"Again, for the best of all reasons. She is dead."
"My stepmother dead!"
"As a doornail. You are in luck. Alive, and the body proved to be that of her son, she would argue it out. 'Who was my son's bitterest enemy—who has always been his bitterest enemy? Who but John Fordham?' She would swear to bring the murderer to justice; she would leave no stone unturned; she would hunt you down, John; she would tell the story of your life, with embellishments, in the public court, and make your very name infamous. Lucky for you, therefore, that she is dead. As I was saying, it may be difficult to identify unmarked clothing, but not so with a watch. It is almost a living witness, and found in your possession would send you to the gallows without a tittle of other evidence. What on earth made you run off with it, and what on earth made you leave your own behind? Your health, John. Talking is dry work. Wouldn't you like to ask me a few questions?"
"Tell me what you know, and how you know it. I cannot ask questions."
"Anything to oblige, and in any way you please. I will a round, unvarnished tale deliver. These are capital cigars of yours; you were always a good judge of tobacco. Well, then, to begin, with the prefatory remark that one part of it might be called a chapter of accidents. I won't dwell much on the past; it isn't by any means an agreeable subject, and I am quite aware that there was no love lost between us. But one thing I will say—I think we were all unjust to one another, all a little too hard on one another, making the worst of everything instead of endeavoring to smooth it over. You had provocation; Barbara had hers. She got the idea of another woman in her head, and it drove her to excesses. You can't deny that she was mistaken in her idea; another woman there was, another woman there is—and then, there's the child. That sort of thing is enough to drive a wife mad, so you can't call yourself blameless for poor Barbara's death, because you see, John, one thing leads to another. By a process of reasoning you might be proved to be the direct cause of your wife's death, and therefore her murderer. No doubt you can justify yourself to your own satisfaction, and I am not going to argue with you, but as Barbara's brother it is due to her memory that I should say a few words on her behalf. Of course you know, through your solicitor, that when you disappeared I tried to discover your whereabouts. You were too clever for me, and for some time I was at fault; at length I found out—never mind how—that you had gone to Australia. Then came the question, had you taken the other woman with you? I found an answer to it. You had not."
I pause here to say all the time Maxwell was speaking he was watching my face, as if for confirmation of certain of his statements. I did not observe it during the interview; it occurred to me afterwards when, in a calmer mood, I thought of what had taken place between us. He continued:
"Of your life in Australia I know little or nothing. It is more than likely you made a fortune there; you were always a lucky devil, with a handful of trumps in your hand that ensured a winning game. Even now—with me for a partner—the game is not lost. Now let us see what brought you back to England. It was not, perhaps, because you were tired of Australian life and longed for London pleasures, though that motive is sufficiently strong. But there was Barbara to reckon with. What an encumbrance! Too bad altogether. (Your way of thinking, John; it is your point of view.) By a fortunate fatality—your view again, John—the encumbrance is removed. Barbara is dead; the road is cleared for you. The winning game is in your hand. You lose no time; home you come—to marry the other woman. Am I right? Silence gives consent."
He threw away the stump of his cigar and lit another.
"Now begins the chapter of accidents. On the 30th of November I happened to be in Liverpool; business called me there for just one day, and of all days in the year just that day. In the night my business finished, and not to my satisfaction (all my life I have been robbed right and left, but that's a detail which will not arouse your sympathy), I walked back to my hotel in no very agreeable frame of mind. What a night it was! You remember it, John—you will remember it all your life. It was the most awful snowstorm in my recollection—a record. My way to my hotel lay through Rye Street. The wind cut me in pieces, the snow blinded me; I give you my word I could not get along. I was literally blown back every step I took, actually and literally blown into a house the street door of which was open when I was trying to pass it. I stood in the passage to recover my breath, and then going to the door saw the madness of endeavoring to reach my hotel through such a frightful storm. I did the sensible thing.
"'Here is a house,' thought I, 'the street door of which has been accidentally left or blown open; the inmates will surely accord me shelter for the night; if not a bed, at least a seat by the fire."