After looking at me in a surprised way, he asked:
"If he didn't kill him, sir, who did?"
I admitted I did not know, but suggested that we ought not to be too hasty in our conclusions.
"Well, sir," he answered, "perhaps he didn't, but everybody thinks he did, and I think so too."
I felt that the examination was at an end, and that I had not made very much of it. If Benton was guilty he had successfully avoided giving evidence of it, and if he was innocent, then his attitude was a pretty fair sample of the estimate the average man or juror would be apt to place upon my conjectures and theories.
"You may go," I told him; "I am much obliged to you for coming, and you must tell me anything more you may learn or that occurs to you about the case."
"I will, sir. Good-night, sir," he answered, and went out promptly and quietly, like the well-trained servant he had always been.
If it had not been for my horrible suspicions I should have liked to engage him myself. A man such as Benton is a great comfort to a bachelor—that is, under ordinary circumstances—but not when you think he may have murdered his last master.
When he was gone I looked at the clock, and saw it was after eleven. I had been in my room with my thoughts and with Benton for three hours, and I could not say that either companionship had been altogether pleasant. I determined to go downstairs now and see what was going on. It was the time of the evening when the club was likely to liven up with men returning from the theatre or other places of amusement for an hour of cards or gossip, and I hoped to find diversion in their society.
As I descended the stairs, Ned Davis was standing in the hall, and he immediately locked his arms in mine and began talking of the case.