“And you are now prosecuting them in the direction of Ethelwynn?”
“No,” he answered. “Not exactly.”
I looked at his face, and saw upon it an expression of profound mysteriousness. His dark, well-marked countenance was a complex one always, but at that moment I was utterly unable to discern whether he spoke the truth, or whether he only wished to mislead my suspicions into a different channel. That he was the acme of shrewdness, that his powers of deduction were extraordinary, and that his patience in unravelling a secret was almost beyond comprehension I knew well. Even those great trackers of criminals, Shaw and Maddox, of New Scotland Yard, held him in respect, and admired his acute intelligence and marvellous power of perception.
Yet his attempt to evade a question which so closely concerned my own peace of mind and future happiness tried my patience. If he had really discovered some fresh facts I considered it but right that I should be acquainted with them.
“Has your opinion changed as to the identity of the person who committed the crime?” I asked him, rather abruptly.
“Not in the least,” he responded, slowly lighting his foul pipe. “How can it, in the face of the letter we burnt?”
“Then you think that jealousy was the cause of the tragedy? That she——”
“No, not jealousy,” he interrupted, speaking quite calmly. “The facts I have discovered go to show that the motive was not jealousy.”
“Hatred, then?”
“No, not hatred.”