About the house in Rye street, in which Louis Fordham met his death, and the circumstances of the fatal struggle. Was it likely that Louis alone knew of the house and had no confederates? Not at all likely. Who were his confederates? I put the name of one on paper—Maxwell. Good! A ray of light. Like looking through a chink in the floor. I saw possibilities.
Who took the house, and for what purpose was it taken? Certainly not for the purpose of killing John Fordham. I dismissed the idea instantly. The confederates, even if they knew the name of the vessel in which John Fordham was traveling, could not have known that it would arrive at such and such an hour on such and such a day; could not have known that he would walk through Rye Street on his way to the railway station; could not have known that a great snowstorm would arise to cloak their proceedings; could not have timed the moment that he would pass the house. Natural conclusion that the meeting between him and Louis was accidental, and that during the struggle, Louis was as little aware as John of the identity of his assailant.
And here I was confronted with those elements of the affair which added to John Fordham's danger. His taking Louis' ulster to hide the stains of blood on his clothes, his accidental picking up of Louis' watch, believing it to be his own, his assumed name, and his remaining in hiding for so long a time. To all these I had satisfactory answers, but no jury in the world would entertain them. My hopes fell almost to zero.
I was setting these details down in the order of their occurrence. Of the strange discoveries I subsequently made I will make no mention till the proper time arrives. Before I went to bed I posted a comforting letter to Miss Cameron, in which I said much of my hopes and nothing of my fears.
On the following day I paid a visit to John Fordham. He looked at me suspiciously, and was not satisfied with my friendly professions until I related the manner of my introduction into the business. When I mentioned Miss Cameron's name his eyes became suffused with tears.
"What do you expect to do for me," he asked, "when my own evidence proves my guilt?"
"Do you believe yourself to be guilty of murder?" I asked in return.
"No," he answered.
"Would it not be a good thing to convince others of that?"
"Indeed it would," he said, but shaking his head at the same time, as though it were not possible.