Mr. Gryce, with a glance toward the bed he saw before him, bowed with seeming perplexity.
“She certainly appears to be,” said he, “and yet I am positive she spoke but an instant ago; I can even tell you the words she used.”
“What were they?” asked the spinster, with something like a look of concern.
“She said: ‘Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? Clemmens or Orcutt? I cannot remember.’ ”
“You don’t say so! Poor ma! She was dreaming. Come into the other room and I will explain.”
And leading the way back to the apartment they had left, she motioned him again toward a chair, and then said:
“Ma has always been a very hale and active woman for her years; but this murder seems to have shaken her. To speak the truth, sir, she has not been quite right in her mind since the day I told her of it; and I often detect her murmuring words similar to those you have just heard.”
“Humph! And does she often use his name?”
“Whose name?”
“Mr. Orcutt’s.”
“Why, yes; but not with any understanding of whom she is speaking.”
“Are you sure?” inquired Mr. Gryce, with that peculiar impressiveness he used on great occasions.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” returned the detective, dryly, “that I believe your mother does know what she is talking about when she links the name of Mr. Orcutt with that of your cousin who was murdered. They belong together; Mr. Orcutt was her murderer.”
“Mr. Orcutt?”
“Hush!” cried Mr. Gryce, “you will wake up your mother.”
And, adapting himself to this emergency as to all others, he talked with the astounded and incredulous woman before him till she was in a condition not only to listen to his explanations, but to discuss the problem of a crime so seemingly without motive. He then said, with easy assurance:
“Your mother does not know that Mr. Orcutt is dead?”
“No, sir.”
“She does not even know he was counsel for Craik Mansell in the trial now going on.”
“How do you know that?” inquired Miss Firman, grimly.
“Because I do not believe you have even told her that Craik Mansell was on trial.”
“Sir, you are a magician.”
“Have you, madam?”
“No, sir, I have not.”
“Very good; what does she know about Mr. Orcutt, then; and why should she connect his name with Mrs. Clemmens?”
“She knows he was her boarder, and that he was the first one to discover she had been murdered.”
“That is not enough to account for her frequent repetition of his name.”
“You think not?”
“I am sure not. Cannot your mother have some memories connected with his name of which you are ignorant?”
“No, sir; we have lived together in this house for twenty-five years, and have never had a thought we have not shared together. Ma could not have known anything about him or Mary Ann which I did not. The words she has just spoken sprang from mental confusion. She is almost like a child sometimes.”
Mr. Gryce smiled. If the cream-jug he happened to be gazing at on a tray near by had been full of cream, I am far from certain it would not have turned sour on the spot.
“I grant the mental confusion,” said he; “but why should she confuse those two names in preference to all others?” And, with quiet persistence, he remarked again: “She may be recalling some old fact of years ago. Was there never a time, even while you lived here together, when she could have received some confidence from Mrs. Clemmens—”
“Mary Ann, Mary Ann!” came in querulous accents from the other room, “I wish you had not told me; Emily would be a better one to know your secret.”
It was a startling interruption to come just at that moment The two surprised listeners glanced toward each other, and Miss Firman colored.
“That sounds as if your surmise was true,” she dryly observed.
“Let us make an experiment,” said he, and motioned her to reenter her mother’s room, which she did with a precipitation that showed her composure had been sorely shaken by these unexpected occurrences.
He followed her without ceremony.
The old lady lay as before in a condition between sleeping and waking, and did not move as they came in. Mr. Gryce at once withdrew out of sight, and, with finger on his lip, put himself in the attitude of waiting. Miss Firman, surprised, and possibly curious, took her stand at the foot of the bed.
A few minutes passed thus, during which a strange dreariness seemed to settle upon the room; then the old lady spoke again, this time repeating the words he had first heard, but in a tone which betrayed an increased perplexity.
“Was it Clemmens or was it Orcutt? I wish somebody would tell me.”
Instantly Mr. Gryce, with his soft tread, drew near to the old lady’s side, and, leaning over her, murmured gently:
“I think it was Orcutt.”
Instantly the old lady breathed a deep sigh and moved.
“Then her name was Mrs. Orcutt,” said she, “and I thought you always called her Clemmens.”
Miss Firman, recoiling, stared at Mr. Gryce, on whose cheek a faint spot of red had appeared—a most unusual token of emotion with him.
“Did she say it was Mrs. Orcutt,” he pursued, in the even tones he had before used.
“She said—” But here the old lady opened her eyes, and, seeing her daughter standing at the foot of her bed, turned away with a peevish air, and restlessly pushed her hand under the pillow.
Mr. Gryce at once bent nearer.
“She said—” he suggested, with careful gentleness.
But the old lady made no answer. Her hand seemed to have touched some object for which she was seeking, and she was evidently oblivious to all else. Miss Firman came around and touched Mr. Gryce on the shoulder.
“It is useless,” said she; “she is awake now, and you won’t hear anything more; come!”
And she drew the reluctant detective back again into the other room.
“What does it all mean?” she asked, sinking into a chair.
Mr. Gryce did not answer. He had
