Fred’s letter was a great relief to me. I had not dared to allow my thoughts to dwell on the man whom I had seen in May Derwent’s apartment on that eventful night. The supposition, however, that it was her brother, explained everything satisfactorily. Nothing could be more likely than that this angel of mercy should give shelter to this returned prodigal, and try to save him from the punishment he so richly deserved. But what cared I what he had done? She—she—was immaculate.
At the hospital that morning, I was in such good spirits that I had some difficulty in keeping my elation within bounds. As it was, I noticed that several nurses eyed me with suspicion.
My preoccupation about Miss Derwent’s affairs had been so great that I had hardly given a thought to the mysterious murder, and was consequently very much surprised, on returning home that afternoon, to find the detective patiently awaiting me.
“Well, Mr. Merritt,” I exclaimed; “glad to see you; what can I do for you? Anything wrong with your heart, or your liver, or your nerves, eh?”
“Well, Doctor, I guess my nerves are pretty near all right,” he answered, with a slow smile.
“I’m glad to hear it. Won’t you sit down?”
He selected a comfortable chair, and we sat down facing each other. I wondered what could be coming next.
“Now, Doctor,” he began, in a matter-of-fact voice, “I’d like you to tell me all you know of the murder.”
He had taken me completely by surprise, but I am learning to control my features, and flatter myself that I did not move a muscle as I quietly replied: