“I am accustomed—” he began.
But here his wife broke in with irrepressible passion:
“He is not accustomed to that house. He has never been beyond the first floor. Why, why do you question him? Do you not see—”
His hand was on her lips.
“Hush!” he commanded. “You know my skill in moving about a house; how I sometimes deceive those who do not know me into believing that I can see, by the readiness with which I avoid obstacles and find my way even in strange and untried scenes. Do not try to make them think I am not in my right mind, or you will drive me into the very condition you attribute to me.”
His face, rigid, cold, and set, looked like that of a mask. Hers, drawn with horror and filled with question that was fast taking the form of doubt, bespoke an awful tragedy from which more than one of us recoiled.
“Can you shoot a man dead without seeing him?” asked the Superintendent, with painful effort.
“Give me a pistol and I will show you,” was the quick reply.
A low cry came from the wife. In a drawer near to every one of us there lay a pistol, but no one moved to take it out. There was a look in the doctor’s eye which made us fear to trust him with a pistol just then.
“We will accept your assurance that you possess a skill beyond that of most men,” returned the Superintendent. And beckoning me forward, he whispered: “This is a case for the doctors and not for the police. Remove him quietly, and notify Dr. Southyard of what I say.”