together to be informed of the
circumstance, 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 assured 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