so invariably
impassive.

"And to whom is the guilt of this crime ascribed?" he presently
ventured.

"There was mention of no name; but the opprobrium naturally falls
on Miss Tuttle."

"Miss Tuttle? Ah!"

"Since Mr. Jeffrey is proved to have been too far away at the time
to have fired that shot, while she--"

"I am following you--"

"Was in the very house--at the door of the library in fact--and
heard the pistol discharged, if she did not discharge it herself--which
some believe, notably the district attorney. You should have been
there, Mr. Moore."

He looked surprised at this suggestion.

"I never am anywhere but here on the twenty-third of May," he
declared.

"Miss Tuttle needed some adviser."

"Ah, probably."

"You would have been a good one."

"And a welcome one, eh?"

I hardly thought he would have been a welcome one, but I did not
admit the fact. Nevertheless he seized on the advantage he evidently
thought he had gained and added, mildly enough, or rather without any
display of feeling:

"Miss Tuttle likes me even less than Veronica did. I do not think
she would have accepted, certainly she would not have desired, my
presence in her counsels. But of one thing I wish her to be assured,
her and the world in general. Any money she may need at this--at
this unhappy crisis in her life, she will find amply supplied. She
has no claims on me, but that makes little difference where the
family honor is concerned. Her mother's husband was my brother--the
girl shall have all she needs. I will write her so."

He was moving toward his carriage.

"Fine turnout?" he interrogatively remarked.

I assented with all the surprise,--with all the wonder even--which
his sublime egotism seemed to invite.

"It is the best that Downey could raise in the time I allotted him.
When I really finger the money, we shall see, we shall see."

His foot was on the carriage-step. He looked up at the west. The
sun was almost down but not quite. "Have you any special business
with me?" he asked, lingering with what I thought a surprising
display of conscientiousness till the last ray of direct sunlight
had disappeared.

I glanced up at the coachman sitting on his box as rigid as any
stone.

"You may speak," said he; "Caesar neither hears nor sees anything
but his horses when he drives me."

The black did not wink. He was as completely at home on the box
and as quiet and composed in his service as if he ha