That scene in front of camp headquarters stayed in my thoughts until long after it had ended. In fact, I dreamed about it that night. Only instead of Wallace Lambert saying good night politely as he did, and walking to his coupé and getting in and driving off without once looking back at us, he did something entirely different in my dream. In that odd way that dreams have he suddenly was on a little desert knoll in front of us, lighted cigarette in ivory holder, waiting grimly for us to die of thirst.
“Why isn’t it Wallace Lambert who murdered the man we think is Judge Austin?” I demanded of Rogers next morning at breakfast. “Why isn’t he guilty of John Foster’s death, and the attempt on d**k Stocker’s life?”
Rogers did not answer at once. He glanced out of the window at the long sweep o
