Subduing, by a strong inward effort, every token of the emotion which her own introduction of this topic naturally evoked, he replied in his easiest tones:
“Yes; there was an inquest held today, and the authorities evidently think they have discovered the person who killed her.” And obliging himself to meet halfway the fate that awaited him, he bestowed upon the lady before him a casual glance that hid beneath its easy politeness the greatest anxiety of his life.
The test worked well. From the pallor of sickness, grief, or apprehension, her complexion whitened to the deadlier hue of mortal terror.
“Impossible!” her lips seemed to breathe; and Mr. Byrd could almost fancy he saw the hair rise on her forehead.
Cursing in his heart the bitter necessity that had forced him into this duty, he was about to address her in a way calculated to break the spell occasioned by his last words, when the rich and tuneful voice of the melodious singer rose suddenly on the air, and they heard the words:
“Come rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer,
Though the herd have fled from thee, thy home is still here;
Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,
And a heart and a hand all thy own to the last.”
Instantly Mr. Byrd perceived that he should not be obliged to speak. Though the music, or possibly the words, struck her like a blow, it likewise served to recall her to herself. Dropping her gaze, which had remained fixed upon his own, she turned her face aside, saying with forced composure:
“This near contact with crime is dreadful.” Then slowly, and with a quietness that showed how great was her power of self-control when she was not under the influence of surprise, she inquired: “And who do they think this person is? What name do they presume to associate with the murderer of this woman?”
With something of the feeling of a surgeon who nerves himself to bury the steel in his patient’s quivering flesh, he gave his response unhesitatingly.
“A gentleman’s, I believe. A young man connected with her, in some strange way, by financial interests. A Mr. Hildreth, of Toledo—Gouverneur Hildreth, I think they call him.”
It was not the name she expected. He saw this by the relaxation that took place in all her features, by the look of almost painful relief that flashed for a moment into the eyes she turned like lightning upon him.
“Gouverneur Hildreth!” she repeated. And he knew from the tone that it was not only a different name from what she anticipated, but that it was also a strange one to her. “I never heard of such a person,” she went on after a minute, during which the relentless mellow voice of the unconscious singer filled the room with the passionate appeal:
“Oh, what was love made for, if ’tis not the same,
Through joy and through sorrow, through glory and shame!”
“That is not strange,” explained Mr. Byrd, drawing nearer, as if to escape that pursuing sweetness of incongruous song. “He is not known in this town. He only came here the morning the unfortunate woman was murdered. Whether he really killed her or not,” he proceeded, with forced quietness, “no one can tell, of course. But the facts are very much against him, and the poor fellow is under arrest.”
“What?”
The word was involuntary. So was the tone of horrified surprise in which it was uttered. But the music, now swelling to a crescendo, drowned both word and tone, or so she seemed to fondly imagine; for, making another effort at self-control, she confined herself to a quiet repetition of his words, “ ‘Under arrest’?” and then waited with only a suitable display of emotion for whatever further enlightenment he chose to give her.
He mercifully spoke to the point.
“Yes, under arrest. You see he was in the house at or near the time the deadly blow was struck. He was in the front hall, he says, and nowhere near the woman or her unknown assailant, but there is no evidence against anyone else, and the facts so far proved, show he had an interest in her death, and so he has to pay the penalty of circumstances. And he may be guilty, who knows,” the young detective pursued, seeing she was struck with horror and dismay, “dreadful as it is to imagine that a gentleman of culture and breeding could be brought to commit such a deed.”
But she seemed to have ears for but one phrase of all this.
“He was in the front hall,” she repeated. “How did he get there? What called him there?”
“He had been visiting the widow, and was on his way out. He paused to collect his thoughts, he said. It seems unaccountable, Miss Dare; but the whole thing is strange and very mysterious.”
She was deaf to his explanations.
“Do you suppose he heard the widow scream?” she asked, tremblingly, “or—”
A sinking of the ringing tones whose powerful vibration had made this conversation possible, caused her to pause. When the notes grew loud enough again for her to proceed, she seemed to have forgotten the question she was about to propound, and simply inquired:
“Had he anything to say about what he overheard—or saw?”
“No. If he spoke the truth and stood in the hall as he said, the sounds, if sounds there were, stopped short of the sitting-room door, for he has nothing to say about them.”
A change passed over Miss Dare. She dropped her eyes, and an instant’s pause followed this last acknowledgment.
“Will you tell me,” she inquired, at last, speaking very slowly, in an attempt to infuse into her voice no more than a natural tone of interest, “how it was he came to say he stood in that place during the assault?”
“He did not say he stood in that place during the assault,” was again the forced rejoinder of Mr. Byrd. “It was by means of a nice calculation
