"Not in her house," gasped Douglas, unconsciously betraying the depth of his feeling and the sex of his friend; "not in hers. It must be Jarvis whom I have to fear—and yet, no, I cannot believe it. My father's old servant—a man who used to carry me in his arms when I was a boy!"
"You may easily set the question of his guilt or innocence at rest, Mr. Dale," answered Dr. Westbrook. "Contrive to separate yourself from him for a time. If during that time you find your symptoms cease, you will have the strongest evidence of his guilt; if they still continue, you must look elsewhere."
"I will take your advice," replied Douglas, with a weary sigh; "anything is better than suspense."
Little more was said.
As Douglas walked slowly from the physician's house to the Phoenix
Club, he meditated profoundly on the subject of his interview with Dr.
Westbrook.
"Who is the traitor?" he asked himself. "Who? Unhappily there can be no doubt about it. Jarvis is the guilty wretch."
It was with unspeakable pain that Douglas Dale contemplated the idea of his old servant's guilt: his old servant, who had seemed a model of fidelity and devotion!
This very man had attended the deathbed of the rector—Douglas Dale's father—had been recommended by that father to the care of his two sons, had exhibited every appearance of intense grief at the loss of his master.
What could he think, except that Jarvis was guilty? There was but one other direction in which he could look for guilt, and there surely it could not be found.
Who in Hilton House had any interest in his death, except that one person who was above the possibility of suspicion?