“No doubt it's all so,” retorted the chief, “but what I can't understand is this: What did the gardener see, what was it made him turn, as you say, to leave the library?”
“He must have seen the minister destroying the manuscript on the desk. He tried to get out of the room without being heard in order to tell Patton. And he was shot. As Miss Harlan screamed, the minister rushed at her. Her fainting no doubt saved her life. He took her down to the boat, then to the boat house. The rest you know. In that startled moment when the eyes of the murderer fell upon Patton, and he saw his victim standing before him, he realized he had killed the wrong man. His heart could not stand the strain.”
“That was lucky for him,” was the chief's dry comment. “But, at that, he was crazy.”
“Yes—and—no,” was Bartley's reply. “In the beginning he simply was a neurotic—unbalanced, not insane. In the end the conflict between his two selves drove him insane. If you mean he was insane the last few hours of his life, I agree with you.”
Silence fell, which the chief broke to say that he thought he better return to town. The secretary went up to her room to dress, returning in a few moments. At the door she turned to thank us, and then said good night. We stood for a moment in the open door and watched the car leave the drive; then went back into the house. As we moved rather nervously about the room, Carter paused and asked:
“John, what would that man have done to that girl if we had not reached the boat house?”
“Killed her. You remember his repeated cry—a sacrifice—a sacrifice. His mind was gone then. Upon his conscience, if he had any, were two murders. Dimly he wished to make his peace with God, and he remembered the idea which runs through so much theology—the sacrifice of blood. He would have killed her as an offering—the offering which his unbalanced mind thought was demanded.”
The thought was a horrible one, and I gave a little shiver. As the men sank down into their chairs, there came a silence which no one broke. In it again I heard the weird tones of the organ as my mind went back to the moments I had spent in the church balcony. I shuddered as I thought of the frenzied voice of the minister with his wild cry for a sacrifice. And then my eyes fell upon Ranville.
He was sitting in a chair by the table. His face was very thoughtful, and once or twice I saw him knit his brows. As he lifted his head, our eyes met for a second. Then his glance strayed over to the table. On its surface was the bottle of Scotch. His hand went forth, and he poured out a small drink. Holding the glass in his hand, he turned to Bartley:
“Well, Mr. Bartley, you pulled it off. But there is one thing I wish to tell you.”