“Asphyxiated by illuminating gas,”—briefly,—“when asleep last night.”
“This is horrible!” Lane paced the floor in uncontrollable excitement. “But what,” pulling himself up, “what has that unfortunate girl’s death to do with me?”
“What had you to do with the unfortunate girl’s death is more to the point,” retorted Brett meaningly, and Lane recoiled.
“By God; I’ll not stand such an insinuation!” He made a threatening step toward Brett, who did not move. “Are you such a fool as to imagine because I was in this house for a short time last night that I killed a servant whom I had seen occasionally when she opened the door for me on my calling at Miss Thornton’s residence?”
“I am not a fool, nor am I a believer in miracles.” Brett grew cool as Lane’s excitement rose. “I was to have seen Annette this morning to get sworn testimony which she said would implicate you in Senator Carew’s murder.” Lane staggered back, appalled. “Instead, I find her dead, under mysterious circumstances; you are the only person whom her death benefits. And you were in this house, unknown to the inmates, and, by your own admission, no one saw you leave it. It is stretching the probabilities to suppose her death was a coincidence. You, and you alone,”—his voice rang out clearly,—“had the motive and the opportunity to bring about her death.”
“I deny it—deny it absolutely!” thundered Lane, his knuckles showing white, so tightly were his fingers clenched over his swagger stick, which he raised threateningly.
“Stop, Mr. Brett!” exclaimed Eleanor, who, with Douglas and the coroner, had sat too astounded to speak during the rapid colloquy between the two men. “You forget that the door to the southwest chamber occupied by Annette was locked on the inside, and that door was the only means of entering the room. It is only fair to you, Captain Lane,”—turning courteously to the young officer,—“to remind Mr. Brett of the very obvious fact that no one could have entered the sleeping woman’s room, blown out the light, and, on leaving the room, locked and bolted the door on the inside, leaving the key in the lock.”
“Thanks,” exclaimed Lane gratefully, as he sat down and wiped the perspiration from his white face.
Brett scowled. He had hoped that his summing up of damaging facts and sudden accusation might wring a confession from Lane, or, if not that, some slip of the tongue which the other might make in his agitation might give him a clew as to how the murder was committed. He was convinced of Lane’s guilt. He glanced angrily at Eleanor. Why had she intervened? Long and silently he gazed at the beautiful face. The broad forehead, delicately arched eyebrows, and the large wistful eyes, shaded by long curling eyelashes, and finely chiseled features were well worth looking at; but Brett did not see them—a new problem was puzzling his active brain.