“I know, I know,” I put in, “but I wasn’t. Lay it to my confusion of mind—to the great shock I had received, to anything but my own blood-guiltiness, and take up the matter as it now stands. Can’t you follow up my suggestion? A witness can certainly be found who encountered that cutter and its occupant somewhere on the long stretch of open road between The Whispering Pines and the resident district.”
“Possibly. It would help. You have not asked for news from the Hill.”
The trembling which seized and shook me at these words testified to the shock they gave me. “Carmel!” I cried. “She is worse—dead!”
“No. She’s not worse and she’s not dead. But the doctors say it will be weeks before they can allow a question of any importance to be put to her. You can see what that will do for us. Her testimony is too important to the case to be ignored. A delay will follow which may or may not be favourable to you. I am inclined to think now that it will redound to your interests. You are ready to swear to the sleigh you speak of; that you saw it leave the club-house grounds and turn north?”
“Quite ready; but you must not ask me to describe or in any way to identify its occupant. I saw nothing but the hat and coat I have told you about. It was just before the moon went under a cloud, or I could not have seen that much.”
Is it so hard to preserve a natural aspect in telling or suggesting a lie that Charles’s look should change as I uttered the last sentence? I do not easily flush, and since my self-control had been called upon by the dreadful experiences of the last few days, I had learned to conceal all other manifestations of feeling except under some exceptional shock. But a lie embodied in so many words, never came easy to my lips, and I suppose my voice fell, for his glance became suddenly penetrating, and his voice slightly sarcastic as he remarked:
“Those clouds obscured more than the moon, I fancy. I only wish that they had not risen between you and me. This is the blindest case that has ever been put in my hands. All the more credit to me if I see you through it, I suppose; but—”
“Tell me,” I broke in, with equal desire to cut these recriminations short and to learn what was going on at the Cumberland house, “have you been to the Hill or seen anybody who has? Can’t you give me some details of—of Carmel’s condition; of the sort of nurse who cares for her, and how Arthur conducts himself under this double affliction?”
“I was there last night. Miss Clifford was in the house and received me. She told me that Arthur’s state of mind was pitiful. He was never a very affectionate brother, you know, but now they cannot get him away from Carmel’s door. He sits or stands all day just outside the threshold and casts jealous and beseeching looks at those who are allowed to enter. They say you wouldn’t know him. I tried to get him to come down and see me, but he wouldn’t leave his post.”
“Doesn’t he grieve for Adelaide? I always thought that of the two she had the greater influence over him.”