"Very well, a man whose whole mind has for some time been engrossed with defending another man accused of murder, might say any thing while in a state of delirium."
Mr. Gryce uttered his favorite "Humph!" and gave his leg another pat, but added, gravely enough: "Miss Dare believes his words to be those of confession."
"You say Miss Dare once believed me to have confessed."
"But," persisted the detective, "Miss Dare is not alone in her opinion. Men in whose judgment you must rely, find it difficult to explain the words of Mr. Orcutt by means of any other theory than that he is himself the perpetrator of that crime for which you are yourself being tried."
"I find it difficult to believe that possible," quietly returned the prisoner. "What!" he suddenly exclaimed; "suspect a man of Mr. Orcutt's abilities and standing of a hideous crime—the very crime, too, with which his client is charged, and in defence of whom he has brought all his skill to bear! The idea is preposterous, unheard of!"
"I acknowledge that," dryly assented Mr. Gryce; "but it has been my experience to find that it is the preposterous things which happen."
For a minute the prisoner stared at the speaker incredulously; then he cried:
"You really appear to be in earnest."
"I was never more so in my life," was Mr. Gryce's rejoinder.
Drawing back, Craik Mansell looked at the detective with an emotion that had almost the character of hope. Presently he said: