"Nor me," retorted Major Temple.
"Then whom, in Heaven's name?" I cried, speaking my thoughts aloud.
"You have heard my theory of the murder, Mr. Morgan," said the Inspector, coldly. "Why not herself? The note is plain enough. She will speak—she will confess and accuse herself before she will allow you to bear the penalty of her crime."
"Her crime!" Major Temple was on his feet in an instant, his eyes blazing. "Your words are ill chosen, sir." Poor man, he did not know of the damning circumstances which the Inspector had so cleverly woven into his accusing theory.
"Not at all, Major Temple," replied the imperturbable Inspector. "Sergeant McQuade is at present ordering the arrest of your daughter. She will be apprehended as soon as she arrives in London, and we will hear her story at the Magistrate's hearing to-morrow."
"But," I cried, in consternation, "this is ridiculous. Don't you see that—?"
"Mr. Morgan, the time has come for the truth. It is my painful duty to place you under arrest."
"On what charge?" I demanded hotly.
"For complicity in Robert Ashton's murder," he replied, and placed his hand upon my shoulder.
I spent a dreary enough night, nor was I able to close my eyes in sleep. I sat up in the library through the long hours, sometimes talking with McQuade, who dozed upon a couch, but for the most part engaged in interminably revolving in my mind the maddening problem of Robert Ashton's death. I had begun to regard it as almost supernatural in its mysterious and devious phases. I thought of all the detective stories I had ever read and tried to piece out some points of resemblance, some similar events, which would serve as a starting point for a solution, but I could find none. In all these cases, the various clews led somewhere, but here they led to nothingness. There remained but Miss Temple's story, and that, like all the rest, I feared would fail to prove a solution of the mystery. That she herself was guilty and that her story would be in the nature of a confession, I refused to consider. I loved her and I could no more believe her guilty than I could have believed myself so; yet I could not help remembering the advice of the witty Frenchman: cherchez la femme—seek the woman. The thing seemed monstrous, yet it persisted all through the long night.