herself from indulging in some of those outward manifestations of uneasiness which she had all her life reprobated in the more nervous members of her own sex. She was anxious, and she showed it, like the sensible woman she was, and was glad enough when Mr. Gryce finally returned and, accosting her with a smile, said almost gayly:
“Well, that is seen to! And all we have to do now is to await the result. Madam, have you any further ideas? If so, I should be glad to have the benefit of them.”
Her self-possession was at once restored.
“You would?” she repeated, eying him somewhat doubtfully. “I should like to be assured of the value of the one I have already advanced, before I venture upon another. Let us enter into a conference instead; compare notes; tell, for instance, why neither of us look on Bartow as the guilty man.”
“I thought we had exhausted that topic. Your suspicions were aroused by the young couple you saw leaving the house, while mine—well, madam, to you, at least, I may admit that there is something in the mute’s gestures and general manner which conveys to my mind the impression that he is engaged in rehearsing something he has seen, rather than something he has done; and as yet I have seen no reason for doubting the truth of this impression.”
“I was affected in the same way, and would have been, even if I had not already had my suspicions turned in another direction. Besides, it is more natural for a man to be driven insane by another’s act than by his own.”
“Yes, if he loved the victim.”
“And did not Bartow?”
“He does not mourn Mr. Adams.”
“But he is no longer master of his emotions.”
“Very true; but if we take any of his actions as a clew to the situation, we must take all. We believe from his gestures that he is giving us a literal copy of acts he has seen performed. Then, why pass over the gleam of infernal joy that lights his face after the whole is over? It is as if he rejoiced over the deed, or at least found immeasurable satisfaction in it.”
“Perhaps it is still a copy of what he saw; the murderer may have rejoiced. But no, there was no joy in the face of the young man I saw rushing away from this scene of violence. Quite the contrary. Mr. Gryce, we are in deep waters. I feel myself wellnigh submerged by them.”
“Hold up your head, madam. Every flood has its ebb. If you allow yourself to go under, what will become of me?”
“You are disposed to humor, Mr. Gryce. It is a good sign. You are never humorous when perplexed. Somewhere you must see daylight.”
“Let us proceed with our argument. Illumination frequently comes from the most unexpected quarter.”
“Very well, then, let us put the old man’s joy down as one of the mysteries to be explained later. Have you thought of him as a possible accomplice?”
“Certainly; but this supposition is open to the same objection as that which made him the motive power in this murder. One is not driven insane by an expected horror. It takes shock to unsettle the brain. He was not looking for the death of his master.”
“True. We may consider that matter as settled. Bartow was an innocent witness of this crime, and, having nothing to fear, may be trusted to reproduce in his pantomimic action its exact features.”
“Very good. Continue, madam. Nothing but profit is likely to follow an argument presented by Miss Butterworth.”
The old detective’s tone was serious, his manner perfect; but Miss Butterworth, ever on the look-out for sarcasm from his lips, bridled a little, though in no other way did she show her displeasure.
“Let us, then, recall his precise gestures, remembering that he must have surprised the assailant from the study doorway, and so have seen the assault from over his master’s shoulder.”
“In other words, directly in front of him. Now what was his first move?”
“His first move, as now seen, is to raise his right arm and stretch it behind him, while he leans forward for the imaginary dagger. What does that mean?”
“I should find it hard to say. But I did not see him do that. When I came upon him, he was thrusting with his left hand across his own body—a vicious thrust and with his left hand. That is a point, Mr. Gryce.”
“Yes, especially as the doctors agree that Mr. Adams was killed by a left-handed blow.”
“You don’t say! Don’t you see the difficulty, then?”
“The difficulty, madam?”
“Bartow was standing face to face with the assailant. In imitating him, especially in his unreasoning state of mind, he would lift the arm opposite to the one whose action he mimics, which, in this case, would be the assailant’s right. Try, for the moment, to mimic my actions. See! I lift this hand, and instinctively (nay, I detected the movement, sir, quickly as you remembered yourself), you raise the one directly opposite to it. It is like seeing yourself in a mirror. You turn your head to the right, but your image turns to the left.”
Mr. Gryce’s laugh rang out in spite of himself. He was not often caught napping, but this woman exercised a species of fascination upon him at times, and it rather amused than offended him, when he was obliged to acknowledge himself defeated.
“Very good! You have proved your point quite satisfactorily; but what conclusions are to be drawn from it? That the man was not left-handed, or that he was not standing in the place you have assigned to him?”
“Shall we go against the doctors? They say that the blow was a left-handed one. Mr. Gryce, I would give anything for an hour spent with you in Mr. Adams’s study, with Bartow free to move about at his will. I think we would learn more by watching him for a short space of time than in talking as we are doing for an hour.”
It was said tentatively, almost timidly. Miss Butterworth had some sense of the temerity involved in this suggestion even if, according to her own declaration, she had no curiosity. “I don’t want to be disagreeable,” she smiled.
She was so far from being so that Mr. Gryce was taken unawares, and for once in his life became impulsive.
“I think it can be managed, madam; that is, after the funeral. There are too many officials now in the house, and——”
“Of course, of course,” she acceded. “I should not think of obtruding myself at present. But the case is so interesting, and my connection with it so peculiar, that I sometimes forget myself. Do you think”—here she became quite nervous for one of her marked self-control—“that I have laid myself open to a summons from the coroner?”
Mr. Gryce grew thoughtful, eyed the good lady, or rather her folded hands, with an air of some compassion, and finally replied:
“The facts regarding this affair come in so slowly that I doubt if the inquest is held for several days. Meanwhile we may light on those two young people ourselves. If so, the coroner may overlook your share in bringing them to our notice.”
There was a sly emphasis on the word, and a subtle humor in his look that showed the old detective at his worst. But Miss Butterworth did not resent it; she was too full of a fresh confession she had to make.
“Ah,” said she, “if they had been the only persons I encountered there. But they were not. Another person entered the house before I left it, and I may be obliged to speak of him.”
“Of him? Really, madam, you are a mine of intelligence.”
“Yes, sir,” was the meek reply; meek, when you consider from whose lips it came. “I ought to have spoken of him before, but I never like to mix matters, and this old gentleman——”
“Old gentleman!”
“Yes, sir, very old and very much of a gentleman, did not appear to have any connection with the crime beyond