The maniac stared at me a few seconds with a most bewildered air, looking as if he had forgotten something, or as if he did not quite understand how I came to be in my present position, and then went on:
"Yes, this red stain is his. I slew him. Why? Let me think," resting his elbow on the table and pressing his forefinger to his brow for all the world like a sane man. "Let me think; I had a motive for it. What was it? Love of my art? Yes, that was it—art."
He paused again, as if he found it difficult to collect his shattered memories.
"From the first hour of my calling as an artist it became an object with me to woo and win a woman whose face should be all that a painter could desire. No vulgar model who displays her charms for hire would do for me; my inspiration must come from a pure and beautiful maiden who, fired with the spirit of my enthusiasm, would be devoted to all that was high and noble in art for its own sake. Her lovely shape, delineated in various attitudes on the canvas, should be the making of my pictures. In short," he added, "I was a second Zeuxis in quest of beauty."
He made another stop, and then resumed:
"At last, after long years of waiting, I found what I had sought. Imagination could not picture a form more lovely than that of Daphne Leslie, and I resolved to make her the handmaid of art. But there was an obstacle in the way. That obstacle was Captain Willard. No matter. He must die; art demanded it, and I took an oath that the eve of his wedding should be the last day of his life. But how was I to set about it? I knew what suspicions would arise—what a hue and cry would be raised by society—if a distinguished officer, who had come all the way from India to wed a rich and lovely bride, should vanish mysteriously on the very eve of his intended marriage. All the machinery of the law would be set in motion to discover the author of the deed. Suspicion would be sure to fall on the artist who was known to entertain feelings of love towards the bride. 'It was Vasari that did it,' men would say, 'and jealousy was the cause.' I must act with caution. Ah! I would forge a letter in Captain Willard's handwriting—easy task this for an artist!—purporting that he had fled of his own accord to the Continent. Ho! ho! it was bravely done—bravely. No one ever dreamt that he was dead, and that Angelo had killed him."
He put on an air of savage pride which plainly implied, "Now what do you think of that?"
Like a trembling child flinging a cherished eatable to a dog of which he is afraid, I flung the maniac a propitiatory falsehood, despising myself for it the minute afterwards:
"I always thought you were a clever fellow."