I admit—and she was not in love with Philip Maxwell; but truly she was no more capable of a murderous thought or instinct than I am. You know that, don't you, Irene?"
Irene Gardiner gave me one quick glance, and like a flash I remembered our conversation in the train about opportunity creating a criminal.
Could it be that pretty Mildred, holding a pistol in her hand, and alone with an unwelcome suitor could—no, I could no more believe it than Edith, and I flashed a look of amazed disapproval at Irene. But she was already speaking.
"I'm sure Mildred didn't shoot Philip at all, Edith," she said. "I think he shot himself and she tried to wrest the pistol from him, and in doing so wounded herself."
This explanation struck us all as so plausible that we gladly accepted it—all of us except Gilbert Crane—and wondered we hadn't thought of it before.
Gilbert said slowly:
"There could have been no struggle after that shot entered Philip's heart. If he shot himself, and Miss Leslie then took the pistol from him, it was after he had ceased to breathe."
"Was death, then, absolutely instantaneous?" I asked.
"Yes," said Mr. Hunt, "both doctors are sure of that."
Just here Tom Whiting came down-stairs and joined us in the study. His face wore a peculiar expression. One of awe and perplexity, yet tinged with a certain relief.
"I think you ought to know," he said, "that Mildred is coming out of the ether's influence, and has spoken several times, but only to repeat the same thing over and over. She continually cries: 'He shot me. Oh, to think he should shoot me!' I tell you this injustice to my wife's sister."
"I knew Mildred didn't do it!" cried Edith, almost fainting in her husband's arms. "I don't care how black the evidence looked against her, I knew she never did it."
The next morning it was a sad party that gathered around the Maxwell breakfast table.
After we were seated, the nurse, Miss Lathrop, glided in and took her place among us. It may have been prejudice, but I took an instant dislike to the woman from the way she glided in. Many trained nurses show a sense of their own importance, indeed, it seems to be a part of their uniform. But aside from this, Miss Lathrop gave an impression of knowing far more about the whole affair than any of the rest of us.
It was by no means what she said that carried this impression, but rather, what she didn't say. If one of us made an observation or expressed an opinion, she turned suddenly to the speaker, gave him a sharp look, and then dropped her eyes again, but with a little superior smile hovering round her thin lips.
It exasperated me beyond endurance, though I had no real reason to resent her attitude.
In response to the queries we put to her, her definite news of Mildred was not encouraging.
"She will have brain fever," announced Miss Lathrop; "Doctor Sheldon fears it, but I am sure of it. I have had great experience with patients of her temperament, and I know it cannot be averted." She shut her lips together, giving the impression that since she so willed it, Mildred should have brain fever in spite of anybody.
"Has she talked at all?" asked Miss Maxwell. "She has said nothing," replied Miss Lathrop, "except to repeat over and over again: 'Oh, to think that he should shoot me!' in surprised and agonized tones."
Probably from her enjoyment of a dramatic sensation, Miss Lathrop's voice and expression were almost theatrical, and though this jarred on all of us, it was especially harrowing for Miss Maxwell and her brother, who of course were the ones most deeply affected by Philip's death.
Poor old Mr. Maxwell was crushed, and unless some one spoke directly to him, paid little heed to anything that was said.
Miss Miranda, on the other hand, tried to forget herself and her troubles in caring for her guests. It was pathetic to see her efforts to be cheerful and unselfish, and she seemed to me like a lovely saint ministering to unworthy mortals. .
As Mr. Hunt had remained over night, he was at breakfast with us. It seemed a strange coincidence that he should have been present the night before, for surely he would be of help in unravelling the mystery.
While not a professional detective, he had proved successful in many difficult cases in which he had chosen to interest himself.
"I can't help thinking," Mr. Hunt observed, "that when Miss Leslie is rational again, what she tells us may throw a new light on the matter."
"I quite agree with you, Mr. Hunt," said Miss Lathrop, in her cold, concise way; "I have reason to think that Miss Leslie will yet make further revelations. And I'm sure we are very fortunate in having an able detective right here in the house." Miss Lathrop flashed a glance at Hunt, which obviously implied she knew more than she cared to tell, and then, with her odious little smile, calmly proceeded to extract the seeds from her grapes.
Mr. Maxwell looked up with a pained face. Miss Lathrop's speech had seemed to rouse him almost to indignation.
"It is no case for a detective," he said, with a severity of manner I had never noticed in him before. "If, as Miss Leslie asserts, my poor boy shot her, that is all that is necessary for us to know about the affair. As to motive, my nephew has been seriously troubled of late, and doubtless his worry so disturbed his mind that he was irresponsible for his act. At any rate, I choose to consider him so."
"I'm sure we all agree to that," said Lord Clarence, in his kind voice; "not one of us can believe for a moment, that Philip Maxwell would commit such a deed, if he were sane at the time."
Miss Lathrop gave the Earl the benefit of one of her mysterious glances, and though she said no word, she clearly did not agree with him.
To my secret gratification, his lordship caught her up. "Have you definite reasons for not agreeing, Miss Lathrop?" he said.
Miss Lathrop was taken by surprise. She colored slightly, and then pursing her mouth, said primly; "Professional ethics will not allow me to say."
"Professional ethics are out of place at this moment," said Mr. Maxwell, sternly. "If you know anything, Miss Lathrop, that will cast any light on this subject, it is your duty to tell us at once."
"I know nothing," Miss Lathrop said, shortly, and I, for one, believed she spoke truly.
Chapter VII.
A Search for Clues
After breakfast when Mr. Hunt started to go home, I accompanied him to the gate. Lord Clarence was also with us, and we both urged him not to go.
"I think it better that I should," Hunt responded; "Mr. Maxwell objects to seeing a detective about, and I can't blame the poor old man."
"I suppose it is a natural feeling," said Lord Clarence; "and, too, if Philip Maxwell did the shooting in a moment of temporary insanity, then, as Mr. Maxwell says, there is no occasion for detective work. But do you think that is the true explanation of the matter?"
"It is a possibility," I said, "though it's a new theory to me. But Philip was very much upset, indeed, deeply troubled for some unknown cause; and I, for one, do not think that cause was connected with Miss Leslie."
"Then why did he shoot her?" demanded Hunt. "He didn't, intentionally. But if his mind was unbalanced, who can hold him responsible for his deed?"
"That's true," said Hunt. "Well, I suppose it will be all cleared up at the inquest. But since the perpetrator of this murder is not alive, it will doubtless be a mere matter of form."
"Where will it be held?" I inquired.
"Right here in the house, probably. To-day or to-morrow, I should think; as the funeral will be on Thursday, and they can't bury him without a permit."
I shuddered at the dreadfulness of it all. Hitherto I had