“No,” said Barton; “where was the use? How can I prove anything now? It is not as if poison had been used, that could be detected by analysis. Besides, I reflected that if I was right, the less fuss made, the more likely was the murderer to show his hand. Supposing he had a secret motive—and he must have had—he will act on that motive sooner or later. The quieter everything is kept, the more he feels certain he is safe, the sooner he will move in some way or other. Then, perhaps, there may be a chance of detecting him; but it’s an outside chance. Do you know anything of the dead man’s past history?”
“Nothing, except that he was from the North, and had lived a wandering life.”
“Well, we must wait and see. But there is his daughter, left under your care. What do you mean to do about her?”
The question brought Maitland back to his old perplexities, which were now so terribly increased and confused by what he had just been told.
“I was going to tell you, when you broke in with this dreadful business. Things were bad before; now they are awful,” said Maitland. “His daughter has disappeared! That was what I was coming to: that was the rest of my story. It was difficult and distressing enough before I knew what you tell me; now—great Heavens! what am I to do?”
He turned on the sofa, quite overcome. Barton put his hand encouragingly on his shoulder, and sat so for some minutes.
“Tell me all about it, old boy?” asked Barton, at length.
He was very much interested, and most anxious to aid his unfortunate friend. His presence, somehow, was full of help and comfort. Maitland no longer felt alone and friendless, as he had done after his consultation of Bielby. Thus encouraged, he told, as clearly and fully as possible, the tale of the disappearance of Margaret, and of his entire failure even to come upon her traces or those of her companion.
“And you have heard nothing since your illness?”
“Nothing to any purpose. What do you advise me to do?”