“I've never been into it since it was sold,” Baxter sighed. “What a lovely, restful plate it is! Poor Aggie used to arrange the flowers.”
“Restful?” I began, but stopped of a sudden, for I felt all over my bruised soul that Baxter was speaking truth. It was a light, spacious, airy house, full of the sense of well-being and peace—above all things, of peace. I ventured into the dining-room where the thoughtful M'Leod's had left a small fire. There was no terror there, present or lurking; and in the drawing-room, which for good reasons we had never cared to enter, the sun and the peace and the scent of the flowers worked together as is fit in an inhabited house. When I returned to the hall, Baxter was sweetly asleep on a couch, looking most unlike a middle-aged solicitor who had spent a broken night with an exacting cousin.
There was ample time for me to review it all—to felicitate myself upon my magnificent acumen (barring some errors about Baxter as a thief and possibly a murderer), before the door above opened, and Baxter, evidently a light sleeper, sprang awake.
“I've had a heavenly little nap,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands like a child. “Good Lord! That's not their step!”
But it was. I had never before been privileged to see the Shadow turned backward on the dial—the years ripped bodily off poor human shoulders—old sunken eyes filled and alight—harsh lips moistened and human.
“John,” Miss Mary called, “I know now. Aggie didn't do it!” and “She didn't do it!” echoed Miss Mary, and giggled.
“I did not think it wrong to say a prayer,” Miss Mary continued. “Not for her soul, but for our peace. Then I was convinced.”
“Then we got conviction,” the younger sister piped.
“We've misjudged poor Aggie, John. But I feel she knows now. Wherever she is, she knows that we know she is guiltless.”
“Yes, she knows. I felt it too,” said Miss Elizabeth.