“That was wisely done. Have there been no traces of the murderer discovered? No indication of any kind?”
“Nothing, sir; but one of the under housemaids remembers to have heard footsteps about on the terrace, after dark, on several occasions within the last fortnight; once while Sir Godfrey and our young lady were at dinner, and two or three times at a later hour when they were in the drawing-room or the library.”
“Did she see any one?”
“No, sir; she is rather a dull kind of girl, and never so much as troubled to find out what the footsteps meant. Her bedroom is one of the old attics on the south side of the house, and she was sitting at work near her open window when she heard the footsteps—going and coming—slow and stealthy-like—upon the terrace at intervals. She is sure they were not her ladyship’s nor Sir Godfrey’s steps on either occasion. She says she knows their walk, and she would swear to these footsteps as altogether different. Slower, more creeping-like, as she put it.”
“Has no one been seen lurking about after dark?”
“No one, sir, as we have heard of; and the constable questioned all the servants, pretty close, I can tell you. He hasn’t left much for the London detective to do.”
Matthew Dalbrook had been the only questioner in this interrogatory. Theodore had sunk into a chair on entering the room, and sat silent, with a face of marble. He was thinking of the stricken girl whose life had been desolated by this mysterious crime. His father had not forgotten her; but he had wanted, first of all, to learn all he could about her husband’s death.
“How does Lady Carmichael bear it?” he asked presently.
“Very sadly, sir; very sadly. Mrs. Morley and Celestine are both with her. Mr. Dolby ordered that she should be kept as quiet as possible, not allowed to leave her room if they could help it, but it has been very difficult to keep her quiet. Poor dear young lady! She wanted to go to him.”
“Poor girl! poor girl! So happy yesterday!” said Matthew Dalbrook.