As soon as he had left, Paul Capel let his head go down upon his hands, for his brain seemed to be in a whirl—the death of Ramo—the disappearance of the fortune—the visit of the doctor.
It only wanted this latter, with the hints he had thrown out, to fire a train of latent suspicion in the young man’s mind.
There was that open window that the policeman had declared had not been used. Was he wrong? Had others been in the conspiracy and turned afterwards on Ramo and Charles? They might have been in the plot. Or, again, they might have been defending their master’s wealth against the wretch who had escaped with the treasure by the open window.
Those three Italians!
Had they anything to do with the matter?
The old butler! He seemed so quiet and innocent! But often beneath an air of innocency, crime found a resting place.
Then he found himself suspecting Mr Girtle, and on the face of the evidence Capel laid before himself, the case looked very black. He knew everything; he held the keys—he, the old friend and companion, had been left merely a signet ring.
“Impossible!” cried Capel, half aloud; “I might as well suspect Artis, or Miss Lawrence, or Katrine herself.”
“May I come in,” said a voice that sent a thrill through the thinker, and Katrine D’Enghien stood in the doorway.
“Come in? Yes,” cried Capel, advancing to meet her with open hands, and moved by an impulse that he could not withstand.