“Yes; here it is. It was while the ubiquitous Sweetwater was mousing about the room.”
“Read the very words he heard. I have a reason, Clifton. Humour me for this once.”
“Certainly—no trouble. She cried, this time: ‘Break it open! Break the glass and look in. Her heart should be there—her heart—her heart! Horrible! but you insisted, Ranelagh.”
“I thought I heard that word glass,” I muttered, more to myself than to him. Then, with a choking fear of giving away my thought, but unable to resist the opportunity of settling my own fears, I asked: “Was there glass in the casket lid?”
“No; there never is.”
“But she may have thought there was,” I suggested hastily. “I’m much obliged to you, Clifton. I had to hear those sentences again. Morbidness, no doubt; the experience of the last three weeks would affect a stronger-minded man than myself.” Then before he could reply: “What do you think the nurse meant by a violent change in her patient?”
“Why, she roused up, I suppose—moved, or made some wild or feverish gesture.”
“That is what I should like to know. I may seem foolish and unnecessarily exacting about trifles; but I would give a great deal to learn precisely where she looked, and what she did at the moment she uttered those wild words. Is the detective Sweetwater still in town?”
“I believe so. Came up for the inquest but goes back to-night.”
“See him, Clifton. Ask him to relate this scene. He was present, you know. Get him to talk about it. You can, and without rousing his suspicion, keen as they all say he is. And when he talks, listen and remember what he says. But don’t ask questions. Do this for me, Clifton. Some day I may be able to explain my request, but not now.”