I confessed that it was half through the insistence of Detective Coogan that I was Henry Wilton, half through the course of events that seemed to make it the easiest road to reach the vengeance that I had vowed to bring the murderer of my friend.
“You are bent on avenging him?” asked Mrs. Knapp thoughtfully.
“I have promised it.”
“You shall have the chance. Strange thought!” she said gloomily, “that the dead hand of Henry Wilton may reach out from beyond the grave and strike at his slayer when he least expects it.”
I was more than ever mystified at these words. I had not expected her to take so philosophically to the idea of hanging Doddridge Knapp, and I thought it best to hold my tongue.
“I have marveled at you,” said Mrs. Knapp after a pause. “I marvel at you yet. You have carried off your part well.”
“Not well enough, it seems, to deceive you,” I said, a little bitterly.
“You should not have expected to deceive me,” said Mrs. Knapp. “But you can imagine the shock I had when I saw that it was not Henry Wilton who had come among us that first night when I called you from Mr. Knapp's room.”
“You certainly succeeded in concealing any surprise you may have felt,” I said. “You are a better actor than I.”
Mrs. Knapp smiled.