My God! I had forgotten all this. I had been very anxious to know how Uncle had fared since I left him in such a state of excitement; whether he were sleeping or awake, and hoped by listening I should hear Wealthy’s step and so judge how matters were within. But a meaning sinister if not definite had been given to this natural impulse by the way Edgar’s voice fell as he uttered that word stopped; and from that moment I recognized him for my enemy, either believing in my guilt or wishing others to; in which latter case, it was for me to fight my battle with every weapon my need called for. But the conflict was not yet and “Patience” must still be my watch-word. But I held my breath as I waited for the next question.
“You say that you heard him moving down the hall. You did not see him at your uncle’s door?”
“No, I did not.”
“But you are confident he was there, previous to your looking out?”
“I am very sure that he was; my ear seldom deceives me.”
“Mr. Bartholomew, will you think carefully before you answer the following question. Was there any circumstance connected with this matter which will enable you to locate the hour at which you heard your cousin pass down the hall?”
He hesitated; he did not want to answer. Why? I would have given all that I possessed to know; but he only said:
“I did not look at my watch; I did not need to. The clock was striking three.”
“Three! The jury will note the hour.”
Why did he say that?—the jury will note the hour? My action was harmless. Everything I did that night was harmless. What did he mean then by the hour? The mystery of it troubled me—a mystery he was careful to leave for the present just where it was.