He made some inarticulate sound with his lips. "Did Fish warn you?" he asked. "Did he tell you I was crazy and had notions? Ah!" he exclaimed, "I can see he did. He's as cunning as a fox, he is. He's got me tied hand and foot!"
"Hush! Don't talk like that!" bade Mary. "Do as I ask you. You know
I'm your friend. Don't you?"
He shrugged uncertainly. "You would be if you knew how," he said slowly. "But, Lord! you don't know nothing that matters. It's only us that knows what's what—only us."
"Who's us?" asked Mary involuntarily.
He looked full at her. "The dead," he answered, and after that they went on in silence.
It was not easy for Mary to marshal her thoughts that evening, when Smith, after a silent meal, had gone to bed, and left her alone with her father. He had spoken with such an effect of intensity that the impression of it persisted in her memory like the pain that remains from a blow; the figure of him, sitting on the grave, telling his strange story in words of impressive simplicity, haunted her obstinately. She could see easily the picture he had conjured for her of a big electric-lighted room, silent save for remote noises from without, and its equipment of dissecting-tables, bottles, and the machinery of an anatomist. Wylde's story had sunk into the background of her concerns; yet it was of that she had to speak to her father, and she was glad rather than surprised when he made an opening for her himself.
"Smith seems to be rather a mystery at the village," he remarked. "That manner of his is causing talk." He laughed gently. "White—you know Ephraim White, the policeman—he asked me what I knew about him."
"Yes?" said Mary. "Well, young Mr. Wylde asked me the same thing. He was sure he had recognized him."
"Ah! And who was he supposed to be?"
Mary told him what Harry Wylde had said to her in the afternoon, not omitting the mention of the mutilated ear. Dr. Pond heard it without disturbance, nodding thoughtfully as she spoke.