They had many things to discuss. First, their own case now drawing to a successful close; next, the murder of the day before; and lastly, the few facts which had been elicited in regard to that murder, in the inquiry which had that day been begun before the coroner.
Of the latter Mr. Ferris spoke with much interest. He had attended the inquest himself, and, though he had not much to communicate—the time having been mainly taken up in selecting and swearing in a jury—a few witnesses had been examined and certain conclusions reached, which certainly added greatly to the impression already made upon the public mind, that an affair of great importance had arisen; an affair, too, promising more in the way of mystery than the simple nature of its earlier manifestations gave them reason to suppose.
In the first place, the widow had evidently been assaulted with a deliberate purpose and a serious intent to slay.
Secondly, no immediate testimony was forthcoming calculated to point with unerring certainty to the guilty party.
To be sure, the tramp and the hunchback still offered possibilities of suspicion; but even they were slight, the former having been seen to leave the widow’s house without entering, and the latter having been proved beyond a question to have come into town on the morning train and to have gone at once to court where he remained till the time they all saw him disappear down the street.
That the last-mentioned individual may have had some guilty knowledge of the crime was possible enough. The fact of his having wiped himself out so completely as to elude all search, was suspicious in itself, but if he was connected with the assault it must have been simply as an accomplice employed to distract public attention from the real criminal; and in a case like this, the interest naturally centres with the actual perpetrator; and the question was now and must be: Who was the man who, in broad daylight, dared to enter a house situated like this in a thickly populated street, and kill with a blow an inoffensive woman?
“I cannot imagine,” declared Mr. Ferris, as his communication reached this point. “It looks as if she had an enemy, but what enemy could such a person as she possess—a woman who always did her own work, attended to her own affairs, and made it an especial rule of her life never to meddle with those of anybody else?”
“Was she such a woman?” inquired Mr. Byrd, to whom as yet no knowledge had come of the widow’s life, habits, or character.
“Yes. In all the years I have been in this town I have never heard of her visiting anyone or encouraging anyone to visit her. Had it not been for Mr. Orcutt, she would have lived the life of a recluse. As it was, she was the most methodical person in her ways that I ever knew. At just such an hour she rose; at just such an hour put on her kettle, cooked her meal, washed her dishes, and sat herself down to her sewing or whatever work it was she had to do. The dinner was the only meal that waited, and that, Mr. Orcutt says, was always ready and done to a turn at whatever moment he chose to present himself.”
“Had she no intimates, no relatives?” asked Mr. Byrd, remembering that fragment of a letter he had read—a letter which certainly contradicted this assertion in regard to her even and quiet life.
“None that I am aware of,” was the response. “Wait, I believe I have been told she has a nephew somewhere—a sister’s son, for whom she had some regard and to whom she intended to leave her money.”
“She had money, then?”
“Some five thousand, maybe. Reports differ about such matters.”
“And this nephew, where does he live?”
“I cannot tell you. I don’t know as anyone can. My remembrances in regard to him are of the vaguest character.”
“Five thousand dollars is regarded as no mean sum in a town like this,” quoth Mr. Byrd, carelessly.
“I know it. She is called quite rich by many. How she got her money no one knows; for when she first came here she was so poor she had to eat and sleep all in one room. Mr. Orcutt paid her something for his daily dinner, of course, but that could not have enabled her to put ten dollars in the bank as she has done every week for the last ten years. And to all appearances she has done nothing else for her living. You see, we have paid attention to her affairs, if she has paid none to ours.”
Mr. Byrd again remembered that scrap of a letter which had been shown him by the coroner, and thought to himself that their knowledge was in all probability less than they supposed.
“Who was that horrid crone I saw shouldering herself through the crowd that collected around the gate yesterday?” was his remark, however. “Do you remember a wizen, toothless old wretch, whose eye has more of the Evil One in it than that of many a young thief you see locked up in the county jails?”
“No; that is, I wonder if you mean Sally Perkins. She is old enough and ugly enough to answer your description; and, now I think of it, she has a way of leering at you as you go by that is slightly suggestive of a somewhat bitter knowledge of the world. What makes you ask about her?”
“Because she attracted my attention, I suppose. You must remember that I don’t know any of these people, and that an especially vicious-looking person like her would be apt to awaken my curiosity.”
“I see, I see; but, in this case, I doubt if it leads to much. Old Sally is a hard one, no doubt. But I don’t believe she ever contemplated a murder, much less
