“I am glad that my name is not Moore.”
The superintendent made no reply; his eye had caught mine, and he had become very thoughtful.
“One of the two candelabra belonging to the parlor mantel was found lying on that closet floor,” he observed. “Somebody has entered there lately, as lately as the day when Mr. Pfeiffer was seated here.”
“Pardon me,” I impetuously cried. “Mr. Pfeiffer’s death is quite explained.” And, drawing forward my hand, which up to this moment I had held tight-shut behind my back, I slowly unclosed it before their astonished eyes.
A bit of lace lay in my palm, a delicate bit, such as is only worn by women in full dress.
“Where did you find that?” asked the major, with the first show of deep emotion I have ever observed in him.
My agitation was greater than his as I replied:
“In the rough boarding under those drawers. Some woman’s arm and hand has preceded mine in stealthy search after that fatal spring. A woman who wore lace, valuable lace.”
There was but one woman connected with this affair who rightly answered these conditions. The bride! Veronica Moore.