“I must tell my story in my own way, Mrs. Rowton. Believe me, my task is no easy one.”
“I will have patience,” said Nance. “I beg you to forgive me for showing want of self-control.”
“I more than forgive you, my young lady. I will say something more; I wish to Heaven I had never touched this business. But, now to proceed. The suspicions I had two months ago led me to place a detective belonging to my own staff on your premises.”
“Yes,” said Nance, “you sent Jacob Short, our very excellent footman, down to the Heights. He was a good servant, and for my part, I seldom remembered that he was anything else. But I recall now your words at the time. You said the scent lay red round Rowton Heights. I did not understand you.”
“Very likely not,” said Crossley. “Nevertheless, before I proceed any further, allow me to remind you, madam, that I earnestly begged of you to give up the search.”
“And I refused to do so,” said Nancy. “We need not revert to that again. I had vowed to go on with the thing—my vow was given to a dying man. I will go on with it to the bitter end.”
“Very well, madam, I have now to proceed with my story. Jacob Short went to Rowton Heights and did the work which I had expected him to do. The suspicions which I entertained before he arrived there were abundantly confirmed by evidence which he was able to collect.”
Nance came a step nearer.
“What do you mean?” she said. “Do you infer,” she moistened her lips, they were so dry she could scarcely get out the words—“do you really infer that the murderer, the man who took the life of my young brother, was really an inmate of Rowton Heights?”
The detective nodded.