I sat down by him, and looked over his shoulder, without the smallest pretense of hesitation.
He began to write as follows:
"The poisoning at Gleninch. Queries: In what position does Miserrimus Dexter stand toward the poisoning? And what does he (presumably) know about that matter?
"He has ideas which are secrets. He suspects that he has betrayed them, or that they have been discovered in some way inconceivable to himself.
He is palpably relieved when he finds that this is not the case."
The pen stopped; and the questions went on.
"Let us advance to your second visit," said Mr. Playmore, "when you saw Dexter alone. Tell me again what he did, and how he looked when you informed him that you were not satisfied with the Scotch Verdict."
I repeated what I have already written in these pages. The pen went back to the paper again, and added these lines:
"He hears nothing more remarkable than that a person visiting him, who is interested in the case, refuses to accept the verdict at the Macallan Trial as a final verdict, and proposes to reopen the inquiry. What does he do upon that?
"He exhibits all the symptoms of a panic of terror; he sees himself in some incomprehensible danger; he is frantic at one moment and servile at the next; he must and will know what this disturbing person really means. And when he is informed on that point, he first turns pale and doubts the evidence of his own senses; and next, with nothing said to justify it, gratuitously accuses his visitor of suspecting somebody.
Query here: When a small sum of money is missing in a household, and the servants in general are called together to be informed of the circ.u.mstance, what do we think of the one servant in particular who speaks first, and who says, "Do you suspect _me?_""
He laid down the pen again. "Is that right?" he asked.
I began to see the end to which the notes were drifting. Instead of answering his question, I entreated him to enter into the explanations that were still wanting to convince my own mind. He held up a warning forefinger, and stopped me.
"Not yet," he said. "Once again, am I right--so far?"
"Quite right."
"Very well. Now tell me what happened next. Don"t mind repeating yourself. Give me all the details, one after another, to the end."
I mentioned all the details exactly as I remembered them. Mr. Playmore returned to his writing for the third and last time. Thus the notes ended:
"He is indirectly a.s.sured that he at least is not the person suspected.
He sinks back in his chair; he draws a long breath; he asks to be left a while by himself, under the pretense that the subject excites him.
When the visitor returns, Dexter has been drinking in the interval. The visitor resumes the subject--not Dexter. The visitor is convinced that Mrs. Eustace Macallan died by the hand of a poisoner, and openly says so. Dexter sinks back in his chair like a man fainting. What is the horror that has got possession of him? It is easy to understand if we call it guilty horror; it is beyond all understanding if we call it anything else. And how does it leave him? He flies from one extreme, to another; he is indescribably delighted when he discovers that the visitor"s suspicions are all fixed on an absent person. And then, and then only, he takes refuge in the declaration that he has been of one mind with his visitor, in the matter of suspicion, from the first. These are facts. To what plain conclusion do they point?"
He shut up his notes, and, steadily watching my face, waited for me to speak first.
"I understand you, Mr. Playmore," I beg impetuously. "You believe that Mr. Dexter--"
His warning forefinger stopped me there.
"Tell me," he interposed, "what Dexter said to you when he was so good as to confirm your opinion of poor Mrs. Beauly."
"He said, "There isn"t a doubt about it. Mrs. Beauly poisoned her.""
"I can"t do better than follow so good an example--with one trifling difference. I say too, There isn"t a doubt about it. Dexter poisoned her.
"Are you joking, Mr. Playmore?"
"I never was more in earnest in my life. Your rash visit to Dexter, and your extraordinary imprudence in taking him into your confidence have led to astonishing results. The light which the whole machinery of the Law was unable to throw on the poisoning case at Gleninch has been accidentally let in on it by a Lady who refuses to listen to reason and who insists on having her own way. Quite incredible, and nevertheless quite true."
"Impossible!" I exclaimed.
"What is impossible?" he asked, coolly
"That Dexter poisoned my husband"s first wife."
"And why is that impossible, if you please?" I began to be almost enraged with Mr. Playmore.
