to steady himself against the walls of the narrow passageway, and Mr. Fenton was not at all surprised to hear him stammer out:
“Dead! He! Whom do you mean by he, Mr. Fenton?”
“The man in whose house we now are,” returned the other. “Is there anyone else who can be suspected of this crime?”
Sweetwater gave a gulp that seemed to restore him to himself.
“There are two men living here, both very good men, I have heard. Which of them do you mean, and why do you think that either John or James Zabel killed Agatha Webb?”
For reply Mr. Fenton drew him toward the room in which such a great heart-tragedy had taken place.
“Look,” said he, “and see what can happen in a Christian land, in the midst of Christian people living not fifty rods away. These men are dead, Sweetwater, dead from hunger. The loaf of bread you see there came too late. It was bought with a twenty-dollar bill, taken from Agatha Webb’s cupboard drawer.”
Sweetwater, to whom the whole scene seemed like some horrible nightmare, stared at the figure of James lying on the floor, and then at the figure of John seated at the table, as if his mind had failed to take in the constable’s words.
“Dead!” he murmured. “Dead! John and James Zabel. What will happen next?
Is the town under a curse?” And he fell on his knees before the
prostrate form of James, only to start up again as he saw the eyes of
Knapp resting on him.
“Ah,” he muttered, “the detective!” And after giving the man from Boston a close look he turned toward Mr. Fenton.
“You said something about this good old man having killed Agatha Webb.
What was it? I was too dazed to take it in.”
Mr. Fenton, not understanding the young man’s eagerness, but willing enough to enlighten him as to the situation, told him what reasons there were for ascribing the crime in the Webb cottage to the mad need of these starving men. Sweetwater listened with open eyes and confused bearing, only controlling himself when his eyes by chance fell upon the quiet figure of the detective, now moving softly to and fro through the room.
“But why murder when he could have had his loaf for the asking?” remonstrated Sweetwater. “Agatha Webb would have gone without a meal any time to feed a wandering tramp; how much more to supply the necessities of two of her oldest and dearest friends!”
“Yes,” remarked Fenton, “but you forget or perhaps never knew that the master passion of these men was pride. James Zabel ask for bread! I can much sooner imagine him stealing it; yes, or striking a blow for it, so that the blow shut forever the eyes that saw him do it.”
“You don’t believe your own words, Mr. Fenton. How can you?” Sweetwater’s hand was on the breast of the accused man as he spoke, and his manner was almost solemn. “You must not take it for granted,” he went on, his green eyes twinkling with a curious light, “that all wisdom comes from Boston. We in Sutherlandtown have some sparks of it, if they have not yet been recognised. You are satisfied”—here he addressed himself to Knapp—“that the blow which killed Agatha Webb was struck by this respectable old man?”
Knapp smiled as if a child had asked him this question; but he answered him good-humouredly enough.
“You see the dagger lying here with which the deed was done, and you see the bread that was bought from Loton with a twenty-dollar bill of Agatha Webb’s money. In these you can read my answer.”
“Good evidence,” acknowledged Sweetwater—“very good evidence, especially when we remember that Mr. Crane met an old man rushing from her gateway with something glittering in his hand. I never was so beat in my life, and yet—and yet—if I could have a few minutes of quiet thought all by myself I am certain I could show you that there is more to this matter than you think. Indeed, I know that there is, but I do not like to give my reasons till I have conquered the difficulties presented by these men having had the twenty-dollar bill.”
“What fellow is this?” suddenly broke in Knapp.
“A fiddler, a nobody,” quietly whispered Mr. Fenton in his ear.
Sweetwater heard him and changed in a twinkling from the uncertain, half-baffled, wholly humble person they had just seen, to a man with a purpose strong enough to make him hold up his head with the best.
“I am a musician,” he admitted, “and I play on the violin for money whenever the occasion offers, something which you will yet congratulate yourselves upon if you wish to reach the root of this mysterious and dastardly crime. But that I am a nobody I deny, and I even dare to hope that you will agree with me in this estimate of myself before this very night is over. Only give me an opportunity for considering this subject, and the permission to walk for a few minutes about this house.”
“That is my prerogative,” protested the detective firmly, but without any display of feeling. “I am the man employed to pick up whatever clews the place may present.”
“Have you picked up all that are to be found in this room?” asked
Sweetwater calmly.
Knapp shrugged his shoulders. He was very well satisfied with himself.
“Then give me a chance,” prayed Sweetwater. “Mr. Fenton,” he urged more earnestly, “I am not the fool you take me for. I feel, I know, I have a genius for this kind of thing, and though I am not prepossessing to look at, and though I do play the fiddle, I swear there are depths to this affair which none of you have as yet sounded. Sirs, where are the nine hundred and eighty dollars in bills which go to make up the clean thousand that was taken from the small drawer at the back of Agatha Webb’s cupboard?”
“They are in some secret hiding-place, no doubt, which we will presently come upon as we go through the house,” answered Knapp.
“Umph! Then I advise you to put your hand on them as soon as possible,” retorted Sweetwater. “I will confine myself to going over the ground you have already investigated.” And with a sudden ignoring of the others’ presence, which could only have sprung from an intense egotism or from an overwhelming belief in his own theory, he began an investigation of the room that threw the other’s more commonplace efforts entirely in the shade.
Knapp, with a slight compression of his lips, which was the sole expression of anger he ever allowed himself, took up his hat and made his bow to Mr. Fenton.
“I see,” said he, “that the sympathy of those present is with local talent. Let local talent work, then, sir, and when you feel the need of a man of training and experience, send to the tavern on the docks, where I will be found till I am notified that my services are no longer required.”
“No, no!” protested Mr. Fenton. “This boy’s enthusiasm will soon evaporate. Let him fuss away if he will. His petty business need not interrupt us.”
“But he understands himself,” whispered Knapp. “I should think he had been on our own force for years.”
“All the more reason to see what he’s up to. Wait, if only to satisfy your curiosity. I shan’t let many minutes go by before I pull him up.”
Knapp, who was really of a cold and unimpressionable temperament, refrained from further argument, and confined himself to watching the young man, whose movements seemed to fascinate him.
“Astonishing!” Mr. Fenton heard him mutter to himself. “He’s more like an eel than a man.” And indeed the way Sweetwater wound himself out and in through that room, seeing everything that came under his eye, was a sight well worth any professional’s attention. Pausing before the dead man on the floor, he held the lantern close to the white, worn face. “Ha!” said he, picking something from the long beard, “here’s a crumb of that same bread. Did you see that, Mr. Knapp?”
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