"Ah, precisely. That's what I would like to know myself. I think, however, I have the key that will unlock its hiding-place, when I learn how to use it." And I showed him the cipher. He shook his head over it; it was utterly meaningless to him.
There was one phase of our conference concerning which I insisted that the wretched man be minutely circumstantial. Our talk touching upon this point was much too painful for me to reproduce here in its entirety; but after I had almost literally dragged from him every minute detail of the actual tragedy, I felt justified in offering a word of encouragement.
It is sufficient simply to record now the point brought out, to supplement it with certain details acquired from Burke, and to state that it had a vital bearing upon the outcome of the case. The Page affair was by no means closed yet.
When Mr. Fluette struck the blow with the candlestick he was standing at the angle of the balustrade nearest the rooms which Burke and Maillot were occupying. Mr. Page was facing in that direction—that is, toward the west—and consequently his left side was opposed to the balustrade. Such were the respective positions of the two men at the instant the candlestick was snatched from the floor.
Immediately after the blow was struck both Burke and Fluette were thrown into a panic. The latter at once ran wildly down the front stairs, stumbling over the body on the landing, and out at the front door and away. Burke followed hastily after him, his teeth chattering with fright, and promptly bolted the front door. The act was accomplished so soon after the flight that Fluette, overcome with horror at his deed, distinctly heard the bolt shoot while he was speeding down the walk.
Burke had already informed me that after he made fast the front door he ran back to the rear stairs—he was afraid to pass again the body on the landing—where he observed the rear door wide-open. This he also closed and locked, then hurried up to the second floor, being governed by only one idea—to secure, as quickly as he possibly could, Maillot's companionship.
Between the instant he started to follow Fluette down-stairs and the time he stood rapping at Maillot's door, he had consumed much less than a minute. Some time later he thought of the Burmese, but when he looked into his room it was empty. The open back door accounted for their absence.
When I departed from Alfred Fluette—and I did that very thing; walked deliberately away from him, leaving him hopeful in the midst of his household—my heart was exultant, although I had in contemplation a task that might have dismayed Hercules.
But sometimes, usually when we are least expecting it, or when we are getting our affairs into too much of a muddle. Providence intervenes, and with a decisive stroke straightens matters out for us. After all, it is ridiculous wasting so much time and energy in rough-hewing our ends, when the shaping lies with other hands than ours. On this day of days Providence appeared in the guise of Dr. Wentworth De Breen.
His buggy drew up at the curb beside me.