Miss Firman motioned her visitor to be seated, and at once took a chair herself.
“What do you want with me?” she asked, with characteristic bluntness.
The detective was silent. It was but for a moment, but in that moment he seemed to read to the bottom of this woman’s mind.
“Well,” said he, “I will tell you. You believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?”
“I do,” she returned.
“Very well; so do I.”
“Let me shake hands with you,” was her abrupt remark. And without a smile she reached forth her hand, which he took with equal gravity.
This ceremony over, he remarked, with a cheerful mien:
“We are fortunately not in a court of law, and so can talk freely together. Why do you think Mansell innocent? I am sure the evidence has not been much in his favor.”
“Why do you think him innocent?” was the brisk retort.
“I have talked with him.”
“Ah!”
“I have talked with Miss Dare.”
A different “Ah!” this time.
“And I was present when Mr. Orcutt breathed his last.”
The look she gave was like cold water on Mr. Gryce’s secretly growing hopes.
“What has that to do with it?” she wonderingly exclaimed.
The detective took another tone.
“You did not know Mr. Orcutt then?” he inquired.
“I had not that honor,” was the formal reply.
“You have never, then, visited your cousin in Sibley?”
“Yes, I was there once; but that did not give me an acquaintance with Mr. Orcutt.”
“Yet he went almost every day to her house.”
“And he came while I was there, but that did not give me an acquaintance with him.”
“He was reserved, then, in his manners, uncommunicative, possibly morose?”
“He was just what I would expect such a gentleman to be at the table with women like my cousin and myself.”
“Not morose, then; only reserved.”
“Exactly,” the short, quick bow of the amiable spinster seemed to assert.
Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath. This well seemed to be destitute of even a drop of moisture.
“Why do you ask me about Mr. Orcutt? Has his death in any way affected young Mansell’s prospects?”
“That is what I want to find out,” declared Mr. Gryce. Then, without giving her time for another question, said: “Where did Mrs. Clemmens first make the acquaintance of Mr. Orcutt? Wasn’t it in some town out West?”
“Out West? Not to my knowledge, sir. I always supposed she saw him first in Sibley.”
This well was certainly very dry.
“Yet you are not positive that this is so, are you?” pursued the patient detective. “She came from Nebraska, and so did he; now, why may they not have known each other there?”
“I did not know that he came from Nebraska.”
“She has never talked about him then?”
“Never.”
Mr. Gryce drew another deep breath and let down his bucket again.
“I thought your cousin spent her childhood in Toledo?”
“She did, sir.”
“How came she to go to Nebraska then?”
“Well, she was left an orphan and had to look out for herself. A situation in some way opened to her in Nebraska, and she went there to take it.”
“A situation at what?”
“As waitress in some hotel.”
“Humph! And was she still a waitress when she married?”
“Yes, I think so, but I am not sure about it or anything else in connection with her at that time. The subject was so painful we never discussed it.”
“Why painful?”
“She lost her husband so soon.”
“But you can tell me the name of the town in which this hotel was, can you not?”
“It was called Swanson then, but that was fifteen years ago. Its name may have been changed since.”
Swanson! This was something to learn, but not much. Mr. Gryce returned to his first question. “You have not told me,” said he, “why you believe Craik Mansell to be innocent?”
“Well,” replied she, “I believe Craik Mansell to be innocent because he is the son of his mother. I think I know him pretty well, but I am certain I knew her. She was a woman who would go through fire and water to attain a purpose she thought right, but who would stop in the midst of any project the moment she felt the least doubt of its being just or wise. Craik has his mother’s forehead and eyes, and no one will ever make me believe he has not her principles also.”
“I coincide with you, madam,” remarked the attentive detective.
“I hope the jury will,” was her energetic response.
He bowed and was about to attempt another question, when an interruption occurred. Miss Firman was called from the room, and Mr. Gryce found himself left for a few moments alone. His thoughts, as he awaited her return, were far from cheerful, for he saw a long and tedious line of inquiry opening before him in the West, which, if it did not end in failure, promised to exhaust not only a week, but possibly many months, before certainty of any kind could be obtained. With Miss Dare on the verge of a fever, and Mansell in a position calling for the utmost nerve and self-control, this prospect looked anything but attractive to the benevolent detective; and, carried away by his impatience, he was about to give utterance to an angry ejaculation against the man he believed to be the author of all this mischief, when he suddenly heard a voice raised from some unknown quarter near by, saying in strange tones he was positive did not proceed from Miss Firman:
“Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I cannot remember.”
Naturally excited and aroused, Mr. Gryce rose and looked about him. A door stood ajar at his back. Hastening toward it, he was about to lay his hand on the knob when Miss Firman returned.
“Oh, I beg you,” she entreated. “That is my mother’s room, and she is not at all well.”
“I was going to her assistance,” asserted the detective, with grave composure. “She has just uttered a cry.”
“Oh, you don’t say so!” exclaimed the unsuspicious spinster, and hurrying forward, she threw open the door herself. Mr. Gryce benevolently followed. “Why,
