“It sounds straightforward enough, Will, but it won’t bear looking into. When a man invents a story, it may seem to be reasonable enough, but, you may depend upon it, it’s not sound in all it’s parts, and must give way somewheres. The first thing that struck me as strange in this was a small matter enough, but it set me to thinking. Mr. Moor’s horse was standing in the shallow beside the bridge when I ran out into the turnpike. Now, in thinking the matter over, it occurred to me that, if I was out riding for pleasure, and my horse was fresh from the stable, I wouldn’t stop within three quarters of a mile from home to water it; would you?”
Will was gazing fixedly into Tom’s eyes; he made no answer to the question, but he shook his head.
“That, as I say, was the first thing that struck me; it was a little thing, but it set me athinking, and I began to wonder why Mr. Moor should have stopped his horse. The day wasn’t warm enough to make it any pleasure to drive through a shallow; one wouldn’t think of doing such a thing on a cool autumn day. So I began turning things over and over in my mind and, after a while, the whole story went to pieces, like a card house when you take away one of the cards. Now, I think I can prove to you from Mr. Moor’s own evidence before the magistrate, that he was within three hundred yards of Isaac Naylor and me during the whole time that we were together, and that he saw all that passed between us. Mr. Moor said that he saw Isaac Naylor turn into the mill road. To do that, he must have been pretty well down the hill or he couldn’t have seen him for the trees; he couldn’t have been over five hundred yards away from him, could he?”
Will shook his head.
“Now, Isaac Naylor walked about two or three hundred yards down the mill road before he met me, and there’s where he was found the next morning—killed. While he walked that three hundred yards, Mr. Moor, on horseback, could easily have covered the five hundred yards between the spot from where he saw him to the place where the mill road opens into the turnpike, so that he could have come up to the opening of the road just about the time that Isaac Naylor met me. Now,” said Tom, patting the edge of the table upon which he was sitting to give force to that which he was saying, “is it reasonable that I could have talked to Isaac Naylor, have fought with him and have killed him, and then have run the three hundred yards to the turnpike while Mr. Moor sat on his horse watering it at the shallow? Is it reasonable, say?”
“No,” said Will, “it’s not.” He seemed half dazed with that which Tom was telling him, but Tom saw that he was following him, and that was all that he wanted.
“Now, here’s another point. According to this, he was within three hundred yards of the scene of the murder at the very time that the murder was being done, and yet, by his evidence, he didn’t hear a single sound. Now, Isaac Naylor called for help while I was fighting with him—and called twice, and yet Mr. Moor, though it is clear that he was so near to us, heard nothing of it.”
Will rose from his chair and began walking excitedly up and down the room. Tom watched him for a while in silence. “Have I made my meaning clear to you?” said he, at last.
“Clear? Yes—yes; of course you’ve made it clear.”
“I’ve more to say yet,” said Tom, “and when you’ll sit down and listen coolly, I’ll go on.”