“I don’t know,” he answered slowly, “but I suppose I would.  In such a case a conscientious doctor has no thought of self.  He is there to do things, and he does them, according to the best that is in him.  In spite of the fact that I haven’t had one hour of unbroken sleep since that fatal day, I suppose I would do it again.”

When we were leaving, I remarked:  “That is a martyr to science.  Could anything be more dramatic than his willing penalty for his devotion to medicine?”

We walked along in silence.  “Walter, did you notice he said not a word of condemnation of Dixon, though the note was before his eyes?  Surely Dixon has some strong supporters in Danbridge, as well as enemies.”

The next morning we continued our investigation.  We found Dixon’s lawyer, Leland, in consultation with his client in the bare cell of the county jail.  Dixon proved to be a clear-eyed, clean-cut young man.  The thing that impressed me most about him, aside from the prepossession in his favor due to the faith of Alma Willard, was the nerve he displayed, whether guilty or innocent.  Even an innocent man might well have been staggered by the circumstantial evidence against him and the high tide of public feeling, in spite of the support that he was receiving.  Leland, we learned, had been very active.  By prompt work at the time of the young doctor’s arrest he had managed to secure the greater part of Dr. Dixon’s personal letters, though the prosecutor secured some, the contents of which had not been disclosed.

Kennedy spent most of the day in tracing out the movements of Thurston.  Nothing that proved important was turned up and even visits to near-by towns failed to show any sales of cyanide or sublimate to any one not entitled to buy them.  Meanwhile, in turning over the gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere collection of the rent would warrant.  Mrs. Boncour maintained a stolid silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally good terms.

It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel.  Leland entered.  His face was positively white.  Without a word he took us by the arm and led us across Main Street and up a flight of stairs to his office.  Then he locked the door.

“What’s the matter?” asked Kennedy.

“When I took this case,” he said, “I believed down in my heart that Dixon was innocent.  I still believe it, but my faith has been rudely shaken.  I feel that you should know about what I have just found.  As I told you, we secured nearly all of Dr. Dixon’s letters.  I had not read them all then.  But I have been going through them to-night.  Here is a letter from Vera Lytton herself.  You will notice it is dated the day of her death.”