"Nonsense!" and Oakes's eyes blazed as he spoke; "you tried to send him away this morning. You gave him money at the hut. You were nearly killed by the man you are protecting. Can you explain it?"
The old man was shaking violently. He arose, tottered and sat down. Then burying his head in his hands, he remained silent for a space of seconds. Then shaking his head, he moaned: "No, I can't explain. I had given him all. Mr. Oakes, he was not robbing me—he seemed angry—he—I could not understand."
"I can," said Oakes. "The man you have befriended these many years, the man Maloney who used to work with you in your shop, to whom you gave, among many other things, a red bandana handkerchief with your initial 'S' upon it—one of those handkerchiefs you use about the printing office—that man, we think, is a maniac. We surmise that he has the killing mania. Did you not suspect it?"
The old man's manner changed to one of terrified inquiry. "Why, I never suspected—I—I thought he was peculiar—I mistrusted he was at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries—I wanted to send him away to give him a show."
Oakes hesitated, then answered evasively, but forcefully: "Maloney is probably irresponsible. He is the man of the Mansion—the woman, so called, of the Smith murder—the murderer of Mr. Mark—we believe, but we are without proof as yet."
The old man's face filled with the blood dammed back from the throbbing heart, then paled as the heart-strokes weakened, and the cold sweat of collapse appeared in beady drops upon his brow.
Moore was at his side with a drink, and we all placed him on the sofa and watched the color return to the yellow-white face, and the respirations deepen again.
Oakes bent solicitously above him. "There is something back of all this, Skinner. Maloney is more than a friend." Then, as the old man rose, the detective, in tones gentle but strong, called Skinner's attention to the fact that his conduct in using the influence of his journal against Hallen and the discovery of the criminal needed an explanation.
Skinner arose, steadied himself, and turning to Hallen said, in a voice scarcely audible: "Chief, I have always been a good citizen till now. I wanted Maloney to get away. He would not go. I thought he might be at the bottom of the Mansion mysteries, but I had no idea he could be a murderer. I did not wish his identity revealed; I tried to discourage Mr. Oakes. I tried to save my reputation, Chief—to save a name good as the world goes; but this is my punishment. Study my face, Chief—study my eyes, my chin. Then imagine a handsome Spanish face—dark-haired, dark-skinned. Do you see why Maloney has blue eyes and a square chin—with hair black as the Indian's and skin swarthy as night? Gentlemen, do you understand? She is dead. Maloney does not know. I cared for the lad. He is my son. He always has been eccentric, but although perhaps insane, I had no proof. I tried to hide my secret, but if Justice demands his capture, Chief, I am at your disposal."
The old man extended his hands, his lips quivering with the words that spelled ruin, and advanced to the Chief, as though expecting arrest, while we all remained motionless, in pitying silence.