I suppose I’ve a reputation for being short of speech, often frank, and sometimes profane. I then allowed myself in my rage to be all three. It was to no purpose. Estabrook would not consent to tearing the cover from his affairs in any way which would cost him the breach of his confounded words of honor.
“You are a madman!” I exclaimed in my vexation. “The death of your wife may be entered against you. What folly!”
“Doctor,” he answered quietly, “I want your help and not abuse. Your storming will not accomplish anything. You are the only living soul to whom I have confessed the presence of a skeleton in my married life, and I want you to help me. I have been told repeatedly that you are a man of courage, steadiness of nerve, scientific eminence, and high ability.”
I could not disagree with him.
“The next thing, then, is Margaret Murchie, the servant,” I said.
“What of her?”
“She knows something,” said I. “You have heard how she talked to me, how she tried to conceal her excitement, how she treated me as a spy, how guilty she seemed, and you have indicated that you, as well as I, believe that she knows what is at the bottom of this.”
“Yes, yes,” cried Estabrook. “I am sure that she knows. But what then—what then? What can we do?”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “why ‘we’?”
He threw up his hands and sprang out of his chair again.