Hand and Ring

same who had offered her his arm, and whom she supposed to have remained behind her in Mr. Orcutt’s room. She saw before her a large comfortable-looking personage of middle age, of no great pretensions to elegance or culture, but bearing that within his face which oddly enough baffled her understanding while it encouraged her trust. This was the more peculiar in that he was not looking at her, but stood with his eyes fixed on the fading light of the hall-lamp, which he surveyed with an expression of concern that almost amounted to pity.

“Sir, who are you?” she tremblingly asked.

Dropping his eyes from the lamp, he riveted them upon the veil she held tightly clasped in her right hand.

“If you will allow me the liberty of whispering in your ear, I will soon tell you,” said he.

She bent her weary head downward; he at once leaned toward her and murmured a half-dozen words that made her instantly start erect with new light in her eyes.

“And you will help me?” she cried.

“What else am I here for?” he answered.

And turning toward a quiet figure which she now saw for the first time standing on the threshold of a small room near by, he said with the calmness of a master:

“Hickory, see that no one enters or leaves the sickroom till I return.” And offering Imogene his arm, he conducted her into the library, the door of which he shut to behind them.

XXXIX

Mr. Gryce

What you have spoke, it may be so, perchance.
This tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,
Was once thought honest.

Macbeth

An hour later, as Mr. Ferris was leaving the house in company with Dr. Tredwell, he felt himself stopped by a slight touch on his arm. Turning about he saw Hickory.

“Beg pardon, sirs,” said the detective, with a short bow, “but there’s a gentleman, in the library who would like to see you before you go.”

They at once turned to the room indicated. But at sight of its well-known features⁠—its huge cases of books, its large centre-table profusely littered with papers, the burnt-out grate, the empty armchair⁠—they paused, and it was with difficulty they could recover themselves sufficiently to enter. When they did, their first glance was toward the gentleman they saw standing in a distant window, apparently perusing a book.

“Who is it?” inquired Mr. Ferris of his companion.

“I cannot imagine,” returned the other.

Hearing voices, the gentleman advanced.

“Ah,” said he, “allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Gryce, of the New York Detective Service.”

“Mr. Gryce!” repeated the District Attorney, in astonishment.

The famous detective bowed. “I have come,” said he, “upon a summons received by me in Utica not six hours ago. It was sent by a subordinate of mine interested in the trial now going on before the court. Horace Byrd is his name. I hope he is well liked here and has your confidence.”

“Mr. Byrd is well enough liked,” rejoined Mr. Ferris, “but I gave him no orders to send for you. At what hour was the telegram dated?”

“At half-past eleven; immediately after the accident to Mr. Orcutt.”

“I see.”

“He probably felt himself inadequate to meet this new emergency. He is a young man, and the affair is certainly a complicated one.”

The District Attorney, who had been studying the countenance of the able detective before him, bowed courteously.

“I am not displeased to see you,” said he. “If you have been in the room above⁠—”

The other gravely bowed.

“You know probably of the outrageous accusation which has just been made against our best lawyer and most-esteemed citizen. It is but one of many which this same woman has made; and while it is to be regarded as the ravings of lunacy, still your character and ability may weigh much in lifting the opprobrium which any such accusation, however unfounded, is calculated to throw around the memory of my dying friend.”

“Sir,” returned Mr. Gryce, shifting his gaze uneasily from one small object to another in that dismal room, till all and every article it contained seemed to partake of his mysterious confidence, “this is a world of disappointment and deceit. Intellects we admired, hearts in which we trusted, turn out frequently to be the abodes of falsehood and violence. It is dreadful, but it is true.”

Mr. Ferris, struck aghast, looked at the detective with severe disapprobation.

“Is it possible,” he asked, “that you have allowed yourself to give any credence to the delirious utterances of a man suffering from a wound on the head, or to the frantic words of a woman who has already abused the ears of the court by a deliberate perjury?” While Dr. Tredwell, equally indignant and even more impatient, rapped with his knuckles on the table by which he stood, and cried:

“Pooh, pooh, the man cannot be such a fool!”

A solemn smile crossed the features of the detective.

“Many persons have listened to the aspersion you denounce. Active measures will be needed to prevent its going farther.”

“I have commanded silence,” said Dr. Tredwell. “Respect for Mr. Orcutt will cause my wishes to be obeyed.”

“Does Mr. Orcutt enjoy the universal respect of the town?”

“He does,” was the stern reply.

“It behooves us, then,” said Mr. Gryce, “to clear his memory from every doubt by a strict inquiry into his relations with the murdered woman.”

“They are known,” returned Mr. Ferris, with grim reserve. “They were such as any man might hold with the woman at whose house he finds it convenient to take his daily dinner. She was to him the provider of a good meal.”

Mr. Gryce’s eye travelled slowly toward Mr. Ferris’ shirt stud.

“Gentlemen,” said he, “do you forget that Mr. Orcutt was on the scene of murder some minutes before the rest of you arrived? Let the attention of people once be directed toward him as a suspicious party, and they will be likely to remember this fact.”

Astounded, both men drew back.

“What do you mean by that remark?” they asked.

“I mean,” said Mr. Gryce, “that Mr. Orcutt’s visit to