“That is what I have done,” said Miss D’Arblay. “Every night I lie awake, thinking, thinking; but nothing comes of it. The thing is incomprehensible. This man must have been a deadly enemy of my father’s. He must have hated him with the most intense hatred, or he must have had some strong reason other than mere hatred for making away with him. But I cannot imagine any person hating my father, and I certainly have no knowledge of any such person, nor can I conceive of any reason that any human creature could have had for wishing for my father’s death. I cannot begin to understand the meaning of what has happened.”
“But yet,” said I, “there must be a meaning. This man—unless he was a lunatic, which he apparently was not—must have had a motive for committing the murder. That motive must have had some background, some connexion with circumstances of which somebody has knowledge. Sooner or later those circumstances will almost certainly come to light, and then the motive for the murder will come into view. But once the motive is known, it should not be difficult to discover who could be influenced by such a motive. Let us, for the present, be patient and see how events shape, but let us also keep a constant watch for any glimmer of light, for any fact that may bear on either the motive or the person.”
The two women looked at me earnestly and with an expression of respectful confidence, of which I knew myself to be wholly undeserving.
“It gives me new courage,” said Miss D’Arblay, “to hear you speak in that reasonable, confident tone. I was in despair, but I feel that you are right. There must be some explanation of this awful thing; and if there is, it must be possible to discover it. But we ought not to put the burden of our troubles on you, though you have been so kind.”
“You have done me the honour,” said I, “to allow me to consider myself your friend. Surely friends should help to bear one another’s burdens.”
“Yes,” she replied, “in reason; and you have given most generous help already. But we must not put too much on you. When my father was alive, he was my great interest and chief concern. Now that he is gone, the great purpose of my life is to find the wretch who murdered him and to see that justice is done. That is all that seems to matter to me. But it is my own affair. I ought not to involve my friends in it.”
“I can’t admit that,” said I. “The foundation of friendship is sympathy and service. If I am your friend, then what matters to you matters to me; and I may say that in the very moment when I first knew that your father had been murdered, I made the resolve to devote myself to the discovery and punishment of his murderer by any means that lay in my power. So you must count me as your ally as well as your friend.”
As I made this declaration—to an accompaniment of approving growls from Miss Boler—Marion D’Arblay gave me one quick glance and then looked down; and once more, her eyes filled. For a few moments she made no reply; and when, at length, she spoke, her voice trembled.
“You leave me nothing to say,” she murmured, “but to thank you from my heart. But you little know what it means to us, who felt so helpless, to know that we have a friend so much wiser and stronger than ourselves.”
I was a little abashed, knowing my own weakness and helplessness, to find her putting so much reliance on me. However, there was Thorndyke in the background; and now I was resolved that, if the thing was in any way to be compassed, his help must be secured without delay.