In all the phases of agitation displayed by Henry Ollivera, and when speaking of the affair he generally displayed more or less, Mr. Greatorex never saw him so much moved as now. Leaning forward on his chair, his eyes bright, his cheeks burning as with the red of an autumn leaf, his hands feverish, his voice sunk to a whisper, he entered on the tale he had to tell.
"Do you remember my saying to you one day in the dining-room above, that I thought it was a woman? Do you remember it, uncle?"
"Quite well."
"In the weeks that have gone by since, the suspicion has only gained ground in my mind. Without cause: I am bound to say it, without further cause. Nay almost in the teeth of what might have served to diminish suspicion. For, if Godfrey Pitman be really somewhere in existence, and hiding himself, the natural supposition would be, as Jelf thinks, that he was the one."
Mr. Greatorex nodded assent. "And yet you suspect the woman! Can you not say who she is, Henry?
"Yes, I can say now. I have come here to say it--Alletha Rye!"
Mr. Greatorex evinced no surprise. He had fancied it might be upon her that his nephew's doubts had been running. And he deemed it a crotchet indeed.
"I think you must be entirely mistaken," he said with emphasis. "What little I know of the young woman, tends to give me a very high opinion of her. She appears to be almost the last person in the world capable of such a crime as that, or of any crime."
"She might have done it in a moment's passion; she might have been playing with the pistol and fired it accidentally, and then was afraid to avow it; but she did it, uncle."
"Go on."