"Yes, he was mad and has been so for a long time in my opinion, but that makes no difference whatever in my confidence that he was speaking truly. Confessions of this kind from a madman are generally true; their cunning is prodigious, and as long as they wish to conceal a fact it is next to impossible to get it from them; but when, as in the present case, they are proud of their cleverness and of the success with which they have fooled other people, they will tell everything. You see their ideas of right and wrong are entirely upset; the real lunatic is unconscious of having committed a crime, and is inclined even to glory in it."
"I wish we could have got him to sign," the magistrate said.
"I am sure he could not have held the pen," Dr. Arrowsmith replied. "I will certify to that effect, and as we three all heard the confession, I think that if you draw it out and we sign it as witnesses, it will have just as good an effect as if he had written it himself."
"There was one part, doctor, that surprised me even more than the rest—that was the part relating to the man Forester. I don't believe a soul suspected him of being in any way connected with the crime. At least we heard nothing of a knife being found, nor, of course, of the quarrel between Forester and the girl; Ruth Powlett, was it not?"
"No; that is all new to us," the doctor said.
"I think the best way would be to see her in the morning. She may not like to confess that she concealed the knife, if she did so. Of course, if she does, it will be an invaluable confirmation of his story, and will show conclusively that his confession was not a mere delusion of a madman's brain."
"Yes, indeed," the doctor agreed, "that would clench the matter altogether, and I am almost certain you will find that what he has said is true. The girl was in my hands a short time before Miss Carne's death. They said she had had a fall, but to my mind it seemed more like a severe mental shock. Then after Miss Carne's death she was very ill again, and there was something about her that puzzled me a good deal. For instance, she insisted upon remaining in court until the verdict was given, and that at a time when she was so ill she could scarcely stand. She was so obstinate over the matter that it completely puzzled me; but if what Carne said was true, and she had the knowledge of something that would have gone very far to prove Ronald Mervyn's innocence, the matter is explained. The only difficulty before us is to get her to speak, because, of course, she cannot do so without laying herself open to a charge—I don't mean a criminal charge, but a moral one—of having suppressed evidence in a manner that concerned a man's life. I think the best plan will be for us to meet at your house, Mr. Volkes, at eleven o'clock to-morrow. I will go into the village before that, and will bring Ruth Powlett up in my gig, and if you will allow me I will do the talking to her. I have had her a good deal in my hands for the last year, and I think she has confidence in me, and will perhaps answer me more freely than she would you as a magistrate."
"Very likely she would, doctor. Let the arrangement stand as you propose."
The next morning, at half-past ten, Dr. Arrowsmith drove up in his gig to the mill. Ruth came to the door.
"Ruth," he said, "I want you to put on your bonnet and shawl and let me drive you a short distance. I have something particular that I want to talk to you about, and want to have you to myself for a bit."