Part 13 (2/2)
the old man went on, ignoring the sarcasm, ”is in the further charge that Miss Brace was trying to make him marry her, that he should have married her, that he killed her in order to be free to marry your daughter--for money.”
”My daughter! For money!” shrilled Sloane, neck elongated, head thrust forward, eyes bulging. ”Leaping and whistling cherubim!” For all his outward agitation, he seemed to Hastings in thorough command of his logical faculties; it was more than possible, the detective thought, that the expletives were time-killers, until he could decide what to say. ”It's ridiculous, absurd! Why, sir, you reason as loosely as you dress! Are you trying to prostrate me further with impossible theories?
Webster marry my daughter for money, for sixty-five thousand dollars? He knows I'd let him have any amount he wanted. I'd give him the money if it meant his peace of mind and Lucille's happiness.--Dumb and dancing devils! Jarvis, a little whiskey! I'm worn out, worn out!”
”Did you ever tell Mr. Webster of the extent of your generous feeling toward him, Mr. Sloane--in dollars and cents?”
”No; it wasn't necessary. He knows how fond of him I am.”
”And you would let him have sixty-five thousand dollars--if he had to have it?”
”I would, sir!--today, this morning.”
”Now, one other thing, Mr. Sloane, and I'm through. It's barely possible that there was some connection between this murder and a letter which came to Sloanehurst yesterday afternoon, a letter in an oblong grey envelope. Did----”
The nervous man went to pieces again, beat with his open palms on the bed covering.
”Starved and stoned evangels, Jarvis! Quit balling your feet! You stand there and see me hara.s.sed to the point of extinction by a lot of crazy queries, and you indulge yourself in that infernal weakness of yours of balling your feet! Leaping angels! You know how acute my hearing is; you know the noise of your sock against the sole of your shoe when you ball your feet is the most exquisite torture to me! A little whiskey, Jarvis!
Quick!” He spoke now in a weak, almost inaudible voice to Hastings: ”No; I got no such letter. I saw no such letter.” He sank slowly back to a p.r.o.ne posture.
”I was going to remind you,” the detective continued, ”that I brought the five o'clock mail in. Getting off the car, I met the rural carrier; he asked me to bring in the mail, saving him the few steps to your box.
All there was consisted of a newspaper and one letter. I recall the shape and colour of the envelope--oblong, grey. I did not, of course, look at the address. I handed the mail to you when you met me on the porch.”
Mr. Sloane, raising himself on one elbow to take the restoring drink from Jarvis, looked across the gla.s.s at his cross-examiner.
”I put the mail in the basket on the hall table,” he said in high-keyed endeavour to express withering contempt. ”If it had been for me, Jarvis would have brought it to me later. I seldom carry my reading gla.s.ses about the house with me.”
Hastings, subjecting the pallid Jarvis to severe scrutiny, asked him:
”Was that grey letter addressed to--whom?”
”I didn't see it,” replied Jarvis, scarcely polite.
”And yet, it's your business to inspect and deliver the household's mail?”
”Yes, sir.”
”What became of it, then--the grey envelope?”
”I'm sure I can't say, sir, unless some one got it before I reached the mail basket.”
Hastings stood up. Interrogation of both master and man had given him nothing save the inescapable conviction that both of them resented his questioning and would do nothing to help him. The reason for this opposition he could not grasp, but it was a fact, challenging his a.n.a.lysis. Arthur Sloane rejected his proffered help in the pursuit of the man who had brought murder to the doors of Sloanehurst. Why? Was this his method of hiding facts in his possession?
Hastings questioned him again:
”Your waking up at that unusual hour last night--was it because of a noise outside?”
The neurasthenic, once more rec.u.mbent, succeeded in voicing faint denial of having heard any noises, outside or inside. Nor had he been aware of the murder until called by Judge Wilton. He had turned on his light to find the smelling-salts which, for the first time in six years, Jarvis had failed to leave on his bed-table,--terrible and ill-trained apes!
Couldn't he be left in peace?
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