Part 42 (1/2)

I sat down by him, and looked over his shoulder, without the smallest pretense of hesitation.

He began to write as follows:

”The poisoning at Gleninch. Queries: In what position does Miserrimus Dexter stand toward the poisoning? And what does he (presumably) know about that matter?

”He has ideas which are secrets. He suspects that he has betrayed them, or that they have been discovered in some way inconceivable to himself.

He is palpably relieved when he finds that this is not the case.”

The pen stopped; and the questions went on.

”Let us advance to your second visit,” said Mr. Playmore, ”when you saw Dexter alone. Tell me again what he did, and how he looked when you informed him that you were not satisfied with the Scotch Verdict.”

I repeated what I have already written in these pages. The pen went back to the paper again, and added these lines:

”He hears nothing more remarkable than that a person visiting him, who is interested in the case, refuses to accept the verdict at the Macallan Trial as a final verdict, and proposes to reopen the inquiry. What does he do upon that?

”He exhibits all the symptoms of a panic of terror; he sees himself in some incomprehensible danger; he is frantic at one moment and servile at the next; he must and will know what this disturbing person really means. And when he is informed on that point, he first turns pale and doubts the evidence of his own senses; and next, with nothing said to justify it, gratuitously accuses his visitor of suspecting somebody.

Query here: When a small sum of money is missing in a household, and the servants in general are called together to be informed of the circ.u.mstance, what do we think of the one servant in particular who speaks first, and who says, 'Do you suspect _me?_'”

He laid down the pen again. ”Is that right?” he asked.

I began to see the end to which the notes were drifting. Instead of answering his question, I entreated him to enter into the explanations that were still wanting to convince my own mind. He held up a warning forefinger, and stopped me.

”Not yet,” he said. ”Once again, am I right--so far?”

”Quite right.”

”Very well. Now tell me what happened next. Don't mind repeating yourself. Give me all the details, one after another, to the end.”

I mentioned all the details exactly as I remembered them. Mr. Playmore returned to his writing for the third and last time. Thus the notes ended:

”He is indirectly a.s.sured that he at least is not the person suspected.

He sinks back in his chair; he draws a long breath; he asks to be left a while by himself, under the pretense that the subject excites him.

When the visitor returns, Dexter has been drinking in the interval. The visitor resumes the subject--not Dexter. The visitor is convinced that Mrs. Eustace Macallan died by the hand of a poisoner, and openly says so. Dexter sinks back in his chair like a man fainting. What is the horror that has got possession of him? It is easy to understand if we call it guilty horror; it is beyond all understanding if we call it anything else. And how does it leave him? He flies from one extreme, to another; he is indescribably delighted when he discovers that the visitor's suspicions are all fixed on an absent person. And then, and then only, he takes refuge in the declaration that he has been of one mind with his visitor, in the matter of suspicion, from the first. These are facts. To what plain conclusion do they point?”

He shut up his notes, and, steadily watching my face, waited for me to speak first.

”I understand you, Mr. Playmore,” I beg impetuously. ”You believe that Mr. Dexter--”

His warning forefinger stopped me there.

”Tell me,” he interposed, ”what Dexter said to you when he was so good as to confirm your opinion of poor Mrs. Beauly.”

”He said, 'There isn't a doubt about it. Mrs. Beauly poisoned her.'”

”I can't do better than follow so good an example--with one trifling difference. I say too, There isn't a doubt about it. Dexter poisoned her.

”Are you joking, Mr. Playmore?”