's flashlight, resolved itself into a climbing rosebush. Glassman said, "Come out, and be careful with your hands. This is the law."

"What are you doing here?" asked a muffled voice.

"Come on out," Glassman ordered.

The figure showed itself first as a black blotch in the midst of the glistening leaves, the wet surfaces of which reflected the illumination of the flashlight. Then, as it broke through the vine, Perry Mason caught a glimpse of the man's face and said to Burger, "It's Frank Oafley."

Burger moved forward. "What's your name?" he asked.

"I'm Oafley—Frank Oafley. I'm one of the owners of this place. Who are you and what are you doing here?"

"We're conducting a little inquiry," Burger said. "I'm the district attorney. This is Tom Glassman, my associate. What were you digging for?"

Oafley grunted, pulled a telegram from his pocket and held it out to the district attorney. The beam of the flashlight illuminated the telegram, a torn coatsleeve, a scratched, dirtcovered hand.

"You frightened me with that flashlight," he said. "I jumped right into the middle of those thorns. But it's all right. I was pretty well scratched up anyway. I guess my clothes are a wreck."

He looked down at his suit and laughed apologetically.

The four men paid no attention to him, but studied the telegram, which read:

The telegram was signed simply "A Friend."

Glassman said in a low voice, "Looks like a genuine telegram. It cleared through the telegraph office."

"What did you find?" Burger asked.

Oafley, stepping forward to answer him, caught sight of Mason for the first time. He stiffened and said, "What's this man doing here?"

"He's here at my request," Burger said. "He's representing Charles Ashton, the caretaker. I had some questions I wanted to ask Ashton, and I wanted Mason to be along. Did you find anything where you were digging?"

"I found the stick," Oafley said, pulling a small stake from his pocket. "That was sticking in the ground. I dug clean through the loam and down to gravel. There wasn't anything there."

"Who sent the telegram?"

"You can search me."

Burger said in a low voice to Glassman, "Tom, take the key number of that message, get on the telephone and have the telegraph company dig up the original. Find out all you can about it. Get the address of the sender."

"Did you come out because of that telegram?" Oafley asked. "It's a rotten night. I shouldn't have gone out and dug, but you can realize how I felt after I got that message."

"We came out in connection with another matter," Burger said. "Where's Sam Laxter?"

Oafley seemed suddenly nervous. "He's out. What did you want to see him about?"

"We wanted to ask him some questions."

Oafley hesitated for a moment, then said slowly; "Have you been talking with Edith DeVoe?"

"No," Burger said, "I haven't."

Mason stared steadily at Oafley. "I have," he said.

"I knew you had," Oafley told him. "It's a wonder you wouldn't mind your own business."

"That'll do from you," Burger said. "Come on in the house. What's this about the Koltsdorf diamonds being hidden in Ashton's crutch?"

"You know just as much about it as I do," Oafley said sullenly.

"Sam isn't in?"

"No."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know—out an a daze, I guess."

"Okay," Burger said. "Let us in."

They climbed up to the tiled porch. Oafley produced a bunch of keys and opened the door. "If you'll excuse me a minute, I'll wash some of this mud off and slip on another suit of clothes."

"Wait a minute," Glassman said. "There's a million bucks involved, Buddy. We aren't doubting your word any, but we'd better frisk you and see…"

"Glassman," Burger warned, "Mr. Oafley isn't to be handled that way."

He turned to Oafley. "I'm sorry Mr. Glassman used exactly those words, but the thought is something which has occurred to me, and will doubtless occur to you. There's a large sum of money involved. Suppose the person who sent that telegram should claim you had been in the garden and found some or all of that money?"

"But I didn't find any. If I had, it would have been mine—half of it, anyway."

"Don't you think it might be better to have some corroborative evidence?" Burger asked.

"How could I get that?"

"You could submit to a voluntary search."

Oafley's face was sullen. "Go ahead," he said, "and search." They searched him.

Burger nodded his satisfaction. "It's just a check," he said, "on the situation. Perhaps you'll be glad later on you cooperated with us."

"I'll never be glad, but I'm not raising any very strenuous objections, because I can appreciate your position. May I go get my clothes changed now?"

Burger slowly shook his head. "Better not. Better sit down and wait. You'll dry out quickly."

Oafley sighed. "Well," he said, "let's have about four fingers of whiskey apiece. You look as though you chaps might have been out in the rain. Bourbon, rye or Scotch?"

"Whichever you come to," Mason said, "just so it's whiskey."

Oafley flashed him a speculative glance, rang a bell.

A man with a livid scar across his right cheekbone, which gave to his face a peculiar expression of leering triumph, appeared in a doorway. "You rang?" he asked Oafley.

"Yes," Oafley said. "Bring some whiskey, James. Bring some Scotch and soda and some of the Bourbon."

The man nodded, withdrew.

"Jim Brandon," Oafley said in an explanatory tone. "He acts both as chauffeur and butler."

"How was he hurt?" Burger inquired.

"Automobile accident, I believe… You're Mr. Burger, the district attorney?"

"Yes."

Oafley said slowly, "I'm sorry that Edith DeVoe said what she did."

"Why?"

"Because that fire wasn't started by the fumes from an automobile exhaust. It's impossible on the face of it."

Glassman said, "Where's your telephone?"

"There in the hallway. I'll show you… or James will show you."

"Never mind. You sit there and talk with the Chief. I'll find it all right."

Burger said, "Did you ever hear of carbon monoxide poisoning, Mr. Oafley?"

"Of course I have."

"Do you know that carbon monoxide is generated by an automobile engine when it's running?"

"But what's carbon monoxide got to do with it? It isn't an inflammable gas, is it?"

"It's a deadly gas."

Something in the grim finality of Burger's voice sent Oafley's eyebrows arching.

"Good God!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean that?… Why, it's unthinkable!.. Why, I can't believe…"

"Never mind what you can or cannot believe, Mr. Oafley. We want certain information. We stopped in the garage on the way up, and looked through Sam Laxter's machine. We found a long, flexible tube."