"Can you ask the question?" I replied, indignantly. "I have told you that I heard him speak of her in terms of respect and affection of which any woman might be proud. He lives in the memory of her. I owe his friendly reception of me to some resemblance which he fancies he sees between my figure and hers. I have seen tears in his eyes, I have heard his voice falter and fail him, when he spoke of her. He may be the falsest of men in all besides, but he is true to _her_--he has not misled me in that one thing. There are signs that never deceive a woman when a man is talking to her of what is really near his heart: I saw those signs. It is as true that I poisoned her as that he did. I am ashamed to set my opinion against yours, Mr. Playmore; but I really cannot help it. I declare I am almost angry with you."
He seemed to be pleased, instead of offended by the bold manner in which I expressed myself.
"My dear Mrs. Eustace, you have no reason to be angry with me. In one respect, I entirely share your view--with this difference, that I go a little further than you do."
"I don"t understand you."
"You will understand me directly. You describe Dexter"s feeling for the late Mrs. Eustace as a happy mixture of respect and affection. I can tell you it was a much warmer feeling toward her than that. I have my information from the poor lady herself--who honored me with her confidence and friendship for the best part of her life. Before she married Mr. Macallan--she kept it a secret from him, and you had better keep it a secret too--Miserrimus Dexter was in love with her. Miserrimus Dexter asked her--deformed as he was, seriously asked her--to be his wife."
"And in the face of that," I cried, "you say that he poisoned her!"
"I do. I see no other conclusion possible, after what happened during your visit to him. You all but frightened him into a fainting fit. What was he afraid of?"
I tried hard to find an answer to that. I even embarked on an answer without quite knowing where my own words might lead me.
Mr. Dexter is an old and true friend of my husband, I began. "When he heard me say I was not satisfied with the Verdict, he might have felt alarmed--"
"He might have felt alarmed at the possible consequences to your husband of reopening the inquiry," said Mr. Playmore, ironically finishing the sentence for me. "Rather far-fetched, Mrs. Eustace; and not very consistent with your faith in your husband"s innocence. Clear your mind of one mistake," he continued, seriously, "which may fatally mislead you if you persist in pursuing your present course. Miserrimus Dexter, you may take my word for it, ceased to be your husband"s friend on the day when your husband married his first wife. Dexter has kept up appearances, I grant you, both in public and in private. His evidence in his friend"s favor at the Trial was given with the deep feeling which everybody expected from him. Nevertheless, I firmly believe, looking under the surface, that Mr. Macallan has no bitterer enemy living than Miserrimus Dexter."
He turned me cold. I felt that here, at least, he was right. My husband had wooed and won the woman who had refused Dexter"s offer of marriage.
Was Dexter the man to forgive that? My own experience answered me, and said, No. "Bear in mind what I have told you," Mr. Playmore proceeded.
"And now let us get on to your own position in this matter, and to the interests that you have at stake. Try to adopt my point of view for the moment; and let us inquire what chance we have of making any further advance toward a discovery of the truth. It is one thing to be morally convinced (as I am) that Miserrimus Dexter is the man who ought to have been tried for the murder at Gleninch; and it is another thing, at this distance of time, to lay our hands on the plain evidence which can alone justify anything like a public a.s.sertion of his guilt. There, as I see it, is the insuperable difficulty in the case. Unless I am completely mistaken, the question is now narrowed to this plain issue: The public a.s.sertion of your husband"s innocence depends entirely on the public a.s.sertion of Dexter"s guilt. How are you to arrive at that result? There is not a particle of evidence against him. You can only convict Dexter on Dexter"s own confession. Are you listening to me?"
I was listening, most unwillingly. If he were right, things had indeed come to that terrible pa.s.s. But I could not--with all my respect for his superior knowledge and experience--I could not persuade myself that he _was_ right. And I owned it, with the humility which I really felt.
He smiled good-humoredly.
"At any rate," he said, "you will admit that Dexter has not freely opened his mind to you thus far? He is still keeping something from your knowledge which you are interested in discovering?"
"Yes. I admit that."
"Very good. What applies to your view of the case applies to mine. I say, he is keeping from you the confession of his guilt. You say, he is keeping from you information which may fasten the guilt on some other person. Let us start from that point. Confession, or information, how are you to get at what he is now withholding from you? What influence can you bring to bear on him when you see him again?"
"Surely I might persuade him?"
"Certainly. And if persuasion fail--what then? Do you think you can entrap him into speaking out? or terrify him into speaking out?"
"If you will look at your notes, Mr. Playmore, you will see that I have already succeeded in terrifying him--though I am only a woman and though I didn"t mean to do it."