Up to the present it had been difficult to ascribe to each circumstance its own proper value; but now they were beginning to shape themselves into some semblance of order, and for the first time a fairly complete concept of the tragedy's enactment irresistibly presented itself to me.
The antecedent circumstances leading up to the crime, however, were largely conjectural, although they were pretty strongly suggested by the details of the struggle itself. I was thus enabled to supply the missing portions with more or less plausibility. Here, then, is the way I reconstructed the night's occurrences in this house—the fatal sequence of events which began when Felix Page bade Maillot good-night, culminated in the older man's death, and ended with the flight of the murderer. You will perceive that the four "Chinese" had no place in it; I could find none for them.
After Mr. Page and Maillot separated, for some reason the former had not retired. I took it as being more than likely that he had returned to the library, where presently he fell into a doze before the dying fire. But, no, first of all he went to the safe to dispose of the box containing the ruby; after that he returned to the library. While he nodded over the fire the thief stole to the safe, opened it with the combination, and took not only the ruby, but everything else the strong-box contained.
But cautious as the thief is, some disturbing noise penetrates to the sleeper's consciousness; in fancy we may see the old man—fox, pirate of the pit, as he had been called—starting broad awake, fearless, every faculty alert and strained to catch the betraying sounds.
In a moment he bestirs himself to ascertain what is afoot in his house at so unseemly an hour. Noiselessly he enters the hall from the library, in time to behold the marauder—by the latter's own candle flame, I was positive—ascending the front stairs.
And here the tragic episode departs from all precedent; at this stage it assumes its baffling aspects. If the thief had not been a member of the household—even but a temporary member—why should he have gone up the stairs instead of leaving the house by the nearest way? And again, why should Mr. Page have followed the thief so stealthily if he had not recognized him?
But the master of the house steals on up the stairs behind the other. At about the time he arrives at the head of the stairs the thief vanishes: else why did Mr. Page pause to light the candle in the iron candlestick which stood upon the étagère?
Fatal move, that! In some manner the étagère is knocked forward against the balustrade; the thief is alarmed, although some door must have closed behind him. And now the old gentleman is facing no longer a thief merely, but a man with murder in his heart.
Which door had it been: Maillot's, or Burke's, or yet some other door?
Once more we are given a strong indication that Felix Page knew the man, for he and the assassin in limine do not immediately close in combat. Not yet. Some words certainly pass. The taper in the heavy iron candlestick must burn long enough to account not only for the drops of paraffin scattered about over the floor, but those that ran like congealing tears down the side.