He has listened so attentively, so silently, with such moveless, intelligent eagerness, that I forgive him the yawn, and treat myself to a long breath of restfulness and relief, at being at last unburdened of this great secret, and he crosses the room and drops into his favorite attitude beside the window that overlooks the fast darkening street.
"I hardly know just what I expect you to unearth in New Orleans," I answer, after a pause of some moments. "But I have a notion that the links we have failed to find here may be in hiding down there."
Carnes plunges his hands deep down into his pockets. I know, from the intentness of his face, and the unwinking fixedness of the eyes that stare yet see nothing beyond the panorama conjured by his own imagination, that he is studying diligently at the Groveland problem; and I sit silently, waiting his first movement, that I feel sure will be speedily followed by something in the way of an opinion.
"It's a queer muddle," he says at last, coming back to his chair and dropping into his former attitude of interested attention. "It's a queer muddle; and, it seems to me, you have got hold of the wrong end of the business."
"How the wrong end?"
"Why, you have your supposed principals and accessories, and, perhaps, the outline of a plot; but where is your motive?"
"Where, indeed! I have not even found a theory that suits me, although I have pondered over various suppositions. You are good at this sort of analysis, Carnes. Can't you help me to some sort of a theory that won't break of its own weight?"
Carnes bit his under lip and pondered.
"How far have you got?" he asked, presently.