"And I advised him to talk with you and be guided by your instructions," threw in Miss Ocky.
"What had I better do?" asked Sherwood hopelessly.
"Do! There's a man in the county jail with an ugly charge hanging over him that a word from you will lift—and you ask me what to do!" Creighton was scandalized. "Go to Norvallis—instantly! Tell him the truth and let him decide how much publicity must attend the liberation of Maxon. I don't think he will insist upon much!"
"You're right, Mr. Creighton—but not helpful."
"Helpful! What did you expect?" snorted the detective indignantly. "Did you think I'd encourage you to let Maxon rot in jail just to humor your quixotic notions about gossip and a woman's name? I sympathize with your difficulty, but that's as far as I can go. There are two things I've never done and never expect to do knowingly—let an innocent man suffer unjustly or a guilty one escape!"
"At this point there was loud applause from the gallery!" murmured Miss Ocky in her soft, amused drawl, and brought him to earth. "Go on, Leslie, and do your duty. It can't be helped."
"Very well," said Mr. Sherwood unhappily, and got off the rock. "Nothing more you want to ask me, is there?"
"N-no," answered the detective, a bit subdued by Miss Ocky's rebuke. "Yes—one thing. What did this confounded monk look like?"
"Well, I can't help you much there. I got the impression that he wore a mask—as Miss Copley did when she saw him on the trail. He was dressed from head to foot in black. He even wore black gloves; it was an odd thing that made me notice that. Have you ever seen a man straighten up from some completed task and stand looking down at it, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together as if to say, 'Well, there's a good job over and done with'? That's what this fellow did as he stood above Simon—"
"Oh!" gasped Miss Ocky, and collapsed limply on the bowlder, her face ashen. "Oh!"