“And to-night you thought—”
“I thought he was his brother Jerry,” she went on. “The likeness was always amazing, you know that. I was told that Jerry was in town. I felt nervous, somehow, and wired to Mathers. I had his reply only last night. He wired that Wenham was quite safe and contented, not even restless.”
“That telegram was sent by Wenham himself,” Pritchard remarked. “I think you had better hear what he has to say.”
She shrank back.
“No. I couldn't bear the sight of him again!”
“I think you had better,” Pritchard insisted. “I can assure you that he is quite harmless. I will guarantee that.”
He left the room. Soon he returned, his arm locked in the arm of Wenham Gardner. The latter had the look of a spoilt child who is in disgrace. He sat sullenly upon a chair and glared at every one. Then he produced a small crumpled doll, with a thread of black cotton around its neck, and began swinging it in front of him, laughing at Elizabeth all the time.
“Tell us,” Pritchard asked, “what has become of Mathers?”
He stopped swinging the doll, shivered for a moment, and then laughed.
“I don't mind,” he declared. “I guess I don't mind telling. You see, whatever I was when I did it, I am mad now—quite mad. My friend Pritchard here says I am mad. I must have been mad or I shouldn't have tried to hurt that dear beautiful lady over there.”