“Very well,” rejoined Mr. Gryce, altering his manner with a suddenness that evidently alarmed his listener. “Mr. Orcutt did not die immediately after he was struck down. He lived some hours; lived to say some words that have materially changed the suspicions of persons interested in the case he was defending.”
“Mr. Orcutt?”
The tone was one of surprise. Mr. Gryce’s little finger seemed to take note of it, for it tapped the leg beneath it in quite an emphatic manner as he continued: “It was in answer to a question put to him by Miss Dare. To the surprise of everyone, she had not left him from the moment they were mutually relieved from the weight of the fallen limb, but had stood over him for hours, watching for him to rouse from his insensibility. When he did, she appealed to him in a way that showed she expected a reply, to tell her who it was that killed the Widow Clemmens.”
“And did Mr. Orcutt know?” was Mansell’s half-agitated, half-incredulous query.
“His answer seemed to show that he did. Mr. Mansell, have you ever had any doubts of Mr. Orcutt?”
“Doubts?”
“Doubts as to his integrity, good-heartedness, or desire to serve you?”
“No.”
“You will, then, be greatly surprised,” Mr. Gryce went on, with increased gravity, “when I tell you that Mr. Orcutt’s reply to Miss Dare’s question was such as to draw attention to himself as the assassin of Widow Clemmens, and that his words and the circumstances under which they were uttered have so impressed Mr. Ferris, that the question now agitating his mind is not, ‘Is Craik Mansell innocent, but was his counsel, Tremont Orcutt, guilty?’ ”
The excited look which had appeared on the face of Mansell at the beginning of this speech, changed to one of strong disgust.
“This is too much!” he cried. “I am not a fool to be caught by any such make-believe as this! Mr. Orcutt thought to be an assassin? You might as well say that people accuse Judge Evans of killing the Widow Clemmens.”
Mr. Gryce, who had perhaps stretched a point when he so unequivocally declared his complete confidence in the innocence of the man before him, tapped his leg quite affectionately at this burst of natural indignation, and counted off another point in favor of the prisoner. His words, however, were dry as sarcasm could make them.
“No,” said he, “for people know that Judge Evans was without the opportunity for committing this murder, while everyone remembers how Mr. Orcutt went to the widow’s house and came out again with tidings of her death.”
The prisoner’s lip curled disdainfully.
“And do you expect me to believe you regard this as a groundwork for suspicion? I should have given you credit for more penetration, sir.”
“Then you do not think Mr. Orcutt knew what he was saying when, in answer to Miss Dare’s appeal for him to tell who the murderer was, he answered: ‘Blood will have blood!’ and drew attention to his own violent end?”
“Did Mr. Orcutt say that?”
“He did.”
“Very well, a man whose whole mind has for some time been engrossed with defending another man accused of murder, might say anything while in a state of delirium.”
Mr. Gryce uttered his favorite “Humph!” and gave his leg another pat, but added, gravely enough: “Miss Dare believes his words to be those of confession.”
“You say Miss Dare once believed me to have confessed.”
“But,” persisted the detective, “Miss Dare is not alone in her opinion. Men in whose judgment you must rely, find it difficult to explain the words of Mr. Orcutt by means of any other theory than that he is himself the perpetrator of that crime for which you are yourself being tried.”
“I find it difficult to believe that possible,” quietly returned the prisoner. “What!” he suddenly exclaimed; “suspect a man of Mr. Orcutt’s abilities and standing of a hideous crime—the very crime, too, with which his client is charged, and in defence of whom he has brought all his skill to bear! The idea is preposterous, unheard of!”
“I acknowledge that,” dryly assented Mr. Gryce; “but it has been my experience to find that it is the preposterous things which happen.”
For a minute the prisoner stared at the speaker incredulously; then he cried:
“You really appear to be in earnest.”
“I was never more so in my life,” was Mr. Gryce’s rejoinder.
Drawing back, Craik Mansell looked at the detective with an emotion that had almost the character of hope. Presently he said:
“If you do distrust Mr. Orcutt, you must have weightier reasons for it than any you have given me. What are they? You must be willing I should know, or you would not have gone as far with me as you have.”
“You are right,” Gryce assured him. “A case so complicated as this calls for unusual measures. Mr. Ferris, feeling the gravity of his position, allows me to take you into our confidence, in the hope that you will be able to help us out of our difficulty.”
“I help you! You’d better release me first.”
“That will come in time.”
“If I help you?”
“Whether you help or not, if we can satisfy ourselves and the world that Mr. Orcutt’s words were a confession. You may hasten that conviction.”
“How?”
“By clearing up the mystery of your flight from Mrs. Clemmens’ house.”
The keen eyes of the prisoner fell; all his old distrust seemed on the point of returning.
“That would not help you at all,” said he.
“I should like to be the judge,” said Mr. Gryce.
The prisoner shook his head.
“My word must go for it,” said he.
The detective had been the hero of too many such scenes to be easily discouraged. Bowing as if accepting this conclusion from the prisoner, he quietly proceeded with the recital he had planned. With a frankness certainly unusual to him, he gave the prisoner a full account of Mr. Orcutt’s last hours, and the interview which had followed between himself and Miss Dare. To this he
