"Thatch," he said, waggling a red forefinger before his nose, "you're just being cagey. I know you. You've already got a theory."
"Not a theory, really—"
"The beginning of one, then. And this time, Thatch, you've got to let me in on it. You can't freeze me out."
"You mustn't freeze yourself out."
"All right. I won't freeze myself out—not this time. Who was it? Who killed Madeline Swift—in your mind, up to this point?"
"I have no one in mind. I only eliminate suspects, so far—Like a sculptor, I cut away so much marble and hope that a statue remains."
"Was it the boy, Thatch?"
"He's certainly not eliminated."
"Where is young Keplinger now?"
"Downstairs. Three detectives are working on him."
"I see. How about the girl's father?"
"I can't say he's out of it either."
"You mean that—
