"And do you, a reputable detective, and, as I have been told, a man of excellent judgment, presume to say that there could be found any one in this town, or even in this country, who could let his suspicions carry him so far as to hint that Mr. Orcutt struck this woman with his own hand in the minute or two that elapsed between his going into her house and his coming out again with tidings of her death?"
"Those who remember that he had been a participator in the lengthy discussion which had just taken place on the court-house steps as to how a man might commit a crime without laying himself open to the risk of detection, might—yes, sir."
Mr. Ferris and the coroner, who, whatever their doubts or fears, had never for an instant seriously believed the dying words of Mr. Orcutt to be those of confession, gazed in consternation at the detective, and finally inquired:
"Do you realize what you are saying?"
Mr. Gryce drew a deep breath, and shifted his gaze to the next stud in Mr. Ferris' shirt-front.
"I have never been accused of speaking lightly," he remarked. Then, with quiet insistence, asked: "Where was Mrs. Clemmens believed to get the money she lived on?"
"It is not known," rejoined the District Attorney.
"Yet she left a nice little sum behind her?"
"Five thousand dollars," declared the coroner.
"Strange that, in a town like this, no one should know where it came from?" suggested the detective.