"No. 8. October Copley." That was the entry.
A full minute passed before he stooped and recovered the memorandum book which had slipped from his grasp, together with the second telegram. He shook his head impatiently in an effort to clear it of the stupor which numbed his brain.
Why should he be affected like this? he demanded angrily of himself. What was there here that couldn't be explained in the light of facts already known? It was no news to him now that Ocky was aiding Janet to escape the consequences of her crime, and it was plain enough what must have happened. She had found the notebook in Janet's possession, handled it cautiously and left those prints, then insisted upon its return to its rightful owners. That was all. His heart began to pound less violently, and presently he was opening the second telegram, which he saw at once was a straight wire from Kitty Doyle filed early that morning.
"Same compartment in sleeper. She had lower berth. Was very restless. Talked several times. Could only hear one sentence, repeated frequently. Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it? She wired Hotel Beauclerc Montreal for reservation. K. Doyle."
"Miss Ocky, why did you do it, why did you do it?"
For a few moments that sentence written in letters of fire danced madly before his eyes. Then it cleared away and left him gazing at the peaceful woods beyond the patch of velvet lawn. His face was expressionless, but his lips moved slowly.
"That's it. That's it, of course. It's been there all the time. I knew it. I was just afraid to face it. Now—I've got to."
He was standing on the veranda, but he had an odd sense that his brain had detached itself from his body and was floating high in the air, whence it had a comprehensive, bird's-eye view of the whole situation. The chief actors in the drama were there, and as his brain watched them they dissolved briefly into mist, then reformed slowly into a sort of allegorical tableau.
There was Miss Ocky, arrayed in the somber robes of a monk, a stained dagger held loosely in her fingers, an illusive, faintly mocking smile on her lips. There was a great figure in white, a bandage about its eyes, leaning negligently on a long, two-edged sword, its calm, sightless face turned toward the woman in black. There was Janet Mackay, gaunt and ugly, interposing her thin body between the two, a pitifully inadequate shield. They all appeared to be waiting for something, and presently it was evident that the attention of the two women was centered on the figure of a funny little man whose troubled eyes peered out from behind a huge pair of shell-rimmed glasses as he stood beside the goddess, hesitant, his hand stretched out to loose the bandage from the eyes of Justice.
The vision faded until only the funny little man was left. The watcher on high saw him turn and enter the house, calm and composed, putting two telegrams and a notebook into his pocket as he walked the length of the hall and into the pantry. His voice was placid when he spoke.