“Yes,” said Marston, with a grisly sort of smile, and glancing sarcastically at Mervyn, while he addressed the last speaker—­“I thank you for recalling my attention to the facts.  It certainly is not a very pleasant suggestion, that there still remains within my household an undetected murderer.”

Mervyn ruminated for a time, and said he should wish to put a few more questions to Smith and Carney.  They were accordingly recalled, and examined in great detail, with a view to ascertain whether any indication of the presence of a second person having visited the chamber with Merton was discoverable.  Nothing, however, appeared, except that the valet mentioned the noise and the exclamations which he had indistinctly heard.

“You did not mention that before, sir,” said Marston, sharply.

“I did not think of it, sir,” replied the man, “the gentlemen were asking me so many questions; but I told you, sir, about it in the morning.”

“Oh, ah—­yes, yes—­I believe you did,” said Marston; “but you then said that Sir Wynston often talked when he was alone; eh, sir?”

“Yes, sir, and so he used, which was the reason I did not go into the room when I heard it,” replied the man.

“How long afterwards was it when you saw Merton in your own room?” asked Mervyn.

“I could not say, sir,” answered Smith; “I was soon asleep, and can’t say how long I slept before he came.”

“Was it an hour?” pursued Mervyn.

“I can’t say,” said the man, doubtfully.

“Was it five hours?” asked Marston.

“No, Sir; I am sure it was not five.”

“Could you swear it was more than half-an-hour?” persisted Marston.

“No, I could not swear that,” answered he.

“I am afraid, Mr. Mervyn; you have found a mare’s nest,” said Marston, contemptuously.

“I have done my duty, sir,” retorted Mervyn, cynically; “which plainly requires that I shall have no doubt, which the evidence of the witness can clear up, unsifted and unsatisfied.  I happened to think it of some moment to ascertain, if possible, whether more persons than one were engaged in this atrocious murder.  You don’t seem to think the question so important a one; different men, sir, take different views.”

“Views, sir, in matters of this sort, especially where they tend to multiply suspicions, and to implicate others, ought to be supported by something more substantial than mere fancies,” retorted Marston.

“I don’t know what you call fancies,” replied Mervyn, testily; “but here are two deadly weapons, a knife and a dagger, each, it would seem, employed in doing this murder; if you see nothing odd in that, I can’t enable you to do so.”

“Well, sir,” said Marston, grimly, “the whole thing is, as you term it, odd; and I can see no object in your picking out this particular singularity for long-winded criticism, except to cast scandal upon my household, by leaving a hideous and vague imputation floating among the members of it.  Sir, sir, this is a foul way,” he cried, sternly, “to gratify a paltry spite.”