found it in the adjoining closet. It had not
been used. That third glass has a meaning if only we could find it out."
A possibility which had risen in my mind faded at these words.
"Three glasses," I dully repeated.
"And a small flask of cordial. The latter seems pure enough."
"I cannot understand it." The phrase had become stereotyped. No other
suggested itself to me.
"The problem would be simple enough if it were not for those-marks on her
neck. You saw those, too, I take it?"
"Yes. Who made them? What man—"
The lie, or rather the suggestion of a lie, flushed my face. I was
conscious of this, but it did not trouble me. I was panting for relief. I
could not rest till I knew the nature of the doubt in this man's mind. If
these words, or any words I could use, would serve to surprise his
secret, then welcome the lie or suggestion of a lie. "It was a brute's
act," I went on, bungling with my sentences in anxiety to see if my
conclusions fitted in with his own. "
Who was the brute
? Do you know,
Dr. Perry?"
"There were three glasses in those rooms. Only two were drank from," he
answered, steadily. "Tomorrow I may be in a position to answer your
question. I am not to-night."
Why did I take heart? Not a change, not the flicker of one had passed
over his countenance at my utterance of the word
man
. Either his
official habit had stood him in wonderful stead, or the police had failed
so far to see any connection between this murder and the young girl whose
footprints, for all I knew, still lingered on the stairs.
Would the morrow arm them with completer knowledge? As I turned from his
retreating figure and flung myself down before the hearth, this was the
question I continually propounded to myself, in vain repetition. Would
the morrow reveal the fact that Adelaide's young sister had been with her
in the hour of death, or would the fates propitiously aid her in
preserving this secret as they had already aided her in selecting for the
one man who shared it, him who of all others was bound by honour and
personal consideration for her not to divulge what he knew.
Thus the hours between two and seven passed when I fell into a fitful
sleep, from which I was rudely wakened by a loud rattle at my door,
followed by the entrance of the officer who had walked up and down the
corridor all night.
"The waggon is here," said he. "Breakfast will be given you at the
station."
To which Hexford, looking over his shoulder, added: "I'm sorry to
say that we have here the warrant for your arrest. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Warrant!" I burst out, "what do you want of a warrant? It is as a
witness you seek to detain me, I presume?"
"No," was his brusque reply. "The charge upon which you are arrested is
one of murder. You will have to appear before a magistrate. I'm sorry to
be the one to tell you this, but the evidence against you is very strong,
and the police must do their duty."
"But I am innocent, absolutely innocent," I protested, the perspiration
starting from every pore as the full meaning of the charge burst upon me.
"What I have told you was correct. I, myself, found her dead—"
Hexford gave me a look.
"Don't talk," he kindly suggested. "Leave that to the lawyers." Then, as
the other man turned aside for a moment, he whispered in my ear, "It's no
go; one of our men saw you with your fingers on her throat. He had
clambered into a pine tree and the shade of the window was up. You had
better come quietly. Not a soul believes you innocent."
This, then, was what had doomed me from the start; this, and that partly
burned letter. I understood now why the kind-hearted coroner, who loved
my father, had urged me to tell my tale, hoping that I would explain this
act and give him some opportunity to indulge in a doubt. And I had failed
to respond to the hint he had given me. The act itself must appear so
sinister and the impulse which drove me to it so incomprehensible,
without the heart-rending explanation I dare not subjoin, that I
been used. That third glass has a meaning if only we could find it out."
A possibility which had risen in my mind faded at these words.
"Three glasses," I dully repeated.
"And a small flask of cordial. The latter seems pure enough."
"I cannot understand it." The phrase had become stereotyped. No other
suggested itself to me.
"The problem would be simple enough if it were not for those-marks on her
neck. You saw those, too, I take it?"
"Yes. Who made them? What man—"
The lie, or rather the suggestion of a lie, flushed my face. I was
conscious of this, but it did not trouble me. I was panting for relief. I
could not rest till I knew the nature of the doubt in this man's mind. If
these words, or any words I could use, would serve to surprise his
secret, then welcome the lie or suggestion of a lie. "It was a brute's
act," I went on, bungling with my sentences in anxiety to see if my
conclusions fitted in with his own. "
Who was the brute
? Do you know,
Dr. Perry?"
"There were three glasses in those rooms. Only two were drank from," he
answered, steadily. "Tomorrow I may be in a position to answer your
question. I am not to-night."
Why did I take heart? Not a change, not the flicker of one had passed
over his countenance at my utterance of the word
man
. Either his
official habit had stood him in wonderful stead, or the police had failed
so far to see any connection between this murder and the young girl whose
footprints, for all I knew, still lingered on the stairs.
Would the morrow arm them with completer knowledge? As I turned from his
retreating figure and flung myself down before the hearth, this was the
question I continually propounded to myself, in vain repetition. Would
the morrow reveal the fact that Adelaide's young sister had been with her
in the hour of death, or would the fates propitiously aid her in
preserving this secret as they had already aided her in selecting for the
one man who shared it, him who of all others was bound by honour and
personal consideration for her not to divulge what he knew.
Thus the hours between two and seven passed when I fell into a fitful
sleep, from which I was rudely wakened by a loud rattle at my door,
followed by the entrance of the officer who had walked up and down the
corridor all night.
"The waggon is here," said he. "Breakfast will be given you at the
station."
To which Hexford, looking over his shoulder, added: "I'm sorry to
say that we have here the warrant for your arrest. Can I do
anything for you?"
"Warrant!" I burst out, "what do you want of a warrant? It is as a
witness you seek to detain me, I presume?"
"No," was his brusque reply. "The charge upon which you are arrested is
one of murder. You will have to appear before a magistrate. I'm sorry to
be the one to tell you this, but the evidence against you is very strong,
and the police must do their duty."
"But I am innocent, absolutely innocent," I protested, the perspiration
starting from every pore as the full meaning of the charge burst upon me.
"What I have told you was correct. I, myself, found her dead—"
Hexford gave me a look.
"Don't talk," he kindly suggested. "Leave that to the lawyers." Then, as
the other man turned aside for a moment, he whispered in my ear, "It's no
go; one of our men saw you with your fingers on her throat. He had
clambered into a pine tree and the shade of the window was up. You had
better come quietly. Not a soul believes you innocent."
This, then, was what had doomed me from the start; this, and that partly
burned letter. I understood now why the kind-hearted coroner, who loved
my father, had urged me to tell my tale, hoping that I would explain this
act and give him some opportunity to indulge in a doubt. And I had failed
to respond to the hint he had given me. The act itself must appear so
sinister and the impulse which drove me to it so incomprehensible,
without the heart-rending explanation I dare not subjoin, that I
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