Turner looked at him in silence for a minute, then at the others in the library. Their concentrated regard fanned his inordinate vanity and—in spite of Ferguson’s words, the Death House seemed remote.
“Why did I kill Austin Hale? Because he penetrated my disguise.” He paused, then continued more rapidly. “It must have been shortly before midnight when I was going to bed—every one else had retired and I could hear Anna and the cook snoring in their rooms,”—Anna’s face was a study as she glared at the man she had known as “Maud”—“and I supposed I had locked my bedroom door. I was shaving—had to do it at dead of night,” he interpolated, “when in the glass I saw the hall door open a little way and Austin Hale peered into the room. I was too paralyzed to turn round and he stared at my reflection in the glass, then, collecting himself, he softly closed the door and silently stole away.”
No one cared to break the silence as Turner ceased speaking, a second more and he had resumed his statement.
“I wiped the shaving lather off my face, straightened my wig and crept down the hall. I heard Austin moving about in his room and I went back, but I could not stay there. I don’t know now what brought Austin to my door at that hour, unless he wanted me to aid him in seeing Miss Polly Davis, but he had raised the devil in me. It wouldn’t take him long to establish my identity and then would follow exposure, and that meant, with my record, doing fully fifteen years in the penitentiary.”
“Better that than swinging for murder,” commented Ferguson dryly.
“Not as I felt then,” retorted Turner. “My brain was on fire as I stole downstairs and trailed him to the library. On the way I saw Mr. John Hale’s sword cane in the umbrella stand. I’d seen him open it once or twice to show to Miss Polly.” Ferguson shot a look at Polly and John Hale. They had drawn close to each other and stood listening breathlessly to Turner’s story.
“So some one beside your brother knew about your sword cane, Mr. Hale,” Ferguson remarked with a quizzical smile, and John Hale nodded.
“Go ahead, Turner,” he said, and the prisoner, with a resentful glare at Detective Ferguson, again addressed them, confining his remarks almost exclusively to Judith.
“I knew how to work the spring of the sword cane, for I had played with it several times when Mr. John left it behind, and so I picked up the cane on Tuesday night and stole into the dining room.” In spite of himself, Turner’s voice was not quite steady. It quivered and deepened as he lived over again the events of that fateful night.
“I intended to peek through the portières into the library, for not hearing a sound in there puzzled me. The portières were parted a wee bit and I made out Miss Judith sitting at the far end before the fireplace with her back partly turned toward me. Then”—his voice changed, holding a note of horror—“Austin Hale loomed up before me, right under the sidelight. I could have touched his shirt-bosom, instead—My God! I lunged and the sword cane struck home.”