“Just so, but that feeling’s a lot more to do with this mystery than you think, my young friend,” said Myerst. “What did they say, you ask? Why, they strenuously denied it, Cardlestone swore solemnly to me that he had no part or lot in the murder of Maitland. So did Elphick. But—they know something about the murder. If those two old men can’t tell you definitely who actually struck John Maitland down, I’m certain that they have a very clear idea in their minds as to who really did! They—”
A sudden sharp cry from the inner room interrupted Myerst. Breton and Spargo started to their feet and made for the door. But before they could reach it Elphick came out, white and shaking.
“He’s gone!” he exclaimed in quavering accents. “My old friend’s gone—he’s dead! I was—asleep. I woke suddenly and looked at him. He——”
Spargo forced the old man into a chair and gave him some whisky; Breton passed quickly into the inner room; only to come back shaking his head.
“He’s dead,” he said. “He evidently died in his sleep.”
“Then his secret’s gone with him,” remarked Myerst, calmly. “And now we shall never know if he did kill John Maitland or if he didn’t. So that’s done with!”
Old Elphick suddenly sat up in his chair, pushing Spargo fiercely away from his side.
“He didn’t kill John Maitland!” he cried angrily, attempting to shake his fist at Myerst. “Whoever says he killed Maitland lies. He was as innocent as I am. You’ve tortured and tormented him to his death with that charge, as you’re torturing me—among you. I tell you he’d nothing to do with John Maitland’s death—nothing!”
Myerst laughed.
“Who had, then?” he said.