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“Hands up!” he said.

Instantly Mr. Witzel raised his hands in the air.

“I’ll give you seventy dollars,” he said.

“Make it seventy-five,” said Mr. Gubb, “and as soon as I’m done with it, you can have it.”

“It’s a bargain!” said Mr. Witzel happily. “It’s my pistol. Now, what’s all this nonsense about shooting me?”

“Nonsense is an insufficient word to use in relation to this here case,” said Philo Gubb grimly. “It won’t be nonsense for you when you get through with it. What did you do with the corpse?”

“With the–with the what?” cried Mr. Witzel.

“The remains,” said Mr. Gubb. “What did you do with them?”

“The remains of what?” asked Mr. Witzel.

“Of Mister Custer Master,” said Philo Gubb, easing himself a little by shifting one waving foot. “There is no need to pretend to play innocent. Where is the body?”

“My dear Mr. Detective Gubb!” exclaimed Mr. Witzel. “I know nothing about any body. I am George Augustus Wetzler–“

“Maybe you are,” said Philo Gubb. “Maybe so. But your clothes ain’t. Your clothes are the clothes of Mister Custer Master. The question is, ‘Did you murder him alone, or did you and William Gribble murder him together?'”

Mr. Witzel-Wetzel-Wetzler’s mouth fell open.

“Murder him!” he exclaimed aghast. “But–but–“

“In the name of the law,” said Philo Gubb, “I take you into custody for the murder and disappearing bodyliness of Mister Custer Master. Turn your back and keep your hands up until I get from behind this trunk, and I’ll put handcuffs on you in proper shape and manner. Turn!”

Mr. Witzel turned–all but his head. He kept his face toward the priceless (or, more properly) seventy-five-dollar Briggs & Bolton.

“Mr. Gubb,” he said, “you are making a serious mistake. I am a detective.”

“You ain’t!” said Philo Gubb. “I searched all your things and you ain’t got a silver badge nor a false mustache nowhere. I’m going to turn you right over to the police to-morrow morning.”

“To the police!” exclaimed Mr. Witzel. “Don’t do that! Whatever you do, don’t do that!” And suddenly, like a nervous dyspeptic suddenly overwrought, Mr. Witzel broke down and, falling on the cot, began to sob. Philo Gubb looked at him a moment with amazement. Then he dug a pair of handcuffs out of his trunk and, walking to where Mr. Witzel lay, prodded him in the back with the muzzle of the pistol. Mr. Witzel turned quickly, rolling over like an eel.

“Stop it! You’re tickling me. I can’t stand tickling!” he cried. “I–I can’t stand lots of things. I’m–I’m the most sensitive man in the world. I–I can’t stand cold water at all.”

“Well, nobody is cold-watering you,” said Philo Gubb. “Handcuffs ain’t cold water.”

“But cold water is,” said Mr. Witzel. “Cold water kills me! It makes me shiver, and turn blue, and goose-fleshy, and gives me cramps in the palms of my hands and the soles of my feet. I–listen: my doctor says cold baths will kill me. The shock of ’em. Bad heart, you understand.”

Philo Gubb’s eyes blinked.

“I’ll tell you,” said Mr. Witzel, grasping Mr. Gubb’s hand. “I can’t stand cold baths. They’d kill me, you understand. It would be suicide! So–so I knew Billy Gribble. Didn’t I set him up in business here, to get rid of him? Don’t he owe me a good turn?”

“Does he?” asked Philo Gubb.

“Hasn’t he two bathrooms in connection with his laundry. ‘Hot and Cold Baths, All hours. Ladies Tuesdays and Wednesdays Only?'” asked Mr. Witzel. “Mr. Gubb, I will be frank. I am Custer Master!”

“The reward for who–for who the reward,” said Philo Gubb, seeking a grammatical form that would sound right, “for information as to which five thousand dollars reward is offered!”

“Exactly!” said Mr. Master. “And I will make it six thousand if you do not give information. I admit I am Master. I am Custer Master. Here, read this!”

He reached for his vest and from the pocket took a slip of paper. It was typewritten and headed “Secret Stipulation Regarding Custer Master Clause of Orlando J. Higgins Will. Copy”:–