"Got a shock, did you?" repeated Creighton to himself, yet the boy's words had rung true. "If you're ready, Mr. Varr, I'll give you the story of what happened up to your father's death. I'll be brief."
At that, it was a lengthy narrative. It took more than an hour to relate, an hour in which Copley Varr did not once take his eyes from the detective's face. His gaze was expressionless; Creighton, returning it with interest, strove vainly to pierce that inscrutable veil to see what lay behind.
"And there is no definite clue to the murderer?" asked, Copley when Creighton finished. "Is the Maxon theory sound?"
"I think not. As for clues—well, such indications as I have turned up are too vague to be termed that."
"Do you suspect any one?"
"That question is out of order, Mr. Varr."
"Oh. Will you tell me then, in a general way, where those indications you mention seem to point?"
"In a general way, yes." Creighton meditated. "They point to a person who hated your father, who sympathized with the striking tanners, who was wealthy enough to supply them with money, either from sympathy or to further his grudge, a person of some education, familiar with local history and imaginative enough to adapt the costume of a legendary monk to a perfect disguise. Last, a person who was sufficiently familiar with this house to stage a burglary as bold as it was successful."
Copley Varr was pale as this hypothetical portrait was limned. His eyes now avoided the detective's.
"That description might fit a—a number of people," he said.