“Well, I became Manderson’s secretary. For a long time I liked the position greatly. When one is attached to an active American plutocrat in the prime of life one need not have many dull moments. Besides, it made me independent. My father had some serious business reverses about that time, and I was glad to be able to do without an allowance from him. At the end of the first year Manderson doubled my salary. ‘It’s big money,’ he said, ‘but I guess I don’t lose.’ You see, by that time I was doing a great deal more than accompany him on horseback in the morning and play chess in the evening, which was mainly what he had required. I was attending to his houses, his farm in Ohio, his shooting in Maine, his horses, his cars, and his yacht. I had become a walking railway-guide and an expert cigar-buyer. I was always learning something.
“Well, now you understand what my position was in regard to Manderson during the last two or three years of my connection with him. It was a happy life for me on the whole. I was busy, my work was varied and interesting; I had time to amuse myself too, and money to spend. At one time I made a fool of myself about a girl, and that was not a happy time; but it taught me to understand the great goodness of Mrs. Manderson.” Marlowe inclined his head to Mr. Cupples as he said this. “She may choose to tell you about it. As for her husband, he had never varied in his attitude towards me, in spite of the change that came over him in the last months of his life, as you know. He treated me well and generously in his unsympathetic way, and I never had a feeling that he was less than satisfied with his bargain—that was the sort of footing we lived upon. And it was that continuance of his attitude right up to the end that made the revelation so shocking when I was suddenly shown, on the night on which he met his end, the depth of crazy hatred of myself that was in Manderson’s soul.”
The eyes of Trent and Mr. Cupples met for an instant.
“You never suspected that he hated you before that time?” asked Trent; and Mr. Cupples asked at the same moment, “To what did you attribute it?”
“I never guessed until that night,” answered Marlowe, “that he had the smallest ill-feeling toward me. How long it had existed I do not know. I cannot imagine why it was there. I was forced to think, when I considered the thing in those awful days after his death, that it was a case of a madman’s delusion, that he believed me to be plotting against him, as they so often do. Some such insane conviction must have been at the root of it. But who can sound the abysses of a lunatic’s fancy? Can you imagine the state of mind in which a man dooms himself to death with the object of delivering some one he hates to the hangman?”
Mr. Cupples moved sharply in his chair. “You say Manderson was responsible for his own death?” he asked.
Trent glanced at him with an eye of impatience, and resumed his intent watch upon the face of Marlowe. In the relief of speech it was now less pale and drawn.
“I do say so,” Marlowe answered concisely, and looked his questioner in the face. Mr. Cupples nodded.
“Before we proceed to the elucidation of your statement,” observed the old gentleman, in a tone of one discussing a point of abstract science, “it may be remarked that the state of mind which you attribute to Manderson—”
“Suppose we have the story first,” Trent interrupted, gently laying a hand on Mr. Cupples’s arm. “You were telling us,” he went on, turning to Marlowe, “how things stood between you and Manderson. Now will you tell us the facts of what happened that night?”