“It wasn’t my business. He was a stranger and possibly mad. I didn’t know what to do.”
“What did you do?”
“Went home and kept quiet; my wife was very ill that night and I had my own cause for anxiety.”
“You, however, read the papers next morning?”
“No, sir, nor for many days. My wife grew constantly worse and for a week I didn’t leave her, not knowing but that every breath would be her last. I was dead to everything outside the sick-room and when she grew better, which was very gradually, we had to take her away, so that I had no opportunity of speaking of this occurrence to any one till a week ago, when some remark, published in connection with Mrs. Jeffrey’s death, recalled that encounter on the bridge. I told a neighbor that I believed the man I had seen there was Mr. Jeffrey, and we looked up the papers and ran over them till we came upon his picture. That settled it, and I could no longer—being free from home anxieties now—hold my tongue and the police heard—”
“That will do, Mr. Gelston,” broke in the major. “When we want you again, we will let you know. Durbin, see Mr. Gelston out.”
I was left alone with the major and the district attorney.
There was a moment’s silence, during which my own heart beat so loud that I was afraid they would hear it. Since taking up Miss Tuttle’s cause I had never really believed in Mr. Jeffrey’s innocence in spite of the alibi he had brought forward, and now I expected to hear these men utter the same conviction. The major was the first to speak. Addressing the district attorney, he remarked: “This will strengthen your case very materially. We have proof now that Mrs. Jeffrey’s death was actually determined upon. If Miss Tuttle had not shot her, he would. I wonder if it was a relief to him on reaching his door to find that the deed was done.”
I could not suppress my surprise.
“Miss Tuttle!” I repeated. “Is it so unmistakably evident that Mr. Jeffrey did not get to the Moore house in time to do the shooting himself?”