"How did he come to tell you?"
"I persuaded him to. I've noticed ever since I've been in the house that he was shaky, nervous—worried. Three times out of five, when you see a servant in that condition following a mysterious crime, you can look for the explanation in a shady past. I tackled him from that basis. He didn't need much urging—in fact, he told me he had half made up his mind to come to me with the story of his own accord. I believe him. He had been in mortal terror lest the police discover it." Creighton paused in order to study her serious, thoughtful face. "He asked me to tell you this."
"He did!"
"He seems devoted to you. He had wanted to tell you himself, but could never quite find the courage. He has wanted you to know the truth about him, but has never been able to forget the way others used to receive it. He has taken some hard knocks."
"Poor soul. Poor lonely soul!" Her voice was tender.
"I thought you'd feel that way about it! You'll find an opportunity to make him understand, I suppose? Probably he won't want to talk much about it, but you—you could give him a friendly pat on the arm or—or something like that, couldn't you?"
Miss Ocky suddenly turned and looked at him with eyes that were shining through unshed tears.
"You're a queer man! You can sit there suspecting him of murder and still want me to be kind to him!"
"Have I said anything about suspecting him?" demanded the detective with almost a touch of asperity.
"You accused me of suspecting Copley last evening and I had to remind you that he'd probably turn up with a perfectly good alibi—and he did! If there's a pessimist in human nature sitting around here, it isn't I!"