HE WHO PLAYS WITH FIRE

Sheriff Tom Bronson’s chair creaked as he teetered back, locked fingers behind his head. Professor Fordney fired a cigar. The office clock struck eleven.

“Go on,” said Bronson.

“Wally Gregg and I were alone at Hobson’s boat house this afternoon,—about 2:30 it was.” Frank Dane wet his lips and continued. “We got into an argument over a girl and he knocked me into the water. I swam out to the float—Gregg can’t swim—and when he left, swam back, got my boat and rowed up river to fish.”

“In these clothes?”

“Yes. It was dark when I returned. On the path from the boat house to the road I stumbled over Gregg’s dead body. I…”

“Hold it!” snapped Bronson. “If it was dark how did you know it was Gregg’s body?”

“I struck one of these.” Dane held out a folder of safety matches.

“Have those on you when Gregg shoved you in?” Bronson asked.

“Yes.”

“That’s all!” barked Bronson. “Those matches would still have been wet and you can’t light wet matches!”

“But they weren’t wet, Sheriff. I dried them in the sun with my clothes.” The suspect smirked.

“We didn’t find any burned matches near the body,” Fordney said.

“I wasn’t taking any chances of being framed so I put the burned stubs in my pocket. Here they are. See?”

The Professor looked at the ceiling. Bronson frowned.

“Lock him up, Sheriff. He’s lying. A cunning man is generally a fool.”

What obvious lie caused Dane’s arrest? Turn page for solution.