Fessenden looked mystified.
“That’s strange talk, Schuyler,—but of course you’re fearfully upset, and I suppose just at first it isn’t surprising that you feel that way. But surely,—as man to man, now,—you want to find and punish the wretch that put an end to that beautiful young life.”
“Yes,—I suppose so;” Carleton spoke hesitatingly, and drew his hand across his brow in the same dazed way he did when in the witness box.
“You’re done up, old man, and I’m not going to bother you to-night. But I’m on the hunt, if you aren’t, and I’m going ahead on a few little trails, hoping they’ll lead to something of more importance. By the way, what were you doing in those few minutes last night between your entering the house and entering the library?”
Carleton stared at his guest.
“I don’t know what you mean,” he said.
“Yes, you do. You went in at eleven-fifteen, and you called for help at eleven-thirty.”
“No,—it didn’t take as long as that.” Carleton’s eyes had a far-away look, and Rob grasped his arm and shook him, as he said:
“Drop it, man! Drop that half-dazed way of speaking! Tell me, clearly, what did you do in that short interval?”
“I refuse to state,” said Carleton quietly, but with a direct glance now that made Fessenden cease his insistence.