"Pardon me," he began, "but if the question is not premature, are you able to form a theory? Have you any idea as to the identity of the assassin?"
Converse eyed the old man askance, and the latter went on immediately:
"Besides yourselves and Doctor Bane I am the only man in the house. I am a near neighbor; I reside on the opposite corner. Wilson is my name, Slayden Wilson. I was going to say, that perhaps I may be needed else—"
"By all means, don't let us detain you," urged Converse with suspicious haste.
"Thank you. And if you require anything—" his eye wandered until it rested upon the bell-button beside the door—"if you require anything, press the button there."
"Very good," Converse returned. "Try to prepare the ladies for a meeting, as I shall want to question them—the servants too."
The old gentleman withdrew, closing the door noiselessly after him.
Mr. Converse still held the writing-tablet in his hand, and now he laid it upon the table. As he did so, McCaleb—all the time close to his elbow—quietly observed.
"Do you suppose somebody's got away with it, sir?"
"It looks that way," the older man replied, abstractedly; then abruptly breaking off, he fixed a keen look upon the young man. "What do you mean, McCaleb?" he asked.