Part 5 (1/2)
”Can you describe him? Did you encounter him close enough for recognition?”
”Yes, I think I would know him again. I can at least describe his appearance. He wore a checked suit, very natty, and was more than usually tall and fine-looking. But his chief peculiarity lay in his expression. I never saw on any face, no, not on the stage, at the climax of the most heart-rending tragedy, a greater acc.u.mulation of mortal pa.s.sion struggling with the imperative necessity for restraint. The young girl whose blond head lay on his shoulder looked like a saint in the clutch of a demon. She had seen death, but he-But I prefer not to be the interpreter of that expressive countenance. It was lost to my view almost immediately, and probably calmed itself in the face of the throng he entered, or we would be hearing about him to-day. The girl seemed to be devoid of almost all feeling. I should not remember her.”
”And was that all? Did you just look at that rec.u.mbent man and vanish? Didn't you encounter the butler? Haven't you some definite knowledge to impart in his regard which will settle his innocence or fix his guilt?”
”I know no more about him than you do, sir, except that he was not in the room by the time I reached it, and did not come into it during my presence there. Yet it was his cry that led me to the spot; or do you think it was that of the bird I afterward heard shouting and screaming in the cage over the dead man's head?”
”It might have been the bird,” admitted Mr. Gryce. ”Its call is very clear, and it seems strangely intelligent. What was it saying while you stood there?”
”Something about Eva. 'Lovely Eva, maddening Eva! I love Eva! Eva! Eva!'”
”Eva? Wasn't it 'Evelyn? Poor Evelyn?'”
”No, it was Eva. I thought he might mean the girl I had just seen carried out. It was an unpleasant experience, hearing this bird shriek out these cries in the face of the man lying dead at my feet.”
”Miss b.u.t.terworth, you didn't simply stand over that man. You knelt down and looked in his face.”
”I acknowledge it, and caught my dress in the filagree of the cross. Naturally I would not stand stock still with a man drawing his last breath under my eye.”
”And what else did you do? You went to the table--”
”Yes, I went to the table.”
”And moved the inkstand?”
”Yes, I moved the inkstand, but very carefully, sir, very carefully.”
”Not so carefully but that I could see where it had been sitting before you took it up: the square made by its base in the dust of the table did not coincide with the place afterwards occupied by it.”
”Ah, that comes from your having on your gla.s.ses and I not. I endeavored to set it down in the precise place from which I lifted it.”
”Why did you take it up at all? What were you looking for?”
”For clews, Mr. Gryce. You must forgive me, but I was seeking for clews. I moved several things. I was hunting for the line of writing which ought to explain this murder.”
”The line of writing?”
”Yes. I have not told you what the young girl said as she slipped with her companion into the crowd.”
”No; you have spoken of no words. Have you any such clew as that? Miss b.u.t.terworth, you are fortunate, very fortunate.”
Mr. Gryce's look and gesture were eloquent, but Miss b.u.t.terworth, with an access of dignity, quietly remarked:
”I was not to blame for being in the way when they pa.s.sed, nor could I help hearing what she said.”
”And what was it, madam? Did she mention a paper?”
”Yes, she cried in what I now remember to have been a tone of affright: 'You have left that line of writing behind!' I did not attach much importance to these words then, but when I came upon the dying man, so evidently the victim of murder, I recalled what his late visitor had said and looked about for this piece of writing.”
”And did you find it, Miss b.u.t.terworth? I am ready, as you see, for any revelation you may now make.”