“I doubt that I shall ever finish it,” he said, looking at his handiwork. “No.” He shook his head and his eyes contracted to points of light. “It may be the only picture I shall ever paint—”
“Surely not!” I cried with much feeling. “You have the incommunicable gift.”
But Maryvale was far aloof. His voice had changed into that distant tone that suggested withdrawal beyond the sphere of ordinary mortals. And when he spoke, I became as cold as ice.
“I know now why Cosgrove passed away, with all the embroilments and hubbub he used to cause.”
I responded with a sense of rigid self-control: “You aren’t, er, implying he terminated his own existence?”
“He was killed so that I could paint. When all this excitement and investigation is over, that is what they will find. I think it is well his life is ended.”
“Come now, Mr. Maryvale, without cavil or casuistry, tell me who performed this beneficial murder.”
“Someone, I do not know who, of the house of Kay.”
Same day. 4.30 P.M.
For some reason the Superintendent appeared highly gratified and very lenient toward the universe. Alberta Pendleton, though perhaps no more curious than the rest of the table, was the only one who ventured to find out why. Wheedling, she persisted from the fish to the fruit, and at length wore out Salt’s defences by attrition.